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capuccinodoll · 2 days ago

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—LUCKY — (one shot) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (firefighter!joel x f!reader) MDNI!!

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summary: After a long, stressful week at the station, firefighter Joel Miller turns to the most natural form of stress relief: hitting a bar in search of a one-night stand. And as luck would have it, he finds you. WC: 8.3K

A/N: Quick backstory: a couple weeks ago I met this super hot forty-something firefighter, and that same week I started writing this one-shot. It had to be Joel. It sat in my drafts for weeks until last night, when I finally finished it in a random burst of inspiration, when I definitely should’ve been sleeping (but like, who even sleeps more than three hours these days anyway?) let me know what you think <3

Joel’s first act of rebellion that night was to light a damn cigarette.

He hadn’t smoked in years. Not since... well, it didn’t matter. Long day, his back hurt, and his temper had been riding the edge of dangerous for hours. Also, he was fucking horny.

He was still wearing what he’d had on at the station: black work pants, belt digging uncomfortably into his hips, a navy cotton T-shirt and boots that tracked half the parking lot’s mud into the bar. He hadn’t even stopped at home. Knew if he did, he’d lie down, blink, and it’d be morning.

He needed a drink, a break. Stress was eating him alive.

Joel coped with his daily life as best he could. Like the kid who set his bathroom on fire. A twenty-year-old with a tragic case of romantic impulse. Joel and the guys found him curled on the kitchen floor with a burnt towel, melted candles, and a charred tray of pizza slices. The guy wanted ambiance. Candlelight and bathtub acoustics. Maybe a little poetry. He got third-degree burns instead.

Also, Joel was sure he saw a burnt book in the hallway. That was poetic.

Curtains had gone up next. Then came the wine glass, shattered. The kid lived on the third floor. Nearly took out the neighbors. Almost. Well, Joel was probably dramatizing. He did that when he was irritated.

So yeah. Tonight, he ordered a whiskey and lit up, fully aware that the smoke would cling to his fingers for the rest of the night. And he didn't care.

The bar was crowded. Not packed, but full enough to feel like enough. It smelled like beer and cig smoke and wet dirt, thanks to all the muddy boots dragging rain in from the street. His included. The music was too loud to hear the storm tapping on the roof, but he could feel it anyway.

He scanned the room. Nothing caught. Then again, he wasn’t exactly a flame to be drawn to these days.

A blonde in a low-cut top leaned over the bar. A brunette at the pool table bent just the right way in tight jeans. He took a sip of his drink. Watched. Let his eyes rest on her for a couple of seconds.

He was worn the fuck out. And he knew it.

Twenty years ago, this same night would’ve started differently. He’d already be in someone’s backseat, or someone else’s bed, or maybe the goddamn bathroom stall if it came to that. He used to have a good mouth on him. A silver tongue. Knew how to talk, how to touch. And he’d been a lucky bastard once, golden even, for longer than he probably deserved.

Now? Forty-five. Body stiff in some places. Still carrying around a full tank of sex and no place to unload it.

He could’ve stayed home. Could’ve jerked off, taken a hot shower, gone to bed. But the tension in his back said no thanks to that routine. He needed something else. Something more.

He wasn’t even sure he remembered how to flirt anymore. The last time he’d fucked a stranger was years ago, after a night out with the guys from the station — tall redhead, forties, dirty mouth, smelled like vanilla. Her scent had stayed on his shirt, and for a full day after, he kept catching it on his own damn arms.

The last time he’d slept with anyone was eight months ago. Nothing dramatic. Two nights, zero chemistry, and then radio silence.

Now he had nothing. Not even decent porn. He’d spent the past week jerking off in half-hearted silence, scrolling through a sea of videos that didn’t make him feel a goddamn thing.

No. He didn’t want a screen, bad acting and cringey dialogue.

He needed skin. Sweat. Something to sink his teeth into.

So he didn’t overthink it. He got in the truck straight after his long shift and drove to the bar with a plan so simple it felt almost clinical: show up, drink, find someone, fuck, go home.

His eyes drifted back to the blonde. She was watching him now, of course she was. He recognized that look from miles away. She was already imagining how he’d taste.

Joel stubbed out his cigarette and shifted to stand. And that’s when the bell above the door rang.

You walked in.

Looking slightly lost, you looked like you hadn’t meant to end up here. Hair a little damp from the rain, short black dress clinging to your thighs. You didn’t belong in this place, and that made it worse somehow. Or better.

Joel’s gaze moved down, then back up. He exhaled. Sat back down.

Lifted his whiskey and drank.

“Um, whiskey, please. On the rocks.”

Your voice surprised him. Softer than expected. Especially for someone like you. And by that, he meant you looked like you’d rip a man open.

You sat down on the stool to his left. He turned slightly, watching you.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and sighed as you checked your phone, and Joel noticed your eye makeup was just a little smudged.

You bit your lower lip, distracted.

You looked young. Early thirties, maybe.

Joel wondered —for half a second— if it would be too much, too pathetic, to try anything. But the thought lasted barely a second before he shifted and felt the thick fabric of his pants pressing right in his crotch.

Fuck it.

So, yeah, he was about to say something. Nothing clever, really, just something, when you turned your head and looked straight at him.

“What?”

Joel’s fingers tightened around his glass.

So that’s the tone. That’s who you were. You looked at him with big eyes, long eyelashes. What the hell do you want?

“Tough day?” he asked, smirking before he could stop himself. He lifted his chin toward the drink the bartender had just slid in front of you.

You looked down at it, then back up at him.

“What makes you think that?”

“Intuition,” he said.

You faced forward again, hands wrapped around the glass. Your nails were painted crimson red. He liked that.

You took a slow sip. Nodded.

“Tough week.”

He nodded too. Fair enough.

“Did you walk here?”

You turned to him again. “Let me guess; intuition?”

He tried not to smile but failed halfway. Nodded.

“Your hair’s damp.”

You stared at him then, properly, eyes holding on his face before trailing down, and suddenly he didn’t need any other confirmation. He already knew how the night was going to end.

Not to brag or anything, you know?

You looked away. Sipped again. Looked back.

“Yeah, I walked. Just a few blocks.” A pause. “There was no way I was going back home like this.”

He tilted his head. “Wet?”

You almost laughed, not quite. It was just one of those soft, breathy sounds that didn’t make it out of your mouth, and Joel wanted to catch it with his.

He hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. But his horny brain was already too hot to care.

You crossed your legs, he didn’t look.

“And what’s a firefighter doing just sitting here drinking?” you asked, eyes flicking to the ashtray. “Smoking, too. Doesn’t that mess with your ability to climb stairs or something?”

He raised his glass. “Hell of a week, I’ll tell you that much.” He took a sip. Set it down again with a thunk. “And I ain’t the kinda man who unwinds with bubble baths and scented candles.”

“Oh, no?” You turned a little toward him, smile all gloss, shiny teeth and mischief. “Scented candles not strong enough for you?”

Joel slid one boot onto the footrest of your stool, settling it between your heels. Your eyes dropped, tracking the motion, but snapped back up to his way too fast.

“I got other preferences,” he said.

“Cigs and whiskey,” you teased, chin tilted up.

“Among other things.”

He sank deep into your eyes, feeling yours pull him under just as hard. A tight, invisible thread. That tickle-in-your-gut kind of feeling. And if he didn’t leave this bar with you tonight, he already knew he’d be thinking about it for a long fucking time.

“Well, that’s a shame,” you said, tracing the rim of his glass with one fingertip. “Something tells me you’ve never actually tried a proper candlelit bath. But cigs and whiskey get the job done, I guess.”

“I’d like to say they do,” he said, voice a little rough now. “But lately they ain’t workin’ much either.”

“No?”

“Not like I want ’em to,” he said, picking up the glass, fingers brushing yours on the way. “And anyway, you’re sittin’ here too, drink in hand. Candles let you down tonight?”

You laughed, soft cheeks rising, eyes going warm.

“And dressed like that, too,” he added, his fingertip grazing yours again, slower.

You tilted your head and bit your lip.

Could’ve looked intentional. Maybe to anyone else it could be, but he knew better. Something about it felt too natural. Like a habit you didn’t notice.

“Got stood up,” you said.

Joel grimaced. “Get the fuck outta here.”

“And you know what’s funny?”

He smiled, already knowing it probably wasn’t going to be funny at all.

“It was our third date,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“That’s the big one,” Joel said, nodding. “You reach number three, there’s expectations. You call him?”

You nodded, eyes dropping to the drink in your hand.

“You wanna know what he said?”

You looked up again, and Joel gave you a look that said hit me.

“‘Something came up,’” you said. Then, deadpan: “Which really sucks, ‘cause I was kinda hoping to get laid tonight.”

A surprised, breathy laugh caught in Joel’s chest. The luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.

He didn’t usually buy into fate —sounded too cheesy —but right then, with his brain running hot and you in that dress, it felt like the universe had sent you just for him.

“Well,” he said, dipping his voice, “if it makes you feel any better, I’d bet money he’s an idiot.”

His hand shifted a little closer, finger brushing against yours.

“No man with half a brain stands you up,” he said. “I sure as hell wouldn’t. Not even if the whole damn city was on fire.”

You laughed, and it lit you up.

You closed your ankles gently around his boot.

“Such a flirt,” you said. “That line usually work for you?”

“Ain’t heard any complaints.”

You hummed.

“And tell me,” you said, stretching out your other hand, letting your fingers rest on his chest, right over the red and yellow badge stitched into his shirt. “Is the uniform part of the appeal?”

Joel felt it hit him like a goddamn freight train, his eyes locking onto yours like magnets.

Yeah, it had been a long time. No doubt about it.

Because just the light touch of your fingers on his chest had his heart thudding harder, blood pumping faster through his veins, brain getting fuzzier by the second—

and it was only a matter of time before he was half-hard beneath his pants.

And his belt, suddenly, felt like the only thing holding him together.

His fingers gently tightened around your wrist, your hand still resting on his chest, and your breath hitched.

There it was. The sign he’d been waiting for.

Your eyes went brighter, pupils blown wide like deep, dark pools he wanted to drown in.

All. Fucking. Night.

He slipped his thumb under your palm, pressing gently, tracing slow circles against your skin, and your mouth parted, just slightly.

Joel wondered what it’d feel like to slide his fingers between your lips, feel your tongue on his fingertips. And if he let himself drift further, let the thought get a little dirty, a little vulgar, he wondered how it’d feel to have your mouth wrapped tight around his cock, eyes still locked on his like this, all glossy and wide.

Too many thoughts.

But a quick glance around told him no one was watching. Obviously.

The blonde he’d been eyeing earlier was long gone from the bar, and the brunette was still at the pool table, glued to someone else. Everyone else looked too drunk or too damn tired to notice anything at all. And when he looked back at you, your hand—still tangled with his—had drifted down his chest, settling on his thigh.

Joel tightened his grip around yours, thumb still stroking lazy circles on your skin.

He licked his lips. “Tell me, why this bar outta all the others?”

You exhaled through your nose. “I don’t know. It was close.”

“Must be my lucky night, then.”

You smiled, and your hand squeezed his thigh, thumb pressing into the inside, right where it made his brain short-circuit.

Too close.

Too fucking close.

You leaned back just slightly, dragging your hand down the length of his thigh, slow as sin, until you reached his knee.

You squeezed again.

“I’m pretty sure I could use a little of that luck too,” you said.

“Well, I’m sure of that, sweetheart. Lucky for you, I like to share.”

“You like to share?”

“You know what they say about good manners.”

“I know what they say about firefighters,” you murmured, leaning in just a bit, your ankles brushing his foot softly. “But I ain’t never seen it up close.”

Joel smiled sideways, feeling a little dizzy.

“Guess that makes it your lucky night too, then.”

A sweet smile spread across your lips.

“Restrooms?”

For a moment, he said nothing.

But then he caught himself.

Come on, dumbass, get your shit together.

Joel didn’t speak. Just nodded once and jerked his chin over his shoulder.

You let go of his glass to grab your own. Knocked the rest of your whiskey back like a shot, no hesitation, and set the empty glass down.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just watched you as you turned. Eyes locked, blood hot.

You saw him the second you walked in. A surprise, considering your sour mood.

Didn’t mean to. Weren’t even looking, really. But there he was; tall, broad shoulders, whiskey in hand, salt just starting to thread through his pepper hair.

And just like that, your shitty night cracked open.

Two fucking hours. You’d waited for Ashton at that overpriced restaurant bar, drinking water like a loser, checking your phone every ten minutes only to get stood up, and then a reply only after you texted him first.

Which, in hindsight, made sense. It was the final nail in the coffin of a situation you’d already outgrown.

You’d prepared for tonight. You’d been looking forward to it.

Months had passed since you’d been with anyone, and Ashton boasted he was gentleman enough to wait for the “right moment.”

Fuck the right moment. You just wanted to fuck. And he was a goddamn liar.

Full of shit. “Something came up,” he’d said. And then, on your way out, there he was; smiling like a jackass in someone’s Instagram story. At a party. Holding a beer. Definitely not waiting for anything.

You’d been ready. Perfumed, waxed, exfoliated, moisturized within an inch of your life.

And all for nothing.

All of it, apparently, for yourself.

Until you saw the man at the bar.

And ordered the same drink he was having.

Now, standing beside him, your hand still resting on his knee, you looked at him one last time and let go. Slipped off your stool and walked toward the restrooms. You didn’t look back right away.

You waited until you were almost there. Then, you turned. And he was watching you. Of course he was. Head tilted, eyes tracking you. And just before you pushed the door open, you saw him move, slow, rising from his seat.

Your heart pounded once, then again, faster.

You’d never done this before. You saved your courage for more reasonable things, like doctor’s appointments, awkward phone calls, breaking up with somebody or declining invitations.

The restroom had two stalls. One sink. A worn mirror. A half-full soap dispenser that looked like it’d seen things.

You didn’t care.

You wanted this.

Right now.

You closed the door and caught your reflection: you looked good, really good, actually, considering you’d walked a couple of blocks in the rain. Your hair still a little damp, eye makeup just barely smudged. Your lips still glossy. It was sexy, to be honest.

Three knocks on the door.

Your heart stopped.

You fixed your hair in the mirror, and then walked to the door, cracked it open, just enough to see him standing there. He looked taller standing up.

He stepped inside in a second, closing the door behind him. You heard the lock click, but all you could see were his eyes fixed on yours.

“Tell me your name,” he said, moving forward until your thighs pressed against the cold sink. He rested his palms on either side, not touching you.

From this new angle he was even closer, and you felt wrapped up in him, in his scent: deep, sexy cologne, whiskey with a hint of smoke. Something you’d never noticed before, or particularly liked, but now couldn’t get enough of.

You said your name with a smile. “And yours?” you asked a second after, sliding your hands up his chest until your fingertips brushed the hot skin at his neck beneath his shirt.

“Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeated, your lips barely brushing his.

You smiled, or tried to, but didn’t get far—his mouth crashed onto yours, stealing your breath and pulling you tight against him.

Joel’s hands squeezed your hips, fingers digging into your ass as he hauled you closer, his belt biting into your stomach. He made low, guttural sounds in his throat as your hands slid down his chest, one pressing against his stomach, the other slipping even lower, past his belt.

You adjusted your palm and gave the bulge in his pants a gentle squeeze. Just to see. Just out of curiosity.

Joel broke the kiss with a moan, breath hot and shaky against your wet lips.

“Jesus, sweetheart, gettin’ luckier by the second.”

“You’re desperate for this, aren’t you?” you whispered against his mouth, squeezing a little harder. “Knew it the second I saw you, undressing me with your eyes. I could feel your heart pounding under my hand.”

Joel smiled, then leaned in to steal a kiss. Quick, soft, gone too fast.

“And now?” he murmured, thrusting his hips forward, deepening the pressure of your hand against his crotch. “You feel it beatin' now, too?”

You squeezed again, a moan rumbling in your chest as you leaned in and dragged your tongue across his lips.

Softer than you expected.

Joel let one hand slip from your hip and cupped your jaw, pulling you in, kissing you just as you were about to taste him again.

His tongue met yours, and his mouth claimed yours in a deep, hungry kiss, full of controlled desperation.

Because yes, he was desperate. So were you. But he kissed you like he didn’t want to devour you too fast.

God knew Joel Miller appreciated a proper meal, and he took his damn time savoring it.

You slid both hands up to his neck and pulled him closer, closer, until his whole body was pressed up against yours. Your legs parted around him, and he lifted you onto the sink with both hands, setting you right at the edge.

Your body was melted into his, so close you could feel the rise and fall of his breath against your stomach. Legs wrapped around his hips, hands tangled in the back of his neck and his hair, mouth full of him; you were coming apart right on top of him.

Your dress had ridden up past your hips, and the porcelain beneath you was cold against your ass. But Joel’s hands were warm, dragging heat over every inch of skin they touched. Gripping, kneading, getting you warm as they went.

You pulled away from his lips, leaning back, your head tipping until your neck was fully exposed to him. And Joel wasted no time; his mouth found your skin, teeth and tongue at your throat like some goddamn vampire, biting gently at your pulse point. And then—

A sudden chill kissed your chest, your nipples tightening instantly.

You looked down.

He’d tugged down the top of your dress, one strap slipping off your arm without grace.

One breast bare, the other still half-covered.

Joel cupped it with his hand, fingers rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, both of you watching it happen, breath catching, uneven.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot,” he murmured against your jaw, rough, a little shaky as he kept touching you. “Soft… beautiful… almost feels like a shame to eat you up.”

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head back, your hand stroking the warm skin at the back of his neck.

“You’re not gonna back out, are you?”

Joel lifted his gaze, locking eyes with you. A crooked smile pulled at his lips.

“Baby,” he said, smug, “I never leave a plate unfinished.”

Saying that, he slid his hand down your stomach and rested it on your thigh, easing your legs open just a little more.

He pressed his palm, fingers angled down, against your underwear, dragging them slowly up and down with the lightest pressure. Just enough to make your whole body tremble.

“Look at this,” he muttered, grinning. “Already soaked.”

You rocked your hips forward, chasing the contact, and he pushed his hand in closer, fingers circling your clit through the damp fabric, drawing moans straight from your chest.

Your head fell back with a gasp.

“Fuck, Joel, yes,” you whispered, eyes shut, fingers stroking the back of his neck. “Right there, right there.”

He kissed your neck, his tongue leaving a wet trail up along your jaw until he reached your ear—then, he softly bit your earlobe.

A gasp slipped from your lips. He let out a breathy laugh.

“You like that?” he whispered, almost surprised, voice barely there—meant only for you.

He bit again. You shivered, your hips grinding harder against his fingers.

“Goddamn, look at you,” he murmured, hot breath spilling over your skin. “So fuckin’ pretty, so desperate, so wet.” His voice dipped lower. “Dragged me into the restroom just to get what you wanted, didn’t you?”

You nodded, eyes shut, breath catching.

“Tell me what you want,” he ordered, his hand moving rougher. “ Tell me. Say it.”

You opened your eyes, lids heavy, and looked at him, hoping the hunger in your stare would swallow him whole.

You exhaled, shaky. “Your—your tongue.”

Joel stilled. His hand stopped.

His mouth found your neck again, and his grip tightened on your hips, pulling you hard against him as your mind spun like a goddamn carousel.

“Your mouth,” you murmured, clutching at him. “Joel—oh my God.”

He laughed against your skin, satisfied, then pulled back. His hands slid down to the inside of your thighs, and without looking away, he started to open you up, inch by inch.

His eyes were shining, dark as midnight, pupils blown wide; lips flushed, cheeks hot and glowing.

Then, the doorknob rattled.

Someone tried to get in.

Three knocks hit the door.

“Occupied,” Joel called, eyes never leaving yours, his hands still gripping your thighs as he dropped to a crouch.

Whoever was outside said something, but you didn’t hear it. Couldn’t. Your focus was locked on the man between your legs.

Joel hooked his fingers into your panties and dragged them to the side.

A breath caught on his lips.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes glued to you.

And instinctively, you rolled your hips forward, offering more, opening for him.

Joel started kissing the insides of your thighs, inching higher with every breath. But the tension was killing you, you needed him over you, right now. Right this second.

Your hand found his hair, fingers tangling in it just tight enough to make a low laugh rumble from his chest.

And then he moved closer, and closer, and—

“Oh my… God,” you gasped, head thrown back, mouth open.

Joel was gentle, tender. His mouth felt soft against you; tongue licking slow, lips wrapping around your bud, sucking softly, releasing with a wet, needy sound: music to your ears.

He moaned against you, sending vibrations through every nerve ending, and you gripped his hair tighter. That seemed to ignite something, because he plunged deeper, faster, sucking harder, with desperate intensity.

You knew you were soaked, felt it slick between your thighs. And when you glanced down, Joel’s mouth and nose were glistening too.

He pulled back for a moment, fingers spreading you open, tracing circles over your clit.

“Look at you, so goddamn beautiful and sweet,” he murmured, then kissed the inside of your thigh quickly, his stubble tickling you.

Without warning, his mouth closed over you again, hungry and relentless.

Holy fuck, you could come just from the sight of it.

Joel had your clit wrapped in his lips, sucking hard while his tongue flicked inside his mouth and over your wet heat.

You couldn’t hold back any longer.

Fisting his hair, head thrown back, a breathy sigh tore through you, and a moan escaped—too loud, too raw—from deep in your throat.

Your hips moved on their own, riding the waves as Joel kept the pace, dragging you over the edge nonstop.

You were trembling, jaw clenched, when his mouth finally pulled away with a soft, satisfied plop.

He touched you one last time, just to kiss your clit like he was sealing a job well done.

No, no... Perfectly done. You had just come harder than you ever had in your life.

The man was talented. You almost climbed off the sink to give him a round of applause, but a dozen other ways to thank him were already lining up in your head.

God bless firefighters. Always reliable service.

When he kissed you, you were still half-dizzy, but you wrapped your arms around his neck to steady yourself.

His mouth tasted like you. His tongue was soft in yours, even though now you knew exactly what it was capable of.

You pulled away, trailing your mouth down his jaw with soft kisses until you reached his neck.

“That was fucking incredible,” you murmured, a smile audible in your voice.

He laughed deep and low, vibrating right under your lips.

“My pleasure,” he said, smug as hell.

You leaned back, grinning, eyes locked on his as your hand slid down to his belt. Fingers trembling but quick, undoing the black leather buckle.

Once undone, you pulled down the zipper of his pants and without breaking eye contact, your hand slipped under his boxers.

Your eyes fluttered as your hand brushed against bare skin, wrapping around his thick, pulsing length.

You swallowed hard.

Your hand stroked him gently, heart pounding at how swollen and hard he was. And when you looked down, just in time to see him slide free from his boxers, a breath caught in your throat.

His dick was big. Long and wide, the soft hair above framing it like a crown. The mushroom-shaped head was round and swollen, pink and leaking. Veins stood out, thick, pulsing, and suddenly, your mouth watered.

Joel seemed composed, at least from a distance. And you say this because up close, you could see how hard he was breathing, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts.

You didn’t want to make him wait any longer—you didn’t want to wait any longer either— so you pressed your hand gently against him, urging him to step back. And with a quick leap, you slid off the sink and dropped to your knees.

Looking up, you caught how his hand immediately tangled in your hair, fingers gripping your scalp.

You placed one hand on his thigh, the other at his base, thumb gently pressing and caressing his balls. You knew he liked it, because a soft sigh slipped past his lips the moment you did.

Without a word, you opened your mouth and flicked your tongue over the head, slow, until your lips wrapped around him.

Joel gasped, tightening his grip on your hair. You smiled up at him.

He smirked back, that crooked grin lighting up his face.

“Enjoyin’ yourself, darlin’?”

Suddenly, you decided to wipe that smug smile right off his face.

Your tongue traced the length of him, sliding all the way down to the base, while your hand started pumping him steady and your mouth wrapped around his scrotum, lips sucking and tasting that perfect, salty flavor.

Joel groaned, leaning forward, one hand braced on the sink, eyes squeezed shut and, for once, no damn smile.

You licked back up to the head again, hand sliding down to the base to stroke as your mouth took as much as it could, lips tight and wet, tongue working every inch it could reach.

“Oh, shit, fuck,” Joel gasped, eyes wide as he looked down at you, fingers gently massaging your cheek.

Wet sounds slipped from your mouth and throat as you took him deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until your nose nearly touched his base, completely filled, no room left in your mouth.

Joel moaned, a broken, fragile sound, then tugged your hair softly, pulling you back slowly.

You took a breath as he released you, fingers brushing over your damp chin. You were drooling, thick drops slipping from your lips.

You leaned forward and flicked your tongue out, but before you could take him back into your mouth, Joel grabbed your shoulders, impatience clear in his grip.

“Joel,” you whined, hands resting on his arms, eyes glazed and cock-drunk.

“Sweetheart, don’t get me wrong,” he said, fingers brushing your cheek, needy. “But if you stay on your knees any longer, this’s gonna end way different than how I wanna end it.”

You nodded, understanding. Pff, you were so kind.

You wiped the back of your hand over your mouth, then cupped his face with both hands, pulling him in for a fierce, hungry kiss.

Suddenly, there were knocks on the door.

“Occupied!” Joel shouted again, leaving your mouth.

You chuckled low and clenched his shirt in your fists while his hands slid to your hips, kneading and gripping the skin there.

He bent down and planted a kiss between your neck and shoulder. Then, in one smooth move, he lifted you back onto the sink.

You leaned back, palms pressed against the cold porcelain behind you, while he slipped a black package with tiny white letters from his back pocket.

He popped it open with a quick tear at the corner and popped it in his mouth.

So that’s how it was... this man carried a bareskin raw in his pocket. Look at him.

You smiled to yourself and brought your hand to your mouth, quickly licking your fingers as you watched him roll on the condom, the thin latex hugging him perfectly.

Your hand slipped down between your legs, fingers teasing impatiently while he positioned himself at your entrance. But you stopped touching yourself the moment you felt him start to slide in, your hand immediately gripping his tanned, strong arm; a vein traced along his bicep, disappearing under his shirt.

You shifted your hips just slightly, and Joel eased himself in, slow and steady.

Inch by inch, his face stayed controlled, but his eyes gave him away. You were completely mesmerized, watching him—watching his reaction as he slid inside you, feeling yourself stretch around him with every second. A slow, delicious burn spreading through your whole body.

With just one hip push, Joel pressed deep, fully inside you.

A gasp escaped your lips, your body overwhelmed by the perfect fullness, the delicious weight of him.

“Fuck,” you threw your head back, breathing calm but heavy.

“Look at it,” Joel managed to say, rough.

You obeyed, eyes dropping right to where your bodies met.

“Look at it; fittin’ like a glove,” he added.

His hands slid up to your waist, gripping tight to keep you steady while you adjusted to him. Joel took the moment to lean forward and bury his mouth in your chest. His tongue flicked lively and wet, and damn, it was almost too much.

Your hand traveled up his arm to his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Joel—Joel, move,” you whispered, voice ragged. “Move.”

He let go of your nipple with a wet, filthy sound and tightened his grip on your waist. His eyes locked on yours while he pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in one smooth thrust. Then again. And again. And again.

He started moving against you, his hard, heavy cock sliding between your legs, and the heat inside you flared instantly.

And if before you were melting, now you were straight-up dissolving. Joel was fucking you with that fucked-and-broken look in his eyes, and your heart was pounding like a drum. Your body was burning, nearly feverish, and your hands clung to him however they could; gripping his clothes, his neck, his hair, anything within reach.

And he let you hold on, pressing his body against yours, gasping as he gave it all; his mouth trailing kisses down your neck, your shoulders, biting here and there, leaving wet marks on your hot skin, making your head spin.

His thrusts were rougher now, faster too, and so were the sounds spilling from his chest. You were probably making all sorts of noises yourself, but you couldn’t focus on anything except his, because they were fucking delicious.

Joel pulled out of you slowly, eyes glued to where your bodies parted.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice thick. “Look at the mess you made.” He looked up at you, a drunk smile tugging at his lips. “You always this messy?”

You looked down, your mouth falling open.

A mess. A fucking mess. His length was coated with your slick, completely drenched and shining.

The image was so obscene it dragged a moan straight from your throat, just in time for Joel to slam back into you with one deep, hard thrust.

He picked up the rhythm again, hot skin against yours, his breath coming out in short, frantic bursts.

Then... more knocks.

“Dude, c’mon!” someone shouted from the other side. “Get the fuck out already!”

Joel stilled.

“Fuckin’ perverts,” the guy muttered, still banging on the door.

You both let out soft, breathless laughs, and just as quickly, Joel began pulling out.

“No,” you whispered in protest, hands pressing flat against his chest. “Joel…”

“My truck’s out front,” he said, tucking himself back into his pants, belt clinking as he fastened it. His voice was low and final.

You nodded fast, obeying without question. He helped you down from the sink, and your shaky legs hit the ground.

You adjusted your dress as best you could, tugging it down while checking your reflection. You washed your hands, smoothed down a damp strand of hair, and made sure your gloss was still sort of intact.

Joel did the same — no rush, no panic. He washed his hands, ran a quick hand through his hair, and that was it. His face gave nothing away, except maybe the heat still lingering in his eyes, or the huge hard-on he was carrying but, right... anyway.

He took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Walked toward the door, and right after opening it, he murmured a polite “excuse us” you barely heard, mostly because all your focus was trapped in the sticky, warm feeling between your thighs.

You stepped out of the restroom in silence, passing through a few nosy stares. Joel didn’t flinch. Or maybe he just didn’t care. And your legs were still a little shaky, your thighs damp.

You squeezed his hand tightly.

Joel pushed the door open.

And outside… it was still raining.

In a hurry, he led you by the hand across the lot, and you got a little wet on the way. No pun intended.

His truck was parked near the back; black, relatively new...

Wait, like, seriously? Who gave a shit about the make and model right now? Your legs were shaking, and all you could focus on was the weight of Joel’s hand wrapped around yours.

He clicked the alarm off, opened the door, and helped you up, gripping your thigh as you climbed in.

You watched him walk around the front, rain catching in the shine of his hair, his broad chest rising as he pulled open the driver’s side door and got in.

The second it shut behind him, he looked at you.

Silent.

A smile crept across your lips and his, too. And then you both laughed, because Jesus, it was all so fucking ridiculous.

Joel reached over and squeezed your thigh, right near where you were aching for him. He leaned in, and you cupped his face with both hands, kissing him like two teenagers sneaking around behind someone’s back.

His hand moved higher, then around, grabbing a handful of your ass while yours slid down to palm the bulge in his jeans again.

He groaned, broke the kiss, and leaned back with a breath.

“Not here,” he muttered, eyes flicking forward as he shoved the key in the ignition. “Too many people. And traffic.”

You didn’t complain. Didn’t even say a word. You just watched him start the engine, eyes focused on the road ahead, trying to see past the streaks of rain while the wipers swung wildly back and forth.

“Where are we going?” you asked, already sliding down into his lap.

Joel shifted his hips upward, maybe instinct or need, and you had his belt undone and fly open before he could even answer.

“Someplace quieter,” he said, voice tight, breath catching in his throat.

You freed his cock from his jeans and took him into your mouth without hesitation. Still thick. Still hard. Still yours—if only for tonight.

Your mouth was wet within seconds, and so was he, your lips gliding up and down while soft moans hummed in your chest. You could hear his breathing shift, get heavier, rougher.

You looked up at him, hand stroking him as your mouth worked. He looked laser-focused on the road, the red and white lights of traffic bouncing in his eyes, fractured through the rain on the windshield.

“Keep doin’ that,” he muttered, glancing down at you for just a second like it might fucking kill him to look away for more.

You obeyed without question, hand stroking him before your lips wrapped around the tip again, sucking with just enough pressure to pull a groan out of him; one he clearly tried to bite back, for whatever stubborn reason.

Joel drove a little longer, tension coiled tight in his body, until the truck rolled to a stop. The engine cut out, and he let his head fall back against the seat.

His hands tangled in your hair.

“Fuck, baby, such a good fuckin’ mouth,” he breathed, finally giving into it, hips twitching as he bumped the back of your throat a couple of times. “Keep doin’ that.”

But then he pulled you off him, hand firm under your jaw.

“Backseat,” he said, rough and urgent.

You didn’t hesitate. You slipped between the front seats, catching a quick smack from him on your ass as you did. It made you grin.

Joel followed, slower with the limited space, but the second he was back there with you, he dropped onto the seat and grabbed your hips like it was instinct, pulling you right into his lap.

His hands fisted the hem of your dress and dragged it up your body, stripping it off without ceremony and tossing it carelessly into the front seat.

Suddenly, you were bare; completely exposed, save for your panties, which Joel had no intention of letting stay on. He slipped them down and off you in one swift, practiced motion that probably deserved some kind of medal.

Straddling him, you glanced around the truck. You were parked in an empty lot, and even if someone was out there, it didn’t matter. The rain was coming down hard, drumming over the roof and windows, cloaking you both in sound and shadow.

Nature’s way of saying go ahead.

The cool air inside the truck kissed your skin and raised goosebumps along every inch of you. Your nipples tightened as you settled over Joel, heat clashing deliciously with the chill.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, barely above a breath.

You smiled, cheeks somehow blushing even more than they already were.

“Thanks. You too.”

Joel grinned, his thumb pressing into your hip.

“Thanks, sweetheart. You gettin’ shy on me now?”

You stifled a laugh, shook your head.

His hands gripped your waist while your arms draped over his shoulders. Glancing down, you saw his cock, thick and ready lying hard against his stomach, and you rocked forward, back, again, your slick dragging over him and pulling a sharp gasp from his throat.

Still grinding, your fingers toyed with the hem of his T-shirt. Joel, always sharp, always tuned in, pulled it off in one swift motion and tossed it forward, somewhere near where your dress had landed.

You sighed as you looked at him, your hands roaming his bare chest, caressing and kneading the golden skin while your hips kept moving and his hands squeezed you tighter.

He threw his head back, and wasting no time you kissed the curve of his neck, making him moan while his hands slid up your bare back, squeezing and stroking as he pulled you closer against him.

The feel of his bare chest pressed to yours and his hard length rubbing against you was too much, too fast. Your clit brushed his tip, and a gasp escaped your lips as your hips quickened, the friction intensifying.

Joel’s hands dropped hard and fast onto your ass—two sharp slaps echoing inside the truck. And then, he stopped you immediately, his grip firm, holding you still.

Your mouth left his neck as you pulled back slightly, hands still resting on his shoulders. You looked into his eyes just as he lowered his gaze and his hand to grip his cock, positioning it beneath you.

You held your breath for a moment, feeling him settle at your entrance, and then Joel placed his hands firmly on your hips.

Slowly, you began to lower yourself. Inch by inch, until he was fully inside, and a soft sigh escaped your lips.

You pressed your forehead to his while Joel’s hands roamed everywhere; your ass, your thighs, your back, caressing every inch of exposed skin he could.

Your hand gripped his jaw, tilting his face up, and you kissed him as you started to move.

Up, down. Up, down.

You could feel him stretching you just right with every thrust, and soft, broken little sounds slipped from your lips, only to die against his.

Joel was panting, making those low, rough noises like he was trying not to, but couldn’t help it; and God, it drove you wild.

His hands clutched at your ass, guiding you faster, and you leaned back, grabbing onto the frontseat headrest next to you for balance.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, his voice wrecked, thicker now. One hand slid down to your clit as his hips pushed up into you. “You feel so fuckin' good, I can’t—shit—”

You threw your head back, and Joel lost it.

His movements turned rougher, faster; his cock driving in and out, burying deep with every thrust. Your legs were trembling from the tension coiled tight inside you.

Then his hands clamped down on your waist, and with a sudden, forceful motion, he grabbed you and dropped you flat on the seat, on your back.

He moved fast, adjusting his position, hiking your legs up until your knees were pressed on either side of your head, and then he was inside you again, all at once.

Joel leaned forward, his full weight pressing down on the backs of your thighs, keeping you pinned right there as he fucked into you hard.

Your chest rose and fell in time with each thrust, every breath and sound synced with the rhythm of him. Your hands were reaching for anything; his hair, his face, his neck, desperate to touch whatever you could. So he brought his face down to yours and kissed you, his wet lips trembling, parted and hungry.

Your moans were falling apart now—shattered, messy sounds— as Joel hit every soft angle, brushing every nerve inside you. You were helpless, bent in half beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“Joel,” you whispered, over and over, barely a sound between cries. “Joel…”

And something in him broke. His thrusts turned rougher, deeper. His groans dropped lower, turned primal. The truck rocked beneath you both, creaking wildly with the force, but he didn’t care.

He wasn’t gonna stop—not even if the entire city was burning.

The look on your face was undoing him. You were wrecked; utterly open for him, given over, gone. Eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

And you felt just like he’d imagined.

No, fuck, better.

Clenching around him, slick and tight and pulling him in like you were made for him. Perfect. Every damn angle.

You were close. And so was he.

He’d spent the last ten minutes trying to think about anything else... the weather, maybe? No, the scented candle kid. No. Fuck, wathever. He was squeezing his eyes shut, desperate to hold on just a little longer—to be good for you.

Then he brought his hand down, fingers trembling as they found your swollen clit.

You stopped breathing. No sound, no breath, just stillness.

He had you right where he wanted you.

Joel kept working his fingers, fucking into you like there was no tomorrow until suddenly, your whole body trembled. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your eyes squeezing shut tight as the orgasm hit you hard.

He didn’t stop.

“Oh my—fucking—Joel—Joel—don’t stop—oh my—baby—” The words tumbled out of you in a rush, frantic and breathless, as your climax tore through you.

Joel buried his face beside yours, cheek pressed to your knee, still moving, still inside.

“Oh, shit,” he managed, the words raw, cracking in his throat—

And then it hit him.

The orgasm slammed into him like a wave, dragging him under. He groaned deep, broken, guttural sounds spilling from him as he came, undone and breathless, lost in you completely.

On the way home, your legs were still shaking.

Never in your life—never in all your fucking years alive—had you felt anything like that.

And you didn’t know if it was just Joel, or if it was the rush of fucking a stranger you’d only just met. You had no idea. But your body was still riding the aftershocks, even an hour later, as he drove toward your neighborhood.

An hour later because… well, after it was over, the two of you had just collapsed in the backseat.

You didn’t know how long you laid there, staring at the ceiling, breathing. Not talking. Just existing.

And then Joel turned his head and asked if you were hungry. So he drove to a fast food place, ordered burgers and fries at the drive-thru, and you ate in the parking lot while he told you about the fire he’d worked earlier that day.

Which, now, made his hatred of scented candles make a lot more sense.

To be fair, Joel seemed like a good man. More than good, actually.

And it wasn’t just because of how well he’d fucked you or the way he’d helped you clean up afterward, or how sweetly he’d asked “What d’you want to eat, sweetheart? Burgers? Fries? Tenders? Sprite or Coke?”

No, it was something else. Inherent. Built in.

But it was too late in the night for that kind of analysis. And something inside you twisted at the thought of even trying, anyway.

Food finished and truck parked just outside the park, Joel turned to look at you.

“I can drop you closer, y’know. For real.”

“No need, seriously.” You waved him off, already reaching for the door handle.

“Wait,” he said, his hand landing gently on your thigh. “It’s late. I mean it.”

“I live in that building,” you pointed out through the open window, but there were several behind you, and Joel had no clue which one you meant. “It’s not far. What, you wanna move a couple more feet?” You smiled.

“You sure?”

“Of course.”

“All right,” he said, pulling his hand back and watching as you pushed the door open.

Something in him told him to stop you. To say something else. Ask you a question. Anything.

But he didn’t.

He just watched as you stepped out and shut the door behind you.

You leaned in through the open window.

“Thanks for the ride, stranger,” you said, smiling. “And take that however you want.”

Joel let out a breathy laugh, and you turned away, still smiling.

He watched you walk a few steps, and then—

“Wait,” he called, leaning across to the passenger-side window.

You turned around.

“Give me your number.”

You smiled again, like you were actually thinking about it for a second.

“I already have yours, remember?”

Joel frowned, confused.

“3-1-1. Fire department.” You recited it with a little shrug.

Before he could respond, you turned around again and walked away.

For a few seconds, you were still close enough. He could’ve said something. Anything. Stopped you. Called your name.

But he didn’t.

He just watched as you crossed the street and disappeared between the buildings.

And that night, Joel couldn’t stop thinking about you.

The nights that followed, he didn’t either.

divider by @/enchanthings

tags: @stylesispunk @vanishintoyoubby @onlythehobi

614 notes · View notes

leclerc-hs · 1 day ago

Text

bad grip - op81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader summary: in which you can't seem to get oscar to crack OR you and oscar are in love, but only friends... warnings: friends to lovers au, angst, smut, jealousy, fluff?, NOT PROOFREAD, language, shitty writing?? word count: 5.4k author's note: hi hi hi!!! this was posted from my queue so hopefully everything goes accordingly! i still can't stop thinking of his head tilt in that one video from admin. so hot. maybe i need to write more of him....also like the win last weekend?? charles helmet smut will be on patreon august 1 sometime at night btw!! xoxo enjoy :))))

You’re snuggled up into the corner of the hotel room couch, drowning in the hoodie you stole from one of his suitcases when he wasn’t looking. And it smells like him. Like his cologne mixed with something clean beneath it.

The sleeves hang past your hands. And you pull one sleeve over your hands, bunching it between your fingertips.

One leg is pulled near your chest, while the other is stretched out, letting your toes brushing against the edge of his thigh. And he hasn’t moved. No, he’s just sitting there looking a little uneasy. Not sick. But in an antsy kind of way.

And he’s got this look in his eyes. Where his mind is on total overdrive but his mouth stays shut. Giving nothing away.

His fingers tap against his thigh in the same rhythm it always does when he’s lost in his head. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Pause. Repeat.

The TV is playing some random show that neither of you are paying attention to. But you don’t really care. It’s just background noise.

You glance at him. And his face is calm, but you know better. Know him better.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you mutter, voice soft.

And he shrugs. But his face doesn’t change. “You’re loud enough for the both of us.”

You snort, hitting his leg with your toes, just to feel him push his leg back. “You’d miss me if I shut up for more than a few minutes, be honest.”

This gets you a look. One of those slow glances that starts near your mouth and ends at your eyes. And his mouth quirks up.

“You’re right,” he says, voice low. “Hate the peace and quiet.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing but smile growing. “Y’know, you’re so full of shit sometimes.”

His head finally hits the top of the back cushion behind him. Shoulders dropping a fraction. Relaxing. But he turns just enough to face you a bit more directly. Arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers dangling behind your neck. But not touching you.

“I like when you talk,” he says. Like it’s so simple.

And it catches you off guard. Hits you right in the chest. You swallow hard.

“Are you flirting with me?” It comes out light. In a teasing manner as you raise a single brow. “Because it felt like you just did.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t look away either. Just watches you for a long moment.

And then he shifts just a little closer. Knee brushing against yours. And then his fingers stop tapping.

“Would it be so bad if I was?”

It’s not cocky. Not smug. And its not even really a question.

Your breath stutters a little, just for a fraction of a second. And you know he notices because his eyes flicker. Like he’s been wondering what you’d do with the truth.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips slowly. “I guess that depends on how good you are at it.”

And for the first time all night, he laughs. It’s not loud. More like a huff.

“Guess we’ll see,”

You walk into his hotel room before him, kicking your shoes off, and stretching your shoulders with a loud sigh. Like the night’s worn you out, which it has.

The door clicks shut behind you. “I might be dying. Like actually dying.”

Behind you, Oscar’s quiet. But you hear his movement as he slips his jacket off. Unbothered.

“Y’always eat like you’re Joey Chestnut or somethin’…in a eating competition,” He mutters, slinging the jacket on the back of a chair.

You spin around, in full righteous offense. A loud gasp. “I had two courses! And you had three…and you still stole half of my dessert!”

He doesn’t even so much as bat an eyelash at you. Just lifts a brow and folds his arms across one another. “Yeah, but I’m elegant. Y’looked like you were gonna vacuum the plate right up.”

Your jaw falls open. “You’re such a little shit when you’re full.”

His lips twitch upward. “M’always a little shit.”

You let out a groan. Theatrical and loud. Collapsing backward onto the edge of the bed. Arms spread wide. “I need a massage. Or a nap. Or death.” You shimmy up to the top of the bed, head on the pillow.

Oscar doesn’t respond. Just disappears into the bathroom with that usual silence of his. And you hear the faucet running a few moments later, the zip of the toiletry bag he always packs.

And your eyes fall shut for a few seconds. Then the sound of footsteps approaching, and you glance up. He’s standing there.

Placing a glass of water and two ibuprofen onto the nightstand beside the bed. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even bother to look at you for long. Just…leaves them there.

Your chest tightens. Just a little bit.

“Wow,” you smile. “Wanna tuck me in too? Maybe read a bedtime story?”

Oscar snorts, but sits at the edge of the bed. Crossing one of his legs onto the mattress without hesitation. “What do y’wanna hear? The story of a girl who inhales her dinner, talks too fast, and ends up losing her feet from stupid shoes?”

You laugh, reaching out to shove his shoulder. But it’s equivalent to punching a wall. He doesn’t move. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to chuck something at you.”

He grins. Then tilts his head just a little bit. “Your mascara’s smudged.”

You blink. And before you can reach your phone to check with the camera, he’s already leaning in, thumb brushing under your eye. Careful. Sweet.

“For someone who acts like he hates people,” you say. Throat tight. Eyes on him. “You’re kinda soft.”

Oscar shrugs one shoulder, fingers lingering against your cheek. “You’re not people.”

And it hits you a little harder than it should.

The sky is a bright orange as the sun sets over the water, stretching along the coastline just outside of Melbourne. From where you sit, the beach house…tucked up a hill behind you, looks kind of like some staged postcard. Windows open and curtains swaying from the ocean breeze.

Oscar is sprawled out beside you on a navy blue striped towel. Arms folded behind his head. Sunglasses sitting on the slope of his nose. And his hair is chaotic looking. But he looks calm. Is calm. The only kind of calm you see only outside of the paddock.

You’re sitting beside him. Heels dug into the sand, hands resting on the towel behind you, sitting you up. The heat of the sun clings to you.

“Sometimes I forget that you’re Australian,” you say. Turning your head to look at him.

And he cracks one eye open, not bothering to lift his head from the palm of his hands. “Because m’not riding a kangaroo or throwing a barbie?”

You snort. “Because you barely tan. You just burn. And you’re always like….not here…y’know?”

His lips twitch. “Keep talkin’ and see if I drive you back to the airport.”

But he doesn’t take the bait. Just closes his eyes again, like he’s unbothered.

You smile, looking back at the ocean. “Please. You love having me here.”

There’s a short-lived moment of silence. Just the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline heard.

“Yeah. I do.”

It’s a simple response. There’s no teasing tone. No smirk. Just a truth. And it sends a wave of warmth through your chest. Making your stomach flutter.

You look back at him. And he’s now propped up on a single elbow, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. And his eyes are on you. Just looks at you with that soft intensity he’s so good at.

Then, with a light touch, he’s reaching over and brushing the grains of sand of your knee. Hand lingering a second longer. Warm.

“Y’always this annoying on holiday?” He says, amused. A tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You shrug your shoulders and turn to look back at the water. “Only for people I like.”

And it’s silent again for a few moments. Before he’s muttering, “Lucky me.”

And the funny thing is…he means it.

The kitchen is dim. The ocean breeze blows through the open patio door. The curtains around it moving gently along the light breeze.

You’re standing barefoot on the tile, swallowed in one of Oscar’s oversized hoodies. The same one you always steal.

It just fits the best you always claim. It falls mid-thigh, sleeves long and hanging past your hands as you fumble around making cups of tea. The kettle is heating on stove. Steam starting to flow from the spout.

Oscar walks in behind and doesn’t speak. He moves quietly…always has. He just steps up behind you, all calm and heat, reaching up over your head.

His chest brushes against your back. Light…but definitely intentional.

You keep your eyes fixed on the kettle as he opens the cabinet and grabs two mugs with one hand.

“Y’just love to do that, don’t you?” Your voice is teasing.

Oscar raises a brow as he hands you a mug. “Do what?”

You turn to face him.

Big mistake.

Because he’s fucking close. Closer than he should be. Like the kind of close where your chests are touching and the air is thick.

You tilt your chin up anyways. Eyes narrow. A smirk on your lips. “Hovering.” You say. “Acting like it’s not on purpose.”

And his eyes darken just a little bit. Steps a fraction closer. Smirking as he leans a hand on the counter beside your hip. Trapping you.

“M’just helping.”

“No.” You grin. “You’re flirting.”

His lips twitch. And he does’t deny it.

Just hands you a mug. Fingers brushing against yours.

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks. A slight tilt of his head.

You blink. The kettle whistling behind you.

And you hold his gaze. Curling your fingers around the mug to keep yourself steady.

Then you step side, walking through the small opening he left. “Six out of ten.”

And he lets out a short laugh behind you. “Generous.”

You pour the steaming water into the mugs, and then head toward the patio door.

“Still not kissing me,” you call without giving him a look. “Points off.”

And he just watches you walk onto the patio.

You’ve met most of Oscar’s close friends by now. The few he lets into the smaller corners of his life. The people he trusts. And it’s easy to forget how long you’ve actually known each other.

The bar is dim and chill. A local band is playing some covers, lighting low, and a breeze is pushing through the open doors.

You’re standing in a circle with some of Oscar’s friends. Not a well made circle, but a circle nonetheless. You’re nursing a cocktail, laughter slipping easily. Your hand brushing against one of their arm’s as you make a point in the conversation, as you lean in a little too close to hear a joke.

Across the room, Oscar’s leaned against the bar with one of his friends.

Watching. Not in a weird way. Just observant. Like he always has been.

His arms are folded across one another. A beet bottle in hand, his thumb tapping against the bottle. And he seems quieter tonight. Still engaged in the conversations, still smiling. But his eyes haven’t left you for long. And every time someone touches your arm, or makes you laugh just a little too much, you swear you see his jaw clench.

You try to ignore it. Chalk it up to just Oscar being in a mood.

Until some guy you’ve never seen before slips into the circle. Tall. Tan. Definitely a few drinks in. And he slides in like he knows someone. Which maybe he does…and then says ajoke that has everyone laughing. Even you.

And when you laugh, he leans in closer. His shoulder brushing yours.

Totally casual and meaningless. At least it is…to you.

But not to Oscar.

Because he’s beside you before the guy even finishes his next sentence.

“She’s good,” Oscar says, voice smooth. “Thanks.”

The guy blinks. Confused. “Just being friendly, mate.”

Oscar smiles. But its not really polite. It’s sharp and tight. Barely reaches his eyes. “So am I.”

It’s not really a threat. But it sure as hell lands like one.

The guy steps back. His hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.” He mutters something before heading back to the bar. Disappearing.

You turn to look at Oscar. “That was dramatic.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance at you right away. His eyes are still trained on the guy’s back, following his exit.

When he finally turns his head, his eyes sweep down to yours. Slow. Steady.

“Don’t like people touching what’s mine,” He says casually.

“Yours?” You echo. Voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Oscar breathes out a low huff. Runs a hand through his hair. “Shit,” he mutters. “I meant…”

“No.” You step closer to him. Voice calm. “You meant what you said.”

He looks at you. Like really looks at you.

And for once, the silence isn’t calm. It’s tense.

“Yeah,” he says. Voice a whisper. “Yeah, I did.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hold his gaze. Then slowly, reach for his half-empty drink. Sip it without even asking.

His eyes stay fixed on you.

“M’not a thing you can own, Osc.” Your voice is teasing. “But you can keep hovering if it makes you feel better.”

He hums. His hand reaching for your waist and settling there like he’s been aching to do it. His thumb slips along the waistband of your pants.

It’s possessive. It’s soft. It’s him.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says.

The rest of the night is still warm as you walk side by side with Oscar, neither of you really saying much.

You haven’t really needed to.

“Your friends are fun,” you say eventually. “Even if they told way too many embarrassing stories about you.”

Oscar glances over, but only for a few seconds before looking back toward the street. A smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t act like you didn’t love every second of it.”

You grin and nudge his shoulder. “Not my fault young Oscar was so chaotic.”

He laughs. A short one. But real.

Another few steps of silence pass. And then his voice breaks it.

“I didn’t like that guy touching you tonight.”

You turn your head to look at him. Still walking. And your breath catches.

He’s already looking at you. Eyes serious. Steady. But there’s a faint blush showing on his cheeks that crawls down to the collar of his shirt.

“Yeah, I noticed.” You mutter. “Got all alpha male on him.”

Oscar breathes through his nose. Not really a laugh nor a sigh. “Did I?”

You nod, turning to look back at the pavement ahead. “Yeah. It was all so don’t touch her or I’ll kill you energy.”

He’s quiet for a single step.

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

You freeze. Stop walking.

And he stops too. Turns to step closer to you. So close that your space becomes his too. So close that you can smell the faint linger of his cologne.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

“I didn’t,” you whisper back.

His gaze is locked on your eyes for a brief moment. But then flickers down, trailing your face like he’s trying to memorize everything about you. And his eyes land on your mouth for a moment too long, before looking back at your eyes.

“Osc,” you say.

Its a warning. A dare. A plea.

But he exhales hard. Like he’s winded. Before lifting his hand slowly to your jaw.

“I want to,” he says, tilting his head back for a moment with his eyes squeezed shut. “Like…really fuckin’ want to.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. And you’re leaning into it.

“But if I…” He swallows. “If I kiss you now…I wont…I won’t be able to pretend after.”

You understand. Fingers twitching at your sides. You want to reach for him. Let your mouth crash into his and finally…finally see what it’s like when he stops holding back.

But you don’t.

Because you know once the line is crossed, there will be no going back. And that means something.

So instead you give him a slow nod. “Okay…not tonight.”

His jaw clenches. But he nods.

And then you walk again. Slower. Your hand slipped into his. And he’s gripping it like he’s been waiting for years to do this.

The house is still. Quiet.

The kind that only exists before any coffee is made.

You wake slowly, limbs heavy. Twisted in the same blanket Oscar threw over you last night when you passed out on the couch in the middle of a movie. The blanket tangled around your legs, an arm slung over your head to block the light filtering through the curtains.

You blink a few times. Trying to recollect your thoughts. Wondering where you are, what time it is, and why your back fucking hurts.

“You snore a lot.”

You groan, rubbing at your eyes. “I do not!”

Oscar laughs. “You definitely did last night.”

You sit up, the blanket slipping down to your waist in the process. Your hair’s a mess, eyes still half-lidded. And you glare down at him. Because he’s sitting on the floor in front of you. His legs stretched out and back resting against the couch.

His hair is almost as crazy as yours. Wearing the same hoodie he pulled on after you got back from the bar last night. Sleeves pushed up. Mug in his hand.

“It’s too early to fight.”

Oscar lifts the mug to his lips. “Wouldn’t win anyway,” He says with a small smirk. “You’re a menace without coffee.”

Your heartbeat rises. Stupidly. At how close he is. And not just physically. But because he always seems to be near when you wake up. Like he doesn’t want you to wake to an empty room.

You look at the mug. “Is that mine?”

He holds it out without a word.

Your fingers brush his as you wrap both hands around the warm mug. Sighing into the first sip…because it’s perfect. Just how you like it.

You glance at him. “Y’know…you’d make a good housewife, Osc.”

He looks at you with a flat look, but it’s soft. “You’re on the couch I got. Drinking coffee I made.”

You smile over the rim. “And you still won’t kiss me.”

It slips out. Fast. Almost too easy.

You don’t even look at him when you say it. Just bit your lip, pretending its a joke.

But he doesn’t laugh. And he doesn’t let the silence enter either.

“Don’t.” His voice serious. “Don’t say it like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. The mug right before your lips. Chest tight. “Then why didn’t you?”

He exhales through his nose. Runs a hand through his hair. Looking at the ceiling like there might be some answer hidden up there. “Because you matter,” He says. “And I’ve never cared this much before.”

You scoot down the couch. Knees brushing his shoulder so that he can lean into them if he wants to. He does.

You sip your coffee. “M’not going anywhere, Osc.”

And maybe that’s all he needs to hear. Because a second later, his head drops to your knee. Like he’s been wanting to lean into your touch for too long.

It’s late. The kind that makes hotel rooms feel lonely. Another country, another race.

The curtains are closed, a crack of light entering in the middle.

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed. One of his hoodies, like always, draped over you.

Across the room, Oscar sits in the chair near the window. Legs stretched and ankles crossed. Shoulders loose, but he’s not relaxed. His eyes are on you.

“You okay?” You ask.

He nods. Shrugs. “Just tired.”

You hum in agreement. But something isn’t right. Not with the way his jaw’s clenched. And how he’s acted all night long. With his clipped responses.

“You’ve been distant.” You say.

“I know.”

He doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t argue.

And it lands harder than you expect.

You look down at your fingers, twisting the rings on your fingers. Throat tight. “Is it me?”

His body shifts. Like he wants to reach for you, but won’t.

“No,” he says. Quick. Firm. “Never you.”

And you nod. Even though it still aches.

“Feels like me,” your voice small.

Oscar breathes hard, tipping his head fall agains the back of the chair. Closing his eyes for a moment. And when they open again, they’re gentle.

“It’s what you make me feel,” He says. “M’not used to it.”

He shifts forward. Resting his elbows onto his knees. Fingers laced between them.

“Especially now that we’ve…uh…addressed it,” He adds. A smile tugging at his lips. “Being around you makes everything else…” He trails off.

Searching for the right words. But they don’t come easily.

“Harder.’

You blink, a little confused. “Harder?”

He nods, eyes trailing toward the window.

“To focus. To race. To pretend that I’m not thinking about you all the time.”

You move quietly. Taking in his words. Cross the room and sink down to the floor in front of him.

“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” you whisper.

He lets out a small breath.

“It’s not your fault. Never your fault.” He’s looking at you. Eyes dark. “You just make me want things…that I don’t know if I’m allowed to have.”

You miss Oscar.

The afterparty is buzzing. Music hammering against the walls. McLaren finished a race with a 1-2 podium finish. The kind of result that earns drinks and a late night of dancing.

Your standing near the balcony doors, letting the breeze cool your skin. A half finished drink lingers in your hand. The condensation slipping onto your fingers.

And Oscar hasn’t spoken to you all night. At least, not properly.

No banter or smirk. No actual conversation.

You told yourself you wouldn’t care. That he’d never make a move anyway.

And then Lando appears. Sliding into the space beside you with a crooked grin and a beer in his hand.

“Didn’t thin you’d be all the way out here,” he says.

You glance at him, giving a faint smile. “Just observing. It’s so hot in there.” You turn to look at Oscar.

Still leaned against a wall, surrounded by people. Laughing with the engineers. Relaxed.

Lando follows your gaze. “Y’always stare at him like that?”

You scoff. “What?”

“He’s not even paying attention, y’know. But I am.”

You grin, knowing he’s just being a playful little shit. “But I am.”

You look at him. Really look. And he’s close. Eyes warm, teasing.

“That’s the line you’re sticking with?” You tilt your head. Smiling.

He grins back. “Is it working?”

And the worst part about it…is that it kind of is. At least for a brief second. Because Lando is easy in a way Oscar never is. Open. Bright.

So you lean in, just a smidge. Let yourself enjoy the way Lando looks at you because why not? Let him flirt. Let his eyes trail your face, flick to your mouth. Let him step closer.

And you feel the weight of Oscar’s stare from across the room. Heavy. Like a hand resting on your shoulder.

And when you glance Oscar’s way, he’s watching. Not smiling. Eyes dark. Like he’s debating whether he should walk over and intervene. But he doesn’t. Because that’s not his way.

No. He’s too calm and calculated. Too careful when it comes to you.

So you head back towards the center of the room with Lando a few minutes later, laughter filling the air.

You spend the next hour trying to focus. Let Lando spin a story in your ear. Let him twirl you around. But your eyes keep scanning the room. Call it a habit.

And then you finally see him standing not too far away. Alone. Eyes locked on you like he’s been waiting for you to notice. Waiting for you to move.

Lando catches your stare, urges you to go talk to him. And Oscar doesn’t move until you’re only a few inches from him.

“I saw that,” he says. Voice low.

You tilt your head. “What?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Lando.”

You shrug. “He was just being nice.”

But his gaze sharpens. “He was all over you. Touching you.”

You close the space between you. His gaze drops to your mouth for a half a second.

“Okay,” you say. Soft. “So what?” Are you gonna stand there and sulk?”

You take another step. His breath catches.

“Or are you going to actually do something about it?”

He leans in. Slow. “M’trying to not fuck this up.”

“And what if you already are?” You whisper.

He freezes. Because he knows your right.

Knows that if he keeps holding back too long, keeps pretending, and keeps letting moments pass… that it will push you away.

You don’t even make it to the end of the hallway. Not even close to it in fact.

Because Oscar’s hand is wrapping firmly around your wrist. Stopping you.

And you turn, startled by the grasp. But he’s right there. And you feel the way his chest rises and falls too fast. The tension cracking.

His fingers slide lower until he’s lacing them with yours. And then pulls you back into him. You stumble just a bit, but he’s steadying you. Guiding you until your pressed back into the wall.

You gasp.

“Don’t do that again,” he says. Voice stripped of calm. Serious.

“Do what?” You play dumb.

“Lando.” His jaw clenches. Eyes flickering with something possessive in them.

He drops your hand.

“Flirt with him,” he grunts. “Letting him fuckin’ touch you. Letting him look at you like..”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop acting like you don’t want me.”

And it hits him hard. Right in the center of his chest.

He steps closer. So close that you can feel his breath hit your face. A hand bracing on the wall beside your head.

“Y’think I don’t want you?” His voice is torn. “I’ve wanted you since the first time you wore my hoodie. Since you sat on my couch like you belonged there years ago. And every day since..it’s just gotten worse.”

Your throat tightens.

“Oscar,” you breathe.

But it’s too late.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s fucking starved for it. It’s not slow or careful. It’s everything poured into a kiss that’s hot and all consuming.

You gasp into him and he outright groans at the sound. Hands finally grabbing for your hips.

He presses himself into you. Mouth moving like he’s making up for all the times he didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you.

And when he finally pulls back he looks wrecked.

“I’ve been trying to be careful,” He presses his forehead against yours. “But you…” He starts to shake his head. Fingers curling deeper into the skin of your waist. “Y’know exactly how to push all of my fuckin’ buttons, yeah?”

You smile into his lips. Head spinning just a little bit. “And you’re just figuring that out now?”

He grunts but then kisses you again. Rougher. More of a claim than anything.

And he’s done holding back.

Oscar’s hands are on you the very second the hotel door clicks shut.

His hands grip your waist like he wants them attached there forever. Like he can’t bare to ever be apart from you again. His mouth crashes onto yours mid-step as he walks you backward without ever breaking the kiss. It’s rough and relentless. His hands slipping under your dress in the process.

You gasp when your legs hit the edge of the bed, and then he’s pushing you down on the mattress with a soft push.

He follows. Doesn’t even speak. Just groans at the sight of you beneath him. Like that alone is enough to undo him completely.

“Should’ve done this weeks…years ago,” he mutters. Voice rough and full of need. “Should’ve fucked you the second you started looking at me like that.”

You dig your fingers into his back as he leans forward and kisses you again. Harder. Like he wants to fuse your mouths together.

And he only pulls back to drag your dress over your head. He barely glances at it as he throws it somewhere in the room. Probably onto the floor. His eyes stay locked on you.

He undresses himself fast. And you barely get a full look at him before he’s crawling back over you.

But even in that blur of movement and speed, you see the way he trembles.

His fingers find your thighs, curling one of your legs over his hip. Grinding down against the damp lace between your legs.

“Still gonna tease me?” Your voice is shaky.

He laughs, rolling into you. “Not teasing,” he mutters. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

You moan loudly.

And then his hand slips between your thighs, pushing the lace aside. He finds your clit with ease, rubbing slow circles that make your hips jolt.

He leans forward, near your ear. “Flirt with Lando again…” He drags his tongue hotly over your neck. “And I’ll fuck you where he can hear you next time.”

You arch under him. Shaking.

He groans. Deep. Uneasy. “Fuck, you like that?” His voice drops lower. “Y’want me to make you loud, hm? Let people hear who you really want?”

“Fuck, Osc…” you gasp, but it breaks out into a moan as soon as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Ripping them down your thighs in a fluid motion.

Then he’s between your legs.

Pushing into you with a stretch that burns in the best fucking way. Your mouth falls open quietly. Just the gasp of him finally being in you.

His head falls to your shoulder, shuddering once he’s fully seated inside. “Fucking fuck..” He barely gets his words out. “Y’feel so fuckin’ good.”

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist. Digging your nails into his back. And he starts to move. Hard. Deep.

His hands fist into your hair, holding you in place beneath him. And his mouth presses hot open-mouthed kisses along your throat. Claiming you.

“Y’think we’re still just friends?” He grunts. Nipping at your ear. “Tell me we’re not.”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer.

So he drives his cock into you harder. Meaner.

“Fucking say it,” He grunts. And he sounds wrecked. “Say we’re not fucking friends anymore while I’m buried in this cunt.”

You whimper. Breathless.

“No,” you cry out. “No…we’re not…fuck fuck…we’re not friends.”

He thrusts deeper, every stroke hitting that spot deep in your belly just fucking right.

You cry out, arching into him. Fingers fisting the fabric of the sheets.

And you do. Over and over. Until your cunt clamps down around him and you’re unraveling. Crying out into the space between his neck and shoulder. Shaking.

He groans. His thrusts losing rhythm as you milk his cock. Spasming around him.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” He yelps. Following seconds later, hips stuttering. A tumble of curses falling out of his mouth as he presses deep into you one final time before releasing into you.

Your chest is still rising and falling. Oscar hasn’t moved much. Still inside of you. Breathing into your shoulder.

You’re staring at the ceiling, content.

“I meant what I said,” he mutters. His thumb reaching out to brush your cheek. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

You nod. “I know.”

He leans in. Presses careful kisses to your cheek. Your forehead. Your lips

“No more pretending, yeah?”

"Yeah."

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri smut #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #op81 x you #op81 x y/n #op81 imagine #op81 x reader #op81 fic #f1 x you #f1 imagines

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yuyuyukiii · 1 day ago

Text

The Outfit? Offensive ⛐

Summary: The paddock thought race day was intense. Then a five-year-old showed up with glitter sunglasses and a clipboard. Chaos followed.

Content: cuteness, chaos, toddler logic, paddock drama, fashion crimes, soft dad moments, glitter-level confidence, and even retired or inactive drivers somehow getting dragged into the drama

Author's Note 🏎️:

I’ve always liked writing cute stuff, especially with some of the drivers or team principals as dads since a few of them are older now and it just fits so well. This one was super fun and chaotic to write, so I hope it made you smile. If you have any requests or ideas you want to see written, my DMs and request box are always open!

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Security didn’t question her. Probably because she looked like she owned the place.

By the time the first batch of drivers had checked into the paddock, she was already seated outside the motorhomes in her tiny foldable chair, glitter sunglasses on, clipboard in hand, and a sign (written in crayon) that read:

FASHION CONTEST. WINNER GETS HUG + CANDY. + and maybe sumthin else if u dress rilly rilly good ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

The “judge” was Y/N. Age five. Future fashion dictator. Also known around here as “Toto’s kid.” Which explained how she had clearance before sunrise and knew exactly where to set up for maximum drama.

Max Verstappen was first in. Walked through security. Barely two steps in and—

“Minus three! AGAIN with the Red Bull shirt? BORING.” You scribbled with flair, then flipped your whiteboard. “You get a zero.”

Max blinked. “It’s part of my job?”

“Not my fault you picked the boring work shirt,” you pouted. “Why no sparkles or colors or fun?”

He walked away muttering something about unfair systems and needing a stylist.

Then came Oscar, pink hoodie and all.

“POINTS for pink! You’re automatically higher than Max!” she cheered.

Oscar blinked. “Thank you…?”

The others trickled in like lambs to the fashion slaughter. Charles got a 6.5 and was already arguing about it.

He blinked. “But this is Dior.”

“I’m five,” you replied flatly.

Lando got a 4.25 because of his mismatched socks. “A four point what?” he repeated, stunned.

You raised your board. “Four. Point. Two, Five. Don’t argue with the system.”

Carlos came next, looking a little too confident in pastel colors and suspiciously clean shoes.

“Mmm. 7.4,” you said, scribbling on your whiteboard. “Points for the matching socks.”

George looked scandalized. “Wait, he gets a 7.4?”

“You’re not up yet,” you warned him.

As more drivers arrived and got judged, the area around your chair became less a walkway and more a pit lane of chaos.

“I better be higher than Carlos,” George muttered, peeking at your notes.

“You’re not,” Gabriel said from behind him.

“You got a five,” Kimi added helpfully, “and a note that says ‘pants are too tight.’”

“They are!” you shouted.

At one point, Lance walked up wearing Crocs. The judging panel went silent.

“Crocs?” you asked, peering over your whiteboard like a judge on TV. “Two out of ten.”

Lance looked like you personally offended his ancestors. “They’re limited edition!”

Pierre came back holding the ice cream like a peace offering. “I brought you something, look.”

You squinted. “Is it chocolate?”

“No…”

“Then it’s a 5.5.”

Valtteri arrived next, holding a protein bar and a juice pouch like he was paying tribute. You took the juice and sipped dramatically.

“You’re now a 6.2,” you announced with a proud nod.

Fernando, ever the opportunist, approached with a bag of chips. “What if I throw in a selfie?”

“I can’t eat a selfie,” you said.

“She’s right,” Nico Hulkenberg muttered. “Give her the chips.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

By mid-morning, the judging line was done.

But instead of going to their garages to get ready like professionals, the drivers started hovering behind Y/N’s chair like she was hosting the paddock version of the Met Gala.

Then it happened. Someone, probably Lando, pointed at a poor, unsuspecting crew member just walking by with a headset and clipboard.

“What does he get?”

You looked up. Squinted. “His jacket’s cool. 6.6.”

“6.6?” Ollie nearly choked. “That’s higher than me!”

“He has a lightning bolt on his arm,” you said proudly. “That’s awesome.”

Some poor team staffer walked by with a coffee tray and got hit with:

“Okay, why does he get a 5?” Alex pointed aggressively. “He’s literally wearing beige. Like, beige on beige. He looks like a bread roll.”

“BEIGE SNEAKERS TOO,” Nico gasped.

“I think he’s just doing his job,” Zhou said gently.

Another guy walked past wearing skinny jeans and a massive team jacket.

Oscar pointed. “That jacket’s so big it has zip codes. Why does he get an 7.2? And I got a 4?”

“I like big jackets,” Y/N said.

Fernando pointed at another staff member passing by. “Okay, and why does she get a seven? What did she do?”

You tilted your head. “She smiled at me before.”

George looked personally betrayed. “That’s not fair! I smiled at you all morning.”

“You also wore pants that looked like they couldn’t breathe,” Yuki muttered.

Someone else walked by, probably a logistics guy.

“0,” you said.

“Finally,” Max muttered.

“Wait, no. 3,” you said, thinking hard. “He gave me gum yesterday.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Are we really losing to people just walking by?”

You looked at him. “You wore that hoodie yesterday. And yesterday was not fashion day.”

Someone else passed, this time pushing a catering cart. “6.7,” you decided. “The food smells yummy.”

“Unbelievable,” Nico muttered. “Outscored by a sandwich guy.”

“Sandwich guy has style,” you added, chewing a gummy worm.

Another poor soul walked by with a clipboard and two phones, just trying to do his job.

Liam pointed. “Him. That guy. Why does he get a six and I got 4.5?”

“Because I like his phone case,” Y/N said, totally confident.

Everyone turned to stare.

“What’s on his phone case?” Logan asked.

“A duck. In a hat.”

Liam dramatically collapsed. “I lost to a duck.”

“Don’t say that sentence out loud,” Franco said, wheezing.

“I’m judging the judge now,” Oscar announced. “This whole system’s rigged.”

“You’re just mad you peaked at 4,” Pierre smirked.

“I bribed her,” Oscar said. “She took the Oreos. She took them.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Somewhere else in the paddock, a reporter hesitated mid-question and glanced at his earpiece.

“Sorry, Toto,” he said carefully. “There’s… a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Your daughter’s judging the drivers.”

“She’s what?” Toto blinked.

“It was cute at first. But now the drivers have formed a line, and they're heckling anyone who scores higher than them.”

Toto stared.

“They’re terrorizing innocent staff,” the reporter added. “One guy just walked by holding cables and got a 6. George is demanding a recount. And someone might’ve cried. We don’t know who. We just know one of them walked off muttering, ‘I got a two. A two.’”

Toto closed his eyes for a second. “Where is she now?”

The reporter just pointed. “Follow the chaos.”

With a sigh, Toto turned and started walking. As he stepped outside, he was immediately hit by the sound of complaints.

“I got a three? Can you believe that?” an engineer said loudly, holding a banana like it had failed him.

“Look at me. I got a two,” someone else muttered. “She said my shoes look like ‘marshmallow blobs.’”

“She’s not wrong,” another voice chimed in.

Toto paused, slowly dragging a hand down his face.

This... was going to be a long weekend.

—

And things were only getting worse.

The bribery escalated fast. Isack came with gummy bears. Yuki offered a big bag of Cheetos. Franco brought stickers. Zhou offered gum. You accepted everything like a tiny goblin hoarding treasure.

You pointed suddenly, like you just saw a crime. “Wait. He has Crocs.”

Lance looked like he was about to cry. “You already rated me!”

You blinked. “I did?”

“Yes! You said two out of ten. In front of everyone!”

“Oh.” You stared at his feet. “Yeah. Now you get a 1.6. The socks made it worse.”

Lance threw his hands in the air. “They’re also limited edition!”

“They’re limited ugly,” you said, munching on your Tim Tam like nothing happened.

Off to the side, the drivers had started judging each other.

“Why is he a seven?” Alex pointed at Zhou. “He’s literally wearing that.”

Zhou folded his arms. “This is Balenciaga.”

“Yeah,” you said. “But I like purple.”

“I have purple socks!” George yelled from the back.

“Too late,” you replied, taking another bite of Tim Tam without even looking at him.

—

After all the snacks, and panicked sock changes, the board had definitely changed. And now? Everyone wanted to know who climbed, who fell, and who got pity points.

“I better be higher than YOU,” Lando muttered under his breath.

“You wore mismatched socks,” Yuki pointed out.

“I changed them! I literally ran back to my room!” Lando yelled.

Pierre leaned in smugly. “She said my outfit had ‘French flavor!’”

“You got a 4.8!” Franco yelled. “How is that flavor?”

“It’s called ✨style✨,” Pierre replied, flicking invisible dust off his shoulder.

“Bro, you’re wearing boat shoes!”

“She said they were yacht-core!”

"She gave me a sticker and told me to 'try again later," Logan added, offended.

"Huh. I got bumped up to a 6,” Oscar muttered to no one in particular.

"That's solid. That's decent."

"You're lucky," Alex said "She looked at my pants and said “what's happening here?'"

“Bet I look better than Nico,” Carlos added smugly.

“He got a four,” you muttered. “Because I said his shirt looks like a couch.”

“Hey!” Nico protested from the back. “It’s vintage!”

“She gave me a 5.2,” Esteban muttered. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re five-point-two out of ten,” Yuki said. “Be grateful.”

Then George came storming back, holding your scorecard like it was a trophy.

“I got an eight,” he announced, waving it in the air. “Eight! Highest so far. I am literally winning Fashion GP.”

He turned like he expected applause. There was none.

“You bribed her,” Alex said flatly.

“I did not! I matched my socks and wore pastel. I’m a fashion icon.”

“She said your pants were too tight earlier,” Yuki muttered.

George pointed at you. “Yeah, but she said they’re tight but committed. That’s growth.”

“She just gave you pity points,” Pierre said.

George scoffed. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Carlos raised a brow. “You really think you’re winning?”

“Obviously. You got a 7.4. I got 8. Highest score. I’m unbeatable.”

Right on cue, Lewis strolled by, humming to himself.

He was in full chill mode, wearing a silk bomber jacket with hand-painted flames, tailored trousers, silver chains, and reflective sunglasses. The grid might as well have been his runway. Everyone else just looked underdressed.

He paused when he saw the crowd. “Hi? Is there a meeting I forgot about?”

Your eyes lit up. “Lew Lew!”

He blinked. “Oh no. Am I being judged too?”

You stood up, arms wide. “You get a hundred out of ten!”

The crowd gasped.

George actually dropped his scorecard.

“That’s not even allowed!” he cried. “You said the limit was ten!”

“You’re just mad you peaked too early,” Lando said, wheezing.

“He gets more than a candy and a hug,” you declared. “I will spend my whole race weekend with you.”

Silence. Shock. Betrayal. Emotional damage.

George stood in stunned silence, watching all his fashion dreams crumble.

“She WHAT?” Yuki gasped.

“No, no, no, hold on,” Pierre cut in. “That was not in the prize list.”

“Had I known that,” Charles muttered, “I would’ve worn the leather pants. The ones I saved for Monza.”

Oscar blinked. “I gave her my last pack of Oreos and got a six. Lewis just exists and gets her soul?”

Max looked around, offended. “If I knew that was on the line, I would’ve worn a full suit!”

Isack scowled. “Should’ve told us. I would’ve ironed my shirt.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “Why didn’t anyone say that? I literally brushed my hair today. That should’ve counted for something.”

Fernando raised a finger. “Where was the memo that spending time with the cutest kid on the grid was on the table?”

You wrapped your arms around Lewis’ legs. “You always dress good. Not like Maxie. He wears Red Bull every day.”

Amidst the chaos, just as George’s soul visibly left his body, Toto turned the corner and found you proudly holding up a whiteboard.

You grinned and pointed directly at him. “Papa! You get the same as Maxie. Zero out of ten… but plus one because you’re my dad.”

Toto blinked. “I get a one?”

“Yup. Same uniform. Same boring.”

“How is it boring? We’re literally at work!” Max yelled, gesturing at his team gear like it made perfect sense.

Toto nodded. “He’s right, though. We have to wear it.”

“See?” Max said, pointing at Toto like he’d just won a case in court. “It’s mandatory!”

You shrugged. “Still boring. Papa, you should wear a fun hat or something.”

Toto looked down at his black team jacket, then at Max. “Maybe we are the problem.”

Lewis crouched beside you, his grin far too satisfied. “By the way,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “she told me the prize for winning is spending the rest of the day with her.”

There was a collective groan from the grid.

Toto sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’ll be spending the rest of the day in the Merc garage, young lady.”

“No,” you said immediately, pointing at Lewis. “He won. I go with him. You better start dressing good.”

Toto blinked like she’d cursed him.

Lewis just smiled and held out his hand. “Guess I have a co-pilot this weekend.”

The grid was devastated.

Oscar looked like someone stole his snacks (the oreos). George was still trying to argue about scoring criteria. Pierre quietly whispered “bro…” under his breath.

Somewhere in the background, Lance was still yelling about his crocs.

And your fashion reign?

Had only just begun.

By the time you walked away with Lewis, bag of Cheetos in one hand, whiteboard in the other, the grid was still recovering from the fashion carnage you left behind.

And next time? They’d better dress like their contracts depended on it.

END.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

564 notes · View notes

myladybelle · 2 days ago

Text

‘cause i can see you

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong! word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3) note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x

masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were still new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

Strange, considering how different the two of you were.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.

The office changed at night.

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

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

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

Almost like a different person entirely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you liked being late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That caught you off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had work to do. Explanations could come later.

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

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

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

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

Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.

You blinked once. Then twice.

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

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

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

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

For now.

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

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

Clark made a beeline for your desk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

Something had changed, and you liked it.

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

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

Clark Kent? Superman?

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

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

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

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

Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.

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

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

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

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

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

Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, amused. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.

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

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

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

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

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

You rewound it again. And again.

Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.

Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat.

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

Except no, they didn’t.

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

You stared back at the screen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sat back in your chair and stared.

“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”

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

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

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

There was no way they were the same person.

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

But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.

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

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

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

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

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

Unless that was the point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What exactly were you doing?

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinched, braced for impact.

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

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

Nothing so much as grazed you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Superman was right in front of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God.

You were losing it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you knew. You knew.

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

This was real.

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

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

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

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

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

It could all be bias, projection, or madness.

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

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

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

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

You glanced up.

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

Your eyes met.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight. My place. We should talk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stepped inside hesitantly.

The apartment was surprising.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could the same man feel so different?

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

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

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

You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

Still unmistakably Clark Kent.

And Superman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re supposed to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark’s expression faltered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.

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

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

Clark Kent loved you.

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

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

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

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

You nodded before your words could betray you.

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

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

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

You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.

And then he kissed you.

Not like Superman. Not like a secret.

Like Clark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you didn’t want him to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

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

Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she was gone.

The elevator doors glided shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

“I missed this,” you murmured.

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

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

You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.

“Clark—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything was back to normal.

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

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

#clark kent #superman #superman 2025 #clark kent x reader #superman x reader #clark kent imagine #superman imagine #clark kent x you #superman x you #corenswet!superman #corenswet!clark kent #superman fluff #clark kent fluff #fic: ‘cause i can see you

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fireinmoonshot · 3 days ago

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baby fever | johnny storm x reader

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Reader Summary: Seeing Johnny Storm playing with his nephew, Franklin, makes you realise just how much you want to have children with him. Warnings: Reader has the ability to fall pregnant and carry a child but I don't think I mention any specific pronouns, references to sex. Word Count: 2.5k A/N: Thank you all so much for the response on my first Johnny fic that I posted last week. I didn't expect it at all and I'm so grateful for that. I've been trying to write another one ever since but I just haven't had the motivation to write anything until I had this idea this afternoon and then somehow just managed to fire it out tonight! I'm so happy with how it turned out so I hope you all enjoy it and I promise there's more Johnny fics coming soon! 😊

The first time you saw your fiancé with his nephew, Franklin, you knew you were in trouble.

You’d seen him with babies before – people in New York had been, in the past, known to give Johnny their babies so he could kiss them. There was a trend at one point, where if your baby was kissed by Johnny Storm, they would grow up strong and well-liked. Johnny just liked it because it meant he got to kiss cute babies.

But seeing him with his nephew is different. You’re standing back stage at The Ted Gilbert Show, which the Fantastic Four are starring on again. Franklin is one year old and mischievous as ever, and clearly taking advantage of his uncle Johnny’s playfulness.

You watch as Johnny plucks Franklin out of Ben’s arms and swings him high up in the air. Franklin is giggling and you smile at the sight of it. He’s easily one of the cutest babies you’ve ever seen, and the fact that his smile is because of the love of your life makes it even sweeter.

There has been plenty of talk about the future with you and Johnny, when one day you wanted to have children of your own. But saving the world and having children don’t go hand in hand, and you know Johnny is worried about it. He admires Sue and Reed for the way they’re able to handle parenthood alongside their jobs but a part of him wonders if he’ll ever be able to do something like that himself, no matter how much he wants a child of his own with you. He’s also just too afraid to change the dynamic of the team even further.

Sue comes up beside you. You don’t realise she’s there till she speaks. “If Franklin is sick on him after being thrown around like that, I really hope that someone around here is filming,” she hums, nudging your shoulder gently. There’s a smile on her face as she says it. “Though, I’m surprised Reed hasn’t stepped in and stopped this already. He’s been very protective lately.”

“For good reason,” you give Sue a look, as if she’d forgotten about the man last month who had attempted to tunnel underneath the Baxter Building to get inside – just to see the famous Franklin Richards in person. That hadn’t ended well for him. He was currently in a jail cell somewhere in the city, so far away you don’t even know where.

You turn back to look at Johnny as he swings Franklin around again and then pulls him in close to his chest. He presses a kiss to the top of the boys head and your heart melts a little in your chest. You don’t notice that you’re smiling until Sue pulls you up on it.

“What’s that smile for?” She asks, eyebrows raised.

“Hm?” You glance at her, not wanting to look away from Johnny for too long. You want to make sure you remember every moment of the way he’s playing with Franklin and how it makes you feel… warm and happy and… there’s longing, too. Longing to have a memory like this, but featuring your own child rather than Franklin. Longing that also features immense attraction to Johnny that makes you feel a certain type of way that Sue doesn’t need to know.

“The way you’re smiling at my brother and my son…”

Franklin is giggling again as Johnny holds him in the air and starts running around with him, making noises like he’s a plane, zooming through the air.

“It’s just sweet, that’s all,” you shrug, crossing your arms over your chest. This is not the time to tell Sue that right now, what you really want to do is jump her brothers bones and have a child of your own with him.

Sue looks at you for a moment, unconvinced, but then the staff are telling them there’s two minutes to show time and to get into their places and she’s being ushered to the stage by one of the assistants.

You’re meant to be babysitting Franklin for this television appearance. Sue and Reed don’t mind showing him off from time to time, but they also want to keep things private and having Franklin on television with them always raises questions about him. Does he have powers? What are they? Is he going to join and make them change the name to the Fantastic Five, even though he’s barely even a year old? All questions none of them want to have to answer, especially on live television. You never mind when you have to look after Franklin anyway – he’s always an angel for you.

Johnny comes running over to you, still holding Franklin in the air and making plane noises. He comes to a halt in front of you, quite literally screeching to a stop, sound effect and all, and brings Franklin back down, resting him on his hip. Your heart beats a little quicker at the sight of how natural it looks on him, looking after a child.

“It’s time for your aunty to look after you now, kid,” he says to Franklin, who is already pre-occupied trying to pull out a chunk of Johnny’s hair. “Okay, ow. That hurts. Do you have super-human strength? Of course you do, you’re a magic baby. Duh.”

You smile and extend your arms to take Franklin off of him. He doesn’t have long till he needs to get up on stage to be ready for the program to start, but unsurprisingly, Johnny doesn’t seem to be in much of a rush.

He kisses the top of Franklin’s head again as he passes him over to you, and then leans in and kisses your cheek. “Wish me luck?” He asks, lips quirked up into a small smile.

“You don’t need it, but you know you always have it.”

Johnny flashes you a grin as one of the staff starts counting down from 10 and then turns around, running back towards the stage and taking his place next to Reed. He catches your eye just before the countdown finishes and sends you a wink.

You stand side-stage and watch as the Fantastic Four do their interview with Ted Gilbert, answering questions from adoring fans in the audience. You sway side to side with Franklin, comfortably holding him as he rests his head on your shoulder and naps.

Then, you hear an audience member direct a question to Johnny that makes your heart skip a beat. There are always questions from fans that they never expect, and personal questions are never unexpected, but this one takes you by surprise.

“Johnny, we need to know. Have you started planning your wedding? Everyone is looking forward to seeing what sort of event it’ll be, and have you started thinking about another little member of the Fantastic Four joining the family?”

If you’d been drinking, you’re sure you would have choked on it, having heard someone mention the very thing you’d been thinking of only minutes earlier. It’s only natural that the public was going to start thinking about such a thing now that you were engaged and had been for a few months, but that didn’t mean that such a question was appropriate to ask.

You listen in carefully to hear Johnny’s answer.

“No, no wedding planning yet,” he admits. “Honestly, we’re just trying to soak in the feeling of being engaged for a little bit. There’s no rush. Of course, we’d love a little one of our own, but we’re really just taking each day as it comes.”

The answer is so perfect it almost sounds rehearsed, but you know it’s not. For a man that you know is hesitant when it comes to both children and discussing his personal life with the public, you think he handled it rather well. Even though you could hear the strain in his voice that told you that it was the last question he wanted to be asked.

Once the interview is over and they all exit the stage, Sue immediately comes over to you and carefully removes the sleeping Franklin from your shoulder. She thanks you for taking care of him as she and Reed head back stage to change out of their suits and get back into their clothes to head home.

Johnny walks up to you, arms open wide and a grin on his face. “So, how’d I do?”

“Hm, your public speaking could do with some work,” you shrug, trying to keep the smile off your face as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side.

He rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to the side of your head. “You’re full of it, gorgeous.”

“Only full of love for you.”

Johnny laughs at that as you start to walk alongside him, one of his arms still wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on your hip as you all head back to the dressing room.

“Did you watch the whole thing?” He asks, glancing over at you as you turn a corner.

“I did,” you confirm. “Franklin fell asleep on me though, so I’m afraid to say he didn’t see his heart-throb uncle answering all those questions from his die-hard fans. But there’ll still be time for you to teach him how to respond in a similar situation.”

He smiles, shaking his head. “So, you heard all the questions?”

You stop, turning to face him. His hand remains on your hip. “Yes, Johnny. I heard the question that lady asked about if we’ve been planning the wedding and if we’re going to have a baby.” You figure it’s better to just rip off the bandaid and confront the question that Johnny is so clearly trying to ask you without saying it.

Johnny sighs and rests his other hand on your hip, tugging you a little closer to him. It makes the moment feel more private, as if you’re not in the middle of a crowded hallway of one of the biggest television shows in the country.

“Did I say the right thing?” He asks, voice soft. “It felt so wrong to answer a question like that without you up there with me. I mean, it’s easy enough for me to say ‘Yeah, we’d love to have a kid’ when I’m not the one that has to carry and give birth to it. When it comes to conceiving a baby, my job is pretty easy. I’m not the one that has to grow it.”

You sigh and tug Johnny out of the main hallway and into a small, empty hall just off to the side. “Honey, I could hear in your voice how much you hated answering that question,” you admit. “But you said the right thing. You told them what they want to hear. They don’t need to know the ins and outs of our wedding planning or if we’re pregnant or not. But for future reference, I am more than happy to carry and give birth to our child.”

Johnny tightens his grip on your hips and swipes one of his thumbs back and forth, a comforting mechanism for both you and him. “Is this you telling me you’re ready?” He asks, eyebrows raised as he meets your eyes. You can see the apprehension in them.

“I know how you feel about having children, Johnny,” you start, “but I saw the way you were with Franklin earlier. You’re a great uncle to him, and I know you’d be a great father one day too. Even if it’s terrifying to try and be a father and a superhero at the same time.”

“Thank you, baby,” he hums, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. The words mean more to him than you realise, but he can’t help but focus on the second thing you said. “You were watching me and Franklin? I thought I saw you talking to my sister.”

You nod. “I was, but I was watching you at the same time.” You scrunch up your nose as you think of the way Johnny had looked, playing with his nephew, and the way it’d made you feel. “I always find you attractive, Johnny Storm, but seeing you playing with Franklin… honestly, it’s one of the times I’ve found you most attractive.”

The cocky smile that appears on his face almost makes you regret your words, until he re-adjusts his grip on your hips and tugs you closer to him so your chest is pressed up against his and your lips are only inches away from his.

“You think me playing with my nephew is attractive, huh?” He smirks.

“Oh, get that look off your face, Johnny,” you huff out a laugh, trying to play it cool even though you’re pretty sure your heart-rate has skyrocketed and it’s taking every ounce of self control to not throw yourself at your fiancé right now in this deserted hallway.

He leans in and brushes his lips over yours for only a second before he mutters a few words that make you feel weak at the knees. “Maybe we should head home and get to work on creating a little one of our own, then.”

You’re fighting to hold onto the last bits of restraint when his lips meet yours. His arms wrap around your back, holding you close to him as he kisses you, your breathing heavy already. It’s when one of his hands starts to drift a little too low that you remember where you are and, regretfully, pull away from the kiss.

You press your hands against Johnny’s chest to push yourself away from him and give the two of you some distance. Laughing, you shake your head. “Johnny Storm, what the hell was that?”

He leans back against the wall behind him and crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s me saying that I’m ready if you are, babe.” He says it casually, as if they’re not words that set your heart on fire and make you feel like you’re on cloud 9.

You open your mouth and then close it again. “You can’t– you can’t just say that!”

“And why not?” Johnny tilts his head to the side, that stupid smile still on his lips.

“Well… we’re in public!”

“Baby,” he says, standing up off the wall and walking over to you. “I just told the entire country that one day, we wanna have sex and make babies together and you think that someone overhearing us in the back corridors of The Ted Gilbert Show is a big deal?”

You gasp, trying not to laugh, and lunge towards him, putting a hand over his mouth to shut him up. The man doesn’t have an inside voice most of the time and even though he’s right and he had essentially just told everyone that on live television, you don’t want someone to overhear you and make things awkward the next time the Fantastic Four is asked back.

You can feel him smiling underneath your hand as he reaches up and takes your wrist gently, removing your hand from his mouth.

“Shall we go home?” He asks, eyes twinkling and an amused smile on his face.

“Yes,” you murmur, “but no funny business.”

Johnny chuckles, manoeuvring his hold on your wrist so he can take your hand instead. “Of course not,” he agrees. “Not until we’re safely back in our bedroom with the door locked.”

#johnny storm #johnny storm x reader #the fantastic four #fantastic four #fantastic four first steps #fantastic four x reader #johnny storm x you #human torch #marvel #marvel x reader #mcu #mcu x reader

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primofate · 2 days ago

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Isekai Heartbreak (Genshin Impact Men)

Summary: Once upon a time you found yourself in the world of Teyvat. It just so happened that he was the first person you encountered. Now, after years of staying by his side, you inform him "I've found a way back home," what does he say?

A short continuation of this brainrot, I recommend you read it first: Isekai'd to Teyvat

Warnings: Please excuse any mistakes I'm really writing just for pleasure nowadays and don't always have time to proofread, bit yandere in Tartaglia's

Characters: Aether, Albedo, Alhaitham, Ayato, Baizhu, Bennett, Dainsleif, Diluc, Gaming, Gorou, Ifa, Itto, Kaeya, Kazuha, Kinich, Lyney, Neuvillette, Ororon, Scaramouche, Tartaglia, Tighnari, Wriothesley, Xiao, gn!reader

Personal Favourite in this work: Gorou, Wriothesley, Lyney

Aether

You can't read his expression. It's usually easy to read Aether, but this time it's really difficult to guess how he feels.

"...I of all people should know how much it hurts when you're separated from family...and yet..."

there is a huge pause here, he struggles to keep his composure.

"And yet I can't bring myself to be happy for you, is that selfish of me, Y/N?"

Voice cracks. Eyes start to glisten with unshed tears.

Albedo

"Oh,"

He knew the time would come eventually but why was it such a shock to him all the same?

"...Show me, I'll make sure to create a bridge between your realm and mine..."

You ask if he can actually do that.

"...Not yet. But if it erases this goodbye...then I'll make it happen,"

Alhaitham

Was, as usual, reading a book when you told him.

"How? Are you sure this isn't one of those scams that you fall for too easily?"

You say no. You explain to him and eventually show him the portal.

He silently stares at it.

You move closer to the portal just to get a better look at it but he stops you by the wrist.

"You're not going in there by yourself. You don't know where it REALLY leads to, do you?"

Admittedly, you aren't 100% sure.

"Come on then," drags you by the wrist towards the portal. You're shocked and ask him what if he's unable to go back.

"...If you were able to arrive in this world, then logically there should be a way for me to return back... Either way it's not smart to let you go alone,"

Ayato

Smiles at you. "I see,"

"...I have no right to ask you to stay." moves closer to you, hand raises to touch your cheek gently. "...but in the time you've spent here by my side, I hope you know that this will always be your home too,"

Does not and will not stop you, even if it hurts him.

Baizhu

"Interesting,"

Doesn't seem fazed at all.

"You've told me quite a lot about the medical technology in your world, Y/N, I'm quite interested to see it,"

He seems to be saying that he'll go with you. You explain that you're not sure if he can come back to Teyvat.

"Oh," seems to finally connect the dots. "Oh, well that would be a problem, wouldn't it?" puts a hand to his chin, deep in thought.

"Ah, no matter, let's see where it leads me and we'll worry about the details later,"

Bennett

"S-So... You're leaving?"

Already looks like he's about to cry. You explain that you feel really conflicted.

Frowns, looks at the ground, refusing to look you in the eye.

"I-It's okay... You should go, really! You must miss your family and--"

can't even finish his sentence and starts crying.

"N-No! I'll be okay, I'm just really sad right now, but--" hiccups "but I'll be okay. Knowing that I met you and got to spend all that time with you... I'll be okay,"

Dainsleif

Knows what it means. Is deep in thought for quite some time before approaching you about it.

"...I sometimes wonder if there really is anything left for me in this world. What fuels me? Anger? Revenge? A search for answers? Yes... Perhaps I might be interested in following you to your world, partly just to see if this curse might be lifted from me if I enter a different realm but also partly because..."

he glances at you, then stares back out into the distance.

"...Partly because I've found the calm that I lost 500 years ago... and it's right here next to you,"

Diluc

"Congratulations," is his first word.

But it takes him a moment to think about what to say next.

"...I won't hold you back from what makes you happy Y/N. Family is... something to cherish,"

Will walk you to the portal but stop you just before entering it.

"If the portal closes..." he doesn't seem to know what to do nor say next.

You touch his hand and tell him you'll try and find a way back to visit. Grasps your hand back, the pained expression on his face finally shows up.

"...Then I'll find a way back to you too, I'll see you soon,"

Gaming

"When my dad and I used to fight, even though we were in the same town... I already felt so alone. I felt like he was so far away from me and didn't understand me, even though he was right there. I can't imagine how it might feel for you, actually being far away from them,"

You say that it does feel lonely sometimes but that he has made your time here so much more better. His eyes light up despite his sadness.

"I'm really happy to hear that!"

Is very much conflicted.

"...But it's okay if I'm sad too, right? It feels like a piece of me is getting ripped away Y/N,"

Gorou

"Back home, huh,"

he sighs in defeat and doesn't hide his disappointment.

"That's good. I'm happy for you, but..."

takes a deep breath in and sighs it out just as slow.

"...It just... feels like I'm waking up from a long, long dream," his eyes open to look at the sky. "...and now I don't know how to live in reality anymore,"

Ifa

Cacucu speaks first "Seriously, bro?"

"You're leaving? Just like that?"

He asked, astonished. You tell him it's really hard for you as well but you haven't seen your family in years.

"...Y-Yeah, you're right. Forget what I said," smiles through the hurt and puts on a brave front. "I'll take you to the portal then,"

but once you're there he repeatedly stalls. Asks if you want to play with that saurian over there, or pick some flowers for your family, or look at the stars over the usual hill one more time.

"...I can't do it," he finally says. "I can't pretend I'm okay with this. I'm not gunna stop you Y/N, but... just know that Cacucu and I will always wait for you to come back,"

Itto

"That's awesome! You get to see your family and friends again!"

It doesn't completely register in his mind that you might not come back at all.

"Whaddyou mean? Like, it only goes there but you can't come back here...? Oh,"

Processes it quite slowly.

"Well, then, guess we gotta do more things together before you go! Let's go to that festival next week! Oh! We should get a photo together! I heard there's also a special show next spring--"

Seems to digest it bit by bit.

"...Right, you won't be here next spring, I guess..."

Kaeya

"I see,"

Kaeya states, smiling a little.

"I suppose it was just about time. You've stuck with me, what? Three years now?"

A silence fills the air as he realizes it's actually been three years.

"...Three years. That's actually a long time. It's a little unfair then isn't it? You're leaving and you have no idea whatsoever how long you're gunna leave me for,"

tilts your chin up to face him and whispers to you.

"Leave me something of yours, something to tell me that this wasn't all a dream. That these three years meant something to you too,"

Kazuha

"Hm..."

He sighs, solemn. But a faint smile is on his lips.

"Home is a great place, Y/N. We only appreciate it that much more when it's gone,"

Has a very genuine smile on his face.

"I suppose... Letting go is also a form of love, right?"

Kinich

"The world is a really big place,"

he says, almost without thinking.

"So I doubt it's a coincidence that our paths crossed. Though it was strange at first, I have to admit I've gotten used to you now,"

he stares off into the distance, almost as if asking the universe,

"...Am I just supposed to accept that our paths will now diverge?"

Lyney

Deflects the attention away from him. "...Lynette and Freminet aren't gunna take this well..."

You ask how HE feels about it. He doesn't answer immediately.

"I... think you know how I feel, Y/N,"

his hands start to wave and maneuver into a magic trick.

"Three years ago, I wasn't expecting you to come knocking at The House of the Hearth,"

he snaps his fingers.

"Neither did Lynette nor Freminet... But, what a joy it was to stay in your company,"

his hand does a little shake and a Rainbow Rose appears in it, he hands it over to you.

"It wouldn't be fair for us to deprive others of the joy you bring,"

Neuvillette

Makes sure that it is indeed a true way for you to get home before saying anything about it.

"I'm aware that the portal may close as soon as you walk through it,"

he says, levelling his gaze towards you.

"Though there is sorrow... there was also much pleasure in the opportunity to know you,"

the sky seems to darken and you hear a far off rumble.

"I would not ask you to choose between me and your family Y/N, but I hope you know--"

doesn't finish his sentence and droplets start to slowly fall from the sky, hitting yours and his face.

Ororon

"Oh! That's perfect, I was just thinking that my radishes were about to go bad. Maybe you can take some home?"

you explain that you might not come back and might not see him ever again.

Thinks for a second.

"...I'll just visit you in your dreams! The Night Kingdom's really in tune to people's dreams, you know?"

You say that it might not work in your world. He waves you off nonchalantly.

"Of course it will, The Night Kingdom reaches everywhere. I'll see you tonight then, let's make it a picnic, sweet dreams!"

asks Citlali to make sure he can still visit you in your dreams.

Scaramouche

"...The hell?"

Is clearly aggravated.

"After three whole years of you tailing me like a puppy dog, a solution pops out of nowhere? Sounds like bullshit to me,"

Is sceptical but asks you to lead him to the portal.

"Alright, point it out,"

Attempts to destroy the said portal.

Tartaglia

Somewhat contemplating on just keeping you for himself by making you think that the portal disappeared

"Stay,"

he knows what he's asking of you. Knows that it's selfish. So he doesn't meet your eyes.

"Can't you?"

back hugs you and buries his head into your neck.

"...Then, just for a few more days, can it just be you and me?"

Tighnari

"Interesting!"

Sees it as a studying opportunity.

"Why of all times would it open up now? Perhaps we can take a look together,"

sees it and does seem curious by the portal, but does not hesitate to send you home.

"It's only right for me to be the one to escort you back, after all, I'm the one who found you that day three years ago in the forest too,"

He doesn't seem to be too sad and you ask if he's okay.

"...For the most part, yes. I'm confident we can find a way back between our worlds,"

Wriothesley

"Here I thought you were gunna stay here forever, it's been nice to have an extra set of hands helping me out,"

seemed happy at first but his mood dwindles the more he thinks about it.

"Can you blame me for being upset? Who's going to make me my morning tea now?"

You playfully ask if that's the only thing he's worried about.

"Course not," he stays silent for a bit.

"It's the emptiness you'll leave. How quiet it's going to be, and how I know I'll keep seeing you in the littlest of things,"

Xiao

"...So be it, are you getting ready to go back?"

you say yes but you say that you do it with a heavy heart. He doesn't say anything.

He makes up some type of excuse and lets you know that he can't bring you to the portal...but also says that if you really need him, you can call his name.

In reality he had nothing to do, he just didn't know how to say goodbye.

You did call his name and he appears in front of you, black smoke dissipating.

"...Until our paths meet again Y/N. Even across worlds, I'll be listening for my name on your lips... Maybe if I listen hard enough, it'll bring me to you again,"

End

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felixir-of-moths · 3 days ago

Text

My answers bellow about ST Fandom! ✨

1. Open-minded, collaborative, supportive

2. Past Stommy: I was just in denial.

3. Nancy: I never really liked her until reading this fic (Why Eddie and Nancy are no longer allowed to play Fuck/Marry/Kill). That's how I started to see her in another light, and now I really enjoy reading/writing her.

4. I think Hellcheer has a very wholesome vibe ☺️

5. Eddie being a mess. It's one of my favorite things: the more of a mess he is, the more I love him.

6. Steddie in domestic bliss, wrapped in blanket on the couch, or camping in the wild... ☕🍪

7. I'm a huge fan of reading AU with very specific settings (a whole fantasy world, a 18th gothic horror saga, everybody is now working for a fire department... ). Some of my favorite tropes to read are came back wrong, ennemies to lovers, angst with happy ending, and the transmasc!Eddie headcanon.

8. I hope more people would come to appreciate some unconventional tropes that challenge masculinity : small dicks, trans men being tops, tops being submissive, bottoms being dominant, guys on the aro-ace spectrum...

9. I'm actually a quiet supporter of Eddancy 🫣 it's very unlike me to support straight pairing, but now is the time to be loud and proud

10. @strangerthingswritersguild of course! Being able to talk freely about a mutual passion, exchanging writing tips, participating in events... That's part of what keeps you going.

11. I'm gonna pick a short fic that hasn't received lots of attention and that I really love: Only in my head, my head. It's a meta fic with lots of hommage to fanfics that inspired me to get back on writing. The concept has a backroom/SCP vibe, with a Steddie ship that may not end well. I'm quite proud of it, and I like that it can also be a list of fic recommendations!

12. @anniebass 's ACT AU and @ataliagold Firecrew's AU are two of the first fanfics that made me say "that's it, i'm going in there, those people are fucking geniuses, i want in".

13. Fic swap ! I love writing for someone, I love writing with a precise canvas or with imposed tags / ship... And I love to do something in a style that is close to what someone like.

14. ✨S T E D D I E ✨

15. I think I'm gonna go for Robin. It's actually hard to decide between Robin and Steve. Why not Eddie? You've read my blog, you know why. I have a problem with my feelings for him, okay?

16. The cars. Look, I hate to be this guy, but cars say so much about the characters in the show. The Beemer, Eddie's van, Bill's car... They're reflect of their social status, daily habits, personalities.

17. Don't y'a, big boy?

18. #transmascEddie 🏳️‍⚧️🥰

19. Stranger Things. I had a 'Munson Obsession' relapse and my only sane way back home was through Fandom Territory.

20. Shaman King ! When I was 14 I wrote like... A thousand pages of SK fanfic, the whole thing was very poorly posted on a Skyblog whose colors were on the eye-burning level.

21. Six of Crows 🐦‍⬛ I discovered with the serie, I read the books, it's a huge inspiration for one of my not-fanfic work.

22. I've met them all in the same time when I joined the STWG ❤️

23. I don't have a specific mutual to tag, but I keep seeing things about The Archivist and I really want to know more.

24. Fandom got me back on writing when I was going through a dry spell. I felt supported, and kind of... useful ? Not that my writing is useful to any body, but the sensation of being part of something is a great morale boost.

25. You will be unhinhed: it's okay. You will talk too much, mess with some rules, worried that nobody likes you: it's okay. Remember all the things you were obsessed about last year and are now forgotten. Remember that all those people on the other side of your phone are just humans living their life. Remember that popularity is something that never happens on purpose, and that it's always flickering. Don't chase it.

✨ love your fandom ask game ✨

Saw the opposite of this floating around and thought the reverse might be fun.

list 3 positive things about your current fandom(s)

a headcanon you weren't sure about at first but have come to like!

a character that fandom has helped you appreciate

say something nice about a ship you don't ship (it can be another ship in your fandom, a mutual's OTP, etc)

something you see in fics a lot and love

something you see in art a lot and love

your favorite tropes to read/write/draw

you hope more people will come to appreciate ___ (a ship, a trope, an episode, etc)

a ship that isn't your OTP but that you enjoy

a blog (mutual or one you follow) that has made your fandom experience brighter

if you're a writer or artist, what fic or piece of art are you proud of making?

compliment someone else in your fandom

your favorite type of fandom event (gift exchange, ship week, secret santa, prompt meme, etc)

the ship that always makes you smile

the character that always makes you smile

a tiny detail in canon that you want more people to appreciate

the thing in canon that everyone loves and that you also love

a fandom tag that you track

your current fandom(s)

your very first fandom!

a fandom you're not active in anymore but that you still really like

the fandom friend you've known the longest

the fandom you're curious about because of a mutual

how has fandom positively impacted your life?

a piece of advice for taking care of yourself in fandom spaces

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unterdans · 1 day ago

Text

contempt

johnny storm x ex-gf!reader

summary: You and Johnny dated briefly in college. Things ended when he got his powers and his whole world changed. When Sue asks you to tutor Franklin, you come back into each other's lives.

content warnings: reader with fem pronouns, no use of y/n, reader is referred to as "doc" or "professor," lovers to enemies to lovers, some hurt, mostly fluff :3

wc: 3.9k

a/n: as you can see, i got carried away with my first fic here/written in... five years! sorry if it's ooc, i've only seen the new movie once so far! please enjoy-- it'll be up on ao3 in the near future.

“If she should make tender of her love, ‘tis very possible he’ll scorn it; for the man, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.” - Don Pedro, Much Ado About Nothing

You had met Johnny in your third year at Harvard when he was in his fourth year at MIT. Things flowed easily between you two. Your romance was fast but tender. Past his cocky first impression, Johnny was caring, softer than butter, and toothachingly sweet. On the nights you spent together in your apartment curled around each other in your bed, he would read whatever was on your nightstand until you fell asleep in his arms.

Then came his graduation.

You were proud of him, of course, but also scared of what would become of your relationship. He was moving to New York to work with his sister and while that wasn’t horrendously far, you knew it would put a strain on the easy, light, sugary thing you had going. You had met Sue, her husband Reed, and Reed’s best friend Ben when they would come to visit Johnny. They were all nice in their own ways, but you weren’t close enough with any of them to voice your fears about Johnny. Was what you had serious enough to inconvenience him? To inconvenience you?

When he left, you both swore up and down that you would write to each other and call in the evenings when you had the time. And at first, you both did. Johnny wrote as much as he talked— about his sister, about New York, about this space trip he and his family were selected to go on.

The letters and the calls stopped when he came back from space. Everything changed: his DNA, his job, his whole life. What would you two even talk about anymore? You were just the nice girl from his old life. It hurt like hell but you pushed on, finished your English doctorate the following year, and moved to New York yourself.

For unrelated reasons— for opportunities, of course.

You got a teaching gig at a university uptown, settled down, made friends. You didn’t forget about Johnny— how could you when his face was on literal billboards? But the ache of his leaving was just that: a dull pain in the back of your mind that you didn’t consciously think about most days. Most.

But sometimes, when the hum and glow of the city punctured your closed curtains, the loneliness hit you. He was out there, without you, a new girl on his arm every few weeks. What you had didn’t mean anything to him.

Two years passed in the comfortable rhythm that had become your life when you received a letter in a pale blue envelope at your office mailbox. It was from Sue. Although only two years old, Franklin’s intellect was developing at a rapid pace. Of course he was surrounded by the most brilliant scientists on Earth, but they wanted him to have a well-rounded education. When it came to literature and history, the Fantastic Four were aware they lacked the same prowess they had in the various sciences. Yes, Sue was a renowned diplomat. Yes, Reed had solved teleportation. Yet neither of them had read any Shakespeare beyond Romeo and Juliet. Long story short, they were looking for a tutor and her first thought had been of you, “that brilliant girl we met in Cambridge, in a different life.” She invited you to the Baxter Building Friday to meet Franklin.

No, was your first thought. That would be entirely too much. But how could you say no to this opportunity, to the goddamn Fantastic Four? Maybe Johnny wouldn’t be there. You doubt he hung around the penthouse with his nephew all day. He probably had interviews to do, magazines to pose for, and whatever else came with being America’s heartthrob. So you sat at your desk and wrote back to Sue with shaky hands.

Yes, of course. It would be great to see you again and to meet Franklin.

Your students came and went, asking for help, extensions, book recommendations. As they did, you only had Friday on your mind.. When your office hours were over, you mailed the letter, hesitating before the mouth of the mailbox. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, tutoring the Fantastic Four’s fantastic toddler.

Rather than dragging by, the week sped headfirst towards Friday. As one of the younger professors at your university, you got stuck with the undesirable Friday morning lecture slot. For once, it went by quickly. Too quickly, because the next thing you knew you were in the Baxter Building elevator. You prayed as it trudged upwards that Johnny wouldn’t be there. You could do this if your contact with him was minimal.

The elevator jolted softly when it reached the penthouse floor. Even before the doors opened, before you stepped out of the shaft, you could hear the strained voices.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The last time you heard that voice was over the phone. Back then, warmth exuded through how tired he was. Now his words had a fiery edge to them, burning you.

“I didn’t think it mattered to you, Johnny.” Sue, ever the diplomat.

Panicking, you step heavily to announce your presence. Thank god for loud heels.

“Oh, come in—”

“Give us a minute!”

Sue and Johnny’s voices mixed together in the high-ceilinged echo. You decided to listen to Sue and tentatively stepped out of the elevator and onto the landing. Blue and orange toys littered the contemporary carpet. Your eyes were glued that way for a few seconds, hesitant to look up. When you did, Johnny was already looking at you. Fuck. Franklin had been in his arms but he now handed the toddler back to his mother. Johnny looked sharply back at Sue, a soft scoff coming from his perfect mouth.

He stormed out of the living room and onto the balcony. He glanced back at you and saluted to his sister before lighting his fire and leaping into the sky.

Sue turned to you. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You swallowed, trying to regain your composure. “It’s fine! If my being here is a problem at all—”

She smiled at you in that dazzling, comforting way of hers. “Not at all. He was just caught off guard.”

You nodded in understanding. “This handsome guy must be Franklin!”

Talking to Sue and getting to know Franklin had a sense of ease to it. On the part of the Invisible Woman, it nearly felt like you were picking up right where you had left off. Although her whole world had changed— not only with her new powers and her role in international politics, but with her son as well— she was the same earnest and intelligent woman you had briefly known those years ago. She listened to you intently as you discussed the curriculum you had come up with. She seemed to respect you, despite how things had fizzled out with Johnny.

Franklin was a wonder, his intelligent eyes sparkling all over the room as he played on the floor, examining you from time to time with curiosity. Despite your initial hesitancy and awkwardness around Johnny, you were excited to take up this challenge. Having next to no experience teaching children didn’t make a difference— Franklin was far from normal.

As the sun lowered in the sky, Reed and Ben returned from the lab. Both men came up short for a moment upon seeing, no, upon recognizing you. You were a ghost from their past, however briefly they had known you. You were Johnny’s ghost most of all. Besides Sue, they all reacted so strongly to seeing you that anxiety prickled your neck, worrying about what they thought of you. You took a breath to steady yourself and in that span of time, both Ben and Reed regained their composure and greeted you.

“Good to see you again,” Ben said when he shook your hand.

“Same to you, and to you Dr. Richards,” you said and turned to the shorter man.

“Just Reed, please,” he shook your hand for longer than most would. “Sue has been filling us in on your career since we last met.”

Your face flushed. “Oh!” was all you could squeak out.

“We have a lot of catching up to do, don’t we?” Sue said from the living room. “Would you be able to stay for dinner?”

Your face flushed further. Dinner with the Fantastic Four? Dinner with your ex’s family? Dinner with your ex?

“I wouldn’t want to impo—”

“It’d be our pleasure,” Reed assured you.

Sue came up behind you and put a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Have you read James Baldwin's new book?” Ben asked. All the tension eased out of your shoulders. You could do this.

“I actually just picked up a copy last week,” you said.

H.E.R.B.I.E had started cooking while you were talking to Sue, so all that was left was to set the table and make some finishing touches to the meal, which Ben did eagerly. You chatted with the family about the political context and perspective Baldwin brought to his new work as you gathered around the table, waiting for Johnny. Five minutes passed easily, then ten.

When he finally flew in from the balcony, he didn’t notice you at first. His eyes glazed over you, but not as if he were purposefully ignoring you.

As if you belonged there.

You blinked rapidly to get the thought out of your head. Johnny could have anyone he wanted, why would he be stuck on you? Normal, nerdy you.

“Sorry, sorry everyone. Flew upstate to clear my head and lost track of time.” He sauntered over to the table and took the seat across from you. Only when he sat down did he realize you were there. He stilled. Maybe this had been a bad idea.

“Wasn’t expecting you to still be here, doc.”

You scoffed lightly, it could almost be a laugh. Hardly anyone ever called you doctor, even if you did have a doctorate. “If you call me doc, I’ll have to call you the Human Torch.”

Ben laughed and it encouraged you until Johnny glared at him and spoke. “I could live with that.”

For such a hothead, he seemed to be icing you out. The rest of dinner was somewhat tense as the rest of the family asked you about your dissertation, the university you taught at, and your students. Johnny didn’t speak the rest of the time, which was both a relief and a concern. Johnny never shut up. Never. But tonight he sat like a kicked puppy across from you, his big eyes glued to his plate.

The deal you cut with Sue was to come Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons to teach Franklin. Most of these would end right before the family had dinner, so you became a regular at their table, much to Johnny’s chagrin. After two weeks of pouting, though, he seemed to at least accept that you’d be around for a while.

At the end of the third week of having you around, Johnny was finally able to admit to himself that it was nice seeing you again. You were on his turf, which was remarkably different from when you two had dated. He never want to bring you to his apartment back then, because what if you didn’t love his space, his things, didn’t love him, like he—

But that was a lifetime ago. Everything was different now. When you never called after the space mission, it was clear to Johnny that you didn’t want to be part of his life now that he was… not normal. Imagine his confusion when Sue told him you were coming to tutor his nephew, the least normal child in the universe. As you sat at his family’s dinner table multiple times a week, his confusion only grew. You treated them no differently than you did three years ago. To Johnny, it didn’t seem like it registered to you that they were celebrities either.

So why did you never call?

“You’re on fire, Johnny,” Ben said, gravelly but cool. The rest of the table looked at Johnny with surprise; he never put his flame on at the dinner table and had gained complete control over it… or so they thought. The torch himself looked down at his hands in surprise and extinguished them. He realized with embarrassment that he had been staring at you and warped his fork with his heat.

“Are you feeling alright?” you asked.

Why did it have to be you who asked? The worst part of all was the genuine care in your voice. Your eyebrows knitted together in concern and it made Johnny’s heart stutter. He couldn’t reconcile this version of you with the one he had in his head: ashamed and distant.

“Johnny?” Sue brought him back to now.

“Should I get some water?” You asked him.

“No,” he said sharply, “I don’t need you to get me water.”

“Jonathan!” Sue scolded him.

“What does that mean?” you asked as he stormed to the kitchen with his plate, half tripping over H.E.R.B.I.E.

“That means I don’t need anything from you,” he said simply. “Ever.”

The room collectively sighed as he escaped to his room. Your face burned with embarrassment and hurt. “Ever.” Maybe you had hoped that things would change when you took this job. How foolish. Everything about him was different. Where was that sweetness, that softness you had known? Had it all burned away?

Sue, for one, had had enough. She knew her little brother and she knew you well enough to read how you both still cared for each other. Platonically at the extreme least. So she came up with a plan: the two of you could hardly communicate with each other, but if the rest of the team were to convince one of the other’s feelings, maybe, just maybe, you would come to a resolution. Back when you were both in college, you brought out the best in Johnny— enough that Sue could tell, even though she didn’t see her little brother often. His grades improved, he got in trouble less because he wanted to impress you. His motorcycle stunts and purported nonchalance had no effect on you, so he had no choice to bring out the real Johnny. And the real Johnny was refreshing to Sue.

The only problem Johnny had with an open floor plan was that it made it difficult to eavesdrop. Reed and Sue sat on the sofa just out of sight from the kitchen, behind the fireplace in the center of the room, discussing the seating plan for the Future Foundation’s upcoming benefit.

They seemed to have forgotten he was there.

“And the professor?” Reed asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sue said, humming thoughtfully.

“There’s an open space next to Johnny.”

The Human Torch swallowed his cereal and ate another handful, crunching quietly.

Sue chuckled. “I thought we wanted this to run smoothly.”

“She won’t know anyone else there,” Reed offered.

“She told me the other day that—” Sue lowered her voice enough so that Johnny had to focus to hear her “— she misses Johnny’s friendship. She’s professional, so she didn’t let on at dinner last week, but their exchange really hurt her.”

Johnny’s heart stuttered. He had been shoveling more cereal into his mouth but paused his chewing to listen.

“Why hasn’t she told him?”

“You know Johnny, Reed. Once he’s been burned, he doesn’t forget. And you’ve seen them interact enough— it wouldn’t go well. He’s too proud.”

Too proud? Is that what his big sister really thought of him? Of all the people, Sue knew him best. And apparently she knew him to be… unforgiving. He didn’t want to be that person— for her, for Franklin, for you.

Reed and Sue moved on from discussing you, and Johnny crunched on his Lucky Charms, lost in thought.

You arrived at the penthouse of the Baxter Building at three pm on the dot, like always. Johnny had made a point of leaving out the window when you arrived most days, but today, he sat with Franklin in the living room. You hesitated to come closer, but he noticed you and… smiled.

“Hi,” he said with a little wave. Your face must have betrayed your thoughts, because his grin turned sheepish.

“Is Sue around?” you asked.

Johnny shook his head. “No, sorry, she was called to present at the UN today. Seems you're stuck with me till Reed comes back from the lab.”

Anxiety crept up your neck again. You were not emotionally prepared for this. Shit.

“Okie dokie, then,” you said, mentally kicked yourself, and entered the den.

The lesson was brutal. Sue always sat in and it never bothered you, but Johnny’s gaze felt so heavy on you as you explained the act of Much Ado About Nothing you had just read with Franklin.

“Sometimes people that love each other have a hard time expressing it. Benedick and Beatrice were so wrapped up in what they thought the other had done wrong that they couldn’t realize how deeply they cared for one another.” Your voice trembled. When you lifted your eyes from your notes, Johnny was staring at you again. His lips were parted as if he were about to ask you something, but instead he looked away. Your heart raced for some reason— he had made his feelings clear, hadn’t he? Or…

“Shakespeare makes it clear that they have a history, but never what exactly happened. Perhaps even they don’t know and it was simply…”

“Circumstance.” Johnny finishes your sentence when you trail off.

“Exactly,” you breathe.

The elevator dinged and Reed entered the apartment not a moment too soon.

“Hello, professor,” he greeted you warmly.

“Hi, Reed.”

“Are you staying for dinner?”

“I was wondering—” Johnny interjected as he picked up Franklin, bouncing the boy in his arms, “—if you’d want to go out to dinner?”

“H.E.R.B.I.E.’s been cooking for hours already,” Reed said.

“Just the professor, Stretch, I see you more than I’d like.”

Reed rolled his eyes as he took Franklin from his uncle. You watched the two tentatively.

“So, how about it?” Johnny asked again. He rocked back and forth on his heels, hands in his pockets, the very image of a nervous little boy. His eyes sparkled in the low light, brows knitted together almost apologetically.

“Sure,” you finally said with a nod. Johnny grinned and legitimately cheered. Reed flinched at the volume of it. As the two of you walked towards the elevator, he pat Reed on the shoulder.

“Sue and you are not that slick,” he whispered to Reed. “...but thank you.”

Johnny took you to a quiet restaurant that was only fifteen minutes from the Baxter Building. All the waitstaff recognized him and you figured he must bring girls here often. Nothing special was going on here, surely. You were intrigued, though, by the fact that the restaurant was a little worn down. It wasn’t flashy, like you expected Johnny Storm’s date spot to be. In fact, it occurred to you as you sat down across from him, none of the tabloid pictures with his various flings featured the checkered tablecloth the establishment was very fond of.

“First of all,” he started as he poured you a glass of wine, “I’d like to apologize for being… well for being an ass these past few weeks.”

You shrugged. “It’s been weird for me, too. Apology wine accepted.”

He laughed as you brought the glass to your lips. “You’ve changed a lot since Cambridge.”

At that, you raised an eyebrow. “Your DNA was literally restructured. You’ve saved the universe. I’m the same person you knew then.”

“No, you’re not. You’re— you’re more mature. I mean, you’ve really made a life for yourself and I’m proud of you. I haven’t changed much besides being more… of an uncle.”

You laughed lightly and he giggled along with you.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who was born to be an uncle, Johnny.”

“It’s a good fit, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

He looked lovely like this: lit by warm candleglow, eyes darting between you and the table, his leg bouncing anxiously. Johnny similarly marveled at the way you leaned in close to listen to him, the way your eyelashes fanned across your cheek when you laughed, how you nervously fiddled with your hair.

He swallowed his pride and finally asked you.

“Why did you never call after the space mission?”

You perked up at the question and he watched as a wave of sadness rolled over you. A pit dipped in his stomach at the sight of how you turned inward, how you withdrew from him. You looked at him like he should know the answer already.

“It was clear life had more in store for you. I didn’t want to hold you back from that. I was just me and now you were a hero. When you never called, I thought it was because you had moved on. Because you had changed and now I was too regular.”

As you spoke, your eyes drifted towards the flame between you two, gaze becoming distant as you remembered those feelings at their most raw. When you looked back up at Johnny, his face was stricken.

“I thought… you never called because you didn’t want to be with someone like me. That you didn’t like the changes I— we— had gone through.”

“No, Johnny, of course not. It’s quite cool, actually.”

“Fantastic, even?”

You laughed and rolled your eyes. What a cornball.

Dinner came and went pleasantly, mostly talking about music, but Johnny laughed unprompted while you shared dessert.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he tried to dismiss it.

“No, tell me!”

He put his spoon down and leaned back in his seat. “We’re just a couple of idiots, that’s all. This whole time I thought you didn’t like me, you thought I didn’t like you, meanwhile I never stopped caring about you.” He didn’t dare to speak on your behalf.

“I never stopped caring about you, either,” you breathed. Your hands prickled with excitement.

“See? A bunch of idiots, you and me.”

“Mostly you.”

“Mostly me.”

When you left the restaurant, your hand dangled near Johnny’s, begging him to hold it without saying a word. Your fingers bumped once, twice— he finally got the hint and laced your hands together. Sometimes your strides would become unsynchronized, but he’d make a point of slowing down to match you. The air felt charged between you two, now that everything was revealed.

“I missed this,” you hummed.

“I missed you, pretty girl,” he said, pausing in the street. You took this moment to embrace him. He didn’t respond at first, stunned, but then hugged you tighter than he ever had. Your cheek pressed against his warm chest as if it were meant to be there. Johnny pulled away first, but only to look down at you, admiring. One hand snaked up to brush hair out of your eyes.

“Is it too soon to ask to kiss you?” he whispered.

“We’ve been waiting a few years, haven’t we?”

He chuckled at that. “May I?”

“Of course.” He leaned down to kiss you— so chastely it almost made you laugh. It was fucking sweet, how gentle he could be. When your mouths met, they weren’t hungry or desperate but full of steady longing. In your previous relationship, things had been fast and intense. A perfect match marching towards its inevitable fizzle. This? This was a hearth you could build a home around.

thank you for reading! let me know what you think :3

dividers by @saradika-graphics.

#johnny storm #human torch #fantastic four #f4 #johnny storm x reader #human torch x reader #fantastic four x reader #joseph quinn #joe quinn

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demonpiratehuntress · 3 days ago

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the green she-monster (Straw Hats + Ace, Law, Kaku)

featuring - Zoro x F!Reader, Ace x F!Reader, Law x F!Reader, Kaku x F!Reader, Sanji x F!Reader, Usopp x F!Reader, Luffy x F!Reader

summary - you're the jealous one this time

warnings - violence (mostly in Sanji's but slight in all)

a/n - i apologise for the long absence, guys, the movie K-Pop Demon Hunters has taken over my life at the moment so i was writing all my ideas for that before i forgot them

ZORO

You trust him. He'd never given you a reason not to. It was other women you didn't trust, because you'd seen firsthand how handsy and daring they could get despite being told no.

Like now, you were sitting in a local tavern with Nami and Robin, eyes trained on the group of women eyeing your boyfriend like he was a piece of meat. They hadn't moved yet, but you had no doubt that they were going to. Your oblivious swordsman was already halfway drunk, and wouldn't be able to hold back so many on his own.

One of them finally got up, brave enough to approach him. She flashed him a smile, he told her that he's with you, and she said she just wanted to talk.

She did not just want to talk.

You were up and storming over at the first touch, the moment her fingers grazed the skin of his arm was also the moment you caught her wrist and yanked her away.

Your smile was sickeningly sweet, a subtle threat seeping into your words, "Now, is that any way to treat a happily taken man? He said he was with me, so are you deaf or just that stupid?"

The woman's eyes widened and she quickly scuttled off back to her group, warning them in hushed whispers about you, the handsome swordsman's girlfriend. You smiled smugly, only to havwle that wiped off when Zoro started laughing.

"And what do you find so funny?" You crossed your arms.

"I've never seen you jealous before," he smirked, downing yet another bottle of sake. Refusing to let up.

"I wasn't jealous!" You huffed. "She was crossing a boundary!"

"Mhm," he grinned devilishly, wrapping one arm loosely around your waist, "You're the only woman that can handle my stupidity and my attitude, I'm not messing that up."

"Say that again," you grinned. "The stupidity and attitude part."

He rolled his eyes, but pulled you to his side and practically hung off you the rest of the night.

ACE

It was an undeniable and unavoidable fact that your boyfriend drew unwanted attention from women everywhere you went. Besides the fact that he was outrageously attractive, he also walked around shirtless, proudly displaying his toned chest.

It was never an issue for you, unless any one of those women made it an issue. And more often than not, they did.

You thought you could relax in a tavern after a rough fight, but it seemed that your boyfriend's charm and good looks had other plans for you. You did nothing at first, sitting back and watching the women flock to him, only planning to intervene when they make an attempt to touch him.

One of them always did.

Your eyes narrowed when a particular brave woman reached out and brushed her fingers over his abs. You slammed your drink down with more force than necessary, chair scraping against the ground loudly as you got to your feet.

"Is there any specific reason you're touching what doesn't belong to you?" You asked the woman as you approached, hand resting on your gun. Not an ounce of your usual cheeriness in your tone.

She frowned at you, "He didn't say-"

You stepped forward, grabbing her arm that was still raised to touch Ace, "You don't get to touch anyone without their consent, regardless." Then you shoved her back like that, putting yourself between your stunned boyfriend and the slightly afraid group of women. "Would anyone else like to test my patience tonight?"

They all ran off.

Ace grinned and wrapped his arms around you from behind, "I didn't know you had a possessive streak. It's hot."

"I wasn't jealous!" You protested.

"I never said that," he laughed, "But okay, you were definitely jealous."

You swatted his arm.

LAW

You tend not to get jealous since Law is generally very avoidant of situations that would make either one of you uncomfortable. He doesn't tolerate unwanted advances, and acts as if the person is not even there.

That doesn't mean it doesn't happen, though.

You were sitting in a bar at an island stop that the crew asked for, and you watched as one or two daring women approached your stoic boyfriend. Partially amused, partially concerned for their sakes.

He didn't give them the time of day. Just sat next to you, looking at his drink like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. When they spoke, asking for his attention, he looked up. Surprised that women would even approach him with his reputation.

You let them venture a little more. Crossed your arms, leaned back, eyes focused on their desperate, and frankly pathetic, attempts at flirtatious smiles.

And then you stepped in.

Leaning forward, you looked them dead in the eye when you spoke, "Interested in the Surgeon of Death, are you?" You offered a very fake, sickly sweet smile. "Well, I'm not above getting my hands dirty too."

Their eyes widened at your implication, and they sheepishly excused themselves and hurried back to their table. You leaned back in your chair like nothing happened, unaware of Law raising his eyebrow beside you.

"Ignoring them works fine," he tried to hide the amusement in his voice, but you knew him too well.

You huffed, "I wasn't jealous!"

"I never said that you were," his lips curled into a smug smirk. "But that's good to know."

"I wasn't!"

"Mhm. Possessiveness looks good on you."

You short-circuited.

KAKU

You'd already had a bad day at work. Throw in some random woman who had nothing better to do than gawk at and make inappropriate comments about your boyfriend, and you were ready to explode.

You usually didn't get jealous of Kaku's admirers - that was always going to be a problem, so you just got used to it. But it becomes intolerable when those women start gushing and swooning like teenagers. Practically drooling over him.

You were bringing him dinner, since it was too late to have lunch. You walked past all the blushing women with your jaw clenched, waiting for one of them to push you over the edge.

And one of them did.

She saw Kaku walking this way - because he'd seen you and was coming to you - and got excited. Pushing you out of the way, she called for him eagerly and didn't notice the bag of food tumbling out of your hands.

You snapped and pulled her hair, "Don't you think it's a bit rude to shove people? Especially when they are carrying food!" You gestured to your fallen dinner. "Do you plan to buy me and my boyfriend more?" You emphasised 'my boyfriend' just as Kaku reached you, to get your point across.

She hastily apologised, whimpering at the grip you had on her hair. You let her go irritably, only to be engulfed in a warm hug a second later.

"Bad day, hmm?" Kaku murmured.

"Yeah," you sighed.

"It's cute when you get temperamental like that," he grinned.

You gave him a look.

"Okay, uh, let's talk about your bad day then!"

SANJI

You were getting jealous every other day. It was a common feeling considering the man you were with had a tendency to smile flirtatiously and wink at every walking thing in a dress.

But today you weren't having it.

It was mid-fight, in Enies Lobby, and Sanji was non-stop flirting with that stupid CP9 agent, Khalifa. Granted, she was pretty, but she also irritated you and you had no idea why. So now watching him tell her she's pretty and that he can't hit her just made your frustration boil over.

And you snapped.

You stormed over to them and grabbed a broken piece of wood off the floor, ramming it hard into the woman and sending her flying away from your boyfriend.

"Get up," you face-palmed, then turned to Khalifa. "And you..."

You didn't say much. You just physically reminded everyone else of why Luffy had recruited you, and why even Zoro was wary and nervous around you sometimes.

"Stupid, ugly, dumb blonde!" You were yelling when Sanji was rising to his feet, only to see you repeatedly whacking her with your plank like it was a hammer.

Sanji's eyes widened and he rushed over to pull you away before you got angrier, uncertain of whether he was terrified or turned on. Probably both.

"You!" You whirled on him, sticking a finger in his face.

He eventually calmed you down with a tight hug and sweet words whispered in French into your ear, gently swaying with you.

"My love, you are truly a sight to behold when you are-"

"Don't say it. Because I wasn't."

"But-"

"Sanji."

"Fine," he pouted. "But you were truly magnificent."

You grumbled something under your breath about how he was a flatterer, but accepted his hug and his compliment and the gentle kiss to the top of your head.

LUFFY

It wasn't even Boa this time. You were docked at an island to restock supplies and everyone was given the day to explore and relax before you hit the water again. You and Luffy bounced around from restaurant to restaurant, tavern to tavern. Anywhere there was food, you and Luffy were in there.

You just didn't expect the lady who served your food to be so into your boyfriend, because generally girls tended to want to smack him upside the head.

But here you were, watching her smile flirtatiously at him, watching her speak in a sweet voice, watching her compliment his straw hat. All with your jaw clenched.

And then she brought Luffy extra food, while your portion seemed a bit...small. And that's when you snapped, slamming your hand down onto the table and earning both of their attention.

"Do you not see me?" You glared at her. "Am I invisible? No, then stop flirting with my boyfriend amd bring normal portions of food!"

Luffy's eyes widened and the server backed up, apologising profusely before running off and asking someone else to help you guys. You turned back to your food, angrily picking at it.

"What was that?" Luffy blinked.

"She can't flirt with my boyfriend," you grumbled.

"Oh!" Luffy's eyes lit up. "You were jealous!" Then he laughed obnxiously loudly. "(Name), you don't have to be jealous! You know I only want you."

"I know," your cheeks warmed, "But she was annoying."

He grinned and put you on his lap, right there and then, and you shared your meal like that.

USOPP

It was one of the most peaceful days the Straw Hat crew had so far. You got to relax on a beach, after restocking your supplies in the village of this island. You took this opportunity to sunbathe as the boys played in the water, Nami and Robin next to you.

Then Usopp came up to you, shirtless with just swimming trunks on. He was coming for the beach ball, but he fumbled with it and let it bounce away before he chased after it.

Only for a pretty girl to stop it. You and Nami shot up, pushing your hats up to watch the scene that unfolded before you. You weren't worried though, no one ever flirted with-

"Hi," she smiled at him, definitely flirtatiously, "You're cute."

You scrambled to your feet, already making your way over before Nami and Robin could stop you. When you got there, she was touching his arm lightly and flirtatiously, trying to be subtle but you saw right through it.

"Hey, back off," you stepped between them, shoving her away a bit aggressively. "Touching my boyfriend like that right in front of me is extremely disrespectful, or were you raised in a backward family?"

Her eyes widened as she stumbled back, stuttering out an apology before turning and running off, away from the beach. You turned and went bacl to your spot, like nothing happened.

Usopp stared at you, "Is it okay if I thought that was really hot?"

You laughed, then smirked triumphantly.

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dreamescapeswriting · 1 day ago

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𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝑾𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅 ~ 𝑩𝑪

⤜WORD COUNT: 17.8K

⤜ PAIRING: Chan x Fem!Reader

⤜ GENRE: fake dating, grumpy x sunshine, destination wedding romance, emotional hurt/comfort, slow burn, found family, fluff with a splash of angst, fade to black (mentions of weight gain, bullying from family about weight) fast paced, almost insta love I want to say,

⤜ TROPES: fake dating, one bed, ex-hockey player, protective male lead, grumpy x sunshine, mutual pining, he falls first, standing up to toxic family, strangers to lovers, secret softie, small town charm, leads on to more fics for each member

DISCLAIMER: I’m dyslexic so sometimes writing words can come out a bit different. Example: Sometimes I’d write Box instead of books, or confuse myself by thinking too far into the sentence “The whole time you’d known her you’d never known her to touch a drop of TEA. (meaning coffee) she usually stuck to tea”. (If that makes sense oh my gosh)

⤜MASTERLIST

The morning sun was spilling through the living room windows of your house, making it warm under your bare feet. You were sitting in the bay window seat reading through the local gossip column of your small town - Citrus Cove - and the gossip was popping off this morning. The owner of the local bakery - Mrs Jones - had spotted a moving fan coming into the town, and the dinner owner had commented, mentioning the guy moving in was incredible to look at. You smirked to yourself as you shook your head, reading through the comments.

Citrus Cove was a small town with a population of maybe 800 people, which meant that everyone knew everyone, and of course, gossip was a must in a small place such as this one. It had been the same when you’d first moved here; everyone knew who you were before you’d even finished unpacking your boxes, but you wouldn’t change a thing about it.

You loved the small coastal town in the middle of nowhere. It had almost everything you could need, sure, the nearest mall was almost an hour's drive, but at least you weren’t surrounded by millions of people. Besides, who didn’t want to live somewhere where the main street was filled with small businesses and cafes? It was the heart of Citrus Cove. Then you had the local coffee shop where everyone hung out. The daily squeeze. Which was run by the cutest elderly lady - Mrs Dalloway - who had given you your first job in the town until you worked in the local inn.

The place was lovely, but there wasn’t too much to do besides the pier where everybody seemed to hang out, and the library/Rec center, where there was also a nursery where you tried to help out as much as possible. The joys of small-town life meant everyone was willing to help one another.

“Oh my god,” You giggled to yourself as you saw the old football coach mentioning the guy moving in was handsome as well. It seemed that whoever the mystery guy was, he already had a lot of the elder generation wrapped around his fingers. You sipped your coffee and looked up and out of the window when you saw it:

A white van pulled into the house next door. The For Sale sign had come down last week, but no one knew who had bought the place — and in Citrus Cove, that was basically a national emergency. Which now explained the gossip in the town's group.

You squinted out the window, trying to get a peek at the guy everyone was chatting about.

A guy jumped down from the driver's seat. Tall. Broad shoulders. He was wearing a baseball cap turned backwards. He moved stiffly as he picked up the boxes, and you could almost swear that there was a slight limp as he moved.

New neighbor alert.

And you were wearing pajama pants with a hole in the knee.

You hesitated for like a full thirty seconds, then grabbed your hoodie and headed outside anyway. It was the neighbourly thing to do to offer to help, right? You wanted to help him, and it had nothing to do with wanting to know more about him…Though curiosity always won in this town, and you were going to be neighbours with him.

“Hey!” you called, jogging up the drive as he wrestled with a lamp sticking out of a box. “Need a hand?”

Chan looked up — and you blinked. No wonder the guy had won the hearts of people in town. He was breathtaking. But even then, that didn’t feel like the right way to describe him; truly, the man looked like something ripped from a magazine.

Dimples. Brown eyes that looked like the shade of a perfect hot chocolate at the start of autumn. Then his smile?! It was the kind of smile that probably ruined a few hearts over the years. Chan grinned as he looked at you, his eyes lingering on the PJs you were wearing that had a few holes in them, and the cartoon characters were slightly faded.

“Nice pajamas.” He chuckled softly, and you detected an Australian accent, your heart skipped a beat, a little before you felt the self-consciousness creeping in. Here he was looking like he just came out of a magazine, and you had just gotten up.

You tugged the sleeves of your hoodie a little and could feel your cheeks beginning to heat up. He’s not like them. You tried to convince yourself. You’d grown up with a family that made it known to you that you were being judged heavily by them, and sometimes it still played on your mind when someone would playfully tease you.

“Thanks. I call this look ‘just woke up and emotionally unprepared for social interaction.’” You laugh softly and do a small spin for him so he can get a good look at you, and Chan laughs wholeheartedly. He’d barely spoken to you, and he already felt at ease…And you weren’t screaming in his face, asking for a photo or autograph, so that was always a plus.

“I like it,” he said easily, shifting the box into one arm. There was a chance you had no idea who he was, which was a relief to him. When his manager had suggested this small town to get away from everything, part of him worried people would know him, but everyone he’d seen that morning was the wiser.

“Very bold.” He teases, and you roll your eyes, but you can’t stop your smile. It seemed as though he was going to be a nice neighbour to have at least. And he didn’t seem like the guy who lived there before. He’d been a huge hoarder. After he’d left Citrus Cove, you’d helped Alan, the real estate agent, get the home ready for pics, and there were thousands of board games everywhere as well as plastic spoons.

“I’m Y/N. I live next door.” You tell him with another smile, picking up one of his boxes and following him inside as you both put them down. Chan turned to look at you and nodded,

“Chan,” he offered, then paused. There was a chance that if he gave you his last name, you might Google him…but would it look weird if he didn’t give it to you? “Like... just Chan. No last name right now. Still unpacking that part of my identity.” You laughed a little and nodded.

“Mysterious. I like it, Just Chan.” You laugh, and he chuckles shyly, going back out to the van with you.

The two of you continued to bring in the boxes from the van and into the house, you following his every order on where he wanted things put. You’d also popped out to get changed and grabbed you both some coffee and had insisted on paying for it all since he was new in town.

“When you’re unpacked, we should check out Mrs Jones’s cafe. I swear to god, she puts crack in the cinnamon rolls.” You tell him as you sit on the kitchen counter, sipping on your coffee, as Chan chuckled,

“Yeah? Is it close?” Chan wasn’t exactly used to small towns. The last place he’d lived was a city, and everything was pretty far from where he lived in his apartment.

“Five-minute walk, and then next to her place, there's a diner, which by the way, has the best breakfast burrito, and you’ll totally be getting one of those at some point this week.”

“Is that an excuse for you to get one and just give me one too?” He smirks, nudging you with his foot a little, and you whine at him,

“I usually get one on Wednesday mornings on my way to work,” You corrected him, and he smirked at you. Usually, Chan didn’t want to be around people too much, but there was something about you that made him feel at ease, and he wanted to get to know you more.

“Where do you work?” he quizzes as he jumps up onto the counter opposite you and drinks from the to-go cup you’d gotten. Damn, the coffee was amazing. He didn't even want to imagine the baked goods Mrs Jones was selling.

“There’s an inn just outside of town, the Clementine Inn.” You mentioned, and Chan nodded. It was where he was supposed to stay originally when he was coming into town, but he’d managed to get the house earlier than he’d expected.

“Oh! Yeah, I was meant to stay there, but my real estate agent got the paperwork finished early.” You smiled a little and nodded. You couldn’t remember speaking to anyone with an Aussie accent over the phone, so you could only assume it was your friend who had booked him in.

“You probably spoke with me on the phone then, that or-”

“It was a girl who sounded like she’d had a little too much sugar that morning?” He offered, and you giggled a little and nodded, it sounded like your best friend, alright.

“That would be our other neighbour. She’s away on holiday, so you don’t have to worry about her for now.” You tease and shake your head at him.

“Do you know everyone in town then?” He arched his brow.

“Almost, but it’s nice. Last winter, the hardware store owner came out and fixed my window and lock because my front door was shit.” You shake your head. You’d been so glad to Fred since you didn’t have to freeze your ass off all winter.

“Seems like a nice town then,” He kept talking, but your phone buzzing inside your pocket drew your attention away for a second, and you pulled it out, checking it over, but you wished you hadn’t. As soon as you saw your sister's contact information on the screen, your stomach bottomed out.

Sister 🐍: Just a reminder about the wedding next week. I assume you’re still coming? You'd better have booked that room — we don’t have space otherwise.

Sister 🐍: Also, please don’t wear anything weird. This is my big moment. Try not to make it about you for once x

Right, as if you could forget about it. The wedding. Her wedding…To your ex.

Your sister had taken a lot from you over the years: clothes, friends, your confidence. But this? This had been the final nail in the humiliation coffin for you. You and Daniel had been together for almost six months when you finally took him home to meet your family. You knew you weren’t able to avoid them forever, and you’d been wise to do it until then.

But as soon as you’d introduced him to your sister, you knew your mistake, instantly. She spent the whole night batting her lashes at him, flipping her hair, and giggling at everything he said, and your parents went along with it.

“Yn? You okay?” Chan asked as he tilted his head, bringing you back into the room. You hesitated a little and shook your head, putting your phone down onto the counter.

“My sister is getting married…to my ex, and she expects me to show up to the wedding and smile about it,” You sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose, and instantly Chan feels rage. She’s taken someone from you? Not only that, but someone had left you for her? What kind of shit eating human did that kind of balls?

“Are you fucking kidding?”

“Trust me, I wish.” You groan a little and shake your head. Whenever people found out about this, they had the same reaction. Every single person thought you were joking and then they'd either side with your sister, if they knew her, or call her a raging bitch, which you agreed with.

“Was it someone from here?” He questioned, ready to fight the guy if he ever came across him around the town.

“God no, it was before I moved to Citrus Cove. It was the reason I moved here; here, no one knew me. I know that probably sounds silly.” You grumbled and shook your head. Chan bit back the urge to tell you he understood more than you would think.

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking…”

“My whole life, my sister has just been awful to me…I never knew why. I figured when we were younger, she’d grow out of it, but she never did. She took my clothes, friends…Toys…Every boyfriend I’d had in high school.” You shook your head a little, and Chan’s heart softened even more for you. He’d never imagined growing up with someone like that; his family had always been close, and he and his siblings got along.

“I was always referred to as the plain Jane…I wasn’t anything special, I wasn’t ugly, but I wasn’t pretty either compared to her. My family likes to remind me every now and again I’ll never be like Delilah.” You sigh and stop, realising you were now trauma dumping on someone you’d met less than three hours ago,

“Keep going,” he urges, poking your leg with his foot.

“Delilah is big on social media…Like huge. When I took Daniel home to meet my family, she set her eyes on him, and that was it. Not even a day after we got home, he ended things with me, and she posted him all over her feed, and they’ve been together since.”

“What a piece of fucking shit,” He growls out. He could hardly believe what he was hearing from you,

“First, you’re fucking stunning, even in your faded pajamas and just woken up to right now, with sweat covering your head and tired from lugging my boxes around,” He rambled a little, and your heart began to pick up speed. He thought you were pretty? God, you were fighting butterflies right now.

“T-Thanks, Chan. I’m honestly dreading it, the wedding is in Spain, and I keep trying to tell myself I can avoid them, but I know them. They’ll organise meals together and make snide comments about how I’m clearly not over Daniel.” You sigh, pushing your head in your hands. Chan bit down on his lip.

For some reason, he had the overwhelming urge to help you. He knew exactly how,

“Do you need a fake boyfriend?” He questioned. You finally pulled your hands away from your face and blinked at him, afraid you’d heard him wrong.

“Huh?” Chan shrugged casually. It happens in books and movies all of the time, right? What was the issue with doing it in real life? It would help you out, and he would get to go to Spain for a while…Plus, he was really enjoying his time with you.

“It’s a classic. Works in movies all the time. I’m new here, and have nothing to do. You need moral support. Boom. Win-win.” He made it sound as if this was something he would do on a regular basis, and you laughed a little but stared at him.

“You want to fly to Spain with me to pretend we’re dating?” You gestured between the two of you, and he grinned at you.

“Sure. I’ve got a passport. And I look great in wedding photos,” he wiggled his eyebrows at you. You had no doubt in your mind that he looked good in all the photos that there ever were of him.

Your mouth opened. Closed. It opened again. You weren’t entirely sure if he was just pulling your leg or was giving you a real proposition for you to consider…and part of you hoped it was real.

“…are you serious?” You ask him slowly, unsure if this is some kind of joke.

“Deadly,” Chan said as he took your empty coffee cup and put it into the bin, moving around the kitchen as he unpacked some of the plates and bowls, putting them into various cupboards, all the while you watched him.

“Let me get this straight,” you said slowly, handing him a mug and then another.

“You’re willing to fly across the world with a girl you just met, pretend to be in love with me, survive my toxic family, and eat hotel food for four days?” You looked up at him, and he grinned down at you with a shrug of his shoulders.

“You forgot ‘look great in photos.’” You gave him a look, one that said you didn’t believe him or you were unsure of it.

“You’re either very nice or a little unhinged,” Chan smirked at you and shook his head.

“Can’t I be both?” You shook your head at him, completely flustered by his offer. This was insane, right?

“I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You didn’t. I offered.” You stared at him, unsure of what to say. Chan seemed calm…Almost too calm, as if he’d done things ten times more intense than faking a relationship before.

“…What did you used to do before moving here?” you asked casually. He’d not mentioned what he’d done before coming to Citrus Cove; there was something about him that seemed like he wasn’t your normal townie. Chan glanced away for a second, just a flicker as he made himself seem busy:

“A little bit of travel. Some sports stuff. Mostly just... noise.” He shrugged, trying to keep it as vague as possible. For the first time in years, he wasn't a famous hockey player (Well, ex-hockey player), he was just Chan, next door neighbour to the incredibly cute girl he wanted to get to know.

“Noise?” You arched your brow this time, following him as he moved to put some more kitchenware away

“Yeah. Big crowds. Cameras. It got loud,” he grumbled a little. Everything had gotten too much toward the end. A giant accident on the ice left him unable to skate. He’d snapped two bones in his ankle and nearly lost two of his fingers. The constant paparazzi following him everywhere, never any privacy. This was his one shot at being normal, and he could see that with you.

“You were famous?” Chan chuckled under his breath, not meeting your eyes and shaking his head.

“Not really. Just... known.” He lied a little, playing it down as though it wasn’t a big deal. He used to be, not anymore, but you didn’t need to know everything. There was something about the way he deflected that made your curiosity spark.

Before you could press further, your phone lit up again, and you sighed.

Sister 🐍: Did you book your plus one? Or are you still coming alone?

Your chest tightened as you stared at the screen. You knew she wanted you to be alone. So she could stand at the altar, beside your ex, and know she had won again. You’d be the pathetic sister in the corner. The forgotten one.

Your jaw clenched. You thought about Chan again and then nodded your head. This would be the one thing you could do to get back at all of them. To show you that you didn’t give a shit about Daniel because you truly didn’t.

The second he’d gone after your sister, you’d lost all feelings for the man, and sure, it had hurt, but you weren’t going to stay hurt about it when there was nothing you could do to change the outcome. That and you knew that being hurt would only give your sister more fuel against you.

“…Okay,” you said suddenly. “Let’s do it.” Chan looked over at you, his heart picking up ever so slightly.

“Yeah?” He smirks, and you nod.

“You’ll have to meet my family. They’re... a lot.” You warned him, but Chan didn’t seem to waver. In fact, he seemed more sure that he could do this than before.

“I can handle it.” He promises you as you bite your lip a little. Your family was the worst. You knew everyone said that, but they truly were.

“They’ll probably judge your entire life.” You warn him, hoping you weren’t somehow talking him out of this, but Chan simply shrugged it off again with his shoulders.

“I’m used to critics.” You blinked at that. Now you were more focused on seeing what it was he did in his life to make him used to critics and noise. You narrowed your eyes a little and moved closer to him as if you could see it written on his skin,

“Okay, see, now you sound like a retired popstar.” Chan chuckled and looked at you, smirking as you got closer and narrowed your eyes at him.

“Promise I’m not.” You hum a little at his answer and fold your arms over your chest.

“Were you on The Bachelor?” He laughed out loud. If he had, it would have made national news. No. Chan had never been one to date - at least in the public eye.

“God, no. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.” He still didn’t elaborate further, and you were about to open your mouth and ask him more about it, but he cut you off by holding out his hand,

“Deal?” You looked at his outstretched palm. His hand was callused and strong, but there was a scar on one knuckle—like it had been split open once. You swallow a little. It wasn’t like your family would ever know you were faking a relationship. It would be a few days in Spain together, and you could figure things out.

“Deal.” You said before shaking his hand.

“Good, now help me unpack the kitchen, and we can go and grab some food at that diner, I’m starving.” He smirks at you with a wink, and you begin to work on helping him with the rest of his gear.

Two days had passed since then, and now the two of you were standing inside the tiny regional airport with your suitcases beside you. The two of you had spent the last two days trying to get to know one another and learn as much as you could so that you could appear real in front of your parents.

You stood in leggings and a baggy shirt while Chan was wearing a plain black hoodie, jeans, and a pair of sunglasses tucked into his hoodie collar; he looked casual yet effortlessly sexy. It is completely unfair given the amount of stress sweat that was pouring out of you.

“This is a terrible idea,” you whisper as you both make your way toward security, and Chan smirks a little. You’d tried to back out of this four times in the last two days, but he wasn’t about to let you do that. There was no way he was going to let you show up to your bitchy sister alone, not when he wanted to help you.

“You need to relax,” He chuckles, “It’s a nice break in Spain. We’ll see your sister, and I’ll drag you sightseeing so you can use that as an excuse.” He tells you happily

“But-”

“You already told her you had a plus one, it’s too late to back out now. We’ve committed to the bit.” He tells you as he wraps an arm around your shoulder and drags you into his side, you groan a little. Your stomach was already twisting in knots at the thought of lying. You didn’t feel guilty, but you were worried that they were going to find out the truth.

“I’m going to throw up.” You mumbled, rubbing your stomach. Chan quickly lets you go and points over his shoulder as he says,

“If you do, aim away from the nice old lady behind us.” You glared at him, nudging him with your shoulder as he winked down at you and chuckled.

“Everything’s going to be fine, sunshine.” He sounded so sure of himself, you had no reason not to believe him, and you nodded a little. Trying to calm yourself down as you made it into security.

Surprisingly, security had gone really smoothly; you thought for sure that you were going to get stopped since you looked so suspicious. You were super nervous, travelling with a man too attractive for his own good, and you even flinched when the TSA agent asked how long the two of you had been together.

Chan didn’t, though; he’d leaned his arm on the counter and smiled casually,

“Six months. We met in this cute coffee shop after she spilled tea all over me.”

“And then you made a dumb joke about oat milk not belonging in tea,” you added without thinking. The two of them had come up with the lie about where you met the day before, deciding you needed something easy to remember for your family to believe you.

Now the two of you were just leaving the shop with some drinks while you were waiting to board, you’d grabbed snacks and drinks since you were pretty hungry and had at least two hours before the plane left. Now you were trying to come up with a plan about the hotel room since you didn’t think he would want to share a bed with you.

“When we get there, I’ll ask if we can get a cot for the room. I drool in my sleep, so I don’t want to subject you to that.” You felt embarrassed mentioning this to him, but he needed to know in case it somehow came up from your sister. Which, knowing her, she would bring up just to make you feel tiny.

“I’ll say you snore or something so badly it keeps me up.” You shrug a little, and Chan chuckles. You were right about the snoring, which was funny to him.

“It’s fine. I do snore.” You turned to him, horrified. “Do you?” You watched him closely, and he nodded his head at you.

“Yeah, my old team-roommates, used to tell me I would keep them up sometimes whenever I got some sleep. I suck at it, got insomnia.” He chuckles a little and takes a sip of his drink. You were about to question him about the slip-up of words when you heard someone gasp in front of you,

“Oh my word! You look just like that hockey boy my grandson used to watch! What was his name?! Chris?! Or… Ch—” Chan coughed loudly, his orange juice spitting back into the bottle, and you rubbed his back softly, trying to stop him from choking.

“I get that a lot,” he lies quickly, he didn’t need you finding out in the middle of a crowded airport who he really was. Chan laughed a little and wrapped his arm around you, leading you toward the seating area.

“Come on, sunshine.” He whispers, and you blink at him.

“That was weird. Do you actually look like someone famous?” You squinted at him, trying to figure out if you thought he looked like someone, and he shrugged a little, scratching the back of his neck.

“Apparently.” He laughs, but it wasn’t his usual carefree laughter he gave you. This one felt forced and tighter somehow,

“You gonna tell me who?” He popped the cap off his juice bottle and shook his head.

“Nope. Figure it out alone.” He winks at you, and you pout your bottom lip at him.

“Rude.”

“Wouldn’t want to ruin the mystery,” he said with a smirk, nudging your shoulder as you both made your way to the seats and dropped down beside each other. Chan silently hoped no one else came up to him while he was with you. Not that he was ashamed to be seen with you, but he liked being Chan with you, instead of famous hockey player Chris Bhang.

The whole flight, Chan had been unbearably calm. Every time you told him something you were worrying about, he gave you an explanation for it.

What if they bring up our first date? What if they ask about your siblings? What if they figure it out? Every question you threw at him, he had an answer for. And you’d done your best not to stare at him the whole flight. He’d been sitting there, his head leaned back and his eyemask over his eyes. You’d watched him closely, noting the small scar by his temple, the way his fingers flexed even in his sleep…Like his body wasn’t used to being so still all the time.

But now you were here, and after a tense bus ride, you’d decided you wanted to go home already. You were covered in a thin layer of sweat, your hair out of place, and yet Chan looked as though he’d woken up with a team of stylists around him.

“It’s not fair, how do you always look so good?” you grumble as you get out of the bus and grab your bags. Chan bent down and picked up your carry-on before wheeling both suitcases behind him and shaking his head with a smile on his lips.

“You think I look good, sunshine?” He wriggles his eyebrows at you, and you roll your eyes at him. He knew you thought he looked good, god, sometimes you wondered how you could even speak around him. He was that good-looking. This was never going to work. You’d told yourself a million times. He was too good-looking, your sister was never going to believe Chan would want you, of all people.

As if reading your mind, Chan took your hand in his quickly and stopped you from moving. You turned to look at him, about to spew out more what-ifs, but he was quick to stop you.

“We’re going to have fun. We’re going to tan by the pool and you’re going to look breathtaking by my side, okay?” he asked rhetorically before cupping your face in his hand and running his thumb over your bottom lip, feeling how sore it was from you biting it the whole plane ride.

“We’ll go to our room, we’ll get you some chapstick, and we’ll take it one thing at a time, okay sunshine?” He asks again, and you nod your head, feeling better with him by your side, and the two of you begin making your way into the hotel.

The hotel was a luxury villa resort that practically screamed, Look at me, I’m better than you. Because, of course, your sister was going to pick something like this for her wedding. The walls were whitewashed, palm trees swaying over a marble entrance, and a staff that looked like they’d all stepped out of an influencer’s reel. It screamed everything your sister loved about herself while you felt yourself shrinking back. You took your suitcase, and Chan laced your fingers together as you began walking into the glittering lobby. You could feel your stomach flipping out as you held hands.

You weren’t supposed to be nervous. It was fake. So why did it feel like you were starting something real with him?

At the check-in desk, the concierge smiled politely at the two of you as he looked up from the computer screen. “Ah, Miss Y/L/N. Welcome. You're here for the Delgado wedding, yes?” Delgado. She’d already started using his last name from the moment they started dating, so it shouldn’t have surprised you that she was using it now, but she did.

Chan squeezed your hand softly, bringing you back to reality, and you nodded, forcing your best not-dying-in-spite-of-it smile.

“That’s me.” You giggle, trying your best to appear as though you really wanted to be there.

“And this is…?” The concierge asks, looking up at Chan. For a moment, Chan thought he’d been found out, but there wasn’t a look of realisation on the concierge’s face.

“My boyfriend,” you said quickly, before the word could catch in your throat. “Chan.” Chan smiled easily, reaching over to rest a hand on your lower back like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed your spine, and you almost forgot how to breathe.

“Room 409,” the concierge confirmed. “It’s a deluxe suite, king bed, ocean view.” He smiles sweetly at you, giving you both your own key and snapping his fingers at the bell boy to come and take your bags, but your head was caught on what he’d said.

“Sorry, did you say king bed?” He nodded politely. You’d called on the bus to ask for a double room or for a cot to be delivered since your ‘boyfriend’ snored, but it was clear now that wasn’t going to work.

“I asked if we could get a cot, if you heard this man snore, you’d understand,” you laughed anxiously, and Chan rubbed your lower back,

“Yes, I know, but, unfortunately, due to the wedding booking being out of most of our capacity, there were no rooms left with two beds or adjacent doubles...And the cots are all used. The bride is having her bridesmaids sleep in her suite…Would you like extra pillows?”

Pillows are not the issue, sir. You wanted to bite out at him, but you knew that he wasn’t the issue here. The universe was clearly trying to force you to embarrass yourself in front of Chan and make a bad impression.

“One bed’s fine.” Chan quickly told him, and you looked up at him.

“Is it?” You whispered to him, you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by sharing a bed with you when the two of you had only just met one another, but he just leaned down, lips brushing your ear,

“Unless you’d rather cuddle with your stuffed animal, I know you packed,” he smirks, and you push his stomach softly and shake your head.

The room was, of course, beautiful. You hadn’t expected anything less from a place like this one, but it felt too romantic for your liking.

Cream walls, soft gold accents, and breezy curtains framing the balcony doors. The ocean stretched out just beyond the glass like a postcard. You wanted to appreciate it. Really, you did. But your attention was firmly fixed on the king-sized bed in the middle of the room. Chan had put your bags in the wardrobe and stood at the foot of it with his hands on his hips, staring at the bed.

“Well,” you said slowly, clearing your throat a little as you stared at the bed. You suddenly felt so awkward around him, and Chan hated that. He needed you to feel relaxed around him for this to work, and you had been up until now.

“That’s a big bed.” You finished, but Chan threw himself onto it with zero shame and snuggled into the pillows with a soft sigh, his whole body relaxing against the memory foam mattress.

“Big enough for boundaries. I don’t bite unless asked.” He says suggestively, and you roll your eyes, picking up one of the decorative pillows and hitting him softly with it.

“Not funny.” He shrugged, arms behind his head as he snuggled into the covers.

“Could be worse. Could’ve been bunk beds.” He sits up a little, and you stare at him.

“You say that like you’ve done this before.” Your gaze landed back on Chan, and you noticed that his smile faltered for half a second, barely noticeable, but you’d caught it. Slowly, you lower yourself onto the bed, sitting close to him. It was big enough that the two of you would be right up close to one another.

“Let’s just say I’ve survived worse sleeping arrangements,” he said, tone a little lighter now. “We’ll survive this one,” he assures you.

“Fine, but we need ground rules.” Chan sat up straight and crossed his legs, sitting across from you as he nodded, letting you continue on.

“No spooning. No accidental boob grazes. No sleep-talking confessions of love.”

“Noted.” He held up three fingers and then held his other hand on his chest as he looked into your eyes.

“I solemnly swear not to fall in love with you in my sleep.” He smirks a little. Mostly because he could already feel himself catching feelings, and it was easier to play it off than to admit that out loud right now. You gave him a dry look; you needed him to take this seriously.

“I’m serious, Chan…No accidental grabbing, unless someone is around…” Chan could hear the desperation in his voice, and he nodded his head, rubbing his hand on your knee.

“I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour unless we’re around your family and you need me to pretend.” You relax a little, and Chan moves his hands to your shoulders, shaking you a little.

“Now, unpack. We’ll steam our outfits, make sure we look like we’re models, yeah?” He watches you closely for any sign of uncertainty, but you nod and get up from the bed, making your way to the wardrobe to start unpacking.

“Get up, though, we might be boyfriend-girlfriend for the weekend, but I’m not touching your underwear.” You giggle, making Chan smirk. Your giggle made his whole chest feel light whenever he heard it, and he just knew the promise he made about not falling in love…was going to be the best promise he would ever break.

“I say we go down to the beach for a walk, we could get some ice cream, and then watch the sunset,” Chan states as he stands on the small balcony of your room. You watch him closely. He seemed so relaxed here. Dressed in some shorts and a nice smart shirt, he looked like he belonged here…but that was just who he seemed to be. He seems to fit in anywhere.

Back home, it was like he’d lived there his whole life. He got along well with every shop owner. Even Mrs Jones had taken a liking to him and made sure to set aside cinnamon rolls for you both the last two times you’d been in.

“Sure, I promised Mrs Jones we’d get her a couple of magnets as well, so maybe we can find a gift shop.” You suggested. Walking out onto the balcony to join him, you leant on the wall and looked out at the beach. If it wasn’t for the wedding happening, this would have been the perfect moment.

“I checked out the one downstairs, and I’m not paying $15 for one magnet.” You giggle a little and shake your head. The afternoon breeze was so nice on your skin right now, it felt perfect…Too perfect.

Your phone buzzed, and just like that, your entire mood soured.

Sister 🐍: We’re by the pool. Everyone’s here. Don’t take too long, babe. It’s cocktail hour.

You swallowed hard as you read the messages, reality hitting you that you were actually going to have to see and speak to your family now and not just hide out with Chan the whole time.

“I’m gonna have to face them, aren’t I?” you muttered. Chan straightened as he watched you.

“You’re not alone this time, though.” He reassured you by making you meet his eyes. You’d done nothing but warn him for the last two days what he was going up against, but now he was actually going to face them,

“You don’t even know what you’re walking into.” You mumble, and he just smiles at you, as if nothing could ever bother him.

“Then I’ll walk in first. Go put on that stunning dress and we’ll head down.” He pats your back softly, and you sigh, moving back into the hotel room to change.

You stood in the lobby in your simple blue satin dress because your sister never sent you the group color code, on purpose, but you weren’t so sure. The fabric hugged you perfectly, skimming over your curves, but it didn’t cling to you too tightly. Chan’s heart was racing as he took in your appearance. He’d barely taken his eyes off you since you came out of the bathroom dressed like this.

There was a subtle slit up one side of your dress, and it made the dress sway with every step. You’d told him it was boring and plain, but something about you in that dress made you look… glowing. Chan thought you looked like a secret no one else had ever been lucky enough to know, and one he was going to keep close to him forever.

“You okay?” he asked gently, stepping up beside you. The lobby was empty besides a couple of workers who were all staring in your direction, wondering why you were just standing there when everyone else involved with the wedding was outside.

You didn’t look at Chan, you couldn’t bring yourself to. You felt seconds away from throwing up or passing out, neither of which you wanted to do in front of Chan.

“I don’t think I’ve ever dreaded seeing my own family more.” As much as he wanted to push you to go out there and show your family who you were, he wasn't going to push you into something you really didn’t want to do. He shifted a little and pulled you to the side in front of the reception desk.

“Do you want to go back upstairs? Skip the whole thing?” You exhaled a breath you hadn’t even realised that you were holding. You knew hiding was only going to fuel your sister's story about you “still being in love with Daniel”. The last thing you wanted was to make her feel like she's right.

“She’ll tell people I’m still in love with him.” You grumbled, and Chan watched you. He could tell by the look in your eyes that you weren’t, but part of him still needed to ask…he had to be sure that there was no chance you would ever go back to him.

“You’re not, right?”

“No way in hell,” You scoff, and he smirks, seeing the smile on your face. That was all he needed to make sure that you were okay and back to your smiling self.

“Anyway, I can’t not go…that would make her too happy. She thrives on my disappearing or being miserable…We need to go out there and be the best damn couple we can be.” You told him, and he smirked, nodding his head.

“We’re doing this together. You’re not alone in dealing with them now, you’ve got me, sunshine.” He tells you as he takes your hand in his, falling too easily into the boyfriend role with you.

“I mean it, whatever they throw at you tonight—I’ll be there. Right beside you. They don’t get to talk to you like you’re nothing.” Your throat tightened hearing him sound so sure of this. He promised you that he wasn’t going to leave you, no matter what.

“You don’t even know me,” You whisper a little, the self-consciousness creeping in, and Chan smiles weakly. He hated seeing you so broken down like this. He wanted the bright and sunshine girl he’d gotten to know over the last few days he’d spent with you.

“I don’t need to. I’ve seen the way you try so hard for people who don’t try for you. That tells me everything.” You blinked rapidly, trying not to let your eyes fill with tears, and you quickly looked away from him.

“You’re too nice.” He bumped his shoulder into yours before squeezing your hand tightly

“Or maybe you’re just not used to being treated right.” Silence followed as you looked up at him, and he just grinned down at you.

“Come on,” he said finally, nudging you toward the door. “Let’s go let your sister know she’s not the only one who can turn heads.”

The pool was surrounded by fairy lights that were making beautiful reflections on the water. No one was in the pool, which was to be expected. It was shut off for your sister, and she’d never get her hair wet or risk someone else getting it wet by jumping in the pool. Every single person was dressed in some form of rose gold dress, and the men looked smart and casual. Once again, you were wearing the wrong colour.

You were the smudge on a flawless portrait, the forgotten sister who everyone invited out of pity. And somehow, Chan looked like he belonged here. Casual, golden, confident. He fit in with all of them, and you stuck out like a sore thumb. Your breath caught in your throat, and you turned around, ready to leave and change, but your hip hit the table, and it caused people to look up.

“Yn-” Chan tries to speak, but he’s quickly cut off by someone else.

“Y/N, there you are,” came the too-sweet voice of your sister, gliding over in a silk wrap dress, her makeup perfect and eyes sharper than diamonds. Nothing short of perfect as she made her way over to you.

“We were wondering when you’d show.”

“If she’d show,” You heard one of the bridesmaids snicker to the others. You opened your mouth to respond, but she wasn’t looking at you. She was looking at Chan, automatically assuming he wasn’t with you.

“Oh,” she said, voice lighting up. “You’re not from around here, are you?” She flipped some of her hair over her shoulder and made her way over, holding her hand out for him to take, but Chan just smiled politely at her.

“The pool is closed for a wedding event, but you’re more than welcome to join us! The more the merrier.” She giggles too happily, and your stomach dips. Of course, she didn’t think that Chan was here with you. Chan was a born-again Greek God, and you were…you.

“I’m Delilah. Bride. Sister of the chaos tornado over here.” She thrust her chin in your direction as if she were too good to even say your name, and you winced. She had no idea you and Chan were here together and hadn’t even introduced you to him.

“Nice to meet you.” He said through gritted teeth. He already hated her with a burning passion, and he wanted to take you back home, not just to the hotel room but back to Citrus Cove, where the two of you could ignore your family forever.

You opened your mouth to tell her that you were there together, but she shot you a look, one you knew all too well that meant, “Shut up. I’m talking.” Delilah’s eyes sparkled with something vicious.

“So… are you staying here too? On holiday?” She quizzed, walking over to him a little too close for your liking, and for Chan, it seemed. He’d taken a step back and moved toward you again. Before he could correct her and tell her what he was really there for, she barreled on.

“If Y/N’s annoying you, I deeply apologize. She’s always been a bit much. You know, clingy. Intense. Scared of being alone.” She laughed like it was a charming anecdote. You weren’t scared of being alone at all. Your whole life, you’d been alone, your parents only favoured her, and you’d spent most of your life like that.

“We used to call her little limpet when we were kids—she just latched on to anyone who gave her attention.” She laughed wildly while your heart plummeted into your stomach. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, and you stared down at the pool so you wouldn’t cry in front of her. That was what she was aiming for.

Chan’s jaw clenched tightly as he noticed the look of hurt on your face, and all he wanted was to push your sister in the pool, but he knew he couldn’t. Delilah, still smiling and unable to read the room, stepped closer to him.

“Don’t worry, though, you’re not the first guy she’s followed around. It’s kind of her thing. God, remember when she cried for three days because some guy in college told her she was plain?” She laughed again, all teeth. All of the bridesmaids, who had once been your friends too, laughed along with her loudly.

“We thought she’d never get over herself.” Delilah continued as she shook her head. The girls moved toward you and Chan while he stayed silent, counting to ten over and over again in his mind to keep himself calm.

“She cut all of her hair short and got that piercing.” Katie, one of your old best friends, laughed obnoxiously loud, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole and never let you out again. You’d been mentally preparing yourself for this, but nothing, NOTHING, could have prepared you for a full attack.

“That got super infected! God, she was so gross.” Delilah squealed before everyone laughed.

You wanted to sink into the pool fully clothed. Or maybe into the earth. You wondered if anyone would notice you making a run for it, but by now, there were multiple people staring in your direction, and there was no way out.

“C-Chan’s my date.” You said, finally finding your voice as Chan looked down at you, his hand finding yours and giving it a squeeze. Delilah blinked. Laughed…Actually laughed, but it died out when she realised you were being serious.

“Wait…What?” She scoffs a little as she looks you up and down before looking back at Chan. You knew you didn’t match. She knew you didn’t match. But Chan spoke up, quiet but firm.

“She’s not following me. I’m here because I want to be. I’m her boyfriend.” He states sternly this time, and this time it shuts her up…Just long enough for her to reload.

“I mean, sure,” she said, recovering from being shut down so quickly. There was no way your sister was going to give up, not when her friends were around her.

“If that’s what we’re calling it. Just don’t let her guilt you into anything. Y/N’s a master at playing the victim.” She giggles. You stared down at the cobblestones, all the while Chan's grip on your lower back tightened by a small fraction. It was a subtle sign you weren’t going through this alone.

Slowly, you turned to look up at him. The way his fingers twitched against your back made it seem like he wanted to do something, say something back at her, but he remained silent. You’d asked him to, back in the room, you’d asked him that no matter what he heard, he wouldn’t say anything back…That your sister wasn’t worth it.

Delilah patted you on the arm like you were a sad puppy; you could see the smirk on her lips.

“Don’t take it personally, sweetie. You know I love you. We’re just so different, you and I. Always have been.” She walked away before you could reply, her hair bouncing, voice already lifted for someone else more important.

You swallowed hard, forcing your breath steady.

“…She’s right,” you said quietly, not looking at Chan. You stare down at the floor, you hated how weak she always made you feel. No matter what you did, you were never good enough in her or your parents ' eyes.

“We’ve always been different.” Chan didn’t reply right away; he was too busy counting to 20 in his head, trying to keep himself calm. All he wanted to do was rip into your sister for the shit she’d just said, but he needed to play nice, make a good impression before making them realise what they were missing out on without you.

“She’s a raging bitch.” He grumbles harshly, and your head flies up to look at him. Chan was still looking at the crowd of people, his face looked as though it was made of stone, and his eyes were hard.

You managed a weak smile. At least someone here finally agreed with you about your sister.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I didn’t say it for you. It’s true. What kind of bitch says that to her own sister?” He grumbles, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he leads you in the direction of the bar. It was going to take a lot of Soju or whiskey to get him through this night without taking your sister down.

You, however, glanced over your shoulder in the direction of your sister and her friends. All of them were staring in your direction, pointing and laughing, you already knew you were the centre of their jokes. Chan ordered drinks, but your mind was already preoccupied by a voice in your head reminding you that your sister was right, you were different.

Luckily for the rest of the night, you’d managed to avoid taking Chan to your parents, the two of you sat together on some sun loungers, and you told him stories about everyone in the pool area, since he needed to know their names anyway.

The morning sun filtered weakly through the sheer curtains of the bridal suite. You sat stiffly on a plush chair and watched as people fluttered around the room. You’d been woken up at 6 that morning with a reminder that you were supposed to be a bridesmaid for your sister. Maybe it was her way of torturing you, sending you up there to watch her marry your ex.

You weren’t exactly bothered seeing it, as a matter of fact, you wanted them to be together and hoped they ended up happy, since she was going through so much trouble with you because of it.

Delilah and her bridesmaids buzzed around the room happily, giggling with one another, and the air felt so thick you could barely breathe. All you wanted was to go back to the room and order room service with Chan, who, when you left, had been asleep on the bed.

One of Deliah’s bridesmaids—a tall, sharp-faced woman named Camilla—approached you with a clipboard in her hand. She looked up from it for a moment,

“So,” Camilla said, her eyes flicking over you like you were a project she didn’t want to waste time on, you could see the disgusted look on her face as she saw you sitting in the bridesmaid dress.

“How are you feeling about the dress?” You swallowed, unsure. The green dress was considerably tight to your body, which was odd. A few months ago, when your sister had asked for measurements, you’d made sure to get them done properly and sent them over to her.

“It’s-”

“Tight.” Camilla finished for you, biting down on her tongue as she looked you up and down and back at her chart, clearly reading through whatever was on it. This time, Delilah chimed in from behind, lips curved in a sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes - clearly fake.

“Oh, you’re doing great, sweetie. It’s just… maybe we could find you a bigger dress? The last fitting was a few weeks ago, and you never showed up.” She shrugs her head, looking at the dress that was clearly too tight for you. It showed off everything you hated about yourself.

You looked down at your body, suddenly self-conscious. You’d noticed the way your jeans felt tighter lately, maybe you’d gained weight? Delilah was smirking to herself, seeing you come undone.

“Is it… the weight?” you asked hesitantly.

“It’s a surprise Chan is with you, he’s got a major gym body and you’ve got…fridge.” She giggles, and the other girls all join in with her. Camilla laughed so hard she accidentally showed the measurements for each girl, and yours was wrong.

“Maybe I could get a bigger size-”

“They’re custom-made. There was no way I was going to let my girls have dresses from a store.” Delilah snaps harshly.

“You’ll just have to sit in the back and not be in the wedding,” She shrugs, and you look back at the dress. It was just two sizes too small; clearly, she’d done this on purpose. But if she didn’t want you in the wedding to torture you, why would she do all of this? Was it just to show she had power all over again?

“That’s for the best. We do have a lot of cameras here filming Deliah and the wedding.” Camilla states, causing you to frown. There hadn’t been a single camera in the room during the fitting.

“Oh. I already told them not to capture YN anyway.” Delilah shrugged as she looked down at her nails. You really were here just to be the butt of her jokes and the one that they could kick around like it meant nothing. You wanted to speak, to say you were fine, that you didn’t care about the dress or the cameras, but the words caught in your throat.

“It’s settled, we’ll just have Ani replace her. She’ll fit in the dress no problem.” Delilah snapped her fingers, and you were practically shown out of the chair, and Camilla stared at you.

“Take it off. We need to make sure you don't stretch the material too thin.” Camilla grumbles, and you nod, heading toward the small bathroom to get changed.

“W-Where do you want me to stand at the wedding?” You questioned, your eyes flicking to your sister, who couldn’t seem less bothered if she tried.

“The back. Make sure your ‘date’ is front row though, we can pull views in through him.” Delilah says, but the way she’d called Chan your ‘date’ didn’t sit right with you. It was like she didn’t believe the lie you were selling.

When you got back to the hotel room that morning, you’d barely spoken to Chan, which didn’t sit right with him. He’d even ordered you some lunch, but you gave him some excuse about not being hungry, so he ate it instead.

Now the two of you were sitting at a dining table alone, you’d been pushed to the side because there “wasn’t enough room” on the main table. The table was dressed with white linens, candles in tall holders, and laughter echoed around the room. The small voice in your head is telling you that everyone was laughing at you.

There was a salad in front of you, but your appetite had vanished; it had vanished since earlier that day.

“You okay?” Chan asked, leaning down to whisper into your ear but making it look like he was pressing a warm kiss to your head. You nodded stiffly, Chan didn’t believe you for a second.

“She’s barely touched her plate,” your mother said rather loudly to Delilah, who looked up and shrugged her shoulders.

“She’s feeling a little rounder these days, she’s probably trying to lose some weight,” Delilah said with a cruel smile, loud enough for you to hear, unfortunately, Chan had heard too, and his jaw tensed tightly.

Your ex-boyfriend, Daniel, smirked, glass in hand. “Yeah, Y/N, you putting on weight or something? Didn’t think Spain would be good for your diet.” The room chuckled, but the joke was a dagger that twisted deep inside your chest.

“Did you ever end up finding something that fits for tomorrow?” Your cousin asked from across the room, and Chan’s frown deepened.

“What does she mean? I thought you were going to be a bridesmaid?” He brushes his hand over yours, and you look down at the table. You hadn’t even had the chance to tell Chan you’d been kicked off that duty,

“She's too fat for the dress. So we gave the spot to someone else.” Delilah said so matter-of-factly, you wanted to throw up right there and then.

“They took my measurements and ignored them…I don’t think she wanted me to be a bridesmaid…Just wanted me here for humiliation." You whispered, finally finding your voice. Chan, however, went deathly quiet. He was seconds away from ripping into someone for what was being said.

“That dress she’s wearing now doesn’t even go with the theme.” Someone grumbles,

“She’s always been…unique,” Delilah said. But the word almost sounded like a slur. You didn’t look up; you were used to it. Used to the way they all laughed and belittled you. You just wanted to blend back into the background like you always had.

“Chan must be a saint to deal with someone so difficult.”

“Especially when she’s fat and ugly,” Daniel commented, and that was it. Chan’s fork hit the table with force, and he stood up abruptly.

“Enough!” He said, his voice cold and harsh as he stared around the room. People turned to look at him as everything fell silent. Chan’s eyes locked on Daniel’s face as he stared down at him.

“You want to talk about weight? How about talking about your character instead?” Daniel’s smirk faltered a little; none of them were used to someone sticking up to them, and it showed.

Chan continued, voice rising just enough to fill the room, he made a point to stare at your sister, parents, and ex-boyfriend as he addressed them.

“Y/N is here, standing strong while you waste your breath throwing insults. Maybe if you spent less time tearing people down, you’d realize what you lost.” You felt tears prick your eyes, but Chan shook his head.

“Every single one of you should be ashamed! You sit here in your perfect little outfits and pretend that you’re better than her? You tear her apart for existing differently than you…because she doesn’t need to scream to be heard?” He looks down at you, his chest heaving a little,

“Because she doesn’t want to play your twisted little mind games. Yn is the kindest, strongest, most patient person I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” He snaps, your breath caught in your throat, hearing him say this out loud. Did he mean it? Was he just playing a role?

“And you?” Chan turned to look at your sister,

“You’re marrying her ex, mimicking her smile, stealing her memories like they’re things you earned. You think you’re the center of the universe, newsflash…you’re not. You’re no one. People will forget you once they see you for what you truly are.” Your sister looked as if she was seconds away from vomiting, and your mother was gasping for air.

Chan looked back at you, your eyes were filled with tears, but you quickly blinked them away. This was the first time in years you’d ever felt seen. Someone actually defended you.

Chan sat back down, softer now, and reached for your hand under the table. You squeezed it softly, letting him know that you were okay. The rest of the room was deathly silent; all that could be heard were the sounds of glasses and mumbled chatter.

“T-Thank you,” You whisper to him, breaking the silence. Chan squeezed your hand back,

“You’re amazing, okay? I won’t take any bullshit about it.” He winked at you, and you felt your heart picking up in speed while your cheeks felt heated.

Later that night, you found yourself on the balcony outside of your room again, the cool Spanish air brushing your skin and teasing away some of the heat that the day had left behind. Sighing a little, you sank down onto a wrought-iron chair, staring out at the distant lights of the town. You’d been rethinking dinner all night.

After Chan’s outburst, not a single comment was made about you or in your direction. Your sister had refused to say anything and went back to filming on her phone like nothing had happened.

Chan stepped outside onto the balcony, but didn’t sit beside you. Instead, he leaned against the railing, shoulders squared but relaxed. For a moment, neither of you spoke; you silently listened to the waves crashing against the sand and the distant chatter of other people inside the resort. In your little room, your own bubble, it was perfect.

“You didn’t deserve any of that tonight,” Chan said, finally breaking the silence and glancing over at you. He needed you to know that none of what was being said was true, or that you deserved to hear any of it. You swallowed thickly and shifted against the seat.

“I’m used to it.”

“No,” he said, turning to meet your eyes. His whole body moves to face you,

“No, you shouldn’t be. And that’s what makes me… I don’t know. It makes me want to—” He stopped himself, the words catching somewhere in his throat. He’d promised you not to catch feelings, but something about being here with you…and even back home was making it damn near impossible not to.

Everything new he learnt about you, he found he adored. Taking in a deep breath, he tried to clear his head before speaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair and sinking down into the chair opposite yours.

“That sounded stupid.” He finished, and you nudged him with your foot, forcing him to look you in the eyes.

“What were you going to say, Channie?” Chan hesitated; the nickname sounded like heaven coming from your lips, and he desperately wanted to hear you calling him it over and over again, so he shook his head. He didn’t want to risk any of this,

“Nothing important.” He lied. But the way he looked at you, like you were suddenly the only thing that mattered, said everything he wouldn’t say. Your chest was starting to hurt as you watched him,

“Hey. You just defended me in a room of almost 100 people…You can tell me.” You teased, and Chan gave an almost shy smile to you and sighed, looking up at the night sky.

“Maybe I’m breaking one of the rules…M-Maybe I’m starting to care more than I should.” He admitted out loud. You felt your heart fluttering, warmth spreading through you all over as you looked back at him.

“You’re not alone,” you said softly, letting him know that his feelings weren’t just one-sided. Chan felt his heart skip a beat. God, it had been years since he’d confessed a crush on someone; he felt like a middle schooler all over again. But he just nodded his head, his eyes fixed on the sky as a blush crept onto his cheeks.

A calm silence hung in the air, and you smiled, laying your head on your knees as you both enjoyed the silence together. Neither of you reaches for the thread of something more hanging between you…not yet, at least.

“Tonight, I’m promising you a nice walk on the beach,” Chan told you as you sat together on the daybed, he’d pulled the canopy over so you were both in the shade.

“Sure, maybe I can finally get the magnets for everyone back home,” You relax a little, pulling sunglasses on over your eyes, snuggling into the pillows. Your sister had arranged for everyone to have a chill day by the pool today since the wedding was tomorrow.

“Oh, don’t forget, Nancy wants us to get photos at the wedding. She said we’ll look good.” Chan smirks. In reality, Nancy hadn’t asked for anything, but Chan wanted a photo of the two of you so he could have it as his new lockscreen. You’d taken a few selfies, but he wanted to be different. He wanted a real photo of you both together.

“She’s cute, she’ll probably put it on the board in the cafe, you know.” You laugh a little. You open your mouth to speak again, but you can feel eyes on you. Slowly, you looked around the area to figure out who it was. Felicity - yours and Delilah’s cousin - was staring straight at you.

“Isn’t it adorable that Yn thinks she can wear a bikini?” She hisses,

“Bless her heart, she’s trying so hard to fit in.” Felicity giggled, making Delilah smirk, her gaze flicking between you and Chan, who was now clenching his fists by his side. He’d had enough of your shitty family, and he thought last night would have been the end of it all.

“Can’t even keep their mouths shut,” He grits out, but you slowly reach out and hold his hand, squeezing it softly and smiling sweetly at him. You were trying to show him silently that it wasn’t bothering you.

“Oh, she’s definitely trying, honestly, it’s embarrassing.” Delilah giggles, flicking her hair over her shoulder and getting up. She was in a white bikini, showing off her perfectly toned body. She looked as though she would be on the arm of someone like Chan.

“Yn looks fucking hot today. Doesn’t she?” Chan asked loudly to one of the waiters, who began stuttering over his words. Your cheeks were heating up, and you whined at Chan, hiding into his neck as he chuckled to himself.

“Couples volleyball!” Delilah screamed out.

“Let’s see how real these relationships are!” She giggles, and you look at Chan. You knew none of them were being subtle about it. Chan simply nodded at you and got up from the chair, following you to the pool.

“I bet she’s paying him. She doesn’t deserve this level of hot,” Someone mumbles as you get into the water. Chan instantly wrapped his arms around you from behind and cuddled into you.

“You ought to be careful, Chan. She used to write poems about my brother in school,” Lia giggles, making your whole body tense up. She knew you’d had a crush on her brother in high school; she’d pushed you toward him, claiming she wanted you as a sister in law.

“Let’s just play. Yeah?” he grumbles at your family, and they nod.

The teams ended up being uneven, so you’d all merged into a chaotic free-for-all of “who can keep the beach ball up longest,” but it quickly devolved into a war of egos before long. Mainly your ex’s. He kept smashing the ball toward Chan like he was trying to test his reflexes, daring him to mess up, either that or he was trying to smash the ball into his face.

But it never worked; Chan never missed a beat in hitting the ball back to your ex and your family, making it look like it was nothing to him. He moved like water; he was fluid, fast, and effortless. Every hit was precise, powerful, and you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Every movement made your heart race. Your ex was livid. And you were absolutely loving it.

“Not bad for a washed-up athlete,” Daniel muttered under his breath, chest heaving as he stared at Chan. You frown a little, watching the two of them.

“Not bad for a guy clinging to his high school glory days,” Chan murmured back, just loud enough for you and Delilah to hear him. Delilah smirks to herself before swimming over to him, draping an arm casually over the side of the pool next to his shoulder. Your stomach twisted watching her as she attempted to flirt with your ‘boyfriend’. You’d never been jealous before, but this had you raging.

“You’re actually kinda good at this,” she said, voice high and girlish, feigning a laugh. “If you ever get tired of playing house with my sister, come find me, yeah?” You froze, hearing her. She was getting married…tomorrow…to your ex. Now she was attempting to get with another one?!

“She’s my girlfriend,” Chan said, gaze fixed straight ahead on you, he didn’t give a shit about your sister.

“And you should really stop talking about her like she’s not standing right here.” Your sister pouted out her bottom lip and scoffed a little,

“Don’t be so fucking sensitive, it was a bloody joke,”

“That wasn’t funny,” Chan said with a blank expression. Tension rippled through the water, and no one moved for a minute. You were counting the seconds down in your head, waiting for your sister to snap or say something back…but it never came.

Someone splashed another person, easing the tension a little. You smiled weakly when someone threw the ball your way, trying to play along, and to get rid of the tension, you hit it. Your fingers were shaking, but you hit it, sending it flying into someone's mimosa on the side of the pool. A round of grumbles and curses from people followed,

“Maybe sit this one out, babe,” your sister called out, sickeningly sweet.

“You’ve never been sporty!”

“Remember when she tried out for cheer and broke someone's wrist trying to flip?” Felicity giggles, and people explode in laughter around her. You stepped back, pointing over your shoulder to the sunbed.

“I-I’m…I-I’m gonna take a break,” You said softly, backing your way toward the side of the pool. You were halfway to the steps when Chan wrapped his arm around your waist and held you close.

“You don’t have to pretend with her anymore. I know she's a lot, Chan, just come and hang out with us.” Your sister called out, but Chan didn’t even glance at her; he looked down at you and stared into your eyes.

“I’m right where I want to be.” He whispers, kissing your forehead and climbing out of the water. He turned back to you, offering you his hand to help you out of the pool. You took it, dripping wet, your cheeks heating up and not from the sun but from the attention he was giving you.

“Shall we go back to our room and watch TV?” He suggests. Grabbing his towel and wrapping it around your shoulders. You looked up at him. He somehow looked even better now his hair was wet and dripping down his head, you could almost see the slight curls in his hair.

“Order room service and eat all our weight in pasta?” You raised an eyebrow, Chan’s heart picked up, and he nodded his head. It sounded like the perfect day to him, much better than sitting here with your family.

“Run up, I’ll grab our stuff.” He nods to you, quickly kissing your lips before sending you on your way. The kiss was so quick and so easy that it felt as though it was only natural for him to do. His cheeks were turning red as you bit your lip, heading up to your room, glancing over your shoulder at him with a shy smile before finally disappearing.

Chan was about to grab his stuff when Daniel bumped into his shoulder, shoving him to the side,

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he said to him.

“Girls like her always latch onto someone better to make themselves feel worthy. She’ll move on when the pity runs out.” It would have bothered Chan, but you had no idea who he was. So he was letting the words rush off him like water off a duck's back.

The sun was setting beneath the waves, leaving a golden look over everything it touched. The waves were crashing gently against the whore, and the sand was so nice and warm beneath your feet as you and Chan walked across it. Your hand was locked in his, your shoes were shoved inside one of the bags he was carrying.

There had to be about four of them, all tiny little souvenir bags from your day together. The two of you had gone on a small tour of the town you were staying in and took lots of pictures while picking up a lot of gifts for everyone back home.

The two of you had gotten a little competitive about who could get the tackiest magnet,

“I still think the dancing bull figurine was a bold choice,” You giggled, nudging his hips with yours. Chan grinned down at you, cocking his eyebrow.

“Please. You bought a magnet shaped like a lady with boobs that jiggle and say ‘squeeze me’ on them. You got me beat.” You laughed so hard you almost let out a small snort, making Chan smirk to himself. God, your laugh was so full and bright, it made his chest flutter whenever he heard it, and he’d heard it a lot today.

It turned out that getting away from your family was the key to seeing you relax and finally let go. Chan pulled you closer to him as you walked, both of you enjoying the closeness you had with one another, without thinking about it too much.

“Oh! I also got Mrs Jones that rose tea she loves. And the twins at the inn, I got them mini flamenco dolls…They’ll love them,” Chan smiled down at you. He loved that you’d cared enough to try and get everyone back at home a gift.

“You always think of everyone else.” He states that as you stop walking, just looking out at the waves together, he bit his tongue. He wanted to open up to you a little without having to tell you about his life before you.

“I got something for the Coach, too,” He said slowly, trying to gauge your reaction. Your head slowly turned away from the waves to his eyes, and it felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. You were barefaced, your hair natural, and you just looked like someone from his dreams.

“Are you trying to sweeten him up?” You tease, nudging him in the side, but Chan shrugged a little. You’d heard whispers of the high school back home wanting a new coach, and you knew Chan had a sporty side.

“He’s retiring, and I want to throw my name in for the job.”

“You are pretty sporty.” You shrug a little, thinking nothing more of it. The fact that you didn’t press him for more information made him relax. It was clear you wouldn’t care if he used to be famous.

“Y-Yeah…S-So I got him some keychains for the kids on the team and I got him a hat to replace his tattered one.” He smiles fondly before looking down at you, moving his free hand to cup your face in his hand, brushing his thumb over your lip.

“I got you something, too.” He whispers, Your eyes lit up.

“You did?” You gasp a little, only making Chan chuckle softly to himself. He had it in one of the bags, but he wasn’t going to show it until you were back in the hotel room together.

“Mhm. But you’re not allowed to see it until later.”

“Why not?” You scoff,

“Because I said so.” He winked, tugging your hand so the two of you would start walking together again.

“You’ll like it, I promise.” He chuckles softly. You pretended to pout, tugging lightly on his hand, but he didn’t let go. Neither of you even noticed that you hadn’t let go of one another all day. The space between you just didn’t exist anymore — your bodies moved in sync, like this was the most normal thing in the world…Like you were a couple…

And the scariest part of all of it? It didn’t feel like pretending anymore to you.

You glanced up at the hotel in the distance, its lights twinkling like stars just beginning to blink into the sky. You were getting hungry, and you had the wedding in the morning, so you already knew you were going to have to be up early to get ready.

“I’ll head up and order room service. You still want that pasta?” You quizzed right as you got off the beach, sliding into your sandals. Chan nods as he stretches his back a little.

“Definitely,” he said. “Extra parmesan. And maybe something made of chocolate for dessert.” He groaned, rubbing his stomach like he’d not eaten all day, but you’d been sneaking food while you were out.

“Got it. I’ll go and grab some extra towels from reception.” He squeezed your hand before letting go, gently.

“Don’t be long, if that chocolate comes before you, I can’t promise it’ll be there,” You tease and rush off.

The hallway going up to the room was nearly deserted, the only light coming from the soft glow of sconces along the polished walls. Chan’s steps were echoing as he made his way up to your door. In his hand were the spare towels and a surprise he’d gotten for you. It wasn’t much, but it was a rose gold dress that nearly matched the theme of the wedding. As well as a bracelet he’d picked up for you.

He knew you weren’t exactly upset about being kicked to the back of the room of the wedding, but he wanted you by his side, in a dress that made you feel and look like a million bucks…But you always looked that way to him. Even early in the morning when you’d just woken up and were having coffee together…

He’d thought you were stunning when you stood on his porch in pajamas that were faded with holes in them. Tonight, he was going to admit that to you; he didn’t care that you’d both promised not to fall for one another, he knew you were falling for him too.

Just as he reached the corner of your door, Daniel stepped out from the shadows with a mocking grin all over his face.

“What is it?” Chan grumbled, his voice laced with annoyance that your ex was even here right now.

“Just came to see the famous Ex-hockey ‘playboy’ who couldn’t even last his last season before some injury had him crying for the exit.” Daniel sneers, making Chan’s stomach twist. The injury wasn’t just “some” injury, it had nearly killed him,

It had been an accident on the ice, resulting in him almost losing his fingers; he’d broken his knee and his ankle in two places. Then there was the skate that had gone into his temple; he was lucky to even be alive.

“I’d love to see you try and survive a skate to the face, dickface.” Chan said, his eyes meeting Daniel’s with a calmness behind them.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Daniel sneered, stepping closer, invading Chan’s space, but Chan didn’t flinch; he wouldn’t give the motherfucker the satisfaction.

“But let’s be honest — you’re nothing more than a charity case in this whole mess. Y/N’s using you, making herself feel better by dragging you into her mess so she doesn’t have to face me alone.” Chan stared at him, refusing to crack,

“Did she act like she didn’t know you?” Daniel tilts his head at him, and this time Chan had a reaction. His eye twitched just a little, but his face remained stoic.

“You don’t know her,” Chan said quietly. Daniel laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that echoed off the walls.

“She really pulled one over on you, huh? Sweet little Y/N. Always was quiet, always playing the victim.” He gave a mock pout and shook his head.

“But she’s smarter than people give her credit for. She knows exactly what she was doing bringing you here.” Chan’s jaw tensed this time. There was no way you knew who he was…You seemed surprised whenever someone knew him. You were blind to everything about his old life…Right?

“She knows who you are. She has to. I used to watch your games all the time — she sat right there on the couch next to me. You don’t think she recognized you? Come on, man. She’s playing you.” That seed of doubt hit its mark and buried deep in Chan’s gut.

“She brought you here because you’re a shield. A distraction. Someone to take the heat off her for once.” His voice dropped lower, venom curling around every word. Chan felt his heart shattering at the thought of it all. You knew him…You’d played him…Were you going to sell the fucking story?

No…He couldn’t even bring himself to think that way about you.

“Maybe you’re right,” Chan finally said, his voice shaking a little.

“Maybe I am just what she needed to take the pressure off. A washed-up loser she can parade around, but at least she wants me.” Chan grumbles at him, and Daniel just smirks at him. He was proud he’d planted doubt in his mind.

“Whatever, man. You’re going to be the butt of everyone's jokes. The vlog will go up and you’ll be a laughing stock…Again. All because you fell for that ugly bitches lies.” Daniel sniggers as he walks away.

Chan had no idea how long he’d been standing there after Daniel had left, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. His words were still bouncing around in his head.

She knows who you are.

She’s using you.

You wanted to take the heat off her.

You’ll be a laughing stock.

He knew he shouldn’t have listened to him; he should have just gone straight to the hotel room to spend the night with you. He knew, deep down, that Daniel was cruel and petty, the kind of man who got off on cutting others down just to stand a little taller himself. But that didn’t stop the words from digging in deep.

He’d been too eager. Too willing to believe in the soft way you looked at him, the way you laughed at his terrible jokes, the way your hand fit so naturally in his. He let it all mean something when maybe it didn’t.

He swallowed thickly, jaw tense, and stared down at the small box in his hand. The surprise he’d picked up for you from a little beachside stall. A delicate charm bracelet, each charm shaped like something they’d seen that week. A seashell. A lemon. A tiny plane. One for each day they’d spent pretending.

Pretending.

His chest twisted.

He should’ve known better.

When he got back to the room, you were already on the bed, cross-legged, you were wrapped in the hotel rope, and looking up from your phone. Instantly, he freaked out inside his head,

Were you texting someone about him? Were you writing notes about him?

Your eyes lit up when you saw him. “Hey,” you said softly. “Took you a while, I nearly ate all of the food alone,” You said with a small, awkward laugh. Chan didn’t answer you, though; he set the box down on the desk and went into the bathroom without another word.

You stared at the closed door, your heart sinking. Something was wrong…he’d been fine until now.

You shifted in the bed, turning over about to greet Chan like you had every morning lately, but the bed was cold. You sit up and look around the room, just as the bathroom door opens. Chan was dressed in shorts and a baggy shirt.

“Morning, you wanna eat?”

“Can’t. Got to go to the gym. See you at the reception.” He said, his voice low and clipped, before he walked out of the room. The door slamming shut behind him, leaving you stunned.

You’d fallen asleep the night before, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom; had he stayed in there all night? Your fingers trembled a little as you got up and opened the box he’d left on the desk for you. Inside was a beautiful gown and bracelet.

Your chest grew heavy as you stared down at them both. If he wanted you to wear these, why was he acting so cold toward you?

At the wedding ceremony, you felt like a ghost among the crowd. You’d attempted to move to the front of the wedding, but your sister blocked it from happening. Telling you she wanted you in the back of the room so you wouldn’t draw too much attention to yourself.

You’d tried to get Chan’s attention during the vows, but he kept his head forward, avoiding you. As if looking at you might shatter him.

Every single time his eyes caught yours, he was quick to look away, and each time it made your heart shatter.

Around you, the guests smiled and whispered, but you felt isolated, trapped in a moment that should have been joyful. What happened? The two of you had been working so well until the night before…

The reception was held in a grand hall decorated with twinkling lights and fragrant flowers. It was fucking loud too, you’d tried to catch Chan on the way out from the vows, but he’d slipped you in the huge crowds of people.

Delilah flitted around like a queen bee, demanding attention and ensuring she remained the center of the room. You were trying to find Chan, but it was like he’d vanished into thin air. You slid a glass from a waiter and moved toward the terrace. You needed some air to clear your head on what you were meant to do now.

Did he hate you? What had you even done?

And then you heard it. Two men were talking behind you, voices low but careless as they laughed together and shook their heads. You frown but move closer without being seen, wanting to know what was going on.

“Dude, you know who that is, right?” Caleb said to one of Daniel’s friends.

“Chan Bang. Yeah. Played pro hockey — until his knee blew out and he took a skate to the face,” Your breath caught in your throat. That explained the scar on his temple…not to mention the weird interactions that had been happening. No wonder he only gave you his first time. He was probably freaked out.

“Can’t believe he’s with her. No offense, but she’s punching.” The insult didn’t even sting as it came from Caleb's lips.

“She’s not with him. Daniel told me the whole thing — she’s using him. Pretending. He said she probably just wanted someone famous so the attention wouldn’t all be on her sister for once.” You completely froze in place, the glass in your hand slipping to the floor and smashing.

People stared in your direction, but you didn’t give a shit. Your blood was running cold. Daniel was lying…Telling people that you were using Chan?! That you knew who he was…Like, this was some kind of desperate stunt to make yourself look relevant.

Your whole body was heating with rage. Real, full-bodied rage, you’d never let yourself feel until right now. Like fate was twisting the knife, you heard Daniel speaking loudly and across the room.

“All that hype, just to end up a washed-up has-been with a limp. What’s next? Teaching hockey to toddlers in some middle-of-nowhere town?” He laughed coldly, and everyone surrounding him joined in. Your whole body ached, and you kicked off your heels.

“You really thought she liked you? Come on, mate. She knew exactly who you were. She just wanted someone shiny enough to draw attention.” Chan stood stiffly, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight. But he didn’t say anything. He never did when it came to himself.

“Enough.” The voice came out clear and harsh. Chan looked up to see you standing there. Dressed in the gown he’d gotten for you. Earlier, when he’d spotted you, he wanted to tell you how perfect you looked, but he’d stopped himself. He couldn’t tell you how pretty you were when he thought that you were using him.

“The little girl came to rescue the loser-” Champagne splashed over Daniel’s face and suit, cutting him off short. You stare at them all, your eyes burning with a rage Chan had never seen in you before.

“You can mock me all you want,” you said, eyes locked on Daniel.

“You’ve been doing it my whole life. My clothes. My weight. My hair. My friends. Even my relationships. But you don’t get to talk about him like that.” You hiss out. Daniel blinked, caught completely off guard.

“He is more of a man than you will ever be. You’re fucking jealous he can make a living skating while you’re still living out your glory days from high school.” No one spoke a word. Champagne glasses were clattering as people listened. No one ever expected you to.

Chan’s eyes were on you; he couldn’t look away. You looked so hot right now.

“I didn’t know who he was,” you continued. It was the one lie you needed to clear up right now, but your voice was cracking with so much emotion.

“But I know who he is. I know how he makes me feel safe in a room full of people who’ve spent their entire lives making me feel small. I know he looks at me like I’m someone worth knowing. And I won’t let you take that away from me.” The silence after your words was louder than the music had been.

Daniel muttered something under his breath and stormed off. Chan hadn’t moved until you turned to him slowly, and your hands were trembling.

“I swear, I didn’t know Chan.” You whispered, your eyes pleading with him as you stepped in front of him, reaching for his hand but stopping, allowing him to connect with you if he did.

“But I do now, and it doesn’t bother me…I’m not letting you go without a fight…and I can fight, Chan.” You whisper. He stares at you for a long second, reaching for your hand. It was a small touch, but your whole world seemed to relax with that one touch.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, voice thick. “For seeing me. I’m sorry, I believed that asshole.” He sighs, leaning down and pressing his forehead to your own. You glance around and pull him toward the terrace, you didn’t want anyone to overhear this and report back about it.

Once you were outside, you leant on the wall and looked up at him,

“I was scared you knew who I really was,” he admitted. It wasn’t a good excuse; it was all he had to offer to you.

“and that this was all just… fake for you…When I was falling harder than I ever expected to,” Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his words, it was the first time you’d seen him not look so confident in himself.

“Chan,” you whisper. He moved closer to you, taking your face in his hands and running his thumb under your eyes.

“This was supposed to be a favor…a fake thing, but it stopped being fake the minute you looked at me like I mattered.” You whisper to him, his breath hitching as you admit that to him.

“I never thought I’d see someone who sees past all of the shit in my life…The injury, the hockey shit, all of the mistakes I made…but you see me for who I am…Not the hockey star, just me.”

“Just Chan.” You whisper, remembering how he’d told you he was “just chan” in his kitchen. Chan chuckled softly, leaning his head on yours as you giggled a little.

“I don’t want this to be pretend anymore.” He whispered,

“I was coming back to the room to tell you that last night when Daniel cornered me.” He shudders at the memory, moving his hands from your face to your waist and drawing your body closer to his.

“I don’t care about the past,” you reminded him, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck.

“All I care about is us.” Chan’s lips curled into a genuine smile—warm, hopeful.

“Us,” he echoed, leaning down toward you but stopping midway to make sure that you wanted this as well. The kiss was unrushed, a little unsure at first. Just a peek on the lips…Then it moved into more.

A soft press of lips, his hands gripping your hips tightly and pulling you closer to him. Above you, fireworks exploded - no doubt your sisters work for her vlog. You deepened the kiss a little, sliding your tongue into his mouth as he resisted the urge to pick you up and take you right there and then.

“W-We should go slow,” He whispers, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting heavily.

“We do have that big bed…” You whisper, your heart racing and Chan’s pants getting tighter,

“Afraid you wouldn’t keep up?” You tease, running your hand down his front toward the belt of his pants, and he grunts, bucking his hips a little.

“N-No…I wanted to be a gentleman,”

“Be one tomorrow…Fuck me tonight.” You whisper, biting his lip softly and smirking as you pull away to leave the terrace, Chan following behind you like a needy puppy.

The elevator doors slid shut behind you both. You were already rummaging around in your small clutch bag to find the room key, practically bouncing with excitement. Your heart was racing, Chan’s was pounding against his chest, and he was scared you’d be able to hear it somehow.

“F-fuck, where is it?!” You whine, more to yourself than to him, as you went through the bag, desperate to get into the room. There was no way you were going to miss this night.

“Relax, sunshine. It’s almost as though you’re excited,” He teases, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, pushing your need to the edge. You were seconds away from letting him take you right there in the hallway.

“I-I can’t find it,” you hiss. Chan’s hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against his chest and grinding his hardness against your ass so you could feel just how hard he was for you.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he murmured, voice low and husky against your skin. Your fingers finally grabbed the key, and you practically threw the door open.

The door had barely closed behind you both before Chan’s mouth was on yours, you threw your bag behind him, and wrapped your arms around the back of his neck. There was no hesitation, no pretending, just pure raw and real heat between you.

“I need you,” You whisper as you kiss down his neck, your hands working on undoing his tie as you then rip his shirt open, buttons flying across the room. Chan chuckled darkly, looking down at you, his hands moving to frame your face. He was holding you like he was something precious, something breakable.

He was kissing you like he’d been dying to, like he’d spent every second in silence today dreaming of this moment with you. Your fingers slid into his curls, tugging gently, and the low growl that left his throat made your knees wobble,

“I’ve wanted you since that first day in your pajamas…I was done for,” He whispered between the kisses, backing you slowly toward the bed. You giggled a little

“You called them cute.”

“I was trying not to lose my mind,” he muttered, lips trailing along your jaw, down the column of your neck.

“I was imagining them on my bedroom floor…You have no idea what you do to me…” You gasp as his teeth graze against your skin, you slowly lie down onto the bed, and look up at him shyly.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, stepping back for just a beat to take you in. He was never going to get enough of you. You giggle a little, slowly pulling your dress off and dropping it by the bed, leaving you naked in front of him.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He whispers. Heat grew all over your body, not just from what he was saying, but it was the way he was looking at you, he was looking at you like he meant every single word. That you were the only one for him.

Chan stepped forward again, slower now, like he wanted to savor this moment with you, which he did. His hands slid along your hips, thumbs brushing your bare skin, and you leaned into him, kissed him again — deeper this time, needier.

“Tell me this is real,” you whispered, voice trembling as he hovered above you, his lips brushing yours. He cupped your cheek, eyes locked on yours.

“This stopped being fake the minute I got to share a bed with you, sunshine.” You kiss him again, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him closer to you, ready to be intimate with him and seal the deal.

As the bus pulled into the small station of Citrus Cove, you felt the warm, familiar breeze wrap around you like a welcome hug. God, it felt good to be out of the summer heat in Spain and off the bus. You needed to crack your back in at least seven places,

“Wanna crack my back?” you groan, twisting awkwardly as you stretch. “It’s driving me nuts.” Chan pulls a face like you just offered him a plate of raw sardines, and he takes a step back from you.

“Absolutely not. That sound is cursed.” You stare at him, scandalised. Surely, he’d heard much worse in his hockey days?

“You’re a hockey player! You’ve definitely heard worse.” You scoff at him, and Chan smirks down at you.

“Yeah— my own bones, sunshine. Every snap sucked. I’m traumatised. You’re on your own.” He tells you, holding his hands up in defence while you pout dramatically.

“We just got back, and already you’re abandoning me? I feel betrayed.” He rolls his eyes, tossing his cap into his bag as you both walk toward the exit of the bus station.

“Says the girl about to run off and play Santa with all the gifts we picked up.” He smirks at you, and you stop walking and scoff playfully at him.

“Okay, rude. But then I’m coming right back for movie night. With snacks.”

“You staying over?” he asks casually, like it’s no big deal, but you catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You both couldn’t stay away from each other, god, there had been a moment on the plane, he thought he was going to have to sneak you into the toilets…but he was good and kept himself calm.

“I don’t think I can sleep without you anymore… you’ve ruined me. I’m a ruined woman, Chan.” You say dramatically, laying your hand over your forehead, but the action only made him smirk at you, completely smug and unbothered,

“In more ways than one.” He whispers in your ear suggestively, you gasp, swatting him with your neck pillow, his laughter echoing around you as you chase him out of the exit, but you freeze in place, seeing people from the town waiting for you.

There were signs made with “Mr and Mrs Bhang” written on them, and Chan’s cheeks were turning bright red.

Mrs Jones was practically squealing as she looked at you both, swatting Jamerson's hands as she whispered something to him about you both holding hands.

“We heard about Spain! What a wedding!” Mrs. Henderson, your friendly neighbor from down the lane, called out as you passed by her. Your cheeks were heating more and more.

“And the kiss… the kiss was all over TikTok yesterday!” added a teenage girl clutching her phone, cheeks flushed from excitement. You bit your lip to keep from smiling too widely. You knew your sister had been recording the wedding, but you thought the kiss was private.

“Did you know Chan was famous? Like, seriously?!” Mrs Jones asks, opening her car door for you and Chan to climb inside. You shook your head, still a little stunned by how quickly the news had spread. Chan, standing behind you, caught your flustered expression, and his eyes sparkled with quiet amusement.

“You’re officially mine now, princess.” He whispers, sealing the promise with a kiss.

Life in Citrus Cove settled back into its normal and easy rhythm. Chan threw himself into coaching the school’s hockey team, the kids adored him — even the stubborn ones found themselves working harder under his calm, steady guidance. You adored seeing him work every night, doing something he enjoyed. It gave him back something he thought he’d lost a long time ago.

You, meanwhile, returned to the inn like you’d never left. Your best friend had taken a couple of days off lately, and you wanted to catch up with her. On the days you had a night shift, Chan made sure to come and sit with you in the lobby, making himself useful by learning to fold napkins and even make beds.

Your mornings were spent in bed, with breakfast together. You spent more time at his place than your own. You were working on getting out of your lease soon, too. Your evenings were filled with laughter and soft touches exchanged between you and Chan.

Finally, though, you’d tracked down your best friend and were forcing her to come and sit with you for a while. Mrs Jones had just bought over your coffee and cake order before leaving the two of you alone.

Your best friend let out a dramatic sigh, stirring her drink without taking a sip. She looked exhausted, with bags under her eyes, and even her clothes were messy. Your friend was someone who prided herself on her fashion; she did work in a fashion magazine after all.

“The toddler next door is going to be the death of me. She’s got lungs like an airhorn — and no concept of sleep.” She sighs, running her hands over her face. You raised a brow, there was no one in town who had given birth lately, but you knew one of Chan’s ex-teammates had moved to Citrus Cove,

“Isn’t that the new guy? Minho, right? He moved into the old Jenkins place?” You quizzed, sipping on your coffee as she nodded her head.

“Yeah,” she said, blowing on her coffee. Clearly, she needed it; the whole time you’d known her, she’d never touched a drop of coffee. She was usually strictly tea only.

“Single dad. Quiet. Hot, in a brooding dad kind of way. But that kid’s got a scream that could shatter windows. I swear, kids gonna be a fucking opera singer,” You grinned at her. She was on “break” from the magazine for a while. “Break” being code for “creative block,” and she needed time off to get her mind back into the game.

“Didn’t you used to be a nanny before you moved here? Maybe you could offer to babysit. Give him — and yourself — a break…You’re on a break from the magazine...” She blinked, surprised. It had been nice when she used to be a nanny, and Minho did seem like he would need a little help.

“You think I should?” You shrugged a little.

“This is Citrus Cove. People leave casseroles on porches for strangers. My kiss with Chan was trending. I’m pretty sure knocking on the door and offering help is normal. And hey, it wouldn’t hurt to get to know the brooding single dad either…” You smirk, wriggling your eyebrows at her.

“Getting laid might help with the block, too.” You wink at her, she laughs, already pulling her phone out and nodding.

Neither of you knew it yet, but this one small decision that was about to shift everything…

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