matchpointfaist

[matchpointfaist]

guys why am i lowkey flopping lately..

[matchpointfaist]

-`♡´- "though i can't recall your face, i've still got love for you."

╰› seven - starring art donaldson.

synopsis: before art was sent to his tennis academy, you had been his best friend, his dearest confidant. years later, when your memory has faded to little more than a toothy smile and the muddy memory of your voice, you both get in to stanford.

warnings: smut, childhood friends, time skip/flashbacks

wc: 2.3k

notes: in my headcanons art is from a beach town, but not cali. that's all! idk if i like how i edited this pls give me your thoughts <3

you remember art donaldson in flashes. not as a man, not as the polished figure on the mark rebellato website, but as a boy, stitched together from crooked teeth and bruised knees. the way he used to whistle through the gap in his front teeth before he lost it. the smell of sunscreen and lake water that clung to him every summer. the sound of his laughter, bright and reckless, like it didn’t know how to be quiet. he was your best friend before he was anyone else, before the rackets and the trophies, before the academy, before the name donaldson meant anything beyond the house three doors down. and then he left. you were ten the last time you saw him. he was twelve, awkward and grinning on the curb while his father loaded the car. he’d promised to write, and he had, for a little while, but the letters slowed, then stopped. eventually the memory of him felt like something half dreamed, edges fraying until you couldn’t be sure you’d recognize him if you saw him again.

stanford university, present ↵

which is why, when you do, you don’t. the first time is on the quad. you’re weaving through clusters of students when you hear laughter, loud, careless. you glance over, eyes landing on a tall boy, broad shouldered, walking with a group of athletes. something about his grin sticks in your chest, but then someone bumps into you, and he disappears into the crowd. the second time is in the library stairwell. you’re heading up as he’s heading down. he nods politely, the way strangers do, and you nod back. for some reason your pulse stutters.

the third time is in the dining hall, your trays nearly colliding as you both round the same corner. you mutter "sorry," and he gives you a quick smile before moving past. it tilts crooked, like it’s bigger on one side than the other. it bothers you for the rest of the night. by then, you’ve started looking for him without meaning to. and the fourth time, you finally collide. you’re rushing out of a lecture hall as the lights are shutting off, arms full of books. he’s coming in at the same time, head down, and the two of you crash hard enough that your things scatter across the floor. "shit- sorry," he mutters, crouching down to help. his hand brushes yours as he grabs your notebook. you look up at him, breath catching. the freckle under his right eye catches the light. "wait," he says slowly, eyes narrowing, "do i know you?" your mouth goes dry, "art?" he blinks, stunned. then that grin splits wide, sharp and toothy, so familiar it hurts. "holy shit," he breathes, "it's you,"

after the lecture hall collision, it’s like gravity pulls you together. he finds you again the next day, slipping into step beside you like no time has passed. "i can’t believe it," he says, almost to himself, "all those times i saw you and didn’t realize," "me neither," you smile faintly, "i thought i was going crazy. you just looked so familiar," he huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "guess we both changed a little," a little. he’s taller, sharper, hair golden. you’re not the child he left behind either. but somewhere under all that, there’s still the freckle under his eye, the tilt of his grin, the boy who used to dare you into everything.

wilmington, twelve years ago ↵

you’re seven, and art is daring you to jump off the dock at the lake. the sun is sinking, your mothers are shouting about dinner, but art is already shirtless, standing at the edge with his arms spread like wings. "come on," he calls, voice cracking with excitement, "don’t be scared," you tell him you’re not scared, even though you're shaking. "then jump with me," he says, sticking his hand out. you do. because he asked, because it was art. the water is cold, your lungs seize, but when you come up sputtering he’s right there, laughing, hand finding yours under the surface. "you were so brave," he grins, "probably even braver than i am," "am not," you swatted him with water, giggling, "you're just sayin that," your mom's voice rang through the breeze again, and the two of you burst into a fit of laughs, giddy the whole way home.

stanford university, present ↵

days later, he’s sprawled in a chair, long legs kicking out, humming under his breath as he skims notes for econ. the sound tugs at something deep in your ribs. "you still do that," you say softly. "do what?" "hum when you’re reading," he freezes, then laughs, looking down, "didn’t know i still did. didn't know you'd remember," "you always did," you don't mention that you remember everything. the silence that follows is warm, heavy, thick with everything you’re not saying.

"i should’ve kept writing," he says one night, the two of you walking back from the dining hall, shoulders brushing. his voice is low, hesitant. you glance up at him, curious. "i wanted to," he adds quickly, "but the academy, the matches, the coaches- it was like my whole life got swallowed. and then it got harder, the longer i didn’t," you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, "i thought you forgot me," he stops walking. turns to face you. "i never forgot you," he says, and his voice is so steady it makes your throat ache.

wilmington, ten years ago ↵

the last time you saw him, you stood on the curb in your flip flops, watching his father slam the trunk shut. art leaned against the car, trying to look older than he was, eyes darting like he didn’t want to cry. "i’ll write," he’d said, like it could fix everything, like you were adults, "i promise," you nodded, biting your lip until it hurt. he hesitated, then pulled you into a hug so fast you barely registered it before he was gone, climbing into the backseat, the car pulling away. you’d stood there until it turned the corner.

stanford university, present ↵

you’re in his dorm room when it almost happens. he’s sprawled next to you on the bed, laptop balanced on his knees, some movie playing that neither of you is watching. your thighs are pressed together, your shoulders leaning. he turns his head suddenly, catching your gaze. the air shifts, thick with tension. "can i-" he starts, then stops, shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, "not yet," your heart stutters, "not yet?" he smiles faintly, soft and crooked, like he’s afraid to scare you off, "no. but soon,"

the night it finally happens is almost nothing. no party, no excuse, just the two of you in his dorm again, pretending to study, the movie on his laptop flickering on, ignored. he’s stretched out beside you, his arm brushing yours, his thigh warm against your leg. you don’t remember when it stopped feeling accidental. he laughs at something you say, really laughs, head thrown back, and you’re watching his mouth when the air tilts. he sees it. his smile fades, his chest rising slow. "come here," he murmurs.

you lean in before you can think. the kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. but then you tilt closer, fingers sliding into his shirt, and he exhales a sound you feel in your bones. the next kiss is hungry, years of silence and ache poured into the press of his mouth. "fuck," he whispers against your lips, forehead resting on yours, "been waiting-" he kisses you again, desperate, "so long,"

wilmington, eleven years ago ↵

you’re nine, hiding under the porch roof with him while rain lashes down, thunder shaking the ground. "scared?" he teases, even though you can see him flinch with every rumble. "no," you lie, smiling proudly. he grins, grabbing your hand, sticky with popsicle juice, "me neither," you sit like that until the storm passes, his palm sweaty against yours. you'd always forgotten to be scared when he was there.

stanford university, present ↵

his hands are on your waist now, tugging you closer until you’re straddling him on the bed. the movie is still playing somewhere behind you, but the world has narrowed to heat, breath, skin. his lips trail down your jaw, your throat. "you're my best friend," he murmurs, like a vow. your body arches into his without meaning to, and his groan vibrates against your chest. clothes come off in pieces, messy and impatient, both of you laughing into each other’s mouths when an elbow catches or a shirt sticks. then his hands are on your bare skin and you’re not laughing anymore.

he touches you like he’s memorizing, palms smoothing over your ribs, thumbs tracing your hips. "fuck, you’re beautiful," he says, and it’s so raw, so certain, you have to bite your lip. you tug his shirt off, run your hands over his shoulders, down his back, and he shudders under your touch. when he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow, careful, like he’s terrified to hurt you. his forehead presses to yours, his breath shaky. "tell me if-" "i’m fine," you gasp, clutching at him, "art, i'm- please,"

he groans, kissing you hard, moving in slow, steady thrusts that build until you’re both trembling. it’s clumsy at first, laughter breaking between moans, but then it evens out, need sharpening every kiss, every touch. he holds your face in his hands when you come, murmuring your name like a prayer. his own release follows, rough and breathless, his body collapsing into yours. you wake in the middle of the night, tangled together, his chest warm at your back, his arm heavy around your waist. for a moment, you think of all the years without him, the birthdays he missed, the letters that never came. then he stirs, lips brushing your shoulder. "still with me?" he mumbles, half asleep. your throat tightens. you turn in his arms, press your mouth to his, whisper, "always,"

the first morning after, you expect it to feel fragile. like glass, like something that could splinter if you touched it too hard. instead, it feels simple, natural. you wake in art’s dorm room to the sound of his roommate fumbling around with headphones, shooting you both a knowing grin before leaving. you’re mortified, but art just laughs, tugging you back down into the sheets. "he’ll live," he says, voice still heavy with sleep, "don't care,"

the days stretch on, easier than you thought they’d be. coffee runs before class, long evenings in the library where his hand finds yours under the table, dinners that linger long after the plates are cleared, just because you don’t want to leave. but every sweetness is sharpened by the years you lost. sometimes it hits you in the quiet moments. when his head is tipped back in laughter and you catch yourself thinking, where was i when you learned to laugh like that? when he rolls his shoulder after practice and you wonder, how many times did it ache before i could be there to rub it? and he feels it too. you can see it in the way he watches you, like he’s making up for every moment you weren’t there.

wilmington, eleven years ago ↵

the two of you are sitting at the dock, feet dangling off into the water, legs barely long enough to reach. "what do you wanna be when you grow up?" you ask, head leaning on his shoulder sleepily. "happy," he says simply, shrugging. "that's boring," you tease, leg bumping his. "it's not," he bumps your cheek with his shoulder, "you'll see," "whatever you say," you yawn, rubbing your eyes, "i'm gonna take a nap out here," "you're so lazy," he pokes you in the side, grinning, "i'll wake you up for supper," "mkay," you're too tired to even swat away his tickling, instead curling up on the damp wood of the dock, yawning and stretching. "to the moon," he murmurs, shrugging off the jacket his mom forced him to wear, covering you with it. "to saturn," you hum, half asleep.

stanford university, present ↵

one night in october, you’re in the stands at his match, his first collegiate one. you hadn’t planned to go, not wanting to blur the lines of what’s his and what’s yours, but he’d asked. "just come," he’d said, hand on the back of your neck, eyes soft, "want you there," so you’re there, naturally. he wins, of course. he always does. but when the crowd surges to clap and cheer, his eyes search until they find yours. and he grins, that same crooked grin that once lit up your summers, the one you thought you’d never see again.

he doesn’t care about the cameras, the other players, the fans. he jogs straight over, sweat still damp on his brow, and cups your face in both hands to kiss you, right there in front of everyone. "mine," he murmurs against your mouth, breathless. and you realize you’ve been waiting just as long as he has.

months later, you’re sprawled on his dorm bed again, a stack of textbooks abandoned on the floor. the air is warm and heavy with the promise of sleep, his chest beneath your cheek. "still want to be happy?" you murmur, echoing the words from long ago. he tightens his arm around you, presses his lips to your hair, "i am," you close your eyes, letting yourself believe it. for the first time, the memory of losing him doesn’t ache. it only makes this sweeter, because somehow, impossibly, you found each other again.

[matchpointfaist]

-`♡´- "i've never been a natural, all i do is try, try, try."

╰› mirrorball - starring art donaldson.

synopsis: you and art had been doubles partners for as long as you could remember, since you were too small to properly hold rackets at mark rebellato's academy. he'd always been talented, easygoing, confident, but when he loses you the match at the us open, it all breaks open, the truth coming out.

warnings: angst, art is hard on himself, friends to lovers, confession

wc: 1.6k

notes: insecure soft art my beloved </3 sorry this is kinda short

you and art had been doubles partners for as long as you could remember. mark rebellato’s academy was all sweat and chalk lines, chipped rackets and afternoons that bled into exhausting evenings. you’d been small then, too small to serve properly, but art had been there from the beginning. they’d paired you off because you were the same age, because the coaches liked the symmetry of two kids with bright hair and stubborn streaks, because art was already talented and you, well, you were steady. at eight years old, he was fearless. he tried every shot, chased every ball, laughed when he fell. you learned quickly that your job was to anchor him, to clean up when his risks didn’t quite land, to steady the rhythm of play so that his brilliance could shine. and it did. oh, it did.

by twelve, people were whispering in the halls about your potential. by sixteen, you were winning junior tournaments without so much as breaking a sweat. by twenty, you were a fixture on the doubles circuit, the kind of intense partnership that made crowds lean forward in their seats. art always said you made him look good. you always thought he made you feel like you belonged. the us open had always been a dream. not just to play, because god, anyone could play, but to win, to hold that trophy with him, side by side. in all your wildest dreams, it panned out that way, with art right beside you. you weren't sure you knew what it felt like to imagine a life without him.

you'd spent days in the city, exploring the sprawling streets of new york. he hadn't been nervous, not really, but he never was. you'd had a creeping fear that it wouldn't go to plan, but he'd reassured you, coaxed you down from thinking the two of you were anything less than superstars. "we'll be the youngest pair to win doubles," he'd told you one night, two days before the match, watching you across the table at some overpriced restaurant, "this is what we've been doing this for, yknow? i can see it now. record breakers, world famous athletes," "we've already broken records, art," you'd sighed, "i just don't wanna put too much pressure on this," "hey," he reached across the table, took your hand in his, "you are fucking incredible, you hear me? we are going to win this thing," in the moment, you believed him.

the match had been yours. two sets up, momentum high, and then the tide turned. it was subtle at first, points slipping through your fingers, the crowd’s hum shifting. and then it came down to one rally, long and brutal, your lungs burning, your arms heavy. you saw it, the opening, the way the ball dropped just high enough for art to put away at the net. he swung too hard, sent it long. you didn’t even have time to register before it was over. match point, gone. your chest hollowing out as the other pair collapsed in celebration. you touched his shoulder as you walked off court, but he barely met your eyes.

you remembered, faintly, the first time art had ever lost an important match. you were fifteen, young and blindly confident, the crowd's hype going straight to both of your heads. the game was up, the score in your favor, but then he'd stumbled. it all fell apart, quick and easy, like it took no effort at all to undo all of your work. he'd disappeared after, leaving behind a cracked racket and your own bruised ego. you'd only found him hours later, sitting alone in the dining hall, picking at an uneaten salad. "hey," you'd murmured, sliding in across from him, "so this is where you ran off to?" "go away," his eyes met yours, the blue shifted into something steely, "i don't want to talk about the match," "we won't talk about it, then," you'd shrugged, leaning over to steal a sip of his orange juice, "did you hear about patrick? he got suspended for roughhousing," he smiled, faintly, almost imperceptibly, "typical pat," he relaxed, the tension in his shoulders melting, and you discovered that seeing his happiness gave you a better high than winning any match.

the locker room was cold, the air thick with silence. you peeled the sweat dampened k-tape from your forearm, trying to breathe, to settle. art sat on the bench across from you, hunched forward, his head in his hands. "don’t," you said quietly, breaking the silence. his head snapped up, eyes red-rimmed, "don’t what?" "don’t blame yourself. we both messed up," "no," his voice cracked, "no, you don’t get it. i fucked it up. i ruined it. you deserved better out there," "art-" "you’ve always deserved better," he said, louder this time, and the words cut deeper than the loss, "since we were kids, you should’ve had someone who didn’t drag you down. you carried me through half those matches, and i just-" his hand raked through his hair, shaking, "i don’t even know why you still put up with me,"

your throat tightened. because you knew him, the boy who stayed late at practice so you wouldn’t have to walk home alone, the teenager who pressed candy bars into your hand before every final, the man who steadied your wrist when nerves threatened to undo you. "because it’s you," you said softly, "because i wouldn't be doing any of this without you," "that's bullshit," he laughed, humorless and dry, "they've always said you'd have a perfectly promising career if we stopped playing doubles. you'd be better off," "come on, art. you don't believe that," you sighed, "you're one of the best players in the world. your stats are even better than mine," "you don't even try!" he stood, eyes flashing, "it comes so easy to you. i see the way you move, the way it just flows through you. ever since we were kids, it's just second nature to you,"

"it's the same with you," you argued, watching him pace, "don't be so hard on yourself," "no!" his voice cracked, raw and open, "no, that's bullshit. i have never been a natural," he looked up at the cieling like it would somehow keep him together, "all i fucking do is try, all the time. i used to sneak in practices when i knew you were busy. when we went home for the summer, i had private lessons. i haven't- fuck, i haven't skipped a day of training in four years. since we lost that match back home," "what?" you blinked, confused, brows knit, "you've been pushing yourself that much?" "yeah," he smiled sarcastically, lips quivering, "and it still wasn't enough,"

"you're enough. you're the most talented person i know, art," you said softly, tentatively walking over to him, "i couldn't do this without you. i mean that," "you could," he swallowed, throat bobbing, "maybe you should," "come on. you're not gonna let one loss take you out of the game," "i just lost the us open after spending my entire life preparing for it," he looked physically pained to even say the words, "i made a complete fool of myself. i'm sure there's already articles-" "art, stop," you took both of his arms in your hands as if you could shake him out of it, "you are talented, you are an excellent player, and you will get through this. we have another round tomorrow. you'll win the singles match, i really believe that, and we can put all this behind us,"

he finally relaxed, eyes meeting yours, tired and dark, "i don't know why you even stick by me and deal with this," "because you're my best friend," you said softly, "because we've spent our entire lives building this," "i don't know what i'd do without you," he melted into your arms, chin resting on your head, arms looped over your shoulders, "i'm sorry," "don't be sorry," you murmured, closing your eyes, leaning into him, "i'm so proud of you, always," "i don't know why you stick around," he said quietly, "but i know i'm grateful," "i just told you. you're my best friend," you swallowed, "and i love you," he leaned back enough to meet your eyes, "i love you, too," he said softly, "more than you know,"

in the moment, it all just bubbled up, spilling over, your heart racing, "i'm in love with you," you blurted out, face hot under his gaze, "i've loved you for years. god, art, it's honestly fucking embarrassing, i've turned down other guys because i thought maybe-" he cut you off, pressing his lips to yours, startling you for a moment before you relaxed into him, smiling against his lips. "i've had feelings for you since we were like fourteen," he said as he pulled away, cheeks ruddy, smile wide, "i thought i was the only one," "of course you weren't," you laughed breathlessly, "you should've told me," "i could say the same to you," he teased, "i always thought you were braver than me," "what can i say? you scare me sometimes," "mm, that's funny. i was just thinking how you make me stronger,"

[matchpointfaist]

just hit 900 followers that’s so insane 😭😭 thank you guys i love you all so dearly my little friends that live in my phone

[matchpointfaist]

-`♡´- "i can go anywhere i want, just not home."

╰› my tears ricochet - starring smallville clark kent.

synopsis: clark had always been determined to make a difference in the world., whether it be with his abilities or his writing. when he left smallville to find something more, he never thought he'd be losing the one person that was always on his team, powers or not.

warnings: smut!!!!!, flashbacks, ex's still in love, angst

wc: 5.3k

notes: tried a kinda different format for this, let me know what yall think! me vs doing the spin kiss in fics. also clark and reader breaking the desk like lois and clark should've iktr

metropolis, current ⤸

you hadn’t meant for metropolis to become permanent. it was supposed to be a stopover, a test, a year or two to see if you could make a life on your own. but the city had a way of pulling you in. the noise, the crowds, the sleepless rhythm of it all. you hated it, sometimes, but you built something here. the charity became your center. you worked yourself raw with grant proposals, donor meetings, community programs that were always one step away from collapse. it wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t easy, but it mattered. and most days, that was enough. not all of them, though. there were nights when exhaustion gave way to silence, when the work ended and you were alone in your apartment, and that’s when the ache returned. the one you never really named, but always knew. the shape of someone who had left and never come back. clark kent.

his name had followed you here, stamped at the bottom of articles in the daily planet, dropped in conversations, caught in the corners of newsstands. broadcasts of superman saving the city, a flurry of red and blue, the intimate knowledge of the man inside the suit. you never searched for him, but his words found you anyway. sometimes you lingered on them, proud and aching at once. sometimes you turned the page too quickly, afraid of what it would do to you if you stayed. you’d convinced yourself you’d adjusted, that you’d built a life separate from him, steady enough to stand on its own. until one gray afternoon when the clouds threatened rain and you slipped into a crowded cafe near the office. you were tired, lost in thoughts about budget cuts, staring at your reflection in the dark glass of the window when movement caught your eye. there he was. standing in line like any other man in the city, hands in his coat pockets, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside. taller than you remembered, maybe, but still clark in every line of him. patient, soft edged, carrying himself like someone who didn’t know he took up so much space. your breath left you.

it was absurd, impossible even. metropolis was too big, too crowded, too sprawling. and yet, the instant you saw him, you knew. you couldn’t look away. memories struck sharp, merciless. sitting on the tailgate of his truck, the smell of hay and summer air, clark’s voice quiet as he told you he couldn’t stay. the barn lit by fireflies, his hands shoved into his pockets as though he was afraid if he touched you, he wouldn’t be able to go. the sting of holding a newspaper years later, his name printed bold at the top, pride and heartbreak burning together in your chest. and now, against all odds, here. your fingers tightened around your paper cup. you should leave, you knew. before he turned, before his gaze swept the room, before he saw you and unspooled everything you had worked so hard to tie back together.

but your body wouldn’t move. you just sat there, pulse hammering, watching him order his coffee. for a split second, he shifted, his head lifting, eyes skimming across the room. you dropped your gaze, heart thudding, terrified of what it would mean if his eyes met yours, terrified of what it would mean if they didn’t. the moment passed. the cashier handed him his drink, and he moved toward the door. you let yourself breathe again only when he was gone. your coffee had gone cold, and so had your skin. you sat there another ten minutes, staring at the window fogged with rain, feeling like the ground beneath you had shifted. you told yourself it was chance, a coincidence, nothing more. metropolis was a big city, you might never see him again. but deep down, you knew this wasn’t over. the memory pulsed in your mind, a moment so similar to this, the very first time you'd really gotten to know clark.

smallville, seven years ago, age 16 ⤸

"we've had a slight change in schedule," your science teacher announced, standing at the head of the class, "things have shifted, so mrs. steven's class will be joining ours. i'll be announcing the new lab partners as they file in," you waited, tapping your fingers against the lab table, humming under your breath. the teacher called your last name, then, "you'll be paired up with clark kent," you glanced up just as he entered, and the air seemed to escape your lungs. you'd see him, of course, everyone knew him to an extent. you'd never been so close to him, though, and your skin seemed to warm as he came closer, sliding into the seat beside you. "hi," he smiled, boyish and toothy, "i'm clark," you told him your name, smiling shyly, "i know who you are, though. i'm friends with chloe," "oh, duh!" he laughed, "i can be so spacey sometimes,"

from there, your daily routine changed. classes would pass almost in a blur until science, when you'd settle in beside clark, entranced by his presence. he'd tell you about the farm, about all the chores he had that morning, about the paper. he came into class on valentine's day, fumbling through his backpack as he sat, cheeks dusted red when your eyes met his. "i, uh, i'm not great at this kinda stuff," he pulled out a saran wrapped cookie, then a bunch of wildflowers tied together with twine, followed by a card with your name scrawled onto it, "would you be my valentine? i mean, like, could i take you out?" "of course, clark," you practically melted, smile widening as you dug into your own bag, passing him the mixed cd you'd burned on your parents computer, "i made you this, i just thought you'd like it," "i love it already," he took it, tracing his name in sharpie, "it's perfect,"

metropolis, current ⤸

a week passed, though it felt longer. you tried to fold the cafe sighting into the drawer of things you didn’t touch. coincidence, you told yourself, nothing more. the odds of crossing paths again were too slim to consider. you carried him with you anyway. not even him, really, but the shape of him, the way the air had thinned in your lungs when you saw him standing there, the memories spilling faster than you could keep them back, the way you’d looked away before his gaze could land on you. you threw yourself into work harder than usual. the charity’s annual fundraiser was looming, and it consumed everything. meetings stacked on meetings, endless calls, arguments with vendors over last minute changes. you barely slept, barely ate, lived in a blur of details that had to be perfect. it was safer that way, to drown yourself in purpose, to pretend the cafe had never happened.

the night of the event came sooner than you expected. it took place in a rented ballroom, strings of lights curling along the ceiling, tables set with linens that looked far too expensive for what you could really afford. the kind of night where you had to put on something elegant and smile like you weren’t running on nerves. you moved through the crowd with a practiced smile, greeting donors, introducing board members, thanking volunteers. it was exhausting but familiar, a rhythm you knew well. you were in the middle of a conversation with one of the city council aides when you caught sight of a camera crew near the back. reporters, you realized. of course, you’d sent out press releases, after all. you just hadn’t thought they’d actually show. then, your heart stuttered. because standing among them, notebook in hand, was clark. he looked different than he had at the cafe. sharper, more polished, the lines of his suit clean, his expression focused as he listened to someone speak. the sight of him still cracked through you like lightning. you turned quickly, words tumbling out to the aide beside you, anything to look busy, but you could feel him there. your chest tightened, your mind racing.

he was here, in your space, in the life you had built without him, and there was no corner table to hide behind this time. you tried to stay in motion, weaving through the crowd, tending to guests. but eventually, inevitably, you found yourself standing still, glass in hand, watching him from across the room. and you were struck again by the duality of it, the boy you once knew, standing here as the man who had left you behind. your throat ached. you told yourself not to let it show, but memories pressed in anyway. the way he used to carry books under his arm, scribbling in the margins, the late nights in the barn when he talked about writing things that mattered, his voice low and steady like he was confessing a secret, the way you’d believed every word. you swallowed hard, blinking back to the present. because now, he was here, not in your imagination, not on the byline of a newspaper, but here.

inevitably, his gaze found you. you felt it before you saw it. that pull, that weight, like a shift in the air. you glanced up, and there he was, across the room, notebook closed now, his eyes fixed on you. your chest tightened, and for a moment, neither of you moved. eventually he did, weaving through the crowd with an ease that made your throat go dry, as if the years hadn’t happened at all. you braced yourself. "hey," he said when he reached you, voice softer than the din of the ballroom, but it carried straight through you. your pulse was in your ears, "hi," his smile flickered, a little uncertain, like he wasn’t sure how much welcome he’d find. "i, uh, i didn’t realize this was your organization. when i got the assignment, i just-" he stopped, cleared his throat, "you've done good work," you forced your voice steady, "thank you. we certainly try,"

he nodded, eyes scanning the room, the decorations, the crowd, the tables piled with pamphlets and donation slips. "it’s impressive, really. you’ve built something here," you wanted to laugh. not unkindly, but the way he said it, like he couldn’t quite believe it, like he was only now realizing that the years hadn’t just been empty space for you. instead, you took a sip from your glass, "i guess we both found our places," his gaze snapped back to you at that, something unreadable in his expression. "yeah," he said slowly, "i guess we did," silence pressed in, filled with things you weren’t saying. the years you’d lost, the letters he hadn’t written, the nights you’d spent wondering if you’d been easy to forget.

finally, he asked, "do you have a minute? maybe we could-" "i can’t tonight," you cut in, too quickly, gesturing to the crowd, "this is my evening. i need to be everywhere at once," he nodded, but you saw the way his jaw tightened, the faint crease between his brows. "another time, then?" you didn’t answer right away. because part of you wanted to say no, to protect the fragile balance you’d built. but another part, the part that still ached whenever you saw his name in print, couldn’t. "maybe," you said after a moment, your voice low. his smile was small, almost tentative, but it was real. but then someone was calling your name from across the room, pulling you back into the swirl of the fundraiser, leaving him standing there with that unreadable look in his eyes.

you thought maybe the fundraiser would be it. a single night, one collision in a city too big to keep repeating itself. but two days later, he was in your office. you were buried in paperwork, a half finished grant proposal open on your desk, when your assistant knocked and poked her head in. "there’s someone here to see you," she said, and before you could ask who, he stepped in behind her. he filled the doorway in a way that made your breath stutter. glasses, pressed shirt, notebook tucked under his arm. but it wasn’t the look of him that made your pulse race, it was the steadiness in his eyes, the way he was clearly here for you. "hey," he said, "do you have a minute?" you froze, pen still in hand, "i'm a bit busy," his gaze didn’t waver, "that's okay. i'll wait,"

your assistant glanced between you, wide eyed, then ducked out and shut the door, leaving the two of you in silence. clark stepped further inside, setting the notebook down on the edge of your desk. "you can't keep ignoring me," your throat tightened, "i'm not-" "you are," his voice was gentle but firm, cutting through your defense. "at the fundraiser, you looked right at me and then you looked away. i don’t blame you, but-" he broke off, raking a hand through his hair, "i don't want it to be like this. not with you," you pushed back from your desk, standing because sitting made you feel cornered, "what do you want me to say, clark? that it didn’t hurt? that i was fine when you left? i’m not going to give you that," he flinched, just slightly, "i don't want you to lie to me," your chest burned, "then what? what are you asking for?" his eyes searched yours, raw and unguarded in a way that made your stomach twist. "coffee. a conversation. something real. you don’t have to forgive me. you don’t even have to like me. but don’t pretend we’re strangers," the words hung heavy between you, pulling at everything you’d tried to bury. and against your better judgment, you heard yourself say, "one coffee," his shoulders eased, just barely, "one coffee,"

the place he chose was quiet, tucked off a side street you’d never noticed before. no crowds, no noise, just the low hum of conversation and the smell of burnt espresso. you sat across from him, hands wrapped around your cup though you hadn’t taken more than a sip. your pulse was loud in your ears, louder than the clatter of dishes or the rain tapping against the window. he looked the same and different all at once. familiar in the slope of his shoulders, the way he kept his voice low like he was afraid of taking up too much space. unfamiliar in the edges, the polish of the city, the weight in his eyes. you broke first, "why now, clark?" his brows furrowed, "what do you mean?" "i mean-" you let out a breath, sharp, almost a laugh, "years, years, i don’t hear from you. nothing. and now suddenly you’re at my fundraiser and my office and dragging me here for coffee? what changed?" his jaw worked. for a long moment he didn’t answer, just stared down into his drink like the words were buried there.

finally, he said, "seeing you again. that’s what changed," he met your gaze at last, "and i’m sorry. i should’ve called, written, something. but i thought-" his voice faltered, "i thought leaving clean would be easier. for you. for both of us," "easier?" the word tore out of you, "do you have any idea what it was like? watching you walk away, and then having to pretend i was fine every time your name showed up on the front page?" he closed his eyes, like the words physically hit him, "i didn’t want to hurt you," "but you did," your voice shook, "and then you disappeared, and i had to build a life without you in it. do you know how hard that was?"

his hands curled on the table, knuckles pale. "i thought you’d be better off. i was scared of what this city would demand of me, scared of not being enough, scared of-" his eyes searched the cafe, like he was about to utter a secret, "i was scared of what being 'superman' would demand of me. and i told myself if i cut ties, you’d be safe from all of it," the confession sat heavy between you. you stared at him, at the man who had once been a boy sitting beside you on the tailgate of a truck, telling you his dreams like they were stories. "you should’ve let me decide what i could handle," you said quietly. his gaze softened, pain threaded through it, "you’re right. i should have. but you have no idea what it was like for me, okay? i could go anywhere, save anyone, but i- i couldn't go home,"

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the rain kept falling, steady against the glass. finally, you said, "i don’t know if i can just let it go. it’s not that simple," he leaned forward, voice rough but steady. "i’m not asking you to. i just don’t want to be a stranger to you anymore. even if all we have is coffee once in a while. i can live with that. but not this silence," your chest ached. because despite everything, despite the hurt and the years and the distance, part of you had missed him every single day. you looked at him, really looked, and saw not just the man who left, but the boy who’d once believed in you as much as you believed in him. slowly, you nodded, "one coffee at a time," and for the first time in years, his smile reached his eyes.

smallville, six years ago, age 17 ⤸

you and clark had a tradition. every saturday, he'd pick you up, and the two of you would spend the day at the talon, sipping through endless mugs of coffee and hot cocoa. you'd bring books and flash cards, though you'd often forget to study, instead falling into easy conversation and sneaky kisses. you'd looked at him, the light soft around his face, a strange ache in your chest, like you missed him before he was even gone. "i hope we're still here in ten years," you said, voice uncharacteristically soft, "i hope i look over and you're still sitting across from me," "me too," he said, squeezing your hand gently, "i think we'll stay like this always,"

metropolis, current ⤸

it was supposed to be a routine call. your charity partnered with local shelters, and when there was an emergency, families displaced, people suddenly in need, you were often one of the first on the scene to help coordinate resources. tonight, it was a fire. an apartment complex had gone up in the lower east side, and you’d been on the phone half the ride over, arranging food and temporary housing. the smoke hit you before you even rounded the corner. flames licked the brickwork, glass shattered from upper windows. sirens wailed, red and blue lights staining the street. you’d barely stepped out of the car when the air shifted, fast, hard, the unmistakable rush of him. superman. you knew before you looked, the same way you always did. there he was, hovering against the backdrop of firelight, a child clutched tight against his chest. he landed in a clean arc, setting the boy down into a paramedic’s arms, his cape whipping around in the heat. it wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this. but it was the first time you’d been here, close enough that the ash clung to your clothes, close enough that the ground still shook from the collapse he’d prevented.

and god, it was jarring. of course you knew. you’d known for years, before he’d ever left smallville. but seeing him here, in front of you, as both the man who once kissed you breathless in a cornfield and the man who carried strangers out of burning buildings, it made your heart clench in a way you hadn’t braced for. he straightened, scanning the chaos, and then his eyes caught yours. just a flicker, but enough. you saw the recognition spark, the pause, the almost imperceptible step in your direction before someone screamed from above and he launched skyward again, vanishing into smoke. you stood frozen among the crowd, clipboard slipping in your hands. you weren’t supposed to be here, not in his orbit, not colliding like this when you’d worked so hard to build a life separate from him. but you kept letting yourself fall anyway.

you stayed at the fire long after the flames were mostly under control. coordinating, directing, distracting yourself with the work. you clung to logistics like a life raft, clipboards, phone calls, lists of names, anything that kept you from replaying the moment his eyes had met yours. when the last families were settled into transport and the street was nothing but ash and siren lights, you finally returned to your office. you thought you’d have the quiet. instead, when you unlocked the door and stepped inside, he was already there. not the cape, not the symbol. just him, shoulders hunched, hair still ashy. his tie was crooked, his collar unbuttoned, and underneath the open gap you caught the faintest glint of blue and red. your breath caught.

"you shouldn’t be here," you said, sharper than you meant to. his eyes lifted, searching yours. steady, even as exhaustion etched deep lines into his face, "you were at the fire," "i was working," you shot back, "that’s what i do, clark. i don’t fly in and out. i stay," the words landed heavier than you’d expected. you turned away, setting your bag down on the desk, forcing your hands to stay busy. behind you, you heard the faint exhale of breath. "you weren’t supposed to see me tonight," you let out a short, humorless laugh, "yeah, well. we're both playing hero, i guess," the silence that followed was unbearable. finally, you turned. his jacket was half off, one hand gripping the fabric like he wasn’t sure whether to shed the disguise completely or cling to it. his other hand hung at his side, clenched tight, as if he could physically hold himself back.

"you can’t keep showing up like this," you whispered, "it’s not fair," his jaw tightened, but his eyes softened. "you’re right. it’s not fair. but i can’t-" he cut himself off, swallowed, tried again, "i can’t ignore you anymore. now that i know how it feels to have you in my life again, in this version of my life, i can't go without it," you felt the tremor in your own chest then, the sting of tears you refused to let fall. "then don’t," you said, quieter, "but don’t make promises you’re just going to break again," he stepped forward, and for the first time in years, he looked utterly human. no cape, no shield. just clark, smoke still clinging to him, heart in his throat, standing in your office like he’d finally run out of ways to keep the distance. he took one slow, cautious step closer, and his lips met yours for the first time in four years.

smallville, five years ago, age 18 ⤸

“i just don’t understand how you did that, clark!” you ran a hand through your hair, pacing the loft. hours prior, the two of you had been walking through town, laughing at some silly joke clark had made. you heard tires squeal as you rounded the corner, and before you could even jump out of the way, there was a screeching, metallic crunch. you blinked, brows knit, heart racing, and there was clark. the car was smoking slightly from the engine, and his hand was lodged into the grill, the metal bent and deformed around his skin. he'd pulled you away, quick and nervous, antsy all the way to the barn. "i know you don't," he swallowed, throat bobbing, his voice wavering, "i wish i could make you understand," "then tell me," you pleaded, leaning against the railing, "no more lies. no more hiding," "baby, you have no idea how much i want to do that," his voice cracked with a high pitched desperation. you met his eyes, tried to ignore the turmoil there, "clark, i'm sorry. you have to be honest with me now, or- or i think we need some time apart,"

"no," he took in a breath, eyes closing, "i'll tell you everything, okay? i just need you to promise me you won't look at me differently. that you won't be scared," "i'd never be scared of you," so there, in the loft, with watery eyes and shaky hands, clark kent told you the truth. the whole truth, not just the watered down, 'oh, i'm just a little strong' speech. he told you about the ship, about his abilities, about the meteor shower, about the strength and speed and heat vision, the flying. "it was so hard not to tell you," he said, voice thick, "you have no idea how hard it was to lie to you. i'm so sorry, i just- my parents didn't want me to tell anyone. they thought it was dangerous, or that it would be too heavy for you to carry. i didn't want to do that to you," you sat, speechless, for a moment, blinking back surprise. then, finally, "you've been saving people this entire time?" "what?" his eyes met yours, brows furrowed, "i mean, yeah, i have," "you're a hero, clark," you whispered, crossing the room, resting your hands on his shoulders ,"you're incredible,"

"you're not afraid? you don't think i'm, i don't know, an alien?" "an alien?" you scoffed, "no. i think you're amazing. you're a superhero," "i'm not a hero," he shook his head, but smiled anyway, "i'm just a man," "mm. a super man, then," "yeah? i like the sound of that. superman," you laughed, throwing your arms around his neck, "i love you, clark. nothing would ever change that. actually, this makes me love you even more, knowing you were saving people and suffering in silence," "i love you," he hummed, leaning in enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, "i couldn't do it without you," he leaned in the rest of the way, pressing his lips to yours, warm and familiar. he wrapped his arms around your waist, picking you up just to bring you closer, kissing you deeply. you giggled against his lips as he spun you around, so fast you almost got dizzy, the warm air of the loft ruffling your shirt. "my hero," you grinned, holding tight to him.

metropolis, current ⤸

he kissed you like he was trying to make up for lost time, walking you backwards until your thighs hit the desk, the wood cool against your skin when your skirt rode up. "missed you," he mumbled between kisses, clumsily pushing up your skirt as he shrugged off his dress shirt, leaving him straining against the red and blue suit top. you exhaled a laugh as he leaned you back, a cup of pens poking against your spine. "sorry," he murmured sheepishly, shifting to arrange the desk. you take the time to press your lips to his neck, grazing your teeth against his pulse. "screw it," he ran his arm along the desk, pushing everything off to the floor, "i'll fix it later," he laid you back, fumbling with the buttons of your blouse for a moment before huffing and tearing it open, the buttons shooting off as the fabric popped open.

he placed open mouthed kisses along the planes of your chest, his lips ghosting over the lace of your bra, his hands slipping beneath your skirt to smooth over your thighs. slowly, he trailed lower, unzipping your skirt and pulling it down with him, running his hands down your calves, kissing the inside of your thigh as he slipped off your heels. "you're so beautiful," he hummed, pulling the suit over his head, his abs flexing as he stretched, the scars of the kryptonian mark still staining his skin. you pushed yourself up, unbuckling his pants, leaving smudged lipstick marks on his toned stomach as you pushed them down. "oh, baby," he exhaled shakily, watching in a daze as you palmed the bulge in his boxers. you slipped a hand beneath the fabric, taking him in your hand, relishing in the breath he sucked in.

"don't tease," he murmured, catching your jaw in his hand to tilt you up, leaning down to kiss you in a mess of teeth and tongues, the last remnants of your lipstick smearing around his mouth. he stepped out of his boxers as he pushed you back down onto the desk, unclasping your bra with one hand and hooking the other through your underwear, sliding them down. there was a flurry of movement, his hands on your thighs, and then he pushed inside you, his lips still on yours. you gasped into the kiss, back arched, nails anchoring into his shoulders. "oh my god," he groaned, stretching you, the stinging ache familiar and indescribable. “oh, clark,” you mewled, wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he thrusted into you. “missed you so much,” he panted, forehead resting on yours, “god, never felt anything like you, baby. needed it, needed you,” “missed you,” you pulled him down closer, burying your face in his neck, your chest pressed firm against his.

you were lost in pleasure, dizzy, consumed by it. you didn’t even notice as the wood of the desk splintered, but you were pulled from the moment as it gave way beneath you, the strength of clark’s thrusts and his grip on the wood nearly breaking it in half. “oh my god!” you gasped, clinging to him to stop from hitting the ground. “i got you, baby,” he soothed, his arms holding you above the floor, your legs still wrapped around him. he shifted, clearing the pieces of the desk, nestling you onto the carpeted floor gently before fucking back into you like nothing had ever interrupted. “feels so fucking good,” he cursed, voice raspy, “oh god, baby,” “m close,” you managed between moans, clenching around him, “god, fuckin me so good,” “yeah? come on, honey. i’ve got you,” your eyes rolled back as you came, thighs spasming, back arching. “so tight,” he panted, thrusting deeper, chasing his own high, “oh- oh, fuck,” he came with a strangled gasp, deep inside you, his hips bucking and cock twitching. he relaxed against you, catching his breath, pressing tired kisses to your chest and neck.

you were silent for a while, just lying there in the mess that was your office, his breathing steady and content. “i need to go,” you said after a bit, shifting beneath him, “i have early meetings,” “mm, me too. but i don’t wanna go,” he mumbled, yawning, “what’s on your books tomorrow?” “breakfast for a potential grant, some meetings with the finance department, and a gala for metropolis relief society,” “what a coincidence,” he sat up, grinning, “i’ll be at the gala for the paper,” “yeah?” you smiled, rubbing your eyes, “i’ll see you there, then,” “could see me before then?” he hummed, “like in my apartment tonight?” “you’re insatiable, kent,” you teased, “maybe i should make you wait. absence makes the heart grow fonder and what not,” “my hearts fond enough, baby. we’ve had more than enough absence, “i really shouldn’t,” you huffed, pulling on his dress shirt that he’d let fall to the floor, scrunching your nose at your torn shirt he’d discarded. “we gotta make up for lost time, honey. cmon, be irresponsible with me,” “fine. but if i’m late for my breakfast, it’s all your fault,” you poked at his chest, feigning bossiness. “yes ma’am,” he grinned, pulling the suit top back over his head, then his dress pants, “can i fly you home? for old times sake?” “maybe we’ll take my car, superman,” you smiled, pecking his lips, “rain check?” “i guess i’ll allow it,” he murmured, smoothing out your hair, “i’ll save the flying for next time,”

[matchpointfaist]

hi besties i’m writing rn! <333 sneak peek of upcoming release for you

[matchpointfaist]

-`♡´- "you're not my homeland anymore, so what am i defending now?"

╰› exile - starring clark kent.

synopsis: clark had made a vow to his parents to always protect the world, to always keep as many people safe as he could, you included. however, when the news breaks that his parents really sent him here to rule the earth, you have a hard time trusting his intentions.

warnings: not plotline canon, trust issues, lots of angst, identity crisis

wc: 1.5k

notes: clark with something to prove :(( my poor sweet angel they'll never understand

you trusted clark before you knew what he was capable of. before you saw him in the suit, before his ability to interview superman started to make perfect sense. back when he was just clark kent, the guy who always topped off your coffee at the office, who pulled out your chair because his ma taught him to, who made you laugh until you lost your breath. he was clumsy, sometimes, but gentle, always. the kind of man who gave you his umbrella, who called home on sundays, who walked you to your car just to make sure you were safe. you fell in love with him because he was steady, because he was good. even when you found out what he could do, he was still that man, the one who fixed your sink when it stopped up and kissed you after like you'd done him a favor by letting him help. you never asked too much about where he came from. you knew the outlines; the ship, kansas, jonathan and martha. that was enough.

you were at your desk when the news hit. every computer, every phone, every tv was taken over by one bone chilling message. "lord over the planet as the last son of krypton. dispatch of anyone unable or unwilling to serve you, kal-el. rule without mercy," your eyes widened, heart racing, as footage of clark's real parents rolled, staticky but unmistakable. then, the message was over, giving way to a broadcast. "superman is not here to help us. he's here to rule," the reporter said, face grim, "he is not a protector. he is a predator," the newsroom roared with sound, with chattering voices and hushed murmurs, but it all faded away in your mind. you grabbed your coat, running out before anyone could see the way your cheeks stained with mascara tears.

he came to you that night, like he often did. the window creaked open, his cape brushing the floor as he stood, crossing your living room, shoulders hunched like he already knew your thoughts. "it isn't true," he said, voice heavy. the sight of him, the sheer strength he carried, the news you just heard - he didn't comfort you anymore. it made way to fear. "don't," you whispered, taking a step back, "don't tell me it isn't true, clark. i saw it. the whole world saw it," his jaw tightened, "it's what they wanted for me. that is not what i want, it's not who i am. i didn't know," he took a step closer, hands raised in surrender, "they sent me here to conquer, but my parents, they taught me to protect. that's all i ever wanted to do,"

he took one more step, and you flinched, taking three steps away. "you think i would hurt you?" his voice broke, looking at you helplessly. tears blurred your vision, "how am i supposed to know anymore? you're-" you swallowed, throat tight, "you're strong enough to destroy us all. maybe that's what you want, maybe you just didn't realize it," his eyes darkened, anger and grief colliding, "if you believe that, then you don't know me at all," he paused, running a hand through his hair roughly, one loose curl escaping, "i can't make you believe me. i thought i could but i- maybe i was wrong," before you could speak, he turned and disappeared out the window in a rush of wind. you sank to the floor and sobbed until your body shook.

the world unraveled in his absence. politicians called for restraints, for exile. headlines turned cruel. the public demanded his removal, others begged for him to prove them all wrong. he simply stopped showing up. the city grew restless, angry, and through it all, you carried regret like a stone in your chest. you'd seen what no one else had, the way clark's face fell when you flinched away from him. you wondered if you were the reason he disappeared, or if he truly was planning to fulfil his destiny. lex luthor was growing closer each day to destroying the city, the country, and superman was nowhere to be seen.

you worked long hours, sleep deprived and over caffeinated, spending every waking moment reporting on the state of things. you checked broadcasts what felt like every hour, scanning screens for any sight of him, any news. you came up empty handed, day after day. "get in here," jimmy called to you one day, gesturing to the news room, "this is big," you jogged over, hoping to see familiar blue eyes, only to be met with breaking news of a black hole. you watched, blinking, afraid, as the drone footage showed a crack in the earth, splintering up in the direction of metropolis. "oh my god," you exhaled, heart pounding, "how long do we have?" no one had a proper answer. as if on queue, the building shook, papers sliding off of desks, pencils rolling onto the floor. "we have to get out of here," someone said, but you just stood, watching the tv like a lifeline. "come on," jimmy grabbed you, running for the emergency staircase. your last glimpse of the office was clark's name plate sliding off of his desk.

the city split open. concrete heaved beneath your feet, buildings groaned as they split from their foundations, windows shattered, raining glass. you ran with the crowd, but the earth buckled, throwing you sideways just as the building beside you gave way. your vision was muddled by dust as debris rained down around you. this is it, you thought, the ceiling trembling above you. the world was ending, and you were just another casualty. you made a last ditch attempt to shove your way out of the rubble, panting and trying your hardest not to panic. "fuck," you sucked in a breath as a rock cut your arm, pulling it close to your chest, collapsing to the ground, giving up. you hoped jimmy and lois were okay, wherever they ran to when you got separated. you hoped, more than anything, that clark was okay, that he'd do the right thing.

you closed your eyes, trying to think of anything other than the weight of the building above you, bringing forward memories of your childhood, of birthdays and your parent's faces, of the first day of school, of holidays. you thought of clark, the first time you'd met him, when he'd spilled a coffee all over your jacket and apologized 10 times. when he kissed you for the first time, the air rushing around you as he levitated feet above your living room floor, spinning you in his arms. when he told you he loved you, raw and vulnerable, like it had been weighing him down to hold it in. then, the ground stopped shaking, the horrible sound of it collapsing finally ceasing. someone stopped it, maybe, or maybe it was all about to implode. you weren't sure if you should be relieved or horrified.

then, the air shifted. the ground was still, but the rubble around you shook before parting fully. clark stood, tearing through the debris like paper, a flash of blue and red, of hope. you gasped, watching as he tossed rocks and broken window frames away, clearing a path to you. "are you okay?" he demanded, like he was terrified of the answer. "yes," you nodded, dumbfounded, "just my arm, but i'm- it's fine," "oh, thank god," he flew to you, grabbing you gently in his strong hands, lifting you up and surveying you for damage, "i thought- i was afraid something happened to you," "you're here," you whispered, relief washing over you, all of your fear melted away. "of course i'm here," he said simply, "i wouldn't leave these people behind. i wouldn't leave you,"

"clark, i'm so sorry," you started, coughing up what felt like a mouthful of dust, "i'm so sorry i didn't believe you. i was just so scared," "it's okay," he murmured, wiping a spot of grime from your cheek, "i know you were scared. but i would never do anything to hurt you, you have to believe that. i'd never hurt anyone," "i know," you nodded, clinging to him, "i know that. i always knew that, i just got so caught up," "don't apologize," he said softly, "i should've come back sooner. i don't know what i would've done if something happened to you," then, right there in the middle of the horrible debris, superman kissed you. just like the first time, he spun you around, lifting you through the air like you were weightless, like nothing else mattered. with him, you thought, nothing else did.

[matchpointfaist]

-`♡´- "who knows, if she never showed up, what could've been?"

╰› the last great american dynasty - starring art donaldson.

synopsis: art had always pushed himself too hard. when the critique got to be a little much, when the matches wore him down until he couldn't ignore it anymore, you begged him to leave. finally, he gave in.

warnings: smut, sports injuries, vague mental illness, established relationship

wc: 1.7k

notes: burn out art you are so dear to me. also sub leaning art??? on MY page???? omg who is she

you'd always known art pushed himself too hard. the first few times you noticed, they were just small things. rough callouses on his palms from hours of training, ice packs left on the nightstand that he didn't apply until he was sure you were asleep, winces when he stretched a certain way. over time, though, it grew heavier, sharper, until he was consumed by the need to be better, faster, stronger. it all came to a head on a rainy night in some city you couldn't even name, just another stop in another hotel. his match had ended hours prior, and though he'd won, he carried himself like he lost.

you found him sitting on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, wrist cradled to his chest at an odd angle, trembling slightly. his jaw was clenched tight, eyes glassy with more than just pain. "art," you dropped to your knees beside him, but he flinched when you reached for his hand. "it's fine," he muttered, voice low and gravely, "i just strained it. i can still play, just need to tape it up," "you can barely hold it," you said softly, brows knit with concern, "art, baby, you're hurting yourself," he curled his fingers, forehead scrunched in pain. finally, he met your eyes, "if i stop, we'll lose everything. i won't let them be right about me,"

you cupped his face in your hands, gentle and light, "who cares about them? they don't see you like i do. they don't watch you bleed for this. you don't owe them anything, honey. not them, not me," his breathing was uneven, like the weight of it all was pressing down on his chest. "please just take a break," you whispered, "before this game takes everything from you," it was silent for a few moments after that, your ears thrumming with the hum of the air conditioner, the drip of the faucet, art's heart racing. you expected him to fight you, to push you away and retreat inside of himself like he always did when he was afraid. instead, he slumped against you, breathing evening out as he relaxed into your touch. "i don't know who i am without it," he confessed, voice muffled by your shirt, "and i don't think i want to find out," you threaded your fingers through his hair, "you're still you. that's enough,"

he didn't announce his withdraw right away. the next morning, he taped his wrist and went down to breakfast, his nose scrunching each time he bent his hand to lift his cup. he hadn't said the words, but you knew. you'd felt his inevitable retiring in the way he collapsed into you, the way he'd given up arguing. it hurt, though, to see him so resigned, so exhausted. two days later, after another restless night, you found him on the balcony, staring out at the city skyline, his hands gripping the railing tightly. you stepped out into the cool air, wrapping your robe tighter around you. "i called my manager," he said after a beat, "told him i can't do it anymore,"

your breath caught, "and?" "he didn't take it well," he laughed, humorless and hollow, "said i'm throwing it all away, that i'll regret it. the media's already running stories, saying i'm turning my back on tennis because i can't handle it. some of them-" he pauses, frowning slightly, "some of them are saying it's because of you. that you made me leave," "me?" your stomach dropped, brows knitting in confusion. "that you pushed me, or distracted me, or made me give up," the words came out tense, like he hated repeating them, "that i'm weak for letting you make decisions for me,"

the air thickened with tension, "art, no, they don't know what it's been like, how bad it's been for you. that's totally unfair," "i know. i know it wasn't you, that you were the only one looking out for me. don't worry about what they're saying," he pulled you against his chest, his chin resting on your head, "they're full of shit," "but what if people hate me for this?" you asked, quiet and tired. "let them," he said simply, "i'd rather they hate both of us than keep living the way i was, baby. you helped me see that,"

the weeks after were brutal. articles with your picture next to his, headlines twisting your name into something ugly. whispers in the hallways when you left hotels, traveling for yourselves for once, not for matches. comments online accusing you of ruining him, dragging him away from greatness. sometimes, late at night, you’d scroll until the words blurred, until they made your chest ache and eyes burn. art would find you, gently pulling the phone from your hands. "they don't know us," he whispered, pulling you into his arms, "they never will. all they'll ever see is the story they want to spin. but we'll know," you buried your face into his side, letting the sound of his heartbeat drown out the noise in your head.

you found him making the bed one day, hair still damp from his shower, movements slow and unpressured. you smiled to yourself, leaning against the doorframe as you watched him, touched by his relaxed state. "you're staring," he murmured, bringing you out of your daze. "mm, maybe," you hummed, smiling as you walked over, "can't i stare at my husband?" "that never gets old," he smiled, soft and content, as you looped your arms around his shoulders, "stare all you want, mrs. donaldson," "and if i wanna do more than stare?" you teased, brushing your lips against his jaw, "what then?" "do whatever you want," his breath caught as your breath fanned against his neck, "i'm yours,"

“could listen to you say that forever,” you trailed your lips down the column of his throat, “i love you,” “i love you,” he exhaled shakily, letting you lead him back to the bed, nudging him gently until he fell back against the comforter. you climbed into his lap, straddling him, hands tracing the ripples of muscle in his arms. “you worked up?” he teased, though he was already hard against his pajama pants. “just showing you i love you,” you murmured, smiling against his skin, “you’re so strong, baby. have the nicest arms,” he groaned, low in his throat, when you nipped at his collarbone, his hands sliding down to cup your ass. you shifted, trailing your lips lower, pressing open mouthed kisses to the plane of his chest. “what do you want, my love?” you whispered, blinking up at him through your lashes. “whatever you want,” he sounded on the verge of tears from need, already, “just want you,” you hummed, fighting back a smile, shifting to the edge of the bed, pulling his pants with you as you went. he sucked in a breath as the cool bedroom air kissed his skin, his cock flushed and hard.

your hair fell in a curtain as you leaned down, slowly taking him into your mouth, teasing his tip with your tongue. “oh, fuck,” he gasped, one hand gathering your hair back into a makeshift ponytail, the other grabbing at the sheets as you worked him deeper into your mouth. you looked up at him the best you could manage, wanting to see his reactions, reveling in the way he fell apart for you. you licked up the vein running along his skin, a low groan leaving him as you did, before swallowing around him, taking him as deep as you could manage. “baby,” he sucked in a breath, hips bucking, “oh, god,” you hollowed your cheeks, lapping at him, your hand coming to roll his balls gently. his thighs tensed, abs taut, twitching against your tongue. you waited until he was just on the brink, hips bucking, moaning incessantly, and pulled away, a trail of saliva from your lips to his cock.

“was close,” he half whined, watching you as you climbed back into his lap. “i know,” you teased, kissing his jaw, “maybe i just wanted to fuck you,” “oh,” his eyes fell closed as you slid against his slick cock, grinding against him, “baby, please,” he grabbed your ass, guiding you, panting softly, “you’re so wet,” you shuddered slightly, reaching between the two of you to line him up with your entrance, slowly sliding down onto him. “oh my god,” he gasped, swallowing, bucking up into you until he bottomed out. “feel so good,” you murmured, sucking a light hickey into his neck, rolling your hips so your clit brushed against him, “so good f’me,” you kissed him, wet and messy, teeth clashing and tongues sliding against each other. he slid one hand between you, rubbing your clit the best he could, groaning into your mouth when you clenched around him. “close,” he whined, pulling away just enough to get the word out, “can i?” “not yet,” your voice broke as you moaned, “i’m almost there,”

he pressed his thumb harder against your clit, circling slowly as your hips lifted, bouncing against him. he nearly whimpered, leaning up to wrap his lips around your nipple, sucking lightly as he thrusted up into you. “gonna make me cum,” you mewled, “fuck, baby, right there,” you came with a rough gasp, collapsing in his arms, letting him fuck up into you. he held you tight, hoarse whines and curses leaving his lips as he let himself get close to the edge. “love you,” he groaned, low and rough, “fuck- angel, oh my god,” he spilled inside you, face buried in your neck, arms tight around your back, warm and heavy. he caught his breath, not moving, just lying content in the moment. “love you,” you murmured, kissing his cheek, “so perfect,” “mm, don’t think so,” he hummed, grinning sleepily, “thank you,” “what for?” you asked, settling against his chest. “being here,” he murmured, “taking care of me. supporting me through all this mess,” “that’s what i promised to do, isn’t it?” your hand found his, tracing his ring, “forever,” “forever,” he repeated, pressing a kiss to your hair, “always,”

[matchpointfaist]

-`♡´- "tried to change the ending, peter losing wendy."

╰› cardigan - starring dodge mason.

synopsis: you'd always known dodge planned to get away from carp if he won panic. you thought, maybe, you could change his mind. but when it becomes obvious he has no intention of staying, you start trying a little harder to beat him.

warnings: panic being played, allusions to smut, attachment issues lowkey, angst, reader is kinda stubborn and argumentative

wc: 1.6k

notes: "you can't fire me bc i quit" ass plotline. reader is so me. might not be timeline accurate w the challenges for dramatic effect!

you'd been with dodge long enough to know he wasn't the sort of boyfriend who made promises. he wasn't careless or cruel with you, but there was always a distance within him, like part of him was already gone. even as you were laid side by side on the hood of his truck after the second challenge, you could feel it. the warm night air clings to your skin, and his hand rests lightly over yours, but his eyes stay fixed on the dark horizon. "when i win," he said, voice low but certain, "i'm leaving carp," "you mean if you win," you try to ignore the way the words sting, though you've heard them before. "i mean when i win," you forced a laugh, trying to ignore the twist in your stomach, "so what, you're just gonna take off? leave me here?" he sat up, expression tightening, "you know why i'm doing this. there's nothing for me here," "that's not true," you sat as well, the words coming quickly, "i'm here," "you deserve better than this town. better than me stuck in it," you're sure he meant to sound noble, protective, but all you hear is 'i'm leaving you behind.' you made a choice, then and there, that if dodge was going to win panic and disappear, that you'd just have to win instead.

the quarry challenge only makes it worse. dodge crosses the beam with infuriating ease, his steps never faltering. your legs shake as you cross it, refusing to look at him as he waits at the end, hand extended. you make a slight misstep and wind up gasping, inches from falling, heart hammering in your chest. by the time you make it to the end, you're angry, though you're unsure who you're angry with anymore. it all feels like some sort of test, a measure of if you can keep up with him. you don't take his offered hand, just brush past him, climbing down the ladder without a word. "hey," he murmurs as he meets you at the bottom. "leave it, dodge," you tell him quietly, not meeting his eyes. you realize, distantly, that it's not about getting out, it's not even about winning. it's about the ache in your chest when he said when i win, about the mental image of watching him leave.

two more challenges pass, and the pressing need to win only grows stronger, all consuming in it's intensity. you both feel the shift, the rift growing between you, but neither of you seem to care enough to stop it. soft moments turn into tense interactions. the frustration seeps into nearly everything. he has you beneath him in the back of his truck one night, and you're so desperate to make him need you, you nearly make him beg for it. you bite at his bottom lip as you kiss him, pull at the ends of his hair a little harder than usual. like most things, he relaxes into it, keens and grinds against you like it's a welcome change, like he doesn't notice the tension in your movements. it feels good, then, to have something he doesn't.

you're alone in his car after the fourth challenge, the silence thick and heavy. "you're pushing too hard," he says finally. "maybe you're not pushing hard enough," you murmur, gazing at him. his jaw clicks, "you don't have to do this. i don't even understand why you're doing this. what, to prove something to me?" "i'm proving i can beat you, dodge," he turns to face you, eyes wide and dark, "why? why are you trying so hard to win?" "because if you win, you're gone," you say after a moment, voice cracking, "you're just gonna go away and leave me here like it never mattered," he looks, for a moment, like he might reach for you, but instead he just settles his hand in his lap, knuckles taut. "you know it's not about you. you know why i have to get out,"

"i know," you say softly, blinking back tears, "i just thought things had changed. i thought i was enough to make you stay," "goddamn it," he turns towards you fully, "don't you get it? you are enough. that's the problem," before you can ask what he means, he leans forward, kissing you roughly. you melt into him, kissing him with a fervor, grabbing at his shoulders to pull him closer. you think, for a moment, if he really does leave, if this is all you get, you'll take every second. when he pulls away, breath ragged, his forehead rests against yours. "if i go, i lose you. if i lose, i'm stuck. what the hell am i supposed to do?" you don't have an answer, and it breaks you a little more, but you push it down. you'll keep fighting, for panic, for him, for whatever it is between you that keeps chipping away.

for the last challenge, the crowd gathers by devil's leap, an old cliff at the edge of town. the verge of winning looms over your head, and you hate how much it terrifies you. you'd known, the entire time, that it would come to this. you'd maybe even wanted it, in some way. but now, standing across from dodge with all your competitor's and half the town watching, you can hardly breathe. dodge's eyes find yours across the rocky ledge. he looks calm, but you can see it, the twitch in his jaw, the hard set of his eyes. "you don't have to do this," he mutters when you keep climbing. "yes i do," you reply. your voice shakes, but you mean it. "i can't let you risk-" "stop trying to protect me!" the words tear out of you, raw and real, "maybe i'm selfish, maybe i don't want to watch you leave me behind. if you're going to win, you're going to have to take it from me. i'm not just going to hand you the life we were supposed to have together,"

you stop, looking over the ledge, hands shaking, "i'm not doing this," and all at once, you abandon your point, abandon the game, abandon any chance of winning. you shove past him, where he's still standing, speechless, and walk back down the cliff to level ground, straight to diggins. "take me out," you tell him, "i'm done," and with that, you storm away, determined to walk all the way back home if that's what you have to do. you get halfway before you hear the rumble of dodge's truck, pulling up beside you, wheels crackling over the gravel. "get in the car," he says over the engine, brake lights lighting up the treeline. "i can walk," you don't look at him, you aren't sure you can handle it. "baby," he says, voice cracking, "get in. your house is two miles away," you know, distantly, that he's right, and your legs already ache. you huff, walking around to the passenger side, slamming the door closed behind you. "you didn't even say anything," you say sharply, glaring out the window.

"and what was i supposed to say?" he asks, slowly rolling down the road, "you ran off. you fucking quit the game," "i quit because of you," you hate how unbothered he sounds, but you're not surprised, "i did all of this because of you. and you don't even care," "bullshit," he laughs, dry and humorless. "you don't! you don't care about anything, dodge!" he slams on the brakes, pushing the truck into park, turning to face you. "don't fucking say that," he's seething, suddenly, eyes dark, "you know i care about you. i'm in love with you, for christ's sake," "maybe that's not enough," "stop it," he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, "just stop," "don't tell me what to do," you argue, "you don't value this relationship-" "i won!" he spits, throwing his hands up, "i won, and i'm still fucking here! i could've drove right past you, gone home and packed my shit and left without a word. that would've been easier, right? since i don't care about you?"

you turn to stare at him, dumbstruck, lips parted, "you won?" "of course i won. you were my only real competition, and you ran off. did you even hear what i just said?" "it's just a matter of time," you try to shake away the dangerous coil of hope. "just a matter of time," he repeats, shaking his head, "come with me. stop this and come with me," "you don't want that," you say quietly, shaking your head, "don't say things you don't mean," "don't tell me what i want," he sighs, "let me be with you, okay? let me show you i'm here. come with me,"

you hesitate, taking a breath. "where would we even go?" a slow smile spreads across his face, "so you'll do it?" "if you take me somewhere nice," you roll your eyes teasingly, "i want to see new york," "baby, i'll take you anywhere you wanna go," he grins, unbuckling his seatbelt and yours, pulling you into his lap in one fluid moment, your back pressed against the steering wheel. "dodge," you scold, pressing on his chest, "someone will see," "let them see," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over yours, "just making it up to my girl," you let him, kissing him slow and sweet. an hour later, he's made you finish three times as an apology, and you're panting in the passenger seat, skin flushed all over. "that better?" he teases, kissing your shoulder. "mm, everything's perfect," you hum, "now take me home. i have bags to pack,"

[matchpointfaist]

-`♡´- "we were something, don't you think so?"

╰› the one - starring art donaldson.

synopsis: years ago, art loved you more than anything. he thought it would fade with time, with being married to another woman, but when his marriage fell apart, he realized he hadn't been healed, only distracted.

warnings: smut, pining, time skips/flashbacks, vague emotional affair, ex's, some cheating lowkey but in the past

wc: 5.3k

notes: art is kinda not the best person in this but he is my cinnamon apple!!! he's the best guy around!!!! i'm so excited for this series guys ty for all the votes <3

blue trimmed, thick, cream card stock. baby blue envelopes, personalized wax seals, pressed with the flower of the bouquet art always loved to purchase. you’d picked them out, careful and meticulous, laid side by side in his bed one night. “i want them to feel personal and sweet,” you told him, smiling against his skin, “everyone will always remember our wedding. it’ll be so beautiful,” “of course it will be,” he amused, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “you’ll be the bride,” “mm. mrs donaldson,” you gleamed with happiness, imagining the day. there was no ring on your finger, and the two of you spent most of your time on his twin xl on the stanford campus, but you loved to dream, and dream the two of you did.

stark white, black envelope, no wax seal. that was the invitation you received one fall day, two years after the last time you’d seen art donaldson. clear as day, the time and date of their wedding, in simple, clean, black lettering. your heart stuttered, and your fingers traced the words, vision blurred by tears. on the back, in his familiar handwriting, you read, ‘sorry for the short notice. it wouldn’t be the same without you.’ you tore it to shreds before you could even process your movements, hands shaking, already reaching for your phone. you sobbed until your throat was raw, your best friend on the other line, doing her best to calm you down.

you didn’t attend the wedding. you were sure to carefully avoid any photos of the ceremony, and politely smiled and left the conversation any time he was brought up. you learned to live a life as if he had never occupied space in it, as if art donaldson was no one more than a tennis prodigy that you once attended school with. you saw him in things, in fleeting moments, in the autumn breeze as it drifted through barren trees and the summer sun kissing your shoulders. he built a life with tashi, and you built one alone, surrounded by friends, busy enough to pretend you’d forgotten him.

it was impossible to avoid him, at a certain point. there were magazine covers, billboards with his face plastered over them, tv's in bars playing his matches. it wasn't quite that you forgot him, though you tried. you merely forced yourself to learn to live with his absence, forced to come to terms with his happiness and success with another woman. truly, you were happy for him. you wished, of course, that he'd have done it by your side, but you never wanted anything but the best for him. you swore off of checking on him, of opening yourself up to updates. if he wanted you to know, he'd call.

one morning, though, a headline slipped into your feed as you refreshed it, bold and daunting and sickening. ᴀʀᴛ ᴅᴏɴᴀʟᴅsᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀsʜɪ ᴅᴜɴᴄᴀɴ ᴀɴɴᴏᴜɴᴄᴇ ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ. the news made your stomach twist, but the photo attached worsened it, made your heart drop. they stood, side by side, him in a suit and her in a white dress, smiling in the brittle way only resigned people do. your thumb hovered over the article, but you forced yourself to look away, to lock your phone and go about your day. his life had been running on a different track for years, and there was no sense in indulging in the 'what if' of it all. the news buzzed in the corners of your mind all day, but you held fast; don't text, don't ask, don't care.

by the time you left the office, the sky was dark and heavy with rain, thunder rolling quietly in the distance. droplets sunk into your hair and dampened your shoulders on the short run to your car, and as you settled into the seat, heater blowing against your face, your thoughts blurred with a surge of memories. you'd been sitting courtside as art practiced, hitting against the ball launcher, his hoodie keeping you warm from the late november chill. "it's about to start," you'd warned him, blinking up at the darkening sky, the air dampening. "just 5 more minutes," he called, flashing you a grin as he swung his racket. "you're incorrigible," you'd huffed, smiling anyway, legs crossed as you watched his movements.

just as his racket cracked against another ball, the rain began, pouring down in a thick curtain. you'd gasped, shooting up from the bench, pulling your hood up over your hair. "shit," he'd turned off the machine in an instant, hurriedly shoving his gear into his bag, shirt already clinging to his skin. "cmon, can't have you melting," he laughed, pulling you to the car, puddles splashing as the two of you ran. he opened your door, helping you into the jeep before jogging to the driver side, cranking it and blasting the heat, his hair sticking to his forehead. "if you'd just listened to me," you scolded with no real anger, "we wouldn't be soaked right now," "oh, baby, you're so pretty when you yell at me," he'd smiled, eyes sparkling, "tell me again how incorrigible i am," "shut it, donaldson," you grumbled, grinning, as he reached across the console, pulling you into a kiss.

you shook off the memory as you drove home, turning up the music to drown out his name, trying to forget the feeling of his lips against yours. you could still feel it some nights, burnt into your mind, the way your skin tingled with each touch from him, how your senses seemed to wake up in his presence. you'd made plans to go on a date uptown, just a simple night at a wine bar, but the idea of sitting across from another man exhausted you. you sent him a message, simple but polite, "hey, i'm so sorry, working late. rain check?" minutes later, your screen lit up with a call from your best friend, vibrating against your bed.

"hey, what's up?" you answered, pressing it to your shoulder. "hey! are you getting ready for your date?" her voice was a comfort, even with the mention of the night. "uhm, no, actually. i bailed," you didn't mention the news, though you weren't sure why, "i asked for a rain check," she sighed, "at least tell me you're still going out," "i just told you i canceled-" "you can go by yourself!" she argued, "you need to get out more. it'll be good for you," "i really am tired," "excuses," you could practically hear her eyes roll, "just go get a drink or something. it'll be good to get dressed up. besides, maybe you'll meet someone," you hesitated, biting back a groan, "yeah, okay. fine," "there's my girl," she laughed, "oh, i gotta get back to work, but send me pictures, okay? keep me updated," "sure," you tried your hardest to sound remotely excited, "love you," "love you. be safe!" and then she hung up, the three beeps humming in your ear, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

you got dressed, brushing your hair back into an updo and adding some eyeliner to your makeup, music playing quietly from your record player as you took your time. you couldn't shake the headline you'd seen, couldn't stop thinking about art. you wondered what happened, what went wrong, if it was ever really right. the image of them was seared into your mind, their pristine outfits and tense posture. you'd never seen him look so unlike himself. you drove all the way uptown, as if the miles could help you outrun your own mind. by 9, you found yourself at a dimly lit bar, a pianist in the corner and a dreamy atmosphere in the air.

you were halfway through your second drink when the crowd shifted, your gaze snagging on a form you knew by heart. his back was turned to you, and his shoulders broader than you remembered, his hair curling at the nape of his neck, longer than you'd seen it in a long time. your breath caught, and you told yourself to look away, to direct your attention anywhere but there, but then he turned, his eyes catching yours like he'd been looking for you all along. the air tightened, taut and heavy, and he stepped towards your table, slow and careful.

"didn't think i'd see you here," he said, voice low, deeper than you remembered. your throat tightened, and you set your glass down, fumbling for cash and tossing it on the table as you slid off your stool. "wait-" you were already moving, past the smell of whiskey and wine, past the crowded tables, past whatever this may have turned into. the crisp night air stung your skin as you pushed open the door, but you kept walking, not checking to see if he followed.

you didn't hear the door swing open behind over, not over the sound of your pulse slamming in your ears. another memory struck you, one of your only fights, your junior year of college, the beginning of the end. "if you would just listen to me," he'd groaned, running a hand through his hair, jaw tight, "can you just calm down? i know you don't like tashi, but she can't play anymore, and she'd make a great assistant coach," "don't you get it, art?" you'd scoffed, "it's not about me liking her. she's the reason you and patrick aren't friends anymore. she also very clearly has feelings for you-" "oh, jesus, not this again," he laughed, clipped and bitter, "patrick had it coming, and she doesn't have feelings for me. we're friends entering a professional relationship, that's it,"

you'd stormed out then, too, when the argument was too much and tears were threatening to spill. he'd chased you out onto the sidewalk by his dorm, cheeks flushed, eyes frantic, "baby, please, just come back so we can talk about this," "there's nothing else to talk about. you made your decision, and i can respect that, i just need some time," "i won't have her coach me," he pulled you into his arms, like you'd run away if he didn't hold you, "come on, baby, you know i wouldn't do anything to hurt you," "i don't wanna hold you back from your career," you mumbled into his chest, relaxing into him, "i don't wanna be that girl," "you're not holding me back, sweet girl. i promise," he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, "come back upstairs, gonna freeze out here," you listened, then, let him pull you back in and soothe you with pretty words.

he stood just behind you now, "hey, just wait, please," you stopped, but only because he'd caught up. you turned, sucking in a sharp breath. up close, he looked different. more tired, more human. "i just-" he broke off, desperately searching your face like all the answers might lie there, "i never thought i'd get the chance to-" "don't," it came out sharper than you intended, "whatever you think you want to say to me, don't," his jaw tightened, but he didn't look away, "i assume you saw the news," you didn't say anything, didn't even nod, just stood, stuck in time, still hazy from the flashbacks. "i just- i don't know. i thought maybe.." he drifted off, looking down at the sidewalk.

"you thought what, art?" it hurt to say his name again, "thought i'd see your name in a headline and come runnning?" you laughed humorlessly, "i spent years trying to teach myself how to live without you. i won't unlearn it because your marriage fell apart," he flinched like you'd struck him, blinking away the ache, "i never stopped thinking about you," the words seeped into your skin, working, tempting you. "you should've," you said finally, lips parted. the cold bit your cheeks as you walked away, faster this time, more determined. you could feel his eyes on you until you rounded the corner.

you tried to shake it off all night, the feeling of his eyes on you, the warmth of his words. you were determined, dead set on letting it fall away into nothing more than a bad memory. despite your wishes, you dreamt of him, tossing and turning as your mind wandered. he'd just won the french open, and you'd flown out with him, after he insisted he couldn't win without you. you were sitting courtside as he accepted the trophy, barely containing himself long enough to pose for a photo before he was running over to you. he picked you up, spinning you in his arms, peppering your face in kisses. "you won!" you squealed with excitement, "i'm so proud of you!"

"only won because i had my lucky charm," he smiled, wide and bright, "here, gimme your phone," you passed him your cell, puzzled, and he passed you the trophy in return. "hold it up," he instructed, grinning, "say cheese!" you laughed, smiling proudly as you posed with the trophy, pointing to the year stamped at the bottom. "my good luck girl," he pulled you in to a kiss, the trophy wedged between your chests, his hand on your back. later that night, he'd taken you to dinner at a restaurant with a view of the eiffel tower, holding your hand across the table half the night. when you returned to the hotel room, there were rose petals sprinkled along the floor, a bottle of champagne on the bed, small chocolate candies wrapped neatly on the pillows.

"art?" you looked at him, eyes wide, "what's all this?" "paid room service like $100 to set it up," he smiled sheepishly, "do you like it? it's not cheesy, right? i just wanted to do something sweet," "i love it," you smiled so hard it almost hurt, eyes welling with tears, as you pulled him down to kiss him. you'd told him to wait on the bed, sneaking away to change into lingerie you'd packed, tiptoeing out into the bedroom. "do you like it?" you'd asked, straddling him on the edge of the mattress. "oh, baby, i love it," he'd exhaled, eyes raking over you, "you're so beautiful," he'd taken his time with you that night, slow and gentle, the paris lights twinkling outside the hotel window. you were certain you'd never been more in love.

you woke with a start, gasping in a breath, rubbing your eyes like you could wipe away the dream, the way it had made you feel. "jesus," you mumbled to yourself, stumbling out of bed, "i have to get a grip," you showered, hoping to wash away the guilt paired with a lingering desire, the water almost hot enough to burn him out of your mind. you took your time getting ready, eventually walking the two blocks from your apartment to the farmers market they held every saturday downtown, a bustling, bright affair. you told yourself you felt lighter among the familiar booths.

you were in line for a coffee when you heard it, a familiar, soft voice. "can i just get a black coffee with cream?" "of course," the attendant replied, "for art, right?" "uh, yeah," art nodded, and you blinked at the back of his head, shocked by your bad luck. "sorry, big fan," the boy laughed, writing the name on the cup. "oh, no worries," art said, and you could practically hear his smile. you felt stuck, rooted in place, unable to do the common sense thing and run away. he turned, then, coffee in hand, and his eyes met yours. he smiled, just slightly, like he'd caught you. "what are you doing here?" you asked, voice low among the noise of the market. "getting a coffee," he said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, gesturing to the cup, "can i buy you one?" "no, i-" you sighed, rubbing your forehead, "i meant here, like in this market, in my neighborhood. it's getting weird,"

"i didn't plan this," he said quickly, "i just, after the divorce i got a temporary apartment and it's not far from here, and i saw this from my window," "right," you nodded, fidgeting with your sweater sleeve, "well it's a free country, i guess," "i figured i'd run into you eventually. not this soon, but, yknow," he trailed off, kicking at the ground, "you should let me buy you a cup. we can catch up," "there's nothing to catch up on, art," you said quietly, but you could feel your resolve slipping, "i think it's best if we don't speak,"

"come on. you don't mean that," you could hear it, that familiar desperation seeping in to his voice, "look, i- i wrote you something," he fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a neatly folded paper, passing it to you. you took it hesitantly, brushing your fingers against it, "what is this?" "just read it, please," his voice cracked slightly, "even if you never want to talk to me again, just read it," you didn't open the letter until you were home that afternoon, perched on the edge of your bed, the sun streaming through the blinds. you unfolded it, hands slightly shaky, his handwriting neat and familiar.

ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜɪs, sᴏ ɪ'ʟʟ ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴀʏ ɪ'ᴍ sᴏʀʀʏ. ɪ'ᴍ sᴏʀʀʏ ғᴏʀ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ɪ ᴅɪᴅ. ɪ'ᴍ sᴏʀʀʏ ғᴏʀ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ ɪs, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪᴅ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴍᴇᴛ ᴛᴀsʜɪ, ɪ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɪ ᴡᴀs ʙᴜɪʟᴅɪɴɢ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡ. ɪ ᴡᴀs ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ғʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ. ɪ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ ɪ ᴡᴀs ᴊᴜsᴛ ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ, ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ғᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ. ɪ ᴡᴀs ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴀ ᴘᴀɢᴇ ᴏɴ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ʟɪғᴇ. ɪᴛ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋ. Tʜᴇ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ ғᴇʟʟ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏғ ʀᴇᴀsᴏɴs, ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴍɪɴᴇ. I ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ I ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ. Kᴇᴘᴛ ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪғ I ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀ ʜᴜsʙᴀɴᴅ, ᴀ ᴛᴇᴀᴍᴍᴀᴛᴇ, ᴀ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ғɪɢᴜʀᴇ, I’ᴅ sᴛᴏᴘ ʜᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟᴀᴜɢʜ ᴡʜᴇɴ I ᴡᴀʟᴋᴇᴅ ᴘᴀsᴛ ᴀ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ sᴛʀᴇᴇᴛ, ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴇᴀʟ ᴍʏ ʜᴏᴏᴅɪᴇs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ, ᴏʀ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴄʜᴇsᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴇʟʟ ᴀsʟᴇᴇᴘ. ᴛᴀsʜɪ ᴡᴀs ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ, ғᴜɴɴɪʟʏ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ. ɪ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴅ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ, ɪᴛ ғᴇʟᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʀᴇʟɪᴇғ. ɪᴛ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ. Yᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ. I’ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪs ᴛᴏ ᴀsᴋ ғᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ. I’ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙʟᴏᴡ ᴜᴘ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪғᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀsᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ғᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ. I ᴊᴜsᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʟᴏᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ. Nᴏᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴀ sɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴅᴀʏ. Iғ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɪs ᴛʜʀᴏᴡ ᴛʜɪs ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀᴡᴀʏ, I’ʟʟ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ. ɪ'ᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs. ʏᴏᴜʀs, ᴀʀᴛ.

the letter sat on your nightstand for hours. you picked it up occasionally, just to trace the loops of his handwriting, your heart hammering like it had when he first kissed you all those years ago. you wondered if it was true, if he meant the words staining the page, if he knew what it would do to you when you read them. you cried, painfully raw, your chest cracked open. you thought of how madly in love you'd been, two kids, young and stupid, stumbling through life. you thought of all the nights spent together, talking about nothing, dreaming of everything. you wanted to be the one by his side at the altar, to be the one courtside and every match, good or bad. you wondered if he ever saw you there, the sun blurring tashi's face. you wondered, most of all, if it hurt.

all it took was one text to a number you weren't sure he even used anymore, and you found yourself bracing to see him again, weak kneed and shaky outside of a small cafe. you told yourself you'd be ready, that you'd prepared. you weren't. when you walked inside, eyes finding his almost immediately, your heart skipped, then lurched. every memory, every ache, every time you wished to see him again, they all came surging forward, unwanted and uninvited. he froze when he saw you, as if he couldn't believe you showed up, his lips parted and eyes soft. you approached the table, and he whispered your name like a prayer, confession, and apology, all rolled into one. you just stood there, clutching your bag, the world narrowing until it was just him. you were struck again by the time that had passed. he looked older, softer, like the world had worn him down and he hadn't forced himself to sharpen up this time.

"you read it," he said after a moment, voice quiet. "i did," you nodded, giving in and sliding into the seat across from his. his hand reached for yours, and instinctively, against your better judgement, you took it. his touch was familiar, electric, like coming home after a lifetime of wandering. "i'm sorry," he murmured, "i shouldn't have waited so long to tell you the truth. i thought i was moving on, i- i don't know what i thought, honestly. it felt like my life wasn't my own anymore. i lost patrick, i ruined it all. and then you. god, not a day passed where i didn't think about you, about us," "i thought i could do it," you started, blinking so tears didn't fall, "i had just figured out how to do it all without you. but it was so much better with you, i thought, what's the point?" "we were something, weren't we?" he smiled, sad and tired, memories playing on a loop in his mind. "we would've been so fun," you sniffled, biting your bottom lip to hold it all in.

you stayed at the coffee shop for hours after that, catching up, learning how to know each other again. he told you about tennis, how far he'd come, and about tashi's affair. you told him about work, about your family, about the shitty dating apps. "i never stopped being proud of you," you told him, "after everything, i just thought wow, he's really doing it," "it never meant anything," he said easily, "i mean, sure, i love tennis. but it never felt like i was fulfilled. it never even felt real, i guess. it felt like it was happening to someone else, and i was just watching," you knew the feeling all too well. "i feel like we've wasted so much time," he said, swallowing, "i don't want to waste another minute not being with you," "i'm not ready to go all in again," you told him, half apologetic, half stern, "it's too soon," "take all the time you need," he said quickly, "i'm not asking for an answer or a commitment. i just have to be honest. i spent too long lying,"

he ended up walking you back to your apartment, making conversation like no time had passed, the leaves falling in a picturesque backdrop. you thought of move in day at stanford, the california autumn so unlike what you'd had back home, the august sun shining bright, his skin freckled and pink. "this is it," he'd smiled down at you, sweat shining on his forehead, "the start of the rest of our lives," at the time, you'd really believed that it would just be the two of you, together forever.

you stopped at the steps of your apartment, keys in hand, hesitant to go inside. "well this is me," you said, gesturing to the door, as if he'd somehow forgotten. it was the only apartment you'd ever lived in after he left, and he'd seen it only once, a night that you were sure neither of you would ever forget. "i know," he nodded, cheeks flush like he was reliving it, shifting awkwardly. "right, yeah," you mumbled, willing the memories to go away, to pass you by. "that night was-" he broke off, shaking his head, "i'm sorry. i shouldn't talk about it," "do you want to come inside?" it came out quickly, almost unintentional, surprising yourself. "me? oh, yeah, yes," he nodded, stumbling over his words, "thank you," you just hummed, twisting the key in the lock, letting him inside like you knew you always would. seeing him there, in your space, brought it all back, full force.

he'd shown up, snow flurries in his hair, his breath curling out in a cloud as he stood on your stoop, six months after the break up. "i had to see you," he said, before you could slam the door in his face, "i just- can i please just come inside?" he looked so tired, so worn down. maybe that's what possessed you to open the door. he'd wound up on your couch, hands shaky, sipping a mug of tea you'd poured out of habit. "i miss you," he exhaled it like it was going to tear out of him, "you have no idea how much i miss you," "you left me, art," you said quietly, "you don't get to say that," "i thought i knew what i was doing," his eyes met yours, and something inside of you splintered. "yeah, well," you said dryly, "guess you didn't,"

"don't be like that, please," he murmured, setting down his tea, reaching for you, "let me hold you," "no," you said weakly, "you should go," "is that what you want?" he asked, tone like he already knew the answer. you didn't respond, just leaned into him, your head against his chest, his heartbeat strong and familiar. he sighed with relief, wrapping around you, warm like a soothing balm. you let yourself cry for just a moment, your tears soaking in to his sweater, your shoulders shaking under his arms. "i'm here," he murmured, and you noticed only after he was gone that he never said he'd stay.

he took you to your bedroom, laid you down and kissed you slow, tedious and deep. "you smell so good," he'd mumbled into your skin as he kissed your neck, nipping lightly, his hands slipped beneath your shirt, "missed this so much," you let yourself fall headfirst into the fantasy that this was still real, that he was still yours, as he trailed further down. "can i show you how much i miss you, baby?" his voice was thick, hoarse, as he gazed up at you from between your thighs. "yes," you nodded quickly, as if you'd ever refuse him, "please," he was tender as he slid off your underwear, pressing featherlight kisses to your inner thighs, running his hand down your other leg soothingly.

you sucked in a breath as his tongue finally met your core, hot against your flushed skin, light as he trailed it against your clit. "oh, art," you sighed contently, hands settling in his hair, eyes closing, "that's so good," he hummed, licking a stripe, reaching for the hand that wasn't tangled in his curls. you intertwined your fingers with his, moaning softly as he sucked your clit between his lips, tongue laving at you, "oh my god," you gasped, back arched, "oh, just like that," that encouraged him, and he sped up his motions, the hand that wasn't in yours coming to hold down your hips as they rocked. "close," you panted, dizzy with pleasure, "god, please," he twirled his tongue just right and you fell over the edge, his name falling from your lips like it was anchoring you, your heart pounding.

he sat up, wiping his mouth with his thumb before sucking it between his lips, cleaning every trace of you from his skin. "need to be inside you," he murmured, reaching to relieve himself from the strain of his boxers, "can i fuck you, baby? do you want that?" "yes, of course," you nodded, watching him, entranced. he smiled, hazy and sweet, as he pulled off his boxers fully, settling between your parted thighs. "so pretty," he mumbled, sliding his tip against the mess he'd left, "missed you. missed this," he leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours as he pushed inside you, thick and warm. you gasped against his lips, wrapping your legs around him, holding him close. "god," he groaned, dropping his forehead to your chest, thrusting slowly, "feels so good, sweet girl, so perfect f'me,"

"so good," you dug your nails into his shoulders, eliciting a raspy whine from him. "not gonna last, missed you too much," it made you feel good to have some power over him, to make him weak like you were, "that's okay," you ran your fingertips over the scratches you'd left, his thrusts quickening, "can come for me, art," "oh my god," he gasped breathlessly as he pulled out, spilling across your stomach, a half whine, half growl leaving his throat as he watched it paint your skin. you hummed, warm and content, letting him wipe you off with a tissue from your nightstand.

after, you'd curled into his side, "stay the night?" "i can't," he said after a moment, quiet, apologetic, "i'm in town for a match," "oh," you nodded, though your chest ached, "is she here? in town?" "she's at her parents," he said quietly, "but she'll be here in the morning. i'm sorry," "that's fine," you said, a beat too quickly, "go on, then. you shouldn't lose sleep before your match," you forced yourself to smile as he stood, dressing slowly, "you sure you're okay?" "i'm great," you lied, "at least i got you for a little while," he leaned down just before he left, kissing you sweetly and gently, "i love you," he murmured, only worsening the pain. "i love you too," you whispered, blinking away tears as you watched him go.

"are you okay?" he asked, bringing you back to the present, blinking away the flashback. "yeah! yeah, sorry, just thinking," you said quickly, running a hand through your hair, "maybe- maybe this isn't a good idea, art," "what?" his face fell, brows furrowed, "what do you mean?" "i don't know who i am when you come back," you said quietly, "i mean, i helped you cheat on her, art. that's not who i am," "i'm sorry i ever put you in that position," he swallowed, and you watched his throat bob, "i never should've come here and treated you that way. i wasn't thinking of the right thing, i was just thinking of you, of how badly i needed to see you," "it was unfair," you murmured, looking down, "but it wasn't just you. we both did it. i just don't want to be the sort of woman that gets weak the moment you come back. i mean, what if you leave again? what if someone else comes along tempting you with a better life?"

"we can take it slow, like we talked about. i'll wait as long as i need for you to trust me again," he took a step closer, reaching for you, gently brushing his hand along your arm, "i want to make this right. i want to be with you, but only when you're ready. i want to prove i can be the kind of man that you deserve," "i don't know how to stop you from hurting me," "you just have to trust that i'll never do it again," you wished it were that simple, "i don't want anyone else. it's clear to me now, okay? you're it for me. you're the one," you met his eyes, drank in the sincerity in them. "okay," you said after a moment, "okay. i'll try to trust you," he took another step, closing the distance between you, placing a hand on your low back, "i'll spend the rest of my life earning it," he said softly, leaning down, lips hovering over yours, "i've spent the last five years dreaming of coming home to you," "come home, then," you whispered, and he crashed his lips into yours.

[matchpointfaist]

getting started on the folkore drop today! can't decide if i should release them in order or not ugh

[matchpointfaist]

-`♡´- now spinnning.. folklore fic release! -`♡´-

-`♡´- "we were something, don't you think so?"

╰› the one - starring art donaldson.

-`♡´- "tried to change the ending, peter losing wendy."

╰› cardigan - starring dodge mason.

-`♡´- "who knows, if she never showed up, what could've been?"

╰› the last great american dynasty - starring art donaldson.

-`♡´- "you're not my homeland anymore, so what am i defending now?"

╰› exile - starring clark kent.

-`♡´- "i can go anywhere i want, just not home."

╰› my tears ricochet - starring smallville clark kent.

-`♡´- "i've never been a natural, all i do is try, try, try."

╰› mirrorball - starring art donaldson.

-`♡´- "thought i can't recall your face, i've still got love for you."

╰› seven - starring art donaldson.

-`♡´- "so much for summer love, saying 'us', cause you weren't mine to lose."

╰› august - starring conrad fisher.

-`♡´- "you're a flashback on a film reel on the one screen in my town."

╰› this is me trying - starring clark kent.

-`♡´- "you showed me colors i can't see with anyone else."

╰› illicit affairs - starring art donaldson.

-`♡´- "one single thread of gold tied me to you."

╰› invisible string - starring dodge mason.

-`♡´- "no one likes a mad woman, what a shame she went mad."

╰› mad woman - starring art donaldson.

-`♡´- "to make some sense of what you've seen."

╰› ephpihany - starring clark kent.

-`♡´- "your favorite song was playing from the far side of the gym."

╰› betty - smallville clark kent.

-`♡´- "all these people think love's for show, but i would die for you in secret."

╰› peace - starring art donaldson.

-`♡´- "my only one, my smoking gun, my eclipsed sun."

╰› hoax - starring connor murphy.

-`♡´- "i'm setting off, but not without my muse."

╰› the lakes - starring art donaldson.

[matchpointfaist]

would you consider doing connor murphy for the album fics? no pressure xx

ofc!! do you have any specific songs in mind?? feel free to dm me! <3

[matchpointfaist]

Riff and the Jets' medic who are very very very close "best friends"?

i just wanna let you know, i'm seeing the sides you don't show

riff lorton x medic! reader

tw - allusions to smut, light angst, found family vibes, mentions of injury and fighting, violence, fluff, eventual soft riff

you became an honorary member of the jets by some strange twist of fate, wrong place, wrong time. you'd been out late, walking home after your shift at the bar, when you'd seen a group of boys in an alley, fussing over an injury on one of their legs. you knew you should probably turn away, run in the opposite direction, but your curiosity and compulsive need to help people had you walking closer, heels clicking against the damp pavement. "is everything okay?" you called, voice echoing in the alleyway. "shit," one of them had sighed, standing to block you from seeing the blood on the ground, "everything's fine, girly, you ain't gotta worry. just get on outta here," "like hell it is," you pushed past him, eliciting a teasing, shocked reaction from the group. you got the sense that not many people stood up to him. "he's gonna bleed out if he keeps laying here like this," you crouched beside the boy, no older than 17, brows knit, "does anyone have a shirt they can part with?" when none of them responded, you huffed, tearing off a strip from the hem of your skirt and tying it around the boy's thigh, the bleeding slowing almost immediately.

"there," you stood, dusting off your hands, "that should hold him until you can get him to a hospital," "we ain't takin him to a hospital," the tallest one, seemingly the leader, spoke up once again, "do you not know who we are, girly?" "then take him home and keep it clean," you shrugged, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, "and no, but i got a pretty good idea," "name's riff," he said it with such arrogance, you almost smiled, "and these here are the jets," "well, riff, keep his wounds clean," you grinned, just slightly, "i don't care much who you are, long as you get him some help," you turned away, but someone caught your wrist, their palm cool against your skin, "wait," riff said, bordering on desperate, "can you- could you come with us or somethin? i don't know jack about first aid," "fine," you said after a moment, throwing caution to the wind, "you can come to my apartment, but you can't stay,"

they had, in fact, stayed, at least until they were sure the boy, who you learned to call snowboy, was healed up. they'd all gathered in your shoebox studio, watching with mercurial gazes as you tended to the gash, taking such gentle care of him. "we could use somebody like you," riff had said, lingering in your doorway, "can't take care of these idiots all by myself," "you know where to find me," you'd told him, unsure of the word's weight, "i'll be here if you need anything," he'd returned three weeks later, baby john tucked under his arm, bleeding from his ear. you let the two of them sleep there for the night, their exhaustion evident, bags under their eyes and a slurred murmur in their speech. they were gone when you woke up, but you smiled to yourself as you surveyed the living room, the throw blankets folded messily and blood wiped from the table.

that had been three years ago. they made a habit of stumbling in your door, stabbed or shot, too stupid or stubborn to stop the rumbles that occurred almost weekly. you and riff were, well, nothing, in the grand scheme of things. you tried to remind yourself of that, that the two of you were not an 'us', but merely a product of circumstances a mutual need for some softness in your lives. he was your best friend, above all. you'd said it a million times, especially to the other jets, "we're just really good friends," friends probably didn't touch each other the way you did, didn't sneak in through windows and curl up in bed. they definitely didn't sneak kisses when the other boy's heads were turned, or sometimes more, when you were alone in the apartment.

it had started slowly, as most things do, your hands lingering on his skin after cleaning a wound, tears of relief pricking your eyes when he returned after days of wondering. his hands would find themselves on your waist, and at first, he claimed it was just to steady you. truthfully, he just needed to feel close to you, to anchor himself to the one thing he felt genuinely good about in his life. he loved the jets, of course, he considered them family. but sometimes, he got the gnawing feeling that maybe they were all just complicit in leading each other down a path they wouldn't come back from. you, though? you were goodness personified, something that he could really believe in.

he rolled in through your window one night, sweaty and breathless, his shirt torn and blood staining his exposed torso. "riff?" you shot up from your bed, brows knit, "are you okay? jesus, what happened?" "don't worry your pretty head, girly," he was nearly wheezing as he propped himself against the wall, "just got jumped out in the alley by some sharks, got caught without my boys," "my god," you rushed over to him, brushing stray hairs from his face, "what is it? stabbed, shot?" "stabbed," he muttered, "fuckin sharks and their knives," "come on," you pulled him to the bathroom, sitting him on the ridge of the tub, pulling the ripped shirt up over his head. he groaned as you pressed disinfectant on the wound, blotting it carefully, blood soaking through the cotton pads. "you're okay," you murmured, nose scrunched in concentration as you worked.

when you finished, you led him back to your bedroom, nestling into the sheets beside him. "thanks for that," he said it quietly, like he could barely stand to, his lips brushing your shoulder. "you know i'll always fix you up," you said softly, fingers finding his beneath the blanket, "wish you'd be more careful," "yeah, yeah," you could practically feel his eyes roll, "whatever you say, dollface," you let him pretend, for a moment, that he'd actually listen to your scolding. he kissed you, deep and slow, and you let it all fall away around you. he pulled you into his lap, your hair falling in a curtain around the two of you, his hands settled on your waist. "be gentle with me," he teased, already breathless from your position as you straddled him, "don't wanna tear those stitches you worked so hard on," "wouldn't dream of it," you murmured, grinning as you kissed him again.

later, you laid in bed, the shirt he always left at your house draped over your torso, his shorts loose on his hips. "could stay like this," he said quietly, voice hoarse with exhaustion, "been thinkin a lot about what we're doin, doll," "yeah? and what're you thinking?" you sat up just enough to meet his eyes. "just thinkin we're not just friends," he said it so simply, so easily, like he didn't have a suitcase worth of baggage behind him. "maybe not," you hummed, toying with his fingers. there was a knock at the door just as you started to elaborate, startling you slightly. "riff, come on, open the door!" one of the boys shouted, and you groaned, standing from the bed with a huff. "i'll get it," you told him, padding over to swing it open, the whole group of jets out in the breezeway. "hey there," baby john grinned, looking over riff's shirt hanging from your frame, "riff here?" "bedroom," riff shouted, nosy as ever, "and don't be ogling her," "thought you two were just friends," action teased, following the others inside. "we are just friends," you rolled your eyes, closing the door behind them, "yall sit down. i'll make some dinner,"

[matchpointfaist]

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