#my first time writing something like this

[auroralwriting]

٠ ࣪⭑ suburban legends

‎pairing: clark kent x bombshell!reader (part two) (3.0K words)

summary: as one of the daily planet's most popular gossip column writers, clark is surprised to learn you're a genius when it comes to superman. he's also surprised to learn you aren't all heels and makeup..

so how do you react to finding out he's the superhero you're utterly obsessed with?

warnings & content: bombshell!reader, female reader, not technically bimbo reader but others assume so, clark is whipped from the start and somehow becomes more whipped, reader double majored in stats and journalism go smart girls go!

٠ ࣪⭑ this is a part two to mastermind! i hope you love this one as much as the first! // requests for clark are currently open!

If you would’ve asked anyone at the Daily Planet newsroom how long it would’ve taken for you and Clark Kent to get together, they would’ve said you already were. Of course Lois and Jimmy had made bets, too.

Lois was right. As usual.

It wasn’t that the two of you had been flirting exactly. Not in the obvious way. It was just the way Clark always found your favorite pen when it went missing. The way your desk was next to his, even though technically yours had been assigned across the room. The way you’d always pass him a post-it when he forgot his press badge, and he always brought you coffee without asking how you took it—because he already knew. He way he’d make a stupid joke and you’d laugh, or how his day visibly brightened when you gave him attention..

And now? Now that it was official? That you’d actually gone on a date and kissed him and fallen asleep on his shoulder during a movie you picked but didn’t finish? Well, nothing had really changed.

Except everything had.

“You two are disgusting,” Lois said, sipping her coffee without looking up. Seeing you two graze hands at the printer and blush several times a day was ingrained in her mind already. Not that she really minded.

“We’re not even touching,” you replied, flipping through your printouts.

“Exactly,” she deadpanned. “You’re radiating soft couple energy from opposite sides of the bullpen. It’s oppressive.”

Jimmy leaned over from his desk, whispering loudly, “Did you kiss him?”

You didn’t look up. “Jimmy.”

“I bet you kissed him.” You didn’t reply. “You totally kissed him.”

From across the room, Clark looked up from his monitor and smiled at you—that smile, the one that made your knees go funny even when you were sitting down. You tried very hard not to melt into your chair.

Lois sighed. “And that’s my cue to go find a real story.”

Jimmy leaned over again. “Was it good?” You picked up a rolled newspaper and bopped him on the head without breaking eye contact. “Worth it,” Jimmy grinned.

“Tell me,” Steve rolled over in his chair. “Is this the kind of story you’d post about in your column? About the date with the office nerd and how you out-nerd him on a day to day basis?”

You turned slowly toward Steve, eyebrow arched like you were deciding whether to laugh or end his entire career. But instead of firing back with something sharp, you just smiled. “No,” you said simply, voice calm. “Because it’s not gossip. It’s mine.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. So was Jimmy, actually. Even Lois paused mid-step, glancing over her shoulder. Clark looked up from his desk, a soft crease forming between his brows. Like he wasn’t sure if he should step in or let you handle it. (Spoiler: you always handled it.)

You turned back to your laptop, fingers tapping at the keys. “Besides,” you added without looking up, “if I were going to write about someone in this office, it’d be the guy who still hasn’t figured out how to use the shared printer.”

Steve grumbled something under his breath and wheeled away.

“Real talk,” Cat interrupted. “What about that Superman article you were talking about posting?”

You perked up slightly, spinning your pen between your fingers as you leaned back in your chair. “It’s almost done. I just want to fine-tune some of the analysis. I added a new section on his flight patterns—based on the velocity shifts I tracked last week.”

Jimmy, now safely two desks away, visibly winced. “Please tell me you didn’t break into another security feed.”

You smiled innocently. “I prefer the term borrowed temporarily.”

Cat raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously going to publish an article with that much math?”

“It’s not just math,” you said with a light shrug. “It’s data-backed storytelling. I’m not trying to make people fall asleep. I’m trying to show them the truth. That he’s not reckless. That there’s precision in what he does. There’s science to it. Intention.”

Clark’s pen slipped from his hand. You didn’t notice, but Cat did. And so did Lois, who appeared back in the room just in time to catch Clark doing the world’s worst job at pretending he wasn’t completely floored by you.

Cat smirked and turned back to you. “You’re something else.”

You glanced up, blinking. “Good something else or..?”

“Definitely good,” she said. Then, nodding toward Clark, “And clearly not going unnoticed.”

Clark, red-faced and trying to recover, coughed lightly. “I think it’s a great idea for a piece,” he said quickly. “The public could use more informed perspectives.”

“See? Clark gets it,” you folded your arms over your chest.

“Because he’s head over heels—” Jimmy was interrupted by Lois smacking him with a newspaper, making him swat her away like a fly.

You bit back a laugh, then glanced over at Clark. He was already watching you, a little dazed and dreamy, like someone who’d forgotten the rest of the world existed. The second your eyes met, he blinked and gave you a small wave, almost sheepish. And despite everything, despite the teasing and the headlines and the very real article on your desktop detailing Superman’s aerodynamics, you blushed.

Jimmy groaned. “Oh my god, you’re both twelve.”

But Lois just smiled quietly, sipping her coffee as she turned back toward her notes. Because for all the chaos and caffeine-fueled headlines, for all the alien invasions and metahuman drama, something in this newsroom had finally settled.

That night, you sat on Clark’s couch, laptop on your lap as your back rested comfortably against his side. His arm closest to you clung around your collarbones; the most gentle of headlocks. A loving one. Sure, you and Clark had only been on one date, but it didn’t feel like you needed more. 

Here you sat, Clark by your side in a sweatshirt and sweatpants. You, without makeup, hair undone, wearing one of his old shirts and your old sleep shorts, nothing else felt better.

Sure, getting dolled up every day was a true joy, and you wouldn’t have it any other way, but being so bare like this for Clark was something else.

It was a kind of quiet intimacy you hadn’t expected to come so easily. The kind that didn’t need fanfare or flowers or fancy dinners. Just shared space, shared warmth, and the soft brush of his thumb against your arm every few seconds—like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

Clark rested his chin lightly against your head, eyes half-lidded behind his glasses as the evening news murmured low from the TV. He wasn’t watching it. Neither were you. The screen of your laptop cast a soft glow over the both of you as your fingers idly tapped at the keyboard.

“You working?” he asked, his voice quiet, more vibration in his chest than sound in the air.

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Polishing the Superman piece. Just tweaking the structure a little.” You had paused, craning your neck to look back at Clark. “Do you think Perry will take this seriously?”

Being a gossip columnist was great until you wanted to post a story like this.

Clark tilted his head, looking down at you with that soft, thoughtful gaze he always seemed to wear when it came to you. His fingers gently brushed your arm in quiet reassurance.

“I think,” he said slowly, “Perry will read it twice. Once as your editor. And once as someone who knows you don’t write anything unless it matters.” You blinked at him. “And if he doesn’t,” Clark added, a small smile tugging at his lips, “I’ll talk to him.”

You let out a soft laugh, half-exasperated, half-grateful. “You don’t have to go full.. Superman on my editor.”

If you would’ve looked closer, you would’ve seen how Clark nearly flinched at the words. You were only joking. You didn’t know. Phew.

“I wouldn’t.” He shrugged, trying to play off the surprised look he was sure he just flashed. “Just full Clark Kent. Turns out he’s surprisingly persuasive.”

You rested your head against his chest again, the sound of his heartbeat calm and steady beneath your cheek. “I just want people to know what I see. That he’s—” You paused, smile curling at the edges of your mouth. “That he’s more than what they say. That all the things he does—how he calculates impact zones, how he measures air displacement to avoid hurting people—it’s all intentional. It’s all done with care.”

Clark’s hand found yours, fingers threading between yours. “Then write it,” he murmured. “Exactly like that. Exactly how you see it.”

You turned your hand over, palm to palm, your fingers curling softly around his. “You know, you’re the only story I never want to twist.”

He kissed your forehead gently. “And you’re the only reporter I’ve never tried to avoid.”

That was the night Clark decided he wanted to tell you the truth. About who he was, what he could do, where he came from. That he was Superman.

But how do you go about telling the woman you’re falling in love with that you have a double life? That you’re, to put it plainly, from another planet. That you’re the person she’s been fawning over for ages now. That’s not something to just admit over dinner.

It wasn’t the kind of thing you slipped in between bites of spaghetti or during commercial breaks on movie night. Not when you were sitting in his sweatshirt, warm and real and tucked into his side like you’d always been there. Not when you’d just told him—with so much gentleness and trust in your voice—that you didn’t want to twist his story.

Clark stared down at you that night as you drifted off, your fingers still lightly curled around his, laptop dimming to sleep on the coffee table. Your breath evened out. You sighed softly in your sleep. And he just watched. Heart full. Terrified.

Because the truth wasn’t just about who he was. It was about who you were becoming to him.

He’d had plenty of close calls. Plenty of maybe this is the moment conversations lined up, planned in the back of his head, rehearsed like a press briefing. But none of them had ever made it out. Because what if you looked at him differently? What if your voice changed when you said his name? What if you stopped smiling when you saw him flying overhead?

What if knowing he was Superman changed the way you saw Clark?

But that night—watching you there, curled up against him in a way that made his life feel smaller, sweeter, less lonely—he realized he wanted you to know him. All of him. The writer. The hero. The man who somehow, impossibly, was lucky enough to love you.

So no, it wouldn’t happen over dinner.

But it would happen.

Because if there was one person in the world he could trust with the truth, it was the one person who already saw him more clearly than anyone ever had.

Clark hadn’t meant to come straight to you. Not like this. Bloodied lip, bruised ribs, heat radiating off his skin like the fight was still clinging to him. He was supposed to be more careful. More invincible. He wasn’t supposed to scare you. He especially wasn’t supposed to tell you like this.

But the moment he stumbled onto your fire escape—barely hovering before collapsing onto the floor of your apartment—you didn’t panic. You didn’t scream. You didn’t even look surprised.

You looked concerned.

“Superman?” Your voice was soft, a whisper above the hum of the city below. You dropped to your knees beside him instantly, hands fluttering near his chest. “You’re hurt.” Your eyes scanned all over him worriedly, almost as if you had your own x-ray vision. 

He gave a weak smile. “Hi, angel.”

“How did— oh, Clark.” You said his name so softly, the realization hitting you. You were already reaching for the first aid kit you kept under the sink. 

“I’m okay,” he said. “It’s just—night. No yellow sun. Slows the healing down.”

You froze for a second, processing, then frowned. “So you can’t heal right now?”

He shook his head once.

You looked at him—really looked. His eyes were glassy but focused, his chest rising a little too fast, jaw tight. He was clearly in pain. His eyes scanned your face like it was his last ever sight. And still, somehow, your biggest concern was him.

“Okay,” you said, like it was the easiest decision in the world. You rolled up your sleeves, grabbed gauze, and pressed a towel gently against the gash on his cheekbone. “Then it’s my job to fix you up.”

Clark blinked. “You’re not.. surprised?”

“I mean, a little,” you admitted, biting your lip as you dabbed the blood away. “Of course I’m surprised. Never could have guessed that Superman would come to me for help.” Your brows creased and furrowed as you focused on gently wiping away any crimson from his face. “But mostly I’m just mad someone hurt you.”

His heart could’ve burst right then and there.

“I also think I figured it out two weeks ago. You being Superman.”

Clark blinked, then blinked again. “Wait—what?”

You didn’t look up right away. You were too focused on the scrape along his jaw, cleaning it with practiced, careful hands. “The flight patterns. The voice. The way you disappear from the bullpen every time Superman shows up. You’re not as subtle as you think, farm boy.”

“I—” he started, but you gently pressed a bandage to his cheek.

“And then there was every single time you stared at me like I hung the stars when I defended Superman or wrote about him...”

Clark groaned softly, dropping his head back against the wall. “I knew you’d eventually notice. Just.. not this soon.”

You smiled, finally meeting his eyes. “I was waiting for you to tell me. I figured it had to be something big if you hadn’t said anything.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to,” he said quickly, eyes searching yours. “I was going to. I am going to. I just—didn’t know how. Or when. Or how you’d react, because you could’ve reacted really badly.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m.. bleeding on your rug and you’re still here.” His voice dipped, warm and quiet. “I think that tells me everything I need to know.”

You leaned in, gently brushing his hair off his forehead. “It does,” you murmured. “But I want to hear it from you anyway.”

Clark smiled. Soft, real, a little tired. “I’m Superman.”

You kissed his forehead. “You’re Clark Kent. Superman’s just your second night job.”

“What’s my first?” Clark curiously asked.

You brushed that soft curl away from his forehead. “Being my boyfriend.”

Clark’s breath caught in his throat, just for a second. That quiet, golden second where time didn’t quite move. Then, he smiled. Big this time. The kind of smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and his whole face light up like sunrise. “Best job I’ve ever had,” he whispered.

You leaned in closer, your forehead resting against his. “Even better than saving the world?”

He grinned. “Way better. The world doesn’t kiss me goodnight.”

You laughed, soft and warm, and kissed him again—this time on the lips, slow and steady, like you had all the time in the universe.

And for once, neither of you was rushing off to chase a headline or stop a satellite from falling out of orbit. No breaking news, no alarms, no distractions. Just the hush of nighttime and the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You should really let me fix that cut now.”

Clark smiled, still dazed, still starry-eyed. “Only if I get another kiss after.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and reached for the first aid kit. “You drive a hard bargain, Kent.”

“You got an interview with Superman?” Steve’s face looked genuinely bamboozled. “Of all people? You?!”

You didn’t even flinch. Just kept sipping your iced coffee through a straw, glossy lips curving into the softest smile.

“Yeah,” you said easily. “He trusts me.”

Jimmy wheeled over like he was front row at a soap opera. “Wait, when did this happen?! You’ve been sitting at your desk all morning.”

You shrugged. “Scheduled it for last night. He came right after his fight. He’s a busy guy.”

Lois raised an eyebrow over the top of her coffee mug. “And let me guess—you met him somewhere discreet, middle of the night, barely any witnesses? Or maybe he flew you to some rooftop where no one could see or hear you for the maximum privacy?”

“Something like that,” you said lightly, clicking through your draft on screen.

Steve scoffed. “You? Interviewing Superman? No offense, but you write about celebrity scandals and hair products.”

You turned to face him, voice sweet as honey. “And yet, I still managed to land the most elusive interview since Clark interviewed him. Wild, huh?” Clark, from his desk across the bullpen, choked on his water. Jimmy looked over. Lois didn’t even try to hide her smirk.

Cat Grant passed behind you, gave your shoulder a light pat, and muttered just loud enough for Steve to hear, “Get used to it. She’s been leaving all of us in the dust since day one. But my fashion breakdowns will always be superior.”

You smiled, gaze flicking to Clark. “Guess some people just have the right sources.”

And Clark—bless him—was trying not to grin like an idiot. He failed. Spectacularly.

“This interview is going to be.. super.”

“Oh, no.”

“God, please, no.”

“I hate you.”

[myladybelle]

‘cause i can see you

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work, corenswet!clark yearns and pines and nobody can tell me otherwise warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong! word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3) note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x

masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were still new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

Strange, considering how different the two of you were.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.

The office changed at night. 

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

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

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

Almost like a different person entirely. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you liked being late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That caught you off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had work to do. Explanations could come later.

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

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

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

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

Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.

You blinked once. Then twice.

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

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

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

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

For now.

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

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

Clark made a beeline for your desk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

Something had changed, and you liked it.

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

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

Clark Kent? Superman?

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

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

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

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

Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.

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

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

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

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

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

Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, amused. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.

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

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

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

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

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

You rewound it again. And again.

Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.

Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat. 

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

Except no, they didn’t. 

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

You stared back at the screen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sat back in your chair and stared.

“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”

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

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

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

There was no way they were the same person.

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

But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.

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

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

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

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

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

Unless that was the point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What exactly were you doing?

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinched, braced for impact.

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

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

Nothing so much as grazed you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Superman was right in front of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God.

You were losing it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you knew. You knew.

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

This was real.

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

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

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

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

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

It could all be bias, projection, or madness.

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

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

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

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

You glanced up.

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

Your eyes met.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight. My place. We should talk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stepped inside hesitantly.

The apartment was surprising.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could the same man feel so different?

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

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

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

You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

Still unmistakably Clark Kent. 

And Superman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re supposed to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark’s expression faltered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.

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

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

Clark Kent loved you.

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

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

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

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

You nodded before your words could betray you.

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

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

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

You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.

And then he kissed you.

Not like Superman. Not like a secret.

Like Clark. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you didn’t want him to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

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

Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she was gone.

The elevator doors glided shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

“I missed this,” you murmured.

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

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

You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.

“Clark—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything was back to normal.

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

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

[wosospacegirl]

Unheard - reader x leah x elle

Summary: A sweet day off during the Euros turns ugly when you have a fight with your girlfriends. You try to be miss independent, but you need them more than you think.

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: mentions of endometriosis and r being in pain

A/n: I've been obsessively writing this since I woke up, and I might be late for my dentist.

Switzerland was kind, gentle, and beautiful. It was a small country, but filled with pretty landscapes and delicious food.

You and Leah didn't have much time to go out and appreciate the scenery, since you two were always training or doing interviews or having meetings.

Elle, on the other hand, was having the time of her life. She visited all the tourist places, tried all the food, and attended every game you and Leah have played so far.

You were honestly having a good time at the Euros (ignoring the fact that the Lionesses had lost the first game), although you were feeling weird.

You were more lightheaded than usual, more snappy and more tired. You blamed it on the stress that came with the semi-final approaching.

But it seemed like you were the only one feeling that way; none of your teammates (or girlfriends) looked like they were struggling.

So you kept it to yourself. Trying not to ruin everybody's mood.

You and Leah got a day off, and you decided that there was nothing better to do than spend time with Elle.

Elle came with friends to Switzerland because she knew you and Leah wouldn't be able to give her much attention, but it didn't change the fact that you and Leah were feeling a bit guilty for not spending time with her.

So that's why the three of you decided to visit a little village in Switzerland's countryside on your day off.

The village was small and old, with only locals living in it. The houses were beautiful, vintage, just like the movie 'Heidi' that you used to watch when you were a kid.

The village wasn't really touristy, but there were a lot of cafés and restaurants, as well as a petting zoo for the cows.

Leah and Elle were completely in love with the cows, petting them and saying it was the cutest thing they had ever seen.

You, on the other hand, were more focused on tasting the hot chocolate from one of the little cafés you saw earlier.

You looked at the sky. It had that sweet orange and pink colour, indicating it was the end of the afternoon. You pressed your lips tight, looking at Leah and Elle, who were in front of you, moving to pet yet another cow.

You looked at your watch: 5:46 pm.

The café was going to close soon. You wanted that hot chocolate so badly. You felt like it was the only thing that was going to make your day better.

Of course, spending time with your girlfriend was amazing, but you just weren't feeling your best today. Your body hurt, and it didn't seem like it was from training either.

You had told them before leaving the hotel that you wanted to do something more chill, but Leah had insisted on walking around, getting to know Switzerland.

Elle was looking between you two, not quite sure who she agreed with. In the end, you gave in and said that you would do whatever they wanted to do.

"Girls," you said. "Can we please go to that coffee shop I wanted?"

You waited a few seconds, but neither of them looked at you, too engrossed in the... cow in front of them.

You rolled your eyes, saying a bit louder this time. "Leah, Elle. Let's go? It's getting late."

"She's so fluffy," Elle said, looking at Leah with a big smile. "How can a cow be fluffy?"

"I've never seen this breed before," Leah answered, rubbing the cow's snout. "Cutie!"

You rolled your eyes again.

They couldn't honestly just be ignoring you right now. You breathed once, then twice, then took three steps toward where they were.

When you got closer, they finally looked at you, clearly happy.

"Hey, baby, touch her head, I swear it's—" Elle began saying, but you interrupted.

"Can we go now? Please?" you said, showing them your phone screen. "That coffee shop I told you about is almost closing."

Leah looked between the cow and you. You couldn't help but narrow your eyes.

"What if we stay just five minutes?" Leah asked, giving you one of her side smiles that would (normally) make you melt, but not right now.

"If we stay five minutes, we're going to have to run to get to the café in time," you argued, a pout on your face.

Elle chuckled and kissed your lips sweetly. "Just five more minutes and we'll go, alright? We want to see the other cow breeds."

"But—"

"Five, we swear," Leah said, kissing your lips the same way Elle did.

Leah took the other girl's hand and moved through the grass to see the cow that was standing near the fence a few meters away.

You didn't follow them.

You searched for a bench to sit on and stayed there, watching the two of them having the time of their lives.

You kept watching your phone screen, noticing how the shadows made by the trees changed position as the sun set down between the Swiss Alps.

You wanted hot chocolate. So. Fucking. Much.

You considered leaving, leaving Elle and Leah behind, since it looked like they were having way more fun without you.

You sighed, feeling something hard pressing on your chest. You didn't like it. You were sad, very sad.

You were stressed with the tournament, and there was definitely something wrong with your lower abdomen. Your head was pounding, and the only thing you had told your girlfriends you wanted to do on your day off was to get hot chocolate.

But they clearly didn't care.

You were sitting right in front of one of the cows. She mooed at you, and you considered that an offence.

You rolled your eyes at her, holding yourself back from giving the middle finger to a literal animal.

It was 6:12 now, less than half an hour until the coffee shop closed. If you were sad before, now you were angry.

You watched Leah and Elle; they were patting the last cow. Maybe now you would be able to really do something you enjoyed.

"Can we go now?" you yelled at them, trying to be heard from a distance.

They looked at you confused, so you put your hands on your wrist, as if touching a watch.

They exchanged a few words and then smiled, making their way to you while holding hands.

You stood up from your bench and waited for them.

When they got closer, Elle wrapped one arm around you, and you kept walking.

She kissed your cheek. "Let's go, Miss Impatient."

"I'm not impatient," you told her, crossing your arms as you heard Leah chuckle. "I just want to—"

"Drink hot chocolate," Leah finished for you. "We get it, grumpy."

You rolled your eyes and didn't say anything as you made your way back to the old town square.

Although you started to get restless as you saw a street clock saying it was 6:26, you had exactly four minutes to reach the coffee shop.

You began pulling at them, making Leah and Elle walk faster. "Come on, it's closing soon."

"Oi, mate," Leah said, "calm down, we're going."

"But it's closing soon!"

"Baby, stop!" Elle protested, and then gasped. "Oh fuck, my ankle!"

You and Leah stopped in your tracks.

Elle was holding herself to your shoulder with one hand, while the other hand went to her ankle.

It didn't look bad, it wasn't swollen or red (yet), but judging by her face, it hurt.

"Oh, Elle, baby! I'm sorry," you said guiltily, "I didn't mean to pull you so hard and—"

Leah practically put herself in front of you, holding Elle by her elbows, letting her sit on the bench.

"Come here, baby, don't worry, let's sit for a moment."

You looked at the clock one last time before sighing and following them.

The two of you sat on the bench. You placed a comforting hand on Elle's thigh as Leah knelt in front of her, examining her ankle.

"I think you just twisted it slightly. I don't think it'll hurt for long," Leah said, then she looked at you accusingly. "You shouldn't have pulled her."

"I didn't mean to pull her," you tried to defend yourself, " I just wanted to go faster."

"Maybe we should have just walked like normal human beings instead of running."

"If you two hadn't spent the last three hours patting cows, I wouldn't have had to run."

"If you could be patient, then—"

"Enough!" Elle said, looking at you and Leah with a stern expression on her face, the one she always pulled when you and Leah were arguing.

Both you and Leah loved each other a lot, but you wouldn't deny that you two were a little too alike. A little too grumpy, a little too angry at times.

"Fighting won't get us anywhere," she continued. "Leah, we weren't very considerate of what she wanted to do, so can we please just walk to the café, trying to end the day without any arguments?"

Leah lifted her chin like a petulant child, while you rolled your eyes.

Elle sighed, but got up from the bench on her two feet. She tested her ankle, and it didn't seem like it was bothering her so much anymore.

"Let's go," she said determinedly.

The three of you walked. You were a few steps ahead of them, eager to get to the café.

You heard Leah murmuring something to Elle, but the American shut her down with one of her looks.

You had just one minute to get to the coffee shop, so you started to walk faster, leaving Elle and Leah bit by bit behind.

You turned a corner, and Leah and Elle lost sight of you.

As soon as you got to the coffee shop, you were face to face with your worst fear.

The lights were turned off. No one was inside. You tried to force the door open (just because), but it wouldn't budge.

You felt your eyes filling with tears.

"Oh," you heard Leah say behind you after a few minutes, and you turned to her.

You weren't one to cry in front of your girlfriends. You didn't like it, most times you kept big feelings to yourself, but this time, you couldn't help yourself from letting the tears fall.

Elle was looking at you sadly, completely guilty. Leah had the same expression on her face.

"Baby, I'm so—" Leah began saying, reaching a hand to touch your face, but you took a step back.

"Let's go back to the hotel," you said, turning around and walking before the two of them could say anything.

"Love, hey," Elle said behind you, trying to hold your forearm, but you were stronger than her and pulled away. "We're sorry."

You were silent.

The two of them kept talking in your ear the whole way back to the train station.

You kept ignoring them.

As soon as you stepped onto the train, you wanted to be petty and sit alone, let the two of them stay together (since it clearly was what they preferred), but you decided against it.

Well, you didn't really decide.

Leah was guiding both you and Elle with a firm hand on the bottom of both your backs as you walked through the aisle. She turned her body slightly to one of the cabins, and you had no other choice but to follow her.

You sat near the window, looking as the landscape passed by.

You couldn't see much (it was dark already), but you could see the fucking cows. You hated them now.

Leah and Elle were sitting in front of you. They clearly didn't know what to say, and your not very inviting face wasn't helping them either.

You continued to cry, but it was an angry cry.

You weren't sobbing, you weren't making any noise really. Just silent tears leaving your eyes as your cheeks got redder and redder.

After what felt like fifteen minutes in completely uncomfortable silence, Leah reached for your hand. You slapped it away without even looking at her.

"My love. Please," Leah said, using her soft voice, one she didn't use much. " We're sorry. We didn't mean to stop you from having your hot chocolate."

Your head snapped at her. It seemed like Leah was waiting for you to continue ignoring her, because she looked at you, surprised.

"If you two didn't mean it," you began saying, looking at Leah's blue eyes and Elle's green ones, "then you would have done something about it."

Elle opened her mouth, but then she closed it.

"I told you that the only fucking thing I wanted to do today was to drink that hot chocolate," you said.

"It was the only thing I wanted. Twenty minutes max - that's all it would've taken. But nooo, because you two had other plans. Plans that were going to happen regardless of my opinion"

"We can go on our next off day, baby," Leah said carefully.

"Yeah?" you said sarcastically. "The off day that will be in Zurich? The off day that we've already agreed to spend with your family, Leah?"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about—"

"You two seem to be forgetting everything that doesn't involve what you want." You responded dryly.

You knew it had hurt them.

You saw how Leah held Elle's hand a bit too strongly, that Elle bit her lower lip in that way that told you she was upset, but it didn't matter.

You were hurt, and honestly, you wanted everyone to feel a bit of it, too.

The rest of the train ride was in silence. You had stopped crying, but your breathing still felt uneven.

You were still angry. You knew that some part of it was irrational. It was just hot chocolate. You bet the fucking stadium sold hot chocolate, you could also order one from the hotel's kitchen.

But you wanted the experience of tasting hot chocolate in the countryside.

You were feeling sad and upset since you woke up, and just wanted to do something for you, something that you were sure was going to light up your mood.

It was hard to be in a relationship with more than one person. The feeling of being left out was present some days, and you had to fight it.

Today was one of those days.

It was like they didn't hear you, or worse, they heard you but just didn't care. It was your off day, too, but you had spent the whole day doing what they wanted.

You just wanted twenty minutes to do what you wanted.

When the three of you left the elevator, you quickly turned right while Elle and Leah turned left. You didn't say goodbye, you didn't say anything.

You were ready to take your key card from your pocket when they showed up behind you. Leah held your forearm and turned you around.

"Hey," Leah said, confused. "Where are you going?"

"To my room," you said drily, trying to set yourself free, but Leah held you with a bit more force, so you stopped trying to squirm.

"Why?" Elle asked. "You barely slept in your room since the Euros started. Come stay with us like the other nights, baby."

"No," you said decidedly. "Let me go, Leah."

Your face was cold enough that Leah let go without a word. You shut the door behind you, catching a glimpse of them wearing the guiltiest puppy-dog expressions.

You closed the door on their faces and sighed, turning around and looking at your room.

This Euros, every player had their own room, but just like Elle said, you barely used yours. You had been sleeping with Elle and Leah every night. You were sure half of your suitcase wasn't even here.

Your bed was beautifully made, as if no one had slept in it in days. Which was true.

You let yourself fall face-first on the mattress. You didn't want to cry now. You really didn't, but you were feeling hurt.

So you allowed yourself.

You stayed in the hotel room.

You didn't get up when Elle knocked on the door and spoke in her sweet voice, telling you how much she missed you.

You didn't get up when Leah knocked and told you (less gently than Elle), that she wanted to stay with you and wished you would open the door.

You stayed still when Lotte's voice came through the door, telling you two could talk if you wanted.

You ignored the hundreds of messages Elle and Leah had been sending you.

You also ignored the room service that was sent by either Elle or Leah, because you clearly hadn't asked for dinner, although you were hungry.

You had completely dissociated.

So much that you didn't realise you had fallen asleep.

You didn't expect to wake up in a pool of blood at 4 am.

You didn't expect to wake up with the worst pain you had felt in your life, a pain that was as excruciating as it was familiar.

You turned around on the mattress, feeling too weak to move, both from the pain but also from the lack of food.

The last thing you had eaten was at yesterday's lunch.

You had completely forgotten about your period. Your cycle was completely irregular; some months you got your period twice, other times you went months without seeing blood.

You had become accustomed to it by now, of not expecting it, to always being surprised.

But this time, you cursed yourself.

All the signs were there: how snappier and more sensitive you were, how your belly was aching, how, when Leah had cupped your breasts a few days ago, you wanted to scream at her about how swollen they were.

You opened the nightstand, searching for one of the protein bars Elle had given you, telling you that you always forgot to eat proper snacks.

You found one and ate it, swallowing it down with some water from a water bottle left on the floor a few days ago.

You closed your eyes hard enough, trying to gather strength from... you weren't even sure. You let out a sigh and got up from the bed.

It was worse than you imagined… there was blood everywhere. You didn't dare to look at your pants.

You quickly took off the bloody sheets and left them on the side of the door, so you could take them to the hotel's laundry room.. then you knelt near your suitcase, the only one that was in the room.

You were searching for pads, tampons, menstrual cups, anything, but you found nothing. The suitcase with your period products was probably in Leah and Elle's room.

You groaned, fighting back tears.

You could barely walk, and now you were going to have to find a way to go to Leah and Elle's room, even though you really didn't want to see them.

You took a change of clothing from the suitcase and went to the bathroom. You took a quick shower (it hurt standing for so long), added a lot of toilet paper to your underwear, trying to create a makeshift pad.

You walked to your hotel room door and made your way to Elle and Leah's room. You were hating yourself for it.

You were hurt, you didn't want to see them. But you were in pain, on your fucking period, and your endometriosis was so bad you felt like throwing up soon.

Leah had suffered from the same thing as you. You and Elle always tried to help her through it.

You knew they wouldn't think anything less of you. You had been dating for two years now, and they had seen you at your worst, but you still didn't like to be so vulnerable.

You shyly knocked on their bedroom door. You heard noise on the inside; there was a shadow under the door.

You waited a few more minutes, and Leah appeared. She had just woken up. She was rubbing her eyes, and her hair was a mess. She was wearing an old Arsenal shirt with some shorts. She looked very cosy.

Leah's eyes widened and she smiled when she saw you, but then her smile turned to sadness. "Hey, what's wrong, baby?"

You didn't answer; you walked right past her. Elle was sleeping on the bed, and you hated how red her nose was, as if she had been crying.

You searched for your suitcase around the room, until you found it. You knelt in front of it, but before you could open it, Leah was kneeling at your side, her hand on top of yours.

"Hey, talk to me," she said seriously. "What's wrong? You don't look good."

You mumbled an answer, looking down, but Leah didn't hear it.

"What?" She held your chin, so you were looking at her. "What happened?"

"I got my period," you said, this time louder. "Just need some tampons, I left them all here."

"Is it bad?" Leah asked, taking her hand from you and placing them on your back, letting you search for what you needed.

"No."

"Don't lie."

You froze, and Leah noticed it.

"How bad?"

You finally found a pack of tampons. You got on your two feet, and Leah mirrored you.

"Bad." That was the only thing you said before turning around, ready to leave again.

Leah held your forearm again. "You aren't leaving," Leah said. "Stay here with us, I'll get you tea and medicine."

"I don't need any of that." You hated how dry you sounded, but you honestly just wanted to sleep, to make the pain go away.

Leah surprised you when she held your jaw in place - it was firm, but soft at the same time.

"I understand you are upset with me and Elle, and you have every right to be; we were idiots, but don't punish your own body because of it."

"I'm going to the hotel's kitchen to get some tea for you," she continued, leaving no room for argument. "When I get back, I want you in bed. Do you understand me?"

You were ready to be difficult, to give Leah a hard time, to show her that you could deal with your condition on your own, but a large wave of pain shot through you, making you curl.

Leah's stern demeanour changed in a matter of seconds.

"Shh," she said, wrapping one hand around your hips and bringing you closer as the other one settled on your lower abdomen, massaging it. "I'm sorry, I'm gonna make it better, I swear."

Leah helped you to the bathroom and left the room, promising to come back with what you needed. When you emerged from the bathroom, Elle was already awake.

It seemed like, while you were sorting yourself out, Leah had woken her up and explained everything.

Elle opened her arms, smiling at you sadly. "Come here, baby," she said, and you absolutely melted.

Your tough attitude was long gone.

You crawled to bed, letting yourself be pulled by Elle. Your head resting on her shoulder as she kissed your forehead.

"It hurts, Elle," you said, letting yourself cry against her warm body.

"I know it does," she said tenderly. "It'll be better soon, just close your eyes now."

"I'm sorry," you said after a few moments in silence. "I ruined our day off yesterday by getting mad and—and—"

"No," Elle said, "You don't apologise for anything. Leah and I were selfish; it was your day off, too, you deserved to do something you enjoyed as well."

"But I could have been more kind about it," you said. "I hurt your ankle."

"I think we all could have handled it better," Elle murmured. "And my ankle is fine, don't worry about me. I want you to worry about yourself."

You were about to say something else when Leah came back through the door, carrying a tray with steaming tea and what looked like every medicine she could find in the hotel.

"How are we doing?" she asked softly, setting the tray on the nightstand before climbing into bed on your other side.

"Better," you mumbled against Elle's shoulder, though another cramp made you wince in pain.

Leah's hand found your back, rubbing gentle circles.

"I brought chamomile tea and some painkillers, and..." she paused, looking almost shy. "I may have asked the kitchen staff about hot chocolate."

You lifted your head to look at her, confused.

"There's a café two blocks away," Leah continued. "I thought... maybe tomorrow morning, before training, when you're feeling better, we could go together? Just the three of us, no cows involved."

Your eyes filled with tears again, but this time for a completely different reason. "You don't have to—"

"We want to," Elle said firmly, pressing a kiss to your temple. "We should have listened yesterday. Your hot chocolate is important because you're important."

Leah nodded, reaching over to brush a tear from your cheek.

"Plus, I looked it up and apparently, they do this thing with heavy whipped cream and salt? I don't know if it's good, but it seems very Swiss."

You couldn't help but smile (the first real smile you had had since yesterday afternoon). "That sounds perfect, thank you."

"Good," Leah said, settling down beside you properly. "Now drink your tea and let us make up for yesterday."

Your period still hurt like hell, and you were still exhausted, but now wrapped up in their arms, you felt heard. You felt seen.

"I love you," you whispered.

"Love you too, grumpy," Leah murmured against your hair.

"No grumpy," you mumbled

"Just a little grumpy," Elle added, smiling.

You were almost asleep when you felt Leah's lips against your ear. "Tomorrow, we're getting you the best hot chocolate in Switzerland. I promise."

A/n: pls let me know if you guys liked it <3 it would mean a lot

Tag list: @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics @riyaexee @miaereen

[cheftsunoda]

hi bby so im back :) and i have a request!!

charlando x reader (why are there not more fics about these two??)

bc this pic is too fine not to write about and ily and ik that you will EAT with this

hehee ilyyy gorgeousss <3333

💋💋

that's our girl — cl16 + ln4

smau + written blurbs

charles leclerc x !actress reader x lando norris

you weren’t just a young actress. you were the young actress. oscar-nominated at 21. cover of vogue before 20. the internet’s darling, directors’ favorite, and the face of three fashion houses by 23.

but the one thing you kept fiercely private — the only thing you never let the world touch — was them. charles leclerc and lando norris.

it started quietly. a few late night texts. a shared hotel suite after a grand prix. a summer that felt like a dream. then suddenly, you were in love with two of the fastest men on the planet — and they were in love with you. for almost a year, it was just yours. safe. secret. sacred.

until the night of your movie premiere. until they stepped onto the red carpet beside you. until the world finally saw what had always belonged only to you.

and saw that you were their girl.

fc : anya taylor-joy

(a/n) : hi baby love!!!! i missed you:) charlando is soooo underrated in my opinion and i took direct inspo from this pic. (i think i drooled a little bit the first time i saw) love you to the moon and back!!!!!! hope you enjoy

—

voguemagazine

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, lando and 4,440,000 others.

voguemagazine : the face of a generation returns to our cover. for her fifth time gracing vogue’s front page, @/yourusername opens up about the role that changed everything, navigating fame in the age of obsession, and why some secrets are worth keeping — especially when the world is watching. inside the issue: exclusive photos from set, notes from her director, and a few words (just a few) about the rumors swirling around her love life...on stands august 1st.

tagged : yourusername

—

view 300,000 other comments.

yourusername : just a little film, a little fashion, and maybe a little fun. who’s to say 🖤 love you vogueeeeee

liked by voguemagazine, lando and charles_leclerc

username000 : charles and lando in the likes after all these rumors BFFR RN VOGUE

liked by voguemagazine

↳ voguemagazine : we know nothing 🤫

lando : great photos. very cool story. would love to meet her someday 🙃

liked by voguemagazine, charles_leclerc and yourusername

↳ username005 : we have literally seen paparazzi pictures of you two together. you cheeky fucker

username001 : vogue being messy again and i love it here

liked by voguemagazine

username77 : can’t wait to hear her say absolutely nothing about her love life in the most elegant way possible

liked by voguemagazine and yourusername

↳ yourusername : yes queeeeeeen. give us nothing!

liked by voguemagazine and username77

username55 : "some secrets are worth keeping" yeah ok but i’m nosy

liked by voguemagazine

charles_leclerc : beautiful cover. she always makes everything look effortless.

liked by voguemagazine, yourusername and lando

↳ username75 : charles just drop it and admit you are in LOVE.

—

You don’t hear them come in. The studio is buzzing—lights humming, cameras clicking, stylists whispering and bustling around you as you hold a pose in an impossibly structured gown. The sleeves are too long, the heels too high, and your neck is stiff from holding your head just right. You’re exhausted, your muscles screaming for a break, but the shoot must go on.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of something familiar—a flash of unruly curls, a pair of too white trainers stepping carefully around cables, the unmistakable glint of sunglasses on a face you know too well.

You pause, blinking. A small, tired smile creeps onto your lips despite the chaos around you.

“Hey,” Lando’s voice breaks through the noise, light and teasing. He waves enthusiastically, completely unbothered by the formality of the setting.

Charles stands just behind him, arms crossed, trying to look composed, but you see the slight upward curl at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t say much, but his eyes say it all—they sparkle with pride and quiet affection.

“You’re staring,” Lando grins, stepping closer.

“I’m not,” you tease, even though you are. “I’m just... appreciating the art.”

Charles chuckles softly and crosses the room, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Art can be exhausting, but you make it look effortless.”

Lando tosses you a snack—your favorite—grinning like a kid caught in the act. “Thought you might need a break. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

You laugh, and he uses the back of his hand to swipe a bit of whipped cream from your lip, smirking. “Careful,” you warn. “I might start expecting this kind of treatment all day.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he replies with a wink.

Your stylist clears her throat, offering a pointed glance. “Remember, no eating on set,” she says, though her voice is softer than usual.

Charles kneels down to zip up your boots, careful not to wrinkle the fabric of your gown. “We’re breaking all the rules today,” he murmurs, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve.

You rest your head against his shoulder for a moment, feeling the steady warmth there. “You both shouldn’t be here,” you say softly. “You have meetings.”

Charles shrugs, still smiling. “Meetings can wait. You’re the priority.”

Lando nods in agreement. “Yeah, we’re your unofficial support team.”

They linger nearby during the makeup touch-ups, sharing quiet jokes with the crew and keeping you company in the madness. The photographer catches a few candid shots—your bare feet tucked under the chair, Lando feeding you bites of cake, Charles speaking softly to your stylist about lighting. None of it will make the magazine. None of it needs to. It’s your little secret.

Later, as the shoot winds down, Lando pulls you aside. “Promise me you’ll take a break after this.”

“I will,” you say, leaning into him.

Charles wraps an arm around both of you. “We’re coming with you. No exceptions.”

You smile, feeling the warmth of their presence—your steady constants amid the frenzy of your life. And for once, you don’t feel tired at all.

—

The shoot wrapped late, but none of you were in any rush to go out. No afterparty, no fancy dinner, no red carpet chaos. Just the three of you — hair undone, makeup half wiped off, glitter still clinging to your collarbones — back in your apartment, where things felt quiet. Easy. Yours.

You’re curled up on the couch in the softest pair of Charles’ joggers and one of Lando’s old McLaren hoodies, a throw blanket draped lazily over the both of you. The lights are dim, the windows cracked open to let in the cool night air, and something low hums from the speakers. Your feet are in Lando’s lap. His hands are wrapped gently around your ankles, thumbs moving in small, lazy circles against your skin.

Charles is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed as he stirs something in a pan. Every so often, he hums under his breath. He moves with quiet purpose — barefoot on the tile, focused and calm, like he always is when he’s doing something for you.

“What’s he making again?” Lando murmurs, half asleep already.

You smile, not bothering to open your eyes. “He said pasta. But fancy. With wine he won’t let me touch yet.”

“Typical.” Lando nudges your leg with his elbow. “We’re out here starving while he builds a five-star menu from scratch.”

“He offered to teach you,” you remind him, grinning.

“He offered to boss me around in the kitchen,” Lando counters. “Different things.”

You laugh, and Charles calls out from the kitchen without turning around, “I can hear both of you, you know.”

“You were supposed to!” Lando shouts back. “It’s part of the charm.”

Charles walks over a moment later, drying his hands on a towel and tilting his head at the sight of you two — one completely melted into the couch cushions, the other practically draped across them like a very spoiled cat.

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then one to Lando’s temple. “Fifteen more minutes.”

“Feels like twenty,” Lando mumbles.

“Feels like heaven,” you say softly, reaching out to grab Charles’ hand as he turns to go. He lets you hold it for a beat, thumb brushing over yours. A silent little thank-you, wrapped in touch.

By the time dinner is ready, Lando’s fast asleep, his head resting on your thigh, breathing slow and peaceful. You thread your fingers through his curls gently, trying not to wake him, but Charles smiles as he sets two plates down on the coffee table.

“He’ll eat in ten minutes. Watch.”

Sure enough, the second the scent hits the air, Lando stirs.

“Is that… garlic?” he mutters, still mostly asleep.

Charles chuckles. “Told you.”

The three of you eat cross-legged on the floor with your plates in your laps, sharing bites and clinking glasses. Charles insists on pouring the wine. Lando insists on playing music you all hate but know by heart. You insist on dessert — which turns out to be ice cream eaten straight from the tub with mismatched spoons.

Later, you end up on Charles’ chest, your cheek resting over his heart. Lando’s sprawled out beside you, arm slung over your waist, humming tunelessly against your shoulder. The TV is still playing, but none of you are watching. You’re full, warm, and tired in the best way.

“You know what?” Charles says softly, running a hand through your hair.

“What?” you murmur.

“This,” he says, gesturing lazily to the pile of limbs and blankets, “is my favorite kind of night.”

Lando yawns, tightening his arm around you. “Don’t get used to it. I’m picking the movie next time.”

You smile into Charles’ shirt. “That’s fine. As long as you keep your cold feet to yourself.”

“No promises,” Lando says sleepily, already drifting again.

And just like that, the room settles. Three heartbeats, steady and overlapping. The quiet comfort of people who love you, not for the cameras or the headlines — just for being here. Just for being theirs.

—

You slip out quietly in the morning, just after sunrise.

The apartment is still, bathed in soft golden light. Charles is sound asleep, one hand beneath the pillow, the other stretched across your side of the bed. Lando’s curled up on the couch where he’d passed out halfway through a movie rerun, his curls messy and one sock hanging halfway off his foot.

You hesitate by the door for just a second, watching them in their peaceful, quiet state. And then you leave a note — just a little “shooting early today, love you both. forever.” — and disappear into the morning mist with your script in hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

The set is already awake by the time you arrive. Costumes. Hair. Makeup. People bustling around in purposeful silence. It’s your favorite kind of work — period drama, grounded in pain and ambition, like The Queen’s Gambit if it were a little darker, a little more fractured. You lose yourself in it easily.

By the time you’re seated across from your scene partner, lights set and cameras ready, you’ve forgotten the outside world completely. You don’t even notice them sneak in.

They meant to stay for only a few minutes. They had flights to catch, debriefs to attend, an entire race weekend ahead. But the moment they saw you — fully in character, back straight, gaze sharp, playing this complicated, brilliant woman with all her fire and grace — they froze in place.

And neither of them moved again.

From the side of the set, Charles stands with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, not saying a word. Lando's next to him, hoodie pulled up, biting the tip of his thumb like he does when he’s nervous or overwhelmed.

"She’s insane," Lando whispers, mostly to himself. "Like—how does she do that?”

“She becomes someone else entirely,” Charles murmurs, eyes never leaving you. “And still… she’s always her.”

You're in the middle of a quiet, devastating monologue when you finally notice them. It’s just a flicker — movement behind the lights. You keep your expression steady, but your heart flips in your chest. You hadn’t expected them. You definitely hadn’t expected them before their flight.

After the scene cuts, you walk off set still in costume — a structured 1960s dress, hair pinned perfectly, makeup heavy — and raise an eyebrow at them both.

“You’re supposed to be halfway to Hungary,” you say, but your smile gives you away.

Charles steps forward first, slipping his arms around your waist and pulling you in like he’s been counting the minutes. “We had time.”

“Barely,” Lando adds, before pulling you into a messy, one-armed hug. “You were brilliant, by the way. Like… ridiculously brilliant. Kind of unfair, actually.”

You bury your face into Charles’ chest for a moment, breathing him in. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Charles kisses your hair. “We couldn’t not.”

“You looked like a goddess out there,” Lando says, grinning. “And terrifying. I think I’m a little scared of you now.”

You laugh softly. “Good. My character would be pleased.”

“You make it look easy,” Charles murmurs, his hand brushing against yours. “But it’s not. I know it’s not. And yet every time I watch you… I fall in love all over again.”

You glance between the two of them, hearts on their sleeves and eyes only for you, and your chest aches with the weight of it all. The love. The support. The way they never let you carry any of it alone.

Lando holds out a paper bag. “We brought breakfast. It’s not hot anymore, but it’s yours.”

You blink, touched. “You brought me food?”

Charles shrugs. “We weren’t sure if you’d eaten.”

“Or slept,” Lando adds. “Or remembered you’re a person.”

You take the bag with a soft laugh. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love,” Charles says simply.

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “That was so corny.”

Lando points at Charles. “That was all him.”

They stay until your next call time. Charles stands behind the camera monitor, arms crossed, jaw set — protective, proud. Lando leans against a pillar, hands in his pockets, watching you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. And when you glance over mid-take, something in their expressions softens you. Reminds you who you are. What you have. Not just a career. Not just a role. But love. Constant. Quiet. Steady. Yours.

—

You’re in costume when they find you again, back in that high-necked vintage dress, gloves slipping past your wrists, your hair pinned up so tight it aches. The studio is quieter now — a late scene being set up, lighting being adjusted, the buzz simmering to a hum. You’ve been working for hours, but your chest is tight for a different reason.

They're standing near the monitors, Charles with his arms folded, Lando shifting from foot to foot like he wants to say something and can’t quite find the words.

Their driver is waiting outside. The plane is on the runway.

It’s time.

“Can we…” Lando starts, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway, “Can we have a minute?”

You nod without hesitation, slipping out of the studio and into the cooler, quieter corridor with them. The second the door swings shut, Charles reaches for your hand.

You squeeze it tight.

“We hate leaving you like this,” he says softly, searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. “Especially now. The shoot. The interviews. Everything.”

“I’ll be fine,” you whisper, and it’s not a lie — not really. You just leave out the part where you’ll be fine because you’ll see them again very, very soon.

“You’re always fine,” Lando murmurs, resting his forehead gently against yours for a moment. “That’s the problem. You don’t let us take care of you.”

“You took care of me last night,” you smile, eyes stinging. “And this morning. And right now.”

Charles kisses your knuckles slowly. “We’ll call after FP1. Text us when you wrap.”

You nod again, biting your cheek to keep from cracking. “I love you.”

Lando hugs you first — tight, warm, lingering. “Love you more.”

Then Charles folds you into his arms, one hand on the back of your head, one around your waist, holding you like it’s the last time. “See you soon,” he murmurs into your hair.

“I promise you will.”

You watch them walk down the hallway, hand-in-hand, glancing back at you with soft, reluctant smiles. When they disappear around the corner, you wait exactly thirty seconds before pulling your phone from your coat pocket. Your driver is already outside. Your bags are already packed. The jet is fueled, waiting on standby.

You text your assistant one word: ready.

She sends back a string of fire emojis and a thumbs up.

The second your last scene wraps, you’re out of the dress, out of the hair, into sweats and sneakers with a baseball cap pulled low. Your driver sneaks you through the back exit, past the trailers, out into the fading light. You don’t stop smiling the entire way to the hangar.

They think they’ve said goodbye. They think you’re still wrapped up in a long night of reshoots. But in eight hours, maybe less, you’ll be in their paddock. Wearing their colors. Holding their hands again. And they won’t see it coming.

—

f1gossipgirls

1,400,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : actress yn ln was spotted in both the McLaren and Ferrari garages this weekend… 👀 sources say she arrived quietly Saturday morning and was seen chatting with Lando Norris before qualifying, then later slipped into Ferrari hospitality with Charles Leclerc after. a paddock pass and a love triangle?? we’re not saying anything… but we’re also not not saying anything.

—

yourusername

liked by lando, charles_leclerc, franciscagomes and 5,705,000 others.

yourusername : big big thank you to @/f1, @/mclaren and @/scuderiaferrarihp for hosting me this weekend. so so much fun!! ❤️🏁

tagged : lando and charles_leclerc

—

view 250,000 other comments.

scuderiaferrarihp : our favorite guest 🔥

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lilymhe : you’re actually unreal. i want to be you when i grow up.

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↳ yourusername : teach me to golf!! so lando will stop bullying meeeee

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↳ lilymhe : anytime my queen!

maxverstappen1 : pick a side coward (come to the red bull garage)

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charles_leclerc : was a very fun weekend ❤️

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username000 : her in lando’s car. HER IN LANDO’S CAR.

yukitsunoda0511 : are we just pretending this isn’t suspicious?

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lando : had the prettiest views this weekend...you, my trophy and leclerc <3

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—

It’s hot. Too hot. The sun is relentless above the circuit, and neither Lando nor Charles is particularly in the mood for press, meetings, or anything other than crashing into their hotel beds and maybe sending you a “wish you were here” voice note.

Lando kicks at a pebble in the paddock walkway, sunglasses sliding down his nose.

“She could’ve at least texted,” he mutters.

Charles, walking beside him, lets out a soft laugh. “She’s busy. Movie star things, no?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando shrugs. “Still. Miss her.”

They turn the corner toward hospitality — and freeze. Because there you are.

Wearing oversized sunglasses, a team pass slung around your neck, and a grin you can’t hide even if you tried. You’re standing casually by the entrance, sipping a cold drink like you didn’t just jump through fifteen scheduling hoops to get here. Like you didn’t just spend hours on a private jet, reviewing lines on the flight over.

Lando’s mouth drops open.

Charles blinks. Once. Twice. “No… way.”

“Hi,” you say sweetly, like you haven’t just turned both their brains to absolute mush.

Lando reaches you first, practically barreling into you, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he lifts you slightly off the ground. He buries his face in your shoulder, murmuring, “You’re actually here. You’re here.”

Charles follows right behind, tugging you away from Lando just enough to press a kiss to your cheek and then your forehead, hands holding your face like he can’t believe it’s real. “This is the best surprise you’ve ever pulled,” he breathes, still a little stunned.

You giggle, brushing a thumb across Charles’ cheek before turning to Lando. “I missed you both so much. I wrapped early, hopped on the jet, and came straight here.”

“We’re never letting you go again,” Lando mumbles, arms wrapping around your waist from behind as Charles leans in to kiss your temple.

“You’ve just guaranteed the best weekend ever,” Charles grins, fingers lacing with yours. “Don’t even care how the race goes now.”

And in the middle of the noise and the chaos and the cameras flashing from afar, the three of you exist in your own little bubble — soft and warm and full of love. Just where you’re meant to be.

—

The cameras are gone. The champagne’s dried sticky on the podium. The crowd’s long dispersed and the sun is beginning to dip low on the horizon, casting everything in that golden-orange hue that makes the world feel like a dream.

And inside a quiet motorhome far from the chaos, Lando is still wearing his race suit, hair damp from the heat and champagne, eyes lit up with joy and disbelief.

He barely gets the door open before you throw your arms around his neck, nearly knocking the cap off his head.

“You did it,” you whisper, voice tight with emotion. “Pole and the win. You actually did it.”

“I did it,” he says back, almost in awe. “You saw?”

“I saw everything.”

You kiss him then, soft and full of pride, your hands cupping his face like you’re trying to ground him — or maybe yourself. He pulls you tighter, laughing into your mouth like the joy is too much to keep in. When you finally break apart, Charles is already stepping in, still wearing his fireproofs, still flushed from the race.

“Mon amour,” you breathe, reaching for him with one hand while still tucked against Lando with the other. “P2. You were incredible.”

Charles leans in to kiss your forehead, his palm cradling your cheek, eyes flicking to Lando over your shoulder.

“Couldn’t be mad about it,” he murmurs. “Not when it’s him.”

Lando chuckles, resting his chin on your shoulder as his hand finds Charles’. “Best podium ever.”

You guide them both to the small couch at the back of the room, Lando curled into your side and Charles lying with his head in your lap. Your fingers run gently through Charles’ hair as Lando draws shapes lazily on your thigh with his finger.

No words are needed. Just the rise and fall of breaths. The brush of knuckles. A kiss placed on your wrist. The weight of Charles’ arm draped over your lap. Lando’s nose nuzzling into your neck.

There’s something sacred in the silence — a kind of warmth that doesn’t ask for applause or attention. Just presence. Just love.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper eventually, voice barely above the hum of the AC.

Lando hums sleepily in response. Charles shifts to kiss your thigh through your jeans. It’s quiet. It’s perfect. And for a few moments, the world doesn’t exist beyond this small room and the three hearts tangled together inside it.

—

The race weekend is over, the interviews wrapped, the fans gone home, and for the first time in days, the three of you finally have a moment to breathe.

You’re tucked into the backseat of a sleek black car, Charles in the passenger seat fiddling with the playlist, and Lando driving with one hand on the wheel and the other resting casually over on Charles' knee.

“You know we could’ve just ordered room service and stayed in bed,” you tease, leaning your head against the back of the seat.

“Room service doesn’t come with this view,” Lando says, nodding toward the winding coastal road. “And besides… I wanted to show you the little place I found last year.”

Charles hums in agreement. “He hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Of course he hasn’t.”

But when you arrive, you understand the hype. It’s a tiny beachside restaurant tucked into a quiet cove — all string lights and weathered wood and the smell of salt in the air. The owner clearly knows them both, claps Charles on the back and teases Lando as you’re led to a table right on the sand.

The sunset is molten gold. The waves are soft. And the three of you are finally still.

Charles orders wine with practiced charm. Lando sneaks bites off your plate and pretends to pout when you slap his hand away. You end up feeding him anyway. Charles takes a candid photo of the two of you mid-laughter, then turns the camera to you and says, “Smile for me, mon amour.”

You lean in and kiss him instead. After dinner, you slip off your heels and walk down the shoreline, Charles’ arm around your waist and Lando’s fingers laced with yours. The ocean kisses your ankles and the moonlight dances in their eyes. At some point, you end up sitting in the sand, your head resting on Lando’s shoulder while Charles lies back with his hand over your stomach, tracing absent-minded circles.

“We should do this more often,” you say softly.

Lando hums. “We should win more often, you mean.”

You laugh. “That too.”

They don’t let you walk back alone — one on each side, pinkies linked, hands warm and solid and real. And even though the world will spin madly again tomorrow, tonight is just for the three of you. Quiet. Golden. Safe.

—

several weeks later...

gossiproomx

1,880,000 likes.

gossiproomx : red carpet royalty?? actress yn ln stepped out for her highly anticipated movie premiere last night — but it wasn’t just the film that had jaws on the floor. not one but two f1 superstars — charles leclerc and lando norris — were seen arriving with her, staying close by her side on the carpet, and looking suspiciously like doting boyfriends during her pre-screening speech. sources say they were spotted exchanging proud smiles, sneaking glances, and even applauding the loudest from the front row. 👀 just friends? supportive pals? or is this our favorite kind of triangle? 💌

—

You’d spent the entire week convincing yourself they wouldn’t make it — between media duties, simulator runs, travel, and the chaos of back-to-back races, it just wasn’t realistic. They had sent flowers, sent texts, sent sleepy late-night “you’re gonna kill it” voice notes. And that had been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You’d just stepped out of your car, nerves humming beneath your skin as flashes began to pop around you, when the security team at the end of the carpet suddenly shifted. Then you heard it: the wave of reaction down the press line, the sudden spike in volume, the unmistakable roar of surprise and camera shutters.

And then you saw them.

Charles and Lando. Both in tailored suits that fit them far too well, ties matching the tones of your dress exactly — they’d planned it, of course they had. Lando’s grin was wide and boyish, his curls tamed just enough to pass red carpet standards. Charles looked a little breathless, like he’d just rushed from the airport, but his eyes never left yours.

“Hey, baby,” Charles murmured as they reached you.

“You didn’t think we’d miss this, did you?” Lando added, already pulling you in for a quick hug.

“Are you real?” you asked, blinking rapidly, trying not to smudge your makeup.

Charles laughed softly and kissed your cheek. “Very real. And very proud.”

The three of you walked the carpet together — them flanking you, looking devastatingly handsome and impossibly proud. You kept it professional for the cameras, smiling and posing, never too close, never too obvious. But behind the scenes? Every glance, every brush of their hands against your back, every whispered compliment told a different story.

“You’re glowing,” Lando whispered as you stepped aside for solo shots. “They’re not ready for you.”

When it was time for the speech before the screening, you stood on stage with the director, mic in hand, eyes scanning the crowd. And there they were — front row, right in the center. Charles with his chin rested lightly in his hand, watching you with soft, steady eyes. Lando with a lazy arm draped over the back of the seat beside him, grinning like he knew every word before you even said it.

You took a breath. “I want to thank the people who got me here. Who love me for who I really am. Who remind me every single day that it’s okay to take up space.”

They clapped the loudest. You couldn’t stop smiling.

—

lando

liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername, carlossainz55 and 7,770,000 others.

lando : my boy and our girl :)

tagged : charles_leclerc and yourusername

—

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pierregasly : finally. i’ve been holding this secret in for MONTHS.

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carlossainz55 : obsessed with this. like actually.

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charles_leclerc : our girl 🥰 forever and always.

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georgerussell63 : congratulations on being the most photogenic trio ever

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oscarpiastri : just casually breaking the internet, huh?

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maxverstappen1 : this post cured my seasonal depression

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yourusername : i love this. and you. both of you.

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—

[queen-of-gotham]

Teaching You Self-Defense

(Bat Boys, Hal, Conner, Wally x f!reader)

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request! Thank you so much anon! Enjoy!

Everyone in this writing is of age 🙂

Bruce Wayne

You hadn’t even finished your sentence before Bruce was already setting up mats in the manor’s private gym.

“I just said I might feel better knowing a few moves-“

“And I agree. We should’ve done this sooner.”

He doesn’t coddle. He teaches deliberately, explaining how to break a grip, where to aim on someone larger than you. It’s more intense than you expected, but he pulls back just when he sees the hesitation in your eyes.

“You won’t always have me nearby,” he says quietly, adjusting your stance. “That thought keeps me up at night. So I need you to be able to handle yourself. At least long enough until I get there.”

Dick Grayson

Dick turns it into a date.

“Come on, babe, it’s kinda hot, right? Danger. Grappling. Me on the mat?”

You roll your eyes, but he’s grinning… until he isn’t. The moment he walks you through how to break out of a wrist hold, he goes serious.

“You’ll remember this, right?” he asks after you do it on your own. “Because if someone ever tries something… I need you to know what to do.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, voice low. “You being hurt is my worst nightmare. So I’m gonna teach you everything I can to keep you safe.”

Jason Todd

Jason’s approach is… less delicate.

“Rule number one: don’t fight fair. Ever.”

He has you in the alley behind his safehouse, showing you how to use your elbow, your knee, the heel of your boot. He gets behind you, walks you through how to twist out of a chokehold. His voice is right by your ear.

“Go for the eyes. Throat. Kneecaps. Don’t hesitate. Hesitation gets you hurt.”

You glance up at him, surprised at how fierce he looks, and how shaken.

“I’ve lost too many people,” he mutters. “You’re not gonna be one of them.”

Tim Drake

Tim brings a whole slideshow.

“I’ve compiled the most common attack scenarios and mapped out low effort disarms anyone can learn… wait, are you laughing?”

“Just a little,” you grin. “You made a PowerPoint.”

He blushes but rolls with it. He’s surprisingly patient, gently correcting your movements. He teaches you how to break a grip, use leverage, how to redirect someone’s momentum.

“You don’t have to be strong,” he says. “You just have to be smart. Let me teach you how to think like someone who fights.”

He’s quiet later, after you’re done with training and says, “ I know I can’t be there all the time. But I need to believe you’ll be okay without me.”

Duke Thomas

Duke teaches you on a sunny afternoon on the rooftop, the city warm and quiet around you.

“It’s not about winning,” he says. “It’s about getting away. Staying safe.”

He’s the most encouraging by far, cheering when you get something right, coaching gently when you don’t. He shows you how to block, how to throw someone off your back, how to stay calm under pressure.

“You’ve got this,” he says, offering you his hand after you knock him flat for the first time.

And then, after a beat, “I don’t want to ever wonder if you’d be okay without me. I wanna know you will be.”

Damian Wayne

“You should’ve asked sooner,” Damian says, already tying your hands with soft cotton wraps. “You’re lucky no one has attacked you yet.”

You snort, “Gee, thanks.”

He’s all sharp movements and critical observations at first, but slowly you realize, he’s holding back. He’s making sure your hands don’t get bruised, adjusting your grip like he’s handling something fragile. Precious.

When you finally land a clean throw, he stares at you with quiet pride.

“You’re learning,” he says, then hesitates before adding, “I would destroy anyone who hurt you. But it’s better if they never get the chance.”

Hal Jordan

“Okay, first rule of self-defense: don’t start nothin’, won’t be nothin’.”

“Hal.”

“Kidding. Mostly.”

You’re in a training room Hal conjured with his ring, it looks like the inside of an Air Force gym. He’s shirtless (unnecessarily) and annoyingly confident, walking you through how to duck, weave, and use someone’s momentum against them.

“You ever seen me in a bar fight?”

“No.”

“You’re welcome.”

He’s grinning, cocky as always, but when you catch his wrist and pull off the move he just taught you, he sobers up fast.

“Hey,” he says, catching your eye. “You did good. Look… I joke around a lot, but I’m serious about this. If anything ever happened to you…”

He shakes his head. “I’d move heaven and earth to get to you. But I’d rather you not need saving in the first place.”

Conner Kent

Conner watches you throw a punch at the heavy bag with all the grace of a soggy noodle.

“…Okay. Ow. That was mean.” You say to him

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You looked mean.”

He laughs and gently steps in behind you, adjusting your posture. His hands hover near your waist and shoulders as he shows you how to pivot and punch properly without hurting yourself.

“You don’t need to knock someone out,” he says softly. “You just need to stun them long enough to run.”

Then, more serious, looking you in the eyes, “I know I’m fast and strong and all that, but… I can’t be everywhere. And the thought of something happening to you when I could’ve done something to prevent it… makes me feel sick.”

He places your hand over his heart. “So let’s make sure you never feel helpless.”

Wally West

“Okay so I brought snacks, water, sunscreen, and- ow, hey! I’m here to help!”

You laugh as Wally yelps from where you just jabbed him in the ribs, he’s been messing around for the past ten minutes. But when he finally starts teaching, he flips into serious mode so fast it startles you.

“I can run across the world in under a second,” he says. “But if someone grabs you and I’m not there? I need the peace of mind of knowing you’ve got options.”

Wally teaches you how to break a chokehold using your body weight, how to strike and run. He’s a surprisingly good teacher, patient, direct, focused, and after you get the moves right, he pulls you into a tight hug.

“I don’t want you to feel scared,” he murmurs. “I want you to feel ready. Because the world’s not fair. But you? You’re stronger than it.”

Then he grins and adds, “Also, I may or may not have secretly filmed you taking me down and sent it to Barry. So you’re basically a legend now.”

✨Join The Taglist✨

⭐️DCU Masterlist⭐️ 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇

[leclerc-hs]

bad grip - op81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader summary: in which you can't seem to get oscar to crack OR you and oscar are in love, but only friends... warnings: friends to lovers au, angst, smut, jealousy, fluff?, NOT PROOFREAD, language, shitty writing?? word count: 5.4k author's note: hi hi hi!!! this was posted from my queue so hopefully everything goes accordingly! i still can't stop thinking of his head tilt in that one video from admin. so hot. maybe i need to write more of him....also like the win last weekend?? charles helmet smut will be on patreon august 1 sometime at night btw!! xoxo enjoy :))))

You’re snuggled up into the corner of the hotel room couch, drowning in the hoodie you stole from one of his suitcases when he wasn’t looking. And it smells like him. Like his cologne mixed with something clean beneath it.

The sleeves hang past your hands. And you pull one sleeve over your hands, bunching it between your fingertips.

One leg is pulled near your chest, while the other is stretched out, letting your toes brushing against the edge of his thigh. And he hasn’t moved. No, he’s just sitting there looking a little uneasy. Not sick. But in an antsy kind of way.

And he’s got this look in his eyes. Where his mind is on total overdrive but his mouth stays shut. Giving nothing away.

His fingers tap against his thigh in the same rhythm it always does when he’s lost in his head. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Pause. Repeat.

The TV is playing some random show that neither of you are paying attention to. But you don’t really care. It’s just background noise.

You glance at him. And his face is calm, but you know better. Know him better.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you mutter, voice soft.

And he shrugs. But his face doesn’t change. “You’re loud enough for the both of us.”

You snort, hitting his leg with your toes, just to feel him push his leg back. “You’d miss me if I shut up for more than a few minutes, be honest.”

This gets you a look. One of those slow glances that starts near your mouth and ends at your eyes. And his mouth quirks up.

“You’re right,” he says, voice low. “Hate the peace and quiet.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing but smile growing. “Y’know, you’re so full of shit sometimes.”

His head finally hits the top of the back cushion behind him. Shoulders dropping a fraction. Relaxing. But he turns just enough to face you a bit more directly. Arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers dangling behind your neck. But not touching you.

“I like when you talk,” he says. Like it’s so simple.

And it catches you off guard. Hits you right in the chest. You swallow hard.

“Are you flirting with me?” It comes out light. In a teasing manner as you raise a single brow. “Because it felt like you just did.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t look away either. Just watches you for a long moment. 

And then he shifts just a little closer. Knee brushing against yours. And then his fingers stop tapping.

“Would it be so bad if I was?”

It’s not cocky. Not smug. And its not even really a question.

Your breath stutters a little, just for a fraction of a second. And you know he notices because his eyes flicker. Like he’s been wondering what you’d do with the truth.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips slowly. “I guess that depends on how good you are at it.”

And for the first time all night, he laughs. It’s not loud. More like a huff. 

“Guess we’ll see,”

-

You walk into his hotel room before him, kicking your shoes off, and stretching your shoulders with a loud sigh. Like the night’s worn you out, which it has. 

The door clicks shut behind you. “I might be dying. Like actually dying.”

Behind you, Oscar’s quiet. But you hear his movement as he slips his jacket off. Unbothered.

“Y’always eat like you’re Joey Chestnut or somethin’…in a eating competition,” He mutters, slinging the jacket on the back of a chair. 

You spin around, in full righteous offense. A loud gasp. “I had two courses! And you had three…and you still stole half of my dessert!”

He doesn’t even so much as bat an eyelash at you. Just lifts a brow and folds his arms across one another. “Yeah, but I’m elegant. Y’looked like you were gonna vacuum the plate right up.”

Your jaw falls open. “You’re such a little shit when you’re full.”

His lips twitch upward. “M’always a little shit.”

You let out a groan. Theatrical and loud. Collapsing backward onto the edge of the bed. Arms spread wide. “I need a massage. Or a nap. Or death.” You shimmy up to the top of the bed, head on the pillow.

Oscar doesn’t respond. Just disappears into the bathroom with that usual silence of his. And you hear the faucet running a few moments later, the zip of the toiletry bag he always packs. 

And your eyes fall shut for a few seconds. Then the sound of footsteps approaching, and you glance up. He’s standing there.

Placing a glass of water and two ibuprofen onto the nightstand beside the bed. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even bother to look at you for long. Just…leaves them there.

Your chest tightens. Just a little bit.

“Wow,” you smile. “Wanna tuck me in too? Maybe read a bedtime story?”

Oscar snorts, but sits at the edge of the bed. Crossing one of his legs onto the mattress without hesitation. “What do y’wanna hear? The story of a girl who inhales her dinner, talks too fast, and ends up losing her feet from stupid shoes?”

You laugh, reaching out to shove his shoulder. But it’s equivalent to punching a wall. He doesn’t move. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to chuck something at you.”

He grins. Then tilts his head just a little bit. “Your mascara’s smudged.”

You blink. And before you can reach your phone to check with the camera, he’s already leaning in, thumb brushing under your eye. Careful. Sweet.

“For someone who acts like he hates people,” you say. Throat tight. Eyes on him. “You’re kinda soft.”

Oscar shrugs one shoulder, fingers lingering against your cheek. “You’re not people.”

And it hits you a little harder than it should.

-

The sky is a bright orange as the sun sets over the water, stretching along the coastline just outside of Melbourne. From where you sit, the beach house…tucked up a hill behind you, looks kind of like some staged postcard. Windows open and curtains swaying from the ocean breeze. 

Oscar is sprawled out beside you on a navy blue striped towel. Arms folded behind his head. Sunglasses sitting on the slope of his nose. And his hair is chaotic looking. But he looks calm. Is calm. The only kind of calm you see only outside of the paddock.

You’re sitting beside him. Heels dug into the sand, hands resting on the towel behind you, sitting you up. The heat of the sun clings to you.

“Sometimes I forget that you’re Australian,” you say. Turning your head to look at him.

And he cracks one eye open, not bothering to lift his head from the palm of his hands. “Because m’not riding a kangaroo or throwing a barbie?”

You snort. “Because you barely tan. You just burn. And you’re always like….not here…y’know?”

His lips twitch. “Keep talkin’ and see if I drive you back to the airport.”

But he doesn’t take the bait. Just closes his eyes again, like he’s unbothered.

You smile, looking back at the ocean. “Please. You love having me here.”

There’s a short-lived moment of silence. Just the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline heard.

“Yeah. I do.”

It’s a simple response. There’s no teasing tone. No smirk. Just a truth. And it sends a wave of warmth through your chest. Making your stomach flutter.

You look back at him. And he’s now propped up on a single elbow, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. And his eyes are on you. Just looks at you with that soft intensity he’s so good at. 

Then, with a light touch, he’s reaching over and brushing the grains of sand of your knee. Hand lingering a second longer. Warm. 

“Y’always this annoying on holiday?” He says, amused. A tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You shrug your shoulders and turn to look back at the water. “Only for people I like.”

And it’s silent again for a few moments. Before he’s muttering, “Lucky me.”

And the funny thing is…he means it.

-

The kitchen is dim. The ocean breeze blows through the open patio door. The curtains around it moving gently along the light breeze.

You’re standing barefoot on the tile, swallowed in one of Oscar’s oversized hoodies. The same one you always steal. 

It just fits the best you always claim. It falls mid-thigh, sleeves long and hanging past your hands as you fumble around making cups of tea. The kettle is heating on stove. Steam starting to flow from the spout.

Oscar walks in behind and doesn’t speak. He moves quietly…always has. He just steps up behind you, all calm and heat, reaching up over your head. 

His chest brushes against your back. Light…but definitely intentional.

You keep your eyes fixed on the kettle as he opens the cabinet and grabs two mugs with one hand.

“Y’just love to do that, don’t you?” Your voice is teasing.

Oscar raises a brow as he hands you a mug. “Do what?”

You turn to face him. 

Big mistake.

Because he’s fucking close. Closer than he should be. Like the kind of close where your chests are touching and the air is thick. 

You tilt your chin up anyways. Eyes narrow. A smirk on your lips. “Hovering.” You say. “Acting like it’s not on purpose.”

And his eyes darken just a little bit. Steps a fraction closer. Smirking as he leans a hand on the counter beside your hip. Trapping you.

“M’just helping.”

“No.” You grin. “You’re flirting.”

His lips twitch. And he does’t deny it.

Just hands you a mug. Fingers brushing against yours.

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks. A slight tilt of his head.

You blink. The kettle whistling behind you.

And you hold his gaze. Curling your fingers around the mug to keep yourself steady.

Then you step side, walking through the small opening he left. “Six out of ten.”

And he lets out a short laugh behind you. “Generous.”

You pour the steaming water into the mugs, and then head toward the patio door. 

“Still not kissing me,” you call without giving him a look. “Points off.”

And he just watches you walk onto the patio.

-

You’ve met most of Oscar’s close friends by now. The few he lets into the smaller corners of his life. The people he trusts. And it’s easy to forget how long you’ve actually known each other.

The bar is dim and chill. A local band is playing some covers, lighting low, and a breeze is pushing through the open doors.

You’re standing in a circle with some of Oscar’s friends. Not a well made circle, but a circle nonetheless. You’re nursing a cocktail, laughter slipping easily. Your hand brushing against one of their arm’s as you make a point in the conversation, as you lean in a little too close to hear a joke.

Across the room, Oscar’s leaned against the bar with one of his friends.

Watching. Not in a weird way. Just observant. Like he always has been.

His arms are folded across one another. A beet bottle in hand, his thumb tapping against the bottle. And he seems quieter tonight. Still engaged in the conversations, still smiling. But his eyes haven’t left you for long. And every time someone touches your arm, or makes you laugh just a little too much, you swear you see his jaw clench.

You try to ignore it. Chalk it up to just Oscar being in a mood.

Until some guy you’ve never seen before slips into the circle. Tall. Tan. Definitely a few drinks in. And he slides in like he knows someone. Which maybe he does…and then says ajoke that has everyone laughing. Even you.

And when you laugh, he leans in closer. His shoulder brushing yours.

Totally casual and meaningless. At least it is…to you.

But not to Oscar.

Because he’s beside you before the guy even finishes his next sentence.

“She’s good,” Oscar says, voice smooth. “Thanks.”

The guy blinks. Confused. “Just being friendly, mate.”

Oscar smiles. But its not really polite. It’s sharp and tight. Barely reaches his eyes. “So am I.”

It’s not really a threat. But it sure as hell lands like one.

The guy steps back. His hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.” He mutters something before heading back to the bar. Disappearing.

You turn to look at Oscar. “That was dramatic.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance at you right away. His eyes are still trained on the guy’s back, following his exit. 

When he finally turns his head, his eyes sweep down to yours. Slow. Steady.

“Don’t like people touching what’s mine,” He says casually.

“Yours?” You echo. Voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Oscar breathes out a low huff. Runs a hand through his hair. “Shit,” he mutters. “I meant…”

“No.” You step closer to him. Voice calm. “You meant what you said.”

He looks at you. Like really looks at you.

And for once, the silence isn’t calm. It’s tense.

“Yeah,” he says. Voice a whisper. “Yeah, I did.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hold his gaze. Then slowly, reach for his half-empty drink. Sip it without even asking.

His eyes stay fixed on you.

“M’not a thing you can own, Osc.” Your voice is teasing. “But you can keep hovering if it makes you feel better.”

He hums. His hand reaching for your waist and settling there like he’s been aching to do it. His thumb slips along the waistband of your pants.

It’s possessive. It’s soft. It’s him.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says.

-

The rest of the night is still warm as you walk side by side with Oscar, neither of you really saying much. 

You haven’t really needed to.

“Your friends are fun,” you say eventually. “Even if they told way too many embarrassing stories about you.”

Oscar glances over, but only for a few seconds before looking back toward the street. A smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t act like you didn’t love every second of it.”

You grin and nudge his shoulder. “Not my fault young Oscar was so chaotic.”

He laughs. A short one. But real. 

Another few steps of silence pass. And then his voice breaks it.

“I didn’t like that guy touching you tonight.”

You turn your head to look at him. Still walking. And your breath catches.

He’s already looking at you. Eyes serious. Steady. But there’s a faint blush showing on his cheeks that crawls down to the collar of his shirt.

“Yeah, I noticed.” You mutter. “Got all alpha male on him.”

Oscar breathes through his nose. Not really a laugh nor a sigh. “Did I?”

You nod, turning to look back at the pavement ahead. “Yeah. It was all so don’t touch her or I’ll kill you energy.”

He’s quiet for a single step.

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

You freeze. Stop walking.

And he stops too. Turns to step closer to you. So close that your space becomes his too. So close that you can smell the faint linger of his cologne.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

“I didn’t,” you whisper back.

His gaze is locked on your eyes for a brief moment. But then flickers down, trailing your face like he’s trying to memorize everything about you. And his eyes land on your mouth for a moment too long, before looking back at your eyes.

“Osc,” you say.

Its a warning. A dare. A plea.

But he exhales hard. Like he’s winded. Before lifting his hand slowly to your jaw.

“I want to,” he says, tilting his head back for a moment with his eyes squeezed shut. “Like…really fuckin’ want to.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. And you’re leaning into it. 

“But if I…” He swallows. “If I kiss you now…I wont…I won’t be able to pretend after.”

You understand. Fingers twitching at your sides. You want to reach for him. Let your mouth crash into his and finally…finally see what it’s like when he stops holding back.

But you don’t.

Because you know once the line is crossed, there will be no going back. And that means something.

So instead you give him a slow nod. “Okay…not tonight.”

His jaw clenches. But he nods.

And then you walk again. Slower. Your hand slipped into his. And he’s gripping it like he’s been waiting for years to do this.

-

The house is still. Quiet.

The kind that only exists before any coffee is made. 

You wake slowly, limbs heavy.  Twisted in the same blanket Oscar threw over you last night when you passed out on the couch in the middle of a movie. The blanket tangled around your legs, an arm slung over your head to block the light filtering through the curtains. 

You blink a few times. Trying to recollect your thoughts. Wondering where you are, what time it is, and why your back fucking hurts.

“You snore a lot.”

You groan, rubbing at your eyes. “I do not!”

Oscar laughs. “You definitely did last night.”

You sit up, the blanket slipping down to your waist in the process. Your hair’s a mess, eyes still half-lidded. And you glare down at him. Because he’s sitting on the floor in front of you. His legs stretched out and back resting against the couch.

His hair is almost as crazy as yours. Wearing the same hoodie he pulled on after you got back from the bar last night. Sleeves pushed up. Mug in his hand.

“It’s too early to fight.”

Oscar lifts the mug to his lips. “Wouldn’t win anyway,” He says with a small smirk. “You’re a menace without coffee.”

Your heartbeat rises. Stupidly. At how close he is. And not just physically. But because he always seems to be near when you wake up. Like he doesn’t want you to wake to an empty room.

You look at the mug. “Is that mine?”

He holds it out without a word.

Your fingers brush his as you wrap both hands around the warm mug. Sighing into the first sip…because it’s perfect. Just how you like it.

You glance at him. “Y’know…you’d make a good housewife, Osc.”

He looks at you with a flat look, but it’s soft. “You’re on the couch I got. Drinking coffee I made.”

You smile over the rim. “And you still won’t kiss me.”

It slips out. Fast. Almost too easy.

You don’t even look at him when you say it. Just bit your lip, pretending its a joke.

But he doesn’t laugh. And he doesn’t let the silence enter either.

“Don’t.” His voice serious. “Don’t say it like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. The mug right before your lips. Chest tight. “Then why didn’t you?”

He exhales through his nose. Runs a hand through his hair. Looking at the ceiling like there might be some answer hidden up there. “Because you matter,” He says. “And I’ve never cared this much before.”

You scoot down the couch. Knees brushing his shoulder so that he can lean into them if he wants to. He does. 

You sip your coffee. “M’not going anywhere, Osc.”

And maybe that’s all he needs to hear. Because a second later, his head drops to your knee. Like he’s been wanting to lean into your touch for too long.

-

It’s late. The kind that makes hotel rooms feel lonely. Another country, another race.

The curtains are closed, a crack of light entering in the middle. 

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed. One of his hoodies, like always, draped over you. 

Across the room, Oscar sits in the chair near the window. Legs stretched and ankles crossed. Shoulders loose, but he’s not relaxed. His eyes are on you.

“You okay?” You ask.

He nods. Shrugs. “Just tired.”

You hum in agreement. But something isn’t right. Not with the way his jaw’s clenched. And how he’s acted all night long. With his clipped responses.

“You’ve been distant.” You say.

“I know.” 

He doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t argue.

And it lands harder than you expect.

You look down at your fingers, twisting the rings on your fingers. Throat tight. “Is it me?”

His body shifts. Like he wants to reach for you, but won’t.

“No,” he says. Quick. Firm. “Never you.”

And you nod. Even though it still aches.

“Feels like me,” your voice small.

Oscar breathes hard, tipping his head fall agains the back of the chair. Closing his eyes for a moment. And when they open again, they’re gentle.

“It’s what you make me feel,” He says. “M’not used to it.”

He shifts forward. Resting his elbows onto his knees. Fingers laced between them.

“Especially now that we’ve…uh…addressed it,” He adds. A smile tugging at his lips. “Being around you makes everything else…” He trails off. 

Searching for the right words. But they don’t come easily.

“Harder.’

You blink, a little confused. “Harder?”

He nods, eyes trailing toward the window.

“To focus. To race. To pretend that I’m not thinking about you all the time.”

You move quietly. Taking in his words. Cross the room and sink down to the floor in front of him. 

“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” you whisper.

He lets out a small breath. 

“It’s not your fault. Never your fault.” He’s looking at you. Eyes dark. “You just make me want things…that I don’t know if I’m allowed to have.”

-

You miss Oscar. 

The afterparty is buzzing. Music hammering against the walls. McLaren finished a race with a 1-2 podium finish. The kind of result that earns drinks and a late night of dancing. 

Your standing near the balcony doors, letting the breeze cool your skin. A half finished drink lingers in your hand. The condensation slipping onto your fingers.

And Oscar hasn’t spoken to you all night. At least, not properly.

No banter or smirk. No actual conversation.

You told yourself you wouldn’t care. That he’d never make a move anyway. 

And then Lando appears. Sliding into the space beside you with a crooked grin and a beer in his hand.

“Didn’t thin you’d be all the way out here,” he says.

You glance at him, giving a faint smile. “Just observing. It’s so hot in there.” You turn to look at Oscar.

Still leaned against a wall, surrounded by people. Laughing with the engineers. Relaxed.

Lando follows your gaze. “Y’always stare at him like that?”

You scoff. “What?”

“He’s not even paying attention, y’know. But I am.”

You grin, knowing he’s just being a playful little shit. “But I am.”

You look at him. Really look. And he’s close. Eyes warm, teasing. 

“That’s the line you’re sticking with?” You tilt your head. Smiling.

He grins back. “Is it working?”

And the worst part about it…is that it kind of is. At least for a brief second. Because Lando is easy in a way Oscar never is. Open. Bright. 

So you lean in, just a smidge. Let yourself enjoy the way Lando looks at you because why not? Let him flirt. Let his eyes trail your face, flick to your mouth. Let him step closer.

And you feel the weight of Oscar’s stare from across the room. Heavy. Like a hand resting on your shoulder. 

And when you glance Oscar’s way, he’s watching. Not smiling. Eyes dark. Like he’s debating whether he should walk over and intervene. But he doesn’t. Because that’s not his way.

No. He’s too calm and calculated. Too careful when it comes to you.

So you head back towards the center of the room with Lando a few minutes later, laughter filling the air. 

You spend the next hour trying to focus. Let Lando spin a story in your ear. Let him twirl you around. But your eyes keep scanning the room. Call it a habit. 

And then you finally see him standing not too far away. Alone. Eyes locked on you like he’s been waiting for you to notice. Waiting for you to move.

Lando catches your stare, urges you to go talk to him. And Oscar doesn’t move until you’re only a few inches from him. 

“I saw that,” he says. Voice low. 

You tilt your head. “What?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Lando.”

You shrug. “He was just being nice.”

But his gaze sharpens. “He was all over you. Touching you.”

You close the space between you. His gaze drops to your mouth for a half a second. 

“Okay,” you say. Soft. “So what?” Are you gonna stand there and sulk?”

You take another step. His breath catches.

“Or are you going to actually do something about it?”

He leans in. Slow. “M’trying to not fuck this up.”

“And what if you already are?” You whisper.

He freezes. Because he knows your right. 

Knows that if he keeps holding back too long, keeps pretending, and keeps letting moments pass… that it will push you away.

-

You don’t even make it to the end of the hallway. Not even close to it in fact.

Because Oscar’s hand is wrapping firmly around your wrist. Stopping you. 

And you turn, startled by the grasp. But he’s right there. And you feel the way his chest rises and falls too fast. The tension cracking.

His fingers slide lower until he’s lacing them with yours. And then pulls you back into him. You stumble just a bit, but he’s steadying you. Guiding you until your pressed back into the wall. 

You gasp.

“Don’t do that again,” he says. Voice stripped of calm. Serious.

“Do what?” You play dumb.

“Lando.” His jaw clenches. Eyes flickering with something possessive in them.

He drops your hand. 

“Flirt with him,” he grunts. “Letting him fuckin’ touch you. Letting him look at you like..”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop acting like you don’t want me.”

And it hits him hard. Right in the center of his chest.

He steps closer. So close that you can feel his breath hit your face. A hand bracing on the wall beside your head.

“Y’think I don’t want you?” His voice is torn. “I’ve wanted you since the first time you wore my hoodie. Since you sat on my couch like you belonged there years ago. And every day since..it’s just gotten worse.”

Your throat tightens.

“Oscar,” you breathe.

But it’s too late.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s fucking starved for it. It’s not slow or careful. It’s everything poured into a kiss that’s hot and all consuming.

You gasp into him and he outright groans at the sound. Hands finally grabbing for your hips. 

He presses himself into you. Mouth moving like he’s making up for all the times he didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you.

And when he finally pulls back he looks wrecked.

“I’ve been trying to be careful,” He presses his forehead against yours. “But you…” He starts to shake his head. Fingers curling deeper into the skin of your waist. “Y’know exactly how to push all of my fuckin’ buttons, yeah?”

You smile into his lips. Head spinning just a little bit. “And you’re just figuring that out now?”

He grunts but then kisses you again. Rougher. More of a claim than anything.

And he’s done holding back.

- 

Oscar’s hands are on you the very second the hotel door clicks shut.

His hands grip your waist like he wants them attached there forever. Like he can’t bare to ever be apart from you again. His mouth crashes onto yours mid-step as he walks you backward without ever breaking the kiss. It’s rough and relentless. His hands slipping under your dress in the process.

You gasp when your legs hit the edge of the bed, and then he’s pushing you down on the mattress with a soft push.

He follows. Doesn’t even speak. Just groans at the sight of you beneath him. Like that alone is enough to undo him completely.

“Should’ve done this weeks…years ago,” he mutters. Voice rough and full of need. “Should’ve fucked you the second you started looking at me like that.”

You dig your fingers into his back as he leans forward and kisses you again. Harder. Like he wants to fuse your mouths together.

And he only pulls back to drag your dress over your head. He barely glances at it as he throws it somewhere in the room. Probably onto the floor. His eyes stay locked on you. 

He undresses himself fast. And you barely get a full look at him before he’s crawling back over you.

But even in that blur of movement and speed, you see the way he trembles.

His fingers find your thighs, curling one of your legs over his hip. Grinding down against the damp lace between your legs.

“Still gonna tease me?” Your voice is shaky.

He laughs, rolling into you. “Not teasing,” he mutters. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

You moan loudly.

And then his hand slips between your thighs, pushing the lace aside. He finds your clit with ease, rubbing slow circles that make your hips jolt. 

He leans forward, near your ear. “Flirt with Lando again…” He drags his tongue hotly over your neck. “And I’ll fuck you where he can hear you next time.”

You arch under him. Shaking. 

He groans. Deep. Uneasy. “Fuck, you like that?” His voice drops lower. “Y’want me to make you loud, hm? Let people hear who you really want?”

“Fuck, Osc…” you gasp, but it breaks out into a moan as soon as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Ripping them down your thighs in a fluid motion.

Then he’s between your legs.

Pushing into you with a stretch that burns in the best fucking way. Your mouth falls open quietly. Just the gasp of him finally being in you.

His head falls to your shoulder, shuddering once he’s fully seated inside. “Fucking fuck..” He barely gets his words out. “Y’feel so fuckin’ good.”

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist. Digging your nails into his back. And he starts to move. Hard. Deep. 

His hands fist into your hair, holding you in place beneath him. And his mouth presses hot open-mouthed kisses along your throat. Claiming you.

“Y’think we’re still just friends?” He grunts. Nipping at your ear. “Tell me we’re not.”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer. 

So he drives his cock into you harder. Meaner.

“Fucking say it,” He grunts. And he sounds wrecked. “Say we’re not fucking friends anymore while I’m buried in this cunt.”

You whimper. Breathless. 

“No,” you cry out. “No…we’re not…fuck fuck…we’re not friends.”

He thrusts deeper, every stroke hitting that spot deep in your belly just fucking right.

You cry out, arching into him. Fingers fisting the fabric of the sheets.

And you do. Over and over. Until your cunt clamps down around him and you’re unraveling. Crying out into the space between his neck and shoulder. Shaking.

He groans. His thrusts losing rhythm as you milk his cock. Spasming around him.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” He yelps. Following seconds later, hips stuttering. A tumble of curses falling out of his mouth as he presses deep into you one final time before releasing into you.

Your chest is still rising and falling. Oscar hasn’t moved much. Still inside of you. Breathing into your shoulder.

You’re staring at the ceiling, content.

“I meant what I said,” he mutters. His thumb reaching out to brush your cheek. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

You nod. “I know.”

He leans in. Presses careful kisses to your cheek. Your forehead. Your lips

“No more pretending, yeah?”

"Yeah."

[sincerelybubbles]

oh, the humanity! || clark kent x reader

you've never been more thrilled than when clark sets you up with an exclusive interview with the superman. little do you know, superman has his own agenda - try to see if you return to work-crush clark's been quietly developing for months. the only problem? he's not nearly as smooth as he thinks he is.

pairing: clark kent x bubbly!reader

warnings: none! some romantic pining, some fluff, mutual pining. more of a cutesy set-up fit for my first superman piece :)

“Hello.” The voice is rich, deep and full of life. 

“Ohmygod,” the words tumble out of you in a rush, startled out in one breath. You barely manage to keep a hold on the laptop resting on your knees. “Oh, hi, hello! Hi Superman!”

Face hot with embarrassment, you set your laptop on the floor beside your chair so you can stand and offer your hand to the metahuman in front of you. With a smile that presents perfectly dimpled cheeks to you, Superman shakes your hand. His grasp is warm but loose. 

“Clark said you would be expecting me?” He asks, a glint of humor in his tone. You nod, retracting your hand and smoothing down the front of your shirt. 

“Yeah, yes, of course he did! Really nice of you to agree to let him set us up, by the way. I totally get wanting to keep your press sources limited so I’m honored to be trusted. He just neglected to text me a time,” you say, attempting to get your rambling on track, the last bit where you actually answer his question rushed and low; tacked on at the end like an apology. You give him your best, toothiest grin and spin to retrieve your laptop. “Where do you want to do this thing?”

“Anywhere is fine with me.” You peer out of the side of your eye as you mull over a secluded spot you can bring him to interview him. He’s in his full regalia – blue suit, red shorts, cape. The whole ordeal. 

“I imagine privacy is the best,” you muse out loud, “but I don’t have an office – we work in a shared space.” Your tone is apologetic as you begin walking. “My apartment is near here, though, if you don’t mind.” You send him another smile, inwardly cringing as you do. You need to get your nerves out of the way. 

“If that’s where you think is best, lead the way,” he says, gesturing forward while leaning down to collect your bag. 

“Oh! You don’t have to do that, I can carry it!” You try to take the overstuffed tote from him but he simply shakes his head, knocking a curl loose onto his forehead. The way it falls, nearly brushing his eyebrow but not quiet, makes something in the back of your mind ring with familiarity. You brush it off, sure you’ve just watched too much footage of him. 

As you walk him the five minutes to your apartment, you start chatting happily, filling the silence as you always tend to do. 

“I actually had to twist Clark’s leg. He’s protective about his interviews with you, you know. I actually asked him where I should meet you, trying to figure out where would be the best to have a quiet conversation, but he wasn’t any help. Anyway, my apartment is small but it should work fine. Plus, nobody would be there to interrupt.”

“He brought up me talking to you a bit ago, actually, saying you write more humanitarian pieces? Less gossip or news, more think-pieces?” He sounds genuinely interested, large hands adjusting where they hold your bag with both hands in front of him. He looks a little silly, holding your frayed bag like that, walking around in his tall boots. The cape honest-to-god flutters behind him as he walks. 

“I do! Well, it’s what I like to do anyway. The Daily Planet doesn’t post them regularly, though, only when I have something really good to present.” You shrug, happy you get the chance to write for a living at all. “We’re turning here. Anyway, I like investigative journalism, of course, but something about writing about people, the human experience, and really just digging into a subject outside of the general norm of the news is always my favorite.”

A hand brushes your shoulder as you both cross a street and make a turn, adjusting you to walk closer to the buildings, Superman by the street. The thoughtless gesture makes that same chime of familiarity hums, running down your back to the base of your spine. It’s the sort of thing Clark does all of the time. He’s always pressing a hand to your back or shoulder to guide you along, swapping places to be closer to the road, covering corners as you pass them due to your habit of bumping them, and tugging you away from the fray of people so you don’t get trampled. 

You smile privately to yourself at the thought. Superman and Clark sharing the same simple, thoughtless, and incredibly endearing way of watching out for the people around them makes sense in a way. While Clark is just a lowly civilian like you, only in the fray of danger in the sense of offending some higher-up subject of a scandalous article, he’s always felt good in the same way the heroes do. 

You shake your head once to yourself, aware you’ve stopped talking and Superman is talking. 

“And that’s a really good thing, I think, wanting to know people for who they are beyond what they do. Sometimes the why is more important than the what, in some ways.”

“Oh, I completely agree.” You jump into your favorite article you wrote – a think piece analyzing Metropilis culture, structured by an interview with an older woman who’d lived in the city her entire life, creating a grand scope of how the city has breathed and grown like a living thing as the years passed. 

You lead him up the narrow staircase to your apartment, biting a grin at how he has to run slightly sideways to fit in the cramped hallway, and jiggle your keys in the door. “Sorry, it takes the perfect mix of jiggling the lock and bumping the door to - ah ha! - get it open.”

You talk inside, letting the hero trail behind you, ignoring how adrenaline thrums in your veins. It makes your neck warm and heavy with the pulse of blood from your rapidly beating heart. It doesn’t help whatsoever that you’re incredibly aware that he can hear how nervous you are by your heart rate, so you busy yourself with your kettle. 

“I’m making a pot of tea, if you want some. Please make yourself at home, I’ll be ready in just a minute – promise!”

Superman strolls around your small two-bedroom with an interest that makes you self-concious. You make an effort to not say the cliche it’s not much! comment, instead busing yourself with the kettle and picking a tea. You wonder if he has a preference as you pull down your favorite. 

If he does, bully for him, you need the calming relief of sipping something familiar and safe as you tackle the biggest interview you’ve ever had. 

You also repeat the mantra I love my home decor, I love my home decor over and over as he runs a finger across the books in your shelves and eyes the art on your wall. 

“Okay!” You announce, setting the electric kettle to heat and turning to open your laptop on the counter. You hold up your recording device and give it a small shake. “Make yourself comfy, I’m ready whenever you are!”

The interview goes smoothly, any small hiccups easily overcome as you settle into your favorite version of yourself – fully at ease as you slip into a sense of worn confidence as you ask your prepared questions. This is what you’re good at, what you’ve been doing for coming on ten years, your craft and passion. You love interviewing, talking to people, taking a list of initial questions and deciding on the fly where you need to dig and where you need to breeze past. The story flows easily, you catch the grooves of conversation and follow them to the trail of a story. 

The life Superman paints for you is idyllic – a rural upbringing with parents he adores and adore him, unknown biological parents who sent him to Earth to do good. A sense of responsibility – ‘If I have these powers, this ability, this purpose I was sent to Earth to fufil, and I sit by and do nothing, well, that makes me the worst kind of person, doesn’t it?’

You slowly become endeared to him as the interview progresses, a sort of comfort only gained by spending time with a truly good person. It reminds you of Clark again (a habit you regretfully admit you have, linking life to him in your mind). 

“Okay, I think I have what I need, thank you so much Superman!” You nod at him, wait a second, and turn off the recording. 

The second the formal process of the interview is over, the anxiety of sharing a space with the Superman resurfaces. You pick up your long-cold tea between two hands and send him a small smile. 

“I can find a way to send you the piece before it publishes, if you’d like. I can’t say I’ll edit for you, journalistic integrety and such, but as a thank you for your time and willingness.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

You send him a soft smile, sip your tea, and grimace. You turn to your microwave to warm it, fingers tapping on your countertop. 

You’re trying to think of another way to politely tell him you have what you need, certain there are many other places Superman needs to be other than sitting at a barstool in your kitchen, when he speaks. 

“I am curious, though, if you don’t mind me asking.” His voice is all timber, taking on a quality you can’t quite place. It’s nearly nervous, actually, but you brush off that possibility. What could you know that would make Superman nervous?

“Oh! Of course, what’s up?”

“Are you seeing anyone?” You cough, loudly, face flooding with heat. You’ll kill yourself later for how many times you’ve blushed in front of this man, you’re sure, but you’re so bewildered.

“What?”

“No, no that came out wrong, oh gosh.”

“Sorry, Superman, not that you’re not,” you gesture wildly, “but I don’t – I’m,” you’re lost, bumbling. If Superman asks you to sleep with him, you have to say yes, right?

Isn’t it against some sort of ethics code to sleep with a subject while in process of writing about them?

Why are you second thinking the possibility of sleeping with Superman? Why are you going this way at all with your thoughts? 

“No, no, I’m sorry, that’s not the question I wanted to ask. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, sorry, you stunned me a little.” You return to heating up your tea as you ask, “What question did you want to ask, then?”

“Well, Clark. You know him well?”

“Yeah! Yeah, really good guy.” You spin on your heel to nod empathetically at him. You 100% don’t mind buttering up Clark for Superman, wholly grateful to him for getting him this interview. You’re not sure how his initial question relates to this one, though, sure he’s trying to find a seque into leaving as soon as possible.

You’re wholly and utterly confused and baffled by where this conversation has ended up, blinking rapidly at your microwave.

“You really seem to light up when you talk about him.” Superman’s head tilts, violently blue eyes piercing into you. “I noticed, earlier, anyway. I agree, he’s a good guy.”

You stand, frozen on your feet. The microwave beeps and you ignore it. After a second, your head tilts, in a mimic of his. This is where he was going, you guess. Heat floods through your body now, a full on flush head to toes. “Are you … sorry, I just. Are you trying to set me and Clark up?”

You’re confounded by the situation. Off balance, unsure if you would ever dream of this happening. You decide, no, this is far too ridiculous for you to think of, so it must be reality. More reasonable than Superman trying to sleep with you, you suppose, but still such an odd situation to end up in.

You start to giggle, watching the way Superman fidgets before crossing his arms and leaning back on his stool. The legs creak under his weight and he sends you an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, don’t want to intrude.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you wave him off, snickering. You retrieve your tea and sip it. “Are you thinking of starting a new career as a matchmaker, or something?”

“Or something,” he mumbles, obviously embarrassed at being caught so easily. “I imagined that would come out a little smoother, I’m sorry.”

You shake off his apology again. Your heart is pounding again, under the amusement, as another thought comes to mind. “Did, uh, did Clark ask you to ask?”

“Do you want him to have asked me to ask?”

“This is starting to feel like a really bad riddle,” you say, chewing the inside of your lip. The answer is yes, of course. The thought of Clark asking Superman to try and guage your feelings about him sends a sort of nervous thrill through your body. 

Your handsome, kind, sort-of perfect coworker turned close friend showing interest? Never would ever be a bad thing. 

“I think I have my answer. Thank you,” he says, standing and saying your name as he offers you his hand. You swear you can see a sort of pink tinge to his cheeks. “Please let Clark know when you’re done with your piece, I’m looking forward to reading it.”

“Yes! Yes, of course, thank you so so much,” you say, shaking his hand enthusiastically and bouncing from the awkwardness of the past few moments in an effort to return to trying your best to make a good impression on him. “Please let me know if you ever want to meet up again, I’m always happy to interview you.”

“How’d it go?” Clark asks, voice by your ear. You don’t even jump, used ot his attempts to sneak up on your while you write at work. 

You lift your hand, waiting for him to place something in your palm. He does, of course, and you’re pleased to see a muffin. “Oooh, you woke up earlier to go to the bakery?” You ask, excited. You take a bite and your eyes roll back. “This is perfect, thank you.”

“Yeah, of course. How’d it go with Superman, though?”

“Oh! Really, really well. Thank you for getting me the interview.”

Clark stares at you a moment. You smile, tight lipped and waiting. You raise an eyebrow slightly, prompting him to let you know why he’s staring at you like you’ve suddenly grown a second nose overnight. 

“What, that’s it? No play-by-play? No commentary about his biceps, no rant about how the article is going to go? You icing me out?”

You’re amused and tickled that he cares. “Don’t want to break any trust, you know, he can be secretive.”

“Oh, come on,” he groans, taking a step back and shaking his head. “You’re insufferable!”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” you wink, excited to be able to use his words against him. “Serves you right for all of the articles with no inside juice!”

Clark rolls his eyes. As he turns to walk back to his desk, you realize he’s not carrying breakfast for himself. Frowning, you grab a napkin from the stash in your desk, break your muffin apart, then jump up to follow him.

You set the half of the baked good on his desk before leaning up against the divider between his desk and anothers, cheek mushed against your hand. 

“It went really, really well. I think I’m going to center it around his insistence on violence-containment. It’s been ages, forever maybe, since a hero has cared about keeping damages down. Of course, they all care about civilian safety, but he’s taking it a step further. He doesn’t see a situation with any sort of casualty as a win, you know? That’s new, next level thinking, really admirable.”

Clark is watching you as you talk, eyes jumping between yours. When you’re finished with your tirade, he leans forward slightly, brushes a crumb off of your cheek, and leans back into his seat. 

“That’s really good, I’m happy it went well.” He’s so sincere that your heart feels a little swollen. You don’t deserve his friendship. 

“It ended really weird though, I think Superman wants to play matchmaker or something,” you blurt out, unable to stop yourself. 

Clark’s eyes sparkle behind his glasses and he reaches up to ruffle his curls as he laughs, shaking his head. “And now you’re back to teasing. Go, shoo, I have actual work to do.”

“I’m not lying!” You say, unable to keep a serious face as Clark laughs. His guffaw is impossible to ignore and you end up giggling with him. You do meander back to your desk, though.

“Sure thing, sure thing.”

You settle back at your desk, taking another bite of your muffin and sighing happily. You sit for a moment, listening to the chatter of the office and the clicking of keyboards. After a few minutes you scooch your chair back to watch Clark, observing how he bends over his desk, legs too long to fit in his chair and suit jacket just this side of too big. 

Something in you warms, the same warmth you’d felt all night, at the idea of him talking about you to anyone, nonetheless Superman. 

Perhaps it’s time to act on this silly crush. The flirting you send his way is returned, friendly enough in nature but, when paired with the daily treats for breakfast and the way his hand tends to linger on your waist when he passes … maybe somethings there. 

You roll back closer to your desk, pressing a few buttons aimlessly on your laptop as you mull it over. Something in you is scared to act on your feelings, of course, but a bigger part is excited about what could be to really ignore the prompting. Okay, Superman, you think, I’ll give it a shot.

please consider reblogging if you enjoyed!! reblogs keep my work alive :)

also, I don't usually add authors notes, but I am a little nervous about writing for a new character - it's been so long !!! - so feedback is greatly appreciated!! requests for clark, thoughts, ideas, etc., are all welcome!! and hopefully I fall into his voice more naturally the more I read and write. I'm so beyond excited about him, though <3

[yuyuyukiii]

The Outfit? Offensive ⛐

Summary: The paddock thought race day was intense. Then a five-year-old showed up with glitter sunglasses and a clipboard. Chaos followed.

Content: cuteness, chaos, toddler logic, paddock drama, fashion crimes, soft dad moments, glitter-level confidence, and even retired or inactive drivers somehow getting dragged into the drama

Author's Note 🏎️:

I’ve always liked writing cute stuff, especially with some of the drivers or team principals as dads since a few of them are older now and it just fits so well. This one was super fun and chaotic to write, so I hope it made you smile. If you have any requests or ideas you want to see written, my DMs and request box are always open!

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Security didn’t question her. Probably because she looked like she owned the place.

By the time the first batch of drivers had checked into the paddock, she was already seated outside the motorhomes in her tiny foldable chair, glitter sunglasses on, clipboard in hand, and a sign (written in crayon) that read:

FASHION CONTEST. WINNER GETS HUG + CANDY. + and maybe sumthin else if u dress rilly rilly good ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

The “judge” was Y/N. Age five. Future fashion dictator. Also known around here as “Toto’s kid.” Which explained how she had clearance before sunrise and knew exactly where to set up for maximum drama.

Max Verstappen was first in. Walked through security. Barely two steps in and—

“Minus three! AGAIN with the Red Bull shirt? BORING.” You scribbled with flair, then flipped your whiteboard. “You get a zero.”

Max blinked. “It’s part of my job?”

“Not my fault you picked the boring work shirt,” you pouted. “Why no sparkles or colors or fun?”

He walked away muttering something about unfair systems and needing a stylist.

Then came Oscar, pink hoodie and all.

“POINTS for pink! You’re automatically higher than Max!” she cheered.

Oscar blinked. “Thank you…?”

The others trickled in like lambs to the fashion slaughter. Charles got a 6.5 and was already arguing about it.

He blinked. “But this is Dior.”

“I’m five,” you replied flatly.

Lando got a 4.25 because of his mismatched socks. “A four point what?” he repeated, stunned.

You raised your board. “Four. Point. Two, Five. Don’t argue with the system.”

Carlos came next, looking a little too confident in pastel colors and suspiciously clean shoes.

“Mmm. 7.4,” you said, scribbling on your whiteboard. “Points for the matching socks.”

George looked scandalized. “Wait, he gets a 7.4?”

“You’re not up yet,” you warned him.

As more drivers arrived and got judged, the area around your chair became less a walkway and more a pit lane of chaos.

“I better be higher than Carlos,” George muttered, peeking at your notes.

“You’re not,” Gabriel said from behind him.

“You got a five,” Kimi added helpfully, “and a note that says ‘pants are too tight.’”

“They are!” you shouted.

At one point, Lance walked up wearing Crocs. The judging panel went silent.

“Crocs?” you asked, peering over your whiteboard like a judge on TV. “Two out of ten.”

Lance looked like you personally offended his ancestors. “They’re limited edition!”

Pierre came back holding the ice cream like a peace offering. “I brought you something, look.”

You squinted. “Is it chocolate?”

“No…”

“Then it’s a 5.5.”

Valtteri arrived next, holding a protein bar and a juice pouch like he was paying tribute. You took the juice and sipped dramatically.

“You’re now a 6.2,” you announced with a proud nod.

Fernando, ever the opportunist, approached with a bag of chips. “What if I throw in a selfie?”

“I can’t eat a selfie,” you said.

“She’s right,” Nico Hulkenberg muttered. “Give her the chips.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

By mid-morning, the judging line was done.

But instead of going to their garages to get ready like professionals, the drivers started hovering behind Y/N’s chair like she was hosting the paddock version of the Met Gala.

Then it happened. Someone, probably Lando, pointed at a poor, unsuspecting crew member just walking by with a headset and clipboard.

“What does he get?”

You looked up. Squinted. “His jacket’s cool. 6.6.”

“6.6?” Ollie nearly choked. “That’s higher than me!”

“He has a lightning bolt on his arm,” you said proudly. “That’s awesome.”

Some poor team staffer walked by with a coffee tray and got hit with:

“Okay, why does he get a 5?” Alex pointed aggressively. “He’s literally wearing beige. Like, beige on beige. He looks like a bread roll.”

“BEIGE SNEAKERS TOO,” Nico gasped.

“I think he’s just doing his job,” Zhou said gently.

Another guy walked past wearing skinny jeans and a massive team jacket.

Oscar pointed. “That jacket’s so big it has zip codes. Why does he get an 7.2? And I got a 4?”

“I like big jackets,” Y/N said.

Fernando pointed at another staff member passing by. “Okay, and why does she get a seven? What did she do?”

You tilted your head. “She smiled at me before.”

George looked personally betrayed. “That’s not fair! I smiled at you all morning.”

“You also wore pants that looked like they couldn’t breathe,” Yuki muttered.

Someone else walked by, probably a logistics guy.

“0,” you said.

“Finally,” Max muttered.

“Wait, no. 3,” you said, thinking hard. “He gave me gum yesterday.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Are we really losing to people just walking by?”

You looked at him. “You wore that hoodie yesterday. And yesterday was not fashion day.”

Someone else passed, this time pushing a catering cart. “6.7,” you decided. “The food smells yummy.”

“Unbelievable,” Nico muttered. “Outscored by a sandwich guy.”

“Sandwich guy has style,” you added, chewing a gummy worm.

Another poor soul walked by with a clipboard and two phones, just trying to do his job.

Liam pointed. “Him. That guy. Why does he get a six and I got 4.5?”

“Because I like his phone case,” Y/N said, totally confident.

Everyone turned to stare.

“What’s on his phone case?” Logan asked.

“A duck. In a hat.”

Liam dramatically collapsed. “I lost to a duck.”

“Don’t say that sentence out loud,” Franco said, wheezing.

“I’m judging the judge now,” Oscar announced. “This whole system’s rigged.”

“You’re just mad you peaked at 4,” Pierre smirked.

“I bribed her,” Oscar said. “She took the Oreos. She took them.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Somewhere else in the paddock, a reporter hesitated mid-question and glanced at his earpiece.

“Sorry, Toto,” he said carefully. “There’s… a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Your daughter’s judging the drivers.”

“She’s what?” Toto blinked.

“It was cute at first. But now the drivers have formed a line, and they're heckling anyone who scores higher than them.”

Toto stared.

“They’re terrorizing innocent staff,” the reporter added. “One guy just walked by holding cables and got a 6. George is demanding a recount. And someone might’ve cried. We don’t know who. We just know one of them walked off muttering, ‘I got a two. A two.’”

Toto closed his eyes for a second. “Where is she now?”

The reporter just pointed. “Follow the chaos.”

With a sigh, Toto turned and started walking. As he stepped outside, he was immediately hit by the sound of complaints.

“I got a three? Can you believe that?” an engineer said loudly, holding a banana like it had failed him.

“Look at me. I got a two,” someone else muttered. “She said my shoes look like ‘marshmallow blobs.’”

“She’s not wrong,” another voice chimed in.

Toto paused, slowly dragging a hand down his face.

This... was going to be a long weekend.

—

And things were only getting worse.

The bribery escalated fast. Isack came with gummy bears. Yuki offered a big bag of Cheetos. Franco brought stickers. Zhou offered gum. You accepted everything like a tiny goblin hoarding treasure.

You pointed suddenly, like you just saw a crime. “Wait. He has Crocs.”

Lance looked like he was about to cry. “You already rated me!”

You blinked. “I did?”

“Yes! You said two out of ten. In front of everyone!”

“Oh.” You stared at his feet. “Yeah. Now you get a 1.6. The socks made it worse.”

Lance threw his hands in the air. “They’re also limited edition!”

“They’re limited ugly,” you said, munching on your Tim Tam like nothing happened.

Off to the side, the drivers had started judging each other.

“Why is he a seven?” Alex pointed at Zhou. “He’s literally wearing that.”

Zhou folded his arms. “This is Balenciaga.”

“Yeah,” you said. “But I like purple.”

“I have purple socks!” George yelled from the back.

“Too late,” you replied, taking another bite of Tim Tam without even looking at him.

—

After all the snacks, and panicked sock changes, the board had definitely changed. And now? Everyone wanted to know who climbed, who fell, and who got pity points.

“I better be higher than YOU,” Lando muttered under his breath.

“You wore mismatched socks,” Yuki pointed out.

“I changed them! I literally ran back to my room!” Lando yelled.

Pierre leaned in smugly. “She said my outfit had ‘French flavor!’”

“You got a 4.8!” Franco yelled. “How is that flavor?”

“It’s called ✨style✨,” Pierre replied, flicking invisible dust off his shoulder.

“Bro, you’re wearing boat shoes!”

“She said they were yacht-core!”

"She gave me a sticker and told me to 'try again later," Logan added, offended.

"Huh. I got bumped up to a 6,” Oscar muttered to no one in particular.

"That's solid. That's decent."

"You're lucky," Alex said "She looked at my pants and said “what's happening here?'"

“Bet I look better than Nico,” Carlos added smugly.

“He got a four,” you muttered. “Because I said his shirt looks like a couch.”

“Hey!” Nico protested from the back. “It’s vintage!”

“She gave me a 5.2,” Esteban muttered. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re five-point-two out of ten,” Yuki said. “Be grateful.”

Then George came storming back, holding your scorecard like it was a trophy.

“I got an eight,” he announced, waving it in the air. “Eight! Highest so far. I am literally winning Fashion GP.”

He turned like he expected applause. There was none.

“You bribed her,” Alex said flatly.

“I did not! I matched my socks and wore pastel. I’m a fashion icon.”

“She said your pants were too tight earlier,” Yuki muttered.

George pointed at you. “Yeah, but she said they’re tight but committed. That’s growth.”

“She just gave you pity points,” Pierre said.

George scoffed. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Carlos raised a brow. “You really think you’re winning?”

“Obviously. You got a 7.4. I got 8. Highest score. I’m unbeatable.”

Right on cue, Lewis strolled by, humming to himself.

He was in full chill mode, wearing a silk bomber jacket with hand-painted flames, tailored trousers, silver chains, and reflective sunglasses. The grid might as well have been his runway. Everyone else just looked underdressed.

He paused when he saw the crowd. “Hi? Is there a meeting I forgot about?”

Your eyes lit up. “Lew Lew!”

He blinked. “Oh no. Am I being judged too?”

You stood up, arms wide. “You get a hundred out of ten!”

The crowd gasped.

George actually dropped his scorecard.

“That’s not even allowed!” he cried. “You said the limit was ten!”

“You’re just mad you peaked too early,” Lando said, wheezing.

“He gets more than a candy and a hug,” you declared. “I will spend my whole race weekend with you.”

Silence. Shock. Betrayal. Emotional damage.

George stood in stunned silence, watching all his fashion dreams crumble.

“She WHAT?” Yuki gasped.

“No, no, no, hold on,” Pierre cut in. “That was not in the prize list.”

“Had I known that,” Charles muttered, “I would’ve worn the leather pants. The ones I saved for Monza.”

Oscar blinked. “I gave her my last pack of Oreos and got a six. Lewis just exists and gets her soul?”

Max looked around, offended. “If I knew that was on the line, I would’ve worn a full suit!”

Isack scowled. “Should’ve told us. I would’ve ironed my shirt.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “Why didn’t anyone say that? I literally brushed my hair today. That should’ve counted for something.”

Fernando raised a finger. “Where was the memo that spending time with the cutest kid on the grid was on the table?”

You wrapped your arms around Lewis’ legs. “You always dress good. Not like Maxie. He wears Red Bull every day.”

Amidst the chaos, just as George’s soul visibly left his body, Toto turned the corner and found you proudly holding up a whiteboard.

You grinned and pointed directly at him. “Papa! You get the same as Maxie. Zero out of ten… but plus one because you’re my dad.”

Toto blinked. “I get a one?”

“Yup. Same uniform. Same boring.”

“How is it boring? We’re literally at work!” Max yelled, gesturing at his team gear like it made perfect sense.

Toto nodded. “He’s right, though. We have to wear it.”

“See?” Max said, pointing at Toto like he’d just won a case in court. “It’s mandatory!”

You shrugged. “Still boring. Papa, you should wear a fun hat or something.”

Toto looked down at his black team jacket, then at Max. “Maybe we are the problem.”

Lewis crouched beside you, his grin far too satisfied. “By the way,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “she told me the prize for winning is spending the rest of the day with her.”

There was a collective groan from the grid.

Toto sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’ll be spending the rest of the day in the Merc garage, young lady.”

“No,” you said immediately, pointing at Lewis. “He won. I go with him. You better start dressing good.”

Toto blinked like she’d cursed him.

Lewis just smiled and held out his hand. “Guess I have a co-pilot this weekend.”

The grid was devastated.

Oscar looked like someone stole his snacks (the oreos). George was still trying to argue about scoring criteria. Pierre quietly whispered “bro…” under his breath.

Somewhere in the background, Lance was still yelling about his crocs.

And your fashion reign?

Had only just begun.

By the time you walked away with Lewis, bag of Cheetos in one hand, whiteboard in the other, the grid was still recovering from the fashion carnage you left behind.

And next time? They’d better dress like their contracts depended on it.

END.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[vitoriadior]

Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

The type of daddy

Clark kent is the type of daddy Headcannons

Masterlist <3.

Clark Kent is the type of dad who—don't ask why Superman's nails are pink and purple— he has a little princess at home who's just waiting for her daddy to save the city so she can keep playing princess.

Clark Kent is the kind of dad who cries when you get your newborn baby's vaccine and hears them cry. And not just little tears. This man is crying for real.

Clark Kent is the type of dad who's always in the front row—Ballet recital? He's there with a bouquet of flowers and trying not to cry. Football game? He's wearing a team jersey, his face painted in the team's signature colors, and yelling louder than annoying, gossiping moms ever could.

Clark Kent is the type of dad who sleeps on the floor of his baby's room, next to the crib, your baby's tiny hand sticking out from between the railings, clutching one of his daddy's fingers while they both sleep.

Clark Kent is the type of dad who tells bad jokes, and no one is going to convince me otherwise. What do you call a bear without teeth? What? A gummy bear. Then he'll cry because his teenage kids don't laugh at his jokes like they did when they were kids.

Clark Kent is the type of dad who takes the place of the tooth fairy and Santa Claus whenever necessary. If your kids just lost their first tooth, you'll see him at three in the morning sitting at the kitchen table writing a letter that looks as real and tooth fairy as possible—with pink glitter that will get all over his hands if necessary.

Clark Kent is the type of dad who, at Christmas, your kids are so insistent they want to see Santa Claus that you and he need to put together a home video of Clark dressed as the old man with the white beard leaving presents under the tree. "Why is Santa kissing Mommy?" Your son makes the biggest face of disgust while Clark almost chokes on his coffee—that definitely shouldn't be in the video.

Clark Kent is the type of dad who's definitely watching a braiding tutorial on YouTube because you're not home, and he hasn't the slightest idea how to even do a ponytail. When you come home, your little girl's hair is a mess of braids and pigtails "daddy made my hair!"

Clark Kent is the type of dad who knows the full name of every doll and stuffed animal your daughter owns. To you, she's a black-haired, green-eyed Barbie. He knows perfectly well that her name is Rachel, that her animal is a rabbit, and that she's allergic to airplanes. Also, when he's playing with his daughter, he makes different voices for each doll: the unicorn speaks elegantly, the mermaid speaks very high-pitched voice

Clark Kent is the type of dad who, when his children are teenagers, does his best to play along. Don't be surprised to see him reading Twilight before bed every night just to have something to talk about in the car while driving his teen daughter to school.

Clark Kent is the type of dad who stands in the backyard, shirtless and wearing a cap, making the crib of the baby you're still pregnant with with his own hands because "Nothing's done right these days."

Clark Kent is the type of dad who, if you forget a detail about a princess, will shake his head, squint his eyes, and blurt out, "You don't know a thing about Sofia the First."

Clark Kent is the kind of dad who, imagine him walking up the stairs of your house, with your two 10- and 8-year-old children under his two arms, telling them it's time to go to sleep even though it's 5 p.m. just because he urgently needs time alone with you after you sent him a spicy photo out of the blue

Clark Kent is the type of dad who tells your kid, "Just one more episode of Bluey before bed!" "Yay!" While your child and he know perfectly well that it won't just be just one episode of Bluey.

Clark Kent who doesn't let his children get out of the car until they say "I love you, dad" before going to school.

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[zeka-maki]

HI i love ur writing tbh, could u do aventurine, sunday, phainon (and maybe other characters u want too add, i really don't mind) with a gn reader that's super clingy in private but when they meet in public they are a completely diff person?? If you do this thank you so mcuh oh my goodness because this is my first time requesting ^__^ (ps i love your account theme!!)

ʚɞ And I wanna spend some time with you, just the two of us ʚɞ

Pairings: Phainon x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader

Summary: Having a clingy lover, he thinks he's won in life. Until his lover becomes distant in public. Spiraling, he tries to figure out what's wrong. Only to find out you dislike the attention it attracts, now he needs extra hours of love as compensation.

Tags: Fluff, established relationship, Implied AE!Reader on Sunday's part but they can be a guest too,

A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! Jejwkwkw I'm glad you like the theme!!! No need to be nervous dww 🫡 hope i wrote this the way you wanted, enjoy!

⚘ Phainon:

Phainon never imagined anyone could rival him in clinginess — until he met you. At home, you’re always wrapped around him: lying on his chest, kissing his cheek, clutching his hand like you’ll float away if you let go. It makes his heart flutter so much he thinks it might combust.

So when you approach him in the Marmoreal Market and barely say a word, his world falters a little.

You don’t greet him with a kiss, or even a hug. Just a short hello. He blinks, stunned. “Are you… feeling alright?” he asks, voice unsure.

“Yeah. Just came to see you,” you say plainly, eyes already scanning the shops around you.

Phainon goes quiet. His mind races. Did he forget something? Your birthday? An anniversary? Did he say something wrong? Why won’t you look at him like you usually do?

He walks close to you, trailing your steps like a sad puppy. Even when you brush him off gently, he stays near — loyal and quietly heartbroken.

By the time you’re both home, he finally snaps. He wraps you in his arms in a desperate hug, clinging so tightly you nearly lose your breath. His face is tucked against your shoulder.

“…I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

You blink. “For what?”

“I don’t know. Just… sorry.”

You sigh softly, stroking his back. “Phai, there’s nothing to be sorry for. I just didn’t want to attract attention, that’s all. It’s not about you. I promise.”

His arms fall away. He stares at the ground. Then gently, he bumps his forehead against your shoulder, like a silent request.

You get the message and hug him again. He immediately latches back on, burying his face into your neck.

“I love you,” he mumbles into your skin. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” Like a chant to calm his panicked little heart.

⚘ Aventurine:

What Aventurine loves most about you is how clingy you are behind closed doors. In the quiet warmth of your home, you wrap yourself around him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear, and he eats up every second of it. It makes him feel wanted — truly, deeply loved. He wouldn't trade it for anything. A clingy lover? That’s the jackpot of his life.

So when he sees you walking into the casino, he lights up immediately. A sly, affectionate smile pulls at his lips. He stands up right in the middle of a game, brushing off the table like it means nothing.

“Sweetheart! Come to check up on me? How sweet of you,” he says, charm practically dripping from his voice.

“Oh. Yes. I just wanted to check in,” you reply, coolly — almost like you’re greeting a co-worker.

Aventurine freezes. Smile still intact, but there's a flicker in his eyes. He waits for more. A wink, a teasing remark, maybe a hidden kiss behind a hand of cards. Nothing comes.

“What happened to my usual ‘Good morning, my beautiful Aventurine’?” he says with a laugh that sounds a bit too forced.

No hugs, no kisses, no fingers tangling in his tie — he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you sit beside him silently. You’re calm. Collected. As if the two of you weren’t just tangled up on the couch this morning.

By the time you both return home, he’s trying not to spiral. And then — you kiss him. No hesitation. No distance. Just affection, pure and bright.

He looks at you, confused, even hurt. “…So nothing’s wrong?”

You smile softly. “Didn’t want to attract attention, love.”

Aventurine exhales like he just survived a fire. He pulls you in tight, burying his face in your neck with a dramatic groan.

“You should’ve warned me,” he grumbles. “I was this close to blowing all our savings and fleeing the planet.” Drama queen to the end — but yours, always.

⚘ Sunday:

Sunday’s not the clingy type. He loves affection, sure — he just doesn’t need it every second of the day. But you? You’re clingy in the most lovable way, and he’s always happy to indulge you. Whether you're clinging to his back in the kitchen or curling up in his lap on the couch, he never complains.

So when you slide into a seat beside him in the Astral Express parlor, quietly greeting him with a neutral “Hey,” he raises an eyebrow.

No nickname. No brush of your hand on his. Just silence and space.

He doesn’t push. He merely glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips twitching in thought. He watches you scroll through your phone while March chats with Dan Heng nearby. You're distant — deliberately so.

He waits.

And waits.

No explanation. No excuse.

By the time you return to his room together, he closes the door gently and wraps an arm around your waist, still calm but serious now. His golden eyes search yours.

You pause, then sigh. “Sorry, angel. I didn’t want to draw attention. March would’ve never let me live it down if I got all over you in public.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Then he leans his head on your shoulder with a tiny, amused pout.

“…I forgive you,” he says at last. “But you’re staying with me tonight. No takebacks.”

Oh, he’s playing the long game. Scheming bird indeed.

[lazysoulwriter]

blue, silver, love ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: red carpet fluff, f4 premiere, girlfriend!reader surprises Pedro with f4-themed nails, he’s head over heels, soft affection.

He just finished the last round of solo shots.

Still riding the adrenaline — the flash of cameras, the roar of fans, the heat of the blue carpet lights. But his eyes?

They’re already searching for you.

And then he sees you. Standing at the edge of the press barricade. A little tucked back behind security. Not in anything flashy, just you — soft, glowy, his calm in the chaos. You smile the second his eyes meet yours.

He forgets how to walk for a second.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs to his publicist, already moving. “Sorry, I gotta—yeah—thank you.”

He weaves through the crowd toward you like he’s being pulled by a string.

“Hi, baby,” you say, voice soft just for him as he reaches for your hands. “You look perfect.”

He leans in and kisses your cheek first. Your forehead. Then grabs your hand to kiss your knuckles—

And freezes.

“Wait—”

You smile.

It takes him a second to understand what he’s looking at.

Your nails are deep F4 blue. Little touches of silver swirling through like cosmic energy. One nail — your ring finger — has the Fantastic Four logo perfectly painted in white. The rest are subtly shimmery. Elegant. Minimal. So very you.

His mouth drops open a little.

“What—baby—”

“I wanted to do something for your big night,” you shrug like it’s nothing.

Pedro stares like you just handed him the moon. Still holding your hand like it’s a sacred object. He turns it slowly, lifting it up, then down. His thumb brushes gently over the logo like it’s fragile.

“You got Fantastic Four nails for me?”

You nod, laughing under your breath. “Pedro, you’re gonna cry.”

“I might,” he says honestly. “I might cry right now in front of everyone.”

You lean in. “Don’t cry, Mr. Fantastic. You’ll smudge my makeup.”

He laughs, still not looking away from your hand. “You’re unbelievable.”

Then, louder, half to the press who’s still trying to shout questions from the edge:

“DID YOU GUYS SEE HER NAILS?!”

You blush immediately. “Pedro!”

He kisses your hand again. Knuckles, palm, then gently presses a kiss to your ring finger nail.

“You’re my favorite thing about tonight,” he whispers.

Then he tugs you forward. Onto the carpet. In full view.

He doesn’t let go of your hand for a second.

And for the rest of the night? Every time someone asks him how he feels, his answer is the same:

“Like the luckiest man in the world. Did I tell you about her nails?”

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[saltysbiscuits]

Silence Isn't Golden

Saja boys x reader

Warnings: Omegaverse, poly relationships, female reader, eventual smut, MDNI 18+

Chapter warnings: SMUT, MDNI 18+, Do NOT read if you're under 18!!

*Italicized is for the reader's thoughts. A/N: Annnnnd here we are! Enjoy the boys being both feral and loving with reader! Now, this like my first time writing smut so I'm really sorry if it's cringe. I didn't have time to proofread it, so hopefully there are not too many mistakes. Enjoy~

Previous - Next

Chapter 6.

You sigh, staring at the door once the boys close it, well, time to figure out something to do. You glance around the penthouse and notice it’s quite messy. You shake your head and start picking things up in the kitchen, which is probably the cleanest of the rooms. You gasp when you see your phone sitting on the counter, you must have forgotten all about it. Picking it up, you scroll through Spotify and press play on a random playlist, humming and singing to the music that comes on. You grab a broom sweeping up the floor while dancing with the broom. You grin when 'Soda Pop' comes on, swaying and mouthing along with the words. Humming to yourself you move to the living and chuckle at the pillows literally everywhere. You shake your head in amusement and move about reorganizing them, putting the color-coded pillows in their specific chairs. “P..p-pillow.” You stutter out, deciding to practice some words while you clean.

The next places to clean are the bedrooms, but the boys haven’t let you in their respective rooms yet, so you decide to just go to the room you were staying in until they allow you to enter their rooms. You clean what you can, the floor, organize the closet, make the bed, and pick up what laundry is in the room. “L-lau- laundry.” You bite your bottom lip, frowning at how much harder speaking is than you thought it would be. Carrying the laundry to the washing machine you start a load of laundry, sighing and running a hand down your face, suddenly very warm. ‘The hell. Am I really that out of shape?’ You glance down at your body but shake your head. ‘No? Not really. Maybe I’m just not used to housework.’ You shrug it off and head back to the kitchen, determined to make the boys a nice dinner for when they return. ‘What to make… Hmm.’ You pull out a recipe book, snorting at the title. ‘The Hottest Chef’s Hot Recipes’. It’s definitely Abby’s. You flip through the book, jolting at a sudden chill running down your spine. ‘Am I getting sick?’ You pour some water in a cup and down it, sweating again.

You shake your head, panting softly as you go back to the cookbook, or try to. As soon as you flip another page, heat flares and curls in your belly, going right between your legs. With a shudder you finally realize what’s happening. The suppressants have worn off. You stumble down the hallways on shaky legs, your skin heats up and the spot between your thigh’s aches. You stumble into your bedroom, ripping your shirt off nearly clawing at your own skin.

It’s so hot. ‘W-where are they? It’s so hot… s-so painful.’ You groan, stripping your shorts off. Everything is too much. You collapse on the bed, your chest moving frantically with your labored breathing. ‘So this is what a heat feels like… i-it’s so uncomfortable...’  Then the air shifts and everything feels a little more bearable. “Sweetheart?!” “Darling?! “Pretty girl, where are you?!” Several frantic voices echo through the penthouse. You whine softly, too worked up to even try and talk.

It's Baby who finds you, he turns the corner and his eyes immediately dilate. “She’s in the bedroom!” His call is followed by four pairs of frantic footsteps. They all pile into the bedroom and freeze, all their eyes dilating and glowing. “Oh, baby girl.” Romance purrs, crawling onto the bed and capturing your lips into a kiss, his hands running down your sides, sending tingles down your spine. “We’ll help you, make you feel allllll better.” Abby purrs next to your ear, slipping one hand behind you to unclasp your bra, which is promptly tossed somewhere.

Romance pulls back slightly to pepper kisses on your jaw and neck. “Sweet thing… so pretty for us.” He shifts to the side, allowing the others access to you. Abby starts kissing your shoulder, moving down to your chest. He presses a kiss to the swell of your breast before taking the nipple in his mouth, biting it lightly to draw a whine from you, only to soothe it with his tongue. You moan, eyes glazing over with the heat, clutching at Romance’s shoulders. Baby crawls between your legs, meeting your eyes as he hooks his fingers around your panties. “Eyes on me, baby.” He doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly slips them off, tossing them.

You shudder, a whine leaving you lips as the cool air hits your most sensitive parts. “Gorgeous.” Baby murmurs, his eyes fixed on your dripping slit. “So wet…” He runs a finger through your folds, groaning at how wet you are. “So wet for us.” He brings his finger to his mouth and licks it. “You taste so good.” Mystery growls, pushing Baby out of the way and taking his place. He kisses up your thighs, nipping before biting. You hiss at the sudden pain, which melts into a moan as he kisses your clit in apologies. Mystery scoots forward and looks up at you. “Going to devour this pussy baby.” He doesn’t give you any more warning before he’s diving in. His tongue is licking a stripe up your slit.

You cry out, hips bucking only for Abby to press a hand to your abdomen. “Nu-uh sweetheart. Let him feast.” Romance reluctantly moves from your neck, pressing his lips to your neglected nipple, allowing Abby to claim your lips. Jinu stands in the back, his eyes glowing and his hands clenched into fists as he takes his shirt off.

 You look so wrecked already and they’ve barely begun. Mystery slips his tongue into you, his nose brushing your clit with each movement. You moan against Abby’s lips, fingers digging into his shoulders, small trembles going through your body. The heat curls tighter in your abdomen and with one more thrust of Mystery’s tongue you crash over the edge. Abby pulls back as you cry out, gushing on Mystery’s tongue. Mystery pulls back; his face soaked in your juices. He licks his lips, a purr rumbling his chest. “Delicious.” He purrs, crawling over you to press a bruising kiss to your lips. Jinu takes the empty space between your legs, patting your thigh. “You’re such a good girl for us baby. You look so beautiful when you orgasm.” He slips a finger into you, rubbing your clit with his thumb. You whine slightly at the stretch, hiss when he puts another finger in. “I gotta stretch you for us, pretty girl. We don’t want to hurt you.”

Baby grunts, sitting in a chair near the bed, his pants down as he palms his erection. “You’re enough to make us loose control.” Romance sighs dreamily, running his fingers over your chest, flicking your nipples. “So pretty…” Jinu slowly eases a third finger into you, gently thrusting and it’s not long before you fall into another orgasm. “So wet, I think you might be ready.” He steps back and slowly unbuckles his pants.

You stare at him, eyes blown wide from the heat and everything they’ve done to you. Your eyes trail down as his pants slip off and you gasp. While you have no experience with sex, you know he’s well endowed. He’s long and he has a good girth. He strokes himself a few times before crawling over you. “I’m going to slowly put it in okay, baby? You tell me if it hurts, okay?” You give him a shuddering nod, feeling the head of his cock gently prodding at your entrance. Abby tugs Mystery off you, allowing you room to breathe as Jinu slowly pushes in. You hiss, a whine falling from your lips. It stings, but you’re already really wet so he slides in pretty easy. He bottoms out with a groan and holds still. “You feel so good…” He grunts when your walls clench around him. He gently starts rolling his hips and you let out a choked sound, shuddering and rolling your hips to meet his.

He grins, his fangs on display. “Eager, aren’t you?” There was something else, you could see flickers of his patterns on his skin, as if keeping his disguise up was becoming a challenge. “W-want.. t-to see.. y-you..” You whimper out, feeling him so deep inside you. You want to see the real him while he takes you, same with the others. Jinu freezes, his hands on either side of your head. “Sweetie… you don’t know what you’re asking. I’m not… I’m not pretty in my demon form.” You try to shift, your breath hitching with a light moan as his cock shifts inside you. “W-want.. to s-see you.. I.. d-don’t care…” You reach up and cup his face, brushing his cheeks with your thumbs. “…please.”

Jinu’s resolves cracks as he looks down at you, how can he resist? With a shuddering sigh he lets the disguise drop, revealing golden eyes, purple skin, patterns, and claws. You gasp, trembling fingers tracing down his chest, fingers tracing the patterns. “S-so pretty…” Jinu looks down at you and seeing the love and acceptance in your eyes breaks something in him. He growls, bracing himself as he starts thrusting harder, not to hurt, but to prove just how much he loves you. You cry out, fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders and he thrusts into you, his own grunts echoing in your ears. You can feel the coil of heat in your abdomen growing tighter and tighter as he pounds into you. Suddenly the bond pulls taut, and your arm flares with light. The lion mark on your arm glows gently and Jinu bends down to kiss it, gently biting down on it. The bond snaps and your connection with Jinu is complete, whole. You cry out at just that moment, your orgasm crashing through you as the bond trembles through your whole body. Jinu groans, feeling the bond snap into the place as he spills himself inside of you.

He slumps forward, hovering over you but being careful not to crush you. “You’re beautiful…” He presses a kiss to your forehead and then your lips. “You’re my everything. I love you.” He whispers before slowly pulling out. You whine at the sudden emptiness, shivering at the feel of his release inside you.

 Romance steps up next, naked and hard. He crawls up next to you, purring softly in your ear. “Darling... you did so good for Jinu. Will be a good girl for me too?” You nod, your heat already making you desperate for the next joining. “Y-yes… bu-ut..” You cough slightly on your words. “Shh, easy baby, breathe.” Romance rubs your back and gives you a glass of water to sip from, though you don’t know where he got it. “There, we go.” You whine and pull his hand. “W-want to see.. y-you.. a-all..”

You glanced around at them, hoping they understood exactly what you wanted. That you want to see them, demon and all. They all share a look before they start dropping their disguises one by one. Your breath hitches and you nearly start crying. “So.. pretty.” You whisper and they all tense. Romance nuzzles into your cheek before slowly positioning himself between your legs. “You don’t know what you do to us, Darling. You make us go feral.” He grins, pressing kisses up your neck as he slowly pushes in. You mewl softly, trying to buck your hips up into his. “Shh, have patience. I want you to feel good darling.” Romance is slow with his thrusts, savoring every second of being inside you. “So warm, so wet.” He moans softly in your ear, angling his hips to try and hit that one special spot inside you. “You make m-me feel so good darling…” He grunts, thrusting particularly hard. You gasp and moan, choking out a cry as he hits that spot inside you. “Ah~ There it is.” He growls into your ear, moving to nip at your jaw. He moves his hits to hit that spot every single thrust.

Your eyes widen and you cry out, squirming and clutching at his shoulders. “R-Romance-! F-faster-” You whine out his name, desperate for more friction. If you were of clear mind, you might find the sounds of your joining embarrassing and how fast he was making you fall apart, but you’re not and all you can do is beg for more.

 “P-please-!” You whimper, you are so close, so close to another orgasm. You can feel the bond, it’s pulled so tight, you can feel it vibrating, wrapping around you and Romance like a blanket. Just a little more… With one more snap of his hips, you arch up into him, screaming out your release. Romance groans, burying his face in your neck as he fills you, only pulling back when the rose mark on your arm glows. He leans over, kissing it gently before biting it. It sends a jolt through both of you as your bond to him solidifies.

With a shuddering sigh, you wrap your arms around his neck, taking a moment to calm your racing heart. “So, so perfect for me darling. My one and only.” He mumbles into your neck, inhaling your scent like he would die without it. A growl snaps you both out of your reverie. Mystery stands at the end of the bed looking absolutely feral. Romance rolls his eyes and slowly pulls out, shushing you quietly when you whimper. “Alright, alright.” He grumbles, pressing one more kiss to your lips before stepping back to let Mystery take his place.

Mystery crawls over you, his cock longer than the Jinu’s or Romance’s with a slightly curved tip. You shiver, imagining how far it’ll go in you. He bends down, running his fingers through the mess between your folds, pushing the mess of both Jinu and Romance’s essence back inside. “So messy~” He growls, brushing your clit with his thumb. You twitch, a moan slipping from your lips. Every part of you is so sensitive, so alive. He leans down to your neck, burying his face right in the crook of it before biting. You let out a cry of both pain and pleasure, your legs wrapping around his waist as you cling to him.

Mystery pulls back, purring and licking the bite mark before shifting so he was lined up with your entrance. He looks down at you, his hair falling from his face. You stare into his eyes, and you see love shining back, along with his desire. You shudder when he enters you faster than Romance did. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, he’s so deep, further than the other two have gotten. “M-mystery-“ You choke out, your walls squeezing him like a velvet vice. He snarls, claws digging into the sheets by your head. “You’re so tight.” He drags one hand down to your belly and presses gently. You let out a wail, feeling him press down only amplified the feeling of him inside. With a grin he pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in. Your breath hitches and you let out a high-pitched moan, one hand gripping at his arm and the other digging into the bed. Mystery wasn’t slow, his hips snapping quickly as if he didn’t come in your right now, he'd lose himself. You cry out, back arching up into him, vaguely hearing Baby growl. “Fuck look at her… So pretty, so needy just for us.” Mystery ignored him and took one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking harshly before licking the sting away.

The pleasure aches higher and higher, until Mystery brings you in for a bruising kiss, just as he slammed in and spilled himself. You cry out against his lips, your walls clamping down and squeezing him hard. He groans, breaking the kiss to see his mark glowing on your arm. An eye with a star for a pupil. He wastes no time leaning over and biting, snapping the bond in place. You shudder, another wave of pleasure washing over you as the bond curls around your soul and binds you both together.

You tremble, overwhelmed in the best way. You shiver when Mystery runs his nose down your neck, nearly groaning at your scent. He curls around you tighter until Baby grunts, pulling Mystery’s hair. “Get off, there’s still two more of us.” Mystery growls back, pressing a kiss to your neck before slowly pulling out, snarling at Baby before backing off.

You look up at Baby, a tremble going through you at the look in his eyes. He looks more feral than Mystery did. “I’ve waited so long for this, you know? I’ve wanted you so bad.” He sits down next to you, but you’re going to have to work a bit for my cock, baby girl.” “Baby don’t-” Romance tries to intervene, standing quietly. “Shut up! I waited long enough for this.” He snarls angrily at Romance before turning back to you. He runs his fingers through your hair before gripping tighter. “I want to know how that pretty mouth feels on my cock, yeah? Think you could do that for me, baby girl?” You give him a shaky nod, slowly moving to sit up. Baby slips off the bed and stands, stroking his cock while waiting for you. Your legs tremble as you kneel on the bed, licking your lips before reaching out to stroke his cock yourself. You take a shaky breath and then wrap the tip of his cock with your lips, tentatively licking with your tongue. Baby groans, his fingers gripping your hair. “Y-yeah baby… like that.” He tugs your hair gently and you slip more of him into your mouth. You twirl your tongue around his tip and suck. He groans, his hips jerking slightly. “Baby girl… you’re so good…” You keep sucking him until he pulls you off. “T-that’s enough… I want to come in your pussy, not your mouth.”

He pushes you back onto the bed and hovers over you, already lined up with your entrance. “I’m not going to be gentle like the others. Better hold on.” He grins, all fangs with glowing eyes then he thrusts. You let out a surprised squeal, the obscene sounds of him plowing into you echoing in the room. One of his hands slides up your chest and lands on your throat, he doesn’t squeeze, just holds it there like he owns you. True to his words, he was rather rough, aiming his hips to hit your special spot over and over again. He groans when your walls tighten and flutter round him, pulling out and flipping you onto your stomach. He leans down over you and thrusts back in, not slowing down. “Fuck. S-so good for me baby. I’m so close…” You moan out his name.” B-Baby-!” You walls clamp down on him as you gush on his cock. He groans loudly, burying his face in your shoulder as he comes in you, his hips jerking. The lollipop shaped mark glows and pulses, drawing his attention. He sinks his teeth in, biting hard enough to draw blood. You whimper at the slightly pain the bond easing, binding you to him. Only one more. Abby stands off to the side, watching you shudder under Baby. He watches Baby tremble lightly; knowing he was feeling more than he would ever tell. Eventually he can’t wait anymore. “Alright, you’ve had your fun. It’s my turn now.” Abby grins, patting Baby’s back as he slips out of you. You whine softly, beginning to feel the effects of being taken so many times as you try to sit up. The moment you catch sight of Abby’s cock you freeze. There is no way in hell that’ll fit you in, not even after being stretched open four other times. Abby sees you face and shushes you. “You’ll be fine sweetheart. We’ll make it fit.” He sits down on the bed and pulls you onto his lap. You straddle his waist and can feel her cock rubbing on your folds. He grunts, rubbing his cock through your folds to lube himself up. He slipped two of his fingers into you causing you to whine. “Hush sweetheart. I need to stretch you a bit more. I really don’t want to hurt you.” He slowly thrusts with two fingers before adding a third. You moan softly, your walls fluttering around his fingers. “Are you gonna cum just from my fingers?” He grins and picks up the pace, you mewl and let out a quiet cry, coming on his fingers. He pulls his fingers out and brings them up to his mouth, licking them clean. “Delicious sweetheart.” He lifts you up and lines you up with his cock. “Just tell me if it hurts too much, okay?” He then slowly lowers you onto his cock. You gasp and dig your fingers into his shoulders, not only was he long he was thick. Like, really, really thick.” A-Abby- t-too much-“ You whine, breath hitching as he slides deeper. It stings, but it’s not overly painful. You let out a choked sound when he finally bottoms out, his tip pressing into your cervix. “F-fuck sweetheart, you’re so tight.” He grunts, barely keeping himself from plowing up into you.

You tremble against him, feeling like you’re going to melt into a little puddle. You’re so hot, overwhelmed, but so full and content. You don’t even realize, but you start purring. All the boys stare at you, sitting on Abby’s lap like that, yet purring like you’re a kitten. “Ah, sweetheart… I can’t hold back if you’re going to make that cute noise.” Abby nuzzles into the column of your throat and rolls his hips up. You cry out, walls clenching as pleasure washing through you. “Hell yeah… squeeze me like that.” Abby alternates between rolling his hips gently and utterly ruining you. You really don’t even know what’s real anymore. Your mind is so fuzzy with pleasure and all of them. They’ve ruined you in the best way possible and don’t ever plan on letting you go. Abby bottoms out with a loud grunt as he loses himself in you, filling you up. You scream, you body seizing up in one last mind-shattering orgasm. Your vision goes white, barely registering Abby biting the rock mark on your arm as it glows. The bond completely and you feel so whole and perfect, like everything is as it’s meant to be.

When you come down from you high Abby gently pulls out, murmuring how good you were for them and how well you took them all. “Such a good girl.” Romance appears in your vision with a soft smile and cloth, gently wiping you down, pressing kisses to the sore spots. “Bath’s ready.” Baby calls from the doorway, still in his demon form.

Abby scoops you up and carries you into the bathroom, gently lowering you into the tub. Romance slips in behind you, smirking at Abby before gently lathering a washcloth. “Why don’t you go help clean the bed and get it ready? She’s going to need a nap after all that.” With a grunt, Abby hangs a towel by the tub for when you’re done. “Fine, but you better not take too long.” Romance just smiles and gently washes you, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. When he’s finished, Baby appears and helps lift you from the tub. “Figured you’d need help.” “Or you’re just needy and won’t admit it.” Baby glares at Romance but doesn’t comment as they dry you off, brush your hair, and slip you into a t-shirt and shorts.

You’re barely conscious through all of it, barely mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’ to them. Baby picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and resting your head on his shoulder as he carries you back to the bedroom. The others had all changed themselves into comfier clothing and then they stripped the bed, remaking it with the fluffiest sheets they have.

They all watch as Baby carries you back to bed, sleeping soundly in his arms. “She so cute when she sleeps…” He gently lays you down in the middle of the bed and they all pile in around you, creating a big cuddle pile. Baby was hugging you to his chest and Mystery was cuddled up to your chest, resting his head there. Jinu was half on top of Baby so he could at least touch you and Abby as hugging Mystery from behind so he could hug you as well. Romance walks into the room after cleaning up the bedroom and pouts. “Really? You take all the good spots.” He grumbles, but crawls between Abby and Mystery. They all sigh, not really needing to sleep, but they want to be near you. “We’re staying home all day tomorrow. I don’t think I could do anything without thinking of her.” Abby whispers quietly, looking at your peaceful face. “Agreed. “We’ll just stay home and enjoy our omega.” Jinue agrees. The room goes silent after that, but the bond hums, this time completed and content. Finally whole. They were all bound to you now and you to them. They will never leave your side. No sin is too dark for them to commit, not if it means keeping you safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[queen-of-gotham]

Soft Moments

with The Bat Boys, Roy, Kyle, and Wally.

Notes From The Batcave: For ✨this✨ request, I added my favorites too because I love the red heads and Kyle Rayner even though they’re not batboys 🤣

All characters are of adult age in this writing, and Duke has long hair because I personally want to see him with twists so bad. 😭

Bruce Wayne

The sun barely crests the Gotham skyline, muted gold light slipping in past blackout curtains. You stir first, you usually wake up before him, not long before, just a handful of minutes.

Bruce’s face, in sleep, is something sacred. A sight you linger in every morning. The frown lines disappear, the years fall away. He looks peaceful, almost boyish. You resist the urge to reach out and trace the sharp line of his jaw. Instead, you stay still, soaking in the rare quiet.

But then a low voice, rough with sleep, rumbles…

“Five more minutes,” he murmurs, arms tightening around your waist. He’s warm, impossibly so, you’ve made the joke of him being your personal heater more times than you can count. He buries his face into your shoulder, stubble scratching your skin in the gentlest way.

You laugh softly, “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I meant this five.”

You twist in his hold just enough to look at him. He blinks slowly, his eyes still heavy, still storm-colored. But there’s a softness there only you get to see.

“I’ll get up if you do.”

Bruce kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose, “Negotiations have failed.”

And you don’t try again. Not when his heartbeat is steady against your chest and his breathing falls back into rhythm. You stay, safe in the quiet gravity of him.

Dick Grayson

The smell of pancakes wakes you before the sun does. Typical Sunday.

There’s music drifting from the kitchen, something peppy and ridiculous, probably from his “Sunday Brunch, Baby” playlist. You shuffle out in one of his t-shirts and round the corner to find Dick shirtless, wearing plaid pajama pants that hang low on his hips, and doing a dramatic spin with a spatula in hand.

“Morning, beautiful!” he calls, like he didn’t just nearly drop a pancake mid-flip.

You slide onto the counter while he moves around the kitchen like it’s a stage, singing along terribly to Madonna as he pours syrup in a heart shape on a finished plate.

He turns, sees your sleepy smile, and crosses the kitchen in three steps to press a kiss to your lips. You taste the coffee and sugar on his lips.

“Taste tester?” he asks.

“Always.”

He scoops a bit of batter with his finger and holds it up. You lean forward, licking it off with exaggerated slowness. His grin sharpens, his free hand settling on your bare thigh.

“Careful,” he says, voice low, “I might take that as an invitation.”

“Don’t you always?”

He winks and flips another pancake. You think, maybe, this is what heaven feels like… messy kitchens, warm kisses, and a man who worships you before breakfast.

Jason Todd

The world is quiet when you wake up, save for Jason’s voice and for once, Gotham stays that way.

Jason’s still beside you, propped up against the headboard with a paperback in one hand, his other arm curved loosely around your waist. You shift and feel the smooth rise of his chest under your cheek. He smells like clean linen and cedar soap. Safe.

He glances down at you with a barely-there smile, thumb brushing the edge of the page.

“Morning,” he says, soft enough not to break the spell.

“Did you sleep at all?” you mumble into his skin.

“Enough,” he lies.

You reach up and take the book from his hand, setting it on the nightstand, “You were reading out loud.”

“I was?”

“Mhm.” You nudge your nose against his collarbone, eyes already heavy again, “You do it when you think I’m asleep.”

Jason doesn’t deny it. He shifts so you’re resting fully against his chest, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders. The silence stretches, warm and comfortable.

“You know,” he murmurs finally, voice rumbling under your ear, “you make everything less… harsh. Just by being here.”

You don’t answer. You just hold him tighter, and Jason closes his eyes, listening to the quietest sound in his world.

You.

Tim Drake

The first thing you notice when you come downstairs is the trail of monster cans and the coffee mug.

Four, to be exact. The mug is still steaming with fresh coffee. Tim’s curled up on the couch in a blanket that’s halfway fallen off, his laptop open but dark, fingers limp over the keyboard. There’s a smear of highlighter ink on his jaw.

You sigh, tug the blanket over him properly, and brush your fingers through his hair.

He stirs with a soft noise and blinks up at you, dazed, “Hey…”

“You fell asleep again.”

“Did not.”

“You have highlighter on your face.”

He groans and reaches for you blindly, his hand finding your wrist, “C’mere.”

You drop your weight beside him on the couch and let him pull you into his chest. You fit there like it’s your designated place, curled beneath the blanket, legs tangled, hearts beating together.

His chin rests on top of your head, “You smell good,” he mutters, already drifting again.

You kiss the base of his throat, “I was gonna let you sleep.”

“M’not sleeping,” he insists, halfway snoring already, “Just resting with you.”

You smile against his collarbone.

When he finally wakes again, groggy and blinking in the soft morning light, he holds you closer and whispers like a wish, “Can we just… stay like this forever?”

And you whisper back, “Yeah. We can.”

Duke Thomas

He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, back resting against the couch, controller abandoned beside him.

Your fingers move steadily through his hair, sectioning, parting, twisting with practiced care. Duke hums low in his chest, half asleep, totally relaxed. The late night playlist hums in the background, soft R&B wrapping around the room like a blanket.

“You okay?” you ask softly, fingers sliding some product through a coil.

“Mhm,” he says, head tipping back slightly to rest against your thigh. “Feels good.”

You smile, “You always get so sleepy when I do your hair.”

“It’s your hands,” he mumbles, “They feel like home.”

Your fingers pause, just for a second, heart squeezing in your chest. Then you keep going, taking your time with each twist, making sure it lays perfectly. Duke’s breathing slows into something steady and content, eyes fluttering closed.

“You spoil me,” he whispers, like a secret he’s too soft to say in daylight.

“You deserve to be spoiled.”

He opens one eye and looks up at you, lips curved in the smallest smile, “You put love in every twist.”

You lean down and press a kiss to his temple. “Anything for you.”

And even though it’s nearly midnight, you sit with him for another hour, twisting his hair, loving on him, and building a moment he’ll hold in his chest for a long, long time.

Damian Wayne

It’s early, too early for most people, but the Wayne townhouse is already stirring.

You’re doing your morning skincare routine when the door creaks open and Damian steps inside, half awake, bare feet silent against the tile. One of his cats slips in after him, winding herself around your ankles with a soft purr.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just reaches for his toothbrush and lines up beside you like this is something you’ve done every day for years.

“Your hair is a mess,” he mumbles through toothpaste.

You smirk, “You gonna fix it for me?”

“Tt. You’d be lucky.”

Still, when he finishes, Damian doesn’t leave. Instead, he picks up your brush and starts gently dragging it through your hair, careful and methodical as you start to brush your teeth.

The cat hops up on the counter and watches with regal approval.

You rinse your mouth and meet his gaze in the mirror. “You’re very domestic for someone who says he’s not a morning person.”

“I simply prefer not to speak in the morning,” he replies, smoothing your hair down like it’s a priceless artifact.

You lean back slightly until your head rests against his shoulder. His hand comes up automatically to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing just under your chin.

“I like this,” you murmur.

Damian presses a kiss to your temple and says, quiet as a confession, “So do I.”

Roy Harper

The fire crackles low, casting soft gold over the tent flaps and the curve of Roy’s cheek where he rests it on your shoulder.

You’re both bundled in one sleeping bag, legs tangled, your back against his chest. His arms are warm around your middle, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles over your hoodie.

“You warm enough, baby?” he murmurs against your neck, voice thick with sleep and gravel.

“I’m good,” you whisper, your hand resting over his, “You?”

He nuzzles in closer, “Got you, don’t I?”

You smile and shift slightly, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Across the firepit, marshmallows that fell off your sticks earlier are turning into charcoal. You don’t care. Roy’s heartbeat is steady against your spine, and the sky above you is wide and endless.

He hums a soft tune under his breath, some old folk melody you don’t recognize. It melts into the sound of the wind in the trees.

“You ever think about just… leavin’ it all behind?” he says suddenly. “Find some little place out west. No noise, no bullshit. Just us.”

You twist in his arms to face him, “You’d last two days without trouble.”

He grins lazily, “Yeah, but they’d be real happy days.”

You kiss him slow and sweet. He rests his forehead against yours and whispers like a promise, “Ain’t nothin’ better than this. Just you, me, and the stars.”

Kyle Rayner

There’s paint on your forearm.

Bright green. The same shade as Kyle’s eyes.

You glance down at it, then at him, completely unapologetic as he sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open tubes and a canvas that was supposed to be the focus tonight.

Instead, he’s got a streak of blue across his cheek, three colors smeared on his shirt, and a grin that could power a city.

“Seriously?” you laugh, “You got paint on me again?”

Kyle leans back on one hand and looks at you like you hung the stars, “Babe. You look amazing.”

“You say that every time I get messy.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

Before you can argue, he crawls closer and drags his finger gently down your cheek, leaving a swipe of red behind. “Now you match the sunset.”

“Oh my god, Kyle-“

He interrupts, kissing you before you can finish. Slow, gentle, one hand cupping your jaw while his thumb brushes the fresh paint he just left behind.

When he pulls back, his voice is low and quiet. “You’re my favorite masterpiece.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart skips anyway. He reaches for his sketchpad, settling back into your lap like it’s the most natural place in the world.

“You mind?” he asks, pencil already in hand, “Wanna draw you like this. All soft. All mine.”

You rest your hands in his hair and nod, soft smile on your lips, “go ahead.”

And in that messy studio, with the scent of turpentine and the hum of his music in the air, Kyle Rayner draws you like you’re his whole world.

Because you are.

Wally West

You come into the kitchen expecting to find breakfast.

What you find instead is flour on the counter, eggshells on the floor, and Wally zipping back and forth at top speed, half dressed, hair wild, and popping blueberries into his mouth with every pass.

“Babe,” you say, stepping over a rogue banana peel, “what is happening in here?”

He skids to a stop in front of you, holding a half burned piece of toast like it’s a victory, “I was making you breakfast!”

You eye the mess, “And… eating most of it yourself?”

“Gotta keep the engine running,” he says, grinning with absolutely no shame, “Fast metabolism, remember?”

You roll your eyes, but before you can start cleaning, Wally wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest. “Hey,” he says, voice suddenly softer, “Don’t worry about it. Lemme make it up to you.”

“You gonna try again?”

“Nope,” he replies, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You’re making it. I’m your support staff now.” He sways you gently side to side, “Chef morale. Quality control. Hot guy supervisor.”

You laugh and kiss the side of his jaw, “no idea how this is ‘making it up to me’, but okay.”

He smiles like sunshine and spins you in a slow circle, planting a kiss on your cheek, then another on your neck, and another at the corner of your mouth.

“I don’t need anything else when I’ve got you,” he murmurs, almost shy.

You smirk, “That was cheesy.”

“And true.”

It is. Because with his arms around you, even in a flour covered disaster zone, your heart’s never felt so full.

✨Join the Taglist✨

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[rikirush]

Hey~ I hope you're doing well ♡

This is my first time making a request, but I just couldn’t help myself. Your content is so good and honestly addictive to read. So I was wondering… maybe you could give me something with f.reader x nerdy Heeseung? Like the reader riding him while he keeps his glasses on (she’s got a thing for them 👀).

hey anon, i'm doing good, i hope you are as well. thank you for the request, i absolutely love it and had a great time writing this. i hope you'll enjoy it

—

𐙚 ENHYPEN HEESEUNG riding

You were riding Heeseung, thighs bracketing his hips, your body a glorious weight grinding down onto his cock with slow circles. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your back, palming your ass—fingers digging in hard. His breath hitched with each thrust.

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on the pillow beside his head, bringing your faces close. His hips bucked up and his fingers suddenly flew to the frames, fumbling to push them off his face.

"No," you breathed out. You caught his wrist mid-air.

He froze. "W-what?" he stammered.

"Keep them on," you said. You guided his hand back down to grip your hip firmly.

He stared at you. "Why?" he gasped out as you started rocking again. "You like them?"

You lowered yourself fully onto him, taking him deep until you felt the base of his cock press against your sensitive flesh. Holding his gaze, you smiled. "Yeah," you murmured. "I like them. I like you like this." Your fingers traced the frame gently, then slid down to caress his burning cheek. "All flustered. Messy. Looking at me like I’m all you can see. Looking at me through these."

He moaned, a helpless, broken sound as you began to move faster, rising up until only the thick head remained inside before slamming back down. His glasses slipped slightly down his nose. You pushed them back up with a fingertip.

"See everything?" you teased, grinding hard against him, relishing the choked gasp it ripped from his throat. "How much I want you? How good your cock feels stretching me open?" Your own breath was coming in short bursts now.

He could only nod. Every downward thrust forced the air from his lungs in a grunt; every lift had him arching off the bed, seeking you.

Sweat fogged the lower edges of his lenses, blurring his vision slightly, but he kept his eyes locked on yours—just as you’d asked.

"You're mine like this," you breathed, leaning close again. "All tangled up. Needing it. Watching me take it." You punctuated the words with a hard grind that made him cry out, his hips stuttering beneath you. The glasses were definitely steamed now, obscuring his eyes.

He was close. "Fuck," he rasped. "Please... god..."

"Watch," you ordered again, your own climax rising. You rode him hard. "Watch me come on your cock."

[danganronpadespairtime]

Chapter 3 Progress Report (August 2025)

Hello, it's been a while since I wrote one of these, hasn't it? This is a long update post about the behind-the-scenes of chapter 3 work and other things.

TL;DR: I finished writing the first draft and am working on proofreading.

About the progress

I finished writing the first draft for all of chapter 3, as well as the bonus episodes of chapter 3. I've also written the first draft for some other stories that I would like to release before chapter 3: bonus episodes of chapter 2, an interlude about Teruko's childhood, and an additional thing.

The next steps are to proofread all of these scripts. Please keep in mind that for me, proofreading is also a rather long process. For chapter 2, the time spent on proofreading alone exceeded 6 months. I apologize, it seems like it's rather slow. But also, please keep in mind that the amount of script to proofread is a bit. The combination of everything is several hundred pages. I'm surprised I wrote so much… I'm worried that some of it is too long.

Thoughts about chapter 3

It's very long!

Hopefully not too long!

…Sorry, there's not much else I can say without spoiling anything!

It's longer than chapter 1 and chapter 2, but not longer than both of them combined. That's about as much as I can say right now.

There are no guarantees on this, but I think that this might be the longest chapter in DT, and the rest will be shorter. I think in general, chapter 3 of Fangans are longer… That's just my guess, though.

Future plans

Work on visual assets will begin after proofreading, so once that begins, I'll have more interesting things to show you as previews. Currently, I don't have anything I can show…

I'm changing the program and method with which I use to produce episodes, so I hope that the end result is that I will be able to make them more quickly and efficiently than in the past.

I will definitely do another round of FTEs before chapter 3. Some time in the future, I'll put out a poll asking for what character pairs you would like to see an FTE of. Think about it carefully in advance until then!

I may start thinking about hiring additional staff. I may need art assistance, especially for the Argument Armament, Closing Argument, and Execution, because these things took a lot of time in chapter 2 to make. (It would be nice to have an animation assistant as well, but finding someone like that is probably out of the question…) There is the appearance of additional side/background characters, so additional voice actors may be needed.

Well, there is no guarantee at this point in time for either of these things. Working with people is overwhelming, so I'm unsure about it... It's just something to think about.

Lately, I feel like I want to remake the prologue. The quality is low, and many things have changed since 2020, so I feel like it no longer reflects the rest of the story well. However, I have a lot on my plate right now, so I'm not sure where I'll fit in the time to do such a thing.

Other notes

I would like to post more small content, like illustrations and comics, during this hiatus, but working on chapter 3 is very busy and unfortunately it's hard to find time to work on these things. Still, I do my best to post something every month or every two months. Please continue to keep an eye out for it.

Music videos aren't planned in advance, and they aren't part of a greater plan of the story. There is no such guarantee that every character will get a music video, or that all MVs follow some such theme, or something like that. They are just things I make on a whim because I like a song. You can consider them like doodles I post to social media.

Closing thoughts

It will be a long time until the release of chapter 3 is ready, so I am deeply thankful for your patience at this time. If you have the patience to wait until then, I am grateful. But even if you lose interest in DRDT during this time and move on to something else, that is alright too. As long as my works were able to bring you happiness at some point in your life, then I am grateful nonetheless. Please don't worry about these things.

Even now, I'm really surprised that it seems like there are a lot of people who are into DRDT. I'm very honored! Thank you to everyone who has supported me, and to everyone who will continue to support me. I'll continue to work hard on DRDT!

🩵

[sushirrrry]

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

TONIGHT ON LOVE ISLAND...

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

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

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

A REMINDER OF THE COUPLINGS…

You are Single | Luca is Single | Megan is Single | Tash and Harry | Ella and Johnny | Danni and Ronan | Tiana and Liam | Jess and Mitch

Catie and William are single bombshells.

{BEACH DATE – Y/N AND WILLIAM}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No promises.”

{IN A CONFESSIONAL – Y/N}

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

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

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

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

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

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

{NARRATOR}

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Always is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{LATER – THE RETURN TO THE VILLA}

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

Everything looks the same around but feels different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I—can I pull you for a chat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He finally looks at you. Really looks at you.

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“Harry—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{IN A CONFESSIONAL – Y/N}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shift slightly, pulling your ponytail tighter.

“And then there’s William.”

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

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

A quiet smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

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

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

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

You glance away again, nodding to yourself once.

“I’m open. But I’m not naïve.”

{IN THE VILLA – EVENING}

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

Harry and Luca entered together, Mitch following behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh no.”

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

You felt it before you saw it—the shift.

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

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

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

“Yeah—yeah, sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

{IN THE VILLA – TERRACE}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With Y/N,” Megan said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then—

Ping, ping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{IN A CONFESSIONAL – HARRY}

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

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

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

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

{IN THE VILLA – AT THE FIREPIT}

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

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

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

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

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

“Harry, please stand up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“William, please stand up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ping, ping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AFTER THE RECOUPLING...

You and Harry | Catie and Luca | Tash and William | Ella and Johnny | Danni and Ronan | Tiana and Liam | Jess and Mitch

NEXT TIME ON LOVE ISLAND…

{NARRATOR}

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

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

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

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

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

He paused—just enough to let the suspense build.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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