#In Between Illusion and Obsession

[wanderlettesz]

In Between Illusion and Obsession

yandere ex crush x reader

You are happy. You have a good life, the perfect husband, and everything you have ever wanted, there's nothing more you could ask for! But everything seems to be threatened when someone from your past shows up to settle things with you. It’s up to you to decide how you will handle everything.

Tw/Tags. yandere, toxic relationship(s), pregnancy (mentioned), kidnapping, past suicide attempt, obsessive, emotional dependence, non-consensual touching, manipulation, mention of murder/attempted murder, angst, drugs, suggesting content. Pronouns are neutral, but the reader is implied to be AFAB, also they are a bit emotionally unstable. Let me know if I missed any.

Word Count: 18296 Art credits: xupi_ty & tosil_080 on Twitter

Your knees sink into the mud, and the blood running from your open wound mixes with the wet earth, staining everything around you red. You cry, but your sobs barely stand out against the heavy sound of the rain.

What have you done?

“This isn’t love, this is obsession!”

The words echo in your mind, making your crying grow louder.

“You ruined my life... I should’ve let you die that day!”

It was in that moment that you finally understood. You took his freedom, took everything he had. How could you expect him to love you after everything you did to him?

You try to wipe your tears, but your fingers are covered in mud and blood. They only smear the dirt across your face, mixing with the cold water running down your skin. Amid your pain, you don’t notice the quiet footsteps approaching.

Your crying stops when the rain no longer hits you. When you lift your face, you see a man holding an umbrella over your head, his gentle face marked by a worried smile.

“Hey, what happened to you? You’re covered in blood, and it’s cold out here."

You hesitate before answering.

“I…I did something horrible.”

______________________________________________________________

Your eyes are slightly unfocused as you stare at the ceiling, lost in thought. Your fingers idly play with your husband’s hair, running through the softness of each strand.

Earlier you were observing his features, but you stopped when you realized it was just getting in the way of your concentration. Today is a special day, and you need to think about every detail so everything goes according to plan.

Your daydreaming is interrupted when you feel his head shift beneath your touch. A soft murmur escapes his lips, revealing the comfort he finds in your affection.

“What are you thinking about? You’re not usually this distracted in the morning.”

You jerk back, quickly removing your hand from his hair. "When did you wake up?! Sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late... I’ll make breakfast right away.”

He laughs at your nervousness and gently pulls you back. “I feel guilty for you always waking up early to take care of me. Let me help you this time.”

“But you work so hard every day. It’s the least I can do..."

“So what?” He yawns, rubbing an eye with the back of his hand. “You know what day it is. Sadly I have to go to work, but I’d like to spend as much time with you as I can.”

You stretch, trying to shake off your sleepiness. "Alright, you can cook with me, but let me handle most of the work.” You get up, already thinking of which tasks to delegate to him.

Isaac gets up with you, following behind. “I’m at your service, my love.”

And he truly was.

Even though you insisted on giving him the easiest tasks, he refused and insisted on doing the hardest ones with you. He seemed to have a natural talent for it, even more than you. You believe that if he followed the recipe by himself, he could do better than you.

“I’m having trouble cutting this strawberry into a heart shape. Can you help me?”

“Let me see what you’ve done.” You approach and examine the strawberry. The shape looks more like a square than a heart. “You’re struggling again? Are you sure you don’t want me to do it for you?”

“No way! Am I bothering you that much?”

“No, of course not!”

The muscles in his face seem to relax at your words, but still… You’re afraid he really thinks he’s bothering you.

He opens the cutlery drawer and takes out another knife for you. “Please, sweetheart? Sorry for giving you so much trouble.”

You accept and grab another cutting board, placing it next to his. “No... I’d teach you a thousand times if you needed me to. Here, I’ll show you again…”

You begin giving him step-by-step instructions, showing him exactly how each motion should go. You get the feeling he isn’t really focused on the task, but you keep going anyway.

And you were right. His eyes were completely focused on you: the way your fingers moved, the way your lips suddenly pressed together as you thought of a better way to explain something, the synchronized movement of your eyes. Everything about you was beautiful to him.

“Got it? Want me to stay close while you do the rest?” you ask as you tilt the board slightly, letting the strawberries slide into the bowl. With the knife, you gently push the ones stuck to the surface, helping them fall in. You show him the bowl and wait for his confirmation.

“I got it.” He places his hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You explain things so well.”

You feel your heart pick up slightly, but try not to show it. “I’ll stay close in case you need help.”

You both continue cooking. While he slices the fruit, you watch him out of the corner of your eye. This time, his cuts are precise, and for a moment you wonder if you misjudged earlier. Maybe he really was paying attention.

Either way, you don’t care.

__________________________________

The sound of silverware fills the room, blending with the chatter between you two as you eat breakfast.

“I’ll be home later than usual today. I need to stop by the pharmacy.”

“But you already get home late most days...” Your voice is low, concern evident in your tone. “Wouldn’t it be better if I went this morning? I don’t like the idea of you walking around at night, Isaac.”

Your husband shakes his head in disapproval. “You know I don’t like it when you go out alone. What if something happens to you? There’ve been a lot of kidnapping cases lately. Haven’t you been watching the news?”

You haven’t, but it’s best not to let him know that.

“Still, I think it’s better if…” You begin to argue but stop mid-sentence. You don’t want to start a fight. “Okay, but why? Are you feeling unwell?”

“No, I’m fine. I just need to buy your new medication. The doctor changed the prescription, remember?”

You pause, trying to recall the appointment, but can’t clearly remember anything. “He did? I don’t remember that.”

“You’re so forgetful.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin and sets the silverware down on his empty plate. “What would you do without me?”

Even though he’s joking, he’s right. You used to have a good memory, how could you forget things so easily now?

“Don’t make that face, you know I love taking care of you.” He kisses your cheek before getting up to clear the dishes.

“Wait!” You run to him and grab his wrist, pulling him away. “Leave it, I’ll wash them! I don’t want you to get tired.”

He hesitates for a moment, then slowly places the dishes back in the sink. You can tell he still wanted to insist. “Alright, but call me if you need help.”

You nod silently and turn on the faucet. The cold water runs over your fingers as you rinse the silverware. He walks away quietly, and when you glance over your shoulder, he’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

As you wash the dishes, your mind returns to the earlier conversation. You really don’t remember the medication being changed. You never used to have trouble remembering things, but now it feels like small gaps are starting to appear in your memory.

It's probably the effect of the medication, but... It shouldn't be that bad, should it?

Well, what matters is that you need them. If the side effect is that bad, it must mean it's made from something resistant. There's no need to think too deeply about it.

Once you finish, you grab his briefcase and wait in the living room, looking out the window.

It’s cold outside, colder than usual. Maybe it’s a good idea to add another coat, just in case.

You open the briefcase and carefully tuck the folded coat in between the other items.

“What are you doing? I’m already dressed warm enough,” he says, entering the room while adjusting the sleeve of his jacket.

“It’s really cold out. The forecast says it might snow soon.” You hand him the briefcase.

He takes it and nods in thanks. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’m heading out…”

Before he can open the door, your eyes fall on a detail that’s become almost routine. “Your tie’s crooked again…” you murmur to yourself, stepping closer.

He stops where he is. His body stays still, as if he already knew you’d notice. Gently, you undo the poorly tied knot with both hands. The tip of the tie is tucked inward, so you smooth it out with your fingers. He patiently waits for you to finish.

“Am I cleared to go to work now?” he asks when you step back, assuming you’re done.

You analyze him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, you can go.”

“I’m off then. Take care, and as always, don’t open the door for anyone.” He gives you a quick kiss on the lips.

“You too. Please text me when you get there. I love you.”

“I love you too. See you later.” He closes the door behind him, and you head to the window to watch him leave.

Once his car disappears from view, you run to the bathroom, lift the toilet lid, and carefully pull out the plastic-wrapped paper hidden inside. The list is safe.

You let out a sigh of relief. The bathroom is the only room in the house without cameras, the perfect hiding place. You tuck the list into your pocket and head to the bedroom to get ready.

After bundling up, you grab the shopping basket, lock the door, and begin walking down the road toward town. The house is isolated, nestled in a quiet corner between trees and fields, but still close enough to reach the town center on foot. You used to think Isaac was the type who would live in the city, so it surprised you to find out he lived somewhere so remote.

But you kind of like it, this way, it’s just you and him.

As you walk, you avoid shallow puddles and pass low fences surrounding empty lots. Slowly, the town starts to reveal itself, first the houses, then the narrow sidewalks and subtle shop windows with few decorations.

The first store that comes into view is the wine shop. The display window is decorated with old bottles covered in a thin layer of dust and a delicately embroidered cloth hanging with charm.

Your first stop is there. The interior is small and cozy, with a subtle scent of aged wood and cork. The owner, a woman with a soft voice and constant smile, greets you as soon as you walk in.

“Good morning! Planning something special today?”

You smile politely. “I’d like a bottle of white wine.”

It’s a simple answer. Over time, you’ve learned that the fewer details you offer, the better. Even with people Isaac is fond of, caution has become a habit.

After picking the bottle, you head to a nearby delicatessen. As you enter, the place envelops you in a comforting aroma of aged cheeses and soft hints of old wood. You approach the cheese counter, eyes scanning each block carefully before choosing a creamy brie, a mild gouda, and a generous piece of blue cheese.

With your basket beginning to fill, you stop by a specialty store for imported goods. You grab dried fruits, nuts, and a jar of fig jam to go with the cheeses. As you place the jar into your basket, you pull out the list and begin checking off the items.

“Nuts, check. Cheese, check. Fruit, check...” You cross out each item you’ve grabbed. Everything you need is already here, but you still want to add more snacks.

You turn toward the produce section. As you walk, you write the new item on the list, and it’s precisely in that distracted moment that you bump into someone.

The collision makes you stumble, and you grip the basket tightly to keep from dropping it. But the person in front of you drops the fruit they were holding.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t...” The words get caught in your throat when you see the man’s face, and your own face pales. His hair is messy, dark circles under his eyes, and his expression is a mix of surprise and a kind of horror.

Your own expression must mirror the same emotion, though you hope it’s for different reasons. You compose yourself, set the basket on the ground, and quickly begin picking up the fallen fruit, your hands trembling as you place them back on the stand.

“I wasn’t paying attention, I shouldn’t have done that, I’m really sorry...” You keep apologizing until the last fruit is returned. “I’ll go now, I’m sorry again!” You don’t wait for a response and quickly walk away.

No, it can’t be him. Why would he be here now, of all places?

You grip the basket tightly in your hand and try to keep your pace steady, dodging people in your path and muttering rushed apologies when you bump into someone.

Is he here for revenge? Did he find out you're with Isaac? What if he comes after you now? You try to convince yourself it was just a mistake, a coincidence, maybe it wasn't him. But the way he looked at you... It didn't seem like that. It was like he knew exactly who you were.

You try to push the thoughts away, but they keep coming, all at once. If it really was him, what should you do? Pretend you didn’t see him? Warn your husband? Your heart sinks at the thought of telling him.

You’re just about to decide what to do when you feel a firm hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, hey!” The hand grips you tightly, forcing you to stop abruptly. “You almost ran into the candy shelf. What’s going on?”

You look at the man in front of you, hesitation in your voice. “Mr. Francisco... Did you see what happened?”

He frowns, confused. “What? No, I didn’t see anything. Are you alright?”

You force a smile. “I’m fine. Could you ring up my groceries, please?” you say as you start placing the items on the counter.

“But what happened? It’s also rare to see you shopping without Isaac.” he says as he rings up your items.

You move to the other side, putting the bagged items back in the basket. “It’s kind of embarrassing… I got scared by a cockroach. Please don’t tell anyone!” Your laugh comes out awkward.

“So that’s what it was? No need to be embarrassed, my granddaughter’s terrified of cockroaches too.” He laughs sincerely, and you feel the atmosphere lighten a bit.

“Your granddaughter is 9 years old, Mr. Francisco.” This time, your smile has a hint of real humor. You hand him the money. “I’m leaving now. Thank you, and sorry for worrying you!”

You leave the store, and only when you turn the corner do you finally exhale the breath you’ve been holding. Mr. Francisco is a close friend of your husband’s and was the one who sold you your house. Even so, he’s always been a bit nosy.

Your thoughts return to what happened earlier. Now, with a calmer mind, you can think more clearly. Why did that man show up on such an important day? You know you can’t let this shake you today.

You grab your list again with a huff. You still need baguettes and arugula leaves. You better hurry, you want everything ready before he gets home.

You keep walking, but now with much more caution, throwing discreet glances behind you. Maybe your disguise isn’t as good as you thought, because everywhere you go, you end up running into people Isaac knows. It almost feels like they’re making sure you’re okay.

Well, you won’t be rude.

__________________________________

You lock the door behind you and lean against it, releasing a deep sigh. The entire morning has passed, and your shopping took longer than expected. Ever since leaving the store, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about what happened there.

It would be better to tell your husband, but not today. You absolutely don’t want to ruin this day for him.

The silence in the house is so heavy that you turn on the TV just to have some background noise. The channel is airing the news. You don’t feel like hearing about tragedies right now, but for some strange reason, it seems to be the only channel available.

As you tidy the living room, the anchor mentions another kidnapping case, and your eyes fix on the screen. You feel like you’ve seen this news before, why is it airing again?

You notice the date, it’s from the day before yesterday. Why is the TV repeating the same report?

Feeling distracted and uneasy, you turn it off. It’s better to talk about this with your husband later.

You start preparing the food, slicing the cheeses and carefully arranging them on each plate, making sure every piece is the same size. Then you set the utensils beside each dish. When everything is ready, you place the food in the fridge, wash your hands, and grab your phone. It’s lunchtime, Isaac is probably able to talk now.

[You]: “Did you eat? Was the food good? I don’t understand how you prefer reheated food over getting something fresh.” “If you don’t want to spend your money, you can spend mine.”

[My Addiction ❤️]: “I refuse to eat anything not made by you when I have the chance.” “How are you? I hope you’re eating too.”

[You]: “Not yet… I slept in today.” “I’m going to cook something now.”

[My Addiction ❤️]: “If I had known you planned to rest, I would’ve sent lunch from a new five-star restaurant that opened last week.” “You can’t take your meds on an empty stomach.”

You sigh. He’s always been strict about that. You used to understand his concern, but your psychiatrist says you’ve been improving since the treatment started, so you don’t think there’s a need to be so strict anymore.

[You]: “I’m making something now, I’ll be fine. By the way, I have something to tell you.”

Just as you’re about to talk about the issue with the TV, a new notification pops up.

[Unknown]: "hello"

The number is unknown to you, and Isaac usually lets you know if a coworker is going to message you.

[You]: “Who is this? Are you a service provider?”

As soon as you send the message, you leave the chat, but the reply comes almost immediately.

[Unknown]: "i can't believe omg you replied!!" "you usually block numbers you don't recognize, i thought this wouldn't work… i'm so happy... is this how you felt when i replied to you for the first time??" "i didn’t think it’d be this easy to get someone’s number, i figured out the technique you used to get other people’s numbers!" "are you proud of me? :)"

You grip the phone tightly. You feel like you know who it is, but his behavior doesn’t match his personality.

[Unknown]: "can't you talk right now? why are you taking so long to reply?"

You block the contact before they can send anything else. If it really is him, this must be a tactic to deceive you.

Still, you don’t want to deal with this right now.

[My Addiction ❤️]: “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

You tap the notification from your husband. Oh right, you were going to tell him something.

But what was it again?

You try to recall it, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t remember.

[You]: “I love you.”

[My Addiction ❤️]: “Something tells me that’s not what you were going to say, but I’ll take it.” “I love you too.” “I’m bringing you something special today. Wait for it.”

You turn off the phone and press it to your chest. Your lips ache from smiling so much. You can’t help it, he means everything to you!

Well, time to get back to preparing things.

________________________________

It’s time.

Your legs swing slowly, overcome with anticipation. Your eyes don’t leave the door. Everything is ready, the candles carefully placed throughout the house, the scarf you sewed yourself, the ambiance designed with every detail just for him, the clothes chosen in hopes of pleasing him... There’s no way he won’t like it, you hope.

You try to pretend you’re not bothered by the time, but impatience grows each time you look at the clock and see the minutes haven’t moved.

He must be arriving soon.

You grab the scarf and stand from the couch, moving to the door and positioning yourself beside it. You wait in silence until you hear the familiar three knocks.

“My love, are you awake?”

You open the door just enough for one of your eyes to see him. There he is, smiling at you.

“I brought a present.” He raises an elegant package.

“How sweet of you.” You step back and open the door wider so he can come in. He enters and gently places the gift in your hands.

“Sweet? Today’s the day we met. You should’ve expected this.” He pauses, observing the room. “So that’s where that lovely smell was coming from… With the lights off, I thought you were asleep.”

“You should also know I wouldn’t let this day pass unnoticed.” You position yourself in front of him and bring your hands between the two of you, holding each end of the scarf.

“Do you trust me, Isaac?”

He tilts his head toward your hands, closing his eyes. “With all my heart.”

Your shoulders relax at those words, and you gently place the scarf over his eyes, tying it tightly behind his head. After the final knot, he takes a step back, and you grab his hand, starting to guide him through the quiet hallways of the house.

With each step, he turns his head, trying to catch the aromas in the air. First a sweet scent, then something more woody, followed by a citrusy freshness from another candle. The smells seem to awaken something in him, a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

When you reach the table, you position yourself behind him and place your hand on the scarf covering his eyes. You mentally prepare before undoing the knot.

You step back, holding your breath as he slowly opens his eyes, scanning the sliced cheeses, aligned wines, and carefully organized appetizers on the table…

Isaac approaches the table in silence. He picks up the wine bottle with one hand, removes the seal, and twists the cork until he hears the soft pop. Then he grabs a glass and pours the wine halfway. When he’s done, he gently swirls the glass by its stem, as if testing the aroma, then lifts it toward you.

"Won't you sit down? This isn't just my night, it's ours."

There’s a warmth in his voice, too sweet to be just playful. You slowly step closer, your fingers wrapping around the glass carefully.

Now that you’re so close, you can better see every detail on his face. His smile is wide, and his eyes shine with a happiness that’s impossible not to notice. He looks so happy!

Instead of bringing the glass to your lips, you set it down on the table. He frowns in confusion, but says nothing as you raise the red scarf again with a challenging gaze.

“How about we play a game?”

His face loses its softness, replaced by a firm and teasing expression. Isaac sets the wine bottle beside his glass and adjusts his tie.

“Refusing you is never an option for me.”

You nod and move to his place, pulling the chair out for him to sit. He settles in, and you push the chair back in. With the scarf in hand, you gently place it in front of his eyes.

“Ready?”

The anticipation in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed. He turns his head just enough to meet your gaze. “More than ever.”

You wrap the scarf around his eyes again and, after tying it, crouch in front of him, bringing your face close to his. “What do you see?”

“You know the answer. Nothing.”

Your hand slides back to the scarf and lifts it slightly. “And now?”

He raises his hand and squeezes yours, which rests on the fabric. “Now I see the love of my life.”

You laugh softly and lower the scarf again, adjusting it around his eyes. Once you’re sure he can’t see anything, your attention returns to the feast before you.

“Let’s see…” Your eyes land on the strong-smelling cheese placed at the corner of the table. You reach out, spear a piece with a fork, and bring it to your husband’s mouth. “Let’s start with this one.”

He takes a deep breath and tilts his head back slightly. "It smells sour... You're making it easy for me." Despite the comment, he leans forward and eats. You take the opportunity to take a piece for yourself. "After all, you already let me see the table."

You taste your own piece before answering. “I wanted you to see everything I prepared for you…” You pick up the wine glass and guide it to his fingers, helping him hold it steadily. “So? Can you tell which cheese it is?”

He slowly swirls the glass between his fingers before responding. “I think it’s… Limburger?”

And the game continued.

You offered a piece, he tasted it and tried to guess the type of cheese. Sometimes he got it right, other times he missed on purpose just to tease you and lighten the mood. You took the chance to comment on each answer with some information or curiosity about the cheese. The night went on relaxed and fun.

“In total, you got…” You remove the scarf from his eyes and point to the table, the plates arranged in two rows, the correct ones on one side and the wrong ones on the other. “Fourteen out of twenty, congratulations!”

He looks at the arrangement of the plates for a few seconds, then grabs the glass and drinks the rest of the white wine in one gulp. “Well, that’s more than half.” He puts the glass back on the table. “I’d say I’m a winner.”

“Definitely.” You fold the scarf carefully and leave it on the table. “Although this night was supposed to be a gift for you… I really enjoyed myself.” The last words come out almost in a whisper. “Did you… like it?”

You look away, nervous, while bringing your hand to your neck, trying to find the right words. He never liked it when you left without telling him, and now you don’t know what to expect.

“I really tried hard and…” Anything else disappears when you feel his touch on your cheek, you hadn’t noticed he had already come so close.

“All this was done for me…” He gestures around the room, as if genuinely admiring every detail. “How could I not like it? Everything you do for me, even the simplest things, reminds me every time why I fell in love. I can’t imagine my life without you by my side.” You pull his hand away and hug him, squeezing him tightly against you. His body stiffens in surprise at first, but soon relaxes and wraps his arms around you as well. “Isaac… Nothing makes me happier than calling you my husband.” 

Your murmurs sound loud in his ears, and each word of yours seems to move his heart as much as his words move yours.

You hold each other for a moment until he steps back just enough to look at you. The warmth of his body is still present, and you feel his breathing slightly faster. “Since I won the game, don’t I deserve a reward?” Surprise takes over your face before you push your husband away lightly, laughing. “Ah, you’re drunk! I should have suspected, you wouldn’t put down the glass while eating.” “That way you hurt my feelings, dear…” He takes your wrist and gently pulls you towards him; you make no effort to stop him. “And I think you deserve that too.”

Your breath falters as he kisses the tips of your fingers, the way he looks at you stirs something inside you you can’t explain.

“All right, but only because you deserve it…” Your lips capture his before he has time to react. At the same moment, he returns the kiss with the same intensity, as if every second away from you had built an urgency that needed to be desperately satisfied.

The world around seems to shrink until only the warmth of his touch, the shared breath, and the racing beat of your hearts remain. He rests his firm hands on your hips, drawing you closer, as if your bodies were made to fit perfectly.

Your fingers reach the nape of his neck, holding gently as the kiss deepens, adopting a slower rhythm. Suddenly, one of his hands moves away from your hip and slides back, impatiently pushing the utensils off the table to make room.

The movement breaks your concentration, and you part your lips from his. He takes the chance to catch his breath, sliding his hand back to your hip and gripping it firmly to support his weight as he lifts you, resting you on the table. Without wasting time, Isaac dives back into your lips.

He bites your lower lip, causing a shiver that runs through your whole body. You respond with a gasp, sliding your tongue to meet his. The moment they touch, a wave of intense heat invades you.

When you feel the air completely leave your lungs, your hand that was on his neck rises to his hair, pulling it back. Your husband lets out a protesting grunt but doesn’t resist your grip and allows himself to be taken. His lips curve into a smile when he sees that you’re as messy as he is.

You release his hair as your breathing returns to normal. Isaac takes advantage of the moment to lean in, bringing his face to your neck.

“You look so pretty tonight…” He rubs his lips on your skin, and your head instinctively tilts back, exposing more to him. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re really mine.”

“And only now you decided to tell me that?” Your hand returns to his hair, but this time only to caress it softly. “I’m impressed how shy you still are with me…”

Isaac snuggles closer, burying his face in your neck as if seeking refuge there. You embrace him and pull him nearer, letting him hide in the space between your skin. Unfortunately, the moment is broken when the doorbell rings through the house, shattering the intimacy that had formed, and you both turn toward the hallway, tension suddenly filling the air.

“Someone’s at the door.”

“I wonder who it could be…” You step away and get down from the table. Your husband says nothing more, but concern is clear on his face. “Don’t worry, I’ll see who it is. I’ll be right back.” You give one last squeeze to his hand before heading to the hallway, each step echoing in the silent house.

When you reach the living room, you press your lips, irritated by the interruption. It’s probably just another lost traveler who needs help finding the way to town. You hold the bunch of keys and take a deep breath, forcing a smile before reaching for the doorknob. “Good evening, how can I hel…”

The words die in your throat.

The man’s face before you is unmistakable, clear as crystal. The image you kept of him at the market, with messy hair and deep dark circles, has changed completely. Now, his hair is neat and combed, showing evident care, and his clothes, once wrinkled and sloppy, appear clean and well-fitted. He’s not wearing anything luxurious, but his appearance shows obvious care. The world seems to stop as you stare at each other. Your legs freeze on the floor, and your body feels heavy as if unable to move. Your heart races so strongly you feel every beat. The surprise on his face is different from the horror on yours. You don’t react immediately when he holds your two hands firmly between his.

“I knew it... I found you! I finally found you!” Henry’s voice overflows with euphoria as he intertwines his fingers with yours with an intimacy that makes you shiver. He leans closer, and his warm breath reaches your face, making you instinctively pull back. “When I saw you today… I thought I was dreaming. I followed you here, but I couldn’t show up like that... I was a mess…”

“…Let me go…” You murmur, but he doesn’t react. It’s as if he didn’t hear or chose to ignore you. His eyes are fixed on yours, completely oblivious to your discomfort.

“There’s so much I need to tell you. I just realized everything now, I realized that…”

“I told you to let me go!” Your scream echoes through the room. You struggle, trying to break free from his grip. For a moment, you feel him loosen, but he doesn’t let go.

He pulls his head back confused, as if he doesn’t understand your reaction. “W-What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy to see me…”

You barely manage to open your mouth before being suddenly pulled backward. Henry is pushed away, and instantly a larger body positions itself in front of you in a protective stance.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Your husband’s voice explodes in the room. It’s so loud and aggressive that even though it’s not directed at you, it makes your body shrink immediately. “If you touch them again, I swear I'll rip off all your fingers one by one.””

Henry leans against the door, surprised, staring at your husband. “You... Who are you?” The coldness in his voice is so intense it seems like a different person, unlike the one who spoke to you earlier. He turns to you, and you clutch your husband’s arm. “[Name]…” He seems to hesitate before your trembling form trying to hide. “We’ll see each other later.”

And then he disappears through the door, walking away. Did he really give up that easily?

You can’t believe it. Even watching his silhouette disappear into the night’s darkness, doubt still lingers inside you. What was his intention? To kill you in the middle of the night?

That side of him scares you. The last time he was kind, it was just to deceive you, to lower your guard and stab you in the back. Does he want to get close to you and your husband just to destroy you both?

That thought terrifies you more than the first.

You feel an arm carrying you to the couch, and when you sit down, a warm hand starts caressing your hair. It brings you back to reality.

“Isaac... Are you okay?” Those are your first words to him. You admit to being surprised; he was never impulsive or reactive before. This is the first time you see him so upset. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t like this kind of situation, I should have prepared better…”

“I’m the one who should apologize.” He holds her hand. “I’m sorry, I should have come with you. No man would let his partner take a risk by answering the door to a stranger.”

“Don’t worry, silly.” You reassure him, forcing a smile. “Let’s end the night, okay?” You say as you get up and lock the door; the sound of the bolt seems louder than it should. He still seems restless, as if wanting to resume the subject, but he holds back for now not to upset you more.

“All right… I’ll tidy the table then. Can you make the bed for us?”

“Sure. Anything you need, just call me.”

You would normally ask to do the heavier work, but this time you let him take over. Hopefully, it would be enough to distract his thoughts from what had happened. You knew deep down this day would come, but you didn’t expect it to arrive so soon.

“...” Your movements stop when you notice a crease on the sleeves of your clothes, probably caused by Henry’s grip.

Henry…

He ruined your night with your husband.

You close your fingers tightly around the bedsheet, feeling anger rise slowly. None of this should have happened, it was supposed to be a perfect night. Why did he have to show up today of all days? It can’t stay like this. You need to make sure he never comes between you “You seem tense.” Isaac appears at the door, placing a tray of medicines on the dresser next to your bed. He sits carefully, trying not to mess up what you just tidied. “Try not to think too much about what happened. I’ll find a way to recover the camera footage and report him.”

“…Recover the footage?” His last words catch your attention, and you position your pillow in place before lying down on your side of the bed. “What do you mean? Weren’t the cameras recording?”

“They were yesterday, but it seems they stopped working during the morning.” He adjusts himself beside you, looking at the ceiling. You notice how tired his eyes are, his eyelids seeming a little heavy. “Tomorrow I’ll notify someone to fix them. It doesn’t seem to be a physical problem, so they should be able to configure the cameras without coming here.”

He breathes deeply, and silence fills the room. You feel a tightness in your chest, a mixture of worry and guilt for everything happening.

“I’m sorry about that.” You wrap an arm around his neck and pull him close. He doesn’t resist and nestles against your chest. “I didn’t want to ruin our night.”

You feel his chest rise with a soft laugh. He takes your hand and rests it on top of your hair. “That was one of the best nights of my life, don’t apologize for it.”

You don’t respond while you begin to stroke his hair, your gaze focused on nothing. Isaac takes the opportunity to bring up the subject again.

“…Who was that?” He murmurs, as if the question were more to himself than to you. When you hesitate, he understands it as a sign that the question bothered you. “You don’t seem like someone who has enemies, [Name].”

And indeed, you don’t. Who would even pay attention to someone like you?

“He’s someone from the past.”

He lifts himself a little to look at you, waiting for you to elaborate.

“…Remember when you first found me? It’s him.”

At first, he doesn’t move, but in the blink of an eye, he’s completely upright, with his hands resting on each side of your body. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?!” His voice rises, full of anger that, although not directed at you, he couldn’t help. “I would’ve taken care of it! This is serious, I’m going to…”

You stop him by pulling him back into your arms. “Don’t be like that, you know I’m the only one to blame in this story.”

He snorts and hugs you tightly, as if venting his anger on your body. “I don’t care, you were broken in the past. You didn’t deserve this.”

Broken.

In a way, you kind of agree. But can you really say you’re “fixed” now? In the past, it seemed like you barely existed among people, an almost invisible shadow. And when someone finally truly saw you, it was you who ended up hurting them.

What changed? Today, no one but your husband seems to notice your presence. And someone from the past has come back, perhaps with the intention of destroying you completely.

You think you heard your husband say something to you, but you’re too lost in your own thoughts to pay attention.

Well, you're fine now. You don't need anyone else's company besides Isaac. Your life is good, your husband is perfect, and you don't feel lonely anymore. You're loved now, what more could you ask for?

The only problem would be... him. You can't let him ruin your life now, not when you're finally happy. Even if you deserve it, it's okay to be selfish, isn't it? You've been through enough. You don't have to think about what might happen to anyone else but Isaac.

You grab your phone after making a decision. Your fingers slide across the screen until you open the messaging app. Finding the contact doesn’t take long, since, aside from your husband, there are only a few spam messages. When you find what you're looking for, you unblock him and spend a few seconds thinking about how to start.

[You]: “Hi.” “We need to talk.”

Regret hits you the second the message is sent. Maybe that was too impulsive?

[Unknown]: "MY ANGEL!!" "I can't believe you unblocked me, I thought I’d have to buy another number tomorrow." "Are you okay? I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to scare you! I wanted to beg for your forgiveness the moment I saw your expression, but you seemed upset with me, so I didn’t want to make it worse :(" "Yeah, I should've approached you the way you did. The way I went about it, of course I was going to scare you by showing up like that… You're still just as clever as ever, angel!!"

You don't bother reading his messages again. It’s too late to take it back now.

[You]: “Can you come here tomorrow afternoon? My husband won’t be home at that time..” “I’ll prepare us some afternoon tea while we talk. It'll be good to catch up.”

[Unknown]: "Yes!! Of course I can!!"

As soon as you get the confirmation you needed, you turn off the phone. You put it on silent before placing it to charge, afraid the vibrating notifications might wake your husband. Before you can turn off the light, you notice the pills Isaac left on the nightstand.

For the first time, you're glad to take them.

You swallow the pills in one go with water and switch off the light. While the effects don’t kick in, your mind begins rehearsing what you'll say tomorrow. It doesn’t take long before you drift off.

_________________________________

The sound of quick typing fills the silence of the house, joined by the steady noise of printed pages being released. You carefully examine the documents, checking if every bit of information is correct.

After reviewing each word, you organize the papers into one of the hospital folders you keep, hoping they look convincing enough. Then, you store the folder back inside the small cabinet in the living room. Despite how well-executed everything is, you still can’t shake the restless thoughts crawling through your mind. What kind of partner invites another man into the house, besides their own husband?

It was hard to act normal that morning. You had to hold yourself together with everything you had to keep from falling apart in front of him, begging for forgiveness for talking to someone else without discussing it with him first. Even with that thought, your desire to protect him is stronger. This is for his sake.

The sound of the doorbell echoes through the room. He's here. You mentally review the lines you rehearsed last night before opening the door, doing everything you can to force a polite smile. "Good afternoon, you're right on time. Please, come in."

Henry seems to be trying not to smile more than he should. "I-It’s good to see you too, [Name]! Thank you for..." He cuts off, like trying to remember what he was going to say. "...welcoming me into your home." His voice, once trembling with restrained excitement, now sounds calmer.

He's not very good at this.

"I’ve been waiting for you. Let me take you to the table so we can talk." Even before you motion for him to follow, he’s already right behind you. As you walk, you watch him closely, one hand resting on the pocket knife hidden in your pocket.

Henry doesn’t seem nearly as cautious as you. He's just looking around as if memorizing every corner of your house, like he’s on a school tour. Though he appears relaxed, you don’t dare to lower your guard.

"The table looks amazing! Did you do all this for me?" He sits in the chair, and you sit across from him. When you don't answer, he turns toward you, giving you his full attention. It’s time to settle this.

You both sit in silence for a while, unsure of what to say. When you’re about to begin, Henry speaks first. "Can I go first? I think I owe you more of an explanation... Unless you’d rather go, I don’t mind!"

"I don’t mind. Go ahead." You cut him off gently.

He takes a deep breath. "I... I’m sorry."

The surprise hits your face before you can hold it back. You don’t have the courage to interrupt him this time.

"I didn’t understand back then. I thought you were just some messed-up person trying to hurt me, control me, steal my freedom... But no, you just wanted to protect me." His voice softens at the end.

…What?

He leans slightly toward you, and your whole body freezes, except for your hand, gripping the blade tighter in your pocket.. "You were scared of others hurting me, so you had to take extreme measures. I get it now. You were right. I only need you. No one else. Just you."

What is he saying?

You don't notice his hands approaching yours on the table."When I ran from you, I thought I’d finally be happy. I thought I’d be free… But I was wrong. Everyone around me, they were all awful. They all left me in the end. I should’ve listened to your wise words, [Name]. You were the only one who ever cared."

He's scaring you.

"I’m back now. I want to apologize for everything. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. You were just trying to help me. Even after everything you did for me, I hurt you, abandoned you, betrayed you. But I’m willing to do anything to make it up to you. I’ll be exactly the way you wanted before, you still want to keep me with you, don’t you? I want that too. I trust you. You always knew how to take care of me, even when I didn’t deserve it. Thank you for showing me what love really is." His hands finally reach yours and squeeze them, firm enough to remind you who you’re dealing with.

He finished speaking, but you haven’t processed all of it yet.

This isn't Henry. What happened to him while he was gone? Has he lost his mind? His words terrify you. He reminds you so much… of who you used to be. And you hate it.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off you once, studying your expression. You’d better speak soon.

"Well..." You pull your hands away and rest them closer to you. He doesn’t protest, but his smile fades. "Before I answer you, I want to tell you my side of the story." Henry leans back in his chair, giving you his full attention.

"You know I'm... married now, right?" Something on his face seems to shift, but you continue. "When you left me that day, a man found me, and I've been with him ever since. Because of him, I finally managed to move on. I realized all the mistakes I made with you, I got the treatment I needed... I'm still in treatment, but I’ve been feeling so much better, like a completely different person."

You stand up and walk to the small cabinet in the room, pulling out a folder of documents. "I’ve been able to change, thanks to what you told me that day. I found something out during my last visit to the doctor, something I haven’t even told my husband yet." You sit down and spread the test results on the table, placing the main document in the center. "I had a blood test and... I found out I’m pregnant."

Henry can't hide the horror that invades his face. You hold yourself back from smiling more than usual.

"I know it sounds strange, I didn’t believe it at first either. The doctor said I’m going through a silent pregnancy and that I was lucky to find out this early." You notice his hands clenching into fists, squeezing hard. "All of this is thanks to you. I never imagined this day would come. If it weren’t for you making me see how sick I was back then, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Thank you so much for everything." When he finally looks away from the papers, you begin putting them back in the folder.

"You weren’t sick."

You don’t stop what you're doing until he speaks again.

"It broke my heart to hear that from you, [Name]." You can’t see his face now, but if you didn’t know him better, you’d think he was crying. "I’m not mad at you. I get it, you felt abandoned after what I did, so you went looking for someone else to fill that void. You don’t need him anymore, you can use me!" He suddenly stands up. You’d better calm him down before something happens.

He goes quiet when he feels your warm hands on his shoulders, pushing him gently back into the chair. "You're getting too agitated, Henry. I’ll go make us some tea, okay?"

Henry doesn’t say anything in response, but you notice his breathing seems to calm a little. You go into the kitchen and take the kettle off the stove, pouring the hot liquid into two cups. With the tea ready, there’s only one thing left. You take a small plastic bag of powdered arsenic from a secret compartment in the kitchen cabinet.

You’ve had this bag for years, but you don’t even remember what happened the first time you used it. You were so thrilled to have removed an obstacle between you and Henry that you didn’t even bother to see the result. Stupid you.

You’re just one gesture away from ending it all, but you can’t do it. Not for his life, but for what your husband would think. If you go through with it, wouldn’t you be proving to him that you still need treatment? That nothing has changed, even after everything?

No. That can’t happen. You don’t want him to still think you’re sick and keep giving you pills. All your effort, and his, will be for nothing if you do this.

Prove it, [Name]. Prove to him that you don’t need to hurt anyone to fix your problems.

You throw the bag in the trash and pick up the cups carefully, so you don’t spill anything. You just hope your story is convincing enough for Henry to leave you alone.

"I'm back. Sorry it took so long." You place one cup in front of him and the other on your side of the table. "I’m just going to put the documents away, then I’ll sit with you. No need to wait to drink."

You hear him quietly compliment the smell as you return the folder to the cabinet. You sit back down in the chair and take a deep breath, letting the scent soothe you. It helps you collect your thoughts. "Henry, look... I think, just like me, you should consider getting help if this is how you feel. This isn’t normal, and you know it. I’m sorry. I’m probably the one to blame for all of this." You raise the cup to your lips.

"Please don’t say things like that." He lowers his own cup back onto the table. "What did that man do to you? I spent so, so long looking for you... I kept blaming myself all this time, I thought you were dead! I felt like I’d lost a part of myself, but while I was going through hell to find you, you were with someone else?!"

You almost choke on your drink and lower your cup too, your hand moving to the pocket knife in your pocket again. "Henry, please, you need to listen to me, this isn’t healthy..."

"He’s messing with your mind! Don’t believe anything he told you!" He stands up and slams the table, hard enough to knock over the cups and spill their contents everywhere. "You’re better than this, [Name]! You weren’t like this! I guess I’ll have to make you see that."

You get up and back away from Henry, ready to pull the knife from your pocket if he tries anything. "Don’t talk like that about my husband, you have no right. We’ve talked about everything we needed to, now please leave my house."

He seems to calm down in response to your defensive stance, lowering his voice into something strangely soft. "If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve done it already." He walks toward you slowly, and with every step he takes, you grip the handle of the knife even tighter. "I thought you’d pull the same trick you did back then, but you didn’t. You didn’t have the courage."

In one quick movement, he lunges at you and grabs your wrist hard enough to make you drop the blade. He snatches the knife and throws it away. "That can only mean one thing, you still love me deep down. You’re just afraid to admit it."

Maybe from the shock, you’re starting to feel dizzy. "You’re delusional. If you don’t let go of me right now, I’ll..." A throbbing wave of pain floods your mind, and you reach for your head with your free hand. What’s happening to you?!

Henry’s grip vanishes from your wrist, and you take the chance to pull away and lean against the wall. Your breathing is now ragged. The man in front of you laughs at your condition, he looks proud for some reason.

"I can’t believe it actually worked." You try to push him away as he approaches again, but you can barely lift your arm. Your knees nearly give out, and you fight to stay on your feet. "Doesn’t this bring back memories? You used the same trick to take me to your house."

Your vision is the first sense to go. Henry uses the moment to steady your body against his. "Let’s go home, my angel. I’ll take good care of you, just like you took care of me."

The last thing you feel before blacking out is his lips pressing against yours.

_________________________________

You wake up somewhere comfortable, too comfortable even, though not enough to make you forget the unbearable pain pounding in your head. Your body feels numb and you are still a little drowsy. It is hard to move, but you manage to sit up. The drowsiness disappears the moment you realize you don’t recognize where you are.

No, this can’t be happening.

The memories from before you blacked out flood your mind all at once. That gives you the impulse to try to stand, but as soon as you put pressure on your body, your legs fail and you collapse back onto the bed. What kind of drug did he give you?!

Even so, you won’t give up.

This time, you try to lean on the headboard. Although it requires some effort, you manage to get up. If you use the wall and nearby furniture as support, maybe you can reach the door to examine the lock.

The journey to the door isn’t as difficult as you expected. The doorknob looks like a simple wooden model, easy to break. When you turn it, you are surprised to see the door is open. Is he really that careless?

You don’t waste time and open the door. The hallway is dark, but a light at the end reveals an L-shaped staircase. The way there isn’t long, just a little complicated because of the low visibility.

When you get to landing, you finally see where all the light comes from. Before you continue, you take a break to observe. On the right, there are some stacked boxes. On the left, it seems that a living room is being assembled or something similar.

“Angel, you’re finally awake! You are...”

A familiar voice comes from your right. You recognize it immediately, but the shock is so great your legs fail. You try to steady yourself and grab the railing, but your body is still weak.

That gives Henry enough time to reach you and pull you tightly to his chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I got too excited... I should have been more careful...” Each of his words is accompanied by an even tighter hug, to the point your feet barely touch the floor.

You let out an impatient sigh, hoping he will stop. When he doesn’t let go, you try to push him away.

Only then does he pull back enough to look at you. “You are having trouble walking, aren’t you? Do you want me to help?”

You press your lips together, feeling a mix of anger and fear growing inside you. “Stop trying to be nice. It’s your fault I’m like this. Who drugs a pregnant person? Aren’t you afraid I might lose the baby or die?” you reprimand him.

What really seems to affect him is the idea that something might happen to you. “That was careless of me, I-I know...” he murmurs, disappointed in himself. “Let’s sit on the couch, then you can tell me how you’re feeling.”

You don’t complain when he puts his arm around your waist and helps you get to the couch. It’s better not to upset him if you want to leave here as soon as possible.

As soon as he sits next to you, you ask, “What did you give me? Is it already night? Did I sleep the whole day?” You almost doubt your own question. Less than 24 hours shouldn’t be enough for your legs to be this weak.

“A-Actually...” He can’t look you in the eyes. “You have been asleep for a whole week.”

A whole week…?!

You can’t believe the words you just heard. What could have happened during all that time? Isaac must be going crazy looking for you!

The heavy silence between you makes Henry visibly tense. Your silence scares him so much he feels the need to justify his actions. “I couldn’t find the drug you used on me back then, so I bought another to replace it. I didn’t expect a single dose to make you sleep for a whole week.”

“Liar.” That’s the only response you give him.

He opens his mouth to argue, but your stare shuts him up. He knows there’s no argument that could convince you.

“To my knowledge, there’s no medicine that makes you sleep for a whole week. At least... not if you only take a single dose.” You don’t hide the accusation in your tone.

He shrinks in his seat and lowers his head in surrender. “There really is no way to argue with you, [Name]...” He murmurs before summoning courage to look at you again. “I swear I didn’t mean to upset you or anything! I-I just hadn’t finished preparing our home when I brought you here, so I had to do that so you wouldn’t wake up in a mess...”

You raise an eyebrow. “Preparing the house? What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t my plan to bring you here yet, it was more of an impulse...” He admits, scratching the back of his neck. “My intention was that when I found you, we would build a place together. Just like you wanted before. What I didn’t expect was that someone else had their hands on you, so I had to do what I did...”

You laugh scornfully and roll your eyes. “You brought me here without even doing the minimum? That doesn’t look like following my footsteps at all. I would never have made such a basic mistake in the past.”

“But I was desperate, just like you!”

You turn your back to him. He doesn’t deserve your anger.

“My angel...” He wraps his arms around your body, gently pulling you closer. “I’ll do better, okay? But all I ask is for your cooperation. Please, stay with me.”

You admit you feel strange. His words remain as sweet as ever. If you were still obsessed with him, you would fall for them without thinking twice.

Your dissatisfaction shows clearly, and he notices. So he tries again.

“How about we go out tonight? It’s a little late, but it might help you relax! Look how beautiful the moon is tonight!” He suggests, gently turning your face toward the window.

You didn’t expect him to let you out so easily.

It’s strange. He must be very confident... or maybe this is a trade. If you give him what he wants, he’ll give you what you want.

Alright. Let’s play his game.

“I think...” The hand that was holding your chin slowly slides down your chest to rest on your stomach. “The baby would like that, don’t you think? A walk will also be good for your legs.”

Putting aside how he has been acting toward you, he hasn’t changed much inside. Henry has always been like this, using others’ weaknesses to get what he wants.

“Okay, fine.” You give in and turn to face him. “But I don’t know how you expect me to walk after being drugged for a week.”

He thinks for a few seconds, then a smile lights up his face. You don’t like that kind of reaction.

“How about I give you a massage? I know how! I trained a bit in the past, now I can show you what I learned!” He approaches, trying to show enthusiasm. The idea of being touched by anyone other than your husband makes you uncomfortable, but it will be good for you. The less dependent you are on him, the better.

“I’ll accept.” You say while adjusting yourself. “But on one condition, you can only touch my legs. Understood?”

He quickly nods and stands, going to the drawer under the TV. “Whatever you want, angel. Do you want to lie down or sit?”

“I heard lying down is best.” You reply as he comes back with oils, creams, and a small towel. He puts everything on the floor and sits beside you, then puts his hands on your shoulders, gently pushing them back. “P-Please lie down and stretch your legs for me.”

You obey, but as soon as you look at him from your position, you regret it. It’s a bit embarrassing, but what didn’t he go through to earn your trust in the past?

Henry shyly looks away at the jars under the sofa. “D-Do you prefer oil or cream?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never had a massage like this before.”

He looks up, surprised, while taking the oil and spreading it in one hand. “Really? Seems like that man really wasn’t for you.” He quietly mocks as he spreads some viscous liquid on one of your legs. You bite your tongue so hard you taste metal. How dare he?

You take a deep breath and close your eyes.

Just pretend it’s your husband in front of you and you’ll feel better.

Henry warms the oil between his palms, rubbing until the liquid is warm and silky. He starts with your right leg, placing his hands just above the ankle. With long, firm movements, he spreads the oil, leaving your skin shiny and soft. The sensation of his touch combined with the warmth of the oil makes the tense muscles in your leg slowly relax. His fingers travel every curve, pressing and gently kneading the knots of stiffness, alternating between firm pressure and lighter touches, in a steady rhythm.

When he finishes, Henry wipes his hands on the towel beside him before grabbing the jar of cream. He opens the cream and scoops a generous amount, starting to spread it on the left leg. The texture is thicker, softer, and cold at first contact, creating a contrast with the right leg where the oil warms and slides easily. His fingers make slower, softer circular motions, requiring a bit more effort to spread the cream, but without losing the lightness in the touch.

The sweet scent of the cream fills the air as the difference between the two sensations becomes clear. The right leg, covered by oil, slides under Henry’s hands, while the left leg needs friction and extra care to absorb the cream. You feel the skin being hydrated and the muscles releasing stiffness with every movement as the massage dissolves not only physical tension but a part of emotional discomfort.

Lost in your own world, you don’t notice the soft sighs, sounds of pleasure, and murmurs slipping from your lips. Henry, hovering above you, feels his body respond immediately to each of those sounds. The desire inside him grows with every movement you make, causing his breathing to quicken and his heart to pound faster. Despite trying to control himself, he can’t hold back the excitement that overtakes him. His eyes catch every change in your expression, every sigh, every murmur, feeding the fire burning within him even more. The heat rises quickly, making it hard for him to stay calm. His hands stay firmly on your legs, but inside he feels an intense urgency, as if every sound you make is an invitation impossible to refuse.

"[Name]... A-Am I doing good?" His voice barely rises above a whisper, so soft that for a moment you wonder if you even heard it.

The enchantment of the moment fades as reality comes rushing back to your mind. You’re not in your bed, next to your husband, listening to soft music while he cracks jokes that draw a light laugh from you. You’re here.

"Ah, yeah..." You part your eyes slightly. "Yeah, you’re not bad at this." Although your words are meant to boost his ego, they aren’t exactly untrue. "I’m feeling much better now. You can stop, thanks."

He seems disappointed when you stand up, but you pretend not to notice. “Anything for you, my angel.” He picks up the items from the floor and walks over to the drawer. “I’m just going to grab a few things for us to take before we leave.”

“Wait.” You stop him. “Aren’t I going to get dressed?”

“No need.” He answers without turning fully, just glancing back over his shoulder. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

You frown but say nothing.

_________________________________

“Sandwiches, pies, fruit, cakes…” You name each food item you find in the basket. “You really put a lot of effort into this…”

“It’s my first date with my angel in a long time, so I gave it my best.” He says proudly as he turns the car key in the ignition. “And you must be starving after everything.”

You put the food back into the basket. “Actually, no, and that reminds me…” You cross your legs before speaking. “I really hope no stranger touched me.”

“...What do you mean?” His voice is heavy with concern.

Sitting in the back seat, the front seatback partially hides their face. “You know very well,” you reply firmly. “You can’t leave someone unconscious and unsupervised, especially someone who’s pregnant.”

His hands tremble on the wheel, his body tense. He’s so predictable.

“I trust you.” You lie, turning your gaze to the window. “I’m sure it’s someone you trust.”

You wait for his response, but all you get is a shy “thank you.” You thought you might get some information from him. He probably doesn’t trust you enough to talk about others…

Too bad. You can cross the plan of asking for help off your list.

You rest your head against the car window, watching the city streets. With the windows closed and silence all around, you feel trapped and anxious. Whenever you were with Isaac, he kept the windows open and talked nonstop, you never had time to get bored.

Maybe it’s better this way. You don’t want to seem suspicious on your first day, after all.

The city slowly fades away, and the streets give way to forest. Trees line both sides of the road, and the pavement turns into dirt. You say nothing and keep watching the scenery change.

You don’t know how much time passes until Henry parks the car.

“Are we there yet?” You ask confused, trying to get a better look through the window. “I don’t recognize this place…”

“I thought this place would be familiar to you.” He says as he gets out and opens the door for you. “But it makes sense, your memories of here aren’t good.” He holds out his hand.

You raise an eyebrow and place your hand in his. “Then why would you bring me here?”

“Because I want to change that.” He pulls you out of the car, locks the doors, and gestures toward the trail ahead. “Let's walk from here. I think the walk might help you remember.”

You try to ignore the fact he hasn’t let go of your hand and start looking around. It looks like any ordinary forest.

That’s what you think before you look closer. Every detail reminds you of a specific place, one you never expected to visit again. The benches covered with dry leaves, the broken and dry birdbath, the signs so faded you can barely read them... And the sound of flowing water growing louder with every step you take.

“We are here.”

You turn your face to look down the path ahead. Even after all this time, the lookout hasn’t changed.

Your hand slips from Henry’s as you start walking toward the fence.

The ground is damp and slippery, covered in wet leaves. The fence looks more fragile than you remember, the wood dark and worn by time, with some parts broken or crooked. You stop in front of it, hesitate for a moment, then carefully place your hands on it and lean in to look.

The water crashes down hard, hitting the rocks below with a loud splash. The fall raises a fine mist that rises into the air and touches your face, leaving your skin slightly wet. The air around you is fresh and humid, filled with the characteristic scent of clean water and nature. The breeze that stirs your hair is refreshing, and you breathe deeply.

The view of the waterfall is beautiful, as always.

“Be careful.” Henry says as he covers one of your hands with his. “The fence isn’t as sturdy as it used to be.”

“Seems like it...” you whisper more to yourself than to him.

It’s exactly like that day, except you were alone.

Or so you thought.

______________________________

The path is silent, only the sound of your footsteps can be heard. You’re wearing your best hairstyle, your best clothes, your best shoes, and your backpack, which holds all your favorite things. It’s been so long since you dressed up that you don’t even remember the last time you did.

You want to look around as you walk, to observe this place one last time, to engrave every detail in your memory. But you feel that if you take your eyes off the path ahead, you’ll lose your courage.

The sky is already brightening, the sun starting to rise. You feel a slight warmth behind you, or at least you think you do.

You can’t turn around to check. There’s no better opportunity than this, don’t risk losing it, [Name].

Your steps stop when you reach the lookout. It’s a shame no one else is here, they’re missing a wonderful view. Well, that just makes things easier for you.

Taking a deep breath, you sit on the fence and look down. The sound of the waterfall relaxes you, the way the water plunges soothes you in the best possible way. It gives you the courage to look back one last time.

The sun is like any other day, but… You feel like it’s special now. It will witness what you’re about to do. Smiling to yourself, you stare until it’s strong enough to make you close your eyes, this will be the last thing you see now. Although the waterfall view is your favorite, you feel you’d hesitate if you saw it one more time.

You turn your head forward. Don't open your eyes, [Name].

Your grip on the fence weakens and your breathing grows unsteady, but you try to ignore it. You feel your body moving forward until you’re no longer touching the fence.

You’re falling.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

A desperate voice shouts behind you, making your eyes snap open immediately. You’re falling, you really are!

The fear is interrupted by a groan of pain from you as you feel yourself being abruptly stopped under your arms. Something is pulling your backpack, or rather, someone.

Your gaze breaks away from the landscape below you as the person above you shouts, “Give me your hand, I can’t hold the weight of your backpack and you together!” He reaches toward you, but you look away. This man ruined everything!

“N-No… Let go…!” You try to scream, but your voice comes out more like a trembling whimper. You feel tears starting to fall from your eyes.

“Are you crazy?! I’m not letting you go! Give me your hand before I fall with you!” He removes his hand from the fence and reaches toward you. His body seems to slide down with you, which pushes you to grab his hand, and he immediately pulls you up. When your feet reach the fence, you lean on it, giving him the leverage he needs to pull both of you up to the ground.

The only sound between you is heavy breathing for a moment. When he recovers, he sits to look at you.

“Hey!” The man exclaims. “That’s not how you solve things! You know what would happen if…” He stops when he notices the tears you tried to hide with your head down.

You lift your head just a little to look at him, but he’s looking at your backpack, which is half open, visibly uncomfortable. When he turns back to you, you lower your gaze.

“I… I didn’t mean to snoop, but…” His voice is soft and low now, so soft you barely hear it. “You seem to have some really cool stuff in your backpack. Do you mind showing me?” He gently moves one of the hands covering your face and replaces it with a handkerchief, wiping your tears. His touch is so warm…

“They do look pretty cool, especially that book there, or is it a notebook? I don’t know, but its cover is very pretty.” The man seems to be running out of things to say, your silence isn’t helping him.

No one ever cared about your interests before… It would be rude to refuse after what he did for you, you think.

Your voice trembles as you talk about each of your favorite things. You stammer as you explain the story behind each one, but as time passes, you calm down. His reactions encourage you to keep going, and you manage to forget what happened minutes ago.

You feel warm inside. He’s smiling as he talks with you, so that must mean he feels the same, right?

No one ever cared so much about you before… You like this feeling.

You don’t want to stop feeling it ever.

______________________________

The memory is still fresh in your mind. It’s a little funny to think that a memory once so important to you is now one you want to erase as much as possible.

“That’s why I brought you here.” Henry takes the basket from your hands. “I want us to make new memories in this place. Good memories. So the old ones stay behind… And your smile will never disappear when you come here again.” He unfolds the waterproof tarp and spreads it over the wooden floor.

Good memories… That would be nice. When you escape, you have to bring your husband here.

You kneel beside him, helping to organize the picnic. The silence between you is heavy, weighted by his words. And although the contempt you feel for him is hard to ignore, the words slip out before you can hold them back.

“Thank you for saving me that day.”

If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have met the love of your life. All the pain ended up being worth it in the end.

“I think I’m the one who should thank you for trying something so absurd.” He sits next to you. “From that moment on, we began to belong to each other. Even if I didn’t realize it at first...”

You try to ignore what he said.

The picnic was... strangely peaceful. You sat away from him to avoid any physical contact, and he respected that. You talked about many different things, ordinary things. You don’t like it, why is he acting like this is a normal couple’s date?

You feel like you’re experiencing firsthand what he felt when you took him to your house. What a bad feeling.

“Time passed quickly..”. Henry looks at his phone. "It's already pretty late. Are you feeling tired?"

"No." You shake your head. "After days of sleeping, I doubt that’s enough to tire me out."

"Then how about we go down there?" He suggests, putting away what’s left of the picnic in the basket. "It’s a bit chilly, but I think it’ll be nice to dip our feet in the water."

The excitement in your eyes says it all. "Now I get why there were some towels at the bottom of the basket!" You smile, standing up and following the trail leading to the river. "This place looks abandoned for years… There must be plenty of fish for us to catch."

“O-Oh you wanted to fish? Sorry…” He replies, surprised, starting to follow you carefully, watching his step not to slip. “I didn’t bring any fishing rods, and...” He stops noticing you’re already far ahead. “W-Wait! Don't go so fast, angel! You might fall!”

“I can get down this with my eyes closed!” You shout impatiently at his slow pace. “Fishing rods are for the weak! Don’t be so slow.”

Without waiting for an answer, you go straight to the riverbank and crouch down. Your eyes try to peer through the water surface, where some strange movements break the calm of the river. Something is there, but you can’t see exactly what it is.

Henry approaches and crouches beside you. “By the shore, fish are usually small...” He slowly reaches out, trying not to scare the creatures swimming nearby. “The water is less cold than I expected.”

“Can you shine the light on the water for me? I think I see a big fish.”

He silently obeys, turning on his phone’s flashlight, casting a beam on the surface. “You’re right! But it’s a bit far.”

You take off your shoes and slowly dip your feet into the river, feeling the slippery ground beneath your skin. The cold makes your body shiver, but you don’t lose focus. Henry watches you curiously but doesn’t interfere.

You slowly approach the spot where the big fish is moving, lit by the flashlight. When you’re close, you lunge to try to grab it, but it disappears too fast, escaping before your hands can touch it.

In the attempt, your clothes get wet, cold water touching your skin and making the fabric stick to you. The chilly wind blows, and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to keep warm. It’s freezing!

You feel a coat placed over your shoulders. “Are you okay, angel? Want me to get a towel for you?” 

“No.” You take off the coat and hand it back. “Keep it. Let’s try to catch a fish together.”

You step deeper into the water but don’t hear him coming after you. When you look back, Henry is there, standing in the same spot, with a huge smile lighting up his entire face — almost like a child who just got an unexpected gift. He shakes his head in disbelief at himself, as if he can’t believe he’s really there, living this moment.

“I-I won’t let you down, you can bet on that! I’ll catch as many fish as you want! Seriously, as many as you want, I’ll catch them all! Leave it to me, I-I won’t let you down!” He punches his chest with a closed fist, trying to convey all the confidence in the world, even though the nervousness still shines in his eyes.

He’s slightly out of breath, as if the excitement itself took the air from his lungs. His eyes dart around, looking for some approval on your face. It’s almost funny to see someone so determined about something so simple. But still, there’s something genuine about his effort that makes you hesitate to ignore him completely.

You weren’t paying attention to what he was saying, and the sound of his voice wasn’t helping.

“You’re going to scare the fish if you don’t stay quiet! Here, stay by my side!” You reached your hand out to him, and he grabbed it immediately. You pulled him close. “Help me spot them.”

E desse jeito, vocês ficaram lá por um longo tempo. Henry é incrivelmente rápido. Você And that’s how you ended up there for a long time. Henry was incredibly fast. You would spot the fish and point with a simple gesture, and he’d catch them almost instantly. He used his own shirt as a net to hold them.

The shirt, now wet and heavy, swayed with every movement. The fish struggled inside the fabric, but he kept control. As the pile grew, so did Henry’s smile, satisfied with each little catch. You watched him from the side, surprised by his efficiency.

So fast... Any plan that depends on reflexes can be discarded.

You feel a sudden light touch, like a pinch against the skin of your leg. Looking down, you see a small but agile fish swimming near your ankle. Without thinking twice, you reach forward to grab it. For a moment, you manage to hold it firmly between your fingers.

But an unexpected pain in your foot makes you drop the fish immediately. Looking down, you realize you stepped on something sharp among the river stones, a pointed rock or maybe a broken branch hidden in the murky water. The cut starts to bleed, and the fish quickly disappears into the depths.

“Oh God! Angel, what happened?!” Your pain didn’t go unnoticed.

You click your tongue and notice the blood spreading in the water around you. Better get out fast before it attracts something dangerous.

“I think I stepped on something sharp.” You complain unhappily, it looks like you’ll have to settle for what you caught. “It’s nothing serious, don’t worry, I’ve hurt myself many ti—”

“Of course it is!” He wraps one arm behind your shoulders and the other behind your knees. “What if it gets infected? I’ll carry you to the shore so I can check it properly.”

You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms. “Since when do you care about that? You always said it was nothing when you got hurt and I took care of you.”

“I know, I know...” He gently sits you on the riverbank. “But now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

Now that he's no longer touching you, you realize how warm his body was. Makes sense, after all, you were underwater longer than he was.

Henry carefully holds your foot and begins examining it. You don’t dare interrupt his focus. When he pulls away, he looks relieved. “It’s not deep, but it will need treatment at home.”

His concern is like your husband’s, but what you find cute in your husband, you find annoying in Henry.

“See?” You pull your foot back. “I told you, I’m used to hurting myself in places like this...” The last words come out almost in a whisper because you notice he still hasn’t let go of your foot, and his eyes are fixed on you. More precisely, on your stomach.

“That was me, wasn’t it...?”

Following his gaze, you realize how see-through your shirt has become against your body, and the scar stands out the most.

A surprised sigh escapes you as you feel his hand slide under your shirt, lightly caressing it. It’s so gentle you barely feel the contact, only the warmth of his fingers.

After sliding his hand over every inch of the scar, he whispers again. “I’m so sorry, so very sorry...” His palm presses a little harder against your skin, fingers moving slowly, massaging the area carefully. “I mistreated your body so much... You didn’t deserve this...”

You feel your muscles tense under his touch, even though his movements are gentle. It’s uncomfortable, but you try not to show it. When he pulls his hand away from your stomach, you finally exhale the breath you’d been holding without realizing it.

But your calm doesn’t last long. “I know now what you truly deserve.” Both his hands are now on your body, roaming over your torso. The heat from his skin seems to transfer to yours, and you feel his fingers moving as if trying to memorize every part of you. “You deserve to be worshiped. Every limb, every part of your body… deserves all the attention and love possible.”

You hadn’t realized how close he had gotten until you feel his warm breath against your ear, making you flinch. After what feels like hours adoring your torso, he moves to your legs.

“Are you still mad at me?” He asks while squeezing the back of your thigh. Your leg moves back reflexively, but he holds it firmly, not letting you pull away. “I understand... words don’t compare to actions. If you want, you can...”

You feel his other hand wrap around yours, placing something metallic between your fingers and tightening your grip around it. “...do the same to me.”

It’s only when he pulls back a little that you realize what you’re holding. Your pocket knife. Pointed directly at his stomach. The same spot where your scar is. “Would that make you feel better?”

“I know nothing can erase all the pain you’ve felt...” He loosens his grip on your hand and slowly lets go, noticing you’re frozen. “But I want to spend the rest of our lives worshiping your body.”

“You will never feel alone again. I promise.”

__________________________________

You're back in your “home” again. Henry treated the wound on your foot, and to end the night, he decided to make popcorn so you could watch a movie together. Remote in hand, you flip through the channels mechanically, not really paying attention to what’s on.

Frightening.

Your mind won’t stop replaying what happened earlier. What’s wrong with him? He needs help. How can someone love a person they haven’t seen in years? Especially someone who’s hurt them so badly? His devotion to you is terrifying. You can’t make sense of it.

At least, not anymore.

Your train of thought breaks when you hear your name being said from somewhere. More specifically, from the TV. You scroll back through the channels until you land on a news report.

Wait... is that you?

A missing person report flashes on screen. Your photo appears next to the headline, followed by images of familiar places. They talk about the last time you were seen, the ongoing investigation, the lack of leads. It hasn’t even been that long since you vanished. How are you already being declared missing?

By the end of the segment, your husband’s face appears. He looks pale, worn down, his eyes full of quiet suffering. His voice trembles as he speaks about how hard everything has been without you. How much he misses you. How he’d do anything to have you back.

Your chest tightens so painfully it almost feels like it might burst. It’s as if something deep inside you is cracking open. You’ve never been away from your husband for this long.

How dare you enjoy yourself while he’s in so much pain? Your husband has no one but you. He must be so disappointed. Someone like you should’ve found a way out by now.

His absence feels like a part of you was ripped out by force.

"My angel! Look, I brought a few things…" But your eyes stay locked on the screen. Once he notices what’s playing, he drops everything on the couch and rushes over to the TV, switching it off manually. But it’s too late. You saw it all.

He seems disoriented, unsure what to say. "You must have a lot of people who care about you. I didn’t think it would cause such a stir. It’s already on the news." There’s barely concealed nervousness in his voice. It’s clear he wasn’t prepared to face the consequences of keeping someone here against their will.

Your chest aches so deeply it’s hard to breathe. For you, it’s only been a day, but for your husband? It’s been seven. Seven. Six times longer than what you’ve felt. And here you are, relaxing. How selfish. He must believe you’re dead. He’d never imagine you might be with another man.

"Do you miss him?" A cold voice asks from your side.

No… Don’t tell the truth.

Don’t ruin this, [Name]. Make this pain mean something. Turn the weight in your chest into leverage.

"Yeah... But not exactly him." You hadn’t realized you were crying, but now you use it to make your voice tremble. "I miss having a partner. Not just a boyfriend, but a husband. Someone to share everything with. Body and soul." You try to wipe your tears away, but before your hand reaches your cheek, Henry pulls you into a tight hug that steals your breath.

"P-Please don’t cry, my angel!" He runs his fingers through your hair like you’re a frightened child. "We have all the time in the world. I’ll take care of you better than he ever did. I’ll be the husband you deserve. I’ll be everything you want, and more."

You’ll never be better than him.

"You promise?" You force yourself to hug him back, wiping your face on his shoulder.

"I promise!” His other hand slowly slides down your back. "Maybe you’re feeling this way because you’re used to taking a lot of medication every day. I bought some new pain meds to replace the ones you used to take. They’re simple, harmless, and I’ll let you decide if you want them. Doesn’t that sound good?"

Putting the deception aside, he’s probably right. You must be emotionally unstable after going so long without your medication. The fear of your treatment regressing haunts you.

"It does. Thank you."

...

You need to get out of here. As soon as possible.

__________________________________

Quanto tempo já se passou?

Ever since you started trying to earn his trust, you did your best not to stay aware of how many days had gone by. You made sure that not a single day was wasted, and little by little, you managed to get him to treat your relationship as something normal. The only thing you couldn’t get was the freedom to leave. Not that you were expecting it, of course. You wouldn't take the risk either if your loved one had thousands of missing person posters out there.

You tried to gain weight without him noticing. It would be suspicious if your body went too long without even small changes, especially after you started refusing in-person visits from your doctor and settling only for remote consultations through messages. Your plan was risky, but still... Henry didn’t seem to care about it at all.

The only time he seemed to care was when he came offering strange pills, saying they were for pain, nausea, and cramps. You refused immediately, thinking he might be testing you. He didn’t push, and left the pills in the cabinet, telling you to take them whenever you wanted. It was odd, but you didn’t question it.

After that, strange things began happening to your body. Abdominal cramps, nausea, dizziness... Henry was always there when it happened, as if he somehow knew. After staying by your side until you felt better, he would always ask the same question.

"Is the baby okay?"

It didn’t sound like concern. Whenever you answered, you could tell he was disappointed. He never mentioned the baby directly. It was like he pretended it was just you and him. The only part of your pregnancy he seemed to enjoy was your dependence on him. That's good, because it makes him let his guard down around you.

But you feel like he’s starting to suspect something.

Henry began insisting that you see a doctor, wanting to know how you and the baby were doing. You managed to stall him by saying everything was fine, but it wasn’t enough. He eventually scheduled an appointment for you, and that’s why you had to rush your escape plan.

But luck is on your side. You found the perfect opportunity.

Right now, you’re leaning against the wall, trying to find the right words. The magazine in your hands is your way out. According to it, the new museum is opening tonight. You’ve spent these last few days being as sweet as possible. There’s no way he’ll say no to your request.

"Henry?" You force a soft, honeyed tone in your voice. "Are you busy? I’d like to talk to you."

He puts away the last piece of clothing in your wardrobe before turning to face you. "Never for you, my angel." He immediately notices the magazine in your hands. "What is it?"

"I know it’s a bold request, but..." You lift the page with the article about the museum opening. "Look! It’s happening tonight. I-I thought it’d be nice if you and I went together."

He leans in slightly, looking more closely at the page.

Please don’t notice the details you’re purposely covering with your fingers.

"Looks fun." He straightens back up, and you hold back a sigh of relief. "But why are you only asking me now? That event has been announced for a while."

"I was afraid you’d say no."

No. The truth is that you were trying to minimize the chances of that happening.

"You’ve been inside for a long time. That can’t be good for you..." He pauses for a few seconds, then turns back to the wardrobe. "Get ready, my angel. We’re going out tonight."

You did it!

"Really?!" You hug him from behind. "I’ll go shower right now! Thank you, thank you!"

Without waiting for a reply, you rush off to the bathroom. Your excitement is obvious, even if it’s for entirely different reasons than what he probably thinks.

He didn’t question the details you covered. That’s good. Even though you doubt he’s been looking into your husband, you didn’t want to take any chances. The event is hosted by the city hall, so the chances of your husband being there are high. All you have to do is find him. Once he sees you, he’ll definitely find a way to fix everything.

Isaac will probably be disappointed, but... You can’t afford to miss this chance.

_________________________________________________________

You glance at yourself in the car's rearview mirror, studying every detail of your face. The features that define who you are now feel hidden under layers of makeup.

Of course he wouldn’t let you leave without a disguise. You’ve never worn this much makeup before. It kind of worries you. What if your husband doesn’t recognize you like this? You’ll need to try harder.

“What’s wrong, my angel?” he says as he gently squeezes your wrist. “You look stunning. Come on, we’ve arrived.”

He opens the door for you, and as you step out, you take a deep breath. It’s been so long since you were last outside. You had forgotten how fresh air feels. But that freedom lasts only a second, until his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close.

“Be discreet.”

Those are the only words he says before turning to face the people around you. You need to be careful. Just being here is already a miracle. He’s probably going to keep his eyes on you the entire time.

As you step into the museum, your eyes immediately scan the surroundings. There's plenty here to keep him distracted.

"That sculpture is beautiful." You gesture toward a kneeling, blindfolded androgynous figure. "But it also looks sad… Have you heard of it?"

He looks at the sculpture you’re pointing at. "No, but it says here it’s about someone..."

You pretend to listen while your eyes scan the crowd, searching for the familiar face of your husband.

"I didn’t know… That’s tragic."

If you can keep up the act, it will be easier to keep Henry distracted. It's hard to talk, stay aware of your surroundings, and fake your posture around him all at once, but you'll have a harder time if you let him stay this alert.

With each passing minute, distracting him becomes more difficult, and your nervousness only grows. The number of people around is increasing, which makes it harder to find who you're looking for and also gets in the way of your attempts to use the environment as a distraction. It's hard even to walk properly.

“Everyone is heading to the main hall. It’s probably just going to be the director’s thanks to the audience.” Henry pushed some people aside with his body, making way for you. “Come on, we can’t be the only ones outside.”

“Alright, but we better stay alert.” You took a step back, putting some distance between you and the crowd to avoid being pushed, your hand resting protectively on your belly. “I’m afraid this crowd might accidentally bump into the baby.”

“Yeah, you’re right...” He let go of your hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders, helping you keep your balance as you walked. “Are you okay? You’ve been bending your back more than usual since we got here.”

“I’m not used to this much physical activity...” You said, gently pushing away some people who were too close to your belly. “But it’s fine, it’s actually good for the baby.”

You both manage to find a quieter spot in the middle of the crowd and settle there. Even though the announcement is about to start, the crowd is still noisy.

“Let’s stay here, we have a perfect view of the staircase.”

With Henry finally distracted, the mask you’d been holding slips from your hand. Where the hell is your husband?!

You look around, trying to spot every face you can in the crowd. It can’t be, he has to be here!

Some of his coworkers are on the other side of the hall, gathered near someone who seems to be the director, also a familiar face. It makes no sense for him not to be here.

The acknowledgments are about to begin, it would be weird if you’re the only one not paying attention.

Your eyes start to sting. You should’ve seen this coming. Why were you so sure he’d come? Could it be that he’s...

Before you can think too much, a very familiar voice grabs your attention. You turn your head so fast you barely notice the movement.

You’d recognize that face even from afar. The certainty hits you the moment he looks at you with the same surprise.

Everything inside you seems to stop. It’s like the missing piece of you has finally returned.

He’s here.

Isaac is here.

But the spell breaks the instant someone crosses your line of sight and suddenly, he’s gone.

Like a ghost.

No, he can’t just disappear like that!

Or at least, you thought you did.

The group he seemed to be with greets you casually. No one there recognizes you.

Again, emptiness swallows you whole. No, you didn’t imagine him. You saw him. He was here. He looked right at you!

No matter how much you look for him again, he doesn’t show up.

No... What have you done?

The hand that spins you around isn’t enough to catch your attention, but the voice that follows is.

“That’s odd. Was that enough to make all the tiredness from your ‘pregnancy’ disappear instantly?”

Even though the voices of the crowd are loud, his voice sounds louder.

Wait, that?

“You... saw him too?”

Indignation crosses Henry’s face before rage floods it.

He saw him too! Isaac is here, you knew you weren’t imagining things!

“I can’t believe you did this to me...” He seems to be purposely hiding his expression from you. “Since when were you lying?! I can’t trust you... This was a mistake. Let’s go home. Now.”

His grip on your shoulders reminds you of the situation you’re in. You ruined everything. Because of your impatience, you broke everything you had built.

He will never trust you again. He’ll lock you up, isolate you from everyone, or worse.

You’ll never see your husband again.

That thought gives you the push you need.

“No, NO! I’m not going back, not with you!” You shove him hard in the chest. He immediately steps back, surprised.

You run through the crowd toward the exit door. If he catches you, it's all over. It will be the end.

The door feels heavier than it should as you push it open, but the small gap you manage to create is enough to slip through. It’s not the same hallway you were in before, but that doesn’t matter now. You can’t think straight, you need to find a place to hide. Somewhere far from him.

The corridor is empty, not even the guards are here watching the artworks. When you reach the end, you realize the only exit leads straight back to the crowd.

You won’t face that again. Your only option is to climb the stairs.

The door starts to open, and fear freezes you for a moment. Without hesitation, you quickly step back and run toward the stairs.

In your panic, as you turn and climb the steps, you don’t notice you’ve bumped into a candleholder that’s part of an art installation.

You don’t stop until you see the stairs end, you’re on the top floor. This doesn’t look like a public area for visitors, but even so, you feel uncomfortable in such an open space, so you enter the last room down the hall.

It looks like an art restoration room, full of chemicals and solvents. If you knock them over, it could cause a big problem. You hide under a table where you have a clear view of the door.

…

What should you do now?

Relief flows through your body as soon as you hide, and now you can think more clearly.

You were impulsive, but... it’s not all lost. Your husband is here, you need to catch him somewhere isolated, and before Henry finds you. You could ask anyone you cross for help, but that would definitely upset your husband and damage his reputation. It wouldn’t be good if his beloved became the center of attention, especially after all the effort he must have put into opening this place.

Even though you’re decided about what to do, you’re still a little anxious, so you stay hidden a few more minutes, taking advantage of the time to try to remove the makeup from your face. Your husband has already recognized you, but it’s good to be cautious.

With your face hopefully clean, you come out from under the table and take a deep breath.

...

This air isn’t clean. What’s happening outside?

You open the door and the smell of smoke fills your nose, so thick it blurs your vision. Such dense smoke can only mean one thing.

Fire.

There’s nothing else on this floor but smoke. But it would be risky to go down to the first floor, you don’t know the situation there.

Your legs are shaking, fear is taking over you again.

You look out the window. There are already several people outside the museum while fire trucks are arriving and entering the building.

If they find you, they will definitely take you to Henry. You can’t rely on them.

You go to the window on the other side of the museum, the exit there seems to have fewer firefighters than the entrance. But either way, you’ll have to go down the stairs.

Your fear messes with your thinking as you run down the stairs, you feel sparks burning your skin. Each floor you go down seems worse, your eyes sting, making it harder to see the steps.

When you reach the last one, you see it. The fire hasn’t fully blocked the exit, you can hear people shouting. If you run, you should be able to get there.

The dizziness makes walking difficult, but you don’t let it stop you.

What stops you is an argument in front of the exit.

“My partner  is still inside! If you don’t go in, I will!” You see Henry struggling with some police officers at the entrance, they are having a hard time holding him back. “If they die because of your incompetence, I swear I will—[NAME]!”

The scream of your name makes you step back, and your fear of dying is replaced by a worse fear.

If you... if you leave through here...

Henry’s shouts get louder now, he’s yelling your name repeatedly.

No... You can’t risk it. Any fate is better than going back to him!

You force your heels to turn and climb the stairs again. You know it’s dangerous, but you refuse to go back to anyone but your husband.

Your remaining courage runs out when the floor collapses in front of you, the wood shakes under your feet. The stairs you came up on are also blocked by the collapse of the upper floor.

You lean against the wall, sliding down until you sit. The lack of air makes it hard to recover your energy.

It’s over for you.

You knew this would happen the moment you left that room, but you still had hope. It won’t be the fire that kills you, but your own selfishness. Many chances appeared, but you wasted them all wanting things your way.

Tears run down your cheeks, you miss your husband. All you wanted was to be home with his company, relaxing together in bed. Because of you, you’ll never be able to do that again.

Oh, Isaac... You wonder if he’s okay. There’s a window near where you are... Is there any chance you can see him?

It’s worth trying, you have nothing to lose now.

But as soon as you try to walk, the floor shakes beneath you. The fire has consumed almost everything around you, it won’t be long before the floor above collapses. You need to be quick.

Gathering your last bit of strength, you ignore the burning pain of your wounds and run to the window. The little fresh air that comes in helps you breathe better, and your vision, once blurry, starts to clear, helping you look for your beloved. But no matter how much you search, you don’t...

The floor collapses beneath you.

You didn’t find him.

...

As expected.

______________________________________________________________

It’s warm.

Your body is pressed against something warm.

You don’t know what it is, your eyes feel too heavy to open.

But it’s okay, you don’t need to know.

You make a small effort to move your arms. They seem to be resting on someone. More specifically, on their shoulders. You shift them to wrap around their neck, nestling closer to the back of their head.

The scent is familiar... It comforts you.

“I’m glad you can move, even if just a little.”

You recognize the voice immediately, but to be sure you’re not imagining things, you force your eyes open. You can only keep them half-open, but it’s enough to see the body carrying you on their back.

“My love...” Your voice is so hoarse it barely sounds like yours. “Where are we going?”

You feel like you have many questions, but they slip away the moment they come to mind. Speaking takes a lot of effort, so you ask the only thing that seems to be on your mind right now.

“We're coming home, dear.”

“Home...” You repeat the word to yourself, it sounds so sweet coming from your husband’s lips. “Heh, I like the sound of that...” A small smile grows on your own lips.

“I know you do.” Isaac smiles along with you. He gently squeezes your bandaged thigh. Even though it hurts, it proves he’s really here with you. “Let’s go home, my beloved.”

You couldn’t be happier to hear those words. He found you.

“This time, I’ll make sure it’s a place where no one will ever find you.”

[scribz-ag24]

more darkrai things.

in the third image darkrai isnr amnesiac btw he wants grovyle dead and has to step in bc dusknoir has failed too many goddamn times by now

[supershithits]

mysteries of our disguise revolve

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

summary: you’re just the new intern at the daily planet—anxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.

word count: 22.4k (i know it’s a lot but it’s worth it)

warnings/tags: +18 mdni, angst, banter, fluff !!!, clark has a savior complex, friends/coworkers to lovers, intern!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, the reader’s sort of a sensitive and insecure gal at times, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, both of them are very awkward at times, idiots in love (proceed with caution), declarations of love, p with plot, fingering (f receiving), handjob, oral (m and f receiving), whiny clark kent !!!, cum swallowing, p in v, missionary, happy ending.

a/n: first time writing for clark kent!!! to say i’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. i finally got to watch superman last week, and let me tell you: i’ve been obsessed with it <3 i walked out of the theater and pretty much ran home to start writing this fic. so yes, this one’s completely self-indulgent. i just got carried away by the feelings and couldn’t stop writing, hence the length lol. i really hope you enjoy this story. if you do, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world. and feel free to scream in the tags—i’ll be screaming too 🫂

Sometimes, you truly wished you didn’t have a brain.

It sounds ridiculous, worded like that. You know for a fact you’re not the first person to want a quiet mind, to dream of a day when you’re not held hostage by your own intrusive, spiraling thoughts. You take a look around and realize there are much bigger problems out there in the world.

Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.

And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you. 

If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.

The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:

It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.

But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid: 

It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.

Just so much for a girl in her twenties.

You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.

She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.

Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—

“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.

He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”

At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”

A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.

Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.

Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”

With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”

As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”

“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.

She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”

You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.

The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.

Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.

“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”

Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”

Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.

Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.

You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”

He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”

No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.

He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.

Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.

“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”

“Shut it.”

“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”

You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”

Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”

A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.

He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”

Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.

He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.

At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.

Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.

“James Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”

Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”

You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.

Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.

“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.

Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.

Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.

In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”

Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”

Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.

“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”

“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”

You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.

Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”

Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”

Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”

Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”

Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”

Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”

“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”

The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.

You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.

Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.

A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.

It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.

Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.

Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.

Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.

Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”

“Excuse me?”

“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”

“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.

“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”

“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”

His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”

To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.

You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.

Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.

You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.

“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.

You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.

He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.

Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.

An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.

At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.

Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.

Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.

It’s yours.

Goddammit.

Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.

[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]

[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]

[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]

You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.

The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.

A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.

It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.

Don’t beat yourself up over it.

It’s just one article.

Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.

What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.

You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.

Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.

He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.

“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”

Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.

The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.

You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.

You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.

You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.

A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.

You hear it. His voice.

“…Hey.”

Clark.

You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.

There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.

Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.

He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”

That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.

“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”

Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.

You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”

It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.

Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”

“It’s not.”

You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.

That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.

Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.

You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.

It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”

You choke on your own saliva.

“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”

Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.

Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”

He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.

“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”

His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.

“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”

Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”

His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”

“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”

“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”

Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”

There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.

“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”

You scratch your nose. “Sure?”

“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”

“…No.”

He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”

“Oh my God.”

“I warned you.”

“No, but—a thesaurus?”

“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”

“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”

“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”

“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”

He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”

“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”

You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he echoes.

A pause.

“Wanna hear another one?”

“Clark, please—”

“What do you call fake spaghetti?”

“I don’t even want to think about that one.”

“An impasta.”

You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”

Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”

“Of terrible puns?”

“Of coffee and emotional support.”

You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.

By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.

“You always carry tissues with you?”

“A man needs to be prepared.”

He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.

You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.

“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”

Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”

Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.

Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”

Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.

You like Lois.

You really, really do.

She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.

You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.

Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.

They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.

In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.

All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.

“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay? You look like you just found out your favorite character dies in the end.”

You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”

Jimmy blinks.

Then blinks again.

Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”

You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.

“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”

The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”

“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”

“Drop it, Jimmy.”

Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”

“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.

Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.

Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.

Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”

You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.

And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.

Again.

They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.

And somehow, that settles it.

The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.

The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.

The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).

You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.

The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.

You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.

He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.

“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”

You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”

He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”

“Well, are you?”

His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”

You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.

Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.

“Are you annoyed?” you ask.

His smile fades. “What?”

“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”

“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”

You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.

Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.

Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.

“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”

“She’d eat you alive.”

“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”

“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”

Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”

Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”

“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”

He smiles then. “The team.”

“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Carl.”

“Caro?”

“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”

“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”

You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”

“Oh. You sure?”

“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”

“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”

He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know.” He’s already turning toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll grab our stuff.”

And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.

The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.

But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.

The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.

“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.

“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”

You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.

Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”

“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.

You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”

He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”

“How do you…?”

“What?”

“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”

“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”

“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”

“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”

“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”

“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”

Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.

He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”

“Excuse me?”

“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”

“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”

“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”

As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.

“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.

“You say that like I’m not honored.”

“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”

“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”

You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.

“Clark?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”

He pauses. “I had a feeling.”

You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”

Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”

You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.

By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.

You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”

“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.

There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—

An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.

He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me a call if it gets worse.”

“Only if I want to be carried again.”

“Happy to oblige.”

And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.

You’re beyond head over heels.

Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.

Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.

Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.

You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—

“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”

“Clark told you,” you say flatly.

Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”

“I cannot believe he told you.”

“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”

“I hate you.”

He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”

“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”

“Not attention in general. Just his.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.

Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—

“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.

You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”

Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”

“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”

“...Okay.”

You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.

“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”

“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”

He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”

“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”

And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.

Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.

You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.

Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”

You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.

Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.

Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.

You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.

And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.

Your charger.

Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.

Jimmy Olsen.

You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”

“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.

“You left your charger here—”

“Don’t even get me started on that.”

“—but I already gave it to Clark.”

Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.

“You what?”

“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”

“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”

“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”

“Jimmy—”

“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.

You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.

Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.

In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.

“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”

You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”

He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”

You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”

He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”

You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.

“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”

You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”

He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”

Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”

He says nothing. So you keep going.

“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”

You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”

Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”

You blink. “What?”

“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”

Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.

“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”

“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”

And so he begins to read.

You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.

There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.

“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”

“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”

“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”

Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”

“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.

You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.

He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.

“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”

“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”

When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.

You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”

“Do what?”

Does he want you to say it?

You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.

That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.

One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.

His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”

You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.

Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.

You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.

He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.

“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”

A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.

Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.

At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.

It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.

He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.

Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.

Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.

And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.

At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.

Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.

Then:

“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.

That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”

He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”

He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.

You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”

“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.

“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”

“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”

“How noble of you, Kent.”

Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.

But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.

Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.

It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.

Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.

One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”

Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.

Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”

He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”

“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”

“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”

Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”

Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.

Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”

The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“Mr. Kent.”

His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”

He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”

“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”

“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look beautiful today.”

It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”

His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.

As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.

Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.

Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.

You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.

There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.

You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.

Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.

The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.

Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.

Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.

Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.

And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.

The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.

Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.

The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.

Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”

You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.

You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.

Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.

“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”

He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.

Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”

You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”

His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”

If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.

Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.

In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.

His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.

For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.

A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.

You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."

He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.

Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”

“I told you—”

“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”

He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Disappointed, then?”

“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”

He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”

You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”

That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”

“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”

“I’ve been telling you—”

“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”

“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”

“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”

“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.

Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”

“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”

“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”

You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”

“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"

“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”

Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.

He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”

“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.

“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”

Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.

The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.

One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.

You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.

Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.

He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.

It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.

Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.

Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.

But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.

You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.

Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.

Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.

Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.

Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.

His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”

You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”

He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”

“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”

He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.

His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.

Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”

You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I want to know.”

“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”

“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”

For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.

Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.

So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”

“Then you know what comes next.”

Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.

It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.

Sleep won’t come.

You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.

So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—

You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.

And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.

It all makes you wonder where Superman is.

He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.

You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.

Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”

It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.

You can’t look away.

The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.

For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—

No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.

Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.

“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”

Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.

Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”

You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.

Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.

There he is.

Clark.

Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.

Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.

Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.

Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.

Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.

Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.

If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.

If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.

They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.

Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.

You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.

The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.

The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.

Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.

For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.

Straight through you.

Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”

You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.

He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.

You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.

Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.

Gone.

You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.

“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”

The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.

Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”

Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside

At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.

“Clark—”

“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”

It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.

They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?

“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”

Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.

You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?

“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”

You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.

In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.

“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them.  “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”

You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.

Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.

The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.

He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.

A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.

“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”

You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.

“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”

His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment.  “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”

So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.

“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment.  “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.

There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”

“What do you mean—”

“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”

Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”

It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”

“I love you.”

“Again. Please.”

You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”

He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”

“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.

Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.

But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you

He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.

You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”

“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”

“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”

You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”

“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”

A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”

“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”

Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”

“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”

Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”

“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.

“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gorgeous

Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.

He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”

“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”

Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.

“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”

You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.

You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth.  “I came as well. Mentally.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”

“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.

Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.

“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”

Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.

“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”

You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.

“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”

It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.

His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.

“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.

“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”

Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.

This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.

When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.

He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—

Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.

Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.

Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.

By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.

You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.

He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?

“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”

And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.

The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.

Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.

At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.

To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.

“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”

You slow your pace but don’t let go.

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.

You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.

“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”

“Baby, I swear—”

“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”

“Then you deserve it.”

“But twice?”

“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”

One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.

“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”

He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.

Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.

In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.

Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.

His voice is low.  “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”

“Condom?”

He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”

“I told you you could come inside me.”

That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.

“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.

He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.

“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”

“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”

Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”

“Yes.”

“Bare.”

“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”

He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”

“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”

“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”

He pushes in.

At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.

“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.

“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”

“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”

“Want me to kiss you?”

He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”

You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”

“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”

A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”

His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.

“Why not?”

“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”

It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.

As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.

Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.

He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.

The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.

It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.

“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.

The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.

You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.

“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.

It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.

His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.

You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.

“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.

“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.

“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”

And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.

It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.

He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.

Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.

You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.

He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.

“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”

You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.

The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”

You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”

“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”

You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.

There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.

“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.

A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”

“What does that have to do with what I just said?”

“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of.I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”

“That… was a weird route to get there.”

He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”

You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”

“It was like a week ago.”

“We weren’t even speaking.”

He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”

“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”

“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”

“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”

“Oh. Right. I guess I—”

“Are you going to?”

“I—would you want to?”

You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”

When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”

At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.

Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.

Somehow, it feels even truer in his.

dividers by: @bbyg4rlhelps <3

[lady-luckk]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ what did you expect?

# pairings: yandere sugar daddy harem x sugar baby reader

# synopsis: eight obsessive lovers think they’re the only one—until their secrets collide. now, you’re trapped between devotion, danger, and the illusion of choice.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI

# notes: reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated!

# parts: part 1 𖤓 part 2 𖤓 part 3

# tags: @hopingtoclearmedschool , @yawnzzx, @hasty-desert, @enchantingarcadecreation, @cannyyyyy, @lianobody, @bokkito, @lordkhrisangel, @kiyo123456789, @iris-arcadia, @sleepycow21, @agustdxjiminx, @theangxz, @plus-ultra-girl, @slowlyswimmingmoon, @whiteoakoak

you don’t move.

you don’t breathe.

you just listen.

the front door handle jiggles. the back one, too. your apartment is small—too small for this. for two men who shouldn’t know each other to be reaching for you at once, calling you baby like it means something different on their tongues.

you back into the wall, calculating. the money. the gifts. the lies. the men. you’ve always kept it separate—clean, compartmentalized. eight lives. eight masks. never crossing. never slipping.

but something’s cracking.

“just open the door,” says one—closer now, coaxing. elijah? no—lucas? they blur together in the panic.

“i saw the light on,” the other murmurs through the rear entrance. “you home, sweetheart?”

you inch toward the hallway. your mind races through excuses, through escape plans. one of them is going to see the other. one of them is going to know.

and then what?

the front door knocks again. harder. louder. not a request, now—a warning.

your phone lights up on the counter.

eight missed messages.

three voicemails.

your name repeated like a prayer and a threat.

they’re closing in, and they still think they’re the only one. still think you belong only to them.

but if this is the night the truth comes out—

you might not get to leave.

your phone lights up again.

another message:

“i know you’re in there. don’t make me wait.”

you don’t recognize the number. but the tone is familiar. possessive. low. someone who thinks waiting is beneath him.

your throat tightens.

the front door handle clicks. the back one rattles. your apartment feels like it’s shrinking, the walls pressing in with every second.

you don’t even have time to figure out which one is standing where.

all you can think about is the second bedroom elijah wanted to fill. the silk robe nathan said you’d grow into. the prenatal vitamins matthew left like it was the most natural thing. the way kai stares too long at your stomach. how xavier whispers to it like there’s already something growing inside.

your stomach twists.

you never agreed to anything. never promised forever. you gave them smiles and touches, laughter and attention—and they gave you gifts. trips. jewelry. money. enough to live comfortably, to stay just out of reach.

but now they’re all reaching.

the back door knob jolts violently. a voice, clearer this time: “you’re not answering. why aren’t you answering me?”

your fingers dig into the edge of the counter. your heart is racing. this isn’t normal. this isn’t love.

this is a trap.

a cage lined with velvet and diamond-studded handcuffs.

another message buzzes through.

“i saw him. who was he?”

your blood runs cold.

they’re watching. maybe more than one. maybe all of them.

you inch toward your bathroom, silently lock the door behind you. your fingers fumble for the window. it’s too narrow to crawl out of, but you crack it anyway—for air. for escape. for the illusion of safety.

your phone vibrates again.

“we were supposed to be forever.” “you lied to me.” “i’m outside. don’t make me do something you’ll regret.”

you slide to the floor, curling against the tub, breath shaking in your chest.

you’ve played this game so well.

smiled through dinners. laughed at their jokes. let them believe they were the only one. and maybe, for a while, it was fun.

but now?

now the game is over.

you’ve always known how to lie. how to perform.

but tonight, you’ll have to survive.

because one of them has found out.

and maybe—just maybe—they’ve told the others.

your knees press into cold tile.

somewhere outside, voices blur into one another—soft at first, like murmurs carried by wind, then louder. firm. insistent.

you don’t breathe.

two voices. not yelling. not yet. but the fury simmers beneath every word, masked only by the fact that they think they’re alone with you.

they don’t know about each other.

not yet.

and that window—the sliver you thought was escape—is now the perfect peephole. one of them paces by it, a familiar silhouette cloaked in tailored wool. you recognize the glint of his watch in the moonlight. lucas.

composed. deliberate. terrifying.

he’s not supposed to be here.

none of them are.

your phone buzzes again. and again. and again.

a dozen names. a dozen new messages.

where are you? are you avoiding me? i saw your lights on. i’ll wait all night if i have to. come outside, baby. please. i miss you. don’t make me come in.

a shiver rips down your spine.

you open your texts, hands trembling. a photo loads. grainy. zoomed in. taken from across the street.

it’s you. earlier today. unlocking your front door.

you never saw him.

another one loads. this time, through your bedroom window. you’re changing. your back to the glass.

you slam your phone face down.

this is spiraling.

they’ve been watching. waiting. marking time.

and now, they’re slipping. losing patience. showing teeth behind velvet smiles.

a soft knock—again. back door.

“i brought dinner,” someone says. sweet. calm. too calm.

matthew.

he always brings food. always watches you eat, like he’s studying your habits, waiting for signs. now, you wonder if he’s been dosing it.

your stomach flips.

you think of the vitamins. the tests. the new toothbrush that just appeared one morning in your bathroom—same brand as his. the silk sheets that mysteriously matched the ones in leo’s house. the second toothbrush. the tracking app you didn’t install.

your name echoes from the hallway.

not a question. a command.

“open. the. door.”

you flinch.

they don’t know they’re all here. yet.

but if they find out—if they see each other—what happens next won’t be about love. or even possession.

it’ll be war.

and you?

you’re the trophy they’ve all convinced themselves belongs to them.

you inch toward the closet. pull back the false panel you had installed months ago—just in case. it’s small, meant for shoes. cash. secrets. but it might buy you time.

you crawl inside the space.

the sound of a door opening echoes through your apartment.

but you never opened it.

you never said a word.

someone just let themselves in.

you press yourself into the farthest corner of the crawlspace, knees to chest, breath held so tight your lungs ache. the door creaks open—slowly. deliberately. like whoever entered doesn’t need to hurry.

your phone vibrates once more against your thigh.

you don’t look.

you already know.

footsteps now. one pair. deliberate. heavy. someone confident.

they don’t call out.

don’t ask for you.

they already know where you are.

floorboards groan. the closet is close.

you clamp a hand over your mouth. heart jackhammering. one wrong move and they’ll hear you breathing.

and then—

a pause.

no movement. no voice. just silence so thick it buzzes.

until another sound slices through it.

“they’re not answering you either, huh?”

a second voice.

your stomach drops.

they’re both inside.

“maybe they’re out.”

“they’re not.”

silence again.

“how do you know?”

“because their phone’s still here. and the lights are on.”

lucas. that calculating edge in his voice.

and elijah. smoother, but colder. too calm for someone this angry.

“who the fuck are you?” lucas asks, voice low, sharp.

“funny. i was about to ask you the same thing.”

you hold your breath.

“you’ve been watching them.”

“so have you.”

“don’t play dumb—why are you here?”

“same reason as you. they belongs to me.”

something slams. hard. a chair? a table?

you flinch.

“you don’t even know them.”

“i know everything i need to. and i know you’re in my way.”

they’re circling each other. measuring. two wolves in the same cage.

you stay frozen.

silent.

until—

another voice.

“both of you need to shut the hell up.”

matthew.

“they’re not a fucking toy you get to bicker over. they’re ours.”

the temperature in the apartment drops.

“ours?” lucas repeats, cold.

“you think they belongs to us?”

a pause.

“no,” matthew says. “i know they do.”

another voice. softer. hesitant.

nathan.

“…what’s going on?”

four.

four of them now.

you bite down on your knuckles to keep from making a sound.

the walls are closing in.

“they’ve been lying to all of us,” lucas says, sharp and sure. “don’t you get that?”

“and yet you’re still here,” elijah snaps. “so are you really mad? or just jealous?”

“jealous?” matthew scoffs. “i’ve already planned our future.”

more footsteps.

another knock.

“hey,” kai says from the hallway. “is something wrong?”

“you too?” lucas hisses.

you hear a breath hitch. kai.

“…wait. you’re all here?”

“no one invited you, kid,” elijah says, voice like steel.

“they didn’t invite any of us,” lucas snaps.

the air goes still.

“they’ve been playing all of us,” someone whispers. maybe nathan. maybe damien. maybe someone new.

“you shut your mouth,” leo growls. sudden. vicious. “don’t talk about her like that.”

“why?”

“because they’re still ours.”

“you really think they wants any of us?”

“they don’t need to want us,” damien finally speaks. “they need to understand.”

“understand what?”

“that this ends tonight.”

your blood turns to ice.

they’ve stopped talking.

and now?

now they’re moving.

together.

you hear the footsteps draw closer. eight sets. slow. united.

no longer fighting each other.

they’ve made a choice.

and you’re the one they’ve chosen.

your phone lights up one more time.

you should’ve picked one of us. but now we’ve picked you. all of us.

your breath catches.

you can hear them in your room now. feet shuffling. drawers opening. your closet door creaks.

you press yourself deeper into the hideaway, heart slamming against your ribs.

then—

a hand brushes the panel from the other side. gently.

and a voice.

“there you are.”

you don’t scream.

you don’t move.

you just stare as the panel starts to shift open—slow, deliberate.

but it’s not just one hand.

another one grips the edge from the other side.

and another.

and another.

different sets of fingers. different grips.

they’ve all found you. at once.

and for the first time all night, they’re not fighting each other.

they’re working together.

the last thing you hear—before the panel gives way completely—is a chorus of voices, soft and smiling, overlapping in perfect, practiced harmony:

“we forgive you.”

darkness falls as the panel opens.

and they reach in.

[skyrigel]

Actually obsessed with the idea of helping Simon take thrist traps of himself and cam videos.

He's hot, he's so damn hot and it should be evident enough from his audios going viral, his soft grunts and groans when he's deep in your cunt, all those filthy whispers meant for you making horny viewers out there touching their dripping holes and fisting their cock, but you knew how to spice it up even more, taking those black images with 'backshots with Mrs. Riley audio' and 'eating out Mrs. Riley' even further.

While you would love to put camera on his flushed out face, grunting as you moved your hips over his hard dick, throbbing and twitching inside your warm folds—fucking yourself in best illusion but infact it was Simon's grip on your waist doing most of the work, pumping you over his cock, milking dry— still a mask for him because Simon was yours, and the world wasn't good enough to see what you just could.

Setting the camera in front of him, his legs spread apart and unbuttoned shirt with his full abs and every hard muscle on display. His face hidden behind the mask but the lust, crave in his eyes as you moved around in lingerie was very much visible.

You start the live cam, crawling on your knees with the back of your head to camera, settling between his legs and hearing his breath getting heavy, ragged, and absolute catastrophe. Then with teeth opening that zipper, and Simon moans, his throat exposing with red lipstick perfect within every inch — they're about to hear real noises very soon.

Masterlist

[woogilicious]

didn't think i'd fall here ꒰ mingi ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ rating: 18+ (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT) ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: song mingi x female!reader ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 6.5k ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: strangers to lovers, comfort, virgin!reader, virgin!mingi, friends-to-lovers energy, soft angst, smut, fluff ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: emotional manipulation, toxic friendship, crying, anxiety, self-esteem issues, first time sex, consensual sex, safe sex, soft dom!mingi vibes, realistic first time awkwardness, condom run to the convenience store lol, mentions of blood during sex (light), aftercare, mingi being obsessed with you, reader threatening to chop mingi's dick off lovingly ♡ ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ author's note: it's been a while y'all. hope you enjoy this smut, and also I've been trying some new layout lol cuz i'm not satisfied with my previous layout.

You didn't even want to come here today.

Lotte World was supposed to be fun—cotton candy, carousel selfies, maybe something gentle like bumper cars. But with Yujin and Hana, it was never about fun. It was about appearances. About pushing you into situations just to get a reaction, to laugh behind their hands at how you squirmed.

"Ugh, you're seriously scared of this?" Yujin groan, snapping a photo of the massive Atlantis roller coaster ahead, the steel tracks twisting like some cruel maze in the sky. "It's not even the scariest ride here."

"Right?" Hana chimes in. "God, you're so boring sometimes, Y/N. No wonder no guy ever looks at you."

You laugh. It's hollow.

It doesn't stop the sting.

The queue is already packed when they drag you towards the entrance. You hesitate, but Yujin latches onto your wrist like you're a toddler about to run into traffic.

"Don't be a baby. It's just a ride."

"But I really don't—"

"Do not make a scene," she hisses, smiling too widely as a group of boys glance over. "You're already embarrassing enough. Come on."

The line inches forward. Every step closer makes your chest tighter, like the straps of an invisible harness locking you in. Your stomach churns, hands tremble. But you don't say a word.

Yujin and Hana are too busy taking selfies to notice. Or care.

You stand behind them, quiet, small, barely existing.

"Swear to god," Yujin mutters at one point, "you're going to die single if you keep acting like this. You gotta be brave. Guys hate weak girls."

Hana laughs way too loud. "She needs a guy to knock some sense into her. Or just knock her up. Either one might fix it."

Your ears burn.

You try to laugh again, just to keep up the illusion. It sounds like you're choking.

And still, the line moves.

You're maybe five people from the platform when the operator suddenly shouts, "Two seat available now! Anyone here riding as a pair?"

Yujin doesn't even ask. Doesn't even glance back.

She and Hana leap forward.

"We're two!"

They disappear up the stairs in a blink. The group in front of you steps forward. And just like that, you're alone.

You don't cry, not yet.

But your body's reacting—shaking hands, clenched jaw, vision blurring at the edges. You're aware that walking backward through the crowded line would be more embarrassing than just riding the damn thing. At least, that's what your brain tells you.

The panic bubbles anyway.

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes glued to the track. It creaks and rumbles as the next cart wooshes by in a blur. Someone screams in delight. You're going to throw up. Right here, in front of everyone.

And then—

"Hey."

You jump.

The voice is gentle, low, curious. You turn around.

Three boys stand behind you, next in line. The tallest one—broad shoulders, brown hair—tilts his head at you.

You blink. "...huh?"

He offers a small smile. "You look like you're about to faint."

You open your mouth, then shut it.

The second boy, shorter but muscular with sharp features and a piercing stare, cuts in. "She was with those girls, right? They just ditched her."

The third guy, softer looking with black hair and pretty eyes, nods. "That's messed up."

You look between them, startled that they even noticed.

"I'm—fine," you lie. "I'll just... I was gonna leave."

"Back through that crowd?" The tall one says, gesturing behind.

"...yeah."

He glances at the operator, then back at you. "Well, you don't have to ride alone. I'll go with you."

You blink. "What?"

He smiles again, this time more reassuring. "I mean—if you want. We can ride together. No pressure."

"...why?"

He shrugs. "You look like you need a buddy."

The one with the sharp stare grins now. "This guy's Mingi. He's annoyingly a gentleman sometimes."

"I'm Jongho," he adds, giving you a little nod. "And that's Yeosang."

Yeosang gives you a tiny wave.

"Thanks," you mumble, feeling overwhelmed but... oddly warm. "I'm Y/N."

Jongho snorts. "Yeah, we heard your friends being total assholes. Y/N, you seriously deserve better than that."

You swallow. The words hit harder than they should.

Mingi gently touches your elbow. "You okay riding the roller coaster with me?"

You look at him—his soft gaze, his open posture, the zero judgement in his tone. And for once, someone isn't making you feel like a burden.

"...yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

The staff waves you forward.

Mingi lets you take the seat first, then slips in beside you, pulling the safety bar down. He's close—his knee brushes yours, and his scent is something clean and warm, like citrus and sun.

He glances at you.

"You're brave for doing this."

You almost laugh.

The ride jerks forward with a lurch.

Your fingers grip the bar.

Mingi's hand moves, gently resting on top of yours.

It's warm. Your fingers twitch beneath his at first, unsure, but then the roller coaster jolts forward with a hiss of steam, and you instinctively grip him back like your life depends on it.

He chuckles low under his breath. "That tight already? We haven't gone up yet."

You shoot him a panicked glance, knuckles going pale. "I'm not gonna survive this."

"You will," he says, voice soft. "You've got me now."

The ride starts its slow, agonising climb. Your heart funds like it's trying to launch itself out of your chest.

Mingi doesn't let go. Not even once. His thumb strokes over your knuckles in lazy circles, like he's trying to distract you from the threatening death drop ahead.

"Deep breath," he murmurs. "You've got this, Y/N."

The cart tips.

You scream.

It's not even cute. It's pure terror.

And Mingi just laughs—not at you though, but in joy, throwing his hands up as you fly down the track, wind whipping through your hair, your body tossed left and right.

You never let go of his hand.

By the time it slows and returns to the platform, your voice is gone, and your legs feel like jelly. You stumble forward a little when the bar lifts, but Mingi's hand on your back steadies you.

"You alright?" he asks, eyes scanning your face.

You nod, breathless, dazed.

He smiles, wide and proud. "You did amazing. Seriously! That was brave as hell."

You want to say thank you, but you're still processing the fact that your heart is beating and your limbs are still attached. You let out a small laugh instead, cheeks flushed, the adrenaline not quite fading yet.

Then you hear it.

"Wait, where's Y/N?"

Your stomach sinks.

You turn your head toward the exit ramp and spot them—Yujin and Hana—posing near a churro cart, phone angled high, lips puckered in matching fake smiles.

The voice is unmistakable.

"Probably chickened out and left the roller coaster," Yujin mutters, loud enough that you catch every word.

Hana scoffs, adjusting her hair. "We should find her, I guess. We did come with her car, after all."

"Ugh," Yujin groans. "So annoying. I hate her sometimes."

Hana snorts. "Sometimes?"

They both burst into laughter.

It hits you harder than the drop on the coaster.

You freeze. The sting behind your eyes burns hot, and you blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears win. Not here. Not in front of Mingi, Yeosang and Jongho.

But Mingi heard it too.

You feel the shift in his posture beside you, the way his jaw clenches just slightly. He glances back at Jongho and Yeosang, who both clearly clock the situation. A silent nod happens between them.

Then, without warning, Mingi gently grabs your wrist.

"Come on."

You look up, startled. "Wait—what? Where are we going?"

He's already walking you in the opposite direction.

"I—I need to go to them," you say, stumbling to keep with his pace. "I need to send them home—"

"Are they your close friends?" he asks, cutting you off calmly.

You stop walking. "Huh?"

"Do you hang out with them a lot?"

"…No. We used to be close in high school. But now… not really. We're all in different universities and barely meet up anymore."

Mingi hums like that’s exactly the answer he expected. "Good. So you can cut them off."

You blink. "What?"

He turns to face you properly, his expression serious but not harsh. "Why spend the rest of your day with people who treat you like that? Just hang out with us."

You open your mouth to argue, but then Jongho jogs up beside you, slinging an arm over your shoulder like you've been besties for years.

"You didn't hear what they said? They're literally using you for your car and shitting on you behind your back."

"Yeah," Yeosang says, catching up, a rare frown on his usually passive face. “That's not what friends do. That's just… sad."

"I don't wanna ruin your guys' day though," you say quietly, unsure.

Mingi shakes his head. "You're not. I asked you to stay. You're not an obligation. You're a choice."

That line makes your heart skip.

Jongho smirks. "Besides, Mingi's in his hero mode now. You're stuck with us."

Yeosang chuckles. "He only gets like this when something really pisses him off."

You glance at Mingi, who's pretending not to listen, but the way he nudges your arm with his elbow says otherwise.

And for once… it feels okay to be pulled in a different direction.

You're still holding your tray with half-finished tteokbokki when Mingi takes a seat beside you at the picnic table. Jongho and Yeosang are opposite, poking fun at each other while stealing bits from the fishcake skewer pile.

"You okay?" Mingi asks quietly, sipping from his soda.

You nod. "Actually… yeah. Thanks to you guys."

He hums. "Good."

It feels so normal, sitting here with them. You were smiling. Genuinely smiling. For the first time in weeks, maybe.

The stand nearby is selling fresh corndogs and hotteok. You notice Jongho eyeing them, and your stomach grumbles too.

"I'll grab some more snacks," you say, standing. "My treat."

"Are you sure?" Yeosang asks.

"Yeah," you smile. "You guys saved me today. Least I can do."

You approach the snack cart, debating how many corndogs to grab when—

Shove.

It's not hard enough to knock you down, but enough to make you stumble forward a step. You turn, startled.

"Oh my god, we knew we saw your big back over here," Yujin says with a laugh, like it's the funniest thing in the world.

Hana smirks, standing beside her, arms crossed.

You step back, lips parting. "You guys left me."

Yujin rolls her eyes. "No we didn't? We were waiting for you by the churros stand."

"I was standing alone in line," you reply, your voice still soft, careful not to escalate anything. "You jumped ahead without even checking on me."

"Please," Hana mutters. "You probably didn't see us because you were too much of a pussy to ride."

They both burst into laughter.

You feel it again—that familiar sting in your chest. But this time, before you can say anything, another voice cuts through the air.

"Hey, Y/N. Is there a problem here?"

You look to your side.

Mingi's there, standing tall, eyes dark, jaw clenched. And when he looks at Yujin and Hana, the playful energy around them dies instantly.

Yujin straightens up, adjusting her top. "Oh heyyyy~" she says, her tone suddenly flirty. "And who might you be?"

"Do you know him?" Hana adds, nudging you.

"Yes," you reply clearly. "He offered to ride the roller coaster with me."

Yujin raises an eyebrow. "Really now…"

Then Mingi steps closer, resting a firm hand around your wrist—not hard, just protective.

"If you don’t have anything decent to say to Y/N," he says, voice sharp like a knife, "you can leave. She's hanging out with me and my friends now."

He doesn't wait for them to respond. He gently pulls you away, guiding you back toward the table where Jongho and Yeosang are already watching with narrowed eyes.

You think it's over—until Yujin and Hana follow you.

"Oh my god, Y/N," Yujin says loudly. "Don’t be such a whore and take three guys at once~ At least leave one for us."

You freeze mid-step.

"…Excuse me?" you blink slowly, not even sure you heard her right.

Yujin grins, proud. "Sharing is caring, babe."

You glance at Hana, who won’t meet your eyes.

"…Yujin," you say softly. "You have a boyfriend."

"So?" she scoffs. "You're being a greedy whore with three guys up your ass. You're no better than me."

Your breath catches. You stare at her, shocked. Embarrassed. Ashamed, even though you've done nothing wrong.

Hana still won't look at you.

And that's when Mingi steps forward.

"You know what's actually disgusting?" Mingi says, his voice suddenly cold. "That you think humiliating someone publicly makes you funny. That mocking someone you call a friend is just a joke. That dragging her down is the only way you feel better about yourself."

Yujin's face stiffens.

"And calling her a whore?" Mingi scoffs. "Girl, she's more decent than either of you. If having three people care about her makes her a whore, then maybe you should ask yourself why no one treats you that way."

Hana lets out a tiny breath like she's been slapped.

Mingi turns to them fully now, shielding you with his body.

"Don't talk to her again," he says firmly. "Don't call her. Don't look at her. Don't even think about her. Got it?"

Yujin crosses her arms. "Oh really? But she's our ride. She drove us here."

Jongho suddenly stands from the table. "Then go ask your boyfriend to pick you up."

The silence is loud.

Yujin's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Hana still won't look at you.

You don't say a word. You just follow the boys as they walk away, head high, shoulders squared. Mingi's hand brushes yours. You don't pull away.

Behind you, you hear Yujin groan like a spoiled brat not getting what she wants.

And you don't look back.

You're quiet as you sit back at the table. You feel small again—not because of what they said, but because of how much it still hurts.

Jongho passes you a drink without a word. Yeosang silently offers you the hotteok you didn't get to buy.

Mingi sits beside you again, elbows on the table, glancing sideways at your face.

"You okay?" he asks for the second time today.

You nod, eyes glassy.

"You don't have to be," he adds softly.

"…I don't get it," you murmur. "I never did anything to them. I was always… trying to be nice."

"You were too nice," Yeosang says, voice calm. "Some people take kindness as weakness. That's not on you."

"She was jealous of you," Jongho adds bluntly. "Both of them were. You're quiet and kind and people like you without having to perform for it. That's threatening for girls like them."

You stare at your lap. "…I just hate that it got so ugly in front of everyone."

Mingi leans in closer, dropping his voice low. "If anything, you should be proud of yourself. You stood your ground. And you have three guys now who will never let anyone talk to you like that again."

You look up, eyes wide, lips parting.

Yeosang raises his soda. "To cutting off shitty people."

You laugh, finally.

And Mingi… he just watches you.

Like he's proud.

Like he’s already planning to keep you close all day.

The sun had dipped low by the time you all wandered back to your car, arms full of leftover snacks, plastic bags rustling with street game prizes and bottled drinks. The entire afternoon had gone by in a blur. One that smelled like honey butter corndogs and felt like safe hands holding you up.

"This your car?" Jongho asks, tapping the roof lightly.

You nod, unlocking it. "Yeah. It’s not fancy, but she gets me from A to B."

"It's cute," Yeosang says, popping a piece of candy into his mouth. "Matches you."

You glance at him, surprised. "Matches… me?"

"Yeah." He shrugs, smiling. "Kind of cozy. And a little beat up, but still standing."

You laugh. "Are you calling me emotionally damaged?"

"Absolutely," he says without blinking.

Mingi chuckles, watching you giggle as you swing the backdoor open to stash the snacks.

Jongho leans against the trunk, stretching. "We should hang out again sometime."

"Seconded," Yeosang says.

You smile. "I'd like that."

Mingi steps beside you and pulls out his phone. "Give me your number."

You blink. "Just like that?"

"Yeah," he grins. "No games. Just want to be able to text you."

Your heart skips.

You rattle off your number, and he saves it under Y/N 🎢, making you groan and hit his arm.

"What? You survived that roller coaster like a champ."

"I screamed."

"And held my hand the whole time," he says, low and teasing.

You turn away before your face gives too much away.

They all pile into their own car a few minutes later—Yeosang at the wheel, Jongho arguing over aux cord rights. Mingi rolls his window down just before they drive off.

"Hey, text me when you get home."

You glance up. "You too."

He smiles. "I will."

One week later.

You're sitting under a shady tree, picking at your sandwich while scrolling on your phone. Midterms are creeping up and your brain is half-fried. You barely notice the tall figure walking toward your bench until a shadow falls across your lap.

"Hey."

You look up—and blink.

"…Mingi?"

He grins, hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket. "Surprised?"

"Uh—yeah?? What are you doing here?"

"Your university's not that far from my dorm. I was in the area… and I was hungry."

You raise a brow. "So you decided to find me?"

"Obviously," he shrugs, plopping down beside you like this is the most normal thing ever.

Your heart does a backflip. "You're really bold, huh?"

He leans back on his palms, tilting his head toward you. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. After all… I haven't heard much from someone."

You flush. "I—I've been busy…"

"I know. I'm just teasing."

There's a pause.

The breeze rustles the leaves above. He's looking at you again, but this time with something softer in his expression.

"You seemed kinda quiet that day when we left," he says. "Was worried."

You glance down at your hands. "I was just… processing everything. It felt weird cutting someone off like that."

"They deserved it," Mingi says, voice firm. "You don't need people who treat you like garbage just because they've known you for a long time."

"…I know," you admit. "It just takes time to process all that."

He nods slowly. "Makes sense. Still. You're stronger than you think."

You smile, small. "You really don't have to keep being this nice to me, you know."

"But I want to."

That makes your breath catch.

He sits up straighter, taking a bite of the snack he brought—some triangle kimbap from the uni convenience store.

"Anyway, what's your major again?" he asks, chewing.

"Communications," you say. "Why?"

"Just wondering what kind of power you'll have in the future. I gotta make sure I stay on your good side now."

You laugh. "What about you?"

"Dance," he says proudly. "But I'm also thinking of minoring in theatre. I like performing."

"That… makes sense. You're kind of a natural."

"At performing?"

"At… pulling attention," you admit, looking away. "You make people feel comfortable."

He hums. "Not everyone. But I guess I try."

There's a comfortable silence again.

Then Mingi glances at your phone screen, noticing the time.

"You have class soon?"

"Yeah. In twenty minutes."

"Damn," he says, standing slowly and stretching his long arms. "Time flew."

"It did," you say. "I didn’t think I'd talk to anyone this long today."

"Lucky you. I'm charming."

You roll your eyes.

He steps a little closer now, towering over you just slightly—but he's not intimidating. He's playful. Easy. Gentle.

"Hey," he says, voice low.

You look up. "Yeah?"

"Do you wanna go out Friday night?"

Your heart skips a beat.

"Like… just us?"

He smiles. "Yeah. Just us."

You swallow, trying not to look too flustered. "Sure. That sounds nice."

He winks. "It's a date then."

And with that, he turns and walks off toward the exit gates, hands still shoved in his pockets like nothing happened.

You just sit there, dumbfounded, heat crawling up your face.

You're pretty sure you don't taste your sandwich after that.

Friday.

When you open the door, the last thing you expect to see is Mingi in all black—loose button-up tucked into slacks, gold necklace glinting faintly under the porch light—and a massive bouquet of pastel flowers in hand.

Your mouth opens. But nothing comes out.

He smiles. "Too much?"

"I—no, no," you sputter, staring at the bouquet. "These are gorgeous. Are those peonies? Wait… are these imported?"

He glances at them. "I dunno, I just told the florist I wanted something that looked like you."

Your face burns instantly.

"Stop saying stuff like that so casually!"

Mingi laughs, handing you the bouquet as you step aside to let him in briefly. "It's true though. Pretty, soft, and a little expensive-looking."

You glare, trying not to melt.

Once the flowers are safely in a vase, you both head out. He opens the car door for you like a damn drama male lead, and you have to mentally scream at yourself not to act too giddy.

The drive is filled with music, light banter, and the occasional glance that lingers too long at red lights. When he pulls up to a high-rise building with a fancy valet and dim chandelier lighting peeking from the glass walls, you blink twice.

"Wait," you say slowly, reading the restaurant sign. "We're eating here?"

"Yeah," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt casually. "Why?"

"Mingi… this place is expensive. Like, minimum 5-digit bill expensive."

"So?" He laughs, turning to look at you. "It's not every day I take someone out on a date. Plus, I invited you. I can't just take you to the food court."

You stare at him. "You're rich…"

He snorts. "Does that make you look at me differently?"

You shake your head. "Of course not. It's just… I grew up thinking that when people date, it should be fifty-fifty. I feel kinda guilty when someone spends too much on me."

Mingi looks at you for a second, soft but amused. "That's cute."

Your cheeks flush.

He continues, voice warm, "But seriously, Y/N, today's my treat. Maybe in the future you can treat me. But for now… your presence is already more than enough."

You make a face. "You're such a flirt.”

He grins. "You haven't seen the half of it."

Dinner is unreal. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Han River, and your seats are by the glass. The food is plated like art, the conversation flows effortlessly, and the wine Mingi orders (which you swear costs as much as your monthly internet bill) is surprisingly good.

At one point, you both laugh over nothing, and Mingi leans his cheek on his hand.

"You know," he says, "Jongho hasn't shut up about that day."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. For someone who's a year younger than me, he sure loves teasing me like he's older."

You pause. "Wait—Jongho's younger than you?"

Mingi blinks. "Oh, we didn't clarify that, huh?"

"Oh my god, I thought he was the oldest!"

Mingi bursts out laughing. "You're not the first person to say that! Everyone thinks that! He's just too mature for his face."

"Or," you smirk, "maybe you and Yeosang are just too immature."

He gasps. "Hey! I'm mature!"

"I stalked your tagged photos on Instagram," you say nonchalantly. "Your friends call you a big princess."

He chokes on his drink. "You what?"

You grin. "That's right. I did my research."

Mingi leans in closer, voice suddenly low and playful. "Why were you stalking me, hmm? Miss this princess that much?"

Your heart slams in your chest.

"Mingi, stop it," you say, rolling your eyes to hide your very real flustered state.

He chuckles, pleased. "I love teasing you."

"And you're way too good at it."

He shrugs. "Only with people I like."

That line hits harder than it should.

By the time you finish eating, the staff clears your plates and refills your glasses with water. You sit back, full, sipping slowly.

You glance at him. "So… where are we going next?"

Mingi raises a brow. "Someone's excited."

You smirk. "I mean… I haven't been on a real date in a long time. This already beat my expectations."

He leans forward slightly, tilting his head. "Wanna do something more relaxed? We can go for a walk near the river. There's a quiet park close by with lights and benches."

You nod. "That sounds really nice."

"Cool," he says, standing and reaching for your coat. "Let's go. I've got a playlist ready and everything."

"You have a date playlist?"

"I might have made one last night."

You stare at him.

He shrugs. "What? You make me nervous."

Mingi walks you to your door, still chatting about some guy from his dance class who tried to moonwalk in socks and almost dislocated his knee.

You laugh softly, fingers brushing your keys, reluctant for the night to end.

"Y/N?"

You glance up. "Yeah?"

He leans in quickly, and before you can process it, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. Warm. Quick. Sincere.

He pulls back, eyes wide, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry if that was too sudden. You can tell me if you're not okay with it—seriously."

You blink—then laugh, cheeks warm.

"Thanks. I don't mind."

He exhales, a tiny puff of relief, then smiles as he starts walking back toward his car.

"Wait—Mingi!"

He turns around. "Yes?"

You grin, still standing by your door. "Let's go out next week. My treat."

His smile stretches so wide it almost splits his face.

"Okay, princess. See you next week. Update me always, okay?"

He winks, hops into his car, and drives off—while you stand there, clutching your warm cheek and thinking about nothing but him.

A few months later.

You've gone on more dates than you can count now.

Some were cute and simple—arcades, cafés, late-night convenience store runs. Others were more put-together, gallery dates, dance showcases, even grocery shopping for dinner you'd cook together. There's a comfort between you and Mingi now.

Tonight, it's just a Netflix night.

It's Saturday, you're at your place, and Mingi's stretched out on your couch, arm around you while a movie plays. You're curled beside him, blanket over both of your legs, a half-finished bag of popcorn resting on his thigh.

And then—on screen—an erotic scene plays out. Soft moaning, slow kissing, heavy breathing.

Mingi shifts slightly.

"Are you okay watching this?" he asks, voice low, cautious.

You scoff, barely glancing at him. "Uh, yes? I'm not a child, Song Mingi."

He laughs, head tilting. "Well, excuse me. Just making sure."

There's a beat.

Then he glances down at you again. "What are your thoughts on doing this kind of stuff… y’know, as a couple?"

You pause for a second, then answer honestly.

"Um… I don't mind, honestly. Everyone's different, right? But for me—it's about trust. It doesn't matter whether it's before or after marriage. What matters is… being safe, knowing the risks, and being sure you're with someone who respects you."

Mingi nods slowly. "Yeah. I feel the same way."

You turn your head slightly. "Have you done it before?"

That question slips out faster than you meant.

Mingi blinks.

Your eyes go wide. "Oh my god—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make that weird. You don't have to answer—"

"No, no!" he says quickly. "It's just surprising coming from you. But nah—I haven't. I'm a virgin. And I'm not embarrassed."

You smile. “There's nothing to be ashamed of. Some people just use sex like it's a status thing. Like if you're not doing it, you're behind."

"Exactly!" Mingi grins. "It's such a stupid mindset."

He turns slightly toward you. "What about you?"

"I'm a virgin too," you admit. "But I've always been curious. Just never wanted to give that part of me to someone random. One-night stands never appealed to me."

Mingi nods, biting the inside of his cheek. "It's so weird that we both feel the same."

You squint. "Are you just saying that to get on my good side? Trying to look all respectful and boyfriend-of-the-year?"

Mingi gasps, dramatically offended. "What?! I would never! I swear I mean it!"

You elbow him lightly, both of you laughing.

Then—

"…Do you want to try it together?"

You freeze. Eyes wide. "Wait. What?"

Mingi blinks hard. "In the future!! I meant—in the future! Not now—God, Song Mingi, you're an idiot—"

You laugh. Full-on giggle that makes your shoulders shake.

Then you lean in, gently place your hand on the back of his neck, and pull him into a kiss.

It's deep. Soft. Lingering.

He stiffens slightly at first, surprised, but then relaxes—his hand finding your cheek as his lips move slowly with yours. His eyes shut. The world fades.

When you pull away, your forehead rests lightly against his.

"I trust you."

His eyes flutter open and you can see the blush rising to his ears.

You also can't help noticing the very obvious bulge forming in his pants.

You smirk.

"Are you hard just from kissing?" you tease gently.

"…Yeah," he admits shyly. "And because I love you so much, that's why."

He kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand stroking up your back, careful and slow like he's memorizing the shape of you.

And your fingers start to tighten around his shirt.

You're kissing him.

You don't remember when the shift happened—from sitting side by side, to lying down with your fingers gripping his shirt, his hand on your waist, mouths moving together slowly. But you don't care. Mingi's lips are hot, breath a little shaky, body pressing against yours like he wants to crawl inside your skin.

You moan softly when he licks into your mouth—hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as you whimper and tug at his hair. His hand slides under the back of your shirt, fingers brushing up your spine. It's slow. Careful. Nervous.

He pulls back, panting slightly. "Is… this okay?"

You nod, cheeks flushed. "Yes."

"I mean, we can stop anytime."

"I know."

He hesitates, and you see it in his eyes—nervousness, excitement, a little disbelief. You lean forward, kissing his jaw, then whisper in his ear,

"Let’s keep going."

That makes him groan.

Mingi's hands start to explore more freely—stroking your thighs, up your shirt to caress your sides, then cup your breasts over your bra. He's still tentative, like he's worried he's doing it wrong.

"Touch me," you whisper.

"I am," he says, confused.

"No—touch me for real, Mingi."

You guide his hand under your shirt, placing it over your bare skin. He swallows hard, fingers trembling just a little. When he finally cups your breast fully, brushing your nipple with his thumb over your bra, you arch into his touch with a quiet moan.

He gasps. "Holy shit…"

You laugh breathlessly. "What?"

"You feel… really good."

"You're cute when you're this overwhelmed."

"You're evil," he groans.

You switch positions slightly, tugging your shirt off and tossing it aside. He stares at your chest, clearly enchanted.

"You can touch more, you know," you tease.

"Permission granted?" he raises a brow, smiling.

"Permission granted."

His hands roam—soft kneading, lips kissing between your breasts before he pulls your bra down and takes one nipple into his mouth. You gasp, threading your fingers through his hair, while he moans against your skin.

"You're a quick learner," you mumble, breath hitching.

"Porn and imagination," he replies.

You snort. "Didn't you learn this in school?"

"Yeah," he scoffs. "As if the teacher taught us about sex positions and nipple sucking."

You both burst into laughter—even mid-makeout—and it's oddly comforting how fun this is. Messy, awkward, real.

Your hands slide down his chest, under his shirt, feeling lean muscles flexing under your touch. When you unbutton it, he lets you strip it off—his skin warm, his face flushed, his body trembling just slightly.

You reach between his legs, palm cupping the hard bulge in his pants. He jerks.

"Fuck—Y/N…"

You kiss his throat, voice low. "Wanna keep going?"

He pauses.

Then—his eyes widen. "Shit. I—I don't have a condom."

You blink. "Wait, seriously?"

"I didn't think—fuck—I'll go get one!! There's a 7-Eleven like two streets down—"

"You're gonna run to the convenience store right now??"

He's already scrambling off the couch, grabbing his t-shirt with his chest still bare. "I'll be back in ten minutes! Don't fall asleep!!"

You burst into laughter, watching him panic-shuffle into shoes and sprint out the door like a man on a mission.

12 minutes later.

He returns, slightly out of breath, holding a small plastic bag.

You arch a brow. "How many did you buy?"

"Three boxes."

"…Why?"

"I panicked!"

You're both half-laughing when you strip again, kissing between giggles, settling back into each other's arms. But this time, it's different. Calmer. More focused.

Mingi slowly pulls your shorts down, kissing your thighs, his breath hitching when he sees your panties already damp.

"Y/N…"

"Don’t be shy," you whisper.

He slides them down and tosses them aside. His fingers brush between your legs, and when he finally touches you—fingers stroking through your folds—you whimper and press into his hand.

"You're so wet," he says, awed.

"For you."

He swears softly under his breath.

You moan louder when he finds your clit, gently rubbing, unsure at first—then more confidently as your hips twitch under his touch. You reach down, palm cupping his erection through his boxers.

"You're hard again."

"Yeah. You're kinda ridiculously sexy."

You roll him onto his back and tug his pants off.

And when his boxers come down—you both freeze.

"…Oh," you blink.

"Too big?" he teases nervously.

"Guess we'll find out."

Condom's on.

You lie back, legs spread, heart pounding.

Mingi positions himself between your thighs, hands on either side of your face, eyes locked with yours.

"You sure?" he whispers.

You nod. "I trust you."

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly.

It hurts.

Not unbearable, but a deep stretch, an ache that makes your body tense.

Mingi stops instantly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just go slow."

He pushes in again, carefully, slowly—

And then you both freeze.

"…Is that… blood?" Mingi asks, voice rising slightly.

You look down. Just a bit. But enough.

Mingi freaks. "Oh my god. Are you okay?? Did I hurt you?!"

You put a hand on his cheek, trying not to laugh at his horrified expression. "Mingi—it's normal."

"But—are you sure? Should we stop?"

You smile. "Let’s just take a break. Five minutes. You're overreacting."

"I'm not overreacting! You're bleeding. I've seen horror movies that start like this!"

You burst into laughter, gently shoving his shoulder.

After a short pause (and a lot of overthinking from Mingi), you kiss him again—slow, soft, grounding.

"I still want to keep going," you whisper. "If you're okay."

He nods, exhaling. "Yeah. Just don't die on me."

This time when he slides in—it's easier.

Your body's more relaxed, your hands are tangled in his hair, and Mingi is whispering "so beautiful" and "you feel amazing" into your skin like it's the only language he knows.

The pace is slow, careful. You moan under him, hips rolling together, your bodies finally syncing.

He kisses your neck, your lips, your forehead. You're both sweaty and shaky and a little uncoordinated—but it's perfect.

You're his first. He's yours.

You cling to each other like the world is too small to contain what you're feeling.

And when you come—whimpering his name, shaking underneath him—Mingi follows right after, burying his face in your neck with a moan so sweet it makes your heart throb.

Afterward, you lie tangled on your couch, barely covered by the throw blanket.

Mingi's still red in the face. "I think I panicked like ten times."

You giggle. "It was cute."

"Was it… good?"

You nod, nose brushing his cheek. "It was more than good."

Mingi's breath is still a little shaky as he pulls out of you carefully, rolling the condom off and tying it, tossing it into the little trash bag beside the couch. You hiss faintly at the sudden emptiness and sensitivity.

He notices immediately.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just sore. And… wow."

He lets out a soft laugh, brushing your hair out of your face.

"We should clean you up," he murmurs. "Don't want you to get an infection."

You nod, and he helps you sit up slowly. Your thighs are sticky, a little shaky, and you wince slightly as you stand.

"Shit," Mingi mumbles, catching you. "Are you hurting?"

"Not really. Just sore and, you know… my pussy probably looks like a war zone."

Mingi laughs, even as he scoops you up bridal-style without warning.

"MINGI—!"

"We're washing you properly, princess," he says, grinning as he carries you into your bathroom like some romcom idiot boyfriend. "Gotta take care of my girl."

He helps you sit on the toilet, then kneels in front of you, helping you clean. Every touch is gentle now—damp tissue wiping your thighs, warm water trickling slowly, his hands making sure not to rub too hard.

"Sorry if this feels weird," he mumbles.

"It doesn't," you whisper. "I like this."

He smiles at you, so soft, so genuine it makes your chest ache.

Once you're clean and dry, he carries you again—back to your bed this time, gently laying you down before slipping beside you under the blanket.

Your head rests on his bare chest, legs tangled, fingers tracing random patterns on his stomach.

Mingi shifts a little, looking down at you.

"You're so beautiful, Y/N."

You glance up, smirking. "Took you long enough to say that."

"I was busy panicking."

You both laugh.

But then he kisses your forehead.

"I'm serious," he says quietly. "You're so fucking beautiful. Your body… your heart… your whole existence. I've never felt this way before. Not even close."

You blink slowly, heart beating in your throat.

Then he murmurs—

"We're a thing now."

You grin. "We better be a thing. If not, I'll chop your dick off."

Mingi wheezes out a laugh, pulling you into a kiss. "God, I love you."

"Thank you for coming into my life." His arms tighten around you.

"No, you saved me," you say, brushing your nose against his. "Thank you for coming into mine."

You breathe in deeply, warm and full in his arms.

A few minutes later, while cuddling in silence, you shift a little.

"Mingi?"

"Mm?"

You glance up at him, playful sparkle in your eyes.

"…Should I satisfy you more?"

He blinks. "Huh??"

You smirk. "You’re still a little hard. I can feel it against my leg."

He flushes red instantly.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can’t stop thinking the tall horror men of homicipher. I’m like 5ft something, so I know damn well these men tower over me…am I discovering something? Maybe 👀👀👀but I know I ain’t alone. TRUE STORY: Also there was this guy that came into my place of work moths ago with his family and he was TALL, bending down to get through the doorframe TALL but he was lovely.

So how do I imagine these boy would react if they see that you’re clearly ogling them for how tall they were.

Mr crawling

Given the fact that you’ve only seen him stand once, it was enough to have your jaw dropping to the floor. He was taller than the fucking doorway that he had to manoeuvre himself under it, and suddenly you’ve forgotten that you were being kidnapped by Mr Stitch, too intrigued by his height and now understanding why he had lied to you about his ability to stand.

He thought he would scare you but in fact made you feel the complete opposite, you loved how tall he was and you couldn’t get it out of your head, even when he’s back on his hands and knees to comfort you. The illusion had worn off and now you wanted to see him tall all the time, but you didn’t want to pressure him into doing so unless he felt comfortable.

‘You’re tall, really tall.’ You said in awe as Mr crawling coddled you against his chest.

‘Scared?’ He asked as though he was fearing your answer, which broke your heart as you nuzzled your face against his shoulder in an attempt of comfort.

‘No, handsome.’ You replied as Mr Crawling made chirps and purrs of happiness as he held you closer to him.

While he’s still not fond on standing to his full height, the fear of his intimating stature would chase you away one day embedded in his heavily, he would find some comfort in knowing that you loved his tall stature and love you even more for not forcing him to do something he clearly was uncomfortable with; preferring to shower him in kisses and remind him that whether he’s standing or on his hands and knees you loved him regardless.

Mr silvair

The man can feel your eyes on his back constantly. He knows he’s taller than most but the way you looked and admired his full height like you wouldn’t be able to anymore.

He wonders whether this was something only you seemed to have or whether other humans also felt possessed by the need to gawk at people above a certain height. Or was it just you that has this particular expression upon seeing his tall stature in general.

He would take notes of how his height seemingly did something to you that then triggered a chemical reaction within your brain to make you find his height appealing and possibly a requirement in finding your perfect romantic partner.

Or more specifically people of similar height to Mr Silvair himself or anyone close enough to his height to qualify. Mr Silvair soon deduced that you liked the domineering presence of someone much bigger than you, someone who’s able to drag you wherever as though you were nothing but weightless to them, almost like a ragdoll.

He’d soon find that this is in most cases considered a kink amongst you humans who found the height difference between partner rather erotic.

Mr Scarletella

Finds your content ogling of him flattering and thinks that it means that you were finally, finally reciprocating his obsession with you for your own obsession with him.

He’s another one who takes note of how you like how tall he is in comparison to you, always looking at him whenever he was entering the room, eyes widening when you see him having to bed down to get through the doorway, and your eyes never leave him even as he’s walking towards you; seemingly getting taller with each step until he’s in front of you and you’re looking at him in awe and hitched breath.

He’s obsessed with your expression each and every time and uses his height to his advantage. Such as doing things like putting his hand above your head and on the wall, looking down at you with those obsessive eyes of his as his smile seemed to widen upon hearing your breath hitch and eyes widen once more.

His height continued to elicit a reaction out of you that Mr Scarletella loved and adored and wanted to see more of in the future.

Mr Hood

Finds your constant ogling of his height interesting.

He didn’t know why you were so surprised he’s this tall, he’s been with you this entire time and it was only recently did your mind seemed to inform you of your Incredibly stark height difference, and bam! Suddenly he’s the subject of your constant staring and ogling as though it would be the last thing you did.

It was humorous to say the least and will earn you some head pats and cheek caresses that has you leaning towards his comforting and gentle touches.

It wasn’t something that you hide from him as half of the time you didn’t realise you were doing it until Mr Hood pointed it out with curiosity, meanwhile your left flustered as your mind held certain thoughts towards his legs, thighs and large hands.

Poor Mr Hood, he understood to some extent but after a certain point it’s better to explain to him that you find his height rather appealing to you in more ways than one.

[cloverapple]

Idk who needs to hear this, but there’s nothing wrong with you

And I don’t say this to encourage you to stay in a state that’s killing you up from the inside. Self-improvement is always a win when it’s born from self-love and self-respect, not a panicked scramble to fix yourself like a broken machine.

You don’t need to change anything about yourself to shift. Or to manifest. Not your depression, not your doubts, not your neurodivergence, nothing. All you need is to recognize your power. But you love to be told you’re wrong. That it’s your fault.

“You check the 3D too much,” so you crave someone to tell you, that’s why you’re not shifting, you did this to yourself.

You want someone to point a finger and say, “You’re not shifting because you keep doubting.”

“You’re not shifting because you don’t believe enough.”

“You’re not shifting because you’re wavering.”

“You’re not shifting because you’re too attached to the outcome.”

“You’re not shifting because you’re not disciplined enough with your methods.”

“You’re not shifting because you think you’re shifting wrong, so now you are.”

“You’re not shifting because you haven’t let go yet.”

“You’re not shifting because you haven’t decided to yet.”

“You’re not shifting because you’re doing too many methods, or not enough, or the wrong ones, or the right ones in the wrong way.”

“You’re not shifting because you’re not applying XYZ law.”

“You’re not shifting because you’re not trying hard enough.”

“You’re not shifting because you’re trying too hard.”

You want someone to tell you it’s your fault, because if it’s your fault, it means you can fix it. That if you just contort yourself enough, if you just get the formula perfect enough, if you just align perfectly enough, then reality will crack open and give you what you want.

And so you stay trapped in the punishment. You stay in the loop of “I must be wrong, I must be broken, I must be flawed,” because it feels safer than accepting that shifting is your natural state, that your awareness is the engine, that you’ve never failed to shift, that you’ve never been separate from your DR, that you never needed fixing in the first place.

Because if that’s true, then there’s no excuse left. If that’s true, then you have to admit that the only thing between you and what you want is you realizing you already have it.

And that’s terrifying. Because if you’re not broken, if you’re not wrong, if you’re not waiting for someone to save you with the “right” method, then you are free.

And it’s in that freedom that you end up making peace with yourself, right here, right now. You don’t have to. No one’s holding you to it. Peace is never necessary to get your desires. But it will happen naturally at some point

Because you are awareness, and you will have this awareness forever. But you hate yourself. You think you’re powerless when you aren’t.

You let methods, laws, bloggers, desires, all of it—be powerful for you. You let them decide your worth, your readiness, your ability, your timing.

You are the constant here, and yet you keep kneeling to the ever-changing. You let a shifting method tell you if you’re worthy of your DR. You let a Tumblr post decide if you’re “doing it right.” You let your desires become your gods, and your gods become your jailers.

The door was always unlocked, but you’d rather argue about the lock than touch the handle. Because if you open it, it’s just you.

You, the awareness that’s been here since the beginning, forever capable, forever deciding, forever free. And that’s terrifying, isn’t it?

In my opinion (me) (mine) (Clover) (my own opinion), sometimes the blockages you think are stopping you from shifting are actually your key to shifting and manifesting.

You’ve lived your entire life with the way your mind naturally focuses, wanders, resists, obsesses. And then you find shifting spaces telling you:

“You have to ignore your CR.” But maybe the way you see past the illusion is to stare directly at your CR, acknowledge it as a mirage, and claim your power as a master shifter here. Maybe for you, seeing the illusion is how you step into your DR.

“Don’t daydream too much.” But maybe the way your mind drifts and creates entire realities in your head, is exactly how you focus.

“Don’t waver.” But maybe your doubts, your spirals, your racing thoughts are not chains but fuel. Maybe the reason you spiral is because your mind is so powerful, it’s already showing you exactly what to clear out on your way through worlds.

“Don’t overcomplicate it.” But maybe you need your charts, your logic maps, your wordy breakdowns, your layers of understanding before you can let go. Overthinking is only a curse if you believe it is; otherwise, it’s your tool for piercing illusion.

“Don’t script too much.” But maybe scripting is your ritual. Maybe your endless pages of stories, your color-coded Notion spreadsheets, your carefully chosen fonts are your gateway.

“Stop checking for results.” But maybe checking for results and not seeing them is the first step to you realizing how impossible it is that you “don’t have them yet.”

“Just act as if it’s already yours.” But maybe you can’t do that yet, and it’s okay. Because you can still observe that you are the kind of person who gets what they want, who shifts, who manifests, who always figures it out, even if you don’t “have it yet.” And that is, in itself, not acting but realizing that it’s already yours.

“Don’t use methods, just decide.” But maybe you like methods. They help you focus, give you a sense of ritual, make it fun, and the fun is the key.

“You need to fully believe.” But maybe you’re allowed to not fully believe. Maybe belief grows in the soil of testing it out, letting your actions prove your mind wrong, again and again.

“Don’t try too hard.” But maybe you’re a try-hard by nature. Maybe your fire, your desperation, your want is what cracks reality open, not what holds it shut.

You get told your mind is the problem—too loud, too soft, too imaginative, too skeptical. You get told your blockages are the reason you’re stuck. But what if they’re not?

What if your “blockages” are breadcrumbs your awareness leaves for you to follow, back to the door you’ve been searching for?

What if your way—the way you naturally are—is the map you’ve been seeking?

Shifting is not about crushing yourself into someone else’s mold, playing by someone else’s rules, or suffocating your instincts in the name of “discipline.”

It’s about becoming more yourself than you’ve ever been. So maybe don’t change yourself, but change the way you view that person. Because you’re powerful. You always have been.

I don’t guarantee my words or methods will make you shift. I don’t guarantee they’ll resonate with you. But this is what I wish someone told me way back when I started manifesting, not even shifting yet.

So, as a firm believer in “one man’s trash is another man’s gold,” someone out there needs to hear this.

[stellamarielu]

impatient intentions

michael robinavitch x female reader

summary: robby’s innocent obsession with his neighbor takes a turn after a dinner invite that leads him straight into your kitchen and renders him a slave to your touch

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, cursing, mutual pining, harmless flirting (well i guess not that harmless), illusions to male masturbation, smut with a whole lot of lead up, oral m!receiving, someone needs to get that man a blowjob stat!, we’re swallowing that old man down y’all buckle up

word count: 2.8k

author’s note: take this as a prologue to late night visits, like a deeper view into their little relationship and their first hookup. however, i wrote this so that it could be read as a stand alone, so do whatever you want. written in robby’s pov cause i’m a sick freak who loves getting in the mind of a pathetic man who desperately needs to be touched.

Robby sat with his hands clasped together over the cool granite of your kitchen island. Watching as you expertly moved around the cramped space, pulling spices from your cabinet with an undeniable muscle memory as you cooked him dinner. 

You were cooking, for him. He offered to help you so many times that the slow cadence of your voice the final time you told him to just sit down and relax was almost laced with annoyance. Almost, but not quite; because you were the one who invited him over for dinner in the first place.

Sure, maybe he was the one who offered to help carry your grocery bags up three flights of stairs, but you— you were the one who asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner. Your voice so rich with enthusiasm that it had him agreeing without a second thought.

It wasn’t until he was leaning against the countertop of your kitchen, that he realized this was more than just a conversation in passing outside his doorway. 

After months of living across the hall from one another, meeting face to face in the communal space between your doors, this was the first time he was given the opportunity to bask in your presence for longer than five minutes. 

You were a temptress. One operating in secrecy, naive to your own charm. 

Robby had attempted to brush off his immediate attraction to you by telling himself you were just young and bright-eyed. A girl with a sweet voice, and an equally saccharine smile. It was essentially ingrained in him to take a second look at you. But, your oblivious persuasions persisted through kind words and simple exchanges as Robby got to know you over the course of several conversations strew out over weeks of hallway greetings.

The more moments shared between the two of you, the more he couldn’t pin-point his giddy feelings surrounding your interactions. Was it an innocent infatuation— a harmless little crush that would cause him to steal glances or let his mind occasionally verr off at the thought of you? Or was it deeper; like when he got home late from work and knew he just missed you by the light seeping under your door. The longing to talk to you one last time before turning in for the night could be blamed on his growing need to hear your voice in the evenings.  

The timing was always impeccable when you got home from work; meeting Robby in the same position, both of you exhausted and ready for the tender release of uninterrupted rest. Your “Hi there” and “How was your day” would meet him as his key entered the lock or— if he was lucky, it would find him in the elevator, three floors before he’d come to expect it.

The light rhythm of your words had become essential to his nightly routine. After a day filled with rigorous overwhelm at every turn, Robby would finally head home, ready to hear the pleasant sound of your voice filling the hall and preparing him for a peaceful night on the other side of his front door. The nights he didn’t get to talk with you for those few precious moments before you disappeared to your side of the hallway— those nights, he found it especially hard to relax. It was almost as though a pivotal part of his day was suddenly missing, keeping him from being able to sleep peacefully at night.

Being with you, like this, hearing sentence after sentence fall from your lips in that sugary sweet tone, there was no doubt in his mind he would be getting the best night of sleep in his entire life. 

He couldn’t get enough of you, watching intently as you stood at the stovetop, drinking in all your mannerisms, each movement of your body etching itself into his head. And when your hands reached above your head to open a cabinet, your shirt stretched with them, exposing an inch of your lower back that had previously hid underneath the fabric. He should’ve felt guilty for letting his eyes linger on your skin, but he didn’t. He allowed himself a moment of sinful appeal as he took in the unfamiliar territory. 

He'd thought about you like that a time or two.

Thought about what your soft skin would feel like on his fingertips, or how your body would fit perfectly underneath his. He’d touched himself thinking of you before— shut his front door after a brief conversation with you and gone straight to his bedroom to shove his hand down his pants like a teenage boy. Finishing in his fist to the fictitious version of you that writhed under his touch. They were only ever visions in his head, making him feel sick and perverted seeing as though you’d never shown any explicit interest in him.

It was all his little secret, the way he felt about you. The way you inhabited every last corner of his mind. You continued entertaining him with small waves every day and the naively flirtatious quality of your voice each time you crossed paths, only for it to completely unravel him. 

And unravel him you did— all throughout dinner. You reacted to his every word, hanging onto his anecdotes about work with an entertained sparkle in your eyes. Your attention trailed behind each one of his words as empty plates sat on the table. You swapped stories and delved further into your personal lives, talking in your kitchen for far too long. 

Once you realized how much time had passed, you practically forced Robby out of his chair, apologizing for keeping him so late. He tried to assure you that it was fine, attempting to stay longer to help you clean up, but you were already standing next to him, your hand lightly holding his forearm as you guided him to the front door.

You stood facing each other in the entryway, evidence of goodbye’s hanging on your tongues but neither of you working up the courage to actually speak them aloud. 

Your eyes fluttered up to meet his, intercepting his intent gaze on your hand; the one that still lingered on his arm. Your touch was subtle, but the effect you had on Robby was strong. Taking over all of his senses as his feet weighed him down to the floor. The room felt heavy as you peered up at him through your eyelashes. Your stare holding a curious purpose— lasting far too long to be a simple meaningless glance. 

Neither of you moved. He was reduced to complete immobility with the delicate weight of your hand brushing his skin. Your wishful eyes remained on him, full of impatient intention. 

In a cautious trail, your gaze fell to his lips. He copied you, letting his stare drop to the perfect pout of your smirk— so pure and inviting. His eyes must’ve idled too long on the lower half of your face because the familiar chime of your voice broke his stare as he watched your lips move.

“You could kiss me you know...” It was a confident statement, fixed with a low purr as you put the newfound tension of the room into words. 

It was the permission he so desperately needed, melting into the air between you, assuring him that he wasn’t some sick and depraved old man thinking about his much younger neighbor in ways he probably shouldn’t. You wanted him to kiss you, you were practically asking him to, and all restraint he had swiftly broke loose.  

A hand pulled gently at your waist while the other cupped your cheek, his face meeting yours in a careful kiss. 

The bitter-sweet relief of surrender came to him in the form of your mouth against his. Finally succumbing to his foolish infatuation and getting washed away by the taste of you on the tip of his tongue. 

Gracefully, your hands slid up his torso, resting at his shoulders until they clasped at the nape of his neck, pulling him further down into you. 

Nothing could’ve prepared him for the shock that tore through his entire being at your touch on his body, the way your hands effortlessly floated up his chest, pressing into his neck as your lips moved with his. Your bodies pushed and pulled against one another, the kiss taking a sharp turn as the weight of Robby’s chest had you caught between him and your front door. 

In a whirlwind of desperation, he brought his hold to your hips, thumbs sliding underneath your shirt and relishing in the warmth of your midriff.

A quiet moan simmered off your tongue and into his mouth at the pressure of his fingertips rubbing into the skin just above your jeans, and the sound caused an involuntary jerk of Robby’s hips. All control was lost as his grasp on you tightened, your frame melting further into the door at your back. You welcomed the contact, pulling him further into you with your hold on the back of his neck. Careful open-mouthed kisses trailed down his throat, sweet sounds of approval still leaking from your lips as they nipped and sucked at his skin.

He nearly wasted away at the feeling of your mouth on his neck. Then the devilish touch of your hands slid back down the front of his body, dancing against the material of his shirt and trailing down further until your fingertips threatened to tug at the waistband of his pants. He could feel the anticipation in your touch, the way your fingers curled into the material at his waist. 

“This okay?” You didn’t even pull back to look at him as you murmured into the crook of his neck. 

He was always in command, never afraid to assert his dominance; but something about the way his most private fantasies were playing out in front of his eyes, had him taking on a more docile image. He was completely bent into your touch, leaning forward and hanging onto every sound that left your body with his hands still buried underneath your shirt. He couldn’t find his voice to reply to your question, but he’d be a fool to say anything other than yes as your hands ventured down another inch into his pants, the feeling of your knuckles brushing against his abdomen nearly making his knees buckle. 

He nodded; the movement drawn-out as a breathless “yeah” made its way from somewhere deep within his chest. 

Robby’s hand met the door, now directly in front of him as you descended to your knees. 

The mix of adrenaline and disbelief coursing through his veins sent his forearm extending and his palm pressing into the solid wood to hold up his weight as you were wedged between the two, kneeling on the tile floor. 

With your eyes looking up at him once more as if to ask for a final approval, your hands tugged at his pants, pulling them, along with his underwear, down his legs and Robby pushed harder into the door, his arms flexing under the pressure. He never would’ve imagined that an innocent dinner invitation would evolve into him standing with his pants around his ankles in the entryway of your apartment. 

He should’ve stopped you. Should’ve been a gentleman and insisted on making you come on his fingers— leading you into the next room and spreading your legs open on your living room couch, but your lips met the head of his cock, and every single thought left his head. 

The warmth of your mouth enveloped him after a gentle kiss to his tip, and a raspy groan trickled into the room from Robby’s lips. 

“Jesus Christ.” 

His instinctive gasp had you taking him even deeper, a small hum of pleasure releasing from your throat and buzzing onto his skin.

His hand was splayed out against the wall, fingertips grasping at nothing as he threw his head back in a state of pure paradise. After less than a minute of seeing you on your knees for him and feeling your cheeks hollow in a way that perfectly encased his throbbing length, Robby had to stare up at the ceiling to keep himself from spilling into your mouth. 

His chest warmed with flames of pleasure induced fulfillment with each bob of your head at his hips. Indulgence sunk into his bones and another pathetic pant found its way onto his lips when your tongue flattened against his base, your mouth sinfully stroking him in rhythm. 

“Fuck sweetheart that feels good.”

The nickname found his lips as an incoherent mumble— an attempt of praise floating down to you in a groan. The otherworldly suction of your lips as you drew him toward the back of your throat had Robby letting out grunts of contentment.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good. You were like an angel sent down to to set him free of his daily anxieties, kneeling before him on a pedestal of vinyl flooring. 

You worked him in and out of your mouth, the intricate consolation of your movements making him crave more. He hadn’t even finished yet and he was already itching to get his hands on you. An addiction was forming in Robby’s brain like a mental pathway. Hungry for more of you, needing to find comfort in your body more than just this once. He knew he would be seeking it out, crawling back to you every night in desperation to feel the burning in his core and the peace of his mind he found in your touches. 

You moved faster, his whole body growing rigid from the friction of your perfect lips. 

“That’s it- shit.”

He was already spiraling toward release, one more caress of your plush mouth around his cock and he was done for. His body tensed and little puffs of raspy breath fought against his lips as he felt all the tension in his body culminating in a taut strand that stretched unbelievably tight as he waited for one more pass of your tongue on his length.

“Fuck.” 

With a low grunt he wrestled against his own strength, the arm holding him up at the door threatened to give out, nearly sending him doubling over into the solid structure as relief surged through his body. He pulsed in your mouth, his release dripping onto your tongue and you enjoyed it. Drinking down every last drop of him while he slumped into your touch.  

His vision returned after a few seconds of his senses getting corrupted by overwhelming pleasure, just in time to watch you pull back from him, springing to your feet like you hadn’t just changed the chemical makeup of his brain. 

Your expression was smug, a smile flickering onto your face before addressing him for the first time since you were bowed before him.

“Goodnight Michael.” Like a dribble of honey, his name fell from your lips. Michael. No one called him that. But here you were whispering it like a serpent in the garden of Eden, as you simultaneously reached behind you to pull the handle of your front door, nudging him through the doorway.

“Now hold on-“ He began to protest the push of your hands at his lower back, but you were quick to interrupt him.

“I’ve already kept you from sleep long enough. I can’t have you going to work tired tomorrow- gotta save lives and all that.” You were smiling through your words, leaning against the doorframe and watching in amusement as Robby’s rattled mind swam with possible responses.

He knew he couldn’t fuck you— knew it would be nearly impossible for him to get it up again after the earthshattering release that just ran rampant through his body, but he could repay you. He could finally fulfill his dirty daydreams, worshipping you in ways he’d only ever imagined; really taking his time exploring your body and watching you come undone in front of him. In fact, there was nothing he wanted to do more than spend the rest of the night feeding his newfound addiction to your body. 

But the self-righteous smirk curling on your lips stopped him from pushing you back inside and taking what he wanted. This was just a trial run, the challenging expression on your face confirmed it. So, he would wait. Let you soak in your pride for the evening until the next time an opportunity arose for him to satisfy his craving. Because something in the deceitfully innocent stare of your eyes told him this would be the first of many late-night visits between doorways.  

He surrendered, shaking his head with a low chuckle.

“Goodnight.” 

The word hardly left his mouth when you offered him one last playful grin and shut the door to your apartment, leaving him standing alone in the lonely expanse of the hallway. 

my masterlist

[cbeargyu]

Hear me out… CAMBOY TAEHYUN x reader 🥹

DOUBLE LIFE

summary: you’ve been best friends with taehyun since your first year of university, but everything changes when you discover his secret side job: camboy. after accidentally stumbling upon one of his streams, curiosity turns into obsession and obsession into something far more dangerous when he finds out you’ve been watching him. the tension explodes into lust, confessions, and the blurred line between performance and intimacy.

pairing: camboy!taehyun x fem!reader

genre: smut, friends to lovers, secret double life, slow burn to explosive tension, voyeurism, exhibitionism, emotional intimacy.

warnings: explicit sexual content, camboy!taehyun, masturbation, fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex, exhibitionism (on stream), mutual voyeurism, dirty talk, praise kink, rough sex, shower sex, cum play, facial, slight dom!taehyun, mentions of degradation in chat comments, slight guilt and emotional confusion, brief aftercare, love confessions.

you met taehyun during your first year of university, both of you quiet but oddly compatible from the start. it began with you sitting next to each other during intro to comparative literature, silently exchanging glances during awkward icebreakers, sharing sighs when the professor assigned a 10-page paper in the second week. it was a natural progression—first study sessions at the library, then morning coffee runs before lectures, until eventually you were part of each other’s routines without really noticing when it happened.

he was smart, thoughtful in that understated way, always carrying a notebook half-full of ideas or lyrics or just random observations. you liked being around him, even if you didn’t talk about everything. and he liked being around you, even if he never said it out loud. your dynamic was comfortable, even domestic. after early classes, you’d both stop at the campus café for breakfast—he always paid, no matter how often you tried to fight him on it—and then you’d split: him to whatever mysterious thing he had lined up next, you to your shift at the small off-campus café where you worked until closing.

he once mentioned that he worked nights too, when you were both sharing notes at his place. “it’s nothing serious,” he said, shrugging, eyes not quite meeting yours. “just something to make rent.” you’d smiled at him, trusting him enough not to ask. “as long as it’s not illegal or life-threatening, i won’t pry.” “it’s not,” he’d chuckled, almost too quickly. “then don’t worry. we all hustle.”

and that was the end of it.

the thing was—you were always a little tired, always stretched too thin between your coursework and your café shifts. taehyun noticed, and he started walking you home whenever he could, even if it meant going out of his way. he’d wait for you outside your café on thursdays when your closing shift dragged late, hands buried in his coat pockets, hoodie half-zipped and eyes sleepy. you teased him for it, told him he didn’t need to play the part of the noble friend—but secretly, you liked how protective he could be. how safe it felt walking beside him under the quiet streetlights.

you didn’t question much, even when you noticed little things: how he never took calls around you, how he was careful with his phone, how sometimes he’d show up to morning lectures looking like he hadn’t slept at all. maybe you just didn’t want to disturb the balance you had. maybe you thought, whatever it was, it didn’t matter—not as long as he kept being your taehyun.

that illusion held until one afternoon when you were sitting at the back patio of the café on your break, sipping watered-down iced coffee with sei and doyeon.

you’d known them both since your first semester—sei was bright and unpredictable, always saying things that caught people off guard; doyeon was calmer, serious about her studies, but sweet once you got past the reserved surface. the three of you didn’t always get time to hang out, but when you did, it was always honest, laughter bubbling up between complaints about professors, roommates, and endless assignments.

that day, doyeon had been especially stressed. “i’m thinking of quitting my job,” she said, pressing a cold can of soda to her cheek. “i just can’t keep up with school and working five shifts a week.”

“you’re still at the convenience store, right?” you asked, and she nodded, grimacing.

“i’m thinking of just going back to my parents’ place. it’s a bit far, but at least i won’t have to pay rent.”

“unless you find another source of income,” you said with a wry smile, “like opening an onlyfans.”

sei choked on her drink, laughing so hard she had to wipe her mouth. “god, i dare you.”

“no way,” doyeon said, laughing along. “i wouldn’t even know what to do. besides, what would i post?”

“feet pics,” you said with a grin. “or softcore cosplay.”

sei leaned back in her chair, smirking. “you know… you should do what taehyun does.”

you blinked. “wait, taehyun?”

“what, he never told you?” sei asked, and you watched the mischief light up in her eyes like a match held too close to gasoline. “he’s a streamer.”

“like… video games?” you asked, confused, already picturing taehyun in his room, headset on, calm voice narrating through long hours of league or valorant.

sei snorted. “not quite.”

“what does that mean?” doyeon asked, suddenly alert.

sei looked between the two of you, grinning wide. “he’s a camboy.”

the words didn’t land at first. they just hovered, too surreal, too sharp in the open air.

“a… what?” you said slowly.

“camboy,” sei repeated, clearly enjoying herself now. “you know. the kind of streamer who jerks off for tips.”

doyeon’s mouth fell open. “you’re serious?”

sei nodded, sipping casually from her drink like she hadn’t just flipped your entire world on its head.

you sat frozen, the sounds around you dulling under the pounding in your chest. something twisted in your stomach—shock first, then confusion, then something darker. was that the job he’d been hiding from you all this time? was that what he did at night?

your throat was dry. your thoughts scrambled. you wanted to say it didn’t make sense—but as your brain began to connect the pieces, everything started clicking into place.

the sleepless eyes. the careful secrecy. the way he’d always deflected questions. the soft voice when he whispered through the phone, once, thinking you were asleep: i’m working late tonight, i’ll see you in the morning.

you hadn’t thought twice then.

now you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

sei kept talking, clearly unaware—or maybe fully aware—of the storm inside you. “i mean, he’s hot, so it’s not shocking,” she said. “he’s got that whole mysterious, low-voice, pretty-hands thing going for him. and the girls in my dorm? obsessed.”

doyeon leaned forward, whispering like someone afraid to get caught. “but how do you know?”

“i’ve seen the stream,” sei said, almost smug. “i only realized it was him because i used to… well, we used to date. for a while. he never told me outright, but when i stumbled on the stream by accident one night—his voice, the way he touches his own mouth when he gets too into it—there was no mistaking him.”

you couldn’t breathe.

your mind was flooded with the sound of his voice. your taehyun. the same one who passed you sticky notes during class, who held doors open for you, who offered you his hoodie when it rained. the one you trusted, the one you never questioned. the one who never told you.

a camboy.

it sounded unreal.

but maybe the most unreal part was how your heart wasn’t recoiling in judgment. it was racing with something else entirely.

because if it was true… you wanted to see it for yourself.

you laid on your bed like someone who had been carrying too many thoughts and finally collapsed beneath their weight. your hair was a mess, your shirt slightly twisted from how you had rolled over too quickly, restlessly, like your body couldn’t decide what to do with itself. taehyun had texted earlier that he couldn’t pick you up tonight because he had a “commitment,” and you’d replied with a simple "no worries," even adding a smiley face you didn’t feel. in truth, a part of you felt relieved — you didn’t want to see him. not yet. not with everything sei had said echoing in your head like it was stuck in a loop. a camboy, seriously? the idea alone had been hard to grasp. taehyun, your taehyun, the guy who helped you cram for exams and always remembered your coffee order, doing... that?

you turned onto your side and stared at your laptop sitting quietly on your desk, closed but somehow louder than anything else in the room. your fingers twitched like they were reaching for something even you didn’t want to admit. maybe it was curiosity. maybe it was something else entirely. the thought that maybe sei was wrong lingered for a moment, but she hadn’t looked like she was joking. she had laughed in that knowing, sharp way that made you feel like the only one left in the dark. you bit your lip, hesitating, before finally sitting up and dragging the laptop onto your bed.

your fingers hovered over the keyboard. you typed slowly — deliberately — as if every key pressed was another line crossed. camboy livestream site. the search results loaded almost instantly, and your heart pounded in your ears like you were about to do something criminal. you hesitated, thinking about the things your grandmother used to say — that angels watched over you, that you were never really alone. for a second, you almost laughed at the memory, but instead, you just felt worse. you scrolled through the links, choosing the first one not because it was the best but because it was there, and it was fast, and because if you paused any longer you might back out.

the page opened to dozens of tiny thumbnails, each with men of all kinds in various poses — most of them shirtless, many of them staring straight at the camera with eyes like they were looking for someone. it was overwhelming, too much noise, too many faces, and you were just about to close the whole thing when your eyes caught on one stream. it wasn’t the person’s face that drew you first, it was the room behind him — the muted tones, the gray wall with three framed prints, the bed pushed to the corner, the guitar stand by the window. your breath caught. you’d seen that room before. you’d been in that room.

you clicked on the stream before you could stop yourself. the screen loaded slowly, like the universe wanted to draw out your panic. when the image finally came into focus, you froze.

your body went cold.

the username in the corner read kth02.

and there he was.

he was leaning back against his pillows, the soft lamplight casting warm shadows across his chest, but it wasn’t the fact that he was shirtless that had your breath stalling. it was him. it was the exact shape of his jaw, the small mole on the side of his neck, the way his fingers moved as he adjusted the camera slightly, always calm, always intentional. there was no doubt. you knew that face. you knew that room. you knew that voice — even though he wasn’t speaking yet, you knew it. you’d heard it a thousand times in cafés, in hallways, in whispered study sessions late at night.

your hand went to your mouth. not in fear, not entirely — more in awe. more in a kind of stunned disbelief that curled inside your chest like smoke. how could this be real? how could he be doing this — your taehyun? you blinked, trying to force your brain to make sense of it. was this his “commitment”? the job he never talked about, the one he always brushed off with a shrug and a “just something I do at night”?

you stared longer than you should have. you didn’t mean to, but something in your chest was frozen and aching and fascinated all at once. you felt wrong for watching. you felt something else for watching, too — and that scared you more than anything. because for the first time since sei had said it, you couldn’t unsee it. it was real. it was him. and now, even if you closed the tab and threw the laptop across the room, that image — that knowledge — wouldn’t leave you.

you were still sitting there, laptop open on your thighs, screen glowing dimly in the darkness of your dorm, when your phone buzzed.

taehyun [9:12 p.m.] “made it home safe? i owe you coffee tomorrow :)”

you didn't reply.

not because you were mad.

not because you didn’t care.

but because you were already too far gone.

you didn’t even realize when your hand had slipped past the waistband of your pajama shorts, fingers curling over the soaked cotton of your panties. his voice filled the room, low and deliberate, every word like silk dragged across your skin.

“yeah, baby... just like that,” he murmured into the mic, his hand wrapping around his cock, pumping slowly as he stared directly at the camera. “you watching me? imagining i’m right there with you?”

you were.

god, you were.

your hips rolled forward into your palm, back arching slightly on your bed as your fingers pressed down harder through the thin barrier, dragging slow, aching circles against your clit. the heat in your belly coiled tighter with every breathy groan that left his lips.

taehyun licked his bottom lip, his thumb swiping over his leaking tip before he gave himself another slow stroke, veins visible along the shaft, his muscles taut and gleaming under the soft amber light.

“i bet you’re soaked for me,” he whispered, voice husky, eyes half-lidded but focused, like he could somehow see you. “you gonna come with me, baby? wanna be good for me tonight?”

you whimpered, pulling your panties to the side with trembling fingers, finally letting yourself touch bare skin. the contact made you gasp — your cunt was already dripping, so sensitive, so needy.

your middle finger dragged through your folds, collecting your slick as you stared at him through the screen, your breath catching as he tightened his grip and picked up his pace. the sound of skin meeting skin echoed from your laptop speakers, the obscene wetness of his hand matching your own now.

“fuck—” he hissed, head falling back, eyes fluttering shut as his chest rose and fell faster. “that’s it, baby. i’m gonna come for you. gonna make such a mess.”

your thighs trembled. your fingers worked in tighter circles, your other hand gripping the sheets beside you as you stared at the way his abs clenched, the way his cock twitched in his fist, the way his lips parted—

“come with me,” he moaned, body tensing. “come for me, now.”

and you did.

the orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, drawn tight and then snapped loose in an instant. your body shook, your mouth falling open in a silent cry as your fingers worked you through it, slick pooling between your thighs.

you barely heard his ragged groan as he came, spilling across his stomach in thick ropes, his hand slowing as he panted softly into the mic.

silence followed.

not on the screen—he was still there, wiping himself off with a practiced, almost lazy grace, murmuring goodnights to his viewers—but inside you. in the pit of your stomach.

you blinked, suddenly aware of your hand still resting between your legs, the mess on your fingers, the rapid beat of your heart.

and the guilt hit you like a fucking truck.

you had just made yourself come to your friend. to taehyun. to a stream he never told you about, to a version of him he kept hidden from you.

the shame crept in like frost, fast and biting. you closed the laptop slowly, almost reverently, like it might shatter under your touch. your fingers trembled as you reached for tissues, cleaning yourself with shaky hands. everything felt too quiet now. too intimate. too wrong.

what had you done?

you stared at the ceiling, chest heavy with the weight of your own betrayal. he was your friend. he had walked you home. bought you breakfast. knew your favorite café drink by heart.

and now… you had watched him come. had touched yourself to him. had let yourself enjoy it.

you didn’t even remember the moment you crossed that line.

but now, you couldn’t un-feel it. couldn’t untangle the want from the regret, the heat from the shame.

you reached for your phone with shaking fingers.

taehyun’s message still sat there, unopened.

“made it home safe? i owe you coffee tomorrow :)”

your stomach twisted. you couldn’t reply.

not yet.

not with your thighs still sticky, your skin still flushed, your heart still pounding from a version of him you were never supposed to see.

the days that followed were soaked in silence and something heavier you couldn’t name.

on the surface, everything looked the same. you and taehyun still shared glances during lectures, passed notes when the professor turned his back, walked the same familiar path across campus between classes. but you weren’t the same. and he felt it.

every time he stood too close, your body stiffened. when he brushed your arm with his sleeve, you flinched. you avoided his eyes like they burned, like seeing the truth in them would undo you all over again. and the worst part — the absolute worst part — was that he noticed.

you were both standing in line at the campus café when he finally said it, quiet but direct.

“are you mad at me?”

you blinked, startled, forcing a quick shake of your head. “no. why would i be?”

his brows drew together, lips pressing into a thin, unsure line. “is it because i didn’t come pick you up that night?”

“what? no,” you said too quickly, too sharp.

his eyes stayed on yours for a moment longer, like he was searching for something. but whatever he found didn’t satisfy him. still, he dropped it. “okay,” he mumbled. “just… wanted to make sure.”

that was the end of it. or so you thought.

later that week, your literature professor assigned a paired research project. no surprises when your name was called next to his — everyone knew you worked best together. taehyun leaned over and whispered, “your place or mine?”

you hesitated. “yours is fine. i don’t work tonight, so…”

his lips curled up in a small smile, but it faded when you added, almost too casually, “i’ll head out before nine, though. wouldn’t want to mess with your work schedule.”

his head tilted slightly, something unreadable flickering across his face. “you’ve never said anything about my job before.”

you swallowed hard. “right. well. figured i should.”

he didn’t reply. he just nodded and shoved his notebook into his bag.

you walked to his dorm together in the golden hour light, and even though your hands didn’t brush once, the space between you still felt too narrow.

once inside, everything hit you at once.

the framed prints. the guitar stand. the pale gray walls. the soft lamp in the corner, the way his bed curved slightly against the edge of the room — it was all exactly as you’d seen it. not in person. but on screen.

it had always been real.

taehyun didn’t seem to notice your gaze lingering on everything for too long. he set up on the floor like always, opening his laptop and inviting you to sit across from him. the research began easily enough — literary movements, source material, split tabs and shared documents — but your mind was somewhere else. your answers were delayed, your notes half-formed. and he noticed that too.

by the time the clock neared 9 p.m., you shut your notebook a little too quickly. “i should go,” you said, already gathering your things. “you’ve got work, right?”

taehyun looked at you, something close to hurt in his eyes. “you’ve asked about my job twice today. what’s going on?”

you shook your head. “nothing.”

“you’ve been acting weird all week.”

“i haven’t.”

“you won’t look at me.”

you laughed nervously, a sound too thin and brittle. “don’t be dramatic.”

“you flinched when i touched your arm earlier.”

“taehyun, it’s late—”

“did i do something wrong?”

your breath caught in your throat. his voice wasn’t angry. it was soft. wounded.

you couldn’t speak.

“i’ll walk you back,” he offered quietly, already reaching for his jacket.

“it’s fine,” you said, backing toward the door. “really. stay. you’ve got… work.”

and before he could stop you, you turned and rushed out, your heart hammering loud in your ears.

you didn’t stop until you reached your dorm, your legs shaky, your thoughts spinning out of control. you closed the door behind you, dropped your bag, leaned back against the wood like it might hold you up.

you’d been so strange. cold. avoidant. and for what?

your phone buzzed as you slid onto your bed, the screen lighting up with his name.

taehyun [9:27 p.m.] “did i do something that upset you? :( please tell me. i don’t understand why you’ve been like this lately.”

guilt swallowed you whole.

he hadn’t deserved that. none of it. he was your friend. he’d been nothing but gentle and patient and concerned — and you’d punished him with silence.

you reached for your laptop without thinking, desperate for anything to distract you.

your browser auto-filled the address before you even finished typing. your breath caught.

the camboy site.

you hadn’t meant to return. you really hadn’t.

but then — a notification flashed at the top of the page.

kth02 is live now.

you clicked before you could stop yourself. your heart trembled in your chest, and then the screen filled with him.

taehyun.

he was sitting comfortably, a dark hoodie zipped halfway down, only the line of his throat visible. he wore snug black workout shorts that hugged his thighs, legs spread casually. he looked… tired.

he looked sad.

he greeted his chat with a soft smile, eyes not quite meeting the lens. “hey,” he said, voice hoarse. “i wasn’t sure i’d stream tonight. but… i figured it’d help take my mind off some things.”

the comments poured in fast — hearts, greetings, compliments.

someone asked why he sounded off.

he chuckled lowly, rubbing a hand along his neck. “just a friend acting kind of weird lately. feels like they’re avoiding me. not sure why.”

your heart jumped into your throat.

he was talking about you.

the chat exploded — some people called her (you) a bitch, others offered themselves in your place, asking for attention with pouty emojis and flirty comments. one said, “she doesn’t deserve you, babe. punish us instead 😘.”

taehyun smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“maybe you’re right,” he murmured, hand slipping down over his thigh. “but… she’s really sweet. and smart. and… i don’t know. i like her. a lot.”

your lungs stopped working.

he adjusted the camera slightly, enough to show his stomach and thighs, still keeping his hoodie on.

his palm pressed against his cock through the shorts, slow and teasing. “i shouldn’t say this,” he whispered, voice slipping into that low, honeyed tone that always made you ache, “but this one’s for her. even if she doesn’t know it.”

your panties stuck to you instantly, wet and hot and clinging.

“she has no idea how beautiful she is,” he continued, rubbing himself slowly. “always biting her lip when she concentrates, always brushing her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. i notice everything.”

you were frozen, breath shallow, hand already pressing between your thighs.

“this is for her,” he groaned, fingers slipping under the waistband to pull his cock free — thick and flushed and twitching in his grip. “she doesn’t know it, but every time i stream… i think about her.”

you whimpered softly, dragging your fingers over your clothed pussy, feeling the slick gather with every word he said.

taehyun spit into his hand, spreading it over his length as he pumped faster, moaning quietly. “she’s driving me fucking insane,” he growled. “so sweet. so soft. she doesn’t know how badly i want her. how many times i’ve thought about her on this bed.”

you couldn’t tear your eyes away. the guilt? it was still there — but melting. burning away under the fire of want.

he was touching himself for you.

he wanted you.

that made it okay… right?

you shifted on your bed, sliding your panties down and letting your fingers glide through the mess he’d made you.

“you don’t even know,” he groaned, back arching. “this is for you. every stroke. every fucking drop.”

you moaned softly, matching his rhythm, legs trembling as your orgasm built hard and fast in your gut. “taehyun,” you whispered into the empty room, breathless.

on screen, he gasped your name — not loud, not clearly, but unmistakably. the way he’d said it a hundred times before. just not like this.

and it pushed you over the edge.

you came with a cry, back arching, toes curling, fingers soaked with your release.

he followed seconds later, spilling across his stomach with a guttural moan, hips jerking, voice shaking with pleasure.

you stared at the screen, chest rising and falling, heart pounding in your throat.

you weren’t guilty anymore.

you were even.

and now… you wanted more.

the next few days passed in a blur of unfinished sentences and lingering glances. the strange discomfort you’d felt around taehyun had started to fade, but in its place came something more dangerous — tension. thick and slow like honey, clinging to everything you did. neither of you acknowledged it, not with words, not even with accidental touches, but it hung in the air between you like something waiting to be set on fire.

you’d agreed to meet again to finish the research project, this time with the intention of wrapping it up for good. it was late afternoon when you arrived at his dorm. the sky outside had already started shifting into shades of deep gold and fading blue, the light catching on the frames above his bed, painting the room in soft, dusky warmth. he greeted you with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. you smiled back, heart thudding too fast.

you worked side by side in silence, your laptops open between you, bodies angled slightly apart but never too far. his arm brushed yours once, and you didn’t pull away. he didn’t apologize. the energy between you simmered just beneath the surface — not awkward anymore, not exactly — but charged, as if both of you were pretending not to think about the same exact thing.

an hour passed, maybe more, before you stood and stretched with a soft groan, brushing your hair out of your face. “gonna use the bathroom,” you mumbled, already stepping away. “should we add one more source for the last paragraph, or leave it as it is?”

taehyun didn’t answer.

you didn’t notice at first. you were already down the hall, distracted with your thoughts, cheeks flushed from the way his eyes had been on your lips minutes earlier. but back in his dorm, taehyun sat frozen, staring at your screen like it had just betrayed him.

your laptop was still open, your notifications still on.

and there it was.

a small, perfectly timed alert had bloomed in the lower right corner of your screen like a bullet wound — unmistakable, cold, precise:

“don’t miss tonight’s stream — kth02 is going live at 10 p.m.”

taehyun’s blood turned to ice.

his breath left him in a single, sharp exhale as he stared at it, unmoving, every nerve in his body locking into place. even after the notification disappeared, the ghost of it lingered. burned into his retinas. into his chest. you had been watching him. you knew.

when you returned, still toweling off your hands and talking like nothing had happened, the last thing you expected was the way his eyes met yours. he wasn’t smiling anymore. his phone was forgotten, resting face-down on the bed. his gaze was hard, dark, unreadable — a silent storm gathering force.

“did something happen?” you asked, voice small, hesitant.

his eyes didn’t leave yours. his jaw flexed once, then again. and then he said it.

“have you been watching my streams?”

you stopped breathing.

the words hit you like a slap, like a spotlight you didn’t know you’d stepped into. your throat closed up. your entire body went cold, then hot, then cold again. blood rushed to your face all at once.

“i… i can explain,” you whispered, voice barely audible, shame thick in your chest like tar.

taehyun stood slowly, deliberately, his movements quiet and unhurried as he walked toward you. your heart pounded harder with each step he took, and you took one back without thinking. he kept coming. he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t look furious — but his eyes burned. sharp. hungry.

“you watched me,” he said again, voice low now. rougher. “you’ve been watching me.”

you couldn’t speak. couldn’t move. his presence was too close, too warm. your lips parted as if to defend yourself, to deny it, to run, but instead — you stayed.

his hand reached out, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face up toward his.

“you didn’t need to do that,” he murmured, voice silk and steel all at once. “if you wanted to see my cock… i would’ve shown you.”

your breath caught, a small, involuntary sound leaving your lips.

taehyun kissed you.

not gently. not questioningly.

his mouth crashed into yours with the force of weeks — maybe months — of hidden hunger. his hands found your hips, pulling you into him like he couldn’t stand the space that had been there before. your fingers curled into his shirt, clinging, gasping against his lips as his tongue slid past yours, hot and slick and possessive. you moaned into the kiss, shame and tension melting away into something far more dangerous.

he broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against your mouth, “you want to see it now, don’t you?”

you whimpered, nodding helplessly, and that was all the answer he needed.

he pushed you gently, but firmly, toward the bed, until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you tumbled back with a soft gasp. he climbed over you, eyes scanning your body like he wanted to memorize every inch, and when his fingers brushed the hem of your shirt and lifted it — he stopped.

his eyes widened slightly.

you were wearing matching lingerie. deep wine red lace. delicate straps and silk bows.

he let out a low, dangerous sound in his throat.

“fuck,” he muttered, dragging his palm along your thigh, over your waist, slow and reverent. “you wore this for me?”

you didn’t answer, but the blush on your cheeks said everything.

“you planned this,” he growled, kissing down your neck, fingers sliding the straps of your bra off your shoulders. “you watched me, got wet for me, and now you’re here, dressed like a fucking fantasy.”

his hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts, dragging his thumbs over your nipples through the lace, until you arched into him with a breathy moan. you were trembling — not from fear, but anticipation.

“i want to fuck you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear, “but not just for me.”

your breath hitched. “what…?”

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing your lip. “i want them to see. i want everyone who watched me jerk off to know you’re mine.”

your eyes widened, but your thighs pressed together.

he smirked, knowing exactly what that meant.

“let me show them,” he said. “let me show them how good you take it. how pretty you sound when you moan.”

his hand slid down your body again, fingers slipping under your panties, dragging through your slick folds.

“they’ll never touch you. never hear you the way i will. but they’ll know. they’ll see what they can’t have.”

you whimpered, your hips bucking into his hand.

“please,” you whispered, not even sure what you were begging for anymore.

he kissed your neck, trailing down toward your chest, mouthing at the lace before looking up at you again. “say yes,” he said. “say yes, and i’ll turn the camera on. just for them to watch. just for us to enjoy.”

his fingers were inside you now, slow but firm, curling perfectly against your walls.

you moaned, eyes fluttering shut.

and then you nodded.

“yes,” you breathed. “yes, taehyun.”

you barely registered him grabbing his laptop, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he placed it on the desk at the edge of the bed, angling the webcam down toward the mattress where you lay — flushed, breathless, your bra halfway off, your panties damp and already tugged down to mid-thigh.

“you’re sure?” he asked, one last time, his voice deep and reverent as he loomed over you. “once i turn this on, they’re gonna see you. hear you. know exactly who’s making me come from now on.”

you nodded, eyes half-lidded with lust, legs spreading wider in invitation.

“fucking perfect,” he muttered, switching on the stream.

the chat lit up almost instantly.

he hadn’t even said a word yet, and people were already flooding in. hearts. usernames. emojis. thirsty little greetings. taehyun smirked as the viewers climbed, way higher than usual.

he turned back to you, crawling over your body and placing a hot kiss just under your jaw. “they’ve been waiting for me,” he murmured, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and dragging them all the way down your legs. “but they’ve really been waiting for you.”

you whimpered when he settled between your thighs, spreading them with both hands like he was presenting you to the camera. your pussy glistened in the low lighting, folds soaked and swollen, thighs trembling slightly with need. taehyun didn’t touch you yet — he just stared, dragging his tongue slowly over his bottom lip.

“you see this, chat?” he said finally, voice shifting into his streaming tone — low, hypnotic, dirty. “remember the girl i told you about the other night? the one avoiding me. the one who had no idea i jerked off thinking about her every single time i turned this camera on?”

his hand moved down, thumb gliding through your slit with a wet noise that made both of you inhale sharply.

“she knows now.”

his middle and ring fingers pressed into you without warning, curling deep on the first thrust. you moaned — loud and raw — your back arching off the bed.

the chat exploded.

he laughed darkly, leaning in to kiss your mouth hard as his fingers pumped in and out of you, obscene and fast, the sound of your wetness echoing through the room.

“you hear that?” he said, pulling back just enough to watch your face contort in pleasure. “that’s her pussy. soaked for me. because she likes this. she likes being watched.”

you nodded desperately, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from how fast your orgasm was already building. his fingers knew exactly where to press — his thumb finding your clit with perfect rhythm, rubbing tight circles as you sobbed his name.

he turned your face toward the camera, gently but firmly, holding your jaw. “look at them, baby,” he whispered. “let them see how fucking pretty you are when you come.”

you did — lips parted, eyes glassy, body trembling.

“taehyun—fuck, i’m—”

“come on my fingers, princess,” he growled. “do it. show them who you belong to.”

you shattered.

your thighs clamped around his wrist, your body jerking, crying out shamelessly as you came hard — gushing around his fingers, soaking his palm, your moans loud and raw and unfiltered.

the comments went wild.

“holy shit.” “i’m never recovering from this.” “marry her.” “he’s so fucking lucky.”

taehyun kissed you through it, moaning into your mouth, fingers still fucking you until you were shaking and whining from overstimulation.

and he wasn’t even close to done.

he pulled his shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere across the room before shoving his joggers down his hips. his cock sprang free — flushed, thick, heavy — and you moaned at the sight of it, thighs instinctively falling open again.

he grinned, pumping it slowly, letting the camera see the way it dripped with precum. “you want this now, don’t you?” he murmured. “want me to fuck you right here, in front of all of them?”

“yes,” you breathed. “please, taehyun—i need it.”

he grabbed a pillow and shoved it under your hips, tilting you up just right before lining himself up and thrusting in — hard.

you gasped, fingers clawing at the sheets, back arching as he filled you to the hilt.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned, head falling forward. “you’re so fucking tight. made for me.”

he snapped his hips forward again, and again, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud and sinful in the room. he was rough, relentless, fucking you like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else — deep, punishing thrusts that made you cry out, barely coherent.

he flipped you over without warning, yanking your hips up until you were on your knees, face pressed into the mattress. he spread your ass with both hands, fucking back into you so hard your knees slipped on the sheets.

“look at her,” he hissed, staring directly into the camera now. “this pussy’s mine. mine.”

you moaned so loud, you knew the whole dorm floor could probably hear.

and still — you wanted more.

he reached around, fingers finding your clit again as he slammed into you from behind, deeper than before. “gonna make you come again. right here. want all of them to see what a messy little slut you are for me.”

“yes—fuck, yes—taehyun—”

you came harder the second time, screaming his name into the sheets, body trembling uncontrollably as he fucked you through it.

taehyun groaned behind you, close now, his rhythm faltering.

he pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your back again and straddling your chest. his cock slapped against your tits, slick and twitching.

“open your mouth,” he ordered, and you obeyed instantly, tongue out, eyes wide.

he fucked your mouth with short, desperate thrusts, his hands gripping your hair, voice breaking. “shit—fuck—i’m gonna come—baby, take it—”

and he did.

thick ropes of cum spilled over your tongue, your lips, your chin. he groaned deep in his chest, holding your head still as he emptied himself all over your face, his eyes wild and locked on the lens.

“this is what she does to me,” he whispered to the chat. “every. fucking. time.”

you swallowed, licking your lips slowly, gazing up at him through tear-filled eyes, completely wrecked.

the chat lost their minds.

“best stream of my life.” “i’m on my knees.” “someone call 911 i’ve died.”

taehyun leaned in, kissed your forehead softly, and ended the stream with one final smirk.

“mine,” he whispered against your skin.

taehyun hovered over the trackpad for a second longer, breath still heavy, a smug smile playing at the corners of his swollen lips. his chest was flushed and glistening, the sweat on his toned body catching the soft light. you were sprawled beneath him, covered in his cum, your lips parted, cheeks pink, pupils blown wide. completely fucked out.

he looked into the webcam, tilting his head slightly, and said with a grin, “we’re gonna end it here tonight, guys. thanks for being such good voyeurs.”

the chat exploded with whining, hearts, and desperate pleads for more. 

“already?!”  “she’s perfect.”  “you better marry her.”  “tae PLEASE don’t log off.”

but he just winked, lazily reached for the laptop, and clicked end stream.

the screen went black.

a silence settled over the room, broken only by your shared panting. the moment felt suspended — like glass right before the shatter.

then, slowly, taehyun reached for you. he dragged his thumb gently across your chin, collecting some of the mess he’d made and bringing it to your lips. “open,” he murmured, and you did without thinking. your tongue darted out, tasting him. his eyes darkened again for a moment.

but instead of taking it further, he leaned in and kissed you — soft this time. slower. no camera. no audience. just the warmth of his lips against yours and the faint taste of salt and sweetness shared between you.

“come on,” he whispered. “let’s get you cleaned up.”

he scooped you up in his arms, ignoring your squeak of surprise, and carried you to the bathroom. he set you down gently on the cool tile, then turned on the shower. steam began to rise almost instantly, fogging the mirror and curling around your bodies.

taehyun stepped in first and held a hand out to you. “get in, baby,” he said softly, his voice no longer performative — just yours.

you followed him, letting the hot water wash over you as he pulled you under the stream with him, arms wrapping around your waist. your skin pressed against his, slick and sensitive, and for a moment you just stood there like that, heads resting on each other’s shoulders, letting the rush of the water melt the tension from your limbs.

but then his hands slid lower.

slow, deliberate.

they cupped your ass and squeezed gently, dragging your body tighter against his. his cock was hard again, thick and heavy against your stomach, already twitching from the feel of your wet skin.

you looked up at him, wet hair clinging to your face, and he leaned in to kiss you — this time open-mouthed, heated. his tongue curled against yours, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other sliding down to your inner thigh.

you gasped into his mouth as his fingers slid between your legs again, finding you still soaked — not just from the water. “fuck, baby,” he whispered against your lips, “you’re still so fucking wet for me.”

you moaned, wrapping your arms around his neck, grinding against his palm as his fingers teased your slit.

“you like that, huh?” he growled. “you like being my little showgirl? letting everyone watch you come for me?”

you nodded, unable to speak, hips moving on their own.

“you’re so fucking dirty,” he said, voice thick with lust, fingers slipping inside you. “you want me to fuck you in the shower now, too? hmm?”

“yes—taehyun—please,” you gasped, clinging to him.

he kissed you again, biting your lower lip as he pushed you back against the wall. the cold tile made you shiver, but the heat of his mouth on your neck, his fingers pumping into you with delicious precision, more than made up for it.

“i should make you scream for me again,” he muttered, curling his fingers just right. “right here, where no one else gets to hear you but me.”

“please,” you whimpered, “i want your cock again—need it, tae.”

he groaned low in his chest, grabbing your leg and hooking it around his waist as he lined up, his tip rubbing along your entrance. “you begging for it, baby? say it. tell me how bad you want me.”

“i want you to fuck me,” you breathed, eyes wide, body trembling. “please, i want your cock. i want it inside me.”

taehyun grinned like a devil and slid in all at once — a deep, rough thrust that had your mouth falling open in a silent cry. your back hit the tile hard, and you wrapped both arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin.

he started moving, slow but deep, each thrust rocking your body into the wall, water pouring down both of you. he was grunting against your skin, his hands tight on your hips.

“you feel that?” he whispered, biting your ear gently. “feel how deep i am, baby?”

you nodded, voice a mess of moans and gasps.

“no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh?” he panted, speeding up, fucking into you harder now. “nobody else’s cock fills you like mine.”

“never,” you cried, tears springing to your eyes, “only you, tae—only ever you.”

“that’s right,” he groaned, grabbing your other leg and lifting you off the ground completely. you clung to him, thighs locked around his waist, his cock hitting deep with every thrust now.

the sound of his hips slapping against you echoed off the walls, water splashing over your shoulders as you cried out for him.

“gonna come again?” he asked, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot.

“yes—yes, fuck, don’t stop—”

he angled his hips just right, grinding into your sweet spot with brutal rhythm, and you shattered again — nails dragging down his back, head thrown back, voice cracked with pleasure.

taehyun fucked you through it, chasing his own high, groaning into your neck. “fuck, baby—gonna fill you up again. want you dripping for me.”

he came with a long, broken moan, cock pulsing inside you, warmth spilling deep as his hips stuttered and slowed.

you stayed like that for a moment, trembling in his arms, water still pouring over you.

“goddamn,” he muttered, brushing wet hair from your face. “you’re fucking perfect.”

he helped you stand again, your legs barely working, and cleaned you gently under the stream — washing your thighs, kissing your belly, cradling your face like you were something precious.

“stay here tonight,” he said.

you nodded, dazed, and let him lead you back to his bed.

he dressed you in one of his oversized shirts — it swallowed you whole — and pulled you into bed with him, the sheets still warm, his body even warmer. he tucked your head under his chin, your leg thrown over his hip, one hand stroking lazy circles into your thigh.

it was quiet for a while.

then he whispered, almost shyly, “i like you.”

you blinked.

pulled back just enough to look at him.

“you what?”

he rolled his eyes, smiling, but there was a nervous edge to it. “don’t make me repeat it.”

“taehyun…”

“i like you,” he said again, firmer this time. “have for a long time.”

you stared, heart fluttering in your chest, lips parted.

he laughed softly at your expression. “you seriously didn’t notice?”

you shook your head, breath catching in your throat. “i thought… i don’t know. i thought you were just—”

“just what?”

“just being a good friend,” you whispered.

he exhaled, pulling you closer, kissing your temple.

“baby,” he murmured, “friends don’t jerk off on livestreams thinking about each other.”

you laughed, burying your face in his neck, heart swelling.

and when you fell asleep in his arms that night, it wasn’t guilt or shame or secrecy that lingered.

and the way he held you like he never wanted to let you go.

[yandereunsolved]

Yandere Batfam pining over Bruce's reluctant darling—why are you so frightened? is it because Tim is cyberstalking you?

cw(s): trauma and trauma responses (Batfam), family dysfunction, and stalking

Yandere Batfam aren't subtle about their obsessive nature. They are already aware that you are cautious around them and have tried to leave several times, so what is the point in hiding it? Every unhealthy behavior of theirs stems from their trauma and vigilante status. They hope if they are more open about it, then you'll have more of a willingness to stay with them.

Vulnerability isn't exactly a word in any of their vocabularies.

So they are reaching out and showing you their true selves. You were going to figure it out eventually, and it would have only made you more skittish.

Come on. They aren't that bad.

Yandere Batfam just has a few unique quirks. They take away any semblance of privacy you had. Whether it be stalking in the flesh or on the internet. Both a set of cameras and eyes are always trained on you.

They see it as a way to appease both of your anxious natures. They get to know you're safe. They get to learn more about you so they can better please you. You get—them.

You never have to worry about anything ever again!

Yandere Batfam makes sure to give both you and Bruce time 'alone'. They hate that word, especially Damien. What do you mean by alone time? It's asinine. You have managed all their attention and affection poorly thus far! Giving you more time away from them all is only going to decrease your ability to love them all. Which Damien is fine with, as long as your ability to love him doesn't wane even a point of a percentage.

With that in mind, they all know you were Bruce's first. If you aren't comfortable with him, then how are you going to be comfortable with the rest of them?

So they give you that illusion of you simply dating Bruce. He works on wooing you. He tries to.

He doesn't know how to react when you suddenly shut down from his advances. When you pull away from his touch, all he can feel is hurt. A type of hurt that exceeds any he has ever felt. It's like multiple knives twisting into his heart while his soul is crying out in anguish.

He still tries. He gives you your space and little by little breaks down those walls of yours. In return, you end up doing the same with him. He doesn't even realize how much he loves you until you're absent from his presence, even if only for a mere moment.

Yandere Batfam end up learning how hard it is to share. Bruce is the head of the family, so it feels natural to allow him the largest sum of your time. However, how do they split the rest of it? How much time is too much time with you? Who goes first? (Damien insists it should be Dick and then him.)

They could always ask you, but you seem hesitant enough when just asked base-level questions about yourself.

So it's often a hot topic between all of them. If you are closer to one family member than another, the other's are instantly jealous and try to copy the tactics of that member. They'll even go as far as to abuse their power in the familial hierarchy to give themselves a disadvantage.

(Jason really doesn't give a single fuck about schedules. So you'll most likely see the most of him second to Bruce. He is mostly silent in the time he spends with you. He's just content to be in your presence, even if it is farther away than he would like.)

Yandere Batfam aren't going to strip you of your freedoms, yet. You're like a fawn just learning to walk. They can't have you running. You'll get yourself hurt. You can't protect yourself.

Bruce just wants you to love him like you did when you first met him. He's still that same man, albeit a bit more stalkerish. His family is still the same bunch of loving idiots, just more obsessive.

So please join them before their patience runs dry. If you push yourself too far away, then they suddenly won't care if you have any reluctance towards them or their methods.

[ichigo-plasma]

Love and Deepspace Men Buying You A Miniskirt Headcanons

A/N: The idea of a guy buying his girlfriend a miniskirt is very hot. Like the fact he saw a skirt that barely covers your ass and thought of you and how hot it’d be if you wore it.. HOTTTTT.

ZAYNE

Black Mini Pencil Skirt

Purchases you a tight, body-hugging pencil mini in sleek black. High-waisted. Polished. But short enough to flash your ass if you sit the wrong way.

He pretends it’s for work or a date night, but he can’t stop picturing you sitting across from him in that skirt with your legs crossed… or worse, spread open.

He wants to see the outline of your panties pressed through it. Wants to pull them aside with one hand and finger you without even taking the skirt off.

Whispers in your ear that “You look put-together, sure. But I know that if I slide my hand up your thigh, you’ll be dripping for me under all that elegance.”

Gives it to you neatly next to a silk blouse, placed on the bed when you come home.

There’s a note in his handwriting: Wear this tonight. No panties.

He takes you to dinner—five-star, candlelit. But his hand is on your thigh all evening.

When you shift in your seat, the skirt hikes up and he sees everything.

“Y/N,” he whispers, voice low, “If you squirm again, I’m going to bend you over the hood of the car in the parking lot.”

He drives home with one hand on the wheel and the other teasing between your legs, not even caring if you cum in the passenger seat. He just smirks and says, “Messy girl. We’ll clean it up when we get home.”

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

XAVIER

White Tennis Skirt

Gets you a crisp pleated tennis skirt. Clean white. SHORT. So short that any bending over is dangerous.

He says it’s for “mobility” and training..

But truly he wants you on your knees, skirt flipped up, his fingers still sticky with your slick as he murmurs, “Keep it on.”

He loves the illusion of innocence. The idea of you stretching, running, bouncing in it… while your pussy is soaking wet for him underneath.

You mentioned wanting workout clothes. The next morning, it’s folded neatly on the table with a note: You’ll look beautiful in this. Can’t wait to see.

You wear it on a casual day out. He’s quiet, calm. But you notice he staring at your legs.

In the parking garage, you bend to pick something up—and he groans audibly.

“…Y/N. You’re killing me.”

He pushes you back into the car, pulls you halfway onto his lap, and fingers you through your panties until you’re clenching around nothing and whimpering, skirt still neatly in place.

“We’ll finish when we get home. But I want your thighs shaking by the time we get there.”

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

CALEB

Pastel Ruffle Mini Skirt With Ribbons

Buys you a super soft pastel ruffle mini skirt. Cute dainty ribbons, short enough that it flips when you bend even slightly.

Caleb is obsessed with how cute you look in soft colors—especially when you act bratty in them. He loves the contrast of the cuteness with a bratty attitude that he has to teach a lesson to.

Spots it in a trendy boutique near your favorite café. It’s displayed on a mannequin styled with lace-trimmed socks and a baby tee.

He’s rock hard the entire time he’s waiting in line at the register to buy it as he imagines you in it.

He gives it to you in a soft bag and an indulgent, calm smirk he gets when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

The first time you wear it outside, he can’t stop staring. “Pipsqueak, you walk around dressed like that and expect me not to wreck you?”

He wants to lift it up, bend you over his lap, and spank you through your cotton panties like you’re his spoiled little girl.

Whispers that “you’re too cute to be left unsupervised”.

When you lean over to grab something and he grunts. Telling you

“That’s it. You’re not walking tomorrow.”

“Bet your little pussy’s dripping under that skirt. You gonna be good Pipsqueak, or am I gonna have to make you cry?”

Fucks you at home still wearing it—bent over a pillow, calling you his good girl while you squeal with every smack of his hips.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

RAFAYEL

Miu Miu Logo-Plaid Micro Mini Skirt

Buys you a designer miniskirt with high fashion appeal—think Miu Miu plaid micro skirt. (Probably decks you out in designer in general).

Spoil you rotten buying you designer just to rip it all off you and absolutely ruin you.

“If you’re going to be with me you need to wear the finest,” he hums… while imagining you on your knees.

Gets hard thinking about taking you dripping wet while wearing expensive luxury he bought and made you wear.

Lives that you look expensive and everyone knows he’s the one who paid for it. Even if you say you can afford it he doesn’t let you swipe your card.

He fully jerks off to the idea of fucking you in nothing but a miniskirt and heels.

Gives you the skirt in a designer box, with fancy tissue paper. He even sprays it with his cologne.

“Try it on. Slowly. Let me see what I spent my money on.”

Sits on the bed, slowly moving his hand down his pants, watching you twirl like you’re on a runway.

You wear it to a gallery opening or fashion party. But he won’t stop touching you.

Runs his hand under the hem while whispering in your ear. “You know what they’re all thinking? That they’d sell their souls to be me. To get between those legs. But you’re mine, Y/N.”

Can’t hold back and drags you to a bathroom stall, he fucks you up against the wall, miniskirt flipped up, your legs around his waist while you cry out into his shoulder, biting his name.

“Be a good doll and cream on my cock. Let them hear it. Let those guys dream they could be with you.”

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

SYLUS

Black Lace Mini with Garters

Has you wear a sheer, lacy black skirt that clings to your hips and comes with garter straps. Absolutely lingerie disguised as streetwear.

It’s not even about fashion. He wants you accessible. Wants to flip the skirt up and fuck you without taking anything off.

“You don’t wear this in public, sweetheart. Unless you’re asking for trouble.”

The garter straps? He plans to use them to tie your wrists to the headboard.

The skirt is delivered to your door in a sleek black box. No message, just a single red rose bouquet and a note: Be ready at 8. No bra. No excuses.

He shows up in a black button up shirt and unbuttons it slowly while you model the skirt for him.

When you do wear it in public, you wear it under a long coat. He knows. You both know.

You slide it open when no one’s looking and he just breathes, “You’re so filthy kitten.”

In the VIP section of a club, he has you sit on his lap, your back arched, skirt bunched up.

His fingers slide between your legs and stroke you under the table, whispering, “You’re so wet for me. Keep still or I’ll fuck you right here in front of everybody.”

[moonastro]

ASTROLOGY notes pt.4 (summer edition)

✨little TW✨

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ pisces venus in vedic astrology, may have a weird or addictive obsession with cleaning and hot water used to clean, such as mopping, towels-omg especially the texture or smell of towels, cleaning cloths etc. -little weird observation. Honestly just anything to do with water this placement is just connected with it.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ what i have noticed with the planets that you have in your 1st house can often reflect on what facial expressions you may make. so >for example, if you have mars in 1st house, you may make faces that look like you are judging or looking disgusted and even angry. if jupiter in 1st house, you may look as if you are thinking of something all the time, you may look like you are analysing things 24/7, if neptune is in 1st house, you may look as if you are day dreaming a lot, or as if you are making things up in your head.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ neptune in 5th house often indicates you missing out on developing something your good at due to illusions of thinking your not good at it or that you dont have to do it etc.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ another observation for neptune in 5th house can often suggest attaining an addictive habit and depending on the sign its in or planets near it can suggest what to. so for example, if making an aspect to moon- can indicate drinking addiction, if aspecting mars- smoking habit often having a raising voice habit also.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ having 7th house ruler in scorpio can indicate having a partner that is self absorbed and simply may not help with anything. they simply have a mindset of your not gonna do it so am not as well.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ having north node in 6th house can often indicate being friends or close to the people who have hurt you intentionally. you may attract these type of people also. you can also tend to go back to these people.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ if you have leo dominant placements such as ascendant, sun, moon, mc even venus and mars, I've noticed that leo placements tend to never stay in their house, like they are always going out somewhere and it doesn't have to mean going out out like this could be going outside, going to a friends house, going to another family members house and so forward.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ moon in scorpio individuals (in vedic) most likely didn't have comfort when growing up and may have (TW) problems with eating and food. this can be that when you were younger being criticked with your appearance or how much/little you ate etc. may have an unstable relationship with food, and having the fear of not having enough food.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ having north node in your 6th house can suggest having weird eating habits, like you may not eat around others, have weird food combos etc.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ okay so focusing a bit on Vedic astrology, if in a Jupiter antardasha period, you may come across themes related to travel, spirituality. And by travel I don’t mean actual full on cruise or plane travel, this can simply be as simple as a car journey, taking more public transport etc. Of course depending on what house Jupiter is in it can manifest a bit differently to everyone. Also important note, you may also feel like things are going your way, like the universe is truly on your side no matter what.

✨for example- my Jupiter is in my 2nd house- I experiences themes related to better connections with my family members, harmonised work ethics, out of the blue travel opportunities, focused self care routine.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Venus in 11th house, may have an older sibling that is either idolised by you or by everyone else in your eyes. The older you get the more the relationship between your older sibling may increase ( especially if you have an older sister). You may also feel like you don’t get the attention that you crave from others.

Another thing for this placement is that it is easy to influence these individuals, may not have to look hard for inspiration and may just have things handed to them ( not literally but more so metaphorically)

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the sun in the 10th house may not be as glamorous as people turn it out to be. Since the sun tends to outshine other planets or in other world “burn” the influence of other planets if placed or conjunct with any planet this can cause some difficulties within one’s career or public image.

✨for example- if sun is conjunct Uranus in 10th house- may totally blindside the individual ability to take risks and start something spontaneous- these individuals may hardly or rarely start something new just because of simple laziness or unmotivated mindset from the lack of thinking or processing an idea to actually stick with it.

✨another example can be when sun is conjunct Mars in 10th house- this can totally burn out the person, may feel like they aren’t worthy or enough at whatever it is they are doing and quick frankly may make the person lose the dedication needed for their career. In terms of public image- this can just totally make the person appear to be arrogant and self inclined, more so may be viewed as bringing other people down around them.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Chiron conjunct Neptune is the infamous victim mindset. Im sorry, but these people constantly just have this view that they are the only people with problems, that they are the only ones who struggle etc etc. of course this is a broad interpretation however, these people can also struggle with telling things apart of what’s real and not. They don’t think before they let their actions be led by what they are feeling at that moment. Alsolll they can soo easily make other people feel sorry for them it’s insane.

✨a little tip for these people can be to think things thoroughly, get out of your comfort zone and try to use your head.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Saturn in 4th house indicates may have grown up to be viewed as being close with their father but growing up and detesting them then. Like there could have been some close bond between you and your father growing up but then as you get older you may just drift apart.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the placement that doesn’t get talked enough is moon in 2nd house… these people hateee when we their routine is disturbed by other people or external factors. They may also enjoy a good hearty home cooked meal ( not to be stereotypical here). Another honourable mention is that these people simply believe that things will work out for them even if they are not doing ANYTHING to get there they still may believe that it’s going to happen.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ if you have Uranus near you descendant you most likely switch up on your relationship with others, you may experience people being unexpectedly hatred towards you. Your spontaneous approach to people can often leave others to find it hard to bond deeply with you.

Thank you sooooo much for reading- I really hope you enjoyed this post. Have a lovely rest of your day 🫶🏼

[dearlenore]

LACY • S.REID

SUMMARY: when Spencer starts talking to your new co worker ‘Lacy’ like she’s the only woman in the world, you can’t help but feel jealous…

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a jealous, mutual pining but they’re dumb, internal angst, fluff, desperate kissing, miscommunication, no Lacy slander, use of y/n

a/n: this was inspired by another author , I’ll tag them if I can find them 🥹❤️ not proofread + no editor…

w/c: 2.5K

THE FIRST TIME you see her, she is glowing.

It’s an illusion, of course. A trick of the light, or maybe just the sheer force of her presence in the room—either way, the effect is the same. You watch her from across the bullpen, caught in a haze of something between admiration and nausea, like you’ve been drugged.

Lacy.

She isn’t even named Lacy. It’s just what your mind calls her, the only name that fits the soft edges of her smile, the way she floats instead of walks, the way every eye in the room seems to follow her. Smart, sexy Lacy. Spencer’s Lacy.

You don’t know when it started—when the gnawing, bitter ache in your chest bloomed into something you couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was when Spencer started saying her name with that reverence, like a prayer whispered against the lips of a saint. Maybe it was when she touched his arm in that absentminded, thoughtless way that only beautiful people can get away with. Maybe it was the way he looked at her—like she was made of something otherworldly, something delicate, something sacred.

You hate her. You loathe her. You worship her.

Your jealousy is a sickness, and Lacy is the fever that keeps it alive.

“Y/N?”

You startle at the sound of Spencer’s voice, too caught up in your own thoughts to notice him approaching. He’s looking at you with that furrow in his brow, the one that means he’s noticed something is off.

“Are you okay?”

Liar, liar. You smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, but before he can press, she enters the room.

Lacy.

Her skin is like puff pastry, soft and perfect, glowing under the fluorescents. Her hair is pulled back in a ribbon, the kind that makes her look effortlessly elegant. She says something—something inconsequential, something meant only for Spencer—and he laughs.

Your stomach twists itself into knots.

“You sure you’re okay?” Spencer asks again, his voice gentle.

You tear your eyes away from her. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t push. He never does.

The thing about jealousy is that it sneaks up on you. It festers, curls itself around your ribs, digs its claws in deep. It makes you obsessive, makes you notice things you never would have before.

Lacy tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. She bites her lip when she’s nervous. She has a habit of resting her chin in her hand when she’s listening to someone talk, her gaze soft and heavy with interest.

She makes it look easy, like she was born knowing how to be adored.

And Spencer—God, Spencer—he hangs on her every word.

You see it all the time. The way his eyes follow her when she moves, the way he leans in just a little too close when she speaks, the way he smiles when she laughs.

It takes over your life.

You see her everywhere, even when she isn’t there.

“You’re staring again.”

You blink, turning to see Emily watching you with an amused expression.

You bristle. “I’m not.”

Emily just lifts an eyebrow. She doesn’t say anything else, just gives you that knowing look before walking away.

Shame burns the back of your throat.

You don’t know what’s worse—that she noticed, or that she was right.

You try, you try, you try to rationalize.

People are people.

Lacy is just a person.

She isn’t out to get you. She isn’t some villain in a story.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because when she leans into Spencer’s space, when she touches his arm, when she tilts her head just so and makes him laugh—

It feels like she is.

Like she exists just to make you feel this way.

Like she was made to be the kind of person you’ll never be.

The night it all comes to a head, it’s unremarkable. No grand betrayal, no dramatic confrontation. Just a moment. A simple, stupid moment.

You’re at a bar, the team unwinding after a case. Lacy is there, of course. She always is.

And Spencer—Spencer is smiling at her.

Not just any smile.

The smile.

The one that reaches his eyes, the one that makes his face go a light shade of pink , the one that is so rare, so genuine, so him.

And she—she is glowing.

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Bites her lip. Laughs.

And Spencer—Spencer is gone.

Your stomach drops.

It’s not the way he looks at her that makes you sick.

It’s the way he doesn’t look at you.

Not like that. Not ever.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, downing the rest of your drink in one go.

The burn in your throat is nothing compared to the burn in your chest.

You hate her. You loathe her.

And you worship her.

Because she has the one thing you’ll never have.

Spencer.

“Y/N?”

You freeze, glass halfway to your lips. The warmth of the bar hums around you—soft laughter, clinking glasses, the low murmur of conversation—but all of it fades to the background as Spencer slides into the seat next to you.

You don’t turn to look at him. You can’t.

“Hey,” you say, voice carefully even.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, angling his body toward you. You can feel his eyes on you, studying, searching.

You sip your drink, swallowing against the lump in your throat.

“Are you okay?”

It’s the second time he’s asked you that today. You almost laugh.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem… off.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“You’ve been quiet,” he continues, still watching you. “Distracted.”

You wonder if he notices how often he’s distracted. How often his eyes drift toward her. How often he leans in when she speaks, how he smiles at her like she hung the moon.

Your stomach twists.

“I’m fine,” you say again, sharper this time.

Spencer doesn’t look convinced. He rarely does when you lie.

Before he can push, before he can do what he always does—which is care when you wish he wouldn’t—Lacy’s voice rings out across the bar.

“Spence!”

You stiffen.

He turns instinctively at the sound of her voice, and it’s like a dagger to the ribs. His face softens, his lips curve into an easy smile, his whole body shifts toward her without thinking.

Like she’s a force of gravity.

Like she’s his gravity.

You swallow the nausea rising in your throat.

“I should go,” you mutter, pushing up from your seat.

Spencer blinks, turning back to you. “What? Why?”

You shake your head. “I’m just tired.”

It’s not a lie, not really.

You’re exhausted.

Exhausted from feeling like this. Exhausted from watching them, from trying not to watch them. Exhausted from the way jealousy eats you alive.

“Y/N—”

“I’ll see you Monday,” you cut him off, offering another hollow smile before turning on your heel and slipping out of the bar.

Monday comes too soon.

You step into the bullpen, still groggy from a restless night, and make a beeline for your desk. Maybe if you keep your head down, if you bury yourself in work, if you avoid looking—

“Morning, Y/N!”

You freeze.

Lacy is standing by the coffee machine, beaming at you like you’re friends. Like you haven’t spent the past few weeks resenting the very air she breathes.

You force yourself to smile.

“Morning,” you manage.

She tilts her head, studying you for a beat too long.

“You left early the other night,” she says, sounding almost… concerned. “Everything okay?”

Your skin prickles.

Why does she care? Why does she have to be nice? Why can’t she be awful, so that hating her would be easy?

You shrug, keeping your voice casual. “Just tired.”

(You’re always just tired, aren’t you?)

She nods, her expression still unreadable.

“You know,” she says, “Spencer was worried about you.”

The words hit harder than you expect them to.

You inhale sharply, forcing a small laugh. “He worries about everyone.”

Lacy hums. “I guess.”

She sips her coffee, watching you over the rim of her cup.

There’s something in her gaze, something sharp, something that makes you wonder if she knows.

Knows how you feel.

Knows how much you hate her.

Knows how much you envy her.

And worst of all—

Knows how much you wish you were her.

“See you later, Y/N,” she says, her voice sweet as sugar.

She turns, saunters off toward Spencer, and just like that—

You’re invisible again.

Later that day, you don’t know why you let him in.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion weighing you down, the bone-deep fatigue from carrying this jealousy for so long. Maybe it’s the way he looked at you when you opened the door—worried, confused, like he wasn’t going to leave until you gave him an answer.

Or maybe it’s just Spencer.

Because it’s always been Spencer.

You step aside without a word, and he takes it as permission to enter, closing the door behind him. Your apartment is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the lamp by your couch. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling small under his gaze as you sit down.

“You left early again,” he says softly, breaking the silence.

Your jaw tightens.

“I was tired.”

His lips press into a thin line. “You-“ he laughs dryly. “You always say that.”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Maybe because it’s true.”

Spencer doesn’t look convinced.

He takes a careful step toward you, his presence warm, consuming as he kneels in front of you. “Y/N,” he says, softer now. “Talk to me.”

You swallow.

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

That makes you laugh—humorless, sharp. “You really want the truth, Spencer?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs.

You should lie. Deflect. Brush it off like you always do.

But you’re tired. So you decide the truth is best.

“You like her,” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Lacy.”

His brows furrow, confusion flashing across his face.

“What?”

“You like her,” you repeat, voice bitter. “You look at her like she’s the greatest thing that’s ever existed.”

Spencer blinks, caught off guard. “Y/N, that’s not—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “I get it. She’s beautiful. She’s brilliant. She’s perfect for you.”

Spencer takes another step forward, and this time, you step back.

“She’s not perfect,” he says, his voice firm. “And I don’t—Y/N, where is this coming from?”

You let out another humorless laugh, running a hand through your hair. “You’re always with her. You laugh at everything she says. You—God, Spencer, you look at her like she’s the only person in the room. And of course I mean… you should! You like her… but still I’m trying to uhm.. be okay with that.”

You hold yourself a little tighter and smile softly.

He stares at you, eyes searching yours, like he’s piecing something together.

“You think I—” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Y/N, I don’t like Lacy.”

That makes you scoff. “Right.” You laugh.

“I’m serious.”

“Then why—” Your voice wavers. “Why do you—why do you act like that around her?”

Spencer is quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, he takes your hand in his.

“I don’t act any way around her,” he says gently. “You’re the one I—” He swallows, hesitating.

“What?”

Spencer inhales sharply, like he’s gathering courage.

“You’re the one I want,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart stutters.

The room feels too quiet, too still, like the whole world has paused for this moment.

“You—” Your voice is hoarse. “You what?”

He squeezes your hand and like a button, you realize the closeness. So close that you can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the nervous flicker of his lashes.

“I want you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “Not Lacy. Not anyone else.”

You shake your head, barely processing the words. “But you—”

“I don’t know how to prove it to you,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “But if you’ll let me, I’ll try.”

Your pulse thrums in your ears.

“You mean it,” you whisper.

“I do,” he breathes.

The way he’s looking at you—soft and desperate and real—it steals the air from your lungs.

And then, before you can second-guess it, you’re closing the distance.

Your lips crash against his, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate—his hands come up to cradle your face, pulling you closer, pressing himself against you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The kiss is messy, frantic, needed. It’s weeks—months—of pent-up frustration, of longing, of every stolen glance and unspoken word.

His fingers tangle in your hair, and he sighs into your mouth like he’s been waiting for this, like this is where he’s meant to be.

You don’t know how long you stand there, tangled in each other, but when you finally pull back, your chest is heaving, your lips tingling.

Spencer rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Believe me now?” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I do.”

He smiles—the real one, the one that reaches his eyes.

And this time, it’s yours.

Still, he doesn’t let go of you.

Not when the next kiss deepens, not when his hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, not when you let out a shaky gasp against his lips. He clings to you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and maybe you are.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as he presses you into the couch. His weight is solid, warm, and you swear you can feel his heart hammering against yours. The kiss is frantic, desperate—like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s trying to make you understand.

You do.

God, you do.

His lips leave yours just long enough for him to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. His hands settle on your waist, fingers flexing like he’s memorizing the feeling of you beneath them.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You swallow, your own breath shaky. “Then why didn’t you—”

Spencer exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I was scared,” he admits. “Scared you didn’t feel the same. Scared I’d ruin everything.”

Your chest tightens. “You wouldn’t have.”

His fingers tighten on your waist, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me I’m not too late,” he breathes.

You cup his face, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “You’re not.”

His whole body seems to relax at that, his grip on you loosening just slightly. He exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before switching positions with you, allowing you to lay on top of him.

You stay like that for a while—wrapped up in each other, the weight of everything unspoken settling between you.

And then, slowly, the exhaustion sets in.

You feel it first in the way your body sinks into Spencer’s, the way your limbs grow heavy, your breathing evening out. Spencer’s fingers trace lazy circles against your back, his warmth lulling you further into sleep.

“You should go to bed,” he murmurs, voice thick with drowsiness.

You shake your head against his chest. “Stay.”

Spencer’s arms tighten around you, his lips brushing the top of your head. “Okay,” he whispers.

[juliettejwnewinesa]

AUTHORNIMMMM~ CAN I REQUESTTTT????

“Han Soo Gang x Sunshine!Reader AU”

The Reader, a warm and kind-hearted presence often nicknamed “Sunshine,” has unknowingly found themselves in a complicated situationship with Han Soo Gang — a cold, feared figure known more for his family’s power than his emotions. While people around them whisper rumors and avoid Soo Gang out of fear, the Reader remains mostly oblivious to the full extent of his dark behavior, brushing off the warnings and simply assuming he’s untouchable because of his influential background.

One day, however, that illusion shatters.

Dragged by a brave friend of one of Soo Gang’s victims, the Reader is forced to witness firsthand the brutal side of him — a version of Soo Gang that doesn’t just manipulate but enjoys exerting control and fear. Shocked and betrayed, the Reader begins to avoid him entirely, cutting off their usual soft interactions and distancing themselves.

But Soo Gang notices.

And when he finds out who showed the Reader the truth — who snitched — he snaps. The calm, icy exterior cracks. He goes feral. Possessive. Unhinged. His obsession with the Reader intensifies, mixing rage, hurt, and twisted desire and reader fueling the gas with started befriend with soo gang’s victim.

And maybe… maybe it all boils over into a desperate, angry confrontation — full of confusion, tension, and unresolved feelings that blur the line between hatred and need WHICH IS ANGRY JEALOUSY SEX?

THANK YOUUUUU 💅🏻

Even Sunshine Burns Pairing: Han Soo Gang x Sunshine!Reader POV: Third Person Genre: Dark Romance, Angst, Smut CW: Obsession, manipulation, rough sex, jealousy, gaslighting, power imbalance, toxic relationship dynamics

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N had always been light.

The kind of warmth people turned toward without even realizing. She remembered birthdays, brought snacks to class, left little sticky notes on lockers with gentle words like Don’t give up! or You did your best today!. Most people called her Sunshine behind her back—not in a mocking way, but because it felt right.

And yet somehow, that sunshine had wandered into orbit around someone like Han Soo Gang.

He was untouchable. Icy. The kind of boy teachers feared, not because he was loud or openly cruel, but because his last name meant something in this city. His family name opened doors, shut mouths, and buried secrets. The bruises he left didn’t show. The fear he planted bloomed in silence.

But not with her.

Y/N didn’t know the rumors. Or maybe she did—but she didn’t believe them.

“Oppa’s just quiet,” she’d say with a soft smile, when people warned her. “He’s kind to me.”

Because he was. He answered her texts. Showed up when she asked. Let her hold his hand, even if his was cold and stiff in hers. Sometimes he even smiled—just a twitch of the lips, but it made her day.

It wasn’t official, whatever they had. But he always found her. Always made time. And in her mind, that meant something.

Until the illusion cracked.

It started when Jiwoo pulled her aside.

Jiwoo, who never talked. Who had once gone completely silent after a run-in with Soo Gang’s "friends" and stopped showing up to school for weeks.

“I need to show you something,” Jiwoo had said, trembling. “Please. It’s about him.”

She didn’t want to believe it. Even when Jiwoo took her to that alley. Even when the voice recording played—Soo Gang’s voice low and cruel, someone crying in the background.

Even when she saw it herself: Soo Gang standing over someone, bloody knuckles, blank expression.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t cry.

She just walked away.

Y/N stopped answering his messages.

She stopped waiting at the gates.

Soo Gang noticed. Of course he did.

At first, he gave her space. Thought maybe it was just one of her moods—she was soft, after all. Soft girls bruised easy, sulked easier.

But the days stretched on. Weeks.

Then he heard about Jiwoo.

And something inside him broke.

He found Jiwoo first.

It wasn’t hard. Fearful people were predictable.

No one could prove what happened. But Jiwoo stopped coming to school again. And this time, she was too scared to even speak to Y/N.

Then he turned his sights on her.

Y/N felt it before she saw him.

That heavy, magnetic pull of his presence. Like the air shifted when he stepped into a room.

She was halfway to her apartment door when he cornered her.

“Soo Gang—”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

She stiffened. “I’ve been busy.”

“Bullshit.”

His hand slammed the door shut before she could open it. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. But his eyes—

God, his eyes.

“Did she show you?” he whispered. “Jiwoo?”

Y/N turned away. That was answer enough.

“I never lied to you,” he said, voice low, cracking. “I kept you away from it. I protected you.”

“You used me.”

“I needed you.”

His voice rose with each word. His composure unraveled. And when she reached for the door again, he snapped.

He grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head.

“Soo Gang, stop—”

“You don’t get to run from me,” he hissed, chest pressed against hers. “You’re the only fucking thing in this world that doesn’t feel fake.”

“I saw what you did. I know who you are.”

“No, you don’t.”

He kissed her. Bruising, desperate, all teeth and rage.

And when she whimpered, trying to pull away—he groaned, grinding against her like a man possessed.

“You think you can get close to my victims?” he spat. “You think you can save them? When you’re the one I’d burn the world for?”

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“Then fucking hate me while I ruin you.”

His hand slid under her skirt, and she gasped.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled.

She didn’t.

She should’ve.

But instead she moaned, shuddering when his fingers found her soaked.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice breaking. “Say it.”

“N-No—”

He shoved her against the wall, undoing his belt. “Then I’ll make you believe it.”

[carawenfiction]

One night you are faced with a dream that alters something within you, forcing you to return to your now abandoned childhood home to search for answers.

Little do you know that the house is connected to another realm where darkness reigns and sunlight is nothing but a distant notion — a realm your family appears to be mysteriously involved with.

Upon encountering a group of paranormal beings of unknown nature, you are drawn further into a strange and unsettling existence as you strive to uncover the truth of your past and find your way back home.

Whatever path you choose, remember to look out for your own shadow.

"The Shadow Society" was first published in 2020 and is currently undergoing an extensive rewrite. The new version leans more into mystery elements with added focus on characters, relationships and how they are forged in a world where nothing is certain.

One sequel is planned to release once the rewrite is finished.

The rewrite of “The Shadow Society” is an 18+ game that includes depictions of violence, mental health, mental illness and sexual content. The demo is roughly 48k words as of June 2025.

Demo | Patreon | Ko-fi

* Play as a male, female or non-binary main character whose personality, actions and appearance are shaped entirely by your choices. * Play as gay, bi, straight, aromantic or asexual. * Discover a hidden world and take the first steps in uncovering its secrets. * Pursue one of five love interests along with two hidden ones, become entangled in a triangle between two siblings or remain single. * Determine who to trust and who to shun, who to befriend and who to antagonize, among a cast of characters with differing secrets and motivations. * Experience a story that explores the meaning of reality and illusion, truth and deceit, in a world of shadows that mirrors our own.

✹ A (Azuridian/Azuridia)

Their eyes, cold and piercing, seem filled with bitter truths that they refuse to share. They protect their knowledge fiercely and disclose only what they believe they need to when the situation calls for it. Some call them arrogant, but to that they would retort that they are the only one who can do what needs to be done. Driven and direct with a dash of sensuous charm, they don't hesitate to pursue what they want.

Appearance (male version): His face is angular and pale, his lashes a fringe of silver-white. His hair is slicked back, the sides of his head trimmed in an orderly fade cut. He wears a form-fitting, navy blue suit that gives a refined and sophisticated impression. A powerful yet subtle presence, he seems to quietly command the very air around him, emanating a sense of confidence that is both inviting and intimidating all at once.

Appearance (female version): Her face is angular and elegant, her lashes a fringe of silver-white. Her hair is gathered into a high ponytail that reaches her lower back, the sides of her head trimmed in an orderly fade cut. A sensual carmine red blooms on her lips, standing in stark opposition to her somewhat achromatic appearance. She wears a form-fitting, navy blue suit that gives a refined and sophisticated impression. A powerful yet subtle presence, she seems to quietly command the very air around her, emanating a sense of confidence that is both inviting and intimidating all at once.

✹ G (Gwyndal/Gwendolyn)

There is something palpably playful about their gaze. When turned your way, it seems to shine with the same kind of interest a child might show a shiny new toy. Though jovial and charming, there's something just beneath the surface of their demeanor that gives the impression that something far less pleasant lurks within. G has certain obsessive tendencies - their tireless interest in anything related to the 'Sunworld', as they are prone to call your home, for one - and seems to prefer the company of humans to the company of their own kind.

Appearance (both versions): They have tawny skin that contrasts with the short, blond hair that frames their rounded face, a slightly upturned nose sitting above charmingly curved lips. Their clothing style is eclectic and flashy, consisting of a torn yellow shirt with red- and black checkered pants. Silver chains hang around their neck and wrists, the metallic sheen matching the piercings that line their pointed ears.

✹ M (Michael/Michaela)

Though they aren't considered particularly bright, their dark eyes hold a reassuring warmth, alight with zest that could lure a smile from even the most jaded of people. But at times, when they think you aren’t looking, that spark seems to dim, the faint creases in their face appearing more prominent.

They are quick with quips and remarks they most likely hope others find witty, and equally quick to lend an ear and protect the things they care about.

Appearance (male version): His hair is dark brown, thick and tousled, often falling into his eyes. As an avid athlete he works out frequently, sporting a toned and muscular figure as a result. His clothing style is simple and comfortable, rarely going beyond casual jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

Appearance (female version): Her hair is dark brown and thick, often pulled back in a high ponytail. As an avid athlete she works out frequently, sporting a toned and muscular figure as a result. Her clothing style is simple and comfortable, rarely going beyond casual jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

✹ Q (Quaiel/Quarie)

A great, invisible chasm stretches between them and the people in their vicinity, a silent yet keenly felt tension seeming to follow wherever they go.

Bereft of the ability to speak, they somehow still appear more forthcoming than the people they surround themselves with. Somewhere deep inside they harbor an unyielding loyalty to A that is difficult to comprehend, especially when the latter's morals and actions often clash with what Q would normally agree with.

Though they rarely seek others out willingly, their eyes are kind, and when gazing upon someone they care about, a subtle tenderness seems to shine through.

Appearance (male version): His creamy skin is dotted with freckles that peek out around the dark muzzle covering his lower face. His red hair is curly and unevenly cut, long in the front and short in the back. A tattered, knitted cardigan falls off one shoulder, reaching a little past his knees. Beneath he wears a white shirt carelessly half-tucked into umber pants.

Appearance (female version): Her creamy skin is dotted with freckles that peek out around the dark muzzle covering her lower face. Her red hair, curly and wild, falls over her shoulders down to her waist. A tattered, knitted cardigan lays half-neglected at her elbows and reaches a little past her knees. Beneath she wears a white shirt carelessly half-tucked into umber pants.

✹ R (Rheylo/Rheyla)

Their gaze is withdrawn, bordering on hostile, their eyes a pair of flames that seem to want to incinerate whoever they’re aimed at. They hide themselves behind long, black hair and a hood, wielding snark and sharp comments as weapons to fend off deeper probing into their psyche. For all their posturing, they get embarrassed easily and may not be quite as laidback as they hope to appear.

Appearance (male version): His skin is medium-dark, a faint of stubble crawling along his jaw on the half of his face that he deigns to show. Though difficult to spot, a small gap that he'd rather keep hidden rests between his front teeth. His straight, midnight-black hair falls down to his elbows, obscuring the right half of his face.

Three braids adorn his left temple - two slim plaits framing a thicker rope that drapes artfully across his shoulder. He is clad entirely in obsidian hues. A form-fitting, sleeveless turtleneck hugs his torso, while wide trousers skim his calves, cinched above knee-high boots. A yukata-inspired, cloak-like garment covers the inner layers, generous sleeves pooling at his wrists. A heavy belt circles his waist, securing the flowing fabric.

Appearance (female version): Her skin is medium-dark. In her upper row of teeth, between darkly painted lips, rests a small gap she'd rather keep hidden. Her straight, midnight-black hair falls down to her elbows, obscuring the right half of her face.

Three braids adorn her left temple - two slim plaits framing a thicker rope that drapes artfully across her shoulder. She is clad entirely in obsidian hues. A form-fitting, sleeveless turtleneck hugs her torso, while wide trousers skim her calves, cinched above knee-high boots. A yukata-inspired, cloak-like garment covers the inner layers, generous sleeves pooling at her wrists. A heavy belt circles her waist, securing the flowing fabric.

✹ Jaelyn

Your ex-best friend/ex-lover. Though quiet and reserved, they are not without humor; once comfortable with a person, their perceived shyness can turn into good-natured smugness and gentle back-and-forth teasing. They have a certain fondness for books and will take whatever opportunity they get to quote a work they enjoy.

Jaelyn works closely with the Shadowman/Shadowlady and is often the one who carries out their orders, though not always without complaint. Though loyal, they are not a blind follower and possess strong opinions of their own. As for their motives and how they ended up in their current position is anyone’s guess.

Appearance (male version): His eyes are a mystery to you, concealed behind a pair of gradient colored, diamond-shaped glasses. He has dark skin and long tight curls that are parted on one side. His lean figure is draped in clothing that appears at once modern and antique, consisting of a violet blouse with an intricately designed jabot, waist-high pants and a pair of leather boots.

Appearance (female version): Her eyes are a mystery to you, concealed behind a pair of gradient colored, diamond-shaped glasses. She has dark skin and long tight curls that are parted on one side. Her lean figure is draped in clothing that appears at once modern and antique, consisting of a violet blouse with an intricately designed jabot, waist-high pants and a pair of leather boots.

✹ The Shadowman/The Shadowlady

It was their voice that drew you in first; the kind that could lure anyone into a sense of security and then cruelly leave you to navigate best you could in its absence. Smooth and mysterious, they grace your life through whispers and echoes of times long gone. When you first meet them face to face, they hide behind masks and shadows alike.

But who are they, really?

Appearance (male version): His turquoise eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. He stands taller than most humans, his long hair streaked with black and silver, gathered in a loose ponytail that reaches his lower back. A few wisps that have managed to free themselves almost appear to float around his face, dark clinging to shining grey like black ink stuck to parchment.

His long lashes, each black one followed by one of silver, curve above tiny streaks and dots delicately painted to accentuate his eyes. A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from his left ear, swaying delicately when he moves.

His skin appears polished and glossy, like that of a porcelain doll, his figure lithe and broad shouldered. He wears an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones. Underneath he wears a fitted, sleek black suit, complete with a tie. Strange, dark dust covers his hands and long, claw-like nails.

Appearance (female version): Her turquoise eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. She stands taller than most humans, her long hair streaked with black and silver and pulled back in an elaborate updo. A few wisps have managed to free themselves from the chignon and float gently around her face, dark strands clinging to shining greys like black ink stuck to parchment.

A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from her left ear, swaying delicately when she moves. Her lashes are long, each black one followed by one of silver. She wears purple-blue eyeshadow and shimmering purple lipstick.

Her skin appears polished and glossy, like that of a porcelain doll. She wears an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones. Underneath she wears a low-cut dress  that clings to her voluptuous figure. Strange, dark dust covers her hands and long, claw-like nails.  

Appearance (non-binary version): Their eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. They stand taller than most humans, their long hair streaked with black and silver and pulled back in a loose ponytail that reaches their lower back. Their lashes are long, each black one followed by one of silver.

Sometimes their figure appears soft, shaped by feminine curves, other times lithe and slender with broadened shoulders. They wear an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones and slide off their shoulders, baring the intricate piece of golden jewellery tied around their neck.

Their long lashes, each black one followed by one of silver, curve above shimmering purple-blue eyeshadow and purple lips. A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from their left ear, swaying delicately as they move. Strange, dark dust covers their hands and long, claw-like nails.  

Current Progress:

Written/reworked chapters: Prologue, chapter 1, beginning of chapter 2.

Edited chapters: Prologue, chapter 1, beginning of chapter 2.

Demo wordcount: ~48k as of end of June 2025.

Total wordcount (on Patreon): ~70k as of end of June 2025.

Credits

@filopay for the gorgeous cover art

Canva for the other images used in this post