#they never develop what they Need to develop

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 6

AN: at some point while writing this I was in agonizing pain so dunno if some parts make sense. I’ve also read the requests I got in my inbox and made some of them come true, though I’m not that satisfied with this part, love y’all

cw: sexual fantasies just again, boys pissing, cursing, Stockholm Syndrome developing, the usual

Jinu stands barefoot at the sink of his bathroom, brushing his teeth. Perfect posture, slow circular movements, jaw sharp, looking like our wet dream yes OUR.

SLAM.

The door blasts open. There’s no knock. There’s never a knock. In stumbles Abby, shirtless, his sweats riding low and his hair still flattened on one side from sleep. There’s a red mark on his cheek. A bite mark, maybe. Could’ve been Mystery. Or Romance. Or a mirror.

He’s yawning mid-step, scratching his chest like a caveman, and doesn’t even glance at Jinu before beelining for the toilet.

Jinu stops brushing his teeth. Mouth still full of toothpaste foam. He doesn’t even look. He just sighs. Long. Exhausted.

“…Really?” Jinu mutters around the toothbrush, eyes closing in silent acceptance of his fate.

Abby’s already pissing.

“Aaahh.” Abby groans, shoulders sagging in blissful relief. “You ever just hold it all night and then think—why am I doing this to myself? Bro. Pain.”

“We have six other bathrooms in this apartment.” Jinu says dryly, mouth full of foam. “You know this.”

Abby doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even turn his head.

Jinu stares at the mirror.

Abby finishes peeing, finally. But not before spitting a little “tsss” through his teeth like he’s finishing a line in a rap battle. Then flushes. Then starts washing his hands badly. Then he claps Jinu on the shoulder, then starts walking starts toward the door. “Think I’ll bring her breakfast.”

“You’ll bring her three muffins and a Red Bull.”

“Okay and?”

“Let me do it.”

“Jealous?”

“Not in the mood to clean puke off white linen.”

“You love that girl.” Abby mutters casually. “Alright, lover boy. You do your thing.” he says, backing out the door. He gives Jinu a little mock salute on his way out. “Brush those pearly whites. Don’t forget the tongue.”

Jinu turns back to the sink, toothbrush half-raised again. And just as he finally gets a moment of silence, Abby pops his head back in.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“You’re my favorite.”

And then he disappears. Door slamming shut behind him.

Jinu stares at his reflection in the mirror for a long, slow beat.

Meanwhile in your room, you rise slowly, careful of your joints, and swing your legs over the bed. The cold floor is a small shock to your toes. Still, you make it up. Upright. Balanced. Alive.

You shuffle to your door, drowsy but determined. You need water. You need food. You need to brush your damn teeth.

You crack the door open.

There’s a person-shaped lump curled on the floor, pressed sideways against the wall next to your door, arms folded under his head, knees tucked in. A blanket wrapped sloppily around his shoulders. His breathing is slow. Steady.

Mystery.

You crouch, knees complaining. He’s really out. His light hair has fallen over his face, lips slightly parted, and you can hear the faintest inhale-exhale sound. There’s no growling. No tension. Just… Mystery. Sleeping. Peacefully. Like this is where he decided to stay. Outside your door. Like a guard dog. A beautiful, growly little feral one. With his patterns visible.

“Mystery.” you whisper, thumb against the side of his face.

He blinks up at you slowly. No startle. No surprise.

“Hey.” you say. “You slept here?”

He nods. Barely. More like a tilt of the chin than a full gesture.

“Why?”

“…cold.” he mutters.

Liar.

You smile. Just a little. “You know you could’ve come inside.”

Mystery doesn’t say anything to that. He just looks at you.

You stay there for a beat longer. Just you and him. Knees almost touching. It’s quiet in the hall. Still. And then, gently, you rise.

“You go sleep now, alright?” you say, soft. “On a bed. Like a normal person.”

You get up, slowly, and pat the top of his head once. He doesn’t even blink. Just shifts in his blanket a little, watching you.

You smile again, just a flicker of one, and walk off. Leave him right there.

In the far end of the apartment, Baby’s sitting cross-legged on the balcony, half in the sunbeam. He’s wearing a hoodie, hood up, sleeves chewed at the cuffs.

He’s slicing strawberries with surgical precision. Not eating them. Just slicing them. Putting them into a glass bowl. Staring.

He isn’t thinking about you. (He is.)

He licks strawberry juice off his thumb and frowns. Then mutters, “Tastes like shit” even though it doesn’t.

He kicks the wall once with his heel for no reason.

Then, a scream from the house. Your scream.

He’s out the door before the echo fades.

Jinu still stands in front of the mirror. He’s not really looking at himself. He’s looking through himself. Grips the sides of the sink and leans in.

There’s a moment where he whispers something to himself over the toothbrush. Low. Not even he understands if it’s a prayer or a curse. The mirror stares back. So does every failure he’s ever dragged behind him.

Then that guttural, animal, gut-wrencher of a noise. Your scream.

Something rips through Jinu’s chest. He’s already moving.

Meanwhile Romance is in the bathtub. Again. Of course. He’s surrounded by steam. Scents. Excess. Bath bombs floating, candles lit and dangerously close to burning down his hair.

The bathroom smells like vanilla, sex, and cinnamon.

He’s humming some sultry pop ballad under his breath, eyes half-lidded, toes poking out of the water. Hair pulled back into a messy bun. Shoulders gleaming wet and golden. His phone is perched on a towel nearby. He’s watching a drama on mute. Subtitles on. It’s a sexy scene. He’s analyzing technique.

Romance likes mornings like this. Quiet. Warm. Alone.

He’s never truly alone, though. Your image burns in his brain. He pictures you curled up sick, whimpering. Weak. Precious. Needing him.

He adjusts in the water.

Then…

The scream.

He’s on his feet so fast the bathwater erupts. Sloshes everywhere. Soaks the floor. His towel flies. A candle falls. He doesn’t notice.

Before this happened, Mystery is in the hallways walking barefoot in silence. Next to him pads the tiger. His hand occasionally brushes its back.

Uhuh, yeah, until he hears your scream too.

Mystery bolts. No hesitation. No words.

Abby’s shirtless. Flexing in the mirror while holding up three different t-shirts. His room is chaos. Laundry everywhere.

He slaps on deodorant. Flexes again. Ruffles his hair. Grabs his phone. Makes a mental note to flirt with you if you walk by again in that hoodie. You look so cute sick, it’s unfair.

And then—he hears it. Your scream. Not playful. Not annoyed. Real.

He’s running shirtless down the hall before his door even slams shut.

Every boy is here, crashing into the kitchen. The fridge door’s hanging open. A stool’s been kicked halfway across the room. The cereal box Romance spilled when he crashed into the counter has exploded like confetti. Someone’s broken a spoon.

Abby’s chest is heaving like he just ran ten flights of stairs, shirtless, of course, jeans barely zipped, teeth clenched. Jinu’s glowing eyes sweep the room, a tension in his shoulders that says I will kill for you without blinking. Baby skids to a halt, hoodie sliding off one shoulder. Mystery is standing slightly ahead of the others, breathing so slow it’s almost inaudible. The tiger’s there too. Ears flat. Tail twitching. Matching the mood. Romance is barefoot and dripping. Wet hair clinging to his neck, chest gleaming, towel half-hitched low around his hips, and somehow he got here first.

You’re standing there. Barefoot. Shaking. Pointing a trembling finger toward the plate rack.

“I—I saw it—on the p-plate.” you stammer, words hiccupped between heavy breathing and a wild stare. “Big—it ran under it—it fucking ran under it! It had LEGS.”

Five pairs of glowing eyes blink in unison.

Jinu is the first to speak. “…What had legs?”

“Spider.”

Silence.

“Holy shit—”

“I thought you were dying—”

“Is it venomous?”

“Why is it always the kitchen?”

“Did it—touch—you?” Romance.

You shake your head. “I don’t know where it went. Kill it. Get it out. Or I will die right here on the floor.”

You’re panicked. Actually panicked. Looking around like it’s going to crawl back up your sleeve and whisper your death sentence in Latin.

Romance, sensing the perfect opportunity, surges to his feet, throws his arms around your waist. “Nononono, c’mere, sweetheart, you’re shaking—what if it’s on you? We need to check.”

“Check me!” you demand, gripping his sleeves, panic rising again. “Check if it’s on me!”

“Oh, believe me.” Romance purrs, voice low and dirty but somehow reverent, “I am checking.”

Baby rolls his eyes. “Milking it.”

You point at Abby. “Find it.”

Abby blinks. “Me?”

You gesture again. Bigger. Vicious. “FIND. IT.”

Abby sighs, but obeys anyway. Anything for his girl. He looks under the plate, under the counter, behind the breadbox.

Jinu wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, finally having spit out his toothpaste, and sighs. “I’m not even gonna ask why it was on a plate.”

“Come here, baby, come here—it’s okay—shhh, let me see—did it crawl on you?” Romance coos, his hands are already sliding up your arms, checking, patting, cooing. “I got you. You’re safe. Shhh, angel, don’t panic…”

“Fucking KILL IT.” you snap over his shoulder at the others. You gesture with your hands. Wide. Like you’re describing a dinner plate. “It was THIS big. I swear to god—eight legs, pure evil, it looked AT ME—”

The boys freeze.

“Like… hand-wide?” Abby asks, confused.

“Like my arms wide.”

Romance presses his face into your shoulder, snorting laughter.

“I got it!” Abby suddenly yells, holding up the tiniest, most pathetic black dot between two fingers. The smallest, most pathetic, tiny ass spider ever. Looks like it could’ve been born yesterday. Looks like it probably pays taxes and minds its business. It’s the size of a fingernail. If that. Its legs wiggle pathetically.

You gasp. Backpedal so hard you knock Romance into a cabinet. “KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT—”

Romance is delighted. He strokes your hair with a hum, like this is the best morning of his life.

“KILL IT.”

“Let it go.” Baby says.

“BURN IT.”

Abby feeds the adorable little spider to the tiger. Dead. Gone. Ended. Turns to you. “Saved your life.”

Baby rolls his eyes. “Bitch, I coulda caught it in my hand and named it.”

Mystery finally speaks. “Was that the actual threat?”

Romance is kissing the top of your head like you just survived war.

“You’re okay.” he coos. “My soft little bunny. My trembling lil’ sugarplum. If that spider had so much as looked at you funny, I would’ve fucking incinerated it.”

They’ll always come running. For you. Only for you, probably. Even when it’s a spider.

Romance spins you toward him again, hands cupping your cheeks, looking into your eyes like you’re his religion. “Better now?”

“You—” you point at Romance. “Grab a new plate. Not the spider plate.”

Romance salutes, even if only in a towel. “Of course, darling.”

You point again, whiplash-style. “Mystery. Forks. Clean ones. Triple check. No legs.”

Mystery wordlessly pulls open a drawer, then another.

“No bugs.” he mutters, eyes scanning steel.

“Good boy.” you say automatically.

Mystery pauses. Just a second. Then keeps going.

Abby is grabbing the banana you left on the counter. Peeling it slow. Real slow. Then, he stares at it. Really stares at it. Brow furrowed. Lips pursed.

You freeze. “What. What are you doing.”

“There’s a spot on it.” Abby murmurs. “Might be—”

“I will scream again.” you say, voice shaking. “I will.”

Romance collapses against the wall, howling.

Mystery drops a spoon and kicks it under the fridge. Quietly. What the fuck was that for?

“Abby.” you bark, pointing like a general. “Eat the banana or leave. There is no in between.”

“I’m just saying, we don’t know if the spider had friends.” Abby takes a bite mid-sentence, slowly chewing while giving you a look that screams ragebait.

Your fists curl into little, trembling balls. You’re genuinely sick. You’re still fevered. And now you’re emotionally destroyed by one tiny eight-legged bitch and this overgrown boy who will NOT STOP antagonizing you.

Jinu pets your back in comfort.

“Romance.” you point your finger. “Toast. Two slices. Butter. Not the plate from earlier. Not the butter from earlier. I want untouched butter. New butter.”

“Yes, ma’am.” he sings, grinning like an idiot as he pirouettes toward the fridge. “Anything for the love of my short, screaming life.”

“Mystery,” you continue. “tea. No mug with bugs. No kettle with bugs. No bug-adjacent materials. Scan. Every. Inch.”

Mystery doesn’t say a word. He just moves. Obediently. Dead silent. Efficient. He’s your knight in armor and he has accepted this mission like it’s a hit list. You respect that.

Romance and Mystery. The weirdest combo of all time. One talks too much. One doesn’t talk at all.

Together? They function, surprisingly.

“Mystery. Fridge. I need the juice. Don’t make me touch the handle. It’s probably hiding in there.”

You like Mystery. He’s quiet and efficient and doesn’t try to grab your ass under the guise of “checking for spider” (looking at you, Romance).

You keep your wooden spoon pointed at Romance at all times. Just in case.

“OH FUCK—THERE’S ANOTHER—”

You shriek.

Abby laughs so hard he wheezes. “Kidding. God, you’re so easy.”

You chuck your spoon at his head. He ducks. Flexes. Smirks.

He’s being so annoying.

“You lookin’ for this?” he asks, holding up a black sock.

“Why would I be looking for that?” you murmur, confused and cornered.

He throws it at you.

You scream again.

It’s just a sock. Just a stupid, crumpled sock. But you don’t know anymore. What if the spider’s in it? What if the spider has a family and a grudge and revenge in its soul—

And then there’s Baby. God. Undiagnosed psychopath. No question. The worst kind. Cold. Detached. Beautiful. Never good. He’s a brat. But in a way that makes you concerned.

He looks like a seventeen-year-old who hacks nuclear databases for fun. He looks like a kid who failed high school on purpose just to make his mom mad.

Baby is a bad man.

A pretty one, yes.

But a bad one.

“I saw it go under that chair.” he says now, calmly, pointing toward the one you were just sitting in.

You freeze. “Where?”

“There.” He points again. “Or maybe it was the other chair.”

“Was it the chair I sat in?!”

“Could be. Could’ve been the counter.”

“You’re lying.”

He shrugs. “Am I?”

You shriek and duck behind Romance, who wraps his arms around you like this is the best day of his entire demonic existence. He giggles into your shoulder. He’s never known peace and doesn’t want to.

They are delighted.

“Romance, not that one!”

“That’s the spider cabinet!”

“Don’t open it—if you open it I will scream!”

“Okay, open it but slow. Like slow slow.”

“Y’know,” Romance purrs as he pulls open a cupboard with exaggerated caution. “for someone so terrified, you make such a hot general. I’d march into hell for you.”

You slap the counter with the spoon. “Focus.”

“Mmm, yes, ma’am.”

Mystery silently opens another drawer.

You point to it suspiciously. “That one felt wrong.”

He closes it again.

You nod. Satisfied. Your soldiers are loyal.

“OH SHIT.” Abby gasps suddenly, slamming his palm on the countertop.

Your soul leaps into your throat. Your voice goes an octave up. “WHAT?!”

He pauses, grins. “Nah, nothing. Just remembered I left my laundry in the wash.”

You hurl an apple at his head with terrifying force.

They’re all fucking with you now. Even Jinu.

Every five seconds, one of them makes a show of “spotting something.”

“Oh—yep. There it is.”

“Legs. Definitely legs.”

“Did that towel just move?”

And every time—you flinch. Your spoon swings. You just start slapping each of them with the spoon when they get close enough. Soft little thwaps. Pap pap pap.

They laugh like hyenas.

God, you are so cute. You’re terrified out of your mind, but your lips are pouty, your eyes wide, your cheeks flushed, and your hands shaking from pure survival adrenaline.

Abby grabs a fork off the counter and holds it up dramatically. “What if the spider’s in this?”

Your soul leaves your body again. “STOP.” you whimper.

Romance grabs your face with both hands. “Shhh, no crying. That’ll just attract more of them. They love tears.”

You slap him in the forehead with the spoon. He laughs into your shoulder.

Mystery doesn’t speak. Just opens another drawer at your nod. He’s dead serious about this. Knows the spider means no harm, but if you want him to work, he’ll work.

Jinu, calm as ever, steps closer. He crouches down slightly—gets eye level with you.

You side-eye him, suspicious. “…What?”

“Wait—wait. Don’t move.” He sounds too serious. Dead serious.

“What?”

“There’s…” He squints into your hoodie neckline. “I think it might still be in there.”

Your soul leaves your fucking body.

“WHAT!?” you screech, immediately jerking back. You thrash your arms, clutching at the hem of your hoodie, shaking. “No, no, no—Jinu, no, no—get it off, GET IT OFF—”

“Easy, sweetheart.” he says, eyes suspiciously twinkling. “Don’t panic. It’s just—hang on—”

“JINU, I SWEAR TO—”

The hoodie is OFF in .03 seconds.

Romance yells, “Whoa—!”

Abby whoops.

And just like that, you’re standing in the kitchen. In your sweatpants. And just your bra.

You blink. You look around.

Their faces.

Holy shit.

Romance’s jaw is on the floor. Eyes wide, shameless, gleaming like he’s been gifted something sacred. He literally makes a tiny, strangled noise and mutters, “Oh… my god.”

Abby whistles.

Baby doesn’t even blink, just says “tits” the dumbass. But he’s staring. Oh, he’s staring.

Mystery’s eyes trail from your face, slowly down. His nostrils flare. He looks like he might pounce on someone, maybe everyone.

Jinu? Fucking smirking.

“False alarm.” he says, too smoothly. “Sorry.”

He knew.

He knew there was nothing in your hoodie.

You narrow your eyes. You look down at yourself. You’re still feverish. Still trembling. You don’t even care. They see everything. The line of your collarbones. The flush over your chest from the fever and fury. The subtle slope of your breasts rising and falling with your frantic breath.

You start walking toward the hallway. Toward your room. Shoulders bare. Back straight. Face blank.

They just stare at the hoodie in the sink.

Then at each other.

Then at the hallway where you disappeared.

Romance slaps Abby’s arm, grinning. “You fucking saw that, right? Tell me I didn’t hallucinate that.”

“GodDAMN.” Abby mutters, half-laughing, adjusting the waistband of his jeans. Then he slaps Baby on the back so hard it echoes. Baby doesn’t move. Abby grins. Slaps him again.

“Stop it.” Baby mutters.

“Are you gonna cry?” Abby asks, all teeth.

“Maybe.”

Then Abby grabs Baby by the waist, hauls him across the room, opens the freezer, and launches his tiny ass inside. Baby doesn’t even resist. Just lets it happen, arms crossed, legs tucked in.

Abby closes the freezer door and leans on it, smug as hell. “Time-out.”

Boys. Fucking. Boys.

Demons or not, they’re just a bunch of horny, traumatized idiots playing house with too much testosterone and not enough adult supervision.

You’re the only real threat in this apartment. Not because you’re scary. But because you make them feel too much. Too hard. Too deep.

The freezer opens again. Abby helps Baby out casually, slapping the back of his head on the way. Baby retaliates by spitting ice at him.

Until Jinu glances at the microwave clock and his whole expression shifts.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We’re late.”

All four heads swivel toward him.

Romance instantly starts groaning. “NO. Nooooo. Not today. I need time to heal.”

“You had a bath twenty minutes ago.” Jinu replies, already turning to grab his phone from the counter. “I heard you humming. You were fine.”

“That was before I saw a pair of breasts.”

Abby coughs, fist over his mouth, hiding a laugh. Mystery doesn’t even try. He’s openly laughing in the corner, bent forward with one hand on the counter for support.

Jinu doesn’t react. Instead, he calmly types out a message—likely to some poor soul trying to herd five supernatural degenerates into a schedule.

“We have to be at (insert some award show name in here plz I’m not good at making names up like genuinely ASS) in twenty.” he says. “Not a request.”

“Oh, but it is.” comes Baby’s voice—flat, dry, and weaponized—where he’s still sitting on the floor, legs stretched out like a lazy little king. “It’s always a request when you say it.”

Jinu tilts his head. “You want it not to be a request?”

“God, no.” Baby flops backward dramatically. “I just want you to admit you’re bossy and boring.”

Romance lets out the world’s most dramatic groan. “Why the fuck do we have to go today? Jinu, have you seen me? I’m not emotionally equipped. I need to go back to bed. Preferably with someone.” He casts a glance at the hallway, obviously referencing you, which earns him a solid kick in the shin from Baby. “Ow.”

Mystery walks out of the kitchen without a word. Abby follows, whistling a dumb pop melody, hands in his pockets like he doesn’t throw people around for fun. Baby gets up lazily, flips off the light switch with his pinky, and walks out next.

That leaves Romance.

Still standing there.

Hair drying in curls.

Eyes cast toward your hallway.

“Go.” Jinu says without looking up.

“I have to straighten my hair.”

Jinu sighs. “You’ll do it on the way. You want me to carry you too?”

Romance rolls his eyes, dragging his hand down his face. “I just think,” he mutters. “that maybe, just maybe, if I make a scene big enough, she’ll come out and ask me to stay.”

“You’re wearing wet pants. She’d slam the door in your face.”

Romance glares. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m realistic.”

Romance gives him one more exaggerated sigh, then finally turns and shuffles out of the kitchen, muttering nonsense under his breath.

Jinu lingers. He glances toward your door. Takes a deep breath. And then he follows the others out.

They’re late. Of course they are. Because the moment you screamed about a spider, all logic, timing, and responsibility was replaced by something much worse:

Emotion.

And worse than that? Hope. And all it took… was you.

When they get there, Jinu is dressed in a suit that does unspeakable things to the human eye. Behind him, Abby’s shirt is already straining at the buttons, jacket slung over one shoulder like he’s ready to get shirtless mid-award show. Again. Romance is adjusting his necklace. “I’m hungover on nothing.” he mumbles. “That’s how good-looking we are.” Baby is already annoyed. All black suit, all attitude, tie shoved into a pocket. He hasn’t said a word since getting to go. He never does when he’s still thinking about you. Mystery is just simply hot. Why does nobody talk about how hot he walks????

It’s just them, not even in the building yet. Jinu is telling the other four to behave.

A boot hits Romance square in the chest.

Zoey, fast as hell, wraps her legs around his shoulders like a monkey and drags him down with a cackle.

“I made ‘em custom for kicking your guys’ teeth in.” Zoey chirps, elbowing him in the ribs as he curses. “Hold still, bitch, I’m checking your pockets for location!”

“Get the fuck—off me—” he laughs through the struggle, trying to pry her off his back as she digs her fingers into his hair.

Jinu ducks the punch that comes from Mira. Steps aside. Graceful.

“Still upset?” he asks politely.

Mira lunges again, trying to sweep his legs.

Meanwhile, Abby’s fully grinning as Rumi appears out of thin air.

“Where is she?” she demands.

“…define ‘where.” Abby offers, right before she almost fucking kills him. He dodges it with a spin and launches into her, tackling her against a wall with a grin. Rumi is trying to knee Abby in the groin now, but he blocks her with one thigh and picks her up like she weighs nothing. “I’m not gonna tell you shit.” he teases. “Even if you beat me up.”

“Oh, I will. I absolutely will.”

Baby just walks toward Mystery and quietly mutters, “This is embarrassing.”

Mystery nods.

“Wanna bail?”

Mystery nods again.

Changing boys, Rumi lunges at Jinu. He catches her wrist before she makes contact. Doesn’t break stride.

“Hi.” he says. Calm. Irritatingly so.

“Give her back.”

“No.”

“Not even gonna pretend you’re innocent?”

“No.”

Rumi narrows her eyes. “You were a lot cuter when you used to flirt.”

Jinu tilts his head. “You were a lot smarter when you didn’t start fights you couldn’t win.”

That earns him a punch to the ribs. He absorbs it with a grunt, doesn’t retaliate.

Meanwhile, Romance is dancing with Mira. They’re not even fighting—they’re sparring.

“You miss me?” Mira asks, throwing a blade.

Romance catches it mid-air, grinning. “Not even a little.”

“You used to tell me I was the hottest girl you’d ever seen.”

He tosses the blade back like it’s a frisbee. “That was before I met someone who doesn’t stab me just for fun.”

“She must be special.”

And that’s the first time the girls notice it.

None of the boys are flirting. They’re tight. Silent. Focused. Not one glance toward a low-cut shirt. Not one wink. Not one flirtatious smirk.

Jinu pulls Rumi off with a wrist twist, stepping back with a sigh. “You’ve made your point.”

She brushes herself off. Eyeing him. Then Abby. Then Baby, who hasn’t moved from where he’s been standing, arms folded, expression flat as ever.

“Y’know what I think about a lot?” Abby says, voice deep, taunting. “Those little pajama shorts Y/N wears. The cotton ones. With the pink strawberries.”

Zoey stills mid-swing.

Abby laughs in her face. “Yeah. Knew that’d piss you off.”

I’m telling you what’s happening, they’re torturing the three girls. Completely fucking with them and making them mad and miss you on purpose. It’s so working.

Rumi’s elbow nearly connects with Romance’s jaw, but he sways out of the way with ease, like it’s a dance.

“Oh, come on.” he sighs, exaggerated, “Don’t be jealous, Rumi. You had your shot. But she—” he points behind him like you’re just over there “—she does this little thing with her nose when she’s concentrating. So fucking cute. Way better than your whole knife-girl thing. Just saying.”

“You motherfu—”

He ducks.

“Besides,” Jinu mutters, voice low, mocking, “she’s too busy bossing us around. With her tiny little stomp. Y’know the one?”

Abby snorts. “Oh, the one where she marches like she’s six-foot? Yeah. Scary.”

“Scary.” Baby agrees. “Hot, too.”

Romance throws a wink over his shoulder. “She stomped on my foot once. I got hard.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Rumi barks.

“You started this.” Abby sings, pushing Zoey into a pillar with a loud thunk.

Baby, on the other hand? He’s just standing there. Rumi’s trying to box him in, but he’s not even trying.

He raises a single hand mid-non-fight and just says, deadpan, “I have to piss.”

Rumi blinks. “…Are you—seriously?”

He turns. “Be right back.”

And she—actually—steps back. Doesn’t even stop him.

“She ever do that thing with her hair?” Romance asks no one in particular. “That little flip when she’s frustrated? It’s not even conscious. It’s like—” He mimics it, messy and dramatic “—‘Ugh,’ and then flip, and then stomp-stomp-stomp.”

Zoey’s wiping sweat from her temple with her sleeve, hair falling out of her two little fucks I don’t know the name of.

“Man, you’re really fallin’ apart, huh?” Abby says, not even out of breath, looking her up and down. “You should sit down. Drink some water. You’re, like, not even in my top five enemies right now.”

Zoey throws a punch. He catches it. Twirls her around like they’re dancing. He presses a hand over his chest. Dramatic.

“She’s like this lil’ angel, right? Always lookin’ up at you like she hates your guts but also like… like she’s gonna faint. Adorable.”

Zoey’s face tightens. “You bastards.”

“Sometimes,” Abby continues, turning his back on her entirely just to stretch. “she wears that loose hoodie, and the string gets into her food, and she gets all annoyed but never fixes it. I think about that at least seven times a day.”

“You’re not serious—”

Rumi throws a dagger and Abby dodges it, laughing like they’re playing a drinking game instead of combat.

“Whoa, that was cute.” he says. “Gonna try again, champ?”

“You’re such a dick.”

“She says that too. Only sweeter.”

Rumi’s whole face tics.

Mystery throws Mira into a stack of shipping crates, then goes right back to adjusting his hoodie sleeves. No one really saw it happen. Until Abby throws his arm around his neck, tugging him into a headlock, ruffling his hair while Mira wheezes.

“She’s got nice tits too.” Abby says loudly, not even pretending to be respectful anymore. “Like, for real. You ever notice that?”

“Obviously they noticed that.” Romance groans. “They bounce when she walks pissed off. I feel like a perv, but damn.”

“I am a perv.” Baby calls from the alley while pissing.

“God I miss her.” Abby sighs dramatically, not even fighting anymore—just walking in a circle. “She yells at me. Like really yells. That voice? Makes my stomach go all fucked up.”

Rumi hurls another dagger at him. He catches it, twirls it once, and tosses it back like it’s a toy.

“Don’t be jealous.” he coos.

Mystery actually lets out a low, raspy sound. Almost a growl. Agreement.

Jinu shakes his head, but he’s not stopping them. He’s smiling.

They’d sell a lung before giving you up.

Baby returns, wiping his hands on his pants.

“You piss?” Abby calls.

“Yeah.” He looks at Rumi. “You try anything?”

“No.”

“Cool.”

And that’s it. He steps right back into position, arms folded.

The girls regroup. Bruised. Annoyed. Unsettled. Turn away from the boys. The boys turn away from them. Baby glances over his shoulder at the girls once. Like a fucking brat. Then both groups go different ways, show’s about to start.

And fuck, was it messy.

Okay, back at the apartment. You really thought you were slick. Really did. Sitting there all pretty and pitiful by the front door, waiting. Just waiting. For the boys to come back from the award show and open the door. For the precise second that someone—probably Romance, he’s careless with keys—cracked that lock and let it swing wide. And then you’d dart. Was the plan good? No. Was it brave? Not really. Was it adorable? Absolutely. You probably rehearsed the dash. A few test lunges. Maybe held your breath. You even sat quietly, which for you—your stubborn, nose-wrinkling, foot-stomping ass—was basically a miracle.

The door clicks.

Swings open.

Abby’s the first in—duh. And not even three steps inside, he looks down. Right at you. Expression? Blank. Reaction? None. And without a word, without warning, without hesitation—he just scoops you the fuck up. Arms under your knees, hand to your back, full princess-carry like he’s done this a thousand times.

“WHAT—Abby—ABBY—”

“Shh.” he mutters. “You know damn well you’re not fast enough.”

“I WAS WAITING—”

“Yeah. We know.”

You slap his chest. It’s like slapping a brick wall. “Put me down!”

“No.”

“Why not?!”

“Because you were trying to run away and now I gotta punish you.” he says, voice infuriatingly calm. “You broke house rules.”

You shove at him. He twirls you. Twirls. You.

Romance walks in after them, slow as hell. He takes one look at the situation and smiles so hard it’s unbearable.

Jinu follows after, calm as usual, setting down his keys in the dish by the entrance. “Next time, wear both slippers.”

Mystery walks past and flicks your nose.

“Mystery,” you whisper, shocked. “I trusted you—”

You keep twisting, trying to get free, but Abby just keeps readjusting his grip like you’re a sack of sugar with opinions. He spins you over one shoulder. One shoulder.

“ABBY—”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Say you’re sorryyyyy.” he sing-songs.

“Fuck you!”

He spanks you.

“ABBY—!”

Jinu walks past with his laptop already open. Baby’s in the kitchen getting a soda like none of this is happening. Mystery’s sprawled on the couch with your blanket, your blanket.

You point at him from Abby’s shoulder. “That’s mine.”

He stares back and says nothing.

Abby plops you gently on the couch. Then flops down beside you, arm slung around your shoulders immediately.

“Now say sorry.” he whispers again, nudging your side.

You cross your arms. “No.”

His arm tightens. “Say it.”

Romance drops onto your other side, arm over the top of the couch, winking. “I’ll make her say it.”

“Touch me and I’ll bite you.”

“Ooh.”

Baby walks past with a soda can and says, deadpan, “You look cute like that.”

“…What?”

He just shrugs and keeps walking. Disappears down the hall like he didn’t just throw a whole fucking grenade.

And while you sit there trying not to combust, Abby turns his head. And just. Kisses your cheek. Not tentative. Not teasing. Not slow. A full, bold, confident press of his mouth to the soft skin just under your eye, like it’s his. Like he’s been waiting all damn day for that. And to his credit, he doesn’t leer. Doesn’t say some dumb shit right after. Just pulls back with a slight smile and says, totally casual: “So what’d you do today, sunshine?”

Romance, practically laying across the backrest behind you, grins wicked. “Yeah.” he echoes. “What exactly did you do while we were gone? Besides sit at the door like a sad dog waiting for daddy to come home?”

You snort, crossing your arms. “Rotting.”

“Sexy.”

“Eating my own hair.”

“Kinkier.”

“Staring at the ceiling and imagining slamming my head into it.”

Abby laughs. Really laughs. It’s deep, stupid, boyish—painful in how genuine it is.

“I missed you.” he says, and you know he means it.

You slap Romance’s hand away.

Abby takes your hand and starts playing with your fingers. He’s gentle about it. For a guy who can throw a grown demon across a room, he treats your pinky like it’s made of glass.

“You eat anything?”

“I licked the floor.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when my mouth’s full—”

“Dude.” Abby shoots him a look. “Let her breathe.”

“I’m not doing anything! I’m being charming!”

Abby leans his head back against the couch, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling, thumb still running along your knuckles like it calms him, not you. And somewhere deep down, underneath the loud teasing, the muscle flexing, the tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, he’s terrified of you not being here.

He’s so used to losing people.

The Gwi-Ma left scars on all of them, sure. But Abby? He watched friends be used like meat. He watched and watched and watched.

But then you came. Small and pissed off. Fragile but mouthy. And something shifted.

You’re here, beside him, shivering a little in the hoodie that still smells like his soap, your breath uneven, skin too warm from the fever—

And he doesn’t know how to let go of you.

He won’t.

He can’t.

Romance is the type who jokes through trauma, but god, he’s aching. He’s touch-starved in the kind of way that sex can’t even fix anymore. He’s had pleasure. He’s had partners. Flings, fans, fucks. But you? You make him feel safe.

And he’ll take whatever scraps of your attention you give him. If it’s love, if it’s hate, if it’s throwing a pillow at his head and telling him to die—that’s more than he ever got before.

“You look cuter than usual.” Abby says, like he’s ordering dinner. “Sick and pissed off. That combo really does it for me.”

Before you can even roll your eyes, Romance leans in on the other side. You’re already protesting when he kisses your other cheek, but it’s not just one. It’s a series. Tiny, ridiculous little kisses. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah. He doesn’t even lift his mouth, just peppers your cheek with rapid-fire softness.

“Romance—Romance—stop—”

“Can’t help it.” he murmurs against your cheek, between kisses. “It’s because I missed you so fucking bad.”

They’ve seen things no human should survive. Done worse. They’re fucking messes. Disasters held together with tight pants and charm.

But then Abby nuzzles your temple with his nose. And Romance kisses your jaw. And between the two of them, warm and impossibly solid, you feel…safe. Even as you plot your next escape. Even as they ruin you with affection. Even as they hurt in ways they’ll never say out loud. They are ridiculous. And too much. And terrifying. And traumatized. And desperately in love with you.

It’s not just the teasing. Or the warmth. Or the stupid flirting that never ends. It’s how it all feels. Like they’re trying to memorize you. Like they don’t know how long they’ll get to keep this, so they’re pouring everything into each second. Like they’re… desperate. Because they are. They’ve killed monsters. Lost brothers. They’ve been tortured, burned, shattered, turned against each other. They’ve made mistakes so catastrophic that the scars still feel fresh. Still twitch beneath the skin. And Gwi-Ma? Gwi-Ma made sure they’d never forget a second of it.

So they wrap themselves around you like they’re afraid you’ll vanish. They touch you constantly, not because they’re horny (though that’s part of it), but because your presence is a balm. A sedative. A fucking miracle.

“Seriously, though.” Abby says, voice dropping just a bit, more real. “You doin’ okay?”

You glance up. There’s no joke in his eyes now. Just the tiniest furrow of his brow, the faintest tension in the hand holding your leg. Romance lifts his head too, watching you.

They may joke. They may laugh. But they worry. All the time.

You nod, resting your head back against Abby’s shoulder, throat sore, chest hot. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Romance presses one more kiss to your cheek. This one is still. Lingering. It stays for a heartbeat.

You don’t even realize it at first, how the air changes.

Romance’s fingers trail down your arm. Abby strokes behind your knee absently. They’re not trying to get a reaction out of you anymore. They’re just there. Still. Close. God, so close.

They don’t pretend to want you. They just do.

And suddenly, you’re very aware of it.

The silence between you. The heavy, dense kind of silence—the kind that comes before a kiss in a movie.

Romance’s breath is on your neck. Abby’s hand slides just a little higher. Your lips part, just a little.

The space between you and something happening? It’s thinner than paper.

You could.

You could lean in.

You could kiss one of them. Both of them.

Abby’s mouth is so close you can count the freckles on his cheek. Romance is staring at you—not your eyes, but your lips. The tip of his tongue brushes his bottom one, slow.

One of them could kiss you too. They might. You’re not sure if you’d stop them. You don’t want to. But you do.

What would happen? If you leaned in. If you kissed one of them. Hell, both of them? Would the world end? Would they?

If you kissed Romance first? He’d smile so hard against your lips. Make a sound. That little groan-smirk he does when he gets exactly what he wants. He’d kiss back immediately. Not messy, not hungry, yet. Just slow. Like he’s savoring. And then Abby would see. Would feel it, because your legs are still in his lap, and that’d spark something competitive in him. He’d lean in next. Pull you toward him. And Romance would let him. Because he knew he’d be next.

If you kissed Abby first? He’d freeze. Just for a second. Then cradle the back of your neck. He wouldn’t moan, wouldn’t smile. He’d breathe into you. And Romance would go insane. Start whining beside you. Teasing you. Teasing Abby for being slow. Then kiss your neck. Just because he can.

If you kissed both? God. They’d lose it. Romance would be obnoxious about it. Giddy. All smirking, licking his lips, calling you greedy in that deep, flirty tone that makes your stomach twist. Abby would be silent. Just watching. Breathless. Eyes dark. His fingers would slide under your hoodie. Not even in a dirty way. Just to feel your skin. They’d share you. They already do emotionally. Physically? That line’s paper thin.

You can see it play out too clearly in your head: Their hands overlapping on your thighs. Romance kissing your neck while Abby speaks to you low and serious, voice rough. Each of them desperate to be chosen, but willing to share if that’s the only way to keep you.

Because they’d do anything.

Absolutely anything.

To keep you.

You’re not immune. You’re not made of steel. You feel how your breath hitches when Abby brushes a thumb across your side without thinking. You feel how your body leans into Romance’s hand, even when your mind screams to move away. You feel what this could become.

Your head in Abby’s lap, Romance between your legs, Abby’s mouth on your throat while Romance laughs and bites your thigh just to be annoying? Would they take turns?

They’ve talked about it. Not in front of you—never that direct—but in those moments when they think you’re not listening. When they think you’re asleep. Or not paying attention. You’ve heard the little jokes, the not-so-innocent teasing.

They’d do it.

They would.

Would it ruin everything?

Would it make something new?

“Okay.” you say suddenly, voice dry and a little too high. “Bedtime.”

You push your legs off Abby’s lap like your skin’s not on fire. Like you haven’t been fantasizing about what their mouths would feel like on your collarbones for the last ten minutes.

Romance blinks. “What?”

“Bed.” you repeat, already standing, already moving, running from the moment before it eats you alive. “I’m sick. I need sleep. I’m not making out with anyone while my nose is still runny.”

It’s a joke. A defense. It lands. Barely.

Abby gives a dry chuckle, leans back like he wasn’t seconds from pressing his lips to your neck. Romance smirks but doesn’t say anything. He watches you walk away.

For them, the air still hums with you. Warm and dizzying, the scent of your skin thick in their lungs—mint and medicine, sweat and cotton, and something softer, you-er.

Abby leans back again, eyes still on the hallway. One thick arm sprawled over the back of the couch where your head just rested. His other hand flexes over his thigh, like he doesn’t know what to do with it now. Like his body still expects you to be in it.

Romance hasn’t blinked in thirty seconds. His hand is still on the cushion where your leg used to be. Not like he’s trying to be dramatic about it, just like… like he forgot to move.

Romance turns his head.

Locks eyes with Abby.

Abby’s already looking at him.

No words pass between them. They’re too old, too wired, too connected to need them. There’s nothing to say that the other doesn’t already know. Because they felt it. They heard it in your heartbeat. Saw it in your pupils. Smelled it in your skin. Your nerves. Your longing. The almost in your every exhale.

They know.

They know how badly you wanted to kiss them both. They know you wanted more. They know you stopped yourself. And more than anything else—they both hope to hell it meant something. Because they can’t know that for sure. They can feel human lust, and that’s natural. You wanting them there and there is natural, they know that doesn’t mean that you like them. So they can only hope.

Romance lifts one brow. Like: Yeah. I know.

Abby raises his own in reply.

What now?

When?

Will she choose? Will she run?

Would it even matter if she did?

We’d still hit.

Fuck, we would.

Jinu’s so hot.

Dude, no.

Down the hall, behind a door you didn’t lock—because you don’t, not anymore—you curl under the blanket with your fever-thick thoughts, your skin still tingling where they touched you, your mouth still warm from nothing. You bite your lip. You press your thighs together. And they hear it. That sound of fabric rustling. Of your breath catching. Of your heart.

Thud-thud-thud.

They hear it.

You shift under the covers, face half-buried in the pillow that still smells faintly like their detergent. Something very them. Which, frankly, feels like an assault.

The best scenario in your head is that you kiss neither of them.

They kiss you.

At the same time.

No, fuck, dick, no, wait, that wasn’t supposed to slip in here.

You bury your face deeper in the pillow. Your legs shift beneath the blanket, thighs pressing together like that can help, like that can calm this thing in your chest.

Now it’s Jinu’s hands. Brushing your fevered hair off your forehead. Kissing your temple. Whispering soft, precise things in your ear that make your knees buckle.

Now it’s Baby, the little shit, yanking you onto his lap with a scowl and a blush and those too-sharp eyes burning into yours. Pretending he doesn’t care while touching you like you’re glass, fragile and precious.

And then it’s Mystery, tilting your chin and pressing his lips to yours in total silence, biting.

Fucking hell.

You press your hand over your mouth. Your cheeks are on fire. You feel guilty, and yet—yet you don’t. You didn’t do anything. You just thought. You’re allowed to think. Right? Fuuuuuuuck.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Abby stretches, his arms lifting over his head, shirt riding up to reveal that thick band of muscle above his waistband.

Romance snorts.

Their eyes meet again.

A smile pulls at Abby’s lips.

Romance quirks his brow.

And without a single word exchanged, they both get up.

Romance grins, slaps his hand once—hard—over Abby’s broad back as he walks past him toward the hallway. Abby claps Romance’s shoulder back. Romance doesn’t even look at him. Just lifts his brow again like, yeah, I know.

Then they part. Their rooms separate. Their beds waiting.

In your room you started doing fucking stretches on your bed. This is that level. Thinking about how Mystery wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t ask. He’d just act like it was inevitable. He’d crawl over you, eyes dark, breath shallow, and you wouldn’t stop him because why the hell would you? He’d kiss you once and that’d be it. You’d never come back from it. Nobody would.

And what then?

Do you pick one?

All five?

You roll over, exhausted and overwhelmed, the heat in your chest unbearable. It aches, all of it. The want. The possibility. The confusion. You’re not even sure if you’re lonely or just scared.

You think about Abby’s cheek kiss.

About Romance’s lips on your skin, over and over, warm and maddening and soft.

You think about how bad they’ve all got it. How careful they’ve become. How patient.

And how much longer they’ll wait before they’re not.

Abby wouldn’t be patient like now. Abby’d want to hold your hands. Feel your breath on his neck. Tell you you’re doing so well for them. He’d keep the others in line for a while. Until he got possessive. Until he pulled you back, settled you on his lap, and told them to wait their fucking turns.

You swear your toes curled at the thought of that.

He’s a man of touch—he can’t not touch. Whether it’s a slap on the shoulder, a teasing nudge, a full-body hug that melts your spine… or a hand sneaking under your shirt, up your ribs, rough knuckles tracing your skin.

His arms around you earlier—you’re still not okay. The sheer size of him. The comfort. The weight. The way he just scooped you like you weren’t a threat at all and carried you without breaking a sweat.

Baby… Jesus, Baby.

He’d sit in a chair across the room at first. Just watching. Always watching. Only joining when it was getting too loud. When he couldn’t help himself anymore. When he knew you wanted him and hated that you did. That’s when he’d come close. Hands on your knees. One kiss to shut you up.

Mystery doesn’t need imagining. You’ve felt Mystery. Not like that—but… almost. His silence is louder than all of them. You already know he’d ruin you just by breathing against your collarbone. You already know he’d growl when the others touched you.

And the thought that you could be kissed by one of them, two of them, all of them—that you could end up laid out and adored and shared like some divine, sacred thing, like they’ve all waited and waited and waited just to finally have you—

FUCK OFF.

You flip over.

Now you’re too warm. You kick the blanket off, only to groan because fuck, the cold air hits you and now you’re shivering again—except now it’s less “illness” and more “desperate horndog spiraling alone in bed.”

And Baby flashes into your mind again, less clothes this time.

Why.

WHY.

WHY.

You want to slap yourself.

Because Baby is an asshole.

But the breath between you is a nice thought. His hand at your throat, your hips grinding helplessly, his smirk pressed to your mouth, and then—ugh.

You flip the other way.

It doesn’t help.

Because now you’re picturing Mystery. You shouldn’t. You do anyway. One kiss, and you’d never know peace again. You’d chase it forever. You’d chase him. You’d claw at him and he wouldn’t stop you. He’d let you mark him. He’d lick the blood off his lip if you split it. Wouldn’t say a word, just keep going until you were crying into his mouth and shaking in his arms and never able to look at him the same again.

And he’d be fine with that.

God, you’d let Jinu do anything. Anything.

You’d thank him. On your knees.

Jesus Christ.

You bury your face into your pillow.

You hate yourself. But like… only a little.

By now, Romance is in his bed, shirtless, arm draped dramatically across his eyes like he’s just fucking dying of heartbreak, except his abs are on full display and he smells heavenly. He knows how pretty he is. Of course he does. His mirror’s been trying to fuck him since 2004.

He stares at the ceiling, not really seeing it.

Why don’t you love him?

That’s what loops. Not the idea of getting to touch you (though he dreams about that, a lot), not even the idea of kissing you senseless. Not the flirty shit he says or the clingy affection he throws at you like glitter.

It’s that. That you don’t want him.

Because the whole world does. They always have. And you’re the only one who doesn’t melt under his smile.

He’s a ten. A fuckin’ solid, blinding, impossible ten. The face? Unreal. The mouth? Plump, sinful. The thighs? Weapons. The voice? Sex. He knows what he looks like. He knows what he could get. But what he wants is you.

You don’t even like the way he touches you. Not really. You tolerate it. Laugh sometimes. Blush. But that’s not the same as wanting him. Not the same as loving him. You just tell him to stop humping the couch cushions. Or roll your eyes when he purrs in your ear. Or threaten to stab him with a plastic fork if he licks your shoulder again.

It’s not that you hate him.

It’s that you don’t need him.

He’d be yours in a heartbeat. He’d drop the act. The flirty front. The teasing. He’d drop to his knees and beg. He would.

But instead, he lies there. Hard, lonely, dramatic as fuck. Staring at nothing, whispering into the dark:

“Why won’t you just let me love you, baby?”

But you keep running.

And he keeps chasing.

Like an idiot.

Abby is in bed too, one arm under his head, the other sprawled across the empty mattress where he wished you were.

The man could split a watermelon just by existing. But he wants you. Wants to hold you. Wants to tell you that it’s alright, that you’re safe, that he’s not going anywhere.

You being all quiet and stubborn makes it worse. He knows you’re sweet under all that grumbling.

And tonight? You’d looked at him like maybe, maybe, you didn’t want to run anymore. He’s got the whole scene burned into his brain. You between him and Romance, small and flushed, your lips parted, fuuuuuck.

But even then, you pulled away.

He likes to pretend he’s fine. That he’s patient. That he’s the “chill one” with the strong arms and abs and the occasional emotional breakdown in the shower.

But he’s not fine. Not even close. Not when you’re always just out of reach.

Baby is sprawled on his mattress, shirtless because he’s a man and he can do that, one foot on the wall, phone in hand, scrolling through nothing. His cigarette lighter flicks between his fingers out of habit, unlit.

He doesn’t get it.

Why are you in his head? Why does he remember the exact angle you sat at the door, trying to sneak out? Why does he hear your laugh when he wasn’t even there for it?

He doesn’t even like people.

Never has. Never planned to.

But you? You’re in his veins. And he hates it.

He remembers when you made him a sandwich when you were done with yours. He hates how much it meant to him. A fucking sandwich.

He’d seen the moment. Abby and Romance flanking you on the couch, your cheeks red, your eyes wide, your lips parted like you were about to give in. And he hated it. Not because it was them. But because it wasn’t him.

Not that he’d tell you that. Or anyone.

You’d never hear him say it out loud. But he wants you more than breath.

Mystery doesn’t toss and turn. Doesn’t groan. Doesn’t sigh. He sits upright, cross-legged on the bed, eyes open in the dark, the tiger curled up at the foot of the mattress.

He wants more.

Your mouth. Your neck. Your hand in his hair. Your thighs around his waist. Your body in his bed. Your breath in his ear. Your trust.

He felt all of it. Smelled it. Saw it in the way your shoulders dropped, heavy with something that wasn’t just fever. He could feel your confusion.

And he wants to help. He really, really does.

But he can’t.

He’s… wrong. Feral. Too quiet. Too violent. Too much.

But when you touch his hair and call him “a good boy” he melts.

He won’t sleep tonight. Not until he’s sure you are.

Jinu’s in bed too, laptop still glowing faintly beside him. He’s exhausted. But he’s never been able to sleep when you’re not okay. He saw the flush in your face. The way your hands shook when you reached for a cup. The way you leaned into Abby without even realizing.

He doesn’t even know what he’d do if you chose him. It’s a selfish thought. He doesn’t want to be the one you love instead of the others. He wants to be one of the ones you love with them.

He closes the laptop. Leans back. Closes his eyes and tries not to picture your hands on his chest. Fails. And sighs.

Jinu, for all his patience, for all his calm, is not immune to that kind of almost that just happened in the living room. He’s selfish, and he hates it. Always has been. He wants you for himself even if he’d never say it aloud.

He wants your first kiss. Your first confession. Your first everything.

And if he can’t have that? Then maybe… just something.

Maybe tomorrow, he’ll ask if you’re feeling better.

Maybe tomorrow, he’ll stop pretending this isn’t slowly killing him.

Baby’s door creaks open.

Soft.

Sneaky.

Romance steps in. He’s shirtless,. Loose sweats slung low. Perfect posture. Absolutely no sense of shame.

“Baby.” he whispers.

No answer.

He’s definitely awake. Romance knows that demon pretends to sleep. He breathes differently when he’s actually out.

“Baby.” he hisses again, already climbing into the bed. “Heyyyy, roomie. Missed you.”

Baby kicks him right in the ribs.

“FUCK—okay, Jesus—” Romance wheezes, curling up.

“Get out.” Baby mutters. Flat. Not even mad. Just done.

“Oh, c’mon.” Romance says, flopping next to him, unbothered. “Scoot over.”

“Fuck off.” Baby says into his pillow. “Don’t touch me.”

“You sleep on the left, by the way.”

“Get. Out.” Another kick—this one more of a shove with his heel to the thigh, sharp and annoyed.

“You’re so mean to me.”

Baby doesn’t answer. He just turns his back on him. Passive aggressive, silent treatment activated. Romance sighs loudly and dramatically as if he’s being stabbed, settling in behind him anyway, resting his chin on Baby’s shoulder.

“I’m going to slit your throat.” Baby mutters. “In your sleep.”

“Aw, you’re shy.” Romance’s arm drapes over him. Loose. Casual. “C’mere.”

“No.”

“You love me.”

“No.”

Romance wraps an arm around Baby anyway, slipping it under the blankets. Baby slaps at it. Romance groans theatrically. “Ugh. Why are your bones so sharp?”

Baby kicks him.

Romance hugs tighter.

Baby elbows him in the gut.

Romance tucks his chin between Baby’s neck and shoulder.

Baby tries to roll away.

Romance rolls with him, like a backpack.

“Kill yourself.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Romance mumbles.

Silence. Baby rolling his eyes. Then,

“Fine.”

It’s not permission. Not really. It’s not a confession. Definitely not an invitation. It’s just… Fine.

And right now, what he means is:

“Stay. Just… Don’t tell anyone I let you.”

Romance smiles into Baby’s back, eyes finally shutting.

“Dude.” Baby whispers into the void. “Your balls are on my thigh.”

“Let it happen.”

On the other side of the place, Jinu’s finally, finally asleep. Took him three cups of ginger tea, twenty minutes of deep breathing, and every ounce of restraint in his body not to stab Romance when he heard him giggling down the hallway.

But now? Peace.

“…Jinu?”

His eyes open instantly. His hand slides blindly across the sheets as he turns, pushing hair from his forehead, squinting at the door.

You’re there. Peeking in. Hands behind your back. You look… sheepish. Sleep-ruffled and adorable. Bare legs. Wide eyes.

“…Mm?” he murmurs.

“Are you sleeping?”

Jinu’s eyes opened fully now, already propped up on one elbow without hesitation, looking at you in the doorway. “Not anymore.” he murmurs, voice hoarse with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate. Step in a little. Eyes flick down. “…Do we have Netflix?”

For a second, there’s nothing. Just silence and Jinu, blinking. Then he lets out a quiet little groan. Not at you, just because he just woke up.

“We’ll get it for you tomorrow.” he murmurs, already rolling onto his back, eyes fluttering shut.

You don’t leave.

He knows this because he doesn’t hear the door. Doesn’t hear the padding of your feet on the floor.

Does hear you sniff once, not from crying but because you’re still sick and your nose is acting like it’s being held hostage.

He cracks one eye open.

You’re still there.

In the doorway.

Not saying a word. Not looking at him. Just standing. Silent. Patient. Waiting.

God, Jinu loves you, but you’re a lot.

He groans softly, mostly to himself, already sitting up.

“…Okay.” he says under his breath. “Okay, okay. You deserve Netflix. Right now. Because obviously. Obviously you do.”

Two minutes later, your room. He’s standing in front of your TV like a man defusing a bomb, logging into god-knows-what.

You’re sitting on your bed, tucked into the corner like a child. Your chin rests on your knees.

Jinu glances over his shoulder once.

You don’t say anything.

Just smile.

He swallows. Looks away fast. His ears burn.

The screen flashes. Success.

Netflix.

He hands you the remote. “There. You’re all set.”

“Thanks.” you say quietly.

He watches you scroll. Watches your expression shift ever so slightly when you spot something you like. You wiggle a little in your seat. You always do that. Like your body can’t hold still when you’re excited.

Jinu wants to marry you over that wiggle.

He pauses at the door, just once, hand on the frame, eyes on you from the corner of his vision.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, without turning. But you say: “I like when you do stuff for me.”

Fuck.

He dies right there.

Just a little.

And walks out like he isn’t clenching every muscle in his body to keep from crawling into that bed beside you.

For him, you are peace.

Even when you’re stubborn, even when you slap his hand away with that adorable little glare and mutter under your breath, he sees something in you that grounds him. Anchors him. He’s scared of how much he wants to take care of you. How badly he wants to make things easier, even if it means suffering more himself.

But when you look at him? Everything stops. The rushing thoughts. The planning. The guilt, even. His hands go still. His lungs expand the way they haven’t in years.

His knees buckled when you said that you like when he does stuff for you. Not figuratively. Literally. He caught himself against the hallway wall and had to breathe.

You make him feel gentle. Fragile. Like maybe the violence in him isn’t permanent. Like maybe love isn’t supposed to hurt. And then, yes, sure—also like maybe you should climb on top of him, breathe into his mouth, and ruin his entire worldview. Because Jinu’s biggest sickness is this unbearable urge to worship you.

He’d marry you if you asked. Today. Right now. With Abby as the flower girl.

For Abby, you are chaos. Perfect, gorgeous, delicious chaos.

Emotionally, you’ve cracked him open like a walnut. He doesn’t know what the hell to do with himself around you. You make him feel big. Big and strong and stupid and seventeen all over again. And god, do you make him ache.

He thinks about fucking you all the time, yes, but not in the porn way. In the us in the kitchen, up on the counter, my shirt on you while you laugh into my mouth way. In the you on top of me after a long day, hands in my hair, telling me I’m your favorite way.

Abby is vulgar when he talks about you to the others. He makes jokes. Says shit like, “You see what she was wearing? I barked, I meowed, I passed out.” And yeah, it’s funny. But inside? He gets hard watching you stir soup. He nearly cried when you touched his bicep one time and said more than a simple “Nice.”

Once, he imagined you saying “my boyfriend will beat your ass” and pointing to him.

It got him doing pushups for six minutes.

For Romance, you are punishment.

And he’s a bad, bad boy.

There’s nothing clean about what you make him feel. He likes it dirty. Likes it ugly.

You’ll walk into the room in those stupid, soft-ass socks with your hair in your face, and he’ll get hard before you even open your mouth. And then you speak, all polite and cute, like you don’t know what you’re doing, and it’s game over.

But it’s not just your body. (Okay, it’s 70% your body, but the other 30% is devastating.) It’s the way you challenge him. Refuse him. You’ve said no to him more times than he’s been stabbed in his life, and that does things to him.

Romance is addicted.

You’re a drug, and he’s a junkie.

He fantasizes about kissing you until you forget who you are, about laying his head in your lap while you braid his hair and threaten to kill him for teasing you too much. He wants to see you cry, laugh, moan—in that order.

Romance gets sick when you enter a room. Like a teenager locked in a church. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Every time you sneeze, he’s like, “Aww baby, you need a sponge bath?” with that cocky purr, but deep inside? That shit’s real. You say his name and his hips twitch. You look annoyed and his brain blanks. You trip once on the carpet and he imagines you falling into his arms and never getting back up again. (Because he’s got you. He’ll always have you.)

Every time you lean near him, he smells you.

Every time your knee touches his, he sees stars.

He’d do anything for you. He’d kill for you, die for you, let you step on his chest in heels and call him names. He’d also let you slap him and then apologize because he probably deserved it. Also wants you to step on his neck, maybe, a little. He’s complex.

Romance has thought about your body so often it’s burned into his blood. Your throat. Your back. Your tits. The sound you’d make if he put his mouth right—He bites his knuckles when it gets too far.

But underneath that?

God, he hurts.

For Baby, you are inconvenient. So inconvenient.

And he wants you. Wants you in a horrible, miserable, can’t-eat kind of way. The idea of kissing you makes his stomach churn. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it too much.

But he still thinks about your legs when he showers.

He’s cool. Collected. A menace. A dick. The guy who doesn’t flinch. And then you smile at him? His stomach flips. Butterflies? No. Bats. Demons. Full-blown, winged creatures flapping in his gut.

He rolls his eyes. Acts bored. Sits with his knees up and headphones in while you talk. He hides it behind pure brat behavior. Kicks your chair. Flicks your water bottle off the table. Glares when you compliment anyone else. Classic mean girl syndrome.

You walk by? He tenses. You touch his shoulder? He shrugs it off like it’s annoying, but he remembers the exact temperature of your fingers for hours afterward.

He talks shit constantly but would commit literal murder if someone looked at you wrong.

For Mystery, you are holy.

And he’s been filthy his whole life. Blood on his hands, trauma in his jaw, everything he touches gets corrupted. Even the other boys. He likes them, but they’re demons just like him, and it’s fine because they all rot together.

But you? You don’t rot. You smile. You shine. You’ll brush past him in the hall and say, “Hi, Myst” and he’ll go completely still. Breath caught. Eyes half-lidded. Body buzzing like he’s been shocked.

Mystery’s body does wild, involuntary things when you’re near. His breath shortens. His pupils dilate. His chest aches. He wants to touch you, but he also wants to keep his hands behind his back like a soldier.

You don’t realize it, but every time you enter a room, his shoulders relax a little.

He breathes better when you’re nearby. He eats better when you speak to him.

He doesn’t say much. But when you talk? He listens. Every word. Every syllable.

He’s already yours.

Has been since the day you smacked his hand away and told him to say please.

He did.

And he hasn’t stopped saying it since. Quietly. In his head. Every time you walk past.

Please.

Please.

Please stay.

Thank you everyone for all the memes I’m genuinely so in love w them💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

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not our universe ── . ✶ c. kent

summary: you've had a complicated relationship with being a metahuman, but after taking a look into the multiverse—you've never hated having your powers more.

pairings: established!clark kent x gn!reader, clark kent x metahuman!readerノ wc: 7.9k warnings: no use of 'y/n, buckle in bc it's a long one!, fluff in the beginning, then there's angst, reader is a metahuman who can see through the multiverse, reader's nose bleeds a lot, insecure!reader, avoidant!reader, reader is described to be shorter than clark, clark gets frustrated, fluffy/happy ending, the ending is so sappy, and i love it, kinda edited; all mistakes are my own a/n: saw an edit on my feed about all of the iterations of clois and i was like...this is primetime for some angst for the reader LOL :p. also sorry for taking so long to write this i was waiting until i rewatched the movie to finish this but enjoy!! oh and a simple comment or reblog goes a long long way for writers!! clark kent masterlist

IT STARTED OFF SMALL, YOUR POWERS.

You didn't even realize you had powers at first. In your young mind, you thought you were having really vivid dreams at first. Your parents thought you had an overactive imagination when you ran into their room in the morning and blabbed about your dreams with them at the ripe old age of eight. 

It was only when they turned on the news that morning that they realized what had happened across the globe was the same scenario you had described in your dream that morning. Your parents were at a loss for what to do with you and your newly developed powers (even if you had no idea that you had them).

After a lengthy discussion between the two of them, they took you to a specialist in metahuman powers (who was a metahuman themselves) to try and figure out what powers you actually possessed.

After weeks of going to several appointments with this specialist, you found out alongside your parents that your powers consisted of a form of astral projection, but would manifest and grow in power over time to the point where you didn't need to sleep anymore to see into different areas of the globe at any time you wanted. 

And oh, did your powers grow indeed. By the time you were in high school, you could see alternate dimensions in your sleep. You hadn't quite mastered being able to travel places and dimensions awake. Though that skill wouldn't have developed until you graduated from college.

Your doctor was an essential instrument for you to not only control but also understand your metahuman ability. If it wasn't for them, you would not have found out that you can't actively affect the events you're witnessing or be seen by the average person. 

You had yet to find a person to "sense" you while you were in your 'ghostly form' besides your doctor (how else did you know that you had a transparent form when you were using your powers). That was until you had projected into Superman's apartment one night while you were asleep. 

It happened purely by accident. You were up thinking about Clark Kent of all people before you fell asleep. He was your really kind and very attractive friend who happened to work at the Daily Planet alongside you. You couldn't help but think about how he had gone out of his way to grab you coffee that morning since you hastily texted him to get him to cover for you as you ran late (granted, if he wasn't late himself). 

So, your subconscious decided to transport your astral form into a familiar-looking apartment that you've been to a couple of times when you guys would have your movie nights.

Superman had his red boots kicked off when he turned around abruptly and saw you in the hallway leading to his apartment. 

You looked around at the familiar hallway of Clark's apartment when you saw Superman(sans boots) standing in his living room and staring directly at you. You were used to people looking through you—some even walked through you like you didn't even exist. 

But Superman didn't look through you, but he looked AT you. You stood there, shocked. What the hell was Superman doing in Clark's apartment, and how the hell could he see you right now? 

Clark called out your name breathlessly, and it snapped you out of your stupor. You realized that Superman could see you. You got scared and vanished out of his sight. You immediately shot up out of bed, panting, and you could feel liquid dripping down your face. You groaned, getting out of bed and rushing into your bathroom, turning on the faucet and cleaning your now bleeding nose. 

You hadn't gotten one in years since your freshman year of college. As you cleaned your face, your mind was racing. 

I mean, I knew Clark knew Superman, but I didn't think they knew each other on an intimate level. However, now, how Clark got all of those interviews makes sense.

You cleaned your face of the blood and exited your ensuite bathroom when there was rapid knocking at your door. Your heartbeat caught in your throat as you walked towards your doorway. You looked into the peephole and saw a disheveled Clark. 

You opened your door hesitantly and confused. "Clark? Are you okay?" You asked as you took in his rumpled white t-shirt and joggers. Your brows were furrowed. How did he get to your apartment so fast? 

"M'fine. How did you get into my apartment?" Clark asked, ducking into your apartment. Suppose he was going to air out his secret identity to you. In that case, he'd prefer the privacy of your apartment to having the discussion in the hallway. 

"What? Clark, I wasn't in your apartment." You closed your door and said as you followed him into your living room, turning on the lamp on the end table near your couch. You were still a little drowsy, so Clark got into your place without much protest from you.

Clark looked unimpressed by your confusion. "I saw you in the doorway and then I blinked and you were gone. How did you do that?" 

In your sleep-addled brain, you barely registered his words. "What are you talking about? Superman was the one who saw me, and he was in—" You cut yourself off. The realization hit you like a lightning strike. 

You were fully awake now as you looked at Clark in shock. "You're Superman." He wasn't wearing his glasses, and the similarities between Clark and Superman were uncanny. 

Clark swallowed thickly. "Yeah." He admitted after letting out a breath. "So, can you answer my question? Since you kinda just appeared in my apartment and then disappeared." 

You couldn't help but let out a delirious giggle, confusing Clark slightly, but the corner of his lips couldn't help but twitch up at the sound of it. You really didn't think your night was going to turn out like this, hence the random giggle (or was it the sleep deprivation? You couldn't tell anymore). 

You shook your head. "It's a long story." You sighed, walking over to your couch and throwing yourself into the well-worn cushions, gesturing for Clark to sit down. 

"I've got time." Clark said softly as he sat down on the cushion next to where you were sitting. 

So, you told him everything. You told him about your metahuman abilities and the process you went through in order to get a handle on your powers. Clark listened intently, his eyes never once straying away from your form. 

"Any questions?" You asked after letting out a breath and sinking back into your couch as you finally looked at Clark, meeting his intense gaze. 

"Do you usually 'project'," Clark mimed air quotes, making you smile, "into your friend's apartment?" 

"No, I've got a good handle on my powers eighty five percent of the time." 

"So, the other fifteen percent is room for error?" 

You laughed softly. "Yeah. I guess tonight was just one of those nights." 

Clark nodded. "I see. Can I ask another question?" 

"Are you going all journalist on me now? I think you forgot your notepad and recorder Mr. Kent." You teased Clark. 

"I don't think an interview with you will make the front page." Clark played along and shot you a smug grin. 

You scoffed. "Right, because your favorite person to interview is yourself ironically enough." You shot back, a sarcastic smile on your face.

Clark was fighting the smile that was trying to grow on his face. "Shut up." But his words had no real bite to them. 

"Oh please, you love hearing the sound of my voice." 

You'd be right. He thought, but Clark bit back his real response. "Why tonight? You mentioned that you don't usually project at night right before you sleep." He asked his question instead of continuing the banter that was usually thrown around between the two of you. 

That was the thing with your powers. Once you had gotten them under control, you never wanted to use them.

You were warned that the older you got with having your powers, the more dangerous the places you find yourself in, both asleep and while you use your powers on purpose. Yeah, your physical body would be fine—but you didn't want to sacrifice your mental health to satiate your curiosity for other parts of the world or alternate dimensions.  

You bit your bottom lip. Clark's eyes flickered to how your teeth were pillowed by the fullness of your lips. You sighed, making Clark's gaze meet your own. 

"Sometimes, when I don't use my powers for a long time, I project without meaning to—it doesn't happen often. But when it does, it means I have a lot on my mind." Yeah, you had a whole lot of Clark Kent on the mind. You tried looking away from Clark, but his eyes always seemed to pin you in place. 

Clark could hear the rapid beat of your heart, almost mirroring his own, and it filled his chest with hope as his lips stretched into a tender smile. He shifted on the couch and closer to you. Warmth radiated off of him—even through the material of his sweatpants as his thighs brushed against yours. 

"Can I admit something? Since we're airing secrets out and all." Clark's voice was gentle as he looked down at you with soft eyes, filled with affection. 

You nodded. "But if you tell me that you're Superman, well, I know now." 

Clark chuckled at your playful words, and a surge of confidence went through him, channeling a little bit of Superman into his actions. One of his hands found your own. "I am Superman. And it makes this easier for me to say, but I like you. A lot." He tacked on at the end as he stared at your face, trying to read your expression. Clark felt his ears turn red, and a warm blush climbed down his neck. 

"Really?" You asked in disbelief.  

Clark looked away for a brief moment. "Yes." 

A giddy feeling started to course through your body as you squeezed his hand. "You're in luck. I like you a lot too." 

Clark looked back at you, his lips split into a blinding grin, his dimples appearing, and you couldn't help but mirror his smile. You were practically turning into putty at the sight of his adoring grin.

Clark leaned in, and the sharp sting of ozone and the fading scent of his cologne emanated from him and filled your senses. The close proximity of Clark and his scent was almost dizzying—you barely knew your left from your right at this point, but you knew you wanted him closer. 

Clark used his free hand to gently cup your cheek, his eyes darting between your lips and your eyes. "You're so pretty." He muttered almost absentmindedly, like being this close to you, disengaged his filter, and was unable to resist telling you now that he was this close to you. 

And you were. The warm glow from the lamp behind you gave the illusion that there was a halo behind you. Your cheeks immediately flooded with heat at the sudden praise—you were torn between ducking away from Clark's adoring gaze and leaning into his palm. You did the latter, Clark's hand was warm, and you couldn't help but let it lead you closer to his face. 

"You're not so bad yourself." You murmured softly as the warm light washed over Clark's face, making his blue eyes even more intense as he stared down at you. 

Clark's nose scrunched at your words. "And here I thought you liked me." 

You chuckled, rolling your eyes in amusement. "I'm sorry, but have you seen Superman? He's gorgeous. A real God amongst men." You quipped playfully. 

Clark shook his head at you, clearly exasperated, but the smile on his lips said otherwise. "You're ridiculous, I thought you didn't like Superman?"  

"Opinions can change." You shrugged. "But considering that I know you and him are one in the same, he doesn't seem all that bad anymore." 

"Oh, so he's not a reckless hero with no spatial awareness when it comes to the destruction of the city?" Clark raised an eyebrow at you, amusement coloring his tone as he quoted a line from the one article you did write on Superman. 

"Well, if the shoe fits…" You trailed off, pursing your lips in mock thought. 

Clark scoffed. He thought for a second about how to retaliate verbally before a mischievous smirk grew on his lips. You barely caught it before you erupted into shocked giggles. 

"Take it back!" Clark laughed alongside you as he poked at your ribs and tickled your sides. You fell backward on your couch, trying to get away from his hands, but it was fruitless against the man of steel. 

"N-Never!" You exclaimed through your laughter, trying to curl in on yourself, but Clark wasn't having it. He managed to straddle you and doubled down on his actions. 

The room was being bathed in yours and Clark's laughter alongside the soft glow of the lamp and moonlight filtering through your curtains. The sounds of joy and love swirled around the two of you as you slowly forgot the exact circumstances that led the two of you together. 

"UNCLE! Uncle, uncle!" You gasped out desperately. Joyful tears wet your cheeks as your stomach began to cramp from the laughter. 

Clark stopped tickling you and let his hands rest on your waist. You looked up at him. He was slotted in between your open legs, hovering over you with a lingering smile playing on his pink lips. Clark's head was slowly ducking down, getting closer to yours. 

"You know," You started to murmur, eyes flipping between his lips and blue eyes, "Superman is great and all, but I like Clark a hell of a lot more." 

"That's good to know." He replied in a soft tone. Clark's forehead landed against yours, a sliver of space between the two of you. 

Clark let out a stuttering sigh. "Can I kiss you?" 

Instead of answering, you tilted your head up and pressed your lips against his. It felt like the world went quiet as soon as your lips connected with Clark's. A surge of warmth shot through your body as you sank into the cushions, as Clark's body blanketed yours. Your hands made their way into his dark curls as your lips moved against each other. 

You felt like you could stay in the bubble you and Clark had made for eternity. Trading soft kisses and caresses until you physically couldn't anymore. Every unspoken feeling and desire was poured into each kiss the two of you pressed against each other's lips, keeping them soft and tender until Clark pulled away—his hand caressing your cheek as he looked down at you adoringly. Affection was written all over his face as he smiled softly at you. 

"Be mine?" You asked quietly, looking into his slightly blown-out gaze. 

"You have me. You've had me for a long time." He admitted, reverence in his tone as his thumb moved against the apple of your cheek. 

Everything shifted into place after that night. Clark was the most thoughtful and attentive boyfriend you ever had. If you had trouble thinking about him all the time before, the problem (not that you consider it one) got a whole lot worse when you guys started dating. If you had a dime for every time you thought about it, you'd be rivaling Lex Luthor in terms of money.

Clark was just so endearing. He'd text you randomly throughout your day, even though he was no more than fifteen away from your desk at work. He'd send silly pictures that reminded Clark of you or what he thought you would like. You don't even know how many conversations you've screenshotted. But there were a lot more pictures of him in your camera roll than the screenshots. 

Sometimes, Clark would show up at your door with flowers because they reminded him of you before your movie nights. Or he would grab takeout for the both of you when you're working late on your article at home and has to practically feed you as you type furiously away at your laptop. And without fail, he texted you before and after he'd go on his Superman duties and more often than not, found refuge in your apartment after a battle.  

Things were going great for a few months, until your powers acted up while you were asleep again. 

You could hear the faint rush of traffic from a street enter your ears before your eyes opened. You were standing outside, on a terrace of sorts. You looked around and saw the city. The buildings looked familiar to you, but you couldn't quite place where you recognized them from.

The doors to the terrace opened, making you turn around. You saw a woman in a white dress with a sheer blue overlay draped over it holding a pencil and notepad, going to sit down at the table positioned right in front of the open doors. 

The woman was a little nervous, as you could see in her expression as she poured herself a glass of wine. But as she was taking a sip of the wine, you felt him before you saw him. 

"Good evening, Miss Lane." You turned around the same time she did. 

It was Superman. You were shocked to see a more vibrant and more form-fitting version of his suit.

You could barely wrap your head around this entire dream? But you knew deep down this wasn't one of your regular dreams. It was your power at work. And right now, you're seeing a version of Lois and Superman—you mean Clark interacting right now. 

This version of Clark didn't seem to notice you at all, staring directly at the version of Lois that was sitting down right next to you. She got up from her seat, clearly a little flustered and surprised that he dropped in so suddenly. 

Lois, in her very familiar Lois Lane fashion, started to interview Superman, and you could tell that there was tension between them. They were both flirting with each other as they flew through the questions, making something inside of your chest twist. It didn't make any sense to you. Why were you seeing this now? 

You stopped listening to their banter and questions as you started to spiral into your thoughts, only being broken out of your stupor when Clark grabbed the notepad and pencil out of her hands and led her to the more open spot of the terrace. Your vision blurred as they shot off to the sky—a flash of white blinding you. 

You shot up from the bed with a start, falling off the bed in your shock. Clark woke up from your sharp, but loud gasp as you fell. 

He got up from the bed and quickly made it to your side, flicking on the lamp to see your wide eyes. They were filled with confusion as they darted around the room. It was like seeing a cornered dog trying to find its way out of the situation they were in. 

Clark fell to his knees beside you, using a gentle hand to turn your face towards him. His gaze dropped to the nosebleed you were having. 

"Sweetheart, look at me." Clark softly commanded.

Clark's voice filtered through your ears, making your shoulders relax as your eyes finally met his. Your breathing was still labored as your mind tried to process the images you saw, feeling the brewing headache beginning to form. 

"Can you take some deep breaths for me?" Clark's voice was a soothing balm, and you nodded in response. 

You took deep breaths, exhaling shakily until your breathing became even. Clark's warm hands were on your face—grounding you even further until you calmed down. 

Clark's eyes were zeroed in on the drying blood on your face. Wordlessly, he picked you up from the floor and went into your ensuite bathroom. Sitting you on the counter, he picked up a spare washcloth, wet it with some warm water, and started to wipe off the blood from your nose. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" He murmured quietly, breaking the silence that had settled in the bathroom. 

You sighed. "I think I projected." You said, inadvertently answering his question.

"You think?" Clark asked carefully. He finished cleaning your face and went to rinse the blood from the towel. 

"It was different this time. I thought it was a dream at first, but everything looked familiar but it wasn't the same. Not like here." You swallowed thickly. "I think I saw a different version of you." You admitted quietly. 

The neutral expression on Clark’s face fell. "How?" His forehead creased with confusion.

You shook your head. "I don't know. He had a similar suit to yours, but he looked different. Like completely different from you." 

Clark dropped the towel in the sink, grabbing your hands with his own as he saw yours start to shake. "Hey, we don't have to figure it out right now." He consoled as one of his hands cupped your cheek. "Let's go back to sleep," Clark suggested, tugging you off the counter. 

You followed him with no complaints. Your hazy mind would have gone more insane if you had thought about it for a second longer. Once you and Clark settled back into your bed and in his arms, you spoke up. 

"I'll have to call Dr. Parker in the morning." You whispered into his chest.

Clark kissed your forehead. "Sounds like a plan." He muttered into your skin before kissing your hairline—wrapping his arms around you a little tighter. 

You decided to take the day off and recover while you tried to wrap your head around what you saw last night. 

Clark went back to his apartment to get ready for work, but not before leaving you with a sweet kiss on the lips and a promise to give him an update after you call your specialist. 

You called Dr. Parker, and after exchanging some pleasantries, you explained what you saw the night before to them, in extreme detail (besides revealing the fact that Clark was Superman, for obvious reasons). 

They sighed into the receiver. "I was afraid this day would come." Their tone was grim. 

Your eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean? Do you know what's happening to me?" 

Dr. Parker sighed. "After discovering that you could see into alternate dimensions, I figured that one day your ability would grow powerful enough to see into alternate realities." 

"H-how is that possible? I try not to use my powers at all when I can." You couldn't believe what you were hearing. 

Dr. Parker said your name in a soothing tone. "I've been tracking and studying your ability since we've met, and this was going to happen regardless if you used them or not." 

You felt like the rug was pulled from beneath your feet. You sat down on your couch. "What do you mean exactly when you say 'alternate realities'?" 

"I don't think that is some-" 

"Dr. Parker. I need to know." You pleaded as you cut them off, gripping the edge of the cushion you were sitting on and trying to ground yourself in the moment. 

They were silent for a moment. "To put it simply, you can see into the multiverse." 

You've vaguely heard about this theory before when interviewing scientists from Star Labs for an article you were writing on the expansion of Star Labs to Metropolis. 

"I thought the multiverse was a theory." You breathed out in disbelief. 

"I don't think we can discount the impossible here. You know the world that we live in." Dr. Parker said knowingly. 

If aliens and metahumans can exist naturally, who's to say scientific theories aren't actually true? 

You shook your head, blowing out a harsh breath through your mouth. You leaned back into your cushions. "Okay then, why didn't Superman sense me when I was on the terrace with him and that version of Lois? I mean, he should have, right?" 

Dr. Parker hummed in thought. "The only idea that I have is that the distances between the universe you saw and our own is far enough to where any metahuman's enhanced senses couldn't detect you."  

"Is there any way to prove that idea right?" You asked jokingly, but it sounded flat in your ears. 

"Not right now. It would take multiple years to just try and prove the theory outside of your powers." 

You sighed. "I figured. But thank you again Dr. Parker." 

"It's no problem, my dear. Please remember to call me if anything else like this happens. Preferably right after they do." 

You chuckled. "I'll try." 

The two of you exchanged goodbyes before you hung up. You stared at your phone blankly. You're only hoping that you don't project to any more universes right now or in the near future. 

Well, you were completely and utterly wrong. You thought that your projections into different universes would be different each time. You thought you would see various aspects or perspectives of what other universes would look like. While you did, you saw the same dynamic each and every time. 

It was always about Clark and Lois. 

If you thought the first time you saw them together was just a fluke. You'd be sorely incorrect. 

When you first came to the Daily Planet, you weren't blind. You saw the banter between Clark and Lois they had as they parried back and forth on article ideas or random topics you guys would talk about on your lunch break. You would try to ignore the sharp sting to your heart each time you saw them interact. 

You weren't even that mad at seeing them together—they meshed well together despite how different they were. You are admittedly envious of Lois Lane. You were a big fan of her work before you came to work at the Daily Planet, and once you got to know her, you could see anyone falling to their knees for her.

Lois was unabashed and unashamed about her pursuit of the truth, was incredibly smart, and quick with her wit. Yeah, she was a bit abrasive, but Lois had a confidence that you couldn't fake—it came naturally like breathing for her. 

Lois Lane seemed like everything you weren't and what you wanted to be. 

You tried to squash the growing crush you had on Clark. Hell, you even thought they were dating at one point and just keeping it a secret from the office until you went out with them one night, and Lois had brought the girl she was seeing to the bar you guys were at. 

Each time you closed your eyes, you saw a different version of Clark/Superman and Lois, and the seed of insecurity only flourished when you woke up. It gnawed at you endlessly. 

It was borderline cruel. Having to witness each iteration of Clark and Lois being together. Like they were destined for each other in each universe, and they were taunting you. You had wished that you had learned how to wake up in the middle of your projections, but once you were there, it was practically impossible to snap out of it. 

With each projection into a different universe where Lois and Clark were together, you started to retreat into yourself and slowly extracted yourself from Clark. 

It started off small.  

You'd reply to Clark's text messages that he sent hours after he sent them, being dry as you texted him, not stopping by his desk during your downtime at work, and giving him smiles that he could see through—but you knew that Clark would be too kind to say anything about it. 

You'd make up flimsy excuses to avoid spending time with him when he asked to come over or have date nights together. He let them slide, but you could tell he was worried about you and your attempts to blow him off. 

It got to the point where you stopped talking to him altogether, practically ghosting him in your texts and avoiding him at work. The only time you spoke to him was short and clipped one-word responses when Jimmy and Lois would pull you into discussions before getting back to work. 

Was acting this way rational at all? Absolutely not, but how else were you supposed to react when you were forced to see your boyfriend be with someone else in multiple different universes? And at the same time, you seemed to cease to exist in all of them.

Clark was rightfully frustrated and confused. He thought you guys were doing well and going steadily. He didn't like the 180 you did in attitude towards him when you seemed to act normal around everyone else. 

He tried to be patient with you, but you were icing him out of his life, and he wanted to know why. 

So, he pulled you into a storage closet at work one day when you were coming back from the bathroom. 

Clark quickly flipped on the light. "Why are you avoiding me?" He wasted no time and started to question you. 

You blinked up at him, a little confused and dazed from being abruptly pulled into a dusty storage closet. "Huh?" 

Clark, the usually patient guy you knew, looked anything but. "Please," He sighed out your name. "You're avoiding me. Was it something I did?" He asked quietly, almost folding in on himself, insecurity written in his icy blue irises. 

Your heart twisted as a lump grew in your throat. You never meant to make Clark feel this way. "No! No, not at all." You shook your head, trying to swallow down the persistent feeling in your throat. 

Clark looked down at you, waiting for you to continue. You met his gaze, and your breath caught in your throat as you realized how close you were to him. You hadn't been close to him in some time, and all you wanted was to lean into his warmth and cocoon yourself in it. Then the flashes of the other Clarks and Loises flashed into your brain, reminding you of why you were avoiding him in the first place. 

"I've just been focused on work." You said, looking away from him. 

Clark said your name in a low tone, like a warning. "Please, don't lie to me."  He sounded tired as he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

You looked at Clark, really looked at him. He seemed visibly defeated—his shoulders were sagging like he had stayed up all night and was dragging his feet in his exhausted stupor. His clothes were more rumpled and wrinkled than usual.

"I'm not." You were. "This article has been kicking my ass and the deadline is too close for me to think about anything else." 

"You could have asked for my help. You still can." Clark was practically pleading to try to spend time with you in any place he could. 

You shook your head. "I don't need it. I gotta go back to work, Clark, and so should you." You shut down the conversation and, faster than he could anticipate, you left the storage closet. 

Clark cursed under his breath and put his glasses back on. He rubbed at his forehead as he exited the closet. The one thing that bothered Clark the most was leaving important conversations unfinished.

He made his way back to his desk dejectedly and in a bad mood. Clark shot a glance your way to see you actively trying not to look over at him, typing aggressively at your desktop. 

You were staring hard at the Word document as you typed away at it. Your eyes were getting dry, and you realized you hadn't blinked in over five minutes, so you did. 

You opened your eyes, and suddenly, you were standing near your desk instead of sitting down. The time of day was no longer mid-afternoon, but it was morning. You looked around and noticed that everything was the same. So why the hell was it morning? Then you looked at your desk, which was adjacent to Lois's. 

Why the hell was it empty? 

You were completely oblivious to the conversation happening between your coworkers until Lois stood up and switched the channel on the surrounding TVs on the pillars. 

"Yeah, Superman did say that he thought that the hammer might be faking a Boravian accent." Clark said as he stared at the screen, leaning back in his chair. 

"Superman said that?" Lois asked skeptically. 

"Yeah, I interviewed him right afterwards. Great guy." He said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, his eyes never once straying from the screen. 

"You know, it's funny you keep getting all these interviews with Superman, Clark," Lois said, almost knowingly, but played it off as a question. 

"Huh, I don't think there's anything funny about good journalism Lois." Clark threw back at her, brushing off her question. 

"Uh huh." Lois stared at Clark for a brief moment before going back to her desk. 

You squinted at the interaction. The question of how Clark always managed to get an interview with Superman was a recurring conversation between Lois and Clark. But now there was an undercurrent of tension you picked up on. Before you could dwell on it even further, your vision blurred. The scene had changed, and you were suddenly following Lois back to her apartment. This hadn't happened before. Ever. 

It felt like something was tethered between you and Lois as your feet mindlessly followed her into her apartment. There was a clatter coming from her kitchen, making Lois alarmed. Lois reached through you and grabbed the bat situated near the door and inched closer to the kitchen. She relaxed when she saw who was in the kitchen. You looked over her shoulder and saw Clark. Your Clark. 

"What are you doing here?" Lois asked as she dropped the bat, but still had it in her grip. 

"3 months ago, we had our first date. And so to celebrate, I am making you your favorite. Breakfast for dinner." Clark said, moving around Lois's kitchen as if it were his own. 

"That's your favorite." Lois set the bat right next to the fridge. 

"You love breakfast." 

"Yeah, for breakfast. You love it for dinner." Lois said as she approached Clark.

He turned off the burner and faced Lois. Without any hesitation, Clark grabbed her by the waist, and Lois pulled into a passionate kiss. You crumpled to the ground, falling to your knees—your eyes never leaving the intertwined pair in front of you.

You could faintly hear someone calling your name, and you could feel a phantom hand on your shoulder, shaking it. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and with a flash of white, your eyes shot open. 

You were met with the ceiling of the Daily Planet, and you felt the cold temperature of linoleum seeping through your clothes. Clark's and Lois's worried faces hovered above you, making you blink hard at the sight of them, looking identical to the ones you saw kissing in an alternate universe that seemed to be exactly like the one you were in now. 

Their words were muffled in your ears, like you were underwater. They helped you up from the floor, but you immediately ripped your arms out of their grip, confusion flashing through their concerned expressions. 

You could feel the eyes of everyone in the bullpen as you tried to rein back in any dignity you had left in your body. A handkerchief entered your eyeline. You grabbed it, knowing that it was for the wetness you were feeling under your nose and down your chin, seeing that your own boss had given it to you, with an uncharacteristic soft look in his eyes. 

"You alright there kid?" Perry asked. 

You couldn't meet anyone's eyes as you wiped your face free of blood, staining the patterned fabric with it. "Yeah." You rasped out. "I just overworked myself, I guess." 

"Take the rest of the day off, and matter of fact, the rest of the week." Perry said, but you heard the worry underneath his stern tone. 

You nodded in response—it was only Wednesday. You could handle missing two days of work.  

"Get back to work!" Perry's voice boomed through the bullpen, making the crowd that surrounded you disperse, and the chatter around the office started back up again. 

You couldn't bear to look at either Clark or Lois as you left the Daily Planet, despite Clark's attempt to try to talk to you—but Perry yelled at him to work. You used the opening to leave the office as swiftly as you could. 

Later that night, you were lying in bed, just having gotten off a call with Dr. Parker. It made you feel marginally better, having an impromptu therapy session with a medical professional who was definitely not qualified for therapy—but it was good to get the images that were burned into your memory out of them. 

You heard a knock at your door, but you made no move to open it. You knew exactly who was at it. You immediately slowed down your breathing, and hopefully, your heart rate would follow in its footsteps, trying to mimic the fact that you were asleep. 

Clark called out your name softly, but you still heard him through the thin walls of your cheap one-bedroom apartment. "I don't know what you saw, and you probably don't want to see me right now, but I made some soup for you. I'll just leave it outside your door." Clark paused before he continued. 

"Just don't push me out anymore, please. You really scared me today sweetheart and I just want to know that you're okay." You heard Clark linger at the door until his footsteps could no longer be heard from your spot on your bed. 

You stayed still as you could as you took in his words. The lump in your throat was massive, and tears gathered in your eyes as his earnest and honest words hit you harder than you expected. You missed Clark. You missed him a lot. But seeing what you saw today solidified the fact that you and Clark weren't meant to be together. 

In any universe. 

Tears fell from your eyes at the thought. Clark and Lois are meant to be together—it has been proven to you time and time again.  Fuck, you hated your powers. It effectively ruined the one good thing you had going for you, and now you had to tear it down for the universe to right itself. 

Your weekend was spent wallowing in bed and trying to build up the courage to text Clark to come over to talk—and to break up with him, as much as you didn't want to. You were making a plan to transfer (escape) to Central City because you couldn't bear the thought of being in such close proximity to the love of your life when you weren't his. 

Can we talk? You sent the text to him on Sunday morning. 

Yeah, what time do you want me to come over? He responded instantly. 

Give me twenty minutes. You texted back, knowing Clark could be at your apartment within the blink of an eye, and you needed to get cleaned up and mentally prepare for the irreparable damage you were about to cause. 

You took the quickest shower ever, opting out of washing your hair and getting dressed in a new set of pajamas to wallow in after the conversation that was about to take place. Twenty minutes later, on the dot, you heard a knock on your door. 

You took a deep breath before answering it. Clark stood in front of you, an awkward smile on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. 

"Hi." Clark greeted you with a kind smile. Oh, that smile is going to make you crumble and chicken out on your plan. 

"Hey Clark, come in." You gestured for him to come in. 

You closed the door and followed behind him into your living room. 

"How are you?" Clark asked you, albeit it came out a bit awkward as he fiddled with his glasses. 

"I've been doing fine. Haven't projected at all since Wednesday." You told him. 

He nodded, his eyes brightening at the news before they dimmed. Clark cleared his throat. "What was it about?" 

"What?" You were slightly taken aback by the blunt question. 

"What you saw while you projected. What did you see?" 

"I-why do you want to know?" You weren't at all comfortable telling him what you saw. 

"Because I know it had something to do with me and Lois." 

You cursed yourself out in your mind. Clark was perceptive when he wanted to be, and it was obvious that he noticed your reaction to both him and Lois earlier that week. You stayed silent, avoiding his eyes. 

Clark pressed his lips together, trying to quell the growing frustration. "Sweetheart, please, I just want you to talk to me." 

"I am." 

"You know that isn't what I meant. You've been so far away from me for a while now. I gave you your space, but a man can only take so much before he starts to feel unwanted." Clark stepped forward and tried to catch your gaze. "Please honey, talk to me." 

You let him pull your hands into his. You closed your eyes for a moment, relishing in his familiar touch since you've deprived yourself of it for so long. 

"I learned that I can see into the multiverse." You admitted. You had a written script in your mind, and now you were going off of it. Damn it, curse Clark and his addictive touch. 

Clark furrowed his brows. "Multiverse?" 

"I can see into alternate realities. Some look similar to ours, or completely different. And for the past month and half, I've seen god knows how many, but my powers have shown me the same thing every time." You looked down at your conjoined hands. 

"What did they show you?" Clark asked quietly. 

You gathered the courage to look him in the eye. "You. and Lois. Together." 

Clark's eyes went wide with surprise. You let his hands fall from yours as you wrapped your arms around yourself. 

You let out a bitter chuckle at the lack of response he gave you.

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either. But in each universe I saw, you and Lois were perfect together, the power couple of the century. You know what I saw on Wednesday? The universe I projected to was nearly identical to ours. I mean, that Clark looked exactly like you and everyone else here. But the only difference was that you two were together and I didn't exist at all." You spared him the details of what you saw, because you weren't keen on reliving it at all. 

Clark was speechless, but he managed to find his words. "Why didn't you tell me that this was happening?" He said, a hurt expression on his face. 

"Because I didn't want to bother you. I thought after the first one that it was a one-time thing." You shrugged off his concern. 

"You could never be a bother." He promised, bringing his hands to cup your cheeks, getting you to look at him. "You should have told me." 

"And what would you have done about them, Clark? If I can't stop this from happening, what makes you think you could have?" You lashed out, ripping his hands from your face. 

"Do you know how it feels to have the power to see through realities, to only be taunted by the fact that the man you love is meant to be with someone else? That there's proof that you don't exist in every universe, and you can't do anything about it. T-that you aren't good enough for your boyfriend because you've seen the evidence that he and Lois are destined for each other?!" You ranted, tears falling from your eyes as you expelled the frustration that had been brewing since you've been seeing different universes. 

"I don't care about the other universes!" Clark exclaimed, cutting you off before you could continue. 

You looked at him stunned. You've never heard him raise his voice in the two years that you've known him.

Clark stepped forward again and took your face in his hands once more, wiping away the wetness on your cheeks. "I don't care about the universes, because you're not in them." He repeated again softly. 

"I'm eternally grateful that you're in this one. I will always want you in this one. Not Lois. She doesn't know how I like my coffee in the morning, or how I always manage to lose my wallet, or how I'm addicted to having sweet sugary cereal in the morning, or how I get really cranky when I don't get enough sleep."

"She isn't the one I call sweetheart, honey, or any other ridiculous nickname I come up with. She isn't my personal ray of sunshine. Lois isn't the one that I trust with my whole being or who knows my greatest secret. That's reserved for the one that owns my heart. I don't care what you saw, because it isn't true. You and I are destined for each other in this universe." 

Clark's gaze was steady as he spoke, and his words were filled with sincerity and laced with love and passion, striking you hard in the heart and rattling around in your ribcage. 

"I hate how good you are with your words, Clark Kent." You said wetly, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of love that you felt swell in your heart, but there was a smile on your face as you leaned into his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

Clark's chest vibrated with his chuckle, letting you sink into his figure as he pressed a kiss to your hairline, adjusting his grip, and wrapping his arms around your waist. The afternoon sun filtered through your curtains as the two of you stood wrapped around each other, the cracks in your relationship mending with each stream of sunlight that illuminated the two of you. 

You eventually pulled back, but stayed in his arms. One of Clark's hands left your waist and caressed your cheek. 

"I'll spend the rest of my days showing you that it's always going to be you. No matter what. I'll love you until the sun burns out." Clark promised, looking deep into your eyes. 

You couldn't help the loving smile that stretched on your face. "That sounds like an awfully long time. You sure you can put up with me for that long?" 

"Yeah, and even then some." Clark said with a smile on his face, his dimples making an appearance before he leaned down and pulled you into a kiss that sent a warmth from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. You couldn't help but smile into the kiss as you poured all the promises you'd make to each other for the future. 

Forever sounded nice when it was with Clark. 

[thewitchblue]

"Can you please talk to your girlfriend, Jason? I can't keep missing these League meetings because she finds it amusing to have Batman appear in the middle of a jungle."

Bruce sounded exasperated. He was getting seriously annoyed by your antics. Jason, however, found your shenanigans hilarious and encouraged you. He even set up a map for you to throw a dart to pick your next location. Last time, he ended up in front of the League of Assassins and had to fight his way out, entirely missing the League's meeting. Clark was nice and gave him the sparknotes, but what Bruce finds important is just not the same as what Clark finds important.

Jason chuckled at his frustration. He could tell you to stop, but you likely wouldn't. You'd only get petty, and he'd hate to find out what you do when you're petty.

"No can do, B. She's a free spirit."

Bruce sighed. It was getting so bad he started sending in Tim as backup, which has him starting to randomly appear in different locations as well. He can't keep up with your nonsense.

"Can I speak to her?"

Bruce was ready to do literally anything to get you to stop. You've been doing this for months now, and it's starting to get to him. He likes everything else about you. You're just irresponsible with your powers. You love to goad people on and pick fights just to see people's reaction to when you vanish. It's gotten so bad that every criminal knows about you. The goons don't bother with you anymore. You aren't an easy target in a backalley, so they don't care.

You, however, were relaxing in the watch tower after teleporting with Flash accidentally. He was already back and talking with you. He figured no harm done. You weren't evil, so it was fine by the rest of the League. Clark and Diana were excited to finally meet you.

"Why did you choose to date Red Hood?"

Clark asked. He would understand if you went after Dick or Tim, but you picked Jason, the troubled kid riddled with anxiety and attitude. You smiled warmly.

"He's my heart. I can't live without him."

Diana smiled fondly. You have the heart of a hero, which she admires greatly. She would love to train you to be a warrior like the warriors on her planet.

You were having quite a pleasant conversation with the iconic trio until you got a call from Jason. You paused and looked at your phone. Jason never calls. His social anxiety makes it easier for him to text than call. You answered the call once you snapped out of your thoughts.

"Are you dying?"

You asked immediately when you answered the call. Everybody quieted down. Is Jason about to die again? Jason sighed as if he was being forced to do something he didn't want to do. Suspicious. You narrowed your eyes in thought. Jason grumbled,

"Bruce wants to speak to you about your powers."

You breathed a sigh of relief. He's not dying. Well, not physically, at least. He's probably dying mentally. You can already hear his nervous joint cracking through the phone.

"I'll be there in a second."

You say your goodbyes and teleport to Wayne manor. You were awkwardly standing in front of the duo now. You gave Bruce a smile full of false confidence. Who can really blame you for being nervous around THE Batman?

"We need to talk about your powers."

Bruce cut straight to the point. Your eyes drifted to Jason for any clue as to what this could be about, but he seemed lost in a mental spiral. You frowned. His negative self-talk needs to be worked on. His poor knuckles are going to be sore with the way he's obsessively cracking them. It's a nervous habit he's developed since his death.

You gently took his large hands in yours to stop him. You'll kiss them when Bruce leaves. Absent-mindedly, you softly rubbed his knuckles to soothe any potential inflammation. You asked as if you didn't know exactly what he means,

"What about my powers?"

Bruce seemed to soften as he watched you take care of Jason. You were a natural at taking care of his son. You were the best thing to happen to Jason. He replied in a business tone,

"I would appreciate it if you stopped teleporting Tim and myself unless necessary. I have a list of acceptable situations that I have printed out for you."

He handed you a stack of papers. You blinked in confusion before reading through the first page of his ridiculous list of situations. He's incredibly specific and detailed. He even highlighted the most important scenarios.

"I know you have a panic button for Jason, but I think it would help a lot if everyone was given a panic button."

Jason snapped out of his spiral when he heard his name. He was floored at the tone Bruce has been taking with you. He was using the Batman voice with you: all business and no warmth. He snapped,

"Fuck off, she's doing none of that."

You gave his hand a light squeeze to get him to cool down his anger. He backed down immediately, but he seethed in silence. Jason is not going to allow you to be used by anybody, especially his family. You said with a shrug,

"I can't promise a button for everyone, but I guess I can make myself useful."

Bruce felt himself physically relax with relief. You can do so much in combat with teleportation, but he's content if you only want to focus on helping instead of fighting.

"Will you please let me attend my League meetings?"

You didn't want to, but you guessed he has suffered enough. The world needs Batman, after all. Batman is busy enough without needing to fight his way through an entire league of criminals.

"Fine."

He breathed a deep sigh of relief and left as you gently kissed Jason's hands. Your voice was too soft for him to listen in, but his eyes almost teared up seeing his troubled son at peace.

Jason needed you like he needed air. He needed your soft touches and slow kisses that pulled him from his racing mind. He needed your silent adoration and support. He needed the quiet words you whisper in his ear. He needed your fingers lightly tracing his scars as you mumbled about the constellations in his scars. You were a comfort he can cling to when he can't look away from his crowbar in the darkness or when he wakes up thrashing and panicking. He needed you with his entire being.

"You know not to wring your hands, pretty boy."

You murmured to him so softly nobody else can hear you. You know he hates being called pretty, but you always make sure he knows he's gorgeous in your eyes. He grumbles but allows you to massage his hands like you always do when he's anxious.

"I know, but I..."

You kissed his wrists tenderly, and he forgot what he was going to say. You smiled at him patiently, but the words escaped him entirely. His eyes softened, and he kissed you gently. He loved you deeply.

"No kissing in the cave."

Damian said with a scowl as he entered the Batcave. You smirked before teleporting him away. Jason wrapped his arms around you as a teddy bear fell onto the floor of the cave and asked,

"Where did he go?"

You gave him a wink and said,

"A certain farm with a very cuddly Kent."

Jason snorted in Gotham while Damian attempted to squirm out of Jon's grip on the Kent family farm. He replaced Jon's teddy bear, apparently, and now he's trapped under a sleeping Jon.

"I will end her bloodline!"

Damian vowed when he found himself unable to escape. He was seething. Jon sleeps like the dead. He won't wake up unless he gets slapped awake and Damian is pinned.

You snickered while Jason smirked. He would have loved to see Damian's face! His poor brother must be furious. It would be impossible to catch you, but he'd sure try.

"I love you so much."

[janovavalen]

i hate you clark kent ‧₊˚ ┊͙ clark kent x fem!reader

summary: pregnancy was expected to be the wrost but a blessing at most, after marring clark kent it was evident that y/n would end up pregnant, she prepared herself for a baby, but forgot it’d be a metahuman baby

word count: 2k

warnings: child birth! pregnancy! pain, hospitals, crying, water breaking, VOMIT, y/n saying she hates clark kent but we all know that’s not true, fluff, comfort, family love<3

a/n: i was cleaning and i just thought of this and now i need to write it IMMEDIATELY to get it out of my brains

The day started like it always did. The sun was shining brightly in the windows of Y/n and Clark's shared apartment, the smell of warm pancakes filled the air as it was a instant reminder that Clark started cooking his wifes very specific and highly requested breakfast.

Three large pancakes with chocolate chips imbedded in them, a warm spread of Nutella in between the first and second pancake stack. Then, a side of scrambled eggs, turkey and regular bacon. Next, three sausage links, cranberry juice, and to top it all of, a singular apple.

Y/n states that she had started to develop cravings around month 2 and then the rest, except Clark picked up her strange cravings when she’d woken up in the middle of the night and after thirteen minutes of waiting, Clark had became concerned, worried she got stuck in the usual morning sickness routine except she hadn’t.

His super hearing picked up on the fridge opening, so being the supportive husband he always wanted to be he’d gotten out of bed to check on what she was making.

He’d caught her mid hand full of blueberries, whipcream and a pinch of salt. He decided the next morning to make something sweet and salty, which she didn’t like.

Being pregnant was one of the best things she’d ever get to go though, same with falling hopelessly in love with Clark Kent, and marrying the love of her life. Y/n never took anything for granted so, she never complained. But, certain days in pregnancy such as her swollen ankles, her nose getting slightly bigger than before, her back always in constant pain and days where she’d throw up more than twice.

Though she silently complained about these things, especsually to Clark who listened and felt more and more pity than ever, she always reassured him she’d rather have it this way than any other way, which comforted him more than she’d ever know.

Standing in the kitchen that looked a bit too small for him due to his height and mussel mass, he stacked the foods onto a tray to carry to their shared bedroom.

Y/n had mentioned she woken up and could barley walk at this point, her stomach was triple its size and her ankles were too, it got so bad some days Clark had to carry her to the bathroom.

“I smell pancakes!” Y/n excitingly yelled, a warm smile painted over her face as she held her hands over her stomach, rubbing it in comfort.

Thats another thing, Y/n’s senses had highted too and not just in a regular pregnancy way, in a metahuman away, like Clark.

She’d heard Lois and Jimmy talking about donuts from half a block away, she’d been able to smell the fact Clark fought an alien and the smell lingered on his suit cauisng her to throw up and him to leave his suit outside in their backyard in a box neatly folded with laundry sheets on top and the bottom.

She’d also been able to pick things up that would be considered too heavy for herself but she only got away with that twice since Clark stopped it immediately.

“Yes honey, I made you and our babies favorite breakfast for the morning, with a side of kisses and a leg massage.” He smiled walking into the room to see Y/n sitting up a bit more.

She smiled and awed at the apron he’d thrown on labled–”I Cook for my wife only.” He’f thought it was really funny and kinda true, his friends and parents included.

“When did you even get tha, I don’t remember having that.” She wondered while reaching for the turkey bacon first. Taking a bite and humming, she smiled at the food that was still warm and a bit steamy.

“How’d you back? Any better?” He hoped, but knowing the sigh she gave, his wishes were denied.

‘Unfortinetly no. I feel like its ten times wrose actually, then my neck feels so bad.” She groaned a bit of a comforting sigh as Clarks warm and strong but delicate hands worked their way on her calves.

“Awh, i’m sorry honey…maybe the doctors can give you something–’

“Nuh-uh Clark, no meds. You know how I feel about the meds while pregnant.” She sighed, taking a bite of her pancakes that had eggs stacked on top of it.

‘Yes I know, but I hate that you’re in pain…and I can’t do anything about it.” He mumbled. She looked up with a bit of food till in her mouth and studied his face.

He looked half as drained as her, sleepless nights of Y/n staying up and crying because of back pain, leg pain and hunger she couldn’t satisfy. Nights of throwing up and more crying and for all of it he stayed right there.

She sniffed and he heard her, looking up to see Y/n with slightly puffy cheeks from her food she didn’t swallow as tears started to well in her eyes.

‘Awh no–”

“I’m sorry…you must be so tired and sick of this…I wish it didnt effect you, I want you to know you are helping me, you are doing something about it by being here, Clark.” She cried, whining between all her words as she looked down at her food. Clark hurried and got to her side with a small humorous smile but still felt a ache in his heart.

Her mood swings were everywhere too. She’d cried over five times because she dropped a sock, his tie for work, and her oreo.

“No, sh sh sh, it’s okay, thank you for letting me know–’

“It’s not okay! You think you’re not helping me but you really are I promise you are. I love when you make me breakfast, snacks, lunch, more snack, dinner and more snack after that. Even when you leave at three in the morning for more pickles, I love it all so much.” She cried into his arms as he held her.

He excused the fact that they would laugh a little at this later and focused on her words and its meanings, he felt more than love for her. He didn’t know how to describe what he felt for her at all times, all the time, in every way.

He knew she’d ruin him the second she walked though the doors of Daily Planet with her black sockings, pencil skirt and a white blouse to match, and–god–her smile made him weak every time.

Seeing her at their wedding surly made him cry, he cried so hard Jimmy had to rub his back a little. Seeing her pregnant with their child was what made him relize it was all really real, and not a dream he was scared to wake up from.

‘I love you more than anything in this world, Y/n Kent.” He kissed her forehead, the crease next to her eye, her cheek, her jaw and a sweet loving kiss on her lips that still tasted like chocolate.

She smiled and let a final tear fall befire his hand made a way down her back to massage the usual siff spots of pain.

☆

Later that evening, Y/n had been experiencing contractions, the ones that they warned her about when in labor, she wanted to wait some of it out to the point of her being almost ready for delivery so that they weren’t in a holding room till her water broke.

Moving back and forth on the ball that Clark bought the second they found out she was pregnant. They’d water videos on tips and tricks to having a safe delivery and pregnancy, some even ebing heads up that worried Y/n like hair loss.

Rubbing her stomach as Clark stood behind her, the two distracted the fact she was having contractions by watching Star Wars, on a regular day, Clark would’ve zoned out and tuned into the movie, but not today, he was scared to leave her alone, scared she’d hurt herself or her water would break.

They’d prepared themselves for this and everytime Y/n felt a sharp pain shed cry out a little, Clark immediately leaning down to her side for her to grab and squeeze his shoulders and hand which rested on her leg.

The afternoon turned into night and the contractions didn’t stop, she didn’t know how her water hadn’t broken by now. Shed done self checks to see how far she’d been open and it wasn’t enough.

Sitting in bed while Clark stayed right by her, she sighed.

“What! DId your water break? Is it time–’ He yelled, jumping up so that he could grab everythin and she sighed once more.

“No no thats the problem, i’ve been in pain all day, and nothing, it hurts everywhere Clark.” She cried. He jumped back to her side and became her emotional support teddy bear.

Placing his head on hers as he comforted and rocked her slightly. He told her endless nothings of sweet words, encouragement and even the two sharing memories of awkward dates and moments.

Later, it was unavoidable, they’d fallen asleep in each others embrace. Clarks hand resting on her stomach and the other holding her hand as her hand held his that held her stomach.

☆

Her eyes blinking slowly open, she sighed, the pressure of needing to use the bathroom was heavy on her bladder. Getting up slowly to not wake Clark, she huffed, that small movement making her lose breath.

Struggling a bit, she stood up and waddled over to the bathroom that ws just across the small hallway. Once the door was open she felt wetness fill her pants and run down her legs.

“What the–no…no-no..wait…oh my–oh my god, Clark! Clark! Wake up!” She yelled while holing her stomach, her water broke and it was all under her feet on the bathroom floor, flooding freely, it was finally time.

Clark was quick to wake up, he jumped and stumbled but ran to the bathroom in an instant with his eyes trained on her face that was twisted in pain.

“What! What happened–”

“My water! It broke! It broke it’s time, it’s time!” She yelled once more. He looked down ina hurry and gasped, running to grab their two large hospital stay bags, slnging it over his shoulder and making his way to the bathroom to grab a yelling Y/n who held her stomach.

‘Okay, okay, it’s okay, I’m going to drive a bit over the speed limit but it’s okay because you’re in labor!” He yelled, excitement was everywhere in his voie and heart.

☆

The two made their way in the hospital, nurses were quick to run to the car after Clark ran into the hospital with messy curly hair and glasses that stayed on the bridge of his nose. Wheeling her in as she yelled in pain, Y/n looked for Clark who ran to her side.

“Clark, i’m scared, oh my god I’m so scared–” she cried, her hand reaching for his.

“Its okay, hey, hey, i’ll be with you the whole time, i’m not leaving your side, i promise, okay?” he reassured her, his eyebrows turned up as she nodded while taking deep breaths and shakily breathing them out.

Being rushed to their room where she’d give birth, it was all a blur, no waiting was needed or wanted. Y/n felt the baby was ready and even resisted the bodily urge to push while in the car. Being changed out of her clothes with the help of Clark who immediately deniled the male nurse trying to help.

Y/n laid on the bed with her legs propted on the leg stretchers, giving the female nurses a better view.

The pain was all there, it was not once faltered, no medicine, no numbing, all natural. Y/n wanted to have it as it was, she wanted it all to be real, with her husband by her side whos hand she squeezed so tight, but he didn’t care, he didn’t complain, why would he?

Pushing and pushing as she screamed on the top of her lungs, Y/n cried and let the sweat drip heavily down her hairline and body, she was shaking all over, and he was to blame, holding her hand and his other hand holding her head, she looked at him.

“I hate you, so much, Clark Kent.” She sighed before pushing once more, screaming. He smiled and kissed her head.

“I love you too Y/n Kent.”

Not soon after, a pressure was lifted off of her and no soon after that, high pitch crying was heard. She smiled widely when the nuses announced.

“Congradulations, Mr and Mrs Kent, it’s a girl.” Handing the baby over to Y/n who was ready for skin to skin, she smiled with slightly shaky hands.

“Oh my gosh…Clark, look at her.” She started to tear up, Clark did too, oh god–did he cry too. Seeing the two, his beautiful wife and their daughter.

He leaned down and looked at her better, her peaceful closed eyes as she sqirmed a bit in Y/n’s arms but the comfort was shown when she stopped and gathered the feeling of her mom’s heartbeat.

“She’s beautiful.” She mumbled. He hurried and took a picture of the moment before the nurses instructed he needed to do skin to skin as well, so takin off his sleep shirt before Y/n passed their baby daughter to him, he sat down in the chair and carefully leaned back.

The feeling of a heartbeat so small but to strong made him cry even more. taking a picture of the two, Y/n smiled sweetly.

[narcissisticmf]

through the lens | clark kent x fem!reader

description: y/n has to complete an assignment for her media arts class. she must film the life of someone she cares deeply about. so, she chooses her best friend: clark kent.

trigger warnings: mentions of anxiety, fluff, an almost kiss, etc.

word count: 3k

“Are you all clear on your assignment?” Mr. Bruner pronounced as everyone was already standing, shoving papers into their bags and barricading toward the door. Of course, no one responded to the posed question—no reply meant, yes, you were all clear on what to do. Mr. Bruner was your Media Arts teacher and he’d just assigned a project to film someone in your life that you care about. It could be anything—a documentary, an interview, a montage of their daily life. So, naturally, when Bruner explained the concept, you thought of Clark. He’d be the perfect muse. 

The two of you had been best friends since before you could even remember, probably before your memory developed as a child. 

You shoved your notes into your bag before leaving the classroom, your camcorder in hand with a small, mischievous smile. The aroma of sweat and perfume wafted through the halls as you maneuvered to find Clark. He wouldn’t mind doing it, that you knew for sure. He could never say “no” to you. 

He wasn’t anywhere in the halls, so you made a beeline for the Torch room and, lo and behold, he was there with Chloe. They sat behind a computer, probably researching something to stick on the Wall of Weird. 

“Hey, Y/N/N.” He smiled, that adorable boyish one.

“Hi,” Chloe chimed. 

You didn’t grant either of them a reply. Instead, you lifted the camcorder, aimed at the both of them. “Who is Clark Kent?” you drawled and sauntered toward them, peering through the screen to look at them. 

“What are you doing?” He couldn’t fight the smile that spread across his face, despite the effort. Chloe seemed rather amused. 

You approached Clark, adjusting the camera so it centered on him, zooming in maybe a little too closely to his face. 

“It’s an assignment for my Media Arts class,” you said, pressing the button labeled stop. You dropped your arms at your sides and gave Clark a toothy grin. “We have to film someone we care about.”

“That’s such a cool project,” Chloe muttered with a soft upturn of her mouth. 

Clark parted his lips. At first, you thought he might say he wasn’t comfortable with being on camera, or that it was flattering of you to choose him, he just wasn’t into it. But he didn’t say either of those things. No, he just gave you those mesmerizing light eyes—something twinkled within them—and smiled, the fangs of his teeth showing just enough in the dim light of the Torch room. 

“Do you need me to do anything specific?” he inquired. 

“Nope.” You shook your head. “Just look pretty, which shouldn’t be hard for you.” 

Clark looked down and blushed, smiling again. 

“But I may ask you some questions for certain clips,” you informed. “But it’ll be very candid, so don’t worry about it. Just be yourself and pretend I’m not shoving a camera in your face for the next week.”

He laughed. “I’ll do my best.”

. 

Kent Farm was wrapped in a golden haze as the sun receded behind the horizon, slowly taking its leave for the day. You’d mentioned to Mr. Kent your assignment, so he’d cut back on your tasks on the farm until you’d finished the project. Working on Kent Farm was a dream—something you loved more than anything. It was easy to get wrapped up in all those animals and the smell of the field, the morning dew that freckled the blades of grass. 

Clark was in the midst of baling hay and part of you felt a little guilty not helping him, but he wasn’t even breaking a sweat. 

The camcorder was set on a wooden bench, aimed at Clark while you stayed out of the frame. 

“I don’t think I see myself working on the farm forever,” he said, compacting hay into a wooden crate, binding them with thin twine. 

“No?” You raised your brow, fiddling with the hangnail on your pinky. 

“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I want to do, but hopefully it won’t involve a suit and a lot of flying.” Clark’s thick brows furrowed—whether in concentration or deep thought, you weren’t sure. 

You looked through the camcorder screen and smiled softly.

“I think you liked the farm more when we were kids,” you chimed. 

Clark nodded with a smile. “I still love it, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not my forever, I guess.”

“What could be your forever?” you asked inquisitively. 

“Something where I can help people,” he said, turning to face you. He didn’t look at the camera, it was almost like it wasn’t even there. “Maybe a firefighter.” 

You smiled. “I can see you doing that.”

“Do I have a nice build for it?” He grinned cheekily and spread his arms, doing a twirl in gesticulation to his large frame. You laughed and he did too. 

.

In the Beanery, you sipped on a hot cup of tea with one hand, while the other aimed the camcorder at Clark. He was caught gazing at Lana. You’d have to edit that out later, you reminded yourself. 

“You seem more relaxed today,” you observed, placing the mug down carefully. You peered through the screen before lifting your gaze to Clark who didn’t pay heed to the camera, his light eyes only focused on you. 

“Yeah, I guess I woke up and realized my life changed.” He sipped his coffee. “I decided to kick back and accept the fact that I couldn’t control everything.” 

“That’s a good way to live,” you said softly. 

“It beats stressing over things out of my hands.” 

“You’ve always walked like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.” You were looking at him now, over the camera. “Ever since we were little.”

“Yeah, well, when you have a best friend who’s as clumsy as you…” he trailed off with a wide smile. 

“Hey!” Your voice cracked and you reached for your crumpled napkin, throwing it across the table at him. You got a perfect shot of him laughing before pressing your thumb against the stop button and placing it down on the table. “You’re trying to make me look bad,” you grumbled with a playful eyeroll. 

“It’s the game we play,” Clark retorted with a smile. 

Your lips spread into a grin that was almost villainous. “I’ll remember that when I’m editing.” 

. 

The halls of Smallville High were busy, as usual. You slipped through the bodies of adolescents and found Clark with Pete and Chloe by their lockers. The camera was already recording as you approached, aiming it at the three of them. 

“The inseparable trio,” you mused peering through the screen. 

“Hey, Y/N’s class!” Pete stepped in front of the camera, entirely too close if the view of his nostrils had anything to say about it. “Pete Ross here, Clark Kent’s hottest friend. If any ladies are interested, I’m single.” He adjusted his jacket, popping the collar like he was some sort of Hollister model. 

Clark was standing in frame, behind Pete’s shoulder, trying to smother his grin. Chloe was grimacing with a furrowed brow. 

“I’m sure they’d love to go on a date with you and your nose hairs.” You smirked, zooming in even further. 

Pete covered his nose with a cupped hand. Clark and Chloe couldn’t help but laugh as Pete stepped back from the camera, a nervous blush on his face. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I now have to get a trim.” He disappeared down the hall. 

You fixed the camera on Clark and Chloe, their height difference more pronounced. 

“I gotta go edit the last couple pages before the paper goes out on Friday, I’ll see you guys later,” Chloe said, reaching over to squeeze Clark’s bicep. She gave you that warm, happy smile before receding down the hall. 

“Last man standing,” you sing-songed, shoving the camera in his face. 

He laughed nervously, cheeks flushing a light shade of pink. 

“Where’re you off to now?” you asked with a gentle smile, peering over the camera to look at him. He wasn’t staring at the lens, just at you. Always at you. 

“Bio,” he muttered, adjusting the strap of his backpack over his shoulder. “I think we’re watching a sex education documentary today.” The two of you walked down the hall together, the camcorder catching every moment. 

“Ooh. Try not to fall asleep when the lions start getting it on. It’s important information that will help us when we leave the confines of high school,” you chimed. 

Clark chortled. “I’ll see you later. Come by the loft after school.”

“I’ll meet you there,” you said with a smile. 

“Bye, Y/N/N.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead before stepping back to walk into the classroom. 

“See ya.” You waved, filming him sauntering inside before pressing stop. 

. 

The air was cold as you ascended the steps leading to Clark’s loft in the barn. You’d been up there a million times with him. It was his as much as it was yours. It’s where the two of you had countless sleepovers, shared secrets, and exchanged embarrassing dreams, or nightmares. It’s where he told you his secret. You remembered it like it was yesterday:

It was in the midst of winter. You were eight. You’d fallen into the lake behind your house, through the thin sheet of ice that glazed the surface. You hadn’t meant to fall in, but you were playing in the snow by yourself. Clark’s parents wouldn’t let him outside, they said it was too cold. No matter how much you pleaded with them, they said he couldn’t. So, you played alone. You wandered to the lake and thought you might be able to skate across it, but the ice was too thin and when you pressed your boot into it, you plunged below, like a vacuum sucking you under. The water was so glacial, it knocked the breath right out of you. You screamed for help, but no one was around. Your parents hadn’t been home—both of them worked—you were alone. You couldn’t grab anything to help haul you up no matter how hard you tried, until two very strong, very warm, arms wrapped around you and pulled you out. 

It was Clark. He hadn’t even worn a jacket and it was in the middle of winter, when the chill was at its peak. He held you then, practically giving you his warmth before taking you back to his house where Mrs. Kent made you hot chocolate and Mr. Kent started a fire on the hearth. 

That same night, he told you in the loft—the two of you engulfed in a wool blanket. He thought you were going to think he was weird or a freak, but that’s not what you thought. A piece of you burned with the most precious love for him that evening. You didn’t treat him differently after that. If anything, you treated him like nothing had changed—but on occasion you wanted to see what he could do and he always showed you. You reassured to Mr. and Mrs. Kent that you’d keep his secret safe and they believed you. They were like your second set of parents—always treating you like their own. 

Now, Clark laid against the couch, his nose buried in a Ray Bradbury book. Luckily, you had the camera already rolling. You got a shot of him before he even noticed you were there. 

“Hey,” you greeted. He sat up immediately, closed the book, and placed it against the low, wooden table. 

“Hi.” He smiled. 

You placed the camcorder down on a shelf, aiming it at Clark and keeping yourself out of frame. You perched on a cushioned chair across from him. 

“Fahrenheit 451?” You reached over to grab the book. 

“Yeah.” He nodded, a little sheepish. “I was just catching up on the assigned reading.”

“A book always looks so small in your hands,” you laughed softly, placing the tome back down. 

Clark grinned, holding up his hands to scrutinize them. “I guess they are pretty big.”

“Your heart is too,” you observed. 

The look he gave you was unlike you’d ever seen before. It was much warmer than usual, more sentient. Not that Clark wasn’t benign as ever—he was, but this mien spoke a different dialect of the same language. A kind of familiar expression that says you see me even when I don’t see myself. And it was true. You and Clark saw each other more deeply than anyone, like you were intertwined into each other’s lives by something akin to fate. 

“Tell me about someone you love and how you met,” you whispered. “And, unfortunately it can’t be me,” you added with a soft snicker. 

Clark chuckled and thought for a little while. He settled on Chloe and recounted the time he first saw her, what she was wearing and where they were. You, of course, knew this story, but you’d gladly listen to it again and again—like a symphony on repeat. 

“It was eighth grade,” he started, reminiscence threaded his voice. “She’d just transferred from Metropolis. And I was assigned to show her around.” His lips curved into a soft smile as he stood up and neared the window. “When she found out I lived on a farm, she insisted I invite her over to experience it first hand. She thought I was Amish.” Clark chuckled, lowering his gaze to his sneakers. You smiled, eyes glistening in the dimly lit loft as you listened. He crossed the room to sit back down on the couch. “When I brought her up here, she just… kissed me.” He looked at you, a little shy now. “It was my first kiss.”

“I’ve still never kissed anyone,” you admitted. It was your turn to be shy now. 

Clark blinked, looking at you. 

“What about that kid from fourth grade? I thought you said he kissed you,” he questioned. 

“Yeah,” you whispered with a nod. “My cheek.” 

“Oh.” Clark’s lips parted as he looked at you. “Do you ever wish for it?”

“On occasion, but I’m trying to let it go. If it happens, it happens and if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. It’s an uphill battle that I’m choosing not to fight.” You folded your legs up to your chest, hugging them, as you rested your chin atop your knees. 

“Sometimes letting go is the only way to move forward.” 

There he was, always saying the right thing at the right moment. Always speaking the words you needed to hear even if you didn’t want to. 

You pressed your lips together before exhaling a gentle breath. You got up from the chair and pressed the stop button on the camcorder. 

“Are you sure you have enough?” Clark asked as you approached the couch, taking a seat beside him. 

“I think so.” You leaned your head back against the arm rest and stretched your legs over his thighs. His fingers grazed the material of your sweatpants softly, delicately. “You’re a really great guy, Clark,” you whispered. 

He shook his head, a soft pink blushing his cheeks as his lips curved upwards into a reticent smile. He dropped his gaze to his jeans.

“I’m serious.” You sat up, peeling your legs off him to sit cross-legged. “You always say the right thing. Even when it might be hard for the other person to hear. Even if it’s hard for you to say. It’s brave. You’re the most valiant person I’ve ever met because of it.” 

Finally, he met your eyes burning with a quiet sort of passion, but there all the same. 

“I think you’d make a great firefighter,” you whispered with a coy smile. 

Clark’s eyes flicked down to your lips, tracing the ridges in them. “Yeah?” he whispered, a little breathless. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled. 

Suddenly, the room grew warm—even though no candles burned, and the autumn air still slipped in through the open window. But Clark’s body radiated heat as he leaned in, his light eyes never leaving your lips.

When the distance between you began to cease into nothingness, footsteps ascended the loft stairs. You both broke apart. The cold returned to your skin, but your cheeks still burned from the heat that had just been there.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Kent apologized, probably a little more embarrassed than you and Clark. “I didn’t know you were here, Y/N. I was just coming to get Clark for dinner. You know you’re always welcome to stay, if you’d like.” 

“Uhm, no, that’s okay. I, uhm.. already ate. I should probably start editing this anyway,” you said, scrambling off the couch—like the klutz Clark always said you were. You reached for the camcorder off the shelf and turned to your best friend. “I’ll see you tomorrow, when I have this finished.” You gestured to the camera.

He nodded, his cheeks flushed with chagrin. 

“Goodnight,” you said to both of them with a soft smile before leaving the barn. Your stomach was in knots the entire walk home. 

. 

You’d spent all morning uploading the footage of Clark onto a computer in the Torch room. It took all night and all morning, but eventually the short film was finished. It wasn’t really a film, more like a montage of his life—in school, at home, with friends, doing chores on the farm, etc. You were so proud of it. It even had Mr. Bruner standing up at his desk and clapping after you’d shared it with your class. 

Now, you were waiting for Clark. You’d left him a note in his locker to meet in the Torch room at precisely 2:30 PM. It was 2:29 when he walked through the door. You met his gaze with an excited smile. 

“Hey,” he beamed and crossed the room to sit beside you. 

“Ready?” You gently squeezed his forearm, your other hand resting on the mouse, hovering over the play button on the screen. 

Clark nodded. 

And you hit play.

.

a/n: this is my first smallville fic and i'm really proud of it! i hope you guys liked it. i was trying to keep the same headcanons as my previous post where y/n and clark are childhood best friends. i'm sure you've already put it together, but the edit in the beginning is supposed to be the results of y/n's assignment. the edit is mine, but none of the clips, audio, or filters belong to me. i just came up with the concept and i hope you liked it! thanks so much for reading and, as always, be safe and be kind. <3 — angelina.

[aliensupastar]

get too close

nsfw content under the cut

clark kent/reader

warnings: porn with a side of plot, loverboy!clark, oral (m receiving), messy blowjob, light body worship, overstimulation, thinly-veiled self-indulgence on the author’s part, overuse of italics

notes: i wrote this on the clock. that’s how feral i am for this man. if anyone has clark thoughts feel free to share in my inbox <3

Clark Kent doesn’t swear.

Not even when he’s angry or upset, which he rarely ever is. He watched the Metropolis Meteors absolutely crash and burn in their first World Series in decades with the patience of a saint; the harshest reaction he had was a shake of his head and a muttering of “what a shame,” like his lifelong team hadn’t just screwed their chances. An intern spilled their boiling hot coffee on him first thing in the morning, and after hissing out a “golly!” he reassured the intern that he had a spare shirt in his desk.

It made you feel a bit embarrassed about your own sailor-like swearing habits, especially when you first started dating. You had trouble deciphering what exactly sweet, handsome, ever-patient Clark Kent wanted with you, a jaded former-Gothamite that avoids eye contact with strangers like the plague and bristled at the Metropolitan habit of making small talk. But Clark never once looked down on you for how often expletives made their way into your sentences. If anything, it seemed to endear him to you more. And your introversion – exacerbated by the crush you developed the first time you laid eyes on him and he flashed you his sweet smile – certainly didn’t stop him from hanging around your desk like a lost puppy, bouncing new article ideas off you, picking your brain for your opinions on various topics, until you worked up the courage to take him up on his offer to try out a restaurant that had just opened up in your neighborhood.

He was, of course, a perfect gentleman on your first date. Pulling out chairs, holding doors open, listening intently when you spoke and snatching the checkbook up as soon as the server placed it on your table. When he was forty-five minutes late to your second date with his only excuse being a last-minute meeting with Jimmy over their joint article, he let you chew him out for as long as you needed to, only ever responding with “I know, baby, I’m so sorry.” He made it up to you with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, and approximately one million apology kisses on your pouty lips, so that by the time Jimmy wandered over the next day and apologized for holding Clark back so late, all was forgiven.

It was hard not to feel like a corrupting influence when you invite him upstairs at the end of your third date, lingering on the entrance steps to your apartment building, with his face flushing bright red at your insinuation.

“Y-yeah, yes, I’d love to,” He stammers out, and follows you as you lead him up to your place.

He’d been a perfect, restrained gentleman the entire time you’d known him. Which is why you’re surprised when you finally slide your hand down his chest, into the waistband of his slacks, and wrap it around his already-hard shaft, he breathes out: “Fuck.”

He can’t seem to help it. You can’t tear your eyes away from his flushed face, his eyes fluttering shut as you sink down to your knees and pull him out of his pants, except to gawk at the sheer size of him.

“Baby, please,” He pleads when you’ve spent a minute too long just staring at him, wondering how you’re gonna take all of him in your throat. You meet his eyes again as you lean forward and take his leaking tip between your lips, mewling at the taste of him. “Oh, fuck, that’s it,”

You slick him up slowly, dribbling spit down his shaft until you can comfortably work more of him into your mouth, till he starts hitting the back of your throat, and there’s still so much to pump with your hand. He’s so thick you can already feel an ache in your jaw forming, but you ignore it in favor of eliciting those breathy moans from him.

“Fuck, baby, just like- that-” Sweet nothings fall from his lips like he couldn’t stop them if he tried. His left hand drifts up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek lovingly, never once pushing down or forcing you to take him any deeper but fuck, you can tell he’s barely holding back from thrusting up into your mouth.

He knows he’s too strong. He could easily slip up, lose control over his strength and end up hurting you. So even when your throat squeezes around him so deliciously he starts seeing stars, he forces his hips still, refusing to even tug on your hair, doling out praise for his “sweet girl, takin’ my cock so well.”

You never would’ve guessed he’d be so vocal, so vulgar, when he fucks you. You never would’ve guessed that when you’re gripping him tight because he’s already fucked you through two orgasms, and he’s finally edging closer to his first, he’d cant his hips into you and whisper “fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme” like he’ll die you stop.

One day, after you figure out that he’s Superman, after months of you begging him despite knowing full well the extent of his superstrength, he’ll finally fuck your throat like you want him to. His vocabulary on that night will make you look like a saint.

[sincere1ystar]

ugh I just wanna see how Clark would react to you coming home stressed and upset

⋆. 𐙚 ̊clark when you come home stressed and upset ⋆. 𐙚 ̊

"Honey?", Clark grinned as he heard the door open. He already had your favorite meal plated on the table and was eager to surprise you.

"Hey..", you reply wearily, "You're back early today?"

"Early? I didn't go into work today, I had the day off. And surprisingly so did Superman, the city was pretty peaceful today". Clark could barely contain his excitement as he placed a hand on your back, leading you to the table. "You know what that means? I spent all day in the kitchen making-"

"I have some work that I need to finish". You didn't even look him in the eye as you frosted your words with your tongue. You made your way into your room, ignoring the way Clark's once smiling eyes were now confused.

His girl wasn't normally like this, no you were an embodiment of the sun and brightened everything you touched. But sometimes sunlight gets dimmed by the clouds.

Clark knew about the stress that had rained on you the past few days, but you had assured him that you were fine. Now as he opened the door to your room, he could see you were anything but.

"Sweetheart?..", Clark says carefully as he slowly approaches your form hunched over the various papers spread on the floor. You were biting your pen and bouncing your leg anxiously, tendencies you took when stress was about to snap you in half.

You were so engrossed in your work that you hadn't even heard Clark to begin with. "Sweetheart?", he tried again.

"What?!", you snapped turning to him.

"I was just coming to ask you when you were planning on taking a break. I mean you already were working all day and now you're working even more even though you're at home and I was just thinking-"

"A break?", your eyes were full of anger but all Clark saw was someone who had been pushed far past their limits. Someone who had grown claws because they were struggling to hold on, not to use them for malicious intent. "I can't take a break Clark! I'm busy and I have a ton of work". You turned your attention back to your papers, hand grabbing at your hair in frustration.

"Well I mean it seems you always have a lot of work", Clark said as he sat down next to you. He wasn't hurt by your sharp words as he knew your heart was too pure to truly mean it. "So it's not going to run away if you take a quick break".

You place your pen down, not bothering to face Clark. "Exactly… I always have a lot of work..", your voice cracked before it burst. "I always have so much to do!! And- and every time I think I'm close to getting a break I- More work is just thrown onto me! I'll never get a break!", you sob, "Never!"

"H-hey what are you talking about of course you'll catch a break honey". He had his hands on your shoulders trying to get you to see reason, but your overworked mind was too tired to do anything other than cry hysterically.

"Oh honey you'll get a break", Clark catches one of your many tears. "You're going to take one right now".

"I can't", you sniffle. "There's still too much left to do".

"And it'll get done", he reassured you as he pulled you into his arms. "But first we're going to eat dinner. Then maybe some ice cream, and then after I'm going to help you get your work done. Only if you're ready to".

"But-"

"Did I mention I spent all day cooking", he said giving you a smile that he knew you were incapable of refusing.

"Fine", your lips slightly curve up as you accept his hand to hoist you up. "I'm sorry for snapping at you".

"You were stressed, it wasn't you. Plus Superman has developed a thick skin".

"Yeah but Clark Kent on the other hand tears up at the rescue dog commercial", you tease despite loving that soft side of him.

"Listen that's different!", Clark's voice always increased in pitch whenever he got defensive. "Plus after you try this meal that I've cooked you're going to be the one crying. Out of happiness".

"Okay silly". Your eyes were still damp from your previous tears, but the anxiety that was troubling your heart was slowly being lifted off.

[femreader]

♪⋆.✮ ┆OP81 .ᐟ ”today we have…”

🎧ྀི: summary: drabble about op81 crushing

🎧ྀི: genre: drabble, fluff

🎧ྀི: pairing: oscar piastri x collegue!fem!reader

Something something Oscar has a massive crush to someone working behind the scenes something something. Maybe an editor or one of the software programmers of the team. Or assistant to HR or one of the people looking at sustainability of the car developments.

He doesn’t admit to it. No matter how many times Lando pesters him.

Instead he bothers her with every. single. social media thing ever.

”Here we have the pilar of our work ethic.”

”What’s your name and what do you do?”

”Thoughts on the new Pirelli tyre?”

You werent an idiot.

By the time it was eight-fucking-thirty five in the morning and he had come by your station three times already, you knew something was up.

Not only did he come by to ask the most absurd questions he probably already knew the answer to (because he was bit of a nerd secretly) or didnt even need to know the answer to (”what’s the annual cost cut to maintenance budget?” …Why?”) he also always brought you coffee. The exact way you liked it.

You had never told him how you liked it.

(Until it was the fifth time of the day. Then he brought water. He wasnt going to be the reason you got a heart attack. In that way anyway.)

Anyway, so yes, you got on quite quick. Then it got funny. It turned into a game of how red can an australian look. Small teasing jabs here, teasing replies there. Especially when he was on vlog duty during a race-less weekend.

”Explain quickly what you do”

”Make sure you have enough money to stay pretty and racing.”

…

He went back to the break room with the stupidest smile. Mentally giggling and kicking his feet.

Lando stared into nothing like he was in The Office.

© femreader | All rights reserved, do not plagiarize, translate or use in AI machines

© femreader | for entertainment purposes only, this work does not discribe real-life people realistically

[cryptonature]

My Turn: Why I'm Not Interested in AI for Writing

Ok, software and websites. You can stop asking if I want to use AI when writing. I don't. I never will. I get that a lot of people have invested a great deal of money in it (mostly, it seems, to allow the rich to approximate skill without paying for it), but I'm just not interested in participating. Sure, it's unethical, unsustainable, and harmful to the environment. But those aren't even my main reasons. And, yeah, it was trained on my published works without my consent, but again, not my primary objection. It's also lazy and antithetical to my goal of continuing to develop my writing skill and creativity, but that's not the biggest issue either. Mostly, the problem is that it is a crass, empty automated circumvention of life and human experience designed to imitate and masquerade as both. So, not only is it essentially the opposite of art (art being personal effort expended to connect us through intentional, crafted expression of individual human experience), but worse, it is engineered to impersonate a perspective detached from a living person. It has no perspective. It has no accountability. It is a mimicry of human acts of creation and expression, a sophisticated parlor trick of pattern recognition, that cannot connect us to anyone (because it has no perspective or life experience with which to connect). I'm not saying AI has no good applications. But writing? Art? I guess AI makes sense if your concept of writing or art is mostly as a "product" or "content" divorced from the foundations of why humans give a shit about art and writing in the first place. So, mostly, I think it's gross and kinda sad. It's like seeing a toddler turn away from her mother to focus on hugging a mannequin. It's like seeing a gardener spending his limited life-minutes whistling and watering plastic flowers. It's like waking early to take your toaster to witness a sunrise. Also... if I may... these companies have spent billions to build a plastic facade of what I do. I don't need it. I'm the real thing.

[storywriter007]

Worlds Apart - Charles LeClerc x Fem!Reader

disclaimer: all of the work written below is purely fiction and should be treated as such! none of this is real!

summary: in which y/n realizes she will never be what charles needs her to be

warnings: cursing, kissing, angst, etc.

genre: angst

word count: 2k

author's note: i'm re-entering so many phases and f1 is one of them. enjoy!

✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒

y/n stood on the balcony of the beautiful french villa. the house overlooked the mesmerizing coast of monaco. night had fallen, and the small country was illuminated by the subtle city lights.

she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass door of the balcony. her long black strapless dress flowed beautifully from her body. her hair flowed in the subtle breeze. the golden jewelry added a touch of elegance.

she looked beyond her reflection into the party. she spotted the host chatting with a woman. she was gorgeous. a beautiful, shimmering silver dress with blue flower details framed her body. her hair had been put up into a sleek bun. her lips were plump and rosy as she talked with her beautiful doe eyes.

for a minute, y/n felt an unjustified hatred towards her. but she knew it was born from her own bitterness. she knew from looking at that woman through the glass door, she would never be like her.

y/n continued watching as the host lessened the space between them. as she looked up at him and laughed with stars in her eyes. as he smiled at her as if she was the sun.

y/n forced herself to turn away. to admire the view. to think about how wonderful the party was. to ignore the host, who happened to be her boyfriend.

they had been dating for close to a year now, however, it felt as if everything had slowly been falling apart for the last couple of months. it started with little disagreements and petty fights over things like missed dinners and unanswered calls. it evolved to the point where y/n felt as if she was walking on eggshells around him. everything she did seemed to upset him. she came to his race to support him, he ignored her until they were alone. she planned a surprise dinner, he was upset that she was being inconsiderate of his schedule. she tried to talk to him, and he would snap at her, saying he was tired and just wanted to relax (but he was always ready to go clubbing with his fellow drivers).

although charles never fully stated the reason for his newfound resentment, y/n knew what it was. it was the fact that she didn't fit into his world. she was a well-known immunologist, respected for her work and efforts in infectious disease. she was a trusted public health figure, often in the international eye during various disease outbreaks. she was passionate about making a change, often right next to international leaders developing foreign-aid healthcare programs. to top it all off, y/n grew up in the united states in a middle class family. and she had been dropped into the world of supermodels and influencers who descended from generations of wealth, luxury, and affluence. she wasn't the typical formula one girlfriend, no matter how much she tried to be.

the feeling was reaffirmed as she watched charles' eyes follow the woman around the room. taking a deep breath, she began trailing down the stairs towards the beach. she knew no one would notice. here, they never did.

✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒

charles waved goodbye to the last of the guests. tonight had been incredible. the music was great, the food was amazing, and everyone had brought the post-race hype.

"y/n." he called out.

he waited for a response as he shrugged the jacket of his suit off. when he didn't hear anything, he called out again.

"y/n?"

he searched the house before spotting her heels on the balcony. he followed the stairs down to see footprints embedded in the sand. when the footprints came to an end, charles realized he was by the shore. he looked up and saw her in all of her glory.

there she was, ankle-deep in the water. the slight breeze caused her hair and dress to flow romantically. her figure was illuminated only by the silver lighting of the moon.

"you disappeared." he spoke.

"i was waiting for you to notice." she said, facing forward. "like i always do."

a moment of silence passed between them. she turned around to finally face him. there he stood - brown hair slightly disheveled, guilty green eyes, his dress shirt that he had half undone.

there she stood. her hair flowing in the gentle breeze, the moonlight on her face, the exhaustion in her eyes. she was hauntingly beautiful—as if she had just stepped out of a painting.

they gazed into each other's eyes, admiring the beauty of the person in front of them.

"sit with me." he demanded, moving down towards the sand.

he took a seat and patted the spot next him, gesturing for her to come over. she made his way towards him and sat down.

"i tried to be apart of your world charles. i tried, oh god, i really tried." she began, but her voice was soft and her eyes gazed into the horizon in front of them.

she turned her head to face him.

"but i'm tired. tired of you forgetting me. tired of putting up a fight for someone whose already given up. tired of feeling like i'm too much or too little or too anything."

"y/n..." charles said, lost in the beauty of her face but the betrayal of her words.

"i saw you with her. you looked at her as if she was the sun." y/n said, tears slowly filling up her eyes, rolling in the way the tide does. "i will never be what you want me to be."

a tear fell from her eye as she confessed something they had both known.

"y/n, i love you." he whispered, his eyes plagued with sincerity and regret. "i'm sorry."

"i don't belong in your world. i never have. and i never will." she stated, more to herself than to him.

another tear fell from her eye at the confession. she had always known it, but it felt different to say it.

his eyes searched her face, trying to catch a glimpse of the girl who used to look at him with love. she was still there, but pain and exhaustion had taken her over.

he reached his hand out to her cheek, wiping away the tear that had just fallen. his hand lingered a little too long. he leaned in, pausing before kissing her.

the kiss was gentle at first, as if he was afraid he would break her. soon, he deepened it, adjusting his head and moving his hands to her waist, pulling her in close.

she kissed him back, placing her hand on his chest unmoving. but not with the same passion she used to. she kissed him like someone who was saying goodbye.

and then, she pulled away. she rose to her feet and dusted off the sand on her dress. her eyes lingered on him for a moment.

"i hope you find all you're looking for." she smiled softly.

at last, she turned and walked away. the waves crashed against the shore as the moon shone down on her.

charles remained where he sat, watching her leave. for a moment, he waited for her to turn around.

she never did.

✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒

the tv played in the background. lively chatter filled the room. it was a small kickback - only the drivers were present.

lando was dramatically retelling a story. charles laughed into his beer.

"oh wait—guys this is the best part!" george said excitedly, turning the volume up.

everyone tuned into the tv.

"and the 2025 Nobel Prize in Medicine is awarded to..." the commentator teased.

"y/n l/n!"

charles froze as cheers echoed into the room from the tv.

on screen, she gracefully walked up to the stage. she stood in a midnight blue gown with delicate pieces of jewelry. her hair was carefully pinned back. she looked timeless.

the presenter announced her achievement: the implementation of a health care system during a viral outbreak that saved millions of lives in countries across the world.

she stood at the podium, smiling.

"standing here tonight, i am truly honored to be holding this award. however, science is never a single person's triumph - it's a community's. i would like to thank everyone who contributed to the mission of reducing disease across the globe. to the teams, to the nurses, to the doctors, to the technicians, to the mentors, this is your moment too."

she paused.

"let us never forget why we study the sciences. why we stay up countless nights analyzing results, building models, and redefining our theories. we do it to build a better tomorrow. everyday, we are met with new challenges, obstacles, and problems. it is critical we have people who refuse to give into adversity. the future will need you. to everyone watching this tonight—my girls, my boys, my friends, my strangers: oftentimes, we are placed into worlds not made for us."

she paused once more.

"that is when we make our own."

the applause on screen was thunderous.

"thank you to the nobel committee, my incredible colleagues, my wonderful family, and my amazing friends." she smiled, before stepping away.

the room was silent. charles didn't move, not even when every head turned his way. he stared at the screen, looking as if he were recalling memories that hadn't been touched in a millennia.

"was that her?" lando asked, breaking the silence.

"yeah." charles chuckled bitterly. "that was her."

the chatter in the room rose once again. charles looked at the bottle in his hands then back at the tv.

she was right. she was never meant to fit into his world. she was meant to have her own.

he was proud of her. of course he was. but it still pained him—seeing her flourish in that world as he watched from thousands of miles away.

✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒

a week later, y/n was enjoying dinner with her family. soft jazz music played in the back as the house filled with lively chatter. a week since she had become a nobel prize laureate.

"y/n, can you call the kids down for dinner?" her mother asked, placing a delicious dish of lasagna onto the table.

"yeah, i'll go get them." she smiled.

y/n made her way into the family room. legos and various board game pieces were scattered across the area. warm golden lights illuminated the area. the tv played quietly in the back as the noise of youth filled the room.

"guys, its dinnertime, c'mon." she announced.

the kids looked up at her.

"what's for food?" her younger cousin asked.

"you better go find out before its gone." she laughed.

they paused for a moment before instantly running to the door, racing to see who could reach the table first. luckily, y/n made it out of the ambush. she could hear the tv.

"on his final lap!"

a race was on. she made her way to the couch and took a seat, turning the volume up.

"is he going to do it! will he able to hold piastri off until the finish line?"

y/n realized 'he' was charles. she also realized the monaco grand prix was taking place. it had always been his dream to win it. she watched in anticipation as charles crossed the finish line, fireworks exploding into the night sky.

"for the first time in 94 years, this fabled race is won by one of their own. charles leclerc wins the monaco grand prix!"

y/n stayed a little longer. she watched him proudly take the first place position on the podium.

she couldn't help but smile. and for a heartbeat, she felt herself missing him again.

i hope he's doing well she thought, watching him get doused in champagne.

for a split second, she wished their worlds could have coexisted. she was proud of him. of course she was. but it pained her a little—knowing she would watch every win of his through a screen, thousands of miles away.

✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒

author's note: "so i'll watch your life in pictures like i used to watch you sleep. and i feel you forget me like i used to feel you breathe. and i'll keep up with our old friends just to ask them how you are. hope it's nice where you are." -taylor swift

[sunlitcurrents]

Tough Luck

Mean loser!Ellie x Popular!Reader

Enemies to lovers…

Chapter three

Previous — Next

Masterlist

୨ৎ Summary: Ellie hated you, like in a way she felt her guts turn when she saw you and your friends laughing and talking in the school halls. Lucky for her, you guys got paired up for a biology project. She hated the idea and she knew that the next four weeks were going to be hell for her. But you proofed her wrong, showing her that you’re more than what people think you are.

୨ৎ———୨ৎ

If you found comfort in one thing, then it’s art class. Not only do you get to show off your skills, but also is Mrs. Linton a literal angel. To you this woman feels somewhere between a big sister and a mother, just someone who gets you and compliments your every outfit. To that does this room have a certain atmosphere that you can’t really describe, but it made you feel save and comforted, like you couldn’t make any mistakes in here.

Or maybe it’s all the pain fumes getting to your brain.

While your hands were busy sculpting the stubborn clay into a face the conversation between you and your friends was flowing and somehow you felt good again. Just maybe it’s not all that bad and you just needed to calm down. “I still can’t believe you and Nick are dating now.” Those words caught your attention, seeing how Chloe beamed as Cat spoke. Those were definitely some news to you, the same guy that continuously tries to flirt with you is now dating Chloe? Interesting development. If the shoe fits…

“You’re dating Nick?” You ask, your voice sounding more shocked than intended as you dig your fingers into the clay face nostrils.

Chloe’s scoff-laughs, the way that would make your skin crawl if you weren’t her friend. “Didn’t you read the group chat?”

“No, sorry I was a little out of it yesterday, went to sleep early.” The girls around you just laughed, explaining the whole situation to you. Sure, you were happy for her, but you also had a bad feeling when it came to that guy.

As you finally finished your clay face, getting up from your seat to wash your hands you stand right next to Dina, who’s desperately try to get paint off of her jeans, cursing under her breath. You watched her struggle, getting rid of all the clay from under your nails. “Do you need help?” You asked as you dried your hands on the paper towels. She looked up at you, her eyes filled with desperation. “Please.”

You chuckled, examining her jeans. If you knew one thing then it’s how to get paint stains out of your clothes, having your own clothes be victims way too many times before. “Mhm, Is this acrylic or oil paint?”

“Acrylic.” You hummed and nod towards your table. “Nothing some hand sanitizer can’t fix.” Making your way to your desk with Dina in companion, you could feel your friends looking at you confused. Someelse certainly also had their eyes on you, looking even more confused than your friends and it’s no one else but Ellie. Her eyes locked with Dina’s, raising an eyebrow with her lips curling in disgust almost. Dina just shot her a glare.

Your hands rummage through your bag, trying to locate your hand sanitizer. “Fuck, I can’t find it. Does any one of you have some sanitizer?” Your friends just look among themselves, shrugging and shaking their heads. The sigh that escaped your lips hardly covered up for the eye roll you tried to suppress. You were sure one of them had some, but they’d never be willing to give it to someone like Dina.

“I think Ellie has some,” Dina then says, making you turn around to her. “Great,” you say and gesture her to walk back to their table. Somehow you could already taste blood on your tongue, knowing Ellie is already annoyed at you.

With your hips swaying and your boots clacking against the ground, you could practically feel Ellie’s annoyance. Maybe it was because you’re too perfect. Maybe you’re too hot to handle. That’s definitely it. You had to bite your lip to try and cover your smile as those thoughts crossed your mind, knowing if you ever said those out loud Ellie would try her best to prove you wrong.

“Ellie, you’ve got some hand sanitizer, right?” Dina asked, taking her seat next to Ellie. With an annoying undertone and a hardly suppressed groan at your mere existents she got out the small bottle of hand sanitizer. The packaging was green with a small dinosaur on it, making you smile a little. Watching her hand it over to Dina you stretched out your hand. “Let me do it for you,” you said with that sweet, sweet smile of yours.

Taking the sanitizer, examining it for a second you notice Ellie’s eyes looking at you like she’s about to bite you—not in a good way. “Of course your hand sanitizer would be decorated with dinosaurs.”

“Whats that supposed to mean?” Ellie’s voice was agitated, fitting right to the expression on her face. Which was also kind of contradictory hence her naturally cute face. Small nose, big eyes and pouty lips: cute. Technically she’s just a slightly intimidating toddler.

You squatted down, pushing Dinas legs apart a little to apply the sanitizer on the paint splotch on her thigh. “Damn, take me out to dinner first,” Dina spoke, making you giggle as you started rubbing at her thigh with a paper towel. “Is it hot in here or is it just me?” You say as you jokingly fan your face with your free hand, making Dina laugh heartily. “Oh that’s you,” she said with a playful wink.

You finally successfully assassinated the paint in Dinas pants, getting up again. “Oh, I know I’m hot, you don’t need to tell me. But so are you.” With a playful wink you handed Ellie her silly sanitizer back, walking away.

Dina turned to Ellie, watching her eyes follow you, her eyes furrowed. “Well I think she’s nice.” Ellie’s eyes snap back to Dina, her lips parting in disgusted confusion and scoffed. “It’s all an act.”

“You’re just too negative.” Dina rolled her eyes, picking up her paint brush again. But Ellie just sighed, running a hand through her hair as you took back your seat and cross your legs, making the leather of your boots squeelch. Ellie cringed, her eyebrows still in that constant furrow. “Who wears boots in the summer anyway?”

It’s just her luck, sharing both biology and art class with you.

“Be honest, who was the last person you made out with?” Jennie asked as your group walked out of school, the day finally having ended. You laughed, shaking your head. “No way I’m telling you that.”

“Oh come on you’ve been so secretive about your love life it’s driving us crazy! You’re a bad bitch, don’t tell me you’ve got nothing going on for you.” You smiled at Michelle’s comment, shaking your head once again. But then your eyes found her.

Ellie stood by her car, some beat up truck she got from her dad on her 16th birthday. You quickly excused yourself from your friend again, untangling your arms from theirs. “Sorry, I’ve gotta discuss something again, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The girls watched you walking away, sighs and looks being exchanged. “That’s like the hundredth time today that she’s running after Ellie,” Jennie said as they all slowly walked down the steps of the school. “That dyke put a spell on her, I’ll tell you that,” Chloe says as she heads for her car.

Yeah, she’s definitely using that word too freely, because you still caught her saying it but chose to ignore it.

“Ellie!” You say as you walked up to her, having to interrupt her conversation with Jesse. Her eye roll was not to miss, making it take everything in you not to sigh in frustration. Why the fuck did she hate you so much?

“I’m gonna get the brine shrimp eggs now, so please make sure to text me so I can have your contact saved on my phone, since I need to send you the pictures at least. Plus, we need to discuss when you’re coming over to actually do the project with me.” As you spoke Ellie didn’t even look at you, suddenly seeming to be very interested in her nail beds.

“Yeah, I’ll text you,” she says with her usual dismissive voice, making you actually frustrated this time. “Please actually do, I want this to work out.” Finally your eyes met, seeing her flat expression made you feel so much worse.

You never did anything bad to her—not directly at least— and yet she treats you like the worst person on this planet. “Alright,” you say as she doesn’t even say anything anymore. “I’ll just… yeah, I’ll go. Bye.” You turned on your heels, walking away towards your car.

“Bro,” Jesse says, lightly punching Ellie’s shoulder. “Hey!” She says and holds her shoulder dramatically. “What was that for?”

“Why are you being so mean to her? She’s obviously trying to make this work! You’re out here acting like she’s the worst person ever while she’s out her being actually nice to you.” Jesses words were true, a little too true and Ellie didn’t like that. Because never in a million years will she admit that you’re nice. To her you’re still a bitch and nothing will change that.

“Oh don’t you start again, you and Dina already lectured me earlier.”

“Maybe because we’re right.”

“Sure, whatever man, just get in the car.”

The blue lights, the buzzing sound of the water tanks being cleaned and warmed made you some how feel comforted. A father was standing there with his son, the boys little fingers pointing at the guppy fish he wanted. A smile made its way on your face as you watched and walked through the store, perhaps a little distracted and tempted to get a buddy for Lacy.

Suddenly you heard a voice from behind you as you stared at the betta fish they kept. “Looking for something specific?” A male voice asked, making you turn around.

“Oh, no yeah, I’m just here for some brine shrimp eggs. I got a little distracted by this beauty.” The guy smiled as you talked and pointed behind you, but you immediately notice him eyeing you up and down. Sometimes you think you’ve got main character syndrome or maybe men really seem to be drawn to you like moth to a flame.

“Would you be interested to taking one home?” He leaned nonchalantly against a tank, crossing his arms over his chest. “No, no, I’m afraid that my little lady at home will get into a bitch fight if I get her a sister. Even if it’s tempting.” He chuckled, his eyes traveling up and down your body again.

“Well, I could at least show you to those eggs you wanted.” You nod, taking on his invitation and started following him as he walked towards a wooden stand with cardboard packages of eggs. He hands you a small blue package, smiling as you examined the box.

“You need them for a project or something?” You nod, still looking at the box, trying to look as invested as possible so you don’t have to hold eye contact with him. “Yeah, testing their behavior in different salt water levels.” He hums and takes a small step towards you, but you quickly look up, shooting him a friendly smile.

“Thanks,” you say as you hold up the eggs. “I’ll just,” you point behind yourself at the register, turning around to see the register empty. Right, of course. “Right behind ya,” he says and follows you to the register.

As he rings you up and you pull out your wallet you felt his eyes on you, in a way it was really uncomfortable. “That’d be 10 bucks.” You hand him the bill and before he can say anything else you make your way out of that store.

Awkward.

Meanwhile Ellie had her fun, playing some games in her room with Jesse as they munched on some ramen noodles. “HA HA!” Ellie shouted as she defeated Jesse in Mario cart once again, making him throw his controller onto the bed. “I’m just so goated!” That earned Ellie a shove from him and a grumble. She just laughed at him, pushing him as well, which ended in them full on tackling each other and almost knocking over their ramen.

It didn’t take long for Ellie to end up on the floor, laughing hysterically, Jesse sat in the edge of the bed, holding up his arms triumphantly. “I’m actually the goat!” He says as he flexes his arms, earning a kick against his leg from Ellie.

“At least I got a trophy for my wins,” Ellie says as she pushes herself up from her rug, the one she got when she was 7, which explains why it looks the way it does now. But she couldn’t throw it out, no matter how much Joel pushed her to do it. It’s literally the solar system, what do you expect?!

“A digital one,” Jesse says as he slides down the bed, taking a seat on the floor as well. “For my victory I want you to finally man up and text y/n.”

Hearing your name alone made Ellie’s eyes shoot up at Jesse, glaring at him like he just said the most ridiculous thing ever. “Why are you bringing that up all of a sudden?” She runs a frustrated hand through her hair, like the mere thought of you stressed her out. She already knew that this project will end up in giving her a bunch of gray hairs. “Besides, I’m not going to ‘man up’, I’m a lady.” She tries to flick her hair behind her shoulder, though without success as her short hair just falls back into her face.

Jesse chuckles, rolling his eyes at her dumb antics. “Because, Ellie. You’ve been avoiding and mistreating that poor girl for the past few days.”

“Yesterday was like the first time we talked, besides, that still doesn’t explain your sudden change of topic.”

“Just do it bro, you’re acting childish. Also, I kinda wanna see those shrimp she was talking about.”

Ellie laughs and takes a pillow from her bed, throwing it at him for calling her childish. That really just proved his point. “So that’s why you’re bringing this up, because you want shrimp? Don’t get your hopes up, those fuckers are just some minuscule, see through things that you can’t eat.”

“Aw man, got me there,” he says as he throws the pillow back at Ellie. “You’re still not getting out of texting her.” Ellie groaned and dramatically falls back onto the floor. It’s not that she’s unmotivated for the project or is too lazy to do anything, she just doesn’t want to speak to you.

Jesse picked up her phone and tossed it at her. “Now text her.” With a reluctant eye roll and a groan she picked up her phone and opened your contact. “Fuck you,” she grumbled at Jesse and began typing.

Ellie:

Hey it’s Ellie

After she finally typed out a message to you she showed her phone to Jesse, making him smirk and reach over to pad her shoulder. “See was it that hard?” She sighed, rolling her eyes but not being able hide the small smirk that made its way onto her lips. “No, but that still doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want anything to do with her.”

“Stop being so negativ. It’s not like you have to be best buddies with her. Just do the project and you’re done.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” With dramatic theatrics she lays back down onto the rug, closing her eyes. “Not everyone is like Cat, you know,” Jesse says and lays down next to her.

“I know that,” she says, her voice small, like she wasn’t sure if she told the truth. Maybe you weren’t too bad, but she couldn’t bring herself to think better of you. It’s this mental blockage that stops her from seeing you like everyone else. Even if you were nothing like Cat.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Thank you all for all the support I’ve been getting!!! I’m still trying to figure out how to work this and all, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.

Taglist: @vahnilla @sashaaaur

[asdpawprint]

Listen. I despised essays. I was never taught in any amount of detail how to write them well. I was never taught why we have to write them. I struggled and stressed so badly over them because they weren't like math: a consistent, predictable, exact answer that I could be confident was 100% correct before turning in. Every essay I wrote through elementary and middle school was so heavily paraphrased that they might’ve fit a loose definition of plagiarism, all because I thought there must be a Perfect way to write that I was supposed to re-invent with minimal instruction.

Then I started writing fanfiction for fun. You know what happened? Writing in every context got easier. Essays were still boring as hell and wildly stressful, but the words went on the page quicker, and each one felt a bit less risky than the last, and they weren't 95% rephrased sentences from sources anymore, because I had practiced writing enough to start developing an understanding of what good writing is (and that there is no Perfect way to write).

And now as an Adult with a Job? Even the most math-y, least interactive job I could find still regularly requires me to coherently explain boring concepts in written/typed paragraphs. At long last, I've learned why school requires essays. I still hate them, don't get me wrong, but it seems the need for this skill is genuinely unavoidable.

"what did students do before chatgpt?" well one time i forgot i had a history essay due at my 10am class the morning of so over the course of my 30 minute bus ride to school i awkwardly used by backpack as a desk, sped wrote the essay, and got an A on it.

six months later i re-read the essay prior to the final exam, went 'ohhhh yeah i remember this', got a question on that topic, and aced it.

point being that actually doing the work is how you learn the material and internalize it. ChatGPT can give you a short cut but it won't build you the the muscles.

[blues-valentine]

It’s not that seriously but it’s crazy to me the way people have been “switching” on Team Conrad because he’s has always been the right choice if people had actually been paying attention to narrative clues and allowed characters to grow instead of expecting that instant gratification.

Conrad’s always been like the way he’s being presented now — that’s literally the whole point.

The show has been spoon feeding you since the very start of the show that S1 and S2 Conrad is not who he normally is. The show literally gives you flashbacks of Conrad being his usual sweet responsible self and Laurel even speaks on how he’s typically the one to hold in his emotions or problems for the sake of others. And the reason Conrad’s like that is because he was raised like it!As the typical older sibling, he was made to think he needs to carry in the responsibility. He thought he was protecting Jeremiah and also respecting his mother’s wishes by not sharing that she had cancer because Susannah wanted their last summer “to be perfect” before she hits them with the news. Usually, everyone’s perfect picture falls on the shoulders of Conrad responsibility to bear.

And the fact this is literally on THE PILOT too, that Susannah and Laurel made Conrad feel guilty that Jeremiah, Belly and Steven got drunk and followed him to the beach party like it was his responsibility to look out for them when he didn’t even knew they were going to show up. And in the 4th of July episode where Conrad wanted to share with Adam that he knew about Susannah but instead he got blamed for Belly getting drunk and ruining Susannah’s party like, why it is Conrad’s responsibility to control everyone’s behavior? Why’s Conrad the parentified eldest sibling?

Conrad knew his mother was going to die and had to pretend he didn’t know for the sake of others while Jeremiah got to have his hot boy summer and was actively trying to sabotage him over the only thing that brought him a smile that summer. Because he did sabotage Conrad over Belly. But you all wanted to paint him as the brooding sad toxic brother with communication issues as if it was an active choice he was making and not a response to anticipation grief . You all fell from the fake propaganda that Jeremiah was the emotionally available golden retriever brother and ignored his constant manipulation and guilt tripping tactics because it suited you. Jeremiah was literally written to be just like he is now — irresponsible, lazy, insecure and unserious. And he has yet to have his big character development.

Most of you stayed on the surface and misguided every single Conrad scene in the show. From his mental issues, to prom, to the junior mint thing, to the reasons why he lets Belly go. He was having a hard time communicating because he didn’t want to let slip out what was happening with Susannah. He let Belly go because he didn’t think she had to carry his depression and should be allowed to be happy. He didn’t let her go because he didn’t think he loved her — he let her go because his grief and depression didn’t allow him to effectively be the person that Belly needed and the least he wanted to do was burden her that, which is now exactly what Jeremiah is doing. Conrad wasn’t perfect and he sure as hell could’ve used a better way to communicate but you all never allowed him the grace to truly overcome what was happening; which is why I don’t take some people seriously when they claim to care about mental health on tv because the moment a character you don’t like acts in a way that screams mental health issue you label him as a red flag viewing therapy as a drag and not an actual thing people should do.

There’s countless actual abusive and terrible characters on TV out there and it’s not Conrad.

Another insane thing to me is how many people took Jeremiah’s POV about Conrad “leaving him to take care of his mother!” as fact value when Jere’s POV about Conrad is biased and comes as resentful, not objective. Not only was Jeremiah not handling those bills alone, but he cannot blame Conrad for not showing up everyday from all across the country while at college. Had Conrad been a senior too, he would’ve done the job and not allow Jeremiah to be the one to do it. That’s literally older sibling behavior. A lot of Jeremiah’s POV about Conrad comes off as resentful because he’ll never be able to understand Conrad as a person and the guilt he already feels about not being there all the way.

And mind you, most of the time, it is Jeremiah being verbal and physically abusive to Conrad.

Jeremiah turns exactly into what the show has been building him to be. He’s a fuck boy, he’s insecure and irresponsible. Has an inferiority complex and it’s only clinging to Belly as a way to hold onto Susannah instead of going to therapy. Instead of doing the job of healing. And contrary to him, Conrad has been in the deep rock bottom because he has been grieving Susannah longer than all of them. He’s now doing the job and it’s ready to be the partner the narrative always told you he was be but wasn’t ready to be prior to this.

[cenorii]

Higgs: personality

Let's just say… I plunged under this iceberg and almost drowned. Well, let's talk about Higgs and I'll tell you what I saw in him. Believe me, it's interesting. And it's very sad.

Higgs is a man who never had anything of his own - no meaning, no closeness, no confirmation of his worth. His story is about how loneliness breeds the desire for absolute power just to feel alive. He doesn’t hate the world by default - he hates his own powerlessness within it.

At the beginning of Death Stranding, he plays the role of a Horseman of the Apocalypse, but behind it lies a tragic longing to be important in any way. He found nothing meaningful in this world, no real connections. No family, no friendship, no love. Meeting Amelie was the final tipping point that altered his identity - because she betrayed the hope he’d clung to. He believed he was finally needed by someone. Amelie gave him power, and with it, recognition - as if to say he mattered, he was special. But that feeling turned out to be an illusion.

His childhood was shaped by total isolation, emotional and physical abuse at the hands of an uncle he called "daddy". He grew up believing he was an object. He lived in a world where there were no "others". That warped reality became the only one he knew. Completely cut off from the outside world, even knowledge was restricted. In such an environment, Higgs’s identity couldn’t form properly. He saw no value in himself, but he wanted to survive, to become a part of the community.

He layered his image with narcissism as a form of protection. He placed himself at the center of events as a desperate attempt to convince himself he still existed as someone. His thinking: "If I wasn’t loved, then I must be better than everyone else." He built the persona of someone special, chosen, to justify his pain. At his core lies vulnerability and sensitivity. But he puts on a choleric mask, hiding under aggression, sarcasm, intimidation - to conceal weakness and preserve a sense of control.

Even his aggression is a form of desperate self-assertion. He’s closer to the philosophy of absurdism than to basic evil. His lack of empathy doesn’t come from hate, but from a kind of psychic deafness - he doesn’t know how to recognize other people’s pain. He literally can’t see others until someone (like Sam) forces him to feel.

He could have had empathy - but it was crushed by trauma and isolation. He’s so damaged, he no longer knows how to be different. He’s a wounded, abandoned, burned-out man with no idea how to feel, or who it’s even safe to show that to.

His pain runs so deep it mutates into a desire for annihilation. He’s not looking for an equal - he wants nothing to remain. He is, in fact, a suicide bomber, and his radicalism comes from a desire to erase everything. Higgs doesn’t bury his pain under rationalizations. He shows how empty he is. He craves to dissolve in destruction - together with Sam. And in his mecha-body, he spills everything out, in grotesque form - because he doesn’t know how else to express himself.

He simply gave up when he found out the truth from Amelie's mouth. That everything he aspired to as a porter uniting America would eventually disappear. That it was all for nothing.

His hunger for destruction is a way to take revenge for all the things he never had. Deep down, Higgs never wanted destruction for its own sake. His "wish for the end of the world" is a twisted confession of his failure - as a person. His apocalypse isn’t a crime for power, but an attempt to escape pain through a grand finale. "If nothing can ever matter to me, then maybe destroying everything can." It’s a kind of ironic vengeance - against the world, and himself.

10.000+ years on the Beach, outside time, outside society. No aging, no feelings, no development. Just a stagnant swamp of emptiness, where he’s trapped alone with himself... no room to grow, no purpose. He feels boredom, but never madness - which makes the torment even worse. His mind is poisoned by despair, but his intellect remains intact.

In DS2, Higgs’s appearance in the mecha-body looks like a parody of feelings, a tragicomic makeup where he is laughing and crying at the same time. His face is a mask, a new level of theatricality. His makeup reflects the searing inner instability. This image is a scream of pain, wrapped in a glossy, screaming shell. He didn’t just experience loneliness, but long, exhausting years on the Beach, where he had nothing except the memory of Sam and the feeling of rejection. His new image makes him far more human than before.

But even if his face is a mask, there is no lie in it. He is not trying to seem like someone else – he’s just artificially emphasizing what he has become. His smile is carved in gold, but it isn’t real, and his tears are drawn on, because he can’t allow himself to shed real ones in this body.

Higgs has a distorted understanding of attachment. He doesn’t know how to love – he only knows how to grab, dominate, force a reaction. This is especially visible in the context of Sam’s demisexuality, where Higgs seems to instinctively feel that simple display of the body, flirting, or impulsiveness won’t affect Sam. Which means he must force his way into his life.

Higgs has an obsession with Sam with a clear erotic-emotional undertone. This isn’t just fixation on an enemy. It’s an obsessive, distorted attraction born from loneliness, pain, and the desire to be seen by this one person. Because only Sam was able to provoke any reaction in him.

When Higgs, under a pseudonym (his real name), ordered pizza from Sam, it can be seen as a symbolic act of courtship, but in a twisted form. Higgs wants Sam to come to him, to do something personal. Physical contact (licking the cheek) and body language, combined with his behavior, are perceived not as domination, but as an aggressive form of closeness that he doesn’t know how to express differently. Almost a confession – but in a monstrous form.

The only longing on the Beach – is for Sam. Despite centuries of isolation, Higgs remembers him first. He is the center of his fixation.

He is intimate, contradictory, obsessed, even tender in a monstrous way. This is not eroticism for epatage, but a deep connection formed through suffering, loneliness, and pain. Even their battle isn’t just a fight, but almost a ritual, a dance with a subtext. Sam is living proof that a person can carry connection, light, persistence, even pain. Higgs falls in love with persistence, with the idea, with the fact that Sam isn’t afraid to be human.

Higgs’s love language is provocation, violence, mockery with subtext. Singing during Sam’s torture is a confession, encrypted in a crude, self-destructive form. The one who used to behave like a mocker and manipulator now expresses himself through song. It’s romance poisoned by obsession. The song becomes not an expression of kindness, but a way to express his despair.

He smiles and sings about wanting to be closer, while mocking Sam. It’s the contrast between outer grotesque and inner scream. He, the destroyer, sings the words of a parent to the person he’s trying to destroy. This cannot be accidental.

Higgs shows his pain not so someone would comfort him, but because it’s become all he has left. And he sings not for Sam, but in spite of him. His cruelty is a substitute for attachment, his face is a cry for help, his song is the echo of a soul that doesn’t know how to ask – but still knows how to feel.

[imaginechishiya]

Forgiveness

Part 1

Pairing: chishiya x reader (no pronouns mentioned)

Summary: you're trapped in a world full of horrors and stumble across the one person you never wanted to see again. can you forgive the man who is involved in your little brother's death?

Warnings: angst, mentions of death, loss of a sibling, mentions of blood

Word count: ~3.8k

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

"The Game will commence shortly." Your fingers tapped nervously on the phone in your hand in random patterns. You still didn't quite know what was actually happening.

Not even three days ago you were walking around Tokyo, about to meet a friend in a coffee shop. You were distracted by beautiful fireworks in the sky. And before you knew it, everyone was gone. The usually busy streets were completely empty.

The same night you participated in your first game. A two of Clubs, which as you learned meant it was an easy one. But it also meant that you would only get a visa for two days, therefore you had to play another deadly game tonight.

You were currently standing outside an apartment building. There were quite a few people around you. You took a look around, trying to make out which kind of people you're playing either with or against.

There was this mysterious guy in the very far corner. His hooded face was hidden in the shadows. But when the robotic voice spoke, he looked up. And then you saw it. His all too familiar face.

"Chishiya? Shuntaro Chishiya?!" You asked. He froze, his gaze wandering to you. He knew who you were before he saw you. He recognised that voice of yours.

He looked at you and something shifted in his facial expression. "I hope you die in this game." You murmured as you stepped as far away from his as possible.

You had hoped you'd never have to see that traitorous face of his again. The man who gave you all the hope, only to crash your soul and leave you to it. This time he wasn't wearing a white coat but a white zip-up jacket.

The first time you met Chishiya was at the Sakurazawa University Hospital. Your little brother had been diagnosed with Hepatitis B after hurting himself on a used needle some junkie left lying around at a playground. Your mother didn't think twice about it back then. And even after your brother got sick, she didn't consider that the incident at the playground could have severe consequences.

It took some time until she finally listened to you and brought your brother to a hospital. By then, his liver had already taken some damage. Medications didn't seem to help.

It was Chishiya who delivered the news that Hayato might need a liver transplant.

"There are a few other things we can try. But sooner or later he will need a new liver. Unfortunately, the hepatitis has developed into a chronic form. Best case scenario, we can stabilise his condition so he won't get any worse until he can get the transplant." He explained calmly.

You and your mother were sitting in the empty waiting room. Dr. Chishiya sat across from you, a clipboard in his hand.

Your mother got up and left the room, sniffing. You just sat there, staring blankly into space. "I'm sorry I don't have any better news." He said softly. You looked at him. His blonde hair was in a ponytail, two strands of hair covering the sides of his face. You put on a fake smile, "thank you, Dr. Chishiya."

Hayato was doing better for a few weeks. You accompanied him into the hospital for his check-ups now and then. Dr. Chishiya was doing his very best to help Hayato, you were sure of that. He was always polite but also distant. However the more you came in, the less uptight be became. His face was getting softer, he sometimes even smiled at you.

Then Hayato started getting tired a lot, not wanting to eat. One rainy evening, he came into your room, complaining about feeling nauseous. He was pale and his eyes were yellow-tinted.

You tried calling for your mother but she seemed to be out. You took the car keys and rushed Hayato through the rain into the car and into the hospital. They took immediate care of him and asked you to wait in the waiting room.

Waiting was the worst. Your teeth chattered. Your clothes were soaked from the rain, making you feel even colder in the chilly room.

After what felt like forever, the door opened. Chishiya stepped inside and you shot to your feet immediately. There was no expression on his face. At least not one that gave anything away.

"Hayato is severely anaemic. He's getting a blood transfusion right now because his red blood cells are too low. It's not a good sign. It means that the damage to his liver is worse than anticipated. In conclusion, it also means that he is now on top of the transplant waiting list. If we're able to stabilise his current condition, we'll be able to get him into surgery as soon as we have a donor." His smile was genuine.

Worry clouded your brain and you didn't know what to respond. So you just nodded. "You can go home and get changed. You'll be able to pick him up and take him home in the morning."

You shook your head, "I want to stay here. Just in case." Dr. Chishiya nodded and excused himself. Your support impressed him. Not just tonight but all the other times as well. You were always there when Hayato had an appointment.

You sat back down, tapping your feet on the ground. The door opened again after a few minutes. Chishiya came back inside with a wooly blanket. He sat in the chair next to you, a steaming cup in his hand. "You didn't strike me as a coffee person so I brought you some herbal tea."

You smiled softly, thanking him as you took the cup from him. "I know it's a lot to take in and I understand you want to be there for your brother but please don't neglect your own needs and well-being." He said as he placed the blanket around you.

"We already lost our dad. I can't lose my little brother as well."

"Life is cruel, testing us over and over again. I know what it's like having to grow up without a father. But Hayato has a strong will to live and to get better. Which is probably mostly thanks to your support. He's lucky to be the brother of someone who cares so much." Chishiya said. Deep down some part of him had always longed to have someone as caring as you in his life.

"Did you lose your father, too?" You asked, taking a sip from your tea.

Chishiya was silent for a moment. There was no point in ever discussing anything personal with patients or their relatives. No point in them getting to know him. They needed his professional help, nothing more, nothing less.

"It's not like that." He said, planning to leave it at that. But your gaze was fixated on him, interest flashing in your eyes.

"My father was a doctor as well. All he ever cared about was his job. He was neither interested in me nor my mother. Having a family is something society expects from you. Which is the only reason why he had one. He was always occupied, never home. I grew up believing that working is the only thing that matters in life. I wanted to find the same meaning in life my father did. Which is why I studied medicine."

You nodded understandingly. "And did you find it? Or are you realising that there is more to life than your profession?"

Chishiya seemed to be taken aback from your question. "I think I've seen enough of life to know that no matter what you do, everything is meaningless. So the one thing you should be focusing on is taking care of yourself because no one else will."

You felt sorry for him. "Shouldn't you be with your patients? I don't mean to keep you from work."

"It's one in the morning. Luckily, my patients are sleeping. Unless there is an emergency, I'm free for the night." He explained. "Shouldn't you at least be getting some sleep then?" The corners of his mouth twitched into a barely visible smile, "I feel like you're trying to get rid of me."

"What? No. No, I just don't want you to feel like you have to stay up to comfort me. Work is probably draining you enough as it is. I don't mean to be just another bother."

"You're not. It's actually refreshing to just talk for a little bit. About something other than sickness and diseases, that is."

And that's what you did for the rest of the night. Talk about anything and everything.

Chishiya had to leave a couple of times to check on patients, talk to nurses or whatnot. But he always came back.

It was now early in the morning. The sun was slowly starting to rise, making the sky look beautiful and peaceful. Chishiya had been gone for about twenty minutes before he came back. This time he wasn't alone.

"Look who's up!" He was holding Hayato's hand, guiding him into the waiting room. He looked way better. There was finally some colour in his face. He grinned widely, running up to you and hugging you.

Chishiya smiled softly as he watched the two of you. "These are his release papers. I need you to sign down here. Please come back here in two days for a follow-up appointment." He said as he handed you the papers.

Chishiya knelt down in front of Hayato, "you take care of yourself, Hayato, okay? Make sure to take your medications, drink a lot of fluids and get enough sleep. Sleep is important. And try to eat. Even if you don't feel that hungry some days. Your body needs all the strength it can get so it can fight that stupid virus. And nutritious meals will give you all that power."

"Like superman?"

Chishiya nodded, "almost like superman."

He got back up and handed you a slip of paper. "Use this to get a free breakfast for the two of you down in the cafeteria." He said.

"Thank you. For everything, Dr. Chishiya. I hope you'll be able to get some sleep. Especially after explaining how important sleep is."

The slightest hint of a smile plastered Chishiya's face. When he finally settled down in the on-call room, his thoughts couldn't stop racing. And behind his closed eyelids, your smile kept reappearing in his head.

You took Hayato back to the hospital two days later. The nurse informed you they needed to draw some blood again to check his red blood cells. Instead of taking a seat in the uncomfortable waiting room, you decided to go to the small café that was located right beside the hospital. You sat outside. The soft autumn sun was just enough to keep warm. You closed your eyes. It was beautiful and for a short while, everything seemed fine.

That was until someone stepped in front of you, stealing away the warmth of the sun. You knitted your brows and opened your eyes. Dr. Chishiya was standing there. Obviously not in his usual work attire. Instead of the white coat he was wearing a grey cardigan. His hair wasn't made into his usual ponytail. He looked handsome.

"Mind if I join you?" He asked, pointing at the vacant seat next to you. "Oh, please! Be my guest. Can I get you anything? My treat, of course. To repay you for breakfast the other day."

"You don't have to! Besides, my shift starts in a bit. I just wanted to ask how you're doing." A warm feeling settled in your chest. "I'm okay. Hayato is getting his blood checked. They said I can pick him up in about 45 minutes. He's been feeling much better." You replied. "That's good to hear."

"I was really scared the other day. I've never seen him like that. I didn't know what to do." Chishiya nodded understandingly. "It's good that you came by the hospital right away." He said, looking a bit absentmindedly, as if he was debating something.

"Here," he said finally. Retrieving a pen from his bag and scribbling something on the napkin in front of you. "Text me or give me a call whenever you feel in need of advice or help."

You looked down at his phone number, smiling as you thanked him.

Chishiya was complete aware that this was unacceptable. A mistake. And he rarely ever made mistakes. He was too careful for mistakes. But somehow he couldn't help himself.

After you came back home you cooked some dinner for Hayato. He seemed to prefer your home cooked meals to your mother's. She wasn't mad about that. She was just happy he was eating.

You couldn't stop thinking about Chishiya. You knew he only gave you his phone number for emergencies but it was so tempting to just message him.

I just wanted to let you know this can work both ways. So if you're in desperate need of a distraction from another boring night shift at the hospital - message me :-)

You didn't expect a response. You knew he was busy at work. And a part of you regretted having sent that message. Shortly after 11 your phone chimed.

Are you still up? -C

He called you a few minutes after you texted him that you were in fact still up.

It felt good to just talk for a bit. There was something about his voice that calmed even the darkest of your thoughts. Funny enough, you talked mostly about medicine. You've always been interested in it but you never had someone who could fill you in on so much professional knowledge. Chishiya seemed to enjoy talking about the things he knows best.

This happened for a few more times.

A few weeks later you were seated in the waiting room. Once again, you were the only one in there. They were running some tests on Hayato again.

Chishiya came inside about half an hour later. He had a small smile on his face. But it were his eyes that peaked your interest. They were somewhat glowing. You have never seen that look on him before.

"So, the bad news is that Hayato has to stay here for a couple of days." He said. "And the good news?!"

"Good news is that we finally have a transplant. Hayato's condition is stable which means we can get him into surgery next week." Before Chishiya could even finish his sentence, you had already embraced him into a hug. Relief washed over you.

To his own surprise, Chishiya didn't mind the physical contact. Even though he usually despises it.

"Sorry, I'm sorry." You said as you let go of him. "I didn't mean to just jump you like that. I just got so excited."

"It's okay. I was also very pleased when I received the information. But I have to remind you, there are still risks. Not only because of the surgery but also because of how his body might react to the transplant."

You nodded, being well aware of all the risks.

"Thank you. For everything you've done." You kissed his cheek, smiling widely at him before leaving the room. The feeling of your soft lips still lingered on his cheek. And for a short second, Chishiya wished they would have been on his mouth instead.

He shook his head, trying to get rid of the thought. It confused him. It confused him because he didn't even know what it was. Perhaps it was merely physical attraction. It's been some time since he's gotten laid. He mostly neither cared about the act itself nor the person involved. It was simply to give his body what it needed.

So why did it feel like some part of him actually cared about you?

He left the waiting room shortly after. "Chishiya!" One of his superiors called him. He turned around, waiting for him to catch up with him.

"We have a liver for Hayato! I think this transplant will truly help him heal completely." Chishiya informed him.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." The superior said, handing him an envelope. "What-"

"You need to tell the family that the surgery will be postponed. There's been a change in the order of the transplant waiting list. The grandson of a friend of the director is in need of one. Their family have blessed our hospital with a great donation."

Chishiya's face fell. "So it's about money. Not about who's in bigger need of the transplant."

His superior shrugged, "the other boy will get a transplant later. As far as I'm concerned his condition is stable."

Chishiya crossed his arms in front of his chest, "he's fine for now. But that could change any second. He's in desperate need of that liver transplant. There's a reason he's top of the list."

"Well, he's not anymore. Now make sure to deliver the message to the family."

There was an aching feeling in Chishiya's chest. This was not fair. But somehow, he wasn't surprised. He was not used to good things ever happening.

The news hit you hard. Chishiya chose his words carefully. "I'm so sorry." He whispered.

"There's nothing you have to be sorry about. I understand that there's someone who needs it more. It just sucks." You sighed. "Thank you for understanding." He said before you left the hospital room.

You didn't hear anything from Chishiya the following days. No text, no call, nothing. The next week, your mother was the one accompanying Hayato to his appointments. You didn't feel like it.

At the end of the week, you read an article online. About how a liver transplant saved the grandson of a very wealthy man. Who, funnily enough, was apparently friends with the director of Sakurazawa University Hospital.

You were in disbelief. And you were hurting. Not only because it was unfair but because Chishiya had lied to you.

Can we meet?

My shift starts in an hour. Would you like to meet at the café next to the hospital? -C

Half an hour later, Chishiya was already sitting at the very table you sat at not too long ago. Two steaming cups in front of him. He looked the slightest bit worried.

"Is everything okay with Hayato?" He asked, sliding one of the cups over to you.

"Yeah, he's okay. So, how about that other kid? Did everything go well?"

Chishiya looked at you with furrowed brows, "yes. Fortunately, his body accepted the transplant just fine. He's recovering."

You nodded, crossing your arms in front of your chest. "So, what disease did he have that he was so desperately in need of a transplant? Has he also been suffering for as long as Hayato has? Seems like his condition got really bad really fast. Poor kid."

Chishiya didn't respond. He just looked at you.

"Or was it perhaps the big money bag his grandfather carries around? Or the strings he was able to pull with the director?"

"It's not-"

"What? It's not like that? I'm not fucking stupid, Chishiya. You were the one telling me about how cruel life is. So why are you participating in this cruelty?"

"Believe me, if there was even the slightest chance, I would have done anything to get Hayato the transplant. But that's just beyond my power."

"I don't believe you. There's no way doctors don't have a say in this. You're the one reviewing the patients and determine how severe their disease is. I'm sorry you've had such a shitty childhood, Chishiya. And I understand that it might be due to your father's absence or the lack of love you received from him that you now believe all humans are bad and that your actions are meaningless anyway. They're not. You could have saved Hayato. You could have helped an innocent boy who has never done anything wrong in this world but you kept your mouth shut. You let the hospital take the money, that oh so surprising donation that family made. Surprisingly, right before the order of the waiting list was changed. And you decided to keep your mouth shut. Because that's the easy way out, right? To just keep silent and let the people be their cruel selves. This does not make you any better than them. And I feel sorry for you, Chishiya." You got up, leaving before he could say another word.

He only called your name once, asking you to please let him explain. But you were already speeding away from the café, tears burning in your eyes.

And life was cruel indeed. Hayato's condition became worse. And before long, his tiny body did not have any more strength in him to fight the virus. He wasn't strong enough to heal what was already damaged. The medications did about nothing anymore.

And then he was taken from you. Forever.

Chishiya tried to phone you multiple times. You never answered. He spoke to his superior about Hayato's death. He knew that the liver transplant could have prevented that. And he also knew that, given his condition, the other kid could have gone months, if not years without a transplant.

No one seemed to care about it. And Chishiya's brain kept telling him not to care either, to not let this get to him. But his heart spoke differently.

It was a sunny day. The day of the funeral. Hayato would have liked it. He always preferred the sun, when it was warm enough to play outside.

Chishiya was there. He was wearing all black which was an unusual view. You ignored him. He didn't try to talk to you. He just wanted to be there.

You were the last person standing by Hayato's grave. You held his favourite toy in hand, kneeling down, you placed it on top of the coffin.

Someone stepped up next to you, kneeling down as well. Chishiya looked at the superman action figure you had placed on your brother's coffin. "Almost like superman." He repeated the words he had once said to Hayato.

You buried your face in your hands, tears streaming down your face. Chishiya placed his hand on your back and you let him. The warmth felt welcoming only until you collected yourself.

"I never want to see you again." You said as you got up, leaving Chishiya behind.

That was barely two months ago. And now here you were, being stuck in a nightmare world with no other than Shuntaro Chishiya.

Chishiya was still standing in the corner, his hood still up. But his gaze was fixated on you. The sudden need to protect you, to keep you safe was overwhelming. He needed you to forgive him. He had to make things right.

He had to because for the first time in his life, someone had finally made him feel something.

A/N: i honestly feel like this one needs a part 2... all those in favour let me know in the comments ♡

[mclastri]

bruce on truth serum & tim on curiosity

it was supposed to be a simple mission. bruce needed some intel before he could make a case against poison ivy to gordon and decided to use a shortcut with his truth serum. unfortunately, in a rare mistake, he forgot to account for the fact that ivy had developed an intolerance to it. even going as far as to create her own version to infect him. so, now, bruce is back at the batcave and lamenting every decision he’s made today. 

tim’s in the batcave when he returns, red robin costume halfway off with his cape wrapped halfway around him and domino splayed on the desk in front of him. 

“jeez bruce, you need to make the cave warmer.” he says with a shiver, eyes darting back to the screen as bruce continues to the med bay. “bats don’t like the cold. It keeps them away from all the tech here. and you kids. it’s safer if they are kept away.” and tim’s sorta just like. oh okay, flippantly, and goes back to what he was doing before. 

he doesn’t sense anything’s wrong yet. why would he? he only notices when bruce stalks back over after 20 or so minutes quietly bickering with alfred. “sorry b. i was trying to find that info you needed for two-face, but he’s scrubbed the cctv clean” and he looks sort of dejected and bruce knows what’s about to leave his mouth, he knows there’s no way around this, but still he walks closer.

“its okay tim. the quality of work–the amount of work you do for me is more than i could ever ask for. you’re just a boy. i don’t need you to be perfect.” and tim just stands there like o.o okay. 

they don’t talk much after that. bruce is somewhere between abashed and gleeful or maybe something else he can’t quite identify and tim looks paler than usual. “is everything okay, bruce?” tim settles on. it feels easier than the silence they’re sitting in. 

“truth serum”

“oh. oh”

bruce knows tim’s a little shit. he knows whats coming and, for a reason he can’t quite find, he doesn’t hate it. 

“so…you’re like, honest now?” 

“for now. it’s not lethal”

“cool, cool. so, out of interest, what did you get me for my birthday?”

bruce’s deadpan lasts only 4 seconds. only 4 seconds worth of restraint where he’s thanking everything in the universe that was tim’s question. “i got you that oreo cake, filled with the good cream. and i’ve been working on a new version of your laptop. better capabilities, more battery, larger storage. it has a tracking device because i’m afraid of you leaving. i’m terrified of losing you, obviously, but if you left and didn’t come back…i think that would be worse”

alfred drops the tray of tea he carried down. somewhere between shocked and maybe a little scared. not of bruce, no, rather for bruce. “b…i’m not gonna…i have ties here–too many friends!” tim throws out with a chortle. “i’m not–you don’t have to worry about me.” he settles deeper into his seat, eyes boring holes into the desk in front when bruce, who had been sat just beside him, sighs. “okay. i–that’s good to know, chum.”

he figures they’ll both agree in silence to just never speak about this, maybe even forget about the interaction entirely. but tim might just spend the next few nights thinking about how bruce called him chum. bruce, who hasn’t called anyone but damian ‘chum’ in the last 5 months, called him chum.