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hangmanwrites · 1 day ago

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your personal kryptonite ━ clark kent

dedicated to ━ @frivolousimagination because she’s the one who convinced me to post this ridiculous filthy mess even though i was being a coward about it, love u bestie, this one’s for you!! word count ━ 3.4k words pairing ━ clark kent x fem!reader content warnings ━ smut, mdni, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it irl unless you’re also dating superman), soft dom clark, praise, overstimulation, crying during sex (in a hot way), emotional support himbo vibes, aftercare, romantic filth, gentle but devastating author's note ━ this is only my second time writing smut so please be kind to my fragile little writer brain, i’m still figuring it out one emotionally unhinged paragraph at a time, but i really hope you enjoy it anyway and fall a bit in love with soft filthy clark, too. masterlist read here ━ we have a little discord server if you want to talk about david corenswet, clark kent, or anything in between. it’s a cosy community where we spiral together, share ideas, and help each other out with fic writing too. everyone’s welcome to join as long as you’re over 18. minors are not allowed, sorry loves!! 🩵

Today was a shitty day.

Work treated you like you were some sort of animal, not even a real person, just this empty thing people could toss problems at and expect answers from, like your brain was some kind of machine that didn’t glitch or ache or hit its limit after hours of passive aggression and sugarcoated threats and stupid bloody spreadsheets that kept crashing for no reason.

You’d barely managed to get through lunch without biting someone’s head off, and you did snap at a printer, which definitely made at least one intern scared of you forever, but honestly, at this point, let them be scared.

Let them think you’re heartless, because you can’t keep doing this, you can’t keep pretending it’s fine, that you’re fine, not when the train made you late and the rain soaked your socks and some stranger told you to “smile more” like that was going to fix your entire nervous system spiralling into self-destruct mode.

You almost didn’t come, almost got off at your usual stop and went home to cry into the same pillow that’s soaked up too much already this month, but the thought of being alone felt unbearable, like your body might shut down if you didn’t see him.

So now you’re outside his flat, fingers aching from gripping your keys too tight, throat thick with everything you can’t name, and the second he opens the door—

It’s over.

Your whole posture collapses like your spine forgot what holding you up looks like, like his face was the final straw, and suddenly he’s right there, stepping forward like you’re made of something delicate, like he knew before you said a single word that something was wrong, and he doesn’t hesitate and just pulls you into his chest with both arms, firm and warm and steady, and it ruins you completely.

You don’t even get a chance to apologise, because he’s already holding you like you’re not a burden at all, just tired, just human, and your fists are already curling into the front of his jumper like it’s the only thing keeping you standing upright.

And you can feel your breathing hitch against him, feel that awful stutter in your chest like a sob is waiting to break free and you hate it, you hate it so much, but he just keeps whispering, quiet and careful and close to your ear, It’s alright, I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.

And he does, one arm wrapped firm around your back as though he’s trying to hold you together by force, the other hand steady at the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair in slow, soothing motions as though he knows exactly where the panic lives and how to quiet it without being told.

He sways with you gently, barely a movement but enough to keep you present, enough to remind your body that time is still passing, that you’re still here, still held, still safe in his arms even if the rest of the world spent the entire day trying to convince you otherwise.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or question or try to coax anything out of you, he just stays there with you. He’d done this before, he’d memorised the shape of your silence and knows how to sit inside it without making it about him.

When you finally manage a full breath, not the shallow, uneven things you’d been taking all day but an actual proper inhale that lifts your chest and makes your shoulders fall, his hand presses gently against your back as if to say I felt that, I see it, you’re doing so well.

“Come here,” he says, soft and certain, and you follow him instantly, still clutching his sleeve, still a little folded into yourself, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just guides you through the flat with both hands at your waist as though you might vanish if he lets go.

He sits you on the edge of the bed and crouches in front of you without hesitation, his hands on your knees, thumbs brushing slowly over your tights in a way that doesn’t ask for anything, and when he looks up, his eyes are so impossibly kind it nearly undoes you again, not because he pities you, but because he doesn’t, because he’s really looking at you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, gently, carefully, as if the question is something he’s laying at your feet rather than pressing into your hands, “Or do you just want quiet?”

You shake your head, not sure which one you’re saying no to, not sure it even matters, because he nods anyway, as though a quiet understanding in the way he leans forward and presses a kiss to your knee, soft and lingering.

Then he kisses you again, a little higher, just above the edge of your skirt, and his hands slide to your hips, not in a greedy way, not in a way that demands anything, just a presence, just a reassurance, just him reminding you that he’s here.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice lower now, gentler, as though you might fall apart if he speaks too loud, “Then we’ll just sit. You and me.”

You nod, barely, just once, and maybe he thinks that’s it, that you’ll stay still and let the quiet carry you, but your hands are already reaching for him, moving like they’ve been waiting all day for permission, and the second your fingers thread through his hair, your whole chest twists, as though something in you finally dares to ache now that he’s here to hold it.

He doesn’t pull away, just lets you tug him into the space between your legs where you’re still curled on the bed, and your mouth finds his before you’ve even had time to think, messy and eager and a little too much, as though your body’s just trying to survive through contact.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting for it, like this is exactly what he hoped would happen the second you walked through the door, and it’s slow at first, careful, as though he doesn’t want to take anything from you that you’re not ready to give, but the way you’re pulling at him makes it impossible to keep it gentle.

You know he feels it too, the way the air thickens around you the second you tilt your head and open your mouth for him, the way his hands tighten on your hips as though he needs something to hold or else he might break apart entirely.

It’s not perfect, not neat or delicate or slow-burn cinematic, it’s messy and damp and hungry, and the exhaustion still clings to your limbs, the rawness of the day still presses at your skin, but none of it matters, not with his mouth on yours like it’s the only place he wants to be, not with that heat building low in your belly every time his thumb finds your waist or his tongue brushes yours just right.

You’re not trying to start anything, but the way he groans when your nails scrape the back of his neck pulls something up from deep in your chest that has nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with want.

You press in closer, tighter, chest flush to his, legs drawing him in, and you don’t stop kissing him because you don’t know how else to ask for more.

“Wait,” he breathes, voice rough now, ragged around the edges like he’s barely holding onto restraint, forehead pressed to yours, “Are you sure? I don’t want to take advantage, I—”

“Please,” you whisper, too fast, too breathless, too much, but you don’t care, you’re already chasing his mouth again before he can finish the sentence, already wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him in, and he lets you, because it’s Clark and he always does, and his lips are back on yours before either of you can think.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or take more than you’re ready to give, just kisses you with that quiet, steady focus that makes your whole chest tighten, his mouth slow against yours, his hands firm and careful even when they slide under your thighs to lift you into his lap, holding you close like it’s second nature.

You shift slightly, just enough to feel the heat of him pressed between your legs, and the sound he makes is low and helpless, his hands gripping at your hips like he’s trying to keep control, and for a second he pulls back, just enough to look at you again, and there’s no rush in it only that same quiet awe in his expression.

When he leans in again, he doesn’t go for your mouth, not yet, just presses a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, then just under your ear, each one slow and unbearably tender, and when he whispers, “You’ve had such a hard day.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he kisses you again, quiet and steady, as if he knows you’ll try to brush it off and doesn’t want to let you.

His hands move lower, sure and careful, fingers sliding beneath your underwear like he’s done it a hundred times, not from habit but because he knows you now, knows how to move without asking for more than you’re ready to give, and when he pulls the fabric down your legs, you lift your hips for him without needing to be told.

And when he sees you, really sees you, he exhales like it knocks the breath out of him, low and quiet and almost reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him in.

“God,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath, hands sliding up your thighs to part them, not rough, not rushed, just steady, grounding, and when he sees how wet you already are, he doesn’t say anything else just leans in and licks into you like it’s all he’s needed all day.

It’s filthy, right from the first slow pass of his tongue, so deliberate it pulls a whimper straight from your throat before you can even think, and you can’t hold it in, not when it’s not just his mouth.

Your thighs twitch, your hips shift, and you’re gripping the duvet in tight fists just to stay grounded, but he just keeps licking into you, slow and deep and steady, as though this is the only thing that matters.

And when you moan his name, helpless and breathless and wrecked, he groans back into you, fingers digging in just a little harder, and it’s not for show, it’s him, it’s real, it’s yes, that’s it, let me have it without saying a word.

Then his hand slides back down, his fingers warm and slick when he pushes two of them inside you, slow but sure, like he’s done this in his head a hundred times, and the stretch is so good it knocks the breath from your lungs, makes your hips jolt into his mouth, and he groans low and keeps going, his fingers working you open as his mouth stays right there.

And you can feel your climax building already, hot and unbearable and close, because it’s him, Clark, on his knees, giving everything, and you’ve never felt more wanted in your life.

You say his name again and it’s not a choice, it just happens, your mouth moving before your brain can catch up, because everything’s gone fuzzy, because your body is too full to hold anything else, and he hums in response, pleased and steady and so full of love it makes your chest ache all over again.

His palm presses firm to your lower stomach, and his voice comes soft and ruined against your cunt as he says, “Let go for me, baby, I’ve got you, it’s okay, just let me have it, come on.”

And you do, God, you do, it hits you hard and fast and so deep you don’t even realise you’ve stopped breathing until it all rushes back at once, and your body’s jolting up into him without warning, a helpless thing. Every muscle snapping tight and letting go all at once, and your thighs are shaking around his shoulders and your fingers are pulling hard in his hair and he just groans, low and hoarse and wrecked.

He slows down, keeps his tongue soft and steady and lets you fall apart in his mouth, lets you ride it out with his hands holding you still, one on your thigh and the other pressing down gently on your stomach.

You’re shaking, breathless, too far gone to speak, not a single thought in your head beyond the crashing release still flooding your chest and hips and thighs, and your hands are still in his hair, and when he finally lifts his head it’s slow.

His mouth is red, his eyes unbearably soft, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. He’s flushed and wrecked and breathing hard, but he still smiles when he sees you staring at the ceiling like your mind hasn’t caught up yet, and he reaches up with a trembling hand to brush your hair back, voice low and hoarse when he asks, “Are you alright?”

You nod, or something close to it, and he seems to understand. Then he leans down, kisses your hip, your stomach, the centre of your chest, soft and slow and steady, like he’s still trying to take care of you even now.

Your throat tightens all over again, because it’s him, and he’s still looking at you like you’re a miracle.

His mouth moves higher, kissing along your collarbone and neck, and his hands slide back up your thighs, hot and unshaking, and you know exactly what he’s thinking.

You can feel it in the way he breathes, in the way his body holds still like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You feel him now, still hard, still clothed, the shape of him pressed to your thigh, and you can’t help it. Your hips roll, slow and greedy, your body answering before your head can catch up.

He groans into your skin, low and deep, and you feel him falter, feel him fight not to lose it.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, quiet and hoarse and almost dazed, and it’s not a complaint, it’s reverent, it’s full of disbelief that he gets to have you like this, that he gets to stay here, and then he’s sitting up just enough to tug off his shirt and undo his belt, one handed.

And you watch him, still flushed and sensitive, still sore in the best way, but your legs spread for him automatically because your body wants this, wants him, wants to feel him everywhere, and when his trousers hit the floor and you finally get to see the full, desperate shape of him, flushed and thick and twitching with how hard he is.

You swear under your breath because it’s obscene, it’s not fair, he’s so beautiful, and he just kneels between your legs like he belongs there.

He leans down to kiss you again, mouth still messy from everything he did to you, and you moan into it, half from the taste of yourself on his tongue and half from the way his cock presses right up against you, not pushing in yet, but it’s hot and heavy against your overstimulated cunt.

Your body jolts with it, and you hear yourself whimper, and he shushes you softly, forehead pressed to yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, not because he doesn’t know, but because he needs to hear it, needs to be sure, always so careful even when he’s wrecked and seconds from losing it completely.

You nod again, this time more definite, more desperate, and you whisper, “Please,” and that’s all it takes.

He pushes in so slowly you can feel every inch of it, feel every thick, aching stretch of him as he fills you, deeper than you thought anyone ever could, thick and hot and perfect, and you’re already gasping before he’s fully seated, already clutching at his back with both hands as your body adjusts,

“You feel—” he starts, and then cuts himself off with a soft, broken noise, and presses a kiss to your throat as his hips roll forward, just enough to make you whimper, and he whispers, “So warm, sweetheart, so soft, you feel incredible.”

And then he moves for real, pulls back just enough to drag the whole length of himself out of you before sliding in again slow and deep, and your mouth falls open because it’s filthy, the sound of it, the slick, obscene drag of his cock inside you, your body taking him like it’s what it was made for, and Clark’s still breathing like he’s trying to survive it.

Clark sets a rhythm, gentle but full, grinding deep into you with every stroke, his hips tilting just right to press against that spot inside you that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach clench.

And every time he finds it again, again, he murmurs something soft into your skin, “There you go, That’s it, I’ve got you,” as though he’s guiding you somewhere, as if your body is answering him and he’s proud of it.

And it is so much, the stretch of him, the wet slide of your bodies moving together, the way your slick is dripping down your thighs now, messy and shameless, and Clark can feel it, can hear it, and instead of shying away from it he groans softly into your neck, presses his hand flat against your lower back to keep you right where he wants you, and says, breathless and stunned, “You’re so beautiful like this, I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how this feels.”

His voice is wrecked, soft and rough as he shudders above you, fingers finding your clit with slow, careful circles that make your whole body jerk beneath him. He doesn’t speed up, just keeps fucking you deep and steady, every thrust dragging right through you, and your legs are shaking, your hands clutching at him just to stay grounded.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs into your mouth, kissing you slow, “I’ve got you, I promise, just let go for me, sweetheart, please—”

And you do. It hits hard and hot, your body locking tight around him as everything breaks open, and you cry out without words, just Clark, just need, and he holds you through all of it, kissing your face, whispering soft things you can’t even process through the pleasure.

And he’s still inside you when it fades, still thick and hard and throbbing, just watching your face with the kind of awe that makes you ache all over again, and when you finally open your eyes, blinking up at him with wet lashes and parted lips, he leans down and kisses you one more time, deep and slow and full of everything he hasn’t said yet.

“You’re alright?” he asks, and he’s flushed and wrecked and still holding back, and you nod, still breathless, still clenching around him, and his whole body shudders again.

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” he admits, so softly it makes your heart twist, “You feel too good, I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you—”

But you’re already pulling him closer, because he needs it, because he’s holding himself so carefully, still buried in you and barely moving, arms shaking and jaw tight like it’s taking everything not to fall apart.

You press your hands to his face, tilting his head until he looks at you, and the second his eyes meet yours, something in you snaps again, because he’s beautiful and he’s yours and he’s waiting.

You don’t have to speak. He sees it in the way you nod, in the way your hands cradle him, in the way your thighs pull him in.

And he exhales, shaky and wrecked, and leans into your touch like he’s been waiting for it, and he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, barely audible, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you say, and it’s not breathless anymore, not messy or chaotic, it’s just soft, steady, honest, because you mean it, because you know him, and you know he never could.

He starts to move again, slow and deep and careful, as if he’s trying to memorise how you feel now that he’s allowed to. It’s not rushed anymore, just warm, just full of that unbearable closeness that only he ever gives you, and when your body clenches around him he groans, low and reverent.

Clark kisses you again and again, mouth soft on yours, whispering between breaths, “So good, I’ve got you, I’m right here,” and it’s never really about him, not even now, not even with his hips starting to stutter and his hands gripping tighter like he needs to hold on to something real.

And when it happens, when he finally lets go, you feel all of it; the shake in his thighs, the rough sound in his throat, the way his mouth drops open against your cheek and you hold him through it, hands in his hair, whispering his name just to let him know you’re here.

He groans your name like it’s the only word he knows, and he spills into you with his face tucked into your neck, his entire body trembling as though he’s never felt anything like this before, as though this moment, this warmth, this love, is undoing something in him he never thought could be undone.

When it’s over, his hips still and his breath evens out, and he doesn’t move. He stays close, chest to chest, mouth pressed to your skin like he’s not ready to let go, and you lie there with him in the quiet, holding each other, breathing slow and steady, hearts still racing in sync, and you know you’ve never been loved like this before.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, tangled and quiet, your legs still around his hips, his arms still tight around you like he’s afraid to let go. And maybe he’s right. Maybe you would fall apart if he stopped holding you like this, so gently, so steady, like he’s keeping you from breaking again.

When you finally shift, just enough to breathe deeper, he follows without question, tucks his face into your neck and sighs. Quiet and warm and full of peace, as if something inside him has finally gone still.

It’s a mess, all of it, your bodies sticky, your thighs still shaking, your heart beating too fast to keep up with your thoughts, but you don’t care. Not when his hand keeps stroking slow across your back like he’s soothing something deeper than skin, not when his mouth keeps finding your shoulder in soft kisses that feel more like promises than habit.

You should say something, maybe thank him or laugh or breathe properly, but all you can do is hold him tighter and hope he gets it. Hope he hears it in the way your fingers stay in his hair, in the way your forehead presses into his cheek, in the way your breathing finally begins to settle, not calm, but easier.

And the thought hits you, not all at once but slowly, creeping in through the quiet like a truth you’d been ignoring until now;

Kryptonite could kill him, sure, it’s the one thing strong enough to bring him down, the one weakness he can’t hide, but Clark Kent on his knees, hands steady and tongue slow and eyes so full of love it breaks you, that might just kill you first.

#clark kent #clark kent fic #clark kent x reader #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent fluff #clark kent smut #smut #superman #superman x reader #david!superman #david!clark kent #superman 2025 #david corenswet x reader #david corenswet

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 2 days ago

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Baby’s First Resurrection

Tags: Nanami x fem!Reader, established marriage, angst, mentions of death, suicide, self mutilation, hurt/eventual comfort, reader discretion is advised.

Synopsis: In which Nanami’s death doesn’t stick.

An: You are all going to pretend that I made Gojo’s sixth eye make sense in this story. You will not ask me questions on how it works. Everyone wanted Nanami to come back after this post, so here it is. The secret third option.

The world moved in bouts of chaos around you, but time stood utterly still. The Shibuya Incident will forever be ingrained into your mind. The atrocities and losses that occurred that night altered the Earth’s path, shifting it on its very axis.

Not only did the Earth shift, your world collapsed entirely. Your husband, your provider and protector, the father of your sweet daughter — gone.

The absolute pinnacle of evil stole the most righteous man and plucked him from the mortal planes. Nanami had always been too good for this world, but you selfishly wanted him back anyway.

Voices were static in the background. Shapes and colors blurred together in your vision. You couldn’t react. How could anyone expect you to after a half of your soul left you?

Your eyes were glossed over from staring straight ahead without blinking. Nothing made sense anymore. You had everything you could ever want right in the palm of your hand, and it was viciously ripped from you without a second thought.

The place around you was filled with life. Jujutsu students and teachers alike took shifts, keeping you company. Perhaps it was a suicide watch, or maybe they just felt the need to try and make up for his death.

It didn’t change the cold sediment that weighed down your lungs.

The sick joke about grief was the guilt that came along with it. Nanami was gone, but you had a daughter to raise. Hana had done nothing to deserve the emotionally distant mother you were slowly becoming.

In the early stages of your pregnancy, you and Nanami would talk for hours about different parenting styles. His palm would gently rub against your stomach as he listened to you pray that you would be better than your own parents.

He always encouraged and praised you to no end — your biggest supporter. He reassured you that you would a fantastic mother. The amount of love you had to give would supersede all else.

He was gone, and it felt like he took all of your love with him.

“Dada.” You flinched like Hana’s word — the only word she knew — stabbed you right in the chest.

Your vision slowly focused, and it was a mental effort to turn your head. Your beautiful blonde daughter was sat on the floor with Yuji. Her chubby fist was in her mouth as she smiled up at her adoptive big brother.

An invisible force squeezed your heart, causing your chest to ache. Even when you didn’t think you could possibly have anymore tears left to give, they streamed down your cheeks anyway.

Mom guilt was a different breed. You should be there for them. You’re the adult, aren’t you? Nanami would’ve been there for them if you had passed.

Why couldn’t it had been you?

“That’s right! That’s Papamin-“

“Dada,” Hana sassily corrected, looking up at Yuji like he was wrong.

“Uh, I knew him first, and we called him Papamin,” Yuji rebutted before he carefully looked in your direction. He was worried for you, but he hoped it didn’t show on his face. No one could get you to eat, drink, or move from the rocking chair that Nanami loved to sit in with his morning coffee.

You met his gaze, and you could immediately see through his facade. Yuji never had a good poker face. He was just a kid. A kid who was worried and lost. A kid who witnessed Nanami’s death with his own eyes.

Did you have any right to grieve when Yuji was there when it happened?

He was being so brave. Nanami would be proud of him, but he’d also give him the space to break down. To be vulnerable. To be a kid.

Your legs felt quaky and unsure as you rose from the rocking chair. Yuji was at your side in an instant, bracing you. “Where are we going?” he asked.

He was never suffocating in his approach. He didn’t try to make you sit down or do anything you didn’t want. He met you where you were at, buckled in along for the healing journey.

“I wanted to sit with Hana,” your voice was uncharacteristically quiet, a bit raspy from not using it, except for when you sobbed and called out for Nanami at night.

“Ten-four,” Yuji said, helping you down to where Hana was playing.

Your daughter had a building block in her hand, and she glanced up at you with a cheeky grin.

This felt unfamiliar, even though you used to spend your days playing and teaching her. She was right there — right in front of you, but she felt like she was miles away.

Your hand hesitantly reached out and brushed against her soft pudgy cheek. She was here, alive and breathing. Your daughter cooed from the touch, waving around the building block with excited flappy arms.

“Thank you… for being here, Yuji. You are one of the strongest kiddos I’ve ever met.. even when you shouldn’t have to be.” Your eyes look up to meet the teenager who had at some point grown taller than you.

Yuji furrowed his eyebrows a bit as he tried to keep his tears at bay. His cellphone was still barely hanging in his hand. Getting down onto his knees, he pulled you and Hana into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give him a proper death.”

*** *** ***

Loss looked different. Satoru stared at himself in the mirror, and for once in his life, he couldn’t see everything in the space between him and the mirror.

He used to pray for days like this. Satoru Gojo was on another level — the strongest because he was gifted the six eyes technique along with limitless. It was fucking isolating being on top.

However, now that he’s looking in the mirror… he couldn’t see every molecule of energy radiating from him. He thickly swallowed. At some point after Suguru’s death, Gojo found comfort in being lonely at the top.

After all, it was his six eyes that allowed him to immediately see through Kenjaku’s disguise and avoid being captured in the prison realm. Shibuya would’ve been a real travesty if he hadn’t swiftly dealt with what he could get to on time.

On time, which he wasn’t. Mahito’s soul transfiguration had already sentenced Nanami to death.

It was a swift decision after the curses were properly dealt with. A decision that was made with only Shoko present.

The two were alone in the morgue, right where Yuji had previously beaten death by making a deal with Sukuna.

“Are you sure?” Shoko asked in a rare tentative tone. She wasn’t even smoking a cigarette. That’s how serious this was.

What’s the point of having six eyes if you can’t see your only friend anymore?

“I can’t let another one of us die. I can’t. He has a wife, a daughter—“

“You don’t need to convince me. I’m just not sure it’ll work.” It had to work. It had to.

The blade slashed through the sixth eye like butter. Satoru couldn’t tell if it simply didn’t hurt or if he was numb to all physical pain after Nanami’s passing.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His hand was streaked in blood, the only evidence of his sacrifice. Two cerulean unharmed eyes stared back at him through the reflective glass, and despite everything, he didn’t feel overstimulated for once in his life. His brain wasn’t being overloaded with data gathered by all six of his eyes. He wasn’t over analyzing every small detail.

The cursed energy that had inhabited Gojo’s sixth eye had no where to go… no where besides the body Shoko had repaired with reversed cursed technique.

Nanami’s first breath back into this world was a dry heave. “Malaysia,” he gasped. His eyelids blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. “Where are my wife and kids?”

*** *** ***

“Let me watch Hana,” Shoko insisted. “I even washed my hands. She’s not going to get any sort of secondhand smoke.”

“I’m fine, really…” you responded, trying to keep your tone from snapping at Shoko who was just clearly trying to help. “I want to spend time with her, and don’t you hate kids?”

Shoko ran a hand through her hair with a ragged sigh. This stupid plan was Gojo’s idea. “Maybe I don’t hate them anymore. Are you going to deny me the chance to find out something new about myself?”

You sent her an incredulous look, and she let her shoulders drop. She couldn’t bullshit you anymore. Crouching down, she placed her hand on your shoulder. “Look. Gojo wants to show you something, but it…” It felt wrong referring to their little ‘surprise’ as an it. “It may be best if Hana doesn’t see — not yet.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. What could he want to show you that Hana shouldn’t see yet? Surely it had something to do with Nanami. You hadn’t been able to explain to Hana that dada wasn’t coming home anytime soon.

“Okay..” you said reluctantly, passing Hana towards Shoko. She held your daughter very… clinically, like she was scared she might contract rabies from your little bundle of joy.

“We’ll be in the play room,” she said awkwardly, walking off with Hana in her arms. You scoffed a small laugh. It was the first time you could find humor in anything since him.

Your hands fell to your lap. Yuji had left a little while ago, called out on a mission. The house was silent, unmoving. Looking back towards the rocking chair, you could picture him there, drinking a mug of coffee while reading a book. He always knew when you were looking at him. Sometimes, he’d shoot back a charming smile and invite you onto his lap.

You’d never feel one of his embraces again.

Just as the tears started to well up once again, the door opened to reveal Yuji in his uniform. He had a wide grin on his face as he practically bounced his way into the living room.

“Hope you don’t mind. I’m here for lunch,” he said, flopping himself onto the couch. Despite his energetic demeanor, he couldn’t meet your gaze.

“Why would I mind? This is your home, Yuu.” You slowly stood to go to the kitchen. You were trying your best to be normal, but it only seemed to work if you were caring for others rather than yourself.

“Hey wait—“ Yuji said, sitting up from the couch with the intention of preventing you from leaving the living room. “Gojo’s coming too.”

“That’s alright. Shoko told me. I’ll make enough for him as well..”

“Shoko told you…?” Yuji asked as he furrowed his eyebrows. His lips curved into the small pout he made while he was confused by something. He thought you’d have a bigger reaction than this…

Before anything else could be said, the door opened once more for Gojo to step through. “Sorry. I don’t knock,” he said with a boyish grin on his face, leaning against your doorframe.

You looked over at him, and you immediately tilted your head to the side when his eyes met yours. He wasn’t wearing his blindfold or his glasses. As far as you knew, Gojo had been relatively unharmed in Shibuya, but perhaps you were wrong.

“That’s okay… You’re looking.. well today,” you said because what else were you supposed to say. It was rare that Satoru had his eyes out for everyone to see.

The white haired male grinned even more as his brushed his hand against his own cheek. “Yeah? Tell me more. Notice anything different about me?”

You rolled your eyes at his usual antics. Satoru never shied away from the limelight. “You just rarely walk around without something protecting your eyes. It’s refreshing to see you like this, but are you sure you’re okay? You don’t have a headache or anything right?”

“You’re cute when you fuss over me, Y/n, but I have a feeling your husband probably feels jealous hearing you talk to me like this.”

Out of habit, you nearly looked to your side where Nanami would’ve been. He would’ve coughed, signaling his discomfort with Gojo’s flirtatious nature. He would’ve told him to knock it off.

Your heart sank as you realized no one was there to keep him in line.

The room was still and heavy. Nanami’s loss left a hole in conversations. He wasn’t there to balance everyone out. The universe simply felt wrong without him.

“Stop torturing her,” a familiar voice said gruffly. Gojo chuckled as a hand shoved him to the side. He stumbled out of the doorway, so another figure could walk in.

He was there in all of his glory. Fixing his cufflinks awkwardly like he did the first day he met you. He slowly met your gaze, and it felt like his heart was going to beat straight out of his chest to get to you.

His entire left side had been permanently marred, skin red and irritated with divots that were not there before. His left eye had been carefully wrapped, showing how he had experienced loss as well. His usually perfectly styled blonde hair laid messily upon his head, giving a rare sight of his undercut.

Your late husband somehow stood before you, and he was perfect.

You were glad that you were not holding anything in your hands because you would’ve dropped. You would’ve trampled people to get to him.

You had dreams like this where he would come home just for a day. You knew that you couldn’t let any time pass by.

His arms which were perfectly sculpted to hold you carefully wrapped around you as soon as you flung yourself at him. The questions of ‘why’ or ‘how’ died on your lips. You didn’t want to waste any time with him worrying about that stuff.

“Darling,” he gently rasped as he felt your tears soaking through his shirt. His hands gently rubbed up and down your back soothingly. “I love you. I’m sorry it took a while to get back to you.”

You shook your head vigorously. “Don’t be sorry. I love you so much. I missed you so much. Nothing made sense without you.”

His hand trailed up to your hair as he dipped his nose against your neck. You smelled just as he remembered— like home. His heart finally seemed to rest a bit with the promise that he was right where he should be.

“In case it hasn’t been clear, I’m retiring,” Nanami spoke up, looking over to Gojo, but he didn’t dare stop holding you.

“Aw, that’s okay. I’m pretty sure you were considered terminated anyways while you were—“

A sharp glare from you made the words clog in his throat. “I’ll plan your retirement party,” he corrected with a cheeky grin as he joined in on the hug. He was like a little parasite that you two couldn’t get rid of. A parasite that had made himself at home with both of you. A parasite that both of you cherished.

“I’ll miss you at school, Nanamin,” Yuji said, walking over to join in on the hug, rubbing his face into Nanami’s shoulder. When he was called out on a mission earlier, he had actually been brought into the morgue to see Nanami, to help plan the surprise, which was terribly hard to keep a secret.

“You’ll have me here though,” Nanami said as he used one of his palms to ruffle Yuji’s soft pink hair. “I’ll still come visit the campus as well.”

You let out a deep breath, releasing the tension in your body that had been there since Halloween night. Everything felt so surreal. He was really here, breathing in your arms. His flesh was warm and very much alive.

“Hana hasn’t stopped asking for you,” you whispered against him, still not ready to let him slip from your arms.

Nanami’s chest rose as he sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t want to scare her… I know I look different.”

“You’re still you, Nanami, and you’re perfect. She may not recognize you at first, but our daughter is a bright little girl. She’ll recognize the love you have to give.” You finally leaned your head up, pressing your hands to either side of Nanami’s cheeks gently.

His hazel eyes shined with unshed tears, and the smile on his face was bittersweet. “I’m just glad to be home.”

“You are my home,” you whispered before capturing his lips in a soft, longing kiss.

“Ew.”

“Gross,” Yuji echoed as he and Satoru both pulled away from the group hug.

Neither you nor Nanami reacted to their comments. Both of you were too caught up in each other’s embrace — unwilling to give up the serenity.

“Ugh, I wish I would’ve waited a few more minutes before coming in here.” Shoko’s voice cut through the tender moment. Her nose was scrunched up as she feigned disgust.

You reluctantly peeled yourself from your husband to look behind your shoulder. Shoko was holding Hana near the hallway to where she couldn’t see Nanami just yet.

“Bad news. I’m still not great with kids,” she said with a lilt of sarcasm in her tone that made you chuckle a bit; however, Nanami tensed in your arms.

He knew what he looked like, and he knew how easily young toddlers could get scared. One time before the Shibuya incident, he had let a five o’clock shadow grow on his chin and jaw. Hana wouldn’t let him hold her until he shaved it off. He was so devastated that he shaved it almost immediately.

“No matter what, it’ll be okay,” you murmured to him. “Having you here is what matters.”

He nodded, knowing that you were right. Hana would get used to the scars… eventually. He could handle his daughter looking at him like he was a stranger for a little while.

“Ahem— Hana..” he said tentatively as Shoko walked closer to the front entrance way. The world stood still while everyone held their breath.

Hana immediately perked up from where she had her fingers wrapped up in Shoko’s long brown hair. She turned her head, eyes bobbing around to see the source of her dad’s timber voice.

As soon as your daughter’s eyes — the ones she got from her mother — found Nanami, her entire face lit up. “Dada— Dada!” she grunted while fighting to get out of Shoko’s arms.

The doctor gladly passed her off to Nanami, wiping off her coat sleeves with a relieved look on her face.

Your husband melted. Tears welled up in his one functioning eye, and he held Hana close to his chest. “Hi pumpkin,” his voice cracked. “I missed you,” He looked up towards you, “and your mama so much.”

Her small stubby arms wrapped around him, still chanting his name with glee. Gojo patted his back, a silent gesture to welcome him back home. Nanami didn’t think he’d ever be able to repay Satoru for the sacrifice he made.

Your daughter’s small hands experimentally touched the wrapping around Nanami’s eye. “Dada,” she cooed. Her eyes then searched until they landed on Satoru like he was the one who should have the wrappings around his eyes. She was such a clever little girl.

Nanami followed her gaze until he saw Gojo. “Yes, I’m here,” your husband responded. “Are you looking at Uncle Toru?”

Satoru leaned down a bit to look Hana in the eyes. Babies always seemed a little rattled by him, probably due to the amount of cursed energy he practically radiated.

It was if the two had a silent conversation between them. You and Nanami stared in confusion, wondering what was going on in your daughter’s head as she stared at Satoru.

No matter, she smiled and turned her attention back to Nanami with a loud giggle that turned into a squeal. “Dada!” She then followed that up by a bunch of incoherent babbling.

“His name is still Papamin,” Yuji corrected, to which Hana merely stuck her tongue out at him and blew a raspberry.

It didn’t matter which name you all called him: Nanami, Nanamin, Papamin, Dada. You could call him whatever you liked, so long as he got to cherish the rest of his life with his family.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah

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violetrainbow412-blog · 3 days ago

Text

Fool (for you) [J. S.]

Johnny Storm x fem!reader

wc: 1.4k

request by @hsjshenene: hiiiii could you do a johnny storm x reader pre established relationship where he gets hurt doing something dumb and you have to patch his wounds. the reader like scolds him during this and he’s trying to make it sound like he did nothing wrong but your tired of it. thank you so much have a great day/night!

I love u like it, honey!

You swear you don’t want to be mad at Johnny. But he seems to be doing everything in his power to drive you absolutely insane.

“Ow!”

“Don’t move,” you hiss under your breath, leaning a little closer on the edge of his mattress to shorten the distance.

Your brow is furrowed as you press—maybe a bit harder than necessary—against the scrape on his forehead. You figure maybe that way you can punish him just a little for being so reckless.

The team had rescued several civilians trapped in a burning apartment building, and anyone would assume the Human Torch would be immune to physical damage in a mission involving fire. And he would have been—if your brilliant boyfriend hadn’t decided it was the perfect moment to race Ben through the debris, just to settle who was ‘the fastest on the team’.

That ended with him tripping over a loose steel rod, falling face-first to the ground, and landing a nice bruise all down his side. Which is how you ended up here, patching up his wounds with a very clear look of disapproval on your face.

“I told you, I’m fine. It’s nothing…”

“Shut up, Johnny, will you?” you cut him off with a warning glare. “Let me finish disinfecting your face so I can go to sleep in my room.”

“You’re not sleeping with me tonight?” he asked, sounding like a scolded puppy.

He had a cut on his right eyebrow, thin, but bleeding, most likely from hitting the side of a metal beam while flying through the wreckage. There were several scratches across his cheek and jaw, still dust-covered in places. You cleaned his face with quick, precise movements, deliberately avoiding his gaze as he tried to play it down with muffled grunts and soft questions you pointedly ignored. You also pretended not to notice the unconscious pout starting to form on his lips.

“Take your shirt off.”

“It’s not necessary—”

“Take it off,” you insisted, voice firm.

Your boyfriend hesitated, refusing your request as if baring his torso might make things worse. So you stepped back with a sigh.

“Goodnight, Jonathan. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait…” he murmured, catching your hand after you’d taken a couple of steps toward the door. He approached with unusual caution. “Are you mad at me?”

“What do you think?” you snapped, turning back to face him.

It didn’t help that he was looking at you with those pleading blue eyes.

“Hey, I’m sorry I kept you up tending to me. I didn’t mean to bother you…”

“You’re not a bother, Johnny. You worry me,” you muttered seriously. “This isn’t the first time you’ve hurt yourself doing something stupid.”

“But I’m fine!”

“That’s not the point. You… do understand that one day you could really get hurt, right? One day you’ll throw yourself into something reckless like this, and you won’t have time to strike your little ‘flaming hot guy’ pose before you break your neck. It’s not about whether you’re hurt or not right now. It’s about the fact that you don’t consider the consequences, and you put yourself in danger unnecessarily.”

Johnny stayed quiet, still holding your hand, warm and slightly scorched at the fingertips, as if there was still a bit of fire left in his skin. He didn’t answer right away, but his expression shifted just a little: the tension in his shoulders dropped, his gaze lowered, and that clumsy look of remorse he only ever showed you appeared without warning.

“I thought I’d be back sooner,” he finally murmured. “Didn’t think you’d… stay up waiting.”

“Of course I stayed up, Johnny. I waited for a call, a message, something. I’m not on the team, remember? I have no way of knowing if you’re okay… until you show up like this.”

He raised his chin slightly when he noticed your eyes lingering on the cut above his eyebrow, and this time, he didn’t resist your scrutiny.

“We had to evacuate quickly, part of the roof collapsed and—”

“And you decided it was the perfect moment to race Ben inside a collapsing building,” you interrupted, voice thick with irony. “Yeah, I heard. Very heroic.”

Johnny winced, not from the sting, but from embarrassment. Still, he didn’t defend himself. He knew you’d been sitting on the couch for hours, checking your phone, resisting the urge to call Reed. He knew you weren’t mad about the cut, or the scrapes, or even the bruise blooming along his ribs whenever he inhaled too deeply.

You were mad because he’d scared you again.

“I’m sorry,” Johnny said quietly, finally lowering his eyes. “I know it wasn’t my best call… but I’m here. In one piece. See?”

He raised his hands slightly, as if proving he was still breathing could make everything okay.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You stared at him, lips pressed tightly together, trying to hold in the fear still trembling in your chest. But he was already inching closer, closing the small space you’d left between you. One of his hands landed carefully on your hip, the other brushing your cheek.

“Let me fix it,” he whispered, and before you could object, he pressed his lips to yours.

It was a slow kiss—almost shy at first, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him—but you didn’t pull away. You were still angry, of course, but that was the thing about Johnny Storm: he knew how to touch you, how to inch closer, how to strip you of every argument with just one careful kiss. And when he hugged you a little tighter, your hands instinctively slid to his chest, slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt… and he let out a quiet groan.

He pulled back with a choked whimper.

“That hurt, didn’t it?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he said quickly, like the terrible liar he was—even though he knew that touch had been entirely intentional.

“Johnny.”

“Okay… a little,” he admitted, wincing.

You rolled your eyes and helped him peel off his shirt with more gentleness than he deserved, revealing the dark bruise already stretching along his left side. You didn’t say a word as you moved to grab a tube of ointment from the first aid kit, then began applying it with firm but careful strokes while he watched you in silence.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, softer this time. “Really. I just… I don’t want you to worry. I hate when we’re like this.”

You kept working a moment longer before sighing. He reached out clumsily and took your hand in his.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” he asked, using that vulnerable tone he only pulled out when he truly didn’t know how else to make things right. “I don’t want us to go to bed angry.”

“Do you promise to stop acting like an idiot and start taking better care of yourself?”

“I promise,” he replied instantly, far too enthusiastically.

You walked over to his wardrobe—the part you already knew was unofficially yours—and tossed him one of his sleep shirts. A tired sigh slipped out as you returned to his side.

“Come on. Let’s get some sleep.”

The smile that broke across his face was immediate. Johnny sat up straighter, like your agreement to stay had done more to heal him than any ointment or bandage. His blue eyes lit up with that mischievous spark you could never quite ignore, even when you tried your hardest to stay mad.

“So… does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asked in that sweet, almost childlike tone, like he needed your official forgiveness.

You didn’t answer, but the reluctant smile tugging at your lips was all he needed. Johnny caught it, grinning like he’d just won a bet he never should’ve placed, and scooted closer with no shame this time.

“Will you kiss me?” he whispered, voice low, his forehead still red, the bruise still visible, and that stupidly lovable look on his face. “Just to make sure… you know, that we’re okay.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue. You leaned in and kissed him again—shorter this time, more resigned than romantic. He smiled against your lips, clearly satisfied with himself.

“See? That’s what I needed. Your healing kisses. I barely feel anything now.”

“Liar,” you said, giving him a warning look.

Johnny chuckled, and you, despite everything, kissed him again.

Because yeah—he was still a fool. But he was your fool.

#johnny storm #fantastic four #fantastic 4 #marvel #joseph quinn #the human torch #johnny storm x reader #fantastic four fanfic #the fantastic four #the fantastic four first steps #Johnny storm fanfic #human torch x reader

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myladybelle · 1 day ago

Text

‘cause i can see you

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong! word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3) note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x

masterlist

You hadn’t meant to look at him—again.

But there he was, adjusting his glasses as he hurried through the bullpen, entirely unaware that you were watching him. He’d just bumped into the edge of someone’s desk, muttered a flustered apology, and fumbled the stack of notes he was carrying.

Clark Kent had a talent for not being seen. Perhaps that was why nobody but you seemed to realise he was chronically late to work.

Even after two months at The Daily Planet, you still hadn’t figured out if it was a cultivated art or just who Clark Kent was: unassuming and clumsy in a way that didn’t quite add up. You still remembered how Lois had described him on your first day: “A walking apology,” she’d teased.

Clark had stuck out a hand with a crooked smile and the kind of politeness you only ever encountered in strangers’ grandparents or vintage films.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” he’d said, with far too much sincerity for someone working in journalism.

Within minutes of meeting you, Clark had offered to carry your boxes of belongings up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and you’d let him, more curious than surprised. When he didn’t even break a sweat, you filed that moment away, like a bookmark.

Now, you sat at the desk directly in front of his, which came in handy given how often you seemed to be sharing bylines. You were both on a slow-boiling investigation into voter suppression in Metropolis’s south district. While you handled most of the fieldwork, Clark had a talent for getting people to talk that you didn’t quite understand.

“Hey,” you greeted, watching him slide into his chair and holding out a stack of annotated transcripts. “This is everything from the Liberty Street polling station interviews.”

Clark glanced up at you, startled—but not really. You could swear there was a half-second of anticipation in the way his shoulders had already started to turn, like he’d known it was you before you spoke.

“Oh—great,” he said, reaching for the stack. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then added, “You know, we’d probably be halfway through a draft if you didn’t show up an hour late every morning.” It was more of an observation than a complaint, but it hung there in the space between you.

You’d been trying really hard since you transferred to the Daily Planet—trying to be taken seriously, trying not to look like you were trying. You were still on a mission to prove that you belonged, and you definitely weren’t part of the inner circle with big-timers like Lois and Clark yet.

You were still new.

Clark blinked at you for a moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The defensiveness you half-expected never came. Instead, his features softened—eyebrows pulling together just slightly, mouth curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but more of a sheepish frown.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice gravely and heavy with guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Clark looked at you then, and it was different from every glance he’d sent your way before. Like he’d just noticed something about you for the first time. Or maybe like he’d known it all along and hadn’t decided what to do with it until now.

Your hands brushed when he took the papers from you. Just barely, and you still felt a static spark shoot up your arm. You tried not to look at him, watching the way his fingers stilled over the corner of the packet instead.

“You’ve got notes in the margins?” Clark asked, softer now, as though something between you required quiet.

You were the first to pull your hand away, leaning back into your chair and opening your email. “Mhm,” you replied, scanning your inbox. “Any inconsistency is highlighted in blue, red is outright contradictions. I didn’t have time to colour-code the voter lists in detail, but I circled the ones with duplicate addresses in yellow.”

Clark nodded, mouth twitching upward, like you’d just said something funny. You finally looked up at him, and there it was again—that flicker. The charged moment that passed between you more often than it should’ve.

Not quite a glance or an invitation. Just an acknowledgement of I see you. And without meaning to, you returned it with a grin of your own that said, I know you do.

He cleared his throat, dimples disappearing as he tapped his pen on the edge of your notes like it could ground him.

You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”

“No. Just—uh, impressed. You’re fast.” Clark smiled again, smaller this time. “And thorough.”

“Someone has to be.” You said it casually, but the corner of his mouth tugged again, and this time, you didn’t look away so quickly.

When your phone buzzed, Clark looked back down at the documents, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to stop staring at you.

You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you asked him to stop holding back.

You weren’t sure when it started—when the sound of Clark Kent’s laugh began to unravel something in your chest, or when his small kindnesses started to stick with you. It had only been a couple of months, but somewhere along the way, you fell into a rhythm with him. Easy. Natural.

Strange, considering how different the two of you were.

Clark was always running late, shuffling in with his tie askew and hair a little mussed, mumbling apologies as though the world might end if he interrupted someone’s concentration. He held doors too long, thanked people too earnestly, and gave compliments like they cost nothing.

You—sharp, composed, observant—hadn’t expected someone like that to catch your interest. But Clark Kent did. Thoroughly, quietly, and seemingly out of nowhere.

There was something oddly magnetic about him. The way he listened, really listened. How he remembered the kind of granola bar you liked, or that you couldn’t stand the Planet’s terrible coffee and always preferred tea. How he never made you feel like an outsider, even when everyone else sort of did.

It crept up on you, the way attraction always does when it’s built on noticing. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Late nights editing together, your chairs angled just a little too close. The way Clark looked at you sometimes, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say.

You weren’t sure what it meant. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. And that second maybe was the one that stayed with you. The way it hummed beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every unfinished sentence hanging between you like a dare.

Maybe.

The office changed at night.

Gone were the ringing phones, the shouted questions across desks, the clatter of keyboards and deadlines. All that was left was stillness—a low hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, the soft click of your fingers against laptop keys, and the occasional creak of Clark’s chair shifting in the quiet.

You could hear the city beyond the windows, muffled horns and distant sirens, but inside the bullpen, it was just you and Clark.

He sat across from you, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long since abandoned. Something about him always looked too ruffled in the daylight. But here, in the hush of after-hours, he looked real. Still a little out of place—too polite, too clumsy—but softer at the edges.

Almost like a different person entirely.

You glanced up from your screen and caught him already looking at you. Again. Clark didn’t look away fast enough this time. Just blinked, letting his gaze linger indulgently, then dropped his eyes back to his notes.

Your pulse kicked at the base of your throat, like it knew something you didn’t want to name. You tried not to smile, but your cheeks still rose anyway.

“Your handwriting’s atrocious, by the way,” you said, nodding toward the transcript between you. The messy margin scribbles he’d added to your voter fraud transcript were almost impossible to read.

Clark looked up, mock offended. “That’s expressive shorthand, thank you very much.”

You arched a brow. “It looks like you wrote this in the middle of an alien attack,” you countered.

He laughed, low and quiet, and it moved through you like a shiver. The sound of it settled low in your chest, reverberating deep like the first roll of thunder before a storm.

Clark shifted back in his chair, the quiet creak of the frame drawing your eyes—broad shoulders stretching beneath his button-down, long legs unfolding with a casual ease that only made it harder not to look.

“Well, this is Metropolis,” he pointed out. “That’s statistically probable.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, like it was a terrible comeback.

It was always like this with Clark. You shared the kind of rhythm that made the air feel softer, more forgiving. His presence never filled the room too loudly, but it always filled it entirely.

Every once in a while, you caught yourself watching Clark. From the way his hands moved to the way he pushed his glasses up when he was focused, to the way he leaned forward slightly when you spoke—a silent assurance that your words mattered.

Every time his eyes lingered on you, you felt it, like a static current under your skin; tingling, insistent, and impossible to ignore.

You stood to stretch, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze and reached beside you for the stack of background checks the printer just spat out. As you did, one of the pages slipped from your fingers and slid beneath the hulking machine.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, crouching to peer beneath it.

The printer was ancient and stubbornly heavy, its tray crooked again and wedged halfway out. You braced a hand against the side and tried to lift it just enough to slide the paper free, but it didn’t budge. Not even a millimetre.

“Need a hand?” Clark’s voice came from behind you, and before you could say anything, he was already lowering into a crouch beside you.

His hand brushed yours, warm and steady, and then he lifted the printer with one hand. Clark made it look like it was made of something thin and flimsy, cardboard.

You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”

Clark gave a small, sheepish smile. “Farm boy strength?” The way he said it sounded more like a question.

Your laugh came out slightly stunned. “Okay, Kansas,” you quipped. “You got strong enough to lift a printer with one hand from—what? Moving hay bails?”

“Not exactly,” Clark replied, quirking his lips in amusement.

“Well, thanks anyway,” you said, reaching for the freed paper.

You didn’t stand up just yet. Not with Clark still crouched beside you, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from his arm and chest. Not with the printer still suspended effortlessly in his grip, or with your pulse still jumping from the casual way he��d done it.

You could feel the whisper of his breath near your cheek, and your heart thudded against your ribs in answer, way too loud in the quiet.

Clark was close. Closer than he needed to be to help you out. You could feel the heat of him on your skin, and the sharp, impossible awareness of him settled into your spine.

He set the printer back down with a soft clunk. “Any time,” he murmured.

His arm brushed yours, and you felt it like a spark. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, maybe to your mouth, maybe to an ink stain on your chin. Either way, it made your pulse thrum wildly at the base of your neck, and you were glad to have your desk to lean on.

You looked away first, standing and brushing the dust from your trousers. “You’re always around when I need help. I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence,” you teased.

Clark grinned, all dimples and brightness. “I like to be useful.”

“I thought you liked being late.”

He made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m not always late.”

You gave him a look. “Clark, you didn’t show up until nearly eleven this morning.”

“I was… delayed,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. A bashful flush warmed his handsome face.

“Uh-huh. You’re lucky you’re charming.” You shook your head, flipping through the printed pages. “Although if you showed up on time, we might already be done with our article. Maybe Perry wouldn’t be breathing down my neck, and I wouldn’t be—” You cut yourself off.

Clark waited. He was always patient, offering you room to speak up and prompting you when you didn’t. “You wouldn’t be what?” he asked.

You hesitated. This conversation was broaching things you and Clark usually avoided, things that hovered under the surface of every quiet moment and almost glance.

His seniority at the Planet wasn’t official. Clark held the same title you did, but you felt it regardless. It was etched into the way people deferred to him, the stories they remembered, the name he’d already built long before you ever walked through the newsroom doors.

He wasn’t just any colleague. He was Clark Kent. The only reporter Superman trusted with an exclusive, a future Pulitzer Prize winner—the list of his accolades was endless.

And letting yourself open up to him felt like stepping off a ledge. You didn’t do that, not with anyone.

Clark frowned a little, understanding shining in his gaze. His voice dropped. “You worry too much about impressing people,” he said.

You sat back down slowly, fingers finding the edge of your desk just to keep from floating off somewhere. “That obvious?” Your voice came out defeated, even though you had intended a casual, witty tone.

Clark stood beside your chair and leaned back against your desk, muscled arms crossed. “Only to someone who knows what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong,” he assured you.

That cracked something open in your chest. You couldn’t imagine Clark not fitting in anywhere, but you also knew better than to question his sincerity. Staring down at your notes, you let the silence thicken.

“It’s just…” You shook your head. “The others all know each other. They’ve got their rhythms and inside jokes. I’m still an outsider here, no matter how welcoming people are.”

“You’re not,” Clark said, gently but firmly. “Maybe they don’t say it, but they like you. You’re good. Smart. And brave—especially in your writing.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. He wasn’t teasing; he actually meant it. There was a prickle behind your eyes, a sudden tightness in your chest you hadn’t expected. You swallowed hard.

“Perry wouldn’t be breathing down your neck if he weren’t eager to read your work,” Clark went on. “And Lois can’t stop praising your article on the housing board corruption. She said it was sharp, called it unflinching. She doesn’t say that about anyone.”

You gave a surprised smile. “She said that?” Lois was someone you considered a work friend, and you looked up to her professionally more than anyone else at the Planet.

Clark nodded. “You’re good at this. Really good. And I’m not just saying that. Everyone respects you, and that’s hard to earn here.”

“And you?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Do you respect me?”

He was quiet for a long moment. The silence, however brief, was too loaded to be casual. “More than respect.”

That caught you off guard.

Clark offered a lopsided smile, but his voice didn’t match it. “I see you.” His words were heavy with honesty. “I pay attention. Probably more than I should.”

The weight of his words landed on you like gravity, and your body obeyed before your mind could; angling slightly toward him, breath slowing to match the cadence of his. Your fingers curled around your desk. If you moved, something might happen that you couldn’t undo.

You sat in it for a beat too long. Just the two of you and the sound of your own heart, thudding like it wanted to be heard.

Then you cleared your throat. “We should finish,” you broke the tension. “Perry wanted the draft by ten.”

Clark exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, too. “Right. Let’s get back to it.”

He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where he’d stood, and your breath never quite evened out.

You didn’t look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didn’t want him to stop.

You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didn’t tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.

It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadn’t so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.

And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasn’t farm boy strength.

Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.

You had work to do. Explanations could come later.

Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you weren’t really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist.

The anchor’s voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.

“…Superman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolis’ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one arm…”

You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystander’s phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.

Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.

You blinked once. Then twice.

“That’s ridiculous,” you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. “…Isn’t it?”

Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview.

And yet… Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??

You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.

For now.

You weren’t expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you weren’t expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.

He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone who’d slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though you’d both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.

Clark made a beeline for your desk.

“I thought I’d spare you the breakroom sludge,” he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasn’t the paper cup from the Planet’s vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.

Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.

In case no one tells you today: you’re doing great. –C

You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.

The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.

But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.

“Thank you,” you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. “I owe you one.”

Clark’s lips curved, slow and tender. “You really don’t,” he denied.

Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didn’t even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.

Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.

Until now.

You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.

You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention.

This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.

This wasn’t just a shared article anymore. This wasn’t just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.

Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.

Something had changed, and you liked it.

Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.

Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea he’d brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.

Clark Kent? Superman?

You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.

You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.

Still, you didn’t delete the note on your phone.

A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last night’s draft and wondering if you’d remembered to respond to that source from the city clerk’s office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.

Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.

You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.

Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that day’s issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. “Look who made the front page,” she declared proudly.

You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didn’t process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.

Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.

Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviously—you’d lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tips—but it looked different in print.

Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.

The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You weren’t even breathing for a moment. You just stared.

By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.

“Hell of a job,” Perry said. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”

The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.

You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet “Thank you,” though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.

For so long, you’d felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different.

Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’d known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.

Clark approached last. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.

Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. “For the star reporter,” he said, smiling softly. “Extra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.”

You looked at the cup, then back at him. “How do you always—?”

Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. “Like I said, I pay attention.”

You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” you said. “But you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.

Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perry’s approval, Lois’s quiet satisfaction, and Clark’s constant support, you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.

“Hey,” Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah—yeah. Just…” You let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”

“I read it twice this morning,” Clark admitted. “You nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearly—it’s not just good reporting, it’s honest and poignant.”

You stared at him for a second. “You read it twice?”

“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “once last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.”

Your eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, and you couldn’t look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to make a point.

Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. “Not even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,” you teased, tapping the paper.

Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. “Ah, well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You blinked, amused. “What?”

“It’s a Smallville thing,” he said, shrugging, still smiling. “Means I’ve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and that’s exactly what should’ve happened today. Your story mattered.”

Your teasing faded into something quieter. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Don’t tell Superman,” he said, mock-serious. “I still want those exclusive interviews, after all.”

You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk.

Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. “You’ve got ink on your jaw.”

You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. “Right—here.”

His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.

“Got it,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where he’d touched you. You didn’t move an inch.

You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

His eyes met yours one last time, steady. “Any time,” Clark said.

And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.

You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.

You hadn’t meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator.

You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t want the day to end.

Your name had been on the front page, and you’d written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen.

So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrow’s pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.

Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morning’s front page byline, still propped up on your desk.

It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.

You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice say—

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.

The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.

You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.

“—but we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.”

A reporter off-screen asked, “Superman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?”

Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. “Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You rewound it again. And again.

Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.

Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat.

You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?

Except no, they didn’t.

You’d never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.

You stared back at the screen.

Superman wasn’t from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.

You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.

What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way he’d said it. And now that you were thinking about it—

That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.

Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched “Superman Smallville,” then “Superman phrases,” and then “Superman voice analysis.”

And just like that, you weren’t going home anymore.

You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth.

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire,” Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.

You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morning—eyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.

Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You weren’t doing anything serious, not really. It wasn’t a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.

Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark?

You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmy’s office birthday party last month. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.

Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces weren’t the same.

You sat back in your chair and stared.

“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”

Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t so much as shift his stance.

Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.

He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.

There was no way they were the same person.

You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clark’s archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. You’d always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.

But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.

You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.

That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming he’d had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.

You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clark’s, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.

Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.

Unless that was the point.

You scrolled back up. Watched the “barn fire” clip one more time. Played Clark’s laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.

You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.

You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.

You weren’t saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasn’t.

And if you couldn’t? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there.

The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you should’ve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.

Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All you’d meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.

The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so you’d come here.

Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. You’d been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and he’d told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself.

Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city.

You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldn’t slow down.

What exactly were you doing?

You weren’t just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasn’t even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark.

Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.

You’d pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when he’d submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.

But every time you got close to feeling like you’d figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Superman’s voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clark’s was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.

And yet.

When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. You’d never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.

Now, you couldn’t help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.

You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.

The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Then—light. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.

Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaotic—and heading right for the Daily Planet.

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable.

You flinched, braced for impact.

But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.

There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.

Nothing so much as grazed you.

When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you.

Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.

Superman’s cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you.

You didn’t speak at first; you couldn’t after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.

“Are you alright?” His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.

You nodded automatically before your voice returned. “Y-yeah. I think so.”

Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.

When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didn’t. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldn’t stop staring.

Superman was right in front of you.

“Thank you,” you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.

Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didn’t wait for the facts—it reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didn’t care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.

You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadn’t cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system.

You’d been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and you’d spent hours researching a connection between two people—of course, you’d be primed to see that connection even if it wasn’t there.

Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. You’d reported on them.

But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasn’t just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen.

The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.

It should’ve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his grip—the way he braced you without hesitation—it didn’t feel foreign at all.

And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didn’t believe you were fine, even if you insisted.

Superman didn’t look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly.

But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Superman spoke, more gently this time. “It’s late.”

“I just needed some air,” you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.

Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. “I’ve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,” he confessed. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”

He smiled, just barely. It was faint—gentler than you’d expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.

Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldn’t let go. That smile wasn’t bold like a superhero’s. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clark’s.

God.

You were losing it.

Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.

It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks.

He could have meant it generally, but you didn’t think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.

Superman shouldn’t know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planet’s building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his cape—no, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.

“Please, get home safe,” Superman said gently.

Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.

You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.

The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.

But you knew. You knew.

Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. He’d seen this view, he’d felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasn’t conjecture anymore. It wasn’t a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.

This was real.

Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairs—barely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You weren’t even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.

The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.

Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.

And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.

You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins.

It could all be bias, projection, or madness.

But you didn’t care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.

The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldn’t focus.

Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere.

While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.

You glanced up.

Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasn’t looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilled—just slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.

Your eyes met.

It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into.

It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you weren’t supposed to. Something dangerous.

Since the rooftop, every day had been like this—dense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Superman’s familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark.

There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose.

Clark hadn’t explained. You hadn’t asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.

You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.

Your thoughts circled back to the rooftop—the closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you weren’t ready to voice.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.

It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadn’t looked at you when he passed, hadn’t so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.

You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:

Tonight. My place. We should talk.

No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message.

You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.

Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldn’t ask?

The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.

Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.

You didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you didn’t think you could afford not to.

Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didn’t look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.

You stood before the closed door of Clark’s apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday look—your favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.

Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from work—his usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tie—but his hair was less tousled than usual.

There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.

You stepped inside hesitantly.

The apartment was surprising.

It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place you’d expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern way—glossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didn’t try too hard.

The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.

You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.

It didn’t quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didn’t mesh with the clumsy way he’d knock over his mug, the scattered papers you’d noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.

This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark you’d never fully had the chance to know.

He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.

“Tea?” Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.

You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.

You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.

“So,” Clark started, voice careful, “how’s the Peterson piece coming along? Deadline’s Friday, right?”

You forced a brief nod. “Yeah. I’m still digging through interviews. The story’s bigger than I expected.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The newsroom’s been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.”

You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than you’d ever seen it.

You thought of Superman—the cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence.

How could the same man feel so different?

Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter you’d gotten to know at the Daily Planet.

Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Superman’s presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.

Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”

He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blinked. “Pretend?” You refrained from adding, That’s ironic.

Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That everything’s normal.”

You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. “It’s just been a long week.”

You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes.

Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say no—but he didn’t. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.

Your breath caught.

Without the familiar frames, Clark’s face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.

Still unmistakably Clark Kent.

And Superman.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clark’s eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.

Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. “You’re Superman.”

Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “I’m Superman,” he echoed.

It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first time—not just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before.

It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.

Instead of the satisfaction you’d always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like you’d already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.

“How... how did I never see it before?” you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clark’s glasses.

He gave a small, rueful smile. “The glasses—they change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.” He started to explain, but something snapped inside you.

“They’re supposed to—”

You cut him off before he could finish. “You interviewed yourself,” you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. “You lied to everyone at the paper—to the world. To me.”

Clark’s face tightened. “I had to. You know that.”

The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.

You watched Clark closely—watched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss.

His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask he’d worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.

“You let me spiral,” you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. “You didn’t trust me. I’ve been tearing myself apart, wondering if I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, or if I’m the only one who sees the truth.”

Clark’s hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he confessed, his voice desperate. “Every time I thought I could, I just—I couldn’t..”

Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, he’d always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions you’d held back began to surge to the surface.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” you said, raw and breathless, “to look someone in the eye every day and feel like you’re going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that they’re hiding something?”

Pain flickered across Clark’s features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.

“I imagine it’s something like hiding a part of yourself away,” Clark said quietly, “and realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.” There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. “Like falling for someone and being terrified that who you are—who you’ve always been—could ruin everything.”

You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. “And yet,” you said slowly, “you still let me believe I was wrong.”

Clark’s expression faltered.

“You watched me doubt myself,” you continued, your voice rising, shaking. “You watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasn’t even real.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. “I wanted to tell you every single day. I’d sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and just—just say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.”

“Well, congratulations,” you said bitterly. “Everything has.”

He flinched, like you’d physically struck him. But still, he didn’t retreat.

“I never wanted to lie to you,” Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. “I just didn’t know how to stop without losing you.”

You laughed once—short and hollow. “You were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”

His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,” Clark retorted. “I needed someone—you—to see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.”

“Of course I see you as ‘just’ Clark!” you exclaimed. “Even the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.”

“I know,” Clark breathed. “I’ve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose you—not because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didn’t tell you the truth.”

You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. “Then be honest with me now,” you whispered. “You asked me here—so say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.”

Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. “I love you.”

And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.

You looked at him—really looked at him. Clark’s pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out.

Without his superhearing, you couldn’t know that his heart was thundering in time with yours.

Clark Kent loved you.

“I’ve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,” he went on, voice shaking. “Since you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. I’ve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.”

You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadn’t let fall yet.

“I love you,” Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. “Clark—Superman—they’re all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when I’m with you, I’m only ever one thing. I’m yours. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”

His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. “Can I?”

You nodded before your words could betray you.

Clark’s palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.

“I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.”

Clark exhaled shakily. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he added, voice nearly lost between you, “for so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.”

You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.

And then he kissed you.

Not like Superman. Not like a secret.

Like Clark.

He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long and couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.

In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, “I won’t tell anyone. You know I won’t.”

His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “I know.”

You didn’t know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.

The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clark’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didn’t care.

There was no confusion now, just clarity—dizzying and sharp.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clark’s mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you.

You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at him—really looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasn’t. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.

It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.

“I see you,” you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. “All of you.”

Clark’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. “No one ever has like you do,” he said, the words a quiet confession. “Especially when I was trying to hide.”

Clark kissed you again, like he couldn’t risk the silence, couldn’t bear to let the truth echo too long. You weren’t sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.

The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadn’t meant to say aloud.

You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips.

Clark kissed you like a vow—heady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you weren’t thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.

Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.

Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didn’t stop you. You undid one. Then another.

The fabric parted just slightly—enough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric.

You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clark’s chest—vivid and unmistakable—was his bold red-and-yellow insignia.

It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you weren’t just kissing Clark Kent but Superman.

Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. “You’re wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?”

Clark’s face flushed, sheepish but fond. “Occupational hazard,” he declared.

You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. “You’ve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.”

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Clark pointed out.

You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. “Well, I did. And I love you too.”

And Clark smiled back—small and real and all yours.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.

Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

You spotted Clark before he noticed you—across the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners.

Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.

He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.

The way Clark smiled—it wasn’t the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.

Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too late—you already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.

In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him there—more present than Perry’s voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.

At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clark’s hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.

“I had it first,” you murmured without looking at him.

Clark’s voice stayed low. “I bet you really believe that,” he teased.

It wasn’t flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You weren’t sneaking around because you had to—there was no rule against it, no fear of scandal—but because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.

You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.

And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.

Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perry’s office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.

Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.

“You two have been weird lately,” she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. You’d been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasn’t budging. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s a story, I better not be the last to know,” Lois quipped.

Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.

“Just long nights editing,” he said, straight-faced.

You nodded. “Stress does weird things to people,” you added in a pleasant tone.

Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, stepping out. “Journalists and their secrets.”

Then she was gone.

The elevator doors glided shut.

You just looked at each other—this charged, suspended second—and then moved in sync. Clark’s hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.

The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.

Clark’s lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like he’d been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didn’t stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctively—one hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.

You sighed against his mouth—quiet, surrendering—and felt him smile into the kiss.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.

Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.

You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.

“Clark,” you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.

He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldn’t get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kiss—softer, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.

“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Clark whispered against your mouth.

“I barely looked at you,” you whispered back.

“Exactly.”

You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clark’s hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.

Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clark’s body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.

“I missed this,” you murmured.

“I never stop missing it,” Clark whispered back.

It wasn’t until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.

You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. “Always.”

Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.

Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.

“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Think you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?”

Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. “Got a little carried away.” He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.

You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.

As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.

“I like knowing it’s there,” you admitted.

Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. “So do I.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.

Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.

Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadn’t just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator.

Everything was back to normal.

Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didn’t look away.

note: please let me know what you thought!! i love any and all comments and feedback. the new superman movie is my current hyperfixation so if anyone would be interested in reading more clark kent fics from me, all you have to do is tell me 🤭

#clark kent #superman #superman 2025 #clark kent x reader #superman x reader #clark kent imagine #superman imagine #clark kent x you #superman x you #corenswet!superman #corenswet!clark kent #superman fluff #clark kent fluff #fic: ‘cause i can see you

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yohanseyebrowmole · 3 days ago

Text

Dalliance

(n.) a casual, yet playful conversation that may lead to romance

Pairing: David! Clark Kent x fem! reader

Sum: The new journalist from Central City is a ray of sunshine whose smile can make even Lex Luthor spill his deepest secrets, and Clark Kent finds himself intrigued. How does she do it?

No, seriously, how does she do it?

or in which

You find yourself in a pickle after you ask Lex Luthor a question during an interview regarding his latest spat with Superman.

Word count: 4446 (give or take lmao)

Warnings: Fluff, banter, mild violence, Luthor being his own self (he deserves his own warning tag), Lois, Jimmy, and Cat bet on you and Clark, so ig gambling? (Is it gambling? idk) Secret Identity reveal (you are a smart cookie), mild violence, Luthor threatens SOME GUY with a gun?, IDK I'm terrible at tagging, Clark is whipped

a/n: I, like you all, have not stopped thinking about the movie since I watched it and just had to add my own bit to the sudden uptick in Clark fics (which, by the way, is NOT slowing down, guys; please calm down; I can't read all ur fics that fast, but also, keep 'em coming).

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

�� Clark Kent finds himself gravitating towards you.

He couldn’t help himself. He tried. God, he really tried.

You arrived from Central City after Perry singled out one of your columns in the Central City Citizen on the reach and power Luthor held within the government.

Clark had read the article after Perry raved on about it, of course. He saw how you singled out Luthor and his known associates, and uncovered his hidden ones as well.

Ever since you arrived from Central City, Clark—both as a citizen of Metropolis and its protector, Superman—has seen a subtle increase in the security of major businesses that had known shady dealings, and a decrease in interviews and tours by said companies, LexCorp being just one of many.

So he found himself drawn to you. Call it a journalist's instinct or a superhero's one, but Clark really couldn’t help but think that you were hiding something.

He wanted to get close to you, but every time he found himself in your presence, he got loose-lipped, unable to lie or even give you a half-truth. He would answer each of your questions with unwavering truth.

Maybe that was why he tried and failed to keep his distance. He couldn’t control what he was saying around you. He knew you had powers; no, he didn't; he just couldn't prove it.

But seriously, how else would you be able to do what you do?

To get that type of information, you had to have something working on your side, and Clark was determined to figure out what it was. Despite his ongoing dilemma about you and your powers (you totally had them), he found himself genuinely admiring both you and your work.

Clark wasn't blind; heck, he didn't even need to wear glasses, and he wasn't ignorant. You were beautiful. From your smile to the way you carried yourself, you not only drew attention, you commanded it.

Maybe that's why he was staring at you again, as you sat working at your desk, which was conveniently placed directly in his line of sight from his desk.

"Hey man," Jimmy said, breaking him out of his thoughts. "You look like you are about to shoot lasers out of your eyes. I think she's going to notice you staring right at her."

"I'm not staring at her," Clark huffs, forcing himself to look away from you. "I was staring at the... sunset."

"The sunset?" Jimmy repeats as he looks in the same direction as Clark. "You mean the same sunset that building is blocking? You sure you weren't staring at the desk directly in our line of sight?"

"Yep. Sunsets look so pretty this time of day."

"Okayyy," Jimmy said, squinting at him. "I'm gonna go enjoy the sunset on my drive home. Where I can actually see the sunset and not a building and not be a creep and stare at my crush."

"I'm not a creep," Clark defends himself. "And I wasn't staring. And she's not my crush!"

"Uh-huh, whatever you say. Watch out, Loverboy, here she comes."

"What?"

“Hi, Clark! Hey Jimmy!”

Clark blinks, tearing his eyes away from Jimmy to find you standing in front of him.

"Hi," Jimmy greets. "Bye."

"Going home already?" You question. "You had the biggest stack of work on your desk this morning."

"What can I say? I'm as fast as the Flash."

You laugh, and the air around you seems to shift, and an aura of gold shines around you, but Clark knew it was just the last rays of the setting sun streaming through the windows.

You and Clark wave goodbye as Jimmy leaves.

"So," you said. "Whatcha 'doing, Clark?"

“Thinking about you,” Clark answers before he can stop himself. Gosh darn it. He had to get a filter for his darn mouth.

"Really?" you smile. “What about me?”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“How does everyone you ask tell you exactly what you want to know? How do you find your sources? How do you know what you know?”

"It's my superpower," you answer, eyes glinting mischievously. "I'm kidding. I smile, ask nicely, and say please. Sometimes I add a cherry on top, you know, for extra pzazz."

Clark feels the corner of his lip quirk up. "Pzazz?"

"Pzazz," you nod seriously. “Anyways, I saw your article about Superman.”

“You like it?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think about it. “I suppose it met my standards. Although I might be biased since I'm a fan of our resident Kryptonian.”

Clark blushes, the tips of his ears going red. “Well, that’s a relief. That you liked my article and Superman.”

“How could I not like the guy?” you said. "Anyways, you have been sitting at your desk since before lunch. Want to grab a bite?”

“Food? With you? Like now?”

“No, on August 29th,” you deadpan. “Yes, Clark. Food with me, now. I swear we go through different variations of this conversation every time I ask you.”

Clark pushes his glasses up his face. "Do we? Sure, we can go eat."

"Yes, and you don't sound sure," you frown. "You don't have to say yes just because I asked. If you're busy, then—"

"No! I mean, yes, I'm busy, but it's nothing I can't do at home. I would love to grab a bite with you now."

You grin, aura sparking gold again.

"Yay! Let's go, slowpoke. I found this place not too far from here. The food is so good, it should be a crime."

"You have yet to give a bad recommendation," Clark grins, offering you his elbow. "So I place my faith in you once again, master."

"I shall ensure your faith is not misplaced, young padawan."

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

Jimmy, Lois, and Cat stare at the duo across the office.

"They had a date last night," Lois comments.

"It was a date?" Jimmy asks. "Clark said she wanted to grab something to eat together like they always do."

"Two people eating together at a restaurant and arguing over who gets to pay the bill is a date, Jimmy."

"Oh," Jimmy winces. "Remind me to make a call later."

Lois rolls her eyes, already used to his antics. "Ten bucks says they start going out by the end of the year."

"Twenty says by the end of the month," Jimmy bets.

Cat raises her brow. "Amateurs."

"Oh, and what does the fabulous Ms. Grant think?" Lois questions.

"Fifty," Cat smirks. "That they get together by the end of the week. He's going to be the one to ask her out."

"No way," Jimmy scoffs. "She will make the first move, guaranteed."

"I'm with Jimmy," Lois agrees. "I don't think Clark has it in him, especially by the end of the week."

The trio stare as Clark trips over thin air and drops some files to help you fix the printer.

"Actually," Lois hums in thought. "Cat might be right."

"Of course I am," Cat said smugly. "Like I said, amateurs."

"Nah, I still think the end of the week is too soon," Jimmy argues.

Lois nods.

"You two better get your wallets ready," Cat smirks as she walks away. "I'm never wrong about things like this!"

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

You usually don't end up in situations like this.

You were careful, borderline paranoid, about your safety. Always making sure to ask your questions, but not too many of them.

But alas, here you are, in a room, tied to a chair, hands tied to the back, ropes digging into your wrist after you asked the one question Luthor supposedly drew the line at.

Ask him about his company? Go ahead.

Ask about his shady business ventures? Tricky territory, but you always navigate it with finesse.

Ask about his latest spat with Superman? Nope, get knocked out by security. Although, in all fairness, you knew Superman was a touchy subject for the billionaire.

You grumbled under your breath, "Stupid males and their stupid pride."

You turn your head, watching him as the door closes behind him with a soft click.

"Your questions," Luthor continues. "Are always oddly specific. Always direct, with little wiggle room."

You smile. "I do my research before my interview, Mr. Luthor. It's my job."

"I admit some of them... I don't wish to answer, at least not truthfully, and yet, yet, I always answer them with nothing but the truth. I can't even get by with a half-lie. You want to know what I think?"

"I'm always thankful, and I do love hearing you talk, Mr. Luthor."

"There is more to you than what meets the eye. Bring him in."

You flinch as the door bangs open and a guard hauls someone into the room, dropping him at your feet. Even through his busted lip and swollen eye, through all the bruises marring his skin, you recognise him. You know him and you know him well.

In front of you was your source inside Lexcorp.

You must do a good job at hiding all signs of dread, worry, guilt and recognition from your face because Luthor doesn't comment.

"This is David," Luthor introduces. "I want you to ask him a couple of questions for me."

"Me?" you said. "I've never met this man before in my life, Mr. Luthor. So, with all due respect, I think you should be the one asking the questions."

Luthor glares, eyes locked on yours. "Ask him his name."

"I already know his name. David."

"Ask him for his full name."

"His full name," Luthor grits out.

"What's your full name?" you ask again, correcting yourself.

The man at your feet glares at Luthor and stays silent. Luthor's glare turns lethal.

"Why isn't he answering?"

"He doesn't seem to want to tell me," you shrug. "Shame."

"I'm in no mood for games." Luthor grips your hair, yanking your head back. "Question him properly!"

"I asked him exactly how you instructed." You wince as his grip tightens in your hair. "He doesn't want to tell me."

"No!" Luthor yells. "I know you can make him tell you!"

"I can't make anyone do anything!" you shout.

"You have magic," Luthor hissed in your ear, "or you're an alien. That is a fact. You can ask someone a question, any question, and they will answer it with nothing but the truth."

"Then why didn't he answer?" you argue. "Why didn't our friend David answer me?"

Luthor lets go of your hair, shoving your head away, and pulls out a gun. Your breath quickens. Shit.

"What are you doing?"

"Make him answer your question," Luthor said, aiming the gun at David's head. "Or I kill him."

"What?"

"Ask him the question again."

"You are going to kill him over a name? Are you insane?"

"Ask him."

Shit, shit, shit.

You feel the now familiar sensation work its way through you. You feel sparks ignite at your fingertips, see colours swirl around David and Luthor's heads, and the world slows down a fraction of a second.

You weren't going to be the reason David dies today. He has a family, three kids, two boys and a baby girl. You aren't going to be the reason they grow up without their father.

You lick your lips and open your mouth. "What is your—"

You don't get to finish your question.

One second, you are about to give yourself away, and the next, the wall behind Luthor explodes. You duck your head, close your eyes, and turn yourself away from the explosion as much as you physically can.

You look up as the dust begins to settle, only to be met with red and blue.

You haven't been living in Metropolis long, but you knew your way around heroes. Central City had The Flash, and Metropolis had him.

Superman.

You don't know what happened to Luthor, only that there was no longer a gun aimed at David's head. Superman walks around your chair and undoes the rope tying you to the chair.

You fall to your knees beside David.

"Oh my god," you said. "I'm sorry. This is all my fault."

"Don't start," David groans. "I knew what I was getting into. And hey, I'm not dead, you aren't dead. It all worked out in the end."

"I wasn't going to let him shoot you," you mutter.

"I know," David smiles at you before grimacing. "Ow, smiling hurts."

"I would assume so, your lip is busted."

"That would explain it."

You move to help him stand, but are stopped when a gentle hand settles on your shoulder.

"It's alright," Superman assures you. "I've got him. I'll be right back."

Before you can get out a word, Superman hoists David up and flies out of the room. You look around the room and see Luthor and his guard slumped against a wall.

You walk over to the door and stick your head out, checking the hallways.

A small grin works its way onto your face.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

Clark returns to the room he had left you in, only to find you missing.

His eyebrows furrow as he concentrates on you, more specifically, your heartbeat. No, he hasn't memorised it. He definitely has.

You are still in the building; in fact, you're not very far away at all. He walks to the end of the hallway and stares as you scroll through the computer in Lex Luthor's office while muttering to yourself.

He sighs. He really should have known you wouldn't stay put.

"You are aware that what you are doing is illegal, ma'am?" he questioned.

Your hands pause, and you look over the screen to see him standing there.

"Mr Luthor gave me permission," you said, giving him one of your false smiles. "It came with the interview."

He raised his brow. "Are you sure?"

"Quite," you answer. Clark keeps staring until you start pouting. "Fine. I'll stop. I can't help it, journalist's curiosity."

"I understand." He walks forward and holds out his hand. “Shall we leave?”

“Are you offering to walk me home?”

“Yes,” Superman said, words flowing out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Your lips quirk up. “Thanks, but I think I’m going to call my friend, Clark. Wait, you know Clark, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Superman nods. “He’s my go-to interview guy. Well, I should go. Since you are calling him. Bye.”

He doesn’t stay a moment longer, flying away. You blink at his abrupt exit, then shrug. Men.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────��──

You stand in front of LexCorp, waiting for Clark to show up.

You had called him the moment you were out of the building, and he had said he would be there in about five minutes.

Clark, true to his word, appears exactly five minutes after you call him. You stop him before he spots you, although it was hard not to find him since he towered over almost everyone. You smile, waving at him.

"Hey," Clark greets, offering you his elbow. "You okay? I heard about what happened. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." You loop your arms together. "Nothing to worry about."

Clark frowns, spotting the bruises on your wrists.

"Clark," you said. "Really, I'm fine, I promise. Although..."

"What? You are hurt, aren't you? I knew it."

You roll your eyes. "I was going to say I am hungry, Clark."

"Oh," Clark places his free hand over his heart and sighs in relief. "You scared me. What you wanna eat?"

"I don't know," you frown. "But I've got a craving for something homemade."

"You could come over to my place," he suggests. "I could cook something. I live close by."

"You would cook for me?" you ask, eyes sparking. "Do you season your food?"

"Don't be silly. Of course I season my food!"

Arms looped, Clark guides you on your way to his apartment, listening as you talk about the dishes your father taught you to make, and how he drilled the names of hundreds of seasonings into your head by the time you graduated high school.

Every time you laugh, Clark spots the familiar golden glow around you. The two of you stop in front of his apartment, and you laugh at one of his comments, and the aura around you burned so brightly it made him pause. You come to a stop beside him as you begin to rant about a new bakery you want to visit with him soon.

"You're glowing," Clark mutters.

"Hm?" You blink up at him, not having heard what he said. "What did you say?"

Clark shakes his head, moving you, so he opens the door for you. "Nothing, what were you saying about the new bakery? It's this elevator."

You backtrack to the elevator you walked past.

"Oh, they have these superhero-themed doughnuts we need to try," you said as you entered the elevator that Clark held open for you. "Personally, the Batman one looks like everything I have ever wanted in a doughnut. I bet you would like the Superman one."

"Uh, huh," Clark said, pressing his floor number. "And why is that?"

"The blue icing reminds me of your eyes," you said offhandedly as the two of you walked out of the elevator, and you waited for Clark to open the door. "You live on the top floors?"

"Yeah, and my eyes remind you of doughnuts?"

"Mhm, the Superman one."

Clark chuckles, unlocking the door. "Should I be flattered?"

"Of course, you should! It's a great honour being compared to a doughnut."

"I'll take it," Clark grins. "Make yourself at home. I'll cook something quick. How do you feel about pasta?"

"I could have it every day for a month-no, a year, and still I wouldn’t be sick of it,” you answer. “Can I sit on the counter?"

“I didn’t realise you were such a big pasta fan,” Clark said. “I did say make yourself at home.”

You jump up onto his counter and swing your legs, watching him weave through his kitchen, “It’s my favourite thing ever. I love it more than life.”

Clark laughs, and you both fall into a calm silence.

“Hey?” Clark said. “What were you doing at Lexcorp anyway?”

“An interview,” you sigh. “Although it seemed I was the interviewee, not the interviewer.”

Clark frowns. “What did he want?”

“He wanted me to ask David some questions,” you shrug. “I said no, he got iffy, Superman saved us, I snooped, I left, and now here we are.”

“David?”

“Luthor introduced us; he seemed like a poor guy.”

“You don’t know him then?”

You look at Clark and raise your eyebrow. “An answer for an answer.”

Clark weighs his options. “Okay. Did you know him?”

“He’s my source,” you answer. “Why do you wear glasses? You don’t need them.

“It helps the strain after staring at a screen all day. What did you find out when you snooped?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know,” you pout. “I was interrupted. Who taught you to cook?”

“My Ma. Why did Luthor want you to ask the questions?”

“Because I have powers,” you answer like it's nothing. “When were you-”

“I knew it!” Clark said, whirling around, holding his wooden spoon in the air. You blink as a dollop of the pasta sauce lands on your cheek. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

You lift a finger, cleaning your cheek and bringing it to your mouth to taste. Your eyebrows raise in surprise.

“This is really good!”

“Thanks,” Clark said, grabbing a tissue and handing it to you so you could clean your cheek properly. “Wait, you just told me you have powers. Why tell- ”

“Let me stop you there,” you cut him off. “It’s my turn for an answer.”

Clark opens then closes his mouth and nods.

“So,” you muse. “When were you going to tell me you were Superman?”

Clark chokes on air. “What?”

“You are Superman,” you said. “An alien. And I’m a meta. Go figure.”

“You- how? Why? When did you- What is going on?” Clark stumbles over his words, mind working overtime, trying to figure out what was happening.

You watch as he mutters to himself, trying to make sense of your sudden drop in information.

“Clark?”

He lets out a distracted hum.

“You better not burn that pasta sauce. I will riot.”

You grin as Clark whirls back around to the bubbling pot of sauce, turns off the fire and sets it aside.

“How do you like it?” Clark asks. “The pasta sauce. Mixed or on top?”

“You can mix it up,” you said, jumping off the counter. “Where are your plates?”

“I’ll do it. Go sit at the table.”

“But-”

“Go.”

“I was going to say I wanted to sit on the couch.”

“Oh, we can sit there if you like.”

“I’ll get the plates-”

“Go.”

“Fine.” You pout, but make your way over to the couch and sit down.

“So, Superman,” You look him up and down. "I heard you have a place in Antarctica. Is that true?"

“The fortress? Yeah. How do your powers work?”

“I ask a question and get an answer. More specific questions mean fewer chances of half-truths. I can turn it off and on. You have a dog?”

“Krypto,” Clark answers. “Technically, my cousin’s dog. So not every question you ask is powered?”

“Yep. You have a cousin?”

Clark nods. “Kara.”

“Oh, I love that name,” you said. “You know, I had a dog named Kara.”

Clark places a plate of pasta in front of you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, she's dead now, but like I thought, it was funny.”

“You thought your dog dying was funny?” Clark said, confused.

“No! I meant you have a cousin named Kara who has a dog, and I had a dog named Kara…” you trail off, wincing. “You know, now that I'm saying this out loud, it doesn’t sound that funny.”

Clark chuckles. “It’s one of those only funny inside your head things. How did you- You seem to be enjoying the food.”

Your cheek is puffed from the amount of pasta, and you quickly chew and swallow. “I love pasta.”

“If I doubted you before, I don’t now.”

The two of you finish eating in silence, Clark looking up from his food occasionally to see you wiggling your shoulders every time you take a bite. His mind flashes back to the first time the two of you had gone out for lunch and how you told him that you tend to do a little shimmy every time you enjoy eating your food. It had been one of the habits your mother tried and failed to stop, but your father loved.

“So,” you said, as you both finished eating. “When are you planning on asking me out?”

Clark splutters. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Saying stuff like that out of the blue. Give a guy some warning.”

“Okay,” you nod. “This is your warning. When are you going to ask me out?”

Clark gives you a look.

“What? I gave you a warning! Answer the question, Superman. When are you going to ask me out?”

“How did you get your powers?

“It’s a recessive gene passed through my father’s line. My grandma had it, it skipped my dad and his siblings, and I got it. It tends to skip a few generations, so grandma found it weird that I got it. My mum doesn't know about it. The powers.”

“How?” Clark questions. “Wouldn’t she realise?”

You shrug. “My mum’s a boy mum. She always preferred my brother to me. She never paid attention, so my grandma and dad never told her.”

“Why-”

You reach and put your hand over his mouth. “Nuh-uh. The deal was an answer for an answer. I’ve given you two answers; you owe me two.”

Clark sighs, moving your hand from his mouth but keeping it in his.

“I was going to ask you out…eventually.”

“And when exactly would eventually be?”

“When I worked up some courage to ask.”

“You needed to work up courage?”

Clark nods, gaze holding yours. “When it comes to you, yes.”

You feel your face flush as you tease him. “You like me that much?”

“I like you as much as you like pasta.”

“Impossible,” you snort. “Pasta is the epitome of all things, and if I could, I would have married it.”

Clark laughs at that. “Well, then almost as much. Although I think you bruised my ego a little by choosing pasta over me.”

“Men are temporary, pasta is forever.”

“Can I quote that?”

“Stop it.” You slap his arm as you laugh.

“My newest article,” Clark grins as you continue to hit his arm. “Superman: Rejected for Pasta.”

Between all the teasing and laughter, Clark had refused to let go of your hand, and the two of you hands drifted together, thighs touching, face a breath away from each other.

As your laughter dies down, you realise just how close you are to him, and your breath hitches as you look at him.

“How much do you want to kiss me right now?” you ask.

“More than life,” Clark whispers. His eyes flicker above your head, and his lip quirks up.

“What are you looking at?”

“You,” Clark answers, hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb ghosting over your lower lip before he leans in.

The moment his lips touch yours, your heart skips a couple of beats, explosions erupt, and your eyes flutter close, hand coming up to fist his shirt. The kiss was soft, warm, and gentle in a way you had never experienced. He kissed you like you were a dream, and he didn’t believe this was happening.

Your nose bumps his when you tilt your head to go deeper, but Clark pulls back. Foreheads touching, you open your eyes, taking him in. His eyes have darkened, pupils over taking the blue in his eyes like storm clouds.

He leans in to kiss you again, and again, and again. Short and sweet in a way that makes you smile against his lips before finally, he kisses you like a drowning man needs air. You don’t know how much time passes, you two wrapped up in each other, the world fading into the background, but when you finally break apart and you know it’s over. You know you are never going to be able to live without this-without him- ever again.

“You know,” you said, attempting to catch your breath. “This means you are stuck with me now. Maybe forever.”

Clark smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Forever sounds nice.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

#clark kent x reader #clark kent #clark kent x you #superman #superman x reader #superman x you #lois lane #jimmy olsen #cat grant #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x oc #clark kent fluff #clark kent smut #clark kent x y/n #yor<3 #yorspage #yorsfics

623 notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 2 days ago

Note

Hiii! I absolutely love your work! I would love a fic with Isack x athletictrainer!reader I was thinking reader had an internship with VCARB and she becomes really close with all the rookies. Maybe Isack and her become best friends and he gets jealous when she spends time with the other guys. B2L trope maybe? Idk, take this request as you will 💗💗💗

work it out — ih6

smau + written blurbs

isack hadjar x !athletic trainer reader

you never expected to get this close to him. sure, being hired as vcarb’s new athletic trainer meant spending a lot of time with isack hadjar—but you didn’t think it would mean knowing exactly how he takes his coffee, or memorizing the way his laugh sounds when he’s too tired to hold it in, or becoming the first person he looks for after a bad race.

you were just supposed to keep him healthy. focused. fast. but somewhere between cooldown stretches and late-night voice notes, you became something else. something softer. something safer. best friends, maybe. at least that’s what you keep telling yourselves.

but now you’ve gotten close to the rest of the rookies. you love them, too, in that chaotic, found-family kind of way. and isack… doesn’t love that. he says he’s fine. but his eyes say otherwise. and every time you laugh a little too loud at one of ollie’s jokes, he looks like he might combust.

he’s your favorite. he always has been. he just hasn’t realized that he’s allowed to be yours, too. yet.

fc : lily rowland and various pinterest gals

(a/n) : anon i stg you read my mind. i had this idea like ages ago, after i saw the vcarb vid with isack and his trainer but i never got to it. ilysm and hope you enjoy!!

—

yourusername

liked by isackhadjar, olliebearman, yourbff and 123,008 others.

yourusername : i came, i saw, i did some overthinking and then went home and watched spongebob from my bathtub

tagged : isackhadjar

—

view 5,600 other comments.

username00 : who is she??? isack's gf??

↳ username1 : his trainer! she got hired by vcarb shortly after he joined.

isackhadjar : no recovery spongebob time for me. 🙄 this girl never gives me a break

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : you love it hush

liked by isackhadjar

↳ isackhadjar : only because it's you

liked by yourusername

kimi.antonelli : if isack got some of that salmon bowl and i didn't i will be PISSED.

liked by isackhadjar and yourusername

↳ yourusername : it is quite literally my job to keep him fed and healthy so...i apologize for being a good employee

liked by kimi.antonelli and isackhadjar

↳ kimi.antonelli : @/mercedesamgf1 MAKE HER AN OFFER. I WANT A SALMON BOWL.

liked by yourusername and mercedesamgf1

↳ isackhadjar : @/visacashapprb give her a raise NOW.

liked by yourusername and visacashapprb

↳ visacashapprb : after seeing the salmon bowl...we are considering a raise

liked by isackhadjar and yourusername

olliebearman : do you ever stop for a second and rest or…?

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : not typically, no

francolapinto : leg day clearly working 😳

liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux : sooooo in love w you pretty

liked by yourusername

↳ kimi.antonelli : get in line buddy

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : love you more my angel

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

—

flashback

You met Isack Hadjar on a Tuesday morning. Your badge didn’t scan at first—typical—so you were already a little sweaty and flustered by the time you stepped into the VCARB facility. Clipboard in one hand, water bottle in the other, mentally rehearsing what you were going to say to a twenty year old who had probably done more races than you’d done rehab protocols.

You weren’t expecting him to be there already. Alone. Earbuds in, hoodie on, laying flat on a yoga mat with his eyes closed. His hair was still messy from sleep, one knee bent slightly, like he hadn’t fully committed to being awake yet.

You paused just inside the doorway, not wanting to startle him. Not wanting to make a weird first impression. But then he shifted slightly and cracked one eye open—dark and a little unfocused—and stared at you like you might be a hallucination.

Then, slowly, like he had all the time in the world, he sat up and tugged out one earbud.

“Are you… the new trainer?”

You nodded, already trying to steady your breathing. “YN.”

He squinted at you for a second, then tilted his head, lips twitching. “I thought you’d be older.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d be taller.”

That got a full smirk. And then, surprisingly, a laugh. Quiet, but real.

“Touché.”

You dropped your bag by the wall and crossed the room, not waiting for an invitation. “You ready to work, or are you just here to nap in dramatic lighting?”

He let out another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as if considering it. “Honestly, I was going for dramatic nap. You ruined the vibe.”

You grinned. “You’ll live.”

He watched you with something curious in his expression. Not annoyed. Not even wary. Just… interested. He held your gaze a second longer than necessary, then pulled off his hoodie in one clean motion, revealing a plain t-shirt and lean muscle beneath it.

“Alright then, trainer,” he said, stretching out his arms. “Impress me.”

That was the first time you made him laugh. The first time he looked at you like maybe you weren’t just a temporary part of his routine. You didn’t realize until much later how easy it would become. How natural it would feel. How much it would matter.

—

The first time you felt it. It wasn’t anything huge. No dramatic near kiss, no sudden romantic music playing in the background. Just another training day. Another cooldown. Another routine stretch.

You were kneeling beside him, guiding his leg into the right position, correcting his posture with an ease you’d developed over the weeks. He was quieter than usual that afternoon—tired from media, from sim work, from pretending not to care that he’d only just missed out on points again. You didn’t push him to talk. You knew by now when to leave the silence alone.

“Lean back a little,” you murmured, fingers brushing his side as you adjusted him gently.

And maybe it was that. Maybe it was the way your hand lingered longer than necessary. Maybe it was the way he didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just turned his head to look at you. Really look.

His eyes locked with yours, and something in your chest kicked up unexpectedly. Like your body knew before your mind did. Like it had been waiting.

He didn’t say anything, and neither did you. But you didn’t need to. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full. Charged. Alive with something you hadn’t dared name.

Your hands were still on him. His were clenched into the mat. Your faces… too close now. But no one moved. You blinked first. Cleared your throat. Shifted your weight back like nothing had happened.

“Good,” you said quietly, voice steadier than you felt. “Hold that for twenty more seconds.”

He nodded, but his eyes stayed on you a second longer. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low. Almost careful.

“You always this bossy?”

You smiled without looking at him. “Only when you need to listen.”

Another silence. Another beat. And then: “I like it.”

You didn’t respond—not out loud, anyway. But something inside you fluttered. And that was the moment. Small. Forgettable to anyone else. But not to you. And definitely not to him.

—

present day!

Isack grunts as he finishes the last rep of his shoulder presses, arms trembling slightly from exertion. You’re leaning against the squat rack, watching with your arms crossed and a half-smirk tugging at your lips.

"You're shaking," you tease. "Getting weak on me?"

He drops the dumbbells to the mat with a heavy thud and breathes out a laugh, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead.

"I’m literally stronger than you."

You hum, unimpressed. “That’s debatable. I could still outrun you.”

"You cannot outrun me," he says, grabbing his water bottle and glaring at you like you just insulted his ancestors.

"You’ve got the endurance of a golden retriever. Fast at first, then you flop over and nap."

He squints at you, walking over slowly. "Okay, now you're just being mean."

"Just being honest," you reply, shrugging one shoulder and trying not to notice the way his shirt clings to his chest and how annoyingly good his jaw looks when he’s focused on hydrating. “Besides, someone has to humble you.”

He leans in, way too close for someone who’s dripping sweat. “You humble me every day, trainer. It’s my favorite part of our deeply professional relationship.”

You laugh, pushing at his chest lightly with your towel. “Go shower, flirt.”

He grins. “You gonna cook for me if I do?”

"I already planned to. But sure, keep pretending it’s your idea."

—

Twenty minutes later, he’s freshly showered and barefoot in your kitchen, watching you move around like it’s his favorite TV show. You’re in an oversized hoodie, hair up, face flushed from the heat of the stove. He’s sitting on the counter even though you told him not to do that last week.

“Salmon or eggs?” you ask without turning around.

“Both?” he says, swinging his legs like a child.

You toss him a look over your shoulder. “You think I’m your personal chef now?”

“You’re already my trainer. This feels like the natural next step.”

“Next step from what?”

He pauses.

You turn around slowly, raising a brow, spoon in hand. He holds up his palms innocently.

“Next step from… the workout. Obviously.”

You narrow your eyes, trying not to smile. “Obviously.”

You plate his food and slide it over to him. He mumbles a quiet “thanks” and takes a bite, eyes closing briefly.

“God. You make eating healthy weirdly enjoyable.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” you say, sipping your iced coffee. “I’m good at a lot of things.”

He looks up at you then, slower this time. “Yeah. I know.”

You feel the warmth crawl up your neck, and you busy yourself rinsing out the pan. You can feel his eyes still on you—watching, like he always does when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

“You always cook for your other clients, too?”

You glance back at him, eyebrow raised. “Jealous?”

“Just curious.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He sets down his fork and hops off the counter, walking over until he’s close enough to bump your hip with his.

“You know,” he says softly, “you don’t have to keep pretending this is just work.”

You meet his eyes, heart thudding louder than you’d like to admit.

“And what if I’m not pretending?” you ask.

He grins—soft, sure, and just a little smug.

“Then I can also not pretend I don't stare at you during workouts."

You laugh, swatting him with a kitchen towel, and he ducks away with a dramatic yelp. The moment breaks with the sound of both of you laughing, warm and loud and easy. But when he steps back toward you, towel in hand, he doesn’t look away. And you don’t, either.

—

You and Isack walk into the paddock side by side, sharing a protein bar and half-arguing about the best race weekend breakfast.

“It’s oats,” you say firmly, taking a bite. “With almond butter, bananas, cinnamon—”

“That sounds like punishment,” he mutters, wrinkling his nose. “Where’s the joy? Where’s the… sugar?”

“You’re the one trying to beat your quali time by half a second. You think that’s fueled by croissants?”

He huffs, nudging your arm with his elbow. “You’re so dramatic.”

You shoot him a grin, mouth still full. “You love it.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, a loud voice cuts through the morning air—

“There she is!”

Ollie Bearman jogs up from the opposite direction, all dimples and chaotic energy, his lanyard swinging against his chest.

“YN,” he beams, throwing an arm around your shoulder like he’s done it a hundred times. “Tell me you brought snacks. The good ones...that don't taste healthy."

“She literally is the snack,” Franco Colapinto says as he appears behind him, earning a groan from Kimi Antonelli and a loud laugh from Gabriel Bortoleto, who’s just now catching up.

Isack’s steps falter. You’re immediately surrounded, the rookie squad closing in on you like you’re the sun and they’ve all been stuck in orbit.

Ollie’s still holding onto you. Franco’s already grabbed your wrist and is inspecting your watch like it’s his. Gabriel compliments your sunglasses. Kimi just stands behind you, blinking like he’s too cool to care but very much not leaving.

“Did you actually run this morning?” Gabriel asks. “Or are you just trying to show us up?”

“She dragged me through a full workout,” Isack answers before you can, a little sharper than intended.

You glance at him. So does Ollie.

“Damn. Must be nice,” Franco says with a knowing smirk. “I’ve been asking for a training session with her for weeks.”

“You canceled the last two, and you were late to the one you showed up for,” you reply, grinning.

“That’s personal,” Franco says dramatically. “Don’t air my flaws like this in front of Kimi.”

Kimi rolls his eyes. “Everyone already knows you’re useless.”

The whole group dissolves into laughter, and Isack forces a smile. But he’s quiet now. Watching. Because Ollie’s still leaning against you. Because you’re still smiling like that. Because you’re teasing Franco and laughing at Gabriel’s jokes and letting Kimi hold your water bottle while you braid a loose piece of hair back out of your face.

You’re so easy with them. So natural. So theirs, in a way that drives something bitter and unfamiliar through Isack’s chest. And then Ollie turns to him, still grinning.

“How’d you manage to get her? Bribery? Blackmail?”

“She was hired to train with me,” Isack says flatly.

You glance at him again—this time a little longer.

“Jealous?” you tease, gently nudging his side, like you’re trying to diffuse the sudden change in energy.

But Isack doesn’t laugh. Instead, he shrugs, eyes sharp and unreadable. “Just wondering when she became everyone else’s trainer too.”

The air shifts. Just a little. Ollie drops his arm from around your shoulders. Franco looks between the two of you. Kimi, of course, notices everything and says nothing. Gabriel raises a brow.

You blink. “Isack…”

He shakes his head once, brushing past it. “Doesn’t matter.”

You watch him for a second, lips parting like you’re about to say something. But then one of the PR girls calls your name from across the paddock, and the moment cracks in half.

You step away from the group reluctantly. “I’ll see you guys later, yeah?”

They nod, wave, smile.

But Isack doesn’t say anything. And as you walk away, he watches the way every single one of them watches you go. And it hits him, all at once: He’s not the only one who sees how special you are. Not the only one who feels pulled to you. Not the only one who wants more. But he is the only one who might be too scared to say it.

—

You find him in the back corner of the VCARB hospitality unit, legs stretched out in front of him, head leaned back against the wall like he’s trying to disappear into it. He hasn’t said much since the morning run-in with the other rookies, and you’d given him space—at least, for a while. But you know him well enough by now to recognize when he’s just stewing in it, when the silence is no longer protective but punishing.

So you approach carefully, the same way you would after a bad race or a long sim day. Quiet steps, soft tone.

“Hey,” you say gently, arms folded loosely across your chest. “You okay?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I’m fine.”

You sit down beside him anyway, close enough that your knees almost touch, but not quite. You give him a second to say more, to offer you something. He doesn’t.

“You seemed off earlier,” you try again, softer now. “You can talk to me, you know that, right?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening. Still doesn’t look at you. You wait. Hopeful. Patient. But then he turns his head—quick, sharp, like the words are clawing their way out of him before he can stop them.

“I just want to go out and race,” he snaps. “I don’t need you right now.”

It lands harder than it should. Not because of the words themselves, but the way he says them. Tense. Bitter. Like you’re a problem he didn’t ask for. You blink once. No reaction. No defense. Just a breath in and then out.

“Okay,” you say quietly, nodding.

You stand slowly, and for a second, he thinks you might say more. That you’ll push back or joke or brush it off like you always do. But you don’t. You just walk away. And it takes everything in you not to look back.

He stays there, back against the wall, the silence suddenly feeling much heavier now that you're gone. He tells himself it’s better this way. That he needs to get his head right before qualifying, that he doesn’t have room for distractions.

But then he hears a familiar laugh a few minutes later—yours—and when he looks up, he sees you walking down the paddock lane with Ollie.

You’re not touching, not even close. But you’re smiling. Laughing at something stupid he’s saying, shaking your head with that same expression you used to give him when he tried to act cool.

Ollie says something else and you nudge his arm with yours, barely a brush, but it’s enough. Isack’s stomach twists painfully. Because suddenly he remembers the way you looked at him when you asked if he was okay. The way you waited. The way you didn’t push when you could’ve.

And the way you walked away when he told you to. His chest tightens. He doesn’t want you to laugh like that with anyone else. He doesn’t want to be the reason you stop laughing at all. And God, he didn’t mean it. He never meant it.

—

yourusername

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yourusername : another week, another picture of isack struggling under my care. (bonus content! took ollie vitamin shopping, finally cooked for kimi and alexandra and i went to a pilates class with @/alo!!)

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—

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alexandrasaintmleux : you bullied me through every plank and then made me smoothies. 10/10 would suffer again 🧘‍♀️💕

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carmenmmundt : please release the pilates vlog i know you filmed

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↳ yourusername : anything for you pretty

lilymhe : your abs should be illegal. anyway, can i book a session?

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↳ yourusername : ofc my honey

isackhadjar : you forgot to mention you made me do bulgarian split squats and laughed the whole time.

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↳ yourusername : details details...it is not torture if you enjoy it

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kimi.antonelli : i would like to formally request more pasta and less spinach next time. thank you.

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↳ yourusername : be nice or next time it'll be gluten free pasta 💗

↳ kimi.antonelli : NVM. make it how you please queen

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estebanocon : whatever you gave ollie he hasn’t blinked in 3 hours. we’re concerned.

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↳ yourusername : he will live

—

You weren’t trying to overthink it. You really weren’t.

But it’d been a week since Isack snapped. A week since that sharp edge in his voice told you to leave him alone. And though he’d apologized the next day — quiet, eyes down, hands restless — you hadn’t missed the shift.

He was still your friend. He still trained with you. Still let you fix his form or bark at him to hydrate or laugh when you mocked his grunts during workouts. But now, when someone else was around — Kimi, Franco, Gabriel, Ollie — he changed. Just a little.

His body would go stiffer. His tone clipped. His eyes lingered on you in moments when he thought you wouldn’t notice. And when he did catch someone else making you laugh? It was like something flickered behind his gaze — something possessive and unspoken.

You didn’t know what to do with that. You weren’t even sure if you were imagining it.

But now, standing in the supplement aisle of a health store, pretending to compare magnesium gummies, you felt the weight of it again. The weird tension in your chest. The questions you couldn’t quite name.

“If you’re trying to find the best flavor,” Ollie said, suddenly peering over your shoulder, “go with the raspberry. I took two of them before quali last week and thought I could feel colors.”

You blinked, startled out of your haze. “I—what?”

He laughed, bumping your hip lightly with his. “You were staring at the wall like it insulted you.”

“Just thinking,” you muttered.

Ollie studied you for a moment — that perceptive glint sneaking into his usual boyish grin. “About someone whose name starts with an I and ends in ‘s clearly still hung up on you even though he pretends he’s not jealous every time I speak to you?”

You rolled your eyes, half-glaring, half-grateful. “Shut up.”

“Never,” he said, tossing a bottle into your basket. “But I will make you buy me lunch if we’re doing emotional errands now.”

You smiled despite yourself. Because yeah — things with Isack were weird. Uncertain. A little bruised around the edges. But at least right now, in the vitamin aisle, Ollie was here. Reminding you that you weren’t spiraling alone.

—

You don’t mean to let the morning get away from you, but workouts with Isack always blur the clock. He’s annoyingly competitive. You’re equally stubborn. It’s a recipe for disaster, or maybe the exact opposite, considering how well your bodies move around each other — matching pace, teasing, pushing limits. There’s a rhythm between you now, a silent language in the glances and smirks and wordless encouragements.

Like when you adjust the angle of his elbow mid-curl and he huffs, “You just like touching me,” with a grin.

Or when you race him on the bike and he shouts, “You’re cheating!” and you yell back, “You’re slow!”

You’re both flushed and breathless by the end of it, Isack collapsing onto the floor with a groan, one hand dragging his hoodie off his head while the other grabs your water bottle like it’s his.

You’re sitting next to him, stretching lazily, arms raised overhead. “Okay,” you say, grinning as he chugs your water. “You actually didn’t suck today.”

“I’ll take that as the highest compliment,” he says, cheeks red, hair a mess, smile lopsided and boyish.

Your heart tugs — just a little — at how good this feels. Easy. Close. Charged in the kind of way you try not to read too much into.

You stand, brushing sweat from your skin with a towel. “I’m heading over to Kimi’s after this. He asked for help with meal prepping again.”

You don’t even get the sentence out before you feel it. That shift.

Isack doesn’t say anything right away, but something in his posture changes. His smile fades — not entirely, but it’s tightened now. His eyes drop to the floor for a second too long, and when he finally looks up at you, the lightness is gone.

“Oh,” he says. Short. Flat.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, pushing himself up to stand and walking over to grab his hoodie. “Just—cool. Have fun.”

He’s pulling the fabric over his head, avoiding your gaze now, rummaging in his bag like it suddenly has something really important inside it.

You frown. “Isack.”

“I said it’s fine,” he mutters, slinging the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder. “You don’t need to check in every time you hang out with someone else.”

Your chest stings. “I wasn’t checking in. I was just… telling you.”

He nods. Too fast. Not looking at you. “Right. Cool.”

And just like that, the warmth from earlier evaporates. The tension still lingers, but now it’s a different kind — sticky and sharp and heavy with things unsaid. You want to ask what’s really going on. You want to shake him and say you don’t get to be weird about this when you were the one who told me to back off. But instead, you just swallow it down and give him a tight nod.

“Okay,” you say softly. “I’ll see you later.”

And as you walk away, you feel his eyes on your back — and you hate how much you wish he’d just say something.

—

third person pov! (dad! lewis moment for your reading pleasure)

Isack hadn’t meant to say anything. He’d run into Lewis at the sim, barely grunted a greeting, planning to keep his head down and get his laps in. But Lewis had that annoying ability to see through silence. He’d raised an eyebrow, nodded toward the quieter corner of the motorhome, and said, “You alright?” in a tone that made something in Isack’s chest untangle.

And now here he was, sitting across from a seven-time world champion, rambling like a teenager with his first crush.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” Isack muttered, voice taut. “She mentions she’s going to help Kimi with meal prep and suddenly I’m acting like a jealous prick for no reason. It’s not even a big deal—who the hell gets weird about meal prep?”

Lewis, lounging comfortably on the sofa, just sipped his green juice and watched him. Calm. Patient. That made it worse somehow.

“I already messed it up once,” Isack continued, his fingers twisting the brim of his cap. “She checked in on me after a bad session, and I told her I didn’t need her. And she just… nodded and walked away. Like she’d been expecting it.”

He shook his head, eyes trained on the floor. “I apologized. She forgave me. But something’s different now. When she’s with the others — Ollie, Kimi, even the performance staff — she laughs easier. She looks relaxed. Happy. And I just… I can’t stand it.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow, still quiet.

“I know it’s messed up,” Isack said, more to himself than anything. “It’s not like she owes me anything. But when I see her smiling at them—”

“You feel like you’re losing her,” Lewis said gently.

Isack swallowed hard and nodded. “What’s wrong with me?”

Lewis leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said firmly. “But you’re standing on thin ice.”

Isack looked up, confused.

“Jealousy’s loud,” Lewis said. “It’ll convince you that every smile she gives someone else is one less she has for you. And that’s how you start hurting people — not because you don’t care, but because you care too much and forget how to show it properly.”

Isack didn’t respond, his jaw tight.

Lewis softened. “You like her, right? Maybe even love her.”

The silence between them cracked a little at the edges.

“Then you’ve got to trust her. Show up, be there, and stop keeping score,” Lewis said. “Or someone else will — someone who won’t make her feel like her warmth is something to be earned.”

Isack exhaled, a little shakily. He had some thinking to do.

—

You’re laughing. You hadn’t meant to be, not really — Franco just has that kind of energy. The two of you are halfway through circuits, doing light resistance work outside the motorhome, the sun hanging low in the late afternoon. He cracks a joke about how you’re secretly trying to kill him with squats and your chest shakes with laughter, even as you try to keep a straight face and correct his form. Isack sees it from a few meters away.

He’d only come out to grab something from the trailer, but he stops cold when his eyes land on you. The way you’re smiling — open and easy — the kind of smile that used to be just his. And the way Franco’s looking at you, relaxed, playful, sweat curling against his temple, doesn’t help the coil tightening in Isack’s chest. But this time, he doesn’t let it fester.

Instead, he waits. Not long — just until you and Franco part ways with an easy fist bump and a casual, “See you later.”

You don’t even notice Isack at first. You’re wiping sweat from your brow, pulling your hair out of your face, already thinking about recovery protocols.

“Hey,” he says, stepping into your space with a hesitance you don’t recognize.

Your head lifts. “Hey,” you say back, voice light but guarded. He notices. “What’s up?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just runs a hand over the back of his neck and glances around before his eyes finally settle on you — and stay there.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

You nod slowly, grabbing a water bottle and motioning for him to follow you behind the trailer, where it’s quieter.

When you turn to face him, he looks nervous. Really nervous. You’re not used to seeing Isack like this — not quiet, not unsure of himself. Something in your chest tightens, but you wait.

He inhales. “I saw you with Franco.”

You raise a brow. “Okay…”

He swallows. “And before I say anything stupid, I just want to get this part out first.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

That catches you off guard. “For what?”

“For snapping at you last week. For making you feel like you were doing too much or… like I didn’t need you. I did. I do.” His eyes search yours, desperate for you to understand. “I was just frustrated and in my head and I took it out on the one person who’s actually been there through all of it.”

Your expression softens, but your lips stay sealed.

“And today, seeing you with Franco — it made me feel something, yeah, but not because you did anything wrong. You’re allowed to spend time with whoever you want. You’re allowed to laugh and be happy and exist outside of me.”

His voice falters, just for a second. “But I realized something I’ve been trying not to say out loud.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

He steps a little closer, eyes locked on yours now, no escape. “I like you. Like, really like you. I don’t know when it started. Maybe when you made me protein pancakes at 6 a.m. because you said I looked tired, or maybe when you stayed up stretching with me the night before quali in Melbourne because I couldn’t sleep. I just know I feel different around you.”

He laughs, breathless and nervous. “And I keep getting in my own way, trying to play it cool or push you away when it gets too scary. But I don’t want to do that anymore.”

You blink slowly, stunned quiet.

“I’m not asking for anything right now,” he adds quickly. “I just wanted you to know. And I wanted to say I’m sorry — for every time I made you doubt your place next to me.”

You look at him for a long moment. And then you smile — small but real.

“Isack,” you murmur, stepping forward, letting your shoulder brush his. “You’re a pain in the ass sometimes.”

He winces. “Fair.”

“But I like you too.”

His head snaps up. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

A quiet laugh escapes him and his hand finds the back of his neck again, his signature move when he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “So, does this mean you’ll stop training Franco?”

You roll your eyes. “No, but I’ll make you pancakes again. And maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll hold your hand.”

He grins, soft and boyish, the kind of grin that reminds you why you waited. “I think I could be really lucky.”

And just like that, the air between you shifts — from uncertainty to something warmer, something steady. Something worth holding onto.

—

isackhadjar

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isackhadjar : got my sally <3

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—

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oscarpiastri : slow and steady wins the girl apparently.

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carmenmmundt : she’s hot, Isack. I’m scared for you.

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—

The gym is nearly empty, just the two of you and the quiet hum of machines idling in the background. It’s close to midnight. The world outside is asleep, but inside these walls, it’s just you, him, and the soft rhythm of breath and movement.

You’re finishing your final set, sweat glistening along your collarbone, hair pulled back messily, muscles aching in the best way. Isack’s behind you, hands lightly on your hips, grounding you, like always. His voice, low and warm, cuts through your exhaustion.

“You’ve got one more in you,” he says, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You let out a breathy laugh, not even pretending to be annoyed by the way he always pushes you to go a little harder. It’s never too much—he knows your limits. You do it, just for him. Because his pride in you is addicting.

When you finish, he’s already there, gently tugging the weights from your hands, brushing the damp hair off your forehead. He lifts your chin with two fingers, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing you. Again. “You’re insane,” he whispers, grinning. “How do I fall harder every single night?”

Your cheeks burn, not from the workout, but from the way he says it like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “Probably because I keep letting you win our plank competitions.”

He snorts, pulling you in by the waist. “You don’t let me win. I cheat and you’re too sweet to call me out.”

You both laugh, the kind that bubbles from somewhere deep in your chest and feels like home. His forehead drops against yours, sweat meeting sweat, breaths mingling, and for a moment, neither of you says a word. You’re just swaying gently, caught in that calm, sleepy haze of post-workout warmth and love.

“I like this,” you murmur against his chest, fingers trailing up his spine. “You and me. Like this. When the world’s quiet.”

His arms tighten around you, lips pressing a kiss to your hairline like muscle memory. “You and me. Like this. Always.”

And it’s so quiet, so simple, but you can feel the truth of it humming between your bodies, settling in your bones. You never imagined a gym could feel romantic—but maybe it’s not the place. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe it’s always just him.

Later, he helps you tie your shoes because your legs are jelly and you’re too dramatic about it. He kisses your knuckles like you’re royalty and carries your water bottle like it’s some sacred treasure. And as you both walk out into the warm night, hand in hand, the stars barely visible over the parking lot lights, you realize this might be your new favorite kind of date.

No fancy restaurants. No city lights. Just Isack. Always Isack.

—

“Don’t look at me like that,” Isack mutters, brow furrowed in concentration as he stares down a package of pasta like it personally wronged him.

You’re perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging lazily, wearing one of his old t-shirts and a smug grin that only grows as he flips the instructions over for the third time. “I’m just observing,” you say, voice dripping with amusement. “You’re very intense with that boiling water.”

“This is serious business,” he replies, reaching for the olive oil and missing it by an inch. “I’m making dinner. For us. Like a real adult.”

“You’re pouring dry pasta into a pot. You’re not auditioning for MasterChef.”

He shoots you a mock glare, but it’s useless—especially with the way his eyes soften every time he looks at you. “You always cook. Let me be the one to do it tonight.”

Your heart swells a little, watching the way he moves around the kitchen with determined clumsiness—how he reads each step twice, how he wipes his hands every few minutes like he’s afraid of messing up. It’s adorable. He’s adorable. All sharp jawline and messy curls and the apron you made him wear that says Kiss the Cook.

So you do. You lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek, then his jaw, then the corner of his mouth until he finally turns, grinning, and kisses you properly. He tastes a little like tomato and a lot like home.

“You’re distracting me,” he mumbles against your lips.

“You love it.”

He tries to act unbothered, but he’s blushing as he stirs the sauce, sneaking glances at you every few seconds like he still can’t believe you’re really there, really his. And when he finally plates the pasta—slightly overcooked, sauce a little runny—you take a bite and hum like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. Because it kind of is. Because he made it. For you.

—

You don’t know who decided it was a good idea to let you organize a full day rookie training camp, but here you are—whistle around your neck, stopwatch in one hand, and five overconfident boys grinning at you like this is going to be easy.

“Why do I feel like this is a trap?” Ollie says as you hand him a jump rope and raise an eyebrow.

“Because it is,” you smile sweetly. “Warm-up. Five minutes. Let’s go, gentlemen.”

Kimi groans, already stretching with the dramatics of someone twice his age. Gabriel and Franco race each other to the mats. Isack hangs back, eyes flicking up and down your workout set, smirking. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Power does that to a girl.”

He leans in, pretending to fix your whistle string. “Bet I could knock ten seconds off my lap time if you promise to kiss me after.”

You snort. “You already get kisses when you don’t work out.”

“Exactly. Imagine the reward system with effort.”

You shove him lightly toward the others. “Go join the children, Hadjar.”

The drills begin and, for the most part, the group holds it together. You run circuits, time sprints, and supervise partner workouts (Franco keeps trying to cheat and gets caught every time). Gabriel’s the most competitive, constantly trying to one-up Ollie, who somehow makes every movement look like a dance. Kimi pretends to hate it but you catch him trying to beat Isack’s plank time out of sheer spite. And then there’s Isack. Your favorite problem.

Every time he runs past you, he winks. Every time you give someone else feedback, he finds a reason to hover near. During cooldown, he slides his hand into yours, a little sweaty and smug.

“You’re actually really good at this,” he murmurs, pulling you down beside him on the grass.

You smile, tracing the lines of his palm. “They’re chaos, but I love ‘em.”

He hums. “They love you too. A little too much, if you ask me.”

You turn your head to look at him and he’s already watching you, something softer in his gaze now. Protective. A little possessive. A little yours.

“You jealous, Hadjar?”

“No,” he shrugs. “Just making sure they all know whose camp they’re in. And whose girl you are.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He kisses your temple, whispers, “Lucky you think so.”

Somewhere behind you, Ollie fake gags and Franco starts humming the Love Island theme. Kimi asks if there’s snacks. Gabriel wants a rematch. You sigh, smiling as chaos begins again. Your camp. Your boys. And your Isack.

—

425 notes · View notes

ild-rllrcstr · 2 days ago

Text

The Groceries Part 1

MV1, CL16, OB87, OP81, IH6, GR63 X You // fluff // part 2

You’d think Formula 1 drivers would treat grocery shopping the same way they treat racing, fast, efficient, and over in record time. You’d be wrong. Some treat it like a mission. Some treat it like a date. Some treat it like a scavenger hunt they absolutely must win. And some… well, some are just there to make sure you don’t come home with only snacks and nothing for dinner. Turns out, you can tell a lot about a person by the way they push a shopping cart.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹

Max Verstappen

Max does groceries the same way he does most things outside of racing, quick, quiet, and efficient. No wandering through aisles just to see what was there, no impulse buys unless it was for you. He sticks to the list, moves with purpose, and always seems to know exactly where everything is.

The cart squeaks as you steer it into the next aisle, scanning the shelves. Max walks beside you, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, scanning your list with the same focus he gives race data.

“You skipped the bread,” he says quietly, already turning back a few steps.

“I was gonna get it after…” You start, but he is already dropping the exact brand you like into the cart. You raise an eyebrow. “Since when do you remember which one I get?”

He shrugs, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “Since the first time you complained the crust was too hard.”

You laugh, nudging him with your hip as you turn into the snacks aisle. He follows without hesitation, grabbing a pack of stroopwafels before you even ask.

“Okay,” you tease, “but do you ever buy anything for yourself?”

Max glances at the cart, filled with your tea, your bread, your favourite pasta sauce, his cat’s snack, and gives a quiet, almost shy smile.

“I think I already did.”

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Charles Leclerc

Charles is the kind of person who treats grocery shopping like a mini adventure. You go in with a list, he goes in with curiosity and zero sense of restraint.

“Charles, we don’t need three different kinds of pasta,” you say, eyeing the cart as he reaches for another bag.

He looks at you like you are the unreasonable one. “You never know what mood we’ll be in! What if you want penne but we only have spaghetti?”

You roll your eyes, steering the cart away before he can justify another impulse buy. He catches up in two steps, casually dropping a pack of your favourite cookies in without breaking stride.

“I saw that,” you say.

His grin was pure mischief. “You weren’t supposed to. You’re getting better at catching me.”

At the end of the aisle, he grabs a couple of cans of Lecs and tosses them in the cart.

You raise a brow. “You literally get that for free.”

Charles just shrugs, utterly sincere. “Gotta support the business whenever you can.”

You shake your head, laughing as he reaches over to lace his fingers through yours. It is ridiculous, unnecessary… and so him.

“These or these?” he asks in front of the grapes, as if the fate of dinner depends on it.

“They’re the same grapes, Charles,” you say, laughing.

He glances between them, then tosses both into the cart with a shrug. “Better to be safe.”

Halfway down the aisle, while pushing the cart with the other hand. “This is nice,” he says softly, almost like he hasn’t meant to say it out loud.

And just like that, standing under the hum of fluorescent lights with a cart full of mismatched groceries, it feels like the most ordinary kind of love, and the best kind.

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Oliver Bearman

Ollie’s approach to grocery shopping was simple, get in, get what’s on the list, get out. He pushes the cart carefully, scanning his phone like he’s afraid of missing something important.

“You know,” you tease, leaning over to peek at his screen, “it’s not an exam. You can relax.”

He gives a sheepish grin. “Yeah, but if I forget something, I feel like I never hear the end of it.”

When it comes to eggs, you always watch as he opens the carton, turning each one slightly to ensure there are no cracks. His brows knit in concentration.

“Serious business,” you said lightly.

“Last time, two were broken, you never know,” he mutters, closing the lid and placing the chosen carton gently into the cart like it’s treasure.

You reach in and notice the familiar packaging of your favourite cereal. “How did this get in here? This isn’t on the list.”

“How did that get in there?,” he asks himself playfully, then pretending to be focused on the shelves. “You said you liked it last week.”

Your chest warms at the quiet way he says it, like it’s no big deal. You follow him to the next aisle, watching him carefully compare brands of pasta with that same furrowed brow.

Halfway through the store, he adds a small bag of gummy candy and nudges the cart forward.

“For you,” he mutters.

You smile, dropping a pack of biscuits in without looking at him. “For you.”

By the time you get to the checkout, the cart’s a mix of essentials and little things that scream of both of you. It isn’t grand or dramatic, just two people building something soft and domestic, one grocery trip at a time.

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Oscar Piastri

Oscar Piastri does groceries the way he does most things, lowkey, efficient… and surprisingly funny when you aren’t looking for it.

He has a list on his phone, colour-coded, no less, but he also has a quiet openness to the detours, especially if they amuse him. Which they often do.

At the dairy section, he crouches to inspect two identical tubs of Greek yoghurt, brows furrowed like it’s a qualifying session.

“They’re literally the same,” you point out.

He glances up. “One expires on the 9th, the other on the 12th.”

“You planning to eat them after the 9th?”

“...Maybe.” He drops the latter one in the cart with a nod, like a man who’s just made a crucial strategic call.

Halfway through the produce aisle, you catch him sneaking something behind your back.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“Don’t what?” he says, too innocently. Then you turn around and spot it, your favourite chocolate bar peeking out from under a bag of spinach.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this how you think stealth works?”

“I’m not trying to be stealthy,” he says, tapping his phone. “It’s on the list now. Technically.”

At the self-checkout, he scans items with the kind of focus usually reserved for braking points and tire strategy.

“This is oddly satisfying,” he murmurs, placing items into the bag with almost robotic precision.

You watch him stack the bags so the heavier items wouldn’t crush the bread. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Let me have this,” he says, deadpan. “It’s the only time I get to control a machine that doesn’t talk back.”

You laugh, grabbing the last bag and nudging his arm with your shoulder. “We should make this a weekly thing.”

He glances sideways, a soft look flickering over his face. “Only if I still get to sneak chocolate in when you’re not looking.”

You roll your eyes. “You mean exactly when I am looking.”

He smiles as he holds the door open for you, voice low but amused. “You’re getting too good at catching me.”

Outside, with groceries in hand and the sun just dipping under the buildings, it feels simple. Quietly chaotic. A little ridiculous.

And entirely you and him.

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Isack Hadjar

Both of you will walk in with no list. No plan. Just vague confidence. The point of the two of you doing groceries together is usually not for actual groceries, it’s a kind of pastime together.

Impulse buys? His entire cart is an impulse. A six-pack of energy drinks, three kinds of cereal “just to try,” and a suspiciously large amount of instant noodles.

“I cook,” he defends, holding up a can of pre-made pasta sauce.

“That’s heating, Isack.”

“Tomato, to-may-to,” he says, dropping two more into the cart, just in case.

In the snack aisle, he grabs a multipack of Kinder Bueno without breaking stride.

“Are you even going to eat all those?”

“Statistically, yes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Statistically?”

He leans against the cart like it’s the pit wall. “They don’t last more than a day in the house. It’s basically a disappearing act.”

He pauses for a full minute at the frozen pizza section, squinting like he’s deciphering tire strategy.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m optimising. This one’s better for lunch, this one for post-race depression.”

You blink. “You’re not even racing this weekend.”

He grabs both. “Prevention is key.”

By checkout, the cart is a beautiful mess. Frozen meals, protein bars, overpriced cheese, and exactly one vegetable, a sad bell pepper that you suspect was grabbed just to prove a point. You realise you probably will have to do some more groceries for actual food the next day.

“You realise this isn’t a real meal plan,” you say.

Isack just smirks and scans the pepper last, like a mic drop. “Balance.”

Outside, he hands you a chocolate bar he’s hidden between the frozen waffles. “For being my emotional support in aisle six.”

You laugh, bumping his shoulder. “This is chaos.”

“It’s controlled chaos,” he corrects, keys already spinning on his finger. “Like quali. You just gotta commit and hope for the best.”

And somehow, with the sun setting and bags full of almost-garbage and somehow-enough, it feels like exactly the kind of ridiculous fun you don’t know you needed.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹

George Russell

George Russell has a style when it comes to grocery shopping, and it’s very, very George. Meticulous. Efficient. Slightly competitive, as if there’s a world championship point on the line for the fastest supermarket lap. You do suspect George Russell treats grocery shopping like a race weekend. But when he’s with you, that precision softens into something else, something warm, protective, and just a little bit ridiculous. It’s not just a chore to him anymore, it’s your little tradition.

You walk through the automatic doors together, and before you can even grab a basket, George’s hand is already on a trolley.

“I’ll drive,” he says with mock seriousness, steering it like it’s a Mercedes. “You navigate.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And if I send us to the wrong aisle?”

“That’s a five-second penalty,” he grins. “But I’ll forgive you… If you pick up my favourite milk.”

The first stop is the produce section, where he turns into a man on a mission. He inspects every apple like it’s part of a qualifying run, squeezing avocados with the care of someone checking tyre pressure.

“George, they’re just avocados,” you say, watching him reject a perfectly fine one.

“They’re the foundation of our entire breakfast strategy,” he says solemnly.

Then, with a sudden little smile, he drops one into the cart and adds, “Besides, I want the good ones for you.”

You roll your eyes, but the way he says it, casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, makes your cheeks warm.

Halfway down the snack aisle, he slows down, pushing the trolley beside you.

“So… do we stick to the list,” he says, voice low and conspiratorial, “or do we break the rules and get those chocolate biscuits you like?”

“That depends,” you tease, “are you going to eat half the packet before we even get home?”

“Fifty-fifty chance,” he admits, chuckling. “Better make it two packets, just to be safe.”

When you pass the bakery, he disappears for a moment, reappearing with two warm pastries in a paper bag.

“For later,” he says, handing you one. “Because shopping is basically a race and we need pit stop snacks.”

You laugh, taking a bite. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he says softly, “are adorable when you’re trying to look annoyed.”

By the time you reach the checkout, your cart is perfectly organised, George’s doing, of course. He’s quick but careful with the packing, making sure nothing gets squashed. As you stand side by side, he leans in, his arm brushing yours.

“See,” he murmurs, “we make a great team.”

You smile. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

Then he glances at the total, winces dramatically, and whispers, “Though I think next time… we’ll have to win a race first.”

Walking out into the sunlight, he takes the bags from your hands without asking, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary.

“Come on,” he says, flashing that bright George Russell grin. “Let’s get these home before the ice cream melts. And maybe later… we plan our next grocery grand prix.”

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525 notes · View notes

urmum-lovesme · 10 hours ago

Text

Bunny (P16)

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: Well well well- guess whose back. Thought I'd do a little surprise drop just for the plot BAHAHAH. Lets see, more drama obviously cause our girl cant catch a break, more domestic bunny and rafe and a little special feature for our girl Naomi cause I've missed her. I love Sarah Cameron. As the end of the series draws nearer I lowkey feel kinda emotional, I feel like nothings ever gonna beat rafe and bunny for me. 1 more chapter after this to go my loves x

warnings: allusions to sex, angst, violence (yelling/arguing) (jj pmo), mentions of past abuse (bruises ect), soft!rafe and Soft!bunny (they're so domestic)

(P1) (P2) (P3) (P4) (P5) (P6) (P7) (P8) (P9) (P10) (P11) (P12) (P13) (P14) (P15) (P16)

The soft hum of tires against the road was the only sound cutting through the silence inside the twinkie. Sarah sat up front, leaning her elbow against the open window as her fingers tapped against her thigh. Her eyes flicked between the side mirror and John B’s profile. The brunette boy’s hands were tight on the steering wheel very much mirroring the tense mood in the backseat. Pope sat beside JJ, who was slumped against the wall of the van, head resting back, his phone clutched in his hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored. JJ’s eyes were trained on the screen, scrolling through the messages he’d sent Y/N- all left on read.

“I’m sorry I should’ve said something”

“I should’ve stopped him”

“I was just in shock”

“Come home”

“You're still my sister no matter what”

“I love you”

He blinked hard, jaw tightening as he shoved the heel of his palm against his eye, like he could push down the sting building behind it. “C’mon, man,” Pope said quietly, nudging him with his shoulder.

“You’ve been moping for two days straight.”

“I’m not moping,” JJ muttered.

“You’re definitely moping”

Sarah piped up from the front seat, not turning around. “You haven’t said a word since we left the Chateau.” “I just…” JJ sighed finally shifting upright, placing his hands into the floor of the van and pushing himself up slightly,

“I don’t get how she could cut us off like this.”

“She’s not thinking like that,” Pope said gently. “She just needs time. After everything with your dad and Rafe-”

“-don’t say his name”

JJ snapped, a little too quickly. His voice cracked with it and he clenched his jaw and turned his face back toward the window. Pope leaned forward a bit, trying to bridge the gap.

“Look, we’re gonna grab Sarah’s stuff, then we’ll look for her. Maybe she just… needed space? That doesn’t mean she’s gone forever dude.”

JJ didn’t respond, just glanced back down at his phone, the screen dark now.

No new notifications

No answer from her

The Twinkie came to a slow stop outside the metal gates, the loud rattle of the van’s engine stark against the immaculate house before them. Inside the van, Kiara leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the grand front entrance.

“You still got the key?”

She asked, glancing at Sarah. The blonde girl pulled her tote bag into her lap and rummaged through it, the jingle of metal briefly filling the space before she held up a single key.

“Yeah I do.”

“What if he’s changed the locks?”

Cleo raised a brow from the back, arms crossed. Sarah let out an unimpressed scoff, already opening her door.

“I’d like to think he’s not that petty.”

From the driver’s seat, John B snorted. “Yeah right, you’ve clearly never met him”

Sarah shot him a dry stare as she swung her legs out the door and hopped out. The rest of the group followed- door creaking, feet hitting the pavement, the usual shuffling of trainers on the floor. Once she was facing the tall front gate Sarah paused, then turned, arms folded tight across her chest, scanning the group all lined up behind her.

“You’re all coming?!”

The rest of them exchanged a look, a quick unspoken conversation bouncing between the Pogues like a game of mental ping-pong. Then John B stepped forward with a shrug.

“Uh… yeah?”

Kiara raised a brow, “What, you thought we were gonna just sit in the van like unpaid Uber drivers... ?”

Sarah stood at the tall black gate, her fingers punching in the familiar code on the silver keypad. A faint beep… then a soft click. The gate creaked open slowly, and she gave it a push, slipping through the gap as the others quietly followed behind her one by one. JJ paused just before crossing the threshold, glancing up at the looming house beyond the hedges. He swallowed hard, thumb still brushing the corner of his phone screen inside his pocket.

The six of them walked in a tight, quiet cluster up the long cobblestone driveway. The sound of gravel crunching under their shoes was the only thing breaking the silence. Sarah looked over her shoulder, voice low but firm.

“Okay, just- keep quiet. I don’t know if he’s home.”

Pope turned back slightly toward JJ, who was trailing behind the group, his gaze flicking up toward the house’s tall windows. “You good?” Pope murmured but JJ didn’t answer at first.

It was his fault that all of this had happened.

His fault Y/N had gone radio silent and disappeared without a word.

His fault she was even in this mess to begin with.

JJ could feel it- this sharp, burning fury crawling up the back of his throat and settling heavy in his chest just at the thought of him. He swallowed it down, his jaw tight and his fingers twitching with the urge to hit something.

Anything.

Him.

His hand clenched briefly, then he gave Pope a stiff nod before looking back to Sarah who was already climbing the few steps to the grand double doors, her fingers gripping the key. She turned back to them one more time.

“Last chance to turn around.”

Cleo gave her a look, “We already broke in- might as well finish the job.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning light crept slowly across the living room, golden rays spilling in through the sheer curtains. It stretched across the floorboards and kissed the edge of the couch before it climbed its way up and reached them tangled together in their sleep. Y/N was still curled on Rafe’s chest, her cheek pressed to his bare skin- the slow rise and fall of his breathing lulling her deeper into rest. The blanket they’d pulled over themselves sometime in the night had slipped down to their waists leaving their upper bodies exposed to the warmth of the sun. His hand, large and steady, remained protectively across her back, holding her to him even in sleep.

However their soft morning stillness was soon broken.

Rafe stirred first his brow furrowing as a sound reached him through the haze of sleep; the faint, unmistakable rattle of a door handle being twisted repeatedly, followed by the subtle click of a lock. His eyes snapped open fully now and he sat up slowly, his hand still staying firm against Y/N’s back to support her where she lay curled against him. For a second, he held his breath and listened.

Another click.

Then the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

Y/N shifted against him at the sudden movement, her lashes fluttering before her voice mumbled groggy with sleep,

“What’s going on…?”

“I don’t know, I-” Rafe’s voice was still thick with sleep but before he could finish muffled voices echoed from the front of the house, indistinct at first but quickly growing clearer.

“Just shut up guys, c’mon”

“Ow! John B- that’s my foot!”

“Why are you literally standing on my ass then Kie?”

Y/N went rigid on his chest as she sat up and turned her wide, panicked eyes toward Rafe. All the colour drained from her face. Her voice came out in a frantic whisper,

“What are they doing here?!”

Rafe was already sitting up, scanning the room with quick eyes the sleepy fog gone in an instant.

“C’mon”

He hissed under his breath. Y/N sat up fast, clutching the blanket to her chest as her heart thundered in her ribcage. They scrambled, hands, fabric and limbs moving in frantic coordination. She chucked his sweatpants at him as he stood, pulling them on in one rough motion, still shirtless. She whisper-yelled, glancing around in panic.

“Where the fuck did you throw my clothes?!”

“I don’t know- Jesus, I wasn’t exactly thinking about where I tossed them at the time!”

Rafe whispered back, eyes sweeping the room. She let out a sharp breath, the blanket still wrapped tight around her like a towel, standing barefoot in the middle of the sudden chaos that their peaceful morning had escalated to. Her bra was nowhere in sight. Her jeans- gone.

And her panties?

She spotted them thrown over the lampshade by the couch.

Of course

Rafe was halfway across the room, crouched behind the coffee table when the sound of footsteps grew louder before coming to a sudden stop and when Y/N whipped around to look in the direction of the sound,

Sarah was standing there having stopped dead in her tracks.

Her eyes landed on Y/N, wrapped in nothing but a blanket and then flicked to Rafe, shirtless and breathless. Her mouth dropped open.

“Oh my god.”

The room fell so silent you could hear a pin drop. Y/N’s eyes went wide as Sarah blinked unmoving, once then twice like her brain was rebooting. They were all just standing there- frozen in a silence so thick it was becoming suffocating. Y/N’s fingers clenched tighter around the blanket at her chest and Rafe’s shoulders were tense, his jaw locked. Sarah looked like she’d just walked into an alternate universe, eyes flicking between the two of them, lips parted like she didn’t know what to say first. Rafe’s sharp voice broke the silence,

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I- I was just-”

Sarah’s lips moved but no more sound came out. She blinked again as she took a breath to speak but then a voice cut through the tension, whisper echoing in from the hallway with a clueless lilt.

“Hey Sarah, where’d you go…?”

Y/N froze.

No no no—

Her heart stopped cold.

She didn’t even have time to react before JJ rounded the corner. His steps slowed the second he saw them, his sister and Rafe; half-dressed, clothes scattered on the floor, the blanket wrapped around her, Rafe shirtless, her bra- right fucking there- thrown over the back of the couch. JJ’s entire body stiffened as his eyes locked on her, then Rafe, then down to the floor and back up again and then his face twisted.

“What the fuck.”

“Jay—” Y/N stepped forward instinctively, her voice breathless as she reached a hand out.

“It’s not what it looks like-”

“-not what it looks like?” he scoffed.

“Are you serious right now?”

His voice cracked around the edges, a mix of rage and betrayal bleeding through every syllable that left his mouth. His chest rose and fell in quick, angry breaths as he stared at his sister- the one who’d ghosted him for two days, ignored his texts and had his heart breaking- and now had Rafe fucking Cameron standing next to her. “You disappeared,” he spat.

“You don’t answer me and this is why?”

“JJ-” Rafe warned, stepping forward slightly but JJ’s glare whipped to him like fire catching gasoline.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Stop it, okay?”

Y/N suddenly snapped, stepping into the wide space between them before JJ could say anything more. Her voice trembled slightly but there was still sternness in her tone,

“You have no idea what’s going on.”

JJ let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head like she was actually insane. He spoke out, arms outstretched mockingly to gesture between Y/N and the boy standing next to her, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

“Oh I’m pretty sure I know exactly what’s going on”

“Excuse me?”

Y/N’s jaw clenched but JJ didn’t seem to hesitate or hold back. He was too angry, too heartbroken, certainly too blindsided by his fury to bite his tongue.

“Looks like what Dad said was right.”

The words hit her like a slap and her breath caught in her throat, the blanket still clutched in her fingers, but looser now. Her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything because she knew exactly what JJ meant. Those words- those vile, disgusting things her father screamed at her before he kicked her out- they were still fresh in her mind, still echoing in her skull on loop. And now JJ, her own brother, was throwing them in her face too? Her chest tightened and the burn started behind her eyes before she could stop it. There was a sudden sound of shuffling growing louder in the hallway, before the rest of the Pogues walked in, their eyes landing on the scene in front of them. Pope slowed confused, and Cleo and Kiara’s brows furrowed. But John B took one look at Y/N’s tear-filled eyes and JJ practically vibrating with rage a few feet opposite her and he muttered under his breath quietly but unmistakably clear-

“Oh shit.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened when he saw her. Y/N’s eyes were glassy, her hand trembling slightly where it clutched the blanket against her chest and her shoulders had drawn in, like she was trying to make herself smaller. She wasn't going to be treated like this, not in front of him under his roof. “Alright,” Rafe muttered stepping forward slowly and dangerously calm,

“You need to leave.”

“Get the fuck outta my face”

JJ spat his eyes snapped to Rafe, shoving him back with both hands. Rafe stumbled a step, but the fury that flashed in his eyes was immediate. John B’s voice cut in, trying to de-escalate the sudden storm that had erupted in the room,

“Okay man, I think we should-”

“No!” JJ barked spinning toward him.

“NO! I’m not fucking leaving, alright?!”

Then he turned back on his heel to Y/N, stepping toward her with betrayal bleeding out of every pore. He jabbed his finger in her direction angrily,

“I can’t fucking believe you would do this to me! Seriously?! After everything that we’ve- he’s tormented us for years, and now you’re here- what- sucking his dick?!”

Y/N shook her head in disbelief backing away a step, her bare feet quiet against the hardwood. She felt like the wind had been punched out of her lungs. “Hey!” Rafe shouted, stepping between them like a shield.

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

And then- he shoved JJ, hard. The blonde Pogue stumbled back, his chest still heaving. It looked like he was ready to throw a punch back in the Kook’s direction but then Y/N’s voice cracked through the standoff, pleading and desperate.

“JJ that’s not what this is, I swear- just listen to me please”

Her voice was breaking now, tears slipping down her cheeks despite her best effort to swallow them down. Her eyes bounced between the two boys, panic setting in as it all spiraled out of control. John B took JJ by the arm, yanking him back before anything worse could happen.

“Just chill out.”

He muttered harshly under his breath, glancing toward the others. Pope was already stepping in too, grabbing JJ’s other side with a firm hand.

“C’mon calm down.”

But Rafe wasn’t paying attention to them, instead his body was angled blocking Y/N from JJ’s view. His hand gently found her back, trying to ground her as she appeared visibly shook, her breaths short and quick. Sarah stood frozen near the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, this was her fault. She brought them here. She didn’t even think about the possibility of her being here. JJ shrugged both boys off with a rough jerk of his shoulders and suddenly, his voice cracked through the air again like a whip,

“You’re not a Maybank, you know that?”

Y/N’s brows furrowed, her voice small and cracking, “what… what are you talking about?”

“A Maybank would never betray their own blood”

JJ’s eyes were glossy now too and Y/N flinched like he’d hit her. Her lips parted trembling, her whole body shivering despite the blanket still clutched around her.

“Jay I love you, you're still my broth-”

Her voice broke as small sobs bubbled out of her chest now, no longer hidden. Her throat felt raw. Rafe turned instantly, cupping her cheek and whispering urgently shielding her from the looks of the rest of them.

“Hey, hey- shh- it’s okay, it’s okay”

In the back Kiara was already pushing past Pope and John B, her palm landing square on JJ’s chest with force. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she hissed. “That’s your sister— what the hell are you doing?!” JJ’s jaw was clenched, fists balled at his sides, his eyes bore into Y/N, who was curled slightly into Rafe now, like she was a stranger.

"Guess selling yourself came easier than telling me the truth"

Y/N let out the softest, broken gasp- a wounded sound that barely passed her lips. Rafe stiffened, his entire body went rigid, jaw clenched and he turned on his heel so fast it startled even Cleo.

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

Rafe’s voice boomed through the room like thunder.

“NOW!”

JJ didn’t flinch, he didn’t move either but John B and Pope didn’t wait. They grabbed him- each taking one arm- dragging him back toward the hall as he thrashed back against them, with gritted teeth and burning eyes.

“Let me go- fuck- LET GO OF ME-”

They’d already pulled him out, and his shouting faded into muffled echoes down the corridor. The front door slammed and silence followed. Y/N was shaking in Rafe’s arms, hands fisted in the material of the blanket around her. He just held her tighter, his hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing soothing circles down her spine. Behind them, Sarah stood still, guilt choking her. “Rafe,” she said quietly, voice breaking.

“I didn’t know. I swear- I didn’t know this was going to happen. I didn’t even know she was here- I’m sorry, I-”

Rafe sighed, long and slow, his hand never leaving Y/N’s back. He glanced over his shoulder tired,

“Sarah… just go.”

Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat, gave one last look at Y/N crumpled against him, then turned and walked out without another word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rafe’s bedroom was dim and quiet, except for the low hum of the fan overhead and the occasional rustle of sheets as Y/N shifted beneath them. She laid on the large queen-size mattress, an oversized t-shirt of his covering her frame. The door creaked open gently and Rafe stepped in, balancing a mug firmly in his hand. He murmured, setting it down on the bedside table with a soft clink.

“Brought you something,”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her head, then he sank onto the bed beside her, laying on his side to face her, his head resting in the palm of his hand, elbow propped up on the cushions. Y/N blinked at him through her lashes before turning to properly look at him, her voice still somewhat hoarse but nevertheless teasing.

“I didn’t know Rafe Cameron knew how to make tea.”

“Yeah well, I’d learn how to make that weird green drink you like if you wanted.”

Her brow lifted as he gave her a smile.

“Matcha?”

“That thing.”

He nodded like it was some foreign concept, not that he drank anything outside of black coffee. Her smile cracked through her exhaustion and Rafe watched her carefully for a second before brushing a hand against her arm, fingers sliding up and down the exposed skin, soft to the touch.

“You okay?”

She hesitated, her lips parting as if the answer was trying to form, but never quite managed to get out. “Yeah, I guess I just…” Finally, she let out a sigh.

“I don’t know how I expected him to find out but… that wasn’t it.”

“I’m sorry, baby.”

Rafe’s expression dimmed and he kissed his teeth before letting out a deep breath himself. She shook her head immediately, voice gentle.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Well…. I sorta think it is.”

Y/N shuffled herself closer towards him, propping her own elbow against the pillow, letting her rest her head on her hand. Her eyes met his and she tilted her head a little before humming as though deep in though,

“Hmmm… that’s a little awkward then”

That pulled a soft laugh out of him, “Yeah, just a bit.”

They laid there like that for a beat before slowly, like he couldn't help himself, he pushed forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. His hand came up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing over the skin just beneath her eye. When he pulled back, his eyes flickered down to the fading bruise along her cheekbone,

"It looks better."

She nodded slowly, lips pressing together, “Mmhmm.” But her eyes were distant, like her mind was still somewhere back in that living room. Rafe stayed close, his hand still holding her face like he was anchoring her to the present. His thumb gently traced over the curve of her jaw.

"You can talk to me"

He said after a moment. She didn’t respond right away. Just leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as her fingers curled lightly in the fabric of his t-shirt. Then she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, "He looked at me like I was a stranger." Rafe’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t say anything. Just let her speak, his thumb brushing slowly across her cheek. "It’s not even what he said. Not really. It’s just-" her throat tightened,

"He meant it."

Silence settled again, thick and aching. Rafe shifted slightly closer, pressing a kiss to her temple as he let out a small sigh,

"He was hurt and angry- not that I'm defending him- but people say dumb shit when they’re angry"

"I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me."

Rafe was quiet, watching the girl as she sat up and brought her hand up to run over the arch of her brow. He sat up on the bed himself, back comfortably against the headboard as he spoke out,

"Then he’s not who you thought he was."

"He’s my baby Rafe."

Her voice was soft and breaking as she spoke, eyes glassed over again as she pulled her knees up, looping her arms around them. "I brought him up. Ever since he was a little blonde-haired toddler. I’ve looked after him, protected him- God, I used to wipe his nose and teach him how to tie his laces. I just..." She dropped her head into her palm, elbow resting against her knee her voice nearly a whisper now,

"I just want my baby back."

Rafe didn’t say anything right away. He just reached over and rested a hand on her back, rubbing slow, steady circles like he was trying to ease an invisible ache he couldn’t fix. "He’s still your baby" he murmured eventually.

"Give him time, he’ll come around."

Her eyes lifted, full of doubt, "And if he doesn’t?"

"You still have me."

He added the words gently, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at her. She couldn’t help it, a tiny smile bloomed on her lips too, and she nudged her shoulder into his, their arms brushing. "Well gee," she murmured, tilting her head toward him,

"Isn’t that an upgrade."

Rafe huffed out a low laugh, his eyebrows raising, "Damn right it is," he shot back with a smirk.

"I make you tea"

"Oh yeah, the bare minimum. You’re really setting the bar high Rafe."

Rafe smirked, then without a word, slipped his arm around her waist and gently tugged her down with him until she was lying flat against his chest. She let out a soft surprised laugh, the breath leaving her lungs as she landed against him. He looked down at her and pressed a slow, tender kiss to her lips.

"Only the best for my girl"

He murmured against her mouth and she giggled softly, her fingers curling in the fabric of his t-shirt. It felt safe, easy even, but then his tone shifted, not necessarily heavy but more serious. "Speaking of that..." Her smile faltered just a little as she pulled back enough to look up at him, brow furrowing slightly.

"What...?"

He paused just for a beat and she felt the subtle tension in his chest beneath her. "Since you're living with me now..." He trailed off again and she stayed quiet, giving him the space to speak.

"...I need you to do something for me."

She blinked her voice gentle, "Anything you want."

His jaw flexed once, he looked like he was chewing on it, the words, the timing, the fear of saying the wrong thing to her and fucking it all up again. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and said it voice low but steady:

"I want you to stop working at the strip club."

For a second, she didn't respond. Her brows knit tighter together as she lifted herself a little more, bracing a hand on the bed beside him.

"What...?"

It wasn’t angry. Just quiet and confused. Like it didn’t compute in her mind. She blinked, eyes searching his face like she hadn’t quite heard him right. “Rafe, I—” But he was already shaking his head,

“I know. I know you don’t wanna depend on me.”

He paused, “and I respect that.” His eyes held hers as he continued, “So you can work at the country club. Hell- pick up something else, I’ll help you look. But just…” he swallowed, voice thickening slightly.

“Please. No more dancing.”

She sat up fully, still facing him, legs folded under herself now as she looked at him with something close to disbelief. Not irritation, just shock and surprise.

“Are you being serious...?”

Her voice cracked a little at the end. It wasn’t judgmental, not even hesitant- just stunned. Rafe sat up too, shifting so they were eye to eye. “Yeah.” His voice didn’t waver,

“Let me take care of you.”

Her breath caught as he continued, “You don’t have to work yourself to the bone just to survive anymore, not with me.” His hand moved to hers, threading his fingers gently with hers like he was afraid she’d pull away.

“I know you’re strong and you’ve always figured it out yourself but…”

She didn’t say anything right away. Just looked down at their hands, her thumb brushing across his knuckles and then, quietly, almost like a whisper:

“Okay.”

She leaned forward slowly,

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, okay.”

A soft smile tugged at her lips and he let out a quiet breath of relief then leaned in, pressing a warm lingering kiss to her lips, his thumb brushing her jaw. When he pulled back, a small smirk replaced the softness. “But… those cute little sets you’ve got-” His voice dropped an octave, playful now.

“You’ll still wear them for me, right?”

She let out an incredulous laugh, shoving him back against the mattress with both hands on his chest.

“You’re gross Cameron.”

He threw his hands up like he was surrendering, innocent of all charges that she was throwing at him, “What? I’m asking a reasonable question…” She bit back a grin as she swung her leg over his lap, settling comfortably against his thighs before leaning down, “Sure,” she murmured against his lips, kissing him again,

“The little sets are only for you now...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N sat tucked into the corner of a cozy little coffee shop, her fingers curled around a warm latte, although it remained untouched as her eyes kept drifting to the table across from her. A young couple sat there, blissfully unaware of anything but their baby. The mom had the little girl perched on her hip, bouncing her gently while the father reached out, making silly faces. The toddler giggled, tiny hands opening and closing as she made eager little grabby hands toward her dad’s face, like she couldn’t get enough of him. Her childish laughter rose above the soft clinking of dishes and quiet conversation around the cafe, a pure sound that made something ache in Y/N’s chest. She blinked, dragging her eyes back to the steam curling up from her drink just in time to hear a voice behind her:

“Well, well, well… look what the cat dragged in.”

Y/N turned, already smiling before she even saw her. Naomi’s arms were crossed, one hip popped out slightly, oversized sunglasses perched on her head and her long acrylics drumming against her bicep. She looked dead serious, her expression tight.

But then she cracked.

“You bitch.”

She broke into a grin striding forward, Y/N stood up and was immediately wrapped in a tight, vanilla-scented hug. Naomi squeezed her like she meant it, “Hey, ‘Omi,” Y/N mumbled into her shoulder, suddenly breathless from how much she'd missed her. The girl pulled back, holding her at arm’s length.

“I was this close to filing a missing persons case. You had me picturing you dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just… I’ve been busy.”

Y/N laughed and Naomi raised a brow, sliding into the seat across from her.

“Busy, huh?”

She looked Y/N up and down now, really taking her in; the clean hair, the soft looking oversized sweater, the lack of her brows drawn down in worry like they usually were and she narrowed her eyes slightly, legs crossing at the knee as she folded her arms

“This better not be 'cause of your little boy toy.”

Y/N went quiet, lips twitching like she was trying not to smile but the attempt didn’t last long. A grin cracked through. Naomi pointed at her triumphantly with a finger, “I knew it. I knewww it.” She tossed her braided hair over her shoulder pridefully,

“I had a feeling, you know, and my feelings are never wrong.”

Y/N laughed under her breath, rubbing a hand over her cheek, the bruise having faded- which she was grateful for as she knew Naomi would be asking questions otherwise.

“Are you mad at me?”

Naomi didn’t answer at first. She reached across the table, slid Y/N’s untouched latte toward herself, and took a slow unbothered sip like it belonged to her. She placed the cup down onto the small plate with a clink and then she looked to her,

“Mad? Why would I be mad at you Bunny?”

“I don’t know… 'cause I just like disappeared without a word?”

Naomi clicked her tongue with a small shake of her head in agreement, “Okay, yeah. I was mad. A little mad.” She held up two fingers, like an inch apart to try to reflect the annoyance she had at the girl, but she quickly waved her hand in Y/N’s direction as she continued, “But I’m not gonna hold it against you girl and besides you’ve seen me mad.” Y/N pressed her lips into a thin line, amused, before speaking out,

“I’ve seen you drag a man across a bar floor in six-inch heels.”

Naomi sat back, “Mmhmm, so trust me… if I was mad at you, you’d know.”

She picked up the cup again, her fingers wrapping around the warmth of it, took another sip, and gave a little satisfied nod. “Sorry, this is really good.” Y/N watched her, the corners of her eyes crinkling just slightly, that familiar heat blooming behind her ribs. She didn’t realise how much she’d missed this, missed Naomi, until this moment. The way she could cut through all the noise in her head without even trying. Naomi caught her looking and tilted her head.

“Are you gonna drink this or…?”

Y/N shook her head, “It’s all yours.”

Naomi grinned and pulled the cup closer, “Thanks, honey.” She leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh, “Sooo…” she started her eyes gleaming like she was bracing for a juicy confession,

“Did you call me here cause you wanna know the club gossip or-”

“As tempting as that is, no. That’s not why I called you.”

Naomi tilted her head, her earrings catching the light as she gave her a mock squint. “It’s just cause you missed me, right?” Y/N gave her a look and said,

“Mmhmm. Yep. You got me there.”

That earned a full laugh from both of them, loud enough that the couple at the next table gave them a quick glance. A beat passed between them and Naomi took another sip, then glanced down at the cup before saying, “Well... I’ve missed you.” She didn’t say it like a joke, didn’t throw it out there for laughs or deflection. Just said it, quietly like it had been sitting on her chest since the last time they saw each other. Her gaze dropped to the coffee, swirling the liquid around slowly before speaking again.

“You know I don’t do emotions n’shit but... I’ve missed you.”

Y/N felt her throat catch for a second, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table. Her voice was gentler when she finally spoke.

“I’ve missed you too.”

Their eyes met again, and for a moment, there was nothing between them; no neon lights, no heavy music, no mirrors or backstage chaos. Just two girls with a quiet understanding of each other. Naomi gave a soft little sniff, then she straightened up, “Okay, enough of the sappy shit.” Her voice returned to its usual sharpness, but the warmth behind her eyes didn’t fade.

“So what’s up? You coming back and wanna know what time slots are free this week?”

Y/N gave a soft breath of a laugh, but it was tight around the edges. Her gaze dropped to the table, her fingers beginning to tap out a slow rhythm against the wood grain.

“Yeah, um… it’s actually the opposite of that.”

A pause settled between them, heavy and still and then Naomi’s brows lifted slightly.

“... you’re leaving?”

Y/N didn’t speak at first. She just looked at her and then gave a quiet nod. Naomi leaned back slowly in her chair, jaw shifting like she was working through something. Her lips parted, like she might say something but then closed again. “Damn.” She tilted her head.

“So boy toy is your sugar daddy now, huh?”

“He’s not my sugar daddy.”

Y/N let out a breath of laughter and rolled her eyes, running a fingertip over the arch of her brow. Naomi narrowed her eyes like a lawyer catching someone in a lie mid case.

“Uh-huh. Does he drive a Range Rover?”

Y/N hesitated a second too long.

“…yes?”

That broke whatever tension was left, both of them bursting into giggles once more, Naomi nearly knocking her elbow on the table as she leaned forward and Y/N hiding her face behind her hands to calm herself down, both their stomachs starting to cramp from the laughter.

“That’s what I thought. Sugar. Daddy.”

“Stop you’re embarrassing me” Y/N laughed, kicking lightly at the girl's ankle under the table.

“He’s just… good to me. That’s all.”

Naomi tilted her head, gaze softening again- less teasing now like she knew the moment deserved more than just jokes. “Good,” she said, her voice quieter.

“You deserve better than the club anyway.”

Y/N looked at her, throat suddenly tight, the lump forming so fast it startled her. She swallowed it down with a soft breath, eyes lingering on Naomi’s face. “So do you.” Naomi just shook her head with a slow smile tugging at her lips knowingly. “That place is my home,” she murmured.

“And you know it.”

Y/N nodded, the motion small but full of understanding. She looked at the girl across from her; sharp-eyed, loud-mouthed, ride-or-die attitude. The one who did her lip liner for her backstage when her hands were shaking, who taught her how to count her cash fast and stand her ground even faster. “Well,” she said, her voice softer now,

“I’m glad that it managed to lure me in.”

“And why’s that exactly?”

“Otherwise I wouldn’t have met you.”

Y/N gave her a small, watery smile and Naomi groaned and tipped her head back dramatically.

“God, don’t be nice to me right now. I’ll cry all over my fake Gucci.”

Y/N laughed through her sniffle and reached across the table, fingers slipping into Naomi’s, palms pressed warm together on the wood of the table top. The girl didn’t pull away, just looked down at their hands, then up at Y/N. Her voice was softer than Y/N had ever heard it.

“I’m proud of you.”

Y/N smiled, a little tremble in it as she tried, really hard, to keep it together.

“I love you Omi.”

Naomi batted her lashes, her lips quirking upwards, “I know. I’m very lovable.”

Time passed faster than the girls expected as they sat at the table, one latte having turned to three and before they knew it the sky had started to bleed into an orange hue. Naomi let out a long breath, giving Y/N’s hand one last squeeze before letting go, she spoke out her voice light but eyes serious.

“You better come visit”

“Duh- you won’t be able to get rid of me that easily.”

They both stood, half-laughing, half-lingering, until Naomi finally pulled her into a tight hug, not one of their usual playful ones, but something full and real and grounding. The bell jingled above them as they pushed the door open, the cool breeze brushing against their skin. “Get outta here Bunny,” she spoke waving her hand at Y/N dismissively,

“Go live your domestic dream.”

“Oh shut up” Y/N said, laughing.

“I’m serious!” Naomi added, “and you tell little mr ‘trust fund’ that if he breaks your heart, I’m showing up with my six-inch heels.”

“He won’t.” Y/N’s voice was soft but certain and Naomi looked at her, then nodded.

“Yeah. I don’t think he will either.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The late afternoon sun poured in through the wide windows of the country club, casting golden light across the polished marble floor. Outside, golfers milled about on the manicured green, their drinks in hand and voices drifting in through the open terrace doors. Inside, it was still pleasant, the weather having gotten warmer as the month progressed. It was quiet, the lull between lunch and dinner when the bar only saw the occasional regulars. Y/N stood behind it, restocking glasses with practiced ease. The air was soft with the scent of freshly cut lemon slices and citrus gin, the low murmur of conversation from a few older members huddled at a corner table the only background noise. She didn’t hear footsteps, but she felt it shift in the atmosphere when someone’s eyes were fixed on you. She straightened, turned toward the presence with a polite smile already in place. “What can I get you?” And then she saw who it was.

“…Oh.”

Her smile faltered just slightly.

“Hi- What can I get you?”

Sarah Cameron stood on the other side of the bar, hair pulled back into a loose pony tail, eyes steady on hers. There was no malice in them, just… something unreadable. For a moment Y/N wondered how Sarah had even managed to get in, she was pretty sure Rafe was the only Cameron with a membership.

“Can we talk?”

Sarah asked plainly, albeit a quiet sense of nervousness could be heard, and Y/N glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at the mostly empty bar. Only three patrons sat at the far end, half-watching the golf tournament on the mounted TV. “Well,” she said, brushing her hands on a bar towel,

“I’m kind of on the clock right now… but we can talk here.”

“Here’s fine.”

Y/N nodded once as she reached behind her and poured a glass of water, sliding it across the counter toward Sarah like a peace offering. Y/N reached for a dry towel, wiping it across a damp glass with smooth motion. It gave her something to do with her hands, something to focus on while Sarah settled into the stool opposite her. There was a pause, not awkward but thick with whatever Sarah had come here to say. Finally, the blonde girl across the counter spoke. “I, um…” Sarah cleared her throat, resting her elbows on the bar.

“I’m sorry. For showing up at the house like that. I wasn’t trying to… interrupt anything.”

Y/N gave a small dry laugh, her eyes still focused on the glass in her hands, “You didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Still,” Sarah pressed gently, “I wasn’t trying to catch you off guard. I didn’t know you and my brother were… you know.”

That made Y/N pause for a second, the rhythm of her hands slowing just slightly. “Yeah uh” she murmured, setting the glass down.

“It’s… recent.”

Sarah nodded, then twisted her fingers together on the bartop.

“I just— I didn’t mean to cause a thing with you and JJ. I didn’t know about any of that, I swear, and after the fight that night, I just kept thinking, like… if I hadn’t come by, maybe things wouldn’t’ve blown up like they did-”

“-Sarah.”

Y/N finally looked up, her face softening and she shook her head once, firmly.

“It’s fine. It’s not your fault.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment and the hum of the golf announcer on the TV drifted lazily in the background. Y/N busied her hands again, reaching for another glass, wiping it clean. Her voice was gentler now when she spoke again.

“Things were already tense with JJ… you just happened to walk in at the wrong time.”

Sarah’s brow furrowed slightly, guilt still resting behind her eyes, but she nodded slowly.

“I just wanted you to know I didn’t do it on purpose. I really didn’t know.”

Y/N gave her a faint, appreciative smile, “I know you didn’t.”

The quiet settled between them again like an unsure fog. Sarah fidgeted with the edge of a paper napkin from the counter, folding and unfolding it absently. Y/N had gone back to cleaning glasses, her movements smooth but just a touch too focused like she was trying not to feel the heat of Sarah’s gaze as she suddenly spoke,

"Y/N, my brother... he’s not exactly the type to-"

Y/N let out a short breath and cut in, her voice firm but not harsh, "Look, Sarah. If you're here to lecture me about Rafe, I really—" her eyes flicked up, guarded now,

"I really don't need that. Okay?"

Sarah opened her mouth like she was going to protest, but Y/N kept going.

"I get it. He’s your brother and you’ve seen him at his worst, but so have I.”

She stopped wiping the glass, placed it carefully on the drying mat, and rested both hands on the edge of the bar. Sarah hesitated, then leaned in just slightly, voice quieter now but still threaded with concern.

"I'm sorry but- it's Rafe. I've known him my whole life and he’s never been the type to help people, not unless there’s something in it for him. I’m just worried that maybe he sees you’re in a rough position and he’s just..." she trailed off not finishing the sentence and Y/N blinked slowly at her, jaw tightening. Then she shook her head. "Stop..." she exhaled, eyes flicking downward.

"Stop"

Her voice cracked just slightly as she pushed the towel aside and her shoulders dropped a little. “No one has helped me the past few months the way he has. No one.” Her eyes draw away from the counter to meet Sarah’s,

“He’s been there for me in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine. I wouldn’t even be able to tell you because you wouldn’t believe me.”

Sarah’s expression softened at that and she watched her quietly for a beat, lips parted like she might speak. Then her voice came quieter than before,

“Yes I would...”

Y/N looked at Sarah for a long moment. And all she could see was a girl who was open, understanding. Someone who wanted to know the truth rather than take it away and further spin it into a web of lies. She let out a breath less defensive this time, “I finish my shift at seven today,” she murmured, glancing out the window where the afternoon sun was beginning to lower.

“Meet me outside by the staff car park and I’ll tell you everything.”

Sarah gave a small nod and Y/N turned, picked up the next glass.

The cool evening air wrapped around them as they stood outside the club, the faint hum of the island's nightlife carrying in the background. Y/N leaned against the brick wall, the weight of the conversation she was having heavy on her shoulders. Sarah stood beside her, silent, but there was an understanding in her posture now. She was quiet- the whole time. She didn't interrupt once, just listened, waiting for Y/N to speak, to unload everything she had been holding in.

Y/N took a long drag of her cigarette, the smoke curling into the air as she exhaled slowly. She raised her hand and offered it to Sarah, who smiled politely and shook her head. They stood silent for a moment, the quiet between them thick like the smoke rising from Y/N’s lips, but somehow it was comfortable. “No one knows this,” Y/N continued, her voice barely a whisper now.

“No one but me and Rafe… and now you.”

Sarah’s face softened with understanding, her eyes filled with empathy after having listened to Y/N, like a priest at confession. She exhaled slowly her words quiet,

“JJ is pretty mad at you,” Sarah said her voice careful but not accusatory, “I don’t think he understands why you’d—”

“-that’s not my problem anymore.”

Y/N cut her off, her tone sharper than she meant. She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face in frustration before pursing her lips and shaking her head softly, speaking out,

“You heard what he said… ‘I’m not a Maybank.’ ”

She repeated the words, as if to remind herself just how much they stung. Sarah looked at her for a long moment, “It’s not that simple, Y/N. He’s hurting. JJ cares about you- more than he lets on. And he doesn’t know how to deal with this. I know it’s not easy, but I think you two need to talk.”

Y/N shook her head again, almost to herself this time. “I don’t know if I can. It’s not about JJ anymore. I can’t keep trying to fix things with him. I've been doing that for too long- I’ve always made sure he’s happy Sarah, but now… I think I should focus on what’s best for me.”

Sarah gave a small understanding nod, her eyes flickering down to the cigarette in Y/N’s hand, the older girl noticed, causing her to hold it up to her. Sarah took it, lifting it to her lips and taking a slow pull. The smoke lifting above the two of them like a small cloud.

“I get it. But I think you owe it to yourself to have that conversation with him to tell him what's really going on.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, sliding down the wall so she was crouching by the floor, tapping the cigarette ash onto the paving on the floor. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that, but deep down, she knew it was something that needed to happen.

She owed it to herself

And to JJ

The quiet between them stretched on, thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions. The last of the cigarette smoke curled up into the night air, disappearing into the sky as if it was never even there. Y/N stared at the glowing ember on the floor beside her, the weight of everything she had just said settling deep inside her.

"I... I love your brother Sarah."

The words hung in the air as she suddenly spoke out, her voice trembling slightly, as if confessing it out loud to someone else except for him made it more real. Y/N didn’t look up. She couldn’t. Her eyes were fixed somewhere near the dark patch of pavement between her shoes, her heart thrumming beneath her ribs. Sarah’s expression softened, her eyes widening a little in surprise. She had never imagined hearing those words come from Y/N’s lips- not because she didn’t believe it but because she never thought anyone would be brave enough to admit that about him.

Her brother?

Sarah was silent as if trying to find the right words, but Y/N was too focused on the quiet to look at her. It wasn’t until Sarah’s voice broke the stillness that Y/N looked up, her eyes meeting Sarah’s. “I think he loves you too,” Sarah said,

“From what I can tell... I think he loves you a lot.”

Y/N finally looked up at that and Sarah pushed off from where she’d been leaning and crouched down besides her, her back against the same wall now, their shoulders a few inches apart. She rested her arms over her bent knees, then looked sideways at Y/N who gave her a small, tired smile and Sarah, after a beat, said gently but plainly,

“But... I know JJ loves you too.”

Y/N’s smile faded, and she stared ahead for a beat, her throat tightening as she let out a breath through her nose. Sarah didn’t say anything after that, almost as though afraid she’d pushed too hard. The older girl whispered, her voice so quiet it was almost lost to in the cool breeze of the evening,

"I don't know if I'm allowed to love them both"

“I think that’s for you to decide…”

taglist: @xoxosblogsblog @moonywhisp3rs @i-love-gvf @my-name-is-baby@ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @mariamadison6-blog@rafesgurl@rafecameronswhoore @lovelytoomusic @mysticbby2009 @vanessa-rafesgirl@silkenthusiasts @partygirl14 @amterasuu @xoxo-ada @icaqttt@ivysprophecy @mauvesmax @larema121 @ggraycelynn @emeloyy @pluviophilis@slut-4-gojo @willowpains @wtfisastiles @rafecqmeronslove @pleasstory@lolasangelz @beau-dabomb @psychocitylights @constantsadness @rhianthebest@emmiesummers @sfotiegiuls @ggraycelynn @larema121 @emeloyy @pluviophilis@urgoldens @insominagirlss @urfavoritebrunette007 @mauvesmax @miniiminie@kythefangirl25 @niyalovests @scream4mami @aizawawify @prettybabyyyy@barbiefan14 @keennerdslover @rafeysslut @rafeysworldim19@jennieonline@hannieskzzz@sugak00kie03@gabrielaperez11@simonejacpbsen @bambigirl10 @prettycoochieee

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spicyspiders · 3 days ago

Text

supernova

Johnny Storm x male reader smut

3k words

Trying on new merch brings out Johnny's possessive side.

Warning for bottom male reader, possessive behavior, and a special appearance from Johnny's tight white t-shirt that he wore in the movie. No spoilers for the new Fantastic Four movie.

“Babe? Babe!” You hear Johnny yell from your balcony.

In a panic, you ran into the room, already expecting the worst from his tone. After flinging open your bedroom door, you find Johnny floating above your balcony holding a box.

“What’s wrong?” You huff, heart pounding in your chest.

Johnny hovers the short distance inside, a bright smile on his face, “I brought you something,” he says excitedly.

“You couldn’t have knocked and brought it through the front door?” You ask, your hand over your racing heart.

“I was too excited to show you,” Johnny replies, his smile falling off his face as a pout sets in.

“Fine,” you reply, walking over to Johnny. Even if he did just scare you, you couldn’t help but lean forward and kiss him, “show me,” you said, a rush of affection running through your body when Johnny smiles from the kiss.

“We got new merchandise, baby!” Johnny says, rubbing his hands together.

Rolling your eyes, you watch as Johnny nearly tears the box in two to get its contents out. “How’d you get over here without burning the box?”

“I’ve been practicing,” Johnny answers, sending you a wink before he carefully begins to lay the items out on your bed.

“Are these all yours?” You ask, watching as the pile only gets bigger.

“What do you mean are these all mine?” Johnny asks, brows drawn together in confusion, “of course they’re mine,” he says like you just asked the dumbest question in the world.

“What if I wanted a,” you grab one of the objects, “Reed Richards mug?” You ask before setting it down a second later, “or a Ben Grimm action figure?” You ask, picking up the figure of Johnny.

“Oh really?” Johnny asks, “you want me to go grab you a box or two?” He asks, pointing a thumb behind his back in the direction of your balcony.

“I’m kidding!” You reply, grabbing Johnny’s arm when he begins to walk away, “I’m kidding,” you repeat, giving him another kiss.

Johnny pulls back from the kiss smiling, but it soon falls when he grabs the figure you’re holding, “they never get my hair right,” he sighs.

You reach up to smooth over the frown lines, “I think it looks handsome,” you say, grabbing the action figure and placing it on your shelf with the many other iterations Johnny has brought you in the past.

Walking back over to Johnny, you can’t help but notice how tight of a t-shirt he’s wearing, looking as if his toned chest wasn’t threatening to break free on every movement.

“What else did you bring me?” You ask, your eyes jerking away when Johnny looks up. You look away nervously, like Johnny wasn’t your boyfriend who loves when you look at him, making you feel silly.

“There’s a shirt like this one,” Johnny says, gesturing down to the one he has on, “which I think they got the sizing wrong.”

Whoever they are, you made a mental note to send them a thank you letter later. “I can tell,” you murmur, raising a hand to let your fingers brush across a nipple through his shirt, “is it cold in here?”

“Stop distracting me,” Johnny gripes, turning away as he continues to dig through the box.

Not wanting to let up, you let your hand fall and instead lean forward to press a kiss to Johnny’s cheek. He continues to rifle through the box as your lips travel lower. You have to bite back a smile when you hear Johnny’s movements pause when your lips brush against Johnny’s neck.

“I’m really excited to show you this,” Johnny groans, shifting closer, “and you won’t let me,” he complains breathlessly.

“Fine,” you grumble, pulling away, Johnny looping an arm around your waist when he decides you’re moving too far away.

“Finally!” Johnny says, pulling out a blue and white shirt. He turns it eagerly towards you, the shirt looking a lot like one of the suits you’ve seen him in.

“It looks like one of your suits,” you observe.

“That’s not the best part,” Johnny replies, flipping the shirt over, “I had to get it specially made. One of a kind,” he says, looking over the shirt.

It confuses you at first, but when you see the writing near the collar, you catch on. “Oh,” you say, a feeling of warmth settling deep within your gut. Storm the shirt says, right near the collar, like a jersey.

“Too much?” Johnny asks, pulling the shirt towards his chest.

“I-” you begin, going to grab the shirt, “I like it,” you whisper, running your fingers across his name on the back.

“Yeah?” Johnny whispers back. His hands fall to hang by his sides, his hands twitching like he’s aching to reach out and touch you. It isn’t like he can’t, but instead, he stands there confused as you pull your shirt off.

Once the other shirt is on, it’s your turn to question Johnny, “how does it look?”

“Good,” Johnny breathes, looking you over slowly.

“Just good?”

“Great,” Johnny corrects.

You shuck off your pants, biting back your smile when Johnny’s eyes widen momentarily a second later, “what about now?”

“Fuck,” Johnny breathes, closing the distance between your bodies by yanking you into his chest. The kiss steals your breath away, making you gasp, and Johnny, in turn, pushes his tongue into your mouth.

Johnny’s hands wrap tightly around your waist, giving you no chance to move as Johnny swallows the moan you let out at the feeling of his tongue meeting yours. His tongue is hot and wet in your mouth, mapping out a space he’s long grown familiar with.

The next article of clothing that comes off is by Johnny, his hands making their way into your underwear. He kneads the globes of your ass cheeks, using his hold to bring your hips together.

The kiss breaks, but not the space between your bodies, Johnny’s forehead coming to rest against yours. Johnny pushes your underwear down in a slow movement, falling onto his knees as the clothing comes down.

Johnny presses a kiss to each thigh as he gets your underwear off your ankles, tossing it away to an empty corner of the room. He looks up when you bury a hand in his blond hair, keeping eye contact as he runs his tongue along your cock from root to tip.

You’re the one to break eye contact, your head falling back when Johnny takes you into his hot mouth. You let Johnny make his own pace as he slowly takes you deeper, your cock grows harder along his tongue.

Your hand tightens in his hair when the head of your cock hits the back of his throat, Johnny gagging and his throat clenching around your cock. You moan at the feeling, even as your hand pushes Johnny off your cock.

You pull Johnny up onto his feet with a yank of his hair, Johnny moving obediently as you pull him into a kiss. You let out a soft noise into Johnny’s mouth at the hint of salt you can taste on his tongue.

Johnny pulls away from the kiss first so he can turn around. Thinking he’s about to take his clothes off, it startles you when Johnny swipes his arm along the bed, flinging everything off the bed and onto the floor.

“Hey! Don’t wreck my stuff!” You scold.

Johnny fixes you with a mischievous smile as he pulls off his clothes. Thinking he needs help, especially with how tight his shirt looks, you run your hands up his chest. As you work, so does Johnny, his hands already on his belt as he smirks.

“Someone’s eager,” Johnny notes, his arms going up momentarily as you pull his shirt off.

“Hurry up,” you respond, giggling as your lips come together.

Your hands move to Johnny’s shoulders as he gets his pants and underwear, your arms looping around his neck when Johnny surges back up into a kiss.

“Don’t you dare,” Johnny says possessively against your mouth when you try to take the shirt off. He licks into your mouth during the next kiss, his hands sneaking below the hem of the shirt to wrap around your hips. “Bed. Now.” Johnny commands after he pulls away.

But funnily enough, when you try to move, Johnny’s hands tighten around your hips, holding you in place. You stumble a few steps to the bed, Johnny making his way between your legs.

The next few kisses grow sloppy when Johnny brings your hips together over and over again. By the time Johnny rises up onto his forearms, his cock stands proud between his legs, while yours has left a wet spot on the shirt.

You let out a whine when Johnny leaves the bed, his lips coming back down onto yours softly to kiss you in apology, “be right back, baby,” he murmurs.

It almost made you feel proud to watch Johnny go exactly where he needs to go to grab the lube, the man returning to the bed with a look of satisfaction.

One of the best things about dating a flaming superhero meant no more cold lube. What once used to make you jump at the feeling, now left you sighing happily into Johnny’s kiss as he presses a slick finger into your hole.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” Johnny says after the kiss, his finger not even halfway inside before he’s pulling it out.

He pushes you up the bed with his clean hand into the pillows at the top of the bed. Johnny grabs one of the pillows beside you to get it underneath your hips before he leans back down into yet another kiss, “comfy?” He asks after pulling away.

You nod, trying to speak, but any words you try and let out make way for a gasp when Johnny’s finger makes its way back inside. “More,” you groan, clenching down on the single digit inside you.

Johnny lets out a laugh, “I just started,” he says, moving his finger in and out.

“Please,” you whine, trying to fuck yourself down onto his finger. Your whines only grow when Johnny’s finger brushes your prostate, sending sparks of pleasure through your body.

“Can never say no to you,” Johnny replies in a low voice as you feel another finger trace along your hole.

Your head falls back into the pillows as two fingers make their way inside. You barely have time to keep up as Johnny chases your mouth, moaning against his tongue as Johnny’s rubs against yours.

Johnny takes your bottom lip with him when he pulls back, the skin caught between Johnny’s teeth. The slight burn of it matches the burn in your body from Johnny’s fingers as he opens you up. You push through the burn, meeting Johnny’s fingers in the middle to get them back inside.

After two fingers have become three, you’re sweaty and practically thrashing on the bed. The heat of the single shirt left on your body nearly feels unbearable, but it doesn’t compare to how Johnny’s fingers feel inside, and how hot his lips feel on your neck.

“Johnny! Please!” You cry, eyes moving from Johnny’s hard cock between his legs to his face when he pulls away from your neck. You couldn’t imagine how he must feel, his cock red and angry.

Johnny licks his lips, seemingly satisfied by the mark you assume he’s left. If the dull pain radiating from your neck is anything to go by. “Okay,” he nods, pulling his fingers free slowly.

You gasp around the emptiness, your hole clenching around nothing now that the intrusion of Johnny’s fingers is gone. You watch Johnny’s eyes as he watches the pathetic movement of your hole, “fuck,” he breathes.

Your heart pounds in your chest, anticipation filling every fiber of your being when the wet press of the head of Johnny’s cock meets your hole. He practically bends you half to press his forehead to yours as you breath in each other’s air.

Your hand tangles into the hair on Johnny’s nape to pull him into a soft kiss, much softer than what the current situation calls for. One of your legs rests on Johnny’s shoulder, the other hangs on Johnny’s lower back, threatening to fall from the sweat on your skin.

“Ready?” Johnny asks quietly.

You give Johnny a nod, your leg momentarily tightening to push him forward. You both gasp when Johnny finally pushes in, his cock like a hot brand going deeper each second.

“So tight,” Johnny groans, a bead of sweat dripping down his nose, “always so tight,” he whines as he slowly bottoms out.

You force yourself to breathe when Johnny’s balls rest on your ass, his cock leaving you feeling full. You release the hold on Johnny’s hair to move your hand down Johnny’s chest, right over his racing heart.

“Breathe, baby,” you tell Johnny, smiling as his eyes come back into focus and meet yours.

Johnny falls on top of you with a soft laugh, his face resting in the crook of your neck. The movement jostles his cock inside you, stars bursting behind your eyes when it brushes your prostate.

“Sorry,” Johnny slurs into your neck as he circles his hips.

You clench down on Johnny’s cock in retaliation, smiling up at the ceiling when Johnny groans.

“Now you’re just teasing me,” he growls, biting into the skin below his lips. Likely left with another mark, Johnny pulls away from your neck as he brings himself up onto his forearms.

You let your other leg fall to wrap around Johnny’s hips to let him pull free, but not too far away. And with nowhere to go, Johnny can only drive his cock back inside.

The moan you let out, Johnny answers. His cock makes quick work of finding your prostate on each thrust, no doubt aided by the moans you let out in response.

Johnny ducks down for a kiss, if you can even call it that, messy and a mix of tongue and teeth. He pulls away with a moan, his hips moving faster as he fucks you into the sheets. The bed creaks to the rhythm of his thrusts, nearly drowning out the noise of your combined moans.

Hands move below your shirt, Johnny’s hands pressing your body into the bed as his hips smack against yours. He falters for just a second to roll his hips slowly, his cock pressed right against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“You look so good in my clothes,” Johnny breathes, leaving your shirt bunched on your collarbone. He leans down for a kiss as his fingers tweak your nipples, your back arching off the bed. His fingers pull away once your nipples are as hard as your cock, lying neglected against your stomach.

Johnny leans down to lick one nipple, soothing the sore skin with his warm, wet tongue. He moves to the other once it relaxes back down underneath his tongue, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he works.

You pull Johnny off with a tug to the back of his head, pulling the man up into a kiss. You whimper into his mouth at the feel of Johnny's hot spit cooling over your nipples, Johnny pulling the shirt down to cover your upper body back up.

He breaks the kiss and leans up onto his knees, bringing one of your legs with him to hook it over his shoulder. The other lies spread to the side, your foot hanging off the bed. He presses a kiss to your ankle before he begins thrusting once more.

As Johnny picks up the pace, his other hand wraps around your cock to move in time to his thrusts. Your orgasm builds, growing closer and closer on each slick pull of Johnny’s hand.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whine in warning, and moments later, your orgasm washes over you. Your back arches off the bed, your hands digging into the sheets like you’re fearful you’re about to float off the bed. Uncontrollable moans leave your lips as Johnny goes even faster, thrusting through the clench of your hole as it flutters around his cock.

Johnny fucks you through your orgasm and down into your aftershocks, Johnny holding your fucked out body in place as he takes what he wants. He pulls out with a loud groan and makes his way up your body, his knees coming to rest on either side of your neck.

Too much in a post-orgasm haze, your brain isn’t able to count how many pulls it takes for Johnny to cum. What it instead focuses on is the noise Johnny makes when he cums, and the feel of it splashing on your face.

You close your eyes and let the sounds of Johnny’s moan fill your ears, his burning hot cum staining your face in thick ropes. When it gets to the point that it feels as if it’s never going to end, you feel the bed dip on either side of your head as Johnny twitches through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

“Mine,” you hear Johnny whisper as he moves down your body. You feel the puff of his breath on your face as his weight settles over your body. He kisses you wetly, the salty taste of his spend on Johnny’s tongue.

You lick your lips when Johnny pulls away, wanting to taste even more of the mess he made on your face. You swallow the familiar taste down, Johnny’s cum still warm as it makes its way down your throat.

You feel the soft feel of a cloth wiping your face, “you’re not,” you start, a smile spreading over your lips when the cloth swipes over your lips, “using one of my new shirts to clean my face are you?”

“No,” Johnny responds quickly.

“Johnny!” you whine.

“I’m not!” Johnny responds, throwing what he was using away when you open your eyes. He flops down on top of you when you try to sit up and see which one he used. Johnny presses a kiss to your cheek, “don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” Johnny says, hiding his smile into your neck.

You grumble out a response, but still can’t help but wrap your arms around Johnny, the man happily nuzzling his face into your neck in response.

#x male reader #x male reader smut #johnny storm #johnny storm x reader #johnny storm x male reader #johnny storm x male reader smut #human torch #human torch x reader #human torch x male reader #bottom male reader

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bbgsaja · 1 day ago

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ҍąҍվ ʂąʝą ʝմղìօɾ (βąҍվ Ϛąʝą × Ƒ!Ƕմղէҽɾ!འҽąժҽɾ)

summary - the news of a demon-human baby on the way makes the tower even livelier and happier than usual, but pregnancy symptoms make it scary warnings - none part one • a/n - once again, please let me know if you want to be added to this series' tag list/my general tag list/both! also do you guys think Baby is a girl dad or a boy dad?

"It's positive."

You left the bathroom with tears in your eyes, but a smile on your face as you held up the test to show the girls. Their eyes widened and then they screamed and jumped on you, wrapping you up in the tightest hug ever.

"It's positive!" You repeated, a bit more emotional but a lot happier, as the reality sunk in that you really were pregnant.

"I can't believe this!" Rumi cheered, "A demon-human baby!"

She got more emotional than the other two, smiling at you with tears in her eyes as well. Because of course she would be more affected, the baby was going to be like her.

She took your hands in hers and squeezed them, "You guys are going to be such a cute little family."

"Thanks, Rumi," you smiled and squeezed her hands back.

"Now all that's left is to...uh...tell Baby," you smiled nervously.

You followed the girls out to the living room, where Baby was playing a video game and fighting with people he'd never meet in his life, yelling obscenities into his microphone.

"Oh, something smells so good," you got distracted, walking past the living room and into the kitchen. The other girls exhanged looks, then ran after you.

Romance was baking again, humming some song as he moved around the kitchen with an elegance only he could display.

You grabbed the entire apple pie, ready to devour it when it was ripped from your hands, your girls - and now Romance - gathering around you.

"(Name), focus," Mira made you look at her.

"But the pie!" You complained, looking back at the still-hot pie.

Mira locked eyes with Rumi and Zoey, who nodded and gently herded you back into the living room. Mira stalked over and stood in front of Baby, blocking his view of the screen. She was the only one who could, because even he was too afraid to get her angry.

He pulled off his headphones, "I didn't do it!"

You groaned and face-palmed, "Yes, you did."

Baby jumped, turning around to look at you, "What? What did I do?"

"This!" You gestured to your stomach.

He blinked, then frowned in confusion, "Did I bite you in my sleep again?"

"Yes, but that's not the point!" You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. Then you walked over to him, sitting down beside him, "Baby."

His eyes widened, "No! You can't!"

"You don't even know what I'm going to say!"

"You can't break up with me!" He whipped around, now facing you with his legs still crossed. "You're in too deep!"

You sighed, "Baby, that's not what I'm saying! We can't even break up, we're married!" You laughed, then took his hands in yours and squeezed them. "I have something really important to tell you."

All jokes died in his throat, his smile faltering at the serious look on your face and the seriousness of your tone, "What?"

You bit your lip, then took a deep breath, "I'm pregnant."

Baby froze. He blinked. Then he looked down at your stomach, and back up at you. He did this for a good two minutes on repeat, with you biting your lip nervously. Then he poofed away. You opened your mouth to say something, but then he reappeared just as quickly.

"Are you okay?" You asked him softly, tentatively.

"Pregnant," he repeated. "And it's mine?"

You face-palmed, "Yes! Who else's would it be?"

He looked at your stomach again, then bent down to be face-level with it. Reached out and poked it, like he was trying to figure out what was inside.

"Baby!" You laughed, swatting his hand away.

He stood up and then picked you up, sat down, and plopped you down on his lap. Wrapping his arms around you tightly, burying his face in your neck.

You let him take his time. It was a huge step in both your lives, and-

"Finally, someone who'll play Fortnite duos with me."

Your eyes went wide, "Oh, no. Absolutely not. Our baby is not going to be addicted to that game!"

Baby just grinned up at you, and you sighed.

"YOU'RE PREGNANT?!"

The other four boys entered the room, with the girls behind them groaning and muttering about how they're ruining yours and Baby's moment.

Abby scooped you up from Baby's arms, engulfing you in what was possibly the most bone-crushing bear hug known to man. You wheezed, hardly hearing Romance gushing about how you were practically glowing and not even acknowledging Mystery crouching to observe your stomach like it had grown eyes.

Baby growled, pushing all of them away and curling back around you like an overprotective cat, "Be gentle. She has a baby in there."

"Baby, it's not yet a..." You started, then shook your head and changed your mind. It was really cute how protective he was already.

"Yeah, be careful boys," Rumi scoffed and tried, tried, to get close.

Baby hissed at her.

Her eyes widened and she quickly backed off, all of them watching incredulously as the rapper kept you comfortable and warm on his lap, holding you close and tightly.

He was definitely going to be as protective of his baby as he was of you, maybe even more so.

The next few weeks were a blur.

Baby refused to let anyone near you unless it was Romance - after he saved your life he was the only one Baby trusted to be gentle with you and the baby. If he was busy, Romance was with you. You were never alone, always taken care of, and never desiring anything for long because your needs and wants were attended to.

But oh, lord, the mood swings.

"Will you stop that!"

The entire tower stilled when your grumpy voice filled the air, your deathly glare making Abby whimper and cower behind a stunned Mira. He had just been humming absent-mindedly, thinking it was harmless...because it was.

"(Name), he was just-"

"Don't you dare," you glared at Zoey, who ducked behind Mystery.

"Stupid song," you grumbled, balancing a bowl of buttered rice on your bump. "Stupid humming. Stupid noise."

Then your spoon fell.

And you burst into tears.

Baby appeared behind you, giving you a new spoon while picking up the fallen one. He glared at the others like 'why are you just watching' and proceeded to comfort you. Wrapping his arms around you, soothing you with his deep voice.

You ate everything.

Your food? Gone. Baby's food? Gone. Romance's food? Gone. And not a single person said anything about it, otherwise Baby would growl and snarl like a feral cat.

Baby didn't know how to cook, so he mainly demanded let Romance bake every sweet treat you wanted.

"How is it?" Romance asked you after he baked you something new, which you'd devoured in seconds.

"Really good," you smiled. "And yes, the baby liked it too."

Romance squealed grinned happily.

But being pregnant was a lot of fun, too.

You got to be lazy and lounge around on the couch playing video games with Baby, or reading with Mystery, or letting Jinu talk to the baby. He was particularly excited about that, fascinated by how the baby would kick whenever someone spoke to it.

"No, Baby, you cannot rap 'Your Idol' to the baby!" You laughed when your husband got too jealous and stopped his game to come and talk to your bump.

Shoving Jinu over the side of the couch in the process.

Abby had somehow picked up on giving really good massages, so Baby had no choice but to let him near you when you complained about your back hurting. And his hands were big and strong, working your tense muscles really well.

"Baby, stop growling," you'd still have to say sometimes, though.

"You're enjoying it too much," he sulked.

But he helped where he could, like standing behind you and lifting up your bump, just so you could get some relief. And one of the pros of having a demon as your husband was that he could stand like that for hours and not get tired.

So that's what he did, holding your bump for you until you were completely energised and ready for the weight again.

"Thanks, baby," you'd kiss his cheek.

He'd smile and then bend down to kiss your bump, murmuring so that no one else could hear, "Give your mom a break. She's been through enough."

You smiled, then laughed when the baby kicked and he thought it was arguing so he started bickering with it.

You truly couldn't wait for your little bundle of joy to arrive. He or she was going to be truly and completely loved, not just by you and Baby but by your seven friends too.

If the little outfits they went crazy and bought were any indication.

tag list - @queensnowlake-wof @just-a-blue-nerd @heartsforjiyuu

#kpop demon hunters #baby saja #baby saja x reader #baby saja x you #saja boys #saja boys x reader #saja boys x you #huntrix

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gay-dorito-dust · 12 hours ago

Note

Which batboy would be really mad at their partner ? Like they do something what could harm them, and boys are upset bc they could lost us. (Not like screaming at us but more like disappointed parent/ silent treatment but not on purpose) If it makes sense 😅

Damian is at the top because he would intentionally give you the silent treatment after you intentinally put yourself in danger, it was stupid, silly, reckless and by all means inexcusable. He knows what he's doing, he's been doing it the second he could walk, a child prodigee of violence if you will; He knows the blade like the back of his hand so intimately you'd think he had handcrafted his own blade by hand.

So when you do soemthing that he doesn't like, he's going to let it be known by silence that might as well be as loud as aposed to someone shouting. He would sharpen his swords, his weaponry, and even sketch/ draw to provide himself a reason to ignore you, to allow himself to hold his tonuge, finding the act of wasting his breath on someone who couldn't clearly see the dangers that lie ahead fruitless. He didn't like the idea of you doing something that could've easily acosted you your life. Damian doesn’t want a scratch on you, not even a paper cut was allowed, yet he also feels as though that some level of accountability on your hand.

Dick is second, another man who has lost quite a bit in his life, so he's nautrally wanting to know why you'd do such a thing and why it was even on your mind, why you thought that you could walk away unscathed without recognising the glaring warnings. He's got the dissapointed parnent look down to a science, so you're going to be more ashamed of yourself when seeing him with his hands on his hips, a look of dissapointment across his face, and a sigh so deep you felt it within your soul.

He's use to this reckless behaviour from Jason or a vengeful Damian but knows they can handle themselves, yet you? it was completely different entirely and would want to deeply understand why you ended up like this, recognise within himself that he would need to train you in self defence, or at least the basics of defence to prevent this from ever happening again. He’s got a formula within his head for when he ever needs to teach you the basics, from dietary plans, workout routines amongst others.

Tim is third on the list, he's got nothing to say to you for doing something that could take you from him, he was filled with emotions that made it hard fro him to verbally express his innermost emotions regarding your actions. He didn't think giving you the silent treatment was the way to go, communication was key within your relationship - always has been- so it's not surpising if he were to sarcastically call you out on your bullshit.

He can't conceal his sharp tonuge when you try to reason with him, he's very much hurt and he's prone to making his thoughts on your actions known. He's not going to sugar coat it either, he almost lost you or have you seriously hurt, so don't expect him to be sweet and coddling, not when to him you've proven to have the self preservation skills of a peanut crushed under someones foot. He’s hoping, no he’s begging to find that this doesn’t happen again, he almost lost composure tonight and doesn’t want to loose it again should you not get lucky.

Jason takes the last spot in my eyes, the man has died once and was forced back into life in thanks to the Lazerus Pits, he wouldn't recamend it. So if he were to be made aware of you doing anything that could've seriously put you in great danger, his eyes might as well be glowing green from the insurmountable amount of raw emotions he felt within that moment. Under the influence of the pit, an argument will break out between you two to the point where you both need time away from one another.

Jason wants you safe, you pulling off shit that could have you end up like him wasn't worth the pain, that and the idea of taking away your own free choice to be brought back via the Lazerus pit was one he didn't want to be forced to make. at. all. So please for his sake, act with caution, not recklessness, His scarred heart can't bear the thought of you getting seriously hurt. He might fucking lose it and himself to the pit madneness he had been fighting to keep withstandable.

#dc imagine #dc x reader #dc x you #dc comics x reader #dc imagines #damian wayne x reader #tim drake x reader #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #nightwing x reader #red robin x reader

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disillusioned-phantasma · 3 days ago

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“Oh, there you are,” The Wanderer greets, his fingers curling inward and crushing the petal within a tight fist. “You sure took your sweet time. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever get you back. Well? Are you just going to stand there and gawk? How’d the ‘negotiations’ go?”

You puff out your cheeks. To think you almost fell for his spell so easily… that mouth of his could easily break you out of any enchantment. Not that you’d have it any other way.

“Behold, you nonbeliever,” you proudly lift and display the keys you secured, its metal reflecting the blood-orange sun. “I told you I’d work something out. We’ve got shelter for the night.”

“Oh? Not bad,” he crosses his arms over his chest, his lips twitching into a smirk. “You have some uses after all. Color me surprised.”

“A simple ‘good job’ would have sufficed. Are all your compliments this backhanded?”

“I wouldn’t know, since I give them so rarely.”

You roll your eyes at that and carry onward, striding past him in the process. The Wanderer blinks, following your form with his eyes, then half-jogging to catch up with you. Unsurprisingly, he wastes no time voicing his dissent over your actions.

“Hey, I know your sense of direction isn’t the best, but the inn is that way,” he juts his thumb toward where you came from. You take a deep breath to prepare yourself. You cherished being lavished in his praise, awful as he is at it, for all of thirty seconds. It’s likely that’ll end here if he isn’t in the most forgiving of moods.

“... About that,” your voice comes out uncharacteristically weak, “They didn’t magically get any openings in the hours since we last asked. I offered for us to get rid of some pesky nobushi—”

He lets out a dissatisfied grunt that you choose to ignore.

“—And in return, they’re letting us use an old house that’s traditionally off-limits, since it’s mostly for storage. Hey, don’t look at me like that! The nobushi job can wait until morning. It beats sleeping out in a storm.”

As if on cue, a low rumble of thunder resounds in the distance. The Wanderer just huffs, your line of reasoning is too solid for him to bother arguing further. You both searched high and low for proper accommodations upon learning a nasty thunderstorm was inbound. Normally, it wouldn’t be so difficult, but there was apparently a festival that had inns in the immediate area stuffed. The tempests in Inazuma were notorious for their ferocity.

“So they lug their pest extermination project on us. What a bore,” The Wanderer yawns at the mere thought. “Humans always want to know what’s in it for them. Our Mora should’ve sufficed.”

You don’t bother replying. He likes getting the last word in and you’ll let him this time.

The house the old couple who ran the inn described to you grows closer with each step. It’s not as dilapidated as you pictured from the outside, a rather quaint-looking abode. The design reminds you of the homes found in Konda Village, boasting a thatch ceiling and a light-colored wood exterior. Paper lanterns hang from the veranda, as do white cloths with strings tied around the top, giving the impression of a round head.

You point to the unknown object and voice your curiosity to the Wanderer, who you know hails from Inazuma. “What’s this? I’ve seen them in lots of the villages we’ve passed through.”

“What do I look like, a tour guide?” he mumbles under his breath, yet sees fit to answer you anyway. He always does. “It’s supposedly a talisman meant to invoke good weather, called teru teru bōzu. You’ll find they’re popular in rural areas that rely on farming to get by.”

You let out a small “ohh” at his explanation. “Interesting. I didn’t expect that the denizens of Inazuma would try to ward off phenomena so closely associated with their Archon.”

While saying this, you fit the key snugly into the lock and twist, granting you both entry.

“Hah. These simpletons would do far better for themselves if they gave that good-for-nothing recluse more pushback.”

While the Wanderer is no stranger to voicing his thoughts, for better or for worse (normally the latter), his animosity toward the Raiden Shogun is unmatched. Anytime she’s so much as mentioned you have to start praying to a higher power that he won’t lay into whatever unlucky soul brought her up. Fortunately for you, his eerily friendly façade doesn’t falter in the moment. He waits until it’s only you around for the venom to spill forth. He certainly has no shortage of it.

“Hurry up inside so we don’t get struck by lightning because of your heresy,” you remove your shoes by the entrance and he follows suit. “From what I can tell, she got plenty of pushback from the Vision Hunt Decree a ways back.”

“Not nearly enough.”

The interior is a bit worse for wear than the exterior, but at least it’s clean. You get to work moving aside furniture and other miscellaneous items so there’ll be enough room to sleep. In the meantime, the Wanderer slides a screen door aside, revealing a bunched-up futon. He takes it outside to pat it off, further continuing your oddly domestic routine. In your few years of traveling together, you’ve come to learn that you synergize together surprisingly well. The Wanderer might complain that you’re a nuisance who he keeps an eye on out of pity, but you know better than to take his words at face value. There are always precious gems hidden beneath the hard exterior.

When he comes back inside, he sprawls the futon down across the tatami floor, then settles his hands on his hips. “What sort of rundown inn is this? There’s only one futon in the closet.”

You situate yourself on a cushion that happened to already be out. “We should be thankful that they even had one since this isn’t a proper rentable room. You can feel free to take it. Sleeping on the floor isn’t so bad.”

“And have to deal with you complaining about how sore you are for the next few days? No thanks,” he scrunches up his nose. “... Wait here. I’ll go have a chat with our hosts and see if I can get some proper hospitality.”

Uh oh. That doesn’t sound promising. “Please don’t get us thrown out, I’d rather not get blown away in an eighty-mile-an-hour wind.”

“I’d fly to get you back,” The Wanderer hums as he makes for the door. Then a mischievous gleam dances in his eyes, a sight you’re plenty familiar with. “Maybe. If I was feeling particularly generous.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He removes his hat, stands it against the wall, then makes for the door. He’s gone faster than you can think to stop him, leaving you temporarily on your lonesome. The many compliments he received for his well-mannered behavior when you passed through Konda Village come to mind, a memory that makes you snort. You suppose you can’t blame them for falling for his act. He could be rather convincing when he set his heart on something. So could you, for that matter. Hence why you ended up becoming an unlikely pair to begin with.

Standing to your full height, you begin shedding your outer layer of clothes. The trek back to the inn combined with the owner’s talkative nature should ensure he’ll be gone for a while. Once you’re left in nothing but your undergarments, you fold and set your clothes aside, ambling toward a plain yukata you saw hanging up in the closet. You put both your arms through the long sleeves and then stop, your fingers resting over the Electro Vision clasped like a necklace around your neck.

Inazuma, land of the Electro Archon, a place the Wanderer seemed intimately connected with. It strikes you then how little you know about your companion. You’ve told him plenty about yourself — the delicious wines, tall windmills, and sea of dandelions found in your homeland — hoping it’d get him to do the same. He’d dodge your inquiries with ease, stating that he was ‘just a wanderer these days’ and nothing else.

You know that can’t be it. Especially not with his tendency to refer to people as ‘humans’, inadvertently implying he isn’t one himself. So just who is he? What is he?

Why does he still seem keen to travel with you, when he could make it perfectly fine by himself?

And most importantly… when will this fun adventure you never expected to take come to an end? After all, that is the fate of all journeys. Nothing lasts forever.

For some reason or another, the thought fills you with an uncomfortable pang.

You begin carrying out the steps of properly securing the yukata. It’s an awkward endeavor, as you’re not used to it, but you start to make some decent progress. That is until your soul all but ascends when the door unceremoniously flings open.

“Seriously, the gall of them to lock up so ear—”

The door slams closed as the Wanderer doesn’t have the presence of mind to ease it shut. “—Ly…?”

His eyes go as wide as saucers while the most you can think to do is turn around, rushing through the final steps to regain your dignity. He wasn’t supposed to come back so soon! This shouldn’t be a big deal, it really shouldn’t, yet the expression he wore was unlike anything you’ve seen. The Wanderer is always so sure of himself, bordering and often crossing over into arrogance. It didn’t matter if you were lost in the middle of nowhere with low provisions or stuck in a battle against waves of monsters seemingly without an end in sight. He’d act with the utmost confidence, dissipating your uncertainty like a lighthouse’s beam on a foggy night.

So what was that look he gave you, an emotion on him you’ve never seen before? It’s making you feel warm from head to toe.

“... You’re… you’re doing it wrong.”

The Wanderer is standing in your shadow, closing what already feels like the nonexistent distance between you. You cease moving entirely when his hands reach around to tug at the loose fabric. He folds and tucks everything into place as it should be, no sounds registering in your brain aside from the shuffling of fabric and your pounding heartbeat. Internally, you beg yourself to say something, or for him to say something, the flow of your usual banter entirely staunched. In a matter of a few seconds that feel like they’re dragging on for an eternity, the yukata is set into place as it should be. Just when you think you’re free from this embarrassing nightmare’s tendrils, he sets his sights on the final piece.

He wraps the obi around your waist and ties it. When he’s done, he takes a step back and finally breaks the excruciating silence.

“Turn around.”

You try to think of a snarky rebuttal that’d diffuse the peculiar heaviness in the air, as if gravity itself had intensified. Upon coming up with nothing, you acquiesce to his softly spoken demand, your eyes set firmly on the ground. Is this real life or a very potent figment of your imagination? You’ve never felt so sheepish around him; in a mere second, your entire dynamic shifted.

“Is the floor really that interesting?” His face is close enough that you can feel his warm breath tickling your skin when he laughs. The sound is different from his usual derisive chuckle. Freer, in a way. “Look up at me already.”

Somehow, this request seems easier to fulfill than his previous one. You find yourself lifting your head without your mind deciding if that’s what it wants to do yet, your body and impulses taking the reins. The Wanderer must not have been expecting your willingness either — his breath hitches in his throat when you make unwavering eye contact. It’s in the peaceful seconds of nothingness that follow that you find yourself admiring your companion’s features.

He’s beautiful to a surreal degree. If he told you he was handmade by the gods, you would’ve believed him without question. His skin is like porcelain, his eyes wide and glossy, framed by long, dark eyelashes, his lips rosy and his cheeks even rosier. For all his impish attributes, his visage is far more in line with that of a cherub. You don’t bother hiding your unabashed staring. He told you to look at him and you’re going to do just that.

Whatever devious words he had waiting for you on his tongue must’ve withered away without ever blooming.

Logically speaking, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds that ticked by since he last spoke, but you feel like you’ve shared an eternity together. If you weren’t used to seeing him surprised, his current expression is all the more foreign. It was a puzzle piece that didn’t fit. You scour your memory, analyzing the countless impressions he’s made, placing the countenance you’re currently seeing over them to find a match.

Eventually, something in your frazzled brain clicks.

This isn’t a new expression at all. You know it better than you’d like to admit.

This is how he looks at you when you eagerly compliment his cooking, scoffing and muttering under his breath that it isn’t anything to get so excited about, while fighting back a smile. When you rope him into playing with the kids of whatever family is feeling kind enough to give you lodging for the night, a thousand excuses on his tongue that he never follows through on after seeing how you laugh and run without a care. This is how he looks at you in the morning, afternoon, evening, twilight, and night.

Now that you’re being honest with yourself, you can’t remember a time when he didn’t look at you this way.

With yearning…

(He’s leaning forward).

Adoration…

(His lips are almost close enough to touch yours).

… And rapidly spiraling self-control.

“Wanderer?”

There’s a flash of lightning outside, a prelude to the storm ahead.

Bright streaks of light illuminate the side of his countenance. The instant the lightning’s glow fades, you’re face to face with his back. He’s walking away. A torrent batters the worn-down windows in a violent clash of water and glass. Where is he going? He picks his ornate hat up and places it on his head. Why is he going? Shaky fingers rise to press against your lip.

You never got to feel his.

He doesn’t get the chance to twist the doorknob before you’re leaping into action, more adrenaline pumping through your veins than any fight could ever evoke. He stumbles forward from the force of your bodies clashing yet manages to remain standing. Your arms encircle his waist, pulling him back to you, not an ounce of your strength going unused. Initially, his body goes stiff as a corpse. And then he struggles. Sharply twisting his torso to deter your hold, which successfully puts your footing off balance, but doesn’t get you to retract. He tries it again. This time with more force. You shake your head, adamant and unwilling, embracing him even tighter.

“What are you doing?” He hisses, disbelief apparent. Instead of coming off like a predator that’s bearing its teeth, you view him as prey caught in a trap that wildly thrashes when being set free.

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” you return, your voice almost threatening to crack beneath the weight of your words. Having piqued his curiosity, he ceases movement altogether. You lower your volume to a solemn whisper. “You were about to… about to kiss me.”

“No, I—” he cuts himself off, the words coming out in an almost incomprehensible jumble, “I was just messing around. You’re so… so easy to fool, you know that? So gullible. You don’t know the first thing about me and yet you’re willing to let me touch you like a lover. It’s almost pathetic, really.”

The words meant to add fuel to the fire blazing in your soul do the opposite and extinguish it instead. You loosen your grip enough that he could easily break free if he tried.

He doesn’t.

“You’re wrong about that.”

“What?” He sounds incredulous more so than angry. However he anticipated this to go down in his head, you wouldn’t follow the script, if anything, you’d be handed it only so you may shred it to pieces. “Do you even know what you’re saying?”

“I do,” your affirmation comes out quickly, though far from uncertain. “You said I don’t know the first thing about you, but that’s a lie. I know plenty. I know that you’re pretty terrible.”

The Wanderer lets out a noise you can only describe as a choked, humorless laugh, but since you’re not finished, you continue on.

“Yeah, you’re awful alright. You act like you’re better than everyone else before you get the chance to even know them. You refuse to acknowledge the good in the world when it’s dangling right in front of your eyes, so focused on the backdrop that you miss what’s really important. You’re conceited, insensitive, and stubborn to a fault. But…”

Although he can’t see you in this position, you smile. “You’re willing to acknowledge your shortcomings after enough convincing. You’ll point out mine too. You see through things that I’m blind to, standing up for me when I’m afraid to do it myself. You tell me I talk too much yet still listen and remember every word. If I get sick, you take care of me until I’m better, even if you complain the entire time. You’ll push me out of the way in a fight, taking a blow meant for me, then swear it doesn’t hurt so I won't worry. It does hurt, though, doesn’t it? You feel pain the same way I do. Just because you’re used to it doesn't make it hurt any less. Yes… you’re right that there are some things I don’t know about you. But I know enough to say I love you, awfulness and all.”

“... Love?” He’s breathless. “You love me?”

“Somehow or another, so— oof!”

In an instant, your positions switch. The first thing you register is your back hitting something solid. Both your arms have been lifted and pinned over your head by him. When you reopen your eyes to gain your bearings, you’re treated to a sight you don’t think you’ll ever forget. The Wanderer is almost feverish, his face flushed, his lips parted so he may pant, his chest heaving for air. His dilated pupils look nowhere else than directly at you. The heavens could collapse and the Abyss could rise and still, he would not look away. It’s raw, it’s depraved, but it’s him.

“You mean it? You really mean it?”

You try to wriggle your hand free, longing to touch him, but he narrows his eyes and tightens his grip. The strength he uses further convinces you that had he genuinely wanted to, he could’ve easily rid himself of you earlier. Words escape you entirely beneath the intensity of his stare. Your legs feel weak and it’s like the air had been stolen entirely from your lungs. There’s no way he didn’t hear everything you painstakingly laid out for him. You let him glimpse into your heart, what was all this apprehension about?

The wetness growing on his lower lash line makes you understand, deep down. It’s not that he doesn’t want to believe you — it’s that he’s scared of what it’ll mean if he does.

You’re the one who closes the pesky distance. The contact is gentle, chaste, a hesitant brushing of your lips against his. You let them linger there for a few seconds longer, feeling how his lower lip trembles, tasting the bitterness of the matcha he drank not too long ago. When you think to pull back, his body lurches forward, unwilling to let you get away that easily. He’s noticeably inexperienced, somewhat awkward in how he slots his mouth against yours. Still, it sets fireworks off in your chest and makes you croon. He’s so distracted with helping himself to your lips that he relaxes his grip. You use this to your advantage, finally free to wrap your arms around his neck and bring him closer.

When you part for some much-needed air, he encases your face in his hands.

“Say it again,” his lips ghost over yours when he speaks. “Please. I need you to say it again.”

How could you ever deny him when he’s talking to you like that?

“I love you.”

“Even though I’m ‘pretty terrible’?”

“Even then.”

“Won’t you change your mind?”

“I won’t.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise,” you smile, unable to stop yourself from beaming. Floating midair wouldn’t make you feel as light as you do now. “And what about you, Wanderer? Did I successfully win over your heart?”

There’s an enigmatic gleam in his eyes that you don’t quite understand. “Yeah. Although I wouldn’t say it’s anything worth winning. Whatever joke of a heart I’ve got, you can have it. It’s yours. You can’t get rid of it even if you want to. Or, to be more accurate…”

You gasp when he nibbles the shell of your ear then whispers, his voice low, “You can’t get rid of me even if you want to.”

If this is his attempt at intimidation, you aren’t impressed.

“It’s a good thing I don’t want to then, right?”

“That’s my [First] for you,” he brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face and laughs. “Only you could find a positive way to spin that. Well, perhaps that strangeness is what draws me to you. You might be just as messed up in the head as I am.”

He swoops in to kiss you again but is met with the softness of your cheek instead of your lips. His eyes widen, then narrow, dark energy gathering and permeating around his figure. You almost think better of your decision to mess around with him but ultimately remain firm. He can’t always get what he wants without having to put in some work. You’ll end up spoiling him if you act too indulgent.

“I think you may have ruined the romantic atmosphere,” you add some dramatic flair by sighing. He blinks rapidly, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. It’s a cute look on him. “I poured my heart out to you and not only do you call me strange, you say I’m messed up as well. I dunno, my feelings might be too hurt. Maybe I should just go to bed…”

He actually gapes at you, sputtering, incapable of forming an intelligent rebuttal at your sheer audacity. You press your advantage and writhe out from his hold. You don’t make it more than a single step toward the futon before you’re being hoisted into the air, the Wanderer recovering from his stupor in record time. He bridal carries you over, muttering how you’re “such a difficult woman”, the gentle way he lays you down contrasting his harsh words.

He crawls over top of you, the grin on his face a mix between boyish and menacing. His next words come out in a playful singsong. “Oh no you don’t, little minx.”

It’s almost impossible to fight back a smile, but you somehow manage, though you have no doubt he sees through your weak façade. With about as much innocence as you can muster, you say, “If you’re tired too, we could always sleep together.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, the innuendo not lost on him. “Your jokes suck.”

“Hah, but you laugh at them anyway,” you stick your tongue out at him. “So which one of us truly sucks here?”

“You, on your knees, another time maybe,” he replies, a little too self-assured for your liking. “Not tonight though. I have other plans for you.”

He accentuates this by latching his lips to your neck, directly over where your racing pulse is most prominent. You tilt your head to the side, allowing him easier access, your senses so overwhelmed with him that nothing else registers. His hands to get work undoing what he helped put on you minutes prior. Cool night air bites at your newly exposed skin, the front of the yukata fluttering to the side. He pulls back from his task of lavishing your neck in heated open-mouthed kisses to admire the sight. It’s almost animalistic, the way he’s regarding you now, as if you were a feast put in front of a starved man. The intensity of his gaze almost makes you shy.

“... May I?” He murmurs, his previous bravado melting away. His face is red up to his ears. “Is it really okay?”

Unable to find your voice, you nod your head, almost biting your lower lip hard enough to bruise. Why is it far easier to deal with him when he’s being a cocky little bastard? When he talks so uncharacteristically sweet… gazes at you reverently with those big, doe-like eyes… you simply don’t know what to do with yourself. He’s making you go crazy.

When you work up the courage to look at him again, you swear your heart almost stops. Both your eyes meet in a silent exchange of adoration. You hadn’t realized it earlier, but in this spot where the silvery moonlight shines through in gratuitous amounts, you notice a damning detail. There are tear streaks on his cheeks. Without giving the action much thought, you raise your hand to cup his face. His wet eyelashes flutter shut and he leans into your touch. The pad of your thumb grazes over his cheekbone, gently wiping away what you can. Eventually, he reopens his eyes, and when he does, you adjust yourself so that you may unclasp your bra. The undergarment is thrown haphazardly to an unknown destination.

Both his hands raise, his fingers twitching while they descend to caress your chest.

“Soft…” he whispers, his eyes glowing an otherworldly hue, “So soft.”

Whether he meant to or not, you’ll never know, but his thumbs brush over your nipples just right and you let out a whimper. He freezes in place, his attention going from the flesh in his palms back up to your face. Upon confirming you did indeed release such a debauched sound, he dips his head, his lips wrapping around your nipple and sucking. His eagerness to help himself to your body causes wetness to stain your panties. He lets out a content noise when you thread your fingers through his hair, bringing him in closer. His free hand goes from groping greedily at your chest to traveling downward. It brushes over your lower stomach, then settles itself on the side of your hips.

You let out a huff at the lack of friction where you want it most. Something tells you he would be content to do this for hours, and while that’s a lovely sentiment, it’s akin to torture when you want so much more.

Your hand guides his to where you want it most — right between your thighs.

He pulls back with an audible pop, his lips shiny with saliva. “Oh? Aren’t you a bold little thing. I was in the middle of doing something. You’re just begging to be punished, aren’t you?”

The Wanderer probably expects you to respond with equal brattiness — and maybe you would’ve if your body would stop screaming and let you think for a second — but you don’t. You surprise both him and yourself by whispering in a voice dripped in sin, “Please.”

He swallows thickly. You can feel his arousal twitch to life, hard and hot against your legs. Slowly, so that he may continue savoring your expression, he pulls back until he’s nestled between your legs. He places a chaste kiss against your inner thigh. Then your panties’ hemline. Finally, he presses his lips against your clothed cunt, the slight pressure from his slow, open-mouthed kiss driving you mad with want. You try bucking your hips forward, an act that earns you swift retaliation. His hands hold your hips in place tight. He gives you a warning squeeze, one that communicates he’s working on his time, not yours.

“Ah ah ah,” he chastises, his lips cruelly departing from your clothed cunt to your inner thigh, where he alternates between nibbling and kissing your feverish flesh, “Try anything like that again and I’ll show you how mean I really can be. You think you know, but trust me, you don’t, since I’m actually quite sweet on you…”

His fingers hook around your panties and pull them down. “I know you’re beyond desperate for me, but let’s try to have a little decorum, okay? Or has your lust made you incapable of feeling shame?”

“I liked your mouth better when it was busy,” your comeback would’ve sounded a lot stronger if it didn’t come out like a whine.

“You just always have something to say, don’t you?” He sounds amused more than anything. You never get the chance to respond, for he places his middle and pointer finger against your pussy, applying the most pressure yet. It’s divine if not the furthest thing from enough. “Let’s see if I can change that.”

The Wanderer feels at you, curious, dragging his fingers up and down while studying your various expressions. When he sees something he likes, he focuses the majority of his attention to the spot that caused such a visceral reaction. Through the hot waves of pleasure sinking you into a delightful abyss, you realize he’s found your clit. Not long after discovering the best place to touch you, he replaces his fingers with his lips, pulling you flush against his face. You throw your head back as he devours you, what he lacks in skill is more than made up for by his enthusiasm. You spread your legs further for him, wanting anything he’s willing to offer from the bottom of your soul.

The muscles in your thighs go tense as your release steadily approaches. You can’t remember the last time you were intimate with another, having been on the road for so long. The most you could ever do to appease any carnal need that reared its head was wait until the Wanderer was sound asleep, giving you the chance to relieve yourself. He never left your side long enough to any other time. Or to find any partner you could mess around with. Any flirtatious remarks sent your way ended with the offender cowering from a brutal verbal lashing. Maybe getting launched through a window by a ‘gust of wind’ if they were bold enough to touch you.

No, the man currently eating you out as if his life depended on it was fiercely protective. Now you know why. He wanted you for himself.

When you come, you let out a high-pitched noise, your head lolled to the side and your fingernails digging marks into your palms. This doesn’t deter him in the slightest. He continues lapping and suckling your oversensitive clit, drunk on the sounds he could make you produce. You finally get him to detach yourself from your person using a burst of strength. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, a wicked smirk full display.

You smooth out his tousled indigo locks. “Thank you. That felt really good.”

“I should be the one thanking you for the delectable meal,” he runs his tongue over his lips, further savoring your taste. It’s a miracle you have any semblance of coherent thought after witnessing such an obscene display. “My appetite is far from satiated, though.”

To your great pleasure, he begins removing the layers of clothes that make up his normal outfit. The fast rate at which he does so belies his inner excitement. The golden rings on his middle fingers go first, then his black gloves, and outer white and turquoise tunic. The almost sheer, sleeveless black shirt he wears beneath clings tight to his lean torso. He makes quick work of his belt and shorts, shooting you a bemused look over his shoulder when he catches your eyes.

“Did no one ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

“I can’t help it,” comes your rebuttal. “You’re so beautiful.”

His head snaps away and he clears his throat. “S-Surely you can do better than that. I suppose I can accept such uninspired praise for now.”

You raise yourself to a sitting position and settle yourself behind him, your bare chest pressing against his back. It doesn’t take him long to relax in this unexpected embrace. Being this close to him, you’re given the unique opportunity to notice intricacies you couldn’t otherwise. On the nape of his neck is the symbol that represents Electro, its shape the exact same as the one found on your Vision. Your Wanderer certainly is a bundle of mysteries, isn’t he? His muscles go tense when you press a kiss against the spot. You then nuzzle your nose into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply, the earthy scent of kyara wood sticking to his skin.

“You’re not going to say anything about it?”

“Hm? About what?”

“You know what I mean,” his words lack any real bite. “I know you saw it.”

You close your eyes, arriving at an answer surprisingly fast. “I’m sure you’ll tell me about it when you’re ready.”

As if silently voicing his agreement, he twists around, bringing you into a soft liplock. He coaxes you into laying back down. You wrap your arms around his neck, playing with any loose strands of hair you feel. Upon opening your eyes, you’re blessed with the sight of a simple smile from the man above you. There’s no underlying haughtiness or malice, just pure, unadulterated devotion. For you and you alone. Something hard brushes against your entrance, causing you to gasp. He chuckles, swooping down to steal another kiss before whispering in your ear,

“Ready?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

The head of his cock presses against your lower lips. He rubs himself against you teasingly, coating himself in your essence for more lubrication. Slowly, he sinks himself inside you, the fingers on your hips trembling from the unusual sensation. You do your best to relax your breathing and body to better take him in. He enters inch by inch, the drag of his length against your inner walls a touch uncomfortable if not incredibly fulfilling. You’re unable to focus on your body getting used to the feeling when he’s panting by your ear, soft moans falling out in abundance.

“Fuck,” he hisses through grinding teeth, “That’s good.”

He goes still when he bottoms out inside you. Slowly yet surely, the dull ache from the stretch fades. The room is filled with the sound of both your labored breathing and rain hitting the fogged-up window panes. You drink in one another’s presence. The world itself could come to an end, and still, you’d be content. Having fully adjusted, you feel bold enough to bring him impossibly closer by locking your legs around his waist. He grunts, his eyes wide-blown.

“You can move now. Hm… or should I take the lead?” You ask teasingly.

The skin beneath his eyes tightens when he grins. “Hah. I’d like to see you try.”

“I’ll hold you to tha— mm…”

He pulls himself out of you to the tip and then plunges back in, causing you to throw your head back. He’s big and of decent girth but without being too much to handle. Your low, heavy moan causes his cock to twitch inside you. There must be nothing he enjoys more than the sounds you make. He commits himself to taking you at a moderate pace, his hands on your hips bringing you down to meet his thrusts. His lips are on yours again, this kiss being the messiest yet, a clash of tongue and teeth. He shoves his tongue into your mouth and allows you to taste yourself. It's greedy, it's unrefined, and most importantly, it’s everything you want.

A thin bridge of saliva connects your lips when he parts, his eyes narrow with glee. “You love me. You really— ah— love me…!”

The Wanderer buries his face in the crook of your neck, his pace growing faster. You rub circles into your clit, another release right on the horizon from his previous actions. He’s doing what he can to keep his volume down, and yet you’re still treated to a lovely melody of pants and moans. There is no song that could ever compare. He might not be whispering sweet nothings into your ear, but this is infinitely better. Watching him get drunk and lose himself in pleasure when he’s normally so composed is a privilege exclusive to you.

“I’m close,” you whimper, every inch of your existence engulfed with heat, “So close.”

“Go on then. Show me how good I make you feel.”

Each sensual roll of his hips brings you higher and higher. He devotes himself to your ecstasy, fucking you with more strength than you expected him to use. It’s all too much. His cock massaging your insides, his tenor voice letting out the most unholy voices near your ear, the frenzied stimulation of your clit that lost its rhythm ages ago. You arch your back, your walls squeezing and fluttering as you cry out. He presses his forehead against yours while you lose yourself beneath him.

“There we go, just like that,” he coos. “That made for quite a sight. You really were made for me. Or maybe…”

After a moment’s contemplation, he voices a thought tinged with indecipherable emotion. “Maybe I was made for you.”

From his increasingly erratic thrusts, you can guess that he’s getting close as well. His vice-like grip on your hips is sure to leave bruises for the days that follow. The sound of skin on skin carries throughout the small space while the scent of sweat and sex permeates the air. Through the haze clouding your mind, you swear to yourself that you’ll always remember this. You want this special moment shared between you both inked into your subconscious. His alluring scent, his frantic touch, his bittersweet taste and little moans.

When he comes, he forces your hips down to meet his stuttering thrusts. Warmth seeps into your insides. He doesn’t stop there, he fucks his release deeper into you, your name rolling off his tongue with all the piety of a devotee worshipping their god. He goes soft inside you yet doesn’t pull out, seemingly content to stay put while he catches his breath. Absent-mindedly, you rub circles into his shoulder blades, encouraging him to relax. He ends up relaxing a little too much, collapsing on top of you and resting his head on your chest. His arms go around your shoulders and pull you flush against him. It would appear even a mere inch separating you both is unforgivable in his eyes.

“Hey.”

“Mm.”

“You’re heavy.”

“Not my problem.”

“Get off already.”

“Don’t wanna.”

His world-renowned brattiness has made a triumphant return. You try propping yourself up by your elbows, only to be met with him nuzzling himself into you further. You tumble gracelessly back onto the ground. How can he be annoying yet so endearing at the same time? He’s a walking set of contradictions. Due to the physical inactivity, the night’s frigid air starts to have more bite to it. Shivers and goosebumps erupt over your body.

“At least let me get dressed,” you huff, rolling your eyes at the petty way he tightens his grip around you. “Know that if I get sick, it’s all your fault. I’ll be making you wait on me hand and foot.”

“Fine. Be quick about it, irksome woman. I was enjoying myself.”

The Wanderer reluctantly rolls off to the side. His member slides out of you, leaving you feeling empty in its absence. Before you can start moving, he takes two fingers and pushes any cum that’s trickled out back in. Then he slides your panties back up to keep it in place. You give him a questioning look, to which he smirks, pressing another kiss to the inside of your thighs and then sitting up.

“There’ll always be a part of me inside of you now,” he explains, visibly satisfied at the thought.

What a weirdo. You decide to keep that to yourself. “Could you help me with the yukata again, please?”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” he pretends to ponder, a hand on his chin. “I think I prefer it when you look like this. Besides, I still need to get revenge for how you so brazenly insulted me earlier. What was it again? I’m ‘conceited, insensitive, and stubborn to a fault’, right? Sorry, it doesn’t seem like I’m the type of person to help others in need.”

“What if someone looks in the window and sees me?”

A malignant shadow falls over his face.

“I’d tear them to pieces.”

“... Isn’t that overkill?”

“I sure don’t think so,” he twirls his finger in the air. “Now turn around before I change my mind."

Similar to earlier, he helps you into the yukata, though the atmosphere is far more pleasant. He’s humming a tune to himself as he ensures everything is in order. After he’s content with his handiwork, he pulls you down onto the futon, clinging to you from behind. A shower sounds heavenly right about now, but you’re doubtful he’s going to let you out of his sight tonight. If you’re being entirely honest with yourself, you don’t really mind.

Exhaustion hits you like a ton of bricks. This is made worse by the comfortable blankets he pulls over you both. Your eyelids flutter shut, the siren’s song of sleep luring you in. His soft breath tickles the back of your neck and makes you smile.

“Hey, [First], are you awake?”

“I think so.”

“Good, 'cause you need to hear this,” he inhales sharply, his next words coming out as a whisper. “I… I love you too.”

“Let’s stay by one another’s side then.”

“... Always?”

“Always.”

When the puppet falls asleep that night, he sheds tears in his dreams, though this time it is not from sorrow, but overabounding joy.

Easy Does It.

Scaramouche x F Reader.

Warnings: Explicit Not SFW, Scaramouche is annoying, Reader’s body is described as AFAB, they both bicker like an old couple… Word count: 7.2k.

You have a triumphant pep in your step as you hop down from the inn’s engawa to where your traveling companion awaits.

He stands beneath a canopy of sakura trees, late in their bloom, yet beautiful nonetheless. Pink petals dance around him in wayward clusters, swaying wherever the breeze blows. It’s an idyllic scene taken straight from the pages of a fairytale. He too appears absorbed with their hypnotizing essence, extending his hand upward and allowing for a lone petal to find its home there. He brings it to his face, studying it closely, an unreadable expression etched onto his countenance when the Electro energy imbued within tickles his fingers.

It could be your imagination, but you get the sense he almost looks sad. Forlorn, even. A strange heaviness haunts the air around him.

You’re about to call out when a twig crunches beneath your feet, alerting him to your presence.

The ethereal mirage fades away faster than if a painter were to take water to their freshly painted canvas.

Keep reading

#ddarker-dreams #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #wanderer x reader #wanderer x reader 🔞

3K notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 1 day ago

Note

hi bby so im back :) and i have a request!!

charlando x reader (why are there not more fics about these two??)

bc this pic is too fine not to write about and ily and ik that you will EAT with this

hehee ilyyy gorgeousss <3333

💋💋

that's our girl — cl16 + ln4

smau + written blurbs

charles leclerc x !actress reader x lando norris

you weren’t just a young actress. you were the young actress. oscar-nominated at 21. cover of vogue before 20. the internet’s darling, directors’ favorite, and the face of three fashion houses by 23.

but the one thing you kept fiercely private — the only thing you never let the world touch — was them. charles leclerc and lando norris.

it started quietly. a few late night texts. a shared hotel suite after a grand prix. a summer that felt like a dream. then suddenly, you were in love with two of the fastest men on the planet — and they were in love with you. for almost a year, it was just yours. safe. secret. sacred.

until the night of your movie premiere. until they stepped onto the red carpet beside you. until the world finally saw what had always belonged only to you.

and saw that you were their girl.

fc : anya taylor-joy

(a/n) : hi baby love!!!! i missed you:) charlando is soooo underrated in my opinion and i took direct inspo from this pic. (i think i drooled a little bit the first time i saw) love you to the moon and back!!!!!! hope you enjoy

—

voguemagazine

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, lando and 4,440,000 others.

voguemagazine : the face of a generation returns to our cover. for her fifth time gracing vogue’s front page, @/yourusername opens up about the role that changed everything, navigating fame in the age of obsession, and why some secrets are worth keeping — especially when the world is watching. inside the issue: exclusive photos from set, notes from her director, and a few words (just a few) about the rumors swirling around her love life...on stands august 1st.

tagged : yourusername

—

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yourusername : just a little film, a little fashion, and maybe a little fun. who’s to say 🖤 love you vogueeeeee

liked by voguemagazine, lando and charles_leclerc

username000 : charles and lando in the likes after all these rumors BFFR RN VOGUE

liked by voguemagazine

↳ voguemagazine : we know nothing 🤫

lando : great photos. very cool story. would love to meet her someday 🙃

liked by voguemagazine, charles_leclerc and yourusername

↳ username005 : we have literally seen paparazzi pictures of you two together. you cheeky fucker

username001 : vogue being messy again and i love it here

liked by voguemagazine

username77 : can’t wait to hear her say absolutely nothing about her love life in the most elegant way possible

liked by voguemagazine and yourusername

↳ yourusername : yes queeeeeeen. give us nothing!

liked by voguemagazine and username77

username55 : "some secrets are worth keeping" yeah ok but i’m nosy

liked by voguemagazine

charles_leclerc : beautiful cover. she always makes everything look effortless.

liked by voguemagazine, yourusername and lando

↳ username75 : charles just drop it and admit you are in LOVE.

—

You don’t hear them come in. The studio is buzzing—lights humming, cameras clicking, stylists whispering and bustling around you as you hold a pose in an impossibly structured gown. The sleeves are too long, the heels too high, and your neck is stiff from holding your head just right. You’re exhausted, your muscles screaming for a break, but the shoot must go on.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of something familiar—a flash of unruly curls, a pair of too white trainers stepping carefully around cables, the unmistakable glint of sunglasses on a face you know too well.

You pause, blinking. A small, tired smile creeps onto your lips despite the chaos around you.

“Hey,” Lando’s voice breaks through the noise, light and teasing. He waves enthusiastically, completely unbothered by the formality of the setting.

Charles stands just behind him, arms crossed, trying to look composed, but you see the slight upward curl at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t say much, but his eyes say it all—they sparkle with pride and quiet affection.

“You’re staring,” Lando grins, stepping closer.

“I’m not,” you tease, even though you are. “I’m just... appreciating the art.”

Charles chuckles softly and crosses the room, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Art can be exhausting, but you make it look effortless.”

Lando tosses you a snack—your favorite—grinning like a kid caught in the act. “Thought you might need a break. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

You laugh, and he uses the back of his hand to swipe a bit of whipped cream from your lip, smirking. “Careful,” you warn. “I might start expecting this kind of treatment all day.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he replies with a wink.

Your stylist clears her throat, offering a pointed glance. “Remember, no eating on set,” she says, though her voice is softer than usual.

Charles kneels down to zip up your boots, careful not to wrinkle the fabric of your gown. “We’re breaking all the rules today,” he murmurs, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve.

You rest your head against his shoulder for a moment, feeling the steady warmth there. “You both shouldn’t be here,” you say softly. “You have meetings.”

Charles shrugs, still smiling. “Meetings can wait. You’re the priority.”

Lando nods in agreement. “Yeah, we’re your unofficial support team.”

They linger nearby during the makeup touch-ups, sharing quiet jokes with the crew and keeping you company in the madness. The photographer catches a few candid shots—your bare feet tucked under the chair, Lando feeding you bites of cake, Charles speaking softly to your stylist about lighting. None of it will make the magazine. None of it needs to. It’s your little secret.

Later, as the shoot winds down, Lando pulls you aside. “Promise me you’ll take a break after this.”

“I will,” you say, leaning into him.

Charles wraps an arm around both of you. “We’re coming with you. No exceptions.”

You smile, feeling the warmth of their presence—your steady constants amid the frenzy of your life. And for once, you don’t feel tired at all.

—

The shoot wrapped late, but none of you were in any rush to go out. No afterparty, no fancy dinner, no red carpet chaos. Just the three of you — hair undone, makeup half wiped off, glitter still clinging to your collarbones — back in your apartment, where things felt quiet. Easy. Yours.

You’re curled up on the couch in the softest pair of Charles’ joggers and one of Lando’s old McLaren hoodies, a throw blanket draped lazily over the both of you. The lights are dim, the windows cracked open to let in the cool night air, and something low hums from the speakers. Your feet are in Lando’s lap. His hands are wrapped gently around your ankles, thumbs moving in small, lazy circles against your skin.

Charles is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed as he stirs something in a pan. Every so often, he hums under his breath. He moves with quiet purpose — barefoot on the tile, focused and calm, like he always is when he’s doing something for you.

“What’s he making again?” Lando murmurs, half asleep already.

You smile, not bothering to open your eyes. “He said pasta. But fancy. With wine he won’t let me touch yet.”

“Typical.” Lando nudges your leg with his elbow. “We’re out here starving while he builds a five-star menu from scratch.”

“He offered to teach you,” you remind him, grinning.

“He offered to boss me around in the kitchen,” Lando counters. “Different things.”

You laugh, and Charles calls out from the kitchen without turning around, “I can hear both of you, you know.”

“You were supposed to!” Lando shouts back. “It’s part of the charm.”

Charles walks over a moment later, drying his hands on a towel and tilting his head at the sight of you two — one completely melted into the couch cushions, the other practically draped across them like a very spoiled cat.

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then one to Lando’s temple. “Fifteen more minutes.”

“Feels like twenty,” Lando mumbles.

“Feels like heaven,” you say softly, reaching out to grab Charles’ hand as he turns to go. He lets you hold it for a beat, thumb brushing over yours. A silent little thank-you, wrapped in touch.

By the time dinner is ready, Lando’s fast asleep, his head resting on your thigh, breathing slow and peaceful. You thread your fingers through his curls gently, trying not to wake him, but Charles smiles as he sets two plates down on the coffee table.

“He’ll eat in ten minutes. Watch.”

Sure enough, the second the scent hits the air, Lando stirs.

“Is that… garlic?” he mutters, still mostly asleep.

Charles chuckles. “Told you.”

The three of you eat cross-legged on the floor with your plates in your laps, sharing bites and clinking glasses. Charles insists on pouring the wine. Lando insists on playing music you all hate but know by heart. You insist on dessert — which turns out to be ice cream eaten straight from the tub with mismatched spoons.

Later, you end up on Charles’ chest, your cheek resting over his heart. Lando’s sprawled out beside you, arm slung over your waist, humming tunelessly against your shoulder. The TV is still playing, but none of you are watching. You’re full, warm, and tired in the best way.

“You know what?” Charles says softly, running a hand through your hair.

“What?” you murmur.

“This,” he says, gesturing lazily to the pile of limbs and blankets, “is my favorite kind of night.”

Lando yawns, tightening his arm around you. “Don’t get used to it. I’m picking the movie next time.”

You smile into Charles’ shirt. “That’s fine. As long as you keep your cold feet to yourself.”

“No promises,” Lando says sleepily, already drifting again.

And just like that, the room settles. Three heartbeats, steady and overlapping. The quiet comfort of people who love you, not for the cameras or the headlines — just for being here. Just for being theirs.

—

You slip out quietly in the morning, just after sunrise.

The apartment is still, bathed in soft golden light. Charles is sound asleep, one hand beneath the pillow, the other stretched across your side of the bed. Lando’s curled up on the couch where he’d passed out halfway through a movie rerun, his curls messy and one sock hanging halfway off his foot.

You hesitate by the door for just a second, watching them in their peaceful, quiet state. And then you leave a note — just a little “shooting early today, love you both. forever.” — and disappear into the morning mist with your script in hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

The set is already awake by the time you arrive. Costumes. Hair. Makeup. People bustling around in purposeful silence. It’s your favorite kind of work — period drama, grounded in pain and ambition, like The Queen’s Gambit if it were a little darker, a little more fractured. You lose yourself in it easily.

By the time you’re seated across from your scene partner, lights set and cameras ready, you’ve forgotten the outside world completely. You don’t even notice them sneak in.

They meant to stay for only a few minutes. They had flights to catch, debriefs to attend, an entire race weekend ahead. But the moment they saw you — fully in character, back straight, gaze sharp, playing this complicated, brilliant woman with all her fire and grace — they froze in place.

And neither of them moved again.

From the side of the set, Charles stands with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, not saying a word. Lando's next to him, hoodie pulled up, biting the tip of his thumb like he does when he’s nervous or overwhelmed.

"She’s insane," Lando whispers, mostly to himself. "Like—how does she do that?”

“She becomes someone else entirely,” Charles murmurs, eyes never leaving you. “And still… she’s always her.”

You're in the middle of a quiet, devastating monologue when you finally notice them. It’s just a flicker — movement behind the lights. You keep your expression steady, but your heart flips in your chest. You hadn’t expected them. You definitely hadn’t expected them before their flight.

After the scene cuts, you walk off set still in costume — a structured 1960s dress, hair pinned perfectly, makeup heavy — and raise an eyebrow at them both.

“You’re supposed to be halfway to Hungary,” you say, but your smile gives you away.

Charles steps forward first, slipping his arms around your waist and pulling you in like he’s been counting the minutes. “We had time.”

“Barely,” Lando adds, before pulling you into a messy, one-armed hug. “You were brilliant, by the way. Like… ridiculously brilliant. Kind of unfair, actually.”

You bury your face into Charles’ chest for a moment, breathing him in. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Charles kisses your hair. “We couldn’t not.”

“You looked like a goddess out there,” Lando says, grinning. “And terrifying. I think I’m a little scared of you now.”

You laugh softly. “Good. My character would be pleased.”

“You make it look easy,” Charles murmurs, his hand brushing against yours. “But it’s not. I know it’s not. And yet every time I watch you… I fall in love all over again.”

You glance between the two of them, hearts on their sleeves and eyes only for you, and your chest aches with the weight of it all. The love. The support. The way they never let you carry any of it alone.

Lando holds out a paper bag. “We brought breakfast. It’s not hot anymore, but it’s yours.”

You blink, touched. “You brought me food?”

Charles shrugs. “We weren’t sure if you’d eaten.”

“Or slept,” Lando adds. “Or remembered you’re a person.”

You take the bag with a soft laugh. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love,” Charles says simply.

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “That was so corny.”

Lando points at Charles. “That was all him.”

They stay until your next call time. Charles stands behind the camera monitor, arms crossed, jaw set — protective, proud. Lando leans against a pillar, hands in his pockets, watching you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. And when you glance over mid-take, something in their expressions softens you. Reminds you who you are. What you have. Not just a career. Not just a role. But love. Constant. Quiet. Steady. Yours.

—

You’re in costume when they find you again, back in that high-necked vintage dress, gloves slipping past your wrists, your hair pinned up so tight it aches. The studio is quieter now — a late scene being set up, lighting being adjusted, the buzz simmering to a hum. You’ve been working for hours, but your chest is tight for a different reason.

They're standing near the monitors, Charles with his arms folded, Lando shifting from foot to foot like he wants to say something and can’t quite find the words.

Their driver is waiting outside. The plane is on the runway.

It’s time.

“Can we…” Lando starts, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway, “Can we have a minute?”

You nod without hesitation, slipping out of the studio and into the cooler, quieter corridor with them. The second the door swings shut, Charles reaches for your hand.

You squeeze it tight.

“We hate leaving you like this,” he says softly, searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. “Especially now. The shoot. The interviews. Everything.”

“I’ll be fine,” you whisper, and it’s not a lie — not really. You just leave out the part where you’ll be fine because you’ll see them again very, very soon.

“You’re always fine,” Lando murmurs, resting his forehead gently against yours for a moment. “That’s the problem. You don’t let us take care of you.”

“You took care of me last night,” you smile, eyes stinging. “And this morning. And right now.”

Charles kisses your knuckles slowly. “We’ll call after FP1. Text us when you wrap.”

You nod again, biting your cheek to keep from cracking. “I love you.”

Lando hugs you first — tight, warm, lingering. “Love you more.”

Then Charles folds you into his arms, one hand on the back of your head, one around your waist, holding you like it’s the last time. “See you soon,” he murmurs into your hair.

“I promise you will.”

You watch them walk down the hallway, hand-in-hand, glancing back at you with soft, reluctant smiles. When they disappear around the corner, you wait exactly thirty seconds before pulling your phone from your coat pocket. Your driver is already outside. Your bags are already packed. The jet is fueled, waiting on standby.

You text your assistant one word: ready.

She sends back a string of fire emojis and a thumbs up.

The second your last scene wraps, you’re out of the dress, out of the hair, into sweats and sneakers with a baseball cap pulled low. Your driver sneaks you through the back exit, past the trailers, out into the fading light. You don’t stop smiling the entire way to the hangar.

They think they’ve said goodbye. They think you’re still wrapped up in a long night of reshoots. But in eight hours, maybe less, you’ll be in their paddock. Wearing their colors. Holding their hands again. And they won’t see it coming.

—

f1gossipgirls

1,400,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : actress yn ln was spotted in both the McLaren and Ferrari garages this weekend… 👀 sources say she arrived quietly Saturday morning and was seen chatting with Lando Norris before qualifying, then later slipped into Ferrari hospitality with Charles Leclerc after. a paddock pass and a love triangle?? we’re not saying anything… but we’re also not not saying anything.

—

yourusername

liked by lando, charles_leclerc, franciscagomes and 5,705,000 others.

yourusername : big big thank you to @/f1, @/mclaren and @/scuderiaferrarihp for hosting me this weekend. so so much fun!! ❤️🏁

tagged : lando and charles_leclerc

—

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scuderiaferrarihp : our favorite guest 🔥

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lilymhe : you’re actually unreal. i want to be you when i grow up.

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↳ yourusername : teach me to golf!! so lando will stop bullying meeeee

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↳ lilymhe : anytime my queen!

maxverstappen1 : pick a side coward (come to the red bull garage)

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charles_leclerc : was a very fun weekend ❤️

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username000 : her in lando’s car. HER IN LANDO’S CAR.

yukitsunoda0511 : are we just pretending this isn’t suspicious?

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lando : had the prettiest views this weekend...you, my trophy and leclerc <3

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—

It’s hot. Too hot. The sun is relentless above the circuit, and neither Lando nor Charles is particularly in the mood for press, meetings, or anything other than crashing into their hotel beds and maybe sending you a “wish you were here” voice note.

Lando kicks at a pebble in the paddock walkway, sunglasses sliding down his nose.

“She could’ve at least texted,” he mutters.

Charles, walking beside him, lets out a soft laugh. “She’s busy. Movie star things, no?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando shrugs. “Still. Miss her.”

They turn the corner toward hospitality — and freeze. Because there you are.

Wearing oversized sunglasses, a team pass slung around your neck, and a grin you can’t hide even if you tried. You’re standing casually by the entrance, sipping a cold drink like you didn’t just jump through fifteen scheduling hoops to get here. Like you didn’t just spend hours on a private jet, reviewing lines on the flight over.

Lando’s mouth drops open.

Charles blinks. Once. Twice. “No… way.”

“Hi,” you say sweetly, like you haven’t just turned both their brains to absolute mush.

Lando reaches you first, practically barreling into you, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he lifts you slightly off the ground. He buries his face in your shoulder, murmuring, “You’re actually here. You’re here.”

Charles follows right behind, tugging you away from Lando just enough to press a kiss to your cheek and then your forehead, hands holding your face like he can’t believe it’s real. “This is the best surprise you’ve ever pulled,” he breathes, still a little stunned.

You giggle, brushing a thumb across Charles’ cheek before turning to Lando. “I missed you both so much. I wrapped early, hopped on the jet, and came straight here.”

“We’re never letting you go again,” Lando mumbles, arms wrapping around your waist from behind as Charles leans in to kiss your temple.

“You’ve just guaranteed the best weekend ever,” Charles grins, fingers lacing with yours. “Don’t even care how the race goes now.”

And in the middle of the noise and the chaos and the cameras flashing from afar, the three of you exist in your own little bubble — soft and warm and full of love. Just where you’re meant to be.

—

The cameras are gone. The champagne’s dried sticky on the podium. The crowd’s long dispersed and the sun is beginning to dip low on the horizon, casting everything in that golden-orange hue that makes the world feel like a dream.

And inside a quiet motorhome far from the chaos, Lando is still wearing his race suit, hair damp from the heat and champagne, eyes lit up with joy and disbelief.

He barely gets the door open before you throw your arms around his neck, nearly knocking the cap off his head.

“You did it,” you whisper, voice tight with emotion. “Pole and the win. You actually did it.”

“I did it,” he says back, almost in awe. “You saw?”

“I saw everything.”

You kiss him then, soft and full of pride, your hands cupping his face like you’re trying to ground him — or maybe yourself. He pulls you tighter, laughing into your mouth like the joy is too much to keep in. When you finally break apart, Charles is already stepping in, still wearing his fireproofs, still flushed from the race.

“Mon amour,” you breathe, reaching for him with one hand while still tucked against Lando with the other. “P2. You were incredible.”

Charles leans in to kiss your forehead, his palm cradling your cheek, eyes flicking to Lando over your shoulder.

“Couldn’t be mad about it,” he murmurs. “Not when it’s him.”

Lando chuckles, resting his chin on your shoulder as his hand finds Charles’. “Best podium ever.”

You guide them both to the small couch at the back of the room, Lando curled into your side and Charles lying with his head in your lap. Your fingers run gently through Charles’ hair as Lando draws shapes lazily on your thigh with his finger.

No words are needed. Just the rise and fall of breaths. The brush of knuckles. A kiss placed on your wrist. The weight of Charles’ arm draped over your lap. Lando’s nose nuzzling into your neck.

There’s something sacred in the silence — a kind of warmth that doesn’t ask for applause or attention. Just presence. Just love.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper eventually, voice barely above the hum of the AC.

Lando hums sleepily in response. Charles shifts to kiss your thigh through your jeans. It’s quiet. It’s perfect. And for a few moments, the world doesn’t exist beyond this small room and the three hearts tangled together inside it.

—

The race weekend is over, the interviews wrapped, the fans gone home, and for the first time in days, the three of you finally have a moment to breathe.

You’re tucked into the backseat of a sleek black car, Charles in the passenger seat fiddling with the playlist, and Lando driving with one hand on the wheel and the other resting casually over on Charles' knee.

“You know we could’ve just ordered room service and stayed in bed,” you tease, leaning your head against the back of the seat.

“Room service doesn’t come with this view,” Lando says, nodding toward the winding coastal road. “And besides… I wanted to show you the little place I found last year.”

Charles hums in agreement. “He hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Of course he hasn’t.”

But when you arrive, you understand the hype. It’s a tiny beachside restaurant tucked into a quiet cove — all string lights and weathered wood and the smell of salt in the air. The owner clearly knows them both, claps Charles on the back and teases Lando as you’re led to a table right on the sand.

The sunset is molten gold. The waves are soft. And the three of you are finally still.

Charles orders wine with practiced charm. Lando sneaks bites off your plate and pretends to pout when you slap his hand away. You end up feeding him anyway. Charles takes a candid photo of the two of you mid-laughter, then turns the camera to you and says, “Smile for me, mon amour.”

You lean in and kiss him instead. After dinner, you slip off your heels and walk down the shoreline, Charles’ arm around your waist and Lando’s fingers laced with yours. The ocean kisses your ankles and the moonlight dances in their eyes. At some point, you end up sitting in the sand, your head resting on Lando’s shoulder while Charles lies back with his hand over your stomach, tracing absent-minded circles.

“We should do this more often,” you say softly.

Lando hums. “We should win more often, you mean.”

You laugh. “That too.”

They don’t let you walk back alone — one on each side, pinkies linked, hands warm and solid and real. And even though the world will spin madly again tomorrow, tonight is just for the three of you. Quiet. Golden. Safe.

—

several weeks later...

gossiproomx

1,880,000 likes.

gossiproomx : red carpet royalty?? actress yn ln stepped out for her highly anticipated movie premiere last night — but it wasn’t just the film that had jaws on the floor. not one but two f1 superstars — charles leclerc and lando norris — were seen arriving with her, staying close by her side on the carpet, and looking suspiciously like doting boyfriends during her pre-screening speech. sources say they were spotted exchanging proud smiles, sneaking glances, and even applauding the loudest from the front row. 👀 just friends? supportive pals? or is this our favorite kind of triangle? 💌

—

You’d spent the entire week convincing yourself they wouldn’t make it — between media duties, simulator runs, travel, and the chaos of back-to-back races, it just wasn’t realistic. They had sent flowers, sent texts, sent sleepy late-night “you’re gonna kill it” voice notes. And that had been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You’d just stepped out of your car, nerves humming beneath your skin as flashes began to pop around you, when the security team at the end of the carpet suddenly shifted. Then you heard it: the wave of reaction down the press line, the sudden spike in volume, the unmistakable roar of surprise and camera shutters.

And then you saw them.

Charles and Lando. Both in tailored suits that fit them far too well, ties matching the tones of your dress exactly — they’d planned it, of course they had. Lando’s grin was wide and boyish, his curls tamed just enough to pass red carpet standards. Charles looked a little breathless, like he’d just rushed from the airport, but his eyes never left yours.

“Hey, baby,” Charles murmured as they reached you.

“You didn’t think we’d miss this, did you?” Lando added, already pulling you in for a quick hug.

“Are you real?” you asked, blinking rapidly, trying not to smudge your makeup.

Charles laughed softly and kissed your cheek. “Very real. And very proud.”

The three of you walked the carpet together — them flanking you, looking devastatingly handsome and impossibly proud. You kept it professional for the cameras, smiling and posing, never too close, never too obvious. But behind the scenes? Every glance, every brush of their hands against your back, every whispered compliment told a different story.

“You’re glowing,” Lando whispered as you stepped aside for solo shots. “They’re not ready for you.”

When it was time for the speech before the screening, you stood on stage with the director, mic in hand, eyes scanning the crowd. And there they were — front row, right in the center. Charles with his chin rested lightly in his hand, watching you with soft, steady eyes. Lando with a lazy arm draped over the back of the seat beside him, grinning like he knew every word before you even said it.

You took a breath. “I want to thank the people who got me here. Who love me for who I really am. Who remind me every single day that it’s okay to take up space.”

They clapped the loudest. You couldn’t stop smiling.

—

lando

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lando : my boy and our girl :)

tagged : charles_leclerc and yourusername

—

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pierregasly : finally. i’ve been holding this secret in for MONTHS.

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—

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reiderwriter · 13 hours ago

Text

Questionable Theories

Inspired by this request!

Summary: You end up in a couple of tight situations with Spencer, and he decides that the body language you're displaying is an obvious sign of claustrophobia rather than a desperately horrible case of sexual attraction.

Warnings: smut, 18+, shower sex, unprotected sex, sexual frustration, fingering, minimal foreplay etc.

Masterlist

Spencer Reid was a budding anthropologist.

To be clear, he was very much a physicist, a mathematician, an engineer, a Supervisory Special Agent, and many other things. But he reasoned that a Bachelor’s Degree in a subject only cleared him to be someone who dabbled in anthropology.

And anthropology told him that you were hiding something. He had studied human behavior for years, and he had some qualms about using his knowledge as a profiler against his friends and colleagues - it wasn’t nice to psychoanalyse each other, he had been told many a time - he felt that certain scientific observations needed some further study.

Take, for example, the observation of societal reactions to small or tight spaces. While Spencer knew for a fact that many people had a fear of small, enclosed spaces, also known as claustrophobia, he knew you were not one of those people.

And yet, here you were, squashed against his side in a packed elevator, displaying a heightened heart rate, higher body temperature, and flashes of discomfort only otherwise present in those with the fear.

You’d gotten onto the elevator happily enough, he’d noted. There was no trepidation or avoidance. You hadn’t once suggested taking the stairs instead. But on the second floor, a crowd of people had gotten in, and you’d been left pressed so tightly against Spencer’s chest that he could measure your pulse no problem.

Struggling to find something to comfort you in your distress, Spencer settled for a hand on your back, wrapping it around you to keep you from bumping into any more people. Morgan had already told him that elevator death statistics rarely comforted those stuck in and/or using them, and he didn’t want to alert the elevator full of FBI agents that you were in any form of distress.

Touching you, however, almost made it worse. He noted a second spike in your pulse, before you began measuring your breathing slightly more so it would calm down.

He wanted to help; he surely did, but there was only one more floor before you both reached the BAU, and before he could think of anything truly comforting to say, you’d pushed through the crowd of people and started walking to your desk as if nothing in the world was wrong.

He almost missed the beat of your heart as you walked away.

From that day on, Spencer made it his mission to figure out if you were struggling with claustrophobia or rather with something more akin to enochlophobia, a fear of crowds.

It was rather lucky then that after a few days again, you found yourselves both back in an elevator, though this one was much less crowded. Spencer was almost disappointed that he couldn’t test both variables at once to repeat the pattern of the first observation, but luck was on his side when, after all the other inhabitants of the elevator alighted on their work floors, the elevator decided to break down with only the two of you left on it.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you said, shutting your eyes in silent defeat as the elevator lights switched themselves off.

“I guess the power just went out,” Spencer said, moving a step or two closer to you to buzz the alarm, and noting the way you flattened your back against the wall to avoid him further.

After notifying the building maintenance again, he stopped and stayed near you.

“Statistically, this won’t take too long, the-”

“Spencer, if you start telling me facts about elevator breakdowns, I’m going to have a breakdown myself.”

Nodding quickly, he wisely shut his mouth, but he didn’t attempt to move back. As the next floor doors were pried open by firefighters a few moments later (the perks of a job at Quantico, expedited rescues), he stepped further into your personal space.

You couldn’t escape him without completely obviously swerving to the opposite side of the elevator, which might be dangerous considering the quick repair work that was happening on it, so you instead tried your best to hold your breath and die.

It was better than letting your mind run away with the thought - the tempting, very detailed, and somewhat scary thought - of Spencer pinning you against the wall and doing whatever the hell he wanted with your body.

There was a certain level of detail your mind went to after the boundary of personal space had been crossed, and unluckily for you, Spencer was crossing it a lot these days. You were left feeling absolutely, devastatingly horny, with an aftertaste of guilt from thinking these things about your coworker.

“Could you-” you coughed, trying to free your voice from any squeaks. “Could you step back a bit?”

The Spencer in your horny brain would’ve pinned your hands above your head and asked you if you really meant that, which of course you didn’t, you wanted to feel his hands all over you.

The real Spencer seemed to take this instead as confirmation of your fear, and backed up immediately, staying as still as a wildlife rescuer trying to calm a shaking abandoned puppy.

If only you were shaking in fear and not months of accidental sexual tension turned up to the max.

You were surprised that Spencer himself hadn’t noticed how you desired him carnally. You couldn’t hold his eye contact, and you wouldn’t even let yourself brush against him in fear that you would say something embarrassingly true. You thought these to be pretty easily defined as measures of one with unwanted sexual desires.

Spencer, however, went with enochlophobia.

“You two good down there?” Emily yelled from her perch on the floor just above you, comfortably situated between the firefighters who were currently putting a hold in the door to help you shimmy out of it.

“We need you two to get out of there quickly. We have a case in Atlanta. Wheels up in 30,” she said, reaching a hand down for your bags as the firefighters urged you to grab onto them so they could lift you.

A sudden wave of relief washed over you. Work! Real, true, and honest work to distract yourself with. A case where you could escape impure thoughts for the time being would be perfect.

You must’ve enjoyed the moment a second too long, though, as Spencer once again flooded your senses.

With a hand on your hip, chaste and purely platonic from anyone else's perspective, Spencer encouraged you forward, to meet the reach of the team of firefighters.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low and hot in your ear. He was probably giving himself a pat on the back for comforting you. “You’re doing great, just hang in there.”

Helping to send your bags up to Emily, he reached around you, his chest hitting your back, his entire body crowding yours once again near the edge of the space.

Every touch felt electric, and you wished to god it did not. You let the team of firefighters drag you out of the hole you were physically in, even as you sank further into the one you were in mentally.

After confirming his suspicions, Spencer took it upon himself to be your silent protector. If you’d had any clue that was what he was doing, you’d have definitely thought it cute.

Instead, you were just on edge whenever he so much as breathed in your direction.

He sat next to you on the jet, going so far as to ask you if you had any problem with turbulence even though you’d been working with him for the last year and he’d travelled in a plane with you. When he leaned over you to open the blinds to the window, you twitched away from his hand, so sure that it was about to land somewhere inappropriate.

He sat in the back of the van beside you when you landed, getting strange looks from every other member of the team because he was usually very serious about sitting front and centre. The stares only got more intense when he tried to put your seatbelt on for you.

“Spencer,” you whispered sharply as he stretched across you for the second time that day. “I’ve got it.”

He quickly retreated into his seat and even seemed a little disappointed in himself.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure why he was being so intense either. He’d found out about your so-called weakness, and it was like some part of him leaped into protector mode. He wanted to be closer, to study every reaction, to make things easier for you.

He really couldn’t help it when he volunteered to room with you.

With three rooms available with the company card, Rossi took the initiative and booked his own private suite, leaving Emily and JJ, Hotch and Morgan, and of course yourself and Spencer to cosy up in twin rooms.

“I’ll grab that,” Spencer said, grabbing your bag for you and climbing up the stairs, notably avoiding the elevator either out of deference to you, or because he was similarly freaked out about the morning’s elevator accident.

“Spencer, I’ve got it,” you sighed, half exasperated, half dreamy. But he was already out of sight and unlocking the door to your room, walking in to inspect it.

You trailed along quickly, noting that he’d stopped rather suddenly at the door.

“Oh,” he said, staring into the room and lowering the bags he’d commandeered to the floor.

Of course, you’d been left without a twin room. You’d been left a standard double. With, of course, a single double bed.

For Spencer, he saw this as a scientific chance to keep exploring his own theories. Was it all people you were uncomfortable with? Would the close proximity of sharing a space highlight any discomfort you had with people in general? Would you refuse the room entirely, and leave, or would you push yourself through it?

You similarly had many plaguing thoughts: how the fuck were you going to get through the night without an embarrassingly horny wet dream, or at least some kind of Nyquil to knock you out cold before you could harass the man any further?

Neither of you had the chance to discuss your new living arrangements, as you were quickly - blissfully - called into the precinct to begin your case.

Twelve hours of traipsing around crime scenes and pulling longer hours than you had in months - purposefully - you were almost glad to be heading back to sleep.

Not that you were looking forward to discussing the sleeping arrangements, but because you’d had a few more strange encounters with Spencer across the day that you absolutely needed to be unconscious to fully avoid.

First, he’d taken it upon himself to angle himself between you and any other detectives you met on the case, which actually hindered your chance to ask about evidence and the facts of the case for a few hours, until Hotch had sent Spencer on an errand.

When he’d come back, he’d pulled you aside to talk, which was normal enough, except he’d pulled you into a storage closet to talk, and though he kept the topic strictly on the case, your brain had overloaded the second he’d pressed his hand against the wall beside your head and you’d sprinted back out of the closet, avoiding eye contact with anyone who you thought may have witnessed the entire exchange.

And then he’d insisted - insisted - on driving you home alone, turning down all the offers from the local PD to get you an escort so you didn’t have to worry about the unfamiliar roads.

Spencer patted himself on the back for seeing to your needs so well.

You wanted nothing more than to fall straight into bed and never get back out again, dumping your bag, and walking straight into the attached bathroom, as you began to undress so you could take a shower.

“Don’t mind me,” Spencer said as you popped a second button, sending you jumping across the already very small room.

Leaving you stood there in shock, clutching your shirt to your chest, though you were still more or less covered, he reached around you and placed his toiletries on the counter, practically pinning you (once again) to the sink.

You weren’t cognizant of your brain making the decision, but you felt your hands pushing up against Spencer’s chest, and shoving just deliberately enough to pin him to the solid shower stall door, turning the tables on him.

“What are you doing, Spencer?” you asked, shocked both at how professional you sounded and that your hands had yet to travel from his chest to any other part of his body.

“I’m dropping my toiletries bag off,” he said, the picture of nonchalance.

“I was about to get in the shower. I told you as much before walking in here. I was undressing.”

“Yes, but-”

“You pulled me into a closet earlier, you acted strange in the elevator, frankly, you’ve been entirely too helpful today, and I know you’re a kind person, but Jesus Christ, Spencer, there’s only so much I can take!”

“I know,” he said soothingly, a soft smile playing on his lips, and if you weren’t so frustrated, you might have swooned at the way he looked at you.

“You know what?”

“That…that this is hard for you, right? It’s totally normal to-”

“Oh god,” you whispered. He knew.

“No, it’s okay, really, it happens to a lot of people, this kind of thing is just a natural part of society, and-”

“Spencer, for the love of god, please shut up!” you nearly screamed, trying your best to keep your shattered emotions in tow.

“I just want us to be able to communicate clearly about this,” he said, and with that, he raised a hand to your face, brushing a hair aside quickly and tucking it behind your ear.

No longer in control of your actions, you had no choice but to let your body push closer to his and join your lips to his, suffocating his helpful smile.

You felt his shock, but then you felt his hands grip you a little bit closer, pulling you into him and pressing his lips back into yours with the same pressure.

You gasped for air, but he pulled you in closer still, turning you around to press you against the shower door, nearly tripping inside as you tugged and pulled at one another, needing to be closer, to be close at once.

“Fuck, Spencer-” you said as you drew away, pressing kisses along his chin and down his neck as he held you propped up against the wall.

He had been incorrect, he had been absolutely incorrect in the best way, and now his cock was throbbing in his pants and you were wrapping your legs around him as you moaned into his ear with every kiss, and he was so happy that he was incorrect.

His hands fumbled against the buttons of your shirt as you similarly worked against the zipper of his pants, desperate to get him free, to feel him inside you. But you both absolutely refused to detach from one another, lips once again finding each other as you stumbled blindly around the shower stall.

Another stumble was all it took for the, luckily hot, water of the shower to pour down on you, and you detached quickly to rid yourselves of now wet clothing before colliding again.

It was quick - possibly the quickest you’d ever consummated a relationship - and near silent, no spoken communication besides moans and nods, and the fingers that had been desperately gripping your waist instead moving to spread your legs. He stroked along your clit as your hands found his cock, pumping it once, twice, and once again before you begged in a single desperate moan, and he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pressed himself in.

Blissful is how he would describe it. You were lost for words, so you wouldn’t be able to even come up with anything that could do it justice.

Neither of you lasted long, you from the months of pining, and Spencer because he’d been entirely overwhelmed in the last twenty minutes, and he usually liked time to prepare for these things.

He continued stroking you through your release, and you panted, holding yourself up against a wall as he pulled out and stroked himself to completion.

Silently, and rather awkwardly, you turned off the shower and stared at one another for a beat before you both wordlessly stepped out of the shower and got yourselves ready for sleep.

After redressing yourselves in dry nightwear, you both sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for the other to say something.

“Just… out of interest, you’re not.. Claustrophobic, are you?” Spencer asked.

“No, why?” you replied, almost confused, before he grabbed and kissed you again. A distraction from revealing his monumental fuck up.

“No reason,” he said, pushing you down into the bed and slowly pressing his lips to your skin again, having enough time now to truly think out how he could treat you well.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #reiderreplies #spencer reid x reader #reiderslibrary #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x self insert

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marcuspikegf · 24 hours ago

Text

harry castillo x single mom! reader

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

wordcount: 3.4k | requests are open | about me+ masterlist

reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :)

summary: it's a rainy day in nyc, a couple of months after the breakup and harry castillo accidentally trips over into the cutest 3 year old and and meets her mother too.

warnings: warning this is so cute your teeth will ROT (no warnings just fluff fluff fluff). in my head there was an age gap of 20 something years reader is a single mother but really it can be any age u want, not rlly specified, reader just knows airdrop better than this old man HAH. i think i used like y/n once like. thrice. afab reader, you have a daughter. your ex husband died like 3 years ago.

authors note: i was stuck in the rain today and this idea POSESSED ME. and i had to write it plz cut me some slack it's 5am when i'm posting this i havent slept a wink just i've been writing this. no capitals, its just a lot of yapping this fic, it's a new style of writing. pls let me know if this is shit so i can go back to my old style, this is much more like. idk. stream of thought. pls let me know if anyone wants a sequel, if not this is just a oneshot. so not my ancient rome posessed ass usual...but thats OK. HARRY IS SUCH A GIRLDAD. reblogs and likes and follows are actually just love. ok brb im going to bed now...! (edit, i just woke up) OMG i am so glad u guys like this. i hope u guys like maya she is so cute and teeny and will be using harry has her new climbing frame. reader is just a frazzled single mom who loves her daughter very much. harry realises that a family is something he can still have. i fear i am in the baby fever trenches.

new york in the rain is always…something else entirely. after the break up with lucy, after everything, the summer comes with patchy spells of rain, like clockwork. manhattan’s large buildings cover him from most of the rain, but the road halfway to his office has been blocked since yesterday night, due to emergency works in the pipeline, and he has to walk the last half a mile. and anyway, he’s given this morning off to his driver. the cab driver’s dropped him off here, and now it’s just him and this stretch of road that he has to walk through, and flag another cab on the other side.

he would obviously rather not do such a thing, because. well — his suit is silk and well tailored, and he wears freshly polished oxfords on his feet he’d rather not get scuffed. it’s almost 9, and he is so ridiculously far away from the financial district, it’s embarrassing. this was not a good time to be late for work, especially not late for work in drenched clothes and no umbrella. he had a reputation to uphold, in the office at least.

the rain falls harder, and he starts walking faster, head hunched over his phone on the pavement, he needs to call his assistant, let her know that no he will not be showing up today, and yes he will be there for the meeting by 12. should be anyway.

a splash, and he feels water coat his trousers. they’re grey, and anyone can see the damn water stains on them now. it’s muddy water too, splotches against his calves and his ankles. he looks up from his screen, to see the offending person who’s splashed his $700 suit.

to his surprise, it’s a child in a yellow raincoat. excited as she jumps up and down, her brown hair in plaits as she runs into puddles, a jump, a dart, and then she’s out again, stomping her feet onto every single divot where water has gathered.

he smiles at that, anger being washed away as the rain falls.

and then his eyes land on you, running behind what could only be your daughter. you share the same eyes, the same face shape, you’ re basically mirroring every movement of hers, haphazardly. long hair tied into a bun, you look frazzled, exhausted.

“maya!” you shout, chasing after your daughter with the umbrella in one hand; attempting to not have it blow away by the wind. the other hand reaches out for her, but not before she trips over his oxfords, scuffing them, tumbling into a puddle.

it’s right in front of him, and a child’s just fallen down, he doesn’t have any children, but he isn’t heartless.

he stops his speed walking, and holds out his pointer finger for her to grab, and she does so with her tiny hands, wrapping around his finger, tugging at it. she stands up with a little “oof”, and he can see the scrape on her cheek from when she hit the floor, the muddy water on her face, leaving behind a grubby stain. suddenly, something overwhelms him, and he crouches down to her level, to wipe away a little of the grit that’s pressed against her cheek.

“oh my god, i am so sorry about that!” you say, out of breath, as you catch up to the two of them. he looks at you, and then your daughter. it’s almost as if you’ve managed to copy and paste yourself, a smaller version of you with the same bright eyes, even if yours have been dulled by…well. he doesn’t know. life?

“it’s no worries.” he smiles back, still not standing up, his hands linger over the child’s cheek, the scrape bleeding a little, “hey, is she okay?”

you scrub your face with your hands, and crouch down to your daughter, and he realises that you’re short, quite a bit shorter than him, anyway.

“maya, angel, are you okay?” you wipe the blood away off her skin, the red staining your thumb as your eyes mist up. you hate to see her in pain, that much is obvious.

“otay.” she holds up her thumb in agreement, and nods. harry’s a little surprised kids can be like that, all soft one moment, all solid the next. she scrunches up her nose, and her fringe sticks to her forehead, she can’t be any more than three, a toddler running loose in new york on a wednesday morning. sure, that might as well happen, he think.

“mumma’s still going to check, okay?” you kiss her cheek, and then straighten up, lifting her up in one swoop. he takes it as a cue to stand up too, shaking his arm, and picking up the umbrella you’ve dropped to pick your daughter up.

“your umbrella..?” is literally all he can manage, because his stomach is doing flip flops right now, looking at you. you, with the pretty eyes, fogged up glasses perched on your head. you’re wearing formal wear, a blouse and a floral skirt, and your daughter smiles looking at him holding out the umbrella.

“umbella.” her small hands try and grab it, but there’s no way she’ll be able to hold it, and so he keeps a grip on it, steady.

“i don’t think i have any room for it.” you huff, “you keep it mister!” you wave at him, with your left hand, “seems like you need it.”

no ring.

so why did he notice that?

you smile at him, and he smiles back, before you start walking towards the nearest open coffee shop.

and then he jogs up to them, “hey! miss!” what’s possessing him to do this? he’s fifty for god’s sake, and he sounds like a nineteen year old with a crush.

you turn back, and see him holding out the umbrella for you, “yeah..?”

“your daughter tripped over my shoes,” he sounds sheepish, “let me buy you a coffee, it’s the least i can do ma’am.”

you frown for a second, and then hear the thunderclap, look at the downpour. “okay…yeah, sure. okay, why not.”

maya curls around your neck at the sound of the thunderclap, and the sight squeezes something in his heart. you soothe her with a kiss to her forehead and a stroke on her hair.

“she can’t stand thunderstorms.” you say, nodding at her, “i’m trying to get her to nursery, but the subway wasn’t working? they’re saying the tracks got flooded?”

“they need to fix that, sooner or later.” but he hasn’t used the subway in years, his driver takes him everywhere.

“mhm.” you agree, and the two of you step into the coffee shop, it’s upscale, the ones that sell the bags of their own brand, artisanal coffee in store too.

your daughter — maya — with her brown plaits, blinks up when she smells coffee. and then snuggles back into you again. she’s so tiny, with her little hands playing with the loose strands of hair around your neck. is this what he’s missing out on?

“so, what do you want, anything, it’s on me.” he says, putting the umbrella back in it’s case, and putting it in the empty water bottle holder of your bag.

you frown, and then look down at your daughter. “what do you want baby?”

he didn’t expect you to ask her what she wanted, he just thought you’d get something expensive and leave, what with him inconveniencing you. instead you ask maya, and she murmurs something in your ear.

“have you been here before?” you ask, frowning as he reads the menu.

“this is a chain, there’s one near my work place in the financial district.” he says, noncommittally, there’s no reason to tell her what he does, not yet.

“oh okay,” you say, and then you whisper back to your daughter, “i think if you ask the nice man, he’ll know more than me, okay baby?”

she nods, and then peeks her head out of the crook of her mother’s neck.

“hi.” she says, her voice oh so delicate.

“hi.” he says, a little awkwardly, he’s not great with kids. never has been, probably never will be.

“what’s ‘our name.” she asks it so confidently, it throws him off. in the middle of the line for the counter. you laugh at that, and harry thinks he quite likes the sound of your laugh.

“i’m harry castillo, but you can call me harry.” he holds out his finger again, and she shakes it with her little hand.

“go on, ask mr castillo the question.” you prompt her, gently.

“otay.” she frowns, like she’s remembering. “what’s really sweet here? mumma says i can’t have sweets at home. your teeth get holes. but what’s super sweet here?”

he laughs at that, and you shake your head, “maya! you don’t have to tell mr castillo about home baby.” but he wants to hear about home, he wants to hear about how silly it is raising a child, what your home is like, what maya is like, what you are like.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.” home for him is a huge penthouse with nobody inside. so really, anything is interesting to him.

“otay. can ou tell me what’s sweet here?” she asks, more seriously.

he hums, looking at the menu. “maybe the caramel hot chocolate it’s caramel and chocolate.”

you smile at that and so does maya, matching smiles on your faces, why does it light up the room, why does that light up his morning.

you get to the counter quickly, and he tells the barista what to order, putting his card to the machine before you can even see that he’s picked out two pastries for you two too. is the total $28? yes, but that’s a small price to pay, for everything.

you sit at the couch with your daughter beside you, and the barista calls out “maya!”

you watch as he picks up the plates and cup from the counter, and brings it to you. your daughters eyes widen, and she starts drinking from the cup with the straw.

“you don’t have to do this!” you push the cinnamon bun towards him, your daughter has unfortunately already got her hands on the glazed cherries, and has them in her fist right now, “please, let me pay you back.”

“no, it’s fine, really.” he still has that awkward smile, “i did trip your daughter up.”

“by accident, and it’s fine, kids fall over all the time.”

“but are you sure she seems okay?” he frowns, and he notices your eyes catch his hands.

“she’s fine, i promise, it’s nothing more than a little graze, see?” you point to her cheek, and the scrape has scabbed over already.

“and her head and everything…?” he says, and you smile again, more reassuringly.

“yes,” you take a sharp breath, “kids are meant to survive, i promise, she’s okay.”

“oh.” he says, quietly, “okay.”

“no worries mr castillo, thank you so much, maya will be raving about this for days now.” you smile at him, genuine gratitude, and it’s at this moment where he realises that he would spoil you and maya forever. if he could.

“i didn’t catch your name..?” he asks, gentle smile on his face.

“oh yeah, of course, it’s (y/n).” your focus is on your daughter now, who asks if you can cut up the cherry turnover into smaller pieces for her. it’s clear you have no idea who the hell he is, and he’d rather it stay the way.

it’s cute, how quickly maya smiles at him, how you smile at him. he walks up to the counter to get another paper straw as the one in maya’s cup starts to disintegrate, and the barista there smiles at him.

“lovely family you’ve got there.” she says, handing the straw over, “your daughter looks just like your wife, except she’s got your smile.”

those words make him freeze. daughter, wife. you just met them half an hour ago, and suddenly you do look like you and maya would suit his apartment better, suddenly it looks like maya’s little smile looks a little like his own.

“oh that’s…” he trails off, just take the win man, you aren’t going to get a wife and child. not at your age, his mind thinks. “thank you.”

“no worries, have a nice day!”

and he walks back to the couch where the two of you sit, sitting across you again.

“here’s the straw.” he hands it over, and you swap out the straw that’s broken for the other one.

“thanks.” you smile, and nudge your daughter.

“tanks mr catillo.” she sniffles, and then sips the hot chocolate again.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.”

is it? his heart is melting.

“do you have anywhere to be later?” he asks, and your smile turns into a frown quickly. that was a silly question.

“yeah, work. maya can’t stay without me too long in weather like this, so i’m just taking her to work with me.” you sigh, “i mostly work from home, but the office says you need to come in on wednesdays.”

“oh, which way are you going?” he asks, and you shrug.

“midtown, i work at a tech company, but i doubt i’ll be anywhere at this time of day.”

he laughs at that, all rich like butter and biscuits. “yeah, fair enough, i’m trying to get to the financial district without looking like a wet rat.”

you smile at him, and he can feel your eyes ghost over his curls. “no, i don’t think you look like a wet rat mr castillo.”

“it’s harry.” he sighs, and leans over the table, maya mimicks him and does the same. they’re content in making silly faces at each other for a bit as you scroll through your inbox.

“i’ve never seen her take to someone so quick.” there’s a smile on your face, proud. “she’s always very shy, but she loves jumping up in the rain.”

he hasn’t thought of lucy, or matchmaking, or anything right now. just the woman in front of him, with the child currently blowing a raspberry at him.

“maybe i just have a trustworthy aura.” he smiles, all charm.

“or maybe it’s because you gave her three sources of sugar.” but there’s no bite to your words, not really, “thanks, i can’t wait for the sugar crash that’s going to come next.”

maya has a fringe that sticks to her face with the rain, and your glasses that are fogged up sit on your hair, and you smile at him like he’s the only man alive.

oh god. he’s sunk in so deep, it’s ridiculous.

and he doesn’t even know if you’re single, available, whatever. no ring doesn’t mean, no father.

“can’t you give her to her father?” he blurts out, and your vision darkens.

“no, um, maya’s dad died two months after she was born.” you shake your head. “daddy’s with the stars now, isn’t he?” you say, in hushed tones to your daughter, but it’s like you’re saying it for yourself.

“oh.” he gets quiet again, “sorry about that.”

“no it’s fine, really.” you say, with some resolution in your voice. the sun is finally peeking out of the clouds, and this magical moment has to come to an end, soon anyway.

maya burrows into your chest again as you coax her to stand up, she doesn’t want to walk any longer, and harry doesn’t know how long you’ve been walking for anyway. without a single thought, he picks up your daughter like she weighs nothing.

maya shrieks with laughter, this is higher up than she’s used to.

you just stare at him with narrowed eyes, but he just sort of stands there, six feet tall with a child perched in his arms, waiting for you to say something.

you huff, and then close your eyes, as if to say “i’m trusting you with this.” and then your eyes harden, “if you hurt her..”

his face blanches, but he still holds onto her like she’s precious, and she is precious, with freckles on her face and bright eyes like she’s the sun incarnate.

she sits on his shoulders once you leave the coffee shop, the water is drying quickly and there aren’t too many people on the streets. your eyes still linger on your daughter, but also trail over his broad shoulders and broad back.

tugging at his hair with her small hands, squishing his face, “don’t pull mr castillo’s hair.” you scold.

“it’s fine really.”

“are you sure?” you ask, worried.

“i’m sure.” he nods, and maya is folding over his face now, dangling her face against his.

“do ‘ou like cheese? stars make noises? can ‘ou read?” rapid fire questions that come out of her mouth. you smile as he painstakingly answers them “yes i like cheese, i don’t know about stars sorry, and yes i can read.”

she hums thoughtfully, and then sits back up, playing with his hair. the blocked off road is coming to an end now, and you reach at her feet, in little wellington booties.

“cmon now, time to say goodbye to mr castillo.” he’s given up correcting you.

“arry.” she says, sadly, hand still in his hair.

“careful now maya-bear, mumma has to go to office, you need to come with me okay?” you reach out for her? and harry tries to pass her down, but her hands pull at his shirt.

“come on now.” you coax her again, “you can see mr castillo later on, okay?” and she clambers off him, and onto you.

“thank you for that.” you whisper, gratefully.

“no worries miss.” he smiles, a blush on his cheeks. god what he wouldn’t do to have a family like this, a wife and his own child, running around. then he wouldn’t even have to tell them to go.

“it’s (y/n),” you clear your throat, “it’s fine, call me that and i’ll call you harry.”

“(y/n) it is then.”

“right—“ you put maya down, and let her walk beside you, holding onto your hand. “this is where we say goodbye, right?”

a feeling in his chest. would this be his last chance?

“are you free tomorrow evening?” he asks, far too quickly.

“tomorrow..evening..?” you stutter, “um, maybe? i dunno, i’ll have to check, probably not though, mayasitting .”

“oh, i was just wondering if you wanted to get some dinner.”

“oh, OH.” you blush, “right, like. that. and this is dinner dinner, and not just, dinner.”

“…what?” he knits his brows.

“no, i mean, never mind.” you shake your head, maya pulling at your hand to turn right. “like, dinner as in. like feeling bad for a single mom sort of dinner or-“

“no, date dinner.” he likes when you stumble over your words, it’s cute.

“ah, date dinner.” you hum, “yeah okay, if you’re okay with maya coming.” a protective hand on her head. “i’m not going anywhere without her, or your house.”

“no, of course.” he glances down at maya, “of course she can come. there’s a nice pizza joint in downtown manhattan that you should come visit. it’s near my office.”

your lips quirk upwards, a ghost of a smile, “okay, yeah, sure, i’d like that. would you like it maya?”

maya grabs onto his trouser clad leg with her grabby little hands (sticky with sugar from the pastries) “PIZZA!”

“okay, so that’s decided then.” your mouth is dry as you watch him smile down at her and shake her hand again. he’s so good with your girl, it makes your heart thud, “can i get your number?”

he nods, and then passes over a business card, and you laugh as you read over it. “i meant maybe airdropping my contact over? but this works fine too.”

greying hair, wrinkles around his eyes, sure he’s not your usual type, a a bit older, but you haven’t dated since your husband died anyway.

you ring the number you’ve just inputted, and his phone rings. “save me right now, so you can find me faster.”

“okay, okay.” he puts your name down, “see you six pm? i’ll send the location over?”

( maya doesn’t let go of his leg until she’s promised she’ll see him tomorrow, 200%, and somewhere in his shattered broken heart, a seed of hope grows. )

thank you for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! any comments are very appreciates. lots of loveeee angie

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