#i wonder what's in it for her.. and for both of them really

[supershithits]

mysteries of our disguise revolve

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just so much for a girl in her twenties.

You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s yours.

Goddammit.

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

[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]

[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]

[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]

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

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

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

It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.

Don’t beat yourself up over it.

It’s just one article.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear it. His voice.

“…Hey.”

Clark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not.”

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

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

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

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

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

You choke on your own saliva.

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

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

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”

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

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

You scratch your nose. “Sure?”

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

“…No.”

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

“Oh my God.”

“I warned you.”

“No, but—a thesaurus?”

“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he echoes.

A pause.

“Wanna hear another one?”

“Clark, please—”

“What do you call fake spaghetti?”

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

“An impasta.”

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

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

“Of terrible puns?”

“Of coffee and emotional support.”

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

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

“You always carry tissues with you?”

“A man needs to be prepared.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.

You like Lois.

You really, really do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jimmy blinks.

Then blinks again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

“Give me a break.”

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

“Drop it, Jimmy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again.

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

And somehow, that settles it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, are you?”

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

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

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

“Are you annoyed?” you ask.

His smile fades. “What?”

“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”

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

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

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

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

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

“She’d eat you alive.”

“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”

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

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

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

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

He smiles then. “The team.”

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

“Caro?”

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

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

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

“Oh. You sure?”

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

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

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

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

“You really don’t have to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”

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

“How do you…?”

“What?”

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

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

“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”

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

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

“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You say that like I’m not honored.”

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

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

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

“Clark?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”

He pauses. “I had a feeling.”

You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”

Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. ���Takes one to know one.”

You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.

By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.

You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”

“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.

There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—

An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.

He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me a call if it gets worse.”

“Only if I want to be carried again.”

“Happy to oblige.”

And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.

You’re beyond head over heels.

Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.

Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.

Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.

You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—

“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”

“Clark told you,” you say flatly.

Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”

“I cannot believe he told you.”

“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”

“I hate you.”

He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”

“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”

“Not attention in general. Just his.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.

Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—

“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.

You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”

Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”

“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”

“...Okay.”

You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.

“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”

“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”

He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”

“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”

And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.

Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.

You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.

Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”

You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.

Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.

Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.

You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.

And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.

Your charger.

Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.

Jimmy Olsen.

You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”

“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.

“You left your charger here—”

“Don’t even get me started on that.”

“—but I already gave it to Clark.”

Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.

“You what?”

“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”

“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”

“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”

“Jimmy—”

“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.

You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.

Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.

In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.

“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”

You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”

He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”

You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”

He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”

You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.

“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”

You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”

He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”

Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”

He says nothing. So you keep going.

“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”

You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”

Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”

You blink. “What?”

“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”

Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.

“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”

“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”

And so he begins to read.

You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.

There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.

“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”

“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”

“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”

Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”

“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.

You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.

He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.

“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”

“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”

When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.

You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”

“Do what?”

Does he want you to say it?

You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.

That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.

One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.

His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”

You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.

Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.

You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.

He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.

“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”

A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.

Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.

At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.

It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.

He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.

Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.

Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.

And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.

At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.

Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.

Then:

“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.

That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”

He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”

He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.

You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”

“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.

“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”

“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”

“How noble of you, Kent.”

Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.

But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.

Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.

It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.

Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.

One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”

Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.

Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”

He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”

“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”

“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”

Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”

Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.

Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”

The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“Mr. Kent.”

His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”

He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”

“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”

“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look beautiful today.”

It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”

His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.

As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.

Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.

Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.

You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.

There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.

You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.

Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.

The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.

Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.

Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.

Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.

And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.

The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.

Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.

The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.

Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”

You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.

You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.

Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.

“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”

He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.

Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”

You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”

His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”

If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.

Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.

In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.

His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.

For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.

A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.

You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."

He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.

Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”

“I told you—”

“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”

He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Disappointed, then?”

“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”

He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”

You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”

That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”

“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”

“I’ve been telling you—”

“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”

“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”

“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”

“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.

Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”

“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”

“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”

You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”

“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"

“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”

Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.

He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”

“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.

“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”

Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.

The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.

One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.

You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.

Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.

He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.

It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.

Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.

Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.

But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.

You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.

Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.

Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.

Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.

Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.

His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”

You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”

He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”

“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”

He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.

His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.

Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”

You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I want to know.”

“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”

“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”

For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.

Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.

So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”

“Then you know what comes next.”

Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.

It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.

Sleep won’t come.

You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.

So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—

You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.

And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.

It all makes you wonder where Superman is.

He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.

You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.

Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”

It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.

You can’t look away.

The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.

For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—

No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.

Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.

“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”

Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.

Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”

You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.

Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.

There he is.

Clark.

Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.

Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.

Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.

Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.

Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.

Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.

If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.

If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.

They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.

Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.

You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.

The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.

The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.

Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.

For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.

Straight through you.

Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”

You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.

He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.

You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.

Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.

Gone.

You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.

“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”

The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.

Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”

Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside

At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.

“Clark—”

“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”

It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.

They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?

“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”

Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.

You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?

“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”

You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.

In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.

“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them.  “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”

You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.

Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.

The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.

He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.

A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.

“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”

You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.

“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”

His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment.  “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”

So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.

“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment.  “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.

There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”

“What do you mean—”

“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”

Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”

It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”

“I love you.”

“Again. Please.”

You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”

He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”

“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.

Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.

But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you

He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.

You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”

“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”

“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”

You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”

“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”

A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”

“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”

Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”

“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”

Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”

“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.

“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gorgeous

Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.

He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”

“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”

Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.

“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”

You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.

You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth.  “I came as well. Mentally.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”

“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.

Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.

“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”

Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.

“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”

You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.

“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”

It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.

His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.

“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.

“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”

Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.

This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.

When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.

He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—

Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.

Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.

Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.

By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.

You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.

He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?

“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”

And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.

The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.

Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.

At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.

To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.

“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”

You slow your pace but don’t let go.

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.

You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.

“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”

“Baby, I swear—”

“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”

“Then you deserve it.”

“But twice?”

“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”

One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.

“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”

He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.

Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.

In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.

Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.

His voice is low.  “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”

“Condom?”

He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”

“I told you you could come inside me.”

That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.

“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.

He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.

“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”

“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”

Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”

“Yes.”

“Bare.”

“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”

He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”

“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”

“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”

He pushes in.

At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.

“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.

“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”

“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”

“Want me to kiss you?”

He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”

You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”

“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”

A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”

His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.

“Why not?”

“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”

It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.

As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.

Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.

He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.

The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.

It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.

“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.

The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.

You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.

“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.

It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.

His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.

You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.

“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.

“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.

“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”

And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.

It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.

He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.

Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.

You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.

He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.

“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”

You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.

The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”

You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”

“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”

You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.

There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.

“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.

A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”

“What does that have to do with what I just said?”

“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of.I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”

“That… was a weird route to get there.”

He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”

You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”

“It was like a week ago.”

“We weren’t even speaking.”

He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”

“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”

“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”

“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”

“Oh. Right. I guess I—”

“Are you going to?”

“I—would you want to?”

You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”

When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”

At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.

Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.

Somehow, it feels even truer in his.

dividers by: @bbyg4rlhelps <3

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

So much of my impression of Reed Richards as autistic in the new Fantastic Four movie comes from Pedro Pascal's delivery. The way he chooses to say these lines makes such a difference--like "I am that smart" or "Anyone can build a crib, only I can build this" could EASILY have made him read as an a-hole, but Pedro's Reed says them with a sincerity that feels very autistic to me. He's not bragging or being snide, he's just stating the truth, and there's even a lot of gentleness in it. (And, I mean, come on, his confusion about the extra screws for the crib? "They included two extra...I have no idea why." He meant that!) His argument with Ben about how "cooking is more of an art than a math or a science" and how he failed his driver's test because of "poorly placed signage" (I love him) could have felt pedantic or prideful, but he says them with this sweet, almost abashed feeling that feels very genuine and familiar.

His reactions to Sue's pregnancy and the press post-Galactus excursion also read as autistic: he is clearly feeling a lot, but he isn't sure how to express it, so with Sue it comes out as immediately moving to problem-solving ("we'll have to design tests to account for our mutated DNA--") and with the press it shows up as reassurance-seeking: even though he's at the mic, he is constantly looking over at his family as if they could tell him what he should say. They even do end up answering some questions for him, and the most he says without a very long pause is his first comment: "I'm sorry we don't have a prepared statement" (which because of its delivery also feels very autistic).

And there's also his face, which is highlighted as very expressive in contrast to his fairly monotone voice. "I finally crossed it off the list," is said very simply and without context (true autistic information-sharing lol) but when Johnny jokes with him afterwards about taking back all the bad things he's said, Reed's face is telegraphing that he doesn't know how much of it is a joke. And at the start of the film, it's joked that his face is what gives away the pregnancy. (Not to mention Ben's joke about being surprised Reed isn't in panic-induced sweats and his reply that "I had that scheduled for later"...sir. You're not dodging the allegations)

Even in his fight with Sue the entirety of what he says is just so autistic to me. "I don't dream, I don't wonder. I let all of the worst things into my head, because it's my job to think of the bad things so that we can do them to them before they do them to us!" and Sue responds, "It's not your job, it's you." And he immediately agrees. And when Sue says "Sometimes, you being you hurts me," he can only pause and say "I don't mean to..." And Sue responds, "I know." And both of them feel so honest in how they say these lines! Reed really doesn't mean to hurt her, of course he doesn't, but he also doesn't know any other way to be, and he doesn't know how to make it hurt her less, and you can feel that he's really at a loss for what to do. Thankfully he is met with understanding, but the experience of the way you are and how you function being something that can hurt other people without your intending to or being able to help it is extremely relatable to autistic people. On top of this interaction, Reed feels like his whole family's pain is his fault, because he "should have known" that the suits "were...inadequate"--self-blame which makes him even more relatable.

And then there's the heartbreaking scene with him and Franklin where he quietly tells him, "I hope you're not like me. There's something wrong with me...always has been." It wasn't just the mutated DNA that made Reed feel wrong. He says he's always felt that way. There's nothing more autistic than that.

Anyway yeah I'm used to Reed feeling like a colder, less-emotional version of Tony Stark, but Pedro Pascal really breathes new life into this character. He is anxious and particular and warm and very, very autistic.

[sparrows4bats]

Jonathan Kent is an oblivious jealous fool when it comes to Damian Wayne.

Thanks to @honeyplus for inspiring this and talking through ideas.

The whole mess starts when Jon accidentally overhears a conversation. He doesn't usually tune into Damians conversations he just listens to his best friends heartbeat and lets it soothe him. This time, he catches a few errant words that flip his whole world upside down.

Damian is sitting with his coworkers at the hospital discussing their love lives when Damian is asked who his ideal type is. He tries to dissuade them but is eventually pestered into answering. Jon would laugh at the once proud Damian Wayne being broken down by middle aged nurses but the answer stops him dead.

"I guess I like a guy that's smart, strong, kind, and loyal."

One of the interns yells, "Duh! We all want a dashing prince charming, but we meant what is your type physically? Do you like rich bastards like yourself with killer jawlines or bad boys in leather jackets? Stuff like that!"

Damian blanches at the suggestions. "I am not attracted to men like that at all!"

"What does it for you then?"

Here, Damians heartbeat picks up a little, and Jon can imagine his faint blush. "I like simpler men, I guess. Ones that don't care about money too much. Animal and nature lovers, stuff like that."

"So you have a thing for farmhands and hikers, huh?"

Damian laughs. "With black hair and blue eyes."

The people around him sigh and start suggesting people they could set Damian up with. One even mentions that her brother is a vet!

Jon stops listening at that point and starts to panic because is Damian planning to replace him?!

All those things Damian listed apply to him and the idea of someone else coming into Damians life like that sets him on edge.

Jon tries to forget it it but his thoughts are haunted by some blue-eyed outdoors man taking his best friend away from him.

Because if Damian wants a date, Jon can take him on dates! As a friend, of course, he doesn't want to make him uncomfortable! They do everything else together, and platonic dates sound like fun!

Jon is smart, kind, and strong. Damian doesn't need anyone else!

So after work, he flies to Damians Apartment to ask if he'd like to go on a friend date with him.

Damian isn't home from his shift at the hospital yet, so Jon uses his key to let himself in and starts fixing dinner for them both, like he has done hundreds of times before.

Damian comes in about an hour later exhausted from a surgery that ran long.

"I made food!" Jon shouts over his shoulder as Damian dissappears to change out of his scrubs.

"Thanks!" Damian shouts back from the bedroom.

Jon plates up just as Damian comes back wearing sweats.

They eat and discuss their days until Jon plucks up the courage to ask Damian what he has wanted to all day.

"So I was wondering, do you want to go on a date with me tomorrow?"

Damian stops chewing and stares at him.

"As friends!" Jon adds, waving his hands in front of him.

Damian takes a deep breath and says, "Jonathan, we have been dating for months."

Jon feels his sense of reality shift. "Oh. Wait. What?!"

Damian sets his utensils down now. "We have been dating romanticly for months."

"I would remember having that conversation!"

"It wasn't so much a conversation but a natural progression of things."

"But we haven't even kissed yet!"

"I thought you were taking things slow."

"But." Jons head is spinning now. It's not a bad idea, dating Damian for real. It would keep hypothetical veterinarians from trying to steal him away, but he is so confused. "What do you mean months?"

"Jon, you live with me." Damian deadpans

"Yeah, but"

"We share a bed every night."

"That's friend beh-"

"We cuddle."

"That's normal."

"You were discussing having kids with me last week, Jon."

"I just really love you and think you'd make an amazing dad." Jon gets misty eyed just thinking about it.

"I know Habibi, but we shower together." Damian is exasperated now.

"Platonically!'

"Jon, the only thing we don't do that a couple does is have sex.

Jonathan Kents brain leaks out his ears at the mental picture alone. "Sex was an option this whole time?! And you didn't tell me?!"

Damian sighs. "I climbed into your shower and wore my nice underwear to bed. I don't know how I could have been more obvious."

Jon remembers that underwear and how good Damian looked in it, but he had thought it was normal to want to kiss your best friend when they are as attractive as Damian is. The idea that he could have is messing with him.

He focuses back on his apparent boyfriend, who is looking very unimpressed with him.

"Can we have sex now?" Jon tries.

Damian groans and rubs the bridge of his nose. "No, I'm tired tonight."

Jon is disappointed, but at least that no wasn't a never.

"And" Damian interrupts his train of thoughts "I have been trying to seduce you for weeks so I expect a little more romance than that Jonathan Kent!"

Oh. Jon knows that tone of voice, Damian is pissed. Jon is going to have to grovel big time.

Damian finishes his dinner and does the dishes just like every night.

Jon joins him in bed, and instead of just cuddling, Damian kisses him goodnight. It makes Jon warm, and his heart skips several beats.

Maybe his feelings were romantic, after all. Huh.

The grovelling begins the next morning with breakfast in bed and Jon making reservations for their first, definitely not platonic, date.

Damian is still pissed but does kiss him goodbye when he heads to work.

Jon tries to look for advice but everyone he asks stares at him in horror or laughs in his face. Even his Mom.

It takes a week of dates, coffee deliveries, and getting Damian the cake he likes from Turkey for him to be forgiven.

Jon has a great time getting kisses and confessing his love at every opportunity now that he knows that he can.

At least now he doesn't feel guilty for staring at Damian in the shower. And if he can convince Damian to marry him as soon as possible, no one can ever take him away from him!

[formulafanfics13]

omg girly you're drowning, pls feel no pressure for this one!!

maybe a fem!reader x Oscar, but reader is very similar to Lily Z (imagine they've broken up), and they keep getting compared online for being quiet, private, maybe even appearance wise, and Oscar being Oscar is oblivious. Fluff or angst idm, THANK YOU!!

not her - OP81

Masterlist

summary: Oscar never really talks about his ex. You’ve never asked. But when you start getting compared to her online - quietly, repeatedly, under every photo, in every comment thread - you can’t stop seeing it either. The same quiet, the same low profile, the same soft smile. And Oscar? He doesn’t notice. Not at first. Until one night, you stop laughing. And he finally sees it.

warnings: mentions of past relationship (Oscar x Lily Z), online comparison, insecurity, emotional vulnerability, gentle confrontation, soft angst, comforting fluff ending

It starts on Instagram. A tagged photo. A blurry one, taken by a fan outside a restaurant in Monaco. You and Oscar, walking side by side. He’s in his usual hoodie and cap. You’re in a long black coat. No makeup. No smile. Your hand is in your pocket, not in his. There’s nothing performative about it. Just two people walking. But the comments say more.

she’s like a copy of lily lmao oscar has a type and it’s “mysterious brunette who doesn’t speak” lowkey thought that was lily at first

You don’t say anything. Oscar doesn’t notice. He’s talking about his sim race later that night, about a new coffee place near the McLaren offices, about how he thinks someone stole his charger again. You laugh. You nod. You delete the app before he can catch you scrolling.

It happens again a week later. A new paddock photo. You in sunglasses, sitting on the pit wall before the race. You didn’t even know someone took it. But it ends up on Twitter.

lily vibes oscar moved on but stayed the same lol quiet girl 2.0

You don’t say anything then either. Oscar’s head is in the game. Focused. Sweet. His hand squeezes yours during the anthem. He kisses your cheek in the garage and tells you he’ll see you after the podium, win or lose.

You smile. But it feels smaller than it should. You’d never asked about Lily. Not really. You knew they dated. That it lasted long enough to sting when it ended. You knew they kept it private. That she was soft-spoken and polite and good at making herself invisible when she wanted to be. You’d seen the old photos. The archive posts. The comments.

You never wanted to be her. But now you can’t stop wondering if you are.

The tipping point comes on a quiet evening in London. You’re both curled up on the couch, the TV playing something neither of you is watching. Oscar’s in sweats and socks, his head resting on your thigh, one arm draped over your legs. You’re scrolling aimlessly, fingers twitching. Then you see it again.

are we sure this isn’t lily in disguise?

You lock your phone. Oscar glances up. “Everything okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head.

He sits up slowly. “Talk to me.”

You hesitate. Then quietly, you ask. “Do people ever say I remind you of her?”

Oscar frowns. “Of who?”

“Lily.”

He blinks. Like the thought had never even occurred to him. “What? No.”

“They do online.”

He watches you now. Really watches. “Since when?”

“Since always, I think.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrug. “Because I thought maybe it was true.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “You’re nothing like her.”

You look up.

He shifts closer. “She was... different. We were different. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t right. It faded. You-” He exhales. “You don’t fade.”

Your chest tightens. Oscar reaches for your hand. “You’re not like her. You’re not like anyone. I love that you’re quiet. I love that you keep things to yourself. I love that I don’t always know what you’re thinking, because when you do tell me, it means something.”

Your throat closes.

“And if people can’t tell the difference,” he adds, “that’s on them. Not you.”

You breathe. Then laugh, shaky. “You didn’t even realise it was happening.”

He grins, sheepish. “Okay, yeah. I’m not great at picking up on subtle things.”

“Like fan commentary?”

“Or how often you call me ‘Pi-ass-tri’ when you’re annoyed.”

You smile, soft now. “It’s because it sounds like a warning.”

He leans in, forehead against yours. “So... what do you need from me? Less photos? More photos? Full name change?”

You laugh again. “Just... keep seeing me. Not what other people think I am.”

Oscar kisses your cheek.

“I’ve only ever seen you.”

[i4satoruz]

I CAN SEE YOU

pairing — childhood enemy!gojo x afab!reader

synopsis — you’ve hated gojo satoru since he insulted your precious glitter stickers at age six—and he’s made it his life’s mission to annoy you ever since. but after thirteen years of bickering, teasing, and showing up uninvited, one cracked smile during your date announcement makes you wonder: is hatred and annoyance truly the only emotions he can teach you?

tags — enemies to lovers, one-sided (?) pining, gojo being a complete menace like he always is, two year age gap, reader and gojo are both in college, not super slow slowburn, jealous!gojo but he covers it up with being annoying, reader is suguru's little sister, brother's bestfriend!gojo, fluff, idiot(s) in love, eventual smut in the next part ;)

wc: 1.8k

from this headcanon: childhoodenemy!gojo. likes and reblogs are very very appreciated!

at the ripe age of six, you had been introduced to two new emotions. hatred and annoyance. courtesy to your brother’s best friend, of course. if there was something you took pride in, it would be your patience. so why is it that every time you’re in the same radius as satoru gojo, that you find yourself screaming your head off every minute? well, let's just say that if your patience is what you pride yourself for, satoru’s was his outstanding ability to piss you off. 

you first met him when suguru had brought him over to play this new game on his console, and ever since then, they became inseparable. much to your dismay. 

the front door slammed open without warning, making your head turn toward the uninvited visitor. “suguru! I brought the weird soda you like! okay not gonna lie, i tasted a bit of it on the way here and it tastes absolutely horrible–“ 

it was unknown to you that the man who was about to be at the top of your ‘most hated things’ list had just strolled in as if he’d known the place. he had messy unkempt white hair, bright blue irises, and clothes that was definitely a wardrobe felony by how mismatched they were.

in one hand he held a half-empty bright blue soda can and a bag of chips and sweets in the other. sitting on the middle of the living room floor was you. you stared at him. he stared right back. tilting his head, he pointed at you. “who’s that?”

your brother smiled, sitting cross-legged beside you. “my sister. we’re playing stickers.”

gojo blinked. then a boyish grin appeared on his face. “stickers? really, suguru? thats what you made me rush over here for?” he took a step closer to the both of you, crouched and then peered. “so sparkly. they’re kinda girly, aren’t they?”

“they’re mine.” you say defensively, snapping your sticker book shut.

gojo tilted his head, smirking. “i never said it was bad. just… cute. i guess.” he shrugged, voice still laced with something teasing. “do you name your stickers too? like ‘princess cupcake’? oh! or maybe ‘sir bunny wunny’?”

you scowled. “no.”

“uh-huh. sure. totally convinced.” he looked at suguru with a grin. “she’s like a little rabbit. look at her cheeks.”

“they’re normal cheeks!” you burst, red-faced.

“i dunno, you’re kind of puffing them out right now.”

you glared at him, then stood up and slapped your sticker book against his arm with just enough force to slightly hurt.

“hey! violence doesn’t help you make friends y’know!’

“i don’t wanna be your friend!”

gojo gasped, mock-offended. “you wound me, miss bunny wunny!”

suguru groaned quietly. you stomped off the hallway, muttering, “how can someone be this annoying?!”

behind you, gojo shouted cheerfully, “i get that a lot!”

it has been thirteen years since that cursed afternoon in your living room. thirteen years since gojo satoru barged into your quiet little world. insulted your prized stickers, called you a little rabbit, and taught you two new emotions that refused to die around his presence. 

you’d like to say you got over it.

you didn’t.

not when he still brings it up like comedy gold and definitely not when he still occasionally calls you by that annoying nickname. not when he never got out of that habit of randomly strolling in your house as if it was his and making sure he got to annoy you every chance he got.

“you are aware that you’re not funny, right?” you deadpan stare as he cracked the lamest joke of the century. it’s the third time this week he showed up uninvited, the second time he ate your snacks, and the nth time he cracked a joke that only seemed to make himself laugh. it was a tuesday.

gojo, still laughing at his joke, looked back at you with that shit-eating grin. “i’m hilarious. you‘re just emotionally repressed.” he took another bite of your pocky, enjoying the situation. you fold your arms across your chest. it’s that same smug look that seemed to grow more annoyingly irritating over time. it physically hurt to restrain yourself from shoving him out the nearest window.

“you’re twenty-one. grow up.”

he shrugs. “you’re nineteen. grow taller.” you glare at him. your height was his personal favorite way of attacking you. “besides, it’s amusing how your ears still twitch when you’re mad.” 

“they do not twitch.”

“hm,” he taps at his temple. “photographic memory. living room floor, age six. you had glitter stickers and an impressive need for murder in your eyes for a six year old.” you rolled your eyes. he was delighted. gojo knew he just relived an embarrassing memory for you.

“i should’ve followed through. then, i wouldn’t have to deal with you.”

gojo, who was previously leaning on a counter, straightened his posture. “and miss all this?” he gestures to himself like he’s a walking miracle. “tragic.” your eyes twitch.

you step forward, snatch the pocky from his hand, and toss it in the trash.

he gasps as if you just did a heinous crime right in front of his eyes. “that’s limited edition!” you scoff. “for the record that was mine," your eyes had narrowed in his direction. "and don’t act like you can’t buy those for yourself.”

as he was about to retaliate, probably to say a smug remark, your phone lit up. a specific notification made a smile creep on your face.

“dId the assassin you hired to kill me finally respond?”

“haha, very funny.” sarcasm dripping from every word. “just confirming dinner plans.” you say casually.

“with?” his head tilting as he asks.

“someone,” you reply, not looking up from whatever you were typing. “it’s a date.”

you don’t miss it, the slightest crack in his usual teasing demeanor. his grin falters for a moment. a moment short enough to pretend it didn’t happen, but long enough for you to notice. after all, you’ve known him for thirteen years. before you could raise an eyebrow at the sudden change, he masked it again with amusement. weird.

“oh?” he says, tone light. “poor guy. he has no idea what he’s in for.”

this time, you do arch a brow. “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“nothing, nothing.” he says, waving you off, already recovering. “he better like unsolicited nicknames. and emotional damage. and attitude 24/7. oh! add lazing around everyday to that list too.”

you roll your eyes, and start toward the hallway. showing him your middle finger along the way. “so what’s he like?” gojo calls after you, unfazed. “is he tall? funny? emotionally stable? that’s rare these days.”

you keep walking.

“come on,” he says, trailing behind you now. you hated how fast he was catching up to you with that height. “is he one of those pretentious film majors who only drinks iced americano and claims dead poets society is the best movie of all time? or maybe he thinks he’s deep cause he owns a record player.” 

you pause outside your door. “why do you care?”

“i don’t.” he says too loud, too fast. too suspicious. “just worried that you’re lowering your standards. i set the bar very high, you know.”

you almost laugh at his statement. one of your many problems with gojo is that you never seemed to know when he's joking or not. so, for the sake of your already diminishing sanity, you choose to believe that what he said was another one of his jokes.

“you are the bar. hellishly low and easy to trip over.”

he gasps, clutching his chest for the dramatics. “that’s slander!”

you open your door, done with him. “i’m going to get ready. go back to my brother’s room and annoy him instead. stress isn’t a good look for the first date.”

as you walk in, he follows, leaning on the doorframe like a lazy shadow. “you gonna wear that black dress? the one with the little sleeves?”

a beat.

you blink. “how do you remember what i wear to dates?” for once your tone didn’t seemed annoyed, just genuinely curious. the grin never left his face. you saw gojo satoru in many ways, and not once did the word 'observant' make it to the list. with the exception of noticing something only if it'll piss you off.

“photographic memory. also, you’ve worn that dress twice now. one for that guy from your chem class. and now this one.” he continues on, as if the newfound information didn’t shock you at all.

you, however, managed to keep your cool unlike the uninvited guy that’s now in your room. “you seriously keep track?” something in your voice shifted, and you pray he doesn’t notice. god knows what kind of unbearable teasing would come with it.

“wouldn’t you like to know.” he turns, shifting his position at the doorframe like he hasn’t just peeled back a layer you didn’t mean to show. you watch him, his arms still crossed over his chest, your heartbeat louder than you’d like. of course he noticed. of course he’d say it like that—half-joking, half-daring you to call his bluff.

stupid dress. stupid memory. stupid gojo satoru and his stupid smug—

“i mean,” he pauses, as if he was carefully choosing his words, “just curious who you’re going out with this time.”

you narrow your eyes. “why?” your tone remained suspicious. “are you gonna track the guy down and flood his inbox with my worst moments?"

he shrugs, all faux-casual. “wonderful idea, bunny wunny, but you're very wrong. just hope he’s better than the chem guy. that one had a weird handshake.”

“you met him once.”

“once was enough.”

you roll your eyes. “are you done investigating me?”

“not even close,” he grins, but his voice has that edge again—too light, too fast.

you tilt your head. “you always this nosy?”

“only when it’s fun.”

there’s a beat where neither of you speak. he watches you, and you try not to fidget under the weight of it.

then: “what’s his name, anyway?”

“you don’t know him.”

“i could.”

“you’re not gonna.”

“hmm.” he turns to leave. “hope he’s funny.”

you blink. “why?”

“no reason,” he says too smoothly. he looked over his shoulder and his gaze landed on you. “you’ve got that kind of laugh that takes effort. would be a shame to waste it.”

you stare at him.

he gives you a lazy wave and disappears down the hallway before you can think of something to say back. which is probably for the best. you’re not sure what you would’ve said.

probably something dumb. probably something he’d laugh at.

because that’s just what he does—pokes and prods until you bristle, all smug and effortless, like getting under your skin is his favorite sport.

he’s been like that since you were six. thirteen years later, nothing’s changed.

if anything, he’s only gotten better at it.

so no—gojo satoru hasn’t changed and he probably never will. so what was that look on his face that told you he’s thinking of a million things in one second? if you listened to your gut, which was almost always right, you had the inkling that you might’ve been in one of those million thoughts. or maybe you’re in every single one. who knows?

credits to @/cursed-carmine for the divider

if u read until the end ily 🩷 not proofread, so please excuse if there are any formatting, grammatical or spelling errors!! if anyone wants to be tagged in the next part lmk <3

edit: in the next part, would u guys be interested in reading gojo's pov? or do u guys want to stick with your pov? pls pls lmk !!

[shortnfreaky]

hi hope i’m doing this request thing right lol

actually anything with johnny storm would be fantastic cause i’m starving (pun intended) but what about it’s the first time reader (his so/crush/etc) is joining them for their sunday family dinner 🩵🫶

ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

a/n: love this, can't wait for more johnny requests and all the fics starting to pop up

warnings: fem!reader

masterlist ✶ requests are open!

Welcome to the Family

You fiddled with the sleeves of your sweater, walking down cold streets of New York, Johnny right by your side. He took notice.

"Hey, look at me." He says, stopping right in front of the Fantastic Four's tower.

You stopped in your tracks, turning your head to look at him. Johnny grabbed both of your hands. "You don't have anything to be nervous about, alright? They're going to love you, I know it." He speaks, looking you right in the eyes as he rubs your hands.

You nod, offering your boyfriend a small smile, "I know, I just think I have the jitters."

"You're gonna do great, c'mon." Johnny smiled, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek before leading you into the tower.

You followed him, stepping into the elevator as he pressed the buttons. "Sue can't wait to meet you." Johnny told you.

"Really?" You smiled. Johnny nodded, giving your hand a squeeze before the elevator door opened.

The two of you stepped out, you followed Johnny to the dining room, where the rest of the team sat waiting for your arrival.

"Guys, I'd like to finally introduce you to y/n." Johnny said proudly, an arm slung around your shoulder.

"It's wonderful to finally meet you all." You waved nervously.

Sue was the first to jump up, baby Franklin perched on her hip. She passed him to Johnny before giving you a hug. "Johnny talks about you all the time, he never stops." Sue snickers.

Johnny sends her that signature annoyed little brother glare. She just laughs it off. Sue then turns her attention to the baby whom Jonny was still holding. "This is Franklin." Sue smiled, booping her son's nose. You smile, shaking his tiny hand, which makes him giggle.

"This is my husband Reed." Sue says, gesturing towards the man. Reed comes to shake your hand, "It's nice to meet you." He says.

"Don't him bore you too much with all his nerd talk" Johnny smirks, earning a glare from Reed.

You lightly slap Johnny on the shoulder, "He'll be fine." You lightly scold your boyfriend, rolling you eyes playfully.

"Hey, I like her already." Reed chuckles.

Sue continues on with her introductions, "This is Ben."

"It's nice to finally have someone to keep Johnny out of my hair." Ben jokes, nudging Johnny in the shoulder.

"Last, but certainly not least, this is H.E.R.B.I.E." Sue speaks.

The little robot waves at you from behind the kitchen counter, speaking in beeps and boops that you didn't quite understand, but knew that someday soon you'd begin to learn.

"And that's the whole family. I hope spaghetti's alright, it's H.E.R.B.I.E's signature." Sue finished.

"Sounds perfect to me." You tell her.

"Great! Then let's all sit down." She smiles.

"Yeah, I'm starving." Johnny says as he puts Franklin in his highchair.

You take your seat at the dinner table next to Johnny. You all spent the entire dinner getting to know one another. Not once did it ever feel awkward or tense, they made you feel like you were already apart of the family, like you were right at home. After everyone finished dinner, you all sat in the living room, still talking. But, after about an hour Johnny checked his watch, noticing that it was getting late.

"We should probably head out, it's getting late and I still got to walk her home. Plus, I think it's about this little nugget's bedtime." Johnny spoke, tickling Franklin.

"Why don't you just stay the night, y/n?" Sue offers with a warm smile.

"Oh, I'd love to if that okay with you all. I didn't bring any change of clothes though." You frowned.

"That's no problem, you can just borrow a pair of my pajamas for the night." She spoke.

"H.E.R.B.I.E, do you mind showing y/n where Sue's closet is and helping her?" Reed asked.

The robot nodded, before gesturing for you to follow him. You told Sue and Reed a quick "thank you" before following H.E.R.B.I.E.

"Okay buddy, I think uncle Johnny is right, it's your bedtime." Reed smiles, as he picks up his son.

"I'll be up there in a minute." Sue whispered, giving her husband and son a quick kiss.

"I think its time for me to head in too, but your girlfriend is definitely a keeper." Ben yawned, giving Johnny a firm pat on the shoulder before walking towards his room.

"Well, what do you think, sis?" Johnny asked.

"I love her, she feels like apart of the family already." Sue grinned.

"I told her you'd love her. She was so nervous." He chuckled.

"I hear wedding bells in the future." Sue spoke in a sing-song voice.

"Well, I better go find her and show her where my room is. We'll see you all in the morning." He spoke, before heading down the hallway.

Johnny's heart was so full. He had a girl he was crazy about, and his family was equally crazy about her too.

[galene-gothic]

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅

ˏˋ༻ʚ♡︎ɞ༺ˎˊ˗            PAID SERVICES PATREON

—ㅤ꒰ྀིㅤ TIP JAR ಿৎ

⊹ ! ೀ Pile 1 ꒱

You have been done dirty in the past. You’ve been wounded by a time when either one person or multiple people tried to humble you by attacking you. There seems to have been passive aggressiveness present for a long time but when they got a chance to aggressively charge towards you, they took it. They may have not even accepted what they were doing, making you wonder if it’s all in your head. They seem to have tried to knock you down to a peg and to some extent, they did succeed but did they really? The number 7 might be significant. If not, numerology wise, number 7 relates to a solitary nature. It relates to being a deep thinker, philosophical, analytical, having an interest in hidden things, being misunderstood, seeking depth, etc. In this case, it could either describe your own nature or a time period that you have undergone, or are going through. Whatever you have lost in the past was never that much of a loss, any time that anyone has won over you, it was never much of a win. The feeling is one of being shunned by your community, people who you felt at home with. You tried to make things work until the very end because you didn’t want to walk away and in fact, there seem to have been multiple times that you almost walked away but delayed leaving for a little longer but you didn’t have a choice but to choose your own peace at some point. You were heavily wounded and after everything that happened, you lacked community and stayed alone for quite a bit.

Despite it all, you didn’t lose hope and faith. Yes, at some point, you were hurting a lot and may have felt hopeless but even so, on the inside, you had hope, that’s why you continued pushing forward, that’s why you’re still here. Some of you may have had Cinderella as your favourite Disney princess when you were young. I keep on getting that song from ‘Cinderella’. “A dream is a wish your heart makes when you’re fast asleep, in dreams you will lose your heartache, whatever you wish for, you keep. Have faith in your dreams and someday your rainbow will come shining through. No matter how your heart is grieving, just keep on believing. The dream that you wish will come true.” I just received ‘nobody’ by Mitski as well. “I’ve been big and small, and big and small, and big and small again but still nobody wants me, still nobody wants me.” The reason Cinderella came through is because you are in fact, very similar to her. You seem to have had issues ever since your childhood. This is heartbreaking because so much is coming through and all of it shouldn’t have been inflicted on a child. I’ll just list whatever I can catch and you will likely resonate with at least one of it. Throughout everything that is coming through, one thing is consistent and that is assertion of power in either an abusive or close to abusive manner, and you wanting to leave but not being able to. Your home didn’t feel like a safe place for you.

i) Something to do with a divorce and custody? Maybe you were caught with a parent that was abusive for whatever reason.

ii) A single parent who was abusive and you couldn’t leave them because you were a child with no one to support.

iii) A single parent, guardian or both parents threatening to abandon you.

iv) Possible cursing and physical abuse.

v) Extreme manipulation and being made to feel as though everything is your fault.

vi) A parent or guardian with a loose temper and a fragile ego who used to lash out on you over what you said in public even though you didn’t really say anything offensive? Like they felt offended for no real reason.

You couldn’t really win when it came to your elders because they cared more about power, winning, domination and their own ego than they did about you. You couldn’t get out of this situation and had no option but to stick it out. Home didn’t feel like home and in fact, it was insufferable. I keep on hearing that you had your own personal Hitler at home but obviously, that’s an extreme thing to say so for some of you, things seem to have been terrible. One or two of you might have had a childhood memory around a tub that was very traumatic one? You had to find a way to cope with it so you did, you relied heavily on imagination, daydreaming and having dreams. I’ve heard that people who are not loved at home dream of becoming famous, you could have had such a dream as a child and I’m getting that there’s some dream that never really leaves you, could be this one but even as you’ve grown, you are still rich in daydreaming and imagination, and very hopeful in certain ways. Also, you have been raised to sacrifice and serve so that’s what your soul is inclined towards too. Most of your life, it has been one sided acts of service and sacrifices but you’re learning, and have significantly learned how to put yourself first. However, you’re still very selfless and openly loving.

You extend love and service to people wholeheartedly, and the pure manner in which you love hasn’t changed. No matter how much you’ve faced, how much you’ve undergone and how much pain you’ve endured, you are still incredibly selfless, loving, open and pure hearted. I love imagery in tarot, one of the cards that I pulled is the ace of cups and I didn’t notice the lotuses on this card until today. Lotuses are known to grow beautifully and remain pure despite growing in muddy waters. That’s the way you are as well. Throughout your childhood, you’ve had to maintain optimism during the most painful of painful situations which has caused you to naturally be able to do so. “While Cinderella was abused, humiliated and finally forced to become a servant in her own house, and yet, through it all, Cinderella remained ever gentle and kind, for with each dawn she found new hope that someday her dreams of happiness would come true.” Your suffering didn’t end at home, you were treated like a doormat and tested by the outside world too but you didn’t let it change you, you didn’t let it change your heart. All of this is what makes you so beautiful. Your soul is rich, you have so much to offer and so much love to give, and no amount of suffering has been able to take your ability to love and extend yourself from you. Thank you so much for reading. I hope that you liked it and that it resonated. Much love and take care 💞.

⊹ ! ೀ Pile 2 ꒱

You know how to make people feel safe and break down their walls. In fact, you often make them feel so safe that they become complacent and start believing that you’ll never leave them. You do not communicate with people too deeply and instead let them have a fantasy? I’m not sure how to explain this to you but you grow on people by communicating enough but not giving them too much of yourself thought process wise. You let them continue treating you like an option for quite a long time, allowing them to get the extremely empathetic, forgiving and loving side of you, the side that is overly generous, warm and doesn’t seem self assured but it’s all an illusion. Maybe this relates more to the past but what I find to be interesting is that while you may have been interested in topics relating to manipulation in the past, you were never really able to follow through with the tactics. However, you ended up naturally doing things that fulfilled whatever your aim initially was. While you do not walk away easily, once you do, you’re very decisive with it. There’s no turning back for you once you make a firm decision. You’re also someone who slowly becomes like the other person overtime at least with them. So when you make the firm decision of diverting your path from theirs, you struggle with attachment quite strongly for quite a while but you slowly learn how to treat them the way they treated you. Obviously, if you’ve walked away and they don’t get to you, you won’t practice it on them but due to how slow, and stagnant the connection may have gotten and how you didn’t walk away even then, you’ll have ended up getting them quite attached to you. People get attached to you in a way in which they aren’t even aware of it. They’re like “___ won’t leave” and you do, they might be fine for a while but they’ll have gotten attached to you so overtime, life reveals new things to them, they experience different challenges and emotions leading them to experience attachment to you quite heavily. You stick with people for a very long time. “To seduce someone is to create a wound in them.” You touch people’s wounds and leave them unable to move on from you for a very long time. It’s because as long as you are with people, you are incredibly soft, generous, loving, empathetic and forgiving with them but once you are done, you treat them the way they used to treat you.

So if they were to come around, you’d be one hell of a bitch to them. In fact, you’d not even be willing to communicate or interact with them at all. Your duality is scary, you can go from the lightest and most loving, to heartless and uncaring but both these sides of you exist for a reason. Your forgiveness turns into an unwillingness to cooperate and work with the other person at all. You choose to let go and not be as generous but you’re still being generous enough to forgive them from deep within but since you tried until the very end, you gave and gave until the very end, when you let go, you don’t have any regrets. You have dealt with all of this in the past and decided to go your own way, find your own direction, be intentional, and maintain your routines. When you give up, you’re deeply wounded because you were trying until the very end and as you heal, you feel as though it was all an illusion. I feel like currently you’re still in the process of healing and haven’t healed properly yet so this is what is coming through. All of you are in different stages of your healing but once you heal, you’re going to become a very addictive individual. Someone with a lot of sex appeal. It would make sense if you’ve always had a big sex drive. I understand if it dropped significantly at some point because you were struggling mentally and emotionally? You’re a very romantic person so in the past, you have passionately entered situations in which you were blindsided and deceived but at the same time, you had your own hidden motives too? However, you dropped your motives and started acting out of love, an unconditional one at that. Overtime, you started giving a lot and in a non transactional manner. You treated these people like family and created a very comfortable space for them but you still felt misunderstood, and blindsided by them. Like you didn’t belong, like they didn’t give you as much of a commitment as you deserved. You’re carrying all this pain by yourself but what I’ve gotten about your soul’s beauty from this reading is your ability to enter connections, do for them, secretively at that without speaking about it to everyone, to love unconditionally and cherish your history with people. It hurts me though, you have been treated like a black sheep to people who you really cared about and thought of as family. You would do really well in charity, you should consider it 🤍. Thank you so much for reading, much love and take care.

⊹ ! ೀ Pile 3 ꒱

You are full of love and open to new connections even though you are not easily accessible to everyone in a personal connection. You have a lot of love to give and are good at extending love, and seem very open hearted when it comes to connecting initially because you are but having a lot of love to give doesn’t pull you away from yourself. If you feel like you’re not receiving love in as much abundance and glory as you give it out in, you can and you will gate keep yourself. You’re incredibly desirable naturally and also because you’re private and possess different sides to you despite being very open, loving, and seeming childish. You don’t mind being the first one to extend yourself to people but you’re not willing to invest into something that does not grow in a way that you’d like. You are hard on yourself when you feel as though you’ve done someone wrong or are failing to give them what they deserve so you look for people similar to you. I’m picking up on a lot of self criticism especially in the past. You know how to be stingy with yourself, your time, money, resources and presence. You have high standards for yourself and others. When you love people, you hold them really close to your heart and do demand a lot out of them, not because you’re trying to control them or the connection is transactional but because you yourself are trying to live up to an ideal. You have experienced a lot of guilt regarding naivety and love because you felt taken advantage of, and like you didn’t treat yourself as sacred enough. Now, you’re fine with giving up on connections no matter how much you may have invested in them. You hold yourself to be really sacred and experience guilt when you’re not given love, and value in as much of an extent, and intensity as you do. At this point, you are not exactly hurt by it, in fact, you’re quite nonchalant and apathetic about it but you will pull back into yourself. Also, no matter how open and loving you may be, you have sides to you that only really trustworthy people can access, and these are sides of you that hold duality and depth like no other. You are a very private person no matter how open, naive, loving or childish you may seem.

However, there are days when you may express vulnerability very openly even if you’re not close to the person in front of you but it somehow only adds to your appeal and there’s still so much that they’ll never know about you. Despite your desire and ability to give love, you are not desperate enough to grab every opportunity presented to you. You have a certain ideal, a standard that you need them to meet in order to even consider them until then, you either are not considering them at all, contemplating about them, contemplating yourself and your own life, busy and lost in your own thoughts, and are usually quite bored to even consider whatever presents itself to you. Despite how open, loving and childish you may seem, you know that you have the opportunity to choose, and that you’re allowed to divert your steps off that path at any moment. You have a nostalgic side to you but it is not as active anymore. In fact, it is more benevolent than malevolent. In the past, you had an ability to be loving and extend love to those around you even if they were not exactly the most loveable. So in the ace of cups, in my deck, there are lotuses and lotuses are known to grow in shallow, and muddy waters. Not only were you able to remain loving despite experiencing such shallow and dirty people, and situations xD but you were also able to love them. You may have been nostalgic towards them in the past but now, you are nostalgic about people and situations that actually matter. Like for example, if someone is still in your life, you cherish your history with them or if someone has passed away, you cherish them, your history with them, think about sweet and comfortable moments with them, and might cry because you miss them. Your extremely sentimental side is not even visible to others even though your childish and loving side is. Those close to you know how sensitive you are but you’re even more gentle and sensitive than other people see you to be. You are difficult to get close to on a personal level and remove those you deem unworthy from this aspect of your life because you have a very soft side to you that you want to give only to those who you can truly trust and who can cherish you.

I love how you value yourself, it really is beautiful. When you love someone, you create a home for them and for yourself. You show them a very sentimental and pure side of you. You reminisce about your old days with them, create fond memories, miss them when they’re not around and try to make them really comfortable, and happy. You want to take care of them and please them in a way in which a parent wants to take care of their child and a child wants to please their parents :,). You become sensitive to their emotions and value them, and would avoid doing anything that hurts them. I also heard that you want to create a connection in which you become a part of each other’s routines and the most familiar place starts feeling strange when the other is not around. You want to create a connection in which you can cry and they can cry too, and you can have fun and play like kids. You are capable of a deep bond in which you are deeply connected, fond of them, are good friends with them and are able to feel their emotions as if they were your own so you want people who do the same for you in your life. This reminds me of the movie ‘Samantha: an American girl holiday.’ You are a deeply romantic person and not just in romance, you enjoy writing letters, giving flowers, making personalised gifts or buying presents for those you love even if the connection is just platonic and with the knowledge that you’re willing to do this for people, you’re unwilling to settle for those who won’t do the same for you. You are an overly caring and sensitive person so you feel really guilty, and bad when you do something that may have slightly hurt the other person. Also, you’re very possessive because of how you devote yourself to those who you love. You are in control of your emotions and do not feel angry or hurt when people fail to live up to your standards, instead you just let them go and focus on being the compassionate, loving, and controlled individual that you are. You know that love moves people and believe that there will be someone who will be moved by you, moved for you, and will love you so much that you’ll never have to question whether or not they love you. “If you have to question whether someone likes you, it’s because they don’t love you.” You are demanding when it comes to what you deserve because of how much you offer so if they can’t keep up and meet you halfway, bye bye 👋. I love this for you. I hope that the reading resonated. Thank you so much for reading, much love and take care 💞🤞🏻.

[waynes-multiverse]

God, the angst in this part had me shaking (and the smut too ❤️‍🔥)!!

I’m honestly scared where you plan to take this, especially after reading that author’s note at the end. I feel like I shot myself in the leg by giving you that inspo 😂

I’ll buckle up as well! 💙

Fuck. As bad as it was, he knew it was going to get worse. Not just headaches, the rest of the bullshit the doctor mentioned. Plus, Mark didn’t need his GED to scour WebMD with the best of them. Seizures, motor function, speech—what it all boiled down to was loss of control. The end of who he was.

Yup, this!! It’s what I keep thinking about, too – how his whole sickness will progress. He’s not gonna stay this active for long. We already see the progression on the show and I’m scared to see where it’ll go 🙈

But I also loved the contrast between Mark and reader here – how he looked up WebMD, while reader later went straight to the medical journals. Totally accurate for their characters 😆

A lie, for your benefit. You were beginning to figure him out again, now with this new layer of uncharted no man’s land between you. You dropped a kiss onto his chest, but it couldn’t stop the lump of emotion rising in your throat, or the tears welling up in your eyes. None of this was fucking fair—to him or to you.

I teared up here 😢 It’s really not fair to them, and you’re showing it so well how nothing is within their control. How reader dreams of plans for the future, is floating in a honeymoon phase, only to sink into hopelessness as soon as they’re both reminded of the reality of their situation 😭

And sure, for now, Mark’s still trying to hide his symptoms and how it affects him. He’s definitely not a guy that can deal with a terminal illness well and the prospect of losing who he is as a person. It’s honestly a rough end for anyone, so I can totally understand why he’d want to go out on his own terms and prioritizes the task force/his job. But I wonder how long he’ll be able to do that…

“Yeah, I did,” you said pointedly, “because it didn’t seem like you were in a hurry to do it yourself, and if we wait until you’ve wrapped up your case, it could be too late.”

I always adore the caring nature of your readers. This one reminds me again a lot of Midnight Espresso and how the reader took care of Dean there.

These men clearly can’t look after themselves, so it’s so nice to see they have someone in their life that cares for them 🥹

And man, did she take care of him! Blowjobs, a stocked fridge, an appointment with another doctor, and a home-cooked meal? Our boy is getting spoiled lol 🫶

You rose up on your toes for a deeper kiss, luring his tongue into your mouth with a soft moan. He held you to him tightly, solid and strong. He still kissed you like this was the first and the last—like he was making up for lost time. He supposed he was, and he wouldn’t stop.

Stab me in the fucking heart, why don’t you?! 😭😭😭

“Jesus, don’t say anything,” she groused, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable. I thought she was fucking smarter than that.”

Well, if she didn’t know you personally, she’d say it was a weak woman move.

You nailed Oliveras here!!! I can so see her saying that and seeing it this way (I honestly would too from her perspective). And I’m oh-so curious to see how you’re gonna handle the Amber factor in this series 👀

Because I’m struggling. I ship them so hard on the show lmao

Was it normal for your heart to be close to shattering one moment, then damn near light and giddy the next? You didn’t think it was good for you. It was giving you whiplash, and possibly acid reflux.

I feel so heartbroken and hopeless for both of them. Please don’t rip my hypocritical heart out with this series! 😭😭

Today, he paused in the doorway and watched you. In his mind, he still saw the barrel of a gun aimed between his eyes, thinking that narrow darkness was probably the last thing he was ever going to see.

Instead, he got to see you. That was the bleeding duality: a relief that clawed through his chest, and a guilt that sunk those claws deeper.  

Holy shit! You’re absolutely killing me with the angst here!

Thank God you saved me with the smut! Jesus effing Christ, that was hot! 🥵 There’s something about this show and Mark being such an angsty and daredevil character that makes smut writing fun, isn’t there? For some reason, I can only think of smangsty plot lines for this man 😆

Maybe he really was just a selfish asshole at his core.

Same HC lol!! But honestly, I think cancer gives you a pretty good cheat card to be a selfish asshole. A diagnosis like that certainly shifts perspectives. Of course you’re gonna be more focused on what really matters in life and give less fucks about consequences. And most people are understanding as well when you have someone in your life dealing with shit like that, but still – those people usually have to bear the consequences when that person’s gone. Something Mark is clearly struggling with, too 🥲

On that note, I’m glad reader is staying with him. I get why Mark wants to protect her from the pain (and let’s be honest, himself as well from deteriorating right in front of her eyes), but I’m on reader’s side here. If you love someone, you wanna be there for them till the bitter end and savor every second you get with them 💙

I’m looking forward to the throwback of their first date, but I’m hella scared about the rest 😂👀🙈

IF YOU LEAVE ME NOW

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: After struggling not to “label it,” you and Mark come to an understanding about salvaging your relationship.

AN: Ahh couldn't help myself. Releasing this one a day early! This is a Gif Check requested by @spnwoman for the 5K Celebration — set shortly after Sister, Sister! 

Song Inspo: Title inspired by the Chicago song.

Word Count: 4.9K

Tags/Warnings: [Set during 1x03] 18+ only! Heavy angst (medical, emotional, the works), but also hurt/comfort, implied smut (m. receiving oral), and actual smut

Series Masterlist

Mark popped two pills and took them dry. Even the motion of swallowing intensified the sharp pulsing in his skull.

Fuck. As bad as it was, he knew it was going to get worse. Not just headaches, the rest of the bullshit the doctor mentioned. Plus, Mark didn’t need his GED to scour WebMD with the best of them. Seizures, motor function, speech—what it all boiled down to was loss of control. The end of who he was.

He sighed, grimacing, shutting his eyes tight for a second.

He had less than an hour before he had to be at work. No time to go through this mental spiral (again).

He went for the edge of the bathroom sink in a familiar grip, and he stared at his reflection in the mirror, wet hair slicked back from the shower. Apart from the creases under his eyes from stress and intentional sleep deprivation, he looked normal. For now.

He heard the bedsprings creak, and one of the reasons for his lack of sleep came into view. You stepped into his bathroom, barefooted, wearing that old favorite college shirt that liked to slip off your shoulder. Except this time, he was willing to bet you had nothing on underneath. His fault.

Your arms wrapped around his waist from behind. A smile began to tug at his lips on reflex. He felt your head resting against his dewy skin. Your hands inched up his chest and playfully teased with your nails. Little sexy scratch. Little kiss between his shoulder blades. 

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he said. A teasing note crept into his voice, “It’s too early for you.”

“You got in late last night.” Again. He’d been pulling late hours all week. Whatever case he was on, you had a feeling it was a big one. He still wouldn’t give you any details though. Not even when he was gone for almost two days, coming back smelling like a farmhouse and covered in grime.

“I want to see you,” you added softly. “Kinda the whole point of me being here.”

Mark grabbed one of your hands and brought it to his lips. He turned around in your arms, just so he could gather you up into his. Your fingers brushed the edge of the towel wrapped around his waist, a smile playing on your lips…until you noticed the open medicine cabinet, and the now familiar label of his prescription. 

You glanced up at him, biting your lip. “Are you hurting?”

He gave a minimal shake of his head.

“I’m good.”

A lie, for your benefit. You were beginning to figure him out again, now with this new layer of uncharted no man’s land between you. You dropped a kiss onto his chest, but it couldn’t stop the lump of emotion rising in your throat, or the tears welling up in your eyes. None of this was fucking fair—to him or to you.

Mark sighed. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“All right. If we’re gonna do this, promise me no more tears, okay?” he teased lightly.

You shook your head, unable to smile.

“Sorry. Can’t promise that.”

Mark hummed. He released his hold on you, just to take your face in his hands. His thumbs gently brushed under your eyes and collected tears from your lashes.

“Well, then we’ve got a problem. ‘Cause the one thing I can’t fucking take, is seeing this,” he said with a sigh. “What’re we doing here, sweetheart?”

You grabbed onto his wrists and kept his hands in place. You even closed your eyes for a moment, reveling in his touch. You hadn’t had this in so long…

“We’re together again. That’s what’s important, right?” you said, eventually meeting his heavy gaze.

“We’ve still got the same problem,” he said. “I don’t want to see you tearing yourself up over something we can’t change.”

You stared up at him, willing yourself not to spark with upset. Wasn’t he the one who said he’d consider looking for a second opinion?

“Well,” you said, unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “I actually got you an appointment with another oncologist.”

Mark paused, pursing his lips, a subtle exhale. His hands fell back to his sides. “You did, huh?”

“Yeah, I did,” you said pointedly, “because it didn’t seem like you were in a hurry to do it yourself, and if we wait until you’ve wrapped up your case, it could be too late.”

Your voice broke a little on the end there. It took away most of your bravado, but it also cut through Mark’s annoyance. Just hacked it at the root, really.

“It’s my mom’s friend, Indira Rashid. She can see you on Monday,” you said.

He sighed through his nose. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Really? Your brows raised.

That one hurt. It was a gripping blow, shaking down to your foundations as you glared up at him.

“What do you want me to do, Mark? Walk away and not even fight for you, like you did to me?” you said, your tone as sharp as your words were cutting. He almost looked away, but he didn’t. He looked you in the eyes.

“You really want me to live my life and pretend I don’t know what you’re going through—alone?” you said, a little softer. “If this was the other way around, you’d be fucking pissed if I even suggested you leave me.”

Mark faltered.

Well, shit.

You had him there, and you both knew it too.

Another tear found a path down your cheek, but he swept it away. You took in a shaky breath.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” you said. You dared him with your eyes. “Tell me you don’t want me here.”

Mark quirked a smile. You should’ve been a goddamn lawyer, because there really was no winning against you.

He tilted your chin up to meet his kiss, slow and thorough.

“You know that’s never fucking happening,” he said.

Only then were you able to smile.

You rose up on your toes for a deeper kiss, luring his tongue into your mouth with a soft moan. He held you to him tightly, solid and strong. He still kissed you like this was the first and the last—like he was making up for lost time. He supposed he was, and he wouldn’t stop.

Until your hands slipped in between your bodies to start unraveling the towel from his waist. 

“How much time you have before work?” you asked mischievously. You slid down his body, all the way down to your knees on the bathroom mat as you brushed your hair out of your face.

Mark grinned down at you, equally amused and aroused when you laid soft, purposeful kisses down his bare thighs. Your grip ensured that he wasn’t going anywhere, even if he wanted to.

“Uh, well, I’m thinking just long enough.”

Your sweet giggle was the best fucking thing—aside from the rest you could do with your mouth.

Mark whipped his Ford Bronco into the parking space. Thanks to you, he was running a few minutes late. Punctuality wasn’t usually one of the things bent the rules on, but today, he didn’t give a fuck.

He’d seen a car bomb practically go off on his face last night. He’d knelt down over a cartel thug and gripped his shoulders while the guy choked out his last words. Volchek.

Mark had that name ringing in his ears all night, apart from the high-pitched whirring from, you know, being within blast range.

But you’d also sucked him off three ways to Sunday this morning, so today was looking up. He even smiled after getting out of his car. A real smile, not a maintenance mask. Because his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he saw the text from you.

What time you think you’ll be home tonight? I wanna cook for us.

Jesus, what he’d give to see you in his sad fucking kitchen. He’d been living off of Hamburger Helper and canned tuna ever since he got out of lockup.

Btw, you know all you have here is half of an old breakfast burrito and a jar of pickles. Pretty pathetic.

Mark smirked. He texted back:

Guilty. Can I put in a request for the Thursday Special?

Oh my God. Of course you remember that! 😂

How the hell am I gonna forget naked cooking? You still have those heels I got you? The red ones with a little bling on the side? Tall as fuck.

Maaaaybe…

Ooh, and the matching—

“Hey,” said Oliveras, who was getting out of her own car not far from his.

Mark gave her a distracted nod. “Hey.”

She soon rose a brow when she noticed the way he was texting, smiling to himself like a teenage girl. Considering the night they’d had, it was more than a little weird.

“What, got a match on Tinder?” she said, a small smirk curving her lips.

Mark quickly looked up, like he’d been caught. He put his phone away, his casual gait back in place.

“Nah, just some stupid Facebook meme.”

A snort escaped her. “Facebook? All right, granddad.”

He eyed her in amusement, but feeling his pocket buzz again, he took out his phone to keep texting you while he and Oliveras entered the Wilshire Federal Building and waited for the elevator. She watched him discreetly, her brown eyes perceptive.

“You know, you never said what happened after that night at the bar,” she said.

That definitely earned his attention. Whatever he was smiling at faded away when he met her gaze.

“I mean, it’s not really any of my business, but did you at least get her home okay?” she asked.

Mark's smile hinted back in place. “Yeah, I did. She was all right, just needed to sleep it off.”

Again, not much slipped by Oliveras. Her brows dipped, her head tilted in suspicion.

“Waaait, wait. Did you two actually hook up?” she said.

Mark debated on an answer for that one. The elevator finally dinged and opened up for them, giving him another beat to think.

“Well, technically not that night,” he said, inclining his head, “or the next day, but—”

Amber crossed her arms along with her duffel bag, absolutely beside herself. “How…the fuck did you finesse that?”

Mark’s lips twitched upward. He opened his mouth to reply, but she just waved her hand like a white flag.

“Jesus, don’t say anything,” she groused, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable. I thought she was fucking smarter than that.”

Mark's amusement faded. “’Scuse me?”

It was a warning, subtle in his eyes.

Oliveras rolled hers. She wasn’t afraid of bruising his apparent fragile ego. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was you he was defending.

Oliveras tempered what she wanted to say, even what she was thinking.

“Whatever. Forget I said anything,” she said. She did wonder if she should call you though.

She hadn’t spoken to you in months. You two had grown apart after graduating from college and diving head-first into your respective careers; you weren’t exactly friends anymore. Although Oliveras was of the mind that women should look out for each other, whenever possible, taking back the bastard who cheated on you and left you weeks before the wedding…

Well, if she didn’t know you personally, she’d say it was a weak woman move.

Matter of fact, she would’ve punched him in the trachea. She was kind of fantasizing about it now as she and Mark stepped off the elevator and made brusque steps toward the office.

“Look, it’s complicated,” Mark said, in a lowered voice. His gaze was straight ahead. She knew it was his way of saving face.

But what she didn’t know was that it was mostly a stoic front, weighed by thoughts of guilt, desire, regret, and deeper shit too—more complicated than she gave him credit for.

“She’s a good woman," he said, "better than I fucking deserve.”

Something about that look on his face, the tone of his voice…it made Oliveras pause. She quirked a smile.

“On that, we actually agree.”

Was it normal for your heart to be close to shattering one moment, then damn near light and giddy the next? You didn’t think it was good for you. It was giving you whiplash, and possibly acid reflux.

But after you sent one last text to Mark, you ignored the flip-flop fluttery feeling of going too fast down a rollercoaster, and you smiled. More than giving him a “Thursday Special,” you were just looking forward to having a nice dinner together, not unlike the one you two shared with your mom on Tuesday. Not unlike countless other nights you and Mark used to have.

Again, your smile was short-lived. You stopped your car short at a red light, laying on the breaks harder than you should have. It earned you a blaring honk from the car behind you, but you didn’t even acknowledge it.

How could you have a honeymoon phase with what lied over the horizon? Every time you thought of making plans, it just reminded you that nothing could ever be set in stone. Nothing was in your control, and you fucking hated that.

When you eventually got to work, you ran through the motions of doing your job, making sure District Attorney Valwell made it to his appointments, making your calls and follow-up emails, filing the document, writing briefs, even grabbing Valwell’s lunch order (and yours). You ate at your desk and did one of the things you did best—research.

You didn’t trust WebMD. You went right to medical journals and clinical research, like you’d been doing for the past few days. You even called Indira again. You felt bad for taking away her own lunch hour with your questions, but you had to know. 

What she told you about cases like Mark’s only made your heart bleed and your stomach rebel. After you got off the phone, you found yourself throwing up your $20 enchiladas in the restroom down the hall.

That was around the time you got an all too cheerful-sounding text. After rinsing your mouth out in the bathroom sink, you groaned and wiped your face with a rough paper towel. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and checked the notification: from Mark.

Hey, baby. Sorry, need to raincheck dinner tonight. I’ll be home late.

You frowned in disappointment. If he was postponing the Thursday Special, then he really was busy. Your shoulders sunk, but you replied.

How late do you think?

…No response.

A heavy sigh fell from your lips. This was actually familiar territory. When Mark was at work, he was easily distracted and a terrible texter. Which, fair enough, considering he was usually running down leads and hopping fences and whatever other reckless shit he was bound to do.

Some things don’t change, you thought ruefully.

But it didn’t mean you couldn’t try to change them. 

7:00 AM.

The next morning. You were almost dressed for work, still checking your phone, still out of your damn mind with worry because Mark never came home. He never checked in after around 2:30 PM yesterday, no matter how many texts you sent him.

You called his precinct, and Captain Victor Morales only told you that Mark was out on assignment. He wouldn’t tell you what that meant, or when Mark would be back. All you could do was wait.

Around twenty minutes later, it was about the time you absolutely needed to leave for work, or else you’d get caught in traffic again. But that was also when the front door lock twisted. The door itself creaked open, and there was Mark, looking exhausted and rough. He wore a strange gray jumpsuit, but your eyes were drawn to the bloodstains on the cuffs of his sleeves.

You tried to swallow your tears when you went to him, but relief hit you square in the chest. Mark took the impact of you in his arms with a soft grunt, but he held you on instinct. You wrapped your arms around his neck and shut your eyes against a salty sting.

“Where the hell were you?” You fingered the rough material of his collar. “What are you wearing? You smell like fucking gunpowder, and antiseptic—”

“Just,” Mark interrupted, squeezing your waist. “Just…give me a second.”

“What happened?” you asked, couldn’t help yourself.

Mark shook his head. Heavy sigh. He couldn’t tell you, he realized.

Just seeing your face was a relief, even creased with worry and tears. He felt guilty for that, and a fuck ton of other things, but he couldn’t tell you.

He couldn’t tell you that he lost a member of his team, or that he felt like he was the one responsible with his half-cocked scheme going shit sideways. He couldn’t tell you that his hands had been literally coated in Drew’s blood, or that Mark watched the man's eyes roll up and disappear behind his lids as blood continued to pour out of his chest.

Drew didn’t get to go home to his wife, but somehow, Mark was the son of a bitch who was allowed to come home and find you waiting for him.

“Sorry. Long night…can’t really get into it,” he rasped. You smelled good, like your face lotion and a hint of perfume. He was a mess, probably getting three flavors of grime on your nice silky blouse and black skirt.

You relented, nodding shakily and sweeping your hand over his greasy hair in a caress.

“You should get cleaned up,” you said.

After a beat, Mark nodded. Every muscle in his body protested, but he pulled away from you. It was hard to meet your gaze as he aimed for his bedroom. He disappeared into the adjoining bathroom and scrubbed himself in a shower so hot, he probably burned off a couple layers of skin. He still didn’t feel entirely clean when he walked out.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

While getting dressed in some old sweatpants, he caught sight of the time by the digital clock on his nightstand. He checked his phone too. Nothing from Blythe or the team. They would get eight hours of recovery before they were expected back, reporting for fucking duty.

Mark rubbed the aching space between his brows as he stepped out of the bedroom. He stopped short when he found you in his kitchen, scrambling up some eggs. You’d already kicked your shoes off, leaving you in just that flowy blouse and a tempting skirt, perfectly shaped around your ass and thighs.

It also looked like you went to the grocery store yesterday. He saw the evidence of it in the jumbo carton of eggs lying on the counter, the little cannisters of salt and pepper (the ones you had to hand-grind yourself, which only you would buy), and the slices of ham and deli cheese you were ripping up to add into the steaming pan. The smell wafted nostalgia up his nose and into his brain.

On any other day, he would’ve smiled.

On any other day, he would’ve sidled up behind you, dragging his hands, heavy with intention over your hips, playfully and possessively up your sides. Your body would respond before your head could catch up, arching up against his chest like a cat. He’d whisper only half of the filthiest ideas he had in your ear, just to see if he could break your concentration. Most of the time, he won.

Today, he paused in the doorway and watched you. In his mind, he still saw the barrel of a gun aimed between his eyes, thinking that narrow darkness was probably the last thing he was ever going to see.

Instead, he got to see you. That was the bleeding duality: a relief that clawed through his chest, and a guilt that sunk those claws deeper.  

You glanced over your shoulder and aimed an attempt at a smile his way.

“This is almost done,” you said. The wooden spoon moved deftly in your hand.

“You’re gonna be late for work,” he said.

“I called out sick.”

He blew out a sigh, a shake of his head. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You turned off the stove, shifted the pan of eggs off to the side before your frown turned his way. Really? said your eyes.

Mark couldn’t hold your gaze for long. He escaped the inviting aroma in the kitchen and got as far as the living room. You followed him to the couch and took a seat right on the edge of it, beside him.

“I know you can’t tell me what happened, but I know this isn’t a routine case,” you said. You were almost hesitant when you reached out to caress his cheek, earning his carefully guarded gaze.

Whatever it was, he was trying hard to keep you out of it, which only gave you a deeper pit in your stomach. You were afraid for him in so many ways, but you knew there was probably nothing you could say to pull him out of what he was doing. It was his job, and if Mark took one thing seriously, regardless of the means, it was his fucking job. You knew it all too well.

You found the courage to ask him a question, even though the answer had the potential to cut into you again.

“What do you want, Mark? You want me to stay, or do you want to handle this by yourself?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

You shook your head. “That’s not what I asked.”

Mark’s lips twitched slightly. “It’s not about what I want.”

Your hand slid down to his chest, feeling the steady thrum underneath.

“Then what about what you need?” you asked. Like it was that simple.

What am I gonna do with you? Mark thought, smiling ruefully. After how thoroughly you’d hated him last week, it was like dousing ice-cold water over his head when you said shit like that. But his heart remembered, pulsing painfully, the way it all was before. He could have it again, at least for a little while.

He should’ve told you to go to work—that he’d be fine, just needed to sleep the night off.

He should’ve just let you go altogether.

Maybe he really was just a selfish asshole at his core.

He slid a hand behind your neck, through your hair, and guided you to him for a rougher kiss than he meant it to be. He swallowed the hint of your surprise and was satisfied when your body responded to him before your brain could catch up; your eyes fell shut, and the tension melted from your frame as you sunk against him.

You grabbed for his shoulders and straddled his hips when he hefted you into his arms. Mark slid his hands up your skirt until it bunched all the way up your waist, taking the opportunity to squeeze the plush of your ass. There was no part of you he didn't crave getting his hands full of.

You were of a similar mind as you tugged his gray henley up from the hem, soft hands burning up his stomach, chest, and shoulders. The solidity of his frame; you knew that when he held you, he had you.

Teeth clicked and tongues warred, tasted, devoured. His lips dragged down to the spot where your neck met your shoulder, teeth grazing, biting, his hands claiming your hip and tangling in your hair. Breaths panted hot in the small spaces in between moments.

You managed to slip a hand down into his sweatpants and palm over the growing bulge, smiling when he groaned into your mouth. You reached behind the band to find his cock, already hot and heavy and hard for you.

His resulting hiss was sharp behind his teeth, his grip on your bare thigh just shy of bruising as he throbbed in your hand. His voice devolved into a deeper, more guttural groan as his head tipped back against the sofa. You worked him over with a sensuous hand, using beads of his precum to stroke your thumb over the sensitive head.

You had half a mind to slide down between his legs like you did yesterday morning, but he had you gripped tight in his arms, like he didn’t want you going anywhere.

And he didn’t. He wanted your thighs spread for him, just like they were now. He slid your panties down as far as they’d go, and he ripped the black lace on either side, earning a small gasp from you.

“I liked those,” you said, nipping his lower lip in retaliation. Mark smirked against your pouting mouth.

“I liked ‘em too. But now they’re in my goddamn way,” he said, that trademark cockiness in his grin that made you want to slap him and kiss it off his lips at the same time.

He tugged the ruined fabric slowly, with purpose, letting it slide between your wet folds and brushing your clit. You clung to him with a quiet moan, especially when his long fingers found a familiar path into your slippery channel. The knuckle of his thumb pressed against your clit as well, making you whimper. A heady zing of pleasure sparked in your lower belly, reaching the very depths of you. It just wasn’t enough.

“Need you,” you whispered into his mouth. Your fingers ran through his hair, lovingly first, then scraping your nails along his scalp.

He groaned, nodding in agreement. His fingers withdrew from your core and spread some slick up to your clit. He drew circles with a firm, tantalizing pressure, enough to have your voice shuddering his name and your hips bucking into his hand. "Oh, fuck, please..."

"Good angle, right?" he teased. Smug bastard.

"Mhmm," you nodded, smiling into his lips. But all you could really do was cling to his neck while his fingers wreaked havoc on your pussy. Just when you began to taste that delicious edge, the crest of a tidal wave—he stopped.

He fucking stopped, withdrawing his fingers and moving his hands back to your waist. Your uneven breaths also accounted for your shock, and then your annoyance. But before you could even start to call him an asshole, he grabbed you up strong by your hips, just so he could all but impale you on his cock.

Choked of whatever words that might've slipped off your tongue, you gasped and cursed in the same breath. The inner walls of your pussy quivered around his length and thickness as he worked himself deeper inside. There was just so much of him, you sucked in deeper breaths just taking him, inch by inch.

But you led the rhythm, a rolling sway that built its momentum as you rode him. Mark tore through those last clinging buttons of your blouse and freed your breasts, snapping the bra open too. Straps and silky fabric got tossed to who gives a fuck where. All that mattered was his hands cradling you possessively, his beard rasping against your skin as his teeth dragged over the sensitive buds of your nipples.

There wasn’t any part of you he didn’t know, no square inch of supple flesh he hadn’t mapped out, devastated, and claimed. But it didn’t stop him from relishing the taste. Every sound out of your mouth was black velvet in his ears, adding to his satisfaction when your body practically hummed underneath his touch.

The bob of your hips faltered, distracted, your limbs trembling and your thighs burning.

“You close already, baby?” Mark rasped, deep and ragged in your ear. He was just as wrecked as you. The feeling of you, so goddamn tight and warm and wet—fucking perfect. Making him almost lose his goddamn sense of reality. He thrust up inside you, hard enough to knock a gasp out of you, feel you clench on him in response. Your nails raked down the back of his neck.

“You are, I can fuckin’ feel it,” he gritted out. Like his sixth fucking sense.

“Yeah,” you confessed, breathless and desperate. “Little more. Need your help, please—”

“I’ve got’cha,” he said. His hands tightened on your hips and gave you both what you needed, a few hammering strokes that hit just the right spot—that sensitive place inside that made your inner walls quiver and throb. A rush of heat and white spots on the edge of your vision, you buried your face into his neck and screamed your release.

Mark felt your inner walls pulse and tighten impossibly around his cock. He drove into you through the height of your orgasm, as long as he could hold out, until his body locked up on him too. He held himself inside you, nestled deep as he could until he was spent. You shuddered at the feeling of his warmth coating your inner walls. It soon began to leak out between your thighs.

Mark rolled his shoulders with a short wince at the sting your nails had left against his back. He didn’t mind though. He just smiled and rubbed a gentler hand up and down your spine, quelling the little goosebumps.

When you could even breathe, you slipped your fingers into his hair and drew him into a softer kiss.

It was a necessary grounding, a moment of peace after the storm.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and let his forehead rest against yours. He felt the tickle of your hair against his cheek, the rise and fall of your breaths evening out in a quiet room, blending with the low hum of the AC.

He could hear the faint sounds of cars passing by outside, another morning at full swing. He only had a few hours left to rest, but even these minutes were important. They were yours, and his.

“Thanks,” he said. “For, uh…staying.”

You blinked your eyes open and pulled back a little, prompting him to do the same. This part was important, and you wanted him to know that.

“I’m not leaving unless you tell me to,” you said.

Mark’s lips tugged at a tired smile. “Then buckle up, sweetheart.”

Once again, your soft giggles filled the room.

AN: The angst! You could bottle it. 😫💙 How do you like how they figured out this hurdle together?

...And are you ready for another one? lol

The next one-shot for this series is a fun little flashback to their first date! But what's also coming up in the future is very much inspired by “You’re Losing Me (From the Vault)” by Taylor Swift. Thanks again, @waynes-multiverse for that perfect - hella angsty - inspo! 😂

(Hint: The reader might finally find out what Mark's "special assignment" has been for the past couple of weeks.)

Until then, please let me know what you thought of this little angsty/smutty adventure! lol Your feedback fuels my creative spark! 🥰💜

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@mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean @kiddieclaws @gabavaldman

[goomyloid]

Hey, it’s me again. Just wanted to come by and ask what’s your opinion on Gerson? Sorry if this sounds really random, but I’m just curious to know since his relationship with Susie was easily one of the best relationships in the whole game imo and I wonder if you had any thoughts on it and it’s themes and what his impact on Susie could mean for the rest of the game.

i cannot listen to wise words without tearing up. thats how cool he is

i think its awesome how gerson was like, EXACTLY the kind of mentor figure susie has needed all this time. whimsical enough to piss her off, weird enough to make her laugh, strong enough to really motivate her, cryptic enough to get her thinking, and able to teach her things in a way where she feels lifted up instead of put down. its really really awesome.

which of course makes it all the more painful when she finds out he’s actually dead, and him in that dark world was just a precious fleeting glimpse of how her life could’ve been different if he was in it from the beginning. its all Yet Another example of how ginormous susie’s heart is. she cares and feels so wholly and thoroughly… persistent and trusting and protective to a fault… when she thought she was fighting gerson during the whole ripple section, her solution was to HEAL him, after refusing to attack the entire time. GOD I LOVE SUSIE

slight krusie moment -> a bit off topic but i think a lot about how kris just so deeply, unapologetically wants to be friends with susie. they let themself have that bond with her, hell they foster it as much as possible and stop us when we try to ruin it. i think a lot of that is just because of how susie is as a person, changing everyone around her including ralsei and noelle. she’s going to feel her friendship with kris with her entire heart, so why shouldn’t they do the same? (its funny how its so opposite to how they act around noelle, and yet in both cases, it serves as some form of ‘punishment’ kris gives themself. they distance themself from their childhood friend out guilt, thinking they’re not worthy to be by her side for various reasons. and then with susie, kris is letting themself feel good and happy, all while knowing everything will come crashing down sooner or later. the higher the climb, the harder the fall. losing susie as a friend would destroy them, an emotional death sentence, and they know its likely to happen once she finds out about Who they’ve been working for…)

anyway. i dont really know about the rest of the game, like im not sure of really specific ways it might affect her, but in my made-up AU inside my head where they’re all in their early to mid twenties and navigating adulthood, susie eventually goes to university to pursue creative writing. the concept of Making Your Own Story is really strong in chapter 4, and i imagine it probably sticks with her for a long long time

[qtvi0let]

Older men do it better ~ ! MDNI

a/n; good lord i NEED HIM. Another erasermic smut coming soon chat<3 thank you for all the love!!

— Older Man/Younger Woman (reader is in her 20‘s), Age Gap, Praise, First Squirt, Fingering, Oral (F Receiving), Gentle Dom, Creampie, // F!Reader

I couldnt the artists @, if you do please tag them for credits.

— First Time, For You —

It started with a cat café — of all places. You’d gone in because you were lonely, wanting warmth and soft fur and maybe the quiet hum of other people’s lives nearby. You hadn’t expected him.

A tired man in black, hair half-tied, dark eyes following a stray kitten batting at his zipper. He looked… exhausted. But when he’d glanced at you, something warm settled in your stomach. He’d given you a polite nod — nothing more — but when you’d both reached for the same rescue cat, your fingers brushed.

A conversation. A cup of tea. A few more nights — then one late evening, back at your tiny apartment, your knees tucked under you on the couch as he traced lazy circles on your thigh.

You’d never dated someone older — not really. Boys your age had fumbled with you, gotten themselves off quick, and left you unsatisfied, half-numb, wondering if maybe it was your fault. But Aizawa — Shouta — was older. Experienced. And when you’d confessed, shyly, that you’d never really… finished — his eyes had darkened, thumb brushing your lips like he could pull the truth from your mouth.

Tonight, he’s proving you wrong — with patience you didn’t know you craved so badly.

⸻

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, voice low, gravel thick in the hush of your bedroom. He’s lying beside you, propped on one elbow, hair spilling around his shoulders as his hand slips beneath the waistband of your soft shorts.

You squirm at the first drag of his fingers over your panties — so wet they stick to you, heat pooling in your belly at just the light pressure. He chuckles when you gasp.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “Let me see what you look like when someone really takes their time.”

You whimper — he peels your shorts off, panties following with a slow tug. He spreads your thighs with firm, unhurried hands, the scrape of his stubble against your inner thigh making you shiver.

“Have you ever squirted before?” he murmurs suddenly, mouth ghosting over your hipbone.

You freeze — flush hot. “N-no. I don’t think I can—”

He lifts his head — that lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “Oh, doll. You can. You just need someone who knows how to pull it out of you.”

Your protest melts to a broken sound when his lips wrap around your clit — warm and wet and focused. His fingers ease inside you, thick and slow, crooking just right until you’re gasping, thighs trembling around his head.

He works you open until your belly tightens, the tension sharp and hot — but when you come the first time, it’s not quite enough. Not yet.

When he finally slides his thick, meaty cock inside you, you’re already dripping, stretched and ready for him. He presses close, one big hand under your thigh, pushing your knees to your chest — folding you into the bed.

His pace is slow at first — teasing, deep, each roll of his hips dragging you closer to that dizzy edge again. He leans over you, voice rough against your ear.

“You’re gonna come for me like this too,” he groans, hips snapping harder. “Gonna squirt all over my cock. Ever done that for anyone?”

You shake your head — babbling his name as his thrusts get sharper, rougher, hitting something deep inside that makes your eyes roll back.

“That’s right. Only for me,” he snarls, sweat dripping from his hair onto your chest. “Good girl — let go for me. Give it to me.”

The wet slap of skin fills the room — your gasps mix with the rough, low curses he presses to your neck. His thumb finds your clit, circles it tight and fast, and the world shatters behind your eyelids.

You cry out — voice cracking when the orgasm rips through you. Heat rushes out in a gush you’ve never felt before — soaking his stomach, his thighs. He groans low and filthy, hips stuttering as you squirt around him, dripping down to the sheets.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, pressing you open wider as he fucks you through it, hips pounding harder. “So beautiful — so fucking messy for me.”

He stays buried deep when he spills inside you, thick and warm, growling your name like a promise against your throat. He doesn’t pull out right away — just holds you pinned, shivering under him, the mess of slick and sweat sticking you together.

When you finally catch your breath, trembling, he kisses your temple — soft and possessive.

“First time for everything, doll,” he murmurs, voice raw but warm. “Next time, you’ll show me how much more you can give me.”

[cherrieshalo]

Hello, I hope I'm not asking much but can you make some content about Katsuki and Reader (divorced) co parents their son who's 4.

Like the boy is healthy and happy because of them, but Katsuki misses her and is regretting pushing her away.

I hope you see me:) please and thanks

Have a great day and don't forget to smile!

i am not a child of divorce so i will try my best heh

k.bakugo x fem!reader| angst? | prohero x prehero | they're divorced LOL | 1.3k words

everyone told you it would be difficult marrying a prohero. you knew it would be but as a prohero yourself, you brushed off their concerns. your relationship with dynamight was always sweet despite many of the usual ups and downs and getting married only further reinforced that.

but after trying for a baby? something clicked. or more so unclicked...

your husband banned you from all hero work that wasn't filling out copious amounts of documents the second you handed him three positive pregnancy tests. you thought that if you were home more often now, he would be too.

unfortunately, the pleas of help didn't change his mind. he went to every doctor's appointment with you, was just as excited to find out it would be a boy, and was there for the birth. but after that? it felt like a mess. you expected him to take paternity leave and he told you he did, but got too antsy after two weeks and went back to work.

it was hard taking care of a newborn baby by yourself while the love of your life was off for hours on end, not knowing if he'd make it back home safely. after he returned to work, his mother moved in temporarily to help you. you cried in the shower the first time you got some time alone, wondering what went wrong if so many of women had their husbands at home post-partum but you.

for your son's first birthday, katsuki insisted on an all might themed party. you agreed, but quickly regretted it when you had to plan everything yourself. everytime he told you he would help, you'd find him passed out on the couch.

when your son turned two, the relationship seemed to unclick once more.

you wanted to return to hero work. you really tried. but katsuki kept telling you to stay at home. not that he wanted you to be a stay at home mom, but he was genuinely terrified.

what if something happened to you? he didn't even want to think about living the rest of his life with you dead.

what if something happened to the both of you? your son would be an orphan at not even thirty months old.

few months later, he was horrified to see you bring up the potential of divorce. no no no no!! did he fuck up that horribly? maybe all the arguments and yelling finally got to you. he tried everything to change your mind, but eventually he backed down. he respected your decision.

once the young boy turned three, the divorce was finalized. split custody, thank god, but katsuki knew it would take a toll on him.

he thought he would be fine. he could distract himself with work.

but it didn't help when every single fucking news channel broadcasted the divorce for the world to see, being reminded at every turn about how hard he fumbled you after so many years of love.

it didn't help when he missed his son's first steps. first solid foods. or hell, first words. when he tried to sleep at night he could still hear you telling him over the phone your baby's first words.

'dada' and 'boom!'

it made his heart ache everytime he thought about it. he fucked up, and he fucked up bad.

he didn't deserve to be his son's first words. you did.

but it was too late.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

despite the seperation, your baby was the happiest he could be. spoiled, well fed, constantly smiling and giggling...all with two parents who loved him very much. sure he wasn't old enough to understand why his parents barely saw each other like his classmates at daycare, but he had two homes!! twice as much toys!!

for his fourth birthday, the little boy insisted on a birthday party at grandma and grandpa's house! you agreed to help plan it, but being so close his katsuki and his family tugged at your heart. you remembered everything you lost, but you came out stronger. better. the divorce was good for you. if you hadn't seperated who knows if you would have ever returned to being a prohero.

the birthday party wasn't any easier for your ex-husband. katsuki couldn't help but discreetly stare at you from across the backyard. the screaming children and food grilling didn't seem to distract him, either.

you looked so ethereal...you were glowing. you still had such a good fashion taste after all this time and seeing you play with your child, the one he helped make, made him want to scoop you into his arms and apologize from everything.

but he knew he couldn't. it was too late.

a few months later, it was his turn to have the little gremlin spawn for the week. he invited you inside, watching as his son ran to him with open arms and pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek. he demanded to be put down before running to his room.

katsuki asked you to come inside for a bit. said he wanted to talk to you. but hell, he was ready to beg to talk to you if he had to. you begrudingly agreed, taking your shoes off and replying with a simple nod when he asked you if you wanted some tea.

you sat down awkwardly on the couch and waited for a few minutes before the man joined you, setting down the cup on the small coffee table.  "so," katsuki huffed, leaning back on the couch. his voice wasn't angry, just...dull. "the little one told me you're seeing someone. last time i had him."

your face scrunched up as you picked up the cup, gently blowing on the surface to cool it down. "no...? i'm not?"

"said you got a babysitter for the night. said you dressed up all pretty. wouldn't shut up about how 'bootiful' his mama looked," katsuki wiped under his nose with the back of his hand. he was nervous. were you really seeing someone?

"oh."

"oh?"

"no, uhm. i'm not seeing anyone. i went out to dinner with a coworker that one time. it wasn't anything romantic. just for fun. i'm not into the dating scene right now. i have priorities."

a small grunt.

"i'm serious, katsuki. hero work keeps me busy. our child keeps me busy." you shook your head. "i'm not into anyone."

"who was it?" he asked you curiously.

"hanta..." you whispered.

"hanta fucking sero??? you fucking went on a date with cellophane???"

"oh my god, it wasn't a date!" you raised your voice, cheeks red in embarassment. "it was a friendly dinner!!!"

"sure..." katsuki went quiet before a small smirk crept up. "didn't know he was your type."

"he's not-"

"defensive. you haven't changed."

you rolled your eyes. you really weren't the mood for such banter with your hu...ex-husband. even if it wasn't a friendly dinner, it was none of his business. you took a sip of the tea, an overwhelming feeling of home filling you. "whatever. is that what you wanted to talk about?"

"yeah. made me feel weird i guess when my own kid said his mother is going around, ya know?" he shrugged as he crossed one leg over the other. "i...miss you, you know. what we had and shit-"

"don't play with me, katsuki bakugo. this is your fault."

oh, he knew. and he knew well. it was his fault the divorce happened in the first place. he regretted it every single damn day and it hurt like a very powerful bitch. he shouldn't have treated you like that. he fucked up beyond repair, didn't he. he wanted to speak up but saw you stride to his front door.

"good night. i'll be back same time next week to pick him up."

the door slammed shut and katsuki sat there in silence. what a productive conversation...he ran his hand down his face in frustration, getting up to go to his son's room.

he was determined to fix what he did, one way or another.

© property of cherrieshalo 2025 - please do not steal or copy my work to post elsewhere

[anonymous-dentist]

They have tea in one of Hell’s most beautiful gardens. It’s full of carnivorous plants and poisonous flowers, there’s a lovey little white gazebo with a table in it, and there’s even a groove in the ground filled with molten glass to imitate a cute little babbling brook

Ros drinks her tea with a wide smile, completely clueless as to the reason why Pangi’s grip on his own cup is so tight

They chat for a bit. He lets her loosen up before asking the question that’s been heavy on his mind for the last decade:

“So, Ros,” he chipperly asks, “who’s Pili?”

Ros drops her cup. It shatters against the table, tea spilling all over her lap and her pretty purple dress

“Aaaaah,” says Ros. “Aaaaaah!! Ah-ha-ha-ha! Ha! Ha!”

Her eyes nervously dart about the garden as if looking for a threat. Hidden guards, servants with knives, anything. But she doesn’t look at the single biggest threat in Hell at all: him.

Pangi laughs, too- dry and humorless

“Oooh, Pangi!” Ros awkwardly cheers. “You’re getting your memories back! This is wonderful!”

She claps her hands together over her chest

“So you know who he is?” Pangi asks. Today, he is wearing his sunglasses. They’re doing his job well, if Ros not noticing the absolute betrayal in his eyes is anything to go by

“Uh, well…”

“Ros?”

“Well, I guess?”

She quickly adds, “But it was a very long time ago, and I don’t usually… like to think about him, you know? He was. I know he was your friend, but he was awful towards me. And, uh, well, you were, too, but! I feel like we’ve become much better friends since the- the Null. But forget about him, okay? When did you start getting your memories back? Oh, does Aimsey know?”

All of that is said in one breath, and then she sucks in a huge breath and smiles with every single one of her teeth

When Ros gets nervous, her fingers play with the ends of her hair

When Pangi gets nervous, he wants to stab something. Usually himself

Right now, he sips his tea and says, mouth hidden by his cup, “So you knew me before I lost my memories? And you haven’t said anything this whole time?”

If there’s one thing he hates, it’s a damn liar. Ironic considering his status as the literal Prince of Hell, but it’s not like he actually likes any of the sinners in his domain. They’re shitty people, and, to him, liars are some of the shittiest

Ros’ face goes pale. “Oh. I suppose… yes.”

Slowly, Pangi puts his cup down. And then he asks one simple question, letting thousands of years of pain come through in just one single word:

“Why?”

Ros worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she deliberates, eyes firmly locked on her own lap.

“I just…” she hesitates again.

“You never…” and again.

“I…” and again.

Pangi sighs, “Ros…”

“You seemed… happier. Not knowing. I guess.”

Ros looks close to tears, her eyes and cheeks red as she holds herself back.

She looks up at him, eyes watery. “You were miserable, Pangi! Every night we spent in the Null together, you couldn’t sleep because you couldn’t stop seeing his death when you closed your eyes. Aimsey and I sat there with you for five million years listening to you scream and cry and- and- maybe I should have told you, but-”

Pangi cuts her off with an angry, “Aimsey knew, too?!”

“Sort of? I made them promise not to say anything, but they didn’t really know you before the Null. Not the way I did. And- please don’t be angry with them, Pangi,” she begs, “it’s all my fault. You just… in the Null, you asked if we could be friends, and I said yes even though you helped Pili do horrible things to me, because I want to be your friend! And so when you- after the Null, when you forgot everything and you looked so much happier, I couldn’t just make you sad again.”

Pangi thinks back to Aimsey promising to research cures for him. Them saying he was traumatized and that there was no cure. Aimsey and Ros both promising to help him learn the truth, but them both knowing the whole time who he was before. And, what, not telling him because they? Thought he was happier this way?

He doesn’t like getting angry with Ros. She’s his best friend, really. No one except for maybe Aimsey has ever really been this… kind to him. Even Lukey has his moments of being really fucking annoying, but Ros? She’s been nothing but kind.

But… did he ever ask for this kindness?

Sighing, Pangi pulls his sunglasses off and puts his head in his hands.

“I… appreciate the thought,” he says, and he means it. “But…”

“Please don’t be upset with Aimsey,” Ros pleads. “We made a deal. And angelic deals are as strong as demonic ones. We were just trying to help…”

Looking up from his hands, Pangi fixes her with a firm look. “I will be talking with them about this. I just…”

He sighs again, closes his eyes, leans back into his chair and scrubs his eyes with one hand.

“I don’t get it,” he roughly says. “I trusted you guys…”

“You still can! Now that you’re getting your memories back, Aimsey and I don’t-”

He cuts her off. “I’m not getting my memories back. Lukey told me about Pili, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Her voice goes stiff. “Lukey did. I- I see.”

Her distaste for Lukey has been easily apparent for nearly as long as Lukey has been in Hell. Maybe it’s jealousy, maybe it’s because of his association with Pili in Heaven, but…

Frowning, Pangi sits back up and asks, “Hey, Ros, did I ever talk about Lukey in the Null?”

Her nose wrinkles slightly, so subtly that anyone who doesn’t know every single thing about her wouldn’t be able to notice it. “I guess. You didn’t call him that, though. You always talked about a ‘Lucas’ and how he was in the Null with us. You wouldn’t even try to escape, not without him.”

She starts fidgeting with the end of her braid. “I always thought he was another demon.”

Mildly offended, Pangi scoffs, “What, you didn’t remember him from when he was an angel?”

“Honestly? No. The only thing I ever heard about him was that he tried to kill the King with you, and I thought he’d died after that. You Fell, he died.”

Her eyes soften slightly. “But… I suppose he didn’t. Or, well… Pangi?”

Pangi nods, and she continues after a breath: “When we… were released. From the Null. You tried going back in for him, but a Keeper stopped you. I couldn’t… I didn’t hear everything, but you jumped. When they were done talking to you. You Fell a second time.”

Pangi’s blood runs cold. “What did they tell me?”

Ros looks away. “I’m not sure, but… and this is just me guessing, I’m sorry, but I think they told you what I was thinking…

“He was dead.”

In which Pangi, the Crown Prince of Hell, is having a lovely stroll near his favorite lava river when some fucking guy falls out of the sky and lands right on him. He’s in all white, completely unconscious with a faint purple tinge to his skin

This dude is dead, which wouldn’t be as crazy as it is if it wasn’t for the fact that Pangi is like 99% sure that he’s a fallen fucking angel

With nothing better to do, Pangi hikes the angel over his shoulder and start bringing him to his place. Cause it’s either this or his, ew, j*b, so yeah

[lucy-literates]

so it’s obvious that alex and charlotte all love jade and how all of them are close with the family i was thinking about some arthur angst about how reader breaks up with him because she didn’t feel comfortable especially maybe because she doesn’t come from money or live a lavish lifestyle like them and felt like she could tell his family missed his ex and loved her better how it ends it’s up to you

A/N: We love a little angst, enjoy!

Not Like Her

You loved Arthur.

That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was everything that came with Arthur.

Luxury dinners you never felt comfortable ordering at. Invitations to Monaco events where you stood awkwardly in Zara heels next to women in Chanel. The quiet moments in his apartment where the silence echoed with memories that didn’t belong to you—didn’t feel like you could ever fill them.

But the worst part?

His family was lovely. Too lovely. Too perfect. Too close.

Especially when they talked about her.

“Charlotte still texts her sometimes,” Alex had said offhandedly once. “You remember how tight they were, right?”

You had smiled, nodded, laughed even. But it stayed with you—like a splinter under your skin.

It wasn’t that they were cruel. They just... adored her. And you? You were a guest. Temporary. A quiet presence who sat beside Arthur at family brunches and didn’t know which spoon to use for dessert.

And the thing that really shattered you?

They didn’t mean to make you feel that way.

Which made it worse.

“I don’t belong in your world,” you said one night, arms crossed, voice already cracking. “And I think we both know it.”

Arthur stood frozen, lips parted, like he didn’t know whether to shout or fall apart.

“Is this about something someone said? Did something happen?”

“No,” you whispered. “That’s the problem. No one had to say anything. I just feel it… every time we walk into a room. Every time they mention her. I’m not her, Arthur. I’ll never be her.”

He moved toward you like a man desperate to stop a car crash. “I don’t want her. I want you.”

“But your life still has pieces of her in it. In them. In all of it.”

He grabbed your hands, tight, as if afraid you’d slip through his fingers. “I never meant to make you feel like this.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t care if you don’t come from money, or if you get overwhelmed at those events—none of that matters to me.”

“But it matters to me,” you said softly. “Because I feel like I’m always a step behind. Always trying to catch up. Always wondering if everyone else wishes I was someone else.”

His hands loosened around yours.

You looked up at him, tears stinging. “I’m tired, Arthur. And I don’t want to keep trying to fit into a life that doesn’t feel like mine.”

ENDING OPTION 1: Bittersweet Breakup

He didn’t fight you.

He wanted to—but he saw it in your eyes. That you weren’t doing this out of drama or punishment. You were doing it because it hurt to stay.

So he let you go.

He kissed your forehead, hands trembling, and said nothing as you closed the door behind you.

And when his family asked where you were next week, he didn’t answer. Because even though he had the money, the pedigree, the history...

He didn’t have you.

ENDING OPTION 2: She leaves… but he follows

Two weeks passed.

And then you heard the knock.

You opened the door to find Arthur, standing on your crumbling apartment steps in a hoodie and track pants, no cameras, no pretense—just him.

“I miss you,” he said, voice rough. “And I don’t give a fuck if you ever step into another gala or meet another sponsor. I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

You swallowed. “What about your family?”

“They’ll love whoever I love. Eventually. And if they don’t? That’s their problem. Because I’m not spending my life loving someone who feels like they have to hide to survive in it.”

He took a step closer.

“And if we don’t belong in either world, then we’ll make our own one. Just us.”

You didn’t speak.

You just stepped forward, and this time—you kissed him.

Tag List:

@livelaughleclerc

@alexxavicry

@ariellovelynn

@linnygirl09

@softhyunieeee

@astrlape

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-BLpv0xQYd1bTlaP7l1gAg8AgCyLE_yvrtljpCzlJhY/edit?usp=sharing

[m3mento-m0rii]

Seashells on the Seashore—

0.8k words; Huntrix x Mermaid! Reader Masterlist | Requests open! Saja Boys Version

A mermaid will live and breathe music—it's all that they knew. So when you're given a chance to meet the best group you've ever heard, how could you pass it up?

A/N: Actually I think I might like this one a little more. Idk this is only my second time writing Huntrix but I really love them 🥹

Were those angels singing?? They had to be. You couldn’t help but fall away with voices a few blocks away.

You didn’t go see, though. 

Instead, you listened wistfully, lying on a rock as you people watched. They stumbled across the shore, playing in the dark. Someone carrying another’s shoes. Children enjoying the rare late nights as their parents pulled them along on a stroll. The buzz of life deeper into the city.

Still, you wondered what kind of people could have such lovely voices. You knew you couldn’t see them. Walking that far? You’d only been on the beach. And that disappointed you, but . . . you had a fear of being found out. Of not fitting in, of integrating into a society that was never yours.

Luckily, you didn’t have to go that far.

Because you lingered after the show, savoring the way the ocean sounded above the horizon. The sky was dark and filled with stars, but true laughter drew your attention back to the shore.

The silhouettes had dwindled down to three—women, all walking along the tideline. Bright and carefree, circling each other, pulling along, joking.

You recognized those voices. 

Maybe you couldn’t go as far as stepping foot on paved streets and concrete sidewalks. But on the sands? You could manage that.

»                                                      ⊱◈⊰

“I saw you almost trip by the way,” Mira teased, and Zoey groaned. Rumi patted the girl on the shoulder, appearing on her other side.

“Oh, it’s not that bad, Zoey. I promise no one noticed,” she consoled, and Zoey only spazzed more.

“No one? Over fifty thousand cameras and our official ones, and no one noticed?”

“You played it off, though!!”

Mira only snickered at her best friends’ antics, her gaze trailing across to the ocean.

It was a beautiful night.

Except . . . she could swear that something was moving in the water.

“Uhm . . . guys? Is that thing coming towards us?”

Rumi and Zoey stopped, their heads turning simultaneously. They, too, noticed the shadow growing bigger and bigger in the water, slightly alarmed.

As the water got more and more shallow beneath you, your strokes turned to steps as your appearance faded away. Their jaws dropped.

Because you were something beautiful; stepping onto the sand like the ending scene of the little mermaid. The waves lapped at your feet with every half-confident stride, the moonlight loved you and it showed its affections in the way it clung to your skin. Not a thing was out of place about you, and you were out of this world.

But their trained eyes noticed the glamour.

“A demon.”

“A mermaid!!”

Rumi and Mira glanced at Zoey, but she was already bolting towards you. “Wait, Zoey—!”

Zoey is right for once. She ran up to you, excited, then suspicious, then excited again. Like a puppy.

You were the same, to be fair.

“You’re so pretty!” You awed, your eyes lingering on her hair. Zoey’s nose wrinkled cutely as she beamed, curious eyes looking over you.

“So are you!! I love your voice.”

“Mine? You sound like you were born a siren!”

Instant friends.

Rumi and Mira approached the both of you. Because no demon had ever been excited to see them. And you didn’t seem to know their names. They introduced themselves, and you explained that you’d heard them from the sea.

“You really do have amazing voices,” You admired, and Zoey flushed a little. Mira grinned, and Rumi seemed a bit bashful. “I’ve never heard prettier music. I thought you had to be inhuman, to be honest . . .”

Your eyes settled on Rumi’s markings, and your eyes widened. Because she wasn’t human, either! You supposed that they were treating you a bit too normal for regular humans, and . . . it felt nice.

Maybe if Rumi could live out there in the world, you could overcome your fear, too.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t come see us,” Rumi frowned.

“I was too scared.”

The three looked at each other, a beat of silence passing before a lightbulb practically appeared above their heads. “Mini concert! We’ll sing for you, right?”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” you denied, not expecting them to be willing to go through the trouble. So instead, Zoey proposed something else.

“Trade for trade, then. Will you sing for us, and we’ll sing for you?”

That was something more even—and you loved to sing, anyway. It was your life. 

For the rest of the night, you talked, sang some old sailor songs and they joined with ones they knew—they even taught you songs they’d made. Your voice was just as enchanting as theirs was. They were even better in person—and even without music, the harmonies they could create made up for it tenfold.

You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until morning came.

»                                                      ⊱◈⊰

A/N: AAA okay so anyone who's reading this who has just sent their requests . . . I really love them! Great ideas guys 😎 I will put them on my queue list when I'm done writing my this-week requests. See you soon!

—Captain Morii 🌤️

Morii's Business Class: @kpopmultistans @momentomoribitch @queensnowlake-wof

[woneazy]

“Full House”

sypnosis: blue lock boys x plushie obssessed! reader - stories of you, your boyfie, and your plushies

characters: isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, alexis ness, mikage reo, nagi seishiro

ISAGI YOICHI 🐻

♡ Isagi's a little intimidated the first time he sees the extent of you plushie collection. He doesn't think it's weird or that you're any lesser because of it, he's just taken aback by the sheer magnitude of stuffed, soft and squishy items infront of him.

♡After the shock goes away, Isagi unintentionally analyses your plushies. He looks at what stuffed animals you have and how many of them, the style and brands. He keeps this in mind for when he wants to get you a gift so that he's sure you'll like it.

♡ The plushies become a welcome part of his life, he brings his own childhood plushie to yours so that his plushie can hang out with yours.

• Isagi reaches into his bag and takes our a stuffed bear. It was worn from years of being cuddled to sleep but was still relatively well taken care of. He places it on the sofa as you come back from your room with an equally worn plushie,

"They look so cute together", Isagi coos as he seats your plushie next to his before taking a quick picture. "Like us", he adds on before putting his phone away and plopping himself on the couch and reaching his arms around your waist to drag you down with him. Despite the amount of plushies in your possession, Isagi believes that cuddling with you is the best comfort available to him.

Eventually you both fall asleep. When you wake up, you realised that at some point you kicked your plushies onto the floor. You both feel really bad and make them breakfast (imaginary pancakes and syrups served on empty plates)

BACHIRA MEGURU 🐶

♡ Bachira is pleasantly surprised by the fluffy fellows in your room. He decides to name every single plushie in your room. If they don't have names, great, he's giving them one; if they don't, he begins playfully presenting arguments on why his names for the plushies suit them more.

♡ He definitely takes a lot of pictures with the plushies, especially action shots like making them do the superman flying pose or making them have an epic fight scene. Bachira's mind is creative so if he's at your place while you're out, you can definitely expect a surprise scene to pop up in your chat.

♡ Bachira talks to your plushies like they're real. He's engaged in full conversations with your plushies like asking if your bunny plushie had a good carrot harvest that year and if the agricultural economy was doing well.

• "No no no, they have a straw hat so it's name is Johnny and they work on a farm."

"Bachira thats a sunhat."

You've been going back and forth for the last ten minuted about the name of your stuffed bunny. Bachira insists that it's called Johnny because "it looks like a farmer" to him whereas you named it Beatrice. The conversation had gone no where so you sigh and give in, "Fine, call her what you want".

Bachira smiles and takes "Johnny" into his hands, lifting her up in the air like Simba. "All the light touches is your land to farn Johnny." His voice comes out sounding hoarse and raspy like a wise old man. You can't help but giggle.

ITOSHI RIN 🦖

♡ Rin says its childish but appreciates the wonder of your collection. It reminds him of the toys he used to play with when he was younger, so he actually thinks of your room quite fondly.

♡ Even though he says its childish, he doesn't push it away. You'll catch him inspecting your plushies from time to time. When you're on the couch watching whatever, he'll have one arm over your shoulder and another holding a plushie.

♡ When he's overseas for a match, Rin leaves a plushie for you to keep you company. Despite your collection, Rin thinks you'll be lonely without him so he gives you the owl plushie he cherishes so deeply. In exchange, he takes one of your dinosaur plushies with him.

• You wake up to Rin kissing your forehead. "I have to leave soon." He places a round owl by you - it rolls over to the other side of the bed.

"Make sure you don't get too lonely, ok?" He mumbles quietly, his eyes shying away from you. Nodding, you hand him a soft green dinosaur. "You too." Rin hesitates, before nodding and taking the plushie into his arms. He looks at it, thinking back on his childhood.

The next time he leaves, you try to give him another plushie but Rin insists on taking the dinosaur again. It was your own tradition. Every time theres an away match, Rin sends a picture of the dinosaur on his hotel bed, letting you know that 'your son' is safe and sound. In return, Rin patiently awaits for a selfie of you and the owl watching his match.

ITOSHI SAE 🦉

♡ Sae doesn't say much about your collection when he gets introduced to your "zoo" but the next time you see him, he gifts you a small round owl.

♡ He calls the owl your son and you treat it like an actual child. The owl has its own seat at the dinner table, joins you for movie nights and gets cuddles from you both.

♡ You both take the owl with you EVERYWHERE: roadtrips, flights, convenience store runs? It goes with you.

• After a late shift at work you come home to Sae and your owl son waiting for you at the dinner table. Even though it can't eat, you both make a point to give it a plate every night. Dinner is quiet, as usual, but not tense; just comfortable silence.

When you both finish your meals, Sae urges you take a shower and get comfortable for the night while he washes the dishes. You give him a peck on the cheek and set your son on the couch before heading to the bathroom. Once you get out, you realise that Sae and the owl plush were no longer in the living room.

You move to the bedroom and see Sae already in bed, lying quietly on the bed with the owl on his stomach. It was kinda a ridiculous sight with all the other plushies surrounding him but you keep the laugh in your mind and join them.

"You'd make a good dad one day." Sae blushes and hides his face in the crook of your neck.

"You'd make a better mum." His response comes out muffled but you giggle into his hair and kiss his forehead before reaching for the owl and setting it onto the pillow beside you. "I think it's his bedtime", you mutter before getting back up to turn the lights off.

A shared wish of "Sweet dreams" for your son were whispered before you both fall to slumber.

Yeah. You definitely have a favourite child.

ALEXIS NESS 🐿️

♡ Ness does not shame you for it at all. He thinks that your collection is magical in its own way and that you deserve respect for your interests.

♡ I like the idea that Ness performs magic tricks for you and your plushie audience. You'll gather them on the couch while he picks a "volunteer" from the crowd to pull out of a magic hat.

♡ Ness would give you a squirrel and give it a witch hat. He says he needs an assistant for his shows in order to impress you. (In actuality, the squirrel just sits on your lap every show)

• The temperature was starting to drop with the orange leaves so you and Ness had decided to stay in. You see Ness moving your plushies by the armful to the couch, placing them split into 2 piles on each end of the couch, leaving space for you in the middle.

When you sit in your assigned seat, Ness places his 'assistant' on your lap and asks for a volunteer. The first up is a teddybear, who goes into am empty box and out comes some playing cards.

"Would the beautiful person in the middle like to choose a card?" No matter what card you choose, Ness tells you that he sees lots of love in the near future.

Ness then calls up his assistant, who goes into his magicians hat. After disappearing into the inside, Ness pulls out flowers from his hat, addressing them as "for my beloved in the middle". You give him a round of applause before he returns the plushies.

MIKAGE REO 🦁

♡ He finds it really endearing! Reos absolutely awestruck when he first sees your collection and instantly goes to hug one of them.

♡ Green flag!! He treats your plushies like royalty. When he asks you what you'd like for breakfast, he'll turn to your plushie and ask "And for the bunny?" in a butler voice. He'll occasionally come back with outfits for them.

♡ Your collection grows. A lot. If you want it, its yours. The first one Reo gets you is a cuddly lion with a purple ribbon tied around it, so you keep it close. Despite this, Reo insists on getting you plushies from wherever you go and wherever he goes.

• Reo was beginning to question his impulses to spoil you when you both decided to organise your plushies. Before, he had never really questioned the quantity of your collection but when faced with the challenge of actually making sure they were actually organized aesthetically and could all be seen, Reo almost regretted buying you all those gifts.

"Where would you like to go Mrs Rabbit?" He asks himself, but you can't help but laugh at how enthusiastically he questioned the stuffed aninal. "Maybe with your husband?" Reo places the rabbit in the frilly dress next to another rabbit on a shelf before turning to you. "And why are you laughing?"

"You just look cute is all." Reo blushes at your response before pulling you into a hug. At this point there were only a few plushies left so he starts making dinner. Although later, when he turns to the dining table, he didn't expect the lion he gave you to be sat at the table. "And maybe a cup of tea for the gentleman in the purple ribbon?"

NAGI SEISHIRO 🐻‍❄️

♡ Nagi doesn't make a big deal out of the plushies but he finds himself very pleased with it. On numerous occasions, you'll find him snuggled up with multiple of them. Head resting on a large pillowy one, hands around another one.

♡ With Nagi, your collection actually shrinks? Sometimes Nagi will take a plushie to remind him of you and then forget to give it back. He really likes that the plushies remind him of you, not only because of your interests but because they kinda smell like you.

♡ The first plushie Nagi got you was a polar bear that he got for you as an apology for constantly kicking plushies off of your bed in his sleep and using them as pillows when he was gaming and flattening them.

• You'd been looking for one of your plushies for a while but for some reason you just couldnt find it! That's when you found it flattened on the back of your boyfriend's gaming chair in his room. But strangely, Nagi was hugging a stuffed polar bear. You didn't recognise it so you asked about it.

"Nagi what's that you're holding?" The white haired boy smiles and hands it to you, before pulling you in to a hug. "S'posed to be a gift for you. It's cuddly like you."

Needless to say, you forgot about your flattened plushie very quickly. Much to Nagi's happiness.

[fluff-n-cookies]

Hi!! I absolutely love your stories! I was wondering if you could write a story about Bakugou having a younger sister (like 12 yo or something) and she gets to tag along with her brother for the day. However, she thinks he's "old and lame" and says stuff like that to him, but she talks about how cool everyone else is. And say someone like monoma makes her cry, and bakugou just immediately swoops in to protect her, and he becomes her hero.

Sorry for the lengthy request!

Family Visit

A/n: I am soooo bad at writing. It's actually insane, hopefully it’s good enough though! 

Cw:Fem reader, reader is 12 and adopted, also hinted at having bad foster homes previously, and is a bit of social butterfly, hurt to comfort fluff at the very end, OOC bakugou, minor swearing

It really all started when Bakugou's mom and dad realized that they hadn't gone out for a vacation in a while. One of their kids was busy getting settled into his dorm, the other, far smaller, far nicer one, was just easing back into school after summer break. add the fact that both of them were quite busy at work, then it became apparent that they had been neglecting their lovely little relationship.

Of course, it seems natural that they would go out, perhaps to a little resort in the countryside, where they could relax in nature and decompress together. It seemed nice, for the two of them.

There was one problem however, Little old Y/n. Sweet Little Y/n, their adopted daughter. She was, what one may call, a bit of a cry baby, like her father in that way, she never did like being away from family for too long, not that she'd ever truly admit it, having been neglected by her previous "families".

Thankfully, they had one last family member that could stay with her so that Misuki and Masaru could go on vacation like they wanted to; Katsuki Bakugou.  

That's why they were here now, they had packed up everything for a comfortable weekend at the UA dorms all into two neat bags, Masaru handed one over to Y/n.

"listen, I now your older brother can be a little bit of a sour puss, but I promise you, that he does care. so- can you be good kiddo?" he said.

and with a look that held no true malice, she groaned out a "FINNEEE."

she said just as Bakugou showed up on the front porch to pick her up. This time, it was Mitsuki that talked. "Katsuki, I swear to God, if this kid doesn't come back in one piece I'm going to break your arm, GOT THAT?!"

"Whatever you old Hag! just run off already."

"WHAT DID YOU JUsT CALL ME!!?"

"YOU DEAF NOW TOO???"

You know, a normal conversation in their household, while Masaru and (Y/n) stand off to the side, not willing to possibly get hurt in the crossfire.

It wasn't too long before the Bakugou parents said goodbye to their children and drove away in their car, excited for a vacation. Besides, it should be fine, they were only going away for a weekend anyways, and Bakugou was training to become a hero! He lived with heroes too!

They should be fine. With that, they left little Y/n and the big scary Kasuki, alone.

-well, not entirely alone- 

"Hey bakubro! where those your parents that you were talking to- oh, hey!" Kirishima said as he carried his bowl of cereal out onto the porch.

"Who's this little lady?" The red haired boy crouched down to her level to look her in the eye to greet her. He smiled, a sharp, toothy, sweet smile

"My adopted sister" Bakugou hissed out, he took her other bag in his arm, "c'mon, Y/n, lemme show you my dorm so you don't get lost." He expected that Y/n would follow him, and that he would show her his room and let her play games on his phone for the majority of the day while he caught up on homework.

Y/n after all, was a pretty nice kid, he doesn't remember her making too much of a fuss during their time together as siblings. But just because that's what was expected does not mean that that's what happened.

"Hi! I'm Y/n, who are you?"

"I'm Kirishima! I'm one fo Bakubro's friends."

"Oh, you're spiky hair, Katsuki talks about you when he comes over."

"Yeah, that would be me alright, manliest guy around!"

Their chatter was lost on Bakugou, as he watched one of his best friends have more conversation with his sister than he had in the past year at the dorms.

It was an odd sight, Bakugou never had truly been one to have a close relationship with his sister, nor have talked to her too much.

And the more he saw her chatting with Kirishima, and then, when they went inside to meet the rest of his friends, the weirder it seemed to him. Next thing you know, she’s talking with pink cheeks and Yayorozu about fashion. Then with Sero about some random movie she saw last week. And somehow she got to Aizawa Sensei,  and was talking with him about cats.

What could Bakugou do? He promised himself that he wouldn’t lose his temper, not in front of Y/n anyway. Who knew that she was this social? Hell, he’s pretty sure she’s talked with mere strangers in one day more than he’s spoken to her ever.

But what can he do? tell her to stop talking with others and to shut up? Well, he could, but it  probably wouldn’t fly well with his mom.

That’s how most of the day went, Bakugou would bring her along on whatever chores and errands and everything that he had to do that day, and she would talk non-stop with everyone she met to along the way.

Bakugou tried his hardest not to start yelling. I mean, it’s just weird, isn’t it? How come she likes literally everyone else more than she likes him? He’s supposed to be her older brother, what kind of a sister doesn’t even spare him more than a glance on one of the few days that they’ve truly had together? A bad one, to him, but one he sort of loves nevertheless.

So he stays quiet, until he finally manages to get some time alone with her in his dorm. Finally, he can catch up with her. No one to bother them, just pure brother-sister bonding time as mom would have called it.

At 7 pm, he sat her down at his desk while he brought out some fluffy pillows and blankets. He even bought her favorite movie on his laptop for her, they could watch it together. He never did like the movie, but it’s only a couple hours of pain followed by a very happy sister. She used to love it when she was younger.

 In an attempt to strike up a conversation he started with “So… Y/n, how’s school going?”

“Umm, it’s fine.”

“Well… are you having trouble with classes or people or anything?”

“No, I’m- I’m okay”

“Alright…”

“...”

“...”

It was at this given moment, Bakugou was really wondering if it’d be easier if he just told mom and dad to leave her at grandma’s house.

“...Your friends are really nice.” She started this time.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! Kiri and Todoroki especially! I also really liked talking with Deku again, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. He’s still a nerd but a much stronger and cooler one, you know? and - and Kaminari, he can power up cellphones and electronics and stuff with his quirk! Isn’t that cool? I can’t believe you get to hang out with these guys all day, they’re awesome.”

“Yeah, well, what about me..?”

With a laugh and smile she said “you? no offense katsuki, but you’re kinda lame compared to these guys.”

“Wait- what?”

“Yeah, you’re all old now,  you're not that much fun anymore. Besides, you never come by the house anymore- what, what are you doing? Kasuki!”

Bakugou by now had started pushing the poor girl out of his dorm and towards the door. “Kicking an ungrateful brat out of my room that’s what!”

“What the hell! Why are you acting like this?”

“You know why! Now out!”

“But-”

“Out!” and with that, Bakugou shut the door of his room in his sister’s face, leaving her to strom out the hall, and eventually, out of the building.

Instead of waiting around in the hallway, she opted to sit outside on the porch. Sometime along the way, when she didn’t even notice, she started to cry. No one bothered to follow her, too busy stuck in their own worlds.

And it’s like this that little Y/n found herself crying on the steps to the UA dorms all alone. She hated- hated being alone.

It was like this for a little while, her sniffling into her hands, occasionally mumbling a “Stupid Katsuki, stupid mom, stupid dad.” mainly stupid Katsuki.

That is- until a figure sauntered up the street. UA workout uniform, water bottle and duffle bag in hand. She couldn’t see the face. As the figure approached a lamp that illuminated his face, his blonde hair simply glimmered.

Though, he didn’t appear to be anyone you’ve met yet, maybe he was from class 1B? What’s the point anyways,not like he's gonna help. And help he didn’t.

“You there! Little girl, why are you crying? Did somebody take your blanket or something.” He yelled out.

“Oh leave me alone! I’m not little, it's none of your business!”

“Oh hell no!, why are you outside the UA dorms, weak little things like you don’t belong here anyways, outside the 1A dorms too, don’ t you know that those losers simply can’t do anything right?-" The stranger just kept ballbering, and blabbering tends not to be one of those things that help when you’re crying.

In fact, in Y/n’s case, it just made it worse, and worse, and worse. Her eyes were red by the end of it. Again, the stranger would just not stop blabbering!

At least that is until “Oi Monoma, the hell you doin’ here? And what are you doing with my damn sister!?”

“Bakuogu? Sister? Hah! So that’s why she’s crying, she’s sad she’s related to a weakling like you!”

“Watch it!”

“No!”

“Why you little-!” and with that, all it took was an explosion powered punch to the stomach to get rid of him.

“Ah! What the hell! Fuck, this isn’t over!”

“Yeah! Yeah! just go, and get the hell away from my sister you asshole!” With that, Monoma scampered off, probably to snitch to a teacher.

Bakugou turned back to Y/n. “Are you okay?” she shook her head no.

“Listen” he started, sitting down next to her on the steps, “I’m really sorry- it was a dick move of me to get so mad at you, s’just that I barely see you these days, was hoping we could talk and chill like we used to. But you’re all grown now- and- it just feels like you don’t need me anymore.”

“...”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” he finished.

Y/n wiped at her tears, Bakugou stopped her though.”Here- lemme um, get that f’you.”

he brought out a tissue from his pocket and wiped them away for her, one hand tilting her cheek up, the other dabbing at her cheeks gently. It was like this that –Suddenly!

Suddenly, He found himself wrapped up in a hug, tight one, one where she cried into his neck for a good 2 minutes

“I’m sorry too Kats! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you and it feels like I don’t know you- and- and- it’s like you hate me so I guess that you don’t-" most of her words were lost on him, between sobs and sniffles that all he could really figure out.

"Hey, Hey! Kid, slow down. One thing at a time, how about that. An apology accepted…

I guess we both fucked up.”

This time, she nodded yes into his now tear stained shirt. Bakugou let out a sigh. “How about we- um, watch a movie, and eat some food first, then we talk? Does that sound good? Yeah, let's go inside."

And really, that’s what they did, watched a movie and ate some food- and–talked. As siblings tend to do. And while it may not have been easy nor fun, it was to mend, and to help, and to hopefully, teach. 

Bonus: 

Monoma: “I’m telling you Vlad sensei! Bakugou is a danger to the student body!”

Vlad King: “Well then you probably shouldn't have gone around mocking his sister MONOMA.”