#sometimes I wanted to just take your answer^^°

[skzophreniic]

1(800)-HOT AND FUN OT8 REACTIONS TO HAVING A BIMBO GIRLFRIEND

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, bimbo!reader, degradation (Minho, Seungmin), praise kink (Changbin, Felix, Jisung), power dynamics, daddy kink (Chan), dumbification, light humiliation (Minho), recording (Chan), overstimulation (Jisung, Felix), oral fixation (Jisung is a munch), possessiveness (Hyunjin), aftercare

notes:

this was requested so long ago i can't even find the request anymore i'm so sorry 😭😭 hope the anon who requested this finds this somehow lmao. sparkly divider by @bernardsbendystraws

BANGCHAN doesn’t just like that you’re dumb. He relies on it.

It makes him feel needed. Important. Special. Like he’s the only thing keeping your pretty little world turning.

Because without him? You’d forget to eat. You’d mix up your bank PIN and your phone number. You’d probably end up crying in the middle of the street because your heels hurt and you didn’t think to bring flats—even though he told you to. Twice.

He adores that about you.

“Baby, where’s your jacket?” he asks, voice soft like he’s talking to a toddler, brushing his thumb under your eye as you pout up at him, already shivering. “Did we forget it again?”

You nod, lower lip wobbling, and Chan just sighs with a smile, slipping his own hoodie over your shoulders. “S’okay. I’ll remember for you next time.”

Because that’s what he does. Remembers. Handles. Carries. Fixes.

You don’t need to be smart when he’s around—don’t even need to think, really. Not when Chan’s already ten steps ahead of you. And he lives for it. Watching your brows furrow when you try to work out how many quarters are in a dollar. Listening to you mix up “dormant” and “dominant” in front of his friends and not even noticing the difference. He eats it up.

“My baby,” he coos one night, catching you struggling with the TV remote. “You want Daddy to do it for you?”

And you nod—eager, desperate for help—holding it out like it’s some complex weapon. Like you couldn’t possibly figure out which button means “power.”

It’s so fucking cute.

But the bedroom is where he really thrives.

Because dumb girls like you? You don’t think too hard. You just feel. And that’s perfect for Chan. Because he doesn’t want you thinking. Not when he’s got you spread out underneath him, lips glossy, eyes glassy, legs open and ready. He’ll fuck you so slow you lose track of the question halfway through answering it. 

“That’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, voice hot against your skin. “You don’t need to know. All you gotta do is take it.”

He gets off on how easily you give in, how quickly your thoughts scatter when he touches you. He’ll push his fingers into your mouth while fucking you and tell you to tell him about your day—just to hear the slurred, half-wrong attempt while tears wet your lashes. And he’ll praise you for trying, for being his “good girl who doesn’t need to be smart to take cock so well.”

Chan records you sometimes, too. Little videos of you trying to answer simple questions while his fingers circle your clit, or clips of you whining about not knowing how to work the laundry machine while you’re wearing nothing but one of his shirts. He keeps them all, jerks off to them when you’re not home, because nothing gets him off faster than seeing how sweet and dumb you are for him.

MINHO acts like you’re the bane of his existence. He side-eyes you when you ask if penguins have knees, sighs loudly when you forget where you left your own phone while it’s in your hand, and tells everyone within earshot how dumb you are. But behind closed doors? He’s a menace for you. You drive him insane in ways he doesn’t even have words for.

You don’t even notice half the time when he’s watching you with that unreadable stare—while you hum to yourself, trying to figure out how to open a jar of pickles, nails all glossy and useless. The more clueless you are, the harder he gets. He’ll pretend to be annoyed when you call him “Minmin” in that sweet little voice, but you don’t see how his fingers curl into fists when you pout at him.

And when he finally snaps, it’s bad. He’ll grab you by the back of the neck, drag you into the bedroom, and lay you out like it’s a punishment. He’ll fuck you slow, almost cruel, one hand at your throat and the other pressing your face into the mattress, murmuring, “This is all you’re good for, huh? Just lying there, looking pretty, being stupid for me.” You whimper out something about being sorry, but it’s not an apology—just helpless moans strung together like pearls, because your brain doesn’t work when he’s inside you. He bites your ear and laughs, low and dark. “God, you’re perfect. My dumb little girl. Can’t even spell your own name right now, can you?”

After, he’s disgustingly gentle. Brushes your hair back, kisses your swollen lips, and mutters, “Don’t change, baby. I like you just like this.” 

CHANGBIN thinks you’re the cutest thing he’s ever seen. And he says it constantly. Like it physically hurts him not to remind you. You’ll wander into the room wearing fuzzy slippers and his t-shirt with lip gloss smeared across your cheek like blush, and he’ll drop whatever he’s doing just to kiss your face and tell you how fucking adorable you are.

He’s obsessed. Fully, unapologetically obsessed. Doesn’t care that you thought “freelance” was a type of dance style. Doesn’t even flinch when you say you didn’t know tuna was a fish. If anything, his heart melts. “Aww,” he says, like you’re a puppy trying to read a novel. “That’s okay, baby. You don’t need to know stuff like that. You’re too pretty to worry about boring things.”

He spoils you endlessly. Little gifts tucked into your bags, flowers just because, piles of plushies lining your bed so you have something to hold when he’s away. Lets you decorate his place in pink and sparkles. Holds your hand crossing the street even when there’s no traffic. He’ll remind you three times a day to drink water, and if you forget, he’ll pout like you’ve offended him. “You promised,” he’ll mumble, holding the bottle to your lips. “Good girls keep their promises.”

And in bed he’s just as needy. Just as soft. 

He loves it when you say dumb things while his cock is inside you. It drives him crazy. You’ll gasp something like “I can feel it in my stomach,” and he’ll groan, thrusting up harder like he’s trying to break you open. “You can, baby?” he moans. “God, you’re so perfect. My dumb, pretty little angel.”

You don’t even have to try. You’ll be bouncing on his lap, tits jiggling and brain empty, and he’ll grab your hips with bruising force just to hold you still and stare. “You don’t even know how hot you are, do you?” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You just wanna feel good, huh?”

He praises you endlessly. “That’s it, ride me just like that, good girl, look at you, so good for me, so pretty, so—shit—.”

He lives for the way you clutch his arms and babble incoherently while you cum. He gets off on how easy it is to turn your brain off, how safe you feel with him. He’ll hold you after, wrap you in a blanket and press kisses to your temple while whispering, “You did so well, baby. You’re perfect. You don’t ever need to think too hard, okay? I’ll do that for both of us.”

HYUNJIN treats you like a living doll. Not in a cold, distant way—no, he’s softer than that. But there’s this obsessive little spark in him, like he’s always planning the next way to make you even prettier, even more his.

You’ll stumble into the kitchen wearing an outfit that barely matches—pink hoodie, yellow skirt, fuzzy socks—and he’ll react like he’s been personally attacked. “Baby. No.” He drops whatever’s in his hands, marches over, and cups your face like you’ve committed an unforgivable sin. “You can’t go out like that. What if people think I let you look like this?”

He’s dramatic. Scandalized. But not really mad—never mad. You’re his project. His muse. He buys you outfits that look like they were curated by a stylist for a photoshoot and insists you wear them just for him. He’ll spend twenty minutes curling your hair just right before taking you out for coffee. “So pretty,” he whispers, sliding a lip gloss across your mouth and holding your chin still with two fingers. “My perfect little doll.”

You don’t have to be smart. You just have to be beautiful—and his.

And you love letting him take control like that. You let him pick your clothes, your makeup, even your perfume, and it lights up something dark and possessive in him. He adores it when you twirl for him, clueless and smiling, asking, “Is this okay, Hyune?” like you didn’t just let him design you from head to toe.

In bed, that obsession explodes. He’ll spread you out on crisp white sheets, your nails painted to match the lingerie he bought you, and stare. Just stare. For long enough that you start to squirm and whimper. “Stay still,” he says, voice soft but commanding. “You’re too pretty to move until I’m done looking.”

Hyunjin loves using you like art—bending your legs back, posing you on all fours, one hand pushing into your lower back while the other cups your chin so you’re looking into a mirror he placed there on purpose. He wants you to see what he sees: his dumb, beautiful, perfect little thing with glossy eyes and parted lips.

He talks to you like you’re fragile, porcelain, even when he’s fucking you within an inch of your life. “My doll. My perfect little doll. Don’t think. Just let me make you pretty.”

And when you cry a little—because he’s been teasing you for twenty minutes, circling your clit but never letting you cum—he kisses the tears away, crooning like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “Shh. Don’t cry, baby. Dolls don’t cry. Dolls just take it, don’t they? Just look pretty and take it for me.”

Afterwards, he’ll wipe your makeup with gentle fingers, fix your hair, and whisper, “Mine. You’re all mine. Nobody’s ever going to see you like this but me.”

JISUNG treats you like you’re walking porn. Seriously, he has zero chill about it. You could be sitting on the floor eating gummy bears and flipping through some random glossy magazine you barely understand, and he’ll be in the doorway, staring like he just walked in on the second coming of Christ. “Oh my fucking god,” he mutters, running both hands down his face. “You’re insane. You can’t just look like that and expect me to function.”

You laugh, confused, fingers sticky from candy, and he just drops to his knees in front of you like gravity failed him. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

He is insatiable. Like, constant, drooling, can’t-keep-his-hands-off-you horny. The second you bend over to grab something from the fridge, he’s behind you, kissing down the back of your thighs. You could say the dumbest thing—like how you thought “Velcro” was a type of plant—and his brain just short-circuits, pupils blown wide. “You’re so fucking hot when you say shit like that, oh my god, c’mere—” and he’s pulling you onto his lap before you even realize what’s happening.

Jisung is a munch to his core. He lives between your thighs, obsessed with how you taste, how you squirm, how you gasp his name like he’s giving you life. He’ll pin you down, kiss your knees, your hips, your belly, and then stay there until you’re shaking and crying and pushing at his hair, whimpering that you’re sensitive. He doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. “One more, baby. Just one more, you’re so sweet, I can’t—fuck—you taste like candy, let me have another—”

He’s sloppy about it, too—loud and messy, like he wants the whole building to know exactly what he’s doing. Groaning against your clit, moaning when you cum, licking his fingers after he pulls them out of you like he’s starving. He’ll look up at you, lips shiny, and say, “I think about this all the time. You. Fuck, you’re like—like my favorite food, you know that?”

He loves your airheaded moments. You could ask him the most random, most stupid question and he’ll choke-laugh against you, then double down and suck harder. “You’re literally perfect. Don’t ever change. God, don’t ever change.”

And when he finally fucks you, it’s fast, messy, desperate, babbling praise into your ear the whole time. “So good for me, my dumb pretty girl, you’re so hot, so tight, so—shit, you’re everything.” He’ll cum fast, way too fast, and then spend half an hour apologizing while eating you out again because he has to make sure you finish as many times as he does.

FELIX treats you like you’re fragile glass wrapped in pink bows. You’re his little sunshine, his sweet dumb baby, the girl who doesn’t know how to open a can without slicing her finger and can’t keep track of what day it is—but he adores it. He likes how soft you are, how you always smell like sugar, how you gasp at the smallest things like they’re miracles. He carries your purse without being asked, buys you sparkly lip gloss in bulk because you “always lose them,” and never complains when you call him in tears because your oven timer scared you.

He’s sweet to you even when he’s ruining you. Especially when he’s ruining you. He’ll pull you into his lap, stroke your thighs, and coo, “Shh, baby, I’ve got you. Just be my pretty girl, yeah?” He likes when you cling to your stuffed animals while he fucks you, head buried in their fur as you squeak and whimper through every thrust. “Hold it tighter, angel. There you go. Doesn’t matter what’s up here,” he says, tapping your temple, “when you’re so good everywhere else.”

He’s patient when you cry from overstimulation, kissing the tears off your cheeks and whispering, “That’s it, sunshine, you’re doing so well for me.” And when you gasp out, “Am I your good girl?” in that fragile, airy voice, he smiles like you just hung the stars in the sky. “My best girl,” he murmurs, holding you close, “so sweet, so dumb, so perfect for me.” You giggle, tell him he’s dramatic, and he just laughs, kissing the corner of your mouth because you don’t even know how much you’ve wrecked him.

SEUNGMIN doesn’t treat you like you’re stupid. No. That would imply he pities you, or thinks it’s a flaw—like your brainlessness is something to fix. But Seungmin? He encourages it. He nurtures it. Like a quiet little kink he keeps fed and healthy.

You’ll ask him what the word “conundrum” means with your head tilted like a confused puppy, and instead of rolling his eyes or scolding you, he smiles. Slow. Like a snake curling around your ankles. “You don’t need to worry about words like that, baby,” he says, already reaching for your waist. “They’re not for girls like you.”

You don’t even realize he’s being mean. That’s the worst part. You just giggle and go back to licking frosting off your finger, proud of yourself for asking something “smart.” And Seungmin watches with his chin in his hand, cock already hard in his sweatpants, thinking to himself, God, she really has no idea.

He doesn’t snap. Doesn’t raise his voice. He corrects you gently, condescendingly. When you forget what day it is—again—he makes you repeat the full date with his fingers fucking into you slow and steady, curling at just the right angle to knock the breath out of you. “Go on, baby,” he whispers, lips against your ear. “What comes after Tuesday?”

You’re sobbing before you even get to Thursday.

He likes to quiz you during sex. Not because he wants you to get the answers right—but because he knows you won’t. He’ll ask how many inches are in a foot with your knees pressed to your chest and your cunt dripping around his cock, and when you guess “ten?” in a broken moan, he’ll laugh, mean and quiet. “Wrong,” he says, fucking into you a little deeper. “Try again.”

He’s not messy about it. He never loses his cool. Even when you’re drooling and your mascara’s halfway down your cheeks, he keeps his rhythm, keeps control, watching you unravel like he planned it from the start. Because he did. He always does.

JEONGIN doesn’t know what to do with you at first. You’re so… much. So pretty it’s distracting, so sweet it makes his teeth ache, so clueless sometimes it’s almost unreal. You’ll call a turtle a “sea lizard” and he’ll blink at you for a full ten seconds before bursting into laughter, pulling you into his chest. “You’re… wow. You’re literally unbelievable.”

He loves it. Loves that you look up at him with those big, shiny eyes like he’s the smartest man alive. He gets to teach you little things—like how to pump your own gas or why the moon looks bigger on the horizon—and every time you smile and go, “Ohhh, I didn’t know that!” something warm and territorial curls in his stomach.

In bed, that warmth turns molten. At first, he’s nervous, clumsy, cheeks pink as he tries to remember what he’s seen in porn. But then you’re moaning his name, fingers clutching his hair, and something clicks. He realizes you’ll let him touch you however he wants, kiss you wherever he wants, fuck you however he wants. And from that point on? It’s over.

He’s obsessed with watching you come apart.

Jeongin gets off on how quickly your brain melts. He’ll push two fingers inside you and whisper, “Spell my name, baby. Can you do that?” and when you whine, “J… e… uhhh—” he’ll grin, curling his fingers deeper. “Wrong, but cute. Try again for me.”

He’s vocal, too—soft little whimpers and gasps at first, turning into desperate moans when you squeeze around him. You tell him he sounds so cute when he fucks you, and he blushes deep red but doesn’t stop, hips stuttering like he’s overwhelmed by how good you feel. “God, you’re so—hahh—so warm, so pretty, I can’t—”

And he loves your cluelessness in the dirtiest ways. You’ll ask, completely serious, “Does it always get this big when boys like hugs?” while palming his cock through his sweats, and he’ll have to bite back a moan, eyes fluttering shut. “Y-Yeah, something like that, baby. Keep hugging me, okay?”

Jeongin becomes bolder the more you give him—asking shyly at first if he can take pictures of you in his hoodie and panties, then scrolling through them later, cheeks flushed, cock in hand, thinking about how only he gets to see you like this.

[lnfours]

LIFELINE | JOHNNY STORM

MAJOR PLOT SPOILERS FOR THE FANTASTIC FOUR: THE FIRST STEPS UNDER THE CUT! PLEASE CONTINUE READING WITH CAUTION!

summary: after defeating galactus, johnny realizes something, and he has to get it off his chest immediately.

warnings: quinn!johnny storm x reader, friends to lovers!au, mention of sue’s resurrection scene, mentions of fear of being alone, johnny being johnny, language, a little teeny tiny bit of angst, fluff and him being 100% down. fucking. bad.

— 💌 message from jordan: i know this isn’t my usual content, but the marvel brain rot has come back after seeing f4 and i simply can’t get johnny out of my head 😅 if you guys like this, maybe ill write some more for marvel again! anyway, i hope you guys love this as much as i do! it was super fun to write :)

masterlist | inbox

the soft yellow glow of the lamp on your nightstand illuminated your bedroom, the tv on as background noise as you rung your hair out in a towel, clad in your robe. you padded back to the room, sitting on the end of the bed and watching the news reporters cover their newest story.

“— and thanks to the fantastic four, the citizens of new york can sleep peacefully in their beds and be surrounded by their loved ones tonight knowing we are now safe from galactus.”

you reached back for your phone, tapping on the screen to see if any new messages came through while you were in the shower. the sight of a blank lockscreen made you frown, tapping to your messages to see if they had even been seen by him.

hey, saw the news. you okay?

delivered, 9:10pm

with a huff you tossed your phone back on the bed and walked back to the bathroom, grabbing your skincare products from the drawers. just as you were about to wash your face, there was a bang outside the room, forcing a jump from you. you furrowed your eyebrows, slowly tiptoeing back to your room.

when you turned the corner, the bright glow of yellow and orange now lit up your entire room. you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding, walking towards the window and undoing the lock to let him inside.

“johnny, what the hell!?” you turned around as he climbed in through the window, “i texted you! i saw the news and i texted you and you never answered and…”

you trailed off when you finally turned around, taking in the man who stood in front of you. his face was wearing an expression you rarely saw. a look of guilt and sadness, mixed with a hint of fear. his hair tousled from the wind, his baby blue eyes heavy and bloodshot. your movements froze.

“i uhm- i saw your text,” he said, taking a deep breath, “sorry i didn’t respond, i just… i wanted to see you. in person.”

“what’s wrong?” your voice softer now as you padded closer to him, now feeling guilty for raising your voice at him. but damnit, he scared the hell out of you.

“i watched my sister-“ he closed his mouth and looked off to the side, his eyes finding the cityscape outside the window as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. his eyes met yours again after a moment, a stray tear rolling down his cheek as he looked at you, “i watched my sister die and then magically come back to life,”

you furrowed your eyebrows, “what?”

“i don’t— i don’t know,” he sighed, flopping down onto the edge of your bed, “she was pushing galactus towards the bridge and it was too much and she…”

he paused for a minute as you sat down, your hand reaching out to his shoulder to comfort him. he took a deep breath, “i mean, reed checked her pulse and everything. she wasn’t even breathing. and then when reed put franklin on her chest to say goodbye, that’s when she came back to life,”

“i’m sorry,” you said softly, eyes soft as you scanned his features, “that’s… a lot.”

he let out a humorless chuckle, “yeah,” his eyes shifted to look at you, the whites of his eyes still slightly red, but you could tell they were still hiding something.

you had always been the one to notice that sometimes, no matter what his mouth said, his eyes said something different. they couldn’t hide the truth from you. no matter how hard he tried, he was an open book to you. completely vulnerable. a side not everyone got to see, but you were lucky you were one of the few.

“you’re sure that’s all that’s bothering you?”

damn it to hell.

he blinked, sucking in a breath and suddenly the air felt different. it felt heavier. like there were unspoken words between the two of you.

“it’s stupid, really-“

“johnny,” you watched as he stood from the bed, suddenly finding interest in the new york night sky once again. you tilted your head, unconvinced.

“no really, i promise, it’s nothing. i’ll go to bed and wake up tomorrow and it’ll be in the back of my mind-“

“c’mon,” your voice was still soft as you stood behind him, “it’s me. you know you can tell me anything and everything, and its clearly bothering you, so please. let me help.”

he turned back around, “when reed tried bringing sue back, and even when she did come back, you could just see how much he truly loved her. how glad he was that his person was back, and it made me realize that i’m a compete fucking idiot. that i’ll never have someone to love the way he loves her, or love me the way she loves him, because i’m an idiot who's too scared to tell the woman i’m in love with that i love her.”

you felt your heart drop to your stomach. sure, johnny had mentioned the long list of women waiting to have their turn with him, but it was never anything serious. never something more than a fling here and there.

but you had always held a tiny sliver of hope that you’d be the one to make it all seem worth it to him. the relationship, the dates, the anniversaries, all of it. you had loved him for so long, wished for just a single chance on every birthday cake candle and shooting star, but you always knew the answer. it was no use.

or so you thought.

“you’re not an idiot,” you said through the lump in your throat, “it’s just unnatural for you. you’re used to the girls lining up to have shot, not the sappy feelings part. and it’s okay to be scared of it. love is scary. but it’s also really beautiful.”

“have you ever been in love?”

you sucked in a breath, ignoring the pit in your stomach. you said you wanted to help, but had you known it was going to be about this…

“once,” you nodded, “i don’t think he ever felt the same way. especially not now.”

he swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing before he spoke, “did you ever tell him?”

you shook your head before he asked another question, “do you regret it?”

he could see it in your eyes. he knew. he knew for a while now, or at least he thought he did, but now he really did. the way you watched him intently, the way your eyes stayed locked on his. you looked at him like he hung the stars in the night sky. like he had all the answers to your problems.

and he hoped he did. because you were the answer to all of his.

you nodded again, this time your heart rising to your throat as he stepped closer, “maybe you should tell him. i’m sure he’d like to hear it right now.”

you pulled your eyebrows together, “what do you-“

“you said it yourself, it’s scary but beautiful,” he said, “so tell him. and i’ll tell her.”

you tried to play it cool, “i don’t-“

“say it,” his voice was soft but pleading, “please.”

you took a breath, now realizing how close the two of you were all of a sudden. your tongue swiped over your lips to wet them as you let out a shaky breath.

“i love you, johnny.”

that’s all it took before he was pulling you in closer by your hips, pressing his lips to yours in a messy kiss. he kissed you like he was drowning and you were oxygen.

like you were his lifeline.

“i love you,” he mumbled against your lips when he finally pulled away, “i’m sorry-“

“you’re here now,” you shook your head, smiling as you took in the smell of his cologne underneath the layer of faint ash, “that’s what matters.”

he leaned down and kissed you again, this time he picked you up off your feet and spun you around, hands gently placed on your back as your giggles broke the kiss.

you wrapped your legs around his hips, hands clutching the burgundy material in your hands. he smirked down at you playfully, forcing a smile on your lips and a chuckle to fall from them, “what?”

“nothing,” he shook his head, placing your back gently onto the mattress, his body scaling yours. he was warm to the touch, always had been since the accident, “just, feeling really lucky.”

you ran your fingers through his blonde strands, “lucky?”

“lucky cause the girl i love never stopped loving me, never gave up on me, even when she should’ve.”

“i would’ve waited a million lifetimes for you, you know,” you confessed quietly, “as pathetic as it sounds,”

he dropped his head to yours, foreheads pressing together, “i don’t deserve you.”

“mm, yeah, probably,” you joked back as he let out a chuckle. his smile lighting up his face. his usual, ‘johnny like’ persona slowly creeping its way back in.

“wanna find out why the ladies call me ‘torch’?” he joked and you laughed, maybe a little too loud but you didn’t care.

“no one calls you that!”

“sure they do!” he argued back, a cocky smile still on his face, “y’know, in their dreams and fantasies or whatever.”

“maybe in your dreams, hotshot,” you mumbled before kissing him once again. his lips slotting with yours almost as perfect and intoxicating as the first time. his free hand cupping your face, thumb slowly caressing your cheek as he kissed you.

he was finally yours. your lifeline.

[syrecjh]

Katsuki x Ghost quirk reader

Not all ghost are scary this ghost just wants a friend

Have fun with it get creative

──★ ˙👻 ̟ !! The Ghost Who Wasn't

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff??

You didn’t remember the crash—only the colors. A shimmer of headlights. The song you loved humming cut short by the scream of metal. Then nothing. Silence thick and endless, like the sea floor. But you existed, somehow. Not alive, not dead. Just… here.

Your quirk had always been strange, something about consciousness detachment—barely studied, barely understood. Now it clung to you like a second skin, a phantom echo of yourself drifting between walls and across cities while your body lay still in a hospital bed, unmoving. Breathing, but not awake. A soul unmoored.

At first, you wandered.

You phased through hospital walls without realizing. You tried to speak to nurses, to patients. But no one saw you. No one listened. It didn’t hurt—at least not in the way you thought pain would feel. It was a hollow ache, like a song stuck in your throat that you couldn’t sing out.

You could move, breathe, think. But not feel. Not really. You tried to touch doors, and phased through. You tried to ask for help, and they screamed. Eventually… you stopped trying.

People felt your presence and fled. You weren’t a ghost—not really. But people saw you and screamed. You didn’t blame them. It wasn’t your fault you left behind a chill when you passed. It wasn’t your fault your voice trembled the air like a draft through old wood. You just wanted to say hi. You just wanted a friend.

One night, your drifting carried you far. Past towns you didn’t recognize. An apartment window left slightly ajar. You slipped through without thought. Your curiosity always got the best of you.

That’s where you met him.

Katsuki Bakugo, pro-hero. Alive in all the ways you weren’t.

He screamed.

You blinked, floating just above his rug, your form a soft glow against the dark. You hadn’t expected him to see you. Let alone react like that. You tried to not laugh.

“I didn’t think you’d scare that easy,” you teased, hovering just inches above the floor, translucent and glowing faintly in the dark. “Sorry.”

He didn’t answer. Just glared, fists clenched, jaw tight, like he was waiting for the apparition to attack. But you didn’t move. You tilted your head, gentle and uncertain. And something about the way your eyes searched his—like you were seeing him, really seeing him—made him stop from blasting the room to hell.

“You’re not real,” he muttered the first night. “You’re just a dream. A dumb, creepy dream.”

But you came back the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

You learned his name. He never asked for yours. You didn’t remember it anyway. You only knew the way your presence clung to his walls like perfume, and the way his heartbeat thrummed louder whenever you got too close.

“You’re annoying,” he told you once, flopping onto his couch. You smiled and sat beside him, even if your body sank halfway into the cushion.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Over time, the fear faded. He stopped flinching when you popped into his living room. He stopped pretending not to talk to you when his friends asked who he was mumbling at. He even started leaving the window cracked open, just in case.

“Friends don’t hover over people’s heads at 3 a.m., y’know,” he grumbled one morning.

“I’m just making sure you’re sleeping okay,” you whispered, warmth in your voice despite the chill of your form.

He could never touch you. Never brush your hair out of your face, or feel the weight of your hand in his. But he saw your eyes—clear, bright, full of something ancient and new all at once. Beautiful. And sometimes he caught himself staring longer than he should. Wondering things he didn’t dare say aloud. He wondered if ghosts could cry, because yours always looked like they wanted to.

Then, one night… you were gone.

No shimmer of light at the edge of his vision. No teasing voice echoing from the kitchen cabinet. Just silence.

Bakugo tried to tell himself it was a good thing. That he was just tired, and the ghost-girl he had started caring about—against all sense and logic—was just a figment stitched together by stress, a trick of exhaustion. But it felt wrong. Like a window had closed in his chest.

He didn’t know your name. He didn’t know you were lying still in a hospital bed three prefectures away. That your body had started to stir. That your fingers twitched for the first time in two years. That when you woke up, your mother sobbed and clutched you as if trying to anchor your soul back to your skin.

You didn’t remember the nights in his apartment. Just fragments. A face that made your stomach feel warm. A voice rough as gravel and soft as wind. But when the nurses showed you old news articles of heroes to jog your memory, your eyes paused on him.

Something about the way he stood. The furrow of his brow. The ache of something you couldn’t name.

Months passed. You tried to rebuild your life. You walked streets you didn’t remember but somehow knew. You smiled at strangers and wondered why their faces didn’t pull you the way his did.

And then, fate—or maybe something gentler, something ghostly—stepped in.

A chance encounter. A convenience store at dusk. You walked out just as he walked in.

Your shoulders brushed.

He froze.

You turned to apologize.

Your eyes met.

And he stopped breathing.

Because it was you.

You, who had haunted his life so quietly it hurt when you left.

You, with your head tilted slightly in confusion, just like that first night.

Except now, you were real. Solid. Warm. Standing before him in the golden light of a fading sun.

You tilted your head. “Do I… know you?”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away. His heart was a thunderclap.

You didn’t remember him.

But God, he remembered you.

And maybe, just maybe, this time… he’d get to touch you back.

[ddejavvu]

Being mates with Azriel who is very, very sincere.

He means every kind word he says to you, even if they sound absurd or overzealous considering you’ve only just discovered that you’re mated. He’s constantly saying the most sincere, sweet, romantic things you’ve ever heard, and honestly, sometimes it leaves you speechless. You feel the same way about him, but you’re not as articulate, so you get in the habit of teasing him instead of making a fool out of yourself by tripping over your words.

“Are you flirting with me?”

He stands there, dumbfounded, a top in his hands that he’d been offering to buy you. You’d wrinkled your nose at the price, because it’s entirely too little fabric to be that much money. It’s cute, but just knowing someone had paid that much for it would bug you every time you wore it. He’d scooped it off of the rack anyways, reminding you that he wants to buy you whatever you want, no matter the price tag, because he’s your mate and his favorite hobby is to make you happy.

And now he stares at you, brows arched curiously, “Did you just ask me if I’m flirting with you?”

“Sounds like you were,” You shrug, the ghost of a grin on your face as you busy yourself with the rest of the rack of clothing, “I don’t know, maybe I’m reading too far into things, but-“

He takes you by the waist, turns you away from the rack, and presses a firm, near-bruising kiss to your mouth as your answer. It’s all one fluid motion, but the spin isn’t what has your brain in a tizzy.

When he backs off you can still feel the memory of his lips pressed to your own slightly tingly ones. He plucks another shirt off of the rack, one you hadn’t come across yet but damn, it’s cute and he knows you so well. His low, smooth voice warms your heart as his shadows curl around your arms.

“We’re mated, if you’ve forgotten. We’re a bit past flirting.”

[kryptonnkisses]

Mr. Kent

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: clark kent x reader 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰: light spanking, safe words, Clark being so sweet and caring, pet names, slight degradation, slight humiliation, blindfolds, restraints, overstimulation, edging, PIV, fingering, oral sex (f!recieving), light choking, light hairpulling, but it was only for a second, everything is consensual! 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5,101 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: trying something different with your boyfriend, Clark Kent. 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬—Slightly based on that tie scene in Fifty Shades lolol

((reblogs are the only way tumblr fics gain attention! if you enjoyed, please reblog :))

Convincing Clark wasn't an easy thing to do. 

He would protest at your comments about your wanting to sleep alone on certain days. Not out of selfishness, never that—but because he genuinely believed you slept better with his arms around you.

Which, to be fair, was true most nights. 

He'd pout and mumble something like, “But I like holding you…” as if that alone should change your mind. And sometimes, it did.

That was the thing about Clark. He wasn’t difficult in the traditional sense. He didn’t stomp or argue or raise his voice. He was sweet and caring. Like if he shouted at you, you’d break into a million pieces. He just had this way of looking at you, all puppy-eyed and earnest, like whatever you were asking him to consider might ruin him a little bit.

So, when you first mentioned wanting to be tied up—trying to play it off as a flirty joke—you watched the gears in his mind grind to a halt. “Tying you up?” he asked, as if you'd suggested kryptonite cuffs and a five-day sentence.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Could be fun.”

His brow furrowed in that adorable, overthinking way. “But… are you sure? What if you don’t like it? What if something goes wrong? What if I do it too tight, or not tight enough, or—”

All you heard was that he wasn't against the idea. You quickly shut him up with a peck before he could spiral more. 

“Clark,” you murmured, lips just brushing his, “you tie your shoelaces with precision. I trust you.”

“But that’s—baby, this is different,” he insisted, even as his hands instinctively came to rest on your cheek. “You’d be vulnerable.”

“Exactly,” you grinned. “That’s the point. I want to feel a little helpless. Safe, but... helpless. And no one makes me feel safer than you.”

That got him quiet. Thinking. Brows still knit, but the hesitation softened.

“And,” you added, voice dropping to a teasing murmur, “I like the idea of being at your mercy. Doesn’t that sound kind of hot?”

His breath caught. You saw the flicker behind his eyes—the mental image forming despite himself. He bit his bottom lip, and you could practically hear the gears shifting.

“Maybe… just light stuff at first,” he said, like he wasn’t already halfway convinced.

You grinned, triumphant.

A few days go by as you both go through some conditions and try to find the perfect time. Clark, being Clark, took it seriously in the way only he could—googling safe restraint materials, making a note in his phone about circulation and pressure points, and even briefly entertaining the idea of taking a class. You had to stop him there.

“I love you,” you said, tugging him down for a kiss, “but if you show up with a color-coded PowerPoint, I’m calling it off.”

He laughed sheepishly. “I just want to get it right.”

And you knew he would. That was never the problem.

Finally, one quiet evening rolls in—rain tapping gently at the windows, your apartment wrapped in the kind of stillness that feels made for secrets. Clark had made dinner, washed the dishes, and was now pacing just a little, pretending he wasn’t nervous.

You were already on the bed, robe loosely tied, watching him with a mix of affection and heat.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” you said gently, even though you could already tell he would.

“I want to,” he answered. Then, after a pause, “I think I just needed to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Open. Trusting me.” His voice dipped a little. “Wanting me.”

The words made your stomach flutter.

He stepped closer, one hand running through his hair as he looked down at the silk ties you’d left out. His fingers brushed over them carefully, as if they were somehow alive. When he met your gaze again, something in his expression had shifted—less worry, more intent.

“Okay,” he murmured, “tell me what to do.”

You sat up straighter, heart quickening. “You sure?”

He nodded. “Just walk me through it.”

And so you did—slowly, gently, watching the way his hands trembled just a little as he followed your guidance, tying your wrists together with the soft fabric, securing them to the headboard with practiced tenderness.

“You good?” he asked, kneeling beside you, eyes flicking between your bound hands and your face.

You smiled, breathless already. “I’m perfect.”

His jaw tightened slightly, a flush creeping up his neck. You could tell—this was doing something to him. The control, the reverence, the fact that you trusted him with this. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your neck, then your collarbone, like he was grounding himself with every inch of you.

And when his hands finally slid down your sides, deliberate and slow, you realized you weren’t the only one feeling helpless tonight.

He gently took the next silk tie, wrapping it around your eyes. 

“Good? Not too tight?” He asked ever so gently, keeping his hands on your face as if grounding you.

“This is good,” you smiled with a soft breath. 

The moment lingered in the stillness between you. With your vision gone, everything else is heightened. You felt the weight of the bed shift as he moved, the faint rustle of his shirt brushing your knee, and the warm exhale near your ear a second before he pressed a kiss just beneath it.

“You look…” he hesitated, breath catching. “You look incredible like this.”

You let out a quiet, pleased sigh, your body already humming with anticipation. “You’re doing great.”

He let out a nervous chuckle, and you could tell—he was still finding his footing, still wrapping his mind around this version of you, of him, of the power you’d placed so willingly in his hands.

His hand slid down your arm, slow and steady, tracing every inch like he was memorizing you. Then another kiss—lower, this time, just above your collarbone. His fingers danced over your ribs, hesitant for only a second before they flattened against your stomach, grounding both of you.

“Remember our safe word?” he murmured.

“Yup, pineapples,” you smiled softly.

He nodded. “Good. Stop me at any point.” 

“I will,” you promised. 

And he believed you. That’s what made him bold enough to go further—his touch growing firmer, more curious. His hand skimmed over the curve of your hip, his lips brushing against your skin in a slow trail that made you arch into him without thinking.

You couldn’t see him, but you could feel the shift in his energy. The way the nerves melted into something heavier, darker. The way his breath started to hitch like he was realizing he liked this.

Liked the control. Liked the way your body responded to every move he made. Liked knowing you wanted this, wanted him this way.

“Clark…” You breathed, half a moan, half a warning.

He paused, hands freezing on your waist. “Too much?”

“No,” you said quickly, lips parting as your heart thudded against your ribs. “Not enough.”

That pulled a low, stunned laugh from him. “God, you’re going to kill me.”

Then his mouth was on yours again—more possessive this time—while his hands slid lower, gripping, exploring, and learning.

Fingertips skimmed over your ribs, dipped into the hollow just below your breasts. The silk at your wrists tightened with the slight movement of your arms, but you didn’t pull away—you arched toward him, chasing more.

He exhaled slowly, as if the sight of you like this had knocked the air out of him. His lips followed his hands—pressing into your sternum, your shoulder, and the soft underside of your breast. No rush. Just reverence.

You whimpered when his tongue flicked against your nipple, your body jerking in surprise. Without sight, it was too much—sharp and hot and intimate. Your hips lifted off the bed on instinct.

“Sensitive,” he murmured against your skin, voice tinged with wonder.

You could only nod, breath catching as his teeth grazed lightly, then soothed with another kiss.

His hands kept moving, down the line of your sides, tracing the curve of your hips with a possessive grip that made your thighs clench. His thumbs pressed into your inner thighs, and you gasped at the pressure—like it sent a current straight through you.

“What do you want me to do, baby?” he asked, half wanting to make sure you're comfortable and just wanting to hear you ask for him. 

Your cheeks burned pink. “I—everywhere, I want you everywhere…” You squeaked out.

He chuckled darkly somewhere far from you. “You can be more specific, honey.” 

You bit your lips, letting out a soft whine, “God—I don’t know. It’s all too much and then not enough at the same time.” 

That seemed to do something to him. You felt the mattress shift as he hovered over you again, body close but not touching yet. His breath ghosted over your cheek, his voice a low rasp near your ear.

“I want to ruin you so gently you beg me not to stop.”

You shivered, head pressing back into the pillows, chest heaving.

He dragged his mouth down your stomach, teeth grazing lightly. Hands everywhere, gripping, spreading, grounding. You couldn't see him, but you felt him—all of him. And when his hand slid between your legs at last, you gasped like it was the first time you’d ever been touched.

You were already dizzy with it—the weight of every moment, every breath, every inch of his skin on yours magnified by the darkness behind the silk over your eyes. 

Your world had narrowed to nothing but the heat of his mouth and the deliberate way he moved, touching you like he was writing a language across your skin. 

You could feel him between your thighs now—his chest against the inside of one knee, his breath ghosting over your folds. Kissing your inner thighs tenderly, making you jump at each one. The fact you couldn't see. Couldn't anticipate. And that made every second stretch, unbearable and addictive all at once.

Then he licked you.

You cried out, hips jolting, wrists tugging instinctively at the silk restraints. The sound you made was raw and startled—it was too sudden. His tongue was warm and slow, unrelenting in its drag, teasing over your clit in a lazy, confident stroke that had your back arching off the bed.

“Clark—” you gasped, voice breaking as your thighs tried to close around him.

He held them open easily, firmly, his strength never rough but impossible to ignore.

“Don’t run from it,” he murmured against your skin, mouth hot and slick. “Feel it. Let me give this to you.”

Another lick. A swirl. A kiss that was too soft for the mess it left in its wake. You whimpered, head tipping back, your mind spiraling because you couldn’t see where he was or what he’d do next. All you had was sensation.

His tongue pressed flat against your clit, slow pressure that had your toes curling. Then a flick—just one, fast and precise—and your whole body jerked.

You didn’t even hear him move before you felt his fingers slide inside you, one at first, then two, filling you in a way that made your eyes flutter behind the blindfold. His mouth didn’t leave you—his tongue and fingers working in tandem, building you too fast and too slow at the same time. 

You couldn’t predict him. Couldn’t brace. Couldn’t see the warning signs. You were just a body and a heartbeat and a need, strung tight under his hands.

“Please—Clark, please—”

He groaned at the sound of your voice, the pitch of your desperation. “You’re shaking.”

“I can’t—” You gasped, thighs trembling around his shoulders. “I can’t think—”

“I know.” He sounded proud of it. “That’s the point.”

And then he sucked your clit into his mouth.

You shattered.

It hit in waves—deep and rolling, your body seizing and then trembling as your orgasm tore through you. You cried out, raw and unfiltered, head tossing against the pillows, arms pulling fruitlessly at the silk. You couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t control a damn thing. But God, you felt it. Every nerve lit up like fire. 

You were undone.

He didn’t stop right away. Just eased you through it, fingers slow inside you, tongue gentle now, coaxing every last tremble from your thighs.

When he finally pulled back, you were shaking—half sobbing, half laughing, wrecked and breathless.

You felt the bed dip beside you, the warmth of his body crawling up over yours. He cupped your face again, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, then managed, voice hoarse, “I think I left my body.”

Clark chuckled, brushing kisses over your jaw. “I’ll go find it.”

You're still floating when he loosens the silk from the bedpost, his fingers gentle. But he doesn’t remove the blindfold.

“You’re not done,” he says, voice lower than before—still Clark, still warm, but with an edge that wasn’t there earlier.

Your breath catches. “No?”

He pulls you upright, guiding you until you’re straddling his lap. Your body is limp with the aftermath of your release, but your skin sparks with anticipation. His hands rest heavy on your hips, holding you in place.

“You came without permission,” he says simply.

Your mouth opens—part shock, part arousal. “I didn’t know I needed it.”

“I should’ve said something,” he admits quietly, and you can hear it—that little tremor, that flicker of doubt. But then his fingers flex against your skin. “Still. Maybe I should remind you who’s in charge.”

You shiver. You can’t see him, but you can feel the shift in his posture, the tension in his thighs under yours.

“What are you going to do about it?” You tease, your voice a little breathless, trying to ground him in your shared play.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then his voice, low and focused: “Hands and knees. Now.”

It’s not a yell. Not even a bark. But it’s commanding enough to make you obey without thinking, heat surging through your already-sensitive body.

He guides you carefully—still a little cautious, making sure you're steady, but there’s purpose in the way he pushes you forward, your knees digging into the sheets as your chest presses down and your ass arches up.

You feel the bed shift behind you. His hand ghosts over the curve of your backside.

Then, a sharp slap.

You gasp—more from the sound than the sting. It’s not hard. He held back. But it surprises you and sends a jolt straight through your core.

“Too much?” he asks quickly, already rubbing over the spot like an apology.

“No,” you manage, breath trembling. “You can do more.”

Another pause. Then a second slap, this one a little firmer, followed by his palm smoothing over the heat of your skin. You moan, instinctively pushing back against him.

“You liked that,” he says, and this time, there’s pride in it. Curiosity. Hunger.

“I liked you doing that,” you breathe. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just keep going.”

That does something to him.

His next slap lands confidently, the sound echoing louder, making you jolt forward with a soft cry. His other hand holds your hip now, keeping you steady, grounding you even as he pushes you further.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice darker now, “you ask before you come.”

The words flood through you, your breath catching on them. The Clark you knew was still in there—but now there was something else, something growing.

He leans forward, mouth against your ear as his fingers slip back between your legs, already slick and pulsing.

“Think you can follow the rules now?” he asks, teasing as he circles your clit.

“I’ll try,” you whimper, hips rolling shamelessly.

He chuckles against your skin, low and pleased.

“We’ll see.”

And then he starts again—fingers thrusting, mouth on your neck, and you’re already climbing, already falling apart all over again... this time, holding on desperately for permission.

You’re panting already, thighs shaking as his fingers work into you again—slow at first, then deeper, firmer, curling just right. He had three fingers in you at this point. Working you open just right—His palm presses against your ass, keeping you steady, and you’re so wet, so open, that the sound of it makes you blush.

Every time the heat builds—your body clenching, hips grinding back for more—he slows. Pauses. Withdraws just enough to let it all slip from your grasp.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “You know better.”

His tone is firmer now. Confident. And it wrecks you.

You try to grind down on his hand, desperate for friction, but he’s quicker. He pulls his fingers out entirely and lands another sharp slap to your ass, making you yelp.

“Behave.”

You breathe hard through your nose, muscles trembling, the ache in your core deepening with every denial.

“You’re doing so good,” he says, softer now, brushing his fingers down your spine. “But I’m not done playing with you yet.”

He leans in—close enough that you feel the heat of his chest against your back, his breath against your ear. One hand slips around your waist to your clit again, fingers circling lightly. The other reaches up to tug gently on the tie around your eyes, adjusting it just slightly, but still not removing it.

"You said you wanted to feel helpless," he whispers. "This is what it means."

Then his fingers slide back inside you—slick and strong and unfair—and your entire body arches as you moan into the mattress. The pressure builds fast. Too fast. You’re ready again, already teetering—

And again, he pulls away.

You choke on the frustration, a sound caught between a sob and a growl. “Please, please, Clark—”

“You’re close,” he hums, lips brushing your shoulder. “I can feel it. You pulse around me like you’re begging.”

You nod frantically, writhing now, helpless beneath him.

“But you don’t get to come until I say so.”

You whimper, forehead pressed to the sheets. You’re trembling so hard now your knees slip slightly, and he catches you, adjusting your legs back into place.

“Hold it for me,” he murmurs. “You can do that, can’t you?”

You nod again, broken. “Yes. Yes.”

He slides two fingers in again, this time curling deep, dragging slowly in and out as he rubs your clit in lazy, tormenting circles. You’re right there, breath caught, thighs shaking uncontrollably—and then he stops again, leaving you empty and drenched and gasping.

You sob into the sheets, hips rutting against nothing.

Clark lets out a shaky breath, clearly trying to keep his composure. You can hear it now—his arousal thick in his voice, the unspoken groan in his throat.

“God,” he whispers, almost to himself. “You’re incredible like this.”

Then his hand settles against your lower back, firm and grounding.

“We’ll try again,” he says. “But this time, you don’t come until I let you.”

You felt something bigger slide between your legs.

“And if you do…” He leans in, voice rougher now. “I’ll make you regret it.”

Then all you feel is him. Thick and hot, stretching you in a way that made your mouth fall open even before he moved. Your nails scraped against the sheets, the blindfold keeping your world dark, your senses tangled in nothing but heat and skin and him.

Then he thrusts forward, slow and deliberate—deep—and you cry out as he practically bottoms out in one long, controlled motion. Your body clenches hard around him, instinctively, involuntarily, already too close from everything he’d done before.

You can’t see him, but you feel him everywhere—his breath against your neck, his hands gripping your hips, his cock pulsing inside you as he holds still for one brutal second, allowing you to adjust. 

“You’re tight,” he groans into your ear. “You’re so soaked.”

Your whole body shudders and burns with humiliation. The pressure is immediate and unbearable. You’re already wound so tight, every nerve exposed. The blindfold makes it worse—better—stripping away everything but the heat in your core and the overwhelming feeling of being filled, held, and controlled.

Then he moves.

The first few thrusts are slow and measured—his hands steady on your hips, guiding you to take him inch by inch. You try to breathe through it, to keep your body from tipping over, but it’s impossible. He’s too deep and too thick, and the slow drag of him pulling out and sliding back in has you gasping and trembling.

“Clark—” you beg, voice cracking.

“Not yet,” he growls, picking up the pace.

His hips slap against yours, steady now, deep strokes that hit exactly where they need to, and your legs nearly give out beneath you. He grabs a handful of your hair and pulls just enough to arch your back, forcing you to take every inch of him as he pounds into you.

“Don’t you dare come,” he bites out, voice wrecked with restraint. “Not until I say.”

It’s too much. You can’t see, you can’t think, and your body is on fire. Every thrust sends shockwaves through your core. Your clit throbs, untouched but aching, and every time your walls flutter around him, he groans—low, guttural, trying so hard not to lose control.

“You’re shaking,” he pants, one hand sliding under your body to hold you up as he drives deeper. “You want to come so bad, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you sob, nodding against the sheets. “Clark, please—please—”

His hips slow. He leans in close again, chest to your back, cock buried deep as his hand slides to your throat—not squeezing, just holding you there, steady and vulnerable.

“Then be a good girl and hold it.”

He starts thrusting again—faster now, harder—and your body is screaming for release. Your legs shake violently, your core spasming around him as you try—desperately—to obey. To be good. To wait.

But you’re right at the edge.

Every thrust pushes you closer. Every word, every groan, every slap of his hips is like a match to dry kindling.

You're falling apart.

And he knows it.

He pulls out halfway just to slam back in again, hard enough to knock the breath out of you. Your cry is muffled into the pillow, but he hears it—feels your body clench down around him like it can’t bear to let go.

“God,” he mutters, laughing under his breath, breath hot against your neck. “You’re clinging to me. Like your body doesn’t want me to stop.”

You whimper—humiliated, turned on beyond belief—and his hand slides down your back, warm and commanding.

“You like this,” he growls, hips snapping against yours. “Don’t you? You like not being able to see. Not knowing what I’m gonna do next.”

Another deep thrust makes you sob.

“You begged for this. You told me you wanted to be helpless, and now look at you. Shaking. Leaking down your thighs. Moaning like a needy slut.”

You let out a strangled gasp at his words—your whole face flushing hot. He never called you that before. But your body responds with a helpless squeeze around him.

He groans, voice ragged now. “God. You liked that?”

You nod, barely able to form a sound.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he taunts, voice rough but dripping with heat. “You're dripping like you’ve never been touched before. Poor thing can’t even see what’s making her feel this good. Just knows she needs more.”

His hand reaches around and cups your sex, palm grinding against your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk back into him.

“I’m close, baby. Just hold on with me,” he whispered into your ears. 

His hands grow tighter on your hips, but his breathing’s uneven now, his movements a little messier; he’s unraveling right alongside you.

“Fuck,” he pants, slowing just enough to catch his breath. “You feel too good—too perfect.”

You whine under him, trembling, aching, barely able to stay up on your elbows. Every nerve in your body is on fire, on edge, desperate to fall over that line you’ve been riding for what feels like forever.

And suddenly his hands are everywhere—roaming, searching. He leans down over your back and kisses you. Not just one, but a trail of kisses down your spine, your shoulder blades, and your neck. Warm, messy, frantic.

“I can’t stop touching you,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “I need you everywhere.”

Your fingers trail down your chest, slow and curious, until they meet his hand—still resting against your sex, protective as ever. You take it in yours, interlacing your fingers, and then—deliberately—you bring his hand up.

Higher.

Over your sternum.

Up your neck.

And finally, you guide it to rest softly against your throat.

His hips slow, but not to a full stop.

His breath catches. “You sure?”

You nod slowly, eyes half-lidded. “I trust you.”

His fingers flex just slightly, curling around your throat—not squeezing, not pressing, just holding. Testing. Feeling your pulse jump beneath his palm. His hand at your throat tightens just slightly—perfectly—pinning you to the moment while his other hand trails down, gripping your ass. 

His hips grind against yours with a slower, deeper thrust that makes you cry out, your body arching back into him. He shushes you gently, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, kissing your temple even as your blindfold stays in place. “Letting me ruin you. Letting me hold you like this. Letting me take my time with you. You make me lose my mind.”

His hand at your neck pulls you up slightly so your back meets his chest. You feel his heartbeat against your spine, rapid and erratic, his lips pressed against your shoulder, kissing, breathing you in like he can’t get enough.

You’re gasping now, clenching around him with every thrust, every kiss. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, groaning helplessly.

“Come for me,” he finally whispers. “Now. I want to feel you.”

It’s all you needed.

Your body breaks open—orgasm ripping through you like it’s been waiting hours to hit. You sob his name, fingers digging into the sheets as you convulse around him, completely overwhelmed. Everything explodes at once—blinding, hot, endless—and you fall forward, boneless and trembling, barely able to process the waves crashing through you.

Clark groans behind you, thrusting harder, needier, until he follows—burying himself deep and gasping your name like a prayer as he spills inside you, shaking.

He collapses over your back, arms wrapping around your middle as he presses breathless, desperate kisses across your shoulders, your neck, and your cheek.

The room is quiet now, except for the ragged sound of both your breathing. You’re both slick with sweat, trembling and undone, but all you can feel is the weight of him holding you—grounding you.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just kisses the top of your shoulder again, then rests his forehead there, catching his breath.

“Are you okay?” He finally murmurs, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

You nod, eyes still closed beneath the blindfold. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

He exhales in relief and brushes his lips against your shoulder once more. Then, carefully, he shifts off you, his hands slow and steady as he helps you roll onto your back.

“Let me get this,” he says, fingers gently slipping the knot from the silk around your eyes.

The room is dim, soft light glowing on the nightstand, and when your vision adjusts, the first thing you see is him—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and still a little stunned. He looks at you like he’s not entirely convinced he didn’t just dream the whole thing.

You smile lazily. “You look wrecked.”

His ears go pink. “I feel wrecked.”

You both laugh, and the tension breaks like a bubble. He leans down and starts untying your wrists, fingers delicate and deliberate.

“Was I too rough? With—with the choking thing?” He asks, eyes flicking up to meet yours as he loosens the knot.

“No,” you whisper. “You were perfect.”

Once the silk slips free, he takes your wrists in his hands and presses a kiss to each one—soft, reverent, lingering.

You sigh under the attention. “Now that’s boyfriend behavior.”

He huffs a laugh, still holding your hands like they’re something breakable. “Just making sure you know I didn’t mean the slut thing.”

“I liked the slut thing,” you tease, brushing your knuckles against his jaw. “What I want to talk about is you—cussing, moaning, losing your mind.”

His face flushes instantly.

“I did not lose my mind.”

“Oh, baby,” you grin, stretching a little as your muscles start to relax. “You said ‘fuck, you’re clinging to me’ like I was the last glass of water on Earth.”

Clark groans and hides his face against your neck. “I’m never gonna live that down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. “But it was hot. Like, stupidly hot.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes softer now, filled with something warmer than lust. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m perfect,” you murmur. “You took care of me. And then some.”

He lets out a breath, one hand brushing hair from your damp forehead. “I wasn’t sure I could do it.”

“You did more than do it. You nailed it. And then nailed me.”

He laughs again, this time full and loose. Then he pulls you into his chest and wraps you up, like he can finally exhale now that you're safe in his arms.

“I think I’m in trouble,” he murmurs after a moment, fingers trailing lazily up and down your arm.

“Why’s that?”

“Because now I want to do that again.”

You grin, curling into him. “Then it’s a good thing I love being your helpless little problem.”

And with that, you both settle under the covers—sore, sated, and wrapped in something far deeper than silk and sensation.

And in that moment, with his body pressed tightly to yours, his kisses soft and endless, you know no one’s ever going to love you like this again.

[grrrdino]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

Payback! ²

student!reader x dealer!ellie williams

(payback! pt.1)

summary | ellie is the most famous drug dealer on your university campus. you always go to her when you most need to clear your mind. however, you'd never think you'd be the one who ended up as a bargaining chip that night.

warnings: nsfw, top!ellie x sub!reader, plot and porn, not outbreak oneshot, dirty talk, cursing, drug mention, r! using drugs mention, fingering r! receiving, kinda mean ellie, kinda mean r! MDNI.

wc; 2.8k

a week and a half had passed since the... events that happened between you and ellie. snow began to fall on campus, and the weather was getting colder and colder. going out was becoming more common now that the semesters were over.

but you?

every moment of every passing day that week, a flash of ellie returned to your mind.

you didn't even have to close your eyes to remember the taste of her lips that night, somewhat dry and thin, they kissed yours to chase away your moans— her long, thin hands, the tattoo on her arm flexing, your gaze lowering to your legs, clinging to her...

the thought alone made your heart skip a beat, you had to stop what you were doing and come back to reality.

but you'd decided that same night when you returned to your bedroom, your legs shaking and your lips swollen... you wouldn't speak to ellie again. like never.

you also promised to your two friends who shared the dorm with you. told them what had happened—to say they tried not to laugh at you a little was... an understatement. but they were sweet, and they tried to advise you as best they could. and honestly, ellie's reputation wasn't the best. she just was the 'junkie.'

and gosh, you were in heavy shit too. and ellie knew it.

sometimes you lied to yourself and said it was just so you could sleep at night, or so you thought. but you were working on it. full promise. you were just a struggling college girl.

but could anyone know this? absolutely not. never. you'll combust first honestly.

and ellie? she wasn't taking it easy.

i mean—yes, she'd slept with a couple of girls from her same major, mechatronics. but it's not like it was anything serious, it was just temporary. and the same thing happened with you, something fleeting.

however, she didn't know if you'd hurt her ego or if the way she held you that night had her clinging to you like a moth.

and it wasn't like ellie was the flirtatious/heartless woman type; sometimes she wasn't even aware that she stole breaths among many girls at the university. she was even a little clumsy; maybe it was the weed.

but you definitely stuck in her head like gum.

maybe ellie would regret what went through her mind when a week and a half went by and you didn't even dare look at her once. avoiding her like the plague. you two had computer science courses together. it didn't matter.

you pretended ellie was invisible. and it got to her head real quick.

until a few days ago, ellie had you in her arms. yes, in public, hardly romantic or meaningful. but her fingers claimed you, and your moans were a dedication to her. didn't that say something to you?

on the ninth day, a wednesday to be exact, your nokia screen lit up, unmistakable. at first, you gave it a quick glance, the signature orange color glowing on your face. but your stomach did a flip when you read the contact's name. of course, you had ellie saved. she is— or was your emergency need.

ellie: Wow. not even a hi?

your fingers tightened on the small phone, and you thought about answering. but you couldn't fool anyone. a part of you felt 'a thing' as you read the text.

you: what is that supposed to mean?

you waited.

ellie: I don't know. Maybe stop acting like this?

you: idk what to tell you, ellie. honestly, don't know what's next after what happened.

you were a liar and you knew this would have repercussions.

ellie: We fucked, I guess it gets over. I think I just want to know what the hell is going on.

before you could reply, another message.

ellie: 1 unread message.

And I don't want to sound like I'm in deep. Because I'm not. But it's hard to get over it if every time you see me in the hallway you act like I'm a serial killer.

obviously, ellie was lying too. and at this point, you both seemed to be having the attitude of two little girls trying to hide the obvious.

you waited and thought about it. for a few moments, you felt vulnerable. you felt pointed at, because it was true. you acted like ellie was the worst thing that had happened to you in recent days. but you couldn't stop, even though you felt guilty. even if it was just a lay.

you: i didn't know a fuck meant so much to you.

you were cruel. your fingers moved quickly over the keyboard, you couldn't delete anything anymore.

a minute.

ellie: I should have known what everyone said about you was true. A bitch.

this was getting ridiculous, and you knew it. but if you could be rude, ellie would reach the step above you.

you didn't even think about it when you left your dorm once again in a flash. your steps were heavy, you were still wearing the outfit you'd worn all day, even though it was nighttime.

ellie's dorm was literally a block away from yours; the buildings were practically identical. you knew where it was; you'd been there countless times to continue buying her shit. but maybe this had also gone to your head.

you knew ellie would be there. she was there every night, available for any purchase any student wanted. your fist knocking on the door a couple of times echoed in the hallway. her dorm was room 14. second floor.

a couple of seconds passed until the door opened. you wanted to break something when ellie filled your vision: her hair in that messy mullet cut, her eyes with the slit in her brow, slight dark circles that gave her her charm, freckles all over the cheeks. a black t-shirt with the print of that comic she was obsessed with. what a nerd.

a pretty hot nerd.

"the fuck...?"

ellie said, frowning at the sight of you there. but you silenced her. your bag hung from your right shoulder, your hair held back by a hairpin, which made you look less dangerous than your words were about to say.

"say it to my face. that i'm a bitch. what's what everyone's saying i didn't know, huh?"

you blurted out suddenly, your nose burning against the bridge of it, your cheeks red and flushed.

you weren't really upset or offended with her. you knew what they were saying about you. you didn't fucking care.

ellie's expression went through a thousand stages. she was confused, then she began to understand the situation. finally, that lopsided smile appeared on her lips. she looked as defiant as you.

"a bitch. a damn bratty bitch." she whispered. she was having fun.

then ellie definitely turned things around for you, her eyes went down from your eyes to your body, and back up again.

"didn't you say it was just a lay? you walked the block just to come and get your pride back, or what?" she added.

"my pride? it was you who got on your knees and spoke to me again even after i tried to pretend you didn't exist."

you responded scathingly, your eyes blazing, as if you were trying to prove something.

and ellie... she just let out a genuine laugh, husky and soft through the surfaces. she crossed her arms, looked at you as if she pitied you.

"you're trying to damn hard. but you just came here again because you loved how i fucked you that night." she hissed.

the silence stretched. you felt tiny. because it was true, and you didn't even know how you'd gotten here.

"fuck you, ellie." was the only thing you could say as a snort, she was quick to answer.

"sure thing." she whispered.

one step closer, you didn't know. soon you felt her hands grip your waist like that first night, pulling you toward her, giving you a look of mutual wanting. your lips opened against hers. and the kiss didn't start small; she immediately explored your mouth. the tip of her foot closed the door to her bedroom, and you both stumbled toward the bed.

ellie ended up sitting first on the edge of her mattress. there were cables and ellie's unfinished projects on the floor. her bedroom was a mess, but you didn't even notice it when you sat on her lap, following the kiss that was more saliva and tongue than anything else.

however, the kiss died quickly when ellie pulled away first, her greenish eyes slightly darkening, her lips glistening with your saliva. "are you going to keep being shitty to me, huh?" she blurted out, one of her hands placing itself behind your head, holding your tied-up hair. the other firmly gripped your ass over your jeans.

you snorted, eyes blazing just like hers, "what do you want me to say? say yes so you can fuck me? not gonna happen."

ellie let out another giggle, a half-smile, the hand she had on your ass slipping towards her own mouth, licking her fingers, wetting them for you before sliding two under your jeans, undoing the button as she went. "fuckin' greedy."

her hand cupped your pussy over your panties, you wouldn't deny that you were already wet— the whole situation only made you fantasize more.

the tension in the air shifted when her fingers pushed your panties aside. ellie wasn't being as considerate as she had been the first night; this was more of a payback; it was inevitable between the two of you.

"this pussy missed me, look at that..." ellie said in the dirtiest way, the tips of her fingers gathering all the wetness between your folds to finally guide it toward your entrance. her other hand was still clutching your hair, the back of your neck.

"there you go, babe. you know you want it... ride my fingers."

ellie said with an amused smile, but the moment her fingers entered you, her expression became more intense.

you moaned immediately, throwing your head back as you tried to get used to the feeling, your hips began to move in a needy back and forth, the palm of her hand helping to rub against your needy clit.

"shit, yeah..." you gasped, closing your eyes.

in a careless manner, ellie lifted your blue sweater, not even taking the trouble to remove it. her hand left your hair, and as you bounced in her fingers, she held the sweater, exposing your breasts to her.

without another word, her mouth began to trail kisses over your heavy breasts. "c'mon... go faster, i wanna see these tits jump." ellie whispered shamelessly. and you could only comply, bouncing on her rhythmically, moaning louder and louder.

you wouldn't last long, not with the pads of her fingers kissing deep inside you, not with her face buried between your breasts when you rode her. and ellie could sense it, she seemed to read your mind when it came to sex. how funny.

"that's it, beautiful—..." she whispered, correcting any 'insult' she'd said to you earlier. her face lifted to yours, and as she felt your pussy clench fervently around her fingers, she placed soft kisses along your cheek and jaw, caring for you.

your mind didn't quite process the moment you cummed. it was like floating. you couldn't do much either when her eyes met yours for a split second. you felt like she could really see you, at your most vulnerable and sincere state. her lips brushed against yours in a soft kiss. arms held you. they really did.

you remember her telling you a couple of other things. you felt a little guilty for not returning the favor. you wanted to—you dreamed about it. you imagined what it would look like for her to moan out your name. would she do it? would she show herself like that with you?

you felt stupid denying it anymore. you didn't know what you were feeling, but when you tried to clear your mind, all you could think about were those seconds when ellie looked at you as if nothing else mattered. how her eyes shone and her lips trailed down your cheeks. your heart swelled. and you had to be honest: you just wanted to protect yourself. you were terrified of vulnerability with someone else.

you both lay down on the bed as best you could, your breathing still fast. you felt ellie at your side, placing a kiss upon your shoulder. "such a needy thing..." she whispered, in the warmest way.

could ellie feel the same way you did? or were you just hallucinating from the constant hangover from weed affecting your senses? it was stupid, but she was sweet, even at her most rude trying way, you knew ellie—she was honest, even a little silly.

you were really hallucinating.

it was late morning when the sunlight hit your face. you felt your body stiff, yesterday's clothes like pajamas on your body. your legs felt light. ellie's arm around your waist, fast asleep beside you on the bed.

something in your chest truly stirred. insistently. your gaze ran over her face in the gentlest way. and at that hour, in that light, ellie seemed to be in the sweetest form you'd ever seen of her.

you couldn't even describe what was happening inside you. it was something much bigger, it seemed to be swirling in the pit of your stomach.

you'd known ellie for years, short conversations—quick glances. but something had changed that night in the bleachers. at least for you.

and you didn't miss the fact that ellie had come looking for you again. it stucked on you. she seemed sure.

now you truly were on deep shit.

an almost silent vibration. it couldn't have been your phone. it was ellie's, resting on the gray nightstand next to you.

instinctively, you sat up a little, discovering that ellie was a heavy sleeper— you wanted to wake her up so you could give her her phone. but the orange screen lit up again.

To: Ellie. 1 unred message.

lily: hey, my love. missed you so much tonight. thought we could order some pizza like the last time. call me when you can.

your heart fell at your feet,

you were ridiculous.

(it's here and i'm so happy!!!!! plz plz tell me what you think about it, i never thought the first part could have that love, so thank u sm and enjoy<3

also, i'm gonna make my first taglist for this one so let me know if u want to be added)

divider cr: @suupersonic

[sunsetmade]

Heyy!! I was wondering if you could write an idea of mine. So rafe and reader are together for a couple of years and they live together and reader always waits for him to get back from work with his favorite foods and always takes care of him in that way and they are always very touchy with each other like physical touch is their love language and so one day rafe comes home and he’s angry and starts taking it out on reader and says something like i don’t want your stupid fucking food and leave me alone and that shit yk and then he starts yelling at her and smashes a glass or punches the table which makes her flinch and be scared of him. and then the next day reader still cooks for him because she still loves him but doesn’t wait for him like she always does like she doesn’t greet him at the door with hugs and kisses and also doesn’t eat with him and yata yata. hope this makes sense!!

Quiet Over Dinner

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Sunny’s Notes: I’m a big foodie and cook so this stings…

The porch light glowed warm against the evening sky, casting soft light on the steps where she sat every day like clockwork, waiting. It had become her ritual, her quiet devotion. The way she showed up for him and in a way, a reason to calm down.

Rafe worked long hours —sometimes too long. Some days he came home with aching muscles and a stiff neck, some days with blood on his knuckles or eyes shadowed by whatever business Ward and sometimes Barry had dragged him into. But no matter the weight he carried, he always came home, back to her. And she made sure that home meant warmth and comfort. Clean shirts folded. His favorite meals on the stove. Soft hands rubbing his shoulders. Kisses pressed to his temple. A gentle constant care.

And tonight was no different.

At least, not at first.

It was a routine for her really.

She’d made lemon butter chicken— the one he always asked for when things had been rough. She even remembered to set out the hot sauce he liked even though she always thought it was nasty, tucked a napkin under his fork, and wore the soft blue tank top that she loved.

The sound of his truck tires crunching against the gravel outside made her heart jump, and she stood, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She didn’t know it yet, but everything was about to change in the next five minutes.

The door swung open harder than usual. No “baby” this time. No arms held out. Just Rafe but not the one she recognized. Not the one who came in with soft eyes and limp arms. This one had his jaw locked, eyes stormy, mouth tight like he was swallowing a scream from deep inside.

“Hey, Ray,” she greeted, hesitant but hopeful, approaching him for a kiss.

But he didn’t respond. He just brushed past her like he couldn’t be bothered to answer her.

Her brows pinched feeling her heart beat a little faster than usual. “Dinner’s ready,” she offered gently, trying again, watching his shoulders twitch.

“I’m not hungry,” he said flatly, yanking off his jacket and tossing it carelessly toward the couch.

“Oh.” Her voice came out smaller than she intended. “It’s— I made the chicken you like. Thought you’d want something nice, you looked—”

“I said I’m not hungry,” he snapped, voice sharper now, cutting straight through her softness. “God, do you ever stop with the fucking meals? I don’t want your stupid food.”

She froze. Her heart felt like it had toppled out of her chest and onto the floor.

The silence that followed felt thick and metallic. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. His face was twisted with a frustration that wasn’t hers —not really— but it was pointed directly at her.

“Rafe…” she whispered firmly.

He wasn’t looking at her. He was pacing now, fingers running through his hair, jaw clenched.

“I’m sick of pretending everything’s okay just ‘cause there’s a damn plate of food waiting for me every night,” he muttered. “You don’t get it. None of you get it. No one ever gets it.

She stood in the kitchen doorway, hands trembling against the towel still gripped in her fist. “Did something happen?”

His voice rose and he let out a bitter chuckle. “Ward happened. That bastard—again. Called me a failure. Told me I’m wasting everything. Everything he built, he said. Like I asked for any of this!”

She took a step toward him, heart pulling, but before she could reach out, his hand lashed out. Not at her but at the ceramic vase sitting on the entryway table. It shattered against the floor almost immediately.

Her body flinched instinctively. It was quick but noticeable. It was scared and uncertian. And that… that was the worst part.

Because he saw it.

He saw the fear in her eyes. Saw the way she backed into herself like he was something dangerous.

His anger evaporated instantly, sucked out of the room like smoke through a crack in the window.

“Shit,” he whispered, gaze dropping to the shards on the ground. “Shit, baby— I didn’t mean— I didn’t…”

But she didn’t answer.

She didn’t scold him. Didn’t raise her voice or demand he clean up the shattered glass now scattered all across the floor. She didn’t even cry—not in front of him, at least, not yet.

Instead, she just stood there for a moment, blinking like she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. And the look in her eyes made him nauseous. It was pure disbelief, a hint of anger, and fear. Actual fear. Fear of him.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked past him—silent footsteps down the hallway, soft and distant like a ghost. The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, gentle but final, and somehow that quiet sound hit him harder than any scream could’ve.

And then he heard her. Muffled sobs bleeding through the walls, barely audible but unmistakable. That was what finally cracked something in him.

“Fuck!” he barked, voice sharp and guttural as it echoed through the now-too-quiet room. He kicked the side of the couch on his way down, collapsing into it like his body couldn’t carry the weight of what he’d just done.

His hands tangled in his hair, elbows digging into his knees as he hunched forward.

“Such a fucking idiot,” he muttered, his voice raw, barely above a whisper now. “You always ruin the good shit. Always. Fucking ruining the only person who actually loves you.”

And all he could do was sit there, the broken vase at his feet, her cries behind a closed door, and the sickening realization that he might’ve just broken the only thing he couldn’t fix.

⸻

By the third night, Rafe couldn’t handle it anymore.

He sat alone at the dinner table, elbows on the edge, shoulders slumped, a plate of still-warm pasta in front of him that she’d made without even asking what he wanted—just like always. She knew his favorites by now. She knew how he liked his garlic minced, not sliced, how he hated when the sauce was too watery.

The plate was genuinely perfect.

And he couldn’t touch it.

There was a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the silence that had taken over the house in those three days. A silence that stretched too long and settled too heavy.

She hadn’t laughed in days. He hadn’t heard her humming in the kitchen or rambling about something she read on her phone. The house still smelled like her though. Still like vanilla and soft laundry detergent, but it didn’t feel like her. Not anymore.

It felt cold. Hollow.

He missed her.

He really fucking missed her.

And what twisted the knife deeper was knowing he was the reason.

The reason she barely looked at him.

The reason she flinched like a reflex—just for a second—when he reached for a cup the night before.

The reason the air between them had shifted into something quiet and cautious.

It wasn’t distance out of spite. It was distance out of protection.

She wasn’t punishing him. She was guarding herself.

And she had every right to.

She’d taken care of him through everything—every rough night, every fucked-up spiral, every bruised knuckle and bloodshot eye. She held him when he was high, when he was aching, when he was ashamed. And she never once made him feel small. Never once asked for anything in return.

She just simply loved him.

And he’d thrown it back in her face like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing.

He stabbed at the pasta with his fork, then pushed the plate away hard enough to rattle the silverware. He hadn’t eaten since that night anyway—what was the point in trying now? What was the point of eating without her. Without her giggles, without her hums of agreement, without her tangents she always somehow got onto.

In the hallway, he heard her—soft footsteps, a quiet closet door clicking shut, the faint sound of hangers sliding along the bar. She was still doing everything she always did. Folding his shirts the way he liked, tucking his clean socks into pairs, putting his phone on the charger when he forgot.

But she just wasn’t there anymore. Not really. Not with him.

She barely spoke. She didn’t sit on the couch beside him at night or curl into his side like she used to. And when he passed her in the hallway, her gaze didn’t linger—it flicked past him, like she didn’t want to be caught hoping for softness that wasn’t safe anymore.

And it was killing him.

That night, Rafe sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, heart in his throat. His eyes stung and he chewed at his lip to keep it at bay. She stood across the room at the dresser, brushing her hair in slow, even strokes like she was trying not to notice him watching her.

She looked beautiful. She always did.

But there was something distant in the way she held herself, like she’d quietly pulled her soul a few inches further away from him just to be safe.

He cleared his throat, nervous. “Can we talk?”

She didn’t look at him. Just set the brush down gently, like she was afraid any sudden sound might crack whatever fragile peace still existed between them.

After a pause, she said, “Sure.” Not cold, but not warm either.

His palms rubbed against his thighs anxiously. “I, uh… I don’t really know how to start.”

“Then start wherever you need to,” she said, her tone calm and guarded. It wasn’t said to be cruel or to have malice, it was said to be prepared.

He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

No response.

He tried again. “I’m sorry for what I said. For yelling. For the vase. All of it. You didn’t deserve that. You never deserve that.”

Still, she didn’t face him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the dresser, like turning toward him would cost too much and if she looked at him and saw his broken face she would too brake.

“It’s okay to be upset,” she said after a long pause. “But you can’t take it out on me.”

He shook his head quickly. “I know. I know that. I just… I lost it. Ward got in my head and—”

“No.” Her voice was quiet but steady as she finally turned to look at him. “Don’t make this about Ward. I’m not Ward. I’ve never been him.”

“I know you’re not,” Rafe whispered, eyes dropping to the floor.

“You’ve never scared me before,” she said, almost to herself. Her hands wrung together in front of her. “But that night… when you broke the vase, when you said what you said… I didn’t know what you were going to do.”

His chest clenched. “I would never hurt you.”

“I know that, Rafe,” she said quickly, her voice breaking just slightly. “But for a second… I couldn’t be sure.”

Silence.

“I was just trying to take care of you,” she whispered, a tremble in her voice.

“I know,” he choked out, throat thick. “I know. And I ruined it. I ruined us.”

She looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, her expression cracked. Like she wanted to believe him. Like some part of her still did. Her eyes shimmered, but she blinked quickly, swallowing it all down. She wasn’t going to let him off again. Not this time. He needed to understand how badly he hurt her. And he needed to fix it himself.

Then she stepped around him, climbed into bed, and turned off the light without another word trying to desperately ignore the ache in her heart.

Rafe sat there in the dark for a long time, staring at nothing, heart beating loud in the quiet.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But a tear fell down his cheek and then another and another.

He just sat there, listening to her breathe beside him, and wondering if he’d already lost the only thing that had ever truly felt like home.

And she laid there her heart breaking when he sniffled. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to crawl over to him. To hug and kiss his tears away. But she couldn’t.

The next morning, Rafe didn’t go to work.

Barry called twice. He let both go to voicemail. The third time, he turned his phone off completely.

Instead, he stayed home.

And cleaned.

Not the half-assed kind of cleaning he usually did when things felt off—the quick sweep, the shoved clothes under the bed, the wipe-down of visible mess. No, this was different. This was intentional. Like maybe, if he scrubbed hard enough, he could wipe away the sick feeling that had lived in his chest for days.

He vacuumed every room, even the corners. Wiped down the baseboards with a rag and a bucket of soapy water, the kind she always mixed with lemon dish soap. He dusted shelves he hadn’t looked at in months. Washed every dish in the sink even though the dishwasher was right there. And when he finished, he drove across town to replace the vase he’d shattered—didn’t settle for something close. Found one just like the original, down to the pale blue tint in the glass.

She came home late afternoon, grocery bags in hand, and paused in the entryway when she spotted him on his knees in the hallway, sweat on his brow, his sleeves rolled up, hands soaked in suds as he scrubbed at the floor like a man trying to erase himself.

Her eyes scanned the room—freshly vacuumed carpet, the smell of citrus and pine in the air, a vase sitting carefully back in its usual spot.

“Are you okay?” she asked, genuinely but also surprised.

Rafe looked up at her. There was a damp smudge on his cheek, and his voice was quiet when he said, “I’m trying to be.”

No attitude. No defensiveness. Just the plain truth.

She stood there for a moment, watching him, then nodded once and set the groceries on the counter. She didn’t say anything else.

But she didn’t walk away either.

That evening, he decided to cook.

He had no real plan—just followed a memory of something she’d made once, when things were easier. But the chicken burned around the edges, the potatoes were under-seasoned, he spilled olive oil on the counter and had to start the salad twice because he forgot to rinse the lettuce the first time.

Still, when the table was finally set—two plates, mismatched forks, placemats slightly crooked—he stepped into the living room and called her name softly.

It wasn’t a demanding or loud call. It was one filled with hope and regret.

She came slowly, her expression unreadable as she took in the meal. Her gaze lingered on the scorched chicken, the uneven potato slices, the awkward sprinkle of parsley that looked more like grass clippings from the yard.

“I know it’s not like yours,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I wanted to feed you. For once.” He awkwardly chuckled.

She blinked, surprised. Not by the food—by the fact that he meant it.

He stepped toward her, gently pulling out her chair.

“Sit with me?” He asked hopefully trying not to think about if she said no.

There was a beat. Her eyes searched his face for something—for regret, maybe. For sincerity.

And whatever she found must’ve been enough.

Because she sat.

They ate mostly in silence. But it wasn’t the kind that crushed your chest. It wasn’t laced with tension or heavy with unspoken anger.

It was quiet. Careful. But not cold.

Halfway through the meal, he looked up and caught her watching him. Her fork paused mid-air. She didn’t look away.

And in that brief moment, something in her eyes softened. Not completely. But enough.

Enough to make his heart inch toward hope.

⸻

That night, she laid beside him, close enough for him to feel her warmth beneath the covers, but not close enough to touch. Her back was to him, body curved slightly inward like she was protecting something delicate.

Rafe didn’t sleep.

He stayed awake long after her breathing settled, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his hand resting just inches from hers on the mattress. So close. But not quite.

He ached to close the gap. To reach for her fingers and lace them through his. But he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he wasn’t sure he had the right anymore. And he wasn’t willing to rush her.

It took days—six of them, to be exact—for things to shift.

Not all at once. Not in any grand, dramatic moment.

Just small things.

Tiny flickers of what used to be.

She laughed at something dumb on the TV—a stupid commercial about laundry detergent—and he turned toward her so quickly his neck cracked. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye but didn’t comment on the way his entire face lit up.

Another time, she handed him a hoodie still warm from the dryer. Their fingers brushed, and this time, she didn’t pull away immediately. She lingered—just for a beat. It was enough to make his stomach twist.

But his favorite moment came two days later.

He was rambling about something stupid Barry had said—just talking to fill the silence, not expecting a response and not even really expecting her to listen—and she let out a quiet chuckle. A real one. Light, effortless, and soft.

His heart jolted like it had been struck. He blinked at her, stunned, and a grin pulled across his face before he could stop it. He spent the rest of the day riding the high of that single sound, the smile never quite leaving his lips.

And then, one morning, he woke to find her curled slightly in his direction. Her leg was tangled with the blanket, her arm tucked beneath her cheek, and her face—peaceful, relaxed—was angled faintly toward him.

He didn’t move. He barely breathed.

It wasn’t fixed. Not yet. But it was something. At least he hoped it was.

Then, almost a week after that night, she came home later than usual.

Rafe was on the couch, scrolling through his phone, though he wasn’t reading any of it. The TV was on but muted. He looked up the second he heard the keys in the lock.

She stepped into the living room and stopped just inside the doorway, the soft jingle of her keys dropping into the dish the only sound in the room.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, like she wasn’t sure how to start.

He sat up straighter. “What’s wrong ba-“ he stopped himself and cleared his throat. He didn’t have the right to call her that anymore. “What’s wrong?”

Her face fell slowly, and she chewed the inside of her cheek. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he said instantly, phone already forgotten.

She crossed the room, arms folded loosely over her chest. “That night… when you said you didn’t want my food.” Her voice was quiet, uncertain. “Did you mean it?”

His chest ached with guilt.

“No,” he said, voice low and rough. “God, no. I didn’t mean a word of it.”

She shifted her weight, looking down. “I think about that night a lot,” she admitted. “The way your voice sounded. The way your hand moved right before the vase hit the floor. I didn’t think you’d ever…” She trailed off, fingers twisting in the fabric of her sleeve. “Not with me.”

“I didn’t think I would either,” Rafe murmured, guilt thick in his throat. “It wasn’t you. It never was.”

“Ward,” she said softly, already knowing.

He nodded. “He gets in my head sometimes. All the time actually. Makes me feel like I’m seventeen again, like nothing I do will ever be enough. I let that take over. I let it turn me into the exact thing I promised you I’d never become.”

She didn’t speak right away. Then, slowly, she stepped closer and sat beside him on the couch, tucking one leg under herself.

He turned to her, looked at her—eyes rimmed with tiredness, but steady. Honest.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel scared of me again,” he said, voice steady with quiet resolve. “I swear that to you.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just stared at him like she was weighing every word, measuring it against everything they’d been through.

Then, finally, she reached for his hand.

Her fingers slid gently into his, warm and familiar.

It was small.

But it shattered something tight inside his chest.

He let out a shaky breath and moved carefully, slowly, guiding her into his lap with a hesitancy that made his hands tremble. He was testing the waters and god was he scared. So scared. This was finally his chance. He couldn’t ruin it again.

She came willingly.

No hesitation. Not even a little resistance.

Her arms slid around his neck, and she tucked her face into the crook of his shoulder, nose brushing his throat. He closed his eyes and held her, arms wrapped tight around her back, like he was anchoring himself to the only thing that had ever felt real.

“I’m not perfect,” he whispered into her hair, his lips brushing the strands. “But I’m yours. And I never—never—want to hurt you again.”

She didn’t answer with words.

She didn’t have to.

Instead, she pressed a kiss to his neck—so soft, so tender—it nearly undid him.

The tension that had clung to them like a second skin—thick and heavy, always in the room, always between them—finally began to loosen its grip. Not all at once. Not in any dramatic wave of forgiveness. But slowly. Gently. Moment by moment.

She didn’t flinch when he reached for her hand anymore.

He didn’t hesitate before speaking, afraid of saying the wrong thing, or even afraid that she wasn’t listening. Because the truth was she always listened. And she was always there for him even in those hard days.

Their silence began to feel comfortable again, not strained.

Her chest didn’t feel so tight. His shoulders didn’t feel so weighed down. The air in the house felt different—less brittle, less breakable.

He could breathe again.

Not fully. Not like before. But enough. Enough to feel like there was a good chance that they were going to be okay.

She was coming back to him. Inch by inch, word by word, look by look.

And that was all he’d ever wanted.

Not perfection. Not some easy fix.

Just her. Choosing to stay. Choosing to trust him again.

And as he held her there, her warmth pressed into his chest and her breath soft against his skin, Rafe closed his eyes and knew—he’d spend the rest of his life proving she was safe with him. That she was his home.

Taglist: (join here)

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[starsswirl]

I have a boyfriend!

clark kent (2025) x reader

summary: even when the most super man saves you, you can’t help but run to find your boyfriend who you love so much

warnings: none that i can think of…guilty thoughts maybe?

a/n: first fic posted….kinda nervous. i hope you guys like it! i did not proof read so deeply so if things are every where im sorry.

It was a day like any other…except it really was not in all honesty. You do not really know how to put it but for some reason the entire day has felt kind of off.

From the moment you woke up to writing your usual article for the Daily Planet to even lunch with Clark, you could not shake the feeling that today was different.

Oh Clark.

Maybe it was a 6th sense of his or something, but he always seems to know exactly what it takes to make you feel better.

Up too late last night for no good reason? He puts a cup of coffee on your desk the first minute you even walk through the Daily Planet doors. Always perfectly made.

While he also brings coffee for other people in the bullpen, yours is specially made. You have chalked it up to be that he’s really observant to you specifically. You do not even have to tell him how you felt like drinking your coffee each day, his 6th sense already knows.

Hot and from the pot. Iced with enough creamer and sugar to get just the right mix of sweet and bitter. Caramel. Vanilla. A dash of cinnamon.

He even once brought a frappuccino on those weird days where you craved something out of the ordinary. Oddly enough the nearest coffee shop that sells frappes is 5 blocks down.

Nonetheless, you still savored the drink and told yourself to give Clark a big hug the next time you got a chance.

Today is another one of those ‘out of the ordinary’ days. For some reason you craved tea. Iced tea. Raspberry iced tea if you were going to go into the specifics.

Which brings us to now.

You currently waiting on Clark to bring lunch. Staring at your computer as if the paragraphs for your article would magically appear, instead of having to use your brain to actually put words and sentences together.

Over time, you cannot remember exactly how it started, you both officially unofficially deemed Fridays to be deli days. One of you, or both if you guys had the time, would get sandwiches and chips from the deli down the block to eat together for lunch.

Soon enough Clark comes through the door and walks over to your desk, careful not to trip or bump into people as he quickens his pace.

You are happy to his usual charming smile and messy hair. Your stomach is happy to see the paper bag in his arms full of food. You catch a small glimpse of something in his hand but it couldn’t be what you think it is. Could it?

Oh but it is. His 6th sense is at it again!

“I felt like you could use a small pick me up, so I got this for you. I remember you said that you liked raspberry iced teas, hopefully I remembered correctly,” Clark says hopeful as he sets the drink down carefully on the coaster of your desk.

He is just mindful like that.

“Oh you definitely did. Thank you so much, Clark,” you beam back at him before quickly taking a sip of the tea, letting it refresh your body and mind.

He slides a chair over and sets out the food. We eat together for a moment before curiosity rears its head. You can’t help but ask.

“How do you always know what I want to drink?”

“I just know you,” he says as if the answer made all the sense in the world.

“Know me? It’s like you read my mind somehow. I know you and sometimes I still forget little things.”

Clark lets out a small grin at the corners of his mouth while taking a sip of his water.

“Don’t sweat it, love. You can’t help it if you have the memory of an elderly person. But I still want to be with you just the same.”

“Was that an insult or a compliment?” you ask furrowing my eyebrows.

“Both. But you know how I have a soft spot for sweet old ladies so it’s more of a compliment anyways.”

“You confuse me sometimes,” you say chuckling while shaking your head.

Clark, seemingly at the sight of your laughter, breaks out into a smile of his own.

A moment passes and you both go back to eating in comfortable silence.

Another reason why you love Clark so much, he understands that you do not have to fill every quiet moment with words or noise.

You are happy that you can just exist side by side without feeling the need to fill the time with activities or mundane talk about the weather.

You are especially happy he understands that whenever you’re sick or feeling down, that sometimes you just need quiet to feel better.

You were cut off from you thoughts when you hear Clark clearing his throat next to me.

“So, love…do you maybe wanna come over after work to watch movies and eat a butt load of popcorn together?”

He asks hesitantly, it was as if he was asking you on a first date, but his hesitancy just makes you admire him more.

You’ve been on countless dates with and have even been officially together for 5 months now. There really was no reason for him to be nervous, but you still love that he does.

“Definitely. But I get to choose the movie this time okay? The last one you chose left me with a small existential crisis once it ended.”

“Yeah yeah. Of course, love. I will even made the popcorn exactly the way you like it,” Clark says with a certain nod.

“You do that anyways, Clark. Don’t try to fool me.”

He presses a quick, warm kiss to your cheek and pulls back smiling. You can’t help the bashful blush filling your cheeks, but you can help the condiment residue on your cheek he left from his sandwich by wiping it off.

“Eww, sloppy kisses do not mean they have to actually be sloppy.”

Time passes and the sun has just set below the horizon. There is still light in the sky but it’s dwindling by the minute.

Clark has made it clear that he does not like it when you go out in the city alone at night, fretting something bad would happen and he won’t be able to protect you.

Clark: I’m out of popcorn so I’m at the store to get some more. I should be back by the time you get here. Be careful, okay?

You were in the middle of texting him ‘I’ll be just fine’ before a big explosion erupts from behind. Debris sprinkle down around like snow as you turn around to see a giant, robust alien lying in a crater shaped hole in the road.

At first you couldn’t believe your eyes. It looked almost like a pufferfish and a frog made a giant baby. For some reason, whether it be reflexes or just not thinking clearly, you stay in place observing the alien creature 50 feet away.

With only the street lights and window light to help see, you couldn’t get a good enough look to grasp what the alien might want or what its intentions are.

It’s as if other people around are going through the same effect as they are stopped in their place to watch the creature writhe in its spot.

Maybe the alien has some sort of hypnosis powers to draw other life forms closer. Closer for what? You don’t know. But you don’t care at this point because you cannot even think clearly. Your mind is only telling yourself to get closer.

Suddenly out of nowhere, the alien begins inhaling. It is not the kind of soft, natural inhale that most creatures on earth do. It’s powerful. It’s as if it was a giant vacuum sucking everything in the aliens vicinity.

It starts with small debris, as if a big gust of wind supposedly carried the scraps of trash or fallen leaves into the aliens mouth. But then bigger things begin to get inhaled.

People cry out as they get pulled closer and closer to the mouth of the alien. Mere human strength cannot win against the sheer force of the air.

It’s as if a snap happened and you were knocked out of your hypnosis like everybody else. You were instantly put in fight or flight reflex mode.

You chose flight….obviously.

But when you chose that option, you didn’t mean to literally fly. Your legs are running but when you glance down at the ground the pavement is moving the wrong way.

This is why you’ve felt off the entire day. The universe was sending you a premonition that something big and different would happen. Except when you thought of big and different, you thought maybe one of your articles would finally be approved by Perry to go on the front page.

You did not think of a literally big alien that is different from anything you have ever seen before. Then it hits you.

You are getting swept away into the mouth of a stupid alien! Fear courses through you as you scream for help. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be 10 feet away from your imminent death. You were supposed to be at an apartment blocks away from here in the comforting arms of your boyfriend, watching a movie that makes you both laugh.

You close your eyes and brace yourself until

*Thud*

You were back on the ground. Fallen face first onto the pavement. Albeit the fall was 3 feet from the ground at most, so you maybe got a small bruise or scratch. Most likely got a little dirty so no pain was caused, only confusion.

You sit up to see a giant boulder in the aliens mouth preventing any more vacuum forced wind and a flying Superman above the alien.

Superman seems focused, mentally going through the right thing to do with the alien. This is until his eyes flicker to you just for a moment and you could almost swear they softened just for a second.

You don’t allow yourself to brew on that moment for too long before you watch Hawkgirl, Green Lantern, and Metamorpho carry away the alien to observe it and what not.

“Do you need help miss?”

The powerful voice booms above you as you look up and see an outstretched hand offered to you. The hand it belongs to is none other than Superman.

He flashes a warm smile and you almost just almost get lost in it until you check back into reality.

“Oh no. I’m fine,” you say as you take his hand.

Superman helps you up in one swift motion throwing you off guard for just a moment before you steady yourself back on your legs. Accessing the state of your injuries, or the lack thereof anything significant, Superman keeps a firm grip on your waist as his eyes scan over every little detail of you.

He is close. Awfully close. Close enough to feel the deep exhales from his lungs on your face. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him like you’ve just came inside from playing in the snow and he’s a warm fireplace. Close enough to want him to wrap his big strong arms around you and protect you from the dark world.

As if a 6th sense, Superman softly rubs his thumb in circles to soothe you. Beginning to think of how it was a nice coincidence he knew exactly what would make you feel better, you remember someone else who has that perfect 6th sense too.

Clark!

You quickly snap yourself out of the comforting trance of Superman’s presence. Guilt silently eats at you from the inside How could you even think of being in the arms of someone else when you felt you already had the most perfect boyfriend?

Eagerly you pull his hands off of your body and put quite a few feet of space between you two. You had to get to Clark.

Superman’s face twists into something unreadable with the added distance. His hands hold out for just a moment as if he was so close to pulling you back within his reach. His expression seems to falter for just a second. Was it sadness? Longing? Rejection even?

You do not let yourself ponder over it for too long before you squeak out.

“Thanks for the help but I should get going!”

You internally cringe of the way you said it. Too quickly and too much as if you are trying to avoid something or rather someone.

Which you are. But Superman does not know to know that you are actively trying to get away from him. That would be just rude.

“You have a scratch. On your cheek,” Superman says almost under his breath.

“Oh! It’s okay! You should go attend to other people. I am sure they need your help more than I do.”

You turn on your feet and briskly walk away. Unfortunately, you did not get farther than possibly 10 feet before a warm hand interlocks with yours.

“Everybody else is already taken care of. Please let me take care of you.”

Your heart beats faster at the thought of Superman doting on you. The Superman wanting to tend to your injuries? That is practically everybody’s dream come true.

But you quickly push those thoughts away. Clark is who you should be thinking about right now. He is probably worried sick, wondering what is taking me so long to get to his apartment.

The picture of his anxious face is enough to push you to get to his apartment as fast as you can. To kiss away the frown in his face and tell him you are alright. That is what you want most out of everything else in the world.

“I have a boyfriend!”

Your sudden blurt of declaration has Superman’s grip waver for just a moment. And a moment is all you need really to tear your hand free.

Then you book it. Running as fast as you can away from him and to Clark.

It takes you one whole second to remember you, a regular human, is running away from a meta human. A meta human who can fly and move faster than anything you have ever seen before.

You wait for the inevitable stop again, to be held up by a blue flash infront of your eyes. But it never happens. With a quick turn of your head you see him in the exact same spot where you left him.

He does not look like he has any intention of going after me. He does not even look too upset or rejected that you began running. Maybe even a small look of pride.

Superman is respectful towards taken women. Good to know. Not surprising really based on everything else he stands for, but it is still nice to be reassured about it.

Even with the knowledge that nobody is running after you, you do not slow your steps in the slightest. The urge and anticipation to see your boyfriend is too high to tire you out.

You almost even run into the door from the momentum you were running down his apartment hallway. Stopping yourself just in time to knock on his door and speak between big breaths of air.

“Clark!..Are you in there?..It’s me….You will never guess what just happened to me!”

With an ear to the door you try to hear for any movement inside. Nothing. Maybe he did not hear you at first. So you knocked again.

“Clark!”

Right before you could yell out something along the lines of ‘you better not be asleep,’ the door swings open and your beautiful boyfriend is there in all his nerdy glory.

The biggest smile over takes you as you instinctively jump into his arms. Lips pressing everywhere you can reach. He catches you as if you weigh no heavier than a balloon but holds you as if he just came back from war and this is the first time seeing each other in years.

Forget Superman. Why would you want a guy who focuses on the entire world when you have someone right here just for you?

“I missed you sooo much, Clark”

“What brought this? Not that I did not miss you too because I did. But you usually aren’t this affectionate. Not that I am complaining either,” Clark chuckles out between your kisses as he carries you over to the couch.

He leaves for a moment before sitting down and softly placing a bandaid on your cheek. A soft kiss laid on the bandage before he pulls you in his lap, keeping you comfortable on top of him. He makes no effort to pull you away, his arms tighten around you as if he just can’t get close enough.

You look around and notice the TV on and a bowl of popcorn perfectly popped ready just for us. Beside the bowl are two steaming cups of hot chocolate with just the perfect amount of marshmallows on top.

Hot chocolate never even grazed your mind, but seeing the cups there in all their glory makes your mouth water. He just knows how to make a night perfect. Your heart warms because it is truly times like these where you appreciate your boyfriend the most.

Clark’s 6th sense strikes once as he lays a blanket over you, perfectly cocooning you two together in warmth and love. Oh how you love his 6th sense that makes you feel so special and seen. Oh how you love Clark so much.

Turning around, your back is pressed against his front and he tucks his chin on your shoulder.

“What do you want to watch tonight, love?”

You put on a comfort movie of yours. Every now and then throughout the movie you glance up to see Clark paying deep attention to the movie as if he is really wanting to enjoy something you enjoy too.

It is what he always does anyways. He takes everything that makes you, you and memorizes it to heart. You cannot imagine someone who knows you better than him. You don’t even know yourself better than him sometimes.

And you would not change it or replace him for anything else in the world. No, the universe. There is truly nothing better than a close encounter with death and Superman to help you cherish what you have right infront of you.

Clark. Your Clark.

“I love you,” you utter, gazing into his eyes.

“I love you too. So so much.”

Lips connect. Soft and sweet and reverent. Like every thing else about Clark. In the way he holds you like you are the most valuable thing in the world. In the way he looks at you as if you are the literal sun. In the way he loves you like nothing you have ever seen or read about before.

And in that moment you know deep in your heart that this is where you belong. Whether tragedy strikes or the greatest wonder happens.

Clark is where you are supposed to be.

[softscripta]

♡ I love you from choso!

You’re halfway into your skincare routine when Choso knocks on your bedroom door.

Not loud. Just that soft, familiar tap that lets you know it’s him. You don’t even look up from your mirror when you say, “Come in, baby.”

He does—quiet, like always. Shoulders slightly hunched under that black zip hoodie, hair tied up in a lazy half-bun, rings clinking softly as he shuts the door behind him.

“Everything okay?” you ask, dabbing moisturizer into your cheeks.

Choso nods, but his eyes stay low. Not shy, just… cautious. He gets like this sometimes. Like he’s holding back a thought too heavy to say out loud.

You tilt your head, watching him in the mirror.

“C’mere.”

He walks over slowly, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets. You scoot over on your vanity bench and pat the empty space beside you.

Choso sits with a sigh, body warm beside yours, thighs touching. He watches your reflection for a moment, then says, “Your skin’s glowing.”

You smile and press a kiss to your own shoulder in the mirror. “Thanks baby. You want some?” You hold the jar of cream out to him.

Choso takes it gently and dips his fingers in without a word. Starts rubbing it into his cheeks in small, careful circles like you showed him once. You don’t comment—just watch him with soft eyes, trying not to let your heart do somersaults.

This is how it always starts. The quiet gravity between you two. The way he comes close and doesn’t really know what he wants—just that he wants to be near you.

“You good?” you ask again, lower this time.

Choso hesitates. Then shrugs. “Just… tired.”

You nod, leaning back a little so your shoulder brushes his.

“Long week.”

“Yeah.”

He turns his head, and for a second you catch the way his eyes trace your profile. Not in a way that feels invasive. More like he’s trying to memorize you. You glance at him and smile. “Wanna lay down?”

He doesn’t answer—just stands, slow and quiet, and offers his hand.

Twenty minutes later, you’re curled up in your bed together, lights dim, phone screen glowing in the dark. Choso’s scrolling through movie options with one arm under your neck, the other around your waist like a seatbelt.

“Wait go back,” you murmur, mouth close to his collarbone. “No, up one.”

“That one?” he asks, clicking the title.

It’s some dumb horror movie. You both know it. But that doesn’t really matter.

You curl closer. “Mmhm. You know I only watch these so I got an excuse to be on you.”

Choso huffs a quiet laugh and presses his nose to your hairline. “You never need an excuse.”

The words settle in your chest like warm syrup. You smile, stretching your leg over his.

“You say that now,” you tease, “but wait ‘til I hog the blanket.”

“You always do.”

“And you still let me.”

Choso presses a kiss to your temple. “Always will.”

You pause.

It’s so soft. So easy with him. And you know he means it—that quiet promise folded into his voice. It makes your breath hitch a little, just for a second.

He notices. Of course he does.

“What?” he murmurs, brushing your hip with his fingers.

You shake your head. “Nothing. You’re just… sweet.”

He exhales through his nose, pulling you closer.

You both pretend to watch the movie for another twenty minutes, but neither of you’s really paying attention. Your fingers are tracing the hem of his hoodie. His thumb’s been stroking your back for five minutes straight. The room is still. The world’s somewhere far away.

And then—Choso shifts.

You feel his lips near your ear. “Can I kiss you?”

It’s not the first time.

But it always feels like the first.

You roll onto your side, face close to his, heart fluttering stupid-fast. “Why do you still ask like I’m ever gonna say no?”

Choso shrugs, voice low. “You’re just… soft. I don’t ever wanna take that for granted.”

You blink. “You don’t.”

“I know.” He lifts a hand, thumb brushing under your eye. “Just like saying it.”

You lean into his touch. “Then kiss me already.”

The first kiss is slow.

His lips find yours like they’ve been looking all night. Warm, gentle, just a little unsure—until you make a quiet sound in the back of your throat and tilt your head, kissing him deeper.

Choso makes a soft noise, something low and grateful. His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you in, and then it’s all heat and closeness and the sound of your breath mixing.

You shift closer, one leg draped over his hip now, and he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. Just wraps both arms around you like you’re something sacred.

Your fingers slide up his chest, into his hair, tugging the tie loose. His dark strands fall around his face, brushing your cheek, and you feel him exhale shakily.

“Choso,” you whisper, breathless against his lips.

“Mm?”

“You’re—god, you’re good at that.”

He smiles. Presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You make it easy.”

You giggle and bury your face in his neck. “Shut up.”

“Why?”

“Cause if you keep talking like that I’m gonna start writing poems about you.”

Choso grins and kisses your jaw. “I’d read them.”

“You’d frame them.”

“You’re not wrong.”

You lay there like that for a long while after. His hoodie under your cheek, your leg still draped over his thigh, one of his hands absentmindedly rubbing your back.

“I don’t think I’ve ever liked someone this much,” you murmur eventually, sleep tugging at your voice.

Choso hums. “That’s wild. Cause I’m pretty sure I love you.”

You blink slowly.

Lift your head.

He’s looking at you—soft and sure. Like it’s not some big declaration. Just a fact he’s known for a while now.

Your throat goes warm. “You mean that?”

“Yeah.” He brushes a curl from your face. “I love you. Been tryna say it right for weeks.”

You bite your lip. Smile slow. “Say it again, then.”

Choso leans in, mouth brushing yours.

I love you, baby.

[maximoffwitch]

for your eyes only | e. prentiss

summary: you want to find out if your crush likes you back. who better to help you than your four-year-old daughter?

word count: 2.4k

tags: momily!, pure fluff

The bullpen was unusually quiet, the team busy with the more mundane tasks the job required—filling out paperwork, clicking through online trainings sent by cybersecurity, answering miscellaneous phone calls.

You were bored out of your mind, the words on your computer screen starting blur together. Glancing over at your daughter—who joined you at work today due to a lice outbreak at her preschool—you saw she was deeply concentrated on the coloring book in front of her, her tongue just barely sticking out between her lips as she did her best to color between the lines. You knew, at this point, there was no saving your attention span if a four-year-old was more focused than you.

As your eyes looked around for a distraction, scanning over the objects on your desk—the framed photo of you and your wife, the half-empty mug of coffee Penelope dropped off earlier this morning, the miniature Doctor Who phone booth figurine Spencer gave you before he left—a stack of bright pink sticky notes caught your eye, and an idea popped into your head.

After quickly scribbling a few words onto the Post-It, you softly got your daughter’s attention. “Hey, munchkin.”

“Yeah?” Frannie looked up, the marker stilling in her hand.

“Can you do me a favor and bring this to mommy?” You held up the folded piece of paper for her to see. “It’s very important.”

“What is it?” Her nose scrunched as she squinted at the doodled “E” that adorned the outside of your note, and you knew she could tell it was nothing work related. Sometimes she was too smart for her own good.

“It’s a question,” you explained, lowering your voice. “It’s a secret, but do you want to see?”

“Yes!” She exclaimed excitedly and bounced off her seat.

Unfolding the sticky note, you leaned down to show your daughter the writing.

“What’s it say?” Frannie frowned, her excitement dimming just slightly as she remembered she couldn’t yet read.

“It says, ‘I like you. Do you like me? Yes or no?’” you read as let her take the note and examine it. “Mommy will then check one of those boxes, and we’ll find out if she likes me back.”

“You have a crush on mommy?” She looked up at you with awe like she’d just been let in on the biggest secret in the world.

“Shhhh.” You put your fingers to your lips, causing Frannie to do the same. “It’s a secret.”

“Sorry, mama,” she whispered as she moved closer so she was standing in between your knees. “I won’t tell. I promise.”

“I know you won’t, sweet girl.”

“Mommy definitely likes you back.” Frannie covered her mouth slightly to ensure no one could hear her or even read her lips. She was in a room full of FBI agents after all.

“You think?” You bit your lip, pretending to be nervous but actually biting back a smile.

She nodded emphatically, her loosely tied pigtails bobbing up and down. Carefully, Frannie refolded the note and tucked it in her pocket. “Where’s mommy?”

“She’s in her office, upstairs.” You pointed towards your wife’s office, where the door was shut but the blinds were open, and you could see her typing away on her laptop. Knowing her like you did, you knew she could use a break right about now. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, mama, I’m a big girl,” she replied before quickly turning on her heals and scampering away from you.

“Walk please,” you called after her, causing her to slow her footsteps. As you turned your attention back to your computer, you watched out of the corner of your eye as Frannie crawled up the stairs, her tiny legs too small for the steps in a federal building, and you stifled a giggle.

“Hi, sweetie.” You heard JJ’s soft voice address your daughter. “Are you going to find your mommy?”

“Auntie JJ!” Frannie paused her climb and threw herself into the blonde’s arm. Luckily, JJ was prepared for the toddler and caught her with ease. “I go find mommy!”

“You are?” JJ hoisted your daughter onto her hip and walked up the remaining few stairs. “Do you need help finding her?”

You saw Frannie pause, looking over her shoulder back at you, as if asking for help was against your rules. Continuing to type away, you kept your eyes trained on the screen in front of you, knowing the idea of peripheral vision was too complicated for a four-year-old.

“Yes please, JJ,” she admitted quietly, burying her face into JJ’s neck. “Can you help?”

“Of course, honey.” JJ gave your daughter an encouraging smile as she carried the young girl over to her mother’s office.

“Knock, knock.” She tapped her knuckles against the unit chief’s door, doing the best she could with a toddler on her hip and a handful of paperwork in between her fingers. “You have a visitor.”

“Hi mommy!” Frannie squirmed in JJ’s arms, causing the blonde to set her down. As soon as she was free, she ran over to her mom.

“Hi, baby!” Emily greeted, matching her daughter’s enthusiasm as she immediately shut her laptop and lifted the young girl by the armpits and into her lap. “What are you doing here?”

“I have something for you.”

“You do?” Emily gasped before sparing a questioning glance over to JJ, who remained in the doorway and could only shrug with amusement and ignorance.

“Mhmm,” Frannie hummed as she leaned closer to her mother. “But it’s a secret.” She peeked over at JJ, not wanting to share your secret in front of her.

Knowing the language of toddlers all too well, the blonde chuckled and pushed herself off the doorframe. “I’ll leave you two to it. Bye, Frannie.”

“Bye bye, JJ.”

“Can you say thank you to Auntie JJ for bringing you here?” Emily encouraged quietly, her question more of a suggestion.

“Thank you, JJ!” Frannie called out, waving her small hand goodbye.

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” JJ said with a grin before closing the office door halfway behind her.

“So–” Emily slightly shifted her daughter in her lap– “what did you bring me?”

As an answer, Frannie reached into her pocket and pulled out the pink sticky note, which was still folded up but not without a few crumples in it. “It’s from mama,” she said as she held it out for Emily to take.

Emily raised a brow, amused and also curious, and accepted the piece of paper. Despite knowing what it said, Frannie maneuvered herself around so she could see the message as it was unfolded.

Reading your neat but loopy writing, Emily chuckled, her eyes rolling fondly, which was missed by the four-year-old in her lap, who was taking her task quite seriously.

“Mama asked you to give me this?”

“Yes.” Frannie leaned her head back so she could look up at her mother. Her little body was vibrating with a mix of anticipation and excitement. “You like her too, right?”

“Well.” Emily, always one for dramatics, kept her daughter hanging and reached over to grab a pen. Frannie followed her mom’s movements with her doe-eyes, which widened in horror as Emily checked the “No” box.

“Mommy!” She cried as she tried to grab the pen. “Wrong! You do like mama!”

“Frannie, we don’t grab things from people.” Emily craned her neck so she could make eye contact with the miniature version of herself. “I wasn’t done writing with my pen. If you want to use it, you can ask nicely.”

“I’m sorry, mommy,” Frannie said, pouting, her eyes glossy.

“Apology accepted.” Emily gently wiped a stray tear from her daughter’s cheek and pecked a kiss to her temple. “Now, do you want to see what I was going to write?”

“Yes, please.”

Emily did her best to fit her reply on what little room was left on the Post-It, but your note was clearly not meant for an open-ended response. Setting the pen down, she held up the piece of paper so Frannie could grab a hold of it.

“What’d you write, mommy?”

“I wrote, ‘I love you.’”

“Love?” Frannie gasped, her eyes lighting back up with excitement. “You love mama?”

Emily’s heart melted at the innocent eagerness radiating off of her daughter. Oh, to view love through rose-colored lenses.

“I do,” she said softly.

Frannie grinned, exposing her mosaic of baby teeth, and clutched the note to her chest like it was her most prized possession.

“I have to tell mama!” She squealed as she tried to slide off of Emily’s lap.

“Hold on, munchkin,” Emily laughed, tightening her hold playfully. “What happened to keeping secrets, hm?”

Frannie stilled, her tiny hands curling in the fabric of Emily’s blouse. “But it’s a good secret,” she reasoned. “And mama will be so happy!”

“Alright, alright,” Emily relented, releasing her daughter not without a kiss on the top of her head. “Go on, chérie.”

Trotting towards the door, pink sticky note in hand, Frannie waved over her shoulder. “Bye mommy!”

“Bye baby,” Emily called after her, the corner of her mouth quirking up as she watched her daughter march off with pure determination.

As soon as the toddler was out of the room, Emily swiveled in her chair to face the bullpen. Her eyes scanned past the rows of agents until they landed on you, still pretending to work, though she could tell from the not-so-hidden grin twitching at your lips that you’d been watching everything.

Resting her chin on her hand, she gave you a knowing smirk accompanied by a wink. You caught her gaze and lifted a single brow, a gesture half way between challenging and smug.

Emily chuckled under her breath. How you had roped your daughter into your playful antics, she didn’t know, but nonetheless, she was absolutely charmed.

As Frannie approached your desk, you quickly minimized the window on your screen, images too graphic for a toddler to see.

“I did it,” she whispered as you lifted her into your lap. “She wrote back.”

“She did?” You took the note with a mask gasp, like you weren’t watching the whole interaction from your desk. “What’d she say?”

“Read it,” Frannie insisted, tugging on the sleeve of your cardigan as you unfolded the sticky note.

As your eyes landed on the page, your chest tightened at the three words written in all-caps your wife had squeezed beneath the check boxes: I LOVE YOU.

No matter how many times Emily had said—or written—those words to you, they never failed to make your heart flutter. Biting your lip, you tried to suppress the stupid smile threatening to overtake your whole face. Frannie, meanwhile, looked absolutely thrilled.

“She loves you,” she repeated emphatically, as if you hadn’t just been swooning over those three words. “That’s even better than ‘yes.’”

Wrapping your arm around her, you pulled her tightly into your side. “You’re right, sweet girl. It is.”

“Does that mean you’re gonna kiss?”

You choked on a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“If you love each other,” she said slowly, like she was the one explaining something to a toddler, “then you’re supposed to kiss. That’s what happens in Tangled and Frozen and the one where the dogs eat spaghetti.”

“Lady and the Tramp?” You provided, thoroughly amused.

Frannie nodded with grave sincerity. “So, are you gonna kiss mommy?”

You stole a glance up towards your wife’s office, and sure enough, Emily was still watching, her signature Prentiss smirk dancing on her lips. You knew all too well that she could hear your conversation with your daughter, and your suspicions were confirmed when she lifted her brows just enough to say: “Well?”

“Maybe,” you whispered conspiratorially as you tucked the note into the top drawer of your desk for safe keeping. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Frannie agreed, then tapped her finger against her lips.

“That’s my girl.” You nuzzled your nose against hers playfully before lowering her down onto the ground so she could go back to her coloring book.

Just then, your phone pinged with a text message from your wife.

Do you want to kiss me? Yes or no?

Your cheeks warmed, and you felt like a teenager all over again. Immediately, you typed out a response: Yes. Always a yes.

As soon as the message delivered, you heard the telltale sound of Emily’s boots clicking against the linoleum floor as they descended the stairs. You watched as Emily approached your desk, her expression composed and professional, but you could see the smugness shining in her eyes.

“Mommy?” Frannie looked up from her coloring page, her head tilted slightly.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Emily crouched beside her. “Can you cover your eyes for a second?”

Frannie gasped and dropped her purple marker, not even bothering to put the cap on. “Are you gonna kiss mama?”

Emily lifted her gaze to meet yours, playful and daring. “That okay with you?”

You could only nod, any words you could say lost in your throat. Standing up from her squat, Emily leaned over your desk and kissed you. The kiss was slow and soft, both of you still aware you were at work and your daughter was sitting a mere two feet away.

When she pulled back, you wore matching grins, and you were sure you looked like a love-struck idiot.

Frannie peeked between her fingers. “Ewww, gross!”

“Gross?” You laughed at how quickly a four-year-old could change her mind.

“Kisses are yucky!”

“Yucky?” Emily gasped as she pushed herself off your desk and kneeled back down in front of your daughter. “My kisses are yucky?”

Frannie nodded, scrunching her nose.

“Are they yucky now?”

Before Frannie could respond, Emily’s lips were everywhere, soft little pecks on your daughter’s cheeks, her forehead, the tip of her nose. Frannie squealed with delight, wiggling every which way, trying to escape the tickling but clearly loving every second.

“Mommy! Stop!” She giggled, her laughter echoing through the bullpen.

Emily relented, pressing one last kiss under Frannie’s chin. “Never. You’re my little choupinette.”

“Alright, munchkin.” She stood back up, brushing a stray strand of hair from Frannie’s face. “Time to get back to your coloring before Mama and I get in trouble for playing too much at work.”

As if she wasn’t the boss.

Frannie nodded, still glowing, Emily’s lip gloss decorating her face. Catching your wife’s gaze one last time, you smiled softly and pulled open your drawer, glancing down at her handwriting on the sticky note one last time.

It was safe to say she liked you back.

[eyekonvivi]

Forever Young Yours - Daniela Avanzini (Part 1)

I'm sorry for taking so long to write but my studies are taking me away from writing, so I decided to publish a first part to give you guys something other than a complete silence lol.

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Synopsis : Daniela and you were inseparable, partners bound by shared books and dreams, until life pulled you apart in middle school, when you had to move to Europe. The years passed, and you both changed. Now, in your senior year, you’re forced to work together to save your grades and your futures. In a world where soulmates are revealed by a unique tattoo at eighteen, maybe what you shared was never just friendship...

Tags : college AU ; soulmate AU ; nerd to chearleader Daniela ; nerd fem reader ; forced proximity

7k

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Ever since Daniela and I learned how to read, we’ve spent our lives buried in books, hours sitting side by side, our shoulders brushing, the quiet rustle of pages occasionally broken by Daniela’s comments and my laughter that always followed.

We spent every single recess in elementary school tucked away in the tiny school library, trying to decipher as many words as we could, racing to learn how to read faster, desperate to understand the world and quench our thirst for knowledge.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had this craving for the absolute. I want to know everything, see everything, feel everything. I was that kind of little girl,  the one who asked a thousand questions about everything imaginable, never tiring of the answers, always in awe of the world around me.

But sometimes, that curiosity made adults uncomfortable. I quickly noticed the truths they chose not to tell, the way they hesitated when I asked about things like death... or even love.

Love, such a complicated subject… And the moment I began to grasp what it meant, I couldn’t stop seeing it everywhere: in the way my grandparents looked at each other; in the way my mother’s eyes lit up with pride when I showed her my very first drawing; and in myself, when I saw the pictures of me holding my baby nephew for the first time.

I’ve always been drawn to one myth in particular :  the one that says humans were once whole beings, split in two by the gods, forever searching for their lost half. The only clue to finding that missing part ? A mark, a drawing or a phrase, that appears on your body the day you turn eighteen, and only fades if you’re separated by death. A turning point in our lives.

Naturally, my curiosity led me to ask everyone I could about their soulmates, what they were like, if they’d found them. I was genuinely fascinated by this side of existence. But adults can be cruel, sometimes. When I asked my parents about their soulmate tattoos, and they showed me their matching marks, I was spellbound.

But after asking my parents that question, I started seeing everything differently :  the constant fights between them, the dark circles under my mother's eyes, the unforgivable words that came out of my father’s mouth.

Then came the separation. The back-and-forth between two houses. The duplicate belongings. And the hatred in their eyes that had replaced the love they once shared. That’s when I began to wonder if maybe the whole soulmate story was just too naïve and that even the most "meant to be" people might be destined to hurt each other in the end.

To avoid ever witnessing that kind of collapse again, I decided to search for answers in books instead of people. I felt safer in their pages, in the truth and constancy of words that never changed. So I poured all my energy into learning how to read… and quietly left the idea of soulmates behind me.

And then I met Daniela Avanzini, with her oversized glasses perched on her nose, that wide smile, and eyes that held a light bright enough to illuminate my world in an instant.

We were both outcasts in our own way,  never really trying to connect with the other kids. But the moment we saw each other, we clicked. From that day on, we were inseparable, glued to one another all through elementary school, trading books and always holding hands, fingers laced like it was the most natural thing in the world.

If I was the moon, Daniela was the sun. The quiet I had always found in books was constantly interrupted by this vibrant Latina who lived stories out loud, always voicing her thoughts and emotions, while I preferred to let the words sink into my mind slowly, sometimes carving themselves into my heart.

That balance between us,  that quiet harmony, carried on into middle school. And during those years, our bond only grew deeper, and something about it… began to change.

Without meaning to, we’d discovered that loving books and spending all our time in the library wasn’t exactly considered cool. Most of the other students preferred their phones to stories on paper. So, our first year of middle school wasn’t exactly easy when it came to fitting in, a lot of our classmates mocked our little duo.

But Daniela, always the protector, never let anyone get away with being unfair to me. I still remember the day she ended up in the principal’s office after getting into a fight with a boy who, for the first time, called me a dyke.

After that incident, I realized Daniela wasn’t just the sweet girl who scribbled kind words in the margins of books, who doodled smiley faces on my class notes, and handed me her sweatshirt the second she noticed I was shivering. She was also someone who loved with pride, someone who would’ve given everything to protect me.

So we made our way through that first year of middle school together, and my feelings for her began to blur. The girl I had always thought of as my best friend started to look different to me, I suddenly noticed the softness of her smile, my cheeks would flush when her skin brushed against mine, and most of all, my heart would pound so wildly in her presence it felt like it was trying to escape the fortress I had built around it.

I also began to notice that Daniela treated me differently than she did anyone else. She didn’t act the same way around her dance friends, or even Yoonchae, the only other friend we made during our second year of middle school.

It was at Daniela’s birthday party, at the end of 7th grade, that I truly noticed the difference.

That day, I hadn’t been able to make it on time,  I arrived later in the afternoon, exhausted, gift in hand, after spending the morning at the courthouse for my parents’ divorce. When I finally stepped into her backyard, worn out and a little hesitant, and Daniela spotted me, she rushed straight into my arms, whispering with a kind of quiet relief :

"I’m so glad you’re finally here."

From that moment on, she barely left my side. The rest of the afternoon, her hand was either laced with mine, or her arm was draped around my shoulder, or her head was resting gently against me. Even when her dance friends or Yoonchae tried to talk to her, she always found a way to include me, as to show me that I was still her priority, that she hadn’t forgotten I was there.

That night, I was the only one who stayed over at Daniela’s house. She was wearing her pajamas, and around her neck hung the necklace I’d given her :  a tiny locket shaped like a book, with a photo of the two of us inside. Of course, I had the matching one around my neck.

She had decided to show me one of the poetry collections she’d recently started reading:

"You’ve probably heard of her, but I started one of Emily Dickinson’s collections, it’s really beautiful. Some of the poems made me think of you. Wait, I’ll find them."

I watched her walk over to her overflowing bookshelf and grab a small book covered in colorful sticky notes. She sat down beside me on the bed and slipped under the blanket, pressing close against me.

"You really found poems that made you think of me?" I asked quietly, my voice shy, while she flipped through the pages with care.

"Of course, Y/n. Who else would they be about?" she replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

My cheeks flushed deep red, and I was still trying to calm the wild pounding of my heart when she lifted her head and, in a soft voice, began to read:

"I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still... I can feel a sunshine stealing into my soul and making it all summer, and every thorn, a rose."

Hearing those words, it felt like my heart was breaking free from my chest. In a last desperate attempt to hold it back, I threw off the covers and pulled away from Daniela.

I saw her eyes drop, a hurt expression flashing across her face before she spoke, barely above a whisper:

"I’m sorry, Y/n... I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to share what I feel about you."

When I didn’t respond,  my face frozen in some unreadable mix of emotion,  she stumbled on, trying to fill the silence, her voice shaky, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"Actually… Emily wrote that to Susan. She was in love with her, but... but Susan married her brother instead. It’s this really sad, impossible love story. They seemed meant to be, soulmates. But I know you don’t believe in that kind of thing, not like I do, and I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea��"

I cut her off by pulling her into my arms. And in that moment, my walls finally collapsed. My mouth let go of the words I had buried deep inside for far too long.

"I think of you like that too, Dani. I—I think I love you."

At my words, she tightened her arms around me, and I felt her body tremble,shaking with silent tears.

We whispered sweet things to each other in the dark, like we were trying not to break the bubble we were in, both wishing we could make that moment last forever.

Eventually, we drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms, finally in sync with what we were feeling. But just before I lost consciousness, I heard Dani whispering softly, probably thinking I was already asleep:

"Please… let us be soulmates."

That summer turned out to be the best of my life. I spent every day with Daniela. The days weren’t just bright because of the sun — they were bright because of her. She insisted we go to the beach together, and we’d switch between reading side by side and splashing around in the water, laughing until our stomachs hurt.

I even went to her annual dance recital, and I could’ve sworn she’d never danced so beautifully. She said it was because I was watching.

But the little paradise we had built came crashing down when my mom told me we were moving out of Los Angeles  to England, the birth country of my mother. She’d landed the dream job she’d always wanted, and found a great school for me.

I only found out a week before the move. And when I told Daniela, the way she cried shattered me.

And on the day I left, Daniela showed up holding her worn copy of Emily Dickinson’s poems. She handed it to me and said softly:

"Whenever you feel alone, or think of me, don’t forget to read this. So you remember how much you mean to me, how amazing you are. I marked it just for you... I may have pulled a few all-nighters doing it."

I threw myself into her arms, hugging her as tightly as I could, trying to memorize the warmth of her body, the scent of her hair, everything I might not feel again for a long time.

When we finally pulled away, she kissed me gently on the cheek, her eyes brimming with tears.

"I love you, Dani. Don’t forget that. I’m forever yours."

"I love you too, Y/n."

Then my mom called me. I gave Daniela one last look and in her tear-streaked face I saw a despair that made my knees weak. I forced myself to walk to the car, my heart breaking with every step.

The last image I have of Daniela is in the rearview mirror: her beautiful face soaked in tears, clutching tightly to the necklace — our necklace — in her hand.

***

I spent the next four years in England, discovering a whole new school system and to my surprise, I really appreciated the British mindset, so different from what I had known my entire life.

Those years weren’t lonely,  I made a few friends who, like me, had a deep love for books and a hunger for knowledge. What used to be seen as a flaw back in middle school had suddenly become something to be celebrated in high school.

Teachers constantly praised me, classmates came to me for advice, and people actually listened when I spoke. I became one of the top students in all the literature-based subjects, and I had friends who helped me get through the more science-oriented ones.

On paper, I had everything I’d ever dreamed of.

And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling of something missing,  a quiet emptiness in both my friendships and romantic relationships. Even when I had a girlfriend during my second year, I never truly felt fulfilled. That relationship didn’t last :  I couldn’t bring myself to fully invest in it. My heart always seemed to drift back to a certain American girl with brown curls and oversized glasses.

Daniela and I stayed in touch for about six months after I left. I didn’t have a phone back then, so we mostly exchanged letters,  something we both found incredibly romantic.

Those letters were filled with tender words and literary quotes that reminded us of each other. I received one almost every week, and they made me feel like Daniela wasn’t really that far away,  far from sight, maybe, but never far from my heart.

And then, out of nowhere,  without warning, the letters stopped coming.

At first, I kept writing back, convinced it was just a delivery issue, maybe the mail got lost or delayed .But as the weeks passed, the silence grew heavier, and I had to face the truth: it wasn’t an accident. It was a choice.

That realization broke me.

Being with Daniela had made me feel whole,  like I’d found someone who truly understood me, someone who might’ve even been my other half. My soulmate. But in the end, it had all been a childish illusion.

I spent months in a fog, completely numb. I don’t even remember the last part of 8th grade,  it was like someone had ripped a piece of me away, and I couldn’t figure out how to function without it.

Then one day, during the summer before high school started, I decided to pull myself back together. I threw myself into schoolwork, buried myself in books, losing myself in the pain of fictional characters to escape the pain twisting inside my own heart.

I kept up that pace for the next three years, working harder than ever and rising to the top of my class.

The friends I made,  Perry, Jade, and Leigh-Anne,  tried to pull me out of my little academic bubble. They’d beg me to do something besides studying in the library or reading alone on the bench by the gym. One day, they told me that someone in our class, Jesy, had a thing for me.

Jesy was sweet,  the kind of girl who got along with everyone. She was easy to be around, low-pressure, and kind. So, eventually, I agreed to go on a few dates with her. And then, one day, I said yes to being her girlfriend.

My relationship with Jesy was easy. She never asked for much, always calm, always attentive, she never got angry. That simplicity, and Jesy’s personality, so different from a certain passionate Latina I once knew, helped me open up a little more to others. But something was missing. There were no butterflies in my stomach, no flushed cheeks every time she touched me.

It was when she wanted to take things to the next level, about six months in, that I realized it wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t love, just a habit, a comfort zone.

When I told her, Jesy remained the same understanding, gentle person she had always been. She let me go without any yelling, without drama. And after that bitter disappointment, I stopped letting my friends set me up with anyone.

Then came the summer before my final year of high school and things started to fall apart at home. My mom’s mental health had begun to deteriorate, and the job she had once dreamed of turned out to be nothing like she’d hoped. She felt she couldn’t take care of me properly anymore and needed time alone to get better. My dad insisted I return to the U.S. to live with him and finish high school there until I turned eighteen.

And even if the idea of ending up at the same school as my former best friend didn’t exactly thrill me, the truth was I’d missed my dad and my hometown. Besides, I had already planned to apply to American universities anyway.

And that’s how I ended up, one week before the start of the school year, on a plane for Atlanta, Georgia.

*** 

The night before the first day of school, I tossed and turned in bed, unable to fall asleep.

Tomorrow, I’d be seeing a lot of my old middle school classmates again — but mostly, I’d be seeing Daniela.

I kept wondering what she was like now. Did she still wear those oversized glasses ? Did she still love reading as much as she used to ?

A tight knot of anxiety formed in my stomach at the thought of seeing her again. How would she react? Would she say anything ? Would I finally get an explanation for her silence ?

Eventually, jet lag and exhaustion got the better of me, and I drifted off  into dreams filled with brown curls, warm eyes, and a teasing smile I could never quite forget.

After a rough morning, I headed to Walton High School in the car with my dad. Noticing how nervous I was, he tried to lighten the mood with his usual ridiculous jokes  and despite myself, they managed to pull a small smile from me.

As I stepped out of the car, I was immediately struck by how big the school was. I stood frozen at the entrance for a few moments, unsure of where to go next.

Suddenly, I jumped as I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and saw a girl about my age, smiling at me, warm, but just a little hesitant.

"Are you okay? You look a little lost."

"Yeah… it’s my first day," I admitted, giving her a sheepish smile. "I’m not exactly sure where I’m supposed to go."

"I’ve been here since freshman year. I can show you around if you’d like. Then we can head to the front office and get you registered. Classes don’t start until this afternoon, so you’ll find out your schedule then."

"Thanks so much, um…"

"I’m Manon. And really, it’s no problem at all." She gave me a reassuring smile. "What grade are you in? I’m a senior."

"Same! Maybe we’ll end up in the same class!" I added, feeling a spark of relief,  it felt good to have already met someone.

"I hope so too ! Come on, let’s start the tour if you’re ready."

I followed Manon through the gradually thinning crowd of students. She pointed out the first building, which held the science classrooms and labs, and I was struck by how tall and modern it looked. Then she gestured toward the gym.

"This is where the cheerleading squad practices,  and both the boys' and girls’ basketball teams train here too. You’ll get to know the cheerleaders soon enough… real sweethearts," she added, her tone laced with just the right touch of irony.

She went on showing me the rest of the campus, and I tried my best to memorize everything, but what really stuck in my mind was the library. It was huge, with beautiful wooden shelves and old books that looked like they were just waiting to be admired and read.

Almost instinctively, my eyes scanned the rows of books, searching for a familiar head of brown curls. But as soon as I realized what I was doing, I gave a small shake of my head and forced myself to refocus on Manon, who was now explaining the library’s opening hours.

Once we finished our tour, and after what felt like a million stories from Manon about every hallway, club, and teacher, we headed to the admin office, since apparently we were required to choose some electives.

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, I left the administration office with a registration for the chess club, the reading club, and, against my will, the basketball club. I sighed as I thought back to the secretary and her unbearable voice. 

“No, Spanish is not just an optional subject at this high school, and since you don't have the basic knowledge of French, you will take the same classes as your classmates in Spanish. I don't care if you don't have good grades in this subject, you will learn... And yes, physical activity is mandatory, there isn't much else left except basketball, or else...”

I snap out of my thoughts when I hear Manon's teasing voice. 

"Still thinking about that Spanish class ? I’m sorry, I won’t be much help : I’m taking French," she added with a wink. "But look on the bright side: the only way is up !"

"Yeah, you’re right. I’ll do my best… and I guess I can always ask people in my class for help," I replied, not sounding entirely convinced.

"That’s the spirit! Oh, by the way, it’s already lunchtime. You can eat with my friend Megan and me if you want. We were planning to meet at the cafeteria in about ten minutes."

We crossed the campus again until we reached the cafeteria, where a red-haired girl with a dreamy expression seemed to be waiting. When she recognized Manon, her face lit up and she rushed over to give her a warm, enthusiastic hug.

After we’d introduced ourselves, we ordered our lunch and sat outside at a quiet table. The topic of extracurriculars naturally came up when Megan turned to me with a curious look:

“What about you? What activity did you choose?”

“‘Choose’ is a bit of a stretch,” I replied with a grimace. “The secretary basically forced me into basketball because apparently that’s all that was left, considering my... athletic skills.”

“Honestly, it’s not that bad,” Megan chimed in. “The basketball team captain is super nice, and we can come cheer you on with the cheer squad!”

“Yes, and you’ll get to meet our A-DO-RA-BLE cheer captain,” Manon added with heavy irony.

“Is the cheerleading team really that bad? You’ve been talking about them like they’re the plague since earlier.”

“Not all of them,” Manon replied. “But let’s just say the golden trio that runs the Katseye Cheerleading Team consists of a Filipina princess, a diva, and a Latina with an oversized ego. You’ll meet them soon enough. Lara’s still approachable, but the other two, well…”

“And my girlfriend Yoonchae is on the team too!” Megan cut in proudly. “We found out we’re soulmates.”

Manon wasn’t even annoyed by the interruption — she just laughed and gave Megan a fond look before turning back to me.

“They are the cutest.”

I didn’t reply right away, caught off guard by the familiar name. I quickly asked Megan:

“Wait — Yoonchae? Like Jeong Yoonchae?”

“Uh, yeah…” Megan answered, clearly confused. Seeing her reaction, I explained:

“She was a friend of mine back in middle school. I remember her so fondly — she was super calm and sweet. Never had a bad word to say about anyone.”

“Are you sure it’s the same girl?” Manon quipped. “Because now she’s a total sassy queen !”

Megan laughed at Manon’s words and gave her a playful elbow in response.

“Don’t talk like that about my girlfriend ! Okay, it’s true she can be sassy sometimes, but mostly it’s because she’s improved her English enough to deliver the best comebacks… But I’m glad this tattoo showed up on my arm. What about you, Y/n, do you have your soulmate tattoo yet ?” Megan asked me.

“No, my birthday’s not until April. I thought I found my soulmate a few years ago, but it didn’t work out…” I finished sadly.

Seeing the sadness in my eyes, the girls changed the subject and started telling me the latest gossip from school. And although I was happy to see that they were genuinely trying to include me in their little group, a feeling of emptiness persisted whenever the topic of my soulmate came up.

As our meal was ending, I noticed the other two girls glancing at the time with concern. Seeing my curious looks, Manon explained:

“We have our first cheerleading performance this afternoon in front of all the students, and our rehearsal is about to start soon, but we better hurry if we don’t want to get killed by our captain. But come join us there in an hour, there’s kind of a presentation about the school, the teachers, and some clubs!”

“Yeah, we’ll meet you after the performance !” Megan agreed.

“Okay, sounds good. I’m going to check out the library, see what they have in stock, and find some places where I can study throughout the year.”

“Well, look at you being so serious !” Megan said, laughing kindly before grabbing her tray and standing up.

“See you later, Y/n !” the girls called out in unison, and before I could respond, they hurriedly headed toward the cafeteria exit.

***

I’m sitting on the crowded bleachers of the school gym, surrounded by the excited chatter of students thrilled to reunite with their friends. Not feeling entirely comfortable, I carefully scan the stage set up at the center of the basketball court, waiting to see my two new friends appear, along with Yoonchae. I’m curious to see what she’s like now.

My attention is suddenly pulled away by the sight of brown curls in my peripheral vision, making me snap my head to the right. But I’m quickly disappointed when I realize that the face turning toward me isn’t the one I’d hoped for : it’s just a boy staring at me, clearly confused by my insistent gaze.

I quickly turn my eyes back to the stage to avoid the awkward moment, just as the gym starts shaking from the pulsing beat of an upbeat track while an announcer shouts:

“Please welcome Walton High School’s cheerleading team : KATSEYE!”

The bleachers rumble beneath the students’ stomping feet, and the gym erupts into thunderous applause. I’m surprised by just how adored this team seems to be.

A group of six cheerleaders steps onto the stage. I spot Megan first, a huge, ecstatic smile lighting up her face. Then a poised Asian girl follows, her posture worthy of royalty. She must be one of the girls they told me about at lunch.

Next, I recognize Yoonchae, who looks nothing like the shy, reserved girl I once knew. Her head is held high, her eyes brimming with pride. She stands next to Manon, whose face is focused but clearly content.

My eyes widen when I see the person behind Manon. Confidence radiates from every inch of her, her steps almost feline, long hair now dyed blonde : Daniela. Even without her glasses and with a few added inches, I recognize her instantly, the girl who’s haunted my thoughts these past few years. And she’s nothing like the memory I’ve kept of her.

She smiles and winks at the crowd as if the stage belongs to her. She briefly chats and laughs with the last girl,probably Lara, judging by the scream one of her fangirls just let out right in front of me before taking her position on stage, her smile fading into a focused expression.

The music shifts, and Katseye begins their choreography. I can’t take my eyes off Daniela. Her facial expressions are hypnotic somewhere between sensuality and confidence. She dances like her life depends on it, her pom-poms flying effortlessly around her.

It feels like I’m watching a stranger, a dancer I don’t know. And yet, my eyes are drawn to her irresistibly, like a moth to the flame. I suddenly realize that this is the person she became when she stopped writing to me—I was nothing more than a weight holding her back from her dream. My chest tightens painfully.

My thoughts swirl in my head, a sense of betrayal growing stronger in my heart. But part of me can’t blame her, how could I, when she’s dancing with so much talent and ease?

I’m brought back to reality when the music stops, replaced by thunderous applause. Almost instinctively, I look for Daniela again. Like the rest of the team, she heads toward the bleachers while the football team takes the stage.

I see Megan waving enthusiastically, one hand on her girlfriend’s back and the other pointing directly at me. When Yoonchae sees me, she takes a moment before recognizing me, then flashes me a radiant smile, which I return nervously. Daniela, who was standing right next to the couple, seems to hear Megan’s words and lifts her head curiously in my direction.

When our eyes meet, I see recognition, then shock flicker in hers. Her mouth parts slightly in surprise. But she quickly composes herself, her expression closing off as if she doesn’t know me at all, and turns away toward Sophia, who’s chatting animatedly with her.

My stomach sinks and my heart aches far more than I had imagined. After all these years, it still hurts just as much. I feel tears welling up in my eyes as I try to focus on the football team’s arrogant presentation.

I manage to hold back the tears by concentrating on the team’s ridiculous slogans, and when the principal finally steps on stage, I decide to tear my gaze away from the main scene.

I spot the six members of Katseye sitting beside the boys’ and girls’ football teams on benches facing the stage. My heart clenches when I see how easily one of the players, apparently the captain, throws his arm around Daniela’s shoulders. She laughs at something he says, but the laughter seems forced, restrained, like the scene unfolding before me is just another performance.

The principal ends her speech by reading out the class assignments, starting with the first years. I use the stream of unfamiliar names as a chance to silently beg fate : Please don’t let me be in Daniela’s class, please please please please please…

“In Class A for the final year students… Daniela Avanzini… Manon Bannerman... Lara Rajagopalan… Megan Skiendiel… and our new student, Y/n Y/l.”

Clearly, fate wasn’t listening.

How am I supposed to survive a whole year in the same class as the new queen of the school ?

The answer to my question comes quickly when I spot Manon and Megan waving excitedly at me. Megan even looks a little disappointed not to be in the same class as her girlfriend.

I meet up with Manon and Megan after the assembly to head to our first class, and I tell myself that maybe this year won’t be so bad after all.

What a mistake that was…

***

For the first two months of the school year, it’s simple: Daniela acts like she doesn’t know me. Whenever I see her in class, she barely even glances in my direction, content to laugh with Lara or hold her boyfriend Jason’s hand. Ugh—Jason. An utterly unoriginal name that fits perfectly with the stereotype of the awful, boring popular guy.

But the worst part is, when she doesn’t ignore me, I hear her whisper snide remarks or let out exaggerated sighs whenever I give correct answers in class, earning laughs from most of the class, who seem to worship the ground she walks on. Including Jason, who chuckles like an idiot at every single word that leaves Daniela’s mouth.

Megan and Manon quickly notice her behavior, which, apparently, is very out of character for the usually friendly Latina who normally talks to everyone at school. And even though they’ve called her out on it more than once, it seems, like most things, she couldn’t care less. Her comments only add to the weight pressing on my chest.

But what surprises me most about Daniela is her performance in literature class. Back in middle school, we both excelled in that subject, it was our favorite. But now? It’s the complete opposite. She strolls into literature class with indifference, barely seems to listen to the teacher, and struggles to answer even the simplest questions, clearly taking a hit to her usual confidence.

In the third month, however, I’m forced to work with Lara, Daniela, and Megan on a literature class project. Megan enthusiastically introduces me to the other two. Lara greets me with a polite smile, and Daniela just gives a slight nod before eyeing me from head to toe. I hold her gaze with determination, trying to suppress the blush rising to my cheeks.

She eventually looks away, and the four of us get to work. Lara starts to open up to me as the hour goes by, and we end up laughing together, breaking the tension that had been hanging over the group despite Megan’s awkward attempts to lighten the mood. Daniela only speaks to me a few times, using a neutral tone, like she would with a stranger.

However, I did notice something like an improvement in her behavior,if you can call it that. She glanced my way several times during the hour, and whenever I spoke, she stared at me intensely, as if trying to read who I had become.

When we meet again a few days later to continue the project, I notice that Daniela no longer speaks with that cold tone she had before. The rest of the group work goes more smoothly, although I realize that her change in attitude might partly be due to Lara giving her sharp looks whenever a biting comment seems about to leave her mouth.

As I had already noticed throughout the year, literature doesn’t seem to be Daniela’s strength. I see her asking Megan and Lara discreet questions, as if she doesn’t want me to know, which stings, even if I try to remind myself that I shouldn’t expect anything from her anymore.

In the month following the project, Daniela still doesn’t really talk to me, but her hostility seems to have faded: she no longer completely ignores me and even gives me small smiles when we cross paths in the hallways.

It’s better than before, even if it only makes us classmates at best. At least now, we acknowledge each other as part of the same world again. I find it frustrating, though, I wish I had answers about Daniela’s behavior so I could finally move on.

Even though we’re supposedly supposed to hate each other—as people at school keep reminding me how unusual Daniela’s animosity toward me is—I’ve noticed her snide comments have been decreasing. It gives me hope that maybe, just maybe, we might end up talking and finally addressing the reason why we cut ties.

At the end of our first trimester, I hear both my name and Daniela’s announced over the school loudspeakers, calling us to the principal’s office.

We find ourselves sitting side by side in the principal’s luxurious office, her eyes curiously observing the tension hanging between us. After inviting us to relax and try one of the fancy pastries displayed on her desk, she addresses us with a firm but kind tone:

“Do you know why I’ve called you in today?”

“To reward me for my excellent first trimester?” Daniela replies with a nonchalant, almost insolent tone, while I shake my head.

“Not at all, Miss Avanzini, unless we’ve read two different report cards.”

At the principal’s sharp response, Daniela’s smug expression fades, and she straightens up slightly in her chair, trying to act unbothered.

“I’ve noticed that both of you have strong academic records so far, but each of you has one weak subject pulling your average down. Your weakest subject, Miss Y/l/n, is Spanish, while your top grades are in literature. For Miss Avanzini, it’s the opposite, you’re  fluent in Spanish but struggling significantly in literature…”

Realizing where this is going, I turn toward Daniela, who now looks at the principal as if she’d just sentenced her to a room full of zombies.

“I believe the two of you should collaborate in order to boost your performance and get the best out of each other as a team.”

I’m the first to react.

“That might be a good idea in theory, Madam, to pair students with complementary strengths, but I’m sure there are plenty of others who are just as strong in Spanish as Daniela and…”

“Yes, I’m sure if we look around a bit, we can find other students to work with—students we’d find easier to collaborate with,” Daniela chimes in.

The principal sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose, but regains her composure and speaks with renewed authority:

“Miss Avanzini, life isn’t about what’s easier. It’s about gaining experiences, meeting new people, and even forming bonds with those we never expected to. You’re both excellent students, and I have no doubt in your ability to make this collaboration work.”

She looks each of us in the eye with genuine confidence before handing us both a sheet of paper, which we reluctantly take.

“Here. This is a schedule suggestion based on your respective availabilities. I expect you to meet at least twice a week. I’ll be checking in personally. I don’t know why you’re both so reluctant to work together, but I do know your duo has the potential to succeed—at the very least, academically. Can I count on both of you to commit to these tutoring sessions ?”

"Yes, ma’am," I reply seriously.

“We’ll do what we can,” Daniela adds right after.

“I’m counting on it. Anyway, you may go now, it’s almost time for my 90s film club. Have a good day, girls, and good luck. Make sure to give your tutoring schedule to my secretary as soon as possible.”

We wish her a brief good day before stepping out of the office. I was about to head off toward the chess club without saying a word to Daniela, when she gently grabbed my wrist to stop me, speaking in a voice that tried to sound cold.

“Well, since we’re doomed to work together, we might as well organize things quickly so we can get it over with. Because of my dance practices, I’m not available Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday evenings. So I could give you Spanish lessons on Tuesday evenings… if, uh, that works for you, of course,” she finishes, nervously scratching the back of her neck.

“That works for me Avanzini. And we can do literature lessons on Fridays before your dance practice, I noticed you have a break then. I’ll give you my number so we can stay in touch,” I tell her, showing her my phone screen.

“Okay, sounds good !” Daniela replies with a smile as she quickly types my number into her phone.

I raise an eyebrow at her unusually cheerful tone, so different from how she usually acts with me around others. Noticing my reaction, Daniela’s expression hardens. She lifts her gaze from her phone and adds with a dismissive voice:

“Anyway, it’s not like we have a choice. Whatever, I have more important things to do than saving a stranger’s number.”

The brief lightness I had felt in Daniela’s presence quickly vanished, my heart tightening once again and Before I could say anything back, she had already turned around and was walking toward the school exit.

This partnership is definitely going to be full of surprises…

------

So that was the beginning of my first one-shot! I hope you enjoyed it. I'll try to publish part 2 as soon as possible. I know the poll was leaning towards one part, but I didn't want to leave you with nothing. I don't know yet if it will be in 2 or 3 parts (probably 2).

Have a good day/night everyone !

[jungkooklover777]

𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦 ; clark kent | one-shot |

summary: you finally bring your boyfriend home to meet your family.

pairing: fem!reader x david corenswet!clark kent.

trope: established relationship.

genre: fluff + slight angst + romance.

word count: 891.

random disclaimerrr: i’m ngl bringing a man home sounds so stressful 😭 happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jungkooklover777

clark doesn’t have as big of a family as the average american, just his ma and pa.

you remember meeting them for the first time. to say you were nervous was such an understatement, your belly felt like it was going to cave in on itself from how much adrenaline was running through.

“you don’t have to do much to impress them.” he said. “they’re pretty taken with you.”

that made you happy, giddy with knowing an inkling of how they feel towards you before an official meeting.

clark has loving parents— the kindest pair selected by fate to raise the kindest soul. the term ‘kindred’ has a deeper meaning when it comes to his ma and pa. they found a baby in an advanced technological pod and thought well, he’s one of us now. we have to raise him and love him and care for him.

you tear up sometimes when he talks about them and he’ll smile all warmly with those cute indents pressed into the sides of his cheeks and say, “don’t cry.” so gently. he’ll wipe your tears when they fall and you’ll tell him, “clark, you’re so loved.” and he’ll dot a kiss on your forehead before saying, “so are you.” with a soft smile.

they greeted you with such enthusiasm, all smiles and giddiness. you were stunned momentarily with how quick they accepted you, you forgot to be nervous.

his mother made an amazing home cooked meal (nothing says “welcome home!” like southern hospitality) and clark’s father showed you how to make it. you know, for ‘whenever you’d want to eat it again’. “the secret is in the hands.” he said. “you have to be careful and considerate.”

you’re remembering all of these memories the entire car ride to your family, while your boyfriend is thinking of all the ways your mother can kill with a spoon.

clark understands that out of the both of your parents, it’s your mother that has the call to truly take action. props to your dad for trying his best, though.

your boyfriend is everything— nervous, anxious, timid, tense. it's so unlike him yet so on-brand. only clark would sweat over being tolerated at best.

his hands grip the steering wheel despite the car being parked and you take off your seatbelt, patiently waiting on him to make a move.

and when he does, he speaks. long gone is the mighty timbre in superman's voice, it's replaced with timidness. it seems as though clark has accepted an early defeat. “i really, really want them to like me.” his eyes are filled with unbridled insecurity.

“oh, clark.” you mumble in awe.

you hold his cheek in your palm, finding no other way to comfort him other than your touch. he leans into it with a gracious expression— like you've thrown him a lifeline. he presses a kiss into the heel and your thumb swipes fondly under his eye.

“they’ll love you.”

you don't say ‘like’, you say love. you assure the man you're in love with that your family— the people who've watched the many different versions of you blend into the woman you are today, the same group of people who have raised you with love, care, and respect, the people who've had the gift of growing up alongside you— will love him. they won't grow fond of him in the same way they are of you yet, but they'll learn in time. you’re absolutely sure of it.

he stares into your eyes and nods nimbly, the anxiety still there but lessened significantly.

“ready?” you ask, gently.

you find his answer in your interlocked fingers.

you ring the doorbell and wait, curling your free hand around his bicep and resting your temple against his arm.

clark relaxes a little, his breathing steady and posture straight.

he can hear joyous laughter on the other side, the kind that brings an automatic smile to the face. he knew your nieces and nephews would be here as well, excited to see their beloved aunt. a thought pops into his head before he can dismiss it: children of his own someday, with you. that wouldn't be so bad now, would it? no, he thinks as he tilts his chin in your direction.

the door opens and just as you're in sight, you're engulfed in hugs and a blooming warmth.

clark beams at the sight, so happy you're cherished by your family the same way he is by ma and pa. clark can only hope to unite the two families.

“dad,” you start. “this is clark.”

you rub clark's shoulder blade comfortingly and he puts on his best smile.

your dad tilts his chin up, sticking his hand out to shake with clark's. “clark, it is nice to finally meet you.”

“it's very nice to meet you, too, sir.” your boyfriend shakes his hand and tries hard not to think about if his own are sweaty.

you step inside and are immediately swept away by the tide of your cousins and uncles and aunts. you turn back to meet clark's panicked eyes but they're out of your sight when you see the back of your mother's head.

you don't know what was said but when you see his shoulders visibly relax and your mother smile, you know he's gonna be alright. you both are.

[54nboo]

So… you remember episode 4x7 when that woman hypnotizes Spencer to make him remember if his father killed someone? Alright. Here’s my thought:

After the case is solved, some of his memories from his childhood start coming back, and we all know they weren’t the happiest memories… So he’s kinda sad and down. And he goes to reader (you choose if we work on the bau or not) and she takes care of him. Like very angst and then very fluff and comfort bc that boy deserves spoiling and pampering and kisses and hugs and everything 😭

oh my lord i forgot about that 😞 yes of course i will write this for you anon thank you for requesting :D

“peppermint tea.” spencer reid.

summary: after a horrible therapy session, spencer needs a break— he needs you.

pairing: spencer reid x partner!reader

insp by: ‘child psychology’ by black box recorder

word count: 2.6k

cw: mentions of spencer’s childhood, spencer speaking bad about himself, not super angsty i guess, spencer and penelope BESTIES, and then super duper fluffy fluff.

a/n: it makes me sad whenever i remember ANY of the bau’s backstories like theyre genuinely so heartbreaking

spencer wakes up in a cold sweat.

the room is quiet. the muted sunlight spills in through half-opened blinds, casting streams ofpale light across the office floor. he blinks once. then twice. his pulse is racing, and the memory of his dreams are still stuck in his mind.

it takes him a moment to remember where he is. the couch, the faint smell of lavender, the taunting clicking of the clock on the wall. spencer brings a hand to his forehead, wiping away the spots of sweat that had accumulated in his sleep.

doctor west sits across from spencer, a calming smile on her face as she watches him sit up. she slides a cold glass of water towards him, the condensation already pooling on the coaster, "you were under for about fifteen minutes. how do you feel?"

spencer's throat is dry. he takes a small sip from the glass and places it back down. he doesn't answer right away. he's still trying to catch his breath and still can't quite recall everything.

"i was in the garage again." he speaks, "next to the red toolbox."

she nods, her notepad balanced perfectly on her lap, "did you see anything that you haven't seen before?"

spencer's jaw clenches, "i heard someone call my name."

"your father?"

"i don't... i don't know." he leans forwards, his elbows digging into his knees, hands clasped together tightly, "it was distorted. felt like i was underwater."

doctor west jots something down in her notepad, "memories are linear, and sometimes, they come in fragments. you're starting to connect them."

spencer shakes his head, "or maybe i'm just making it up. that's what it feels like. i mean... we didn't even have a garage."

she lifts her eyes from her notepad, calm and measured, "well, sometimes our subconscious presents things metaphorically—"

"it's always a metaphor. it's always a symbol, or a projection, or a defence mechanism—" spencer feels his chest tighten, like he can't breathe, "but what if it's not? what if its just... wrong?"

doctor west watches him carefully. she can see that he's upset by the way his chest rises up and down in sharp breaths, and the way his lip ever-so-slightly quivers. she sighs.

"you asked to remember, spencer. this takes time."

"i asked for help. how exactly is this helping?" his voice is sharp, eyes set onto doctor west. he wonders what she's written on her notepad. that he's sick? that he's beyond help? "i'm not sleeping. i'm barely eating. i feel like i'm getting worse."

"you're unraveling a very deep and traumatic past. your body and your mind are responding—" doctor west furrows her brows, shifting slightly in her chair, "spencer, if you'd just sit for a minute—"

but spencer's already standing up from the couch and shrugging on his coat. he entire body still feels heavy from the session, but he wants to be anywhere but here right now. he doesnt meet her eyes, only stares down at the ground like it might open up and swallow him whole.

"i'm sorry." he mutters. his voice is flat— not angry, just final. "i can't sit here and pretend this is helping."

"spencer—"

"i'll call if i want another session."

there's a deep pressure within spencer's chest. it presses against his lungs, dense and unrelenting, like someone's slowly stacking bricks inside of him. every breath he takes feel borrowed, like it could be his last if he's not careful.

but he can't do much about it. he's taken about four painkillers to at least try and ease the pressure, but it hasn't worked. if anything, it's only filled the edges of his mind and made his body feel heavier. he's resorted to just shoving his face into a bunch of paperwork he's yet to fill out.

no one had wanted to bother him. hotch had deployed a 'leave-reid-alone' rule for the rest of the day after learning how disastrous his session had gone.

"hey, garcia?"

penelope spins around in her chair like she's just heard someone say she's won the lottery. her bright mismatched earrings swing as she turns to face spencer, who's standing in the doorway of her office. he looks like he's about to leave— coat pulled over his shoulders and his bag around his neck— but there's a couple of papers still in his hands.

she's obviously surprised— the team hadn't even managed to make eye contact with him— and now he's standing at her door, asking her for something? its a miracle.

"you need something, precious?" she grins just enough to hide the flicker of concern in her voice.

spencer doesn't smile, but he does steps inside.

"i thought you might need these." he holds out the papers and penelope takes them, eyes glancing at the information, "there's some comparative data from the london case last fall, and the new york victims from last week. you mentioned wanting a clearer link for your report, right?"

penelope blinks. she hadn't been expecting him to talk much today, if not at all— but she accepts the papers like it’s a present.

"i did!" she flips through the papers, impressed by his organisation, "this is thorough. oh wow, you colour-coded it?"

he shrugs like its nothing, "the similarities are subtle. i thought it might make the whole process a little quicker for you so you dont have to spend all day on it."

penelope studies him for a moment. his eyes dont quite meet hers, looking around at everything except her general direction. he's stiff— stiffer than usual— like he's running entirely on muscle memory to keep him going.

she softens, "you wanna hang out for a bit while i run this stuff?"

he hesitates, then nods once, "if that's okay."

penelope grins. she pulls over a plastic chair from the corner of the room with a theatrical scoot and pats it gently, gesturing for him to sit. he does, slowly, but his body calms down the moment his butt hits the chair.

she swivels around in her chair, fingers dancing around on her keyboard, feeling high on life. she's practically glowing as caffeine and purpose run through her veins.

"so—speaking of london— when's the partner getting back?" penelope asks, eyes still on her screen, "i'm still waiting on that introduction."

it's hard to miss the shift of expression on spencer's face.

spencer had forgotten you were coming back. he almost feels a little guilty. with everything else in his mind— the cases, the sessions, and the nights he spent awake running from his own memories— it had seemed to slip his mind. you hadn't given him an exact date, just said that it was on the weekend. god, he hoped you were already at home. he doesn't think he can stand another day alone.

"today, tomorrow, or sunday" he replies, a soft breathy laugh falling from his mouth, "honestly, i hope it's today. it'd be nice to spend the weekend together before we both go back to work on monday."

penelope, who's been pretending not to watch him too closely, feels her heart blush. there's only a handful of people she truly feels a protective tenderness over, and you and spencer are two of them.

"you're so lucky you're with someone who's well-travelled." she says with a grin, "i've read in a cosmopolitan magazine that they're a lot more open-minded, emotionally intelligent, and great under pressure. they also usually speak more than one language. how many does your jet-setting sweetheart speak again? four?"

his voice is tired, but penelope can hear the quiet admiration laced through it, "four fluently, but six in total."

"god, that's so attractive. you guys are gonna have such cute multilingual babies." she raises her brows, "honestly, you're being kind of selfish keeping that kind of brilliance to yourself. i might have to steal them from you. i want cute multilingual babies."

"you'd probably get bored in five minutes. i don't think listening to an entire ted-talk on the architectural restoration of postwar prague is your type of fun."

"are you kidding? i watched the entirety of the 18 hour documentary on the european train system just because your world-class cutie suggested it." penelope shoots back, "i am committed."

spencer huffs a quiet laugh. there's a moment of silence between them, then penelope tilts her head, her smile gentler now. "go home, spence. you've got a brilliant, world-class nerd hopefully waiting for you." she says.

his lip curls into a grateful smile as he stands up, bag slung haphazardly around his shoulder, "you mind letting hotch know?"

penelope waves him off, "no, go ahead. go see your lover."

her eyebrows wiggle playfully as she watches spencer leave, and she rests her chin in her hand like she's watching the final scene of a romantic movie.

"what a stupidly beautiful genius power couple." she sighs.

the apartment door clicks shut gently behind him. it smells faintly of coffee and old books, but he catches a whiff of something sweeter— familiar.

his bag slips from his shoulder. he gently toes off his toes and places his keys into the small bowl by the door. despite his fatigue, spencer notices that there are an extra pair of shoes by the door.

there's a soft sound in the kitchen— the clink of a mug against the wooden countertop. familiar. comforting. he follows the noise like a magnet, and steps quietly into the kitchen doorway.

it's you.

you're stood near the sink, back faced towards him, pouring hot water from the kettle into your mug. you're dressed in a loose grey sweater— his— and a pair of black shorts. spencer guessed you've already been home for a few hours.

it's such a simple image, but it makes spencer feel something stutter in his chest. its the sweater. its the smell of you. its the sound of you in the kitchen like you had never left.

"you're home." spencer says. his voice is low, like he's afraid he might scare you if he speaks any louder.

you turn at the sound, mug still in hand, and your eyes land onto his. theyre full of surprise and the kind of softness that makes the tension in his shoulders go slack.

"so are you." you joke as you tilt your head with a cheeky grin, arms extended towards him as you embrace him, "hi spence. i missed you."

and for the first time in a long time, spencer finally lets himself breathe.

his hands snake around your torso as he pulls you in. you're warm and freshly showered, smelling faintly of honey and something soft that he can't name, but always associates with home. he presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he's been holding his breath all day.

"i missed you too." he mutters against your skin, "so much."

you hesitantly pull away. your hands find refuge on the sides of spencer's face, his jaw is tense, though his touch is anything but. you instantly notice that somethings off.

you think back to the other day when spencer had told you therapy wasn't helping— you just hadn't expected it to show this much on his face. his eyes are a little sunken and darker than usual, like sleep hadn't come in days. he's much paler, and you almost want to just sit him down and cook him a proper meal just to make sure he’s nourished and healthy.

but you were together now, and you knew you could help him get better, and that he would let you.

spencer's eyes are heavy, ringed with the kind of exhaustion that sleep alone can't fix, but they soften when they meet yours. you place a gently kiss onto the corner of his mouth.

"you wanna hop in the shower?" you ask gently, brushing a strand of his hair from his face, "i can quickly make you something to eat."

but spencer shakes his head.

"no. i just..." his voice breaks a little as he steps forward, pulling you into his arms again with quiet urgency, "i just want to go to bed."

you let him. you can feel the tension in his arms, and you can feel him uncoil the longer they’re wrapped around you. the fabric of his sweater vest smells like detergent. it’s fresh and familiar, like home folded into cotton.

“okay,” you whisper, pressing a kiss onto the side of his head, “let’s go to bed.”

you unravel yourself from his arms and lean over, grabbing your mug. you can feel how spencer drags himself behind you. he’s heavy with exhaustion, but there’s a softness in the way he holds you. you can feel it in the way he’s holding onto your hand, a silent ‘thank you’ or a wordless ‘don’t let go’.

the bedroom is dim. your table lamp is on, cascading both of you in warm orange light. you lead spencer over to his side of the bed, and he plops down like he weighs a thousand pounds.

he pulls his sweater vest over his head, placing it tenderly on his bedside table, then unbuttons his pants. he tugs then down until they fall around he ankles, and then kicks them off. there’s nothing inherently sexual about it— just the overwhelming need to be comfortable in your arms as he falls asleep. he doesn’t need his pants to get in the way of total bliss.

he leans back, his head hitting the pillow just as it had for the past month, but only now does he feel sleep catching up to him.

“you want some tea?” you ask as you make yourself comfy in your spot. spencer’s already leaning over and pulling you in closer by your waist. he takes extra care in making sure you don’t spill the tea in your hand— like even in his exhaustion, he’s still thinking of you first.

“no, it’s okay.” he murmurs into your side, his eyes half-closed, “it’s yours.”

“trust me, spence. i’ve had enough tea while i was in london.” you reply with a smile as you take a small sip anyways, “but okay. more for me.”

you place your mug onto a coaster. you both settle underneath the covers. spencer shifts, curling into you, his arm draped across your stomach and his breath fanning into your side.

but even in his stillness, you can feel it— the tension in his shoulders and the coil of stress in his chest, the way his muscles are still taught underneath your hand. you can feel it through his shirt. he’s resting, but not entirely.

you scooch down a little, just enough that you can hold him— chest to chest and legs tangled together. your hands run up his back, your fingers pressing gently against the length of his spine.

he lets out a small breath, humming softly in response. you keep going— across his shoulder blades, down the sides of his torso, the base of his neck— until you feel him melt in your arms.

then you lean in, brushing a kiss against the tip of his nose, then another on the peak of his cheekbone, and then another right on the corner of his mouth, just because.

“i love you.” you whisper, though you’re not sure if he’s still awake.

and thats when you hear it— his soft, rhythmic breathing breathing. spencer’s snoring.

you stay there for a moment. you and spencer are wrapped in each others arms, your fingers tracing lazy patterns into his back and his hands pulling you impossible close to him in his sleep. the occasional quiet snore lets you know that he’s well and truly out.

you dont move— you can’t. eventually, you glance at the nightstand where your peppermint tea sits untouched, no longer steaming and probably gone cold.

but it doesn’t matter. you can brew another one in the morning. what matters is that spencer is warm in your arms— finally rested, and finally still. the weight he’d been carrying for a month had been erased within five minutes of your presence, and you’d trade a million cups of tea for this moment.

you press one more gentle kiss to his hairline.

he’s safe, he’s home, and he’s finally resting.

[ashlynssvalentines]

POST-REALIZATION HEADCANNONS :: Tony ★★★★★

⚊⚊﹒🪛﹒⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊

my current fav character rn don't ask me why... I haven't seen any so might aswell do it on ur own right?

⚊⚊﹒💕﹒⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊⚊

Note: trying to keep it as realistic as possible...!!!!!!

✰ : In very other episode he definitely checks out any fan mail and reads them out LOUD !!! It's definitely just filled with thirsty housewives complaining about their partner, angry construction workers ("bitch u ain't even building shit!!!"), & other realized dateables (if you ever made one, he'd definitely keep it with his other blueprints stash, will only be reading it on special occasions)

✮ : He wouldn't hesitate on revising the lessons he did on the show while he's in your arms, it doesn't matter if you don't watch or watch it always. WILL do it with passion, just like old times in his little workshop.

✯ : Definitely has a hard time trying to contact his uncle Ton's & auntie Toni's. I think he'd honor his wholeheartedly mom & nonna knowing he probably won't be able to talk or see them anymore.

✪ : Tony has phases where he gets PISSED off when the audience aren't answering his "Principles of a Successful Relationship" questions, letting out his inner New Yorker. His PR Team were fucked when he suddenly blurped out "C'MON MY HUMAN CAN DO BETTER THAN THIS!!!"

✫ : Him and Rainey are still very close, Tony stayed up just to get a ticket for "TALC!" Front row seats and everything.

✯ : Whenever Tony takes you out on dates, he doesn't hesitate on choosing VERY public areas. Sometimes he forgets he's THAT famous. He enjoys the "running away from obsessed fans" moments with you, taking you in a cornered place to take a little kiss from you after.

★ : Tony has a great apartment where he lives in. And he still does repairs when it's sometimes unnecessary, he wants it exactly like how he had it in mind!!

[cece693]

hihi !! have you ever watched dexter? if so would u be willing to write for dexter morgan? he has barely any male reader fics and its sad :(

No, I haven't watched Dexter, but I heard it was a good show. So, while skimming the Wiki I decided to stick the the most basic info to create this fic which was the code he follows while killing. I hope you enjoy it!

CRACKS IN THE CODE

pairing: dexter morgan x male reader synopsis: Dexter doesn't fall in love. He observes, adapts, mimics. But you awaken something real in him. And it’s a problem. Because you belong to someone else. And Dexter never kills the innocent until now.

He noticed you first at Miami Metro, laughing too brightly with Debra. You had the kind of smile that could disarm even the most jaded detective. Even Dexter—though he didn’t realize it at the time.

You weren’t like the others. You didn’t flinch from blood reports or crime scene photos. You spoke softly, moved with intention, and always seemed to say exactly what you meant. You weren’t afraid of silence, either, and that intrigued him more than he wanted to admit.

At first, Dexter told himself it was curiosity. That you were just… interesting. Worth observing. That maybe your partner—Detective James Connelly—was the real reason you kept orbiting his thoughts. Connelly was arrogant, hot-tempered, and dirty. Dexter had his eye on him anyway.

It was practical. Logical.

But then there were the quiet moments. Your lunch breaks in the evidence room with a tupperware box and a book. The way you always offered him a piece of your sandwich, despite knowing he'd say no. The way you looked at him—not like most people did, with confusion or wariness—but like you saw him. Really saw him.

And Dexter hated that he liked it.

You never suspected what was going on behind those watchful eyes. Dexter was good at that—masking. Hiding. But around you, something cracked. You once asked him, “Why don’t you ever talk about yourself?”

He shrugged, gave a rehearsed answer: “Not much to say.”

But you’d only nodded, and said, “Then I’ll just wait until you do.”

You never pushed. You never pried. You waited. And that terrified him more than any killer ever could.

The problem was James.

He saw the way James treated you. Possessive. Loud. Rough in ways Dexter didn’t like. You flinched sometimes when James gripped your wrist too tightly or leaned too close in crowded hallways. Nobody else seemed to notice—but Dexter did.

And the more he noticed, the more the Dark Passenger whispered: He deserves it.

But James didn’t meet the Code. Not really. Not until Dexter started following him at night, just to justify the desire humming under his skin.

That’s when he saw it: James taking bribes. Using excessive force. Threatening a civilian during an interrogation. It was enough. Barely. But Dexter didn’t need a perfect excuse.

Because this time…it wasn’t about justice.

It was about you.

The Kill Room was quiet. Cold. Wrapped in plastic, the way Dexter always liked it.

James struggled. Screamed. Spat.

“You fucking psycho—he’s mine! He’ll never—!”

Dexter tilted his head, calm as ever. “You hurt him.”

“What—? You don’t even know him!”

Dexter’s voice dropped, as he held the knife, steady as steel. “I know enough.”

And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel hollow after the kill. He felt relieved.

You were grieving when he found you the next day. James had gone missing. Presumed dead. You were quiet. Unmoored. Dexter sat beside you on the station steps. Neither of you said anything for a long while. Eventually, you spoke.

“I feel guilty for not being sadder.”

Dexter looked at you, carefully. “Why do you think that is?”

You exhaled. “Because I think part of me is…free now.” You glanced at him. “Is that awful?”

“No,” he said gently. “Not awful at all.”

You blinked, surprised by the softness in his voice. “You’re being weirdly comforting.”

“I can be comforting,” he murmured. “When I care enough to try.”

You stared at him. “Are you saying you care about me?”

“…Would it bother you if I did?”

You gave a sad laugh. “I think it would scare me how much I’d like that.”

Dexter didn’t smile. He rarely did when it was genuine. But something in his eyes shifted—lighter, almost warm. He brushed your hand with his fingertips, barely touching, and you didn’t pull away.

Later, when the two of you kissed for the first time, you whispered, “You’re strange.”

Dexter’s breath ghosted your neck. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.”

“You mean like a crush?”

“No,” he said honestly. “Like something I need to have. No matter the cost.”

You didn’t understand what he meant. Not fully.

Not then.

But you would.

And by the time you realized how far he went to make you his, you were already too far gone to care.

[juliaswritingbubble]

"Love you"

summary: where Y/N is visiting Spencer in prison and when he finally gets out confessions are made It took Prentiss and Rossi to convince me to visit Spencer. He has been imprisoned for over two months now, and I always had a good excuse to not see him. Even when everybody always told me, he was asking about me and I really should go see him. I drove to Millburn at least three times, but I couldn't make myself go in.

I know seeing him locked up, maybe beaten up, hurt, his hazel eyes filled with sorrow and a distinct glimmer of hope that I can't fulfill or ignite more—it will be the hardest thing I have ever done.

But I'm standing here now. Inside the prison, giving them my credentials and locking away my gun. My heart is racing, my palms are sweaty, and I try to calm down my breath. I straighten my shirt; it's bright red and tight-fitted. I also took out my black dress pants, boots, and a blazer—all black. I took my time to look decent and pretty. I did my makeup carefully and curled my hair and styled it.

“Visitor for inmate Reid, booth 6, over here,” the guard calls me, and I take a seat. In front of me is a mid-high divider; to the left and right are Plexiglas dividers. I fumble with my hands, twisting my ring, adjusting my hair, and when the inmates walk in, I push up my glasses when his eyes find mine and his face relaxes and a faint smile appears on his lips.

Spencer takes a seat across from me and I so desperately want to hug him or at least touch him, but we are not allowed to.

“Hi,” he says quietly, observing my facial expression and avoiding his gaze. I'm afraid I will break if I look too closely at him.

“Hey,” I answer equally quiet and take a deep breath.

“It’s so good to see you. I thought you forgot about me.” He chuckles, and I try to smile halfheartedly.

“I didn’t. I just…I…” I stammer and pick my nails. His voice is so soft and understanding when he says:

“I know. It's hard…for everybody. But I'm so happy you are here now. How is my mom? I heard you visit her as often as possible.” Now I look up into his eyes. He is leaning over as close as he can without getting called out.

I smell soap, but it's different than usual; he usually smells of coffee, sandalwood, or sometimes detergent, but never of cheap soap. Our eyes meet, and I can't look away. Neither can he. Despite my fear of looking into his eyes, I can't see hurt or sorrow. Just love and that he deeply cares for me.

“I miss you, and I am so sorry I can’t do more for you right now. We are trying everything we can… I’m so sorry,” I whisper, and his eyes soften even more.

“I’ll survive. I know you are doing your best out there. I trust you, and I trust the team with my life. Just please… Visit more often… It eases me to see and talk to you. I miss you so much.” I nod in agreement and shoot him an honest smile.

“Okay, will do. About your mom, she is fine. I saw her yesterday, went for a walk, and ate ice cream at your favorite spot. She asks about you a lot; we agreed on telling her you are on a vacation at the beach. You don't need to worry about her; we got her.” I answer his previous question. He smiles at me and nods, relieved.

“Thank you, how are you?” I shrug my shoulders.

“I’m okay. It’s you I’m worried about, Spence.” His face twitches when he hears his nickname.

“Tell me about your activities; you always do so much outside of work. I miss you telling me about it after the weekend.” Usually I meet my friends or visit them, doing fun stuff at the beach or hiking the mountains, going to concerts. But since he is here… I didn't do anything; I was just trying to work on the case like everybody else, but I know I can't tell him that, so I make some things up. I tell him about a hike I supposedly did with some friends and about a team gathering at Rossi's that actually never happened. He smiles and listens carefully, happy to have something else to think about than his situation.

“Visiting hour is over; inmates line up,” the guard yells, and I kind of panic. This can't be it! It was way too short. Spencer gets up, looking down at me. Now I notice how thin he got; I mean, he was always lean, but he has lost some weight. His cheeks are sunken, and his hair is long and combed back, disheveled. His hands are cuffed with a chain, which is connected to his feet. It clinks as he moves.

“It was good seeing you… so good… Don't worry, I'm going to be fine. Love you,” he whispers and walks out of the room. My eyes follow him closely, watching him disappear through the glass door, my eyes filling with tears I held back the whole time. I cover my face with my hands, sobbing and not seeing him turning around and watching me with sorrow. I try to still process him saying “Love you.”

When I get back to my car, I break completely. I sit there at least 20 minutes, crying for my friend, who is hurting inside these damn walls.

A few weeks later we finally manage to get him out and clear his name. When we get the notice, that he is ready to get picked up, we all get in the cars. I take his go bag from his locker so he has some clothes to change into. I'm so excited to get him outside of this hell. I have visited him in the last weeks a couple of times; we didn't talk so much; mostly I just comforted him by being there.

When we arrive at the prison, we send in JJ as his longest and closest friend to get him. It takes nearly an hour before we see her blonde head appear in the door of the facility. All of us are waiting eagerly for them to get out of the gate. Spence is wearing his usual attire: a button-down shirt, tie, cardigan, and slacks, and his Chucks. He looks nearly normal; despite his weight loss and longer hair, he even shaved.

Penelope is the first one to hug him; he nods at something she says to him, and I look at JJ's red-rimmed eyes. She definitely cried. Rossi hugs Spencer like a dad, and he buries his head on his shoulder.

Before anyone else can get ahold of him, I step closer. We smile at each other, stopping for a second, remembering how bad we both wanted to hug each time in prison. He pulls me into his chest, my arms wrapping around his waist. We clutch one another like drowning sailors clutch to a lifebuoy.

“God, I missed this,” he whispers, and I smile, pressing my face into his shoulder. “Me too.” He rubs my back and kisses my cheek.

We step away from each other, and I look into his eyes for a split second, seeing them swimming with tears. He chuckles embarrassedly and wipes his eyes. The rest of the team hugs him as well, then we decide to get him back to his home so he can see his mom.

At the BAU he asks me if I could get him home, and I nod—of course. We say our goodbyes; Prentiss advises him to take some time off for his mom and himself. He gets into my car, and I start driving through the city.

“This is surreal. Being out here again when I thought I wouldn’t see the light of day again,” he murmurs, watching people walking the streets, laughing, rushing home. I pat his thigh, and he is turning his head to face me.

“I told you, we were going to get you out.” He grabs my hand and holds it for the rest of the drive. When I stop in front of his apartment building, he stares at it in disbelief, still holding my hand.

I open my door, slowly retreating my hand from his, and get out of my car. He does the same and grabs his bag from the backseat.

“Do you want to come with me? I’m actually a bit scared,” he admits, and I’m unsure. I don’t want to intrude on his reunion with his mom, but he genuinely seems scared.

“Sure, I can come for a few minutes.” He looks relieved, and I follow him upstairs to his apartment. He unlocks the door and enters his apartment, with me directly behind him.

“Spencer!” I hear his mom, and I am so relieved she remembers him right now. They hug tightly, and I smile at the sight of him finally hugging his mom again.

“Y/N, good to see you again,” she says over his shoulder to me, and I smile at her.

“You too, Mrs. Reid.” They loosen their grip on each other, and his mom starts telling him everything she did, and he laughs. The first time since we picked him up, he laughs from his heart. I tear up when I hear the familiar sound.

“Do you want some tea?” he asks me, smiling. I shake my head.

“No thank you, I’ve got to go actually… You two need some time alone.” He steps closer, grabbing my hands. His eyes are soft; he doesn't want me to go, but he understands that I just want them to have time to catch up.

“Thank you…for everything,” he says, but I shake my head.

“Of course, Spencer. You are my friend; I would do anything for you… we all would.”

“I know…likewise. But seeing you sitting in that booth kept me sane and going. You were my anchor…you are.” I turn bright red and look at our hands, holding each other. His thumbs caressing the back of my hands.

“I’m glad I could give you some hope. Now spend your time with your mom, and if you want, we can grab some coffee in the next couple days.” He smiles and nods.

“I’d like that.” I hug him once again and wish both of them a good night before I step out, leaving him with his mom.

The next day I get a call from him around midday.

“Hey, how was your night?” I ask him as soon as I pick up.

“It was good; my mom and I talked a lot. And I slept like a baby in my own bed; it's still surreal. But I wanted to ask…if…you suggested coffee yesterday, right?” “Yeah, sure. Where do you want to meet?” “Actually… I ehm… I would like to turn coffee into dinner, if you don’t mind.” I sit up from my couch. He wants to take me to dinner?

“Eh…sure. Did you ask the others too?” “N-No, I thought I’d just take you out… just us catching up. I mean, I could ask the others, of course, if you're uncomfortable going with me alone. That's really no prob—“ I cut him off.

“No, no. I'm not uncomfortable… just surprised. I’d love to have dinner with you.” “Great! I… I’ll pick you up at 7.30.” He hangs up, sounding so excited for later. I giggle and start getting ready immediately. I'm so nervous about going to dinner with Spencer.

I change my outfit at least three times, putting on makeup and doing my hair. I put it in a low bun, put in my contacts, and carefully pick jewelry. I take a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror. The dress is simple but pretty. It's dark red, tight-fitted, and just looks great. I'm happy with myself.

A knock on the door signals that I have to go. I open the door; Spencer is standing there, smiling. He looks…just great. His hair is still a bit unruly, but his eyes are warm and soft, his smile is comforting, and I can smell his familiar scent that I missed so much. No longer cheap prison soap. He wears a black tuxedo, a white button-up shirt, and a dark red tie. Matching with my dress. I laugh and point at it.

“Matching, huh? You look so handsome.” His cheeks flush, and he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Hi… You look pretty, too. Just stunning.” I smile at him, slip into my shoes, and grab my purse. He offers me his arm and leads me to his old-timer, which I absolutely love.

He reserved a table at a cute little restaurant in Washington, where he led me inside.

“Hello, a table for two. The name is Reid,” he says to the waitress, and she leads us to a small table in the corner, where Spence pulls out the chair for me.

“Thank you,” I say and take a seat. He unbuttons his blazer and sits across from me.

“I’m so happy you agreed to go to dinner with me,” he says and rests his hands on the table. I grab them and smile at him while I look him straight in the eyes.

“Of course, Spencer. I love spending time with you, and I missed you so much.” He smiles widely and nods.

“I missed you too, you know that.” The waitress takes our orders, and while we get our drinks and cheers to each other, chatting about everything and anything, we get lost in our own little bubble.

It's light and a little flirty; we both enjoy our food and the wine. I feel him looking at me for longer periods of time. He even sometimes touches my hands, and I love seeing him laugh. I love seeing his eyes squeezing, the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, and the small smile lines on his mouth.

“What is it?” he asks, flustered, and rubs his face with his hand. I chuckle and shake my head lightly. “Nothing, I just…like watching you laugh.” His cheeks flush, and he looks down at his hands.

“Actually, Spence… I have a question.” I take all of my courage to start with this when the waitress asks us if we want anything else. I shake my head, and Spence asks for the check.

He pays for both of us without hesitation and walks me out of the restaurant. It's a bit chilly, and he immediately takes off his blazer and wraps it around my shoulders. His smell hits me hard. I feel kind of dizzy and loved, taken care of. My heart is pounding when he looks into my eyes, his hands still on my arms.

“Thank you,” I whisper and take everything in. His smell, his closeness, and his hands on my arms.

“You’re welcome. You wanted to ask me something inside?” I nod.

“When I visited you for the first time, you remember that?” He smiles at me, squeezing my arms lightly.

“Of course. You wore a red shirt and black pants, your makeup was flawless, like today, and the one thing that took my breath completely away when you sat opposite to me in that damn prison…was your smell. I never knew someone could miss someone's smell as much as I missed yours. This visit saved me; how could I ever forget it?” His eyes are so soft and so close. He remembers everything. Of course he does.

“Yeah, that day…when you had to go…you said something to me.” He nods and slowly cups my cheek with his hand, caressing the soft skin with his thumb.

“It was good seeing you… so good… Don't worry, I'm going to be fine. Love you,” he repeats his exact words.

“Yes…why?” He knows what I mean.

“Because I do.” The explanation is so simple yet it makes so much sense at the same time. His eyes switch to my lips, my cheek still pressed against his soft hand. I can't really answer him; I just look at his beautiful face in awe. He licks his lips and steps closer.

“May I…” His voice is raspy, and I just nod. Yes, please. Kiss me, finally.

He moves slowly at first, almost reverent, like he’s afraid I might vanish—like this is a dream he’s had too many times to trust that it’s real now. But then his hands lift, trembling just slightly, and he cups my face in his palms. His fingers splay along my jaw, thumbs brushing the soft skin beneath my cheekbones. They’re warm. Grounding. Like he needs to touch me just to be sure I’m real.

He leans in, and my breath catches.

I rise onto my toes, my hands finding the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric like I can hold him there—not just for this moment, but for every moment that’s still to come.

When our lips meet, it’s nothing like I imagined in all those lonely nights—it’s more. His lips are soft but certain, moving with a slowness that speaks of years of restraint, breaking over me like waves that have finally reached the shore. His breath catches when I kiss him back—really kiss him—and it feels like every moment we’ve held back is pouring into this one.

Every glance, every unspoken confession, every time I stood too close or pulled away too fast—it’s all here, in the way his mouth moves with mine, in the way he finally lets himself feel it.

He makes a small sound, something between a sigh and a hum, and then his hand slides into my hair, cradling the base of my skull. He deepens the kiss, and I tilt my head slightly, parting my lips just enough to taste him—to taste everything we’ve denied ourselves for so long.

His lips are warm, almost trembling, and the longer we stay like this—connected, breathing into each other—the more I feel his breath mixing with mine, his heartbeat thudding fast against my chest. His curls brush my forehead as he leans into me, close enough that I feel like I’m melting into him.

I never want to let go.

When we finally part, it’s not a full step back—just a breath, just enough to look at each other. His eyes are glassy, wide with something like wonder, like awe. He looks at me like I’m the first thing he’s ever really seen.

“That… was worth every minute of waiting,” he says, voice rough with emotion.

I’m still on my toes, still holding onto his shirt like I might fall if I let go. My lips tingle. My heart is racing. And somewhere deep inside me, something releases — something that’s been held tight for far too long.

I smile and let my fingers slide up to trace along his jaw. “It was worth everything.”

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