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sushirrrry · 3 days ago

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READ PART ONE: CASA AMOR READ PART TWO: CRASH OUT READ PART THREE: TRUTH OR DARE

TONIGHT ON LOVE ISLAND...

PART FOUR | RECOUPLING || a harry styles x you love island series. word count: 9,892 content warning: tension & arguments & love island antics

summary: y/n and william take their first date; harry tries to pull everything back together, but he seemingly gets tangled when someone else gets involved. a love square, if you will.

author’s note: this has been so fun to write, and I'm so glad that you guys still care - I receive messages about this daily, so I thank you for waiting for the next update <3

A REMINDER OF THE COUPLINGS…

Catie and William are single bombshells.

{BEACH DATE – Y/N AND WILLIAM}

It was the kind of day you’d dream about in winter with a large blue sky above you, no clouds, warm breeze, the waves rolling in like they had nowhere else to be except greeting you.

The jeep pulled to a stop at the top of a rocky path that curved down toward a tucked-away patch of sand. Below, a perfect little picnic had been set up under a swaying canopy of white linen. There were pillows, a low table with a basket, a chilled bottle of rosé, and two glasses catching the light.

You laughed as you climbed out of the jeep, shielding your eyes. “Think this may be one of the prettiest dates I’ve ever been on.”

William grinned, turning to look over at you. “Right? Really going out with this one.”

You followed him down the path barefoot, your sandals in hand. The sand was already hot, soft beneath your feet. The whole scene felt easy, like something you could fall into if you weren’t careful—you were always careful now, you supposed.

He held out a hand gallantly as you stepped onto the picnic blanket. “M’lady.”

You rolled your eyes but took it anyway, settling onto the pillows with a small smile, maybe even a little pity of a laugh leaving your lips. “So, this is what getting chosen feels like.”

“’Couse someone would pick you,” he said, settling opposite you and uncorking the wine with a steady pop trailing after. “Now we just pretend the cameras aren’t here and talk like we’re on our second date and already secretly obsessed with each other.”

“Great,” you said, accepting the glass he handed you as you tuck a bit of hair that’s flying in your face from the breeze. “Love me a bit of delusion.”

He laughed, leaning back on one elbow. “Alright, then. Let’s start easy—what are you actually looking for in here?”

You took in a breath, licking over your lips as you took a small sip from your glass, “Big questions, Willy.”

“We’re in paradise surrounded by these snacks,” He gestured, “We can handle it, I think.”

You thought for a second, sipping your wine. “I think I’m looking for someone who feels… peaceful. Not boring—just calm. Like I don’t have to audition every time I open my mouth.”

William nodded, serious for a moment. “Someone you can exhale around, then.”

“Exactly.” You tell him, pursing your lips as you move to get more comfortable.

He smiled at that, his nose scrunching a bit under his sunglasses. “Well said.”

“What about you?” you asked, curiosity ringing off of your tone.

He shrugged, reaching for a piece of fruit from the platter between you. “Someone I can be stupid with, have a laugh with,” He pauses, poking his tongue in his cheek, “But also someone I’d actually miss if they were gone. I don’t think I’ve had that in a while.”

You watched him for a beat, thoughtful, you nod in acknowledgement. “So, you’re open to finding something real here?”

He looked at you like the question didn’t scare him. “Yeah. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. Might as well try, right?”

You nodded slowly, trying to not think about what may have been going on at the villa without you. “Yeah. Same.”

He popped a grape into his mouth and grinned. “Okay, now that we’ve gotten all deep and meaningful—tell me the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“Oh no,” you groaned, already laughing as you covered your mouth. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” he teased; his tone was light and flirty and had your stomach in butterflies that you just couldn’t understand. “You owe me for that heartfelt moment.”

You shook your head, biting back a grin as you pushed your sunglasses up on your face. “Fine. But if I tell you, you gotta’ tell me yours. And yours better be worse.”

“No promises.”

{IN A CONFESSIONAL – Y/N}

The camera cuts to you later that day, sitting in the beachside confessional hut, wind-tangled hair and pink cheeks from too much sun and smiling.

“William is honestly… such a breath of fresh air. He’s easy to talk to, so funny, and just gets it. Like, we’re on the same page—he’s open, but not pushy, and I feel like I can actually relax around him. It’s weird—like the whole villa faded for a second, and it was just us. It was really nice.”

You pause, cheeks warming again as you remembered it so fondly.

“I wasn’t expecting to like him this much. But now… I don’t know. I’m kind of hoping he wants to get to know me more.”

You glance to the side, then back at the camera with a small, knowing smile.

“I definitely wouldn’t be mad if he pulled me for a few chats.”

{NARRATOR}

“While Y/N’s off having her romantic picnic fantasy with William and drinking rosé by the sea… back at the villa, someone’s having a slightly less relaxing afternoon.”

Harry sits on the edge of the pool, legs dangling off the side and into the water, sunglasses in his hand, running his thumb over the frame like it’ll help him think but he just can’t help the annoying feeling that sits on his chest.

He huffs out, like it’ll somehow help him and make him feel better.

Ella settles next to him with a sigh, water bottle in her hand as she adjusts the straps of her bikini before she looks over at Harry. “You alright?”

“No,” Harry admits, eyes still on the horizon. “I fucked it.”

Tiana joins them, behind Ella, kneeling to tie her sandal before looking up. “Don’t we all.”

“Always is.”

Ella crosses her arms as she moves to sit next to Harry. “Then what are you doing with Tash still? You should just focus on Y/N if you’re going to sit here and pout.”

Harry exhales like he’s been holding it in all day, but he’s really just having a bit of moment where he knows that’s losing what he really wants. “I panicked. I didn’t think Y/N would want me after all the games, after how I acted. I tried to… I don’t know, distract myself, I guess.”

“She’s not a distraction kind of girl,” Tiana says gently, scrunching her nose.

“I know,” Harry says quickly, thinking. “And I didn’t mean it like that. I just—she doesn’t trust me. Not anymore. And I don’t blame her.”

Ella rests her hand on his shoulder. “Then fix it. Don’t mope around the villa staring at her like a kicked puppy, ‘t’s not a good look. Be honest.”

“She’s on a date with William right now.”

Tiana gives him a look, shaking her head. “Exactly. You don’t have time to sit around hoping the universe sorts it for you.”

Harry nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “I want to tell her I messed up and that I still care. But if I say that and she doesn’t feel the same…”

Ella cuts in, firm: “Then you take it, because she deserves to also make a choice that could potentially benefit her. But at least she’ll know you meant it. Then, you’ll have to have a conversation with Tash about it all too.”

{LATER – THE RETURN TO THE VILLA}

The four of you – Luca, Catie, you and William—find yourselves walking back through the garden gate, laughter from the ride still buzzing in your chest. Luca’s arm is around Catie’s shoulders, and William opens the gate for you with a boyish, “After you.”

Everything looks the same around but feels different.

And then you see him. Harry. Sitting on the daybed near the firepit, head tilted back, fingers twisting a bracelet you recognize as one of Ella’s many that she carried around and made for everyone. When he hears the gate creak, his gaze snaps toward the entrance.

He clocks you instantly, his eyes and attention focus on the fact that the four of you had returned. His posture shifts, jaw tight, like the sight of you next to William scraped something raw.

You ignore it—for now, because it’s much easier than processing that you see an immediate person focusing on you. William gives you a light nudge as you pause near the pool. “Thanks for today.”

You smile back at him. “It was… really nice, thank you. Relaxing, surely.”

He doesn’t kiss you—just smiles, squeezes your hand, and walks toward the kitchen with Luca, going to talk to all the other boys. You feel lighter, seeing Ella and Tiana in your vision like they want to get to you. But it’s Harry walking toward you that grabs your attention almost before you can take another breath.

You have barely made it back in one piece before you watch him take his opportunity.

“Can I—can I pull you for a chat?”

His curls are messier than usual, like he’s been running his hands through them all day. He’s not smirking, there’s no teasing. Just him standing there with a hopefulness that starts to ooze from him, an itching like he can’t stand not being around. Like he can’t stand that he doesn’t know what happened on the date.

“How was your date?” He asks after a moment, walking next to you. You don’t want to give any details that would feel disrespectful to William, so you shrug and clear your throat.

“I—I mean, it was good. We went to the beach, had a little picnic,” You raise your brows at him, noticing that he’s staring at you with a fixation that makes you squirm under his gaze, “A Manchester boy, you know. Cheeky, a bit of a laugh.”

Harry’s lips quiver into a small smile, “You like ‘em like that, huh?”

You push your sunglasses up your nose with a small smirk, “Guess that’s what the universe is trying to tell me.” You nod, unsure why your heart’s already sprinting at the way that he’s not saying everything he wants to.

He leads you around the corner of the garden to the small bench by the lemon trees—away from everyone, but not hidden, especially from the kitchen where many people are gathered. He doesn’t sit right away. You can see that he lets you pick where you want to sit before he just stands there, shifting on his feet.

He finally looks at you. Really looks at you.

“I know I’ve been acting weird,” he starts. “And I know I don’t really deserve your time right now, but I need to say something before it gets worse.”

Your arms cross over your chest, not out of anger—just to keep your heart from spilling.

“Okay.”

He swallows hard. “You don’t trust me anymore. And that’s my fault. I—” He huffs a breath. “I picked the safe option. I thought if I went for someone easier, it wouldn’t hurt as much if it didn’t work out. But I haven’t stopped thinking about our connection. Not for a second.”

You blink, heart hammering in your chest as you shake your head. It’s almost too much—you’re trying to process going on the date, then seeing Harry immediately when you enter back.

“Harry—”

“No, let me finish, please.” He goes to sit, voice quieter now. “I didn’t know how to handle how real it felt with you. I still don’t. But today, seeing you come back from that date… smiling with someone else…”

You tilt your head, giving him a quiet headshake as you feel incredulous, “Jealousy isn’t the same as having a connection.”

“I know that,” he says quickly, shaking his head to remind you that’s not what he meant. “It’s not just that. It’s—when I’m not with you, I’m still looking for you, and I just—I know you have other options to explore now, but I just don’t want you to take this off the table, for now. I never wanted it off the table in the first place.”

You stay silent, mostly because you don’t know what to say to that.

He sighs again, a little breathless almost like he’s fighting to just sit there with you. “I’m not asking you to forgive me or fall back into anything right away. I just needed you to know that I never stopped choosing you. Even when I looked like I did.”

You study him as if the more you read, the more you’ll learn about him. He looks… wrecked, hopeful. Boyish in a way that makes something soft ache in your chest.

“You broke my trust, Harry,” you whisper, pulling your lips into your mouth as you shake your head, “I—I just need to think for a bit about it, you know. Don’t really know where this is coming from.”

“I’ll just have to earn it,” he says immediately. “Day by day. I’ll prove it, if you let me.”

You hesitate, then nod once. You aren’t giving everything—but giving him a chance, it’s the least you can do.

He smiles, barely, like it hurts to leave under these conditions.

“Uh, can I – I’d just like a minute, it’s that’s okay.” You swallow, heat rising in your chest as you lay against the day bed and pick your hair off your neck, twisting it into a knot.

There are a few moments where Harry stares at you, but then nods, respecting it. “Sure.”

There’s a finality with that before he lingers a moment, almost like he wants you to change your mind. But, instead, he moves to start the walk back toward the kitchen—slowly, glancing back only once.

You watch the sun sink lower in the sky. And for the first time in days, your chest doesn’t feel so heavy.

{IN A CONFESSIONAL – Y/N}

The camera cuts to you, sitting in the private confessional hut, knees tucked up on the seat, your arms loosely wrapped around them. Your hair’s still slightly wind-mussed from the breeze earlier, and there’s a flushed glow on your cheeks—not from sunburn, but from too many thoughts colliding all at once.

You let out a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“I don’t really know what just happened.”

You pause, looking off to the side, chewing the inside of your cheek for a beat.

“I mean, I do. Harry said all the right things. He said things I thought I wanted to hear. And if he’d said them the day he came back from Casa—maybe I would’ve run to him. Maybe I would’ve believed it straight away.”

Your eyes flick back to the camera, shaking your head.

“But now? It’s hard. He broke my trust. And trust isn’t just… something you hand back like a forgotten hoodie. It’s something you have to rebuild piece by piece. I’m not sure he understands that yet, especially because he was so quick to move on with Tash.”

You shift slightly, pulling your ponytail tighter.

“And then there’s William.”

Your face softens a little, and you feel your tone shift.

“I wasn’t expecting that date to feel like that. He made it easy—he made me laugh. He asked real questions but didn’t press too hard, and for the first time since I got here, I didn’t feel like I had to brace for something underneath the flirting. It was just… really nice.”

A quiet smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

“I want to keep seeing where that could go. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I do know I’m not closing the door on someone who’s already showing up for me.”

You pause again, shoulders rising as you take a slow breath.

“Harry says he wants to earn my trust back—day by day. Fine. But I’m not waiting around this time. If he wants to prove it, he’s going to have to do that with more than just words.”

You glance away again, nodding to yourself once.

“I’m open. But I’m not naïve.”

{IN THE VILLA – EVENING}

The sun had slipped behind the hills hours ago, but the air still clung warm to your skin. The villa prepared for the evening cocktail hour; the girls sprayed their perfume; their mascara flicked flawlessly through their lashes before everyone started to come down to the main garden.

Harry and Luca entered together, Mitch following behind him.

You sat on the daybeds with Ella and Tiana, dressed in one of your favorite evening fits—butter yellow satin tied at the shoulders, heels already kicked off. Candles glowed in low glass holders across the garden, and soft music played from the outdoor speaker, but none of it matched the storm sitting in your chest.

You curled your legs beneath you, fingers absently picking at the hem of your skirt that laid against your thighs.

“I meant to tell him I was done…” your voice was quiet, slightly frayed as you try and keep the conversation contained to you three. “I really did.”

Ella nudged your knee with hers. “But he got to you. That’s allowed—I mean, you guys had a connection day one and have been inseparable.”

Tiana, perched beside her with a glass of Prosecco, added without missing a beat, “Doesn’t mean he gets you. Not unless he proves he’s worth it.”

You nodded, pressing your lips together. The words stuck with you—sharp and true.

Across the villa, the kitchen lights cast a soft yellow glow. William stood there with Luca, both nursing water bottles like they were trying to drown whatever feelings they weren’t saying out loud. William’s eyes were on you, and you could feel the guilt that had started to form in your chest.

“She’s not mine,” he said, voice low, quiet enough to keep between them. “Not really. But I’d still choose her—I’m definitely looking to move with that connection, but I feel that she’s still reserved.”

Luca leaned against the counter, tossing the cap of his bottle back and forth between his hands. “Then, you better mean it. Harry screwed it up—I think you have a chance if you really move in.”

William didn’t answer. Just nodded once, jaw tightening.

“You know the status of him and Tash?” William asks quietly, before he looks around.

Luca takes in a breath before he looks at the way that Tash moves through the garden with the white against her bronzed skin, hair down past her shoulders.

“Haven’t talked with him—I know he was keeping his options open, which is why he brought her back. But I don’t know if he’s made a choice yet, but I think that may fuck him over, ya’know what I mean?”

Back in the garden, Harry sat alone on the edge of the firepit, staring into the flames like they might offer answers if he continued to stare at it blankly. He hadn’t spoken to you since earlier—since that half-confession, since the moment he asked for a chance, and you didn’t give him a clean no. He hadn’t followed up, and hadn’t tried to chase it.

But now, as Tash passed by with a drink in hand and a silky dress that caught the breeze just right, his eyes met hers as he gave her a solemn smile.

“Oi,” he called out casually, smirking at her as she was looking as if she was going to pass him by, “Company?”

Tash glanced back, raising an eyebrow, then smiled. She knew what she was doing, and getting his attention was what she had wanted. “Always.”

His eyes followed the way that she walked from one of the side sofas and sank beside him, suddenly relaxed—too relaxed. For a moment, they just sat there, both staring out at the firepit as if they weren’t trying to be noticed.

Then Tash broke the silence, lifting her drink. “So, cheers to second chances, huh?”

Harry let out a low chuckle as he turned to look at her—that was his first mistake. The way that her eyes caught him was enough for him to force himself to look away. “Think I’m on my third at this point.”

“Third this week,” she teased him with a bite of her lip. “Maybe with me, maybe with others. You’re so naughty I lose count.”

He laughed again—shoulders actually shaking this time, head falling back with the kind of grin that used to make girls lean in closer. It was all so easy for him—too easy. And the wrong kind of loud.

“I should be banned from emotional chats,” he told her softly. “I always sound like I’m trying to win an Oscar.”

Tash smirked, taking a sip of her prosecco as she leaned closer to him. “You do get a bit dramatic. Not gonna lie.”

“Me?” he blinked back at her with a dramatic spin, “I’m chill.”

“You’re chaos,” she replied smoothly, clinking her glass against his. “But entertaining.”

He grinned, dimples on display as he rolled his eyes playfully. “Entertaining’s all I’ve got going for me right now.”

Tash tilted her head, eyes narrow with something sly. “Hm, don’t know about that—think you could probably be more than just entertaining.”

That line hung in the air for a second longer than necessary. Then—his hand moved with a barely there flick of a movement. A subtle brush of fingers along her knee, like he was grounding himself, or performing. Or both.

Tash didn’t flinch. Just glanced down and then back up at him with a slow, practiced smile.

It didn’t go unnoticed—it certainly didn’t go unnoticed.

Ella scoffed beside you on the daybed as you all stared at the conversation by the firepit. “He’s joking, right?”

You didn’t answer, but your expression must’ve said enough. Tiana just stared at the scene across the garden; lips pressed into a hard line.

Harry hadn’t looked your way in a while, not since the chat earlier. Not really since you’d told him you needed time, that you didn’t know where all of this was suddenly coming from; that he’d broken your trust, and you needed a moment.

Now he sat on the edge of the sofa beside Tash, all easy laughter and relaxed body language, like he hadn’t poured his heart out to you in the garden. It was like he wasn’t pacing himself through damage control with two girls on either side of the story.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye from the daybeds, trying not to care. But the way his hand casually brushed Tash’s knee was hard to ignore.

Ella let out a slow exhale beside you. “This boy… watch him, watch him.”

Tiana didn’t say anything, but her stare could’ve sliced glass. Then came movement—someone else moving to the firepit, almost like there was a bounty on who could pull Harry the most times.

Megan had been hovering all night, but now she started to cross the lawn with the confidence of someone who’d been waiting for an opening. A drink in hand, gloss perfect, eyes locked on the firepit. Ella saw it happening before, gasping slightly at watching the interaction.

“Oh no.”

She moved from where she’d been sitting with the girls near the kitchen, crossing the lawn slowly, her hips swaying with the kind of confidence that made the entire villa track her progress. Her hair caught the glow of the garden lights, her drink still in hand as she maneuvered her way, with her heels.

You felt it before you saw it—the shift.

Tiana turned toward you with wide eyes. “Wait. No way.”

Megan reached the sofas where Harry and Tash sat, leaned forward slightly, and rested her hand on the back of the seat behind Harry.

“Can I pull you for a chat?” she asked, voice smooth, low, like it was already a secret. Harry blinked, almost like he couldn’t believe it as he turned his head to see Megan standing there. But he gave her a smile, a polite gesture as he turned to look at Tash really quick, before seeing her polite face, too.

“Yeah—yeah, sure.”

He stood, glass in hand, straightening his shirt, glancing between Tash and Megan like he wasn’t sure what expression to land on. In the end, he followed Megan to where she was leading, letting her lead him toward the terrace with the easy charm of someone who didn’t realize how obvious it all looked.

The two of them disappeared up the steps, her hand grazing his arm as they turned the corner.

Ella sat back on the cushions with a dramatic sigh. “So much for earning trust.”

You didn’t say anything. You just watched the boy who said he still wanted you get pulled away by the girl who had kissed him in a game days ago—and who clearly hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

But, at the same time, you sat with the idea that he made claims that he was still fighting for you—this wasn’t all his doing. He could fall into their traps; it was still a game at the end of the day. It was still a place to find love, and Harry was still charming. That’s what worried you.

Megan was single and trying her hand at being chosen, finding her own connections. It was just the way of going about it that you couldn’t see past.

{IN THE VILLA – TERRACE}

The terrace was quieter than the rest of the villa, which is supposedly why Megan would have led Harry up there—high enough to catch the breeze, tucked enough to feel hidden. Fairy lights strung overhead flickered warm and low, casting soft gold across the little cushioned bench tucked in the corner.

Megan led the way, walking like she already knew Harry would follow. When she turned and sat, she crossed her legs slowly, placing her drink on the low table beside her. Harry followed a few paces behind, his jaw tight, one hand rubbing the back of his neck like he was already bracing for whatever this was.

“Bit of fresher air up here, yeah?” Megan said lightly, patting the space beside her. “Maybe a bit clearer.”

Harry gave a short laugh and sat, leaving just enough space between them to be polite—but not cold. “Yeah. Didn’t realize I needed it ‘til now maybe.”

Megan smiled, leaning back on the cushions behind her back, her dress riding up ever so slightly on her thigh. “You’ve had a busy day. And a busier night, I see.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, half-smirking. “That obvious, is it?”

“Babe, the whole villa can feel it,” she said, laughing—she tucked her hair behind her ear. “You’re the man of the hour seems like.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Not sure that’s a good thing.”

Megan tilted her head, her voice dipping a little lower. “Depends on what you do with all that attention.”

There was a pause—quiet, heavy. Megan broke it, casual but calculated as she reached to grab her drink, taking a small sip. “I’m just wondering where your head’s at.”

Harry exhaled, eyebrows knitting together as he recalled the Truth or Dare game. “Yeah,” he said, watching him carefully. “We had that moment the other day, didn’t we? During the game. That kiss.”

“It was a good kiss, to be fair,” Megan replied, her tone matter-of-fact, but there was a flicker of challenge behind her eyes as she gave a soft giggle. “Wasn’t nothing, was it?”

Harry paused, shifting in his seat. “Look, I’m not gonna lie, Meg—it was a good kiss. Surprised me, actually—I mean, more surprised that you chose me.”

Megan’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “See?”

“But…” he added, rubbing his palm over his knees, “my head’s a bit messy.”

“With Y/N,” Megan said softly.

Harry nodded once. “And Tash, kind of. But mostly Y/N. It’s just… not straightforward, and I think I’m starting to realize that I… do have a stronger connection with her at the moment.”

Megan didn’t press him for an explanation; it wasn’t needed. Instead, she leaned in slightly, her voice turning lighter. “I’m not trying to mess up whatever you’ve got going on. Just thought if you were open to getting to know people… I’d throw my name in, and I know you two aren’t exclusive, so.”

He gave her a look—something between appreciation and regret. “I rate that. I do. You’re sound, Megan. Gorgeous, obviously. Just—”

“You’re not there,” she finished for him, shrugging. “Fair enough.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair as he blinked a few times, trying to put together what he wants to say that wouldn’t hurt her feelings, but that wouldn’t be used against him later with all the honesty that he held. “I don’t want to lead anyone on. I’ve already done enough of that.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The wind picked up slightly, fluttering the hem of Megan’s dress.

“Well,” she said, standing and brushing her hands down her thighs to adjust her dress, “least I know where I stand now.”

Harry stood too, smiling softly as he stood next to her “Respect for being honest and putting yourself out there.”

Megan glanced back at him before standing up, brushing her dress down. “Maybe next time, try being honest a little earlier.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Harry stood there for a beat longer, staring out over the villa—the garden lights below had a sparkle to them that made him roll his eyes at the possible happiness and overarching optimism, the people he was trying not to lose already slipping further away.

From the daybeds, the view of the terrace steps was unobstructed. It was one of those architectural choices that made it nearly impossible to do anything in private—and tonight, that felt intentional as the names on everyone’s breath were starting to make their way down the steps.

You were still sitting with Ella and Tiana, leaning back against the bench with your neck slightly out to try and catch a glimpse, trying to keep your face neutral all at the same time. But your chest had been tight for the last ten minutes.

Ella stopped mid-sentence when she noticed there was movement, Tiana nudged you.

“Oh, here we go,” Ella murmured to you as the three of you stared at the two individuals coming down from the terrace.

You looked up just in time to see them—Harry and Megan—walking side by side down the stairs from the terrace. Their heads were bowed slightly, not talking, but not exactly keeping distance either. Megan’s arms were folded across her chest; her lips curved into the faintest smile. Harry’s hands were jammed in his pockets.

They didn’t look guilty of any wrongdoings; they didn’t look triumphant either. They seemed quiet, neither of them talking or having a conversation which made your eyes knit with a bit of confusion on why their chatted in the first place.

Your eyes shifted along the rest of the garden; the villa was watching.

Tash glanced over from her place at the edge of the pool, her eyes narrowing the second she clocked them. William, standing near the outdoor bar in the kitchen space, turned just slightly in their direction, then looked quickly away.

Even Luca raised an eyebrow from where he was lounging with Catie. Nobody said a word, but the tension was thick enough to cut.

You watched Harry’s eyes flick instinctively toward you. He looked… unreadable, at most. Like he hadn’t made up his mind about how he wanted to play this next part. You didn’t look away, you didn’t smile. You didn’t even flinch at the way that he leaned in to say something to Megan under his breath—just a quick nod, and then she peeled off toward the girls by the kitchen like it was nothing.

Your heart raced when you watched Harry turn and walked directly toward you. Ella shifted next to you, visibly bristling.

“Oh, no way,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

Tiana stayed silent, but she didn’t make room for him. Harry stopped at the edge of the daybed, hands still in his pockets.

“Can we chat?” he asked, his voice softer than you expected.

You stared at him, Ella scoffed. You glanced at her—she didn’t even try to hide her glare. Harry’s jaw tightened slightly, like he was biting back a reaction at that. You exhaled slowly and stood, brushing your hands down the side of your dress.

“Yeah, sure.”

Ella didn’t move as you stepped past. Tiana gave Harry a single, cutting look before turning her head.

“Don’t think I deserve to be fucking written off,” Harry bit at their reactions; his reaction caught them off guard for a moment before you took in a breath; he stood with a sour expression that was ultimately laced in a bit of hurt, “It’s fucking Love Island for Christ sake, I’m not a fucking villain here.”

“No, but you’re still a prick,” Tiana said quickly, her reaction and tone matching his. “You knew how Y/N felt, and you still walk around with that smug smirk.”

You started to walk away from the conversation to not get involved in either part of it; in your surprise, he didn’t respond to Tiana, you felt him on her tracks. You walked ahead of him toward the quieter side of the garden, not waiting to see if he followed. But you knew he would, and behind you, the villa was still watching.

You led him to the part of the garden, where the lanterns dimmed and the sounds of the villa softened into distant murmurs. There was a bench—half in shadow, half in glow under a bit of dim glow. You took a seat, crossing your legs as you took in a deep breath and prepared yourself for what he could say.

Harry hesitated before stepping closer but kept a small distance between you. He could feel the wall you’d built since the last time you spoke—and it wasn’t subtle.

“Before you say anything,” he started, voice low because he didn’t want the entire villa to hear their conversation, “I just want to be honest. About what that was.”

You turned your head, giving him a glance but not giving in. “Go on, then.”

He ran a hand through his curls, exhaling. “Megan pulled me because she wanted to see where my head was at. And I told her—straight up—that it’s messy,” He paused for a moment, poking his tongue in his cheek, “And that I’m not interested in her like that—I just don’t see us forming a connection now, and that I’m focused on someone else.”

You looked at him fully now, eyebrows raised. “Right. And you needed to tell her that on the terrace? Alone?”

“She took me up there.” Harry didn’t flinch responding, looking at you—keeping eye contact the whole time. “She kissed me during the game, remember? I think she’s been waiting for a moment since then. I just… didn’t want to be rude. I didn’t want it to turn into something bigger than it was.”

You let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief as you looked down. “It’s already bigger than it was, Harry. Everything is because every time someone sees you laughing with Tash, or disappearing with Megan, or looking at me like I’m the one confusing you—it’s already a whole thing.”

He looked down for a moment, he picked at his thumb nail to focus in on something. “I get it. I do. I just… I didn’t think saying yes to that chat would matter that much—"

You shook your head, lips tight as you felt yourself interrupt his thoughts. “It’s not about the chat. It’s about what it looks like, what it feels like. You’re saying you want to earn my trust, but you’re everywhere with everyone, Harry. I don’t want to be one of three girls orbiting around whatever version of you shows up that day.”

His eyes flashed with something—it looks like hurt mixed with a guilt that almost made his put a permanent sadness on his face.

“I’m not trying to play games,” his voice has an earnest nature to it, like he just couldn’t keep this up anymore. “I didn’t plan for any of this. You know that, right?”

You gave a small nod, but your arms stayed crossed as you tried your best to hear him out. “I know. But you’re still in it, whether you meant to be or not,” you swallow as you shake your head, “And I’m not going to fight anyone for you, Harry. I won’t do that—I’m not wired like that, that’s not why I’m here.”

There was silence between you. It was a silence that didn’t warrant either of you to speak; you took in a breath; he let one out. Then, Harry nodded slowly.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” he said finally, shrugging like he didn’t have anything else to give. “And I’m sorry I made it feel like that. Truly—the only regret I have this far is making you feel like that.”

You let your arms drop slightly, your posture softening but your eyes still guarded. “You’re saying a lot of the right things lately, but your timing sucks.”

He gave a faint smile; you weren’t sure if there were tears in his eyes or if it may have just been the glowing lights hitting them differently, but you instantly looked away because it hurt to see him distraught.

“Yeah. That’s fair.” He responded, nodding again.

There was another short pause before you took in a breath, you looked at him properly now. “What do you want?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He looked at you like he was still trying to figure it out himself. Eventually, he said, “I want something real with you. But only if it’s not hurting you to try.”

You nodded once, not a finality in it, but more of an eeriness that you couldn’t pinpoint. “Okay.”

It wasn’t a yes or a no—it was an okay. That word itself became a boundary; it was a space for him to prove it or walk away. Harry didn’t push any further on it, to try and get an answer out of you. He just sat there, shoulders a little heavier, watching you like he knew he’d already used up his last second chance.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees as his eyes diverted up to you. “You still thinking about William?”

You didn’t answer right away because there wasn’t a reason to give any details to him; you wanted to be honest, wanted to tell him that you and William had a great date. You found that he had been very respectful, had a lot of character that made you feel wanted and seen.

You wanted to tell Harry that because you wanted him to feel the jealousy.

But then—

Ping, ping.

A sharp, echoing chime ripped through the quiet from across the garden. You both snapped at the familiar sound towards the garden, heads lifting to see that Mitch held the phone up in his hands. Voices rose from the pool area. The rest of the villa had started to gather.

Harry stood first, brows furrowed. “Fucking hell.”

You followed, legs slightly stiff as you walked side-by-side toward the group, the ease of your chat instantly gone. Like it had been placed in a glass case and sealed.

Mitch already had the phone in hand. You arrived just as he cleared his throat to read aloud, the others circling in with widened eyes and held breath.

“Islanders. Tonight, there will be a recoupling. The boys will choose which girl they want to couple up with. The girl not chosen will be dumped from the island—immediately. Please make your ways to the firepit.”

You stood frozen in place, eyes flicking toward Harry, whose body was already rigid beside you. His jaw locked tight, his eyes on you like there wasn’t anyone else in the world—you felt the heat of his stare, the need in his body language as he stood practically as close to you as possible without physical touch.

Across the circle, William turned slowly, his stare landing on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He didn’t speak—but the message was there, clear as day.

Tash sat a few feet away, her spine straightening sharply as she took in the information. Her lips parted like she was about to say something—but no sound came. She just looked from Harry to you and then quickly down, composing herself with a sharp exhale.

And beside you, Ella reached for your arm, grounding you from your feeling of floating. You turned slightly, meeting her wide, serious eyes as you both started to make your ways over to the firepit.

{IN A CONFESSIONAL – HARRY}

He’s sitting forward in the seat, fingers laced together tightly as he thinks for a moment before speaking. There’s an unwritten tension that stays on his face longer than a single moment because he’s completely unsure of what he wants to say.

“If I’m honest, I thought I’d already ruined it, and maybe I have. But if there’s even half a chance, she feels the same… I have to take it.”

He exhales slowly, nodding to himself like he’s trying to believe it.

“I know who I want to be choosing, and I hope it’s the right decision for me.”

{IN THE VILLA – AT THE FIREPIT}

You stand with your hands on the front of your dress that hugs your thighs; the butter yellow is complimentary to your poolside warm skin in a way that invites wandering eyes. The girls stood side by side in a line that felt more like a firing squad than a ceremony with their heads held high, hopes sitting on their shoulders and lifted like shields.

Everyone is pretending they aren’t holding their breath, waiting for their final demise. You stood next to Tash so close your arms could brush if you just leaned a bit to the left, but the distance between you felt like miles. That was the issue—you never wished her any ill-will, you wanted her to find love, too.

You stared forward, lips parted just slightly, trying to look calm, composed, untouched by it all as the villa stood around you like it was going to fall at any moment. But your chest rose a little too fast, and your eyes flicked to Harry before you could stop them.

Johnny had chosen Ella; Liam had chosen Tiana; Luca had chosen Catie. They had made their small speeches, little affectionate tidbits that made each of the girls feel special and wanted for the moment.

Harry was sitting on the bench with the boys, elbows on knees, gaze fixed low as he tried to keep his thoughts unread and composed. That was, until the text tone chimed again; Luca picked up the phone, read the message aloud with a sharp edge to his voice.

“Harry, please stand up.”

Everything else fell away when you realized that your fate was now in his palms. Harry stood slowly almost like he was learning how to, like the air had gone heavy around him. His jaw flexed, his eyes finally lifting—first to the girls next to you, then directly towards your eyes to almost make contact but that would have hurt more than it was worth.

He stood at his spot in front of the firepit, there was a small sweep of a breeze through his curls. He wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t trying to be charming—it had finally caught up to his emotions to a point now. He couldn’t charm his way around it now.

Tash stood tall beside you, chin tilted upward like she already knew how this was going to go, but her arms sat behind her back, and you wondered what had been going on behind her eyes. You wondered if she really knew, or if she thought she could overcome this.

From being a girl’s girl, you wished that it didn’t have to be this way—in all honesty, there was nothing to hate about any of the girls standing there with you. You were all there for the same reasons, but the connections were getting crossed, messages were getting mixed.

Instead, you reached for her hand softly; not knowing if she would reciprocate the small gesture. Your fingers moved to hold onto hers, letting them settle against hers, and she pulled onto you softly. She took your hand and held it without another look.

When your eyes lifted up, you saw Harry as he stood just in front of the firepit. The flames flicked at the air, like they were dancing. His hands were clenched together in front of him—thumb dragging a nervous line across the ridge of his knuckles.

He took a slow breath in as his fingers fidgeted in front of him when he moved to flex them.

“I’d like to couple up with this girl,” he began with a shaky voice that made his eyes shut just at the idea that he had to choose, “because…”

He looked down for a moment, but when he looked up again, his gaze landed squarely on you, and you wondered if that was what was written in the card or the apology you never received. Either way, your lips parted at the green eyes that laid on you and you already forgave him for something that he hadn’t done yet—regardless. Regardless of if he chose someone else because he truly felt they had a deeper connection.

It’s okay, your eyes pleaded, You’re forgiven.

“…because she sees every side of me—the good, the reckless, the parts I try to hide. And instead of turning away when I make irrational decisions… she makes me want to be someone worth choosing, on her end too.”

Your lips parted as you let a sharp breath in. No one moved from their seats as they looked between Harry and you. A single heartbeat passed, then another. You could feel Tash go still next to you with severe uncertainty—rigid, unreadable.

Harry hadn’t said your name. And still, everything in you already knew this was about to change everything. The night hung in the air, heavy with what was coming next.

The fire crackled softly beside Harry, throwing a warm orange light across his face, but he looked pale beneath it. Not afraid—just ready and braced for whatever came next.

“She challenges me, calls me out when I’m being an absolute nightmare. Makes me feel like I don’t have to pretend even when I’ve given her every reason not to trust me—she still looks at me like there’s something good left. And I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to deserve someone so badly than this girl.”

Your heart stopped because you aren’t sure how to react; the silence in the villa was complete. Then, without any further anxiety, you watch him let out a heavy deep breath that looked like it had been holding inside of him for ages.

“Y/N.”

It was your name. It was simply your name with a sureness, it was said like it meant everything.

Gasps echoed instantly with a few shocked murmurs rippled through the group, a whispered “No way…” from somewhere near the boys’ bench. Someone dropped their hand to their mouth. Even Luca looked wide-eyed. You felt the sting of a thousand eyes land on you at once.

Your feet stayed glued to the gravel for half a second too long. The world spun a little, and when you moved, it was like pushing through water. Tash didn’t look at you.

She didn’t look at anyone, instead opting to just stare ahead, expression fixed with a stoicism that you respected. It immediately felt like the entire scene was playing on a screen far away and she wasn’t bothered by any of it. Her arms remained held behind her back as she swayed on her feet for a moment, her jaw locked tight.

You stepped forward towards Harry as he watched every move you made like he couldn’t believe you were actually coming toward him—almost like he had forgotten he had chosen you. When you reached him, he didn’t touch you at first—just let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking over your face.

You stood in front of him, spine straight. Still unsure if you were angry or overwhelmed or something else entirely. He leaned in, quiet, just for you.

“Thank you,” he murmured with a disbelief as he went to wrap his arms around you. You let yourself fall into his touch, almost like you hadn’t let your breath out yet. You didn’t respond, you didn’t have to.

Shutting your eyes, you took in the smell of the suntan lotion mixed with his cologne that almost overwhelmed you right then and there. When you let go of him, you turned to stand next to him, facing outwards as you both went to take a seat on the bench.

Ella shot you a look from across the firepit—wide-eyed, questioning, ready for details the second she got you alone. Tiana’s lips were parted in surprise, like she couldn’t understand what had happened. William, still seated on the bench, blinked slowly like he hadn’t decided whether to be disappointed or impressed.

And then there was Tash—Tash didn’t even blink. Now, you sat beside Harry, your heart still racing, the fire between you and the rest of the villa burning hot.

In a second, you feel the phone next to you chime with the ringtone. You reach down to pick it up to read the message across the screen:

“William, please stand up.”

There was a pause after you said his name; your eyes glancing over to where he sat next to Luca. Then, William stood.

His movement was measured, shoulders rolled back, jaw tight. There wasn’t an angriness about him—but there was an unreadable reaction in that calm, quietly serious way of his. He didn’t look at you, but you could feel it anyway—that faint hum of what he’d almost said. What he almost did say if Harry hadn’t gotten to you first.

“I want to couple up with this girl,” he said finally, his voice low, steady, with something just a little heavy behind it, “because I think she deserves another shot.”

There was a shift then, a subtle one. Even all of the other girls on the bench started to stand straighter.

William didn’t pause for any type of drama. He didn’t look around the villa searching for effect. His words were quiet like he wasn’t trying to sell a love story—just speak something kind into the space between two people.

“She’s been through it in here. And I think sometimes when you get bruised like that, it’s easy to forget who you were before it all started, but she hasn’t. She’s still holding her head up,” He held his hands in front of him, “She’s still cool, still honest. I think we haven’t explored all of our own connection yet, and I’m looking forward to diving a bit deeper.”

You felt Harry shift beside you again, and this time, you knew it wasn’t for your benefit. William’s gaze finally rose—steady and clear directly at her.

“So, the girl I’d like to couple up with… is Tash.”

You turned your head slightly to glance at her. Tash didn’t react immediately—there wasn’t any widened eyes or dramatic exhale like she was saved. She just blinked once, as if letting the words settle inside her, and then stepped forward towards William.

She stopped in front of William, who gave her a small, private smile. There was nothing smug or performative, or unrealistic about it. It was just… kind.

She returned it—just a flicker of a smile in the corner of her mouth—and then took her seat beside him. Just two people aligned for the first time that night. The firepit seemed quieter after that, like everyone had become exhausted just in the past ten minutes of this conversation.

No one said anything, but the mood shifted, ever so slightly. The chaos had dimmed with a soft hush settling over the space. Tiana looked across the firepit at you with raised brows and a tiny shake of her head. Ella leaned forward just slightly, mouthing something you didn’t quite catch.

William’s voice still echoed faintly in your mind: “She deserves another shot.”

You weren’t sure who he’d meant that for—Tash, or maybe you too. But either way, you were grateful for the way he said it.

Tash and William now sat together on the bench, not quite touching with his arm around the back of the seat, but aligned in something that felt stable—newly formed. The rest of the villa seemed to collectively exhale; there were no dramatic gasps, no applause. There was just silence and the soft crackle of the firepit, as if the air had decided everyone needed a moment to recover.

You felt the weight of eyes on you again—Tiana giving you a look that said, This is far from over, and Ella mouthing something with a tight-lipped expression, probably Are you okay? But you couldn’t catch it.

Your heart was still drumming from everything that came before—Harry’s voice choosing your name, William’s eyes not flinching when he didn’t get to. Tash’s composure as she accepted being a couple with William. It was all still settling like silt in water.

Ping, ping.

That sound again. Sharp, and final. Everyone’s heads turned toward the bench where the phone sat. Tiana picked it up without hesitation, her brows drawing together as she read aloud:

“Megan. As the only girl not chosen in tonight’s recoupling… you have been dumped from the island. Please pack your bags and say your goodbyes.”

There it was: the final cut. Megan didn’t move at first as she stood alone. The whole villa held still, as if even the firepit had dimmed its glow in respect. She just smoothed the front of her dress, tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, and gave a single nod.

“Guess that’s me, then,” she said quietly, with a wry half-smile. “It’s been real—I do love all of you, and I really loved being here the past few weeks with everyone. We’ve made some great memories, and I do wish you all the best.”

A few people moved quicker than others—Catie came over to hug her, Ella followed, offering soft words. Even Luca stood to say something respectful. You stayed seated for a moment, unsure what your role was anymore. You and Harry stood after a few moments; you gave her a soft hug, Harry following suit.

“Wish you the best, Meg,” He told her softly, before pulling away and rubbing her back.

She didn’t say anything to him; you could tell that there was something that hadn’t been resolved. He looked like he had something to do with the fact that she was going home, which made you feel guilty because she deserved loved just like everyone had.

Megan turned and began walking toward the dressing rooms to collect her items, her heels clicking softly on the stone as the girls started to follow. Not a strut, not a storm-off—she knew that it was her time, and the connections timing just wasn’t there. The moment didn’t end with fanfare; dumps from the villa were always bittersweet. It was just a strange, silent pause—like the villa was exhaling in unison.

Tash tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked at William, who was looking down at his hands. Harry glanced toward you—but didn’t move. You blinked once, let your breath go slowly, and stared into the fire. The night wasn’t over yet, but something inside it had caused enough stirring for you to feel the uneasiness to settle.

AFTER THE RECOUPLING...

NEXT TIME ON LOVE ISLAND…

{NARRATOR}

“The sun is shining, the villa’s vibing… but today, it’s not just bikinis and banter and the girls chasing after Harry. Oh no. The Islanders are about to serve face—and not in the fun way.”

Harry’s phone rings, reading out the text loudly: “Islanders! Today, you’ll be playing Who Said It? Each round, you’ll hear a quote said by someone in the villa. Your job is to guess who said it, and try not to ruin your friendships in the process. #PokerFace”

The Islanders start walking into the challenge space that held color signs, large billboards with quotes, and a podium for a lucky contestant to guess.

Mitch stepped up to the podium, card in hand, grinning like he didn’t already know he was about to light a match.

“Alright,” he said, clearing his throat. “This one says…”

He paused—just enough to let the suspense build.

“He’s telling three different girls what they want to hear. And somehow, they’re all still buying it. Who said it?”

The words hit like a slap across everyone; a slow ripple of stunned silence washed through the lineup. You didn’t move as your eyes fixed on the quote like it might change if you stared hard enough. Your stomach tightened with recognition.

Harry’s expression hardened, almost like he hadn’t a clue who could have said that. His arms were crossed, but his jaw had clenched tight as he tried to keep his tongue pressed. He didn’t blink and didn’t play it off like a joke. The silence around him said enough.

Across the group, Tiana leaned into Ella, her voice barely audible but a bit of a laugh on her tongue: “Who said that?”

Ella didn’t respond, but her expression did. On the far end of the line, Tash sat perfectly still, her smile tight and strained, like she was daring someone to look her in the eye and say it outright. Her arms were relaxed, but her knuckles were white where she held the edge of the podium.

Then, Harry let out a low, clipped laugh as he turned his head to look at everyone else who was sitting around on the bench. He spoke up to challenge the area, voice rising just enough to carry.

“Okay, who said it?” he asked, gesturing out to the group, palms open; no one answered, not to his surprise. “We know who it’s about.”

There was a break of silence, then. He scoffed, rolling his eyes before he licked over his lips.

“I’m serious,” he added, sharper now. “Because if you’ve got something to say, say it to my fucking face, huh?”

Ronan shrugged his shoulders, “Mate, if you were honest—”

He turned slowly, eyes scanning each face. His voice cracked slightly on the next line. “Is that how you all see me? Just some dickhead running game on three girls at once?”

Voices start to raise as Luca cut in, “I mean, you weren’t leading the girls on to think anything, so it’s fucked that someone said it like that. Obviously, you’re testing connection, and that’s not wrong.”

Ella chimed in, “Taking the girls up the hideaway, sharing a bed with her in Casa—”

“It’s not your fucking place to say how I test my connections, Ella!” Harry exclaimed leaning out to look at her down the line on the bench. “I’m not fucking playing anyone—the deceit and lies that are being made because you’re fucking bitter about something is weird—my fucking character isn’t up for grabs.”

Ella bit back, “I’m not bitter about anything, I just think your behavior is fucking garbage—you’re making a mug of Y/N when she’s been loyal to your connection.”

Tiana rolled her eyes, “You want to have cake and eat it too, Harry—get your fucking ten minutes of screen time, won’t you.”

“That was a bit out of pocket,” You say quietly, shaking your head, “He’s not—that’s not what’s happening, and you guys are coming on strong.”

Taking in a breath, Tash shrugged her shoulders as she looked down the line at the girls with an annoyed eye, “He’s not playing anyone—this is a game, don’t know why you girls care so much about situation you’re not even a part of, so fuck off with it, will you?”

You could see it then—just the flicker of it. It was an immense level of hurt, masked in frustration as Harry held it together for another moment; he turned his hat around on his head in an annoyed huff. The way he squared his shoulders but couldn’t quite keep his mouth from trembling at the edge.

He was at a breaking point, and you could feel the heat.

#hs #harry styles #harry fanfic #harry wattpad #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x original character #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #love island #welcome to the villa #harry styles stories #harry styles fic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry styles writing #harry styles fic rec

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she-is-juniper · 2 days ago

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sharp edges and warm hands - chapter one

word count (chapter one): 6.7k (more chapters to come) pairing: golden retriever bf!clark x black cat gf!reader synopsis (series): Your new next door neighbor and coworker Clark Kent is a ball of fucking sunshine. You are not. He’s noisy, he’s clingy, he tries too hard. You pretend to hate it but eventually, you have to admit it… he’s kind of the best. Although you can't help but wonder if he's keeping secrets from you. rating (chapter one): M (mature), explicit smut to come in later chapters ♡ content (chapter one): sunshine x grumpy trope, coworkers, next door neighbors, slow burn, fluff, clark is soooo soft and romantic eee author's note: My first Superman/superhero fic and I’m the fakest DC fan known to womankind. I had a lotta fun writing this and I hope you have fun reading (˶‘ ᵕ ‘˶) The story kind of resolves here so you could technically take this as a fluffy oneshot BUT I have plans to publish at least 3 more (verrrry smutty) chapters! if you like it and want to see more, please send me an ask to let me know and i'll gladly add you to a taglist! ((And please, for the love of all that is holy, comment/reblog/send asks/follow me if you want to see more of my writing!))

✧⋆.˚⟡ ˖ chapter one ˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The repetitive knocking is coming from the wall. From the only wall you share with your next door neighbor.

It’s not a surprise that this shabby midtown apartment has walls as thin as your patience for its shitty occupants. What surprises you, though, is who you find on the other side of the neighbor’s door when your patience finally wears out.

The infuriating sounds are new. As in, you hadn’t heard a peep from this particular neighbor before today. And now it’s as if they’ve brought a whole damn circus into the building. Loud, annoying punk music that was popular a decade ago, playing from bass-heavy speakers. Off-key singing from a male voice. Incessant barking from a dog. And now?

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Fuck me. You groan in frustration and heave yourself onto your feet. Dodging half-unpacked boxes as you make my way out of your new apartment, into the hallway, and up to the wooden front door of the noisy neighbor. The neighbor you have yet to meet. In fact, you hadn’t realized when you first moved in a week ago that you even had a next door neighbor, things were so quiet. Not so lucky now.

You knock. Behind the door, his damn dog starts barking. No one answers. You try again—and nothing. You’re midway through a tirade of angry rapping when the door finally swings open.

It’s an absolute wall of a man. Your eyes travel up his legs and torso to his face. The first thing you notice is his face. Clean-shaven, chiseled features, thick-framed glasses that somehow look both too clunky for him and yet perfectly suited for his face.

And that he’s smiling at you.

It’s an all-star, earth-shattering smile that nearly knocks the wind out of you, except for the disconcerting fact that the man somehow doesn’t seem surprised at all to see you banging on his door.

“You must be a new neighbor.” His voice is deep, warm, interested.

You cross your arms over your chest. “I’m about to break my lease and move out if you don’t keep it down.”

The man’s dark brows stitch together before realization floods his annoyingly handsome features. “You moved into 3-C,” he remarks. A statement, not a question.

”Yup.” You narrow your eyes at him.

His face contorts. “Golly, I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t realize they finally got someone to rent that unit out. It’s been vacant for months, so I hadn’t thought to keep the noise down.” He turns to face the barking dog behind him, says, “Krypto, no barking. Inside voice.”

The dog, like many dogs, pays him no heed and continues to bark and whine. The man rolls his eyes and steps into the hallway with you, closing the door. Had he said golly?

“Really, I’m so sorry about the noise. Krypto just likes to bark at strangers. And the TV. And out the window, sometimes.”

“The barking’s not really the worst of it,” you tell him. You jerk your chin toward the wall you two apparently share. “It’s the thumping. Repeated. Constant. All day today. It’s driving me crazy.”

His face lights with sheepish realization. “Oh. Yeah. That. That’s just—“

You cut him off with a raised hand. “I don’t even want to know what it is.” Probably his headboard or something. Gag. “Just… make it stop. It's scaring my cat.” And pissing me off.

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and says simply, “Understood. Yes ma’am. No more noise.”

“Great.” You turn and begin storming back to your own apartment when he gets your attention again.

“For the record,” he calls out. “It was just a tennis ball. Nothing else, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It works. You turn to face him, giving him your full attention again. Is he… blushing?

“The… tennis ball?” you repeat.

He gestures loosely. “I toss it against the wall for Krypto to chase. He gets antsy if I don’t burn off some energy before bed.”

Ah. The dog. Still doesn’t explain why the thumping was happening twice a second. How fast was this dog?

“Your dog’s name is Crypto? As in, the currency?”

He presses his lips together in what seems like a repressed smile. “Different meaning,” he says simply.

“Okay, well, have you considered, I don’t know, walking your dog, or going to the park, instead of keeping your neighbors up at”—you glance at your watch—“eleven-oh-five-pm?”

He runs a hand through his dark hair. “We do. Go for walks, I mean. And—he’s technically not. My dog, I mean.”

The aforementioned dog peeks his white head around the man’s legs. The man smiles sheepishly.

“It's more of a foster situation,” he explains.

This stranger, his handsome face, his antics, his way of speaking... He intrigues you, but in an attempt not to show it, you frown at him and say curtly, “Whatever the situation is, just… keep it down, okay?”

He holds his hands up placatingly. Large hands. “I hear you loud and clear. No more noise.” He salutes. It’s not in a mocking way, but in a completely, utterly dorky way.

It’s annoying. It’s endearing.

You huff, nod your head. Problem solved. You got what you wanted by telling him off. So why didn’t you want to leave?

“Oh, and another thing…” you add. “The music.”

“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You heard that, too?”

“Oh yeah. Hard not to. And the singing.”

“Impressed?” he smirks.

“If you mean, impressed by how off-key it was, then yes.”

“Well, it wasn’t meant to be on-key. I was harmonizing.”

“...No, you weren’t.”

“...You’re right, I wasn’t.”

You repress the smile that threatens to come to the surface with a scowl. “You know they make these little knobs or dials that control the volume on your speakers, right? Maybe you should learn to use them.”

He’s unfazed. “I’ll have to check that out. Thanks for the tip.” There’s zero malice in his tone, just lighthearted playfulness.

“Great.” Without another word, you head back to your own apartment.

“Have a good night,” he calls out. You wave him off in response.

Just before you close your door, you barely hear him say under his breath, “I didn’t get her name.”

~~~

The next morning, you leave early. It’s your first day of work. The Daily Planet, associate copy editor. A big step up from your last job. On your way out your front door, you nearly stumble on something. It’s a small box with a lid tied with twine. And a note. You read it first, noticing the small, neat handwriting.

Sorry again about the noise. Figured I owed you a peace offering (and caffeine, for keeping you up). Hope this makes up for it.

– Clark (and Krypto, who says ‘woof’)

So his name is Clark. Inside the box is a bag of single-origin coffee beans from a local roaster. You don’t even like coffee. But the whole thing is so… sweet. You can’t help but smile this time, to yourself.

Sweet gesture from such a shitty neighbor.

~~~

Your first day. Once you meet your new supervisor and get settled at your new desk, you don’t get much more interaction than that. Everyone seems extra busy today—or maybe it’s like this all the time. Someone’s barking out assignments from a conference room, and nearly everyone in the bullpen is furiously typing or frantically scribbling notes. You keep overhearing something about another Superman sighting in the sky last week. The strange, alien hero had emerged into the public eye a few years prior. Whoever he was, it was just one of Metropolis' many enigmas.

You put your headphones on, keep your head down, get to work editing your first headline. You hadn’t been wanting any extra attention brought to you or anything on your first day. Hadn’t even really expected outright friendliness from your new colleagues—this was Metropolis, after all. So the work flow and pace here seemed right up your alley.

Someone came stumbling in late. Balancing a coffee, a scone, a briefcase, a stack of manila folders, his glasses slipping down his nose—

You gape. It’s your goddamn next door neighbor.

It doesn’t take long for him to discover you that day, either. He approaches your desk, eyes glued to his laptop, and says without looking up, “Perry says to send all I have on the LexCorp piece to the new copy editor, which is—” He finally looks up, sees it’s you. Surprise lights his face, then delight. “It’s you!”

You stare at him over the edge of your computer monitor. “Unfortunately.”

He beams, unbothered. “Wow, small world. Neighbors and coworkers.”

“Guess so.” Just my luck.

He places his coffee mug on the table beside your keyboard. If he sees you glaring at it, he ignores it. “I apologize again about the noise yesterday.”

“Noises, plural,” you correct, bringing your gaze back to your computer screen. Pretending to type. Hoping he’ll take the hint.

He doesn’t. “Noises,” he affirms. “It’s just been a while since I’ve shared a wall with anyone. You won’t hear a peep from now on, promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“What’s your name?” he asks. You tell him, and he repeats it, smiling as though the name tasted like honey in his mouth. “Well, welcome to The Daily Planet. I’ve been told you have a reputation of being very, uh…”

“Cutthroat?” you guess. “Merciless?” It’s what your previous coworkers called you. You don't take bullshit when it comes to syntax and adhering to AP style.

“I was going to say meticulous, but good to know.”

“That, too.”

“I believe it.” When you simply nod and don’t reply, he adds, “Did you get the box I left?”

“Oh. Yeah, I did. Uh, thanks for that… You really didn’t have to.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

Honestly, to you, it seems like the most. He really shouldn't have gotten you anything. You move your cursor around the screen, pretending to work. He sips his coffee, sets it down again, doesn’t leave. You scowl up at him, and he just smiles.

You bite. “Are you always this… cheery?” And overbearing?

At least he’s not half bad to look at. Wrinkled shirt collar and scone crumbs on the lapel and all.

“No, I’d say I’m usually cheerier,” he says. As your glare intensifies, his softens. “Not all of us can be the mysterious, if-looks-could-kill type,.

“You should be grateful it hasn’t yet.” A small twitch at the corner of your mouth belies the venom in your words. He notices and it makes him smile, too. “Did you want anything else, or are you just here to waste more of my time?”

He watches you for a beat longer than necessary. And then clears his throat, looking at his laptop. “Right, yeah, the article. Want me to forward you the doc? Or do you want physical copies?”

“Forward. If you bring me anything printed, I will shred them out of spite.”

“Got it. Forwarding now.”

~~~

The rest of your first day passes without much incident. A steady onslaught of articles and captions and grammar issues that need editing to keep you happily busy. You meet some other coworkers during your lunch break. You avoid some not-so-obvious staring from Clark Kent as you pass his desk on your way to make yourself another tea at the coffee station. You’re efficient, so you leave work on time, yet still before everyone else.

When you finally get home after hitting the gym, going on a solo sushi date, a walk in the local park, you notice something else had been placed on your door mat. A small paper gift bag, and another note. Not this again. Inside the bag is a tin of loose leaf chamomile and a stainless infuser. The note reads:

Noticed you drink tea instead of coffee at work. I got this as a gift last Christmas but don’t care much for tea… Maybe it’d get better use from you? —C

That evening, while reading the latest book of your favorite series and sipping a cup of chamomile with your cat, Ember, curled on your lap, you think to yourself that maybe this Clark Kent really isn’t that bad.

~~~

After a few weeks, you come to the conclusion that Clark Kent has three habits that particularly irked you.

First, he’s usually late. And some measure of disheveled. Which is really more of his problem than anyone else’s… but it becomes your problem when it means he was late submitting copy. Which means, in turn, you’re late to edit his work. And you hate turning things in late.

Second, though the copy he submits is typically brilliant, he often does not do any of his own editing. As in, run-on sentences, misplaced commas, even sometimes entire sections that are just basically op-eds. As though he had just word-vomited onto the page at the scene of the story and sent it without even doing a single pass himself. You frequently return his work with a myriad of emotionally detached edits and corrections… “Unclear.” “Redundant.” “Rewrite for basic logic.” “Cut. Adds nothing.” Sometimes just a question mark.

To his credit, Clark takes all your edits like a champ. He also doesn’t seem to mind the fact that you’re openly irked by his lack of first pass edits. In fact, he doesn’t seem to mind you in the slightest.

Which brings you to the third point. He tends to stare. At you. A lot. Usually without realizing it. And every time you catch it, you just glare back at him until he looks away, usually with a dimply little smile on his face.

Okay, maybe it isn’t a lot of staring. Maybe it’s only every once and a while. Like when you sit across the conference room from him. Or when you’re grabbing a tea refill at the coffee station.

Maybe you’ve only been aware of it because you’d been staring at him first.

But that’s beside the point.

On one sunny day, you’re eating lunch outside. You sometimes sat with Steve or Jimmy during your lunch breaks, but today, they were too busy bickering about who was going to cover a press conference with MPD this evening. So today, you buy your lunch from the little café attached to the building and sit by yourself outside in the courtyard, where you find a perfect little nook on a bench.

You’re turning the page in your book when a voice breaks your concentration. “I should have known you’d find my spot.”

Clark Kent. He smiles down at you, holding a couple of leftover containers. You squint up at him.

He moves in front of the sun, blocking it with his shadow for you. My hero, you think sarcastically.

“Your spot?” you intone.

He nods, his curls hanging loose on his forehead. “I like to sit in the sun during my breaks. It’s… healing.”

No wonder you never saw him at lunch with the others. Turns out, even Clark Kent liked being alone sometimes.

“People like you shouldn’t need the sun,” you joke, deadpan. “You’re... sunny enough as is.”

You’d meant it to be backhanded, but he says, “Why, thank you.”

“You don’t understand. It’s blinding.”

At that, he holds a finger up and gestures for you to wait. He withdraws a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket. Before you can say anything, he places the sunglasses on your face.

“Better?” he asks.

A giggle emerges before you can stop it. You quickly mold your smile into a frown. “I’m not giving these back.”

“Keep ‘em. They look good on you.”

Warmth spreads to your cheeks. “Do you, uh, want to sit?” you offered, deflecting.

He nods, and you scoot over, giving him room on the bench. You go back to your own lunch but get distracted by the smell of maple syrup wafting from his meal.

“Did you bring… pancakes?” you ask him. You look over at his container. Yep, sure enough. Pancakes and eggs, with two links of sausage.

“I made too much for dinner last night.”

“Breakfast for dinner?”

“It’s so good.”

“That’s despicable.”

“It’s the best meal of the day. Why not have it for every meal?” he says around a bite. Then he holds a forkful out to you. “Want to try?”

You want to say no. But you take the bait. The pancake, albeit leftover, is divine. Clark watches your expression as you chew.

“You like it?”

“It’s… not bad.”

“It’s my ma’s recipe.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” With the smallest of smiles, you snatch his fork and steal another bite. He lets you.

“Well, what did you bring for lunch, then?” he asks you.

You gesture halfheartedly to your sad chicken caesar wrap. “I didn’t bring lunch.”

Clark eyes it woefully. “Do you… not cook?”

“No, I do.” You love cooking. “My stove is broken. And my oven.”

He tsks. “Ah. Yeah. Those standard issue appliances. I had to replace mine after I moved in, too.”

“I tried contacting our landlord, but…”

“I could try to fix them for you.”

You stare. Mostly in reverence at the mere offer. “I—no, that’s okay.”

“Let me at least try. I’m pretty handy.”

His eyes look so much like a puppy dog’s that you sigh and give in. “I’ll let you come over tonight to try,” you say, “but only if you submit your copy before three o’clock.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says dutifully.

“And you have to read through it on your own first. If I see another sentence splice, Kent, I swear to god…”

He nods placatingly. “You got it. I’ll come over after work sometime.”

~~~

After spending lunch together, you and Clark exchanged phone numbers. Just to coordinate a time for him to drop by to fix your kitchen appliances that evening. That’s all.

He’d arrived at 6pm. Your cat, Ember, took one look at the stranger in her house, hissed dutifully, and ran to a hiding spot. Clark had just laughed and compared her to you, and you weren’t even offended.

He'd looked around, complimented your place even though you had barely started unpacking all your boxes. You’d showed him your broken stove and oven. He’d taken one look at it, claimed, “I can fix that,” and got to work.

And that’s where he’s been the past half hour. Crouched behind your stove, his hands full of wires, his brows furrowed in concentration. And he’s cursing.

Well, not really cursing. More like muttering half-obscene nonsense under his breath as he attempts to reattach the wires, saying things like “what the hay” and “son of a gun.” And, on rare occasion, a “damn” would slip out.

Having him in your apartment is both disconcerting and soothing. You hadn’t had company over yet since you moved in, and you hardly expected your first guest would be the annoying next door neighbor. But here he is, fixing your appliances—not only for free, but seemingly just out of sheer kindness.

He’d given you full permission to go off and do your own thing while he worked. So you’d curled up on the couch with a book. A book you’ve now long forgotten about, opting instead to watch him struggle in the kitchen. It’s far more entertaining.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” you call out to him.

“Yes. Well, I watched a YouTube video.”

“Oh, great, yeah, that totally makes you qualified to do this.” Your curiosity gets the best of you. You close your book and pad over to your kitchen, peering at him and his work. “I won’t be upset if you give up, you know, Kent.” You certainly had given up on it yourself.

“I can fix it,” he says back, determined. His glasses are slipping down his nose. You resist the urge to push them back up for him.

“You better not electrocute yourself and die. I’ll have too much time on my hands at work without your grammar problems to fix all day.”

“My grammar isn’t that bad,” he waves you off.

“It’ll only get worse if you fry your brain trying to fix my stupid stove.”

“I’m not getting electrocuted. Trust me.”

He says it with such certainty that you halfway believe him. “Okay, but just so you know, I’m, like, five minutes away from ordering pizza delivery for dinner tonight instead of cooking.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

Eventually, he does fix the oven and stove. You don’t see it happen—you’d popped next door to his apartment to grab a toolbox he’d asked you for. You may have spent a few moments longer than necessary studying the inside of his apartment. It was… unexpected. The layout, the décor, the overall tidiness of it. More notably, the lack of a dog.

“Where’d your dog go?” you ask him when you return with the toolbox. Only to find that he no longer needed it. Seeing as he was currently using the stove to make a grilled cheese. “Oh damn.”

“I got it working,” he says in triumph. “I hope you don’t mind me using some of your ingredients.” He places buttered bread on one of your skillets, and it sizzles. So the stove is working.

“How did you…?” It was nowhere near in working order when you’d popped next door. Or maybe you’d been wrong.

He answers your previous question instead. “Oh, Krypto went back with my cousin. I was just fostering, remember?”

“You mean, dog sitting?”

“Wasn’t sure when she’d be getting back.”

Hmm. For someone so chatty all the time, he sure could be cryptic.

But it didn’t matter. All of your qualms and gripes and other misgivings about Clark Kent dissipate, even if momentarily, the moment you sink your teeth into the grilled cheese he made you. It’s melty, crispy, buttery, perfect. You want to tell him it’s the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had, but you’re not about to give him the satisfaction.

“What do you think?” he asks you, smiling to himself as he takes a bite.

“I’m thinking, maybe you’re good at at least one thing.”

He folds his arms across the top of your kitchen table. “I’m good at plenty of things.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

It’s how you two banter now. Easy, familiar. You two still barely know each other, but he knows you well enough now to understand that the small smirk that tugs on your mouth means you’re kidding. And he always smiles back, unabashed, unguarded. Like he actually enjoys your sharp edges. He seems unbothered by your sense of humor, and you like that about him.

“Hey, Kent.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the sandwich. And for the stove and oven. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me a thing, sunshine.”

Interesting nickname. Your cat chooses that moment to emerge from her hiding spot. She graces Clark with a single look of pure disdain before jumping onto your lap and curling up contentedly.

He looks at the both of you. “You know, I’m glad we met,” he says matter-of-factly, out of the blue.

You glance up at him across the table. The warmth in his expression catches you off guard. It’s disarming, in a sincere, boyish kind of way.

“I’m not opposed to you either, I guess,” you mutter.

“Wow, high praise.”

“You’ll survive.”

~~~

Things change between the two of you after that day. Not in big ways, but subtly, incrementally.

Like when one day, you catch him leaving his apartment at the exact same time you do, and you poke fun at him for finally leaving on time for work. And so you both head downstairs together, take the bus together, walk in to work together. And the next day, he does it again. And eventually, he starts leaving work around the same time as you, too.

You pretend to be annoyed by it. But then one morning, he’s running a few minutes behind, and you wait for him—even though it means you’ll be late yourself. When he finally emerges from his front door and spots you waiting for him by the elevator, he grins, pushes back his mop of freshly showered hair, and says, “I knew you liked leaving for work together.”

To which you respond, “Hurry up, or you’re going to make me regret waiting.”

He starts leaving you notes at work. Like cheeky comments on docs he submits for you to edit that say things like, “Go easy on me, sunshine,” or, “I know you’re going to tell me to delete this part, but I like it a lot, so can we leave it in pretty please?”

You roll your eyes at them every time, but you secretly look forward to reading them whenever he submits copy.

One day, you catch his eye and notice he’d been staring at you from his desk across the newsroom. He quickly averts his gaze, then sheepishly looks back up. Glances away again.

You confront him during a mutual coffee/tea break. “You better stop staring at me like that,” you say as you stir your mug.

“Me? I wasn’t staring. I don’t stare.”

“You were. And you do.”

“Nah, I wasn’t staring. I just looked a couple of times.”

Even as he talks, he looks right at you. His sparkling eyes are irresistibly charming. Your skin grows hot wherever he glances, as if bathed by warm sunlight.

“Stop it. It’s distracting.”

“So you’re distracted by me?” he jeers. “Which part is the most distracting? Is it how handsome I am, or is it my charm?”

“More like complete lack of subtlety. And humility. And because your tie is uneven.”

“How observant of you,” he smirks.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You know, it’s fine by me if you don’t like me.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t.”

He sips his coffee and raises an eyebrow playfully. He knows your dry humor at his point. “Right, well, I was hoping you at least didn’t hate me.”

You don’t respond. You just tug his tie straight before walking off.

~~~

As the summer turns into fall and you continue to get more and more settled into life in Metropolis, the two of you start texting each other more frequently. It starts out as average neighborly texts…

You: the mailman put something in my box addressed to you again

You: i put it on your doormat

Clark: Thanks! :)

Or...

Clark: Heyyy I know it’s late but do you have like a half cup of milk I could steal?

You: sure

You: why

Clark: I poured cereal but I only had like a few drops of milk :(

You: why are you eating cereal at midnight

Clark: I was craving it

Clark: What’s a guy gotta do to eat cereal for dinner in peace around here? 🤣

You: your obsession with breakfast food never fails to baffle me

Clark: If you knew what was good, you’d never question my meal choices again 🤔

You: i have milk but youll have to be ok with it being oatmilk

Clark: …Okay never mind… I’ll just starve…

You: ????

Clark: You can keep your imposter milk but thanks anyway

You: dont be such a baby

Clark: I’d rather eat cereal with water

You: ok now thats just a crime

You: hold on im coming over with leftover lasagna for u

Clark: 😍

And sometimes, you and Clark would text each other during work, like during conference meetings...

You: Perry looks so pissed off rn

Clark: Haha he does… he just gave Jimmy a death stare just for breathing

You: no bc olsen did do that weird nose whistle thing again

Clark: That nose whistle haunts me…

You: i’m gonna record it next time and use it as my text tone for you

Clark: You’re sick

You: 😈

You: do you see how much perry’s sweating?!

Clark: It’s all the anger and rage. It’s gotta come out somehow.

You: i’m scared he’s gonna throw the clicker across the room like a grenade

You glance up at Clark across the room, and he meets your gaze. He mimics a small explosion with his hands and mouths, “Boom.” And that sets the both of you off in a burst of half-suppressed giggling in the middle of the meeting, that Clark tries to write off as coughing as you hide your smile behind your mug of tea.

~~~

On some days, things aren’t quite so lighthearted. Like on particularly busy days, or when the news is not so good. On days like those, you’re usually hunched over at your desk, headphones on, dark to the world for eight hours until you finally emerge from your own little pocket universe of copy editing, exhausted and drained.

And Clark usually looks particularly beat on those types of days. More beat than any of the other reporters. Sometimes, he shows up extra late, or doesn’t even show up to the office at all. As curious as you are about his whereabouts, you don’t pry.

You begin to learn that Clark, as it turns out, is not always sunshine and rainbows, like you’d thought.

It’s a breezy early fall evening when the two of you leave work together one day. Clark had been acting strangely sullen all day, even short-tempered. You’d seen him snap at the other reporters more than once. The copy he’d submitted was strangely terse, near to perfection in its grammar and syntax, almost too matter-of-fact. And he’d barely spoken to you at all, even on your mutual commute home.

“Alright,” you level with him on the bus. “What’s your problem, Kent?”

“What? Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“You don’t get to be the one acting like this. That’s my job. I take it very seriously.”

He barely cracks a smile but continues to stare gloomily out the bus window at the falling leaves. That’s when you know something serious is up with him.

You aren’t sure what to do, what to say. You’re no good at things like this. You sit in silence beside him for a while. Then you opt for a casual lean, letting your shoulder press against his. Which feels kind of awkward at first, but you’re getting the strange urge to break the touch barrier between you and him.

It works. After a moment of leaning, he sighs, relaxes, leans in closer to you, still staring out the window. His shoulder is big and solid against your own.

He finally speaks: “Do you ever feel like you’re the only one who cares about something that really matters?”

“I—” you stammer, considering. “Maybe?”

“Like…” He ponders his words. The crease between his dark brows becomes more prominent. “Like yesterday, when there were lives at stake at the harbor, but all Perry wanted to push out for today’s news were stories about the fire being staged, or the political motives behind the rescue, and all the think pieces on who was to gain financially from it.” His fists clench in his lap. “It makes me so angry.”

Clark Kent, angry? Your mind reels, about multiple factors to his words. “You’re talking about Superman saving those people from the burning building at the harbor yesterday?”

He nodded curtly, his fists still in tight balls. You frown at them, wondering why he might be so upset about what had happened in the news with the mysterious humanoid alien superhero who often saved the city from various supernatural plights.

“You’re right,” you agree simply. “It was shitty of Perry to even consider publishing that trash.” Taking a leap of faith, you place your hand atop one of his fists. Feel it soften somewhat beneath your palm. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt his hand, and it’s warm, big, slightly calloused.

“You… agree with me?”

You nod. “Usually I don’t, on principle, but this time, yeah." He cracks a small smile at that, which you mirror. "I think The Planet’s way out of line for publishing anything speculative. Half of the shit I edited today was based on mere, unfounded, opinion, not facts. I’ve never returned so many docs with so many edits.”

Slowly, but surely, like watching water begin to boil, Clark’s demeanor begins to change. “They don’t call you ‘The Guillotine’ for nothing, do they?” he remarks, breaking into a small, toothy smile that has your heart skipping.

Then you realize what he’d said. “They call me the what?”

Clark laughs and you nearly laugh too. He and you start going over what everyone’s nicknames for each other are at the paper. And by the end of your commute home, by some means, you and Clark had started to hold hands.

~~~

One Saturday night, you’re slipping on your pajamas when you get a text:

Clark: WYD tonight?! It’s a full moon

You’d just returned from a little night on the town with some new girlfriends you’d made. Some from work, like Lois Lane and Lane Cat Grant, and some new friends you’d met mutually. You hadn’t expected to have as much fun as you had, but you’re pretty tired now. And still tipsy.

Not too tired to be curious about Clark, though. You wonder why the moon phase matters.

You: abt to go to bed

You: are you abt to turn into a werewolf or something

He replies relatively quickly:

Clark: Nah, I mean, at least I don’t think so. Not as far as I’m aware, LOL

Clark: Come up to the roof before you sleep! You won’t regret it 😇

So you do. The fastest way to access the roof from your apartment is by means of the fire escape, a rickety, rusty contraption built on the outside of your balcony. You brave the danger and emerge onto the roof.

Sure enough, the night sky is blanketed in blue light from a full, yellow moon. Basking in the muted light on the edge of the roof is Clark. He looks ethereal, freshly shaven, wearing sweats and a hoodie, his eyes twinkling as he spots you. You think to yourself he’s never looked better.

You join him at the roof’s edge. He smiles as you approach, that cute, awkward, toothy, dimply smile.

“Thanks for joining me, sunshine,” he says.

You nod, folding your arms. He;s been calling you that goofy nickname for a while, now. You don’t hate it. “Mhmm. You’re lucky I even responded.”

“Busy, were you?”

“Earlier I was. You know Cat and Lois from work?” When he nods, you say, “We went out barhopping.”

Clark reared. “You went out with Cat and Lois?”

“Yeah. We’re friends. Don’t act so surprised I have friends, Kent.”

“Yeah, but no offense, but you three are like polar opposites.”

You snort. “If there's three of us, we can't be polar opposites. That's not how magnetic poles work."

"Oh my gosh, and you call me a dork?" he laughs with you, rustling your hair. "Well... was it fun?"

"It was."

"I didn't take you for a going-out type of girl."

"Why? And what's wrong with that?" You mock-glare at him.

He puts his hands up, mock-defensively. "I just mean. You should invite me next time. Sounds like fun."

You can't imagine Clark Kent going out dancing. Or maybe, yes, you could. "Your male energy would ruin my vibe."

He shrugs. "Fair enough. Speaking of your vibe,” he says, reaching behind him to pull out two travel mugs. “Hot cocoas.”

“My vibe is hot cocoa?”

“No, your vibe is probably more, like, a glass of dry red wine with a side of disdain. But all I had was hot cocoa.”

A smile tugs at your lips as you graciously accept. “Thanks, Kent.”

You don’t expect it, but you end up spending hours up there on the roof with Clark that night. Talking about everything under the sun—or, rather, the moon. The books you’re reading, the movies he likes. Your family, his family. Your career, his career. It’s the most open you’ve ever found yourself with him. And it’s the most open he’s ever been with you.

Clark is in the middle of telling you about Kansas corn—a topic that you would have expected to be boring (and did in fact joke about this to him) but is turning out to be rather intriguing—when a flash in the sky catches your eye.

“A shooting star!” you explain, grasping for his hand. You both watch the meteor trail across the sky before it explodes in an array of fiery colors. “Wow.”

Clark stares at you. “That might be the most excited I’ve ever seen you get.��

“I get excited,” you defend yourself.

“Never like that, though.” He grins. “It suits you.”

You both become aware at the same time that he’s still holding your hand. Or maybe it’s that you’re still holding his. In any case, your hand is grasped in his, and you aren’t pulling away. He’s still smiling at you. If it were anyone else, you would have already pulled away. But you're frozen.

“Dance with me, sunshine,” Clark says. It catches you off-guard, which is the only reason why you let him pull you by the hands into the middle of the rooftop area.

Your scowl, though originating more out of alarm and discomfort than out of dislike, does not deter him. He plants one of your hands on his shoulder, places one of his own on your lower back, and begins to rock back and forth.

“This is ridiculous,” you say.

“This is so fun,” he counters.

“It’s so cheesy.”

“So what?” He looks up at the moon. “So is the moon. The Big Cheese and all. Embrace it, sunshine.”

“There’s not even any music.”

You regret saying it instantly when he begins humming a horribly out-of-tune rendition of Harvest Moon. You groan and give him shit for it. He loves it. You love it too.

“I’m no good at this,” you tell him after a while, when the dancing becomes less goofy and more serious, when the giggles dissipate into intimate silence, when he begins to draw your body incrementally closer to his.

“You’re just fine at it,” he says, leading you into a twirl that makes you full-on smile. But the smile fades again as you look into his eyes.

“I don’t mean the dancing,” you say, in almost a whisper. “I mean… I just mean…”

He doesn’t prod you to answer, just squeezes your hand, waits patiently. You sigh and try again.

“You’re just really good, Clark.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a good person, and—and I know I’m not a bad person, I just—you and me, we’re so different. You always see the good in people, and in life, and… it’s just a lot harder for me.”

He peers down at you, his expression unbelievably soft. And he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “I think you’re good, too. And lovely. I don’t think you see yourself the way I see you.”

You can feel yourself tense up. “You have a goodness to you that I don’t have, Clark.”

“Okay, well, what if I don’t want to be good?” he responds with a wry smirk. There’s a hidden meaning, a roguish suggestion in his words that makes your stomach flip in a good way.

You smirk back and gently shove his shoulder. “You couldn’t stop it if you tried.” You sigh. “I just… I don’t know how to do this with someone like you.”

“What do you mean?” he asks softly.

“I just… ruin things. Or I freeze. Or I leave.”

He ponders this. “Those aren’t such bad things.”

“What?!” Those are three pretty bad things.

“I’m pretty patient,” he boasts. “I’ll happily wait for you until you un-freeze. And if you run away, I’m pretty fast, so I’ll just chase you.”

You smile, shaking your head. “This isn’t me joking, Kent.”

Clark steps closer, so close that you can smell his woodsy, soapy scent, can feel the warmth radiating from his chest. “I’m not joking either, sunshine,” he murmurs.

You can’t help but grab his shirt, then, and lean up into him, pressing your lips to his.

Just a peck.

Then you step away, gauging his reaction.

He blinks in surprise, his handsome mouth fallen open, and then something possesses him and he kisses you back, harder. He glides his hands from your shoulders to your back, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. His mouth is warmth and softness and hardness all combined.

You can feel him smile through the kiss, and you pull away, your heart swelling at the sight of his dimples, the crinkles of his eyes. His blue eyes are exceedingly bright in the moonlight. You wonder if your own eyes are as bright as his.

Breathless, he says, “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you yelled at me about the tennis ball.”

“This is a bad idea,” you say, but your shaky breath and exhilarated smile bely this attempt at indifference.

Clark kisses you again, kisses both corners of your mouth. “Probably. But you’re the one who kissed me first.”

“You’re going to be even more annoying now,” you comment as his lips trail down your cheek to the edge of your jaw.

You can hear the sound of contentment he makes as he smiles into your neck, breathes you in. “Definitely.”

As he kisses that place just under your ear, a single chill runs down your spine, curling your toes in the best way. Clark brings his hands up your back and to either side of your face. He beams at you, his own personal sun, while he caresses your cheeks with both his thumbs. Smoothing away all your sharp edges with his warm hands.

˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧

click for chapter 2 (will be coming out on Saturday, August 9th at 1PM PST!)

A/N: Helloooo! Eeee I'm kicking my feet and giggling! I really hope you like this fic!! I will be publishing each chapter on saturdays! So chapter 2 (smuttyyyyy!) will be published next Saturday, August 9th at 1pm PST -- get hypeeeeed!!!!!

Please note that I write fanfiction for free; my only request for repayment is a genuine expression of your thoughts, opinions, likes/dislikes, and predictions about the story. Whether it’s simply a “Wow, I loved it!”, a keyboard smash, a series of convoluted thoughts in the tags, or even a full-out review, please know that any and all feedback is welcome!

Much love ❤︎ from Juniper

about me || masterlist | AO3 || ask me anything! Superman taglist will be linked here Disclaimers: I do not claim to own Superman, DC, or any other affiliated names or fictional events. Other details, such as names, locations, and events, are also fictionalized. Please note that the representations of body types in my moodboard are not intended to exclude anybody of any race, ethnicity, or body shape. Do not copy, reproduce, or claim my work as your own on Tumblr, AO3, Wattpad, or any other website. You do not have permission to use my works in AI generators or in any way related to artificial intelligence. You may not use my work to sell or pass off as your own creation.

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent smut #clark x reader #superman x reader #superman smut #superman spoilers #superman imagines #clark kent x you #clark kent imagine #david corenswet #superman 2025 #superman movie #superman

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pome-seed · 3 days ago

Text

Sleepless Nights | Clark Kent

Pairing: David Corenswet!Superman x Civilian!Reader

Summary: Some nights, when everything's still, you get a visit from the Man of Steel.

Word Count: 1.4k

Tags: David Corenswet Superman, yearning, intimacy, fluff, late night talks, friendship w/ superman, undefined relationship w/ superman, civilian reader.

18+ blog, Minors Do Not Interact.

Authors Note: Taglist, please see message at the end, even if you don't read this! Anyways, this is my first non-Bucky Barnes focused mini fic. Life is kind of crazy right now so I just wanted to write something. I'm obsessed with this kind hearted loser :((( If you want to be apart of my taglist, let me know :)

Masterlist

It's late. Too late for you to be awake. Moon hung high in the sky, bathing the earth in a soft silver glow. Streaks of illumination slipping through your fluttering curtains, flickering across your walls.

You should be asleep. You have a busy day ahead, just like any other. You shouldn't be up. But you are, you always are when you feel that familiar buzz in the air. Like electricity charging.

You hear the soft rustle of leaves outside your window, followed by a gust of wind.

Rolling out of bed, you still have your blanket draped over your shoulders, hugged tight around your body. Your warm feet drag slowly across the chilly floor, carrying you towards your balcony.

Through thin curtains, you see the flickering silhouette, hovering in wait.

You push open the old glass doors, a brush of fresh midnight air tickling your skin. "It's late, you know." You croak.

"You should be sleeping then," quiet warmth pools in his soft tone, tired and gentle.

"I always sleep with one eye open," you huff, your arms wrapping the blanket back around your body. "Never know when I might have a guest."

He floats above the railing of your balcony, staring down at you with familiar blue eyes. "You really should start turning me away."

A smile curls at your lips. "I like to keep things interesting." You blink up at him, at the carefully raked back strands of hair, bitten red lips, and dark circles beneath his eyes. Your expression melts to something sympathetic. "Wanna talk about it?"

His playful look cracks slightly, making him shrink in on himself. For such a powerful man, he is so easy to read.

"I don't know," he mutters, his cape fluttering from the gentle breeze.

The careful way he watches you makes you shift, melted by that overwhelming kindness. The openness he tries desperately to hide. You don't remember how this became your life; how you came to expect late night visits from the Man of Steel. You just do, as if this was how it's always been.

As if you were meant to find him floating outside your window, waiting for a moment of tender understanding from a stranger.

You don't understand it, but you accept it.

It's your own little secret, hidden from the world. Like a treasure.

The man slowly floats to the cracked concrete balcony, his feet silent as he finally meets solid ground. He's large before you, a towering frame of muscle and warmth.

You've never been close enough to touch, but you feel his radiating kindness from feet away. A kindness manifesting into physical heat. You have a sneaking suspicion he could melt ice with one soft hug.

"Are you okay?" You whisper, tilting your head up at him.

He turns his gaze to the city, moonlight casting his skin in a light silver. The view from your apartment is the reason for most of your rent; a building sat on a slight incline, tall enough to overlook the main breadth of the city. Tall buildings and glittering lights. Gliding cars and shuffling bodies.

But at night, it feels different. Instead of the loud, bustling cityscape you're accustomed to, all you see is the silhouette of society. Calm, glowing, and asleep.

You stare at the man, the slight purse of his lips, the light pinch in his brow. He must be stressed, you figure. More than you could ever possibly imagine.

"I don't know that either, I guess." He mutters quietly.

"Is that why you can't sleep?"

He turns his gaze back to you, his expression softening. He nods once. "I can't stop thinking."

You frown, sympathy for the man wrenching you. Recently, the news has been nothing but chatter about Superman, and his rights and wrongs. Nothing but criticism for the alien who protects this city.

The more self centered part of yourself thinks how awful it is, that they've never seen the man how you do. They've never seen the quiet, worried, human part of his soul.

"You're doing alright, you know that, right?" You try to convince him. "The best you can."

He smiles wryly at your earnest tone. "I'm glad you think so."

A soft gust of wind rustles the trees, knocking a few loose curls of dark hair loose. They fall across his forehead, making him look almost boyish.

"I do." You glance out at the high-rises. "I think we take you for granted, frankly, and that you're doing everything you can." You feel his kind stare against your profile. "When you could be doing nothing at all."

He huffs, shaking his head. "I'm not a fan of that argument." He shrugs lightly. "Trying doesn't always excuse faults."

You scoff, turning your sleepy gaze back to the foreign man. "I think you're too hard on yourself," you whisper. He stares back at you, a soft smile working it's way across his face. "I believe in you. You should give it a try some time."

He chuckles, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his broad chest. His arms cross, his fingers tapping against his bicep. "Thank you," he mumbles with sincerity. "I mean it."

You shrug, leaning back against the creaky glass door. "That's what I'm here for," you yawn. "I'm getting pretty good at pep talks."

His cheeks darken with a warm flush as he stares at you. "Not just that," he utters quietly. The intensity of his kind stare makes you shiver. "I really do mean it," he insists, taking a careful step forward. "Thank you for this."

You know he doesn't just mean the kind words, or company. He means the time away from the world. The quiet understanding and connection to outside perception. He means meeting with you, in private tenderness.

You nod slowly, blinking up at him. "You don't have to thank me, you know. I like talking to you."

He huffs, his ears turning a timid pink. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you smile, your grip on your blanket loosening. "And not just because I like seeing you fly away."

He laughs quietly, shaking his head at you. "Maybe one night I'll take you up with me, to repay you for all these sleepless nights."

You grin at that, your exhausted bones sparking with excitement. "I never say no to a good time."

He smiles, stepping a little closer. His large form blocks the bright moon, casting shadows over your body. The caring warmth behind his eyes stuns you into silence as he stares down at you. He doesn't say anything at first, just admiring. Your lips fall open on a barely contained yawn.

You suppress a shudder when you feel his large hand ghost over your arm. He tugs your blanket back over your shoulders, wrapping it around you. You hadn't even noticed it slipping. "You should get back to bed," he mutters, that soft tone making you shiver. "The sun will be up soon."

"Yeah," you agree, staring up at him in stunned stupidity. "What about you?"

"Hm?" He tilts his head at you, dark hair fanning over his forehead.

"You should get some sleep. Can't save the world if you're exhausted." You try not to focus on the fact that his hand hasn't moved, or the fact that you can feel the heat of his palm through your layers.

He smiles, his canine tooth peaking out. Sharper than you imagined. You never noticed just how sweet his smile was. "Yeah, 'guess so..." He sighs, his thumb stroking over the seam in your blanket. "Try not to lose much sleep over me, I'll try not to bother you so often."

You shake your head. "Don't," you blurt. "Try, I mean. Like I said, I like our talks. I like your visits."

That warm flush returns, making his smile brighten as he stares down at you. He reaches up, cautiously tucking a frizzy lock of hair behind your ear, knocked loose from the wind. "Okay, I won't." He mutters. "Now go to bed, you still have a few hours before your alarm goes off."

You tilt your head at him, unconsciously leaning into his touch. "You know what time I set my alarm for? How often do you come by in the mornings?"

His smile turns cheeky, if not a little embarrassed. "Coincidence." He says, as if that explains anything. "Now go. Like you said, I need my rest too." He releases you, taking a large step back.

You blink up at him, sleepy and a little fuzzy with warmth. "Goodnight, Superman." You teasingly say the name, even though it's the only one you know him by.

He smiles, slowly lifting off the ground. "Goodnight, sweetheart. Sleep well." He says the affectionate name like it were any other word, sliding off his tongue like a habit. You try not to seem affected, but you're almost sure he can hear the way your heart picks up in pace.

You watch as he floats over the metal railing, lifting higher in the sky. He takes one long look at you before turning his back, and disappearing into the night.

A/N: Hi guys! I hope you liked this. I've been really captivated by this film recently, and have wanted to write a million things about this man. I love a sweet boy :( Let me know if you want more.

Taglist: I've tagged my regular Bucky Barnes tag list here in case you wanted to read whatever I write. But if you would only like to read my Bucky Barnes fics, that's fine! I will no longer tag anyone in this tag list in non bucky things unless you ask to be added to my Superman/other character fics taglist. So if you would like to be tagged in my Superman things going forward, please comment and I will add you (only if you are not a minor though, haha.)

@a-world-with-pure-imagination @frog-fans-unite @1967barracuda @akkklys @cherryheairt @lonelyghosts-stuff @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes @devilslittlehelper @miss-chuchu @dollface-xoxo @natalia42069 @thuul-box @local-crazy @justachillgirllui @pleasecallmeunhinged @cookies-and-music @fallen-w1ngs @unicornqueen05 @bloodmocha @sleepysongbirdsings @fadingcollectivenightmare @hosshihusshi @sharkylalala @overwintering-soldier @splooshdooshploosh @saucysasha2035 @vicmc624 @ordelixx @fadingcollectivenightmare @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @the-once-and-future-bitch @cherryandsugar @thefandomplace @nicolesholes

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ldydeath · 3 days ago

Text

Bullshit Part 2 | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: Jiyong isn’t jealous of your professional relationship with Ateez, but that doesn’t mean he can’t tease you while you’re on the road with them. Word Count: 2.8k Warnings: 18+ MDNI., teasing, fingering, unprotected p in v, jealous Jiyong, fluff Author’s Note: I wasn’t going to do a part two of this, but I was inspired by events that have happened since falling into the Ateez rabbit hole. You do not need to read part 1 to understand anything happening in part 2. If you want to read it you can check it out here, though! This is my first time writing for any of the Ateez guys so please be gentle.

After the events of Head in the Clouds, Jiyong had flown back to Korea to continue his tour while you had stayed in the States to prep for Ateez’s North American tour. Long distance was something you and Jiyong were familiar with, having done it off and on for years. It never made it easy to be apart from each other. Especially now that you were going on nearly two months of only seeing each other though FaceTime.

You were currently editing some tour footage from Chicago, on your way to the Washington stop when your phone buzzed. Jiyong’s name lit up the screen and you smiled as you picked up the phone. He was back in Korea in between tour stops which meant more texting despite the time difference.

Miss you Jagiya.

Miss you more.

What are you doing?

Editing some concert footage. You?

Getting ready to go to bed. Just got home.

I’ll call you as soon as I get this video posted, ok? I love you.

Love you too.

With the video edited and posted, you slid your phone into your pocket and made your way to where the guys were. Seonghwa and Yeosang sat talking quietly while everyone else finished getting ready for rehearsals. Seonghwa spotted you and gave you an excited wave, one you returned with a smile.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you quickly slid it open when you caught the notification. It was a story on Jiyong’s very public instagram. To the normal eye it was just a mirror selfie, he’d posted them randomly throughout the past few months, driving fans wild in the process. But you knew this one was meant for you.

The way his shirt hung low, the smirk only you could see that his phone was covering up. The timing of it, even. You knew Jiyong hadn’t just gotten home, he’d been home for hours. You groaned in frustration before finding the video you’d uploaded, confirming your suspicions that he’d seen the edit. Jiyong was jealous.

You didn’t know what had caused this sudden jealousy in Jiyong, but you were benefiting from it greatly. First with his show in LA and now with this.

“You ok?” Hongjoong was by your side, brow raised and you blinked, closing out of instagram quickly.

“Yeah…yeah I’m good.” You nodded a smile on your face.

“And Jiyong Hyung is good too?” He teased, a smirk plastered on his face.

“Yeah…” you paused, turning to face him fully. “Go away, Hongjoong.”

“We can all see his story, you know.” Hongjoong laughed, sliding his hands into pocket before walking away.

You rolled your eyes, waiting until he was gone to take your phone back out. You clicked on his story again, relieved that it was still there. You didn’t bother to like it, you knew he’d see your view. He’d probably been waiting for it. You closed the app, hitting your messenger app and clicking his name.

You’re the worst.

Maybe. But you were supposed to call me.

And now I’m not. Go to bed Jiyong.

Night Jagiya.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

It was show day which meant lots of running around to make sure the eight guys had everything in place for their costume changes, waters were in place, really everything they needed to have an easy time on stage was done. Soundcheck would be starting soon and you hadn’t had a chance to talk to Jiyong at all. Which wasn’t a surprise, you both had an understanding that tour days usually meant a late night chat in someone’s time zone at some point that day.

You pulled out your phone sending him a quick text, knowing he was likely still asleep at this hour and turned your attention to Yeosang, who was currently eating a bowl of ramen.

“Hey buddy, you doing ok?” You moved to sit next to him.

“Yeah.” He held his bowl closer to him and he raised a brow. “You’re not going to steal these are you?”

“No.” You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “I’m not Hongjoong.” He relaxed next to you, eating a bit slower. “Sound check is in five though.”

You two sat in comfortable silence as he finished his meal and made his way to the stage for sound check. You really enjoyed working with Ateez, all eight of them had become younger brothers to you. They could be a little much sometimes, but that was part of their charm. They’d become your family and if there was any group of people to be around when you couldn’t be around Jiyong, it was them.

After soundcheck you gathered the guys, posing for a photo. It had become a pre show ritual at this point that you would post something with them before each show.

See you soon Tacoma! ✌️ you captioned it and hit post, making sure to tag the guys and the official account that you also ran. A few minutes later your phone buzzed, hoping for a text from Jiyong you looked down as frowned. Why was he posting a story and not texting you back?

You clicked the notification and let out a laugh when you saw the story. It was simple, just his hand curled to show off her nails. But you knew it was another meant for you story. You rolled your eyes but before you could close the app another picture came in and you gasped.

He had his face hidden, the camera panned down to only show his arms, torso and legs off. He was wearing a simple outfit, red shorts showing off his thighs perfectly and you had to check to make sure you weren’t drooling.

“Are you okay?” Seonghwa’s voice broke your thoughts and you realized you’d been staring at your phone for much longer than necessary.

“Hm? Yeah…never better.” You slid your phone into your back pocket. “You look great. Trying to kill the fan girls tonight?”

Seunghwa nodded, his glittery makeup shimmering in the lights as he moved. “Always.” He winked as your phone buzzed. “I’ll leave you to that then.” He turned, a smirk on his lips as he walked off.

You reached for your phone, seeing another story notification and hesitated before opening the notification. Thankfully, it was just a chaotic story about the cats. You replied to it with a heart and frowned when the story changed to another one of his. You hadn’t realized he’d posted two.

Pony started blasting and eight heads turned to face you. You face a sheepish smile in response, turning the volume down and walking out of the room. He was going to pay for this one.

“What the fuck Jiyong.” You hissed into the phone as soon as you saw his face appear.

“What?”

“Using Pony with a story of your face looking at me like that is dirty work.” You glared as you made your way to a more private area backstage.

“Just reminding you that you can jump on it anytime.” He smirked.

“Jiyong!” You groaned. “You’re a whole lifetime away. Stop being a tease.”

“I’ll be there in a few hours actually.” He leaned back in his seat, a pleased look on his face.

“What?”

“I miss you Jagiya. And it was supposed to be a surprise, but I’m off for the next week and I can’t wait until New Jersey to see you. So I’m coming for the weekend.”

“You better be resting up on that flight then. Because I’m making you pay for these stories.” You saw the guys lining up and checked the time with a sigh. “I have to go. I’ll see you soon.”

“Bye Jagiya.”

The call disconnected and you grinned as you made your way over to your friends. San raised a brow at your mood change and you looked away, folding your arms.

“Have a good show, boys!” You grinned before sending them on their way.

Jiyong managed to sneak into the show unnoticed, hiding in the green room until the show was over. He didn’t mind sitting in there alone with Jaeho while you worked. As he watched the show on a small TV he realized he’d never actually seen an Ateez show in person before. He had to give it to them, they were killing it out there.

Hongjoong led the guys and you back to the green room, San had an arm resting playfully on your shoulder as you all walked. Excited conversations about a job well down filled the air as Hongjoong opened the door stopping in his tracks.

“Hongjoong, what?” Seunghwa asked in confusion but Hongjoong didn’t answer.

“G-Dragon? Holy shit.” He shook his head trying to contain his excitement, Sans arm falling off your shoulder and you popped around him brows raised. “I mean, Jiyong, Hyung, hello….welcome.” He bowed his cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment.

The guys all followed suit and Jiyong smiled politely, bowing back. “Thanks for arranging this.” He nodded at the leader of Ateez and you looked between the guys before finally making your way to Jiyong. “Surprised?”

“Yeah. Kinda figured I’d just see you at the hotel or something tomorrow.” He shrugged, wrapping his arms around you.

“Yeah but then I couldn’t do this.” His lips were on yours instantly and you practically melted into him as you returned the kiss.

Seonghwa cleared his throat from his spot at the doorway and you pulled away from Jiyong with a sigh. Jiyong smirked, wrapping an arm protectively around your shoulder, a brow raised at San playfully. He offered up a sheepish smile and scratched the back of his head. Now that he had you in his arms he didn’t want to let you go. The guys made their way inside, offering handshakes and thanking Jiyong for being there.

“You were all amazing. Truly.” Jiyong smiled.

Your eyes fell on Hongjoong who you thought might pass out from the compliment and you snorted. Hongjoong looked over at you and glared before grabbing a bottle of water and excusing himself.

“You guys fine on your own for send off?” Seonghwa nodded and you picked up your purse. “Ok, I’ll see you in the morning.” You waved goodbye and led Jiyong out of the room.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

“I can’t believe you came all the way to Washington just to see me.”

“I’d go anywhere for you.” Jiyong pulled you closed, planting a kiss on your cheek.

You weren’t sure how you’d gotten so lucky to have Jiyong as your partner. Despite his crazy schedule and the fact that he could use this week off to rest, he’d chosen to fly to the states to see you.

The truth was, Jiyong would do anything for you. Did he enjoy teasing you? Absolutely. But that was just because he loved you so much. He may have misunderstood Jackson back in May but he trusted you, and he trusted Ateez. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun reminding you of what you were missing while you were away.

He held you close the rest of the ride back to the hotel, neither of you wanting to be too touchy with Jaeho in the front seat. One you were alone in the hotel room though all bets were off.

The door had barely closed before your lips were on his. It had been two months since you’d been able to kiss him, to hold him, and you wouldn’t be able to see him again for a couple more weeks after this. You were fully prepared to savor this night for as long as possible.

Jiyong’s tongue darted out licking your lip, begging for access. You happily obliged parting your lips, your tongue meeting his. His hands moved from your face down your side and stopped at the hem of your shirt before he pulled it up roughly, only breaking the kiss to pull it over your head.

You followed his lead, removing his shirt and licked your lips at his exposed chest. He’d been putting in work all tour and was more toned than he ever had been. Something you’d been enjoying. Jiyong noticed your stare and smirked, his hand cupped your cheek dragging your attention back to him and his lips captured yours once again.

He walked you backwards, laying you down on the bed gently, his lips finally leaning yours to kiss down your jaw, to your collarbone and down to your breasts. He removed your bra, and moved his mouth to your nipple, licking your nipple before biting down gently while his hand gently massaged your other one.

As his hand lowered to your panties, you made quick work of undoing the button on his shorts, pushing them down. His lips moved back up your body towards your lips and he kissed you slowly as he slid a finger into your slick folds. You moaned in his mouth, cupping his growing erection through his boxers.

Jiyong’s fingers massaged your clit slowly, your hips bucking against his hand and he smirked against your lips before stopping his movement. You let out a whine and Jiyong started moving his finger again before sliding it down to your entrance. He began pumping inside of you slowly, too slowly for your liking.

He added a second digit, his eyes locking on yours as he moved his fingers in and out of you. You moved your hips trying to get him to move faster and the smirk widened on his face.

“There’s no need to rush, Jagiya.” He whispered into your ear. “We have all night.” He bit down on your earlobe gently before moving his mouth to your collarbone.

He bit your skin gently, just hard enough to leave a light mark, one that would be gone in a couple days and easily covered. His hand stopped moving again and you opened your eyes, meeting his with a flare.

“Ji please.” You whined. He shook his head kissing you slowly.

“Be patient, Jagiya. Good things come to those who wait.”

You groaned, moving your hand to pull his boxers down, stroking his erection slowly. Jiyong let out a low groan, his fingers pumping inside of you again, curling at just the right spot. You curled your toes, your legs falling further apart and Jiyong’s thumb found your clit, rubbing quick circles. Your hip bucked into his hands and you matched his rhythm as you pumped him quickly.

You could feel yourself getting closer, your breaths coming out in shallow pants and Jiyong shook his head, stopping his movements.

“I don’t think so.” He smirked, his arm wrapping around torso before he flipped you so you were on top of him.

He helped you position yourself above him, his hands holding your hips tightly as you lowered yourself on him slowly taking him inch by inch. You rocked your hips against him and let out a moan at the feel of him inside of you. Jiyong lifted you slightly and you slammed back down on him quicker.

“Fuck, Jagiya.” He moaned his hips bucking into you.

You moved against him quickly, your hands resting on his chest as you moved against him. Your nails digging into his skin with each movement. You were close, so deliciously close to coming undone and you moved quicker. Jiyong matched your movements, his hands digging into your thighs, leaving little marks to match the ones you were leaving on his chest.

“Come for me, Jagiya.” He demanded. The steadiness in his voice was your undoing.

You rocked against him quickly a few more times before you came undone, Jiyong’s thrusts slowed as he let you ride out his orgasm, his following close behind yours. He released, filling you up, your hips rocking against his as he finished.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, him inside of you as you both caught your breath. You let go of him moving to push your hair back before you slowly pulled yourself off him. He pulled you to his side, kissing you gently.

“I missed you.” He mumbled against your lips.

“I missed you too.” You looked up at him with a smile. “You have to stop with the stories though. I’m not going to make it to the end of August if you keep doing that.”

Jiyong laughed, pulling you to him tightly and nodded his head. “I make no promises.”

“You’re the worst!” You laughed.

“You love me.”

“I do, very much so.”

The rest of the night was spent with you wrapped in each other's arms, talking about everything and nothing. Just savoring every bit of time you had together before you’d both have to get back to your respective jobs. The distance was hard but it wouldn’t be forever. Jiyong could wait a few more weeks, and he’d have fun teasing you along the way. Especially if it meant more nights like this when he did get to see you again.

tag list, ask to be added: @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @ttturnitup, @aizshallnotbefound @loveesiren @tulentiy @petersasteria @flymetothexmoon @mashtatosworld @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @mirahyun @breakmeoff @1950schick @sherrayyyyy @bettelaboure @allthoughtsmindfull @sylviavf @makotocrys @lilshu65 @crvshedpetals @jiraiyathehokage

#g dragon x reader #kwon jiyong x reader #bigbang x reader #ateez x reader #gdragon x reader #kwon ji yong x reader #g dragon #kwon jiyong #gdragon #kwon ji yong #ateez #my fics #bs2

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osterby · 3 days ago

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One of the largest problems with Centreoftheselights' ship stats is that the numbers are not a count of actual fics. The figures are better understood as a point based scoring system, and the ranking is a list of tags with highest scores.

The points are assigned thus: A new unlocked fic is created: +1 The tag is added to an old fic: +1 An old fic is unlocked: +1 A tag wrangling descision syns an old fic into the tag: +1 A new chapter is added to an existing fic: +0 A new locked fic is created: +0 A new unlocked fic is created and then locked: +0 A new fic is created and then deleted: +0 An old fic is deleted: -1 An old fic is locked: -1 The tag is removed from an old fic: -1 A tag wrangling descision de-syns an old fic out of the tag: -1

We can have conversations about which fics should be counted when we're talking about which ships are most popular within a timeframe. I like to use "created_by" searches in my posts about fic stats because those links are more futureproof, but an "updated_by" search, if you catch it close enough to the time, more accurately reflects fic-writing activity and quantity of new reading material. If we're doing a deep dive, we need to talk about which searches we're using and why.

We can also talk about if we should include archive locked works or not. I haven't heard any convincing arguments for excluding locked works from year-end stats presented to regular users with accounts, but there is absolutely value in doing both counts and comparing them.

But all of the above assumes that the number we end up with is a tally of all the fics on the archive that meet our inclusion criteria, and I don't think anyone is going to argue that a tag wrangling descision that re-sorts a ten year old fic reflects a ship being more or less popular this year.

The bad fic stats chart tells us that Jayce/Viktor "gained" 13261 works between August 2 2024 - July 29 2025.

But that "works gained" column is mislabeled, because it's actually that ship's score. The thirteen thousand is not a count of individual fics, and so we cannot go looking at those fics to determine anything about them.

When I tell you that there are 14,621 works in the Jayce/Victor tag that were created August 2 2024 - July 29 2025 and give you this link as my source, you can click on it and go read the fics. You can check the same link both logged in and logged out to see how many are archive locked. You can let me know if I'm being an idiot and searched the wrong time frame by accident. You can make observations about Jayce/Victor fic posted during that timeframe -- you can note, for example, that there are very few crossovers and that Trans!Victor is the top freeform tag. Maybe you're interested in how the percentage of Trans!Victor fics might change over time, maybe you want to do an academic textual analysis of how Jayce's ethnicity is approached by fic authors, maybe you're curious about how long Jayce/Victor fics tend to be or what other ships tend to show up in this search. These are all things that you can do when you're looking at a list of the actual fics.

And these are all things that you can't do with a score that does not count actual fics.

Since the numbers are scores and not counts, we can neither trust nor critique the info in other columns.

Multiple rounds of these stats have inspired wank over the fact that Hermione's ethnicity is listed as "ambiguous". Because the chart lists a score, all we can do is wank about canon. But if, instead of a score, if we're looking at the actual nine thousand Hermione/Draco fics posted in the timeframe in question, we can further filter that search and see that only 33 of them are tagged POC Hermione. And if we have the time and skills for it, we can do a textual analyses of those fics and see how she's protrayed when an ethnicity isn't tagged.

Last January I made a stink about Kirk/Spock being listed as a ship from the reboot movies, despite All Media Types and TOS being more common for K/S fics posted in 2024. I noted at the time that we have no way of knowing if the reboot movies are actually the top fandom tag in the fics in her dataset or not, but on further reflection I realised that her dataset contains no fics at all. New fics are not excluded from the set when old fics are deleted, because her data was never counting fics that exist in the first place. It's a point based score system that cannot be replicated or analysed, and that means absolutely nothing.

#Bad Ship Stats #AO3 stats dive

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awriterfaraway · 3 days ago

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To remind yourself and myself.

The one and ONLY way you fail at writing is if you stop writing.

Obsession beats talent.

The more you write, the better you get. There's no other possibility. The only way to get better is to keep moving.

Writing is like a muscle to train. Just keep training and you'll eventually be better.

To fail in a document means to learn from a mistake and to be better. Failure = improvement

You are privileged to even want to write. You're rare. And you're telling me you're giving up on that? Embrace your craft.

Thousands of writers came before you. Thousands will after you. Thousands are around you. If they can do it, you can.

Think of the worst book you've ever read. You know why that author published and you didn't? Because they had the audacity to believe in THAT crime scene of a manuscript.

If they can do it like THAT, so can you.

Most famous writers published after 30. The biggest ones in their 40s and 50s. You still have time to write.

You're okay. Breathe. You're fine.

#writers on tumblr #creative writing #writerscommunity #writing #books #bookblr #writer stuff #reading #writerblr #authors #writers of tumblr #on writers #writing community #writing is hard #on writing #write write write #write #writer #writeblr

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karanseraph · 10 hours ago

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this is reminding me of experiences I had outside of fandom, where sometime between the early/mid 90s and present I multiple times joined online writers groups for mutual concrit. And multiple times had the experience where someone in the group would communicate to me (paraphrasing multiple similar incidents) "Oh, I don't read *that* type of work because it makes me *uncomfortable*".

Which would enrage me in multiple levels or points:

What does 'uncomfortable' mean really?

did they miss that I just read their Bodice Ripper or highly masculine take on what an ancient Roman orgy might have been like?

This was not a fandom context of "don't like; don't read". We were supposed to be mature professional authors exchanging mutual service in the context of a club specifically for doing such.

If they had squicks or such, maybe upfront would have been a better time.

No one can force/compel another to read, so in the end I just didn't get as much feedback because of my content choices, but they got my attention to detail and knowledge.

This didn't feel just.

Anyway, I very much support individual autonomy and agency. I don't want to give others demand/expectation that will make life difficult for them. But, at same time, I think that if one is in a service situation, part of that is being able to set aside one's own tastes. Like, if I work retail or food service (I have) I don't have to like what customers buy. I even assume that I'll take a certain amount of social discomfort in just dealing with people. But it's not for me. It's a service. I even do it on a volunteer basis.

And for more context, it's not like between 1990s and now the existence of vampire and/paranormal romance with some few biting or sex scenes is objectively way out there or fringe. It's been increasingly main stream in that time.

(Not that fringiness is my point here, even if it was some other story that was more hard-core or rare in some way, writers should respect the art of the writing craft.)

And, similarly, between 1990s and present the existence of some variety of queer /LGBTQ+ characters (human or not) has also become increasingly mainstream.

But, some people who themselves write some graphic heterosexual and/or gory content would balk at like gay vampire x shapeshifting part-angel.

But, to clarify, I don't think the religious themes were the issue in these scenarios. I don't think anyone got as far as the Jesus cameos.

Anyway, this has been my low key rant about fellow writers using their own "eww gross" feelings to discriminate against certain content in the context of online writer's groups.

#writing #rant #personal

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olderthannetfic · 17 hours ago

Note

Just throwing this out:

Why did I get like three WOC making posts about "Where are all the poc stories set in ancient/historic poc countries!!!" aiming it at white people. Like, explicitly mentioning white people and questioning them. As if the random white readers are the ones hiding them away or not writing them, and like...

Fuck do I know? Shouldn't you ask yourself that? We literally have gone through years of discussions about poc writing their cultures and fiction, and to let poc write their stories. If you're noticing a drought in poc fiction in your own bookshelf, you should probably not ask the white readers and writers where it all is? Maybe you should get off your ass and find them? Are the white people your personal librarians???

It's like that post from a few months: Why are you reading the white protag story, written by a white author, complaining that it's not a poc written story about a poc protag, instead of actually reading poc story written by a poc?

⚪ where's the fantasy story set in (idk) Ancient India with Indian folk lore and myths? (Yes I copied the start of one post with a bit of changing it up for anonymity.) Go ask an Indian writer? Don't be lazy and actually look up the books written by Indian writers???? You want an authentic view of someone writing from their own culture... maybe start looking at books from that culture and it's writers???? Do I have to fucking teach you how to google? Where in that equation did white people enter the stage to take over for the writers? Or when did white people become the only audience for Indian fantasy? At least as all the general readerships without any racial bias.

I was fascinated by Jackson Crawford's reaction to The Northman in contrast to the Welsh Viking's.

Stay with me here.

The Welsh Viking had praised the film for how accurate its costumes were and how it even showed realistic tablet weaving. So historical! Just the best ever!

But Crawford felt that it didn't feel at all like any genuine viking writings. The concerns and ways of thinking and modes of storytelling weren't historical.

I know the genre of post you mean, though I'd say white people are at least as likely to make them. The subtext is partly that everyone else should spoon-feed the poster recs or that the overall stats of what is published should look good without them having to actually contribute anything, including their reading time...

But the subtext is also that they want the costumes, not the storytelling modes. I know they don't say this, but it's there.

The posts are almost always implicitly about the needs of diaspora, frequently in the US. I often joke about "Where's the reylo romantasy trash for me??" because that's how most of these read to me.

The thing that is generally being asked for is the big media property—whether that's MCU big or 'everyone at the SF con is talking about this book' big—to be more explicitly about/by/for them.

It's not about having some media that's diverse in such-and-such a way. It's about having the media their community cares about be that. It's about being able to join a fandom for that, whether that means having fic to read or other people in their same social circles to discuss canon with.

It's something I can sympathize with but also find very annoying, depending on how self-aware they are and how it's phrased.

Someone might be looking for "fantasy", but they don't want to deal with politically conscious literary fiction from Latin America or historical adventure novels with unrealistically badass martial arts from China. They want for there to be a genre called "fantasy" and shelved as fantasy and hitting the notes they liked in the fantasy they read now, only with a different person on the cover.

That's going to be extremely hard to find if you're actually branching out to other cultures where there might be more authors of identity X. Those people are going to write something from their culture, not a Western or specifically US-flavored thing with more diversity. They might have some genre the writers of these posts don't understand, or they might be virulently, openly, unrepentantly fatphobic and colorist all over all the big media.

Or, on the other hand, "sci-fi" to them might mean Star Wars, and everything they write is a ripoff of a Hollywood movie because they just don't have that exact genre in their cultural history. I constantly see native English speakers going "I want to learn [language]. Where are the TV shows like X?" and everyone tells them "My country only makes het telenovelas. When we want to watch X, we just watch yours."

A lot of it is financial. There's a knitting youtuber from Brunei who has commented that the only way to make money is to not make content about local things because there aren't any youtube ads aimed at Brunei. Her traffic that pays is American. The "boo hoo, where are the books?" conversation isn't about a book, some book: it's about a book that can make money and get an audience on a global scale. The poster wants that book to be both "diverse" in her particular preferred way and a bestseller in places she goes and among people she knows.

For this world to exist, your classic Sold to 1D suburban white girl with her brown hair up in a messy bun would have to want to read romantasy self-insert mary sue novels where Hermione is black.

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rimzaaa · 2 days ago

Text

Older Than You (2)

Oneshot!

Part 1

Pairing: DBF! Hwang Inho x Fem!Reader (y/n)

Summary: One week after that night on the couch, everything between you and Inho simmers hotter beneath the surface. Stolen glances. Quiet touches. Words left unsaid. But when the tension finally snaps — and he takes you to his bed like he promised.

Warnings: Read Part 1 first for better understanding. 18+ Age gap. Power imbalance (but mutual desire & full consent). Mentions of past teasing/flirting. Steamy, suggestive scenes (not graphic, but high tension & detailed intimacy). Secret relationship dynamic. Possessive, emotionally charged male lead. Soft aftercare & emotional comfort.

Author's Note: As I promised, here is the second and final part of Older Than You. I loved writing this and hope y'all will love this too. It's one of my fav writing now!

Words Count: 3316

Tag list: Wanna get tagged in LBH fics? Lemme know in the comments.

@salesmancarddd @marymun @astronomicalastro-blog1 @filthygalli @thehellhaveubeenloca @yosoylaprincesa2004 @watasinekoru @nightlark100 @drewstarkeysrightarm @doodle-with-rhy @lunaryoongie @ilovehwanginho @yxluana @sammie217 @sammat97 @alex-17s-world @mObi4girls @maah-sama @grylian @hecticspice @manager016 @mxriesss @christmascoles @nosebeers @carolinevoight @princesscherryblossom15 @frozen-waffle @eviesmoon @startled-cats @retiredpieceofshits @ft-winnow @weakh3rokdrama @bluechaoslizzy @frontwomann @cutecat2005 @starlightlunax @alex110370000

The room was quiet, save for the soft sounds of tangled breathing and a slowing heartbeat. You were still curled against him, skin sticky with sweat, hair mussed from where his fingers had been. Inho’s hand lazily traced your spine — when suddenly —

Headlights.

A car door slammed outside.

You both froze.

Then — the familiar jingle of your dad’s keys.

“Shit” you hissed, bolting upright.

Inho was already moving, grabbing for his shirt on the floor. “It’s him.”

You scrambled to your feet, wobbling slightly — sore wasn’t even the word. You felt wrecked. Bruised in places no one would see. He steadied you with one hand on your waist, the other holding out your discarded shirt.

“Here — arms up,” he murmured, pulling it over your head. His jaw was tight but his eyes were still dark with something unrepentant.

He’d just spent the last hour destroying you, and now he was helping you get dressed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The front door creaked open. You heard your dad’s voice call out:

“Inho? You here?”

Inho pressed a kiss to your temple before stepping back, slipping into his pants and smoothing his shirt. His watch was still on his wrist.

You quickly fixed your hair, face flushed and lips slightly swollen. You stepped into the doorway of the living room just in time to see your dad walking in, shrugging off his coat.

He paused when he saw you limp slightly. “Y/n? You okay?”

You forced a smile and waved a hand. “Yeah, I just—uh, hit my foot on the couch leg.”

Inho, sitting casually on the armchair now, covered a cough that was definitely a laugh and you shot him a look.

Your dad nodded. “Alright, well, I’m gonna shower real quick. Inho, wait for me — we’ll have that drink.”

“Of course,” Inho said smoothly, like he hadn’t just had you under him fifteen minutes ago.

As your dad disappeared down the hall, Inho was already up. He moved fast, sweeping you into his arms before you could protest.

“Inho—!”

“Shh, let me take you upstairs,” he whispered, carrying you bridal-style up to your room.

“You don’t have to—”

“You’re limping like I broke you,” he murmured against your ear. “Let me apologize.”

Once inside your room, he gently set you on the bed, kneeling in front of you with one hand caressing your thigh. “Was I too rough?”

You bit back a smirk. “You weren’t exactly gentle.”

He chuckled, brushing his lips along the inside of your knee. “You said not to stop.”

You flicked his forehead. “You said ‘good girl’ and my brain left the building.”

He leaned in, kissing your inner thigh, voice low and amused. “Noted.”

The door of the bathroom slammed— your dad, heading back in. Inho stood quickly, smoothing his shirt.

“I’ll go have that drink before he suspects something.”

You grabbed his wrist. “Inho.”

He turned back.

You smirked up at him. “You better not fall asleep before round two.”

That look came back in his eyes — molten, heavy.

He leaned in, whispering “You’re going to kill me.”

Then he was gone — down the stairs, smoothing every trace of sin from his face before he met your father again.

You collapsed against your pillows, heart still hammering. The taste of him still on your lips.

And you knew — this was only the beginning.

~One Week Later~

It had been exactly seven days since that night on the couch.

Seven days since you whispered how much you want him.

Since he kissed you like he’d waited a lifetime.

And even though you hadn’t slept together again, the moments in between were almost worse.

The stolen glances across the room.

The brush of his hand against your waist as he passed behind you in the kitchen.

The kiss he pressed to your neck two night before when your dad had stepped out to take a call.

And then — the photo.

You’d sent it to him last night when he was with your dad at work: a picture of that same couch, perfectly innocent… if not for the three dots you’d added under it.

He replied instantly:

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

Followed by:

“I laughed so loud your dad would’ve caught me if I weren’t in my office.”

Now it was afternoon. He was stopping by to drop off something for your dad — or that was the excuse. You knew better.

You answered the door, heart already beating faster at the sight of him.

He was in a white polo shirt today, forearms flexing as he leaned slightly against the doorframe. He looked… unfair.

You didn’t even get a “hi.”

His eyes darted behind you, checking the hallway. Then, fast — too fast — he stepped in, kicked the door closed with one foot, and pressed you back against the wall with a low groan.

His mouth crashed against yours.

Hot. Starved. Desperate.

His hands slid up your waist, gripping like he was making sure you were real. Your breath caught when he rolled his hips against you — just enough pressure to tell you exactly how hard he was trying not to lose control.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was ragged.

“I can’t do this much longer,” he muttered, his voice low and ruined. “You keep looking at me like that. Sending me pictures. Wearing those damn shorts.”

You swallowed. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear now.

“I really need you” he whispered, rough and breathless. “It’s getting harder to hold back.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes — his own full of hunger, frustration, restraint.

Inho stepped back the moment he heard your father’s voice from the living room.

“Is that you, Inho?”

He gave you one last look — jaw tight, lips still parted from the kiss — and straightened his shirt like nothing happened.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he called back, already walking past you as if he hadn’t just said he needed you.

You stood there for a second, pulse hammering in your ears, your lips still tingling from the contact. Then you followed, trying to act casual, even as your legs felt like jelly.

Inho sat across from your dad, nodding like a polite guest. You sat nearby, heart still racing.

They talked. About something work-related. Some shared memory you barely caught because you were too busy noticing the way Inho kept shifting in his seat — how his leg bounced slightly, how he kept clenching and unclenching his hand.

Your dad glanced over mid-conversation. “You alright, man? You look… restless.”

Inho let out a soft laugh, casual and smooth. “Just tired. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

You bit your lip.

Your father nodded and got up. “I’ll get us something cold. You like that barley tea, right?”

“Yeah,” Inho replied.

You knew the moment your father turned his back.

Because Inho looked at you like a man unhinged. That same restrained heat darkening his eyes. And this time, when he leaned across the space between you, he didn’t hesitate.

His hand cupped your cheek as he kissed you again — slower, deeper. Not rushed like before.

Your heartbeat thundered in your chest.

You could hear your dad opening cabinets. Filling glasses.

But Inho didn’t pull back.

Not until the sound of the fridge door made you both jump.

You parted with a breathless gasp, cheeks flushed, trying to fix your expression as Inho leaned back in his chair, clearing his throat like nothing had happened.

You could barely look at him.

And he was smirking.

Your father returned with the drinks, handing one to Inho before settling back down beside you.

“Same old watch, huh?” your dad said casually, nodding at the silver timepiece on Inho’s wrist.

Inho glanced at it with a faint smile, thumb brushing over the scratched surface. “Yeah. You know me — I don’t change things that still work.”

Your dad laughed. “You’ve had that thing since forever. You remember that trip—?”

But Inho, without even looking at you, cut in smoothly, “Y/N likes my watch a lot.”

You choked slightly on your drink, eyes widening as your cheeks flushed with heat.

Your father didn’t notice. “Well, she’s got good taste. That thing’s practically vintage.”

“Mm,” Inho said, swirling the ice in his glass. Then, finally, he turned to glance at you — not for long, just a second too long to be innocent.

“She noticed it the first night I came over after months.”

Your heart stuttered.

You remembered it too clearly — your eyes catching on the watch, your casual comment that spiraled into something… not-so-innocent. That teasing line, “I like older things.”

Your grip on the glass tightened slightly as your father went on, oblivious.

But you knew Inho was watching you from the corner of his eye, quietly enjoying the way your face was now warm, your legs crossed a little tighter, your smile a bit more forced.

And when your dad leaned back, stretching and yawning, Inho leaned a little closer to you — so subtly no one would notice — and whispered under his breath,

“Still like it, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

But the flush rising to your ears said enough.

---

The afternoon light had softened, stretching golden across the living room as your father’s phone buzzed sharply on the coffee table.

He sighed, glanced at the screen, and stood up. “Work. I have to take this.”

You nodded, and Inho rose too, dusting off his shirt. “I should get going anyway.”

Your dad, phone already to his ear, gave a distracted nod. “Y/N, sweetheart, see him off?”

“Of course,” you said, trying to sound calm.

As soon as you both reached the front door, Inho turned to face you—closer than he should’ve been. His eyes dragged over your face, unreadable but burning.

“I’ve been patient,” he murmured, voice low. “But I want to take you to my bed. Like I promised.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in just slightly, gaze flicking down to your lips, then back up. “Tell your father you want to go out with me. Like when you were younger. Say we’re going to watch a movie or something.”

You blinked. “You think he’ll say yes?”

Inho smirked. “He always did back then.”

And he was right. You used to beg your dad to let you tag along with ‘Uncle Inho’ when you were little — ice cream runs, matinee movies, little bookstore visits. It had been innocent then. But now...

“I’ll wait in the car,” Inho said, straightening his shirt, smoothing his expression into something utterly nonchalant. “Don’t make me wait too long.”

You swallowed and nodded, cheeks flushed as you stepped back inside. Your dad was off the phone now, sipping water at the counter.

“Dad?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

You hesitated — and then smiled sweetly. “Mr Hwang asked if I wanted to go watch a movie. You know... like we used to. Just for a little while.”

Your dad’s face softened with nostalgia. “That’s nice of him. Sure, sweetheart. Just be back before it gets too late.”

“Okay,” you said, and your heart thudded against your ribs.

You turned away quickly, biting back the giddy grin tugging at your lips as you grabbed your coat.

You were going to his house.

And this time, it wouldn’t be popcorn and cartoons.

---

The ride to his house was quiet — but it wasn’t calm.

Not with his hand resting warm and firm on your thigh, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles on your skin like he owned it. Like he was claiming you, inch by inch, without saying a single word.

You didn’t speak either. The air was thick, charged. Your heartbeat lived in your throat, thudding louder every time his hand inched higher, every time his fingers gripped just a little tighter at a red light.

By the time he parked, your skin was buzzing.

The door to his home barely clicked shut behind you when it happened.

In-ho turned — and then his mouth was on yours.

He didn’t waste a second.

No teasing, no hesitation. Just heat.

His hands cupped your jaw as his lips crashed into yours with a hunger you’d only ever dreamed about. One that made your knees weaken, your fingers grabbing at the front of his shirt to stay grounded.

He stepped forward, guiding you backwards until your spine met the wall. You gasped against his mouth, and he used it — deepening the kiss, tilting your chin to taste more of you.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he breathed against your lips, voice low and ragged, “since the moment I left you on your bed.”

Your cheeks burned, but your body leaned in. Wanting more. Needing more.

He didn’t hold back. His hands moved to your hips, gripping with a quiet sort of desperation, like he’d been starved for you.

One hand slipped beneath your layers of clothing, fingertips grazing over skin he already knew too well — skin that remembered the weight of him.

He whispered your name, soft and reverent, and kissed the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then down your throat, each kiss slower than the last, until you were trembling beneath him.

“You remember what I said?” he murmured, brushing his lips near your ear.

“That the next time would be in my bed.”

You nodded, breathless.

He lifted you easily — effortlessly — and you wrapped your legs around his waist without a word, your arms looping around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Carrying you through the hallway, he pressed open the door to his room and laid you down with a gentleness that contrasted the fire in his eyes.

Inho stood over you for a moment, his eyes drinking you in — like he couldn’t believe you were here, in his bed, willingly offering yourself to him. His thumb brushed your cheekbone as he leaned down, lips ghosting over yours in contrast to the hunger he showed just moments ago.

“You’re sure?” he murmured, his voice rough but soft.

You nodded, whispering, “I want you.”

That was all he needed.

His lips found yours again, slower this time, like he meant to savor you. His hands roamed down your sides, tracing your shape through your clothes before slipping beneath the fabric.

One layer at a time — that was how he undressed you. No rush. No scramble. Just quiet reverence, like he was unwrapping something sacred.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured against your collarbone, his breath warm as his lips trailed across your skin. “So damn beautiful.”

He kissed down your chest, your stomach, worshipping every inch he revealed until you were laid bare beneath him — flushed and breathless.

His fingers dragged along your thighs, spreading them just enough to settle between them, and you gasped as he leaned over you fully — his weight grounding you, anchoring you to the moment.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he said, voice like velvet laced with gravel. “With your little looks… the way you say my name…”

You whimpered when he rolled his hips, letting you feel him — hard, deliberate, and completely unashamed. His breath hitched when you arched into him.

“Say it,” he whispered against your ear. “Say it like you did last time.”

“i want you” you moaned softly, barely audible.

He growled.

His lips found yours again — rougher now, more desperate — as his hand gripped your jaw gently, thumb tracing over your bottom lip.

“No,” he rasped, “not that. Say my name.”

You swallowed hard, breath shaking. “Inho…”

“Good girl” he whispered. “That’s better.”

You felt the way his body trembled slightly — how even he was affected by this, by you.

When he finally pushed into you, it wasn’t fast or harsh. It was deep. Slow. Devastating.

He groaned against your throat, burying his face there like he was trying to stay grounded — as if the feeling of you around him was too much. And maybe it was.

Your fingers dug into his back. Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist. Every movement of his hips, every breathless whisper of your name, dragged you further under — until it felt like there was no line between where he ended and you began.

“You feel like you were made for me,” he said, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “So tight. So warm. So perfect.”

He kissed you again — long and deep, a contrast to the steady rhythm that had your body unraveling beneath him.

Each thrust pulled a soft moan from your throat, and the more you gave him, the more he fell apart.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he whispered. “Taking all of me… like this is where you belong.”

You were breathless. Floating.

And when your body clenched around him — waves crashing hard and fast — he cursed under his breath and buried himself deeper, chasing his own release with a low, ragged groan that you felt in your bones.

He didn’t move for a long moment.

Just held you. Still buried inside, his chest pressed to yours, lips at your temple as your heartbeat slowly returned to normal.

Then, finally, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze — his eyes softer now, but still heavy with something raw.

He brushed the hair from your face, kissing your cheek.

“I’m never going to forget this” he said.

---

They stayed like that for a moment — tangled together, warm skin against warm skin, their breaths slowly syncing.

Then Inho shifted, gently pulling out and laying beside you. He said nothing at first, just wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into him, tucking you into the curve of his body like you belonged there.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice hoarse but tender, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You nodded, cheek pressed to his chest. “Yeah.”

His fingers traced lazy circles on your bare back, and for a moment, everything felt still — like the world outside didn’t exist.

Your eyes wandered up, and there it was again — the silver watch. Slightly scuffed, timeless, familiar. The same one that had driven you crazy just from the way it hugged his wrist.

“I really do like that watch,” you whispered, your voice soft with post-high honesty.

He chuckled, chest vibrating beneath your cheek. “Yeah? You’ve mentioned.”

“It suits you” you said, fingers reaching up to touch the cool metal. “Classic. Reliable. Kinda unfairly hot.”

That made him laugh again — a deep, quiet sound you felt more than heard.

Then, without warning, he sat up slightly, slid the watch off his wrist, and took your arm gently.

You blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

He didn’t answer. He just slid the heavy strap onto your wrist and fastened it carefully, like it was made for you.

You stared at it, eyes wide, then laughed softly. “It’s huge on me.”

“Looks better on you anyway”

He smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Keep it,” he said simply, placing it in your hand. “Something to wear when I’m not around.”

You stared at it — then at him. “You’ll want it back.”

“I won’t,” he murmured “because I’ve got you now”

He pulled you closer and added

“And if I want to.....I’ll just come get it off you myself.”

You blushed, as he tucked you back against him. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Mm,” he hummed, pulling you closer. “And you’re trouble.”

You both laughed softly, tangled up in sweat and warmth and something that felt suspiciously like falling.

And as the sun dipped lower beyond the window, casting soft gold over the room, you let your eyes drift shut — wrapped in Inho’s arms, wearing his watch, and entirely, completely his.

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formiito · 3 days ago

Text

ONCE TWICE MELODY ; DAZAI OSAMU

⟢ dazai x insomniac! gn! reader

SYNOPSIS : coffee, novellas, neon lights— as the world turns to see the sun once more, your strange relationship unfolds in broad sketches. 2.2k words. AUTHOR'S NOTE : sleep meds aren't working for me anymore so i had to write this instead. partly inspired by the movie chungking express (1994). god i love lonely people in neon cities. this can be read as both platonic and romantic, i intended it to be somewhat qpr coded. CONTENT WARNINGS : dazai-typical suicide references, mention of scars, themes of alienation. READ ON AO3

3:36 AM.

The amber glow of the lit lamp drenched the kitchen in warm light and long shadows. They reflected on his face, warmth scattered over the ridge of the nose bridge and diffused in the side of the cheek. You were sitting on the kitchen counter, quietly sipping your mug of coffee. Too much sugar, not enough milk, and there's something in it that makes it tastes like a horrible idea.

That's probably the vodka.

When the hell did that get in?

There was the smell of something burnt in the air, and Dazai was still scraping the remains of the pan. What were supposed to be sunny side ups ended up as weird splotches of … a thing that was at once both undercooked and burnt. Messing something up this bad should be a skill of it's own, you thought, but held your tongue. Only smiled.

"That's the third one. Let's just give up and make cup noodles. We gotta have one of those lying around, right?"

"The only thing you've got in your cupboards is expired poptarts and vodka. We're not eating that."

"It ain't that bad. Maybe we can dip the poptarts in vodka."

"…You disgust me. I like it."

A few minutes later, biting into poptarts that were definitely not fit for consumption, you grimaced at the dry texture. That, and the chocolate flavor that tasted like it was some sort of factory imposter pretending to be chocolate. Which it probably was.

You both just looked at each other, at the same time. "This ain't right."

The box was thrown away, and all that was left was disappointed sighs and sipping awful coffee. You brought it up to your lips, but he just tilted it towards himself and stole your sip instead. "…Not too bad, actually,"

"You're crazy."

"You wound me! Here I am staying up with you out of love, and you're calling me crazy."

You scoffed at the fake outrage and puffed cheeks, but handed him the cup. Back and forth the sips went, and for a moment, you paused again. "I didn't call you, though. You never have to stay."

"But you know you want me to, right?"

You didn't dignify that with a response, but in the back of your mind, you knew it to be true. It was better to have him around than stew in that strange loneliness all night. The spiral that fed into itself, unchecked self destructive thinking; his presence made it easier to not think for a while.

You cut the silence cleanly.

"…Yeah, I know."

—

The room was dim, but just bright enough for you to see your sketchbook, and him to read some random novella picked off your little shelf. The Complete Suicide had wormed it's way in between the spines, old and worn in comparison to the newer paperbacks and cloth covers. These days, he reached for it less and less. There's only so much a person can entertain themselves with one book, you assumed, especially one that has already been read so many times over. You don't bat an eye at the sight of it anymore—classics and contemporary fiction shoved in with stuff like How To Not Get Hurt Out Of Nowhere and everything else that he brought over.

The sketchbooks were kept separately. Dusty and shoved in the far back, you weren't particularly inclined to keep them on display. Of course, you couldn't prevent Dazai's curiosity; he ended up finding them anyway. The sketches of places around the Agency, other members… and him. As the pages filled up, he ended up in it more often than not. He felt a certain way about it. It's hard not to, seeing his likeness reflected on the page. His likeness, not him exactly, because those softly pencilled strokes and lost edges made him too aware of the difference between how you perceived him, and what he knew he was. It felt strange to look at the man on the paper, who looked much like him, but carried the burden of admiration the kind only an artist can hold for anyone.

He wondered if he'd stop taking up place on the pages if he ceased to be something beautiful in your eyes.

He wondered what that would take, because he knows you don't turn away from the sight of him—body scarred irreparably and neck burned from the noose. If you knew the full extent of his sin, what then? If he laid out all his cards down in front of you with reckless abandon, what would you think? Would it be so bad?

That thought was dangerous.

Your pencil was still, gaze fixed to the screen. The collection of DVDs you two bought a while back laid sprawled on the coffee table. Recently, your days were spent together more often than not. Even through the mind numbing tasks of the day in and day out, because it was easy to keep him around. You liked to think he found it easy to be around you too.

Dazai looked bored of life, yet he followed you street to intersection even if it didn't hold his attention at all. At some point, his presence had become an extension of yours, and where you were, he usually wasn't too far away.

Perhaps that's what friends did, but you had no real idea of what that meant. It wasn't quite loneliness that plagued you, or atleast not the typical sort, but there was a sort of cluelessness that comes with being alone for a while. The idea of normalcy shifts to include a world where no one else exists.

But it's easy to be lonely in a place like this, one marked by neon lights and empty kindness of strangers. It's even easier to perfect the art of loneliness while being surrounded by so many people. A comfortable little distance separated each and every person, no matter how close they were physically, and you could feel it.

There was a way to be miles apart even when shoulder to shoulder, skin to skin.

The rest of them—sleepwalkers in the night of a city that doesn't rest—remained in the little worlds of their own creation. Narrow and suffocating. You had longed then, more than ever to break on through to the other side, but it was as if the earth had kept spinning without taking you with it.

Even still, despite the dizzying spin that blurred the days into one another, he had made his place almost effortlessly in your life. Dazai phased in and out of what you had considered at first to be merely your world. The bare first aid box had too many rolls of bandages to count now. The careless rounds of caffeine pills had been replaced by two cups of coffee. Your clothes got mixed with his often, and neither of you questioned it anymore whenever you wound up wearing his coat or when he wore your belt. Everyone else's questioning gazes? Those were irrelevant. It was hard to define such a strange connection, and neither of you tried. There was no need to put up appearances for anyone else, because both of you cared little for that unreachable outside world.

It was a strange feeling to no longer be entirely alone. If it came down to it, you knew you could always get along just fine on your own. You had for some time, and it wouldn't have bothered you to do it all over again. But for the first time in a while, you didn't have to. It was easy to get used to that.

Looking back at your sketchbook, at the bandages and soft graphite curls; the thought in your mind was unfamiliar, but real.

Maybe this one will stay.

—

The blister packet in your hand crinkled softly as you cracked open four pills. Two for him and two for you. Sleep medication.

You knew you should've been taking it more often than you usually did, and you knew he should've been taking it way less than he usually did. It left a bad taste in your mouth, a reminder of emergency calls and uncertain conversations on the bathroom floors, trying to keep him from passing out. For him to just make it through the night.

Those incidents seemed like such a long time ago, even if they were recent enough from the beginning of the year. Even then, you don't think you regretted any of those sleepless nights.

Friends help each other out, don't they?

And never once had Dazai called you a friend, but then again, he'd never told you what exactly he thought you were either. As far as anyone was concerned, the both of you simply existed together, and that's just how it was.

At the exact same time, you were both a stranger and the one person who was closest to him.

It didn't bother you much; it never had to be spoken aloud. The two of you had your own ideas of what you meant to each another—why reconcile at all?

People are always happier when they think they know everything. So he never questioned it, neither did you. After all, you wanted the same thing as him, did you not? A reprieve from loneliness.

Eventually, he began to have that same, unfamiliar thought.

Maybe this one will stay.

He washed the pills down with water, and you did the same. It was already too late to be taking them, and you knew you were going to be barely functional in the morning, if at all. Working on a case was out of question entirely. Nearly half dead on your feet, even just paperwork would be difficult, but even little sleep was better than none.

The medicine was weak, but it made you more sluggish. On the flipside, he was wide eyed awake even hours after.

"Don't close your eyes just yet! I can't carry you to bed if you pass out here, you know."

He complained, holding you upright by the shoulders—eyes glittering in the dim light and still as awake as he was when the night started. You just deadpanned.

"That's fine. Just kinda drag me on the floor or whatever."

"You know I'm too lazy for that."

"That checks out."

You just sighed, settling back down onto the couch—the hard cushions barely dipping under your weight. There's probably a spring out of place on that old thing too, but you were honestly too tired to care. The bright television screen was still on, but it didn't sting your eyes because you weren't looking at it anyway.

It was the window.

The night outside was only full of falling lights, fluorescent blues and greens smeared across the glass. Little shapes were marked in the film of dew, finger doodles that weren't there earlier in the evening. Outside, the rain of late July washed it all away.

The world outside seemed to move faster than it did inside the four walls of your home, and maybe it did. You only knew that when the morning comes, you'd feel a ridiculous melancholy. A certain mourning. Another night of missed opportunities, unobserved beauty and solitude—only that this time that solitude was shared between two. A mutual loneliness sweetened by small rooms and empty coffee cups.

When daylight filters through the open windows and the streets begin to dry, that little bubble of peace would be popped. As ridiculous as it was, that thought brought a strange sadness.

Dazai was aware of it too. The sensation of home never really lasted long enough for the peace to settle in his bones.

The novella and sketchbooks were thrown carelessly on the coffee table, and by this point, your eyelids felt heavy as leather. Thoughts were beginning to blur into one another, but you wanted to hold on for a little longer. Glancing at him once more, you only found him looking back at you with a small smile on his face. Impish and hinting underlying mischief, as ever, but strangely soft.

"Just rest, I'll be here when you wake up."

—

You had doubted it at first, but for once, he was true to his word. In the afternoon sun, Dazai was still next to you, now unconscious. Perhaps the medicine did work after all. The room was still obscured by shadow, except for a single strip of warm yellow light that ran up the wall. Straining your vision to observe his face, coloured in hue of bright orange-yellows, you didn't move, not once. You couldn't afford to shatter that small, fragile peace.

A peace untouched by the pull of memories that shouldn't have followed him into the present, of the loneliness that clung to his soul like a disease.

It was easier to face a new day without feeling like you had lost something essential the night before. It still gnawed at the back of your mind, but the melancholy was no longer all consuming.

You pulled the askew blanket over his shoulder, before closing your eyes once again, slumped one over the other. As close as any two people could be with each other.

People are fickle, like the neon city lights that glow brightly for a while and die down in the wake of the morning. Yet, as you slipped back under the line that separated reality and dreams, it became easier to believe in that strange thought from earlier.

Maybe this one will stay.

taglist : @ejkreader, @gravitatives (to be added or removed, send in an ask.

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sandumilfshous · 2 days ago

Note

anon does not understand that some aspects of fandom are different from others. there's the top level enjoyment of the source media, in this case game of thrones by george rr martin. you do not invite him to your book club, but you talk about his stuff at book club, and recommend your non-book club friends to read it, and maybe you even make fanart and fanfiction and merch.

and that is the participatory culture of fandom. coined by henry jenkins, its a term that refers to how fandom doesnt just consume source media as a one way street, but actively gives back, remixes, and participates in a community that creates their own work, inventing a brand new lateral sub-level under the main source material, where you have brand new works made by your own peers!

and true to a participatory culture, fandom interacts with that as well. and because the creators are your peers, on the same level, you can in fact invite them to book club! instead of a participatory culture where you create and invent and remix and make theories and essays about your beloved thing that the creator (ie. george rr martin) never sees, the beloved thing is also stuff your peers and friends make! you have the opportunity to do all this directly with the creators, the writers, the artists, the fanvid makers!

and because this is now a two way street, if you interact with them and participate with them, they will do it back!

you say: oh my god i love this fic so much, the concept of x doing y was brilliant, and your imagery was fantastic, and the way you snuck in z? i am chewing my keyboardddddd 🙌 would you ever write abc?

and they say: aaa thank you so much, i was so excited for that plot twist! im so happy you liked it, comments like this give me so much dopamine and motivation! abc is actually a really interesting idea, let me think about it!

and then maybe a few weeks later, they post a fic about abc, shouting you out in the authors notes, giving YOU a double hit of dopamine and excitement! and now you can strike up another conversation, and build rapport, and follow each other on tumblr, and now you have a new fandom friend where you both inspire each other!

that is how fandom works. you can invite fan creators to your book club! fandom is built on being a two-way street, on bouncing ideas and compliments and motivation back and forth until the fission explodes new stuff into existence!

if you consume in silence, that energy fizzles out and disappears without anyone to bounce it off. fandom becomes empty and quiet, someone writing silently in one room, people reading it in another room, and it is no longer a mutual participatory culture. and that kills fandom.

Entitled white women I swear to God

People have been doing book clubs since forever. They do not put George RR Martin on the phone so he can join the chat.

Oh, thank you, kindly court jester jingling into my life under the brave banner of anonymity, for illustrating the exact problem of current fandom.

(This ask is about this post about private fanfiction "book clubs," for those of you who are not following my jester's ire.)

The bedrock of the problem entrenched fandom is having with the newer "TikTok fandom" element is that we have a fundamental disagreement about what fandom is, and what is the social relationship between the people who write fanfiction, make fanart, etc, and the people who read that fanfiction and enjoy that fanart.

(I am not going to use the term "content creator." Because that term is not applicable to fandom, fanfiction authors, or fan artist. Kill the capitalist in your brain. Content is hummingbird nectar made with artificial sweeteners. It resembles the real thing at a distance, but it is devoid of nutrients. It will fill you up so you're not hungry while starving you. Generative AI can produce content because it's empty; it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't even want to engage with you. The sole purpose of content is to get you to sit still long enough for the people who own the platform to squeeze whatever it is they want from you out of you and then abandon your malnourished husk until the next time they can get something from you.)

George RR Martin is not a member of fandom, and the relationship he has with his readers is fundamentally different, because his relationship as an author is explicitly a professional one. When George RR Martin sells a book—not to his readers, but to a publisher who acts as intermediary—he is given a lengthy contract outlining the terms of the sale. How much he will be paid, what can be done with his work by who, etc. George RR Martin is not your peer.

Fanfiction authors are your peers. They're your next door neighbors. They write fanfiction to connect to other fans in celebration of a canon everyone involved loves. Nobody makes a single red cent from writing or sharing their fanfiction. George RR Martin has sold 90 million copies of his books, and he gets money for every one. Because TikTok has trained you that people who are putting their creations out there are monetizing the experience of you reading or watching their art, the "TikTok fandom" element has you sorting your peer posting fanfiction on AO3 into the same category as George RR Martin. But your relationship with George RR Martin is a professional one, and the expectation from fanfiction authors and artists is a social relationship.

When you have a private book club reading and discussing fanfiction without ever telling the author or, God forbid, leaving a comment about how much you enjoyed the story—which is the expectation entrenched fandom authors and artists who view fandom as a social relationship—you think you're reading a mass produced novel from someone who has already been paid for it several times over, but this isn't even Walmart vs. local mom and pop. What are you actually doing is going to your neighborhood block party, picking up the cake someone made and brought to share, and taking it back to your house to eat with friends.

We are your peers. We are your neighbors. We are doing this for free because we want to talk to you about our common interest. No, it's not "payment." We offer our work for free, and you have the option of treating us like vending machines or ChatGPT or Walmart. This is a social relationship; you have this option just as you have the option of leaving your shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot instead of walking it to the cart return. You have that option just as you have the option to stick your chewed gum on a park bench or park your car across three handicap spaces or take a shit on the floor of a public bathroom. How you treat your peers and neighbors, how you treat the people in your community, is up to you.

You can keep stealing cakes from block parties. But don't be surprised when people get fed up with it and stop having block parties. Then you'll be stuck buying cake from Walmart or consuming artificially sweetened hummingbird nectar from ChatGPT while vultures raid your corpse for data.

Thanks for coming to my TEDTalk, court jester. Now get the fuck off my lawn.

#my wee rant for the day #i havent even had my ritalin. im just a fandom studies postgrad lol

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trippinsorrows · 5 hours ago

Text

life with you + gmar

authors note: believe it or not, this is one of my favorite plots i've created for a story. joe and mari just have me in a hold. idk. but, i decided to write a couple shorts/oneshots giving some more insight into their past and relationship.

super big thank you to all you amazing folks who continue to read and support this here story. it really means a lot to me. 🥺

some lore is def sprinkled in here. for sure.

masterlist

words: 3.8k

warnings: fluff and mari being a hot mess express

dividers credit: @bbyg4rlhelps

Late 2020

“Ya’ll know that random, striking cramp you get up your asshole when you’re on your period? The one that lasts like less than ten seconds but makes you feel like you’re about to meet Aaliyah, Pac, and Jesus?” Mari plops another Doritos blue ranch chip in her mouth, chewing while talking. “Hate that shit.”

A glance over at the TV that plays an old rerun episode of The Bernie Mac Show. She narrows her eyes, focusing in on the characters and nature of the scene, quickly determining that it’s from season 2. One of her favorites.

Digging in the bag for another chip, preferably a larger one, she asks, “or, is that just me?”

The thought never really occurred until this moment that perhaps her symptom is one of uniqueness versus a shared experience across the XX group of gals.

Except, reading the comments after locating the most perfectly shaped and sized chip reveals a different set of responses.

Mari, sweetie, I think you need a nap.

LMAOOO WHY IS SHE LIKE THIS YA’LL?

I literally just got on your live, friend, and that’s the first thing I hear. Omg.

since no one is saying it, i will. YES, AND IT’S THE MOST PAINFUL THING EVER OMG. 😫

Finally landing on a comment that expresses the agreement she was looking for, Mariella makes a sound and finishes swallowing before sharing that appreciation. “Thank you! And, no, cause it really is. Literally feels a like steel, burning rod is going up my booty hole.”

She reaches for the bottle on the coffee table, downing down a couple ounces of water when she notices someone asking where she got her bottle. “TJ Maxx!” Mari answers, pointing at the colorful bottle that has lines to mark ounces along with words of encouragement. “I love me some TJ Maxx. They always have the cutest stuff for affordable prices.” A small smile on her face as she uses a napkin to wipe some of the crumbs from the corner of her mouth. “Big Daddy hates going there with me, cause I love to go down every aisle to see what they got, meanwhile he maybe checks the athletic section and is ready to go soon after.”

Why is that not surprising?

am I the only one who cringes every time she calls him that? like, that’s your husband, sis.

@/user Am I the only one who cringes every time someone gets mad about what another woman is calling HER husband? Like, that’s HER husband, sis.

I feel like most men hate shopping altogether, unless it’s for like home improvement stuff...

Mari rolls her eyes and nods in agreement at the latest comment. “No, we can be in Home Depot damn near two hours, and he’ll still not be ready to go. Standing there with his hands on his hips, looking at shit I don’t understand or care about, asking me some—” Mari lowers her voice, doing her best to mimic Joe’s deep baritone. “Baby, what you think?” She switches back to her own voice, sucking her teeth and pouting. “Nigga, I don’t care. I’m just ready to go. A bitch is hungry. Shit.”

LMAO MARI PLEASE!

I swear, you are like the big sister everyone needs. 😂😂

it’s the fact that i can see this so plainly lmaoooo

They are the cutest fucking couple ever UGH

I wonder if they want kids, because their babies would be so adorable.

@/user they do. she's said it in interviews before. i believe she said they're just waiting for a good point for them to pause their careers.

So random, but Umbrella came on my playlist the other day, and I kept thinking about that one interview she gave and talked about how she wrote it for them. 🥺

It’s the last comment she catches that causes Mari’s mood to shift a bit. Less playful. Not serious. More poignant.

“You know what’s funny?” She sits back against the bottom of the sofa, crossing her legs over one another. “What a lot of people don’t realize is while that record is upbeat and a song you could easily dance to, it’s also extremely emotional for me, which is why I don’t talk about it a lot in interviews anymore, cause I’ll just start crying, because as you all know, I’m a crybaby.” She pauses, feeling the emotions stir within. “Gosh, I’m gonna start crying now.” Mari blots at her suddenly watery eyes, clearing her throat. “That song will always be so special for me, and it has nothing to do with it being my first major single and everything to do with the man it’s about.”

Nothing at all, because the truth of the matter is that Umbrella truly represents her relationship with Joe in ways that no one could ever understand. The depth of their dedication and trust and love for one another. Every word holds meaning, every verse carries depth, and every line a vow she meant and will always hold. Because just as much as she knows she’s been there for him, wrote a whole song dedicated to her devotion to him—several—it’s always been 100% reciprocated.

No one has ever supported her as much as her husband. Even when her own parents started to gently suggest that she maybe “think about other options” while she hustled and worked hard to pursue her dreams, he never swayed.

Always encouraged. Always supported. Lights cut off, barely any food in the fridge or pantry, robbing Peter to pay Paul, the sacrifices made on both ends, whatever it took, he did, was right by her side.

She’ll never forget the time she called him, doing her best to hide the fact that that was the first time in her life she ever really started to entertain the idea that maybe her dream was always just that—a dream. Waning belief spurred by a hopeful meeting with a music producer, who turned out to be nothing but a sleaze ball and predator, and resulted in her running out of that place, clothes disheveled and hope dashed. She just wanted, maybe even needed, to hear his voice, to be reminded that even though he wasn’t physically with her, he was still there. Still available to comfort her, and that was all she needed. Just to talk to him. She didn’t need him to necessarily come home and see about her, but that’s exactly what he did.

An 8 hour drive there and back, because they certainly didn’t have any money for a plane ticket, to see about her, because he already knew that she was far from okay. No matter how hard she tried to hide her distress. Distress that was partially amped by how exhausted he looked upon his arrival as well as his departure. He was drained, exhausted, and working his ass off to try to provide for them, yet none of that stopped him from coming to see about her. In one way or another, Joe has always been there for her.

Even before they realized that they had romantic feelings for one another, there’s always been that connection and magnetic pull of sorts. A rapport that can’t be manufactured. Only developed from a natural inclination. The man she’s shared so many moments with throughout her life. From him to coming to meet her on the side of the road, because she should have taken her fuel gauge seriously when it was screaming at her to fill up her tank. To rescuing her from disastrous dates that left her wondering if singleness was her forever future. To countless unintentionally comical moments like their wedding night where she more or less almost had a panic attack after seeing his dick of the first time, resulting in an almost fifteen minute rant about how they would have to have a sexless marriage, because there was no way he was fitting that inside of her.

Good, bad, somewhere in between, he’s always been there. Because that’s who he’s always been to and for her. A reliable, firm pillar of strength.

And that type of loyalty is a rarity to find this day and age, hence why there’s no path or direction in life for her that doesn’t include him.

There is no Mariella without Joe.

Plain and simple.

Clearing her throat once more, she reads more of the comments, smiling at the one that stands out the most.

Wait, where is Big Daddy, motha?

Her grin deepens, as she wipes at her eyes. “Ya’ll wanna see him?” A bit of a silly question, she can admit, when she’s met with a plethora of “yes” and “hell yeah” from her impromptu Live that, according to the number in the corner of her screen, has bypassed 250k viewers.

Damn.

Clearing her throat, Mari angles her body towards the left, in the direction of the spiral staircase. “Big Daddy!”

A brief yet noticeable pause followed by a loud enough yet calm. “Ri.”

She covers her mouth, trying but mostly failing to conceal her laughter, calling out, “can you come here?”

In preparing for the arrival of her husband, Mari works quick to clean off the crumbs from her lips and uses the pack of sanitizer wipes to rid her fingertips of the stains from one of her favorite snacks. The timing is perfect, when heavy footsteps soon follow as Joe walks into the living room.

Her smile returns as she looks up at him and bites down on her bottom lip. Sweats, a plain white shirt, his favorite slippers she got him a few years back for Christmas. His hair is lazily pulled back, a few strands of loose curls dangling, and wearing his black rimmed glasses.

Even so dressed down and casual, the man looks good.

His deep voice rings, dragging her attention from his attractiveness to his presence. “Yeah?”

Her smile deepens as she lifts her hand, reaching for him. “Hi.”

Joe sighs, a loud, irritated thing, while still walking over and briefly holding her hand before plopping down on the sofa, close enough to where she can hold onto his leg from where she sits on the floor. It’s only then his gaze lifts to the table where she has her phone propped up against a stack of decorative books. “You on Live?”

She nods, holding onto his leg, gesturing to the phone. “Say hi to my friends.”

“Ri.”

Mariella presses her face into the cotton of his sweats, giggling, “you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Nigga.”

I love the way he always looks so done yet so in love with her at the same damn time. 😭

And, I oop—why he do you like that, friend?

Joe said you interrupted my sleep for THIS?

Random, but that man fine as sin, geez. 🥵

A glance at the screen allows Mariella to see some of the comments, prompting her to scoff, “he wasn’t doing nothing but playing that damn video game. Or, solitaire on his phone.”

“The second,” Joe supplies as she moves from off the floor and climbs onto his lap, sitting sideways, his big hand naturally cupping and squeezing the meat of her ass. Mariella kisses his temple and casually strokes the hair at the nape of his neck.

He proves his point by pulling his phone out the pocket of his sweats, showing her the screen. Mariella rolls her eyes and lays her head against his shoulder. “You’re such an old man.” He pecks her temple, as she redirects her next statement more towards the viewers. “Ya’ll, I swear, if they still delivered papers, and he was home more, he would be that neighbor you see coming out in a long robe, mug of coffee in hand, going to retrieve it. A lil ‘hey there, neighbor’ sprinkled in there for some razzle dazzle.”

Joe feigns irritation. “And, what’s wrong with that?”

She lifts her head and presses her lips together. “Exactly my point.” Mariella adjusts in his lap once more, murmuring, “Mr. Rogers headass.”

Not Mr. Rogers CTFU 😂😂😂😂

Whyyyyy are you roasting this man like this omggggg?

I am so in love with how in love they are. It’s not even funny.

Mari doesn’t even feel like a celebrity, and I think that’s one of the reasons we all love her so much. She’s just Mari. 🥺

“We need music,” Mariella announces with a gasp, sitting up on Joe’s lap.

But, while she looks excited, he simply scowls, “Ri, no. I’m not for that shit tonight, cause I already know what you about to do.”

“What you say?” She says with an almost genuine confused expression, starting to climb off. “I can’t hear you.”

“Ri—”

“Huh? Baby, you gotta speak louder,” she continues to ignore him, taking his phone an navigating to Spotify.

“Mariella—” He’s stopped when the opening notes of a most familiar song fills the living room, his wife having connected to the speakers built throughout their mansion.

His eyes close, his head back against the sofa, as he mutters, “every fucking time.”

I still hear your voice when you sleep next to me

But, it’s too late, Mariella has his phone tossed back on the sofa beside him as she stands up and bends over to push back the coffee table, accidentally knocking her phone over in the process.

“Ooops,” she laughs, fixing and adjusting it so it’s focused on her excitement and her husband’s misery as she transitions into a full on random dance routine meets cheer choreography.

MOTHA WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING????

why is she dancing omg 😭😭😭😭

it’s the way roman looks so done with her 😂😂😂😂😂

THIS HAS TO BE THE BEST LIVE I’VE EVER BEEN ON.

Mariella moves to sit on Joe’s lap, bending over, palms planted on the carpet as she twerks on his lap, on beat to the music, at that.

She gasps, feeling his hand move over the curve of her plump ass, a squeeze and slap, followed by, “you better stop before you start something you can’t finish, baby girl.”

At that, her eyes widen a bit, the laughter minimizing as she forces herself to move back, sitting on his lip once more, squealing when he yanks her against his chest. “Joe!”

She giggles, eyes shut, hands holding onto his forearm, as he presses kisses and sucks on her neck. “Stoopppp. We can’t do it on my Instagram Live.”

YES YOU CAN!

we won’t tell if you don’t, sis.

God, it’s me again. When is it my turn?

Ya’ll can have Russ and Ci. Give me Joe and Ri.

wait, don’t stop. we trying to see something. 👀

Leaning over to read more of the comments, Mariella ignores her husband’s fingers messing with the waistband of her shorts. Really, an old pair of his basketball shorts.

She’s always stayed in his clothing. A preference and thing that really started when he made the career shift to wrestling and was gone a lot. Sleeping in his clothes always helped her to feel close to him, and years letter, both deeply immersed in successful careers, it’s something that hasn’t changed.

She makes a sound, tapping on his muscular forearm and wiggling until she’s standing up, his gaze lifted to her. “I gotta pee.” She bends over, slapping his hand away as he once again move it to her ass. “Ya’ll, watch Big Daddy for me.”

“Ri.”

Mari quickly scurries away as he slaps her booty, lifting his foot, pretending to kick her away.

Naturally, instead of paying attention to the comments, Joe, the undeniable and will never deny it more quiet one of the two of them, grabs his phone, turning down the music as well as grabbing the remote for the TV.

“Why the hell she got both on anyway?” He mutters to himself, paying her phone and Live no mind.

LMAO he’s such an old man, complaining about the TV being on.

Good God, how can a man be so attractive while doing absolutely nothing? 😫

Does this mean we’re not getting the live sex show? 😅

@/user Lita and Edge did it first.

^^^^Who?

…..Lawd, it’s time to die, ya’ll. The kids don’t even know they history no more.

Joe casts a brief, lazy glance to his wife’s phone before easily refocusing on his own. He was in the middle of a good game, too.

“Baby!”

He sighs, already knowing it’s about to be something. Anytime Ri calls him with that tone and voice, it’s something.

“Yes?”

And, he was 100% correct. “Can you bring me a roll of toilet paper? We’re out!”

At that, he sucks his teeth, sitting forward on the sofa. “Ri, it’s right there in the bathroom!”

Her answer comes quick and panicked. “But, there’s a spider near the rack! I need you to kill it, too! I can’t do it cause there’s urine dripping from my vagina!”

“God,” he groans, running his hand over his face. “No filter whatsoever.”

I AM SCREAMING RIGHT NOW OMG

this has to be the funniest shit i’ve ever seen. 😂😂😂

It’s the way he looks so done with her right nowwwww.

This has to be the third time I’ve heard her ask for someone to kill a bug for her. Is she scared or something? 😅

“Yes.” It just so happens that Joe is lazily and casually reading some of the comments, curiosity getting the best of him. “When she was 10, she killed a spider, and a week later, she ended up in the ER cause a brown recluse bit her. At 12, she was stung by a wasp and had a bad allergic reaction, ending up in the ER again. Ever since then, she’s refused to kill any bugs, cause she’s terrified and convinced one might try to kill her afterwards.”

……I mean, she may not be wrong.

What in the Final Destination hell?

Damn, Mari. 😭

You better get to it then, sir.

“Baby, are you coming?” Mariella shouts, Joe rolling his eyes as she sing-talks, “it’s getting closer!”

“I’m coming!” He groans, standing up. “Always something with your ass…”

The disappearance is nothing that exceeds 10 minutes, viewers continuing to sit and wait patiently for free entertainment.

Mariella soon bounces back in front of the screen, offering a small wave. “Back!”

Joe is right behind her. She reaches for his hand, his arm settling around her, as she looks over her shoulder when he says her name. “Hmm?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be working on dinner?”

And, it’s in that very moment, she knew she fucked up. Mari’s eyes are wide as saucers. “Oh, Lord!”

Dashing away from him, Joe plops back down on the sofa, legs spread, head tilted back.

And, he counts, knowing and prepared, “three…two….on—”

“Oh no!”

Another loud sigh.

“Ri?”

A noticeable pause. “H—huh?”

“You burned the food again, didn’t you?”

Double pause this time. “No.”

Joe rubs his temples, allowing himself to view the latest set of comments.

Mari, sis, didn’t you burn the damn food the LAST time you was on live??? 🥲

Not only is this man tired, he hungry as hell. A shame.

Sis, not you eating on them Doritos like dinner wasn’t going up in flames! 😫🫠

Someone get this girl some cooking skills.

“That’s not the problem. She’s a decent cook,” Joe defends, explaining as he runs his hand over his face. “She just gets so damn distracted that the food ends up burning half the damn time, because she’s doing everything but watching it.”

He removes his focus from her phone and turns his head to see her standing with her hands behind her back, that ‘please don’t be upset with me’ look on her face. “Ya know, I was thinking. Lasagna is so overrated. We should totally just go get some takeout from that Chinese restaurant you—”

“Ri.”

“Hmm?”

“Just be honest. You burned it, didn’t you?”

Her eyes widen, her jaw dropping with faux repulsion. “How dare you suggest such a thing—”

He gestures behind her. “Ri, I can see the smoke coming from the kitchen.”

She snaps around, sure enough seeing smoke emanating from their kitchen, traveling and making its way through the house. A squeal followed by her disappearing, Joe practically visualizing the sight of her with one of the kitchen towels, trying to fan it away, as if it’ll make a difference.

And, because it wouldn’t be a typical night with his wife without some type of system going off, the irritating beep of the smoke detectors is the icing on the cake.

This has been the single most chaotic night of my life, and literally none of it happened to me.

MARI PLEASE NOT YOU ABOUT TO START A WHOLE ASS FIRE COOKING DINNER.

starting a petition asap for these two to get a reality show. 😭

I think motha took her man’s opp theme song a lil’ too serious.

As Joe briefly contemplates removing the stove from the kitchen altogether, another alarming and obvious alert from his sweet but sometimes clueless ass wife. “Baby! The smoke detectors are going off for some reason!”

SOME REASON? MARI, MY SISTER IN CHRIST, YOU ALMOST BURNED DOWN THE HOUSE, SIS!

No wonder that man be on the road so much. She is a LOT. 😶

ya know how people talk about folks who need adult supervision at all times? it’s mari. she is the folks.

I am DEADASS in tears. Oh my gosh, this is hilarioussssss. 😂😂😂

“I’m coming,” he calls, unable to wipe the smile from his face. Ri is a mess. Always has been. Even when they were kids. Differing and varying levels of her chaos always marking their friendship and now marriage. But, as…..stressful as things can be at time, as crazy as she can drive him some days, she’s also the first and last thing on his mind each and every morning and night.

The one person he knows he can always go to and count on for anything. When he was at his absolute lowest, the space that exists below rock bottom, spiraling deeper and deeper into a depression that no one recognized, she was there. She saw it, extended her hand and never let go. Pulled him out of a place he doesn’t know he would have escaped if not for her.

So, yes, there are definitely times where her….quirkiness is a lot, that she stresses him out with the random ass situations she lands himself in, but at the end of the day, she is everything and all that he needs in life. It could all go away tomorrow, and as long as he still had her, he’d be okay.

There is no Joe without Mariella.

And, that’ll never change.

Ever.

#roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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