#a...and what in the world are your tags?!

[astonmartinii]

let me at em' | oscar piastri social media au

pairing: oscar piastri x fem albon reader

alex’s sister goes on love island and has a horrible time… good thing there’s someone waiting who knows how to treat her

MASTERLIST | OSCAR PIASTRI MASTERLIST

loveisland

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loveisland: meet another one of the new islanders! y/n albon is a fashion designer from london… and yes she is the baby sister of formula one driver alex albon!

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user1: finally some good fucking casting for love island

user2: i mean she looks good but like is she going to be good tv?

user3: i’ve just deepdived on her tiktok and it seems like she makes her brother’s life hell when he’s with her

user4: f1 fans know she’s an icon and a menace

alexalbon: take care of my baby sister itv or else

alexalbon: i’d threaten you with lawyers but i’m the broke f1 driver

maxverstappen1: you can have mine!

alexalbon: thank you max

alexalbon: let any crusty man fuck with my sister and you’ll have max verstappen’s lawyers to deal with

user5: can the f1 fans like fill us in on her personality and stuff!!!!

user6: she’s very much like alex in that she’s very playful but also very sarcastic - she’s close to a lot of the grid, having known a lot of them for a very very long time!

user7: oh she’s such a lovergirl it’s insane

user8: her last relationship was so cute on her side, like she’s very much a gift giving person and puts everything into the relationship - you can tell because she was destroyed by the breakup

user9: ^^ this makes me a little scared because love island do not have a good track record with men who treat women right

user10: i am not looking forward to them fumbling her - especially when they find out who she’s connected to

user11: i hope she keeps her brother to herself so none of the boys try and take advantage

alexalbon: can yall stop you’re freaking me THE FUCK OUT

alexalbon

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alexalbon: me watching crusty, dusty and musty men treat my sister like trash

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user16: we need a PROPER gentleman bombshell in there right fucking now

user17: i feel so bad watching her cry… i can’t imagine how it feels with her being your actual family

user18: production need to be doing WAY more in my opinion

georgerussell63: it’s nearly over alex, don’t worry

alexalbon: IT SHOULD BE OVER NOW

alexalbon: she should legally be allowed to beat their asses

alexalbon: if i see one of them laughing about her while she’s crying again i WILL lose my shit

georgerussell63: let’s go back to the dart board buddy

user19: the … DARTS BOARD?

georgerussell63: he’s got a darts board set up with print outs of the the boys fucking with y/n and he’s been throwing darts at their faces for hours

user20: anyone else think this is a bit too far?

alexalbon: they deserve worse for what they’ve done to y/n

lando: slay

oscarpiastri: speak on it

lando: why are you in family business?

oscarpiastri: can i not be angry on y/n’s behalf?

lando: angry for y/n or angry at the boys for having a chance with her?

oscarpiastri: ERM?

lando: shut up we all know you’ve got a big fat crush on her

oscarpiastri: LANDO THIS IS NOT ALEX’S PRIVATE ACCOUNT???

lando: i know!

alexalbon: honestly can mclaren lend you to itv???

oscarpiastri: kinda have a world championship to win?

alexalbon: oh so you don’t want a chance with y/n?

oscarpiastri: i’ll let her make her decision

user21: too much happened in this comment section

user22: and yet i need even more

loveislandnews

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tagged: yourusername & loveisland

loveislandnews: there were over 48,000 complaints to ofcom last night over the treatment of y/n albon in the love island villa. since arriving in the villa, y/n has been verbally picked at by all of the male contestants, has been manipulated in a love triangle and has been isolated from nearly all of the girls and in the last couple of episodes has only been shown crying and being alone.

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user25: the producers have really let her down this season

user26: all the fuss about them being better since the past and they’ve let this bullying go all season

user27: kinda crazy since y/n brought such a big audience this season

user28: i say we let ALL of the albon pets in for family day so they can BITE THEIR ANKLES

albon_pets: don’t give us an idea

user29: i think it’s fair game after the boys laughed at the names of you guys

user30: we should’ve known they were bad news at the first old cat lady joke

user31: i mean is it really that deep because a load of f1 drivers make that joke about her all the time and she gladly laughs then

user32: baby girl it’s all about intention - they love her love for her cats, these boys genuinely couldn’t give a fuck

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user33: i’m sorry why is oscar piastri lurking in love island news instagram comments

lando: he’s checking in on his boo thang

oscarpiastri: she’s not my boo thang?!

user34: but if you hadn’t have been a pussy she would’ve been and NONE OF THIS NONSENSE WOULDVE HAPPENED

alexalbon: they make a compelling point oscar

alexalbon: that’s it you’re being added to the darts board

oscarpiastri: ???? WHY ???

oscarpiastri: you guys are all saying this like it was a done deal she doesn’t even like me hence why she WENT ON LOVE ISLAND

user35: tbf even i know that’s bullshit because that girl LIGHTS up when she talks about oscar - even on love island

alexalbon: see !!!!

oscarpiastri: i am really not comfortable with you guys all speaking for y/n - it’s her place to reject me not you guys

oscarpiastri: now can we all please delete these comments PR are blowing up my phone

user36: how can we do the tweet challenge just with this whole exchange

user37: i know ian stirling has the NASTIEST joke lined up for this situation

user38: don’t let this tomfoolery distract you from the fact that these men have absolutely destroyed this girl - i don’t think we’ve seen her smile in episodes

oscarpiastri: they need to die

user39: i thought PR was on your ass

oscarpiastri: but this needed to be said

oscarpiastri: they can’t silence the TRUTH

f1

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f1: a hot new bombshell has hit the paddock

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user41: oh look how she’s GLOWING already

user42: it really was them and NOT her

user43: we been known

user44: the way oscar was in the likes before me… does he just have a sixth sense for y/n content

alexalbon: idk does he ? @ oscar piastri

oscarpiastri: woah it was bad enough baiting me out when she had no access to her phone but i know she’s back to at least 14 hours of screentime

yourusername: is it allowed when most of the hours were on facetime to you?

alexalbon: exsqueeze me

yourusername: we had to catch up on the hot gossip

lando: they were shit talking me real loud

oscarpiastri: no ?

yourusername: and fucking what

lando: nothing!

yourusername: exactlyyyyyyy

user45: she’s making fun of lando again she’s got her spark back

user46: she looked very, very happy to be by the mclaren garage

alexalbon: she’s such a loser omg

user47: so how is this any different to what the boys in the villa said?

yourusername: that’s my brother bozo not a random electrician with a hair transplant and misogyny problems

maxverstappen1: i’m bored and the car is shit so like oscar can you make a move i wanna watch something 🍿

oscarpiastri: MAX?

maxverstappen1: bro that girl is just as pathetic as you

maxverstappen1: she basically went on a dating show just to get your attention

yourusername: THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED?

maxverstappen1: but you were pining once you were in there and you realised that 99% of the male population are not as good as oscar piastri

oscarpiastri: i am right here!

yourusername: you guys are both meant to be getting ready to get in the car???

maxverstappen1: you can’t avoid this forever….

user48: why am i in the same trenches as max rn

alexalbon: they’re freakishly bonded… they’ve got a 700 day streak on duolingo and she treats their text thread like a diary

yourusername

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yourusername: i heard that i had an admirer on the outside

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user49: OMG THEY’RE SO CUTE

user50: why did i have to suffer through her being tortured on love fucking island if we knew the whole time these idiots liked each other

alexalbon: THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING

yourusername: have you guys considered i needed to kiss a couple frogs to get my prince

alexalbon: gross

oscarpiastri: my patience payed off - i’ve got myself a queen :3

loveislandboy: rude?

oscarpiastri: i actually think you should cease to exist

loveislandboy: excuse me?

yourusername: gosh that’s so hot

maxverstappen1: i am so happy for you guys… they grow up so fast

georgerussell63: idk who you think you are max but as her other brother i am HAPPIER for her

oscarpiastri: and not me?

georgerussell63: be quiet oscar, max and i are arguing here

maxverstappen1: put your duolingo streak on the table bozo

georgerussell63: well only one of us were asked to go in for the family and friends episode

maxverstappen1: oh he doesn’t know…

yourusername: max don’t !!!!!!!

georgerussell63: what?

maxverstappen1: there never was an invite

georgerussell63: i can literally show you the email rn

alexalbon: max….

maxverstappen1: it’s not real LOL

maxverstappen1: alex, oscar and i got asked and we didn’t want you to get your feelings hurt

georgerussell63: BLASPHEMY

user52: i’m crying - y/n was going through psychological torture but they had to fabricate an email to placate george

alexalbon: let’s just say both i and itv were glad when y/n tapped out before the episode

oscarpiastri: anyway…

oscarpiastri: i do admire you… a lot… too much

oscarpiastri: actually i don’t think i can admire you TOO much

yourusername: you’re the cutest ever omg

yourusername: i admire you too

yourusername: if my ramblings weren’t making me obvious enough

oscarpiastri: dinner after the race…?

yourusername: only if i get dessert afterwards

alexalbon: GRIM.

oscarpiastri

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oscarpiastri: get your ‘i told you so’s out now i’ve got a date with a girl who’s just my type on paper

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user53: bro getting all big for his boots now he got gentle-parent-ed to asking out a girl

user54: he’s such a virgin loser

yourusername: gOOD

yourusername: i don’t want anyone else to have touched him

oscarpiastri: yes ma’am

user55: oh so he really as pathetic as they said

yourusername: i didn’t lie when i said my type was pathetic on love island

lando: you gonna take that bro?

oscarpiastri: yes? highest compliment in my opinion

alexalbon: i think i’m allowed to say i told you so for the rest of my life

alexalbon: even during a best man speech…

logansargeant: woah … stealing my car that one time wasn’t enough for you? you gotta steal being best man too?

oscarpiastri: we’re talking weddings already?

yourusername: you don’t want to marry me?

oscarpiastri: I DO !!!!!!!

yourusername: say the words baby

alexalbon: gosh you guys are gross

yourusername: bruv i saw the pics of you crying over how i was treated in the villa… i know you’re happy really

alexalbon: i am!!! but like surely me and lily aren’t this annoying …

yourusername: whatever you wanna hear babe

lando: bro my culture is not your costume

yourusername: i knew you got a hair transplant

lando: no ???

oscarpiastri: so that’s why you’re always ‘exploring a connection’

lando: why has he started talking back to me?

oscarpiastri: i fought the love island demons - i can fight you too

yourusername: let me be your ring girl xxxx

user56: so they’ve just always been like this? and they kept it from us?

yourusername: it’s called we were both horribly pining and didn’t want to embarrass ourselves… so i went on love island and embarrassed myself

oscarpiastri: no - you’re the purest of heart and they didn’t deserve you - thank god

yourusername: UGH I LOVE YOU

oscarpiastri: i love you too :3

user56: way to flex on me thanks guys

fin.

note: it be like that... i'm celebrating summer break :((((

[kissmxcheek]

Flash & Focus pt.6/?? series masterlist ; part 5

pairing: clark kent x photographer!reader wc: 5k

series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?

tags/warnings: fluff, slight angst, long awaited kiss.... ;), Clark and Lois argue like siblings lololol

---

You woke up slowly, with the kind of heaviness in your limbs that doesn’t come from sleep. The weight of last night's rejection sat in your chest like a stone, even before you opened your eyes.

But when you did, it’s soft light that greeted you. Your bedroom curtains are drawn, letting the morning sun pool into the space like a warm apology.

You’re in bed. Tucked in. A glass of water sat on the nightstand, next to a bottle of Tylenol, a folded blanket, and—of all things—a sticky note,

“It'll pass. — S”

The memories slowly flooded back. Wine and heartbreak. A knock on the balcony. A cape. Arms strong enough to hold the world. He didn’t say much, just let you cry. And you must’ve fallen asleep right there, curled up in Superman’s arms like you belonged.

You closed your eyes again and let the shame bloom hot and sick in your stomach.

Clark didn’t show. But Superman did.

And even though you know that should comfort you, it only complicated things more.

---

The walk to work wasn’t nearly as long as you needed it to be.

You tried to slow it down, stretching every step like it might buy you more time, like it might keep you from walking straight into the moment you’d been dreading since last night. You imagined a dozen impossible ways to avoid Clark—ducking into a supply closet, faking a stomach bug, setting your desk on fire—but none of them would change the fact that he sat directly across from you.

What used to be the best part of your day now made your stomach churn.

You considered calling in sick but you never would. The only thing worse than facing the man who stood you up was choosing not to.

Besides, you had work to do and pretending nothing was wrong was something you’d always done well.

The revolving doors let you in like nothing had changed, and your photos stared back at you from every newspaper in the lobby. Normally, that would’ve lit something in you. Pride. Purpose. A little thrill. You stood a little taller, instinctively.

But then you saw the name above yours.

Clark Kent.

You loved this job. You loved the rush of deadlines, the buzz of the newsroom, the quiet satisfaction of catching a moment the world might’ve missed if it hadn't been for you and your camera. And you loved it, partly, because of Clark Kent.

Because of the way he made you laugh with bad puns. Because of his uncanny ability to sniff out a story. Because of the stupid way he always remembered your coffee order, even when you changed it just to throw him off.

Specifically, because of the way he sought out and collected stories from your life like they were pure gold.

In the short time that you had lived in Metropolis, Clark Kent had come to know you like the back of his hand. Over many late nights spent at your shared desk, you'd come to know him the very same way. It only made your heart hurt more.

Still, you stepped off the elevator like a soldier entering enemy territory. Hair pinned up. Blouse neatly tucked. Your expression a polished shield. You were the image of control, but keeping up that image was wearing on you by the second.

Clark was already watching. His elbows rested on the desk. His glasses pushed up slightly. He looked… hollow. Like he hadn’t slept. Like he’d spent the night going over every terrible thing he’d done and come up short on how to fix it. His face flickered, some quiet ache behind his eyes, like seeing you hurt him too.

There was a coffee cup waiting beside your keyboard, your exact order. The sight of it made you falter, just barely.

Your gaze flicked to him, and he offered the softest smile, a plea, but you couldn't find it in you to smile back.

His mouth opened, as if he might try. But before any words could find their way out, Lois glided into the space between your desks on her rolling chair, mug in hand, grinning like she’d been waiting all morning for this.

“Okay, I can’t take it anymore. I need every single detail—should I start planning the bridal shower now? You know I have a sixth sense for matchmaking and I—”

You cut her off with a single, sharp look.

Clark cleared his throat and dropped his eyes to the morning paper.

Lois’s smile faltered. Her eyes flicked between you and Clark, registering the cold way in which you couldn't look him in the eyes.

“Oh,” she breathed, much quieter now.

You grabbed your notepad, the movement clipped. “Breakroom. Now.”

As you stood, you hesitated just a second longer than you meant to, long enough to look at him. Clark’s eyes met yours, uncertain, hurting. You reached for the coffee, his silent olive branch.

It wasn’t enough. Not even close. But as you walked away and took a sip, your shoulders relaxed by the smallest margin, just enough to betray how tired you were of pretending.

And Clark, watching from behind a half-folded news paper, felt something break and mend at the same time.

Maybe you weren’t ready to forgive him, but you hadn’t walked away forever. And maybe that was enough.

At least for now.

---

You slammed the breakroom door behind you, hard enough to rattle the vending machine.

“I cannot believe I got excited,” you hissed, pacing. “I curled my hair, Lois. I curled it. You know it never holds. And I wore heels! I mean—”

Your voice pitched higher with every word. Lois flinched but didn’t interrupt. She stood near the counter, arms crossed, lips pressed tightly together. Her silence wasn’t indifference. It was restraint.

'Not my secret to tell..'

You stopped pacing long enough to glance down at the coffee Clark had brought you that morning. Almond milk, cinnamon, two espresso shots, no sugar. His care for you felt like a taunt.

"You just think when someone tells you they want to be with you, they mean it, you know?"

Lois stepped closer, wrapping an arm around you. She didn’t speak. Just rested her chin against your shoulder.

You leaned into her for a beat before dragging your hands down your face.

“I waited for an hour and a half, Lois. The waiter asked me to give up the table. That’s how long I waited. I am humiliated."

“Did he—” she started.

“No call. No text. Nothing. He left me on read.”

Lois shifted, eyes flicking toward the floor.

“Did he say anything this morning?” she asked.

“No. Just… coffee.” Your mouth twisted into something sour. “Like that somehow erases the fact that he stood me up. Like a latte makes up for total radio silence.”

“Maybe something happened,” she offered gently, cautiously.

You let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, something did happen. He showed up to my door late lastnight and he just said, ‘I can’t tell you.’ That’s it. No lie. No half-truth. No pathetic excuse. Just—‘I can’t tell you.’ Why even bother showing up at that point?"

Lois bit her lip so hard it looked like she might draw blood.

You knew that look. She wanted to say something. Needed to. But whatever it was, she wouldn’t.

“I swear, if you try to defend him, I will throw myself into the bay,” you warned, voice sharp.

“I’m not defending him,” she said quickly. “I just… I don’t think he meant to hurt you.”

You blinked at her. Once.

“Well, he did. And honestly? That makes it worse. Because if he didn’t mean to—then what the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

You felt tears begin to well up in your eyes and didn't bother trying to fight them. "How the hell am I supposed to hate him?"

Lois didn’t say anything.

And that silence—the kind where you knew she was holding something back—was loud enough to make your skin itch.

You swallowed hard and tried to steer the conversation away before you lost your grip. “But it’s fine,” you said. “Luckily—”

You stopped. Too late.

Lois’s head snapped toward you.

“Luckily what?”

“Nothing.” You said quickly. Too quickly.

Her eyes narrowed. You kept your gaze glued to the cabinet door behind her like it had something fascinating to say.

“Y/N.”

She stepped in front of you, folding her arms. Her stare burned. You could practically see the gears grinding behind her eyes. You’d been best friends since college. She could always sniff out a secret on you like blood in the water.

In the past month, you had failed to mention how frequent Superman's visits on your balcony had become. You took her warning of spending so much free time with the superhero with a grain of salt, now it was coming back to bite you.

“You’ve still been seeing him,” she said.

You sighed. “Lois—”

“After I specifically told you not to!” she whisper-yelled, eyes darting toward the door. “I told you spending time with Superman was a bad idea. Do you even hear yourself?”

“I do not need a lecture right now.”

“I’m not lecturing, I’m—” She stopped herself, lowering her voice further. “I’m worried. What are you doing with him?”

“I don’t know!” The words burst out of you. You turned on her, voice breaking under the weight of frustration. “Okay? I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like my life is coming apart at the seams and every time I try to grab onto something, it slips away. Clark, Superman…I don’t even know what I feel.”

Lois’s face softened.

Her heart hurt for you. You didn't know any better. Clark on the other hand? Lois was livid. But she would deal with him later.

She reached for you again, and this time you didn’t resist. You let her pull you into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured into your hair. “I know this sucks. I just… I want you to be okay.”

You nodded once into her shoulder.

She pulled back to look at you, her hands warm on your arms. “We’ll figure this out. But—until then…”Her expression shifted.

Guilt.

That could only mean one thing.

“Lois,” you said warily. “what?”

Right on cue, a gentle knock tapped on the breakroom door. It cracked open a sliver.

Clark peeked his head in, adjusting his glasses.

“Um—hey. Sorry to interrupt. Perry wants us in his office. I’ll… I’ll see you in there.”

He gave a small, sheepish smile before closing the door behind him.

You turned back to Lois, slowly.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Lois. What did you do?”

---

After a few moments of hesitation—and some not-so-subtle urging from Lois—you finally took your seat across from Perry's desk, doing everything you could not to look at Clark.

“Before either of you say a word,” Perry said, flipping down the corner of that morning’s paper, “congratulations. This City Hall piece? Second front page this week. You two are on fire.”

You gave a tight nod. Clark offered a polite, but tired smile.

“And it’s not just us noticing,” Perry continued. “Metropolis High Society rang this morning. They’re inviting a handful of press to cover this year’s Charity Ball.”

You blinked. Clark shifted slightly beside you. “The Annual Metropolis Charity Ball?” he asked.

“The very same,” Perry confirmed. “Biggest damn event of the season. Politicians, CEOs, WayneTech people, that weasel from LuthorCorp… you name it. The entire upper crust packed into one room.”

You risked a glance at Clark—he was already looking at you. The moment your eyes met, you looked away.

Perry didn’t miss a beat.

“I want our best on it,” he said, gesturing between the two of you. “You’ll go as press. Dress up. Blend in. Get quotes. Get photos. Shake hands with the devils in tuxedos.”

He tapped a knuckle against the paper—the one with your byline above the fold.

“My dream team,” he added.

Your throat felt dry.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Perry cut you off.

“Yes, it’s black tie. No, you don’t get to complain. This is a front-row seat to half the corruption, philanthropy, and media manipulation in the city served on silver platters. Find the cracks. Get something worth printing.”

Clark cleared his throat. “When’s the event?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “That’s… not a lot of notice.”

Perry just shrugged, gruff as ever. “News doesn’t ask permission before it moves. Now get outta here.”

You both stood, but as Clark reached to hold the door open for you, you paused.

“Um—I’ll meet you out there, Clark.”

Your voice caught him off guard. So did the eye contact.

“Oh,” he said, startled. “Okay.”

You shut the door gently behind him, leaving just you and Perry in the room.

He didn’t look up from his paper.

“You need something, L/N?”

You hesitated. “Yes. Well—sort of. I just wanted to ask…” You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Why am I going to the ball?”

That got his attention. He lowered the paper slowly, giving you a long look.

“Not that I’m not grateful!” you rushed to add. “I am. It’s just—I’ve been here less than two months. I mean, Lois has seniority. Experience. And she’s Lois Lane. Why not send her?”

He stared at you for a beat longer, then returned to the paper.

“You're going because of Lois. You and Clark.

You frowned. “What?”

“I gave the assignment to her and Jimmy but she passed it onto to you. Said you needed the exposure.”

You blinked. Of course she meddled.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

“She also said she’d raise hell if I didn’t let you take it,” he added without looking up. “So don’t make her look like an idiot.”

You managed a nod. “Yes, sir.”

"And Y/n?"

You turned wincing. Perry carefully folded his the paper and put it down to look at you clearly, "Sometimes, we need to put a little more trust into the people around us."

He looked at you knowingly being continuing, "just like I'm trusting you and Clark to come back with the story of the year. Understood?"

You simply nodded.

And with that, you turned and quietly made your way back to your desk.

---

"We have to stop meeting like this."

You leaned against the frame of the balcony door with a grin, coffee in hand, watching as he touched down with a soundless thud. He looked like he belonged there—boots on the concrete, cape drifting softly in the breeze, the city lights glinting off his shoulders.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a moment longer than he should have, like he was trying to memorize the curve of your tired smile. His mouth curled at the corner.

“You know too much of that will kill you,” he said, gesturing to your cup with a mock-stern brow.

You took a slow sip anyway. “So will Lois Lane,” you muttered. “And yet, here I am.”

That earned you a breath of a laugh, low and warm, and you weren’t sure whether it was because the line was funny or because he was relieved to hear your voice at all.

'I shouldn’t be here', he thought.

Not like this, not when you were still hurting, still mad at him.

Superman stayed back, just shy of the railing, his boots settled quietly beside your bare feet. The air between you felt too still, too quiet. His presence, normally grounding, made your pulse do strange things.

He knew what this was. He could fly across the world in seconds, bend steel, catch buildings before they crumbled. But he still couldn’t look you in the eye without thinking of the way Clark had let you down.

He had let you down.

And yet, here he was, playing this version of himself that didn’t know which town you grew up in. Which books you reread every winter. That your favorite M&M color was blue—not red—and that you sorted them before you ate them like it somehow made the candy last longer.

He felt like an idiot pretending to forget things he couldn’t stop remembering and loving about you.

You stepped forward, joining him at the railing. Shoulder to shoulder. He was so close now you could feel the heat radiating off him.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

You stared out at the Metropolis skyline, glittering with everything you’d ever wanted. Everything you were suddenly terrified to touch.

“Lois is… your friend, yes?” he asked finally. “The journalist?”

You turned your head, staring at him. “You already know that.”

He flinched. Not visibly, but you saw it. The slight shift of his jaw. The blink that lasted a moment too long.

You softened it with a faint smirk. “Best friend. Try not to get jealous.”

He smiled. “Oh, I’ll try.”

You chuckled quietly, but the sound was thin. It was the first time today you hadn’t felt like curling in on yourself. The first time your chest didn’t feel entirely hollow.

“So… Lois,” he said. “What’s the problem?”

You shifted, your knuckles white around your mug. “I got invited to something. The Annual Metropolis Charity Ball. Big night. Big opportunity.”

With an enthusiasm he couldn't show as Clark he said, “That’s amazing,” and the pride in his voice was unmistakable. “I’m proud of you.”

You looked at him.

And for a moment, you believed him.

Then you swallowed, looked down. “Yeah. Except I’m not going.”

He frowned. “Why not? Y/N, you deserve—”

“No. I don't." you said quickly, sharper than you meant. You turned, facing him fully. “Perry told me Lois and Jimmy were supposed to go. But she passed it onto me and Clark. She said it would be good for us to work together again.”

There was a silence. The information knocked the wind out of him.

'Of course Lois had meddled.'

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I don’t want a favor. I don’t want to walk in there and feel like everyone’s looking at me wondering why I’m there. And I don’t want to do it standing next to...”

Your throat burned. “I can’t face Clark.”

Superman’s face was unreadable for a moment. But something flickered in his eyes. Guilt. Regret. Something close to grief.

He looked away first.

“Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing,” he said softly. “Maybe he thought stepping back would… spare you something worse.”

You snorted. “Right. Because nothing says respect like leaving someone waiting for hours.”

His shoulders dropped.

And still, he didn’t defend Clark. He didn’t say anything.

You stared at him, watching the way his jaw tightened. “You always do that,” you said quietly. “You never tell me I’m wrong. Even when I want you to.”

He looked at you again, and something cracked open between you. Something raw. Real.

“I just… hate feeling like I only got this opportunity because someone handed it to me, not because I earned it.”

“Y/n, you deserve this more than anyone,” he said, voice low. “You earned it. You’re talented. Brave. You chase stories no one else will touch, and you make people care. That’s not luck, or pity, Y/N. That’s you.”

You blinked warm tears back behind your lashes. Your chest ached.

Superman turned toward you then, slowly. His eyes searched yours—cautious, quiet, intense.

“I don’t know how anyone could see you and think you didn’t belong.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly, the weight of his words settling over you like warmth in the cold.

And you weren’t sure what possessed you in that moment. Maybe it was how close he was, or how soft his voice had become, or how long you’d been waiting for someone to reach back, but you leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It was soft. Hesitant. Barely there.

And for a second, he didn’t kiss you back.

He pulled back, just enough to look at you, his breath caught between your lips. His eyes were wide, startled, filled with conflict.

“I…” he began, his voice a breath. But then, unable to stop himself, his hands came up to cup your face.

And this time, he kissed you. Harder. More sure. Like he’d been holding it in for years.

His lips moved with something that felt like apology, like longing, like he was trying to say every word he couldn’t. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, one arm winding around your waist as if anchoring you to him.

You sank into him, letting his arms wrap around you and wrapping your own arms around his neck. You deepened the kiss and nestled your fingers into his dark hair.

You let yourself believe, just for a second, that maybe this was something real.

When he finally pulled back, he kept your body flush against his and the world felt off-balance. You were breathless, blinking at him like the clouds had shifted and the skyline had rearranged itself.

“That was…” you whispered, voice shaky.

“Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time,” he said, barely audible.

You smiled—really smiled—and tucked a stray hair behind your ear. “Then come with me. To the ball tomorrow.”

His expression faltered. A quiet dread passed through him. He looked down.

“I—” His jaw tensed. “I can’t.”

You smiled and tilted your head, reaching your hand up to smooth the crinkle between his brows. “Why? Because you don’t have a formal invitation? Come on, the city practically rolls out a red carpet for you every time you breathe—"

He winced. “You know why.”

“No,” you said, more firmly now, stepping back. His hands lingered on your waist, unwilling to let you go. “I don’t know why. Because someone might recognize you? You already get stared at every time you land on a sidewalk. What’s so different about this?”

His eyes searched yours, desperate for understanding.

And that made your heart sink.

You swallowed. “Is there someone else?”

“No.” His heart ached that you could consider that possibility. “No. It’s not that.”

“Then what? What is it?” Your voice broke on the edge. “Do you just not want to be seen with me?" You paused, knowing the reason why.

"Or is it because I asked you to show up as a person, not just a hero?”

He winced.

And that’s when the cold started creeping in.

You stared at him, your voice dropping. “I’ve told you everything, poured my heart out to you. About my childhood. My job. My stupid, anxious brain that overthinks every text message. You know what I look like late at night when I haven’t slept. You know the sound I make when I laugh too hard, and how I always leave the crusts when I eat sandwiches.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly.

You looked back up at him in defeat.

“But I don’t even know your name.”

The wind shifted. A gull cried overhead. Somewhere far below, a siren blared. But up here, it felt like the world was holding its breath.

“You don’t let me in,” you said. “Not really. Not the way I’ve let you in.”

He looked down, silent.

And all you could think about was Clark.

“You should go,” you said, your voice smaller now.

You turned toward the door.

"Y/n," he called out to you. You stopped at the door but didn't turn to face him. "Go tomorrow. Please. Not for me, not for Lois...not for Clark. Go for you. Because you deserve it."

You turned to face him and gave him a weak smile, "Goodnight, Superman."

And that hurt more than anything else.

---

Any sane person would do a double take at Superman banging on Lois Lane’s apartment door like he was about to break it off the hinges but Clark was far past caring how this looked.

He was still in his suit, slightly charred from a house fire he stopped before making his way to Lois's.

Lois had absolutely no right. None.

He’d told her he would fix things with you. That he just needed time. A moment. A window to make it right—his way.

Apparently, Lois didn’t believe in waiting.

He pounded on the door again, jaw tight.

“Lois!”

A clatter from inside. Then a voice, muffled but furious:

“Jesus, Clark! What are you—wait—oh.”

The door yanked open. She stood in pajama pants, a Metropolis Meteors sweatshirt, and the sharpest scowl he’d ever seen.

“Superman,” she deadpanned. “Great. So we’re doing this version of you tonight.”

Clark brushed past her into the apartment, his cape sweeping dramatically behind him, which, admittedly, wasn’t helping his argument.

“You had no right,” he snapped.

“I don’t want to hear it, Clark. Superman. Whatever hat you feel like wearing tonight, because apparently, one identity isn't complicated enough.”

He paced across her living room, the carpet muffling the sound of his boots as he ran both hands through his hair and flopped down on the couch.

“I didn’t need your help,” he muttered.

“Oh clearly,” she said, arms crossed as she followed him. “Considering Y/n now actively hates Clark Kent and has apparently developed romantic feelings for Superman. Yeah, that's what I call a job well done.”

Clark’s head snapped up. His eyes flashed. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Lois shot back, unbothered. “You’re the one who stood her up. You’re the one who couldn’t explain why. You’re the one who kissed her on her balcony as Superman! Are you kidding me?.”

He closed his eyes like the weight of it physically hurt.

"She told you?"

"Yes. She told me."

Lois uncrossed her arms with a sigh and sat across from him.

"And for the record, I didn’t do this for you,” Lois said, voice quieter now. “I passed along the assignment for her. Because she’s my best friend. And she’s unraveling.”

Clark didn’t answer.

He just sat there, sinking into her couch like the air had been knocked out of him.

“Do you have any idea how hard this has been?” Lois said. “Keeping your secret from her? Lying to her face every time she says Clark doesn’t care about her? That he’s just another guy who flaked and disappeared?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her—hollow, heavy. “No, Lois. I don’t know what it’s like to carry secrets. Are you being serious right now?”

She threw her hands up. “Okay! Bad question. Whatever.”

They sat in silence, the kind that had existed between them for years—two people who loved each other too much to ever stay mad for long but just enough to fight like hell when it mattered.

Lois rubbed her temples and let out a breath. Then moved to sit beside him on the couch.

“You want to know what I see?” she asked.

“No,” he muttered, face buried in his hands. Lois grabbed his shoulders to look him in the eye.

“I see a man who’s more afraid of being known than being hated.”

That made him freeze.

“You could’ve told her weeks ago,” she continued. “After the date. After the rooftop. After she cried to you for hours wondering what she did wrong. But you didn’t. Because deep down, you don’t think she’d choose you. Not if she knew.”

Clark stared at the wall. At nothing.

“Well, I’ve watched her fall in love with you. Clark.” Lois said, her voice softening. “The version that listens. The one who shows up when she’s scared. The one who makes her feel seen and known. But now she’s in love with an illusion, Clark. And you’re letting her fall for it.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “So what? You think if I walk up to her at the ball and say, ‘Hey, surprise, I’m also the guy you hate,’ it’ll go great?”

“No,” Lois said. “I think it’ll go honestly. And that’s all she wants. That’s all she’s ever wanted.”

He turned to her now, finally. His eyes were red-rimmed. Not from tears, he didn’t have the luxury. From the restraint. From the exhaustion.

“I was going to tell her,” he said. “I was. That night. I had it all planned. I was going to walk her home, tell her everything. But then—”

“I know,” Lois said gently. “The fire on the Pier.”

He nodded. “I thought I could still make it in time.”

“You couldn’t. That’s not your fault.”

“But I hurt her, Lois.”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. You did.”

He looked away again.

“I think she could forgive you,” Lois added after a long beat. “If you gave her the truth. All of it. Before it’s too late.”

Clark ran his thumb along his jaw, lost in thought.

“I just… I don’t want her to look at me and feel lied to.”

Lois reached over and gently pushed his shoulder. “Then don’t lie anymore.” She chuckled.

He turned his head toward her.

“She’s going to be wearing a pale blue dress,” Lois added quietly. “I helped her pick it out. She looks beautiful. But she doesn’t feel it. She feels alone.”

Clark closed his eyes.

“I’ve known you a long time,” Lois whispered. “I’ve seen you lift buildings, outrun storms, stop missiles midair. But if you don’t tell her the truth tomorrow night? That’ll be the most cowardly thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

Silence stretched between them again.

Then, after a long moment, he stood up.

Straightened his shoulders.

And this time, when he left, he knew exactly what to do.

---

a/n: so. what is it worth the wait. IM SO SORRY for taking an eternity to crank this out but. in my defense. i had jaw surgery. get out of my inbox telling me to stop rage baiting😭😭😭please

a couple of things: i hope this chapter made it really clear why there's been so much miscommunication on clark's part! i know a lot of reader have been frustrated with him. also i hope u love lois in this chapter because i do;))

please reblog, comment, and let me know what u think🪷🪷

taglist: @liuralibrar @icybarness @angel-dust-cb @crbpoetry @aim-formyheart @lavendermoons222 @10hrs26mn @linambc @casalucard @ticklish-leafy-plant @asteria33 @tati-the-fangirl @g4rb4ge-dump @yourmyonlyobsession @voidsxntry @my-little-secret-diaries @britttzy267 @nothere2478 @hagarsays @otakusimp1 @twsssmlmaa @kitten-daisy @qardasngan @writerreal @please-help-this-little-lesbian @brillitos-azules @selfishlycalculatingvisitor @pleasecallmeunhinged @materialgirl-97 @ldrfanatic @bellegirl16 @or-was-it-just-a-dream @khxna @rorysbrainrot @smolivin @screamingplastictoenail88 @slayerofthevampire @kneelarmhstrung @227777777333 @ifilwtmfc @loftilyviolentthunder @justp3achy03 @animegamerfox @nina-from-317 @sizzlingkryptonitetale @arcaichive @bamitzzsam @bellascrap @dntdltkss @livbonnet @scorpio-echo @bloodiedlusts @corenswetwife @lanasdolll @kai59999901 @ivegotdaddyissues @americanboz0 @ayy1234567 @jenneric2003 @areleine @turtle-in-a-tornado @keiralovesmoony @smellybad @shortandb1tchy @i1ovedeanwinchester @lando-scales @lilac-and-cherries @bananaminion678 @azrielsbbg @annabethboleyn @odevote118 @the-hist0rian @cyntsvmv @novausstuff @lecwife @reiofsuns2001 @renaeant @sleeplessskeleton @nanamilkbread @after8hore @abasnail28 @vanessalovesonedirection @annieaniya @nixandtonic

comment to be added to the taglist💕

-> part 7

---

[arabellapost]

Like Father, Like Daughter

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: You discover that your little girl has her daddy's powers! 

Word count: 0.8k ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

Tags: fluff, and dilf!superman

thank you so much for all the support this past days! ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

Clark is flying faster than ever after receiving that call from you. 

He called everyone in to control the situation with a new villain, the Green Lantern Hawk girl, and Mister Terrific– even those that he truly doesn’t know much about. He doesn’t care if they are available or not. Not when his daughter is more important to him than everything else in this world.

Let’s backtrack a little bit. 

He was fighting with another of Lex Luthor's creations, as he does once every week, when he received a message through his watch from his wife: 

‘Clark, help. I can’t find Gracie anywhere. I have been looking for her all around the house, and she is nowhere to be found. Come home.’

So now, he is rushing to their brownstone house in the middle of Metropolis. He lands in the doorway and enters the house, still with his suit on, knowing that you had a no-suit rule in the house. However, there are more important matters to attend to, such as finding his child. 

The house is quiet, with the only sound being the AC. It’s a very cosy house with photos around the house of your family, and of course, toys scattered on the floor, courtesy of the newest member of the family. 

“Love?” He rushes to the living room as you hurriedly look for your 2-year-old beside the couches.

You look up as you hear his voice, “I– I just went to put the clothes in the drying machine and I– I thought that she was focused on playing with her toys, but when I came back she was nowhere to be found,” you stutter anxiously. 

Clark could see that you are in a state of panic and tries to calm your nerves down. “Hey, hey, love, hey. It’s okay now. She is nearby. I can hear her heartbeat and her little laugh,” he says and pulls you in his arms, giving you a forehead kiss. 

He closes his eyes for a second before opening them with his heat vision. He focuses on the little heartbeat and starts moving upstairs. You follow behind him, his steps stopping in front of the hallway closet. A small giggle is heard, but when Clark opens the closet door, nobody is inside. 

“Gracie?” He says a bit loudly, not mad, just worried.

No response from anywhere until he hears a little giggle from above you. You both raise your heads and see your toddler floating just above you.  “Oh my…” Your eyes widen, and you start to feel your legs starting to get wobbly.

She has her dad’s power.

There is a short silence in the room; the only sounds are from your little girl, “Clark.” You speak softly, enchanted by your happy daughter. “You can see the same thing as me, right? I’m not imagining it?” You whisper while looking at her. 

“Umm… yeah”

Gracie moves her hands to you. “Mommy!” she yells happily, not knowing that what she is doing isn’t normal for a toddler to do– anybody should be able to do. 

“She really does take after you,” you state, amused.

He sighs and jumps to grab her since the ceiling is taller than the others. “Sweetie, you scared us.” His voice was soft while scolding her. He looks at the blue eyes that she inherited from him. “How did you end up there?”

Of course, Gracie wouldn’t answer us; instead, she just giggles and stares at you with a mischievous smile on her face

“She has your powers, Clark. You told me that-”

“I didn't know. She is our first kid. Anything could have happened.” 

He loves his daughter. Adores her more than anything (not counting his wife). Every day, with no fail, he would go and wake Gracie up with little kisses. He adores her. “She is perfect! She always has been perfect, but oh god, how I love you!”  he says breathlessly before kissing you.

And before you know it, he hugs you with Gracie in between you, proud and over the moon that his first daughter is exactly like him.

Clark doesn’t know what he is feeling. Of course, he is excited about being able to teach your daughter everything about his powers, and being there for her in ways his parents couldn’t, but he’s also afraid. Afraid of messing everything up. 

“I can teach her how to fly and how to carry stuff! She is a mini me,” he steps back and presses Gracie’s cheeks against his. “You and your mommy are the best thing that happened to me.”

You chuckle. “I can already see her causing chaos around the house.”

He is about to say something when Gracie's little hand grips his suit with force, almost ripping it with the amount of force.

“I think you should teach her now, don't you think?” You smile slightly before kissing his rosy cheeks. 

Author note: last post before adding the tag list so please comment if you want to be added! :>

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. Masterlist

[zeka-maki]

hii! may i request some scenario with phainon in which reader got jealous bc someone is hitting on him but phainon is so oblivious to it + reader thought they look good together? so, reader avoid + ignore phainon for like... days cuz they thought he deserve someone better. phai couldnt take it anymore cuz he misses reader so he confront them & then they made up. fluffy happy ending please! ><

sorry if its too specific but i just love scenarios like this >:3

tysm!!

ʚɞ I wouldn't know what to do without you ʚɞ

Pairings: Phainon x Reader

Summary: Jealousy isn't your forte, but when you saw someone else attempting to flirt with him, something snapped inside you. Days of your avoidance, Phainon is desperate. He doesn't know what he has done wrong, all he wants is you back to him.

Tags: Fluff, slight angst, Phainon is oblivious to flirting, Reader is avoidant at times, miscommunication, happy ending.

A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! Phainon is js a silly guy who happens to enter the torture city. Top 5 hottest things a man can do: yearn, yearn, yearn, plan dates and yearn. Ngl that's my next fic idea. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

In Okhema, people walk like the world is watching. Every movement is measured. Every glance calculated. And Phainon — Chrysos Heir, esteemed Flame-Chaser, child of radiance and prophecy — somehow floats through it all like he’s never known gravity.

He greets everyone. Offers compliments he probably doesn’t realize sound like confessions. And when someone leans in too close and asks him to lunch — eyes warm, voice low — he tilts his head and says, “Oh! I already promised [Name] I’d help them archive the library wing. But thank you!”

It’s innocent. But it burns.

You’d watched from the other end of the hall, sorting crystal samples for Aglaea's Garmentmakers. Watched them touch his arm. Watched him smile like the stars blinked for no one but them.

You weren’t jealous. You were… protecting him. That’s what you told yourself.

He could do better than someone like you — someone who flinches when praised and stumbles when near his warmth for too long. Someone who isn’t made of gold.

So you stopped sitting with him during morning readings. Stopped lingering after missions. Stopped walking home the long way through the bloom-lit streets of Okhema, where you always used to joke about retiring together in a palace made of moss.

Three days pass. Four. Five.

He leaves you notes — folded neatly, in his careful handwriting.

"Did I upset you?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Please tell me what I did."

You never answer.

Until he shows up in your lab at the end of the week, out of breath, dust on his gloves, eyes wide like he’s chased you across realms.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

The words come out desperate. No formality, no restraint — just Phainon, shaken, with his soul in his throat.

You straighten from your seat at the observation console, stunned. “I’m not,” you say weakly.

“You are,” he says. “You don’t even look at me anymore.”

His voice softens. “I miss you. I don’t care if you’re busy or tired or mad at me — just tell me what I did wrong. I’ll fix it. I’ll do anything. Just don’t… don’t disappear.”

You flinch. His words hit too close.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, barely audible. “I saw someone flirting with you, and you were smiling, and I thought— I thought maybe they were better for you. Someone who doesn’t mess up around you. Someone who shines like you do.”

Phainon stares. Like you’ve just told him the stars are fake.

“They were flirting with me?” he says, appalled.

You squint at him. “...Seriously?”

“I thought they wanted to ask about the antique birdsong scroll in the east vault.”

You groan. “That was a date invitation, Phainon.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Was it a good one?”

You almost laugh. Almost.

He steps forward. Carefully. Gently. Like you’re something breakable — not because you’re weak, but because you’re important.

“You think they shine like me?” he says. “You are my shine.”

You look away. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it to be kind,” he replies, voice steady now. “I’m saying it because I mean it. Because when you left, everything felt dim. I don’t want polished. I want you.”

You finally meet his eyes — and his expression is open, luminous, unguarded in a way it only ever is with you. He takes your hand. Holds it like it’s the key to something ancient.

During the Parting-Hour, you're both slouched on the balcony of your home — feet dangling over the edge, sunlight brushing your skin like silk.

“Are you really that bad at flirting?” you ask.

“Am I supposed to be good at it?”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“Excellent,” he says. “That way I only accidentally fall in love with you.”

You smile. You don’t look away this time. He leans into your shoulder like he belongs there. Like he’s home.

[leriexoxo]

Angel’s SKZ Birthday Bash 🎂

Dont Let Me Love You

Bestfriend! Hyunjin x Reader

Tags: Angst, best friends to lovers, unrequited love, stubbornness, smut, feelings realization, slow burn, drunken confession, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, lots of kissing, sexual tension.

Word count: 6.7k

Summary: You were never supposed to fall for him. Not your best friend, the boy who swore he didn’t believe in love anymore. But he touched you like he forgot, looked at you like he remembered, and held you like he wished he could stay. You told yourself it was nothing. That you’d imagined it. Until one night, the truth slipped past your lips, thick with wine and want. And suddenly, he wasn’t pretending anymore. He begged you not to love him. You did it anyway. Now, there’s no going back.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

🎊: Happy Birthday to an amazing writer @angel-writes-skz-here , I hope you have a good one 🤍

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You couldn’t name the exact moment it started.

Maybe it was the first time he pulled you into his hoodie on a rainy night, both of you soaked and breathless, laughing like fools under the yellow haze of a streetlight. Or maybe it was the way he always looked for you in a crowded room with that quiet glance, like the world only made sense if you were in it.

You’d been friends for years. That kind of closeness that lived in the small things — sharing earbuds in public, finishing each other’s snacks without asking, sleeping back-to-back during long movie marathons. No boundaries. No questions. It was never weird. Never talked about.

You told people you were best friends. They never believed you.

“Are you sure you’re not dating?”

“You two act like an old married couple.”

You’d laugh it off. So would he. Because it wasn’t like that. Not really.

Except, it kind of was. Wasn’t it?

You never flirted — not outright. But he’d rest his head in your lap when he was tired. You’d trace shapes into the fabric of his sleeve when you were bored. He’d call you at 2 a.m. just to ask what you thought happened to the dinosaurs. You’d pick up every time.

You didn’t think anything of it. Until one night, you did.

You were both lying on his floor, backs against the carpet, the ceiling spinning just a little from too much soda and too much sugar. He was telling you about his latest sketch — how he couldn’t get the shading right on this one figure, how the shoulders kept coming out wrong.

“I should just scrap the whole thing,” he murmured, one hand behind his head, the other gesturing vaguely. “Start over.”

You looked over at him. His hair was sticking out at different angles from him running his fingers through it repeatedly. His voice was low, softer than usual. You noticed the curve of his mouth when he was lost in thought.

And for some reason, your chest ached.

It came fast, like a breath you weren’t ready to take. Like something you’d been holding back for a long time without realizing.

You didn’t say anything. Just turned your head away and stared at the ceiling again, willing the feeling to pass. It didn’t.

That was the moment.

That was when everything shifted — quietly, almost cruelly. No fireworks. No drama. Just a slow, unbearable awareness that you wanted more than he was willing to give. That you’d fallen in love with the one person who would never love you back.

Because Hyunjin didn’t believe in love. Not anymore.

“Love’s a mess,” he’d told you once. “It makes people selfish. Desperate. I don’t want that again.”

You’d nodded. Agreed. Back then, it was easy. Back then, you believed him.

But now? Now you were lying awake at night, wondering if the way he held your wrist a little too long meant anything. If the way he leaned his head on your shoulder when he was tired was just a habit, or something more. If you were imagining it all.

Because the truth was, he still looked at you like you were his favorite person in the world. He just didn’t look at you like someone he could fall in love with.

And that hurt more than anything.

You told yourself it was still the same. That the late-night phone calls didn’t mean more. That the way he let his head fall against your shoulder when he was tired was just muscle memory. That the things he said, “No one gets me like you do”, “You’re the only person I can be like this with”, weren’t confessions. Just friendship.

You lied to yourself a lot these days. Because Hyunjin was still Hyunjin. Thoughtless in the way he touched, soft in the way he lingered. He didn’t think twice before pulling you into a hug that lasted too long. Didn’t hesitate to rest his chin on your shoulder while brushing his teeth beside you in the mirror. You were just his person. The one who knew his favorite ramen flavor, the only one he let read his notebooks when he got too deep in his head. The one he curled around like a cat on cold mornings, blanket tangled between your legs.

It was never meant to be anything else.

Except now, every time his fingers brushed your skin, it felt like a match struck against your nerves.

You’d flinch — not outwardly, but inside, something always jumped. And he never noticed. Never looked twice.

You got good at pretending. That was your new talent. Smiling through the heat that bloomed in your chest. Holding your breath when he leaned in too close. Laughing like you weren’t falling in love with every little thing he didn’t realize he was doing.

Like now.

You were in the passenger seat of his car, driving home from some late-night errand getting snacks and candles and that moisturizer he liked but could never find. The sky outside was ink-black, the city glowing in fragments through the windshield. Music played low, something dreamy, ambient. A D4VD song you didn’t know the name of.

He was humming under his breath, his voice soft, almost boyish in the quiet.

You had your legs crossed loosely, skirt riding a little high on your thighs, but you didn’t think much of it. Not until Hyunjin’s hand left the gear shift, moved lazily to rest on your leg — light, like it always was. Familiar. Careless.

Except this time, it was your bare thigh.

Warm skin against warm skin. His fingertips just resting there, unconscious and unbothered. A touch he’d done a hundred times before.

But never like this.

You froze.

Not visibly. You kept your face turned toward the window, your mouth pulling into a soft smile at something he said, something you didn’t even hear.

The movement of the car made it worse. Every bump in the road sent a subtle shift through your body, the light drag of his hand against your skin, knuckles grazing higher, then settling again. Not intentionally. He wasn’t even aware.

But it lit something low in your stomach. That terrible, quiet ache.

You stared out the window like it was the most fascinating view in the world. Said nothing. Didn’t breathe too deeply.

Because the moment you acknowledged it, you knew the spell would break. Or worse — you’d say something you couldn’t take back.

And Hyunjin? He just kept driving, humming softly. Like his touch didn’t burn you alive.

He didn’t move his hand from your thigh until his phone buzzed in the console.

He shifted just enough to check it, eyes flicking down, the glow of the screen lighting up his face in the dark. His hand left your skin. You exhaled silently.

“Jisung’s throwing a party tomorrow night,” he said, like nothing strange had happened. “Wants us to come.”

You blinked, still trying to breathe like a normal person. “Yeah,” you said quickly. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

But it stayed with you long after you went home. Long after you’d changed into pajamas and buried yourself beneath your sheets and stared up at the ceiling, your skin still tingling where his hand had been. You tried not to read into it. Failed spectacularly.

Because no matter how many times you told yourself it was meaningless — just Hyunjin being Hyunjin — it never felt that way to you.

—

The next night, you dressed slowly.

You didn’t mean to try so hard. You didn’t. But your hands lingered over the soft hem of your dress, your eyes scanning your reflection for anything he might notice. Anything that might make him look twice. Foolish, you told yourself. You knew better. But the hope was a quiet thing, and it didn’t ask permission to bloom.

Hyunjin picked you up just past nine. Same lazy smile. “You look nice,” he said, like it was routine.

You tried not to die inside.

Jisung’s place was already full when you arrived, warm lights, loud music, the living room packed with bodies and laughter. Familiar faces from old parties, new people you didn’t care to know. You stuck close to Hyunjin at first, the way you always did. It wasn’t even a choice anymore, he was your orbit.

There were games going on. Stupid things. Seven minutes in heaven, truth or dare, couples kissing in the middle of dares they barely flinched at. It was messy and loud and full of things you tried not to want.

Hyunjin settled next to you on the couch, thigh pressed to yours. His arm draped along the back, fingers grazing your shoulder every now and then. He smelled like cedarwood and clean laundry. You tried not to lean in.

“Couples are so annoying,” Jisung said from across the room, groaning theatrically as two people fawned all over each other. “Get a room, Jesus.”

Hyunjin snorted beside you. “Seriously. They look insane.”

The words stabbed a little harder than they should’ve.

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your chest felt tight. Maybe it was the noise, or the room, or just him — sitting there beside you like he wasn’t everything you wanted. Like he hadn’t just reminded you, again, that you’d never be it for him.

Because Hyunjin didn’t do love. He didn’t want it. Not from anyone.

And especially not from you.

You looked away. Reached for a cup you hadn’t planned on drinking from.

The first shot burned your throat.

The second made you laugh too loud at something that wasn’t funny.

The third — well, you didn’t remember pouring it.

By the time the music blurred into static and the room tipped slightly when you stood, your head was full of him. His hand on your leg. His voice saying “They look insane.” The way he smiled like nothing between you had ever been dangerous.

You drank because it was easier than feeling.

Hyunjin had stopped drinking long ago. You saw him watching you. Concern flickered in his eyes every time you reached for another glass. You ignored him. You were good at that, too.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he said finally, coming over and gently prying the cup from your fingers. “Let’s go home.”

You blinked up at him, a little dazed. “What?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

His hand slipped around your wrist firmly. His touch was always gentle when it came to you. It hurt more that way.

You didn’t protest when he guided you out, his hand never leaving yours. Not until you stepped into the night and the air bit at your skin and your head started to clear just enough to feel everything again.

The ache. The longing. The quiet devastation of wanting someone who would never want you back.

—

You sat slumped against the passenger window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, trying not to think about the way his hand brushed yours when he helped you into the car. How it had lingered — warm, steady, a little too close to deliberate. Like he’d meant to pull you in and then remembered who you were.

Almost.

Outside, the city passed in slow, sleepy streaks. Warm golds. Faded greys. The world felt quieter than it should’ve, your heartbeat too loud against the hush of his playlist humming in the background. Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t trust your voice not to crack if you did.

When he pulled up outside your building, the engine ticked into silence, and for a beat too long, neither of you moved.

You shifted. “You don’t have to walk me up.”

“I know.” But he came anyway.

The elevator was a closed box of silence. Your floor blinked past in soft dings, but you barely registered them. You were too aware of him, the heat of his body beside you, the clean scent of his cologne, the way his hand brushed the small of your back when you stepped out, so light you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.

Your fingers fumbled with the keys. Wine still in your blood. Nerves screaming under your skin. The key missed the lock once — twice — before Hyunjin reached forward, curling his hand around your wrist.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I got it.”

It wasn’t the touch that undid you. It was how long he held it. How gentle. How it felt like he wanted to stay close.

Like maybe he didn’t hate how your skin felt, even if he didn’t want to need it.

The door clicked open. You stepped inside. He followed without asking. Like always.

And maybe it was the way the light fell soft against his jaw, or the fact that your mouth still tasted like longing, or the weight of his hand still echoing against your wrist — but suddenly you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Do you really think love is a mistake?”

He turned toward you. Brow faintly drawn. “What?”

You swallowed. Closed the door behind you. “At the party. When Jisung was making fun of couples. You said they looked stupid. You meant it, didn’t you?”

He stared at you for a long moment. Long enough to make the air feel heavy.

Then he crossed the room, leaned against your kitchen counter, arms folding across his chest like armor. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I meant it.”

You waited. He didn’t elaborate.

“Why?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. He rubbed the back of his neck — a nervous habit — like he was trying to chase something out of his own skin. “Because love ruins things,” he said, low and bitter. “Because people say forever and leave the second it gets hard. Because I’ve already been that idiot once and it fucking broke me.”

The words were sharp. Not at you but still, they cut.

“I’m not people, Hyunjin.”

That made him pause.

His gaze lifted. Locked on yours. And for the first time that night, he looked at you. Not past you. Not through you. At you — like he was seeing something he hadn’t let himself see before.

His voice came out rough. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you make it sound like you could be different.”

“Maybe I could be.”

His shoulders tensed. You took a step closer.

“I’ve been here,” you said softly. “Every time. No matter what mood you’re in. No matter how much you push.”

“Because you’re my best friend.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked a little. “But still, you let me in. You always do.”

He didn’t speak.

You took another step.

“You touch me like it means something,” you whispered. “And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’m just reading into things I shouldn’t. But I wish—”

You stopped. Bit back the words.

“I wish you didn’t make it so easy to love you.”

That hit.

You saw it. The way his eyes flickered. The way his lips parted like he was about to say something he’d regret.

The space between you throbbed.

He stepped toward you — slow, hesitant — until he was close enough to reach. Close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath. His gaze dropped, lingered on your mouth.

He didn’t kiss you. But he didn’t walk away either.

Your name left his lips, soft and broken. A whisper edged in something dangerous.

You blinked, swallowed hard, then stepped back. Too fast.

“Forget it,” you murmured. “I’m tired.”

“Wait—”

But you were already turning, already walking toward your bedroom, away from the crash you almost let happen.

And Hyunjin stood in your kitchen hands clenched, jaw tight, chest heaving like he’d just realized something he wasn’t ready to admit. Still he didn’t follow.

—

You woke up with the taste of regret clinging to your tongue.

Your head pounded, the dull throb blooming behind your eyes as sunlight bled through your curtains too brightly. Your throat was dry, your limbs a little heavy, like your body was punishing you for last night’s stupidity.

And then it hit you.

Not the headache. Not the dehydration.

The memory.

Your breath stalled. You shot upright, the sheets tangling around your legs like they were trying to drag you back under. You’d said it. You actually said it. Out loud. To him. In your kitchen. With your hair a mess and wine swimming in your veins.

“I wish you didn’t make it so easy to love you.”

You groaned — loud and pathetic — and shoved your face into your hands. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Your chest tightened. Your stomach churned. You pulled at your hair like it might jolt the moment out of your skull, erase the words, roll back the clock. But they were still there, echoing through your skull like a song you couldn’t shut off.

You checked your phone. Nothing from him. Not a single text. No call. Not even a stupid meme, which he always sent after parties, something about how hard he’d regretted leaving the house, or how gross drunk people were.

But this time? Radio silence.

You paced. You spiraled. You considered deleting your entire existence and moving to another continent. Maybe start a new life with a new name. Somewhere snowy. Somewhere far from boys with lazy grins and hands that rest too casually on your thigh.

God, his hand.

You let out a strangled sound, turned on your heel, and marched toward the kitchen. You needed water. Or coffee. Or a time machine.

You rounded the corner—and screamed.

Hyunjin was standing by your counter.

Barefoot. Hair a mess. Same hoodie from last night slouched off one shoulder, like he’d never left.

Because he hadn’t.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He didn’t flinch. “I couldn’t leave.”

You blinked. Words stuttering behind your lips. “You—? What?”

“I tried. I got as far as the door.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, jaw tight. “But I couldn’t go.”

You stared at him, throat closing around a dozen questions you were too afraid to ask.

His voice was quieter now. “We need to talk.”

And just like that, the hangover didn’t matter anymore.

You swallowed. The air between you shifted, dense and sharp like a wire pulled too tight. “Right. Um. Okay.”

You backed toward the fridge like the moment might forget you existed if you just kept moving. Pulled open the door. Grabbed the water bottle. Avoided his eyes.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you — heavy, unmoving, arms folded across his chest like a barricade.

You unscrewed the cap. Took a long drink. Cleared your throat. “About last night…”

His gaze didn’t waver.

You smiled shaky and rehearsed. “I was so drunk. I barely remember anything.”

A beat passed.

He blinked once. Slowly. “You don’t remember.”

“Not really, no.”

“Nothing at all?”

You gave a small, helpless laugh. “I mean, bits and pieces. I was clearly talking nonsense—”

“Right,” he cut in. “Nonsense.”

He turned his head then, jaw flexing. Something sharp flashed through his expression, not hurt or disbelief but something closer to anger.

Your stomach dipped and you shifted on your feet. “I just didn’t want to make things weird between us.”

“Well, too late for that,” he said, voice tight.

You blinked. “Hyunjin—”

He took a step toward you.

Your breath caught.

He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing. “So let me get this straight. You weren’t confessing anything. You didn’t mean any of it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you said you don’t remember.” He moved again. Another step. “You’re saying I made it up?”

“That’s not—”

“You’re saying I imagined the way your voice shook when you said you loved me?”

You froze.

He kept going. Low. Dangerous. Closer.

“You’re saying my touch doesn’t affect you?”

You flinched.

“Doesn’t make you forget what you’re saying, what you’re doing, who you’re trying so hard to be?”

His hand lifted slowly and deliberately brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. Just the pads of his fingers, soft and reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to touch you or punish you with it.

You didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

His voice was barely a whisper now. “Tell me I made it up.”

You couldn’t. Because you didn’t.

And he knew that. Every inch of him — from the tight line of his shoulders to the way his mouth hovered just shy of yours — was daring you to keep lying.

And you couldn’t do it. Not when your whole body was already leaning into the gravity of him.

Not when every second of silence stretched the ache between you like a fuse begging to be lit.

You didn’t mean to touch him. Your hand just moved on its own — curled gently over his chest like it could quiet the tremble beneath your skin. He was so close now, heat radiating off him like a fever, like fire, and you were drowning in it.

And then he pulled you in.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat as his hands slid around your waist. His grip wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t soft either, it was firm. Steady. Like he wasn’t letting go, even if he should.

He stared down at you, the weight of his gaze unbearable. Like he could read every word you hadn’t said. Like your silence was loud.

You didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at you.

You didn’t know what to do with the way your body ached to close the last inch.

His mouth was right there, full and parted, breath fanning across your cheek like a dare. You felt the heat blooming in your chest, your stomach, the place between your thighs. You weren’t breathing. Couldn’t.

“Are you ready to talk now?” he asked, voice thick, jaw tight.

The spell shattered like glass between you.

You pulled back. Just barely. Not enough to escape, only to feel the sudden absence of the moment you were about to break into.

Your throat burned. “Do we have to?”

He didn’t smile. “Yes.”

You stepped back, just enough for air, for distance, even if it felt like a wound. He let you go. Slowly. Like it hurt him too.

You moved to the couch, legs folding under you like your bones forgot how to hold your weight. Hyunjin stayed standing for a moment, then sat beside you but far enough to be polite and close enough to make your chest ache.

He spoke first.

“I don’t do love,” he said, low and flat. “Not anymore.”

You stared at your hands. “I know.”

“I’m not built for it. I ruin people. I ruin things that matter.”

“You don’t ruin—”

He cut you off. “I can’t lose you.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you then — really looked. Like he was begging you to understand the truth behind the cruelty. “If we cross that line and it goes wrong, we don’t come back from it. And I’d rather die than lose what we have.”

You swallowed hard. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you’re serious.” Your voice cracked. “That’s the problem.”

He went quiet.

You stared at the floor, eyes glassy, throat burning. “Do you think I wanted this?”

He flinched.

“I didn’t plan to fall for you. I wasn’t sitting around plotting the day I’d mess up our friendship and destroy every ounce of peace I have with you.”

He looked at you then, expression unreadable.

“If I hadn’t been drunk last night, you would’ve never even known. I would’ve buried it like I’ve been doing for months. I would’ve pretended I was fine.”

He said nothing.

“And now I wish I had. I wish I could take it back. Not the feelings—” your voice broke, “but the part where you know.”

Silence pressed down like a weight.

You thought maybe, maybe he’d soften now. Maybe he’d say it was okay, that he understood.

But his jaw clenched. His fists tightened.

“Right,” he said, voice sharp. “So the part you regret is that I know. That’s what’s unbearable.”

You blinked. “That’s not what I meant—”

He stood suddenly, pacing now. Anger clinging to every movement. “You think I wanted to know that last night? You think I haven’t spent months trying to unsee the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching?”

You went still.

He continued, voice low, rough with something too bitter to name. “Do you think I haven’t wanted you?”

Silence. Heavy. Deadly.

“Because I have,” he whispered. “And it scared the shit out of me.”

Hyunjin didn’t look at you when he had started talking. He stood in the center of your living room, hands restless at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like if he looked at you, really looked, the whole damn thing would collapse.

“I didn’t want it to get this far,” he said quietly. “Not because I didn’t feel it. God, that’s the problem. I did.”

You froze.

“I thought I could control it,” he went on, still not meeting your eyes. “That if I ignored it long enough, if I kept the lines blurry but just on the edge, I could trick myself out of wanting more.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I used to tell myself you didn’t feel it back. That it was just me being stupid. Needy. Fucking reckless.” He exhaled like the words had been clawing at his throat. “But it was easier when I could lie to myself. When I thought you didn’t want me.”

Your heart cracked open.

“I’ve ruined things before,” he said. “I’ve crossed lines and lost people and ended up with nothing but memories I can’t even look at without feeling sick. And this—” His voice caught. “You’re not just anyone. You’re you. If I lose you—”

He broke off. Finally looked at you.

“And now I know you feel it too,” he said, softer this time. “And that makes it worse. Because now I don’t have an excuse. Now it’s not just me risking everything, it’s you, and if this goes sideways, I don’t know if I can survive it.”

You didn’t speak. You just watched him, the slope of his shoulders, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes gave him away even when his mouth tried to bury the truth.

He still thought he was protecting you.

But it was too late for that. You were already in it, knee-deep in the ache of wanting him, the mess of loving him when you weren’t supposed to. And now you knew he’d been there too, quietly drowning beside you.

You stepped toward him.

His breath hitched.

Another step.

He went quiet, eyes tracking your every move like he couldn’t believe it was happening.

“I just—” he started, but the words faltered. His gaze dropped to your mouth. “I’m trying to explain—”

You didn’t let him. You reached for him, hands slipping up his chest and then, without giving him time to overthink it, you leaned in and pressed your mouth to his.

Softly.

His whole body went still.

Then, slowly, like gravity was always going to win, his hands found your waist and pulled you in.

The moment your lips touched his again, something broke. Not like a door creaking open — no, it splintered, cracked wide with the force of everything you both had kept buried. All the pretending. All the tension. All the times his hand lingered too long or his eyes dropped to your lips before he looked away. All of it, gone.

Hyunjin kissed you back like he’d been starving for it. His hands gripped your waist like they didn’t trust you to stay. His mouth slanted over yours, greedy, all tongue and heat and breath. He backed you into the wall without thinking, your spine pressing into it as he kissed you harder, deeper, like you were something he’d gone too long without and wasn’t sure he’d ever get again.

You moaned into his mouth and felt him shudder.

It wasn’t gentle. Nothing about it was. His hands moved — down, around, up again — like he couldn’t figure out where he needed to touch you first. Like he wanted to touch all of you at once. And when you tugged at his shirt, he gasped against your lips, forehead dropping to yours for just a second before he dragged you right back in.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered, the words barely making it out between kisses. “Fuck— I shouldn’t be doing this.”

But his mouth didn’t stop. Neither did yours.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugged — and he groaned, low and wrecked, and kissed you like the world was ending. Like this was the last chance he’d ever get and he had to make it count. Your thigh brushed his hip, and his hand dropped low, pulling you closer, flush against him. You felt all of it. The tension, the heat, the way his body trembled like he was about to fall apart.

And maybe he was.

Because this wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t safe or careful or quiet.

This was everything.

You didn’t care. You didn’t want safe. You wanted him. Wanted every part of him he tried to hide, every buried glance and stolen moment and terrified truth. And now that you had it — had him — there was no pretending anymore.

He kissed you like he finally understood that. And still, it wasn’t enough

His lips dragged down your jaw, bruising kisses pressed beneath your ear, and you felt the words before you heard them — breathless and shaken.

“Tell me to stop.”

His voice cracked as he said it. Like it cost him everything just to get the words out.

“Tell me to walk away right now, and I will.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“I’m serious,” he said again, softer now, forehead pressed to your neck like he couldn’t bear to look at you. His hands trembled where they gripped your waist. “Just say the word. Please. Before we—before I ruin everything.”

And maybe in another life, you would’ve. Maybe if his touch didn’t feel like home and every kiss didn’t feel like a promise he’d been aching to keep, you would’ve saved him. Saved yourself.

But you didn’t want saving.

You wanted him.

So you reached for his face, made him look at you — really look at you — and you said it like a vow.

“I want you, Hyunjin.”

He flinched like it hurt to hear.

You stepped closer anyway, your voice a whisper against his lips.

“We won’t ruin anything,” you promised, fingers threading into his hair. “Not if you just let me love you. Not if you just let it happen.”

Something snapped in him and then he was on you. Mouth claiming yours, teeth catching your bottom lip before he groaned deep in his throat and kissed you like he’d been waiting. Like this was a secret he’d never meant to let slip, and now that he had, he needed every part of you to make sense of it.

You didn’t stand a chance. His hands were under your shirt before you could blink, fingers mapping your skin like he was desperate to learn it by heart. Clothes tugged off, your top discarded, his shirt thrown to the floor. Every inch of newly bared skin ignited under his touch. Your skirt bunched at your hips, and the moment his hand slid between your thighs, you nearly sobbed.

“Fuck—” he hissed, mouth dragging down your neck. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You did. You felt it. Pressed up against you, hard and pulsing through the thin fabric of his sweats. He rocked into you once, and your knees buckled. His arms caught you before you fell.

He carried you like you weighed nothing.

You didn’t remember how you got to the couch. Just his mouth, hot and everywhere, and the way he settled you beneath him, eyes dark with something between reverence and hunger. You weren’t trembling — you were shaking.

“Are you sure?” he asked, hovering above you, voice wrecked. “Tell me now, and I’ll stop. I swear.”

You cupped his cheek. Pulled him down until your lips were brushing his.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

You felt the way that shattered him.

A ragged breath left his lips, and something raw crossed his face — awe, hunger, need. And then he kissed you. Deep and dizzying. No more hesitation. No more holding back. Just Hyunjin tasting your mouth like he’d starved for it, like he was finally allowed to be greedy.

His hands were everywhere, cradling your jaw, skimming down your ribs, tugging your skirt up your thighs until it bunched around your waist. When his fingers slipped beneath your panties, finding you slick and already throbbing, he moaned like it physically hurt him to touch you.

“Fuck… you’re already so wet,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Did I do that?”

You nodded, barely able to form words.

“Hyun…”

“Say it again,” he murmured, fingers parting your folds, dragging over your clit in slow, teasing circles. “Say my name like that.”

You gasped, hips arching into his touch. “Hyunjin—”

He groaned. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”

Then he was trailing down your body, kissing a path from your chest to your stomach, his hands anchoring your thighs as he sank to his knees on the floor. You propped yourself up on your elbows, breath caught in your throat.

He hooked your panties to the side and just… looked. Like you were art. Like he’d dreamed of this exact moment and couldn’t believe it was real.

And then his mouth was on you. Hot. Wet. Relentless. His tongue lapped through your folds, slow and sinful, before wrapping around your clit and sucking hard. Your head fell back with a cry, fingers flying to his hair, but he just groaned against you, the vibration making you choke on a moan.

“Shit—Hyunjin, oh my god—”

He didn’t stop. If anything, he got hungrier. Dipping his tongue into your entrance, fucking you with it, then dragging it back up to flick over your clit until your thighs were shaking.

When your hips bucked up too hard, he gripped your thighs tighter and held you down, his shoulders braced against your legs to keep you from moving.

“You’re gonna cum for me,” he muttered against you, voice thick and dark. “On my tongue. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long—”

You were already there.

Your back arched, mouth falling open in a silent scream as the orgasm hit you like a wave crashing down. He kept licking through it, eyes locked on your face like he needed to see you fall apart.

When you finally collapsed back against the couch, breathless and wrecked, he crawled back up your body and kissed you, slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You good?” he asked, voice a rasp in your ear.

You blinked at him. “Are you?”

He gave a breathless laugh and looked down between you. “Not even close.”

You hadn’t even realized he’d stripped out of his sweats. His cock was flushed, thick, and straining with need — and he was still trying to hold back.

That wouldn’t do.

You reached for him, but he caught your hand and kissed your fingers before pushing them away. Then he grabbed your thighs, spreading you wider, and hooked your legs over his shoulders. The position left you bare and open and trembling.

His eyes burned into yours.

“I need you to look at me when I fuck you.”

Then he pressed forward. The first inch made your breath catch , too much, too deep, but you didn’t look away. Neither did he.

“Fuck—” he gritted out, his hips pushing forward in slow, agonizing inches until he was fully inside, stretching you open, filling you to the hilt. “You feel like heaven. Like you were made for me.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just him, inside you, looking at you like this was his last wish granted.

And then he moved. He pulled out and sank back in, hard and deep, your legs folded up on his shoulders, the angle hitting something devastating. Your moan broke halfway out as he picked up a rhythm, hips snapping forward, each thrust driving the air from your lungs.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice tight. “Tell me this isn’t just in my head.”

“I want you,” you gasped. “As real as it can get—always.”

That undid him. His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit again as he fucked you deeper, harder. The couch creaked under you, the heat between your bodies suffocating. You could barely hold on, could barely keep your eyes open.

And then you came again, harder this time. Shaking, crying out his name, nails raking down his back as you clung to him. He followed seconds later, hips jerking, his face buried in your neck as he came with a broken groan, body tense and shuddering above you.

For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing and the soft, desperate way he kissed your shoulder.

Then his voice, hoarse in your ear.

“We’re so fucked.”

And you smiled, wrecked and radiant.

“I know.”

—

You didn’t know how long you stayed tangled like that. Your legs still draped over his hips, his chest rising and falling against yours, sweat cooling between your bodies. The air was heavy with the scent of sex and everything unspoken.

Hyunjin’s fingers trailed gently over your hip, then your stomach, then the side of your throat like he was relearning every inch of you now that he didn’t have to pretend he hadn’t imagined this a thousand times before.

Then he kissed you, not with hunger this time, but like he’d been waiting years to kiss you soft.

“You okay?” he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, brushing your nose against his.

“More than okay.”

His eyes searched your face, like he was trying to commit you to memory all over again.

“We should get you cleaned up,” he whispered. “You’re all sticky.”

You let him carry you to the bathroom.

He set you on the counter first and helped you undress fully, stealing kisses as he did, his hands so gentle now, like he didn’t want to miss a moment of touching you like this. He peeled your underwear down slowly, kissed your thighs. His eyes flicked down between your legs — red, sensitive, swollen from what they’d done.

A blush climbed your neck.

But he just smiled, warm and a little dazed.

“I like seeing you like this,” he said quietly. “All wrecked from me.”

The shower was hot and full of steam. He let you step in first, then wrapped his arms around you from behind, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder as the water ran over both of you.

Neither of you talked much. Just small sounds. Little laughs. The soft lather of his hands running over your arms, your back, your chest.

When you turned to face him, water dripping down your hair and cheeks, he stared at you like you were made of gold.

“I still feel like I’m dreaming,” he said. “I’ve wanted this for so long, I don’t know how to believe it’s real.”

You touched his face. “It’s real.”

He leaned into your palm.

“Then say it again.”

You blinked. “Say what?”

“Those three words.” His voice cracked a little. “Just once more. Please.”

Your heart stuttered.

You stood on your toes and kissed him, slow and tender, water slipping between your mouths. When you pulled back, you looked him straight in the eyes.

“I love you.”

Hyunjin exhaled like you’d knocked the wind out of him. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, like if he didn’t hold you closer he might fall apart.

“I love you too,” he whispered. “God, I love you so much it fucking hurts.”

And then he was kissing you again. Not frantic — not this time. Just deep, adoring, like he finally knew what home tasted like.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Everyone please say happy birthday to Angel @angel-writes-skz-here ! Thanks for organizing this fun event, I need you guys to check the Event Masterlist for the other stories! Mine was based on the song DLMLU, i hope i captured it well 🥹❤️

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8

[malfoys-demigod]

Big Eyes, Little Rings

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ JOHNNY STORM X READER

summary: After four years of cupcakes, playground duty, and getting glitter in places it should never be, Johnny Storm is ready. He’s got a ring, a plan, and a class of twenty-four tiny accomplices. All he needs now is your “yes.”

sequel to Big Eyes, Little Lies requested by: @createyourworldsblog

🌟💍✨

It started with a coloring sheet.

Johnny had come by your classroom like he always did — Fridays were his favorite, because they meant afternoon reading time, juice boxes, and pretending to be a Very Responsible Adult™ while secretly using smelly markers.

He didn’t mean to snoop. But there it was, sitting innocently on your desk: a half-colored worksheet titled:

"What Makes You Feel Safe?"

And in the scrawl of a six-year-old, someone had written:

“Miss Y/N. And sometimes the fire guy.”

With a little stick-figure of Johnny, holding your hand, drawn in green crayon. (He was pretty sure the fire meant love. Or maybe he was just on fire.)

It hit him like a freight train — not just the kid’s answer, but his own.

He’d been in love with you for years.

And somehow, he had built a life where tiny humans trusted him, your eyes still sparkled every time he walked through the door, and he woke up most mornings thinking:

This is it. She’s the one.

He told Sue first.

Well — she guessed first.

Sue watched him reorganize his spice cabinet alphabetically and said flatly, “You’re proposing.”

Johnny looked deeply offended. “Sis, I’m evolving.”

“Into a husband?”

“…Maybe.”

The plan was simple. (It wasn’t.)

Step One: Get Franklin on board. Step Two: Don’t panic. Step Three: Propose in the classroom where he first fell in love with you.

Romantic, right? Sweet. Personal. Full circle. He even practiced his speech in the mirror. (And with Ben. And with one very confused raccoon during a rooftop patrol.)

But the part that made his chest tight — the part that made him accidentally fly into a stop sign while texting Sue about table confetti — was this:

You were already his whole world. He just needed to ask if he could be yours forever.

It happened the week of the big field trip.

You were too busy prepping permission slips and allergy-friendly snacks to notice how twitchy Johnny had gotten. He kept asking weird questions like, “Do you think the kids like me? Like, long-term?” and “Is glitter romantic or just dangerous?”

You just kissed his cheek and said, “Glitter’s always romantic.”

After the trip — an exhausting, sugar-high blur of dinosaur bones and bathroom breaks — Johnny met you back at the classroom.

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

You opened the door—

And stopped.

Your classroom had been transformed.

Twinkle lights hung from the ceiling. Paper stars danced across the rug. Glittery name tags shaped like hearts sat on each desk.

And in the center of the room, surrounded by alphabet posters and glue sticks, stood Johnny.

Wearing a tie.

Holding a ring box behind his back.

Your hands flew to your mouth. “Johnny…”

He grinned, nervous. “So — full transparency, this was not entirely my idea. Franklin handled logistics. I provided moral support and snacks.”

You laughed, already tearing up. “Did you—decorate with the kids?”

“They insisted. Said if I was gonna propose, it had to be ‘visually cool.’”

You wiped your eyes. “This is so visually cool.”

He took a step closer.

And just like that first day, his eyes softened. Like you were something golden. Something rare.

“Four years ago,” Johnny said quietly, “I walked into this room and saw you in a yellow cardigan, tying a kid’s shoe, looking like you made sunshine out of thin air.”

You choked on a breath, already crying.

“I didn’t know then what this place would mean. What you would mean. But I kept coming back — for Franklin, sure, but also because every time I saw you smile, it felt like the world made sense.”

He dropped to one knee.

In front of the classroom calendar. Next to a poster about shapes.

“I’ve saved cities. I’ve flown through space. But nothing in my life has ever felt as important as you.”

Then he pulled out the box, hand shaking slightly.

“Will you marry me, sunshine?”

You nodded — furiously, joyfully, tearfully — and dropped to your knees with him, laughing through tears as you kissed his stupid, wonderful face.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, of course, I’ll marry you.”

He grinned so wide it hurt. “Thank God. I had a backup ring made of macaroni but it kept breaking.”

You laughed, pulled him in, and kissed him again.

The next morning?

The whole class knew.

Because Johnny forgot how to whisper and definitely shouted, “My fiancée said yes!!” as he walked in the door.

The kids immediately lost their minds.

“Are you a princess now??” “Is Mr. Johnny your KING?” “Can I be the flower girl?”

Franklin stood on a chair and yelled, “I'M GONNA HAVE AN AUNT!”

You clutched Johnny’s hand and whispered, “What have we done?”

He just smiled, eyes twinkling.

“Built a life,” he said. “A loud, crazy magical one.”

Later that week, one of your students handed you a picture they’d drawn of you and Johnny holding hands at the altar.

You were in a big sparkly dress.

He was floating three inches off the ground.

There were fireworks, a rainbow, and a giant caption that read:

“MISS Y/N + MR. JOHNNY 4EVER ❤️🔥”

You taped it to your desk.

Right next to the crayon stick-figure that started it all.

[monkey-shines-shenanigans]

OPs tags

This is so important to recognize. The fact that we’ve got a chokehold on literal color is insane to me. And I’ve noticed it goes beyond gender roles at this point and wholeheartedly goes into trying to control one’s entire identity.

I wasn’t even allowed to enjoy my favorite color (green) for years bc my mother was convinced I was “faking” or some shit (always something new when it came up) and would literally tell me that my favorite color looked horrible on me. Like every chance she got to the point I just stopped wearing it. She literally always tried to put me bows and dresses and two piece bikinis. And when I said I didn’t want all of that she literally made a scene in Walmart grabbing me to her chest and going “oh my god your going to turn out to be a nun”, “don’t be so prudent”.

(I was closeted trans nb even to myself at the time)

I wasn’t even allowed to shave my head bc it would “look too much like my father”.

BUT I genuinely believe all of this was from my mother not healing from her own issues with having gender roles forced on her. But she took it beyond that and turned it into controlling her kids’ entire identities. I see a lot of parents doing the same.

I was babysitting some kid once and he wanted something pink with butterflies because his big sister had that and he wanted to do what she did and his mom really went “that’s for girls you don’t want that.” He proceeded to throw himself in the floor and cry. And she would answer with “be a big boy, don’t do all that.”

Controlling or trying to control how children interact with color or symbols or even bugs/animals and conflating it with gender or anything else that’s it’s not related (gender, sexuality, morality, etc) can be deeply damaging to a child’s identity and their ability to enjoy or interact with both themselves and their world.

as a pink lover. The ""universal""" hatred of the color pink by young girls is due to the heavy expectation of femininity forced on them. It is an expression of frustration at gender roles. It is not internalized misogyny. No you will not inevitably start liking pink as an adult and if you do that is not healing your inner divine feminine or whatever we're saying now. Its a color. 😁👍

[ijustwannabecool]

Hi! I hope you’re okay. I just recently discovered your stories and they are stunning. I was wondering if you’ve thought of writing a Carlos’ version of Moments You Wish You Caught on Camera? I’d definitely love to read his version! ❤️

Moments You Wished You Caught on Camera - Carlos Sainz

Carlos Sainz x Wife!Reader

Summary…  Told through the eyes of strangers, six ordinary people recall quiet moments spent observing Carlos Sainz and Y/N L/N around the world, moments that left a lasting impression.

A/N: I'm doing all good, thanks for asking. Took a break from writing to enjoy my summer before school starts again. Thank you for the support and the request. Keep them coming (: Let me know what you thought of the story.

Comment to be added to the tag list 🫶

Requests open!

Donate a coke zero?!

Like, Comment, Reblog, Enjoy!!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The Woman Who Found Courage

Elena wasn’t sure why she’d come to the rooftop event.

Technically, it wasn’t even Y/N’s launch. Just a pop-up for a sustainable fashion brand she followed loosely online. Still, something told her to show up. She’d made the dress she was wearing for the first time, a floor-length deep green wrap with slightly uneven stitching and too much thread showing on the hem. She wore it anyway.

The terrace was bathed in golden hour light. Glasses of sangria clinked over conversations about textiles and ethics and minimalist branding. Elena stood near a planter of lavender, alone, half-heartedly sipping from her drink, trying not to fidget with the fabric at her waist.

She noticed the woman before anyone else did.

Y/N L/N arrived without announcement, no entrance, no heels clacking on tile. Just soft linen pants, a breezy top, and hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but somehow she still glowed. Elena watched her float through the space, greeting friends, complimenting strangers, stopping to touch fabric with genuine interest.

And then, Elena couldn’t quite believe it, Y/N noticed her.

The designer approached with a kind smile, tilting her head toward Elena’s dress. Her voice was low but warm.

“I love this color. It suits you.”

Elena smiled, small and a little nervous. “I made it.”

Something flickered across Y/N’s face, surprise, then delight. She leaned in closer, asked a few more questions Elena couldn’t hear from where she stood. The conversation didn’t look performative. It looked kind. Gentle.

Minutes passed. At some point, a man walked up, tall, relaxed, hands in his pockets. He didn’t interrupt. Just stood close enough for Y/N to lean against his arm, resting there like it was instinct. Elena squinted, catching his profile.

Carlos Sainz.

There was a stillness to him in that moment, none of the intensity he wore on race weekends. Just a man smiling quietly while the woman he loved talked about dresses with a stranger.

Eventually, Y/N squeezed Elena’s hand. Carlos nodded. They left together, fingers interlaced, slipping out the side without needing anyone to notice.

Elena watched them go.

Later, she found a piece of paper tucked into her tote. She didn’t know when it had been placed there.

Make things you want to wear. The rest will follow. –Y/N

It wasn’t signed with a brand name or a handle. Just those words.

She pinned it above her sewing table that night. And she hasn’t stopped creating since.

——————————

The Kid Who Got a Ride Home

The storm rolled in fast, one of those early spring downpours that gave no warning, just cracked the sky open and spilled everything at once.

Mateo muttered a curse under his breath as he stood under the narrow awning outside the preschool, clutching his phone and trying to refresh the weather app like it might help. His daughter, Luna, was still inside, and he was stuck without an umbrella, his car three blocks away. Typical Tuesday.

He wasn’t the only one caught unprepared. Other parents were gathered around, shoulders hunched, rain spotting their sleeves. The staff tried to usher the kids out quickly, but the rain made everything chaotic. He barely noticed the matte black SUV that pulled up at the curb, until he saw who stepped out.

A man in joggers and a hoodie, the hood half-up, his trainers already wet. He jogged around the vehicle with surprising ease, umbrella in hand, and opened the back door.

Carlos Sainz.

Mateo blinked. Was that…? No. Couldn’t be.

But then a woman appeared too, Y/N L/N, unmistakable even in a raincoat and messy bun. She was crouched at the backseat, holding a little boy’s backpack in one hand and a Spider-Man umbrella in the other, laughing softly as she tried to keep the child dry while buckling him in.

Mateo stared. No entourage. No security. No cameras. Just two parents caught in the rain.

He must’ve been really staring because the little boy, Sebastián; if he remembered correctly, turned and waved at his daughter through the preschool window. Luna, ever bold, waved back.

A minute later, the boy was calling from inside the car. “Papi! Luna doesn’t have her coat!”

Carlos looked up then, really looked around. “Whose kid?” he asked Y/N in a low voice.

“I think she’s with her dad. Over there,” she said, subtly nodding.

Carlos approached Mateo cautiously, umbrella extended.

“You okay?” he asked in Spanish. “She’s saying your daughter’s coat is inside.”

Mateo nodded. “Yeah, just waiting. Didn’t expect the storm.”

Carlos looked up at the sky, then back at him. “We can wait a minute with you, if that’s alright. He won’t leave without saying goodbye.”

And so, they waited. The four of them, two soaked dads, a quiet woman with rain droplets clinging to her lashes, and two preschoolers pressing their hands to the foggy car windows in some kind of wordless farewell ritual.

When Luna finally ran out with her coat clutched in her hand, Carlos held the umbrella over her like it was the most natural thing in the world. He helped her into her dad’s arms and nodded once before getting back into his own car.

By the time Mateo reached his own car, he was half-wet and still in disbelief.

His daughter spoke up from the backseat. “Papi?”

“Yeah?”

“Sebastián’s daddy drives really fast.”

Mateo grinned. “Yeah, hija. I guess he does.”

———————

The Man Who Didn’t Know

Joaquim didn’t get many visitors.

His vineyard had long since stopped producing wine, and the only people who came through the winding countryside roads were either lost or chasing some romantic idea of rural Portugal they saw on a Pinterest board.

He was pruning back the fig tree when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. An SUV. Black, sleek, foreign plates. It paused just beyond the gate, the engine idling like it was thinking too.

He didn’t rush. He had lived long enough to know people came and went no matter what you did.

The passenger window rolled down, and a woman leaned over from the driver’s side. “Desculpe,” she said in careful Portuguese, “Estamos un pouco perdidos. Sabes como llegar a…?” (“Excuse me,” “We're a little lost. Do you know how to get to…?”)

“Espere,” Joaquim waved a hand, wiping dirt on his trousers. “You’re Spanish, no?” (“Wait.”)

She nodded, clearly relieved.

Behind her, a man leaned into view. Sunglasses, stubble, a faded cap pulled low. “Our GPS thinks this is a road.”

Joaquim chuckled. “It used to be.”

He gave them directions, slow and deliberate. The woman repeated them back just to be sure. She smiled when she got it right. “Thank you so much.”

“No trouble,” he said, but he didn’t step away yet. Something about them made him linger.

The man reached back into the car, rummaged for something, and handed Joaquim a bottle of water. “It’s hot,” he said. “You’re working hard.”

Joaquim accepted it with a nod. “Obrigado.” (Thanks.)

He watched them for another moment. They weren’t in a rush. The man reached across the console to tuck a piece of hair behind the woman’s ear. She leaned into it, like it was nothing and everything at once.

That simple gesture stuck with him.

It wasn’t until two days later, when his son came to visit and saw the water bottle sitting on the porch ledge, that the penny dropped.

“Where did you get this?” his son asked, flipping it in his hand. “This is from the race in Barcelona.”

Joaquim blinked. “A couple gave it to me. They were lost.”

His son stared. “Wait…describe them.”

When Joaquim did, his son looked at him like he’d seen a ghost. “That was Carlos Sainz and Y/N L/N.”

Joaquim raised an eyebrow. “The race car driver?”

“Yes!”

Joaquim shrugged. “He was very kind. She was so bright. I liked them.”

His son gaped. “And you didn’t ask for a photo?”

Joaquim smiled, the kind that comes with age and a thousand sunrises. “Some moments don’t need to be caught on camera to last.”

—————————

The Woman Starting Over

Mariana wasn’t supposed to be in that part of Lisbon that day.

The boutique she worked at was closed for inventory, and her to-do list was long and unrelenting. But the thread store on Rua da Rosa had gotten a new shipment of linen blends, and the thought of running her fingers along clean bolts of fabric sounded better than facing another spreadsheet.

So, she went. And maybe that was fate.

The shop was quiet, warm, and smelled faintly of cedar. As she stood by the cutting table, comparing two shades of sage green, a voice behind her said, softly, “Go with the cooler one. It reads better in sunlight.”

Mariana turned. She recognized the woman instantly, though not in a celebrity way. More like the way you recognize someone whose style you’ve saved in moodboards and screenshotted late at night when you need to remember what dreams look like.

Y/N L/N.

She was dressed simply, white button-down, loose trousers, no makeup, but still looked like the sort of woman people designed runways around.

“I’m sorry,” Mariana blurted out. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Y/N smiled. “You weren’t. You looked torn. I know that look.”

Mariana felt herself flush. “I… I’m starting over. With design. Again. It’s been a rough few years.”

Y/N didn’t ask for details. Instead, she looked at the fabric in Mariana’s hands. “It’s hard, right? Making things that might not work. Making them anyway.”

Mariana nodded.

They spoke for ten minutes. Maybe twelve. About pattern grading. About creative burnouts. About imposter syndrome. About how sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is walk into a fabric store and say, I’m still trying.

Y/N bought nothing. She wasn’t there to shop. Maybe she’d wandered in by accident. Maybe not.

But before she left, she pulled a folded swatch from her own pocket, terracotta cotton with an unusual herringbone stitch.

“I carry this when I’m stuck,” she said. “It was from my first real show. I thought no one would come.”

She placed it gently on top of Mariana’s fabric. “Here. For yours.”

And then she was gone. Just like that.

It wasn’t until later that Mariana realized a man had been waiting outside the store the whole time. Dark sunglasses, reading a newspaper, casually leaning against the wall like any other local on a slow afternoon.

She recognized him when she flipped through Instagram that night. Carlos Sainz.

He’d looked up when Y/N walked out. Not at her, but for her. And when their eyes met, he smiled like he’d been smiling for her all his life.

————————————

The Single Mom and the Toothbrush

Camila had barely slept.

Her six-year-old son, Nico, was too excited. The hotel bed felt too soft. The air conditioning clicked all night. And now, somewhere between the chaos of packing their race day backpack and trying to brush her own teeth with one eye open, Nico had realized he’d forgotten his toothbrush.

Of course he had.

She stared at him, hair still in a messy bun, shirt half-tucked, and sighed. “We’ll get you a new one at the little hotel shop, okay?”

He nodded, wide-eyed and solemn, like this was the greatest tragedy of his young life.

The hotel lobby was buzzing, Grand Prix weekend always brought chaos, but the tiny convenience store off to the side was thankfully empty. She grabbed the cheapest kid toothbrush she could find, along with a juice box Nico didn’t need but would definitely beg for.

But at the counter, her card didn’t work.

The terminal blinked red once, then again. “Insufficient funds,” the screen said with embarrassing clarity.

Camila blinked. She knew her account was tight, but she'd transferred some money last night, hadn't she?

She was trying to figure it out when a soft voice said, “Add this too, please.”

Camila turned. The woman behind her held out a small box of soft gummy candies and a travel-sized pack of markers. She smiled and not the pitying kind, but the warm, understanding kind. “They’re good for the wait at the track. Long day ahead.”

Camila opened her mouth to protest.

“No, really,” the woman said. “I’ve been there. You’re doing great.”

And before Camila could even say thank you, the man beside her stepped in, handing over his black card like it was second nature. “Here,” he said quietly. “It’s fine.”

Camila blinked.

Wait.

The man’s profile was familiar. The voice, even more so. And the woman, soft curls tied back, oversized sunglasses, denim jacket thrown casually over leggings, she looked achingly familiar, too.

Carlos Sainz and Y/N L/N. In her hotel. At her register.

Her jaw didn’t drop. Not right away. She was too stunned for that.

Carlos handed Nico the juice box himself. “You excited for the race?” he asked, smiling.

Nico’s eyes widened. “You sound like the guy my tío watches on TV.”

Carlos chuckled. “I get that sometimes.”

Then he looked back at Camila, a little more serious, and said, “Enjoy the weekend. It goes by fast.”

They walked off without fanfare. No bodyguards. No posing. Just two people, hand-in-hand, blending into a world that expected them to stand out.

Camila stood there frozen until the cashier cleared her throat and handed over the bag.

Later that night, she posted a thank-you on Twitter, not tagging anyone, not trying to make it go viral. Just a simple message.

‘To the couple who bought a toothbrush, candy, and markers for my son this morning, thank you. You were kind when you didn’t have to be. I hope your weekend was as good as you made ours.’

It never went viral.

But some moments aren’t meant to.

——————————

The Couple at the Cliffside Café

Luca had never liked the idea of “taking a break.” Either you fought for something or you let it go. You didn’t put it in a storage box and hope it’d look better after a few weeks.

But Bianca had insisted.

They booked the trip to Mallorca because it was far enough to feel like somewhere else, but familiar enough that it wouldn’t feel like pretending. They hadn’t spoken much since arriving. Just shared coffee in silence, walked side by side like strangers in familiar shoes. There were things they wanted to say. But neither wanted to say them first.

On the third morning, they found a café built into the edge of a cliff, whitewashed walls, wildflowers in chipped pots, a breeze that smelled like salt and citrus.

It was nearly empty. Only one other table was occupied.

A couple, probably in their 30s, sat tucked in the corner beneath the archway where the morning sun broke through like honey. The woman had sunglasses pushed into her hair, curls loose around her shoulders. She was laughing, really laughing, head tilted back, hands over her mouth like she couldn’t help it.

The man across from her watched her with such softness it made Luca look away.

He looked at Bianca. She was stirring her coffee slowly, eyes distant.

“I miss this,” he said quietly.

She blinked. “This?”

“Us. You and me. Before we started planning our future like it was a tax form.”

She gave him a long, searching look.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “But then I saw them.”

He glanced toward the couple again.

The man was reaching across the table to tuck a napkin under her coffee cup before the breeze caught it. The kind of gesture you only learn after years of loving someone well.

It wasn’t showy. There were no phones out. No attention drawn. But it was… real.

And the woman? She leaned in just a little, her hand brushing his like it belonged there.

“I think they’ve been through things,” Bianca said, surprising him.

“You think so?”

“There’s a stillness in them,” she said. “Like they’re not trying to prove anything.”

Luca turned to look again, just as the man took off his sunglasses and leaned back.

Carlos Sainz.

Luca’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “No way.”

Bianca tilted her head. “And her?”

“Y/N L/N,” he said. “She’s a designer. I think they’re married. Or… something.”

Bianca smiled a little. “That explains the dress. And the calm.”

They watched for a moment longer, just the two of them, quietly taking in a couple who existed like a secret garden in plain sight. One you didn’t know you needed until you stumbled across it.

When the waiter came, Luca ordered them another round of coffee.

“We’re not done yet,” he said.

“No,” Bianca agreed, reaching for his hand. “We’re not.”

By the time they left the café, Carlos and Y/N were gone. No photos. No autographs. Just a receipt left on the table, weighed down by a smooth, sea-polished stone.

And maybe, just maybe, two hearts stitched back together in their quiet wake.

----

The end.

Tag list: @bby-lve @devilacot @angelluv16 @angstynasty @hisashifrey @mynameisangeloflife @evalynkillgrave @lorena-mv33 @frenchtwistedd @baechugff

[koraning]

Simon had been in life-or-death situations several times, missions he never thought he would come out of alive. Honestly, with Simon's background, what could scare him?

The answer was easy: you.

You sprawled across his bed without a care in the world, wearing nothing but his dog tag, a smug smile on your sweet lips. The idea of wanting to have you like this forever scared him shitless.

His arm wrapped around you, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he gazed softly at you.

He knows you still had that damn smirk on your lips. You knew you had won, that you had him in the palm of your hands. All you had to do was say the word, and he would do it.

Months of dancing around between each other led to this.

When you lifted your head and looked at him with those sweet eyes and smiled, he smiled back. Funny how he didn't seem like the same man who fucked you on all fours on that bed.

“...Does that mean I'm yours?” You ask with a stupid smile on your face, as if you didn't already know the answer. Your hands were busy playing with the dog tag he decided to put around your neck.

Maybe his gaze betrayed the facade he was trying to put up, but in response, he pulled you into a kiss, teeth, and tongue involved, as if putting everything he felt into the kiss.

He pulled away painfully slowly, looking at your swollen lips and wanting to put them to another use.

“I don't want you to regret it, if we do this again, I won't let you leave,” Simon says, his hand pulling your hair so you lift your head and look at him.

How could he let you go just like that? He was too weak to let you go if you ever had sex again. He would become addicted to you like a drug addict.

And once he saw that dog tag around your neck again, swinging between your breasts, he could feel his cock throbbing again. You wearing something he gave you so proudly made him feel something he didn't want to admit.

“Ah... Maybe you're right, maybe I should leave-” You say with a false tone of boredom, making a move as if to remove the accessory from your neck.

And before you could even finish, he manhandled you so that you lay on your back, his hands opening your legs so he could stand between them.

“Fucking minx.” His words were punctuated by a nasty slap on your pussy, only to then place his thumb on your clit and massage it, as if to soothe you.

When you let out that sweet moan and looked at him with the most sly eyes he could imagine, Simon had already thrown all self-control out the window.

His head was soon between your legs, his tongue moving from your ass to your pussy, making you shiver with the contact and the fact that he was looking at you during the whole process.

“Gonna ruin you for any other man, love.”

[eulogiez]

ೃ༄ WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW? — clark kent

neighbor!clark kent x fem!reader, 2.4k

synopsis: neighbor, friend, && fighter-of-foe (aka nonexistent predators at your door) clark has always been just that; your unofficial protector and the only warm presence that you were aware you lived by, more neighborly than the ill-mannered antagonists that lurked down your building complex hall, anyways. but suddenly you can't ignore the whispers of something more developing the fateful night he shows up at your door with a warm, very aromatic treat.

tags: pure fluff, another slowburn omg, tooth-achingly domestic, quiet yearning again, friends to lovers! you and clark are awkward in love, you both watch the hell out of each other like creeps (but it's all cute and in good fun, i promise!), clark is overprotective about you but plays it off well, he is so bf it hurts, you've got banter going on, you're somewhat in denial but also really self-aware about your feelings!

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You and Clark seem hell-bent on this game of cat and mouse.

You each find a series of trivial excuses to knock on each other’s door at night, (“Do you hear that cat screeching down from Apartment 1A?”) and message each other for the most nonsensical reasons (“These HOA fees just seem to keep climbing annually, don’t they?”). In all fairness, your proximity made the perfect excuse to talk to one another, your other fellow neighbors either being grannies of knitting age or standoffish middle-aged folk who’d slam a door and scoff in your face if you so much as whispered over their Monday night football. (You were only looking out for them, warning about recent mail theft happening around the block, how much harm could a few seconds of a neighborly PSA make?)

And so you and Clark accepted that you only really had each other in this hostile neck of the woods—all the more reason to find escapade of your true, ever-so-slow-burning feelings for one other that you couldn’t seem to make privy under self-proclaimed concern from one neighbor to another over noise complaints and evil landlords. It became routine, saving face from the evasion of your feelings in empty messages and random checkups between the two of you.

Clark sucks in a deep breath of air before hesitantly rapping his large knuckles over your door, the way he does every time. This time, his free hand is palming a big, foil-covered tin pan that weighs heavy on it. He’s looking down at his shoes as if they’re the most interesting thing in the world, awaiting the smooth rhythm of your footsteps approaching the door’s frame. Little does he know this time you’re waiting, peering at him from your peephole—you made a mad dash towards your door when you realized he’d stopped cooking; which you’d pieced together when you heard his bumping music come to a sudden halt. Clark always had on some tune while he cooked away, whether it be The Beatles or one of his self-proclaimed punk rock bands, so when it finally came to a steady stop, you figured he’d be on his way out, for whatever reason.

Not wanting him to know your whereabouts by the door, you walk slowly in place, feigning footsteps towards him before pausing for a moment to undo the chain that kept the door from swinging ajar, and the deadlock that Clark himself had installed, pushing that it was “imperative for your safety,” as if you didn’t live on one of the safest blocks in the city. That was Clark. So kind. So caring. So thoughtful, to consider safety measures you’d barely even cared to ponder in your naïveté. So frustratingly not yours. Not yet, anyway.

Like your footsteps, you feign surprise when you swing open the door with a slight creak. “Clark!” you exclaim, fake-startled, “What brings you here in the dead of night?”

He notices that you’ve already been well-awake, observing from his spot afront your doorframe that it’s well-lit, like you’d been up and moving about your apartment livened with activity, and can’t help but wonder if you’d been anticipating him.

He greets you with the warmest smile before he rehearses his well-crafted response, “I was just coming by with some lasagna leftovers from the other night. Figured I couldn’t let it all go to waste. Warmed it up, just for you,” he hands you the pan, which is perfectly hot, not scorching or lukewarm, just right enough to be able to hold with your two hands. Your heart warms about as much as the pan when you receive it from him.

“Clark, you shouldn’t have,” you gasped at its reception, wanting to bring him into a hug clumsily before almost forgetting about the pan, causing you to awkwardly fall forward upon him instead while you try a balancing act to save the lasagna from falling to a humiliating death on the apartment complex’s carpeted flooring and alerting the neighbors of your accident with a wafting Italian aroma to their doors. You laugh heartily with only a mild detection of awkwardness, apologizing before straightening yourself up off him and the saved pasta. Clark’s eyes are wide from the sudden movement before he joins in with the laughter and you utter a meek, “Sorry.”

You pick up on a few tells that this lasagna was fresh, and not in fact leftovers from the other night like he’d claimed them to be. His apartment, though securely closed, is heavy with the smell of the dish, like it was made only mere moments ago—an aroma you hadn’t detected a mild hint of last night. You could put together every ingredient if you tried by the scent alone. You bet if you made a rush to his apartment you’d see all the dishes still in the sink briskly clattered there shortly after cooking. You would be offended by Clark’s inference that you hadn’t a clue that he’d just cooked it, that you wouldn’t do an internal play-by-play on your own, if Clark wasn’t so sweet. You know he doesn’t think you simple-minded, he just knows you won’t call him out on baking lasagna for you from scratch and lying about it through his teeth. You pull back the foil to see he’d removed a few slices, just enough so that they really did look like leftovers. Well played, Kent, you thought to yourself.

“You still have a lot left,” you thought out loud to him. Wincing, you said, “I take it that date you had the other night didn’t go well?” you inquired with genuine curiosity. He’d texted you the previous eve that he was having a date over, that he’d planned on cooking for her over wine and that he’d hoped it wouldn’t be too much ruckus for you while he rummaged around for his finest bottle that he hadn’t seen since he’d moved in—the usual nonsense he texted just to have an excuse to talk to you. The truth was, he’d called a rain check on that date. Of course he’d felt remorseful as it wasn’t the most gentlemanly thing to do, but also feeling a queasy uncertainty about having her over that he couldn’t quite shake—and he figured it would be more unfair to have her over when he was feeling the latter. If one major attribute mattered to Clark, it was integrity, and no matter the circumstance, he would be true to stick to it.

“Oh yeah, something like that,” he replied briefly with a ‘tsk’ of his tongue. “No worries though. Makes more for you,” he said with a chuckle, gesturing towards the warm, hearty dish.

“You’re right,” you said, unable to shake the grin from your face. You’re silently watching each other for a moment, seemingly searching for more than endearment from one another before you’re coming in and saying, “Come in! Have a slice, clearly there’s lots to go around.”

Before he can decline his share, saying he’s had his helping and really just wants you to claim it all, you’re scrambling to your kitchen and plating him some while he’s sinking into your worn sofa, which he largely consumes a part of with his big frame. He can see you through the open structure of your kitchen and a large archway, perusing your dishes for the appropriate set for his serving and a refreshment, and he can’t help but picture you all domestic when he sees you like this, a depiction of you someday in your shared apartment illustrating in his head. Stray pieces of hair are falling into your face and your figure is hugged by the warm cotton-comfort of your favorite pajama set. The vision is tucked away in his brain when you brush away the loose hairs behind your ears and turn to him with dishes heavy in your hands.

"You shouldn't have—," he starts quickly.

"You shouldn't have," is all you say before sliding them over to him on your mahogany coffee table.

He’s polite about it all—the way he smiles back and reluctantly takes the fork, silver cutlery looking miniature in his mighty hand, and so sincere when he thanks you as if he didn’t cook the whole meal himself.

Truthfully, the pining held in every look you exchange and in your daily interactions is a killer to your resolve. You’re patient with him; as a woman not being the one to want to pursue and officiate whatever this odd, untethered relationship was, and you’d be frustrated about it all, quick to give up on him if it wasn’t Clark. He’s not a wuss or a man who fits into the broad category of the rest of them, wanting to take advantage of you for nothing in return, not wanting to commit or settle, milking out his years of non-commitment before finally looking to settle. He’s careful and cautious, as he is with everything, and you’re no different—if not more important than anything he dedicates his time, patience, and consideration to. You just figured that he understood you would have to move out if things escalated terribly (only half-joking to yourself) and thought he didn’t want to risk that.

When he’s cleared his plate, (while you’re only halfway through with yours) he nervously wipes his hands down on his black slacks, which you notice are the same ones he left wearing to the Planet with this morning. You feel guilty suddenly, realizing that only right after his long day’s shift he’d begun cooking for you already. You’re especially grateful now, and before you can point it out, he’s on to his feet towards the sink, making your eyes roll. You’re still chewing, mouth full of noodle and covering your mouth with your fork-less hand when you say, “Clark Kent, if you don’t back away from the sink right now—”

He’s smiling from ear to ear and shaking his head when you make your way towards him briskly, abandoning your half-finished plate. He’s already done and wiping the thing down when you protest by his side that he’d gone through too much trouble tonight, (of the dish’s delivery of course) (not letting him know he very obviously barely cooked it) before he’s fighting you back.

He’s smiling down at you, discarding the dishrag (which he neatly folded down) onto a drawer rung, his large frame towering you over, giving you the illusion that your already quaintly-sized kitchen suddenly reduced in square feet. He’d just finished shushing you, reassuring you with “It’s nothing,” and “Only took two seconds,” when he notices a fresh vase of flowers behind you standing atop your pristine counter. You look at him, perplexed, when you notice he’s stopped looking at you and instead shifts his attention to somewhere behind you. Your heart sinks when you notice him noticing the newly-filled vase.

He lets out a low whistle, playing off his mild disappointment and high interest, when he comments casually, “How pretty. Who from?” He’s stroking some of the petals with his thick fingers, feeling only slight guilt when he thinks to himself that he could’ve done better.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, newsboy,” you reply with amusement with a slight trace of worry, trying to play it off.

He raises a brow, looming over you again with either arm resting on the counter behind him, firm in his stance like he won’t let it go.

You sigh and add, “My coworker. It’s nothing though, I don’t see him that way, I just don’t really know how to shut down his advances,” you finish, equally as casual. You felt guilty receiving the flowers, that you repeatedly tried brushing off and avoiding reception of, as if you were betraying Clark when you took them. That same guilt, but also amusement, fleetingly returned when you noticed a certain air of jealousy that you’d miss if you didn’t catch how he’d observed them intently within the first few quick moments of discovering them.

“Anything I can do about it?” He asks like it’s nothing, like he can magically eradicate any problem, or problematic person, in your life.

“Clark,” you reply with a sigh, “You don’t always have to come to my rescue,” you say with a short chuckle, latching on to his tie as if to fix it, which turn both your pairs of eyes the size of saucers by the direct contact that neither of you had yet been brave enough to initiate in the six months since you had moved in next to him.

You clear your throat and let go, abandoning the tie which you suddenly feel is more embarrassing than if you’d gone all the way through with adjusting it to its regular position. You’re suddenly turned away again, eyes fluttered shut and rubbing furiously at your temples, and before Clark can make a playful retort about how it’s his civic duty to protect you or whatever, or address the tie move, you’ve cleared your throat again, finding your save.

“Oh Clark, I hate to ask, but can you help me change the batteries out in my carbon monoxide detector? The thing’s been beeping all month and it’s driving me nuts, I can’t quick reach it…”

He’s nodding profusely, followed by “It’s absolutely no problem,” and “It’ll be done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” and he’s left back to his apartment in a sudden motion for his screwdriver, big footsteps making muted thumping on the carpeted floor.

When he leaves, you’re inhaling sharply, rewinding the moment in your head—how your breaths mingled so closely together, eyes only slightly less blown out before you’d pulled at his tie, not missing how he’d slowly raised his thumb to the corner of your lip, in his attempt to wipe the slightest red stain of pasta sauce there, and how you’d dumbly ruined the moment.

Maybe the heat of the moment and the sudden tension of it all had implanted the delusion that he’d leaned in just a little closer, that there was a slight tilt of his head and a part to his pink supple lips—

No.

He couldn't have been trying to kiss you, could he?

You shudder and attempt to erase the clearly faux memory from your head, the fabricated details in all their glory and false promise. You’re nervously smiling again when he’s returned with the screwdriver with a white-knuckled grip, thanking his help to no avail.

Clark Kent, broad and beautiful in this soft orange apartment light, always to your rescue.

⋆.˚ © eulogiez all rights reserved.

— comments and feedback are appreciated!

[seaglassandink]

𓊝 𓂃Oceans (part II)

Conrad Fisher x ex!fem!reader | part 1 part 3

Summary: When Conrad calls you from Cousins Beach, you expect a catch-up. Instead, he tells you Belly and Jeremiah just showed up engaged. What starts as a late-night FaceTime turns into sixteen years of friendship unraveling: old wounds, unspoken love, and the sting of realising he still hasn’t let go of her… and maybe never will. Warnings/tags: so much angst!!, season 3 spoilers, Conrad doesn't know what he wants, mild swearing if you squint, English is not my first language Word count: 6.5k (I'm sorry) ╭┈┈┈┈┈┈╯ 𓆉 𓇼 ╰┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

Your legs had been tangled with his, the faintest morning giggles spilling into the quiet of the bedroom. The Cousins sun was soft and golden, streaking through the curtains as the world outside slowly stretched awake.

You had lain there together in his bed, curled into one another, his lips ghosting along your neck like a promise he couldn’t stop making.

“I love waking up with you,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm.

You grinned, eyes still heavy with sleep. “You always did.”

“But this,” he whispered, his voice lower now, rawer. “This is different. This is you with me. Like it’s always supposed to be.”

You’d looked down at him then, and everything inside you had softened at the look on his face—the kind of gentle adoration that could ruin a person forever.

“Promise me something?” you asked.

He nodded, no hesitation.

“Promise me you’ll always love me. And that we’ll always be us.”

“I promise,” he said without missing a beat.

Then he kissed you, slow and unhurried, and in that moment you believed every word. You jolted awake in the dark, breath catching in your throat. For a moment, you weren’t sure where you were.

Then it hit you.

Your apartment.

Your empty bed.

The sound of your own heart hammering against your ribs.

The dream had been so vivid you could still feel his skin against yours, still hear his voice whispering against the shell of your ear.

It wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.

And it shattered you all over again.

Because there was a time—long ago, but not nearly long enough—when that moment had been real.

When he had been yours.

Back at Cousins, at that same hour, Conrad woke up drenched in sweat, his T-shirt clinging to his back, his breath ragged as if he’d just run miles.

His mind was a hurricane, caught between past and present.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the image burned into his mind: you, bathed in morning light, laughing softly as if you had no idea you’d been his whole world.

He hadn’t let himself dream of that in years. Hadn’t let himself think of you like that.

And yet tonight, his own subconscious had betrayed him.

You didn’t sleep again after that.

Every time you shut your eyes, the memory returned—his voice, his hands, that promise. And the cruelest part was that, back then, you hadn’t realized that was the last time.

You painted to fill the silence, but the brushstrokes blurred when your eyes burned. You journaled, but the words felt hollow and jagged.

Mostly, you cried.

You cried because the universe had a way of taking and taking until you were hollow. Because he had been the one constant—the person who was always supposed to be there—and he had become a stranger.

At three in the morning, body aching from the weight of it all, eyes red and swollen, you finally gave in.

You grabbed your phone.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, trembling.

And then you typed the truth you had been choking on for years.

Y/N: I always thought it would be me. Why couldn’t you let it be me?

The message sent. You stared at the screen, waiting for it to show delivered, then tossed the phone onto your bed as if it burned.

And in that moment, you no longer cared about losing.

Because somewhere deep down, you knew: you had already lost him.

Conrad’s phone buzzed on the bedside table, the sharp sound slicing through the heavy silence of his room. He reached for it instinctively, heart thundering in his chest when he saw your name glowing on the screen.

For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his thumb hovered—hesitant—before finally opening the message.

The words on the screen knocked the air out of him like a blow to the ribs:

I always thought it would be me. Why couldn’t you let it be me?

He read it once. Twice. A third time. Each time, it hit harder. His chest tightened painfully, his throat closing up.

He wanted to explain. To tell you that it was you. That it had always been you. That there hadn’t been a single day in his life where you weren’t there, even when he was too much of a coward to admit it.

But the words—the right words—wouldn’t come. All that came was a wave of guilt so sharp he almost doubled over.

Finally, he typed a message. His fingers trembled over the screen.

Connie: Can we talk? Please.

You saw it immediately.

Your phone lit up against the mess of your sheets, and that simple line felt like salt in an open wound. For several minutes, you sat there staring at it.

You wanted to throw the phone across the room. You wanted to cry all over again. But more than anything—you wanted to hear his voice.

So you pressed the call button, breath shaky.

He picked up on the first ring.

The silence that followed was crushing.

Neither of you knew how to begin, as if four years of unspoken words were clawing to get out all at once.

When you finally spoke, your voice was raw, hoarse from hours of crying.

“I had a dream,” you croaked, barely above a whisper. “No. Not a dream. A memory. Seven years ago. One of those Cousins mornings. You promised me something.”

You paused, your chest rising and falling as you tried to hold yourself together.

“And it haunts me,” you whispered. “It haunts me that you broke that promise.”

On the other end, Conrad’s heart cracked open.

Your voice was ragged, so tired, so broken that it physically hurt to listen to you.

He closed his eyes and the memory came back in full color, as vivid as if he’d been transported back into that morning.

The soft sunlight. Your bare shoulders. Your laughter.

Your voice asking for a promise he had meant with every part of him.

“I remember,” he said quietly, barely trusting his voice. “I remember the promise.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. The tears spilled again, hot and relentless.

“You know,” you whispered between uneven breaths, “the first part I could’ve survived. I could have understood if we’d grown apart. If we broke up. I could have lived with thinking that what we had—that love—maybe it was just because we’d known each other forever. That maybe it wasn’t love, just… comfort. Familiarity.”

You bit down on your lip, tasting salt and blood.

“But you also promised,” your voice cracked, “that we would always be us. And we’re not. We haven’t been us for years. And that…” You swallowed hard, your throat aching. “…that hurts more than knowing you don’t love me anymore.”

Conrad’s hand tightened around his phone until his knuckles turned white.

You don’t love me anymore.

Those words pierced him clean through, leaving him breathless.

He wanted to speak, to tell you it wasn’t true, that he loved you more than anything, that there wasn’t a single thing about Belly or about anyone else that had ever come close.

But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out except the raw truth of his guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, gutted. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”

Silence.

He waited—for the click of you hanging up. For you to yell. To curse him out. To tell him to leave you alone.

But you didn’t.

Instead, your voice broke through the quiet again, small and fragile and cutting him down to nothing.

“I just wish you hadn’t promised.”

It was like someone twisting a knife straight into his chest.

He felt himself folding in on that pain.

He knew exactly what you meant. How much that promise had meant to you. How much he had destroyed.

I just wish you hadn’t promised…

And for the first time in a long time, Conrad Fisher had no idea how to fix anything.

“Was any of it ever real?” Your voice trembled so softly that Conrad barely caught it through the phone. “I mean… did any of it even mean anything to you? Or has it always been her, and I was just a placeholder?”

The questions hung in the air like heavy smoke—questions that had haunted you for years, the ones you never had the courage to ask before tonight.

Conrad’s heart constricted painfully in his chest.

Of course it was real. Of course it had meant everything.

His mind flashed through the years in an instant: barefoot summers, sand sticking to skin, the kind of laughter that hurt your ribs, the late-night confessions, the arguments that left you breathless, the reconciliations that always felt like home.

“Of course it was real,” he said hoarsely, the words scraping against his throat. “You were never a placeholder. You have to know that. You were always more than that.”

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening.

He could feel it—the disbelief in your breathing, the way your pain filled the pauses.

You wanted to believe him. But four years of being ignored and replaced had left scars too deep.

And he didn’t blame you. He had earned your distrust. He was the one who had broken you heart.

“Please,” he said, his voice raw, “I know you don’t believe me, but just listen.”

You sniffled, wiping your cheeks, though the tears kept falling relentlessly. “I just… I don’t understand,” your whispered, voice cracking as if every word cost her something. “Why not me? Why… not me?”

It was so quiet—small, barely audible—but it hit him like a tidal wave.

Conrad’s heart ached with a pain so sharp he could barely breathe.

He wanted to reach through the phone, wanted to hold you, to stop those words from ever leaving your mouth. But he couldn’t. All he could do was sit there, useless, listening to the wreckage he caused.

“You want to know why not you?” he asked quietly, almost to himself.

“Yes,” you whispered back.

“Because I was a coward,” he said simply.

The truth sat there, stark and merciless.

“I was scared,” he admitted, his voice breaking on the words. “I was scared of losing you. Of losing what we had. I was already losing my mom, and everything in my life felt like it was falling apart. And… I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, his words cutting straight to the core of you.

But you knew—it wasn’t that simple.

“You left me for her,” you whispered.

Your gaze fell to the unfinished painting propped against the wall. You had started painting it the second you woke from that dream. It was that memory from seven years ago, frozen in time like you wished you could have been.

On the other end of the line, Conrad’s guilt swelled until it drowned him.

You were right. There was no sense in pretending.

“I did,” he said softly. The admission tasted like poison.

“And she broke up with you anyway,” you continued, your voice turning bitter, almost unrecognisable to your own ears. “She brought you pain. And who was there for you in those last moments, Conrad? Who was there when you couldn’t even breathe from the grief?”

Your voice shook.

“I was. I was there. Not her. She was too young to understand, and I—Fuck, I stayed. And you still decided to call me last night after barely checking in for four years… to talk about her.”

Your breath hitched, and you swallowed hard, blinking through the blur of her tears.

“I assume,” you said, your tone flat, “you understand why I was angry last night.”

Conrad's chest tightened at your words. You were right. Again.

You had been there for him during his darkest moments, and he had left you behind. He had thrown away your relationship, your history, like it meant nothing. He had thrown away over a decade of life with you.

He had gone back to Belly, and for what? For her to hurt him again.

He felt like the biggest idiot in the world.

"I do," he said quietly. "I understand why you're angry."

"And I'm so goddamn sorry," he added, his voice laced with sincerity.

The guilt and regret were eating him up from the inside out.

You deserved so much better than him. You deserved someone who would never hurt you. Someone who would always put you first.

Not a coward like him.

You bit your lip, looking out of the window. New York was surprisingly quiet. Too quiet for your liking.

“Was it worth it?” you asked, the question that had been haunting you for years. “Were six months with her worth most of our life together?”

Conrad's heart twisted at your question.

"No," he said immediately, his voice firm.

It was an easy answer.

Six months with Belly was nothing.

Nothing compared to all the moments you had shared.

The memories, the laughter, the pain, the fights, the tears – all of it was worth far more than those six months with Belly.

"Never," he said, his voice hoarse. "The answer is no."

"I was an idiot," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "A stupid, selfish idiot."

He was a fool for ever thinking that he could choose Belly over you.

He’d been so desperate to salvage something, he’d ended up losing everything.

"I wish I could take it back," he said, the pain and regret in his voice tangible. "If I could go back in time and smack some sense into my old self, I would."

It hurt. Hearing him like this hurt. Because you believed him. You knew when he was telling the truth. He hadn’t changed that much in the end.

You wiped your face, considering your options. Considering the current situation. He was there, in Cousins, with Belly alone under one roof.

“Why did you call me about that? Of all the things you could have called me about, you called me to talk about her?”

Conrad closed his eyes, the guilt and shame hitting him all over again.

Why had he called you? Why had he talked about Belly to you?

Maybe because, deep down, he knew that you were the one he really wanted to talk to. You were the one who always understood him, who always listened to him. You had always been his person.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I just... I don't know."

“Do you still love her?” you asked after a while.

The whole point of your hurt, your anger last night, was the fact that he had been with her for six months. They had broken up four years ago, and he was still conflicted about what to do with her under one roof. It was just… ridiculous to you.

Conrad's heart clenched at the question.

Did he still love Belly?

The answer was complicated.

He still cared about her, of course. They had a history, a bond that would never go away. But was it love?

No. He didn't think so. He thought it was all those what ifs if he hadn’t screwed up the first time.

"No," he said firmly. "I don't love her."

He knew it was true, deep down. He still cared about her, yes. He still cared for her. But love?

He didn't think so.

You stayed silent for a while. Your heart was broken, but it jumped a little at his words.

If you knew one thing, it was that Conrad Fisher was a complicated man. Not in a bad way. It was in a way that he made himself get lost in his own mind, in his own feelings—often doing things he thought were good but that ended up hurting more people than necessary.

You swallowed hard, running a hand over your face.

“Connie?” you whispered quietly, your voice so broken and small.

Conrad's heart ached at the sound of his nickname on your lips.

He'd always loved it when you called him that. Nobody else called him that the way you did.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly.

“I miss you,” you whispered, fresh tears spilling down your face.

You missed him so badly. So many bad things had happened in your life these past four years. But also so many good ones. And you had friends to share them with. But he was the one you thought about first each time. And you couldn’t share any of it with him. Because he wasn’t there.

Conrad's chest clenched as he heard your words.

You missed him.

God, he missed you, too.

He missed you more than anything.

He missed your smile.

He missed your laughter.

He missed your touch.

He missed everything about you.

"I miss you, too," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "So goddamn much, you have no idea."

It hurt. He missed you.

You had so many questions. So many things to yell at him for. To cry about. To ask.

You were an hour flight away from him. Unless he went back to California. This might be the only chance. You knew he didn’t have clinic this summer. But you worried that if he went back to his life in California, the opportunity to reconnect would be lost.

“Are you going back to California?”

Conrad let out a long exhale, his heart heavy with the weight of your conversation.

"I was planning to," he said quietly. "I don’t have clinic anymore, but Agnes found me something."

He knew what you were hinting at.

You wanted him to stay. And God knows, he wanted to stay.

He wanted nothing more than to stay.

You nodded even though he couldn’t see. The fact that he was in Cousins right now, in his room at the beach house, in the same bed you had been in together so many times… it hurt.

You sniffled. “When?” you asked quietly.

Conrad's heart ached as he heard you trying to rein in your tears.

He could hear your sniffles over the phone. He wished he could be there for you. He wished he could hold you.

"Next Saturday," he replied reluctantly.

He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay there. With you.

That was a week and a half away. You had a week and a half. You could book a flight and go straight to Cousins first thing in the morning.

But you didn’t want to hurt again. You didn’t want your heart to break again. Even though you wanted to see him more than anything. You hadn’t seen him for four years. It was a maddening thought.

Conrad could sense your hesitation, your doubt.

He knew you well enough to know that you were internally arguing with yourself.

You wanted to come. He could hear it in your voice. You wanted to come. But you were scared. You were scared to get hurt again.

He didn't blame you. He'd done a damn good job of hurting you.

He had to say something.

He had to do something.

He took a deep breath before speaking.

"Just come," he said, his voice low. "Just come to Cousins. Please. Just for a couple of days."

God, you wanted to cry in that moment.

He wanted you to come.

It was breaking your heart.

It was breaking you.

You looked at the unfinished painting in front of you. You had much more than a couple of days.

Things had been tough lately.

You swallowed and held the phone away from your ear for a moment, opening an app to book a flight.

“Ten in the morning sounds okay?” you whispered after a few more minutes.

Conrad's heart leapt at your answer.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

You were coming.

You were actually coming.

For the first time in four years, he felt hope. Hope that maybe… just maybe, the two of you could fix things.

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good," he said softly. "I'll pick you up from the airport."

You nodded, your heart jumping a little. You glanced at the time. Four in the morning. If you wanted to make it, you had to be at the airport in three hours.

“I have to go pack then,” you whispered, wiping away your tears. “You should get some sleep.”

Conrad swallowed, nodding even though you couldn’t see him.

He didn't want to end the call. He didn't want to let go of your presence, even if it was just your voice through the phone.

But he knew you were right. It was late. And you had to pack.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "You're right. I'll… I'll let you go. Get some sleep too, okay?"

“Yeah,” you said shortly, nodding. “See you soon,” you whispered before hanging up.

You stared at the phone, your whole body paralyzed.

You had no idea what this all meant.

You had no idea if you were going there as a friend, as an ex, or as a completely new person.

But you were going.

Conrad stared at the dark ceiling of his bedroom, his mind racing.

You were coming.

You were coming to Cousins.

He should be happy, right?

He should be ecstatic.

But there was also a sense of unease building inside him.

He didn't know what to expect. He didn't know what would happen when you got there.

All he knew was that he needed to see you.

He needed you. --------------------------------------------

The flight from New York to Rhode Island was a little over an hour. Then there was the drive from the airport to Cousins, which was another fifty minutes.

And that was the part that terrified you most.

Being alone with him in a car after four years of not seeing each other, after only a handful of scattered conversations, was enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

Your flight was at nine, but you hadn’t slept at all.

You had spent the entire night packing, pacing, and staring blankly at the clock. By the time the sky turned pale blue, you drove to the airport on autopilot, too anxious and wired to feel tired.

The flight went smoothly. No turbulence. No delays. To your dismay, there was no excuse to put off what was waiting for you on the other side.

You arrived at Rhode Island at 10:20 a.m., grabbed your bag from the overhead compartment, and headed toward baggage claim.

Your hand trembled as you pulled out your phone and typed the message.

Y/N: Just landed. I’m getting my suitcase.

Conrad had barely slept either.

He’d spent the night tossing and turning in bed, his mind racing with thoughts of you—what he would say, what he wouldn’t say, the way your face had looked on FaceTime two nights ago.

He was nervous.

No, scratch that.

He was terrified.

When your text came in, his heart skipped a beat so hard he thought it might stop altogether.

Fifteen minutes later, he was at the arrivals terminal, standing in a sea of people, scanning the crowd with restless eyes.

You pulled your suitcase off the carousel and headed toward the terminal.

The air in the arrivals hall felt heavy, stifling.

Your eyes swept across the crowd, searching.

You already knew he hadn’t changed much—FaceTime two nights ago had been proof of that—but seeing him in person after all these years was different.

And then you saw him.

Standing there, just like you remembered, trying to look calm and failing miserably.

Normally, you would have laughed at how obvious his nerves were.

But not today.

He was tanned now, the California sun leaving a golden glow on his skin. His hair was the same, only lighter at the edges, sun-streaked. He wore a pale blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up, tucked neatly into a pair of vintage Levi’s.

You swallowed hard. He looked just as perfect as always. Maybe even more so. There was something husband-like about him now, something more mature.

Conrad’s heart was a wreck.

He felt it pounding in his chest like a drum as soon as you stepped into view.

God, you were even more beautiful than he remembered.

His breath caught in his throat. For a second, he had to remind himself to breathe.

He watched you look him over, taking in his appearance, and he wondered what you were thinking. He saw the exhaustion on your face, the faint shadows under your eyes, but to him you still looked stunning.

You walked toward him, painfully aware of how underdressed you were.

You felt like a mess—your hair was slightly tangled from the flight, your face bare because you’d been too tired to bother with makeup, and you’d thrown on linen shorts with a simple cream-colored top.

“Hey,” you said when you reached him, your voice a little hoarse.

Conrad’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of your voice.

That voice he’d missed so much. That voice that had haunted him for four years.

"Hey," he said softly, offering a small, tentative smile.

He wanted so badly to reach out, to pull you into his arms and never let go.

But he didn’t. He didn’t trust himself to do that without breaking down completely.

Neither of you said anything more as you started walking.

Without a word, he reached for your suitcase and took it from you. You let him, nodding slightly, your throat too tight to speak.

You didn’t know how you were going to feel once you got back to Cousins. It already felt like stepping into a life you had left behind.

Outside, the summer air was warm as he led you through the parking lot to his car.

You raised an eyebrow when you saw it.

“New one?” you asked as he walked you to a gray Toyota.

In your head, he was still driving that Range Rover you’d spent so many summers in. You missed that car. But somehow, this one suited him now.

He nodded, opening the trunk and lifting your suitcase inside with ease.

Catching your surprised expression, he smiled faintly.

"Yeah," he said, closing the trunk. "Bought it last year."

He walked around to your side, opened the passenger door, and gestured for you to get in.

As he slid into the driver’s seat and glanced over at you, something inside him shifted.

It felt familiar. Driving with you felt natural, like muscle memory. Like all those years apart hadn’t happened at all.

It felt right.

You climbed into the car, letting your eyes wander around the interior as you settled into the seat. You pulled the seatbelt across your chest, clicking it into place and leaning back, trying to make yourself comfortable.

Fifty minutes.

That’s how long the drive would take if there wasn’t any traffic.

In the past, every drive to and from Cousins had been its own little ritual. The moment the car door closed, you would kick off your shoes, curl your legs up onto the seat, and watch the world go by while he asked, without fail, whether you had taken your Dramamine. Then he’d start the engine, and the two of you would sing the entire way, trading off verses and laughing when one of you forgot the lyrics.

But that was back when it was his Range Rover.

This was not that car.

And this wasn’t four years ago.

You no longer took Dramamine—you’d been prescribed Scopolamine now—and the easy comfort that once sat between you was gone, replaced with something heavier, more fragile.

As Conrad started the car, a sharp ache bloomed in his chest.

The hum of the engine only made the memories louder.

He remembered those long drives like they’d just happened: the way you’d fold yourself up into the passenger seat, the music playing on low, your voice cutting in and out between laughter as you sang along. He remembered how he would glance over and ask, “Did you take your Dramamine?” even though he already knew the answer.

He knew you so well back then.

Now everything felt different.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter than he needed to, knuckles white, forcing himself to look at the road instead of at you.

But he couldn’t help it.

Every so often, his eyes drifted in your direction, taking in the small details—your tired face, the way your hair was slightly tangled, the faint crease between your brows as you stared out the window.

The silence in the car was deafening.

The kind of silence that carried weight.

Was your heart pounding as hard as his? Were you searching for words and finding none, the same way he was?

Finally, you spoke, your voice soft, barely above the sound of the tires against the pavement.

“Do you mind if I play some music?”

Conrad let out a slow breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, grateful for something to break the heavy quiet.

"Yeah, sure," he said, nodding. "Go ahead."

He wondered what you would choose. Would it be new songs he’d never heard, the soundtrack of a life that didn’t include him? Or would it be something older, a fragment of what you used to share?

You picked up your phone, connecting it quickly to the car.

Your thumb hesitated as you scrolled through your playlists.

Most of them were new.

You’d archived almost all the old ones, shoving them into a digital drawer like they couldn’t hurt you there.

But a few had survived.

One in particular.

Driving with Connie.

Your lip caught between your teeth.

You could pick anything—anything safe, anything easy—but everything already felt so strange, so brittle, that you pressed play without giving yourself another second to overthink.

Within seconds, the soft, unmistakable opening notes of Pink+White by Frank Ocean filled the car.

Conrad’s breath caught the moment he heard it.

Memories crashed into him all at once—the exact shade of the late-afternoon light streaming into the car windows back then, the sound of your voice singing over the chorus, the warmth of your presence beside him.

He bit the inside of his cheek, fighting to keep his composure.

He turned his head just enough to glance at you, and his heart clenched.

You remembered.

You still remembered.

“I found our car playlist,” you said quietly, clearing your throat as you set your phone down. You turned to the window, watching the stream of cars blur by.

The soft hum of R&B filled the silence, wrapping itself around the two of you.

You knew there were so many songs that would come up—songs that were yours. Songs that once belonged to another version of the two of you.

But… wasn’t that the point?

Conrad swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the road. He only nodded.

Our car playlist.

Hearing you say those words was like a knife twisting in his chest.

It pulled him straight back to all those hours spent in his old car, the two of you crammed into a shared world of music, voices off-key but happy, windows down, summer air whipping in through the open sunroof.

Back then, there was no distance between you. Now, there was nothing but distance. Because things were different now.

You weren’t the same girl he had known four years ago.

And neither was he.

But the music—

The music hadn’t changed.

Each song carried memories like ghosts, filling up the car, forcing you both to sit with them in heavy, suffocating silence.

Song after song played.

Hozier.

The Neighbourhood.

Old favourites that neither of you could bring yourself to skip.

And then, a familiar sound cut through the quiet. The first delicate notes of Oceans by Seafret. The second you heard it, your breath caught. Panic kicked in.

You reached for your phone, fumbling with the screen, trying to change the track, to stop the rush of memories before they swallowed you whole.

Conrad noticed.

He noticed the second your hands started moving, that subtle urgency in your movements.

Before you could scroll past the song, his hand shot out.

Warm fingers wrapped around your wrist.

The sudden contact burned against your skin, grounding you in place.

You froze.

You swallowed hard and slowly lowered the phone, turning your face back to the window.

You didn’t pull away. His hand stayed.

The lyrics filled the air:

I want you And nothing comes close To the way that I need you I wish I could feel your skin…

The tension inside the car thickened, wrapping tight around your throat.

You wanted to disappear.

To hide from the truth threaded into every note of the song.

It feels like there's oceans Between me and you once again…

You closed your eyes, keeping your face turned away from him, as though that would help.

But Conrad didn’t need to look at you.

He knew this song. The moment it started, he knew.

Without thinking, he tightened his hold on your wrist—not harshly, but enough to stop you.

His voice came low, soft, almost breaking.

“Leave it,” he said.

You stilled completely.

His grip didn’t loosen.

Instead, his thumb began tracing small, slow circles against the inside of your wrist—tiny, unconscious movements that made your pulse race.

He still couldn’t bring himself to look at you, staring ahead at the road, but everything in his body leaned toward you.

The air between you was alive, heavy with all the words that hadn’t been spoken.

You didn’t push his hand away. You let him hold you.

And in that moment, it was the closest the two of you had been in years.

The cars passed by, the world outside moving on, but inside that gray Toyota, time stopped.

The song kept playing:

I want you And I always will I wish I was worth But I know you deserve You know I'd rather drown Than to go on without you…

It hurt. God, it hurt.

Because the meaning of the song had shifted.

It wasn’t the same anymore.

This used to be your song.

He used to sing it to you, soft and low, when you were lying on the beach at night, or in his room with the window cracked open. He’d learned how to play it on guitar just for you. All of that felt like another lifetime now.

Conrad sat there listening, each lyric a blade twisting deeper.

He remembered all of it—the strum of the guitar, your voice joining his, the way you’d look at him like he was everything.

Back then, this song had been filled with love and hope.

Now?

Now it felt like a cruel reminder of everything he had lost.

Without realizing it, he tightened his grip on your wrist just a little more, as if holding on to that small piece of you could stop you from slipping away again.

He still didn’t let go.

The car fell silent as the last notes of Oceans faded, leaving only the hum of the engine and the muted sound of the wind against the windows.

Conrad’s grip on your wrist loosened slightly, but he still couldn’t bring himself to let go completely.

He could feel the steady beat of your pulse beneath his fingers. He could still feel your skin, warm and real, grounding him in a way that terrified him.

He wanted to look at you, to read your expression, but he forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

He swallowed hard before finally speaking, his voice low and rough.

“I didn’t realize this song was still on your playlist.”

“You know I don’t clean the playlists. I just make new ones,” you said quietly, your gaze locked out the window.

It wasn’t the whole truth.

Because you could’ve sworn you’d deleted that song years ago.

You hadn’t touched the car playlist in so long that you assumed it would be buried, erased by time, by everything that had happened.

But there it was.

Conrad’s heart clenched at your words, and he nodded slowly.

Of course he remembered. He knew you too well.

He could picture you—sitting cross-legged on your bed, phone in hand, creating new playlists while the old ones, like this one, gathered digital dust.

Memories that refused to go away.

He wanted to ask. He wanted to ask why you never deleted it. Why this song was still there. But he bit his tongue. Instead, the two of you stayed silent.

The rest of the drive stretched on, the only sound filling the car was the shuffle of the playlist, song after song pulling you both back into the ghosts of summers past.

By the time the familiar sight of Cousins appeared through the windshield, your chest ached from holding back everything you didn’t say.

The tires crunched softly over the gravel as he pulled into the beach house driveway.

You glanced outside.

Nothing had changed.

The house still looked like it belonged to another world—timeless, golden, suspended in the endless rhythm of summer.

Conrad shut off the engine. The music stopped instantly, and a heavy silence settled over the car.

The only sounds now were your quiet breaths and the faint crash of the waves in the distance.

You sat there for a moment, staring at the house, taking in the sight of it. It felt like stepping straight back into another life.

Neither of you spoke.

The memories in the air were thick, clinging to your skin like the summer humidity.

Finally, you both stepped out of the car.

Conrad went around to the trunk, lifting out your suitcase, and you followed him up the porch steps.

Your stomach knotted tighter with every step.

This was the hardest part.

Because you knew who was inside. You knew Belly was here. She was the reason any of this had happened over the past three days.

You swallowed hard as you stepped through the door.

Inside, nothing had changed either. The same walls. The same photos. The same house you used to think of as home.

He set your suitcase down in the hallway.

You stopped, standing there with him, unsure what to say. You turned toward him, ready to speak—

And then footsteps creaked down the stairs.

“Conrad, have you—”

Belly’s voice rang out before cutting off abruptly. Her eyes landed on you, and she froze mid-step.

You clenched your jaw, every instinct in your body bracing for impact.

In a perfect scenario, you’d already be across the room, pulling at her perfect hair until someone dragged you away.

But this wasn’t a perfect scenario.

“Hello, Belly,” you said instead, your voice cool, steady, every word edged with steel. ╭┈┈┈┈┈┈╯ 𓆉 𓇼 ╰┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

READ PART 3 HERE A/N: Well... this might become a miniseries. It's just so easy to write for them. I swear I have it resolved!! But it's gonna take some time... Let me know if you want a continuation :) Tagging everybody who asked for part 2! @maybankslover @mlt2000 @we-flower-fan @xxxabsss-blog @emory06 @ynnlvrs @10hrs26mn @bellelamoon @idgaf-frr

[omgitzmami]

You're the One

Celeb!Gojo x Reader

Summary- Voted sexiest man alive in 2025, Satoru Gojo is the world's most eligible bachelor. The Jujutsu Kaisen star is a 3x divorcee, no kids, and is filthy rich. There were rumors a few years ago he spent his money on women, cocaine, and expensive cars, but those were just rumors, right? After attending his best friend Nanami's new series premiere, he's seen chatting with a young woman, who is ironically Nanami's wife's assistant. Will Satoru finally find love or is this just another chapter in the hopeless romantic's life?

Tags- Mild language, drug use, smut, rough sex, mentions of abuse, false allegations, semi-public sex, ten year age gap, Satoru is 38, reader is 28, alcohol use, mentions of pregnancy, hurt and comfort, modern au, angsty asfff.

Overview<<<Taglist<<<Chapter 1>>>Chapter 2

Satoru Gojo has landed in Los Angeles for his best friend, Kento Nanami’s new series premiere! The bachelor, 38, was seen chatting with a young woman, maybe a little too young? Is this one of Satoru’s little flings or is it something more?

You’re lying in bed as you stare into your phone, looking at the blog with Satoru’s face on the front cover. You rolled your eyes as you continued to scroll down your timeline, as it was just fake news. No way you’d date a man like him.

He’s a certified playboy and has been married three times, all of his wives filed for divorce. His recent divorce was nasty, he and his ex wife were in a public feud throughout and he later settled with her, giving her thirty million dollars.

He’s close friends with your boss, so you give him grace. You’ve known him for years ever since you’ve been working for your boss, Mrs Nanami. Every time you’ve encountered him, he’s always flirted with you and you’ve always paid him dust. You don’t have time for his stupid games and you’ve sometimes caught yourself almost falling for his charm but quickly fell back. 

A few weeks go by and you’re at work and hear a bunch of chatter outside your office. You get up from your desk and go check out the commotion. A hundred bouquets of flowers are being positioned right outside your door. You blink, dumbfounded and look around to see a bunch of your coworkers giggling and chatting away.

Your boss, Mrs Nanami was passing by with a big smile on her face. “Looks like someone has a crush on you! Who’s this from?” She asked. “I-I thought maybe this was a mistake and maybe it was for you…” You tell her, scratching the back of your head. You haven’t been on any dates recently nor have you even talked to a guy in months. This had to be a mistake.

 “Oh no, Kento’s very private and he’s gotten cheaper with age.” She fans her hand up, giggling. “Whoever this is must really like you!” She smiles, walking back to her office. You check the card on one of the bouquets.

To: Reader

Thinking of you always.

                                    -Satoru 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, staring at the card. The audacity of this man. Can’t he take a hint? You’ve ignored him before and that’s what you’ll continue to do. You ask the janitor to take all but one bouquet of roses away.

You just needed one to lighten up your office. No way you actually found what Satoru was doing attractive. You look up to see everyone staring at you, already annoyed you snap at them to get back to work. 

He’ll eventually take the hint and go away, right?

You thought wrong. The entire day you couldn’t avoid him. On your lunch break, you were at the cafe you regularly attended, sitting near the entrance. You were drinking a latte when a familiar figure walked through the door.

It was none other than Satoru Gojo. He took his sunglasses off and scanned the cafe. As soon as you caught his eyes he immediately turned to you, eyes wide and a big smile plastered on his face. “Hey there! Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

You slowly looked up from your phone, your expression was unreadable to the man as he scanned your face, looking for any kind of excitement in your eyes. “What's with the dull reaction? Aren’t you happy to see me?” He asked, a smug grin on his face.

Some customers stare, chattering and taking pictures as thee Satoru Gojo was at a random cafe on a weekday. You feel a bit anxious, trying to not draw anymore attention on yourself even though there is an A-list celebrity talking to you. 

As annoying as he was, you couldn’t deny his talent. He was truly great in Jujutsu Kaisen, and he fits his character so well. A little too well for you. You stare at him, unamused with his antics.

“Really? You want me to be happy to see you of all people?” You scoff, not wanting any more of your time being wasted from this conversation as you picked up your cup, brushing past him at the door. “Good day, Satoru.” He follows you outside of the cafe. 

“Where ya going?”

You stop where you’re standing. “Why do you care?”

“Jeez! Can’t a man ask a woman a question?” 

“Not when you’re harassing the woman daily! You

know, I should sue you.”

“Ya not the first, nor the last, sweets.”

Later in the evening, you arrive at your apartment building. It’s a luxury apartment building with a large penthouse at the top floor. You stayed on the floor right below it.

You walk in a see a bunch of movers with rather expensive furniture so you go over to the clerk’s desk. “Someone moving in?” You point over to the crew. The clerk nods, “yes! Someone finally bought the penthouse.” You raise a brow. 

The penthouse was worth well over 3.4 million dollars, it’s been vacant for some time. “Who’s the lucky buyer?” You ask, not aware that it’s a question you’ll regret shortly.

“Oh, him, well take a look for yourself he’s right behind you!” The clerk said, pointing to the tall figure behind you. “Hey there, neighbor!”

You closed your eyes, clutching your keys in your hand as you deeply regretted asking the question as you heard that familiar voice. You slowly turned around, opening your eyes to see that your thoughts were correct.

Your new neighbor was Satoru, and he was the proud owner of the penthouse on the very floor above yours. He waved his keys in his hand as he gleefully walked over to you. 

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me…” 

You had the next day off so you decided to sleep in. You were snuggled up in bed, covered up to your head, sleeping peacefully until a loud, obnoxious stomp from above woke you. You try to ignore it, placing the covers over your head. 

Satoru was in his new penthouse celebrating the new move with a few lines of coke. He snorted a line from the tray on his bedside table before hopping around his bedroom, music playing as he began to sing along.

“And weeeeee are never EVER everrrr getting back tog—WOAHHH” he trips over the lamp in the corner, falling with it, landing hand on the floor. A groan escaped from his throat as he laid on the floor on his back. “Fuck…”

You then hear a loud crash, making you jolt up in bed. “What the fuck?! Is this asshole’s feet made out of metal?” You sat still in bed, eyes closed as you were trying to stop yourself from shooting your gun up the ceiling to shut him up.

Of course it wouldn’t be a normal day if Satoru wasn’t there to somehow ruin it for you. You jump out of bed, grabbing your hello kitty robe, putting it on before you storm out of your apartment to go confront your lovely new neighbor. 

You bang loudly on the sleek black double doors and you hear all the ruckus beyond the doors stop. You wait outside, arms folded as angrily wait for Satoru to open the door.

You're pacing around near the doors until you hear one of them open. You look to see Satoru, bloodshot eyes, a red nose, peeking his head out of the door. “Heyyyyyy there neighbor” His speech was slurred, it was clear he was probably drunk. 

“Hey I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s 10am! I don’t know who gets drunk this early but clearly you’re not normal!! Quiet down before I put my foot up your ass and you’ll be sneezing my toenail polish for the next few days! Thanks a lot, asshole!” You turned on your heels, walking away back to the elevator to go back to your apartment. 

Satoru’s mind went blank. He didn’t speak at all, just watched you walk away, listening to you complain as you aggressively clicked on the elevator button.

A smile crept on his face as it kind of turned him on the way you spoke to him. No woman has ever had the guts to speak to him like that, and maybe he has his own actions to thank for that. 

He’s used to gold diggers and women who just want to be around him for his status. You caught his eye, you were independent, clearly a hardworking woman to gain Nanami’s wife’s trust and respect, and you clearly didn’t take shit from anyone. You were exactly what he wanted his woman to be.

After the encounter with Satoru this morning, you decided that it wasn’t worth laying in bed anymore since he practically ruined that. You took your dog, Prince, on a walk in the dog park near your building.

You detach the leash from him as you let him wander around, you know all of the neighbors and their pets so you had no problem letting him wander on his own. There was this new dog that caught your attention, a cute little white toy poodle. 

Her and Prince were clearly getting well acquainted with each other, even giving each other a few kisses when you heard a horrid scream nearby. “Hey! You get your mutt paws away from Baby!” You see Satoru rush over to them, quickly picking his dog up, searching her for scratches or anything. You ran over there, picking up Prince as he tried to jump on the clearly horrified Satoru. “Shoo! Shoo I say!! Get away from us!” 

“Excuse you, they were just having fun!” You held Prince in your arms as he licked one of his paws. “Fun?! Your ugly mutt could have hurt Baby! No way I’d let her around that thing.” He said, turning his nose up at you. You took a step back, shocked at the arrogance of him.

“I’ll have you know that Prince is not an ugly mutt! He is a high-bred frenchie! Clearly your dog is not the prize here!” You spew, ready to go to war for your dog. You don’t tolerate any kind of disrespect, especially against your dog, who was just being friendly until the bougie diva, Satoru appeared. 

“High-bred frenchie” He said, mocking you. “Blah blah sweetie! My precious baby is a delicate little flower! You keep your mutt away from her, and we’ll be all good, ‘kay? Bye now!!”

He waves, walking away from you. You blink, completely speechless that a grown man could act this way. This time, it’s you who watches as he walks away, head held high as he carries his dog away from the chaotic scene with you. 

You ran errands later that day and then settled down at home, starting on your skincare routine as you were fresh out of the shower. Towel wrapped around your hair and you had on a robe with your bunny slippers, ready for bed. You had your TV on as you tried to ignore the loud music from upstairs, as Satoru was hosting a party. 

You looked in the mirror as you sat down at your vanity, about to shave off some excess hairs from your brows. You began slowly, as any slight movement can cause you to not have an eyebrow. You bring the razor to the middle of your brow, about to cut when you hear a loud boom, causing you to flinch. 

You froze, your breathing stopped as you looked in the mirror to see a slit in your eyebrow. You scream in horror as you stand up, covering your mouth, trying not to have a heart attack. You stomp out of your apartment once again to confront your neighbor upstairs.

Once the elevator opens, you pace over Satoru’s doors, banging on them like you’re the Feds. You still hear the loud, agitating music and laughter. You bang on the doors even harder and that’s when the music stops and Satoru opens the door. “Hey there—” 

“Oh don’t you hey me! You’ve got some nerve having a party this late! LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID TO ME!!” You point to your eyebrow. Satoru stands in the doorway, a small crowd appears from behind him.

You don’t care about any of that, you’re so angry you don’t even notice the people recording your rant. “Like the look! It’s unique, like you.” Satoru sneered, hand in his hip as he smiled. “YOU ARE SO STUPID! With your stupid little dog and your stupid hair, and-and uh…” You stuttered, breath caught as you noticed he was shirtless, his abs on display, his v-line showing, and a small happy trail. 

You couldn’t deny he was gorgeous, very good looking for a man not shy of the age of 40. You also couldn’t help that his charm attracted you to him in some way, as annoying as he was, you tried to hide it. You shook your head, snapping back to reality, going back to your rant. 

“TURN THE MUSIC DOWN SO I CAN SLEEP OR ELSE I WILL BEAT YOUR ASS RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW!” Buck up at him but he didn’t flinch, instead his smile grew. “Yeah…motherfucker..” you panted, fist balled up as the words came out nonstop, you’ve had enough of the games he was playing. He stood there, still smiling and unphased at your rant.

 “I’ll end the party right now, if you do one thing for me.” He holds up his finger. “Fine, fine, whatever you want.” You agree, not caring about the favor, you just wanted him to shut the hell up so you could go back to your apartment and cry about your ruined eyebrow. “Let me take you out on a date this weekend, just one. I'll pick the place, pay of course, and all you have to do is get pretty.” He said.

You thought about it for a second. It couldn’t be that bad. Just one date. He’ll stop being annoying, and you can go back to your normal routine. “Fine, just one date. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.” You say, folding your arms together. Satoru gleamed over your acceptance, patting your head 

“Yayyyyy, see you then, sweets—HEY, party’s over, everyone get the fuck out, please and thank you!!” Satoru yelled over his shoulder. You hear the uproar of upset party guests as people start to gather their things, leaving.

You step to the side as you see multiple guests, some celebrities, groupies, and local residents leaving the penthouse. You look down, remember you were still in your robe and bunny slippers as you nervously laugh, tightening your robe around your body. 

When you get back to your apartment, slowly close your door. The newfound silence calms you but in the back of your mind you think about Satoru. You had been dodging him for years, all the bad press filling your mind, trying to not tie yourself romantically with a guy like that. 

Maybe it’s just the media and he’s not really like that. You shook your head, clearly your mind was trying to play devil’s advocate. There is no way a 3x divorcee could be that great of a guy. You sit on the side of your bed, your hands on the side of your head trying to figure out just what the hell you agreed to.

Thank you for reading!

© omgitzmami ♡ all my lil creations are mine 🌷 2025

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[beabatoru]

real man ⟢ nerdjo x reader

"... did you know that a quasar emits more energy in a second than our sun will in its entire lifetime?"

"uh... sure?"

༄.° pairing . nerd! gojo x popular! reader (f)

⤷ summary . a low grade lands you a tutor session with the nerdiest boy at your university with the help of the best wingman, your professor, who knows that gojo is your only way of improving that 59.6% in your physics class. your annoyance soon turns into admiration and maybe something else as you find yourself enjoying the late night study sessions.

warning ⓘ tags . (18+), porn with plot me thinks, smut, gojo will give you second hand embarrassment bless his soul, protected sex that will lead to unprotected, masturbation, praise kink, oral, p in v, cream pie. sub gojo heh. jealous gojo. perv gojo. obsessive gojo.

⤷ wc . 4k (not proofread)

a/n . this is a repost from my old blog !

waking up to an email sent by your physics professor was not the best way to start off the day.

"you've got to be kidding me.." you grumbled, with your morning voice attempting to read the title of the email as your blurry eyes adjusted to the bright screen of your phone. you weren't surprised when the subject was that you are being assigned a tutor. you were aware of your current grade, but you swore you would be able to raise it up. right after partying.

your roommate, and long term friend, peaks over your shoulder as she buttoned up her pants. "yikes, I'm surprised he hasn't admitted you to a tutor earlier, haven't you had the same grade for a while now?"

you sighed knowing she was right. your grade hasn't gone up even a percentage for the past two weeks.

'meet me in class before it begins today, perhaps 10 minutes before, ill be introducing you to your tutor and we'll discuss how things will work.'

and that's how you found yourself standing in front of your teachers desk awkwardly. "he'll be here soon, he's very punctual."

you nodded in acknowledgment. you wanted to play it safe and come a few minutes earlier than the given time written on the email. '10 minutes before class'. the said class begins at 9:40. it is currently 9:28.

he was punctual alright. the moment it struck the half hour, the door swung open to reveal a tall boy- no, a really tall boy. he had white hair and blinding blue eyes behind dorky glasses. despite his nerdy look, the boy had a few facial piercings. one on his eyebrow and his lip.

that's hot.

"satoru! come in, come" your professor gestured the boy to be next to you. satoru offered a small, shy wave, which you responded with a warm smile.

"so as we all know, y/n isn't doing so well in this class." you cringed feeling your face heat up. being exposed in front of someone as smart as satoru was the ultimate humiliation.

"here's what's going to happen. there is an upcoming review test before the final. you pass that and im 99.9 percent sure that you will pass the final with enough studying. I'll leave satoru to decide how the tutoring will work, but I expect you both to meet up at least four times a week."

four times a week? four times? a week. great.

session 1.

you dragged your body into the library with your tote bag full of textbooks and practice worksheets. the library was fairly crowded with students studying for upcoming exams. you being one of them.

making your way deeper into the study area, your eyes landed on gojo who was setting up the table with his headphones plugged in. you approached him but he didn't notice you.

"satoru..?"

no answer. he was in a completely different world with the way he was humming a tune which only brought you to your last resort.

you poked his shoulder lightly which caused him to jump a little, looking over his shoulder to meet eyes with you.

"oh! hi uhm im sorry..! I didn't notice you I was just uh setting up the table. is this place okay with you? we can always pick somewhere else if your uncomfortable with being way too-"

"no no its fine with me." you interrupted his babbling which you found endearing.

"right." he chuckled before sitting down which you followed.

"alright so what exactly are you struggling with?" he asked.

what are you struggling with? "everything" you answered honestly looking at the organized textbooks- all related to physics and.. digimon?

"so.. we can start off with the basics of fundamentals of motion. such as speed and distance and maybe add in some kinematic equations. you are familiar with newtons law, right?"

you nodded as you recalled to the only thing you remembered from this god awful class.

"okay so we can skip that.. but ill still explain a little bit of it towards the end, just to make sure."

that's how you spent your first session with the boy. he's amazing at explaining, learning more from him than any past lectures. the way he is so into it you can't help but space out at the way his lips move.

"for the equations, there are a few of them, ill give you three examples then write one of each so you can practice."

your eyes fixated at the way he neatly wrote down the letters.

"so uhm.. do I multiply or-"

"you subtract this from both sides."

"got it."

this was definitely going to take a while if you couldn't even handle the basics. you handed him back the sheet where you attempted the problems.

"seems like you have a bit of difficulty deriving the equations."

you sighed. how long has it been? forty minutes? and hour?

checking your phone you were surprised to see that only 15 minutes have passed?

'just kill me at this point' you thought.

"hey hey, no phones. can't have you getting distracted, hand it over"

"I was just checking the time! don't take it away pleaseee" you begged.

"you'll be tempted to check the time every five seconds, just hand it over." you reluctantly placed it in his hand. his fingers brushed against yours and you were surprised to see how soft his were.

"lets try again. this time ill watch you solve them so I can see where you start to go wrong."

2 hours have gone by and you finally grasped how to solve the equations involving motion and acceleration.

"good job!" the praise boosted up your confidence. "only took ya thirty practice problems but you got there." he teased as he adjusted his glasses. "thanks satoru." you rolled your eyes at him.

the way you said his name went straight into his head. both of them actually.

"we should wrap it up for today"

he reached into his bag pulling out a few sheets before sliding them to you. "try and finish these by wednesday, which will be our next session. oh-" the pale boy reached for his examples. "use these for reference if you forget again."

accepting the papers, you placed them in your folder before tucking it back into your bag. "thank you, I know i'm not the easiest to teach."

"non sense. you're the first person i've tutored to actually have motivation to learn."

"you've tutored others?" you tilted your head.

"course I have. anyways, study what we've gone over today. here's my phone number-"

"youre going to have to give me back my phone in order for that" you chuckled. it felt like satorus world paused for a second as he saw your smile.

"uh right.. sorry"

it felt great to have your beautiful cellular device in the comfort of your hands.

"I usually ignore my messages.. can I give you my instagram instead?" you asked.

satoru was a bit disappointed to not be able to have your phone number, but your insta was just as good. that way he'd be able to see pictures of you.

you both exchanged users, you with your whopping 2.3k followers and him with his 40. 41 including you.

he noticed that out of the 2.3k people that follow you, you only follow around 90. he felt honored that he would be one of the lucky ones to be blessed with your follow.

"great!" satoru couldn't help the dorky grin that crept up on his face. "text me if you have any issues with the work, mkay?"

multiple sessions have passed.

you felt yourself warm up with the boy, learning more about him and his nerdy interests and the upcoming 'name as many digimon characters as you can' contest that he's pumped for explained the character book you'd see every time you met up at the library.

which you both eventually ditched after accidentally catching a couple doing... activities one shouldn't be doing in a quiet environment.

satoru couldn't help but wish that was you and him.

you both settled for a nearby cafe where he always paid for your drinks and sugary treat which he's memorized by now.

"we should go over the vocabulary today" his fingers skimmed through several papers before pulling one out that had the key to all the words you had to remember.

you were progressing and you felt confident for the review and final which were both in three months.

"here write down the words on a separate sheet and try to answer them to see which you know and which you don't."

outside of your tutor sessions, you began saying hi to each other in the hallways, exchanging small smiles in class, and late night texts.

satoru [ 10: 37 PM]

-you complete the worksheets?

you [ 10: 40 PM]

-hi! I just need to finish up the last one then im all done

satoru [ 10: 41 PM]

-thats good, mind sending me what you've done?

you [ 10 : 45 PM]

[image attached]

-im actually at a party right now..

that led to a scolding from him the next day. he couldn't care less actually no matter how many times he said to restrain yourself from partying for now because of your studies. in reality, he just didn't want any boy to see you wearing whatever revealing outfit you decided to put on.

satoru would be lying that he wouldn't feel the way his inexperienced cock would harden whenever he would see the way your skirt would ride up your thighs as you sat so prettily in front of him.

you were completely unaware of how much you affected the poor boy.

"so how'd the contest go?"

"I won obviously. named all 1400 of em." he put his hands up in victory.

you laughed at how cute you found it. him being proud over beating a bunch of kids?

"what was the prize?"

"a limited edition card. super rare by the way, you have like one in a thousand chance of getting it. here! I have it on me actually."

he pulled out a card that resembled Pokemon cards which he would get annoyed when you got the two of them mixed up.

"this is the ghost bt1 diamond. you can pick one out of any Digimon of your opponent or you can delete all the Digimon if they share a name with it."

his eyes lit up whenever he talked about his interests. and you loved that about him.

"sounds cool, how much is it worth?"

"hmm I think like 300 at most."

"yeah well I remember my brother has a Pokemon card that's worth 78 grand."

"do your damn work."

as you prepared to leave, he stopped you.

"here."

he handed you the digimon card making your eyes widen.

"you're giving it to me?"

"mhm, just remembered I already have a similar card that does the exact same as this one. no need for me to have it. besides I think it would look great on your phone case."

now, whenever he takes away your phone for your study time, he can't help but smile when he looked at the card neatly placed inside the clear case with a few stickers around it.

he’d find himself late at night in the comfort of his own dorm, with his hand hesitantly palming his growing bulge at the sight of your story. the picture was of you smiling cutely at the cafe you both went at. a picture he took.

you looked gorgeous. you are gorgeous.

he doesn't remember the last time he's jerked off. maybe once in high school when his favorite cosplayer dressed up as a beloved female character of his?

pulling out his needy length, he imagined it was you. a finger grazed upon his tip smearing the pre-cum a bit as he let out a few whimpers. would you hate him if you saw him like this? all horny and pent up because of your post? or would you help him?

no matter how much he stroked himself, he just couldn't finish. he needed you.

his eyes skimmed through various websites to help his situation out.

‘how to have the best orgasm in your life’

‘best stroking methods’

‘how the female anatomy works and how to pleasure it’

‘man finishes threehu-‘

wait what was that? he scrolls back up a bit clicking on the female anatomy one. he was met with several images. diagrams showing where the most pleasurable part was for a woman.

gojo hasn’t done this much studying since his calculus exam back in elementary. who the hell let’s a seven year old solve that shit?!

by the end of the day, his brain is now stuffed with knowledge on how to pleasure you. still zero clue on how he’s ever going to bust.

2 days.

2 days until you review test and you were.. stressed to say the least. thankfully you have gone over everything from the semester and gojo made sure that you were well prepared even offering to make you a cheat sheet, allowed by the professor, to help you out during the test just in case.

"toru."

fuck. when did you begin calling him that nickname? it made gojo feel lightheaded to the point where he had to grip the end of his chair as you approached him.

"hey I was wondering if we could study at my place tonight?" you asked sweetly.

“your place..? like, where you live?”

“I hope so?” you giggled.

“y-yeah i guess but why?”

you took a seat next to him placing your bag next to your feet on the floor.

“walked past the cafe and saw that it was closed due to some renovations”

“god i hope it’s the bathroom sink. that thing sprayed me”

you both laugh at the memory of him coming out the bathroom with his hair sticking to his forehead and clothes dampened. that was the first time you’ve seen him without his glasses.

you preferred him with them on.

but you couldn’t deny that either way he still looked so handsome especially when he rolled up his now wet sleeves of his black sweater revealing veins that adorned his arms.

“I hope so. anyways I’ll text you the address later.. or actually, we can walk together if you’d like?” you offered and who was he to decline?

“sure sweetheart.”

gojo recently picked up the habit of calling you sweet names which never failed in making your stomach leap in happiness. where’s he get the sudden habit?

‘how to fluster a girl.com’

god knows where.

your house wasn’t far from the campus since you’ve been planning on attending this university ever since you were a kid due to living 20 minutes away at a walking distance.

“my parents are away at a trip so we’ll have the house to ourselves”

fuck yeah.

“they doing a business trip or..?”

“it’s their anniversary. they flew out to france and didn’t even bother inviting me” you rolled your eyes playfully making the pierced boy laugh. he recently switched out his lip piercing after his last one fell off while drinking his coffee.

he took in your house as you arrived. looking at the memories plastered on the walls. this is where you grew up..

“want anything eat?”

you.

he shook his head. “I’m alright, I ate something not long ago.” you hummed while walking upstairs, him trailing behind just to get a glimpse up your skirt seeing the pink laced panties that made him let out a low groan. his pants were uncomfortable by the time you reached your room. it was a warm environment, posters on the walls, stuffed animals on the bed. the bed he would love to fuck you in.

“s’cute” he complimented placing his bag down before he stretched out his lanky body on your bed.

his sweater slipped up a bit revealing his v line as well as his white happy trail. your breath hitched as your eyes trailed down the patch of hair before landing on the raging boner that he had. no way.

was he hard?

despite having past experience yourself, no one has ever made you finish.

gojo propped himself on both his arms. “let’s just review what I taught you at the beginning first to freshen up your memory.” you barely took in anything he said as you approached the bed as well sitting down next to him before you felt bold. you shifted sitting down on his lap instead.

satoru let out a gasp before moaning. his hands found your hips immediately. “fuck.. what are you-“ he was cut off by your subtle grinding.

“we shouldn’t..” your heart sank a bit. “you don’t want this..? I’m just trying to help you toru.”

“I know baby but I haven’t.. well I’m.. I’ve never done t-this before, god..” he mumbled embarrassed. oh so that’s what this is. he’s a virgin. “I don’t mind.. let me help you”

“please-“

“shh..” you tugged at his jeans bringing down to his knees. “You’ve never done this before?” you asked letting your acrylics tease him through his digimon boxers.

“no.. no please fuck..”

his cute whimpers went straight to your heat as you finally tugged down his boxers only to be met with the biggest cock you’ve seen. it slapped his stomach the second it was released. he was thick. the pretty pink tip was slowly turning an angry red color as he panted.

you wrapped your hand around him stroking up and down his base watching him twitch. while keeping eye contact, you let some spit fall down his cock making him moan as you used your drool as lube. his hips bucked up as he felt the warmth of your mouth around him.

“t-that’s it..”

for the first time, your lips met in a sweet and needy kiss, your hand still working wonders on him. he placed a shaking hand on your ass cupping it making sure not to break the heated kiss.

“can.. can you ride me?” the way he asked shyly made you want to ruin him even more. you nodded watching him pull off his sweater. now by all means you had zero clue that this man was built as if god made him with his own hands. you did the same, quickly undressing before he stopped you.

“please.. please keep the panties on”

“you like em?”

“fucking love them.”

after carefully placing a condom you found in your drawer on him, you guided his tip to grind just right against you. “lift up your hips a bit toru.. just move them.. back.. and forth.. good job love”

the praise didn’t help Gojos situation at all. “keep praising me..” at this point his glasses were all fogged up. your finger hooked into your panties slipping them to the side so you could slip his cock in.

“so big..” you cood

“oh god, you’re right.. fuckkk baby wait.. wait wait” he moaned filling up the room with lewd noises. the plap, plap, plap echoed. large hands found your waist helping you ride him at a quick pace.

“shit.. you’re better than I imagined.” he groaned out biting your neck sweetly. “you’ve imagined.. this? ngh!” you were surprised to see him pick up the pace. “all the time.”

gojo thought back to the website he visited frequently. his finger found your clit circling it before rubbing it repeatedly. you head fell on his shoulder as you began to shake from overstimulation. “Toru..!”

“this is where you’re weak, right? most girls have an orgasm immediately after teasing the clit”

“ngh.. nerd..!”

“so sensitive”

the raspiness in his voice was enough to make you finish. for the first time ever. gojos hips stuttered as he pulled out watching your juices spill out. he brought his fingers to his mouth tasting you. “you taste good babe”

panting, you removed the condom from his still hard length before slipping him back in.

he wasn’t even half way in before ropes of cum went inside you making gojo close his eyes letting tears of being overstimulated fall down his pretty flushed cheeks.

“be my girl..”

four things happened that day.

you came for the first time

you took away gojos virginity

you were both now dating

you didn’t study at all

but the cheat sheet did help you out a bit. after finishing up the last question, gojo walked over to the teachers desk placing it on top of it. he was the first one out of everyone to finish, like always. he looked up to where you were seated.

there you were, more focused than ever biting your nail as you answered the equations as if it was muscle memory. he was proud, smiling to himself before leaving the classroom.

toru ! [ 7: 45 AM ]

-results are in today 👀

you [ 7:46 AM]

-im nervous… i think i failed it bro im so scared toru

toru ! [ 7: 48 AM]

-I doubt that sweetheart

and he was right because the second you received back your paper with a beautiful 92% written on top of it you felt like you were in heaven. you ran towards gojo wrapping your arms around him excitedly.

“I did it! look!” you showed him your paper.

“told you. good job am proud of ya” he grinned as he once again felt his cock throb at the way you were squeezing him. “what’d you get?”

“100%”

“show off.”

he barked out a laugh before placing his hands on your hips. “we should celebrate.” he suggested. “with cake?” he hummed tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear before letting his thumb rub on your cheek affectionately. “sure pretty.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

hymns for the hungriest angel — m.list

pairing — dark satoru x student teacher reader

synopsis : he’s never cared about being loved. not really. love was always for people without power, without responsibility. and yet—spring arrives, and so do you. soft-voiced and unimpressed, a student teacher with more resolve than experience, threatening to report him to child services like you aren’t talking to someone who can rewrite fate itself. your kindness scrapes bone. your eyes don’t look through him—they look at him. like he’s not a god. like he’s not broken beyond repair.

you are everything he has trained himself not to want. ordinary. fragile. sunlit and untouched by curses. your world is filled with care that isn’t transactional, safety that isn’t bought, connection that isn’t calculated. and satoru, for all his brilliance, fumbles through the unfamiliar want to be known, to be trusted, to be something human. something domestic. something soft.

he knows he shouldn't want you. knows eden was never meant for things like him. but sin is just a word for needs left unmet. and if paradise won’t open its gates, he’ll carve a new one with his own hands—perfect, patient, absolute. a home, a future, a myth rewritten in his image.

or: when divinity grows tired of being worshipped and decides, instead, to covet.

gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

status : ongoing (2/4 chapters, 24.8k word count) ˙⁠๑ tags -> f!reader, dead dove: do not eat, unreliable narrator, past gojo satoru/ieiri shoko, cognitive dissonance, stalking, manipulation, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, power imbalance, seven deadly sins, religious imagery & symbolism, found family, eventual smut, other additional tags to be added.

litanies of hunger

Ⅰ. EDEN, IN ALL ITS MERCY, NEVER OPENED ITS GATES TO ME

spring blooms across tokyo like a promise meant for someone else, and satoru gojo—god among men, orphan among mortals—finds himself staring through the glass of other people’s lives with a hunger he has no language for. you are part of that garden: soft-voiced, incandescent, untainted by the curse-laced world that rots everything he touches. you don’t know what he is, only what he isn’t—good enough, stable enough, human. and when you threaten to call child protective services over the children he’s raising, it should amuse him. instead, it ignites something. wrath, because how dare you see through him—and envy, because you’ve never had to be anything but yourself to be loved.

paradise, for all its mercy, has never let him in. but this time, he’s willing to lie, bend, and bury godhood if it means reaching you.

Ⅱ. THE PRICE OF PARADISE IS FORGETTING YOU EVER LIVED OUTSIDE IT

summer heat settles over tokyo like a fever dream, and satoru discovers that proximity is its own kind of power—the ability to be exactly where you need him, exactly when your world threatens to tilt. he learns the rhythm of your days, the soft places where loneliness creeps in, the careful way you’ve built a life that suddenly feels fragile in his hands. your gratitude tastes sweeter than he expected when he fixes what breaks, when he fills the spaces others have left empty, when he becomes indispensable without you ever noticing the threads he’s been pulling.

the most beautiful cages are the ones that feel like coming home.

Ⅲ. WHAT BLOOMS IN THE GARDEN IS ALWAYS YOURS TO PICK

autumn brings a restlessness that hums beneath his skin, and satoru finds himself circling closer to the thing he wants most—your complete surrender wrapped in the pretty fiction of mutual desire. you’re softening to his touch, melting under his attention, and when you finally kiss him first it feels like victory and communion all at once. he’s spent months cultivating this moment, nurturing your trust until it bloomed into something he could finally harvest, and the taste of your innocence on his tongue is everything he promised himself it would be.

what grows in his garden was always meant to be harvested.

Ⅳ. THE GARDEN SLEEPS, AND I DREAM YOU INTO PERMANENCE

winter arrives with the kind of crystalline clarity that makes everything look inevitable, and satoru realizes that possession is not enough—he needs something more binding, more eternal than the careful web he’s woven around your daily life. in the salt-sweet isolation of a place that feels like the edge of the world, he finds himself offering promises that taste like forever on his tongue, watching you through eyes that see too much and reveal too little. you’re softer here, more trusting, completely his in ways that make something predatory and tender unfurl in his chest.

the most perfect prisons are the ones you never want to leave.

taglist: @gojoikawa @sleepykittyenergy @saltwaterships @perqbeth @kamuihz @luvuyuuji @ssatorus @nanaomiiii

plz comment here if ur interested to join the taglist xx

[mcu-binge]

Coconut lotion and Betrayal || Clark Kent x Reader ||

Pairing : Clark Kent x reader Word count : 3457

Summary : When your brother Jimmy offers his best friend Clark a place to crash after a plumbing disaster, you don’t expect to find him shirtless, charming, or completely off-limits, but you do and things take a turn.

Tags/warnings : confident!Clark, Jimmy’s sister POV, smut, oral (fem receiving)

====================================

When I got home from work, the only plan I had was to ignore my inbox, microwave leftover penne vodka, and fall asleep to a comfort movie I’ve seen a hundred times, probably Clueless or 13 going on 30. I’d earned it. My boss had yelled at me (again), some toddler had thrown pudding on my jeans during the lunch rush, and I’d somehow walked five miles in flats that were not made for walking.

What I didn’t plan for?

A wet, six-foot-something, glasses-wearing Greek statue of a man standing in the living room when I walked in.

“Hey,” Jimmy called from the couch, like this was normal. “Clark’s crashing for a few days.”

I stopped in the doorway, blinking like the water dripping from his curls was actually messing with my brain.

“What?”

Clark turned, smiled sheepishly, and raised a hand in a little wave. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said, slowly shutting the door behind me. “I—uh—what?”

Jimmy sighed dramatically, tossing a throw pillow at his own knees. “A pipe burst in his building. It’s flooded his whole floor. The poor guy’s place is a disaster. So I offered him the couch. Figured you wouldn’t mind.”

I glanced at Clark again. His white dress shirt was soaked and clinging to him like it had beef with my self-control. He held a beat-up duffel in one hand and had ditched the tie somewhere between the storm and the foyer. His glasses fogged slightly in the warm apartment air.

I forced a smile. “No, yeah. Sure. Totally fine.” I’m such a liar. Because Clark Kent was staying here. In my apartment. With me. And my brother. For days. Kill me.

Let’s get this out of the way. I’ve had a crush on Clark since Jimmy first dragged him to family dinner six months ago. There was something about him, awkward but observant, charming without trying, the way he listened when I talked like he was gathering puzzle pieces. Plus, he was built like a linebacker and had arms that could hold you and make you feel like nothing in the world could touch you. Not that I’d thought about that or anything. I definitely didn’t plan on him sleeping twenty feet from my bedroom.

Jimmy, of course, had zero clue.

He ordered enough Thai food to feed a small militia, which honestly made sense. He eats like a teenager on a growth spurt and Clark…well. The man is built like a tree. A very polite, Midwestern, journalism-degree-holding tree.

We were spread out across the living room, sitting on mismatched cushions and couch throws like it was an unofficial sleepover. Jimmy had already annihilated two egg rolls and was deep into arguing why Die Hard is absolutely a Christmas movie.

Clark and I were quieter. Not silent, just… tuned into each other in that way where you feel someone looking before you even check. I kept catching him watching me out of the corner of his eye. Not in a creepy way. Just curious. Focused. Like I was the story and he was mid-interview.

He held chopsticks perfectly, of course. Neatly picking through his food while Jimmy gestured wildly with a skewer of chicken satay.

“You good over there?” Clark asked, voice low, private, like the room wasn’t full of curry fumes and my idiot brother quoting Bruce Willis.

“Mm-hmm.” I chewed slowly. “Just trying to survive dinner and a mansplainer at the same time.”

He snorted, eyes twinkling. “Is it working?”

“No,” I deadpanned. “But you showing up soaked and apologetic definitely helped.”

Clark flushed a little. A little. Not from embarrassment, though. No, this man didn’t fluster easily. Not anymore. I was starting to learn that the deeper his voice got, the calmer he looked on the outside, that’s when he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying. I liked it. Maybe a little too much.

After dinner, Jimmy pulled out an old board game that was missing half the box but still had all the pieces. Something trivia-adjacent with pop culture questions and mini-challenges.

“I call Clark,” I said, before I could second-guess it.

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “You just want to team up with him because he’s full of random facts.”

“I want to win,” I said, shrugging. “If you’re scared, just say so.”

Clark chuckled, already scooting closer, thigh brushing mine. “You heard her, Jimmy.”

Game on. What followed was ninety minutes of barely restrained chaos. Jimmy kept trying to distract us by tossing popcorn. I rolled my eyes so hard I probably sprained something. Clark? Clark was lethal. Quietly competitive in the way that meant he knew everything, but never bragged about it. He’d lean into me, whispering answers like secrets, his voice curling against my ear and sending little shivers down my spine.

“Name five movies Tom Hanks starred in before the year 2000,” I read aloud.

Clark raised an eyebrow and grinned. “You want ‘em in alphabetical order?” I snorted, shoving his arm. He didn’t budge. Just watched me laugh with this look, that look, like he wanted to tuck it away in his pocket and keep it forever.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I muttered, brushing imaginary lint from my pajama shorts.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re cataloging my expressions.”

He leaned a little closer, voice dropping just for me. “Maybe I am.”

We didn’t win the game. I didn't need to. Because by the end of it, his leg was pressed against mine. His hand brushed my knee when he reached for a card. His laugh had grown deeper, softer, and my stomach kept flipping like I’d swallowed half a bottle of sriracha.

And when Jimmy finally yawned and stood, stretching like a bear, he didn’t miss a beat.

“All right,” he said, turning toward Clark. “Couch is yours. Sheets are clean. Bathroom’s down the hall. And…”

He pointed dramatically at Clark, then at me.

“Stay away from my sister.”

Clark put a hand over his heart, mock offended. “I’d never.”

Jimmy squinted. “That’s not even convincing.”

Clark’s eyes flicked toward me once Jimmy had disappeared behind his door. “No promises.” I rolled my eyes in mock annoyance.

“I have work tomorrow and so do you,” I say, moving to stand up.

“No goodnight kiss?” Clark asks, looking up at me.

“Goodnight Clark,” I tease. Bending down to kiss his cheek. I can feel his eyes on me as I retreat into my bedroom. Jimmy would kill me if I went back out there.

2:47 am

The pad Thai wasn’t calling my name, it was screaming it.

I crept to the kitchen in an oversized tee and nothing underneath, hair in a messy bun, body sleepy and craving carbs. The light over the stove cast a soft golden glow, and I was halfway through shoveling cold noodles into my mouth when I heard footsteps. I turned, chopsticks frozen mid-air. Clark.

Barefoot. Shirtless. Wearing only low-hanging gray shorts that left nothing to the imagination. His chest was broad, tanned, strong. Hair mussed. Glasses slightly crooked. And he was watching me like he was the one who was starving.

“Midnight snack?” he asked, voice thick with sleep. .

I swallowed hard. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He walked closer, slow, unhurried, every step deliberate. “Neither could I. Must be something in the air.”

He stopped in front of the fridge, but he didn’t open it. He just looked at me.

Not my face, just me. My legs. My shirt. My lips. His eyes dropped like gravity had hold of them.

“God,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You really gonna do this to me in a t-shirt and bare legs?”

My breath caught.

“You always sleep half-naked?” I countered, voice shaky but trying to be bold.

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into something sinful. “Just glad someone’s awake to see it.”

My thighs pressed together on instinct.

He stepped in, closing the distance between us with one smooth motion. My back hit the counter. His hands braced on either side of me. His chest was right there, solid, warm, so close I could feel the heat rolling off him.

“I’ve been trying to be respectful,” he said quietly, gaze locked on mine. “Jimmy’s my best friend. I told myself I’d behave.”

My breath was shallow now. “And?”

He leaned in, voice a low growl against my ear. “And then I saw you standing in the kitchen with your lips parted and no bra. So you tell me.”

A tiny gasp escaped me. “Tell you what?” I whispered.

“If you want me be respectful,” he murmured. “Or if you want me to show you what I’ve been thinking about since the night I met you.”

My hands moved before I could stop them, fistfuls of his shorts at the hips, pulling him closer. He grinned.

“I knew it,” he breathed. His hips pressed forward. A low groan left him. “Wanna talk about what I’ve imagined doing in this kitchen?”

“Clark.”

He kissed my jaw. My throat. His voice dropped like thunder. “You're wearing my shirt.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he panted. Then his mouth was on mine. And God, it wasn’t sweet. It was hot. Heavy. Desperate.

His hands slid up under my shirt, slow but greedy, fingers splayed over my back like he’d fantasized about it. His tongue teased mine, hips pressing between my legs, anchoring me to the counter like I might float away. I moaned into his mouth, breath hitching when he groaned against me.

“This is crazy,” I panted, pulling back for air.

His lips brushed my jaw. “So stop me.” But I didn’t. I kissed him harder. His hands gripped my thighs, lifted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing. His mouth moved to my neck, teeth grazing just enough to make me arch.

“Clark,” I gasped.

He pulled back, eyes dark with heat, pupils blown wide. “Say that again.”

I grabbed the collar of his nonexistent shirt, tugged him back to me. “Clark.” He kissed me like he’d waited, like he’d imagined every version of this and now he had to memorize it. When we finally broke apart, lips swollen, breath uneven, he leaned his forehead against mine.

His arms slid beneath my thighs, lifting me like I weighed nothing. His lips brushed mine again, feather-soft this time, like we were about to step into something dangerous. Sacred. Addictive.

“You sure?” he whispered, voice low, thick with restraint he clearly didn’t want to hold.

“I should say no,” I breathed.

“But you won’t,” he said, already turning toward the hallway.

My arms wrapped around his shoulders as he carried me. Bare chest pressed to mine. Every step was careful. Slow. Silent. The hardwood creaked once and we both froze, still and breathless. Clark looked down at me, wide-eyed, lips parted like this, this sneaking, heated, reckless thing, was thrilling him just as much.

“Bedroom?” he mouthed.

I pointed with a grin. He smirked and continued down the hall.

When we slipped inside, he kicked the door shut with his foot. Gently. Almost too gently. We both listened for a beat, silence. No creaks from Jimmy’s room. No angry sibling voice yelling “Are you kidding me?”

Clark’s mouth was on mine before I even settled on the bed. His weight hovered over me, strong arms braced on either side of my head, body grazing mine but not quite pressing down. Teasing. His lips dragged along my neck, jaw, behind my ear, each kiss slower than the last.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured again, voice like hot silk.

“Clark.”

He smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a second like hearing me say his name physically affected him.

“I want you,” I whispered. “I’ve wanted you.”

His mouth met mine again, hungrier this time. More deliberate. His hand slid up under my shirt again, this time, slower, bolder, fingers skimming up my ribs, tracing the underside of my breast. When his thumb brushed over my nipple, I gasped, arching into his touch.

His breath hitched, forehead pressed to mine, lips barely brushing as he murmured, “you’re driving me insane.”

His other hand found the waistband of my panties, curling just inside. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just hovering, knuckles grazing my hip, making me burn.

“Still okay?” he asked, eyes dark, searching.

“More than okay.”

That’s all it took.

His mouth dropped to my collarbone, kissing lower as he pushed the hem of my shirt up with both hands. I raised my arms, and he tugged it off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere into the dark. His hands immediately found my bare chest, warm palms cupping, thumbs circling my nipples until they were tight, sensitive, and aching. His mouth followed, hot and open, tongue flicking over one before he sucked gently, drawing a moan I tried to stifle into my hand.

“Shh,” he teased, pulling back, breathing warm against my skin. “Can’t have Jimmy waking up and finding me with his sister half-naked and panting.”

“Then stop making me pant,” I whispered, eyes narrowed.

He grinned, leaned down, to bite my bottom lip, just enough to make me gasp again.

“No chance,” he said.

His hands slid down to my thighs again, kneading the softness like he couldn’t get enough. Then eyes locked on mine as he did it, watching me writhe beneath him.

I was in just a pair of panties, and his eyes dragged over every inch of me, jaw tight.

“You’re perfect.” he whispers.

I reached up, fingers threading through his messy hair, and pulled him down into another kiss, deeper, wetter, full of tongue and need. He settled between my legs and rocked against me slowly, the fabric of his shorts dragging over my heat in the most perfect kind of torture.

“Feel that?” he whispered into my mouth, hips grinding gently. “That’s what you do to me.”

“Clark…”

He kissed down my stomach, hand grazing the front of my panties, teasing.

“You know I’m not sleeping on that couch tonight,” he said, pressing a kiss just below my bellybutton.

“Clark.”

“I’m staying,” he murmured, fingers stroking slow over damp fabric. “If you want me.”

I looked down at him, all messy hair and hungry eyes and soft, slow breath warming my thighs.

“I’ve always wanted you.”

His mouth hovered just above the waistband of my panties.

“I should stop,” Clark whispered, his voice a rough edge against my skin. “I should be a gentleman.”

I arched, breathless. “Don’t be.”

That broke him. His hands slid up the backs of my thighs, slow and warm, spreading me just enough that his body fit perfectly between mine. He kissed my hip, then the other, his lips soft, deliberate, reverent. His fingers brushed over the damp fabric between my legs, knuckles grazing so lightly I nearly whimpered.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re soaked.”

My hips shifted involuntarily, chasing his touch. He pressed his forehead to my inner thigh, exhaling like he was trying to keep it together. And failing.

He hooked his fingers under the waistband, slowly, watching my face for any hesitation.

There wasn’t any. He peeled them down, inch by inch, baring me completely. My thighs trembled. Clark looked up at me with those devastating eyes, half glasses, half sin.

“You’re gonna have to be quiet, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice dark silk. “And I’m not making it easy.”

I bit my bottom lip, nodding once.

And then his mouth was on me. Hot. Slow. Focused. His tongue moved in soft, deliberate strokes, like he wanted to taste every inch of me, like he needed to learn what made me gasp, what made me shiver. I clamped a hand over my mouth, eyes fluttering shut, head pressing back into the pillow as pleasure rippled through me.

He was good. Too good. Clark Kent, sweet and polite in the newsroom, filthy in the dark. He moaned into me, like the taste of me was wrecking him. His fingers gripped my thighs tight, keeping me open, keeping me there. When he sucked my clit just right, I arched off the bed, whimpering against my palm. He didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. He kept going until I was a mess beneath him, shaking, biting my knuckle, so close. And then he pulled back.

“Clark,” I whimpered, hips chasing him.

“Shh,” he murmured, crawling back up my body, kissing his way to my mouth. “I want more than just that.”

When his lips met mine again, I could taste myself on him, and I kissed him harder for it.

His hands palmed my breasts again, thumbs circling, teasing, making me cry out softly into his mouth. He swallowed the sound greedily, his hips grinding into mine, hardness pressing against my bare, wet skin through those shorts.

“Take them off,” I breathed. He obeyed, kicking them off letting them fall off my bed.

He rocked into me again, slower this time. His cock pressed right where I needed him, and the friction made me gasp. He was teasing me. Over and over. Letting me feel everything without giving it all. I dragged my nails down his back, hips lifting to meet every movement.

“You feel what you’re doing to me?” he whispered against my neck. “You’ve been driving me crazy. Every time you walk into a room. Every time you laugh. Every time you wear those damn shorts.”

“You think I wore them for you?” I panted.

His grin was pure heat. “Did you?”

I bit his earlobe. “Maybe.”

He groaned, deep and low, hips stuttering against mine. Then he pushed up on his elbows and looked down at me, hair wild, chest heaving, glasses slightly fogged. A man on the edge.

Clark lowered his forehead to mine, still grinding slow and deep between my thighs, every roll of his hips making me moan into his mouth.

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he said, voice thick. “And you’ll ruin me right back.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

His breath caught. Then he kissed me again, hot and full of promise, and pressed down harder, hitting just the right spot. I moaned. Loud. We both froze. A creak in the hallway. Silence. Clark stared at me. He grinned. Slow and wicked.

Then whispered against my lips “Guess we’re not great at being quiet.”

“WHY is the kitchen light on?”

Clark’s eyes widened. My heart stopped. We both turned toward the door like we could will it invisible. Then came the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Heavy ones.

“Oh my God,” I mouthed, scrambling to yank the blanket up.

Clark bolted upright and hissed, “Where are my shorts?!”

“I don’t know!”

“Good gosh.”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Why is your door locked?” Jimmy’s voice was muffled through the wood but absolutely full of suspicion. “And why the hell are you not answering?”

Clark flinched. I started laughing into the pillow. Silent, shaking, nearly hyperventilating.

“I swear to God, if I open this and Clark is in there—”

“Don’t you dare!” I yelped, trying to throw on a shirt and immediately putting it on backwards. “Jimmy, I’m—asleep! I’m—sick!”

“Sick?” Jimmy barked. “Is that why it smells like coconut lotion and betrayal in this hallway?!”

Clark was standing now, still naked, hands on his hips like he was in a hostage situation.

“This is it,” he whispered. “This is how I die. Your brother’s gonna kill me in your bedsheets.”

BANG.

“CLARK! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE. I WILL GET A BUTTER KNIFE.”

“Why a butter knife?!” Clark hissed.

“I don’t know!” I whisper-yelled. “He gets weird when he’s mad!” Clark looked around, panicked, and spotted his shorts on the floor. He dove for them, pulling them on backwards and inside-out like his life depended on it.

“I’m coming in!” Jimmy warned.

“NO, YOU’RE NOT!” I shouted.

Dead silence. Then “…you moaned his name!”

I slapped my hand over my mouth in horror. Clark paled.

“Oh my God,” Jimmy said, scandalized. “My ears. I heard it. Clark.” He mimicked me in the most unholy voice known to man. “CLAAAAARK.”

“I’m gonna jump out the window,” Clark whispered. “This is it.”

I wheezed, now fully collapsed in a fit of mortified laughter. “You’re not helping!”

“Neither are you, moaner.”

“Okay, I’m leaving!” Jimmy groaned. “But tomorrow, we are having a deeply upsetting conversation about boundaries, decency, and who I let crash on my couch.”

His footsteps retreated down the hallway. Clark stared at the door, then at me. We were both panting. And then, we burst out laughing. Uncontrollably. Loud and stupid and half-naked under the covers.

“Well,” I said, wiping tears. “That was subtle.”

Clark grinned, still breathless. “Think I’ll still get invited to family dinners?”

“Not unless you bring Jimmy a noise-canceling headset.”

[kissmxcheek]

Flash & Focus pt.7/?? series masterlist ; part 6

pairing: clark kent x photographer!reader wc: 7k

series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?

tags/warnings: fluff, angst, arguing, Lois Lane bff.

a/n: think.. the yellow dress from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Day.. but blue. ok thanks

---

Your apartment was too quiet.

Not peaceful. Not calm. Just still in that heavy, echoing kind of way.

Your camera bag was packed and by the door, ready to ruin your outfit and announce to the world that you were there for work, not because you actually belonged in that shiny, glittering world. Along with it, your press badge.

The dress Lois dropped off after work yesterday clung to you like a memory—cool, weightless, impossible to ignore. Pale blue, almost silver in the lamplight, and it slipped over your skin like water. You adjusted the straps in the mirror without really looking at yourself, then turned to smooth the hem where it kissed your ankle.

The low back crossed at your waist like a secret, like a silky armor.

You stared at your reflection.

Superman had kissed you. Held you. Looked at you like you were made of light and it still hadn’t been enough.

You hugged your arms around yourself, where his had rested yesterday—steady, warm, almost reverent. He’d touched you like he knew your soul. But he hadn’t let you touch his.

He was there, yes. In rooftop silences, in quick rescues, in shared glances that bordered on intimacy. He was always there but he was never really with you.

Not in the way that mattered.

You didn’t know what his apartment looked like, or what time he liked to wake up, or how he drank his coffee—if he drank coffee. You didn’t know what song got stuck in his head, or what his handwriting looked like, or whether he preferred dogs to cats.

You didn’t even know his first name.

But Clark…

You sat down slowly at your vanity, the chair creaking beneath you as you reached for your lipstick with hands that weren’t steady.

Clark.

You knew Clark.

You knew he organized his tie rack by color, but only wore the same four over and over. That he always cracked his knuckles before typing a big story. That he bought two newspapers every morning—one to read and one to underline.

You knew he kept a running list of books he wanted you to read, and always folded down the corner of the page he thought you’d love most.

You knew he kept a plant on his desk that never got enough sunlight, but he watered it every morning anyway—out of hope, or habit, or both.

You knew he called his parents every day on his way to work, even just to ask how the weather was going to be that day.

You knew the way his shoulders relaxed when he heard your voice. The way he softened around you, even when he didn’t realize he was doing it.

You knew him.

And he knew you.

Not just the polished parts. Not the work smile or the confident stride you put on every morning.

Clark knew your silences. Your insecurities. The way you tapped your foot when you were anxious. The way you got quiet when something really hurt. He noticed. He remembered.

He knew what kind of stories you wanted to tell. What kind of journalist you wanted to be. What kind of person you were fighting to become. And he made you feel like that version of you already existed.

Even after he let you down, even after he hurt you, he still knew you.

The lipstick hovered over your lips.

“I think I’m in love with him,” you whispered to your reflection.

It felt like a confession.

You didn’t mean Superman.

You meant the man with ink on his fingers and coffee stains on his sleeves. The one who missed your date and broke your heart and still made you smile even when you swore you were done.

You meant Clark.

Because just being there wasn’t enough.

Being known—really, deeply, truly known—that was love.

And he was the only one who’d ever really seen you.

You reached for your earrings, smiling faintly as you put them on.

And maybe, it wasn’t too late to see him, too.

---

The lobby of your apartment building was dim and quiet, lit only by the orange glow of a buzzing sconce overhead. You stepped outside and closed the door behind you with a soft click, before reaching down for your camera bag—its familiar weight grounding you. Your press badge swung gently from your neck, the Daily Planet logo catching the light as the sun set.

You stepped into the cool evening air and froze.

Clark Kent was waiting by the curb.

He looked taller tonight. Maybe it was the sharp cut of his charcoal-gray suit or the quiet confidence in the way he stood beside the yellow cab. His tie was a deep navy you'd only seen once, instead of the printed ties he often wore at the office. However, it was still slightly crooked in that perfectly Clark way. And in his hands, a bouquet of flowers—white tulips, sweet peas, a few violets.

Your heels clicked against the concrete steps as you approached, slower than necessary.

He looked up and could've sworn he stopped breathing.

His eyes swept over you once, then again, slower. More carefully. He blinked like he wasn’t sure you were real.

The bouquet dipped slightly in his grip.

“You’re…” he shook his head, letting out a breath. “You’re a vision.”

You hesitated at the last step, like he would disappear if you approached any closer. “I thought I was meeting you there.”

Clark straightened, his expression shifting—earnest, steady. “I wanted to do this right,” he said. “I should’ve picked you up last time. Should’ve knocked on your door and told you how honored I was to take you out. I should’ve shown up.”

You didn’t say anything. The city moved around you but all you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears.

He took a step closer, flowers held out between you. “I can’t change what I did. Or what I didn’t do. But I’m here now. And I want to make it up to you,” he said. His voice dipped lower, soft and raw. “Because you deserve that. You deserve someone who shows up.”

Your eyes flicked to the flowers. Then to him.

And even though your guard was still halfway raised, even though the echo of disappointment still lingered in your chest, you took them.

The petals were soft beneath your fingertips. Forgiveness. Vulnerability. A peace offering wrapped in quiet beauty.

“Thank you,” you said, the words barely above a whisper.

A pause stretched between you, warmer this time.

Then you smiled toward him, eyes soft. “You clean up nice.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, gaze flicking down in that boyish way you knew too well. “You’re one to talk,” he said, eyes returning to you. “I’m still trying to remember how to breathe.”

Your stomach fluttered, treacherous and full of hope.

He reached for the door and held it open. “Shall we?”

You stepped inside, the dress brushing against your legs as you slid across the seat. Your camera bag settled at your feet, the press badge swinging from your neck as you adjusted the flowers in your lap.

He rounded the cab and climbed in beside you, shutting the door with a soft click.

The car pulled away from the curb and into the flow of downtown traffic, neon signs and city lights painting the windows in streaks of gold and blue.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Clark’s hands rested nervously in his lap. You glanced sideways and caught him looking again.

“What?” you said, not unkindly.

He smiled a little, eyes warm. “I was just thinking… this feels like a moment I don’t want to mess up.”

You turned to face him fully, flowers still resting in your lap. “Then don’t.”

He blinked, surprised by your honesty, then nodded once. “I won’t.” Clark smiled, a real smile that you hadn't seen for far too long, "I promise."

You looked at him a moment longer, searching his face. His tie really was crooked.

You reached over before you could stop yourself, straightening it with careful fingers.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched you, like your touch was something holy.

When you pulled your hand back, his smile had softened.

“I’ve missed this,” he said quietly.

You turned your gaze out the window. “So have I.”

Clark watched you against the blurring Metropolis lights, remembering all the ways he rehearsed this as the words died on his lips.

To get your attention, he reached out for your hand. The contact startled you.

"I-" He searched your eyes for some reassurance. "I want to tell you everything- I will. Tonight."

You smiled, "Okay," and turned back to the window, keeping your hand interlocked with his. You hoped he understood from your touch what you couldn't say with words.

That you loved him, that the wait would be worth it, if his explanation was too.

And for the rest of the ride, the two of you sat close, the space between you humming—not empty, not awkward, but full of the possibility of something beginning again.

---

The annual Metropolis Charity Ball was already in full swing by the time you arrived. You stepped out of the taxi with Clark by your side, matching Daily Planet press badges hanging over your hearts and your camera slung discreetly over your shoulder.

The venue was a converted museum ballroom, high ceilings and golden with old-world charm. The event was complete with glimmering chandeliers, sprawling velvet curtains, marble columns wrapped in lights. The place buzzed with Metropolis elite: politicians, CEOs, a few familiar celebrity faces, and far too many people who had unkind opinions about your work.

You moved through the crowd with practiced ease, your camera in hand. You snapped candid moments: a senator laughing too hard, a tech CEO shaking hands with a movie star, the mayor’s wife adjusting her husband’s lapel with carefully veiled annoyance. You didn’t pose anyone.

In your opinion, real was always better.

When you found Clark, coming towards you with two champagne flutes in hand, you were leaned to get a shot of the mayor shaking hands with the state senator in front of the lively jazz band.

“We’re here for work,” he said, offering you one of the glasses, “but that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves.”

You raised an eyebrow, taking it. “You’re feeling rebellious tonight.”

He chuckled. “Don’t tell Perry.”

You clinked your glass against his, the sound soft and crystalline.

"I won't have to, when you go and tear up the dance floor." You joked through a sip of champagne.

He looked over, uneasy, at the groups of couples dancing to the live band. "I'm...not much of a dancer."

Then you looked up at him. “So.”

He blinked, smiling. “So…?”

You sipped, letting the pause stretch. “So where’s this grand explanation I’m owed?”

There was teasing in your tone, but not all of it.

Clark faltered. “I… Yeah. I know. I just—”

“Excuse me,” a sharp voice cut through, and a small cluster of city hall aides materialized beside you, led by a man with a fake tan and a suffocating bow tie. “You’re the ones from the Planet, right?”

Clark straightened, and you tensed slightly.

“You wrote the piece about the infrastructure delays,” another aide added. “The one that conveniently twisted the mayor's words? The truth?.”

Your smile came slow and sharp. “If by truth, you mean the millions in city funding disappearing into ‘consulting fees’ and six separate delays being blamed on nonexistent supply chain issues, then yeah, I guess we did write that.”

Clark tried not to laugh. He failed.

The first aide’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s cute," he sauntered up to stand inches away from you, "the way you show up here, mingle, thinking you belong because of the plastic tag hanging around your neck.”

Your camera strap shifted on your shoulder as your brows lifted.

The air tightened.

Clark stepped forward, voice calm but firm. “Hey. If you’ve got a problem with the reporting, file a complaint with our editor. Otherwise, maybe try having a drink and not harassing my partner.”

There was steel beneath the word partner, and even you weren’t sure if he meant professional or not.

The aide blinked, thrown off. “Right. Of course. Wouldn’t want to upset the press.” He walked off in a huff, his colleagues following like ducklings in overpriced shoes.

Clark exhaled and looked down at you. “You okay?”

You shrugged. “I’ve been told worse.”

He gave a small smile, but his heart was hammering a little harder than it should have been. God, you were fearless. Sharp without being cruel. And beautiful in a way that made his ribs ache.

Before he could say something—something dumb, something true—a voice to your left caught both your attention.

Senator Lucille Grant. Chair of the city’s public transportation committee. Talking to a lobbyist you didn’t recognize. She was leaning in close, speaking under the music, unaware you were listening.

“…the whole bid was rushed, but he signed off anyway. We told them the concrete wasn’t up to code, but if they’re cutting the ribbon next week, that’s on them.”

Clark’s eyes flicked to you. You already had your phone out, voice memo recording.

He stepped in casually, lifting his press badge. “Senator Grant—Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Mind giving me a quick comment on the mayor’s involvement with the North Corridor expansion?”

She stiffened. “This is hardly the time—”

“You were overheard saying the mayor ignored safety warnings,” you said lightly, almost sing-song. “That sounds important, something civilians deserve to know, wouldn't you agree?"

Senator Grant’s jaw clenched. “Off the record.”

You smiled like a shark. “In a room full of journalists?"

She muttered something about damage control and walked off in a flurry of rich perfume.

Clark turned to you, eyebrows raised. “That was fast.”

“She gave us more in ten seconds than we got two weeks of city hall hearings,” you said. “And look over there—”

You nodded subtly toward the far end of the ballroom, where two construction execs were talking, pale and tense. One of them glanced toward the stage where the mayor was now stepping up.

“They don’t look like men confident in their boss,” you added.

Clark gave a low whistle. “This might be bigger than just a delay.”

“Think we just found our next front page.”

You both turned toward each other at the same time, the noise of the ballroom falling away just a little.

Clark's stare was intense, but his smile matched yours, that of a child's—ecstatic, buzzing.

You cleared your throat, still smiling. “We make a good team Clark,” you said.

His expression softened. “We always did.”

And for a second, the warmth in his eyes wasn’t professional. It was personal. Admiring. A little in awe.

You looked away first, heart thudding.

Then the lights dimmed, and the mayor took the stage and adjusted the mic with a smile polished to a shine.

He opened with the confidence of someone used to applause. “Good evening, everyone. It’s an honor to welcome you to this year’s Metropolis Charity Ball. Thank you for your continued support and generosity—tonight’s contributions will go directly to rebuilding critical infrastructure across the city. Roads, transit, community shelters… we’re making great progress.”

You shared a look of disbelief with Clark.

You raised your camera, snapping a few obligatory shots of the mayor, the crowd, the banners behind him.

“And, of course,” the mayor continued, “we’re grateful for the continued protection and partnership of our city’s greatest hero—Superman.”

Your finger hesitated on the shutter.

You dropped the camera slowly to your side, trying to keep your face still.

The applause rose around you, but your body didn’t move. Your grip on your camera tightened.

Clark shifted beside you.

You didn’t look at him.

The mayor kept talking—something about gratitude, about vigilance, about being one city under the watchful eye of its guardian—but the words had already blurred.

You weren’t sure why it hit so hard.

Maybe it was the mention of Superman in this sea of polished, powerful people. Maybe it was knowing how the world admired him, praised him, trusted him… while you felt so betrayed by him.

Or maybe it was just the memory—his hand on your back, his mouth on yours, the way he looked at you like you were everything—and how easily he’d vanished afterward.

Clark’s voice was soft, just above the music and applause. “Do you want to step outside?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just nodded and let him guide you out through the side doors, away from the cameras and the crowd.

---

The two of you found yourselves stepping out the side doors of the museum, past velvet ropes and towering columns, and into the quiet hush of the gardens.

The air outside was cooler now. Crisp. Night had fallen fully, and with it came a soft breeze that rustled the dark leaves overhead and made the lantern-lit trees shimmer like something out of a dream. Strings of golden fairy lights looped along the hedges and wound around the marble pillars, their glow warm against the cool stone paths.

Neither of you spoke right away. You just walked slowly together, side by side, your heels clicking softly on the pavers. You could still faintly hear the jazz band inside—muted saxophone, the low hum of a bass—but it sounded a world away.

You crossed your arms lightly over your chest, more out of instinct than chill. Finally, you broke the silence. “How well do you know Superman?”

Then, quietly: “Better than people think.”

You nodded, uncrossing your arms. “Yeah. Me too,” you murmured.

Clark looked at you for a long moment. The kind of look that searched deeper than skin, like he was trying to read the questions you hadn’t asked yet.

The air shifted between you. Something warmer. Heavier.

The jazz music inside swelled—slow, romantic, aching.

Clark’s hand brushed yours once, then again. On the third pass, you let your fingers hook with his for just a moment.

It sent a little static zip up your spine.

He smiled down at you, a bit shyly. “You were amazing in there,” he said softly. “The way you handled the aides. The quote you caught. How fast you noticed those councilmen sneaking off.”

You glanced sideways at him, trying not to smile. “Well, we are supposed to be working, remember?”

“I know,” he said. “You just keep impressing me.”

You let the silence bloom between you for a second, feeling the hum of it settle low in your chest. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

You slowed near the edge of the garden where a low stone wall bordered a shallow fountain. Tiny lights were woven through the greenery above you like stars tangled in branches.

Clark turned to face you. “I used to hate events like this.”

You raised a brow. “Because of the dancing? Or the company?”

He laughed, quietly. “Because I never knew how to be. Either I had to pretend I was smaller than I am… or pretend I wasn’t anyone at all.”

You tilted your head. “And now?”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “Now I don’t mind them so much.”

That pulled a soft breath from you. Your gaze dropped to his lips, then quickly flicked away.

“I- I think,” he said, stepping just a little closer, “that it has something to do with you.”

You blinked.

“I’m serious,” he murmured. “You walk into a room, and, and everything shifts. You make people want to be honest. Braver. More themselves.”

You swallowed hard.

“You’re… Gosh, you’re smart, Y/n. And funny. And too clever for your own good. And you wear your heart on your sleeve in a way I only dream of doing. And- and I am really not good at this,” he added quickly, his voice cracking with something a little nervous and a lot vulnerable. “But I just—I wanted to say it.”

Your voice was smaller than you meant it to be. “Say what?”

“I think I’ve been scared,” he said. “That if I let you see all of me… you’d realize I’m not the person you’ve built in your head.”

You looked up at him, and the ache in your chest was impossible to ignore.

The saxophone inside hit a long, low note.

Clark reached out, his fingers brushing your elbow. “Dance with me?”

You hesitated, just for a breath.

Then you nodded.

He pulled you in gently. One hand found the small of your back. The other slid into your palm, warm and steady. You swayed beneath the lights, surrounded by the rustle of the trees and the distant murmur of music. There was no one else out here. Just the two of you.

You leaned into him without thinking and rested your cheek against his chest. His heart caught. Clark tightened his hold around you.

“I thought you didn’t like dancing,” you said.

“I don’t,” he said. “But I like dancing with you.”

You let out a soft laugh. Your eyes fluttered closed, just for a moment.

And then, quietly, you said, “You still haven’t told me what happened that night."

The words hung between you like mist.

Clark’s breath hitched. His hold on you shifted, just slightly. “I wanted to,” he said. “So many times, more than you know. I’ve replayed that night in my head over and over, trying to figure out what I should’ve done differently.”

You tilted your head up to look at him and meet his gaze.

“I should’ve told you everything.”

He swallowed. “But I didn’t. Because if I did… I didn’t know if you’d still look at me the same way.”

He paused. He could hardly hear the soft music over your quick beating heart.

The two of you stopped swaying, just stood in the warm, twinkling lights as Clark held you to his chest.

“And now I think I was a coward.”

“Clark—”

“I’ve lied,” he said, “about who I am. About who I’ve always been. But I can’t keep doing that anymore. Not with you.”

“I don’t understand,” you whispered.

Clark shut his eyes tight and took a deep breath before giving you one last look of love.

His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

“I’m Superman.”

You paused. Then began to laugh—sharp, startled. “Okay. That’s funny, Clark. Almost had me.”

He didn’t laugh with you.

Your smile faded.

He just… looked at you. With that same softness. That same quiet weight.

You stared up at him.

You reached your hands up to his face, just like you had done so many times before, and stopped to cup his face. You rested your fingers gently, brushing his cheek with your thumb, as if love could save you from what was about to come.

"Y/n," Clark's voice was heavy and quiet.

Slowly, you pulled the frames from his face.

He didn’t stop you. You slid them off gently—half expecting him to make some joke, to laugh, to break the spell.

But he didn’t.

Your vision blurred slightly. You blinked to adjust your gaze. And, for the very first time, you saw him clearly.

It was him.

It was him.

Superman.

You stumbled back a step, glasses still in your hand. “No.”

“Please,” he said gently, stepping forward.

“No,” you said again, louder. Your breath was starting to come quicker. “No. No, no—”

“Hey—” He tried to reach for your arms, your shoulders, but you backed away.

You were starting to hyperventilate. Your chest rising too fast, your hands shaking as you stared at the glasses in your grip like they were poison.

“You can’t—Clark, you can’t be him—Please,”

“It’s still me,” he said, voice quiet but urgent. “I’m right here. Just look at me—”

“I am looking at you!” you snapped, voice thick with tears. “I’m looking at both of you at once and I don’t—I don’t know how to make sense of it!”

He tried again, softly, “Please—can I just—”

“Don’t touch me!” you choked, backing away another step.

Clark froze, his hands hanging useless in the space between you. His face was stricken.

“You lied to me,” you whispered, “every day that I've known you, you've lied to me. You let me talk to you like you were different people. You let me—God—confide in both of you.”

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, “I swear I did—”

“But you didn’t!” Your hands curled into fists. “You let me believe Clark Kent didn’t want me. You let me sit in that restaurant alone like a fool while you were out being—being this. You let me cry to you! About Clark!”

He took a step closer. “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

You laughed through your tears. “Well, you did.”

Clark looked like he was swallowing broken glass. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know, if I told you everything, if you’d still want me.”

Your voice cracked. “You let me fall in love with you.”

He stopped cold.

“What?” he said.

You were breathing too fast. Tears streaking your cheeks.

Clark’s mouth opened slightly. His entire body stilled.

“You love me?” he whispered.

You just looked at him and something in your expression broke him.

He stepped forward like he couldn’t stop himself, like he needed to say something, fix something, do something—but you took another step back.

“I don’t know who I love,” you said. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m still the same man. The one you talked to in the breakroom. The one who got nervous asking you out. The one who kissed you on that rooftop and has regretted leaving you minute since.”

You shook your head. “I can’t do this. I can’t—Clark, I need—I need time to think. I need space.”

He reached for you one more time. “Let me at least call you a cab—”

“I don’t want anything from you, Clark.” You said, and it seemed to burn your tongue to say his name.

That sentence hung in the air like smoke.

You turned and walked away, fast and unsteady. Past the fountain. Past the lights. Toward the curb.

When the cab pulled up, you climbed in and gave the only other address you could remember besides your own.

You couldn't go home. You couldn't be in your living room where he held you as you cried, couldn't be in your kitchen where you shared midnight snacks, couldn't be in your bed where he lied you down to sleep. You, especially, couldn't be on your balcony where he kissed you senseless.

You didn’t look at him until the door shut.

And when you finally did glance back—

Clark was still standing there on the curb, tears in his eyes, hands slack at his sides, glasses gone. Watching you go.

You looked down at your hands to find his glasses still pressed tightly in your grip.

Tears blurred your vision again.

You turned your head toward the window as the cab drove off into the dark.

---

The cab rolled to a stop beneath the flickering streetlamp outside Lois’s apartment building. The city had hushed to a whisper, forcing you to sit in silence, in the gravity of your pain.

And then there she was.

Lois stood at the edge of the sidewalk in leggings and a hoodie, arms folded tightly across her chest. She looked up the second the cab pulled in, already moving. She didn’t wave, didn’t say your name—just opened the door and knelt beside you like she’d done this a thousand times.

You didn’t speak.

She didn’t ask.

Her hand curled around yours, warm and grounding, and without a word she helped you out of the backseat, one palm pressed steady at your back.

Your shoes dangled from one hand. Clark’s glasses from the other. You were still in the pale blue gown—the one that you felt nothing but joy in hours ago. Now, it just felt like a costume. Something you’d worn in a version of your life that didn’t exist anymore.

Your press badge and camera hung heavily on your side.

Lois led you up the steps slowly. Neither of you rushed.

Inside, the familiar creak of her apartment door opened into the kind of chaos only Lois Lane could live in. Piles of notes and newspapers arranged like sacred offerings across the coffee table. An old couch with a faded quilt that had somehow survived three apartments, a dog, and two breakups. Fairy lights hung lazily across one window.

It felt like home.

She closed the door behind you, slid the chain lock into place, and turned to face you.

You were still standing.

Barefoot. Blinking. Trembling.

In a motherly way, she guided you to the living room.

“You need tea,” she said. “Or something stronger.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The electric kettle clicked on with a quiet hum, filling the small apartment with soft noise.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the couch and stared at nothing.

The glasses were still in your hand.

You turned them over once. Then again. Then pressed them to your chest like that might anchor you.

Lois returned with two mugs of steaming tea, one for you and one for herself. She set them on the table and sat down across from you on the floor, like she had when the two of you were nineteen and cramming for finals. You didn’t speak. You just stared at the swirl of steam, waiting for the tea to cool.

But all you could think about was Clark. Superman. Clark being Superman, the two men not being two men after all, just one person. One person that you still, even after everything, loved deeply.

You started to cry again—ugly, shuddering sobs that felt like they came from the soles of your feet. You curled into yourself, arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if that could hold everything in.

Lois dropped down beside you, her hand running softly up and down your back.

You tried to explain, to form words between the gasps. “He’s—he’s—he lied—he let me—Lois, he—”

“I know,” she said quietly.

You froze.

Your sobs hiccupped to a stop. Your tear-streaked face turned toward her slowly, almost accusingly.

“What?” you whispered.

Lois swallowed, her expression unreadable. “I know. About Clark. That he’s Superman. I’ve known for… a while.”

You blinked.

For the first time since the reveal, since the heartbreak and unraveling of your entire understanding of reality, you felt something new:

Anger.

"You knew?” The words came out sharp. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

She opened her mouth, but you were already sitting up—shoving off the throw pillow, pushing your feet down like the ground could anchor you.

“You’re my best friend, Lois! How could you do this to me?”

“I—”

“No. No excuses. You had a million opportunities to tell me and you chose not to. Every single time!” You stood now, trembling. “You let me pour my heart out to you. You watched me fall apart over both of them, and you just—what? Sat there and lied to my face?”

“I didn’t lie,” she said gently. “I just didn’t tell you.”

“That’s the same thing!” your voice cracked. “Lo, I told you everything. I asked for your help. I told you I felt like I was going crazy because I couldn’t figure out why I felt like I knew Superman, and I did! I did, and you knew why, and you said nothing.”

“I know,” Lois said, voice soft, pained. “I know, and I hate it. I hated every second of it.”

You shook your head, eyes burning. “God, you could’ve stopped me from getting hurt. You could’ve said something, anything, and instead you just—just let me spiral."

“I wanted to,” she said, standing now too. “I wanted to so many times. But it wasn’t my secret to tell.”

You stared at her, vision blurred again. “I trusted you.”

“And I never stopped trusting you,” she said, stepping closer. “I trusted you to survive it. I trusted that when he finally told you, it would mean something. Because it does. Because he chose to tell you.”

“That doesn’t make this okay. At all.”

“I’m not saying it does,” Lois said. “I’m saying I know it hurts. I’m saying I’m sorry. But I also know he loves you. And I think—God, I think you love him, too-”

“Of course I still love him!” you shouted.

The words exploded out of you like a shattering glass. Sharp. Sudden. Too loud in the quiet apartment.

Lois didn’t flinch. She just stood there. Staring at you.

And you stared right back.

Both of you locked in place—eyes wide, breath held, as if the air between you might snap.

The silence after was so thick it rang in your ears.

Then your shoulders slumped. The strength drained from your spine. And with a heavy exhale, you sat back down on the couch like your legs couldn’t hold you anymore.

Your voice, when it came again, was quieter. Rough. Broken.

“It’s not about whether or not I love Clark. Superman. Whatever.” You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I know I love him.”

You looked up at Lois, eyes glassy, face raw. “I just don’t know how to trust him.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I know that kind of lie—no matter how well-intentioned—feels like it rewrites everything. Like suddenly you have to go back and reevaluate every word, every look, every moment.”

You nodded slowly, jaw tight.

“But here’s the thing,” she continued. “Clark has spent his entire life hiding who he is. All of who he is. He didn’t do it to hurt you. He did it because he’s afraid.”

Lois held your hands in hers. "You're...different, Y/n. You walk around with your heart on your sleeve, you're an open book. You're so trusting and, and good."

You tried to drop your head in your hands but Lois knelt down in front of you,

“Vulnerability doesn’t come easy for him, not the way it does for you. He’s spent years trying to protect everyone else. But he’s never let anyone protect him. Not really. Not like this. Not until you.”

You stared down at the glasses still in your hand. Your fingers curled tighter around them.

“I know he should’ve told you sooner,” Lois went on, her voice a little quieter now, more intimate. “And I’m not saying you have to pretend it didn’t hurt. But,"

You looked at her.

She held your gaze. “He’s trying. Really trying. To be open. Honest. Vulnerable. With you. The way you’ve wanted him to be.”

You felt your chest twist at that. Your own words echoed back to you—two months of asking for something real. And now that it was in front of you, broken open and vulnerable… you didn’t know what to do with it.

“Don’t turn him away now,” Lois whispered. “Not when he’s finally giving you everything you asked for.”

You exhaled slowly, slumping further down into the couch, your whole body deflating. The silky skirt of your gown pooled around your legs, the remains of something once glamorous.

You looked up at the ceiling, tears drying on your cheeks, voice barely a whisper.

“Love is hard.”

Lois sat down next to you and leaned her head gently on your shoulder, her hair brushing your bare skin.

“Yeah,” she said. “But it’s really good too.”

The room went quiet for a second.

Then, her voice came light and mischievous:

“So… are you gonna tell me about the kiss?”

You groaned and grabbed the throw pillow beside you, smacking her squarely in the side.

She yelped. “Hey!”

You grinned through your tears. “You are the worst.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

You both burst into laughter, loud and messy, the kind that cracked something open inside you and let the light back in.

You covered your face, half-laughing, half-hiding.

Lois nudged you. “Okay, but seriously. He’s so handsome. Like, unfairly so. Even when he’s trying to play it down with those dumb glasses.”

You shook your head. “Don’t even start.”

“I mean, broad shoulders, big hands, stupidly soft hair?"

Lois ran her hands through her hair dramatically, mocking Clark. You put Clark's black frames on her face and fell back in laughter.

She removed the glasses and returned them gently to you.

As she did, she leaned closer, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Bet the kiss was really good.”

You covered your face. “Lo.”

“I’m just saying, if the man kisses as well as he writes—”

“Lois!”

She grinned, unapologetic.

You were still laughing, still breathless, when it quieted between you again. Not in a sad way. Just peaceful. The kind of quiet that lives in a room between people who really, truly know each other.

Your laughter softened, and you found yourself looking down at Clark’s glasses again. Your thumb traced the frame, slow and careful.

Your voice came out smaller than you expected.

“I love him,” you said. “I know I do.”

Lois didn’t say anything for a second. She just leaned her head back onto your shoulder and let you speak.

"I just don't know what to do with it."

---

You slept at Lois's that night. You never even thought about going home.

Once the tears and giggles stopped, Lois opened her phone to order some Thai food from the last place in Metropolis still open at 1 am. The two of you sat on her bed sharing Pad Thai, sticky rice, and a bottle of red wine.

Your gown—the once-stunning thing that had seemed so perfect when the night started—now hung limply on a plastic hanger in her tiny, overstuffed bathroom.

Instead, you donned an old college sweatshirt that you're sure she stole from you at one point. Soft from too many washes, faded letters reading DUKE JOURNALISM CLUB, and heavy in a way that grounded you.

You ate with plastic chopsticks and drank from mismatched mugs, red wine staining your lips and warming your chest.

For the first time in what felt like days, you were full. Not just from food, but from the feeling of being understood. Safe.

Halfway through your pad thai, you turned toward her, squinting with mock suspicion.

“Wait,” you said, pointing your chopsticks like a weapon, “you never answered my question.”

Lois blinked, feigning innocence. “Which question?”

“How the hell did you figure out Clark is Superman?”

She snorted and grabbed an egg roll. “Ugh. I didn’t figure out anything. The idiot revealed it to me on accident!"

You gaped at her.

“Okay, okay.” She laughed. “It was… honestly so dumb. We were at the Planet late one night, back when we were interns and covering the Riverside arsons. I was being annoying—like, purposefully annoying—and I stole his glasses off his face because I wanted to prove he could barely see without them.”

You choked on your noodles. “Lois.”

“He slapped his hands over his face! And then said, ‘Lois, give them back.’ And I swear, the second I looked at him I just froze. It was like someone flipped a switch in my brain.”

You grinned.

“I made him float two inches off the ground just to prove it.”

“Of course you did.”

"He was so embarrassed,” she said, proudly. “Which was wild. Because he literally flies.”

You laughed, hard. “That’s it?!”

“That’s it,” she said smugly. “Then he made me swear not to tell a soul."

You shook your head in disbelief. Then you both got quiet.

“You’ve been sitting on this the entire time I've been in Metropolis,” you said, voice low.

Lois’s smile faded. She looked down at the food between you.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I wanted to tell you. So many times. But it wasn’t my secret. And I knew the second you fell for Clark…” she glanced up at you, eyes soft, “that this would hurt. But I also knew that it would all be worth it.

You looked away. “Well, it hurts."

“I know.”

You sat in silence for a moment.

You curled against the headboard, legs tucked beneath you, watching the city lights blink through her window.

Your voice came softer this time.

“Do you think he’s okay? Right now?”

Lois tilted her head.

“I think he’s miserable,” she said honestly. “But also… hopeful. I think he’s just hoping you’ll still be there. That you’ll see him now. All of him. And not run.”

You nodded slowly, heart squeezing.

“I think I already saw him,” you whispered. “Maybe even before I realized it.”

She smiled and reached over, pulling the blankets up over both of you. The chill in the air didn’t feel so bad now.

"When you decide what to do," Lois stopped to look at you knowingly, "because you don't have to decide right away, okay? You don't owe him anything."

She stopped to sip her wine. "I'm with you. Whether you decide to forgive him and elope-"

"Lois."

"or hate him forever! I'm with you."

You let her words settle, warm and solid like the blanket draped over your legs. Lois leaned back into the pillows, one arm flopped across her forehead in mock dramatics, already half-asleep. But your mind stayed stubbornly awake.

You nudged her. "Lois,"

"Hm?"

"How did you know I was coming here? After the ball?"

Lois turned, half-lidded and tired. "Clark called me. Wanted to make sure you weren't alone."

The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional hum of traffic far below. You tilted your head toward the ceiling, watching the way the light from the street glowed soft and golden.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him—not Clark, not Superman. Certainly not both.

But here you were, heart aching, eyes sore, stomach full of lukewarm pad thai and a truth too big to ignore.

You still loved him.

You loved the way Clark always looked at you like you mattered, like every word out of your mouth was worth remembering. You loved the way he fumbled with his glasses when he got flustered, the way he offered his coat like it was second nature, the way he always asked how your day was and truly wanted to know every time.

You even loved the way he’d lied, in a strange and twisted way because it meant he was human. Flawed. Scared.

Just like you.

And God, hadn’t you always been a little scared too?

You’d spent so long holding yourself to impossibly high expectations, unsure if someone like him could ever truly want all of you. The messy, insecure, stubborn parts, the parts that got jealous or cried too easily or pushed people away too quickly.

But he had seen you, really seen you, and still stayed.

Now it was your turn to decide if you could do the same for him.

Was loving him worth the risk of getting hurt again?

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

Maybe.

Maybe loving Clark Kent meant accepting all of it. The secrets. The cape. The fear. You knew love wasn’t supposed to feel perfect all the time. But maybe it was supposed to be brave. Messy. Honest.

And maybe if he was finally willing to be vulnerable with you, you could be brave enough to be vulnerable with him, too.

After all, you’d spent all this time begging for his truth. And now you had it. Raw, cracked wide open, messy as hell—but real.

All you’d ever asked from him was honesty.

Now he was offering it.

How could you stop loving him now?

You shifted on the mattress and looked over at Lois, already snoring softly beside you, tangled in the blankets.

You smiled, faintly.

You didn’t have an answer yet. Maybe you’d still wake up tomorrow and feel angry. Or hurt. Or tired.

But for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you were in the dark.

---

a/n: big reveal. drama. love. it's a very 'will she or won't she' type beat.

god this part my favorite. definitely. fav line: You even loved the way he’d lied, in a strange and twisted way because it meant he was human. Flawed. Scared.

hope you guys liked it:)) not much left until the series is done and then i'm gonna start working on my requests! requests are OPEN for more clark/superman fics, headcanons, thoughts, or just to yap about him

much love🪷🪷🪷 pls reblog and comment if u liked

taglist: @liuralibrar @icybarness @angel-dust-cb @crbpoetry @aim-formyheart @lavendermoons222 @10hrs26mn @linambc @casalucard @ticklish-leafy-plant @asteria33 @tati-the-fangirl @g4rb4ge-dump @yourmyonlyobsession @voidsxntry @my-little-secret-diaries @britttzy267 @nothere2478 @hagarsays @otakusimp1 @twsssmlmaa @kitten-daisy @qardasngan @writerreal @please-help-this-little-lesbian @brillitos-azules @selfishlycalculatingvisitor @pleasecallmeunhinged @materialgirl-97 @ldrfanatic @bellegirl16 @or-was-it-just-a-dream @khxna @rorysbrainrot @smolivin @screamingplastictoenail88 @slayerofthevampire @kneelarmhstrung @227777777333 @ifilwtmfc @loftilyviolentthunder @justp3achy03 @animegamerfox @nina-from-317 @sizzlingkryptonitetale @arcaichive @bamitzzsam @bellascrap @dntdltkss @livbonnet @scorpio-echo @bloodiedlusts @corenswetwife @lanasdolll @kai59999901 @ivegotdaddyissues @americanboz0 @ayy1234567 @jenneric2003 @areleine @turtle-in-a-tornado @keiralovesmoony @smellybad @shortandb1tchy @i1ovedeanwinchester @lando-scales @lilac-and-cherries @bananaminion678 @azrielsbbg @annabethboleyn @odevote118 @the-hist0rian @cyntsvmv @novausstuff @lecwife @reiofsuns2001 @renaeant @sleeplessskeleton @nanamilkbread @after8hore @abasnail28 @vanessalovesonedirection @annieaniya @nixandtonic @rhiannonhippiegirl @dvdsniffer @negasonic-teenage-asshole @jsjajsjsnannzjisjs @andriannag @booknerd62529 @imsonotweird @gwcses @infinitepersuasion @dreamer7black @sofia-1d @dazecrea @adoringanakin

comment to be added to the taglist💕

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