#let’s get back to the important things...

[luveline]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms. 

You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him. 

For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short. 

Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining. 

You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach. 

You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.” 

You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out. 

Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant. 

“Here, sweetheart,” he says. 

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.” 

“Can I make it for you?” he asks. 

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.” 

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building. 

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Are you sharing?”  

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers. 

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.” 

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.” 

“That explains why it’s still warm.” 

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute. 

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips. 

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?” 

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.” 

“Why not?” 

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.” 

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says. 

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.” 

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says. 

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it. 

“I’ll bring you some if it does.” 

“I’d like that.” 

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning. 

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?” 

“I can be punctual,” he promises. 

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force. 

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you). 

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?” 

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet. 

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days. 

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes. 

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties. 

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else. 

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath. 

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed. 

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer. 

“That smells amazing.” 

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?” 

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.” 

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised. 

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks. 

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask. 

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.” 

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask. 

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.” 

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell. 

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks. 

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath. 

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place. 

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says. 

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say. 

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.” 

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile. 

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave. 

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision. 

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly. 

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment. 

“It’s a little brave,” you say. 

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.” 

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you. 

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control. 

You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure. 

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says. 

“I’m not worried about the sun.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon. 

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.” 

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm. 

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that. 

“Do you worry about that a lot?” 

“Hm?” 

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?” 

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask. 

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.” 

He makes everything sound so satiny. 

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds. 

“Promise?” 

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.” 

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart. 

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him. 

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism. 

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.” 

“And?” 

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says. 

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth. 

“What’s amazing?” 

You remember where you are urgently. 

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says. 

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?” 

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee. 

“Morning,” Clark says. 

“Hi. Good morning.” 

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?” 

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.” 

“You look good.” 

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.” 

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite. 

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose. 

“You do look good,” he says again. 

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.” 

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice. 

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?” 

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself. 

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.” 

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue. 

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.  

“Don’t.” 

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?” 

“Take me somewhere else.” 

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator. 

He hits the button for the basement as you step in. 

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop. 

“Clark!” you say. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth. 

You raise your hand to wipe it away. 

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly. 

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be. 

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back. 

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.” 

“Really?” 

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?” 

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh. 

His eyebrows pinch. “What?” 

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.” 

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.” 

His neck goes all shades of rose. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. 

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?” 

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble. 

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit. 

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.” 

The elevator chugs back to life. 

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar. 

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?” 

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out. 

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.” 

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily. 

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you. 

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion. 

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.” 

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.” 

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.” 

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak. 

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.” 

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly. 

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times

[bodhiscurls]

baby, it's you!! ( clark kent )

you're the one i love! you're the one i need! you're the only one i see! clark kent finally works up the courage to ask you to dinner; only to run behind on work with lois and completely stand you up. it's fine, you're three glasses of wine in and ready to rant at your friend lois' door, only to find the cause of tonight's rage sitting there on her sofa. now, clark has to find a way to tell you the truth; that this is all a misunderstanding and it's only ever been you. it will always be you.

pairing: clark kent x journalist fem reader (no use of yn)

themes: angst, fluff, implied cheating (more so accusation)

the voicemails started off polite, poised and then four missed calls later you were bordering into unhinged, murderous woman who had been stood up on her first date territory. which you were- so that take is completely true.

you've known clark kent for a few months since you joined the daily planet as a journalist for their women's health section. separated by the plastic wheels squeaking as his bumps his chair into yours and the sweet cups of coffee he starts your mornings with, it wasn't long between your smiles at him became softer. you let yourself look at him a little longer, hanging on to whatever slivers of himself he'd let sneak past his usual charming and boyish front.

he returned those feelings pretty quickly too, through the holding of hands under the desks, him learning a little over your shoulder purposefully to read over your work, the intensity of his closeness throwing you off- how when he'd speak it was as if he had reserved a separate tone just for you- one that felt a little more breathless, thoughtful, pooling heat in your stomach instantaneously and laced with a feeling a lot like love.

it took him weeks to work himself up to ask you on a date. your first date, you mused. clark kent was clearly a man who did things by the book and you had hoped that after tonight, he'd finally meet you in the middle of this strange dance you're stuck in and kiss you silly already.

you'd imagined it in your head a million times; so often that you had once unintentionally started typing out the scene like a true novella; how he'd wine and dine you at the little italian place a few blocks over, dance with you in the dark on the walk home and kiss the remenants of sweet dessert off your lips on your doorstep- instead of filling the column with your recent musings on the importance of gut health in retaining a balanceful mood. you had never smashed the backspace so hard in your life- the angry crushing of keys and the rosy pink flushing the tips of your ears and neck drawing attention to your best friend, lois who stared at you amused.

"he's obsessed with you," she assured with you once, the very first time he looked your way and sent you spiralling. it was the same day he asked you out, a casual question for dinner and maybe it was your fault for overthinking this. he gave you one look and you went running straight into his heart, demanding entrance and free rent.

"hey this is clark! leave your message and i'll try and get back to you-" and you can imagine his obnoxiously gorgeous face, slight chirp in his voice and suddenly the alcohol buzzing war in your veins is giving you the confidence.

"you know clark, if you wanted to just embarrass me you didn't have to take me out to dinner to do that," you grit between your teeth, "oh wait, you didn't even take me out to dinner! call me NEVER." the breath of anger is hot on your phone, steaming the screen. the phone hangs on by a thin thread of misplaced hope and largely embarrassment as it sits between your collarbone and ear.

it's a contrast to the chill air of the apartment stairwell that bites at your bare skin. the off white slip you paired with a soft knit cardigan that was a sweet butter yellow seemed incredible in the moment but right now, only the breeze- bordering wind territory is getting a treat of it tonight. your kitten heels clatter on the stairs up because your friend's stupid elevators are out of service. like mystery man, lois lane had also not returned your calls tonight. you figured she was going through her usual work phases, her perfectionism and hyperfixated need for the chase of a story stealing most of her time. you let her do her thing, its what she loved and you loved supporting her.

when you first moved to the daily planet she was the first to show you around and became the sister you never had; an instantaneous friendship that made the world spin a little slower for you to keep up.

and that's why tonight: three sweaty flights of stairs and two more voicemails that ended with the escape of sniffles has you knocking on your friend's door- in need of an ear to lift this heavy burden of embarrassment of your shoulder.

"lois!" you don't even knock, just throw the entirety of your body weight at her door. your figure is slumped against it when she opens it just by the smallest of inches and maybe if you were intoxicated less, that could've been the first sign.

"he stood me up," the tears stream and before you know it you're sobbing in her hallway- loud wails that widen her eyes comically in fear you're going to wake up the whole neighbourhood.

"i waited," you throw your arms around miserably, like a toddler having a tantrum, "and he never showed."

something instantly freezes in her and what looks like guilt flashes over the sympathetic smile she sends your way before she crushes you into a bone-bending hug. "oh honey," she soothes into your skin and you let the tears soak up her tank top and then you pull back.

"can i come in now?" your voice quiet and lois decided she'd rather the earth swallow her whole.

"i'm a little busy," she winces, trying to close the door a little bit more behind her but you peer through nonetheless anyways, blood freezing cold at the sight of soft black curls you know from the memorisation of how they've felt under your fingers.

"clark," you breathe. its not exactly a question, more so a snot fuelled statement of betrayal as your eyes flicker between him and your friend. you don't know which one to settle on, shift all your focus and blame on because you're so tired and the alcohol is making you drowsier as the minutes tick by.

"honey," he gets up from his spot on the sofa and tries to meet you at the door but the wrinkle in your brow and fury laced in your frown tells him to stop exactly where he is.

"don't you dare come near me," shame rises in your throat and you feel flushed as hell. the heats on the back of your neck, tinging your cheeks in a rosy fire of embarrassment. "god, how could i have been so fucking wrong?" your voice stretches out with a strain and you take a step back in defeat, "i knew i was in over my head," and then you decide no. this is not a pity party for one, you will not take the blame. you were stood up!

"yeah!" you shout with a growl and the two of them look between themselves in concern, unsure of how to approach you.

"honey, wait," a warm and heavy wrist reaches out to grab your arm as you make a sharp turn on your heel- ready to end this night of drunken shame and theatrics.

"oh i did!" you fight the empty laugh with a scoff, "for a whole hour, no texts no calls, nothing," your voice gets quieter, thudding in clark's chest like warning signals blaring disasterously. this is all on him, he thinks. he's fucked up majorly.

you shrug yourself out of his hold, throwing your small purse in the direction of the two of them and hobble away in a huff. the stiletto heels swelling at your ankles as you shift the weight. the air is heavy as you leave it and face the chill of the outside air swimming around you.

the walk back to your apartment isn't far- you live pretty close to lois and when you reach your door, you sigh heavily. leaning your head onto the wooden frame, and as the tears start to well up all over again you bite them back down. in your fit, throwing your purse at the two traitors you forgot that you left your phone and your keys in there. however, sober you is smarter and you use your excellently hidden spare key to unlock the door and crash inside.

it's safer in your home- no one can reach you here, you think. the kitten heels are abandoned at the entryway, and your body collapses straight onto the sofa, not even making it to your bed before sleep chases you and claims to you a life that was kinder to you, where you ate donuts for breakfast and didn't gain a pound, wrote about things that interested you instead of the latest shopping trends and where you could fall asleep in the arms of someone who let you in all the way and just liked you back enough to choose you first.

...

he softly places your purse on your desk infront of you, shifting his weight back and forth, rocking gently on his feet as he waits behind your chair. at 6'4, his height looms over your area, like a cool of shade on a warm summer day, you normally welcome his presence instantly. usually you notice him in a second, with a soft sweet smile in which your nose scrunches a "good morning" and clark kent knows the day is going to be a good one.

instead, he's met with silence.

pure, heavy, lonely silence.

you were thirty four minutes late this morning- he was absolutely counting as he watched the door open and close, hoping it'd be who'd pass in. and when you did you were quieter than usual, hair tied in a messy knot at the back of your head, glasses perched on the bridge of your nose and the same damn yellow cardigan wraps around your frame. only today it sits on top of a black satin slip that sways in the breeze as you take the furthest seat from him. he's instantly tortured with the memories of last night, how undeserving he was to see you in such a fragile but gorgeous state and he blew it completely.

your eyes narrow in on the purse to the side of your computer.

he watches carefully as you poke your tongue in your cheek in thought and prays like hell that you'll just say anything. instead what he soaks up is your snail- like movements who takes all the time in the world to open your purse, not bother checking whether all your things are still there but unlocking your phone.

"i charged it," he has to clear his throat but the earnest rumble still peeks through. you nod slowly, switching it off within a moment and letting it clutter on your desk with a gentle thud- a careless offhanded movement and he winces.

he still waits, hoping you'll throw another crumb his way. he tries not to let the fact that you've not touched the cup of coffee he left steaming at your desk this morning sting his chest like you've poured gasoline over his heart and are just waiting to set it alight.

"not hungry?" he asks, fighting back a stutter. you look over to the muffin he left by the side of your mug and then back at him, a bored expression on your face and clark wishes he could make this whole thing right again. it was a misunderstanding- hard to explain to someone who's drunk- not that he'd ever blame you. it was his fault for getting caught up in his interview with lois he didn't realise the time. he planned this date, he knew about it, scheduled it weeks in advance and he had let it all go to shit because there was someone out there who knew him. and that changed everything, scared him more than anything.

but seeing you so detached, god that's got to top the list for sure.

"no thanks," you deliver flatly, turning your attention back to the screen. your fingers hover lazily over the keyboard and in the reflection of your glasses, clark can still see his reflection fading to the background.

"listen, about last night-" he starts the story he's practises over and over again with great precision but the nerves in his stomach threaten to rip him open still.

"i said no thanks," you repeat more firmly, "look i get it, you're not interested and it's my fault for dragging this on but for the love of god, please don't make this any more awkward for me i will actually die," you don't take your eyes off the screen once but your fingers are frozen. no words typed out but everything said in the open.

"that's so far from the truth-" he begins and you cut him off with a glare sent with pure edge. he stands firm and watches the ice melt with a softened stare. he thinks he has you for a moment and then all the light fades from his eyes when you give him a reassuring nod.

"clark, it's okay. please just go now," and just like that, your focus is taken back to your computer screen and clark is frozen behind you. he stands for a couple more seconds before jimmy places two hands at his broad shoulders and diverts him away.

"i don't know what you did kent, but it's best to wait this out maybe?" he suggests but clark's mind screams the opposite. he has to fix this and quick or the best thing to happen to his life is going to disappear- and he would've just let it all happen.

...

lois gives him a nod across the room and he delivers one exactly the same. at his side, jimmy crosses his fingers and says a prayer which clark thanks him quietly before getting up and walking with such stealth a few feet behind you.

it's lunch time- later than you usually take it but you've grabbed your work bag and have it slunched over your shoulder and make way to the elevator. clark keeps his steps purposefully measured- slower than yours but quick enough to keep up with your momentum. he stops at your side and presses the button to call for the elevator and feels you still beside him.

it's comical how statue-eque you've transformed that clark has to look extra closely to check the rise and fall of your chest to make sure you're breathing.

"hey, do you wanna grab a bite fro-" he can hardly get the question out before you've darted in the direction of the stairwell, taking off at such an incredible speed that clark has to beg for a few huffs of breaths to keep going.

"honey!" he calls out and growls lowly when you do not pause for a single second, jumping down the flights of stairs like each step is burnt straight from hell. clark uses the last of his strength and ounce of caffeine to pull through getting slighter ahead of you and knocks you against the wall.

his hand shoots out in a razor sharp reflex, cushioning your head from where it was moments from meeting the wall as the other pushes itself gently into your abdomen, holding you still.

"stop running from me please," his voice is dangerously low, a plead heavy in the subtle vibrations

"oh," you whisper stupidly at the hand placement, heating pooling in your stomach at the sudden proximity. you hate yourself for how easy it is for him to break your stony resolve. you planned to give him a whole day's worth of the silent treatment but had already broken your pact by charging your stupid phone like a nice human being. ugh.

he stumbles out an apology and pulls back gently, enough to give you some more room to breathe. his hand covering your stomach travels to the side of your hip instead and squeezes it gently in comfort.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, hanging his head low. "lois and i got paired for a new article and we just ran over time. it was my fault, i thought i'd make it to you on time but as we got deeper in the work i forgot to even call or text and," he breathes out slower, "i'm worried i've blown this all because i'm fucking stupid."

his breaths are heavy, slicing the air as it settles thicker with emotions and regrets of last night.

"so you and lois are not?" you can't get the words out and he shakes his head immediately.

"no," he firmly puts, "god, no," theres more emphasis this time, "she's amazing but she's not you. there's only ever been you- there will only ever be you and it fucking kills me that you thought i wasn't interested anymore. honey you hang the stars in my sky and rotate the damn earth, it could never not be you," he whispers again and you nod, staring straight into those gentle eyes.

"i got all pretty for you," your voice cracks, the shards worming its way and seeping through clark's heart. he watches how your eyes glass with a fresh batch of tears and he reaches out to catch the strays intimately, fingers cupping your jaw and he presses his forehead against yours.

"i know baby, and god i'll be sorry till i die,"

"bit dramatic," you ease to break the tension and he huffs out a laugh, "but i appreciate it nonetheless."

"let me make it up to you?" he asks hopeful and you bite your lip, the insecurity and fear of being left behind still making its way into your bones. he can feel that you're inside your own head and curses himself for making you feel this way.

"i don't know clark," you get out honestly, "i felt real stupid sitting there, you also owe me fifty bucks for all that wine," you face the floor, unable to keep eye contact.

he uses a finger to hook under your chin and lift your eyes to him, "i broke your trust," he speaks gently, as if being any louder might scare you away, "i'm so sorry for making you feel forgotten and alone last night, you are important to me more than anything and i'll show it to you. i'll prove it to you, i'm here," he pleads and you sigh, resting your head into his chest and he melts under your touch.

"one chance," your voice heats at his heart. "as long as you promise to delete all those voicemails- i went a little bit overboard," and you flush with sniffle of embarrassment once more. he promises with a chuckle and soft kiss to your temple, holding you in the stairwell for moments that stretch into an eternity.

you don't know that clark cried so hard to each voicemail, he threw his phone in anger, almost breaking it. that he followed you home last night from a distance to make sure you made it back home safe even though he was probably the last person you'd have wanted to see. you don't know that now as you stand in his arms, every bit of honour he has to fight and hang on to desperately when he wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss you stupidly.

he wants forever with you.

and he'll spend the rest of his life working towards it- one dinner, three glasses of wine and eight raging voicemails at a time.

note: i dont think im a dc girl, i think im just a david corenswet girl im ngl the press run hes been on lawddddd

[greyyson-but-wrong]

tell me what happened?

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: brief wound description, first aid, tiny angst (could not be smaller), canon typical pain/gore

summary: you think you can hide a stab wound from your husband? yeah, okay, good luck with that

author notes: cheeky little short thing hahah I wrote this out of nowhere pls enjoy its very fluffy, very sweet, bucky is very soft here lowkey kinda ooc but I feel like if he was healed completely this could be accurate anyways do enjoy

word count: 1.8K

The door inched closed with a tentative click as the lock turned, your hand falling from the gold doorhandle. Safety. You were home, that was the important thing. Not the searing pain in your head and abdomen, part of your sleeve pressing against the wound. Fucking idiot had a knife. You didn't expect him to have a knife. It wasn't deep. Probably. Okay, it could have been way worse. You weren't going to bleed out and that was good enough for you. Whether it was enough for him was another question, but he would be asleep. You'd be able to sneak into the bathroom and patch yourself up before he ever knew you were even stabbed.

You had to pass the bedroom to make it to the bathroom. It was typical of Bucky when you went on missions like this to keep the bedroom door swung wide open for when you got back. He'd done that tonight, the darkness spilling into the corridor of your home.

Slipping past the door, you thought you had made it. Listen, you were trained spy. You could get past any situation, you could step as quietly as a mouse. You could steal things from people so that they forgot they had the item in the first place. And yet, you weren't able to make it past your own bedroom door without catching your foot on an uneven floorboard and hiss at the pain of a wrong move against your wound. You knew you were done for when the bedsheets shuffled and the 6-foot-something man sat up, eyes heavy with sleep and donning fresh bed-head.

If you hadn't just been caught, you would have smiled at how purely adorable he looked.

Because he wasn't the Winter Solider in these moments. He wasn't a spy or a super solider, or any form of weapon. He was your James. With a boyish grin and a need to have his arms around you at all times, whether you liked it or not. Though, you always did like it.

He grunted, breathing air through his nose and attempting to adjust to the light shining in from the corridor. "Doll?"

"Hi, honey." You smiled towards him, leaning against the doorframe as a way to shield and distract him from the way you were holding your side. He grinned at you when he fully came around. "I'm just gonna go wash up, then I'll come to bed."

Bucky nodded sleepily. "M'kay, sweetheart. See you inabit."

When he trailed off and dropped back against his pillow, you let out a silent sigh of relief and continued your movement in the direction of the bathroom. Light switch on, you dragged the aid kit from the cabinet below the sink and works on patching it up. Luckily the bleeding had ceased and the cut wasn't deep enough to need stitches. Antiseptic to clean the wound came first, teeth gritted together in a hiss that echoed against the white tile as the alcohol cleaned but pained you simultaneously. Then just a simple patch placed over the wound, which now looked a lot less intimidating now that it was clean and wasn't seeping blood seemingly endlessly.

While it would sting if you moved it in the wrong way, it was covered and in a much better condition to heal, so you were happy. With the light switching off, you followed your own path back towards the bedroom, entering this time and silently moving over to the dresser, pulling out one of Bucky's old t shirts that smelt like him and dragging it over your head.

The bed was warm as you slipped into it, the ends of your fingers still freezing from the November cold and shivering as you drew the covers over your body. More warmth came over you as your beloved turned in his sleepy state and pulled you towards him, flesh arm wrapping around your waist and pressing your back flush against his chest. His metal arm moved to under his pillow, leaning his head forward to press against the back of your neck and breathe in your scent. A sense of comfort, a reminder of home, because you were his home and he loved you so much.

As your eyes fluttered shut, he mumbled. "Mission go well?"

It was just his usual check in, same as always. You always told him the truth, no matter what had happened, because he deserved to know, and you knew he would react in the exact way you needed him to in that moment. "Yeah." You murmur back, nodding softly, even thought you knew his eyes were closed. "Got all the intel with no casualties."

"That's m'girl." A flush crept up onto your cheeks.

Sighing into the skin at the back of your neck, his hand wandered, needing to feel you around him, safe, home, his. From the dip of your waist, to the curve of your hip and tucking under your his shirt. He knew you would be cold, without you having to even shiver. On any other day you would welcome the warmth of his flesh hand against your bare skin, the comfort and clarity warming you up. But the further upwards his hand moved, the closer he was getting to the gauze patch just above your hip bone. He hadn't been able to feel it through the thick fabric of his shirt — there was no avoiding it this time.

Then, just as you were about to shuffle tiredly he reached it, flesh brushing over the rough fabric. His fingers paused, just hovering slightly above the wound now. To you, it hadn't been a very large patch because the wound hadn't been that big, but to him, the love of his life had gauze stretching across her abdomen — it didn't matter how big the wound was. You had frozen, eyes squeezed shut, pushing it down and praying he would ignore it. Of course, he wouldn't.

His lips parted — he pulled his metal arm from under his pillow and propped himself up on it, able to look down at you, eyes now open and furrowed at you. "Sweets?"

"Mhm?"

"Can I ask why you've got a gauze patch on your hip?" He was calm with it, being forced to be so due to the sheer tiredness painted on his face, the urge to fall asleep almost taking him over. But no, your safety was more important to him.

You turned, taking the path of acting like there was nothing wrong. Gaslighting? You suppose. "There's not a gauze patch on my hip, Buck." He raised a sassy eyebrow at you, hand dipping to the hem of his shirt and pulling it over the curve of your hip. He didn't need to say anything else for you to realise there was no getting out of this now. You hummed, grazing your finger over the wounded area. "Yeah. That's not my hips, baby, that's above my hips."

"Must think you're so funny." He mumbles, taking your hand and entwining his fingers with yours. "You're hurt, probably in a lot of pain and you're just joking around like that. Hurts me, doll."

Snorting, it was your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. "Don't act like you don't do the same."

He stayed silent at that. Got'em. Your smug thoughts were silence as Bucky moves down your body, removing your hand from the patch and instead replacing it with his lips, softly pressing against the fabric, warming the area. Slowly, he wandered your body, lips following every movement, pressing against every possible patch of skin, murmuring sweet nothings underneath each breath as he did so, warming your body and your heart. Once he reached your shoulder, he mumbled against the skin. "Tell me what happened?"

"It was just some guy, Buck." You murmured, turning to fully face him and reaching your hand up to press against his cheek and letting your thumb rub against the stubble there. "With a knife, didn't see him coming, he managed to get through my defences and lightly stabbed m—"

"Stabbed? You were stabbed!" The words had his voiced raised, eyebrows rising just as much as you realised that the man was now, wide awake.

"Lightly." You tried to croon, comfort, maybe settle some of the anger he was feeling.

But Bucky was having none of it. "Baby, no." He spoke, his voice as soft as ever, externally showing his care and worry for you over the internal battle inside his brain telling him to go and find whoever did this to you and make their life a living hell. Then again, he knew you, he trusted you and with your skill, you had probably already killed him even after being stabbed in the abdomen.

Leaning upwards just a little, so as not to strain yourself, you pressed your lips against his cheek. "I'm okay, I swear. I'll heal, I always do."

"Someone still hurt you though."

"And he's got what's coming for him." You shrugged, clearly not as put off by this whole situation as much as Bucky was. You were strong — he knew that more than anybody. That doesn't mean it didn't pain him to see the gauze patch against your skin. Skin, of which, he had an unbreakable habit of kissing at any and every possible moment. "But I'm alive and I'm not going anywhere."

Bucky grumbled, hand at your hip, thumbing over the tender skin next to the wound. He wasn't happy with just leaving it be, but the two of you needed sleep, you needed to heal and he needed to just… hold you for a bit. In his arms, under the warmth, a reminder that you were strong, and safe, and his. "M'kay, I'll drop it. On one condition."

"Go on, honey."

"Promise me you tell me next time you come home hurt?" The words crushed you just a little. You should have told him, but he'd been so tired recently, and you didn't want to bother him. He continued. "I'm your husband, doll, I'm here to protect you and help you. I can't do that if you don't tell me."

Knowing he was right, you nodded. "I promise, Bucky, I will."

He smiled, leaning down a leaving a kiss in your hairline. "Thank you. All I ever want is to know you're safe and alive. Now come on, sleep will help you heal and you're almost definitely tired from the blood loss."

You hummed, turning over and letting him press his chest against your back, curling slightly to fit better against him. With a warmth settled in your heart and the feel of his warm fingers splayed across your stomach, making sure you weren't going anywhere, the two of you drifted off together into the best sleep you'd had in a while. You knew you were safe with him, and he knew that you were warm and alive, shielded by him even in the throes of an unconscious sleep.

a/n: hope you enjoyed <3

[preserve-or-raze]

for me, time blindness means that there are two times that exist: now and not now. for example, if i have to meet him for lunch at noon then i need to leave in 2 hours. but in my head that translates to “i do not need to leave now.” and since any time that isn’t now is not now, my brain treats this the same way it would “i need to leave in 6 months.” so now, i have to hope that in 2 hours, i remember that “it’s time to leave now.” (in this post i’m not going to get into the executive dysfunction that may or may not impede my actual leaving, but that’s a thing too.) if i remember too early, then we’re still in not now and i’m not leaving yet because other things need doing in the meantime. and obviously if i remember too late then i’m going to be late. relatedly, i also cannot seem to accurately judge how long it will take to leave; not to travel, but to get from “not traveling” to “traveling.” but again, that’s a separate issue.

now vs not now affects everything from deadlines to birthdays to bedtimes to cooking to getting places. anything that happens at a fixed time is subject to now vs not now and my remembering when now is at the right time.

it’s exhausting by the way. for sure because of the adrenaline that comes with remembering and quickly calculating if i’ve made a major mistake, but also because the only way to get remotely close to not forgetting something is by actively choosing to hold it in my memory. i must refuse to think about (and thus, do) anything else until the correct now arrives so that i don’t have to keep remembering anymore. if i let my mind go, it may not come back. this way of mentally holding on to something isn’t so bad if now will come in an hour or so. but the longer away it actually is, the less likely my brain is to keep its remembrance in the rotation. i’m sure i’ve made a post about how my memory works being like holding physical objects so i won’t go into it now, but my active memory is quite small, so the things that are closer to now (so i’m told) i try to bring across my memory more often.

i guess in that way my temporal organization depends more on how often i remember something than how soon it will become relevant. i equate how frequently i remember something with its importance; remembering something more often means i’m more likely to need that piece of info. it’s not so much that i need to do this now because it’s due tomorrow as it is i’ve remembered that it’s due not now four dozen times today, whereas next week’s thing only occurred to me 20 times and her birthday in 3 months i only remembered once (note: not to scale). that’s something i kinda only realized writing this post. huh.

The real thing with ADHD is not "I forgot", but that forgetting is this ongoing process. I remembered! And then I forgot.

At ten this (hypothetical) morning I remembered that I have a meeting at six. And then from 11 through 3 I worked on other stuff and had zero thoughts about that meeting. Maybe even thought about what I was gonna do with my evening at home. Got attached to the idea of taking the time to make a good dinner, maybe play some video games.

And then at three I said, "Oh! Fuck!" and remembered again, hopefully long enough to set an alarm. And then I went to the bathroom and remembered that I need to clean the counter and spent twenty minutes cleaning the bathroom and went to get a snack and then at five I said, "OH! FUCK!" and had to scramble to dress like a real adult and get out the door.

It isn't one clean forgetting. It's a constant process of forgetting and then, with an exhausting adrenaline spike, remembering. And then forgetting. Baby, I can forget the same thing more times in a day than you ever forgot your parents' anniversary.

[dex0s]

PART FOUR OF WELCOME BACK AUTHOR

YAN! KPDH x GN reader

Chapter 1, <<<< back Chapter 2

(A/N) I forgot to mention that the reason behind the lateness is one vacation (I got sunburned and no longer look a light skin) and two I have been finishing the other parts which are come very soon. Antways enjoy.

WARNINGS: (NONE) for now PS: reader looks/singer like miku but doesn't act like her.

WORD COUNT: 2K+

Walking out of the plane, you stretch your arms high above your head, feeling the satisfying pop of your joints after sitting cramped for two hours straight. A loud yawn escapes your mouth before you even try to suppress it. The airport is busy, the air buzzing with the chatter of travelers, the squeaking of suitcase wheels, and the distant calls over the intercom.

"I'm so hungry," you mutter, rubbing your stomach dramatically. "Who was the genius that decided not to pack snacks for the flight?"

You turn around as you walk, scanning the line of disembarking passengers/your co-workers until you spot him. Rual, slowly making his way down the plane's narrow aisle. He's still glued to his tablet, eyes flicking across the screen as if whatever he's reading is way more important than basic human needs.

Finally stepping off the plane, he looks up, locking eyes with you. His expression is flat, one eyebrow raised, mouth set in a line so straight it might as well be drawn with a ruler. The look he gives you is filled with judgment and disbelief, as if you've just asked whether the Earth is flat.

"(Y/N)... You," he says with deliberate emphasis, "and I quote, said: 'I don't need snacks. It's only a two-hour flight.'"

You blink at him, your lips parting as if you're about to argue. But then your brain replays that memory, and, unfortunately for your pride, it's accurate. You close your mouth again with a quiet click, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck.

"...Can we just go to a café..." you mumble, looking anywhere but directly at Rual. You avoid eye contact like it's a trap, pretending the floor tiles are the most fascinating thing you've ever seen.

He exhales sharply, a mix between a sigh and a tired chuckle, then slides his tablet into his backpack.

"Come on, let's go get you fed before you start blaming me for global warming too."

Maybe next time, you'll bring the snacks. Maybe.

TIME SKIP

You and Rual step out of the café, the warm scent of roasted coffee beans and sugary pastries still lingering in the air behind you. The midday sun casts a soft golden glow over the sidewalk, and a gentle breeze plays with the edge of your jacket as you walk. You're smiling. No, grinning—like a kid who just got away with something mischievous. There's a light bounce in your step, clearly fueled by the sweet treat still settling in your stomach.

Beside you, Rual is less than amused.

His arms are crossed, his jaw tight, and his eyes locked on you with a mixture of mild betrayal and intense irritation. You can feel the glare without even turning to look. A scowl tugs at the corner of his mouth as his pace quickens just slightly, like if he walks fast enough, maybe he can escape both the situation and your good mood.

"We are late to the studio now," he says, voice clipped and precise. "And now we're also going to be late for the meeting with Huntr/x."

You spin around to face him, walking backward a few steps just to make sure he sees the full extent of your unapologetic joy. Your smile doesn't fade and in fact, it widens, if that's even possible. You know him too well. Despite the cold tone and deadpan delivery, you saw the flicker in his eyes when he took the first bite of that caramel-drizzled waffle. You heard the low hum of satisfaction he let slip before quickly composing himself again.

Deep down, buried beneath layers of logic, deadlines, and his whole 'no-nonsense' persona. You know Rual enjoyed that sugary detour. Probably more than he'd admit even under torture. After all, the man has a massive sweet tooth and absolutely zero time to indulge it. Not with the constant workload, back-to-back meetings, and a personal schedule so tight it could probably strangle someone.

"They won't mind," you say casually, shrugging. "Not everyone can be on time all the time."

Rual stops walking and glares at you harder if that's even possible while you continue strolling ahead, as if this were all part of your grand plan. You're unfazed, basking in the brief chaos of defiance and sugar-fueled satisfaction.

"You're insufferable," he mutters under his breath, finally catching up to you.

You glance over, catching a faint glimmer in his eyes, a ghost of a smile he's trying to suppress but failing just a little.

"And yet," you say, tossing him a smug look, "here you are. Still walking besides, me."

Turning back around, walking with all the carefree energy in the world, you barely get two steps before something smacks you square in the face.

"Pfft—!" you stumble slightly, hands flailing up to peel the mysterious object off your face. It's paper. Thin, glossy, and slightly crumpled at the edges. A flyer, probably blown into the wind by some chaotic force of fate or marketing.

You smooth it out, curiosity tugging at your fingertips. Bright, bold letters jump off the page:

"SAJA BOYS FREE CONCERT! LIVE @ XXXXX – Show starts at XX:XX PM!"

You blink. Once. Twice.

Your heart skips in surprise. Saja Boys? The name doesn't ring a bell. You squint at the flyer, trying to jog your memory. Judging by the bold fonts, the flashy design, and the fact that it's a concert announcement, they're probably some idol group. Must be popular if they're getting a crowd for a free show. You've definitely heard people mention that name in while walking around or through random conversations in the cafe, but you've never really paid attention. To focus on getting to the cafe or the sweet treats they have.

Still... free is free. And music is music.

You tilt your head, eyes darting back to the bold time stamp.

Five minutes.

Your eyes widen.

Peering behind you, you spot Rual across the street, sliding into the driver's seat of the rental car you both picked up earlier. He tosses his bag in the passenger seat with a heavy thud, completely unaware that you've fallen behind. He thinks you're right behind him, like a responsible, punctual person would be. Like someone who doesn't get distracted by loud signs and the vague promise of free entertainment.

Which, let's be honest, is not you.

You glance up at the nearest street sign, and realization hits you like the flyer did

you're already here.

This is exactly where the show is being held.

You pull out your phone. Four minutes left.

An idea forms. Quick, dangerous, and absolutely not good. The kind of idea that would make Rual's left eye twitch.

You glance once at the car, then slowly, carefully begin to walk in the opposite direction. Faster now. Stealth mode activated. Your pace quickens into a low-key power walk as the sound of a crowd in the distance begins to grow louder.

"I'll be so fast that Rual won't even notice I'm gone... I hope," you tell yourself, not entirely convinced. Still, your feet carry you forward, heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline, mischief, and curiosity.

Meanwhile, back in the car, Rual buckles his seatbelt and glances into the rearview mirror out of habit. He expects to see you there, probably making some joke or texting memes to the group chat, but instead. emptiness.

No chatter. No rustling. No over-caffeinated idol bouncing in the back seat.

Just silence.

His gaze narrows. A long, heavy sigh escapes his lips as he rests his forehead against the steering wheel. After a moment of internal screaming, he sits up, expression flat as concrete.

He doesn't even have to guess what happened.

With a cold stare and a tone that could kill a cactus, he mutters to no one in particular, "I swear, I am going to figure out how to get away with murder someday."

A pause.

Another sigh.

"I hate my job."

He exits out the car anyway, already preparing the lecture he's going to give you. Then, with a practiced sigh, he pulls out his phone, taps through a few screens, and brings up your location.

Of course you forgot to disable sharing.

"There you are," he mutters, watching your little dot move suspiciously closer to a crowd on the map.

He doesn't even flinch.

"Unbelievable."

But deep down, he's not even surprised.

AT THE AREA OF THE CONCERT

"I'm so happy Rual had me disguise myself," you murmur, tugging your hoodie low and adjusting your mask as the faint sound of music echoes through the air. "Otherwise, this concert would've turned into a signing event..."

You say it lightly, but the disguise is doing its job. So far.

The walkway ahead has transformed into something surreal. Instead of a typical stage setup, the crowd has formed a wide circle, tightly packed but leaving the center completely empty as if something, or someone, is supposed to be there.

It's unspoken but understood this is the stage.

No risers, no lighting rigs, no velvet ropes. Just a raw, open space surrounded by people buzzing with curiosity. Phones are already up. Some fans are whispering excitedly. Others look as confused as you feel.

Is this even the right concert?

You push your way closer, muttering polite apologies as you weave through the growing mass of bodies. The atmosphere is electric—expectant, as if the whole space is holding its breath. You reach the inner edge of the circle, finally getting a full view.

Then—

PSSHHH!

Pink smoke erupts from both ends of the walkway, shooting into the air with a sharp hiss. Glittering particles catch in the golden sunset light, swirling like cotton candy clouds. The crowd gasps, half from surprise and half from delight.

Five silhouettes step through the haze, one by one, emerging from the smoke like something out of a dream. Each boy is dressed in their own soft pastels/street wear style, and all of them look completely unshaken by the sea of strangers watching them.

The music hits without warning.

A pulsing beat drops, and in perfect timing, one of them throws a fist in the air as his voice breaks through the sound.

"Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!"

The chant is electric, simple, bold, and alive. The crowd responds instantly, shouting the "Hey!"s back with rising energy. Some people start dancing in place. Others clap. It's contagious.

"Don't want you, need you, yeah, I need you to fill me up"

The five boys jump into formation, synchronized and sharp, their movements clean and effortless even without a stage. You're no expert, but you can tell, they've practiced this. They're good. Really good.

"마시고마셔봐도,성에차지않아"

And suddenly, you forget how new they are.

"Got a feeling that, oh, yeah (Yeah), You could be everything that"

Because in this moment, with pink smoke drifting behind them and the beat shaking through your chest, the Saja Boys don't feel new or feel real.

"That I need (Need), taste so sweet (Sweet). Every sip makes me want more, yeah"

They feel like a group that's already arrived and has been here for a long time. And yet...

There's something about them that makes your skin prickle.

Not fear. Not danger. Just—unease.

A strange tension underneath the perfect execution. Like something's off, but too subtle to name. Maybe it's the way their eyes occasionally flick past the crowd—like they're watching for something else. Or someone.

There's something about them that makes your skin prickle.

"Lookin' like snacks 'cause you got it like that (Woo). Take a big bite, want another bite, yeah"

Okay... this might actually be good.

You catch yourself smiling behind your mask, nodding a little to the rhythm. But then—

Then you glance left, and your stomach drops.

Three girls stand shoulder-to-shoulder, their box-forgotten in their hands. Their expressions have gone from anger to frozen.

Huntr/x.

You blink rapidly, pretending you don't see them. But it's too late.

One of them, Mira, pulls her glasses down just enough to see past your hood.

She squints.

Then recognition hits her like a truck.

"Miku?" she hisses in disbelief, eyes wide. "Are you serious?!"

You shrink half an inch, giving a guilty little wave. "Hey... fancy seeing you guys here..."

"You're supposed to be with Rual!" another one whispers, Zoey, trying not to raise her voice and cause a scene. "You're so not supposed to be here."

You chuckle nervously, glancing toward the smoke-drenched walkway as the music continues. One of the Saja Boys begins singing—his voice smooth, velvety, and oddly calming.

You nod toward the performance. "Technically, I'm doing research. For... talent scouting?"

Their stares say they're not buying it.

Then, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You don't want to look. You know who it is.

You do anyway.

Rual: "Your GPS dot is in the middle of a concert. Tell me that's a glitch."

You swallow hard, slowly putting your phone away without replying.

The music kicks up, and the pink smoke begins to thin as the song is near its end, and boom!, a huge ass soda pop appears and all five boys dance in sync, the lead vocal belting a high note that earns a few cheers from the crowd.

Enjoying the show until—

A hand grabs your wrist.

You flinch, only to realize it's Rumi, the leader of Huntr/x. She's suddenly in front of you, gently pulling you back behind her as her gaze locks onto the boys.

Her stance is still, but you can feel the tension radiating off her. Her voice is low, steady.

"You shouldn't be here," she says, still watching the performance.

You blink. "Wait—what?"

Without looking back, she mutters, "It's not safe... especially with those demons here."

You freeze.

Demons?

"Wait—what did you just say?" you ask, but she doesn't repeat herself.

You glance at the other two Huntr/x members. They're no longer casual or curious. Their smiles are gone, replaced with unreadable expressions. Eyes locked on the boys. Shoulders squared.

Something's wrong.

You look back toward the Saja Boys, still performing with impossible energy—spinning in perfect unison on top of the soda can, one of them belting a final chorus while the other dance in sync like robots.

They feel like they belong here.

But your instincts whisper otherwise.

Are Huntr/x... jealous?

The thought throws you. These girls are the top, international fame, sold-out stadiums, exclusive endorsements. These boys? Barely known. Barely debuted. And yet...

Their presence is undeniable.

And unnerving.

The music shifts, building toward a climax.

"They're not what they look like," Rumi mutters under her breath. "And trust me, this isn't just a show."

You glance back up, just in time to see one of the Saja Boys staring directly at you. (Guess who?)

His head is tilted ever so slightly.

He's smiling.

Not the fanservice kind of smile.

Not the idol kind.

But the kind of smile someone gives when they've found exactly what they were looking for.

And you?

You suddenly don't feel like a fan.

You feel like bait.

"That's it for now," the black-haired boy from the Saja Boys called out with a confident grin, his voice carrying clearly over the crowd. "See you tonight on everyone's favorite variety show, the Saja Boys. Love you, my little soda pop."

The crowd cheered loudly, but before the applause could swell any further, the boys suddenly stepped back toward the edges of the soda can.

Pink smoke burst out again, swallowing them whole.

You blink and, in that moment, you feel it.

All five of them are staring straight at you.

Their smirks don't fade.

Then—

A sudden flash of yellow lights up their eyes.

And purple cracks ripple across their skin like fractured glass, glowing faintly in the smoky haze.

A chill rushes down your spine.

In your mind, a voice soft, but ice-cold whispers

"이��� 봐, 내 사랑, 항상 지켜보고 있어"

Your heart pounds.

The crowd is still cheering.

But you know something else entirely has just begun.

A hand suddenly tugs at your shoulder, spinning you around.

There stands Rual, his expression sharp—definitely not happy. "Why did you run off? Your luck—"

But you barely hear the rest. Your mind is still reeling from what just happened. The glowing eyes, the purple cracks, that chilling whisper echoing in your head. Your breath comes out shaky.

Rual's eyes catch the scared look in yours. His tense posture softens immediately. Without a word, he pulls you into a firm, reassuring hug.

"Come on," he murmurs gently. "Let's get you back to the car."

You let yourself lean into him, feeling a tiny bit safer in his grip.

He leads you away from the crowd, and just before you reach the car, he pauses and turns to the three girls from Huntr/x who've been watching quietly.

"You guys need a ride?" he asks, voice steady and calm.

Their eyes flicker with surprise, but after a moment, they nod.

Rual's protective side is already kicking in.

[sinsofsummers]

mdni | edging clark kent

thinking about edging clark after hours at the daily planet.

(logistics be damned)

the two of you stay late to finish an important assignment. he's in his chair, leaning back leisurely, and before long you can really see the way his eyes are snagging on your legs, your hands, your polished nails as you lean over his desk to spread papers on the surface.

thinking about clark spending the whole night begging for it, his plump, pink lips pouting at you after you spend hours shoving off his desperate advances, just begging you to touch him, to "take a break, sweet pea. this'll all be here tomorrow. let's just...please. let's go home."

thinking about smirking at him, savoring the growing blush that rises in his cheeks each time you shake your head, batting away his hands that reach for your hips, your waist. all in vain. you push his glasses up his nose with a, "not now, wonder boy. stop fooling around."

he shakes his head, running a hand through his already messy hair. "i'm not fooling around," he huffs, his purposefully oversized suit doing nothing to hide his strength when he makes a successful snatch at your waist to tug you onto his lap. "i'm doing important stuff."

you let out a raucous laugh at the way his voice lilts into a pitch higher than you're used to, nearing a whimper.

and that's when you get the idea.

your ass is against his lap, and you feel the resistance ebb from your bones, allowing yourself one experimental roll of your hips against him.

you're still facing forward, feeling your face heat as you briefly consider the fact that you're about to engage in something sinful at your place of work (again—logistics be damned).

thinking about clark letting out a breathy moan, thinking about how quickly you can get him hard, his hands squeezing tightly on your hips, about to guide you over his lap (about to do many things, you suspect)—

until you stand up, relishing the way his hands follow you, his shaking words enveloping you. "no, sweet pea. please, i need to—"

thinking about using one of your shoelaces to loosely tie his wrists together behind his back, tying him to the chair (you both know it's a weak attempt at handcuffing him, but based on the way his pupils dilate at the feeling of your small hands restraining his much larger ones...you know he'll do as you say).

thinking about the both of you figuring out how much clark likes edging as you go through with it. thinking about his whimpers and pants of need as you leave nothing but your panties on, his erection straining against his pants before you unzip his fly and guide his cock into free air.

thinking about the way his curls will frizz up with sweat, his glasses fogging as his cheeks heat, the way his head will lean back and hit the chair, his lips quivering as you work his length.

thinking about the way his throat will go hoarse as he watches you hover over his tip, letting a drop of spit land on the head of his cock before using it to lube his cock. thinking about kneeling before him, smirking up at him as he can do nothing while you stroke him, kissing his shaft occasionally, enough stimulation to make him twitch.

thinking about the way he'll let out a ragged groan when you take your hand away, his tip red and angry. "sweet pea," he'll repeat, over and over again, so often that it sounds like a curse in itself.

thinking about standing up, about putting your hand on his cheek, cradling him in a sweet gesture, peeking down to see his cock hard and red against his clothed stomach.

thinking about pressing your ass into his face, giving him nothing but your soft flesh to kiss, his arms clearly straining against the temptation to break free of his shoelace prison.

thinking about watching precum leak out of his cock in a steady stream, staining his shirt and falling into the crevice of his groin and pelvis.

thinking about kneeling down, hand stroking his length as you lean in to clean up the precum where it falls. thinking about holding his sweet release in your mouth and forcing him to look at you when you force it out of your lips, a creamy white sheen falling down your chin and carefully dripping against your chest.

his hips will buck into your hands (yes, you have to use two if you mean to edge him well) and the only reason you'll give in to letting him come is because your clit is throbbing and the only way you'll find release is with his cock stuffing you to the brim.

and what other way can he finally come than inside you?

so what i'm really thinking about is getting him to the edge, over and over and over again, and then finally standing up, turning around, ignoring his pitiful whimpers as you pull your panties to the side, and bracing your hands on his knees.

thinking about his self-control disintegrating as he can see what you're about to do. thinking about his breaths getting faster, more ragged (if it's even possible) and suddenly begging you to "fuck me, baby. fuck me, please. fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefuckmefuckme—"

thinking about how clark likes edging so much that he doesn't even last one bounce of your ass on his length, swallowing him whole, before he releases his load into your sweet cunt, painting your walls with so much of his kryptonian seed that it leaks from your hole before you even release him from your warm embrace.

of course, it's only his first of the night. the shoelaces don't last long after that.

and the papers on his desk...well. they'll need to be re-printed the next morning after he fucks you senseless on it.

(need more? here's a link to an audio that gives the same vibes, and a link to a vid that lowkey inspired this session of thots)

wait maybe this should have been written like a full fic whoops

reblog to support a writer!

[geddyqueer]

wip wednesday

yay! thanks @setmeatopthepyre for da tag... let's throw it back out there to @ambernotember and @rcmclachlan and @apollabarnes and @liminalmemories21 and @dharmaavocado and @screamlet and @newtkelly and @beanarie. and whoever else wants to. trying to remember who posted something the other day that i was deeply curious about. was it @sad-girl-hours23? well, you're getting tagged anyway. and if you're not tagged here but you want to post please tag me in it anyway...

once again, from this be the verse, which is about 2/3rds done:

"I told some of your family that we're together," Buck says. Tommy nestles his chosen hot dog into his bun and nods. "I hope that's okay."

Tommy gives him an incredulous look. "I walked in here holding your hand. Of course it's okay."

"I just wanted to give you a heads up. They were kind of homophobic," Buck says.

"Evan, they're homophobes," Tommy says. "I would expect nothing less."

Buck frowns.

"Were they shitty to you?" Tommy asks, concern lancing through his voice.

"No," Buck says; Tommy looks at him disbelievingly. "No, Tommy. But they were shitty about you."

"Oh. Well. That's fine, then."

Someone clears their throat behind them, and they turn in unison. It's Seth, holding a bottle of water and looking chagrined.

"I wanted to say sorry," he says. "I guess—I didn't know you were—"

"It's fine," Tommy says, like he's trying to head this off at the pass.

"Man, it's not fine. You know, Carina and I, we're liberal, right? Vote blue no matter who. We're—we're for the LGBT, okay?"

"Thanks?" Buck says.

"I just didn't want you to think that we, you know, wouldn't have your back. Because we do, okay, cousin?" Seth takes a deep breath. "You know when that whole thing went down with your dad we, me and Jeremy and Matt—our other cousins," he says, presumably for Buck's benefit, although Buck could have gathered that from context clues. "We wondered, like, what must have happened for Tommy to do that, you know? Like did you knock a girl up or fail out of high school or get really into drugs?"

Tommy's lip curls, and Buck wishes a medieval piper were here to herald the triumphant return of Bitchy Tommy. "Nope," he says. "Just a good old fashioned heartwarming little coming-out story."

Seth's mouth snaps shut.

"Alright, good talk," Tommy says. "Babe, you want to go see my childhood bedroom?"

"Absolutely," Buck says, following him away from the card table and the crowd.

It doesn't escape his notice that there aren't any family pictures on the walls of this hallway, but the meaning of that doesn't become apparent until Tommy pushes open a bedroom door and stops short.

"Oh," he says.

The room is—empty, for one. Devoid of any traces of personality. The only furniture in there is a twin-sized bed with a blue comforter lain over it and a particularly ugly lamp. There's no photos on the wall, no old school books, no remnants of Tommy anywhere within its borders. It's like they scrubbed him out of existence. Like Daniel, Buck can't help but think.

"Well," Tommy says. "So much for that plan."

"They erased you," Buck says. He tries to surreptitiously wipe his eyes.

"I kind of figured they would. They hate me," Tommy says. He looks over at Buck and his face changes immediately. "Evan, it's not that big a deal," he says, but Buck shakes his head.

"Sorry, it's just—I was thinking about Daniel." Honesty is their new policy and he's not going to break it here, now, even if it's not important.

"Oh, sweetheart," Tommy says, and Buck is wrapped into his arms.

"Sorry," Buck whispers. "Don't want to make it about me."

"I don't mind," Tommy whispers back.

They don't fuck in Tommy's childhood bedroom at his father's wake; instead they do something almost worse: they talk about their feelings, and they cry a little, and they kiss each other so deeply Buck can feel the love coming up from Tommy's diaphragm, and then they compose themselves and head back to the living room.

[tobiosbbyghorl]

office au with loser and downbad hoon, your honor 🫡

To Whom It May Concern | PSH

loser!sunghoon x receptionist!reader

Sunghoon swore he was a normal person outside the building. He really was.

Back in his apartment, he was composed, organized, even mildly respected. He meal-prepped. He folded laundry on Sundays. His Spotify playlists had themes.

But the moment he entered the lobby of Hybe & Co., he turned into a walking system error.

And the cause was sitting behind the reception desk every morning, sipping on iced coffee, hair tucked behind one ear, fingers dancing across a keyboard like you were composing symphonies instead of typing pass log entries.

You.

The first time it happened—two months ago now—he’d been running late and didn’t even realize his ID card wasn’t clipped to his lanyard. He was halfway through the building, humming some Seventeen track under his breath, before the security guard gently redirected him back to the desk.

And there you were. A nameplate in front of you. A small, amused smile pulling at your lips.

“ID?” you asked politely, tilting your head.

He patted every pocket. “Uhh…”

You waited patiently, gaze flicking over him like you were assessing whether he was just forgetful or a potential security risk.

“Okay. I swear I had it this morning,” he stammered. “I must’ve—maybe in the car—no, wait, that’s impossible, because I came from the train—and—” He stopped, mentally tripping over himself.

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in your eyes. “You’re new, right?”

He nodded.

“Park… Sunghoon?”

His jaw dropped. “How’d you—?”

You simply smiled, held up the visitor log. “I recognize your face. You’re on the same floor as Marketing. You came in with Jake Sim on your first day.”

“Oh,” he muttered, ears heating up. “Cool. So I’m… memorable?”

You bit back a laugh. “Only because you looked very lost holding your iced americano in both hands like it was a survival tool.”

He wanted to dig a hole right there and then.

Instead, he took the pen you offered him, signed in as a visitor, and mumbled, “Thanks, uh… Y/N.”

You blinked, surprised. “Wow. You remembered my name.”

He blurted, “It’s the most important one in the building.”

Silence.

Then your lips curled. “Nice save.”

He thought about that moment for days.

And somehow, it became a thing.

Every Monday, like clockwork, he’d “forget” his ID. Walk up to the desk with the same sheepish smile. Sign in. Banter. Then spend the next ten minutes trying to stop grinning like an idiot as he rode the elevator up.

-

“You need help,” Jake said one morning as Sunghoon frantically fluffed his hair in the reflective elevator doors.

“What?”

“You’re forgetting your ID on purpose now.”

Sunghoon didn’t deny it.

“Next thing we know, you’ll fake a fire drill just to get a glimpse of her on a Thursday.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Jake sing-songed, “that receptionist has you in a chokehold.”

Then came the email.

From HR:

“Team Kindness: Let’s boost morale by sending anonymous messages of appreciation! Just reply to this thread and share something nice about a colleague. Let’s spread the love!”

Sunghoon wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t.

But it was a slow Thursday, the coffee was hitting hard, and you’d just smiled at him earlier when he passed the front desk with an extra coffee he “accidentally” bought and left for you with a post-it: “For the person who knows everyone’s name.”

So he opened the thread. Typed a message without really thinking.

there’s a girl at the front desk who makes me forget my name and my access card every monday. her voice is the only notification sound i’ll never mute. i’d misplace my ID a thousand times just to hear her laugh again.

He grinned. Cute. Slightly unhinged. But anonymous, right?

Then he clicked Send.

And his heart stopped.

Reply All.

To the department.

To HR.

To legal.

To you.

Jake turned to him from his desk across the room. “Did you just—?”

“I hate myself,” Sunghoon whispered.

Jay turned around slowly. “Bro.”

Sunghoon, panicking, attempted to recall the email. Too late. The damage was done.

All he could do was put his head in his hands and prepare for social collapse.

And then.

You replied.

Just one sentence.

you can forget your ID again next monday.

i’ll be waiting.

He read it. Three times.

A fourth.

By the seventh, he was clutching his chest.

“Sunghoon?” Jay asked. “You okay?”

“No,” he whispered. “I think she just flirted back.”

Jake laughed.

Sunghoon smiled into his palm. His cheeks burned.

You were waiting.

And next Monday couldn’t come fast enough.

-

It was the following Monday.

And Sunghoon?

Was spiraling.

He didn’t even need to forget his ID anymore—he could’ve strolled in like a fully functioning adult—but he still stopped by the front desk.

You were there, typing something, hair loosely pinned back, and when you looked up and saw him… you smiled.

Not the polite “good morning, sir” kind.

The kind that said I read your email.

“Good morning,” you greeted, tone light. “ID today?”

He held up the card sheepishly.

You raised a brow. “Shocking.”

“But I forgot my sanity,” he replied, voice cracking just a little.

You bit back a grin. “You’ll have to sign in for that.”

He choked on air.

-

Hours later, he hadn’t stopped thinking about that smile.

It was burning into his retinas, playing on loop in his brain like a background track.

And by lunchtime, Jake was done with him.

“Go eat,” Jake said, tossing him his phone. “Before you combust.”

Sunghoon muttered something about needing air and wandered off to the cafeteria. Headphones on, eyes glued to the screen as he mindlessly scrolled through Spotify.

Which is why—

He didn’t see you turning the corner.

Not until his shoulder collided with yours.

Hard.

“Oh sh— I’m so sorry!” he gasped, reaching instinctively to steady you.

His hand caught your elbow. Your palm pressed against his chest.

Both of you froze.

“…Sunghoon?”

“…Y/N?” he breathed, brain buffering at the fact that you were here—out from behind the desk—looking unfairly good in casual officewear and holding a lunch tray with a juice box on top.

He stepped back quickly. “Sorry! I wasn’t looking—I didn’t mean to—are you okay?”

You glanced down at your now slightly lopsided tray, then up at him with a soft laugh. “You really like crashing into me at work, huh?”

He flushed. “Yeah, apparently it’s a hobby now.”

You smiled, eyes playful. “What were you even doing?”

“Just… walking. Thinking.”

“About what?”

You asked it so casually. Like you didn’t know.

Like you hadn’t read the line about your laugh being his favorite sound.

Sunghoon cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of his clammy palms. “Uh. Lunch.”

You tilted your head. “Alone?”

“Yeah. I mean, unless—you’re busy, right? You have… juice.”

You looked down at the juice box. “Wow. That’s the best way someone’s asked me to lunch.”

His eyes widened. “Wait. Was that me asking?”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “Wasn’t it?”

He blinked. “…Can it be?”

You finally gave in and smiled—wide, warm, the kind that made his knees weak.

“Yeah, Sunghoon,” you said, brushing past him toward the cafeteria. “It can be.”

He stood there, stunned for a second, before jogging to catch up.

“You always walk this fast?” he asked breathlessly.

You didn’t stop. “Only when someone’s late for our accidental lunch date.”

And just like that, Park Sunghoon forgot how to function all over again.

-

The cafeteria was only half-full, buzzing with low chatter and the faint sound of utensils clinking against plates. You found a spot near the glass windows — not too crowded, tucked away just enough.

Sunghoon placed his tray across from yours, still a little flushed, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his napkin. He tried not to glance at you too much, but failed miserably.

You sipped from your juice box with a casual ease he envied, resting your chin lightly on your hand.

“So,” you said softly, “you usually eat alone?”

He blinked. “Um. Yeah. I mean, not always. Sometimes with Jake, or Jay, or just… y’know. Vibe with the silence.”

You smiled. “And today?”

He swallowed. “Today’s better.”

You looked at him for a moment, the corner of your lip twitching, but not in amusement — something softer. Something kind.

“I read your email, you know.”

His whole body stiffened. “I—I know. You replied.”

“I did.” You placed your juice down. “But I never got to tell you in person.”

Sunghoon looked up slowly, afraid to meet your gaze. But when he did, it wasn’t teasing or judgment he saw. It was quiet admiration.

“I thought it was sweet,” you said simply.

He blinked. “Really?”

You nodded. “I mean, people say a lot of fake, polished things during those kinds of HR activities. Yours felt… honest. Like it came from a real place.”

“It did,” he said before he could stop himself.

You smiled.

He scratched the back of his neck, nervously. “I was worried I overstepped. That it was too much. I didn’t want you to think I was some creep who—”

“Sunghoon.” Your voice was gentle. “You forget your ID just to see me. Not to corner me in a hallway.”

He let out a breathy laugh, relieved. “Okay. That’s… a fair distinction.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your arms on the table. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He nodded, curious.

“I knew,” you said. “I mean, not from the start, but… eventually.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“I mean, come on. Who forgets their ID five Mondays in a row?” You paused. “But every time you showed up, you looked so nervous. And shy. And nice. So I let you keep forgetting it.”

His jaw dropped. “You let me?”

You smiled shyly. “Well… I didn’t exactly mind the company.”

There was a pause.

A comfortable, heart-skipping pause.

Sunghoon bit his lip to hide the grin threatening to take over his entire face. “So… I don’t have to keep forgetting it now?”

You shrugged. “Up to you.”

And he swore, in that moment — with the soft hum of the cafeteria, your tray between you, and your eyes meeting his like it was the most natural thing in the world — he’d never wanted to forget anything more in his life.

They didn’t rush to finish their food.

There was something quiet and easy about the way the conversation lingered, drifting from favorite coffee orders to elevator horror stories to which floor had the best aircon. You’d even made him laugh with a half-serious theory that HR was secretly running a social experiment based on everyone’s Slack usage.

He laughed too loudly. You didn’t mind.

And when you started packing up your things, Sunghoon’s heart started beating louder. He could feel the moment slipping away — that sliver of calm in between reality and something more — and he didn’t want to let it go.

You stood and smiled at him gently. “Thanks for lunch, by the way.”

He stood too, tray wobbling slightly in his hands. “No, yeah, thank you. For, y’know… not making fun of the email. Or the forgetting thing. Or… me.”

“I wouldn’t,” you said simply, and that was what did it.

That softness in your voice. That sincerity that didn’t scare him away — it drew him in.

So before he could overthink it, he blurted—

“Do you maybe want to have dinner with me?”

You blinked.

And he panicked.

“I mean, like—not in a weird way! I’m not trying to make this a thing if you don’t want it to be a thing, but it’s just—I really enjoy talking to you, and I thought maybe, if you wanted to, we could, I don’t know, eat real food without plastic trays? Or—I can pack ID jokes and we can call it a theme night—”

You laughed, the sound low and warm. “Sunghoon.”

He froze. “Yeah?”

“You can breathe now.”

He blinked. “Right. Breathing. Yup.”

You stepped a little closer, looking up at him with a tilt of your head. “Dinner sounds nice.”

“It does?” His voice cracked halfway through.

You nodded. “But only if you stop treating it like I’m going to run away screaming.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Sorry. I just… I know it’s fast. And maybe it’s too much after, y’know… the ID thing. And the hallway crash. And the email seen by literally the entire company.”

You grinned. “It’s not too much. Or too fast. You’ve been showing up every Monday morning for weeks. If anything, I’d say dinner’s long overdue.”

Sunghoon blinked.

And then smiled. Wide, boyish, a little stunned. “Okay. Cool. Yeah. Cool. Um. Are you free… this Friday? I know a place with terrible parking but amazing food.”

“That sounds perfect,” you said.

He looked like he could float all the way back to the 14th floor.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t forget a single thing—not his ID, not his lunch tray, and definitely not your smile.

-

It was almost 6:03 p.m. when you stepped out of the building, adjusting the strap of your bag, still thinking about how Sunghoon had looked in the cafeteria light — slightly rumpled, slightly flushed, and very much endearing.

You hadn’t even taken five steps out when you heard a soft beep beep from the side curb.

And there he was.

Sunghoon. Leaning against a black sedan with his hands in his pockets, tie loosened, hair messily perfect, smile boyish and nervous. The moment he spotted you, he stood up straighter and jogged around the front of the car to your side.

“I—uh—I didn’t want to make you commute after saying yes to dinner,” he said, a bit breathless. “So I figured I’d wait. But if this is weird or too much, just say the word and I’ll totally—”

“Sunghoon,” you cut in gently, “it’s sweet. Really.”

His shoulders relaxed, visibly relieved. “Okay. Good. Um.”

He reached for the handle and pulled the passenger door open for you.

You paused, raising an eyebrow.

“Gentleman moment,” he said, clearing his throat.

You smiled. “You’re doing great.”

He ducked his head to hide the grin as you slid into the seat, the car smelling faintly of mint and something clean and fresh—like him. He closed the door carefully, then jogged back around to the driver’s side and slipped in beside you.

He didn’t start the engine right away.

Instead, he turned slightly toward you. “So… do you want something fancy? I mean, I can take you to one of those rooftop pasta places with three spoons and a menu in cursive. Or we can go casual. Street food. I’m not picky.”

You shrugged, smiling. “I’m good with anything. I just want something warm.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he nodded once, decisively.

“I have just the place.”

-

The drive was quiet but comfortable, the city lights beginning to glow soft and golden through the windshield. Occasionally, he’d glance your way, smile to himself, then look quickly back at the road like he’d caught himself doing something dangerous.

You pulled up to a small restaurant tucked between a row of flower shops and an old laundromat. Its signage was handwritten in Korean, a little faded, with warm light pouring from the windows and planters framing the doorway.

You tilted your head. “This where we’re eating?”

He nodded. “It’s run by this old couple—Halmeoni and Harabeoji. I used to come here after late basketball practices back in high school. They always stayed open late for students. Food’s simple, but it’s… comforting.”

You looked at him, touched. “So you’re sharing your comfort place?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Only for special people.”

Your chest tightened slightly, but you smiled, soft. “Then I’m honored.”

He jumped out of the car again before you could even reach for the handle, rushing to open your door like some kind of K-drama lead. “Sorry—still trying to commit to this gentleman aesthetic.”

You stepped out, meeting his gaze under the glow of the streetlights. “It suits you.”

He froze for a second, clearly processing that compliment. You swore you saw him blink twice before grinning like a fool.

Inside, the little restaurant smelled like soy garlic and toasted sesame, the walls lined with faded photos and polaroids of regulars. The halmeoni behind the counter lit up the moment she saw Sunghoon.

“Ah, Park Sunghoon-ah! Long time no see!” she beamed, eyes crinkling. “You grew more handsome.”

He scratched his cheek. “You say that every time, halmeoni.”

She peered behind him, eyes locking on you. “Ohhh… is this your yeoja chingu?”

Sunghoon panicked. “N-no! I mean—not yet! I mean, she’s—uh…”

You just smiled politely. “I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

Halmeoni patted your arm. “Pretty and polite. He’s lucky.”

Sunghoon looked like he was melting into the linoleum.

-

As you both sat down in a quiet corner booth, you watched him fidget with his chopsticks, trying to pretend like he wasn’t flustered.

“You okay?” you asked, amused.

He looked up, nodding quickly. “Yeah. Yeah. I just… really didn’t expect my comfort place to ambush me with labels.”

You laughed gently, leaning forward. “Well. For the record…”

He looked up again.

“I like being here with you.”

And just like that, Park Sunghoon completely forgot how to breathe.

The halmeoni brought out dishes one after the other like it was a holiday and not a random Monday night — japchae, kimchi stew, steaming bowls of rice, grilled mackerel, and a tiny plate of spicy cucumber kimchi that Sunghoon apparently couldn’t eat without fanning his mouth like a cartoon.

You caught him doing that mid-bite, hissing and shaking his head like he hadn’t learned the same lesson ten times.

“I told you,” you said, laughing, “you don’t even like spicy food.”

“But it’s so good,” he argued dramatically, chewing through the burn.

You passed him a glass of cold barley tea, and he accepted it like it was a lifeline. “See? You’re already saving my life.”

You shook your head, amused. “You’re the most dramatic ID-forgetter I’ve ever met.”

“And proud,” he mumbled, taking another sip.

-

The meal stretched on in that kind of timeless way — neither of you rushing, just picking through the dishes, stealing bites from each other’s bowls, trading quiet stories between mouthfuls. He told you about high school nights when he’d eat here after basketball games with sore muscles and tangled thoughts. You told him about your first job, where the vending machine didn’t work and you had to bribe the maintenance guy with Mentos.

You didn’t realize how close you were leaning in until he laughed mid-sentence and his chopstick bumped yours.

“Oh—sorry—”

“It’s fine,” you said softly, smiling. “You always talk like that when you’re comfortable?”

“Like what?”

“Rambling. Eyes lighting up. Laughing at your own stories.”

He blinked.

Then ducked his head, ears turning slightly pink. “You… notice that?”

You reached over gently and tapped the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got sauce on your lip.”

His whole body froze.

Your thumb brushed just slightly as you wiped it. You didn’t even think — it felt natural. Casual. Like you’d done it a hundred times.

But to him, it was a short-circuiting, heart-thudding, what just happened kind of moment.

You pulled your hand back and went back to your rice like nothing happened.

Sunghoon, meanwhile, sat completely still. Chopsticks midair. Processing.

You looked up again after a few seconds. “You okay?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Yup. Fine.” He took a big sip of tea. “Hydrated.”

You giggled. “You’re kind of cute when you short-circuit like that.”

He looked at you, eyes wide. Then smiled, small and stunned. “You… think I’m cute?”

You tilted your head. “You really didn’t know?”

“I mean, I hoped,” he said, sheepish, eyes dropping to his bowl. “But I’m still waiting for the moment this all turns out to be a prank.”

You leaned in, resting your chin on your palm. “Sunghoon.”

He looked at you again.

“You’re not being pranked. You’re being liked.”

You didn’t say it like a joke.

You said it like a fact.

He stared at you, something warm building in his chest, flooding slowly and steadily until it was too much to contain.

“…By someone like you?” he whispered.

You smiled. “By exactly me.”

That night, when he drove you home, he played a playlist he made on a whim — full of soft instrumentals and random acoustic covers. He didn’t say much during the ride, but he kept glancing at you like you were something delicate and glowing in the corner of his car.

When he parked outside your building, he walked you to the door.

Neither of you said goodbye right away.

So you looked at him, that same soft way from lunch, and asked, “You gonna forget your ID next Monday?”

He smirked. “If it gets me more of this?”

You grinned. “Then I’ll leave the logbook open.”

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved 2025

permanent taglist: (OPEN) @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket @semi-wife @soona- huh @ramenoil

a/n: anon i hope you like it! LIKES/REBLOG/FEEDBACKS is deeply appreciated <33 - rie

[despairots]

# PHAINON … angst/happy ending !

phainon x gn!reader | the explanation for this was so corny but i was on cai and i stumbled upon a phainon bot. you like him but phainon likes the trailblazer (caelus in the bot) and he confronts you about it and and and im not gonna lie, i was like ts is a masterpiece hence the reason why im making this

cw: swearing, angsy/happy ending, slightly oblivious reader, male trailblazer, slight mention of a harem but the trailblazer dont fw any of them, jealousy, insecurities, dan heng + reader = found family, miscommunication, honestly it says happy ending but halfway through writing this i was like “nahhh leave it on a cliffhanger.” slight mention of kevin kaslana x reader, spelling mistakes, no i did not proof read this.

ever since you landed on amphoreus with both caelus and dan heng, you’ve realized how little importance you have to most people. caelus was an eye-catcher, a sight for sore eyes, and if you looked off to his companions, you’d realize why he was the only one worth watching.

it’s not like you cared or you were jealous, you just started noticing now. any time someone, needed help with something that could solve what you’re fighting for, they look at caelus. you don’t know if dan heng had noticed, but if he did, you can’t help but get mad at yourself for letting jealousy slip.

this doesn’t only imply to being helpful, it also implies how many people would tear down the sky for him. it’s funny when caelus is completely oblivious to their actions, or even if he was aware, he wasn’t interested. it never bothered you, really. it never hurt either, he was friend so you had no right to be mad at his unknown selfishness.

but the only time it did hurt, was when you realized the man you had fallen in love with…

…was in love with him.

you didn’t wanna believe it at first; how every gaze that was on you went to caelus when he’d brushed past you two, how he’d atleast bring his name up in one conversation between the two of you. before, you’d just laugh it off, thinking he was just talking nice so you wouldn’t tell caelus that phainon was shit-talking him.

it started off as straying farther from him, next, you’d stop responding with jokes and started answering with things that were necessary. after that, you stopped meeting his gaze, ignoring how much it hurt to distance yourself from him. you thought that maybe he’d forget about the connection between you two, that he’ll leave you alone.

but the one thing you know about phainon was that he was undoubtedly stubborn.

the both of you were hidden behind views, phainon leaning on a wall of okhema with a crossed arms and narrowed eyes that made you wonder if that was actually him infront of you. you knew this day would come, where you’d eventually have to face him. you’ve counted many times where you dodged a bullet by talking to him.

“you’ve been avoiding me.” phainon points out, getting to the point immediately. you tugged bits of your lips inside your mouth, chewing on the flesh, “is it… because of caelus?” you seem stiffen on the mention, betraying your own body.

phainon sighed, uncrossing his arms with a concerned look, “i’m sorry, i never meant to you hurt.” you shrugged, keeping yourself as calm as possible, “it’s fine, really.” turning to look at him, you felt your resolve crumble, “caelus is my friend, so are you. if it brings you both happiness, who am i to judge?” you scratched the back of your neck, turning your gaze somewhere else.

phainon’s frown deepened, for all the shorten times his known you, he hates it when you distance yourself from him.

you sighed, facing him this time with a steady look, “but now’s not the time to worry about feelings, let alone mine. we can worry about our personal matters later.” maybe if you shoved this conversation aside, it’ll never happen again. you don’t want it to happen again—matter of fact, you wished phainon wasn’t perceptive at all.

something in you made your soul feel more attached to him, something that you can’t shake off ever since you laid your eyes on him. were you, perhaps, destined to meet him? if so, were you destined to even have your feelings reciprocated? no time for trivial things anyway. you have more important things to deal with, like the flame reaver.

phainon couldn’t help but sigh, holding a hand against his forehead, “why are you saying that as if you mean nothing at all?” you gapped a bit, blinking in absolute disbelief. phainon’s eyes had you wavering a bit, the hurt lingering in his eyes that made you feel guilty for even distancing yourself.

it was just silence between the two of you, pain and regret lingering in the air. was he twisting your words just a bit? was he not understanding that the longer you stay near him, the faster your walls come down?

you sighed and broke the silence, covering your eyes in tiredness, “i’m not going to argue with you about this, phainon. just let this go, please.” you pleaded this time, keeping your posture straight despite the heaviness in your heart.

you saw the way his jaw tightened slightly, bothered by the attempts of you trying to brush this situation aside. phainon didn’t wanna believe that you regarded your feelings so little, not after you wear your heart on your sleeve. he hated seeing you so sadden, by him especially. phainon never meant to you hurt you, if you looked closer, listened harder—you’d hear his heart beats beating fo—

“i can’t let this go, do you really think i can? this isn’t some fleeting scab that’ll disappear as time passes, wounds don’t heal when you keep picking at them.” way too woe you with words, phainon… the vulnerability was there, laid flat out to you, expecting that you’ll do the same.

just for you to stand there with your guard up, “must you be so stubborn, phainon? you have my blessing with you and caelus, and somehow, that’s not enough?” you scoffed, acting snarky was a way to push him away right? you hated this conversation, you hated being confronted like this, you hated knowing that he was gonna hate you sooner or later.

“i’ll manage, phainon. i can get over it.” you turned on your heels to leave, not even gathering up the courage to look him in the eyes to say it.

phainon’s hand latched out, grabbing your wrist with such gentleness that made you grit your teeth, “get over it? you say that as if love is such an inconvenience for you?” his voice cracked, phainon’s next words quieter, “do i really mean so little to you?” you looked down at the hand holding you back, the softness of his voice making you heave a heavy breath.

“no, you don’t.” staring at the hand that held you hostage, you couldn’t help but feel bothered, “but it’s not me you want, and that’s fine. i’ve accepted it, why can’t you?” you snapped, snatching your hand back and giving him a narrowed look before quickly making your escape.

if maybe you stayed a little longer, you could see the yearning in his eyes…

it seemed so easy for you let things go, and the question is why? it’s simple; caelus was just far more charming than you were, more eye-catching. you were fine with it… well, as fine as a person be.

you wandered around okhema before calling it a night. heading back to the temporary home with caelus and dan heng. when you entered, caelus was snoring with drool in the corners of his mouth, dan heng looking up from his book and spotting the aching look on your face.

he sighed, the both of you on the balcony as caelus’s snores brought no comfort to your already irritated state. back hunched over the railing, hands covering your face, and a slight shake in your shoulders. dan heng was… unnerved to see you in such a state, you were always confident and ready for anything, so seeing you so depressed made him worried.

you were someone he could call a family, everyone on the express was, but you meant something more to him. seeing you in such distress made him curse lightly at the nameless hero, “just tell caelus.” you glared at dan heng through the cracks of your fingers.

“yeah? about what? ‘hey, caelus! did you know that the guy i have a crush on likes you more?’ how funny for you to even suggest that.” you groaned, staring at the abyss in front of you with a pointed look, “fuck… i’m so stupid, dan heng. why’d i think i had chance?” you buried your face back into your hands, voice cracking midway through your confession.

dan heng sighed deeply, folding his arms over the railing, “you’re not stupid. i didn’t say tell caelus, so he could fix it. i said it so you wouldn’t have to keep pretending you’re not jealous, that you feel jealousy weaving itself into your bones.” he explained, the silence from you speaking many things already.

“running away from him doesn’t solve anything, it makes everything harder to bare.” you hated how right he sounded right now, how wise he needed to be sometimes. “shut up..” you turned over your shoulder to see the sleeping caelus, completely oblivious to the tremor he causes. he was your friend, and you’re jealous of him… you’re so immature.

why’d it seem like you fighting over a toy that wasn’t yours in the first place?

staring down at the railing, you’ve thought about millions of possibilities where you never came down here, “i should’ve stayed on the express. i could’ve saved me the trouble, and…” you gestured to yourself, technically speaking about the mess inside you, “whatever this is.”

“caring hurts, stop blaming yourself for stuff that was out of your control.” he flicked your forehead, the only sign of affection he seems to know whenever it was the two of you. dan heng ignored the teary-eyed glare, “it just hurts… it hurts knowing the one i actually want, wants caelus.” you admitted, choking back on tears before fixing yourself and turned to dan heng.

“don’t tell anyone please, this stays between us.” he nodded, watching you retreat back inside and throwing your goat over caelus’s head to stop him from snoring before he wrestled the coat off in sleepy confusion; huh? what’s happening? are we getting ambushed? he managed to let out before returning back to his annoying snores.

the next morning, you woke up with caelus watching you sleep. backing up when you shot up, clenching your shirt where your heart was, “shit, caelus! why’d you just watch me sleep?” your heart beat seemed to calm down, caelus bursting out in laughter.

“what? it’s the first time you’ve seemed so peaceful. normally, you’re all…” he laid on your lap, pulling an exaggerated scowl that made you swat him away. dan heng could notice the way your hands tightened onto your blanket as you continued to listen to caelus’s dumb ramble. his eyes flicked up to your face, seeing the red in your eyes and how puffy it was.

maybe you should’ve stayed on the express…

[microcosmia]

As someone who worked loans at a credit union in the USA, I'm going to add some things about the financial aspect (as it applies to the USA!)

1. When going to a CU or bank to get a loan, they are going to want to know HOW MUCH you need the loan for - total, cumulatively.

You can choose to put the taxes/registration and title fees into the loan if you want, but you need to tell your loan office ahead of time. If you're going to get pre-approved, go to a higher but still comfortable amount rather than lower and then find a vehicle under your pre-approval limit. Do NOT tell a dealership what your pre-approval limit is, they will push you, and from experience, they make it feel reasonable.

1.5 When considering a "comfortable amount," also don't forget you're going to have to ALSO pay for full coverage insurance.

Add that into your monthly total. If your comfort zone is $200/month, and you find a car that will get you that, you will DEFINITELY be paying more like $350 a month when the insurance comes into play. Call your insurance company and ask for a quote about adding [X] type vehicle to your account. You're gonna need to talk to them anyway.

2. Before your FI will give you the money, you will need to give them the VIN (vehicle identification number), mileage, make/model/year, and asking price of the vehicle.

This means you need to already have a vehicle in mind. You can get *pre*approved up to a certain amount without specifics, buuuuut....

3. Your lending institution may deny your loan based on chosen collateral (the vehicle) for several reasons. If so, don't panic! Pressure sales tactics can only work if you let them!

Reasons they may deny collateral: A) waaaaaaay overpriced (happens a lot with smaller, used car dealerships), B) totaled out and under a salvage title, C) too old (10-15 years), D) too high mileage (varies by institution; sometimes only higher interests rates will apply and not a denial). The FI (financial institution) giving the loan is making an investment; theoretically, them protecting themselves *in this case* should also protect you.

3.5 Especially when working with a CU ask your loan facilitator if there's any dealerships in your area they would Not Recommend you use.

I saw a lot of patterns of overpriced cars, lemons, and bad faith contracts from specific dealers consistently. Your loan person, if they've been doing this a while, probably has all the dirty deets.

4. Ask your loan facilitator about early payoff penalties.

These are stupid and shouldn't exist, but, well. They do. This is basically a fee/fine you have to pay if you pay off your loan before the term is up, typically in a lump sum. Some of them are flat rate, some of them are a percentage based on the amount you paid off at once, the remaining time on your term, and your interest rate. This is important if you ever think about refinancing your loan to get a lower rate - when you refi, you aren't changing your current loan, you're paying it off and making a new loan. FIs will not change a contractual agreement; they'll satisfy it and then make a new one. So, the early payoff penalty could impact you while trying to refinance.

5. You will also need proof of insurance for your new vehicle before the FI will give you the loan.

Or at least they should. Sometimes my FI was lax on this but it becomes Big Problem if it ever becomes a problem at all. You will need to tell your insurer that the lien holder - the company ransoming your vehicle back to you - is the lending FI and will most likely need an address to list for the FI. This is likely not their branch address and may not even be their headquarters address. Ask your loan officer.

5.5 Then, you will need to get a Declarations Page from your insurance, showing the FI as the lienholder.

This means that before you own your car, that FI owns the car. If you pay it off and sell it, the FI will need to sign off on your title (assuming they still use paper titles, my state went paperless a couple years back) before you can do so.

6. Titles!

Yes, like OP mentioned, if the seller cannot produce the title for you, DO NOT BUY THE CAR. It could be stolen, it could be salvaged, it could still be *under lien by a different FI*. Truly only the most despicable and shady of salesplaces will do this, but I saw it happen. It went to court. It wasn't pretty. Also, your FI won't give you the money without at LEAST photographic evidence of the title. Also make sure the VIN on the title matches the VIN physically on the car - not a fun mix up. Also went to court. Also not pretty.

Some states are using an electronic title system now to great success. This is only for VERY RECENT vehicles though, like 2024 and newer (and I guess those sold and bought after the switch). If a seller says that a 2008 Honda Civic which has been on-lot since 2020 has an electronic title, be skeptical. Be very skeptical.

6.5) Sometimes your FI can help you with retitling the car in your name. YMMV depending on FI.

Mine would do it assuming we were titling for the people on the loan only (so we wouldn't title the car in the child's name if mom and dad were buying it for him and they were the ones on the loan) and everyone's legal names were correct on their current, valid IDs. Otherwise you were on your own.

7. Expect the entire process to take about 5 business days, especially if you don't know what you want.

Normally, an application for credit is good for 30 days from the credit pull, so you do have *time*. Just make sure you understand that there's a lot of paperwork that needs to fall in line and you need to be communicative with your loan officer. I saw loans happen in as little as 10 minutes and as long as 6 months because people were or weren't communicating and getting the paperwork they needed sorted out. Unless you've done this before, it is NOT going to be an in-and-out. Be prepared for a little back and forth.

8. There will be a credit pull!

They will look at your credit! If you're hiding things, especially from a joint borrower like a spouse, they WILL find out (and your life will get very difficult!) There is some flexibility for first time car purchasers who may not *have* a lot of credit, though, so check with your loan officer. You may need a co-signer! If you're denied due to credit reasons, ask your FI if you can speak with someone who can explain what all that sh*t means and walk you through your credit report. It's confusing. It took me a good month and a half to understand what I was looking at and how to address one. Credit coaching ended up one of my favorite things, though, and there ARE ways to rapidly improve your credit if you have none or repair it if it's tanked for whatever reason.

8.5 Medical debt cannot be considered while credit checking for an auto loan.

It will still be on your credit report, but medical debt *by itself* cannot be the reason for your denial. Just an FYI. Meaning someone somewhere understands that the numbers are made up and the costs don't matter but this isn’t that kind of post, so I digress.

9. Co-signers!

This is someone who will join in on responsibility for the loan with you. Generally, this is needed if you don't qualify due to income or credit reasons. Most of the time, it's family or a very close friend. If the primary person you are co-signing for defaults on their loan, it is now your (the co-signer's) problem. You will get collections notices. It will affect your credit. Be VERY CAREFUL who you choose to sign with.

10. Joint applicants/co-borrowers!

The legal distinction here is that a joint would be immediately just as responsible for repayment on the loan, not just in case of primary default like a co-signer. However, they also have legal access/ownership to the funds/collateral during the term of the loan. Easier to navigate for everyone. Most FIs will NOT give you the option of being either a co-signer OR a joint applicant, so you'll have to ask what their process is to best understand the responsibilities expected.

11. Defaulting on your loan - basically this is when you don't pay for your loan. You were in "default" for us if you were behind by 3 months on payments with no communication or good faith.

That's when we would start the process of repossession - which is basically where the FI pays a bounty hunter to track down the vehicle that *they* actually own. It isn't a nice process.

If non-payment goes on long enough, the FI WILL start pulling money from your account, your joint borrower's account, or ANY account which you hold ownership over (like being joint on a parent or child's account, and not just a POA - check you account structures). FIs ARE within their legal right to do this *based on the security agreement your signed*. Please please please read your paperwork.

If there's ever a time when you are struggling with your loan payment, do NOT stay silent. Call your FI and explain the situation. Ask if there's any way you can make a temporary payment plan. Communicate, communicate, communicate! At my CU, we wanted to help people. We had resources to help people skip payments or extend payments out. We could set up small transfers out of each paycheck to keep showing good faith. But people were too ashamed or scared to say anything - which I get! But your FI literally cannot help you unless you ask. This may be more common at credit unions, but I also may be biased.

I am almost certain there a things I'm missing so I might add more later. If you have any questions about the financial side of things, feel free to ask me!

Good luck and stay sharp!

Possibly making an insane car buying decision tomorrow. Wish me luck.

[salamieiz]

Home, At Last

sylus x pregnant reader

just pure fluff

It’s late when Sylus finally returns. Whatever late means in the N109 zone. He opens the door to your shared bedroom, the weight of the day seeping off him the moment he sees your sleeping form. You lay halfway under the silk sheets, a flimsy nightgown barely covering your swollen belly, heavy with his child.

Sylus never thought he would have this. A real home. No amount of grandeur could ever fill the feeling of emptiness in his estates and penthouses. Now, he’s fulfilled. He could live in a tin can with you and still feel as if he was the richest man in the world.

He sheds his tailored suit before slowly slinking over to your sleeping form. He cannot stop staring. Taking in every detail of your face and ever-changing form. He swears it was only a moment ago your belly was flat. The only proof of a child being in those fuzzy ultrasounds and your never-ending nausea. Now the baby that he pressed into you months ago makes itself undeniably known.

Your hips have widened, breasts swelled, and face softened. He can’t take his eyes off you. It’s as if he’s been enchanted by your very existence. His every thought is consumed by the safety of you and your baby. Even tonight—he was barely 4 miles away but could not stop the nervous tapping of his foot during whatever tedious business deal he was attending to. He knew you were safe. He knew. Not only Mephisto but Luke and Keiren had become your personal helicopters in the past months. The constant surveillance would annoy you if you didn’t know how much it eases your beloved's nerves. 

He knows how important your sleep has become to you but cannot resist the urge to reach out and caress your cheek. You stir gently from your sleep, adjusting your eyes in the dim room before finally landing on your husband. You look into his crimson eyes for a moment, not speaking, not moving—just looking through into his very soul

“Sylus,” you mumble, covering his hand with yours on your cheek. 

“You’re beautiful,” you let out a breathy laugh. Of course, only he would find you beautiful with dried drool on your cheek and ankles so swollen it was no longer even funny.

“What? Do you find my appreciation for your beauty amusing?” You shake your head. This man. He truly is like no other. “No, no, not amusing. Just unbelievable.”

“The fact that you do not believe it does not make it any less utterly true, sweetie.” With that, he rounds the bed and settles behind you. He rests his hand on your belly, and your daughter begins to stir. He smooths his hand over you to encourage her movements. 

“She only moves for you, you know? She doesn’t listen to me.” He smiles into your neck, continuing to caress your belly. 

“Guess she approves of her father, huh?” He says sleepily, almost drifting. You don’t have it in you to reply (agreeing, no doubt), the exhaustion of the day getting to you. 

The last thing Sylus can think before drifting off is how lucky he is. Lucky to have you, lucky to have this home and child he has made with you. 

Sylus is a man not favored by fate, but he will defy and fight its every command to come back to you. Back to this exact moment of sleepy bliss.

A/N: needed to have this man’s babies yesterday

[simp-for-love]

Mattheo being a distracting boyfriend

A/N: I decided to post some of my thoughts and scenes that I picture in my head more often. Sooo, enjoy ♡

Warnings: brief swearing, suggestive thoughts/memories, make-out-ish, pet names, mild teasing, academic neglect (oops), a hot boyfriend (yay)

Word count: ~850

Your boyfriend was so distracting. If you look up 'hot mess' in the dictionary, you're sure there would be a detailed description of Mattheo.

You were trying to get your Charm's essay done in his dorm room, panting over the parchment when he wandered after the Quidditch practice. He had been really good at leaving you alone for most of the day, to give you some space to work on your important assignment — but the absence of him made you feel even more needy for his attention and presence than usual.

And now he was here. All tall, flushed, and practically glowing under the dim dorm lighting. Mattheo wasn't just handsome. Handsome didn't cover it. He was unfair, the kind of beautiful that made your chest ache because he didn't even try.

His dark curls were damp from the steam of his post-practice shower, and his cheeks were flushed with exertion. The green Slytherin jersey clung to him like a second skin, outlining every sharp angle of his shoulders, the cut of his chest, the way his lean muscle moved when he stripped off his gloves with lazy fingers. His collar was loose, exposing a teasing glimpse of his collarbone and the strong line of his throat, flushed from the wind and adrenaline. His trousers sat low on his hips, streaked with mud, and Merlin help you, you could see the veins along his forearms as he flexed his hands.

You swallowed hard, but your mind was already spiraling. It wasn't just how he looked — it was what you knew already as well. You'd felt those strong thighs before, bracketing your hips. You'd felt those big hands gripping your waist firmly and gently, pinning you down like you weighed nothing. You knew the exact heat of his skin when he pressed up against you, the way his abs tightened when he groaned your name into your mouth. Your mind wandered to the way those muscles felt under your palms last time he pulled you against him after a match, his hands gripping your thighs as if they belonged there. The way his voice dropped when he whispered your name against your neck, smug and satisfied — both with his victory and having you cheering him on. And now, sitting there pretending to care about this stupid essay, all you could think about was every single time he'd used that body to completely ruin you. The memory alone had your thighs pressing together under the desk.

He didn't even have to try. He just existed and your brain turned to useless, lovesick mush.

You didn't realize you were shamelessly staring until his voice slid into the quiet room like silk.

"Y'know," he murmured, putting his gloves in the closet slowly, "for someone who begged me not to distract her today, you're looking at me like I'm your next meal."

You felt your cheeks burn, and immediately tried to duck your head back into your essay, pretending you hadn't just been full-on eye-fucking him from across the room. "I wasn't," you mumbled, utterly unconvincing.

Mattheo let out a low chuckle, crossing the room to drop onto the seat beside you. "Liar," he whispered, brushing his knuckles across your jaw before leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "You miss me, love?"

You nodded before you could stop yourself, and he grinned — lazy, wicked, and so stupidly pretty it should be illegal.

"I knew it," he said, voice low and warm, brushing his nose lightly against yours. "Could feel you missing me all the way on the pitch."

"You're so full of yourself," you whispered, but your voice lacked any real bite. Especially when he looked at you like that, like you were the only thing in the world he wanted to look at all his life.

"Mhm," he hummed, dropping his forehead gently to yours. "Only because you keep feeding my ego, sweetheart."

His fingers found the edge of your parchment, sliding it away like it was nothing more than an inconvenient barrier between him and you. "You've been working too hard," he murmured, mouth so close you could feel the heat of it against your skin. "Time for a little break."

You barely had time to protest before his lips were on yours. Soft at first. Just the press of familiarity, comfort and home.

Then deeper, slower, more intent. Like he had all the time in the world to kiss you properly and planned on using every second of it. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was memorizing the feel of you.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his jersey, pulling him closer on instinct, desperate for more. He smiled against your lips when he felt it.

"There she is," he breathed out with a smile. "My sweet needy girl."

You made a sound in the back of your throat — half indignation, half want — but it dissolved the second he kissed you again, open-mouthed and warm, with just the barest scrape of teeth.

Your essay was definitely doomed.

[dragon-kazansky]

Symphony of dreams

Morpheus x Female Reader

Times are changing, and nothing is as it once was. The Dreaming is being rebuilt, but much is happening. The siblings reunite once more, Hell becomes vacant, and Delirium seeks out their missing brother. Dream faces his past, and his wife questions her place beside him.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Let the angst begin~ Mwahaha!

Chapter Twelve - Shattered dreams

Lucienne was caught off guard when you returned alone and upset. She watches you walk past her quickly. You were retreating upstairs to your room. “My lady?”

You didn't respond. You were too lost in your own head to hear her. You entered your room and let the sobs take over. You didn't know exactly how you felt. Humiliated? Hurt? Jealous? There was too much going on inside your heart to make sense of it all.

Lucienne knocked on the door and peeked inside. She saw you on the bed crying softly into your pillow. Dream hadn't returned with you and she was worried about what had happened.

“My lady?”

You wipe your eyes and sit up. “Lucienne. Sorry. Come in.”

Lucienne steps into the room and closes the door, knowing Matthew and Mervyn were lingering nearby. “Is all well?”

You inhale softly and look at her. “I'm norw sure…”

“What happened? Where is Lord Morpheus?”

“He's still with his siblings. You could say Desire happened. They set him off.” You sigh and fall back against the bed. You look up at your night sky painted ceiling.

“What did they say?”

“They mentioned Nada…”

Lucienne understood. Nada was always a sensitive topic with Dream. She had been down in Hell for so long. He had put her there. Yet, he still loved her. You knew it. You just didn't want him to do something stupid.

“If I may speak plainly?”

You look up at Lucienne. “Yes?”

“Are you upset because he still holds feelings for her? Or is it because he hasn't spoken to you?”

“You can tell we didn't speak?”

Lucienne smiles. “I have worked for both of you for so long. I know you both quite possibly better than you know yourselves. He also didn't come back with you, which hints that things ended suddenly.”

“I feel stupid for getting upset.”

“There is nothing stupid about having feelings about things, my lady. I think perhaps you should talk to him when he returns.”

You nod quietly. Lucienne keeps you company until Morpheus does return.

Dream stands in silence, staring ahead of him. His heart felt heavy in his chest. Nada. Hearing her name brought back so many thoughts and feelings. It was so long ago, and yet…

The echo of footsteps creeps up behind him, but he does not turn around. His older sister joins him. He is comforted by her presence, but also feels some disdain. He wasn't quite in the mood to be disturbed.

“Desire was just trying to upset you,” she says, looking at him.

“And not one of you spoke out for me.” He avoided her gaze.

“Well… that's because Desire was right.”

He turns his gaze to his sister. Offended, she would agree to their sibling's statement.

“What?”

“Maybe not about everything, but-”

“You know how I felt for Nada. How I feel for her still.”

“You sentenced her to Hell for all eternity.”

“She had a choice,” he reminds her.

“And she chose Hell.”

“She was ruler of the First People. Do you think she would have allowed me to decide her fate for her? That is why Ioved her. That and her dreams.”

Dream remembers the moment she made her decision.

“You gave her an ultimatum,” Death states. “And when she didn't choose you you punished her for it.”

“Even you turn on me.”

“Shut up and let me finish. Nada loved you. She really did. And she was right. It is wrong for us to get involved with them. You know that.”

“I would have made her a god.”

Death looks at her brother disappointed. He has forgotten something, someone, very important at this moment. Someone Death gave to him for the whole purpose of allowing him to be happy for more than just a moment.

“Maybe she didn't want to be a god. Did you ever consider that? Do you consider anything?” Death asks, looking at him still with disappointment.

“What do you mean?”

Death sighs and shakes her head softly. She could hit him, oh she was almost tempted. “You were imprisoned for 100 years because of Rodrick Burgess. Nada has been imprisoned for 10,000. Because of you. Because she chose her duty to her people over her love for you, just as you would have in her place.”

“Is this how you feel truly? That I have been unjust?”

Death nods. “Yes.”

“Then my course is clear. I must journey to Hell.”

“Hold on. I'm not suggesting you-”

“What would you have me do?” He asks her.

“Reflect. Learn from your mistakes.”

“But what of Nada?”

“It's a bit late to be thinking about that, isn't it? she questions him. “It's been 10,000 years.”

“If I have committed a wrong, I must make it right.”

“Not all wrongs can be.” She looks at him softly.

“Would you not have me try?” He asks. “I pray, tell our siblings that I was needed elsewhere and could not stay.”

Dream walks past her but Death calls out to him and he turns to look at her once more.

“Dream, don't forget about who else is important.”

Dream looks at his sister and the look of realization takes over his face. How could he forget about you? He looks toward the room his siblings were still sitting in.

“She's gone. She left,” Death tells him.

“Home?”

She nods. He has to see you. He has to make you understand his decision. He was foolish to neglect you around his family.

As soon as Dream returns home, Matthew flies in to tell you. Lucienne does not leave your side as you leave the bedroom and make your way through the palace to find your beloved.

He's in the library waiting for you all. As soon as you enter you approach him straight away. He does not take his eyes off of you as you join him. His hand reaches out for your own. You accept his hand and stand impossibly close to him. Dream can't resist pressing his forehead against yours.

“Dream.”

“My darling,” he whispers.

You open your eyes and meet his beautiful blue ones. He looks at you deeply, thoughtfully. You can tell just from looking into his eyes that something is on his mind. “What is it?” You ask.

He pulls away from you slowly. You watch him, your heart starting to feel heavy.

“As you know, I have only recently returned to this realm from an enforced absence. Well… it appears I may have to leave you once more.”

Your eyebrows pull together as you look at him. “What do you mean?”

“Some time ago, I condemned a mortal to Hell. I have come to realise that I may have acted… impulsively.”

Nada. He means Nada. You feel your pip quiver as you breathe in slowly. He's leaving you again.

“I intend to return to Hades and set her free.”

“Boss, you can't be serious,” Matthew groans as you turn away from Dream. Morpheus watches you with heartache as you turn away from him.

“While I am gone, you will answer to my wife.”

Your hand clenches at your side. He's not taking you with you either. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid…

“My Lord… I admire your decision to go,” Lucienne speaks up.

“But you think it irresponsible of me?”

“I think it prudent to ask, but is the rescue of a single soul worth risking your entire kingdom?”

“What kind of king would I be if I did not risk everything to right a wrong for which I am responsible?” He asks.

“You'd be like every other king that ever lived,” Mervyn responds. “Every single one.”

“Send someone else,” Lucienne suggests. “Send me.”

“No, send me,” Matthew chimes in.

“I'll go,” you say, turning slowly to face him. Morpheus turns and looks at you once more.

“No.”

“Why not? The Dreaming can't exist without you. I'm replaceable. I'll go get your precious lover back. I'll trade places with her.”

“No,” Dream takes a step toward you.

“No? Why? It's a fair deal. A life for a life.”

“I said no.”

“Dream.”

“Y/N.”

You stare at each other. You glare at him, but it has no effect on him. He simply meets your gaze with a deep focused stare. He's not backing down on this.

“Give me one good reason why not,” you say, refusing to back down either.

“You're my wife.”

“As if that means anything to you, Dream.”

He looks hurt. You were hurting, too. It was his fault. It's always his fault.

“I have already sent an envoy to Lucifer.”

“Who?” Lucienne asks, breaking the tension between you both.

Cain.

“I'm coming with you.” You say, not letting the argument end like that.

“It's too dangerous.”

“Dream…”

“I will not allow you to follow me to Hell.” His hand twitches, wanting to reach out and caresses you, but he resists. You feel worse that he chose not to.

“What if something happens?” You ask. “You'll both be stuck in Hell then…”

“I am making preparations before I leave to ensure that what happened last time does not happen again.”

You exhale softly. Your heart was hammering in your chest. It was getting harder and harder to not let the tears fall. You leave the room.

Lucienne watches you go with pity. Dream watches you go with pain.

You stand on the balcony and overlook the Dreaming. It's getting stormy. Your hands clenched into fists, rest on the wall in front of you. You stare at them and feel a sob escape your lips.

Your name is spoken.

You don't turn around. You can't look at him right now, not when you're feeling so unstable. He makes it worse by coming to a stop beside you. You can feel his eyes trained on you.

“Speak to me.”

“What is there left to say? You've made your bed, now lie in it.”

“I do not want us to part on a negative note.”

“Then why are you going?” You lift your eyes to look at him. “Why are you choosing her over me while I'm still here?”

“I have to fix this.”

“Because you're still in love with her?”

He stares at you.

“It is, isn't it?” Your chest feels tight. “Your sister gave me the gift of eternal life so you could be happy… and even I'm not enough.”

“I didn't say that,” he says softly.

“You didn't have to.”

You look back down at your hand. Your ring sits on your finger. It used to feel light and beautiful, now it feels heavy and ugly.

“Don't,” he whispers.

You ignore his little plea and reach for your ring, removing it from your finger. Dream feels his heart shatter. You place the ring on the wall between you both.

“I can't wear this.”

You turn and head back inside. Dream stares at the ring for a few moments before picking it up. It sits in his pale palm, and he feels tears welling up in his eyes. Is this the price he must pay? His fingers close around the ring, and he feels the metal dig into his skin.

You haven't said a word to Dream since the conversation on the balcony. Your heart was breaking. He hadn't moved his eyes from you since you showed up at the entrance of the palace with Lucienne. He was preparing to leave for Hell.

There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to pull you into his arms and fix the pain he's causing. However, he can not go back now. He needed to free Nada.

A yell and a loud thump causes everyone to turn around. Cain was back. Abel rushes to his brother's side and you kneel down beside them. Dream and Lucienne also rush over.

“Cain! Cain! Can you hear me? It's me.” Abel holds him. “What happened to him?”

“My Lord. They're waiting for you,” Cain says, looking at Morpheus and ignoring everyone else. “Not just Lucifer. All of them. An army of demons. Millions of them. They… want you to come. You mustn't go, my Lord.”

“I beg you to reconsider. Please,” Lucienne pleads with him.

Dream turns his gaze to you. You're staring at him silently. He wants you to say something. Anything. He wants to hear your voice again. You remain silent.

It pains him.

“Preparations have been made,” he says. “The Dreaming will survive. Even if I do not.”

You swallow down your pain and stand up. You do not look at him as you leave the room. He stands also, watching you leave him without a word. Dream had been met with a difficult situation.

Save Nada at the risk of dying and losing you, or abandon his quest and make up with you, knowing he was leaving Nada in Hell forever more.

Neither choice would make him happy.

Using his sand, Morpheus left the Dreaming. He entered Hell. His path was clear. He would fight for Nada. Free her. Do what he must do to right his wrongs.

He just did not anticipate what was coming.

@missdreamofendless @kpopgirlbtssvt @thoughtsfromlayla @errantsomnium @heavenlybluegirl @rousrm @bes2005 @qardasngan @adrestlyd @jeshomie @deadwizzardlover

[bernardsbendystraws]

Comfort Zone II

[ series masterlist ]

Matt Sturniolo — he’s been there for you. Now that you’re both getting settled in early adulthood, things are starting to change. Will it fall apart or together?

Warnings: copyright notice. this short-series will contain smut, fluff, and angst. mentions of family loss, marriage, and correlations from the original comfort zone series.

A/N: last and final part of this mini series omg. thank you for reading and being patient, i love my OGs <333

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Part 3 - Begin Again

“C’mon, babyyyy.” Matt sighs. I shake my head as he continues to drag me by my hand, not letting me catch my breath as our steps rumble against the pavement. 

Matt really wasn’t kidding when he said he was booking us a flight as soon as possible. I woke up to him showering my face in kisses, telling me it was time to go. 

And it was six in the morning. 

The same man who tries to trap me in his arms so he can continue sleeping peacefully all the way past noon most of the time was up and ready to go before the sun had even fully peaked above the horizon. 

It’s cute how excited he is. Everything that’s happened today has reminded me of how important I am to him, how rare it is to have found a love so pure that never withers from comfort and assurance. 

My chest collides with his side as he comes to an abrupt stop. The smile on my face grows as I realize where we are—what we’re doing. 

Flashes of our deal for stepping outside of our comfort zones hit me like a wave of nostalgia. A small giggle pushes through my lips as we walk into the apartment complex, waiting outside the elevator doors. 

Matt pushes the button with his free hand, his other tangled in mine securely as he gives a gentle squeeze. 

Is this it? Is this where he’s gonna get down on one knee?

It’s no secret that the reason we were coming here was so he could officially propose to me. I spent extra time looking over my appearance after getting ready today. Matt insisted that I could wear anything I wanted, anything that would make me feel comfortable and happy. 

So I did. 

I tried slipping on a dress earlier, but it didn’t feel right. Something about the way the fabric felt seemed off. I was hesitant to change, wanting to look my best for such a special moment, but Matt gave me the brightest smile while handing me one of his sweaters. 

The second I put on the soft fabric, I felt like I was permanently wrapped in one of his hugs. Slipping on my favorite pair of jeans, Matt showered me with compliments.

My cheeks hurt from how much I’d been smiling today. 

An echoing ding from the elevator brings my attention back to reality. Matt squeezes my hand, sparing me a wide grin before pulling me into the elevator with him. 

The elevator was exactly how I remember it. Same sterile lighting, a faint hum from the overhead speaker, and that little jolt it gives when the doors close. 

But this time, it feels different—warmer somehow.

Matt glances over at me as we stand in the small box. His hand squeezes mine firmly, his fingers interlaced with my own in a way that tells me he needs some sort of grounding. It doesn’t feel like he’s scared though, it feels like he just wants to really know I’m near. 

“Déjà vu?” I tease gently, stepping in beside him.

He laughs under his breath, low and quiet. Matt leans forward, his finger firmly pressing into the button for the top floor. “I, um, yeah…a little bit. Except I’m not sweating through my shirt this time.”

I squeeze his hand, remembering the way he seemed to vibrate with anxiety the first time we stepped into this contraption. Back when we made our deal about getting out of our comfort zones together. It was just the two of us, but it felt so lively. 

It could've been his raging nerves, but something about that seemed to make our hearts pound with excitement rather than fear. The kiss we shared was supposedly a distraction for him, but it shifted as our lips tangled—it turned into a feeling that made everything seem okay.

“Still scared? Nervous?” I ask softly, eyes flicking to his.

Matt glances up at the number display as it ticks to the second floor, then back at me. “Not even a little. I think that kiss…I think you cured me.”

Rolling my eyes, I feel my lips curl into a smile. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I…I’m not really scared of elevators anymore. Everytime I get on one…I think of you—I think of when we were in this elevator for the first time together. It just…it makes me happy. I mean, you were so…I don’t know…calm?”

I swallow and roll my lips together. The memory flashing through my brain makes my stomach float with butterflies. “You were shaking. But you still reached for me.”

“I always do,” he says, voice quieter now—almost reverent.

The elevator dings softly. My eyes dart up to the red glowing numbers, the number four shown with a vibrant glow. 

A hazy feeling grows as the energy shifts. Matt looks over at me, his lips slightly parted as he lets out a brief sigh. 

He’s looking at me like he wants to memorise my face—like this wasn’t just about nostalgia or reliving a moment, but something bigger. 

As the elevator dings and shows that we’re on the top floor, my brows furrow. I really thought this was it—I thought this was the moment I’ve been craving—the moment he’d drop down and ask a question that would make my heart swell in my chest. 

Matt presses the button for the bottom floor as the elevator doors open. The close back shut, the contraption gently lowering as I hear the slight noises from the floors passing as we go back to ground level. 

My head tilts. I shift on my feet as he grasps my hand tighter, looking over to see his face covered with an unreadable expression. “You okay?” I ask.

Matt nods, but there was something behind his smile. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About what?”

He exhales slowly, his eyes flicking to the ceiling and then down to our hands again. “About how I used to be afraid of this box. The walls, the height, the way it moved. But now? This is the only place I’ve ever been that turned fear into something good.”

My chest tightens, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels warm—in that soft, full kind of way.

This may not be the moment, but it’s something important. 

It’s something irreplaceable. 

___

It has to be now.

…right?

My heart is pounding, I can feel my pulse echoing through my body as we sit beneath the willow tree. Matt’s hand grasps mine, his fingers delicately tracing around my ring finger as if he’s hinting at something. 

“I know…I know you’re waiting for me to ask—and I will, but…that’s not why I wanted to come out here.” 

Oh?

If it wasn’t in the elevator and wasn’t under our tree, where else would he propose? 

Matt can read the look on my face. The way his shoulder falls with a sigh before he pulls me under his arm makes me feel relaxed from some of the anticipation. 

The branches above us sway gently, scattering soft flickers of light across Matt’s face. 

It’s peaceful as we sit beneath the old tree—our tree—and for a while, we just exist there. Side by side. Quiet, calm, wrapped in the kind of silence that feels like safety, not absence.

I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. “I forgot how safe this spot feels.”

He hums, a sound that vibrates through his chest and into me. “I didn’t.”

His hand finds mine easily, his thumb running absent circles over my wrist. I can feel him thinking, feel the weight of whatever’s sitting behind his stillness. Then he says, soft and steady, “This is where I first realized I wanted forever with you.”

I lift my head, startled by the gentleness of it. “Here?”

Matt nods. “You were sitting just like this. Same hoodie. Same pretty smile. You told me something about your dad, and I remember thinking… how does someone who’s been through that still smile like that?”

The breath leaves my lungs in a slow, unsteady exhale. I look at him, and he’s not trying to fill the space with fluff or distraction. He’s just here, holding the weight of my memories with both hands like they matter.

“I don’t want any place in your life to feel haunted,” he says. “Not if I can help it.”

He stands, brushing off his jeans, and reaches down to pull me up. His grip is warm and sure.

“Where are we going?” I ask, but I already feel the answer pressing at the edges of my chest.

“I have one more place I wanna take you,” he says. “Somewhere that needs a new memory.”

__

The drive is quiet, but not heavy. Like the kind of silence that follows a song that’s nostalgic in a peaceful way. 

My heart twists as the streets become familiar. The cracked sidewalks. The leaning fences. The place I used to call home before I really understood what that word was supposed to mean.

Matt parks a few houses down and turns to look at me. “You okay?”

I nod. Lie. Swallow. “Yeah. Just… surprised.”

Why here? Why…why this? 

He squeezes my hand. “I talked to the guy who lives here now. Told him I wanted to give you something. He said we could have twenty minutes.”

I blink, the air catching in my throat. “You brought me here?”

He steps out of the car and comes around to open my door, like he always does when he’s trying to be soft with me. I follow him up the path. The porch still creaks. The siding still peels. The memories still hover, but now they have to share space with him—with this.

Matt stops just short of the door. Turns to me. Reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box.

My breath catches.

“I know this place holds a lot of pain,” he says. “But I don’t want it to be just that anymore.”

He opens the box—slow, careful—and inside is a ring. Simple. Warm. Us.

“I want this to be the memory that stays,” he says. “I want this place to stop hurting. So whenever you think about it, you’ll think about me. This moment. This feeling. And I want this ring to remind you—no matter what you’ve been through, no matter where you’ve been—you’ll always have a comfort zone.”

I stare at him, everything in me folding inward and stretching outward all at once. And when I say his name, it doesn’t come out steady—it comes out real.

He steps closer. “So. What do you say? Wanna make this a good memory?”

I don’t answer right away—not with words. I throw my arms around his neck, bury my face in the space between his jaw and shoulder, and nod until I can breathe again.

And when he slides the ring onto my finger, under the roof of the house that raised me wrong, it finally feels like something’s been rewritten.

Like maybe it’s not just an ending.

Maybe it’s a beginning.

a/n: THANK YEW FOR READING!!! This is the end of this short lil mini series and i hope yall liked bc i missed my boos…let me know your thoughts plsplsplspls!!!

[revelboo]

I love being trans and I love seeing other transmasc ppl also gush over your blog lol. I also love the Mirage storyline and scenarios because yeah I'm a transman but God I fucking love wearing dresses and cute things idc ill never stop wearing feminine clothes because there's something so comical about the look on people faces seeing some 5' 4" dude (me) with muscles and tattoos wearing some slutty little outfit or cute dress/skirt it ALWAYS makes me giggle so like YES Mirage keep bringing me dresses and old Hollywood robes and lingerie I like feeling like a spoiled prince 💅🏻 also he better take reader for joyrides 🤺

🤣 I’d think a lot of the Cybertronians aren’t that well versed in human culture and fashion. They have no idea about our overly complicated clothes and just see soft/fluffy/pretty coverings and want to see their human in them. And most of the humans are just rolling with it, because it’s not worth arguing about and hey, it’s whatever weird thing your giant partner brought home or naked sometimes (TFP Star’s human). I think Mirage would love vintage, romantic, Hollywood clothes and start stockpiling them once he has a human.

Joyride

Mirage x Reader

• Laughing as he tears down the deserted street, you tip your head back to stare at the swollen moon wreathed in clouds as the cold wind chills you, not numbing the exhilaration of his speed at all. If you had to guess, it’s sometime after midnight since you haven’t seen another car, but then, time isn’t all that important anymore. Your schedule following Mirage’s. His latest acquisition, a silk robe of some sort with faux fur trim, flaps in the wind, the ridiculous fur trimmed sleeves shoved up to to your elbows as you hang an arm out the window to surf your hand in the air.

• Darting down a side street in a squeal of tires, he can hear your delighted laughter and it leaves him warm and light. Happy that you’re happy, that you love this feeling just as much as he does. Feels free. It’s not his war, he’d just been dragged into it and wants it to be over and done. That fact making him suspicious to the other Autobots, always questioning his loyalty, his motives. Like he might swap sides at any moment and it hurts. Just because he doesn’t agree with the war, doesn’t mean he’d betray them. “Are you getting too cold, darling?”

• Probably, but you don’t want to go back to the Ark, yet. “We’re good,” you say, even though the chilly air is starting to get uncomfortable with the thin robe, you don’t really want to go home. And that thought ripples through you. Realizing that the Ark is gone, that he’s home to you. Not exactly sure when that had happened, but it feels right. Loving having someone care about you, see you, and worry over you. Spoil you.

• Humming softly as he monitors you tucked in his driver’s seat, he turns onto another road and vents tiredly when blue lights flare, a siren wailing. “Hang on tight, sweetspark,” he purrs, really letting loose as his engine roars. And you whoop, laughing as he peels out, the human authority in pursuit. Needs enough of a lead to duck out of sight just long enough to use his abilities to cloak you both. Because just blipping out of existence in front of other humans would send Prime into a tizzy if he ever found out. Though, the car chasing him is no real threat, much too slow to catch him.

• Laughing as the affluent bot runs from the cops, you brace a hand on his dash as you get slid around. Life with aliens seldom dull or routine. “Can we stay out a little longer, please?” You call out as he reverses suddenly to shoot back into a side street, cloaking himself as the cop car blasts by, siren screaming. And he chuckles affectionately to let you know he’s going to agree. It’s not like he can ever manage to tell you no anyway.

[bloggerspam]

Phantom is being summoned.

Gods damn it all, he's being summoned and he is stuck here with Richard "Dick" Grayson in the cafeteria of Wayne Enterprises.

How did he even get here? Why is Red Hood summoning him at 7pm on a Thursday night?

Because it is Red Hood—he's burned one of the non-emergency summoning circles Danny's left him before this entire…thing.

Before the cuddling, before the experimental touching of other people, before the fucking diner and Hood adamantly not making eye contact with Phantom afterward and leaving him to go into the back of the safehouse without so much as a hint of whether Hood was pleased or displeased or—

"Nowadays he won't even have lunch with me!" Dick whines into his soup.

"Uh huh." Who even orders soup in the Summer?

"And now, we barely have dinner together like, once every couple of months if I'm lucky." Furthermore, why did Dick Grayson even decide to sit at Danny's table? "And only if I surprise him at his house for it!"

"That seems a bit intrusive." There are so many other tables, empty tables, tables with people who are not Danny.

"We used to have dinner all the time!" Dick argues, gesturing wildly with his free hand.

"Was this before or after the dead thing?" Danny tiredly asks into his much more reasonable chicken caesar salad.

"Before." His unwelcome companion answers, sulkily slurping his soup. His piping hot soup. It is 96 degrees outside right now. Ice core aside, Danny is disgusted.

"So…when he was like, 14 years old and only had school to deal with?" Danny of all people understands how easy it is to just. Put homework aside for more concerning things.

"His job is very flexible." Dick defends himself. "He—he always loved hanging out with me."

"Okay…" Danny draws out, brows scrunching, "And I used to go to the park with my sister twice a week."

"That's not the same—" Dick pouts, but Danny puts a hand up to stave him off.

"I see my sister maybe once a month now. That's part of growing up." Danny raises an eyebrow. "Are you trying to say I'm not important to her life anymore?"

Dick bites his lip, shaking his head. The pinging has stopped, the circle fully petering out into ash on Hood's end probably. Danny shakes his head, tries not to feel anxious and guilty. Hood can wait, Danny still has to check the results of today's field tests after he finishes up his dinner and—and deal with Dick Grayson.

Hood will wait. Danny will wait, and hope that Hood understands later.

"Listen." Danny pushes his tray to the side, spreading his hands over the table. "I get it. It's easy to compare your brother from before to your brother now. I had an accident when I was a kid too—I'm not gonna sit here and tell you that didn't play a part in me and my sister's relationship."

Danny claps his hands together, almost like a plea. "But you have to understand—this isn't something exclusive to people who have had accidents. It's natural to grow apart when you grow older—your brother is, what, 27 now? I don't know anything about your familial relationships, but I know that he's probably made his own friends, created his own space, is living his own life apart from you."

Dick looks like he might want to cry at that, and Danny does not want to deal with tears in the cafeteria of his temporary workspace so he speeds it along.

"Just because you're not doing everything together anymore doesn't mean you can't still be close." Danny grabs his tray, gets up and looks down at Dick Grayson staring forelornly at his soup. "You've grown out of your own teenage self, let your brother do that too, yeah?"

Danny rushes off, wondering if he can get everything done in 30 minutes before he stops, turns around and rushes back to the table.

"Also, even if you aren't close anymore that should be okay." Danny points a finger at the wide blinking eyes of the other man. "If he has boundaries or grown into a different type of person who needs a different type of relationship to be who he wants to be comfortably you should respect that."

Dick raises his hands up in surrender, nodding. "Right! Of course. Mhm. Yep."

Danny squints at the man, pausing just for a moment before power walking away again. He has to get those results sorted and get home.

Except, of course, the machine has multiple error windows popping up on it's tiny screen, which means Danny either set the parameters wrong or something happened on a chemical level that demands Danny record and try to replicate.

It takes him the better part of two hours, exhausted and eyes burning, to sort it out enough to a good stopping point. He shuts down the lab dejectedly, feeling like maybe he wants to cry.

Danny's been trying, is the thing. He's been talking with the yeti's about his condition, asking the JL Dark if they'd be okay with him touching them platonically—

He's been taking Wes and Val's advice to heart, and it's been kind of ruining his nerves.

Touching people randomly, it turns out, does not actually help the anxiety that comes with being touch-starved. It, in fact, exacerbates it.

Not to mention the sheer embarrassment that comes with asking this in the first p[ace.

Not that it's an embarrassing thing to be touch starved, or to take steps to understand and/or treat it. But these are his peers. His senior coworkers, even.

Embarrassing doesn't fully encompass the feelings Danny has about it.

Thankfully Zatanna understood and Jason Blood was accommodating—even Constantine tried to help!

Zatanna's hug felt eerily akin to hugging Jazz. Etrigan was pleasant to hold hands with, and the warmth was definitely very appreciated, but neither of them were close enough as people to really feel comfortable with it long.

What happened with Constantine stays between him and Constantine, the House of Mysteries, and Clockwork. Danny just knows Clockwork was watching and it makes his soul shrivel just thinking about it. So he won't. Ever.

All in all, it meant that even though Phantom sought warmth, sought touch, it wasn't enough.

It's put him on edge, made his skin tingle, but the result was clear:

Phantom, Danny, likes Red Hood. He likes touching him, the warmth of him, how gentle he is when they're alone. He likes that Hood lets him do these things, likes that Hood wants to learn more about him.

And when Danny tried to—tried to make a move, Hood had let him. He let him!

But then proceeded to ignore Phantom the rest of the way back to the safehouse.

Danny is a mess. He knows, logically speaking, Hood might just be shy.

He probably didn't want to talk about it in front of Starfire, or Bizarro—he might have even wanted Phantom to stay.

It's what Jazz and Mom said was probably the case anyway, at that surprise dinner the other night. Ellie had laughed at how much Danny was overthinking it, and Dad had given him a heavy pat on the back and said Fenton men should go forth boldly and loudly but—

But Hood didn't say anything. Wouldn't even look at him. Everything about Hood screamed do not touch, and even with Phantom's ghost-empathy it's impossible to tell whether those feelings projected were at him, or at their teammates.

Danny didn't want to take that chance. Phantom is the hero, but Danny is the scaredy cat.

Danny Fenton, scared of ghosts in a family of ghost hunters.

The elevator dings, sliding open to the lobby and jostling Danny out of his thoughts.

He rushes through, bag bumping into a man as he jerks to the side to avoid them. The contents spill all over the floor, some inside the elevator and some out.

"I'm so sorry," Danny drops down, starts frantically picking up his tablet and wallet and scooting all of his things out the elevator so that the man can be on his way. "I was in a rush."

"It's alright." The other man says, holding open the elevator for a brief moment and crouching down to help Danny with the rest of his things—pens and notebooks, medication for his heart and tremors. "I was lost in thought too."

The man hands them back to him one by one, waiting as Danny sorts it all into their correct places with the other things he's gathered.

The sudden interaction and his haste has gotten him shakey, panicked for no reason as the elevator doors close and the guilt starts to kick in.

Danny's hand trembles and drops things in his haste, and though he apologizes the man simply continues to hold out items for him to take when he's ready.

Danny forces himself to breathe, tries to calm his heart so the tremors get a little better, twisting to use his right hand instead.

It takes him a moment longer to realize that the man is breathing slowly and deliberately with him, keeping his distance so as to not overcrowd Danny, as Danny finally has all his things gathered together.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, to take a quick deep breath. The tremors have lessened, and his heart feels in tact and less jittery.

Everything is fine.

"Thank you," When Danny finally looks up, he realizes he recognizes his helper.

"You're welcome." Jason Todd quietly responds as they both stand and dust themselves off. Danny is inordinately grateful he doesn't comment on Danny's tremors and panic.

"Rough night?" Danny asks, eyeing the man's eye bags. He looks tired, and wrung out.

He's seen the man on paparazzi covers, of course, but much less so than the man's famous siblings and only in a blurry captures. His hair is in disarray, either from the motorcycle helmet that's on the floor beside him or from running his still gloved hands through it multiple times. It's hard to see the man's face fully in the lower lights of the lobby at this time of night, but he looks worn down. His entire body screams tired.

Even still, his jaw line is strong and his shoulders are solid. His eyes almost shine in the dark, blue-green reflecting a little in a way that Danny feels like he should recognize, but can't.

Blood related or not, Danny has to admit the Wayne family are all very attractive.

"Yeah." Jason chuckles humorlessly. "You could say that."

"I'm sorry, mine's a little rough too." Danny laughs helplessly, scratching the back of his neck. As if the man didn't just witness Danny's whole…thing.

The man concedes Danny's point, nodding as he puts his hands into his jacket pockets. Isolating himself.

Danny feels a little pang of sympathy, the man's complicated emotions wafting through the air and mixing in with the man's cologne—a deep, spicy scent that kind of throws Danny off, reminds him of rich foods and warm beverages. He decides to cut the man loose, he's held him up long enough.

"I hope your night gets better." Danny offers, as he slowly backs away.

"Thanks, you too." Jason nods as he presses the button to the elevator again. It dings almost immediately, not having been called anywhere else, opening up to let the man in. Danny makes his way towards the entrance, before he remembers something.

"Oh!" Danny calls out, adjusting his bag as he turns around. "Dick Grayson was in the cafeteria a while ago—in case, uhm. You wanted to avoid him. It's been a couple hours but…"

This time, Jason Todd smiles like he can't help it, even if a little confusedly. "Thanks. That—that's good to know."

Danny waves with a small smile and Jason Todd, to Danny's delight, does a little wave back as the doors close.

Danny lets that little interaction fill him with hope all the way home, oddly warm and comforted.

Except when Phantom finally answers the summons, the safehouse is empty. Hood is nowhere to be seen, and there's not even a note.

Well, Danny thinks morosely as he portals back to Tucker's guest room, hopefully Jason's night goes a little better than his.

Dear Darcy...

Another AU borne from the HHD server--Touch-starved DoM with identity shenanigans. Follow here on AO3!

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It isn't until well into their acquaintanceship that Jason notices something odd about Phantom.

That's not exactly true—Jason noticed it on their third mission together in a passing thought, but decided to not care about it on account of all the bullets and daggers being thrown at him and his team at the time.

Phantom is an ally, of sorts. A consult, perhaps, Jason doesn't really know.

It's hard to really say when they still don't really know what he does.

Though, again, that's not exactly true—Jason supposes it's more accurate to say they still don't really know what he can't do.

They go to him when the supernatural is involved, introduced to them via Zatanna when Jason expressed an adamant dislike of needing to ask JL Dark for anything (needing to ask Bruce for anything).

The ghost, a big name in the so called Realms world, is friendly and happy to help most of the time. He's a delight to work with in Jason's book, seeming to use his so-called ghost sense to read the room empathically—filling in the spaces when the quiet is too dark for the team, trailing behind silent as a shadow when even breathing is too loud, staying mostly out of the way and chiming in when necessary.

It helps that if shit hits the fan, Phantom can do something about it—it helps that that's the only time Phantom will ever butt in.

The Outlaws, Jason, is still to raw to handle playing nice, but Phantom makes it easy.

Phantom makes it effortless.

It makes Jason's gut roil in ways he's not sure how to deal with, beyond shooting it.

Either way, Jason, Red Hood, isn't supposed to be here in the Realms.

It's not that he's not allowed, per say, it's just that he wasn't exactly invited to this particular corner and Jason's a Bat, sure, but even he knows the supernatural have rules.

Jason was trying to summon Phantom for a quick mission, an in and out kind of deal that may or may not have had a cult involved in it that made Jason a little leery.

Except the summons was denied, which can happen sometimes when Phantom is busy.

Only instead of the circle simply going dark, like usual, Jason got pulled in instead.

So now he's here, in what he assumes to be Phantom's lair.

It's nice, the lair, if a little dark and mood-lighted. It has a dome-like structure, with stars and constellations all over like a planetarium. There's even one of those big ass telescopes peeking out the roof like one, though it seems to only point outwards towards the green of the Realms. Symbolic, or decorative in nature.

There's bookshelves of astrology and astronomy and all sorts of science and space related things littered throughout the shelves. Every now and then the stacks of books are interrupted with some kind of LEGO space creation, or a miniature of a rocket, or some of those weird weapons Phantom sometimes pulls out.

There's a work area, neat and messy at the same time, with a work table and a large toolbox drawer set. Metal detritus is piled neatly next to it, a project or two laid out under a heavy dark blue cloth on the table to keep it from getting dusty or be moved around if Jason has to guess.

In another area, there's living room-like space with a big monitor and beanbags and soft chairs surrounding it, typical of a college dorm room-esque gaming set up. Just beside it there's a large computer that hums softly, a picture of a female werewolf acting as a screensaver.

In yet another, there's a gathering of plants of many varieties growing this way and that. Jason spots a couple he recognizes from his run-ins with Pamela, and spots a copious amount of plants he doesn't recognize of this Earth. Ghost plants, he's assuming, from the glow of them.

There is even, curiously, one of those "at-home" basketball games that can fold away reminiscent of the ones you can see at the arcade with a couple miniature basketballs. Beside it, some kind of sleek mechanical looking surfboard rests against the wall in metallic reds and black with another toolbox set hidden just behind where it leans.

The kitchen area has a fridge that's absolutely covered in magnets from all over the world, a picture in crayon that is disconcertingly good pinned up here or there signed by someone named Ellie.

And then, of course, the main draw at the center of the room: a bed of sorts, stacked with pillows and blankets and assorted plushies of varying sizes.

Buried within is Phantom himself, huddled up in a nest of pillows and breathing heavy, angelic face flushed green the way a human would in fever. Jason, for the first time since meeting the halfa, truly wonders extensively how much the he isn't telling them.

Which brings Jason back to the odd thing.

Well, the odd thing that Jason is focusing on right now:

Phantom, contrary to his self-proclaimed ghostly nature, is very solid.

More than that, he's very, utterly, alive.

It's all the more apparent when Jason takes off one of his gloves to feel Phantom's forehead, the way Bruce would when Jason was Robin.

The way Jason wishes he could with his family.

Jason realizes, with the kind of starkness that comes from a photo flipbook of memories cascading through him, that he's never touched Phantom before. Not skin to skin or outside of a spar, and never like this.

He realizes, as the pocket book extends to not just him but his team-mates as well, that Phantom's never touched anyone before.

Always hovering just 6 feet away, like quarantine.

Like the depth of a grave.

Phantom is not quite hot to the touch, as Jason expects he would be. He had suspected a fever, of a sort. But he supposes it makes sense that a ghost would run cold, considering.

In the first place, Jason's not sure what possessed him to touch the ghost—he doesn't even have a baseline temperature to compare to so there's no real point.

He's not sure what possessed him to think this was okay, touching an ally like this without consent.

Not when his touch has never been welcomed, especially not when he's Red Hood.

He's just about to pull his hand away, careful not to wake the ghost, when Phantom starts to purr.

It rattles through him, like it's not used to being let out, as Phantom nuzzles at the tips of Jason's fingers.

As if Jason's touch was wanted, as if it comforts the ghost, as if Phantom wants nothing more.

As if this very hand didn't burn buildings to the ground, didn't shoot men into the fathoms, didn't carry bloody duffle bags, didn't fucking hurt hurt hurt.

Jason withdraws his hand carefully, gliding as gently as he can manage, breathing slow and deep.

He's been trained bloody enough to know pulling back in knee-jerk reaction can give things away.

He does not want Phantom to know he touched him.

Jason puts his glove back on, tight and unforgiving, and steps back.

He flexes his hand once, twice. Shakes it, before forcefully relaxing every muscle, trying to melt away the cold traces of Phantom's skin on his.

He clears his throat once, twice a little harsher, until Phantom mewls and blinks glowing green eyes up at him. His gaze is hazy with fever, soft like feathers, child-like in confusion.

And here, another odd thing Jason has not noticed until now:

When did Phantom's Lazarus green eyes become comforting?

When did Phantom's watery green eyes become forgiving?