#how you meet a story is Part of the story

[malfoys-demigod]

Big Eyes, Little Lies

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ JOHNNY STORM X READER

summary: Johnny picks up his nephew Franklin from school just once. That’s all it takes. Now he’s suddenly volunteering to pick him up every day. Sue knows something’s up — but Johnny’s not talking. Not until he's got a plan. Warnings: None, just sweet chaos and mutual pining.

a/n: requested by @totaldystopiannerd !! thank you for your request!

this is the prequel to Big Eyes, Little Rings

It started with one favor.

Sue had a meeting downtown. Reed was in his lab, locked in some dimensional whatever. Ben was on asteroid duty. That left Johnny.

“Pick up Franklin at 3. Don’t be late.”“Yeah, yeah, sis, I got it.”

He hadn’t expected anything life-changing. He parked the car (slightly crooked), adjusted his sunglasses, and strode across the parking lot like someone being filmed in slow motion — until he tripped on a sprinkler head.

Kids were spilling out of the classroom, tiny backpacks bouncing, and that’s when he saw her.

You.

Standing by the door in a sunflower-yellow cardigan, kneeling to tie some little girl’s shoe, speaking softly. There was something familiar about the softness of you — like the end of summer, or the first hot cocoa of the year.

Your eyes — God, your eyes — went wide and warm when you looked up and said, “You must be Franklin’s uncle.”

Johnny blinked. Twice. Maybe three times.

“I — Yeah. Yep. That’s me. Flame... Johnny. Just Johnny. I’m Johnny.”

Smooth.

You giggled. Actually giggled. Like a Disney character or someone who made their own granola.

Franklin ran into his legs, breaking the moment. “Uncle Johnny! Can we get donuts?”

“Kid, you can have whatever you want.”

You smiled and handed Johnny a paper folder. “He’s been very curious this week — lots of questions about space. I think someone’s been bragging about his uncle.”

Johnny glanced at you, then the folder, then back at you.

You had those ridiculous, round eyes and this calm, sparkly way of speaking. Like nothing bad ever happened in your world. He didn’t even try to be charming. He just stared at you like a man who had seen the sun for the first time.

When Sue called him that night, she sounded suspicious.

“You picked him up today?”“Sure did.”“...You offered to do it again tomorrow?”“I’m a giver, Sue. A saint.”

By the third pickup, you were expecting him. You greeted Franklin first, always, with the kind of gentle authority that made Johnny consider asking you to organize his schedule.

Then you looked at him, smiled like he was already part of your day, and said something like, “Hi, Johnny,” like it meant something.

Which was insane. Because you didn’t even know him.

Except… maybe you did. You didn’t fawn over him like fans did. You weren’t impressed by his hero status. You just talked to him. About Franklin. About your class. One time you said he had “mischief in his smile,” and he barely survived the moment.

Johnny Storm — chaos incarnate — was melting over a kindergarten teacher.

By week two, he started dressing nicer.

By week three, he learned what time the class went to recess, just so he could “accidentally” show up early.

He brought snacks.

He helped stack tiny chairs.

He took a “volunteer” flyer from the bulletin board and asked you how many hours counted as “a few.”

He told Sue nothing. She was watching him like a hawk.

It wasn’t just the big, soft eyes. (Though God, those eyes…) It was the way you leaned in when kids whispered, like their thoughts were treasures. It was how you made every day sound magical. Like watching the world through glitter and hope.

It made Johnny — a man who flew into battle and called it Tuesday — want to slow down.

Want to stay.

One Thursday, Franklin forgot his lunch, and Johnny offered to drop it off.

“Class is in story time,” you whispered, when you met him outside the door.

Inside, a sea of little heads sat crisscross on the rug while you held an open book.

“Would you like to read the next page?” you asked, voice mischievous.

Johnny froze. “Me? Oh — uh. I don’t really—”

But then you smiled and held out the book. The kids squealed. One asked if Johnny could make fire from his hands.

He read the page. You sat beside him, calm and radiant, like this was exactly what should happen. He smelled your vanilla perfume and forgot the plot halfway through.

After, as you walked him to the door, you said softly, “You’re good with them.”

Johnny snorted. “I barely survived that page.”

You shrugged. “Still. You’re gentler than you let on.”

He stared at you again, all stupid, until a kid asked if he was your boyfriend. Johnny nearly combusted.

You just smiled. “Not yet.”

That night, Sue cornered him. “You’re in love with her.” “I am not.” “You picked up Franklin in a collared shirt, Johnny.” “I can wear collars!” “You ironed it.” “I did not— okay, I might have steamed it—” “You brought cupcakes to the staff lounge!” “Okay, now you’re just making things up.” “Franklin said she has ‘princess eyes.’” Johnny blinked. “That’s… actually very accurate.”

Sue smirked. “Ask her out.”

Johnny hesitated. “What if she says no?” “Then she’s got terrible taste and you move on. But… I don’t think she will.”

He showed up on Friday with a coffee just the way you liked it (you once mentioned it, in passing — he remembered).

You took it with a surprised smile, eyes going even wider than usual. “This is… exactly right.”

“Yeah, I pay attention.”

You looked up at him, gentle and glowing. “I know you do.”

That did it.

“I was wondering,” he began, tugging at the hem of his jacket, “if maybe, sometime when you’re not, you know, herding thirty tiny humans, you might want to… get dinner?”

You tilted your head. “Like a date?”

“Yeah. A real one. No crayons involved.”

Your smile lit up your whole face. “I’d love to.”

Later that night, Franklin announced to the room:

“Uncle Johnny kissed Miss Y/N’s hand and then walked into the door.”

Sue just laughed and shook her head. “I told you,” she muttered. “Big eyes. Big trouble.”

[baeshijima]

— bewitched

as the apprentice of none other than the founder of the hexenzirkel, alice, you are all too familiar with expecting the wildly unusual to be the norm. explosions which can destroy an entire city? you can handle. appearing on the other side of teyvat within a blink for some sight-seeing? you can handle. getting ganged up on by old hags and the anemo archon for your non-existent love life with a man you just met? um... what?

CONTAINS : fem!reader (no gender pronouns are used, but honestly just being a part of the hexenzirkel is indication enough when they are all. well. a faction of female witches.), 2k wc, fluff, love at first sight (varka), once again on my puppy/loser in love varka agenda, venti gets a kick out of it, the witches get a kick out of it, you are not getting a kick out of it

A/N : i swear on my life this was actually supposed to be two paragraphs long. like the concept of a fic. but now it is a fic. i hate it here. (also i'm so punny for that title i know hahaha.)

Your mentor informs you there will be a meeting soon with Barbatos and the current Grand Master of Mondstadt's Knights of Favonius. You don't think much of it — why would you when this clearly seems like some important business to be taken care of? Not to mention the fact you're positive such diplomacy has nothing to do with you. In fact, you've already planned how you'll be spending your newfound free time in your head!

At least, that was until you're faced with your ever so chipper mentor beaming at you with the watt of a thousand suns, her words, “Now, won't you be a dear and fetch our guests for us?” being the first and last thing you hear before your surroundings are warped.

Next thing you know, through bleary eyes and a disgruntled mind, you find yourself in an unfamiliar room. There's smoke in your lungs from Alice's questionable choice of a theatrical entrance, tickling the back of your throat and forcing a slew of coughs to be released. Really, you ought to have a word with your mentor about springing something as disorienting as teleportation on you with barely a word of warning. Not everything has to be flashy and come as a surprise—

“Oh? I didn't think you would be the one to come meet us!” Barbatos' familiar voice breaks your thoughts, and you're forced to realise that no, you're not alone, and yes, you did have an audience watching your embarrassing flounder. An audience of two, that is.

You recognise Barbatos, of course, and greet him with a nod. You've met him a handful of occasions, courtesy of Alice stringing you along for occasional meet-ups. Though you're willing to bet she just wanted an excuse to show you off in the new outfits she'd made for you on those occasions to someone other than the few available Hexenzirkel members. Regardless, he’s not all that bad of choice company during the times he strums his lyre and hums a song for you, melting away the stress which tends to build up when dealing with your eccentric mentor. (His love for alcohol is something you can handle in comparison.)

The second person isn’t someone you’re entirely familiar with, though you can deduce he must be the renowned Grand Master bold enough to seek an audience with the Hexenzirkel. Messy blond hair feathering across his forehead and falling atop his shoulders, eyes which rival the clearest of skies, and a build expected for someone of his calibre, you can say with full confidence he definitely is younger than you were expecting, what with the stories you’ve heard of his feats and his accomplishments. (Maybe all the teasing looks and pronounced smile Alice always wore when bringing him up to you was just her hinting he was closer to your age than you’d guessed?)

You offer him an acknowledging nod; he merely stares at you, gaping. Tilting your head to the side, you observe with a raised brow as he continues to stare at you, unmoving. Actually, has he even blinked? Turning to the Archon, you deadpan at his mischievous expression mirroring that of your mentor. At least he seems to be getting a kick out of the situation.

Well, whatever. All three of you have somewhere to be, and you are more than ready to leave post-haste.

With that in mind, you step towards them. An incantation is spilled from your lips with familiarity, glowing triangular patterns emerging beneath the three of you as the spell reaches its completion. Then, within a blink, your bodies are transported out of the office and into a meeting room where the present Hexenzirkel await.

Before making your way to the side (because for some reason Alice insists on you being present, the other witches also more willing for your presence than you’d like), you give a swift bow to the two you’ve teleported. Even with your back turned as you walk, the sensation akin to a pair of eyes following you remains. By the time you find a suitable spot away from the meeting of some all-too powerful people, you lean back against one of the pillars and wait for the meeting to be over.

You have to give it him, that Varka. He certainly has a way with words, even managing to charm the witches with his easy-going personality and boisterous laugh. You wouldn’t have thought it from you initial meeting, what with how still and awkward he appeared, though maybe your sudden appearance just shocked him to the point of being rendered speechless?

Regardless, you can see why he is such an important figurehead. His conditions are made clear, points thorough yet straight to the point, and he can easily navigate negotiations which juggle multiple demands. Most importantly, you can tell he cares deeply for Mondstadt and its people, to the point of setting up this Tripartite Conference to ensure Mondstadt’s safety in their time of need. Fortunately for him, such displays of love for humanity is something Alice is a total sucker for, and his fair terms and conditions seem more than enough for Nicole and Barbeloth’s thoughts.

The conclusion comes as you expected the moment he spoke his first words: the Hexenzirkel agree to help Mondstadt in their time of need. Really, someone who has such a way with words to the point of swaying even the most stubborn of witches you know is a feat in and of itself. He could probably talk his way out of the most perilous of fights with just a meagre wag of his tongue! Actually, how many incidents has he already talked his way out of by now?

You don’t get to dwell on the matter for much longer when Alice suddenly calls you over. Despite your foreboding skepticism at her twinkling eyes and eager mannerisms, you merely sigh before making your way to her side. They’ve already stood up from their seats, gathered together in a loose group as they (read: Alice, Barbatos, and Varka) chat amongst themselves.

“I’m sure you have already met from earlier, but this is my darling apprentice!”

Hands settled atop your shoulders, you’re thrust forward into Varka’s direct line of sight. You barely have time to form something close to a proper sentence, let alone think. So here you are, sputtering as words refuse to cooperate under the sudden attention. It certainly doesn’t help when Alice is giggling behind you, all-too pleased with whatever it is you’re supposed to be a part of, nor the fact Nicole and Barbeloth appear to be rather invested in you making a fool of yourself in front of them. Barbatos himself seems a little too smug for your liking, noting how his eyes crinkled with mirth shift between you, Alice, and the Grand Master he accompanied.

Speaking of the man, for all his earlier bravado when negotiating with the scariest people you know, you would think him to be a completely different person. Much like when you first appeared in that office, Varka just stares at you — wide-eyed and gaping. It’s almost comical the way someone of his stature appears so unassuming; almost. If not for the situation at hand, perhaps you would have found amusement at the blatant contrast.

But no, being the subject of close attention where eyes of varying levels of intrigue watch you be out of your element doesn’t give you room to feel that amusement, let alone gather your bearings.

Alice gives a warm squeeze of your shoulders, and you can practically hear the teasing smile seep through her voice. “Why don’t you introduce yourself, my dear? You know our new freind’s name, but he doesn’t know yours. I’m sure he would love to know your name, fufu.”

Gosh, you feel like a little kid being forced to make friends with the kid of your mother’s friend; not an adult who can make your own decisions.

Well, whatever. May as well get your introduction over with.

“My name is [Name], an apprentice witch under Alice.” If not for your mentor’s sparkling stare burning into the back of your head, or the two other witches’ very apparent interest in the situation, you would have stopped there. Unfortunately, you know you won’t be able to get away. So with another sigh, you begrudgingly continue, trying to focus anywhere but his starstruck expression. “It’s nice to meet the Grand Master who has made such a name for himself. I’m sure you must have worked hard to get to this point, and—”

Without warning, he drops to his knees. Eyes oozing nothing but earnest compassion, he speaks to you for the first time, voice warm as it carries the heavy weight of his sincerity.

“Yes, I am single. Yes, I will happily spend the rest of my life with you.”

Even the drop of a pin could shatter this new-found silence. Perhaps not quite a pin, but a tinkling explosion shatters it instead. Clouds of white smoke instantly fill the vicinity and drown out your vision. You still have enough wits about you to sense the presence of the Hexenzirkel witches, which also means you can’t detect the two visitors’ presence.

In other words: your hasty teleportation succeeded.

And sure, it’s not your best work, but conjuring a teleportation spell without any time to recite the appropriate incantations was the best you could do in that situation. Out of sight, out of mind as they say!

(You can only hope they end up back in his office. Actually? Scratch that. You hope they end up somewhere like Starfell Lake. Or a random location in Liyue. Or Natlan. Or Snezhnaya.)

When the clouds of smoke settle, the quiet beginning to creep in, something akin to dread stabbing your gut tells you this… incident, so to speak, is only just the beginning of a rather tiresome matter. That instinct solidifies the moment you’re suddenly the object of interest for these old witches, their teasing smiles and far too amused expressions already making you want to run away and hide in a corner. Even then you doubt you would be able to hide from them for long, so you exhale a resigned sigh of defeat as you feel your vitality wither away at their enthusiastic theory-crafting.

As you’re caught in the middle of these meddlesome hags trying to have a say in your very much non-existent love life, Varka remains stock-still in the middle of his office — very much dazed and lost in thoughts with a thoroughly amused Archon-slash-bard staring at him all smug. Much like his position prior to the abrupt cloud of smoke and slightly disgruntling sensation of being teleported (which he barely registered the full effects of amid his stupor), the Grand Master remains kneeled. In the middle of his office. No thoughts running through his mind other than the shocked expression you bestowed him before it quickly morphed into something akin to morbid (-ly adorable, in his perspective) embarrassment, only to be obscured by curls of smoke.

“Barbatos,” Varka eventually says, features taking on a serious tone. Venti merely widens his grin, already knowing where this conversation is headed just from the unfamiliar expression residing on the ever so laid-back Grand Master.

“Yes, Varka?”

Turning with a look so scarily serious, one none the wiser to the situation would think there to be some dire strategic talks occurring. Venti merely stifles a giggle, only to burst out into full-blown laughter as Varka’s following words are delivered with utmost solemnity.

“I think I may be in love. Horrendously so.”

(And if you suddenly find yourself appearing in a puff of smoke for the umpteenth time in front of an all-too eager to please Grand Master you’re increasingly beginning to get sick of seeing by the day with pesky witches and a nosy drunkard of an Archon on your tail? Well, that’s a story for another day. Probably.)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

[softboyluvr]

Man of the Century

Summary: When you declare Superman your "white boy of the week", Clark loses it.

Pairing: David Corenswet!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, pining, me not knowing how to end a piece?

When you walk across the bullpen, it's almost in slow motion for Clark. Your hair bounces over your shoulders as you look around, offering everyone in the Planet a soft smile. When you wave at him, his world stops, yet he manages to clumsily wave back quickly without somehow making a fool of himself. Not that you noticing him was unusual, but the shirt that you had decided to wear this morning was. He had never seen anything like it before.

Your outfits were always full of pinks and bows and pastels—not that he paid that much attention. Of course he didn't! But how could he not notice that the shirt you were wearing under your soft cream cardigan was a grey t-shirt with his Superman emblem. Except this one was nothing like he'd ever seen before. It was pink and lacy and frilly and so... you. As you take a seat at your desk by the front of the office and start up your computer, he's already in front of you, a friendly smile on his face.

"Hi Clark." You say with a smile once your eyes meet his, his heart beating a tiny bit faster.

"You were late today." He teases lightheartedly. "Everything alright?"

"Actually I wasn't late at all, I was running errands for Perry."

But he didn't hear the rest, his eyes focused on your bright, sparkly, red and blue nails. Would he be crazy to assume they were also a nod to Superman? Was he going insane? Was it getting hotter in here?

"Did I lose you?" She asks with a small laugh.

"What? N-uh, no. I'm listening. You picked up those pens Perry likes from downtown." He recites back the main point of your story. "Your nails"

You look down at them and tap your fingers against your desk, then moving your hands to rest in front of him. "You like 'em?"

"Yeah! Yeah of course." He replies immediately with a nod. "They're definitely a peculiar color"

Clark bites back a smile as he sees the blush that spreads across your cheeks. "Am I acting like a groupie?"

"So they are for Superman"

You scoff at that. "For them to be for Superman he would have to see them, dummy." You wave your hand dismissively, as if brushing the idea off. "This is just my current white boy of the week I guess."

"White- white boy of the week?" He asks, a puzzled look on his face.

"Yeah like a-"

But your voice is interrupted by Perry calling you into his office, making you get up out of your desk quickly and disappearing into his office. Clark sighs and walks back to his desk. Lois swiveling in her chair as she presumably got up to get another cup of sugary coffee.

"Lois what is a white boy of the week?"

Lois paused in her path to look at him incredulously. "Huh?" Clark could see the gears turning in her head as she tried to figure out the origin of his question. "Have you been talking to Y/N? This is definitely her doing"

His lack of response was her answer. "She means her crush of the moment" She replies before heading towards the coffee cart again.

You had a crush on Superman? Why did it not feel as rewarding as he would've hoped it would? What did Superman have that he did not? Were you in love with Superman?

He frowned at the idea that swirled in his head, half of him knowing that he was being completely silly about it. He heard Perry's door open, and he knew you'd walk by his desk and stop to chat if he made eye contact—and for some reason, that made him avoid your gaze. Completely missing the way your smile dropped as you stopped in your tracks and changed your course to go straight to your desk.

Lois walked back with a coffee mug in hand, having witnessed it all. "You know you could just ask her out instead of worrying about Supershit," she added the last part as a small way to get under Clark's skin.

Clark just rubbed the back of his neck and got to typing in his computer, another interview with Superman.

The day went slowly without talking to you, usually he would take any small chance he could to walk over to the front desk and talk to you about anything at all. "Did you hear Jimmy went out with that new intern?", "Cat broke it off with that guy, again", "Perry told me sports is getting cut this week". But today he stayed glued to his chair, and it seemed you had noticed his sudden cold shoulder.

So it shouldn't have surprised him when your face looked mildly confused once he walked up to your desk at the end of the day. "Hey- uhm," he paused, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Want me to walk you home?"

Your eyes looked down at the clock and then back at him. "Yeah, let me just pack up," you say with a small smile pulling at your lips as you begin to pack up your stuff into your bag. In no time you both are in the elevator, the silence tentative and unusual.

"So-"

"So-" you both start at the same time, earning the both of you to stop and look at eachother with wide eyes. Laughter breaking the silence.

"You go," you tell him, urging him to finish his thought.

Clark swallows thickly, rubbing his palms into his slacks slightly. "So I wanted to ask you if you'd- uhm if you'd consider perhaps, you know," he clears his throat mid sentence. "Maybe want to grab some dinner this week?"

"Yeah, I'm down," you answered easily, making him facepalm himself mentally. You both had dinner multiple times before. You're friends.

"As a date," he adds, his mouth going dry.

Your smile grows at his addition and he immediately panics. "You don't have to say yes, of course. It's only if you want. I mean it's stupid, I just- you know. I have been wanting to ask you and I guess the Superman stuff got me-"

"Superman?" you cut him off, tilting your head in confusion. The elevator dings and you both step out, simply standing in the lobby facing one another.

"Yeah you just- you said you liked him and I think I felt a bit," he blows air out of his mouth, shrugging as he suddenly feels embarrassed by it all. "I don't know"

"Oh Clark," you begin with a small laugh. "I didn't say I liked him. He's like a celebrity crush, I mean like he doesn't even exist to me you know."

He purses his lips at that, yet lets you continue.

"And I mean, I like someone already."

"You do?" he deflates.

"Yeah, lots. Even though he ignores me at work," you say playfully, making him look at you. "Superman might be white boy of the week, but Clark, you'll always be man of the century."

[gay-space-diaries]

“Do you ever find it weird that we’re the only ones not in committed relationships?” Eddie asks one night after dinner. They wandered to the couch for late night beers and to continue to binge watch a tv show that Eddie has lost all sense of the plot. Something about it though had got him thinking about Hen and Karen, Maddie and Chimney, and Bobby and Athena before pinpointing that every friend he has is married. Even Ravi is supposedly seeing someone though no one knows any details about his mystery partner.

Buck shrugs, still half caught up in the show. “Maybe you’re just a bad kisser.”

“I’m a bad kisser?” Eddie wrinkles his nose. “I don’t see you out on a date tonight either.”

That finally gets Buck’s full attention—it’s too easy; sometimes Eddie can just say one word and Buck is all his. His smile, though, slightly concerns Eddie. “Guess you’ll just have to prove it. Put your money where your mouth is.”

“Put my money where” —Eddie shakes his head, exasperated; he sighs— “And how do you suggest I do that?”

Buck lounges against the corner of his couch like a cat. One arm is thrown across the back, the other on the arm rest. His legs are too long to fit on the couch without ending up in Eddie’s lap so they’re half curled towards him, half hanging off. It can not be comfortable yet he looks perfectly at home. Enough that he stares at Eddie as he cocks his head and taps his lips. He wears a smirk that Eddie fears might be one of those leftover remnants from Buck 1.0 based on the stories he’s heard. “I’ll be an impartial judge, I swear.”

Eddie has had one too many beers tonight, clearly based on his current thoughts. Though strangely he doesn’t remember even finishing the first one. In fact, it sits half drunk leaking condensation onto his coffee table. So really nothing can explain why he says,

“Well only if you’re impartial.”

Buck’s eyes widen when Eddie starts to scoot forward, like he didn’t think he’d actually get this far or maybe excited that he has. Eddie doesn’t care. He’s just happy to prove Buck wrong that ‘no, the reason he is not currently in a loving relationship is not because he’s a bad kisser.’ Neither Shannon, Ana, nor Marisol ever remarked otherwise. His relationships broke for all sorts of different reasons but never because of that.

Buck waits for him patiently, not making a single effort to meet Eddie in the middle. He’s way too pleased with himself. Or perhaps he’s scared of jostling Eddie back to reality.

Eddie cradles Buck’s face until they’re sharing a breath between them like a piece of gum. His heart thumps against his chest, two beats, before he parts his lips and steals the gasp from Buck’s mouth. Buck reciprocates almost immediately; barely a second passes from the time his breath hitches from the shock of the contact to fully falling into Eddie. Buck’s nighttime stubble scrapes against his chin as he deepens the kiss. His hand slides into the messy curls on top of Buck’s head. Hours it takes to separate or maybe it’s only been minutes. Either way, when Eddie breaks off the kiss, both of their mouths are kiss-bitten and wet.

“How’d I do?” he asks, never breaking eye contact from Buck.

“Mm, don’t think kissing’s been your problem,” Buck mutters, fingers toying with his lower lip, a stark pink just like his birthmark. He bites at the pad of his thumb.

Pleased, Eddie returns to where he’d been previously sitting. “Told you.” He makes a grab for his half drunk beer but still doesn’t take another sip. 

“Wait. You need to judge me now.” And Buck suddenly follows him to the other side of the couch and kisses him just as passionately. Eddie barely has time to set his beer down before he gasps, surprised.

Eddie’s never been kissed with so much tenderness and care. There’s heat laced in the movements but Buck brushes his thumb against Eddie’s cheekbone as he pulls himself impossibly closer. Every point of contact buzzes against his skin: the scratch of Buck’s stubble, the weight of his body straddling Eddie’s lap, his hands digging into his hair, blunt nails against his scalp. It’s different kissing a guy than any woman he has before—and now this is his second time in as little as a minute.

When Buck breaks away, he blinks before a slow smile works its way onto his face. “So, how was it? You have to be impartial too. It’s only fair.”

“I don’t think I can let you date anyone if you kiss like that.”

“That bad, huh?” Buck laughs, knowing Eddie teases. But Eddie isn’t joking. He’s serious. Why would he let Buck date someone else after all this?

“I think we’ve both been extremely stupid for a long time.”

Buck blinks, mouth snapping open like a fish before he regains control of himself to utter, “Eddie—”

“Buck.”

A silent understanding passes between the two of them as Eddie refuses to lose the staring contest and Buck feeds that competitive streak. Slowly that 1.0 smirk returns with a vengeance. “More kissing practice, talk later?”

Eddie already starts to lean into him. “Sounds good to me.”

[mysticmilktea]

On the record

Pairings: Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

Word Count: App. 1.5k

Summary: You are an up-and-coming reporter tasked with interviewing the Human Torch. He is more interested in getting to know you.

Notes: This is a one shot fluff piece, 100% Complete. I have a long fic in the works for my guy Johnny 🔥 so if you like this story, my writing, or just want to chat feel free to follow. Thanks for reading!

You can also view or support this piece on AO3 here!

You, a reporter for a prominent New York newspaper following the reconstruction efforts after The Fantastic Four’s battle with Galactus, had been tasked with interviewing the Human Torch about his role in not just the fight but the clean up. What was he doing for the people of your city?

“I’m melting down and reforming metal debris so it can be easily used for rebuilding structures within the combat zone.” Was what he said on the record; it was the quote you handed to your boss to publish alongside the list of current construction projects taking place near Time Square.

“Honestly, I’m just throwing fire at what they give me. I’m way better with fixing cars than outright construction so I’m unfortunately demoted to fondue duty. I asked Reed not to rope me into this, but he insisted we all have to play a public part in reversing the damage so here I am.”

Was what he said off the record. He was floating a foot or so above you, his body cloaked in impossible flames. The heat that radiated from him was enough to make you sweat, like the middle of summer had found you amongst the winter’s snow. His eyes burnt with hellish intensity, a stark yellow fire set within the blaze of his face. You could tell his brow was furrowing, like he was trying to parse the best way to ask a question of his own.

He lowered to the ground a safe distance away, his flames dissolving into the crisp morning air. The body that was a hellscape just seconds ago had morphed into the image of worldwide hero Jonathan Storm, his crisp uniform and tussled blonde hair now an arms length from you.

“So…are you free on Saturday? I could grab us some dinner, anything you want. You can even bring that notebook of yours if it gets me a better chance at a ‘yes’. ” He threw in a smirk for good measure, his large blue eyes drinking in the sight of you from afar.

And it was those eyes that drew you in. The softness in them, the depth. You were interviewing The Human Torch , but Johnny was in there too. Below the public facade, below the flirting he was known to default to. You knew there was more to his story, and this might be just the opportunity you needed to pull it out of him.

So you accepted his invitation, and a few days later he is sat across from you for the better part of two hours. Time spent telling you about not just his adventures but his passions. You never realized how deep his interest in space really went, how he had worked restlessly to piece together an entire alien language. He was enamored with the mysteries that lay beyond our world, cloaked in stars, and what cracking them might mean for humankind.

Moreover, though, he was enamored with you. For every question you asked about his life he had two about yours. What music you listen to, what your family is like, what you do for fun. Johnny spoke to and about you like you were one of the greatest intricacies the universe ever dropped in his lap. He wanted to know everything.

It took a few meetings like this before he made his move. Just four weeks after your initial interview he asked you over to his home, the Baxter Building in Manhattan. With butterflies in your stomach you promised him you would be there, and you are. An attendant was to let you in but Johnny had surprised you on the front lawn, smiling widely at the sight of you.

“You look beautiful.” He said, holding his hand out for you to take. You felt yourself blushing. The job of a reporter has always been thankless, both in perception and in pay. The dress you wore was a simple black number, the same one you used to attend a work event just a few months ago that was widely publicized. If he knew that he either didn’t mention it or didn’t care.

“T-Thanks. You look good yourself.” You admitted. It was true, of course. He was wearing a classic blue button-up and white slacks, a simple outfit that showcased the width of his chest and the toned muscles of his arms. You reached out and took his hand, his fingers lacing between yours. The heat of his touch was a comfort against the northern chill.

“I’m not sure about that, I feel a bit underdressed beside you.” He smirked, his grip on your hand tightening a bit. His crystal eyes traced your features as he stared down at you, his free hand reaching up to brush a lick of stray hair behind your ear. “But with a face like that no one’s going to be looking at me anyway.”

Your heart leapt in your chest. On all of your outings together he had never been so forward with his affections, it was always subtext, a whisper of a promise that one day things will escalate, should you want them to.

That day had finally come.

“I…don’t think you give yourself enough credit-”

He cut you off by resting his pointer finger gently against your lips.

“Shhh. Tonight isn’t about me.” He said, smiling. It was the kind of smile that felt more like a declaration than a gesture; a gift-wrapped letter of intimate intentions penned just for you. “I wanna show you something, but you’ll have to trust me?”

You did, so you nodded wordlessly. In this moment you would trust Johnny Storm with everything you had. He took your answer as his cue and bent down, lifting you up and cradling you against his chest with both arms. You felt a rush of hot air coming from below and suddenly you were both propelled into the night.

Your arms wrapped around him so tightly that you could feel his ribs. Daring to look down you saw the grassy lawn of the Baxter Building get smaller and smaller until it was just a square of green amongst the endless lights of New York. The top of the skyscraper itself was level with you when Johnny stopped , controlling the flames around his feet to sustain a stable hover. He held you close enough that you could hear his heartbeat; a strong and steady rhythm to calm your nerves.

“This is your city. A view of it that you’ve probably never seen.” He said. You felt his lips on your scalp as he kissed the crown of your head gently. You braved a look around, your mouth agape at the pristine view of New York’s skyline. The buildings of man reached up against the heavens, their windows glistening like a million suns swimming in the ink of the night.

“It’s beautiful!” You exclaimed, unable to hide your excitement. Your entire career has been spent inspecting the city on a microscopic level—crime, homelessness, drugs, anything and everything that generates enough fear to sell a Sunday rag. But this? To see the boroughs from this vantage point, to see people living stories of love and loss on their own terms en mass…it was a gift. From him to you.

“You get to see this everyday…” you thought aloud, looking up at him, your right hand reaching forward to cup the side of his face.

“So, you like it?” He asked, nuzzling your palm.

“I love it.” You answered, your hand snaking from his cheek back into the nape of his hair; your fingers anchoring themselves amongst the short blonde strands.

“And I love you.” He whispered. You pushed his head down and kissed him deeply, your bodies a tangle of heat and flesh against the stars. You knew that this was a spectacle, that somewhere on the ground people were watching in awe. You could see the headlines from rival publications now: “Conflict of interest? Hot shot reporter caught locking lips in a fiery scandal!”

But you didn’t care. In this moment, nearly 1,000 feet above every worry in the world, the only story you wanted to write was a future with the man you loved.

[leaderwon]

THE DEAL

where in — what started as a lie, begins to feel like home ... 1.1k+

luna's diary : happy belated birthday my bbg @jjennuine. I love you so so so much and i hope we get closer 🫶🏻 this was hella rushed but I hope you like it ><

Jay’s place isn’t what you expected.

It’s cleaner, warmer. The soft smell of cedarwood clings to the corners of the apartment like it belongs there, like he belongs there and that’s a problem because you weren’t supposed to find any of this comforting.

You set your bag down by the shoe rack and mutter, “You seriously keep your shoes this lined up all the time?” Jay gives you a look like he’s not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult. “It’s called order” he says. “You should try it sometime.”

You scoff and toss your hoodie onto the back of his couch, just to annoy him.

It started as a joke. A half serious joke over overpriced iced americanos and the kind of tired only family pressure brings.

Jay’s parents were pushing him toward an arranged marriage. You were getting kicked out of your apartment. So naturally, the most logical solution?

“Live with me” he said, like it was a normal suggestion. “And what, fake date you too?” you asked, half laughing. “Exactly.”

The deal was simple. You’d move in for three months and pretend to be Jay’s loving partner whenever his family was around. In exchange, you’d get free rent, warm meals, and access to his Netflix. It felt ridiculous at the time. Easy, too easy.

What could possibly go wrong?

Three weeks in, the answer is becoming clear : you’re forgetting it’s supposed to be fake.

It’s not that living with Jay is hard. He’s clean, quiet, and surprisingly thoughtful. He texts you if he’s running late, labels the leftovers in the fridge, and always hands you the remote without arguing.

But it’s the little things that mess you up.

He always remembers how you take your coffee. He buys your favorite snacks when he’s out. He leaves sticky notes on the fridge like “your juice is back :)” and doesn’t make a big deal about it.

He doesn’t act like someone playing a part. He acts like someone who actually cares.

And that’s dangerous.

The night before the dinner with his parents, you’re curled up on the couch next to him. There’s a drama playing but neither of you are really watching it.

Jay is fiddling with the edge of the blanket between you, his fingers brushing yours every now and then like it’s nothing.

“Okay” he says eventually. “Let’s go over the story again.” You nod. “We’ve been dating for five months. Met through mutual friends. First date was at that café I like.” “The one with the cinnamon buns you won’t shut up about?” he says, teasing, but there’s a smile in his voice. You laugh. “They’re life changing.” He grins. “I know. You’ve told me like ten times.”

You nudge his arm gently, the blanket slipping further down your legs. “Okay, what else?” “We’re serious but taking it slow. We don’t fight in front of them. If my dad asks about the future, say we’re still figuring it out.” He pauses for a second. “And if they ask if we’re in love…”

He trails off, like he doesn’t want to finish the sentence.

You look at him. “I’ll say yes.”

Jay meets your eyes. There’s a flicker of something there you don’t want to name. “Cool,” he says softly. “Just making sure.”

Dinner is too easy.

His dad laughs at your jokes. His mom keeps saying how relaxed Jay looks when you’re around. You play your part well, laughing, brushing imaginary lint off his shirt, stealing little glances that feel too natural.

Jay is even better. He touches your back gently as he pulls out your chair, leans in close to whisper something stupid that still makes you smile, holds your hand under the table and doesn’t let go, even when he’s talking.

You almost forget it’s all pretend.

And then his mom says, “I hope you two stay together. I haven’t seen him this happy in years.”

It knocks the air out of your chest.

You smile through it, say something polite. But all you can hear is that word — happy. All you can think about is how it’s starting to feel real.

The car ride home is quiet.

Jay doesn’t speak and you don’t either. It’s not tense but it’s not light either. You’re both holding something in but neither of you seems brave enough to say it.

Back at the apartment, you kick your shoes off, head straight for the kitchen and lean against the counter. The silence settles again.

Jay comes out of his room a few minutes later, dressed in sweats, his hair slightly damp. He leans against the hallway wall, arms crossed, watching you.

You finally say, “Why are you so good at this?” He tilts his head. “Good at what?” “This. All of it. The acting. The little gestures. The way you held my hand like you meant it.”

Jay doesn’t move for a second. Then, he steps forward slowly.

“I’m not acting.” You blink. “What?”

Jay looks at you fully now, like he’s done holding it in.

“I’m not acting” he says again, quieter this time. “Not when I pour your coffee. Not when I hold your hand. Not when I call you mine in front of my parents.”

He steps closer. “I thought I could keep pretending. I thought maybe you wouldn’t notice but every time you smiled at me like that like it wasn’t fake, I started wishing it wasn’t.”

You stare at him, heart pounding in your ears.

“I didn’t know if you felt the same,” he adds. You take a breath, and it feels shaky but sure. “I think I stopped pretending too.”

Something shifts in the air. A silent beat passes, stretched thin between you, and then he moves.

Jay’s hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw like you’re something fragile, like he’s still checking if this is okay. You don’t move, you don’t look away and when he leans in, you meet him halfway.

The kiss is gentle at first, slow and careful like it’s something you’re both learning for the first time. His lips are warm and when you tilt your head, kiss him back just a little harder, Jay exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

His other hand slips around your waist, pulling you in. Your fingers twist into the fabric of his hoodie as he kisses you again, deeper this time less careful, more real.

It feels like something falling into place.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his. You’re both quiet, but not the heavy kind. The kind that feels like peace.

Jay speaks first, voice barely above a whisper. “So... what happens now?” You smile, fingers still looped in his hoodie. “Now we stop pretending.”

His lips curve, and he kisses you again, soft and sure.

© @leaderwon 2025. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

[zepskies]

Ahhh thanks so much, Jolly!! 🥰 When I saw that color progression I immediately saw seasons. The angsty metaphor for their relationship just clicked into place in my mind 😅

Girl, I'M so happy - thanks very much for diving in! 🥹💕

Oh god this is so wholesome - why was I hoping it'd just stay like this until the end. 🥺

I so wish we could stay in spring/summer 😭😭

But ehehe I love that you caught the Jared's reference!! You're the only one who's pointed that out! 😝

Uh-oh, noooo, here comes the angst and OF COURSE the timing couldn't be worse 😭

*hisses* RACHEL. Also, "She almost had your eyes, if just half the sincerity of your smile." Very nice pick up on the canon detail! But my gosh I want to throttle her sister for taking advantage of his drunken and bad mental state like that.

lmfaooo you're right to hiss, my friend, she's a bad bitch (not in a good way).

I love that you highlighted that line though! Rachel is literally the worst, and you'll learn more about her/her motivations in the next part.

This was such an interesting take on his backstory from the little we know so far! And you captured Mark's personality so good! (especially seeing as you wrote this chapter right after the first few episodes). The snapshots draw such a beautiful picture of their relationship, four scenes of an entire year and we get to watch how a perfect happy relationship cracks and shatters because of circumstances out of their control. (I'm counting Rachel as a circumstance out of his control since he was dead drunk lol)

Aww thank you so much, hun!! I did have some apprehension when I first posted this because yeah, I wrote and posted it legit after watching the first 3 episode premier. 🤣 But his character/the story was so compelling, I couldn't help myself! And immediately was intrigued when Melinda and Rachel were mentioned.

I had a hard time believing Mark would cheat on her out right, so I wanted to explore the "what if" behind that relationship. (Hoping we get to meet Melinda in canon and get more context to what actually went down, because I have theories.)

I'm so glad that you feel I captured his personality - that of course was my top concern/priority. 💜💜

Oh yeah it's definitely circumstances out of their control, and you'll see that sense of "control" is going to be one of the main themes throughout. I thought this would just be an angsty fun overview of their relationship, until I started fleshing the reader out more in the sequel. I think the second one, Catastrophic Blues, is where I really started to figure out where I wanted to go with these two. (And you're on the right track with Rachel...you'll see 😂)

Thank you so much again, friend!! I really hope you enjoy the rest of the series. I have big plans for how to finish it. 😈

DOWNGRADE

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: There it was. The beginning of the end, and neither of you saw it coming.

AN: Ahhh here we go! For the first time ever, Mark Meachum! Obviously I’m still learning this guy as a character, but this idea grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go. Thanks so much, @luci-in-trenchcoats for choosing this color prompt for the 5K Follower Celebration!

Word Count: 1.2K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff, implied smut, and rom-com vibes, until the angst sets in (lol). Medical diagnoses, implied cheating

Spring

Mark set two mugs of coffee on his nightstand to free up his hands. He had to cut wide swaths through the bedsheets to reach you. As usual, you were a tangle of limbs and frizzy hair.

“Jesus, what’d you do here, woman?” he said, lips tugging at a smile when he heard your muffled giggle.

Eventually he unearthed your head and found your sleepy smile. You squinted at the sun glaring through the window behind him. It backlit that look of fond amusement on his face.

You clawed half-blind at the front of his shirt and pulled him down to you. He lost his footing and grunted as he fell, just barely catching himself from crushing you. Your laugh rang in his ear and forced a chest-shaking rumble out of him too.

You freed your own arms from the warm nest you created, just to take his face in your hands. Your thumbs caressed along the coarse edges of his beard.

“Getting scraggly, baby,” you remarked.

“Yeah, but you like your man all wild and caveman-like,” he said mischievously.

You shook your head, but you still couldn’t stop yourself from smiling.

“Only when he fucks me,” you said. A cheeky challenge in your eyes.

Mark’s brows popped high, his devilish grin showing teeth. It didn’t matter how long you’d been his, you still managed to keep him on the ropes.

“Well, he does aim to please.”

Summer

The sound of your laugh was like sweltering sunshine in his chest. After the wave finished dunking you both, you swept the salty sting of the ocean out of your eyes and clung to his shoulders in the water.

Santa Cruz agreed with you. It shone down on your glistening skin and caught in your eyes. You both needed this—taking a beat, just the two of you.

Finally, Mark had allowed himself to take some time off. He was reluctant at first, workhorse that he was. But the Captain—your father—insisted that Mark take a break. Wrapping up a triple homicide after four months of legwork, getting to see that motherfucker be denied bail until trial, and giving the victims’ families a sense of relief that the killer was off the streets was a decided win.

“You’ve got someone waiting for you,” the Captain reminded him. “Don’t take that for granted.”

Mark grabbed your left hand and pressed a kiss into your palm. He felt the coolness of metal against his lips. It reminded him to turn your hand over.

“Whoa!” He closed his eyes and playfully looked away as if he was being blinded. “Who gave you that fucking rock?”

The summer sun glinted off a modest stone. Your sister told him not to overthink it. Just get the classic square cut. But his instincts told him to go with something called a “cushion,” like the sales lady said at Jared’s.

Mark knew he made the right choice when you gasped, covering your mouth with shaky hands, your eyes filling with tears when you met his slightly nervous ones.

Now, you just laughed in his face. “Oh, nobody really. Just the love of my life.”

His smile quirked, even though his heart was double-timing.

“You’re so fuckin’ cheesy.”

“But you love it, though.”

(That day, you both spent an extra hour looking for the ring when it somehow slipped off your finger and fell into the sand.)

Fall

“I’m just saying, sweetheart,” Mark said, his tone deep and gentle while he steadied you in his arms. “Maybe it’s best we put off the wedding, just a few months. It’s a lot coming at you right now.”

You shook your head, covering your mouth with trembling fingers.

“No,” you said eventually, but your words faltered along with your unsteady breaths in between. “No, he wouldn’t have wanted that. I just wish he, uh…could be there.”

You were a pillar of a woman, but no one could fault you for falling apart. Your father had been a lifelong smoker. He quit ten years ago, but it still caught up to him in his sixties, a severe case of COPD that he’d been trying to hide for months. It eventually withered him down to weeks of degeneration in a hospital bed, relying on oxygen masks that could no longer sustain him.

Your mother and sister had left the room for just half an hour to grab some coffee. You stayed behind.

You were alone with your father when he died. All you could do was hold his hand.

Now, all Mark could do was hold you. But he had to blink past a sharp pain, almost like a sudden migraine. Aftershocks reverberated through his skull, radiating from the right to the left.

He’d been dealing with less intense versions of the feeling for a month, but this time, it was like a small shiv between the eyes. It took him enough by surprise that it forced a grunt out of him, making him grimace and blink hard.

You picked your head up from his chest and met him with tearful eyes, frowning in concern.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “Just a little headache.”

Winter

“Mark, you need to go to the doctor. You’ve gone through three bottles of Advil. That’s not normal.”

“Look, I told you already. I’m fine.”

“Yeah. That’s really convincing.”

“…Look, that’s Rachel pulling up. You ready to go?”

 You looked out the windows near the front door and saw your sister walking up the driveway. You blinked, like you both could and couldn't believe what you were seeing.

“Wow," you said. "She couldn’t have found a skimpier dress to check out the church. Who’s she trying to impress? The pastor’s already married.”

Mark snorted in amusement, but something soon occurred to him.

“Didn’t you tell me she and her boyfriend just broke up or something?”

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with it?”

He shrugged. “Eh, I don’t know. She’s probably just looking for attention.”

You sighed. You loved your younger sister, but there were times when you wished she’d just grow up a little.

One appointment with Mark’s primary doctor led him to the oncologist. His entire inner world was leveled with just two words:

Glioblastoma Multiform.

Two words he couldn’t say to you.

It all rang between his ears…

The excitement in your voice when you told him how your last fitting went for the dress.

Faces he’d put behind bars. Years he’d scraped and clawed his way through bureaucratic bullshit, standing his ground against officers with more power than him, but never as much heart.

Your raw, broken grief when you watched your father waste away from the absolute monument of a man he’d been.

How was Mark supposed to level your world too?

He kept it all inside. And like the master of improv he was, he faked enthusiasm for a joint bachelor-bachelorette weekend.

One late night. One fifth of whiskey at the hotel bar turned into numbers he stopped counting—until the Captain reminded him.

You’ve got someone waiting for you. Don’t take that for granted.

He needed to find you.

Somehow, he made it to the elevator by himself. Third floor. Room 304, 305, 306. Fuck. Was it 309?

The door opened, and his addled fucking brain thought it was you at first. She almost had your eyes, if just half the sincerity of your smile.

Rachel welcomed him in and shut the door. He stumbled at the threshold, and she stopped him from falling completely onto the floral-patterned carpet.

“Oh my God, Mark. You okay?”

No. And he knew he wasn’t ever gonna be okay.

But her hands were warm, carving sensuous paths under his leather jacket without him realizing.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

AN: 🫣 I know, I know - I'm sorry it's not my usual happy ending. 💔 But! I am working on a second part to this for @waynes-multiverse, who also requested Mark Meachum for the 5K Celebration...though that one's gonna be even angstier than this one loll 😅 (but maaaybe with a kind of happy ending?)

In the meantime, what did you think of this drabble? Don't you wish we could've stayed in Summer? ❤️‍🩹

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Add yourself to my Tag Lists ⟡ Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. ❤️

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Mark Meachum Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Tag List:

I haven't built out the Mark Meachum tag list just yet, but he's now available on my Tag List form, for anyone who wants to add themselves.

For this post, I'll just include the Dean Winchester tag list and some others who I think are interested in Mark Meachum. Next round, I'll only tag people who want in on the tag list.

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @globetrotter28

@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad @kmc1989 @siampie

@masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005

@impala-dreamer @spnaquakindgdom @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @bettystonewell

@bleuatlas @podiumackles @samslvrgirl

[happilyjules]

Soul-Mates Part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You’re the soul-mate to the Saja Boys, destined for each other. Legend has it that if a demon is able to find their soul-mate, and solidify that bond, then they might gain their lost soul back. That’s if other demons don’t kill you first.

Warnings: Soul Bond with Saja Boys, Angst, Mild Language, more to be added later

A/N: Posted on A03 thought Tumblr might like to read it as well. I’ll update as often as i’m able, but I do have a chronic illness that can take away my days. Goal is to have multiple parts posted in one week. I did try and tag all those who requested. Let me know if I missed any, or if you like to be tagged in future updates. Enjoy!

_______________________________________

Chapter 4 - Too Fast?

Sitting in Baby’s car, you sniffle wiping at tears that refuse to go away. Replaying the moment over and over in your head, you realize how close you came to something terrible happening. 

“Hey,” Baby says, taking your hand, giving a comforting squeeze. “You’re okay.” 

“I know,” you let out a shaky breath. “It’s just…How close I was to not … It’s scary.”

“But you are okay,” He said firmly. “You fought that asshole and got out of there.”

“Yeah,” you say shakily. 

“No yeah, you did that. You kicked ass today and saved yourself. That is amazing,” Baby asserted. “You are safe because of you.”

“I am,” you begin to smile. “I am safe because I kicked his ass. Well, technically I kneed his balls.”

“Even better,” Baby laughs, and finally you let out a chuckle with him.  

“Thanks for being there,” you say, as a thought crosses your mind. “Wait, why were you there?”

”I was coming back from dinner when I heard you crying. I just wish I got there sooner,” Baby says, kissing the back of your hand. 

The air thickened as you attempted to catch your breath, Baby’s eyes never leaving yours. “Me too,” you whisper, a pull deep in your chest, pulling you towards him. 

It’s four lips meeting. It’s shocks down your spine. It’s the world spinning in the opposite direction. It’s soft, hesitant; two people exploring the idea of love. His hand found the side of your face, moving to the back of your neck. Tilting your head ever so slightly, he kisses the side of your mouth. 

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers, nudging your nose with his. 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you smile back. Time has lost all meaning, as his lips find yours again. As his tongue licks your lips, your phone goes off, causing you to jump at the sudden noise. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, seeing a text from your friend, Amelia. 

“Where are you? You okay?” 

“Long story, be up soon.” 

“I should go,” you say, sliding your phone into your purse. 

”You can stay,” he whispers, and something inside you jumps at that idea. 

“I have to work in the morning,” you answer, before that part of you took him up on that idea. 

“Would you like me to walk you upstairs?”

Considering it for a moment, you look up at your lit-up apartment. “I’m fine, thank you,” You say, going to open your door.

“Hold on,” Baby said, getting out of the car and quickly running around to open your door. 

“You don’t have to,” you say, even as he opens the door.

“What if I want to?” his voice deepened. 

“Then okay,” you say, biting your lip. God, you’ve known this man for only a day, and somehow you've kissed him and you’re falling for him. What is going on with my life?

Opening your building’s door, you turn around. “Baby?”

“Yes, Angel?”

“Um…” you say looking down, feeling suddenly embarrassed. Going for it you ask, “Would you like my number?” 

“Of course,” he smiled widely, making your knees wobble slightly. 

Exchanging numbers, he kisses your cheek. “Call if you need anything, Angel.”

”I will,” you blush before hurrying into your building. 

Walking into your apartment, you’re on cloud nine. Heart spinning, you cannot stop the grin plastering your face. 

“Okay, so tell me that wasn’t Baby from the Saja Boys giving you a ride home from work?” Amelia demanded the moment you walked into your apartment. 

Right, Amelia; your roommate and best friend. The person whom you haven’t seen in a day, and who is currently obsessing over the Saja Boys; at least the last you checked. What are you going to tell her? 

“Um…” You don’t answer, making your way to your bedroom. 

“Don’t Ummm me,” Amelia followed. “That was Baby wasn’t it?”

“No,” You lie scrunching your face. 

“That’s your lying face,” Amelia proclaimed. “That was Baby. How do you know him?”

“Um…okay well,” You start, running your hand through your hair. “I met them yesterday.”

“Them? What do you mean, them?”

“Remember when I went out busking last night?” Amelia nodded, and you continued. “The whole band found me playing, and we ended up all going to dinner,” you say the last part quickly. 

“And you didn’t think to invite me?” Amelia asked. 

“It was late,” you try to justify. “You were already asleep or going to sleep.” 

“I would’ve woken up,” Amelia replies, voice rising an octave.  

“I should have invited you,” you admit, twisting your hands. “I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t think about it until I got home.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Amelia turns to walk away. 

“No, you don’t,” you walk after her. “I was a jerk for not inviting you. I’m sorry I should have.”

“You forgot. It’s okay,” she says, clearly trying not to appear hurt. “I made dinner, it’s in the fridge if you want some.”

“Thanks,” you say, feeling horrible. Amelia being mad, you can handle. Amelia being hurt, you can’t handle. 

Wanting to follow to explain yourself, you stop in the center of the kitchen. You have no idea how to explain yourself. During the last twenty-four hours you went out to dinner with the Saja Boys, one of them drove you to work, and kissed another.  How are you going to explain any of what’s happening in a way that doesn’t further hurt her feelings? 

Cursing, you open the fridge to find your dinner already plated. She really is the best friend, and you screwed up. You know it’s not not inviting her, it's forgetting her. It’s knowing how much she’d love getting to know them, and completely forgetting about her. 

I’m such a shitty friend, you think, sitting down to dinner. 

Baby stays until he’s certain you’re home, the memory of your kiss still tingling on his lips. It was soft, tentative, and everything Baby dreamed of. He only wishes it didn’t end so quickly. Driving home, he made his way up to his shared apartment. His mates are going to need to be filled in on the night events. God, if he were a hair slower that demon might have gotten its claws into you. 

“What happened?” Jinu asks as Baby walks through the door.

“A demon found her. We’re lucky I happened to be close by,” Baby answers, knowing that he wasn't the only one who felt your terror during the attack.

“So quickly?” Abby asks, standing from his spot on the couch. 

Baby shrugged. “Seems that way. I got there just as it was about to grab her.”

“What’d you do?” Jinu asks, as Romance and Mystery put down whatever video game they were playing. 

“Grabbed the fucker, and snapped his neck before he could lay another hand on her,” Baby answers, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Good,” Romance let out a sigh of relief. 

“She didn’t see you,” Mystery states.

“No,” Baby shook his head. “After taking a moment to calm down, I transformed back into this form, and walked by as if coming back from dinner.”

“But she’s okay?” Romance asks, hand over his chest. 

“Yes, when I left her she calmed down, and got home safe,” Baby answered, leaving out the part where they kissed. That’s something special between you and him.

“We can’t leave her alone anymore,” Abby stated. “If a demon has found her already, there’s no telling when another will try.”

“No we can’t,” Jinu agreed. “We need to take shifts watching over her.”

“What about when all five of us are needed for things?” Romance asked. “We can’t leave her alone anymore.”

“My animals will watch over her, and alert us if anything is nearby,” Jinu responds. 

“I don’t like that idea,” Baby shook his head. 

“We don’t have much of a choice,” Jinu responds, as Abby punches the wall. 

“We have another problem,” Mystery spoke up. “A demon has found her.”

“We know that,” Abby snapped. 

“Then Gwi-ma has found her as well.” Mystery continued. 

A series of curses from each boy echoed through the room. If Gwi-ma knows, then there’s no telling what he might try: poison, torture, death. None of which, if Baby had his way, would befall you. 

“Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet,” Jinu spoke, the voice of reason. “It’s one demon, who may not have realized what she is.”

“Or I killed it before it could report back to Gwi-ma,” Baby answered. 

“Exactly,” Jinu pointed at Baby. “Let’s just keep an eye on (Y/N), and keep her safe.”

“Nothing will get past me,” Abby rubbed his fist with his hand.    

“Or any of us,” Romance adds. “I’ll take the first shift.”

“Why you?” Abby asked. 

“Because I called it,” Romance says. 

“You can’t just call it,” Abby retorted. “We need to vote on it.”

“No we don’t,” Romance countered, as Jinu cleared his throat, gaining their attention. 

“Mystery’s already left,” Jinu pointed to the closing door. 

The next morning, you get up early, go to your favorite coffee shop, and with your purchases in hand, make your way home just in time for Amelia to be coming out of her bedroom. 

“Hey, Bestie. I know you probably still hate me, and you have every right, but I got you coffee and a scone. It’s blueberry. Warmed up.”  You hold up the purchases in your hands. 

“I’m not mad, (Y/N),” She says with a sigh. “I just…”

“I know,” you put down your purchases on the table. “I should have asked you to come, but honestly everything’s happened so fast. It’s almost like some crazy outside force has been pulling me in their direction and I can’t stop it.” 

Frowning, Amelia grabbed her coffee and scone, making you smile a little. Small win. 

“What do you mean?” Amelia asked, sitting at the table. 

You shrug, trying to put into words what you’ve been feeling. “It’s going to sound crazy.”

“Okay.”

“Well, ever since we saw them I’ve been drawn to them.”

“Like a fan?” Amelia asks. 

“No like…” You sip your coffee. “Like I want to be around them all the time.”

“Like a fan,” Amelia points out.

“No,” you repeat. “It’s more than that I swear. It’s almost like some invisible force is pulling us together. They keep showing up when I need them, and I like it.”

“Like a fan would?” she asks. 

“It’s more than that, like yesterday I was running late for work, and Romance was downstairs waiting with his car to take me to work,” you admit.  

“How did he know when you worked?”

Biting your lip, you answer. “I may have told them during dinner.”

“Okay so now we have five boys taking your dinner, one driving you to work, and the other taking you home. In one day,” she says.

“Well there’s one more tiny detail, but it needs context.”

“What?”

“You know that alley I take as a shortcut?” you ask. 

“The one I always say is too risky? Yes.”

“Well you were right,” you admit. “I was attacked in that alley by some creep. Pretty sure he was trying…” You shake your head. “You know what doesn't matter. I fought him off, kneed him in the balls.”

“Oh my god, are you okay? What’d you do next?” she asked, taking your hand in hers. 

“I ran like hell,” you admit, still more than a little shaken from the ordeal. 

“Oh my god (Y/N),” Amelia pulls you into a hug. “You should have said something last night.”

”That’s the thing, I’m fine,” you say. “After I ran like hell, Baby found me hyperventilating on a bench. He helped me calm down enough to breathe, and drove me home.”

“And you’re sure you’re okay? Do you want me to meet you at work and walk home with you?”

“Maybe,” you admit, heart racing at the idea of walking home alone again. “You sure you can?”

“Yeah, my bus passes by on the way home, I’ll just take an earlier stop,” she agreed. 

“Thanks, Amelia. You’re the best,” you two hug at the table. 

“Okay so back to Baby finding you freaking out.” Amelia changes topics. “How did he find you?”

”He was walking past after dinner.”

”At the mall?”

“Yeah.”

”Okay, so now we have dinner, car ride, saving, car ride?”

”Okay um.. Baby and I might have sort of kissed a little,” you blush. 

“Okay,” she nodded once, taking a bite of her scone. “Okay, so let me get this all straight. Dinner, car ride, saving, car ride, kiss?”

”Yeah that’s about it,” you nod. “Oh wait,” you bit your lip already hearing how crazy everything else is. “I sort of gave Romance and Baby my number.”

”So they all have your number.”

”Yeah.” You’d like to think they wouldn’t share your number, but thinking about it you aren’t super sure they wouldn’t. 

“Okay so now we have dinner, car ride, saving, car ride, kiss, number exchange. All in one day?” Amalia asked, skeptically. 

��No, dinner was the night before,” you try to argue. 

“It all just seems like a lot,” Amelia says. “Like one of those things happening sure, but all of them? Weird.”

”It's not weird,” you insist. 

“It’s weird. You kissed one twenty-four hours into knowing them. If I didn’t know you, I’d swear you were already falling for him.”

“What if I am?” You ask, not wanting to point out the growing feelings for all the boys. 

“Then I’d say slow it down,” she answers. “I mean I’m all for love and first sight, but this this is fast. Slow it down.”

“You might be right,” you admit, as the burning sensation presses in your chest. 

@nightmarewasteland @nightlark100 @winter-solstice24 @craftygamerscrafts @osball @satansdaughter123 @simpdevil66

[sajakissed]

Hiii!! May I request Baby Saja x Fem reader where the reader is quiet in public yet in private is a big yapper ever?? Thank youu! Btw I love your works!

a little different with him

tags: baby saja x fem!reader, established relationship, fluff

thank you so much anon!! this is wayyy longer than i intended. also, in my head, baby is like an orange cat who likes cuddles. (ps. this is not proofread yet my bad)

Request | Rules | Masterlist

Baby’s always been a contradiction. Loud but private. Shameless but guarded. A walking firework, but only if you don’t look too close at the fuse.

Most people only ever see one side of him: the chaos. The glittery, razor-sharp, spotlight-eating show. The maknae with a mouth faster than a punchline and no volume below maximum.

And sure, he plays into it. He likes the attention. Likes having the upper hand in a room. But there’s another version of him that doesn’t get shown often.

The Baby who likes rainy days. The Baby who gets quiet when he’s thinking too hard. Maybe that’s why he’s the closest to Mystery, sharing long silences together like they’re secrets, like they’re rare music that only a few are allowed to hear.

When he met you, Baby thought you’d be part of that quiet, too. You were calm. Polite. Soft-spoken. The kind of girl who watched the world with big, patient eyes and only spoke when she had something thoughtful to say.

He was wrong.

You were not what he expected once you became comfortable with him. You were louder than he was.

Not in the same way — less sass, more soapbox. You ranted. You giggled. You monologued about your favorite snacks, interrupted your own narration with side stories, made sound effects for things that absolutely did not need them. You talked with your whole body sometimes, flailing like you were trying to act out your own words.

Right now, for instance, you’re pacing in Baby’s room, fully animated and flailing your arms as you go on a fifteen-minute rant about a kdrama you just finished. He’s lounging on the bed, legs stretched out, one hand lazily flipping through his phone, but the smirk tugging at his lips grows wider with every word you spill.

“…and then the second lead—the second lead, Baby—literally walked into traffic just to make a point! Like, bro, we get it, you’re sad and dramatic, but be for real!”

“Damn,” Baby drawls, peeking up at you from under his lashes, “was he you-coded?”

You freeze, mid-gesture, turning to squint at him. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “Just wondering if that was you, because you get mad dramatic when your snack order gets delayed.”

“I don’t get mad dramatic!” you gasp, offended. “And if I do, it’s because I warned them about the extra sauce! I even clicked the little checkbox!”

Baby cackles, fully rolling over on the bed and patting the space next to him. “Come here, mouthy. You’re cute when you’re riled up.”

———

Now, it’s a routine.

He tags you along in a public setting — fan meets, signings, rehearsals — and you turn into a gentle, soft-spoken creature who Baby could probably convince the world was mute. You blush at his teasing. You laugh behind your hand. You nod when spoken to.

Fans claim it’s an “opposites attract” type of love story. His bandmates joke that you balance him. Even interviewers, when they catch sight of you backstage, comment on how demure and reserved you are compared to Baby’s sassy and outrageous personality.

And Baby? He eats it up. Grins wide, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Yeah, my baby’s shy. Doesn’t like talkin’ much. I gotta work real hard for her attention.” He says it with pride. Like he’s the chosen one. Like he unlocked the final level of a secret game.

If only they knew.

———

“Okay but seriously, that woman behind you in the convenience store line was breathing SO LOUD. Like what is that? Are we all just okay with public mouth-breathers now? I was one exhale away from throwing a gum at her.”

You’re already halfway through your tirade, throwing your bag on the couch and kicking off your shoes.

Baby — still standing at the door — blinks slowly, watching your transformation like he’s seen the heavens split open.

“There she is,” he mutters under his breath, the grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “My yapper’s back.”

You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”

He kicks the door shut behind him and strolls toward you.

“Mmm, nah. Don’t stop. Tell me more about the mouth-breather. What was her rhythm like? Was it like hhhehhh-hhhuuuhh or more heh-HAH, heh-HAH?”

You smack his arm as he laughs, tossing himself dramatically onto the couch and pulling you down with him. “I swear, you’re the worst!”

“You talk so much, babe,” he says, nuzzling his face into your neck with a dramatic sigh. “You’re like a podcast I didn’t know I subscribed to.”

You snort. “And yet, here you are, tuning in every damn episode.”

“Hell yeah, I am.” His voice drops, words brushing hot against your skin. “Your noise comforts me.”

And he would not have it any other way.

He loves the chaos of you. The way your voice speeds up when you’re excited, words tumbling out faster than your mouth can catch. The way you trust him with the full, unfiltered version of yourself.

It makes him feel chosen. Special. Yours.

He turns to look at you and tangles your legs together like he always does.

“It’s just funny I’m the one with the rep for running my mouth, but in private? You outtalk me five to one.”

You lift a brow. “Jealous?”

He scoffs. “Of you? Please. I’m proud. I corrupted you.”

You snort, curling into him more. “You didn’t corrupt me. You just…made it feel safe to be annoying.”

That makes him go still for a beat.

Then his voice is quieter, softer. “Good. ‘Cause you being annoying is my favorite soundtrack.”

You glance at him, and he’s smiling at you. Not teasing, not smirking, just smiling like he could lie here forever, just listening to you talk about the most mundane things.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?”

“I wasn’t done ranting, by the way.”

———

After a particularly chaotic schedule, you slump in the car beside him, both of you dead tired. Baby glances over to see you watching him — smiling, sleepy, soft.

“I missed you,” you whisper. “Couldn’t talk to you properly all day.”

He squeezes your hand. “Save it for tonight,” he mumbles. “I wanna hear every crazy thought you got.”

You mumble something incoherent, probably starting with your lores anyway, until Baby hears light snoring. He chuckles.

Yeah. You’re definitely not what he expected.

You’re better.

[darnell-la]

FOREVER JOHNNY STORM

pairing: professor!johnny storm x college student!reader

summary: Johnny loved women, so when he caught himself teasing a young lady in his class, he began questioning himself. the way she stared at him and giggled whenever she thought he wasn’t looking made him feel a way he hadn’t felt in a year. her being a student should’ve been a red flag, but he’s Johnny, and one thing Johnny never does is turn down a pretty woman.

warnings: age gap, reader is of age, flirting, workspace tension, making out, oral (male receiving), etc

notes: here is part two — I’ll forever love Joseph Quinn, and for right now, his Johnny Storm look is the absolute best (maybe it’s tied with Eddie Munson)

WE DO NOT ACCEPT COPYRIGHTING!

Teaching wasn’t something Johnny wanted to do until he figured everything out with that silver surfer woman. She was hot and an outer space alien, but it was time for him to move on.

Johnny loved women, and women usually loved Johnny. Especially the older ones. That’s why he grew confused when he noticed how shy y/n, one of his college students being nervous whenever he spoke to her about work.

He couldn’t help but notice the lack of eye contact, the way her legs crossed, whether she was standing or sitting, and her lip bits to keep back embarrassing words. God, her lips were so perfect. They sat on her face just right.

Even right now, she was nervous. He’s talking in class, giving a small story about a crime he fought a few weeks ago, and what is y/n doing? Smiling hard, slightly hiding her face so that she wouldn’t look too visible to him.

Johnny knew she didn’t want him to see her because when he finally took a glance at her, she quickly looked down and rubbed her face, hoping he didn’t catch her cheesing, but he did with a chuckle. Something in him liked how nervous she got.

He couldn’t explain why, but for some reason, he continued to tease y/n. Johnny would call her to answer questions or to come to the board, even if she wasn’t raising her hand. He even tells her to stay after class for a few minutes to talk about the excellent job she has been doing in his class.

“And, don’t forget the student and teacher meeting later on today before finals! If you want to pass, I recommend you show up, or else my sister's grumpy old husband starts complaining to me at dinner,”

The students laughed as they stood up and left the room. Class was over, and y/n was ready to go on with her day. That was before Johnny called her name.

“You comin’ tonight, y/n?” He asked, making her stop in her tracks. “I mean, you don’t have to since you have like the highest GPA at the university, but still. It would be nice to see a smart face,”

Y/n wanted to speak, but God, was he hard to look at. He was unbelievably attractive. She still couldn’t understand why a teacher would be this hot. Literally. He was on fire.

“Earth to y/n,” Johnny said as he waved his hand in her face, adding flame to it just to tease. He knew everything these young ladies liked, and usually he never tried to get at any. Y/n was just too hard to miss. He tried ignoring her for a good month, but those damn eyes.

“Oh- Sorry, I’m just — I’m just tired,” y/n lied as she avoided eye contact as usual. His blue eyes would have her lost in seconds. She swears she’d melt even if he didn’t flame on. “And, why is that? You know you should be getting sleep, yeah?”

Y/n had noticed Johnny tried to look at her face. He’d love and sway his head to catch eye contact with her, but failed. That was because y/n kept her head down or to the side.

“I’ve been sleeping, I’m just- I don’t know,” y/n said, not knowing how to have a simple conversation with her teacher. Why? This was so unprofessional, but she couldn’t help feeling a certain way about him. He was perfect. Too perfect to be a professor.

“Well, how about I see you later today before you sleep. Maybe we’ll have time to speak about how good you’ve been doing,”

Without thinking, Johnny had lifted his hand to cup her chin and slowly make her look up at him. Once their eyes made contact, she could’ve sworn she was going to faint. She felt like a die-hard fan.

“O-Okay,” y/n stuttered low, scanning his eyes as he scanned her face. She was soft and smooth. He couldn’t help but wonder if she felt this way throughout her whole body. Sometimes he’d feel disgusted by his thoughts, but God, her eyes would hypnotize him.

“You don’t need to be so shy around me, y/n. I’m your teacher. You should be able to feel comfortable to come to me about anything,”

“I do feel comfortable! — It’s just- I’m not a talker? I don’t know how to explain it,” y/n said, trying to find something to back her physical actions up, which only made Johnny chuckle. So cute…

“Well, how about you explain it later today? — See ya then,” Johnny said as he flew backwards to his desk, leaving y/n there in shock. Why was he playing with her like this? She wondered if he knew she had a thing for him, and he did.

After being in a room full of students and listening to teachers speak for almost an hour, y/n felt like leaving. After Johnny spoke, that was it. Everything became boring, and now she wanted to head back to her room and relax for the night.

Y/n slowly began making her way out of the huge room she was in. That instantly caught Johnny’s eye, making him get up and out of his seat to excuse himself to the restroom.

“Hey- Wait up!” Johnny shouted after y/n as she walked down the hallway. “Oh, hey Professor Storm,” y/n said, making Johnny fake gag at the name. “Just call me Johnny like the rest. It sounds better,”

“Anyway, what are you doing? We haven’t talked yet,” Johnny said as he stepped a bit closer to y/n to make her look up at him. “I just thought the meeting would be too long, so I decided to make my way back to my dorm,”

“Didn’t wanna see me?” Johnny said in a fake sad tone. “What!- No, I do! I-I mean — I’m just a little tired,” y/n sucked when it came to lying, and Johnny loved that. How nervous she got would egg him on and on.

“You wanna see me, huh?” Johnny smirked, forcing y/n’s face to grow hot. “C’mon, tell me. Make me feel good about myself,” y/n looked down as she thought about what she was going to admit to. She wanted to stay silent, but something in her gave her the courage to speak.

“I was excited to see you,” y/n admitted. That’s when Johnny cupped y/n’s chin once again to lift her head up. “Exited? Didn’t think you liked me that much,” Johnny lied, knowing he was going to have y/n shocked with the next line.

“Actually, I did — Not too hard to see,” y/n’s eyes instantly widen. She was, in fact, shocked. “What?” Y/n tried playing dumb. “You’re too shy around me, sweetheart. I know how you young girls get here when it comes to attractive men,”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister-“ y/n tried speaking, but got cut off. “Johnny, I said- And, yes, you do know what I’m talking about. You know exactly what I’m talking about,”

Y/n wanted to lie, but lying seemed off the list right now. He knew, and she couldn’t hide it. Of course, she couldn’t. She should’ve changed classes like she wanted to months ago.

“I’ve gotta go,” y/n spoke, breaking the short but long seconds of silence. “Why is that? Is this too intense?” Johnny asked as his free hand moved to her side, now gripping down onto her to give her some type of tension.

“I just need to go to sleep — I’ve got exams tomorrow,” y/n lied, knowing she had finished everything early so that she could relax while everyone else struggled in the morning all week.

“You really wanna play that game with me, missy?” Johnny asked as he slowly began to lift off the ground with both of his hands on her hips to lift her. “Johnny, I really think I should head home,” y/n said, trying to get out of this wonderful dream come true.

“Ah uh, I think you should stay here — With me.” That’s when Johnny flew to the nearest unlocked room to get out of the hallway before anyone saw the two. The janitor's closet isn’t as clean as his bedroom, but it’ll do for now.

“Johnny, what are you-“ y/n went to ask, but the man cut her off with his lips, now exploring the inside of her sweet mouth as she whined. She tasted amazing. Definitely better than he imagined.

Johnny wasted no time digging into her tank top to pull her breasts out. “Fuck,” the man breathed out as he leaned back, taking a look at her beautiful skin and pretty tits. She was perfect.

Johnny licked and sucked her nipples for a few seconds, sending pleasure through her body. She had never had her nipples played with like he did. He knew exactly what he wanted to do to her.

“On your knees, sweetheart.” Johnny stepped back as he fumbled with his belt. “H-Huh?” Y/n asked, confused, yet heard him correctly. “You heard me, princess, now get down,” the man demanded once again. This time she did as told.

“Good girl — Never thought I’d get this far with you — I’m glad I am though because, goddamn, I need you,”

Y/n stayed silent as she looked up at the older man. Once his cock fell out, she didn’t know how to react. He was huge, and the shock through her body went straight to her heart. She just knew her panties were soaked.

“You like the view? I know I do,” Johnny chuckled as he stroked his cock onto her cheek. “I-Is this even appropriate?” Y/n asked, already knowing the answer. “I’m having you either way, baby.”

Within seconds, y/n’s mouth was as full and h Johnny’s thick and long cock. She could barely take him, but he made sure to push her to her limits. Her throat felt too amazing to pull out of.

“That’s it,” Johnny sighed as his head tilted back for a few seconds. Both of his hands guided y/n’s head back and forth as his hips thrusted forward. Her mouth was so slick. It’s only been a couple of seconds, and she’s already the best he’s ever had.

“Gonna keep this our little secret, honey? Maybe I’ll even eat that pussy during our breaks we share,” y/n moaned with a head nod without thinking. She couldn’t care less about professionalism. She needed him bad.

“That’s my girl,”

[alvfr]

Karma - Part 4

Masterlist

paring: andrew pope cody/stripper!reader tags: 18+, starts in s1, slow burn, implied age gap, no use of y/n, implied stalking. customer service. reader has fake names, a large family (but reference to deceased parents), and a past (that is catching up). no smut for this part.  wc: 7.2k  an: thank you so, so, so much for the nice comments and reblogs on the earlier parts. having active readers always makes a story fun to write, and I hope you'll enjoy this (slightly delayed) part too ❤️

summary: Who says you can’t meet the love of your life in a strip club dressing room after his brother paid another girl a thousand bucks to wish him a happy birthday? Okay, so he’s a bit strange and he might be stalking you and his mother is terrifying and you’re really just trying to make enough money for rent and tuition without getting into any kind of trouble, but on the bright side, at least he’s not a cop.

Karma - Part 4 - [AO3 LINK]

“…like a huge pool and fully stocked bar and…”

With the familiar drone of Mio and Kelly gossiping in the background, you carefully wrote time and date on the refilled syrup bottles. The door to the coffee shop opened and you automatically looked up, a practiced greeting ready on your lips before you recognized the newcomer. You smiled instead.

Like the other day, Pope came in during the slow interval between the morning and lunch rush. And like all the other times you had seen him, he wore a dark-colored, short-sleeved shirt that was buttoned all the way up to his neck. This one looked new, though. Charcoal gray with a dotted pattern and not a wrinkle in sight. It looked like it fit him a bit better, too. It billowed slightly over his waist and you wondered if he had had to size up to accommodate for the swell of his biceps.

“Good morning,” you said, and leaned over the counter, noticing how Kelly and Mio halted their gossip to listen. “Coffee?”

Pope did not smile with his mouth, but there was something complacent about his slightly narrowed eyes. He nodded after he stalked over to the register and his by now familiar hard glare felt like a test of some sort. “Yeah. Coffee.” A slight beat and then, “Thanks.”

“To-go?”

“No.”

You were keenly aware of everyone’s eyes on you, but acted like nothing as you poured a random cup of coffee. Whatever tension was in the air was everyone else’s problem, you decided, and smiled at Pope again.

“Here you go. Three seventy, please.”

Pope’s stare had wandered over your shoulder, probably fixated on your coworkers because you heard sudden movements and clanging like they both had jumped back to whatever they were supposed to be doing. Without looking at you, Pope silently handed you the card and the cash.

“Thank you. Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t have change for a hundred. Do you have anything smaller?”

Okay, so, maybe last night’s eye-opening conversation with him at the strip club had made you slightly too bold, but you smiled resolutely when Pope’s scowl turned to you. It was not that you had any illusions that Pope was all bark and no bite, but you felt like you were more on even footing now. And you were fine with him paying you for dancing, but your daytime job was different and you wanted him to understand that.

With a deadpanned expression, Pope opened his wallet again and counted out four dollars. His head rolled somewhat on his neck as he gritted out, “Keep the change.”

“Thank you,” you repeated and handed him the card and hundred-dollar-bill back. “I really like your shirt, by the way.”

Pope stared and stared and stared before he grabbed the coffee, stuffed the hundred-dollar-bill into the tip jar without breaking eye contact, and then stalked away to sit by the window. This time he did turn around one last time after sitting down, one eyebrow raised in some unreadable expression, maybe in another challenge.

You smiled, albeit a bit stiffer after he had foiled your plan, and he turned back to the window.

“Okay,” Mio breathed out from behind you and dropped the pitcher he had pretended to polish. “I don’t know what just happened, but that was so intense. I need a cigarette.”

Like last time, Pope did his best impression of a statue all the way through the lunch rush until you clocked out. And like last time, you stuffed your apron in your tote bag, grabbed two cups of coffee, and headed over to him when your shift ended.

He snapped around when you took the seat next to him, something like surprise on his face, and silently accepted the new cup of coffee. You smiled despite his unreadable expression and pulled your feet up on the chair to lean back so you could watch the foamy waves crash against the shore outside the window.

“I guess it must be weird,” you said after a while and felt more than saw his attention on you, “to be away from the ocean for so long after growing up right next to it. Folsom Lake is huge, but it’s not the same.”

It took a while before Pope answered, like he was trying to figure out if you were working an angle first. “You can’t even see the lake from inside. Only saw it twice, from the bus. When I came and when I left.”

“Not that impressive for someone used to the ocean, huh?”

“No.”

“I grew up hours away from the coast. Basically, nothing but trees and valleys. We went to the beach maybe two or three times a year, and it was like an adventure every time. The sounds and the smell and the way your skin feels when the salt dries.” You smiled at the thought, temporarily lost down memory lane. “I had this friend in high school, and we made a pact that we’d move to the beach after we graduated.”

Glancing over at Pope in case you were boring him, you found nothing but his abrupt attention. 

“Did you?”

“Sort of. I got into college in San Francisco. Not the best beaches, but it was still by the ocean. Then the economy crashed, and I had to move back home to help out with the store and then we lost it anyway and then my dad…” You trailed off, cleared your throat, and lightened your tone. “Anyway, I tried San Diego, but that city’s massive and I could never afford something with even a view of the ocean. So, when I learned that the nation’s best nursing program — for community colleges, obviously — was in a place called Oceanside, I figured that was fate. Like, how could you not live near the ocean in a city called Oceanside?”

“So,” Pope tilted his head in an unnatural direction while looking at you, “you live on The Strand?”

You pursed your lips in dismay as you still lived miles away from the sea. “No, not yet. One day.” 

In the background, you could hear Mio running a cleansing cycle on the coffee machine to prepare for the next shift. 

“What was it like for you?” you asked when Pope said nothing. “To come home?”

He stayed quiet for a long time — so long you thought he would not answer — and you started to mentally rehearse an apology for overstepping. 

“It was,” Pope did not look at you for once, “okay. Anything’s better than being inside, but… everything’s different now.”

“Different how?”

“Life moved on while I was stuck in there. Things happened. Some people are gone and others have shown up.” His voice grew stronger and his words came faster, like a beginning landslide gaining momentum. “My niece isn’t a baby anymore and my nephew, who I haven’t seen in like, ten years, is practically an adult. But he’s somehow also just a kid and I’m not really sure how I can,” Pope hesitated for a while, “be there for him. In the right way. He doesn’t talk much. Which I usually don’t mind, but he really doesn’t talk at all. Makes it hard to tell where his head’s at. If we can trust him.”

Pope’s sudden movements felt robotic as he took a sip of coffee, almost like he had realized he had said too much. It had the feeling of something that had been on his mind for a while, desperate for an outlet.

“Isn’t it so weird how fast kids grow up?” you asked, perfectly willing to pretend that wasn’t the most Pope had ever said in one go and shift the focus back to you. “My cousins’ kids too, I swear they go from being born to starting middle-school in like a month.” 

You smiled as Pope did a quiet sound of agreement. 

“But that was probably also because every day felt exactly the same when I lived back home. I was only gonna stay for a while until we got the store back on its feet and then all of a sudden I blink and years have gone by and I realized I was still stuck in the same place I’d been since high school.”

“You could have left.”

“Yeah, I know. It wasn’t like I was locked up or something. But I guess I felt I owed it to my dad to stick around.” You sighed, not wanting to elaborate just yet. “Is it okay if I ask why you haven’t seen your nephew in ten years? You were only inside for three.”

“My sister had a falling out with our mom. They’ve always had their differences and then Julia took off after some bullshit argument. I don’t even remember what it was about. She took off and never came back. And now she’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“She died.”

“When you were in prison?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, I’m—”

“She died,” Pope said in a slow, bitterly amused voice, “two days before I got out. Do you think that means something? At the time, I dunno, it kinda felt like the universe was trying to tell me something, but…”

You waited for him to finish the sentence, but he never did. “Were you close?”

“Twins.”

It would have been easier, you thought for the second time, if he’d sounded upset. Or sad. Or angry. Or anything other than resigned. You raised your hand to put it on his arm, wanting to touch him in some way to reassure him, but lowered it back down slowly.

“I’m really sorry, Pope. I can’t imagine—”

“How many siblings do you have?” Pope interjected and you blinked at the sudden change of pace. Maybe deflection to avoid talking about an obviously painful topic. Or maybe genuine interest. It was hard to tell with him.

“Uh, none. I’m an only child.”

His eyebrow lifted. “I thought you said you were thirty-one cousins.”

“We are, yeah. I don’t have any siblings, but my dad had seven.” You tried to smile, like Pope had not just told you he had lost his twin sister while in prison. “And all of them have a shit-ton of kids. I’m the odd one out.”

“That sounds lonely,” Pope said, mirroring your words back to you with an unreadable expression. Could be patronizing, could be sympathy. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

“I never said—”

“You said ‘had’,” he pointed out, but not unkindly. “He ‘had’ seven siblings. It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Your mouth opened and shut on its own accord before you regained your voice. “Thank you. And I’m really sorry about your sister.”

“Yeah,” Pope nodded, stretched out his arm as far as it went, and placed his second coffee cup next to the first one, perfectly in line. “Me too.”

A few minutes went by while you both watched the waves roll onto land. 

“I should go,” you said and gathered up your things, subconsciously avoiding the way his eyes followed your every movement. Sad eyes, you thought now, but it was your own fault for prying into what you knew wasn’t a happy tale. “I got a potential roommate coming over to see the apartment later. Fingers crossed, right?”

“Are you working tonight?”

His expression indicated nothing but polite interest, but at this point, you knew better. You hesitated to answer, though. Today was Friday, and you usually did not work weekends.

“Are you thinking of stopping by?”

He did that face, somewhere between sarcastic and sincere, and asked, “If it’s okay?”

And, again, despite knowing better, you said, “Yeah. Sure. I’ll see you later.”

****

“…and that’s the whole place! There are some minor things that need to be fixed, but that’ll be handled before move-in. Can I just ask what you do for a living? Absolutely no judgment, but like, do you have a reliable source of income?”

“Oh, yeah, totally. Check it out, I’ve been putting these up all over town.”

You stared at the flyer in your hand with the hard-to-read font and clip-art graphics. “Surf lessons, huh?”

“Yup! Not to brag, but I’m pretty good. Here, take a couple more, pass them out to your friends and stuff.”

“Right. Because that’s definitely what Oceanside needs,” you said through a fixed smile, “another surf coach. Just out of curiosity, have you actually gotten any calls yet?” 

“Nah, but it’s the off-season, it’ll pick up in a few weeks.”

“Summer?” you asked, unable to help yourself. “Summer is the off-season? All right. Okay. Yup. Listen, I have a few more people I’m gonna interview, so I’ll give you a call afterward, how’s that sound?”

“Dope. Quick question first, what’s the transportation situation?”

“Oh, there’s great connections with the intercity buses and the bus stop is right down—”

“No, no, I mean like, do you have a car that I can borrow to the beach and stuff? Room for the board and a cooler?”

You resisted the urge to squeeze your eyes shut in defeat. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Aw, bummer.”

“Yeah, bummer. I���ll call you, okay?”

The second the door clicked shut, you leaned against the cool wood, and tried to take a deep calming breath. You would definitely not be calling. Except maybe Jenna, but you were not ready to deal with that just yet. 

Instead, you made sure to lock the door before shuffling back into the tiny combined living-room and kitchen. You cast a forlorn glance at the couch with the second-hand throw blanket covering the ugly truth of the ruined cushions and shuffled on to your bedroom to sprawl on top of the covers. You had pulled aside the curtains for the viewing and it allowed the afternoon sun to stretch its rays onto the carpeted floor.

The soft cotton of your comforter cooled your cheek as you rolled to your side and checked your phone in case some other potential roommate had called. No luck. There was nothing on the screen except the calendar notification reminding you of the tuition due date. You groaned and flipped over to your back to stare at the unevenly painted ceiling tiles.

Thinking about money made you think of Pope, but you shoved that connotation firmly to the back of your mind. Whatever his game was — if he really was just a lonely, awkward man fresh out of prison needing to hide behind a dollar to resolve whatever issues he had with intimacy — you refused to take advantage of him.

Besides, you had other ways to get money. Both legit and… less legit. 

You rolled to your other side to put your back to the window and, for the umpteenth time the last few weeks, pulled out your other phone to read The Message. Your brain auto-filled the capitalization, well-earned based on how much your mind revolved around it lately, and with how many times you had read it. Cradling it in your hands, using your body as a shield, you read it again.

It did not make sense. Nothing about it made sense. Not the timing, not the supposed sender, and definitely not the content. Not even the recipient made sense, because only a select few people had this number. It was on a strict need-to-know-basis and you made sure it was not listed anywhere. And yet, someone had acquired that need-to-know number, composed a nowhere near convincing request addressed directly to Karma, and sent it from an unlisted number. 

You had probably spent hours staring at the message by now, concocting various replies in your head, trying to figure out a way to reveal if it was a test, trap or an opportunity. You wished you knew who really sent it. At one point, you had considered calling the number from a payphone downtown, but decided against it in case that would lead someone to Oceanside.

It was just a coincidence, you told yourself again as you twisted further to lie on your stomach, that you had felt watchedever since getting the message. Not always, though. Not during the daytime, but at the club and on your way home. Which just proved that it was all in your head — even if someone had found you through the club, why would they leave you alone during the day? Unless, of course, you had succeeded in making your day and night appearance so different that they thought you were two separate people. 

Like Pope, who had initially failed to recognize you when he first came into the coffee shop a few days ago. Again, your treacherous mind worked on its own and started piecing together a conspiracy that you had first met Pope at the club around the same time as you got The Message. You groaned into the covers and wanted to shake the paranoid thoughts out of your head. No one was that good of an actor. And if they were, why would they choose to act like Pope? 

In fact, the club in San Diego had been the one thing he had not asked about.

The headlines you read yesterday flittered across your mind and you closed the message, suddenly paranoid, like they would somehow know you were thinking about it. ‘Denies rumors of front operations, ‘Owners nowhere to be found’… Yeah, you bet the owners were nowhere to be found. At least not officially, and that was precisely why it was best to put that weird message out of your mind and get back to work.

****

It did not take you long before remembering why you did not work Fridays. Not only did you have to pay a higher fee, the place was also packed with what you deemed to be mostly out-of-towners. A mixed crowd, predominantly younger people, treating it as a nightclub that happened to have half-naked girls walking around. Acting like they did something scandalous and hilarious whenever they stuffed a dollar in your waistband, which was not even close to how often as you would have liked it.

Some of the guys hung so close to the stage that you could not perform any of your usual moves lest you accidentally kicked them in the jaw while spinning. And spinning was all you could do with the electronic trance-like beats played by this new DJ — a tall and beefy guy who did not even try to hide how he was ogling the girls. You lasted a few songs before giving a sign you wanted down and snatched up the few dollars on the floor without trying to act cute about it.

“Fucking tourists,” Candy shouted over the loud, high-tempoed beats where she got ready to take your spot on stage. “The bar’s running out of change for all the singles. I look like a piñata!”

She gestured at her bra that was stuffed full of bills, flapping from the wind machine pointed at the stage. 

“What’s up with the music?” you half-yelled and fastened your top to cover everything up. Sweat rolled down your neck; the large crowd and lack of real AC made the air stifling hot. “I feel like I’m at a rave!”

Candy’s impressive bosom heaved in defeat. “Sam’s testing a new DJ.”

“Yeah, I saw,” you cast a glance at the asshole in question, who was making a show of holding his headphones to his ears as he twitched to the beat, “but whose songs are this?”

“His own.”

You both shook your heads in commiseration, and Candy went on stage while you tried to wade your way to the bar.

“Hey, gorgeous!” a red-faced guy shouted from a nearby table and grabbed your arm. He waved what looked to be a twenty-dollar-bill in front of you, almost going cross-eyed himself from looking at it. “How ‘bout a dance?”

Before you could get out the words that you charged forty, hoping that would be enough to deter him, Jasmine slithered up next to you.

“She’s spoken for,” she purred and ran her manicured nails along the guy’s cheek. “But I’m here.” The guy looked completely wasted and perfectly happy at this solution, and Jasmine straightened back up to whisper-shout in your ear. “Booth two. And Sam says you gotta tell him to stop occupying the booths while you’re on stage, especially on nights like this. He can wait at the bar like the rest of them.”

“How long has he been here?” you half-shouted back while Jasmine absentmindedly dodged the guy’s pawing hands.

She rolled her eyes. “Who knows? God, this fucking music, it never stops. Hey, handsome. Uh-uh-uh, take those hands down, that is not within your budget, honey, trust me.”

You tottered around the table area to get to the booths where you could see all of them already occupied for private dances. Doing their best to keep up with the repetitive um-ts um-ts um-ts that you could feel vibrate all through your teeth. Somehow you caught Pepper’s eyes where she was dancing in booth three and she threw her hands up, silently asking the same question you had asked Candy. What was up with this fucking music?

“Hey,” you shouted at Pope who sat inside booth two. It was closer to the loudspeakers and the incessant racket seemed to concentrate in here. He looked mildly more uncomfortable than normal, probably due to the noise. “Did you teleport in here or something? Dig a tunnel up through the floor?”

Pope leaned forward with a grimace and you thought he asked, “What?”

“I didn’t see you walk in,” you said in a louder voice. For once, you had made an effort to pay attention to the entrance, eager to get off stage as fast as possible. Pope still looked confused, and you tottered closer and held your hair back to lean down to the side of his head. “You don’t have to wait until I get off stage. Just give me a sign when you get here.”

“You like the stage,” Pope said, or at least that’s what it sounded like. And it might have been the loud music, but it did not sound like a question. 

“My boss says you can’t— my boss says you can’t wait in— forget it! Later! Later!” 

You straightened up and shook your head in a ‘nevermind’-motion and fanned at your sweat-slicked neck instead. How Pope managed to sit there in full length jeans and a short-sleeved shirt was anyone’s guess; you were boiling in your half-naked state. You spotted the bottle of beer in his hands — club policy had everyone buy at least one drink upon entry — and you held your hand out in a silent request. 

If he said something, you could not hear it, but he surrendered the bottle and you gratefully tried to quench your thirst and cool down. Either a heatwave had struck the southern part of California or Sam had messed with the AC. Whatever the cause, the effect was a sweltering heat and combined with the incessant synth noise, it was like a bad acid trip.

“Should I just dance?” you asked as you gave the bottle back, but Pope’s head-tilt probably meant he had not heard you. “I’ll just dance.”

Easier said than done. While you normally would have waited for a new song to start, you weren’t even sure if the DJ was playing songs or just a long continuous loop of vaguely rhythmic noises at 200 BPM. If you had thought it was tough to dance to on stage, here it was impossible. It might have lent its hand to twerking, but that was the only sexy move you could think of to match this insane tempo. 

You tried — you really tried — to find your groove, but either you were offbeat or your actions became jittery and unappealing. Maybe if there had been strobe lights, like at an actual night club, and both you and Pope had been high on something, but in real life it was awkward and tacky. You felt like a high-schooler trying to impress a frat guy at a dorm party, and that imagery made you laugh too much to dance.

“I can’t—” you started, saw the mildly amused and confused look on Pope’s face, and leaned down next to his head again. “I thought I could dance to anything, but I can’t dance to this, I’m sorry.”

Pope’s mouth moved, but you heard nothing, so you pulled your hair out of the way and leaned closer to his face. His lips brushed against your ear, sending a current of electricity down your spine. “Who decides on the music?”

You shifted places, speaking directly into his ear now and you could feel the heat radiate from his skin. “Boss got in a new DJ. He’s not using our playlists.”

Another change of roles, you placing your ear to his mouth to hear him ask, “Why?”

At that, you could only shrug in a way to indicate it was anyone’s guess. You had no idea how to proceed now, though. The thought of using Jasmine’s dressing room struck you, even with the steep percentage she wanted, but that might be a tad too intimate for Pope’s taste. Besides, she had probably already lured someone in there with her to escape from this hellish EDM. While you pondered a solution other than to sabotage the stereo system, Pope had a contemplative look on his face.

He got up from his seat and said something you had no chance of hearing. Thinking he was calling it a night — and you really couldn’t blame him — you leaned in to say goodbye, but Pope beat you to it.

“I know who this is,” he said when you got close enough to hear. “Wait here.”

And with that, he stalked out of the booth with the bowlegged swagger you had started to appreciate more and more. Not sure what to think, you cast a wary glance at security, and then watched Pope walk straight and resolutely through the crowd that parted like a school of fish faced with a shark. He headed for the DJ booth, where the sun-tanned DJ with his dark hair styled up in a pompadour swayed with the fast-paced beat. Tall and beefy and still smirking, he did not look like he would respond well to requests from the crowd.

So whatever you had expected, it was not the tall and beefy DJ visibly recoiling when spotting Pope. 

The transformation was palatable, as was the contrast between the two. While the DJ almost tripped over his own feet and fumbled to remove his headphones, Pope kept his thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his jeans, and did not seem to even raise his voice. Pope’s head moved as he talked — you could imagine the calm and raspy way he explained things — and the DJ nodded vigorously to everything Pope was saying. 

The DJ was bigger than Pope in every way, but the power dynamic was clear, even from across the club. It was like watching a huge labrador submit to a medium-sized street-mix without the smaller dog even needing to bare its teeth.

Before Pope had made it ten feet from the DJ booth, the music changed and a song straight from your playlist came through the speakers instead. You blinked, caught the sight of Pepper in the neighboring booth where she had watched the same scene as you unfold. She gave a quiet, appreciative nod, like saying ‘not bad’, and then went back to dancing for whoever she had in there.

“Everything okay?” you asked Pope as he brushed past you back into the booth two. Like it wasn’t obvious that Pope had everything under control and more so. The volume of the music had gone down to a more acceptable level, where you could comfortably hear each other. “You know that guy?”

“He knows me.”

The brusque tone — sharp even for Pope — caught you slightly off guard and you blinked again. “Oh-kay, sorry I asked.”

Pope sat back down heavily and you got the feeling his scowl was as much directed at himself as it was you. Like he was regretting his tone already. “He calls himself DJ Snowfall,” he finally rasped and rolled his neck a bit. Despite how well things have seemed to go with the so-called DJ Snowfall, Pope seemed displeased. “Real name is Dylan something. Low-level, piece-of-shit drug dealer.”

“A drug dealer?” you repeated, unable to help the incredulous smile on your lips. With your cousins’ frequently bad decisions and your vocation as a stripper, the idea of drug dealers had lost its novelty, but the casual way Pope threw it around still amused you. “And you told him what, exactly?”

“I told him that the girls who dance here work really hard and he should be playing the right music. Your music.”

This time, you were the one staring. From anyone else, that sentence would have been complete, utter bullshit. Not from Pope, though. You had no issues believing that was exactly what he had told the DJ.

“And this drug dealer just listened to you?”

He nodded.

“Just like that?” Another nod and you raised your eyebrows. “Why? Is there some kind of criminal hierarchy at play here? Bank robber trumps drug dealer, but both will fold to serial arsonists?”

Pope looked unimpressed, the side of his mouth twitching in contempt, and he settled further against the couch like he struggled to get comfortable. It took him a second before he replied, not answering your question at all. “He shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah, all right, I’d wager anyone with ears would agree with that,” you said with a shrug, but your unconcerned tone did not seem to clear Pope’s disapproving expression. “I’m guessing you got some kind of history?”

“He used to sell drugs to my younger brother.”

You sucked in air between your teeth. “Ah, okay, that’s history all right.”

“And then DJ Snowfall,” Pope spat the title and shifted in his seat, uncharacteristically restless, his words coming like he needed them gone from his head,“tried to screw him over, things got out of hand and I had to step in and fix things. Like always. I’m always cleaning up their mess.”

You watched how Pope glared out into nothing, obviously on edge about this. “And by fixing things, you mean…”

As he seemed to contemplate if he was going to answer or not, Pope leaned back against the sofa and gave you a challenging glare. His chest rose and sank a few times as he obviously tried to get his breath under control. “I beat the shit out of him.”

Again, from anyone else, you would have called bullshit — that he was just like all other guys, exaggerating and bragging for clout. For whatever reason, your mind veered back to the image of Pope confronting the DJ in his booth. To how quickly the DJ had submitted. The smaller dog not needing to bare its teeth anymore because it had already bitten. Whatever Pope had done to him, it had made a lasting impression. And now your mind wandered to consider the obvious size difference between the two, and how that apparently had not mattered much. 

For whatever reason, a warmth spread from somewhere behind your ribs, and your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth as you managed to say, “Oh.” 

“Does that bother you?”

Pope must have interpreted your eloquence as something else and you caught the obtrusive pitch in his tone. Did it bother you? It should. You knew it should. And yet you could not help the way your gaze dragged over his torso where he sat, from the flexed tendons on his neck to the prominent veins on his arms. And you could not deny how the idea of Pope using those arms in any kind of way made your heart struggle against your chest, suddenly beating a bit too hard to allow for more than a single word to pass your lips.

“No.”

You must not have sounded particularly convicing.

“It doesn’t scare you?” Pope pressed on, tilting his head and stretching his neck long to force himself further into your line of sight. Your heartbeat continued to accelerate, because the vague recognition that you should be scared only made the warmth spread wider. “I don’t scare you?”

That strange lilt to his voice — that undulating pitch — seemed to become more pronounced when he was stressed or agitated. Like now. 

 “No.”

You did not even stop to consider it, not with the answer so obvious and ready to fire out of your mouth. Not with your body making it impossible to ignore that you were anything but scared. That you had no idea how much it would take to convince yourself to be scared.

“You don’t scare me.”

For once, a moment of surprise registered on his face as his eyes softened again. Even his shoulders dropped back, visibly deflating from whatever wound him up, and only the hint of movement on his lips made you think he was debating saying something more. Of arguing. Maybe a genuine question of why not? Or a blunt statement that you should be scared ofhim. His questions and subsequent relief proved that he at least expected you to be scared of him, and it made your stomach squeeze in discomfort.

“I grew up with thirty first-cousins, remember?” you said and realized you exaggerated your nonchalance as you shrugged. Like the first time you met him, you felt almost desperate to prove to him that this was not a big deal. That it was okay. “Every family gathering was like a full-blown battle royale. Being an only child meant I had to learn to hold my own.”

Instead of any kind of amusement registering, Pope gave you an unreadable look that for once traveled beyond your eyes and drifted across the rest of your form. Like he was sizing you up, mentally calling your bluff, and tallying the number of ways he could easily overpower you. That you holding your own meant nothing.

That thought made the heat from before return with vengeance and you resisted the urge to shift around to alleviate the sudden ache from various parts of your body.

“But if you feel the need to beat the shit out of DJ Snowfall again,” you said, more to distract yourself, which backfired at the sight of Pope’s half-smile, “do me a favor and keep it outside club hours. This is my main source of income and I’d hate to see this place get shut down over some stupid assault and battery charge.”

The ghost of a smile fully disappeared from Pope’s face and he stared almost as hard as when you had complimented his shirt earlier. Whatever was on his mind apparently distracted him enough that he failed to notice how the current song ended and DJ Snowfall inexpertly transitioned to the next. Not that you had wanted to get paid for this, but you had sortof expected him to insist like last night. 

You tilted your head, as if that would jolt him out of whatever troubled him, but realized his stare had lost focus, lost in thin air for once. “Pope? Are you—”

His stare lugged back, firm and steady, like he had made up his mind about something. “Who’s your boss?”

“Who? Sam?”

“What do you know about him?”

“Uh, that his name’s Sam, and he wears a lot of Old Spice. Not much. Why?”

“Is he the owner?”

“I don’t know, actually.” Your mind flashed to your last club’s owners and you struggled to keep your mental cart on the right track, your mouth going on auto-pilot. “I think so? He manages the place, that’s all I know. He’s my only point of contact, never dealt with anyone else here.”

The only one who had your number here. The number.

“But he’s in charge of the day-to-day? He handles the cash-flow?”

“Yeah, the other girls call him Sleazy Sam,” you babbled on, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that Sam did not strike you as a person who seemed particularly concerned with privacy rights, “and I thought it was because he likes to get a free show in the dressing room,” and you did not know if he had contacts in San Diego, “but I think it’s more because he’s a greedy cheapskate, always cutting corners to increase profit,” it was just coincidence that you got that message not long after starting working here, “like bringing in a cheap DJ on the busiest night of the week,” even if he was the only one who you had given that number to since leaving Cheetah’s, “and turning down the AC so people would buy more drinks.”

“Does he have an office here?”

Still stuck in San Diego, that question struck a bit too close to home and your mind screeched to a halt. “Why would Iknow that? Why are you asking me that?”

Maybe it was the defensive tone or the contrast from your previous rambling, but Pope looked to be stuck in buffering mode for a second. Like he had not expected anything else than an answer to his question. “I wanna talk to him.”

“You wanna talk to my manager?” you asked in a too shrill voice before catching how ridiculous it sounded. Your shoulders dropped back down from where they had tried to climb the summit to your ears. This was Pope, you reminded yourself. He was always asking weird stuff. “I gotta admit, that’s a question I get more at my other job. Why?”

In the background, the mellow tunes of your playlist kept rolling along with Pope’s tense jaw. “DJ Snowfall is bad news for the club,” he eventually said. 

“I don’t know, with the way some of these girls are using, it’s probably cost efficient to have an in-house supply. Maybe Jasmine brought him in, hoping for an employee discount.” 

“If you think the club could shut down over assault and battery, what do you think’s gonna happen with a distribution charge?”

“I think that you talking to Sam about it is only gonna get me in trouble.” You folded your arms over your chest — the embellishment of your outfit digging into the soft part of your triceps — and regarded the cloud that had returned over Pope’s face. “Is this really about him being a piece-of-shit drug dealer or about him knowing who you are?” 

The tightening of Pope’s jaw confirmed your theory. Maybe seeing the DJ had been like the curtains at a theatre pulling open in the middle of a scene change — a stark reminder that this was all an illusion and the real world still waited for him out there. Maybe Pope did not like mixing his day job with this stuff either.

“Are you worried he’s gonna tell anyone that you come here?”

At least that brought a hint of amusement back to Pope’s eyes, along with the faintest trace of smugness. “No.”

No use in asking why. The decisive reply said it all.

You did your very best to ignore the heat pooling somewhere at navel-height again, but couldn’t help taking another step forward, your tall heels clicking against the floor. You blamed the music for slipping into character, making you sound a bit too flirtatious when asking, “You really beat the shit out of him, didn’t you?”

For a moment, it looked like Pope tried to read your mind again, tried to figure out your reason for asking — and you weren’t sure if you wanted him to get it right this time. In the end he answered with a flat: “Yeah.”

“Okay, then.” Despite your best efforts, the sides of your mouth lifted, and you chewed down on your lip to keep the smile from taking over. “So, if you just keep coming around here, he won’t be any trouble, right?”

Pope watched you with his eyebrows raised. While the content of his mind was duly locked away behind those intense eyes, it was easy to tell how his mind raced. How he soaked up everything about you to work out your angle and still coming up short. “Right.”

Unfortunately, that’s when the song ended and Pope definitely noticed this time, making the expected grab for his wallet while not breaking eye contact. 

The heat in your belly dissipated as Pope counted up the bills — too much money, by the looks of it — and you did not have it in you to argue further. He was here for a reason, after all, and it wasn’t to talk. You went to accept the cash with a quiet ‘thanks’, maybe you even smiled, you weren’t sure.

Except Pope didn’t let go. 

“Every song you spend talking to me is a song you could have danced for someone else. Especially tonight. You shouldn’t lose money because of me.”

His fingers let go of the cash, but his eyes did not let go of yours.

You almost lost your footing when he let go, but it might have been equally because of his intense sincerity. You shook out your hair, trying to remember where you were, who you were. “Guess I should hurry up and dance while he’s still playing my songs, huh?”

“You don’t have to.”

You gave him a small shrug, like your heart wasn’t trying to beat its way up your throat. “I like dancing for you.”

“I mean you don’t have to hurry. He’s only playing your songs tonight.”

For a second you could only stare and this time, you had no chance to resist the way your face automatically smiled, nor the way the heat exploded throughout your body. “That guy was in the fucking ER after you were done with him, wasn’t he?”

And Pope also smiled, albeit hesitantly, like he knew this wasn’t something you were supposed to enjoy. “Probably.”

“Right. I’m still gonna dance for you now, if that’s okay?”

Pope took a deep breath — possibly bracing himself, but the way his buttons strained against his chest distracted you too much to really notice — before he nodded. 

You lazily closed your eyes, let your head drop back to reset from all the talking, and started to sway. The song was a perfect slow one that allowed you to glide into it, flowing intuitively with the rhythm instead of relying on your strategic choreography. Letting you utilize the fire within instead of fighting it. Letting you dance for Pope in a way you never had before.

By the time you opened your eyes again — well into the song — Pope’s eyes had left your face. For once, you were the one staring at him, watching how his gaze roamed over your curves. His focus momentarily stopped whenever you moved your hands to a different part of yourself, but never lingered too long. Like he was not fully certain he was allowed tolook.

Knowing he watched you in a different way brought more of that heat and you danced and danced, hoping to convey that it was okay — that you wanted him to look. 

Pope was right, though. The DJ played your songs all night long.

****

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this part too, even if it's a slow-slow burn. This DJ Snowfall is an actual character from the show, but he was barely in one episode so I'm not sure if anyone else remembers him.

Also, for those who theorize, do you think Pope is having second thoughts about robbing the club or not? Or is robbing the club just a handy excuse to keep going there? Hmm?

Also also, The Message will be explained at some point. Don't ya worry.

Hoping everyone else is still having a great summer! Take care of yourself and stay safe y'all ❤️

Other than that, if you liked this, please let me know! Reblogs and comments also make me write faster 💕  Thank you!

[atinystraynstay]

Sugar Talking - Joshua Hong

"Used to be a player boy" meets the "haven't had a first kiss" girl

Synopsis: Was he an angel or a devil in disguise? Joshua's reputation met more people than Joshua himself. He was the guy who left behind a trail of broken hearts wherever he went. His sweet demeanor was seen as anything but sweet.

Pairing: College Crush!Joshua Hong x reader

Genre: first encounter, strangers to love interest

Word Count: 2.1k

Inspired by @aaniag - thanks for tagging me in this post ♡ did you really think I'd forget about this series a year later? (maybe I did but better late than never!)

First Encounters Mini Series: #1: #2: #3: Joshua #4: Wonwoo #5: Jeonghan #6: #7: #8: Dino

College was all about expanding your bounds and finding your limits. Dating was all about putting yourself out there and finding out what you like. Naturally, you were bound to date in college.

Like other guys, Joshua had dabbled in the dating. If there was a girl that peaked his interest, he would often ask her to coffee after class or to go studying at the library. He also, like anyone else, was just trying to figure out what he wanted in a potential partner. His mother encouraged just going on a bunch of first dates to meet different people, go on different types of dates, and dive deeper into his emotional side.

However, what he considered to be casual dating translated to "man whore" and "player" to the student body. He began to gain the reputation of a serial dater as people spotted him around campus with a new face at least once or twice a week. Joshua, for the most part, was able to shrug off the false narrative people tried to portray onto him.

If anything, his first dates might've led to a second date or maybe a month long rendezvous. Yet, everyone outside of his bubble thought he was stringing girls along for fun. If someone was willing to believe into a rumor then it was simply someone Joshua didn't want to be around. He was a people person, for sure, but not one to want to be surrounded by negative people. From a young age, Joshua knew everyone has their own story. He wanted to learn from the people around him, and be able to form his own judgements and opinions of people and things. And if someone wasn't willing to give the same respect, why waste his energy?

Unfortunately, it was becoming too common that his female classmates wanted to see how far they could go with him. They wanted to have the bragging rights of 𝘐 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘑𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘢! 𝘎𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴. or 𝘑𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶!

The moment Joshua caught wind of what was happening, he would break things off with the woman he was seeing.

And just like everyone else, Joshua has had his share of heartbreak. Nobody likes being used in such a manner, especially when people believe in a false illusion. Joshua prided himself on his perception of himself - a gentleman, a mother's son, a dedicated student. He just wanted the chance to prove others wrong.

It was a late August day. Campus was back to buzzing with life, both with new energy and the faces of dear friends. It was orientation week, which meant the freshman were here while the older students were moving back. Joshua had been here all summer. He had gotten a job with the local newspaper. It was the perfect scenario where he gained work experience but could also afford his off campus apartment.

During the school year, Joshua helped manage and edit for the university's paper. And with the excitement of a new school year, he was going to help cover freshman move-in. In order to take on that task, Joshua was in desperate need of coffee.

As he approached the door of the coffee shop, he could hear giggling and whispering from over his shoulders. From one glance, he could tell it was a group of female students who recognized him.

𝘞𝘢𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘑𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘢? 𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝑮𝒊𝒓𝒍, 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒉! 𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒊𝒎? 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝙒𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝.

While the women behind him began to giggle in unison, Joshua's blood began to boil. You would think with another year that he would be freed from the rumors, but they seemed to come back stronger every single year. Even though Joshua wanted to whip his head around, to catch them off guard, he couldn't bring himself to do it. His mother's voice echoed in his head, reminding him that you treat others the way you want to be treated.

Being the gentleman she raised him to be, he still opened the door for the three women behind him. They gasped before saying "thank you" as each one passed him. All Joshua did was nod his head, putting on his signature smile. The quicker he grabbed his coffee the quicker he could get the heck out of here.

The trio made their way towards the register. Not without taking a few glances back at Joshua, of course. He has heard from his friends that they wish they got the same amount of attention that Joshua receives.

However, they didn't understand how objectified Joshua feels. How hard was it to want to be seen as a person rather than an object? Why is it that everyone calls for people to be treated the same, that women are more than objects but leave men out of the conversation?

At first, Joshua kept his eyes locked on the display board or down on his phone. He didn't want to feed into the delusions the group in front of him were trying to conceal. It was obvious though that they were trying to just be loud enough that he could hear them, but not anyone else. Joshua's eyes glanced over towards the baked goods in the display case. There was a dark chocolate croissant that seemed to be calling to him. Now, this was the only kind of attention Joshua wanted.

He came into this coffee at least two to three times a week. It was right across from the Liberal Arts building where most of his classes were held. Joshua could be considered a regular, but in a student population of approximately 48,000, wasn't everyone a regular?

It was also why the longevity of the gossip and rumors surrounding him surprised him. You would think that everyone would have moved onto the next person or rumor, but it always came back to him.

"Next?" A soft voice called out.

The change in tone caused him to be brought back to reality. That wasn't the sound of the usual guy behind the counter. Hs eyes tore away to a young female behind the counter top. 'Y/n' was written in marker on the new tag, not a name from the label maker like everyone else.

A new face.

"Sir? Are you okay?" You called out to him.

𝘚𝘪𝘳. The sound of being called something other than a pet name was refreshing. Even the small possibility of you not knowing his backstory brought on a wave of euphoria that he has never experienced. Yet, Joshua didn't want to get his hopes up too much. Maybe it was just extremely good customer service?

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I got a bit distracted," Joshua apologized. "May I please have an iced americano, light on the ice? And with one of those chocolate croissant?"

You offered a gentle smile to him, nodding. Your fingers got to typing out his order onto the machine in front of you.

"Would you like that toasted today?" "Yes please, but can I get it to go?" "Certainly. And can I get your name for the order?"

Once again, Joshua's heart did leaps and bounds. Could this finally be everything that he has waited for?

"Joshua," he said with a smile. A genuine smile. "That will be $10.50, please."

Your voice was soft and sweet. Not to be dramatic, but he would compare it to a breeze on a humid day. You brought in a wave of relief that Joshua has not experienced for a long time.

His hand reached back to pull out his debt card. However, as he pulled the wallet from his back pocket, he took a glance behind him. There was no line behind himself. Perfect. He moved the plastic card near the card reader, but didn't tap quite yet.

"I'm sorry, but are you new here? I haven't seen you before, and I come in almost every week."

Your eyes widened a bit in surprise. You could also feel your cheeks start to heat up. 𝘖𝘩 𝘯𝘰. 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨? You noticed the way he was somewhat eyeing you during your short exchange. Maybe you forgot something?

Joshua felt a tinge of guilt for catching you off guard. He didn't mean to put you on the spot or embarrass you. If only you knew how turned upside down his world has been.

"Um yeah. This is my first week. I just transferred from out of state," you admitted. "Well," he said, taking a pause to glance at your name tag again. "Y/n, it is nice to meet you."

In a shift movement, Joshua tapped his card before offering you another gentle smile. His finger tapped on the tip amount and he did a quick signature, most likely scribbles like other customers. "Welcome to UCLA," he said. He took a step towards the end of the barista counter where a large "pick up here" sign was hung.

"Thank you, Joshua. I hope you have a great day."

You looked down to print out the receipt before tossing it in the trash. With no customers behind Joshua, you made quick work to clean around the register. Your boss described this as a low stakes job, a usual position with high turnover rate due to graduation and class requirements. However, what appealed to you was the flexibility that you could commit to as low as 15 hours per week. It was a great deal to make some cash but still have ample study time.

"Oh my god, y/n! Do you even know who that was?" A voice called out behind you.

To your left, one of you coworkers popped up behind you. You could see her eyes lingering on Joshua's butt which made you feel uncomfortable. Didn't she have any respect for him? While you didn't know him at all, you knew that unwanted stares were never appreciated or reciprocated.

After all, your mother always held the standard that you treat others the way you want to be treated.

"If I can recall his name is Joshua?" "Yeah but that's THE Joshua Hong. He's the campus major hottie, at the top of everyone's fuck list."

𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵? The sheer idea of such a concept made your stomach churn.

You never considered yourself a prude. However, it was clear that you were not as quite as experienced or well-versed in sex culture of your new environment. You more so preferred to wait for the right person, to hold a standard for yourself and partners. That includes the fact you haven't had your first kiss yet either.

The Princess Diaries did set a pretty good standard of what the first kiss should be like! You wanted the pop of the heel moment.

"And, y/n, babes, he just smiled at you. And keeps looking over at you!" You co-worker squealed.

You rolled your eyes playfully before looking over at her. An eyebrow raised as you looked at her. You can't lie. It was quite amusing to see her reaction especially as you doubt she knows Joshua Hong besides that notion.

What mattered to you when you met people was how they treated you. And just by your short introduction to Joshua, he seemed like a nice guy.

"Come on. He's just a guy like we're just girls," you tried rationalizing. "And we have a whole student body to serve coffee to."

On cue, the bronze bell above the door rung to alert of new customers. From beside you, your coworker let out of a huff. "It's always fun to look, y/n. Don't be so serious," she grumbled before disappearing to her post.

From Joshua's position he could overhear the conversation you two had. He won't deny that he was looking at you. There was something about you that pulled him in. Maybe it was the way your hair framed your face, or the way your eyes shined whenever you spoke. The sunlight coming in from the windows enhancing the eye color.

However, what he was really intrigued by was the way you defended him. You didn't know who he was, yet you didn't diminish his existence like the others. You treated him with respect. He never wanted his genuine kindness to be mistaken for other intentions, and you didn't buy into it. No matter how much your co-worker was trying to sway your opinion.

He just needed to get to know you better.

[lexwritesgayshit]

My current project is the same project I've been stuck on for like 8 years, my supernatural/horror urban fantasy wip Lost Things. Only it's changed so much over the years that I'm back to the brainstorming stage, figuring out all these things about characters I thought I knew. It's been really interesting to see how their character traits and narrative goals have shifted as I've changed as a person.

Summary: Sylvia is an ex-vampire, freshly and violently tossed back into the human world. She's drawn to a blink-and-you'll-miss-it cafe that is a safe haven for people who experienced rejection from society — some human, some not. There, she meets Corinne, a character whose name I still don't consistently spell the same. Corrine is a siren who's recently "gotten out" of an abusive relationship after her ex-fiance dies under mysterious circumstances. Sylvia has nowhere to live, so Corinne invites her to move into her new, two bedroom apartment.

Sylvia has to adjust to the emergence of her chronic illnesses (that she still had as a vampire, but due to vampire biology, some symptoms didn't present the same or where repressed). She struggles with finding her place in humanity and deciding if she even wants to be a part of it (ye olde depression/SI for this sad bitch). Corinne is dealing with her emerging PTSD symptoms after being in survival mode for so long. And her ex-fiance, Max, is not going to make it easy for either woman to move on. He comes back as a poltergeist to wreak havoc on their lives, and together they have to find a way to support each other, defend their home, and figure out what it means to get a second chance at life.

It's a sapphic story with a slow building romance between Sylvia and Corinne; however, I want to write it in a way that makes their romance secondary to their friendship. Like, it's there, it happens, but it's a subtle, budding relationship that exists largely in the background. Their growth as friends will be more significant. I may, in the end, decide to toss the romance altogether. There's this mentally among many readers that romance must be present for a story to be considered a queer story, and if there is a romance present, it has to be fully formed. The characters have to prove that they're falling in love, usually through grand declarations or physical intimacy. You rarely see romantic sublots that are subtle, let alone respected for their subtlety by modern readers.

I want to be able to pull it off without readers saying, "the romance isn't developed enough." Of course it isn't. It was never the point. *shrug*

Edit: also, Sylvia does blood magic now. It has some interesting pros and cons, given that she now also has POTS.

(Oh jeez, I even spelled Corinne's name two different ways in this post)

help me get active on Writeblr again. Reblog this and tell me about your current wip.

[joonam]

the museum stranger - chapter 1 | knj

Pairing: Idol!Namjoon x Reader (f)

Genre: romance, bookstore!au, museum!au, soft, angst, strangers to lovers.

Summary: A quiet afternoon at a modern art museum in Seoul becomes the beginning of something unexpected. Newly discharged from military service, Namjoon meets you with a book in hand, and something just clicks. But just as the two of you gets closer, timing threatens to strip it away. What begins as a simple presence of a stranger in a museum might just grow into something that lasts.

Word Count: 3018

Warnings: grief, harassment & violence, soft angst, crying, references to death, mentions of anxiety

a/n: as promised, this is a story I finished awhile back but since I wasn't active on tumblr/wattpad then, I just kept it to myself. I'm in process of editing so I might be able to upload another chapter soon. We'll see. I hope u guys will enjoy this one :))

check out my: masterlist

next | chapter 2 >>

There was something about the air that afternoon in Itaewon that makes it feel a little less busy than the rest of Seoul. It feels like the kind of day that makes you want to to notice even the smallest things around you.

Namjoon was standing on the steps of the newly opened Museu, a modern glass and concrete museum. His mask covered half his face, and his hat shaded him from the sun. It isn't about hiding, not really. It's more about having a space for anonymity and normalcy.

It has been two weeks since he was finally discharged from the army. Two weeks of readjusting into normal day to day life and finding new routines. Namjoon and his members were given a one and a half month break to find inspiration before the studio sessions. So far, Namjoon has spent his time to go to museums, study arts, and reading books to help him find the best words for the lyrics of the songs in their upcoming album.

Once he was inside, he notices how the museum was curated carefully in which every installation has room to breathe and every shadow seemed to be carefully placed. A good place to record a music video, he chuckled to himself.

He wanders slowly, eyes scanning brushstrokes and sculpture, trying to find meaning behind them. Moving from one installation to the other. And then he saw you.

You stood in front of a piece; a fractured mirrors put together against a background of different shades of blue paint. In your hand, casually gripped like it has always belong there, was a copy of Demian by Hermann Hesse.

It was instinctual, the way Namjoon notices books in people’s hands. But Demian? That wasn’t a coincidence, that was a language. Namjoon always thought people who read Demian were somehow different like someone who doesn’t just read to read, but to understand.

He looks at you for a second too long before stepping closer. Not directly beside you, not directly behind you, just near enough to catch your attention but not enough to disturb your space and thoughts. You didn’t look away from the installation in front of you, you were too immersed into it.

"I’ve read that book," Namjoon said quietly, voice muffled through the mask. You turned slightly towards him, brows raised in polite surprise, "Yeah?" He nodded once, eyes flicking to the book in your hand, "It’s not a casual museum companion."

You laughed at his statement. There was a pause that usually ends an interaction between strangers. But you stayed and turned toward him instead and he also didn’t walk away.

"I’ve been rereading the part where Sinclair sees the sparrow hawk again," you said, your fingers brushing the edge of the dog-eared page. "Something about waiting for freedom."

Namjoon felt something like a click of familiarity and recognition.

He nods slowly, "Yeah. I love the part when the sparrow appears much brighter to symbolises how he can now be free.” You smiled before turning back to the art installation, eyes following the art in front of you, "What do you think this piece means?" you asked after a moment.

Namjoon steps to stand right beside you but still leaving a space big enough for you to have a personal space, "It’s confusing, but in a way that feels like it’s okay not to see the full picture."

You glance at him, another small smile forming, "Do you always talk like this to girls in museums?" He chuckles, "Only the ones holding Demian and this is the first time to be completely honest with you.”

Minutes passed, but both of you didn’t seem to notice. Twenty, maybe even more. You both were drifting from one installation to the next, letting the art and conversation move you. No introductions or names exchanged, just ideas and an unspoken understanding.

You paused in front of a series of black and white photographs. "I always wonder what they were thinking about when they took the pictures," you said, "If a photo can catch a moment, do you think it can catch a thought too?" "That’s why we take photos isn’t it?" Namjoon replied, "To always remember how we were feeling or thinking at that time." You laughed, "That's very philosopher of you."

He shrugs, "I'm a little obsessed with thinking and especially about something I don’t know or understand. I think the process from not knowing to knowing is the beauty."

"Even when it's about yourself?" "Especially then," he said, "We're never finished people."

"Do you think it's harder to know who you are or to explain it to someone else?" you asked. Namjoon didn’t say anything for a good minute, “Definitely, explaining. We use language like it’s precise and accurate, but it never truly and fully translates what we feel.” "That’s why art matters, isn’t it?" He nods at you, "It says the things language fails to."

You turn to him. "So, what does this museum say to you?" He looks around slowly, looking at the art instillations surrounding the both of you, "It tells me to slow down and to not be certain, because there’s nothing certain in life.”

“That sounds like something you needed to hear." He looked at you for a brief moment, "Yeah. It actually really is." “Well, whatever you’re going through, just remember to slow down,” you smiled at him.

Eventually, you reach the edge of the museum’s internal courtyard, you paused at the last piece in this part of the museum. "It’s like a memory," he said trying to express what he thinks of the instillation in front of him. "Or people," you offered your thoughts, "The closer you are, the messier it gets. But the further you step away, the blurrier they become."

He turns toward you, "Do you ever have someone like that?" You shrugged, "Kind of? I think I was once with someone who made too much sense up close." "Too much sense?” "He was all logic, leaving no room for feelings. I felt like I have to edit myself all the time, my words, my feelings." Namjoon was quiet, "That sounds tiring." "It was."

You both lingered in the silence that follows, but it wasn’t awkward. Eventually, Namjoon glance up towards the ceiling, trying to say the right words, "There’s a newly opened rooftop cafe here," he said trying to be casual, "Do you want to get coffee?" you looked surprised, "Are you sure?"

Namjoon chuckled, "I mean. we’ve already talked about books, art, and the meaning of existence. A coffee seems pretty safe." You grin at him biting back a laugh, "Alright, mystery guy, let’s go.”

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The rooftop cafe is located beneath a wide overhang of steel and timber. You both ordered drinks, iced lemon tea for you and a hot americano for him. But when the drinks came, Namjoon only wraps his hands around the warm cup and never lifting it past his mask to drink it.

You both settled at a table near the edge, "I still don't know your name," you said, smiling as you wrap your hands around your cold iced lemon tea. He hesitated for a second then replied, “Joon.” You repeated it softly, “Joon. is that short for something or you're just trying to be vague?” He laughed lightly, “It’s short for something, but vague works too.”

“Mysterious and noncommittal. What a combo,” you said teasingly. He chuckles before saying, “Would it help if I told you I’m not in witness protection?”

You drink your iced tea, eyes playful before saying, “A little.” “I just like to keep things quiet sometimes. Names can get loud,” he said. You nodded in understanding, “Fair. People like to attach stories to names or expectations.”

“Exactly.” He leaned back slightly. “Sometimes it’s easier to just be a person, not a resume. So, what’s your name?" You finally told him yours.

“So, Joon,” you said again, this time gentler, “what brings you to a museum on a Wednesday afternoon?” He smiled thoughtfully, “I guess I miss the silence it brings especially after being away for a few months.” “That sounds like someone who has been around too much noise.” He lets out a soft laugh, “You can say that. What about you?” he asks, “Are you a mid week museum person by any chance?”

You shrug, “I work at a bookstore in Hongdae and decided to use my unused time off.” “Bookstore?” His eyes light up, “that explains Demian.” "Yep. So do you always talk to strangers about Hesse and existential questions?" you asked. He chuckles, fingers tapping the side of his untouched cup, "As I mentioned, never actually. but I will admit I was drawn to the good taste in books that you seem to have.”

You smile, setting your tea down. "That might be the nicest thing anyone has said to me this year."

There was something about the way he looks at you now, nothing romantic just intrigued. The way you smile, the way your shoulders move to shrug, the way your eyes sparkle when talking about art or books, and especially the way you think.

"You said you were away for a few months," you asked, "Work? Travel?" "Military service." You blinked, "Oh. You just came back?" "Couple weeks ago." "Is it strange being back?" He nods slowly, "It feels like I paused a version of myself and I came back to find someone else living in my skin.” “And do you like this new version?" "I don’t know him yet. But I think he feels more confident and honest."

You smiled, "That sounds like someone I would want to know. And you are actually not drinking," you observed, pointing at the cup of coffee that has been sitting there untouched.

He hesitates, "I just prefer not to take the mask off." You nodded with quiet understanding, "You don’t owe me an explanation." A pause, then he added, "It’s not about you, I promise. It’s just the world can be loud when it sees you too clearly." "I get that," you said. "Sometimes I feel like if someone looks at me for too long, they’ll expect something from me that I don’t know how to give."

Namjoon looks at you, his expression softening behind the mask. "That’s exactly it."

The conversation drifted to different things, you talked about what you were like as kids, the music you listen to when you can’t sleep, whether you thought the universe has timings.

You told him how you once cried over a poem and didn’t know why, he told you how he once didn’t speak for a full weekend, not out of sadness but out of sheer curiosity. You both agreed that silence can be comforting in the right places with the right people. "What’s the one book you wish someone would read just so they can understand you better?" you asked, leaning forward. "Letters to a Young Poet," he answered almost immediately, yours?" You looked down, thoughtful. "Probably 'The Little Prince'. I feel like people forget how heavy the book actually is." He nodded in agreement.

By the time your tea was nearly gone, you checked your phone and sighed, "Shit. I have to go. I promised my sister I would call her for something she needs help with." He blinked, like he was just forced to wake up from a good dream, "Of course." You stand up from the chair, "Thank you, Joon. For whatever this was."

"Of course, y/n. I enjoyed every second of it." You hesitated. For a second, he looks like he might say something else. Maybe ask for your number or ask to see you again.

But he didn’t and you didn’t offer. So, you smiled once more and walked away.

And Namjoon stayed behind even long after you were gone.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The next morning, Namjoon wakes up earlier than usual. He made coffee and sat on the floor by the floor to ceiling window in his apartment with a notebook opened on his lap, staring at the same sentence he has read three times:

"Some people pass through you like seasons. Others stay like it’s oxygen."

He wasn’t sure which one you are, at least not yet.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

By Friday, he took his bike and rides it along the Han River. Namjoon likes cycling as it gives him peace and space for his brain. He rides his bike until the muscles in his legs ache and the noise in his head quiet down. He suddenly thought of the conversation with you:

“Sometimes I feel like if someone looks at me for too long, they’ll expect something from me that I don’t know how to give.” “That’s exactly it.”

He didn’t realise until now how deeply that line has him thinking.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

By Monday night, Namjoon was listening to old records and rereading Letters to a Young Poet. He highlights a sentence he didn't notice before:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.”

He thought about sending a text to a friend just to talk. But, he didn’t. Instead, he watches the city through his window.

That night, he had a dream about standing in the gallery again, but everything in it was different; the art hanging upside down and people walking backwards.

He wakes up with the feeling there is something he still needs to do.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

By Wednesday , he was back at the Museu.

He told himself he just wanted to see the sculpture again. Or maybe he wants the a space that didn’t demand anything from him. Or, if he was being truthful to himself, he hopes to see you again.

But he wore the same hoodie. The same hat. The same mask. The same outfit as last week. Maybe then the universe would let us meet again, he thought to himself.

Namjoon moved slowly through the gallery. Past the fractured mirrors and other instillations that he wasn’t really paying attention to because his mind was somewhere else. He paused at the black and white photographs again. But this time, he sits on the bench in the centre of the room for a while, watching as others pass by without stopping.

And then, just like before, he saw you.

You were furhter down the hall this time, in front of a piece you both didn’t get to see last week. Namjoon’s chest was beating so loud that he had to take a slow breather before walking towards you. He doesn't know what he was going to say and he does not have a plan of what to say to you. Should he make it to be a coincidence? Will you think of him as a creepy man with mask-on who waits for you to come?

But he stops to stand beside you, not too close, but enough for you to feel the presence without hearing his voice. It took you a moment to turn. But you did. Your eyes widened slightly, not in shock but more like a relief.

"Joon," you said softly. He nodded once, "Y/N." You turn your head back to the painting. "I had a feeling you might show up again," you said. "I wasn’t sure if I should." "But here we are."

After a few seconds of silence, you asked him; "This one, what do you think it wants to say?" "It looks like something trying not to fall apart," he said. You nodded, "Or something that already has. But still wants to be looked at."

He looked at you, "I didn’t get your number," Namjoon finally said. You smiled, "No. You didn’t." He tilted his head slightly. "Can I?"

You pulled your phone from your jeans pocket and handed it to him, seeing this he took his out his phone and handed it to you. "You waited a whole week to ask. That’s dramatic even for a poet." He laughed under his breath, typing his number in, "I’m learning how to be patient and letting the universe take the wheel." You finally exchanged phone numbers after a week. "Text me," you said. "I will,” he replied.

You both turn to look at the painting again. And just like that, the noise inside and outside the museum begins to quiet down. And the waiting ended.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

Namjoon didn’t text you right away. He stared at your contact in his phone for longer than he will ever admit. But by the time he gets home that evening, he couldn’t stop replaying the way you smiled at him. Like you have been waiting for him, like it makes sense for him to show up.

So he sent one line:

Joon: That painting still lives in my head.

In which you reply five minutes later:

You: Same. I kept thinking it looks like something trying not to break. You: Also. Hi.

Namjoon smiled at his phone as he leans back into the couch.

Joon: Hi.

The conversation didn’t stop there. It wasn’t constant, but it continues throughout the night. He told you he’s starting to write again, but haven’t shared anything with anyone yet. You told him you have been trying to write more but weren’t sure who you were writing for or to anymore.

Joon: Should we go to a different museum? You: I’m surprised that you haven’t been to every museum in Seoul 😆 Joon: Well, you caught me, I have 😬 But Leeum Samsung Museum of Art has a new section, apparently. You: Okay. I already took another leave to go to the museum today. So can we do it on the weekend? Joon: Saturday? You: See you then. Well, I have to be early to work tomorrow. I'll be heading to bed. Good night, Joon. Joon: Good night, y/n, sleep well. Joon: Can't wait to see you again.

He stares at the last message before turning off the lights in his room.

And for the first time in a long time, Namjoon sleeps without dreaming of being lost.

[romanticpursuit]

CRUSH ., pt 2

(F) clark kent x bi!reader

series description: Y/N is a journalist at the Daily Planet who has been failing to balance both her love work life. While she tries her best to keep everyone happy — including herself — she fails on a cold winter day when a potential boyfriend calls it quits. If she can’t control her love life, she can control her work! But only with the help of a certain someone at the Daily Planet. link to pt 1.

word count: 7.9K

fyi: before i started writing his, i was struggling with somehow including the superman part. it’s written in, it’s funny (i think).

Hugging Perry feels illegal. It’s stiff and forced, and it feels like hugging a friend who loathes physical affection. Except Perry isn’t your friend, he’s your boss, and you’ve only recently upgraded to a first-name basis.

 He pats your back and pulls away from the hug that was two seconds too long. He leans back on his desk and crosses his right arm over his stomach. In the other, he holds his infamous cigar. 

“This is good,” he tells you. “Please make it good.” 

You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Yes, of course. This is my specialty, Perry.” 

He looks at you carefully. He doesn’t look at the way you’re anxiously twisting your fingers at your sides, or bending your ankle every which way. He’s staring at your face, trying to find a lie. Or some great worry beyond your ability to believe in yourself and future articles. 

You begin looking around the room, avoiding the eye contact your brain allows you to ignore. You step back closer to the door and attempt to calmly gather the scattered papers on the coffee table. 

“Thank you for the opportunity,” you say to fill the suffocating void in the room. “I’ll try my best to impress you.” 

“Not just me,” Perry adds, “your audience, too.” 

You nod with such aggression that it almost gives you whiplash. You finally collect your items and accidentally push his door before turning the handle. You know you look stupid – more than anyone ever has in the office – but you’ll probably feel the full aftermath when you’re standing in the shower tonight. Right now, you’re only focused on your first story. Particularly, who it’ll be about. 

You nearly bump into three people holding steaming coffee that smells ridiculously shitty while rushing to your desk. 

You jump into your chair and roll over to Clark’s desk while dragging your bag along. It’s heavy, but that’s because you’re carrying around 10 novel-length crossword puzzles you’ve yet to work on. You won’t ever work on them at the Daily, but you hold onto them just in case. 

He looks up right as you drop your twenty-pound bag onto his desk. His face is cycling through different emotions – a new frown, smile, mixture of the both – as he waits for your news. 

“He agreed,” you tell him with a smile. Your body is nervous, like your mind is so full of anxiety that it’s decided to attack every limb, finger and toe. “I bullshitted some parts of it. I don’t think the ten pages I wrote over the weekend helped me figure out who exactly I want to interview.” 

Clark sets his pencil on the table and rests his elbows on the desk. He balances his chin on his knuckles and tilts his head, observing the way your eyes shift back and forth, obtaining a new fear that took over the second your meeting with Perry went well. You don’t like the staring. Or gazing. Or a mix of both. You know he’s thinking inside that head of his; it isn’t him zoning out. Which means he’s listening. He cares. 

And that’s good. He’s being a friend, and he’s doing what friends do – listening, thinking about how your issue will affect you, and how he can help before it kills you. But he’s looking for too long, and you’re starting to worry. 

“So if you have any ideas… that would be great,” you say to break the weird feeling in your chest.

“Do you only want to interview metahumans? Or important people like the mayor–” 

“That’d be boring, I think,” you say. “I mean, I could be the mayor if I wanted to.” 

He scrunches his face and hums a contradictory tune. “Could you?” 

“Questioning my intelligence, Kent?” 

He violently shakes his head. “No, definitely not, just that–” He pauses, like he’s silently scolding himself.  “I wanted to keep the comedic flow going.” 

You crack a smile that turns into a chuckle. “It’s okay, I know. But no, I could never be mayor. But I know what happens in his life; he posts it all over his Instagram. I don’t need to write about his love life when anyone could see it for themselves.” 

“So no mayor,” he says, as though he’s crossing that from his invisible checklist. “What about company CEO’s?” 

“Maybe I should stick to metas then,” you say, bordering between a statement and a question. 

“I can make a few calls,” he replies and quickly turns to grab his phone. 

You blink profusely. You don’t know if he’s ever done this for anyone else. But you can’t stop him, because you desperately need the help, and he somehow knows absolutely everyone.

“Thank you,” you say. “I’m going to go brainstorm some questions. I’ll be at my desk if you need me.” 

You roll back to your desk and quickly open a document. You don’t look back at Clark because you know you’ll just doze off trying to understand where this abundance of kindness came from. You know he’s always been kind to you and everyone at the Daily, but this isn’t the same.

While you jot down every question that pops up in your brain, you think to yourself how wrong this feels. You’re already thinking beyond friendly communication when you’ve just cried yourself to sleep after a two-month fling ended. You should be thinking about and seeing Clark the way you did when you were speaking to this guy, Jonathan: a nice, gentle coworker who helps out with your articles because he knows how hard journalism can be. You shouldn’t think about his intentions or potential flirty banter. 

It’s just friends being friends, you tell yourself. 

He’s just been a good guy, you tell yourself. Even if you do start replaying every interaction and look you’ve had since you started at the Daily. 

You balance overthinking and brainstorming for a solid hour before the scent of apple cinnamon enters your nostrils. You stop typing and look up. 

Lois stands there, hugging her Daily Planet mug full of sugar and a pinch of coffee. She’s observing you, too, but there’s no long, awkward pause. 

“You look like you’re deciphering code over here,” she says with a laugh. “What’re you thinking about?” 

You shrug. “Work.” 

“You’re lying.” 

You let out a long breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. “Men.” 

“Clark?” 

It sounds too loud coming out of her mouth, so you shush her as your eyes shift to Clark. He’s not looking, but you spot the blossoming redness on his earlobes. “Shut up, I am not,” you scold. “I’m thinking about this guy I was talking to, and how stupid I feel.” 

“And about…” Her eyes move towards Clark. 

“Yeah,” you reply with another shrug. “One, I cannot believe I gave so much of my time and attention to this guy I didn’t even date. Two, is that why I’m caught so off guard by Clark’s kindness? Or is this normal behavior I just haven’t noticed?” 

She taps her fingernails against the chipped mug. She isn’t thinking, or else the lines on her forehead would be distinct. She’s just giving you time to find peace before she tells you the truth. 

“You’ve been so transfixed by this man that you’ve missed everything around you,” she says. “Clark has always been awfully sweet to you. Sweeter than he’s been to anyone else here.” 

“Is that bad?” 

“The way he’s been sweet to you, or the fact that you haven’t noticed?” she asks. 

“Both.” 

She shakes her head. “Not bad. I’ve noticed the way you act when you like someone. You care, and that’s good. I just think your brain limits you from thinking of anything beyond work and that person, and it ends up stopping you from noticing things and the people around you.” 

You nod. Lois never lies, so you don’t argue. “Thanks.” 

“There’s nothing to thank me for. I’m just telling you the truth,” she tells you. 

“Yeah, but a lot of people don’t like to tell the truth these days.” 

She scoffs and shakes her head. “Those people are children,” she huffs. “But hey, I do think he’s flirting. Or trying to. He sucks, but I can spot it.” 

“Don’t awaken the delusional demon in me, please.” 

“I’m not trying to do that. I’m just –”

“Telling the truth! Got it, Lane.” 

– 

You slide the freshly warm paper onto Clark’s desk. He rapidly scans the questions and nods in response. “Are these all the questions you’re going to ask one person, or all the questions you thought about in general?” 

“I just wrote down everything I thought about,” you say. He now looks at each question. You grow anxious. You feel bad for asking so many questions. “Look, you don’t have to help me out past this. I can do the contacting on my own. I know you’re busy.” 

He pushes his glasses up his nose and sets the paper down. “I think these are good questions,” he tells you. “And I’m okay.” 

“What?” you ask. 

He stands and moves to the coffee machine. You follow behind him. He doesn’t say a word while he’s moving his long and fast body down the office. 

“Clark, genuinely, you don’t need to help me anymore. I feel like a bother, and I’m sure you’re busy with other stories.” 

“If I didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t have mentioned helping you out,” he tells you. He pours another awful cup of coffee and tips the slightest amount of sugar into the steaming liquid. He takes a sip, and his face changes color. He scrunches his nose, but he doesn’t express disgust for very long, because he speaks again. “I want to help you. I’m not going to write these pieces for you because I am completely aware that you are more than capable of writing great articles. But I’m going to help with interview questions and editing, because that’s what we do here. Also, you probably did that in college.”

He moves back to his desk, and you move along with him. You only linger for a second to ask one more question. Or two “Do you still want to help me solidify my first interview later today?” 

He nods. “Where?” 

“Here?” 

“A restaurant?” 

You both spoke at the same time. 

You catch each other’s eyes, both looking like deer caught in headlights. You open your mouth to say yes, or no, or something, but the only sound you can get out is between a creaking frog and a dying mouse. 

As for Clark, he’s opening and closing his mouth like a fish. 

Your faces grow hot and red. It’s painful to experience whatever is happening, and you desperately wish Lois would come over and agree for you as if you were her child. But you’re not. You’re old enough not to be an awkward trainwreck. 

“Here,” you blurt. “Let’s just stay here so we don’t have to figure out what restaurant to go to.” 

“Yeah. Good. I like that.” 

“Alright,” you murmur and step back. You point behind you at your desk. “If you have the contact information for any metahumans you or your friend knows, send them my way. Please. Thanks.” 

You always thought awkwardness would escape your system by the time you entered your twenties. People your age are capable of holding a conversation with an attractive person without stumbling over their words. People your age can also make sure the emotions they feel in their bodies don’t present themselves on their faces. For you, it’s close to impossible. It might be the same for Clark, but it does him a favor. His inability to compose his words into a flowing sentence gives him charm – makes it known that you’re making this big, tall man nervous. 

Maybe you’re looking into it too much. It probably gives you the same charm, and you’re overthinking again. 

You wonder why he’s making you forget your words. Is it because he’s attractive? Or because he cares? That doesn’t make sense, though, because when you were speaking to Jonathan, you were calm and collected. And he was kind and attractive, too. 

You think about it for the next twenty minutes or so. You write your thoughts down on a notepad, looking up every few minutes to make sure no one is looking at you. After a while, your mind has been shaken, and you’re forgetting correct grammar. So you shove your notepad into your desk drawer and check your email. 

– 

Almost everyone has gone home except for a few people editing their articles before their due dates. You’re still at your desk, spinning in circles out of boredom as you wait for Clark’s return, who disappeared almost an hour ago. 

You’ve organized your questions into categories of serious, playful, and borderline strange. On a separate document, with big, bold, and blue letters at the top reading SUPERMAN, is a list of questions for whom you look forward to interviewing the most. You know you shouldn’t hold favoritism against your interviewees, as you’re excited to speak with every single one, but you’ve been carefully observing Superman since you got to Metropolis. But who hasn’t? 

Superman has impeccable qualities you don’t fail to notice. What compels you the most is his life behind the scenes. What does he do? Where does he live? Is he rich? Kind, the way he is with Metropolis citizens? Or is he grouchy most hours of the day to preserve his energy for maintaining his positive reputation? 

You’ve previously made a list in both your brain and your tattered notepad. One day, you’d like to ask them all. But for now, you’ll stick to what you have written down. Because if you spit out a bunch of random, unplanned questions, you’ll risk your reputation – which barely exists, but does so in your mind – and job. And you’re already on the line. 

You’re mid-spin when a nice smell of chicken and fortune cookies enters your nose and appears on your desk. A pair of hands grabs onto your chair and stabilizes you. You try to look up but fail to freeze your pupils. You wish they’d grab your eyeballs and do the same thing they did to your chair. 

The only way to tell who it is is from the previous plans you shared and his distinctive signature scent of baby powder and printer paper. He’s ditched the coffee scent at this hour. 

“Clark,” you state with bubbling laughter. “Hey. Sorry about that; a bit childish.” 

He doesn’t see what you mean, with the way he doesn’t present a judgmental expression on his face. He almost dismisses your apology, but says, “No need to apologize.” Then, with a smug smile on his face, he adds, “You are one of the youngest here.”  

“What does that mean?” you say, offended. 

He pulls his chair over to your desk and sits down. He’s confidently shrugging his shoulders like he doesn’t understand why you’re confused. “It’s just a fact.” 

“So I’m a child?” 

He chuckles. “No, not at all. Not literally.” 

“But I act like one.” 

“I get why you get along with Jimmy, is all,” he replies with that stupid smirk still painting his face. 

Your mouth falls open in surprise. “Okay, what? You got all that from me spinning in my desk chair?” 

“It’s not meant to be a bad thing,” he says, now soft and not sarcastic. “You’re a kid at heart. A lot of people don’t have that.” 

There’s a pause in the conversation. Clark takes food out of a warm plastic bag and sets it down between you: fried and steamed rice, orange chicken, crab rangoons, noodles, and a handful of fortune cookies. It makes sense why they’d give so many, considering the portion sizes are enough to feed the entire office at noon. 

Clark never asked if you agreed to whatever food he decided on. But he nods at the styrofoam boxes as if asking, “Is this okay?” 

You nod back. 

After relaxation has washed over the space between you, you resume the conversation. It isn’t easy, like, “Is the food good?” Or, “What restaurant did you go to?” 

It’s, “But you do take me seriously, right?” 

You don’t entirely know why you asked. You could have gone the other path – the path where you ask how his day has been, or what his favorite food is, because you don’t know, despite working with him for a year now. You think it’s because you crave validation from people who do not give it to you as often as your friends and family. Or it’s because you don’t want to be seen as a kid in a setting as professional as The Daily Planet. Either way, you want an answer that isn’t ‘no.’ 

“Of course I do,” Clark answers. 

You don’t question him because he sounds truthful. You just grab a fork and start stabbing pieces of chicken and broccoli. 

“Thank you for the food, by the way. How much do I owe you?” 

He chokes on his food. “Huh?” he asks, his mouth full. “Nothing. Like nothing at all. What kind of question is that?” 

“A question.” You take another bite, this time of fried rice. “I split with friends when we go out. Thought we’d do the same.” 

“I don’t want to split,” he replies. “I’ll never want to split.” 

“Then drinks will be on me, then.” 

He doesn’t argue, just continues eating. It’s comfortable between you for the next fifteen minutes while you move food around and talk about the truthfulness of fortune cookies. Whether they’re real or fake, and whether you believe them or not. By the end of your eighth broken cookie, you decide that they’re all just generated pieces of paper, but if you’re desperate enough for an answer, you’ll believe what it reads. 

“Okay,” Clark announces. “I hate to put an end to this, but it’s question time. What do you got?” 

You violently rub your oily fingers against your black slacks and open up your computer. The bright blue SUPERMAN letters nearly blind you, and you chuckle as you slide up as fast as possible.

“Did you like, decorate the interview page for Superman?” 

“Shut up,” you quickly mutter, and move the monitor. “Here’s what I have. I have separate categories for each kind of question. All I need is the information you failed to email me earlier.” 

“Slipped my mind,” he says in a whisper loud enough for you to hear. “Too busy being your servant.” 

“Okay now –” 

“I’m joking,” he laughs. He puts his hands up in mock surrender and lets them hover near your forearm. His right pinky makes contact with your skin, but you don’t move. It feels nice. “I’ll remind you that I did this of my own accord.” 

You move on. “I was thinking of Green Lantern as my first subject.” You look to him. “What do you think?” 

He nods. “What do you think?” 

“From what I’ve seen, he’s funny. I want to know where this personal charm comes from, you know? Will he make this stuff up, or be honest?” you say. “He’d be a comedic start to this column-thing, and I need that. It’d be interesting enough to have people going, ‘Okay, so who’s next?’”

“I couldn’t agree more,” he replies, then stands, leaving your skin cold and desperate. “I’ll forward you that contact information. It was hard to get hold of it, but I got it after an hour or two. I have some work to do too, so I guess just pick out what questions would fit for his character, and then I’ll come back and help you solidify the list.” 

And then you thank him for what feels like the millionth time. 

– 

A week has gone by, and you’ve found out how fast things can change in a short amount of time. 

You’ve regained Perry’s love and patience after the first successful article in your column, and have shifted gears in your friendship with Clark. The accidental pinky touches and shoulder shoves have upgraded to deliberate limb overlapping, where they twist together and remain that way for minutes at a time. 

No one has mentioned the sudden change between you, and you’re glad. It somehow isn’t strange that you’re playing footsies or communicating with him the way you and Lois do. You’re surprised she hasn’t dragged you away and scolded you for using your eye language with Clark instead of her. But you’re sure it’s because she’s been tied up with work. You’re also sure she’ll bring it up later at the celebration party she’s throwing for you at her apartment. 

You didn’t want a celebration. You think it’ll jinx your project rather than manifest further success. But Lois doesn’t believe in that and begged you to let her celebrate you. So you didn’t argue, because you knew it wouldn’t go your way. 

When you brought it up to Clark, you didn’t get past the word ‘want’ before he agreed. 

“Of course I’ll go,” he said, grabbing both your hands and squeezing them in his. “You deserve it after your killer article.” 

You looked away to avoid his gaze. Heat spread from your neck to your chest and face. You didn’t want to make it obvious and hold your cheeks, but you were burning. How could someone evoke such a reaction from you? Jonathan never did. It only made your face red with embarrassment. He wasn’t the best flirt, and his bouts of compliments regarding your work made you itchy. 

“I didn’t want a celebration,” you told him. “I think eating Chinese food with you again would have been fine.” 

He dips his head to catch the look on your face. “Yeah?” he asks, low and sweet. “We can do that too. But I do think you should celebrate with a couple of drinks and friendly conversations. Especially after you holed yourself up in the office all week.” 

A crooked smile found its place on your mouth. His voice sent tingles down your spine, and you didn’t want him to stop talking with the tone he was using. 

However, that scared you. It was quick – the change in conversation, touch, smiles, actions. It was unlike before, when you’d converse about small changes in your pieces without sharing a meal or walking one another home afterward. 

You didn’t want it to feel like too much, because in reality, it wasn’t, but you didn’t want it to end the way it did between you and Jonathan. Or worse, end with the confession that Clark was only trying to be friendly. 

The word friendly has always confused you, the way most things do when you pay them too much mind. People have different definitions for the word, and it becomes dangerous. You might see actions and conversation as flirtatious, while they see it as friendly banter. And if you never establish what it is and how it feels, you could easily want more. And what if they don’t want more? 

When Clark’s gaze was too much to handle, and his words felt like syrupy pancakes, you cut the conversation short and said, “Cool. Be there, please,” and went back to organizing your next interview. This time, with someone hard to crack: Mr. Terrific, another member of the Justice Group – a team with an unestablished title. 

– 

Lois’ apartment is loud with bubbling conversation and soft music. You don’t know half the people in her kitchen and living room, but you receive their compliments with open arms. 

She’s forcing you to stand near the alcohol and chips so people can congratulate you immediately upon entering. It’s worked so far, but you feel like a child being bossed around by their mother during their birthday party. 

“You look like you’re standing in time-out,” she says, pointing her almost overfilled glass of something alcoholic at you. She laughs, and you straighten out your back. “You don’t have to stick to this area, you know.” 

You gulp down your second ranch water and shove the empty glass into her chest. “I know,” you say, “but it’s starting to feel nice. And I like seeing who walks in.” 

She moves over to stand beside you and lets out an ‘ahhh,’ like she finally understands why you’ve been standing here for so long. “Have you seen Clark?” 

“He’s not here yet,” you say. 

“What’s up between you two?” she asks randomly. She slowly takes another sip while looking at the mingling people. 

It’s at this exact moment that you realize why you’ve clung to drinking ranch waters since your college days: they take effect quite quickly. You’re trying to come up with an answer that doesn’t cut itself off with another train of thought, but you fail as words fly out of your mouth. 

“I think I like him. But I don’t know. He’s just nice – but he’s nice to everyone – and I don’t know if it’s because he’s handsome or because he helps me. The list I made doesn’t even help me.” 

Lois bends over laughing. Cackling, really. “You made a list?” 

“I did! I wanted to understand why exactly I was stumbling over my words and falling over my feet on day one. And now, after page three of this stupid list, I’ve come to the conclusion that I just didn’t like that Jonathan guy.” 

Lois finally looks at you. Her head is tilted, and she’s trying to read the look on your face. Maybe she’s scared you’ll start crying. But you’re more so happy to finally understand why nothing Jonathan did excited you. 

“Why do you say that?” Lois asks. 

“I liked the attention. I liked that he’d give me all his time and buy me flowers and expensive sushi without expecting a kiss, or sex,” you tell her. “I didn’t feel butterflies when I saw him, or stutter when he complimented me, or even looked at me. I found it all cringe, actually.” 

“Wow,” she replies. “You didn’t like him.” 

“I think that’s why it took me maybe 2 days to get over him.” 

“Now you’re onto Clark.” 

You take back your glass from her chest and move towards the drinks. She follows behind you. “Don’t say it like he’s prey. I think he’s sweet, and we’ve been doing a lot of… footsies and stuff.” 

“And stuff?” she questions. “What’s ‘stuff ’?” 

You pour too much tequila and too little sparkling water. You’re scared to tell her the intimate things you’ve done. “Just like staring into each other’s eyes and giggling like a schoolgirl when he nerds out. Or makes stupid, corny jokes. Or says stupid, corny things. And brushing bodies when he walks me home from work. And sharing meals that are meant for one person.” 

“It’s been a week!” she says. This feels like she’s scolding you. 

“I know that!” You drop your head and shut your eyes to try to find some reasoning behind the quickness. Because, contrary to what you thought earlier, it’s settling in that this is fast. “And I’m scared, but I like it.” 

“As long as you like it,” she says. She watches you dump entirely too much lime juice into your drink and take a first sip before she continues. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t agree with what’s happening. You guys look good, and it’s sweet seeing this sappy mess unfold in front of me. And even though you did just get out of talking to someone for two months, maybe this will be good for you.” 

“I just feel bad,” you whisper. “I feel like a player.” 

“Well, are you?” 

“No.” 

Lois’s hand finds its way onto your back. She runs her fingernails up and down the bare skin. “Then there’s nothing to worry about. You didn’t spend two months developing extensive feelings for that guy. If you think about it, he doesn’t exist, and that never happened.” 

“Exactly!” you exclaim. “I cried because of rejection.” 

“Exactly!” she sing-songs. “Now, cheers on the success of your article.” 

You clink glasses and chug the drink in your hand. It’s strong and you almost gag in the end, but you swallow and shake your head in disgust. “That was vile. God, I’m so happy I wasn’t the one making drinks for people in college.” 

Lois doesn’t say anything. She just takes the glass from your hand and pokes at your side. You wince and chase after her with your eyes. But you don’t stick to her, because you find Clark walking over to you. 

“Hey,” he says, and opens his arms. You walk into them and, without a thought, purposely inhale his scent – now baby powder and clean laundry. “Congratulations on your article. It was good, by the way. If I haven’t mentioned that already.” 

His dark brown sweater feels nice against your cheeks, even though they are adding to the burning in your cheeks. You pull away and look up at him, his face still painted with a large grin. 

“Thank you, really. I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

“You could have. I didn’t do much. I mean, you didn’t help me edit your story, just your questions,” he replies. 

“Still,” you say with a hiccup. The alcohol starts making you buzz, and you hope it isn’t evident in your body language. It’d be embarrassing. “You look good, by the way. I’ve never seen you like this.” 

“You don’t see me out of work clothes,” he says, like you both don’t know that. “Always in that lousy suit.” 

“Not lousy,” you counter. “And I hope to one day.” 

“You could. I haven’t forgotten about the Chinese take-out.” 

“I sure hope not,” you laugh. “I’d be worried about your memory if you’ve already forgotten.” 

He shakes his head and laughs along with you. But it dies down, and his eyes scan your body. He looks at your loafers, then at your bare legs for too long, and your black mini skirt, then spends another four seconds – that feel like 10 – looking at your black top. It’s all basic, you think to yourself. Nothing special, but he’s looking at you as if you’re a princess in a ball gown. 

“You drunk or something?” you ask. 

“You look good, too.” 

“Oh,” you say. “Thank you. A lot. It’s nothing. I just put stuff together, you know.” 

“It’s nice, though. The scoop in the back and the shoes. I’m no fashion expert, but you look pretty.” 

The word nearly sobers you up. You laugh obnoxiously loud and try to play it off, but it’s impossible. You’re flustered and tipsy, and everyone can see. “Thanks,” you say, then grab his hand and pull him away from your corner. You manage to zig-zag through the circles of people after only tripping once, and safely exit the steaming apartment. 

“Do you need some water?” Clark asks. “I can get you some water.” 

“I’m okay,” you say, exhaling the warmth out of your body. You push yourself against the railing and extend your arms over the steel. “You just make me nervous.”

Clark doesn’t say a word, but he positions himself next to you. He settles his elbow against the rail and places his chin on his hand like he’s done when you’re next to him. 

“I don’t know if we’re flirting or if you’re being nice,” you continue. 

“You don’t think I’m flirting?” 

You shrug. “I don’t know. I ask because it’s happened before, where people flirt with me and say they were only trying to be friendly. I just want to make sure you’re flirting with me and want more of it.” 

“I want more of it,” he says in his soft voice that feels like a warm blanket. You need it now as the bitter cold of Metropolis winter seeps through your long-sleeve shirt. “I enjoy your presence, you know. I’m not spending my time with you just because you need my help. I’ve waited for my chance to be like this with you.” 

You look over at him and look into his blue eyes. They’ve always felt like daggers, but that’s because you’ve always been so wrapped up in your nerves to see how calm they are. How sweet his gaze is. 

“I want you to know that I didn’t feel anything for that guy.” 

“He doesn’t matter.” 

You laugh. “Right, he doesn’t. But I need you to know that I didn’t feel anything for him. Just pleasure.” 

“Is there someone I should be worried about?” he jokingly asks. 

“Maybe Guy Gardner,” you reply. 

His body shakes, his eyebrows furrow, and he chokes. “What?” 

– 

“You’re friends with that Clark Kent guy, right?” 

You nod. “Friends, yes. He helped me reach you.” 

He walks about the room he chose for your meeting – a soundproof private room in the public library –  and stares at the back wall as if it were holding an invisible list of questions. “He wears glasses.” 

“Yeah,” you continue with unease. “I’m sorry but what does that have to do with anything?” 

“Have you ever spoken to Superman?” 

“No.” 

“Hmph,” he continues, now caressing his chin. 

“I’m supposed to soon, though,” you answer. 

“You’ve spoken to him already,” he tells you. 

“What?” You stand and follow him like a duck. He’s humming and chuckling at what you assume to be his thoughts. “What are you talking about?” 

“Superman wears these hypnoglasses that make his face look different in your brain when he wears them, so you don’t know who he is,” he tells you. “Which I’m sure you know.” 

You shake your head and follow his path of infinity circles around the room. You must look ridiculous to anyone who looks into the room, because it’s 90% glass besides the wall behind you. 

“No, Guy, I did not know that. How would I know that?” 

“Doesn’t everybody?” 

You scoff. “I don’t spend my time researching Superman. He’s cute, sure, and he saves cats from trees all the time, but I only know surface level superhero information. I don’t excel in that! I focus on lifestyle shit.” 

You drop your notepad onto the table and lean against it. You rub your hands across your forehead and try to rub away the forming lines. You haven’t quite kept track of the superhero, but you have formed some questions. But like Gardner said, doesn’t everyone? It’s a matter of curiosity. You just aren’t following the man around, counting how many people he saves, or where he goes after he’s done saving the city.  

“Why do you trust everyone?” you exclaim. 

“I don’t,” he says, digging his finger into the air full of secrets that shouldn’t be shared. “Did I ruin your interview? Friendship, maybe?” 

“Interview, yes. You’ve just answered half the questions I had in mind.” 

“Oops.” 

– 

“Don’t freak,” you tell him. You try to sound soothing, but you don’t know if that works, because he’s running his hands through his curls and over his face. “He flirted with me.” 

He looks stunned. “That’s all?” 

“Andhetoldmethatyou’reSuperman.” 

“Fuck!” he shouts. 

“Hey!” you say, shoving your shoulder against his side. “Language.” 

“I’m sorry.” He drops his head into his hands and groans. “This isn’t bad, I just wanted to tell you on my own. And not so quickly.” 

“I don’t see you any differently, if that makes you feel any better,” you say. “I mean, I know you’re Superman now, but I don’t feel betrayed or lied to. I’m happy that I know now.” 

“He has such a big mouth. And he trusts everyone. I don’t understand how someone could have such trust in people.” 

You wondered that too, after your interview with Gardner. You had more than enough information leaving your hour-long meeting, most of which you didn’t ask for. You knew something else about Clark, but you genuinely weren’t mad about it. How could you be mad? It wasn’t like he was standing you up on dates to tend to world threats.

Plus, it was cool to know. Now you know why he’s gone during breaking news involving large people-eating monsters invading Metropolis, or literal groundbreaking threats affecting the opposite side of the universe. You always just thought he’d get the runs or something. 

“He did this with Lois,” Clark continues about this big mouth of a man. “She interviewed him for the conflict he helped me with. Asked if she knew Superman, and after she said, “Briefly,” he told her about my glasses, along with my first and last name.” 

“Someone should sew his lips together,” you laugh. 

“I wanted to, but that’s not Superman-like. Plus, he’s an overall good person, just… strange,” he says. Then, “Wait, he flirted with you?” 

You throw your head back and cackle. “Yeah. Well, he tried to. Asked if I had a boyfriend or a girlfriend to keep me company outside of work. Since it’s dangerous to be out without someone by my side. I said that wasn’t relevant to the interview and then asked about his hair.” 

Clark finds this hilarious. He spits out a belly laugh and can’t stop swiping at his face to rid his wide smile. “Oh my god. That wasn’t in the questions, was it? Did I approve of that?” 

“Pfft. Of course not. You would definitely say something like, ‘That’s not nice, you have to be professional,’” you say, mocking him. You don’t pass, though. Your Clark Kent voice is too low, too serious. Clark sounds boyish sometimes, even if he is an adult man. He has a voice that cracks when he’s nervous. 

“I do not sound like that,” he fights. “And under different pretenses, that would be an inappropriate question, but he deserved it. I’ll talk to him the next time I have to fight some form of evil cyborg.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Kent.” 

You push yourself closer to him and inch your hand closer to his arm. It’s getting colder by the minute with the wind that’s picked up. You don’t want to go back inside, because a new wave of people have taken over the group that left, which means more celebratory shots and toasts and awkward hugs from people you don’t know. You didn’t think it would be such a big deal, but you’ve never landed such success from an article. At least not at The Daily Planet. 

Clark extends his body and lets you settle between him and the railing. It’s odd at first – trying to enjoy it and not look like the PDA couples in public – but your body quickly adjusts and your mind blurs the crowd inside. His body radiates heat, and he adds to it by wrapping his hands around yours. His face hovers above you and you look up to catch a glimpse of what he might be thinking about. 

“This is the second time you’ve had to comfort me in the cold,” you tell him. 

“I know,” he says with the hint of a smile in his voice. “Do you hate coats?” 

You move your hands from his and run them along his arms. “I hate them so much. I was sort of hoping you’d give me yours tonight.” 

Clark doesn’t respond. He does get warmer, though, and you wonder if that’s a superpower of his, or if you’re making things up. You don’t know if you’re being too much too fast, and you get warm at the thought. Because you don’t want to overwhelm him. You’ve already told him that the first subject of your column spilled the beans on his top secret. What if flirting about stealing his coat again, or being overly touchy or close would push him away before he’s even in arms reach? 

You’ve been a mess of thinking and speaking recently. 

You want another drink. 

“Maybe let’s get a drink, yeah? Lois has a bunch of her people I need to meet and I don’t want to hide the whole time.” You duck beneath his arms and head for the door. 

Clark pulls you back before you reach the doorknob. He grabs your belt loop and inches you towards him. His hands move around to your waist and they remain there, hot and sturdy to keep you from running away. 

“I think you’re super nice, and I enjoy talking to you and eating Chinese take-out. But I want to know if you feel the same way I do.” 

You study his features. His knitted brows, his downcast eyes and lips. He seems to study you again, too. His eyes are sweeping across your face and the way your chest rises and falls. You’re both nervous. 

“I do feel the same way, I just don’t want this to be too much too fast,” you confess. 

“I don’t care,” he quickly responds. “We’re friends. We’re flirty. Balance – we’re balanced. We don’t have to rush into anything but I like what’s happening right now.” 

You nod. “I like that. If I feel any different, I’ll tell you.” 

He leans in and kisses your cheek. You want to kiss him back, on the mouth, but you want to wait for when you’re not hot and cold and dancing between the line of drunk and tipsy. 

You inch your mouth towards his cheek and return the act. His cheek is tinted now. Not only by the blush that spreads throughout his cheeks and nose bridge, but the lipgloss still glued to your lips. 

You stick your thumb into your mouth and cover it with enough spit to remove the stain. He looks at you as you yank your finger out and rub it against his skin. He’s blinking like there’s something in both his eyeballs. 

“You could have left it there,” he tells you. 

“You’d be burning red if someone were to point it out. That someone being Jimmy.” 

He rolls his eyes and steps back. “Yeah right, like I’d do that.” His hands pull away from your waist and you follow him with the ache of his missing hands. 

“You turned into a red tomato when he asked if we were staying late after work to bang,” you tell him. “And you kept trying to explain why we were staying late but failed because you couldn’t even get a word out. And then he kept cutting you off so you stormed off like a kid.” 

“That happened?” 

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “Shut up and c’mon. We have drinks to drink!” 

– 

You’ve hugged approximately 75 people and have taken seven celebratory shots and four speciality drinks – which were special because they were all made by Jimmy and left a sour taste in your mouth.  

You’re now drunk off your ass. There’s a small voice in the back of your mind telling you how dumb you are, and how you should have been responsible, but it’s barely audible. You’re having fun with your friends and talking about hilariously bad interviews everyone has done before. 

You start trying to explain your most recent interview with the Green Lantern, but hiccup between your words and barely get a sentence out. You want to go for another attempt, but Lois passes a waterbottle over and makes eye contact with Clark. 

Fun: over. 

She walks over to you and Clark and whispers something. To the both of you? Only to Clark? You don’t really know, but what you realize soon enough is that she probably told him to take you home. And knowing Clark, he thought of it before she mentioned it. 

You drink the water because it feels nice against your throat after Jimmy’s shitty drinks, and because Clark will give you a lecture if you don’t. 

You reach the door and Clark slides your coat on. You grip the edges and pull them over your body. It’s warm and tight and you feel like you’re in a cocoon. Everyone is saying words – goodbyes – and you wave at them. “Bye everyone!” you say, loud enough for it to echo in your eardrums. 

When you’re outside, you cling onto Clark as best as you can. You’re wobbling and trying not to step over your feet. You fail every now and then and whisper ‘oops’ over a hundred times. 

“It’s not far,” you tell him. “Did Lois tell you?” 

“Yes, I know where to take you,” he says without looking at you. 

You scrunch your eyebrows together and try your best to straighten yourself out. “You’re not mad, are you?” 

“Why would I be mad?” 

“You have to take me home. I’m drunk. I’m a mess.” 

“You’re not a mess,” he tells you. “Just drunk. But you had fun and you’re an adult. Which means you’re allowed to do this, especially after your amazing article.” 

You bite your lip and gently dig your shoulder into his side. “I don’t think I’m good at accepting compliments. When it’s behind a screen, I can do it so easy. But when it’s people telling you about it in person, it makes me feel too real. Like… holy shit this is my job and I do this and people actually read my stuff.” 

“I understand what you mean. You can’t hide from the words people tell you to your face. It’s out in the open whether you like it or not, and when it’s people bringing up quotes and such from your published work, you have to appreciate it. Not only because it’d be rude not to, but because you realize they’re consuming your words.” 

You’re drunken mind can barely wrap around most of what people said. You know it was a lot of, “Congratulations!” and, “Good luck on your next piece. It’ll be great!” Some of the compliments, though, were lines people enjoyed and the way your strength in figurative language was prominent. You were stiff and awkward, because people don’t bring up how straight-to-the-point you are in breaking news stories about death, or poverty. They don’t really say anything, just, “Keep your head up and keep writing.” 

“I’m glad you’re helping, and I’m sorry I didn’t let you edit it before I sent it to the actual editor. I wanted it to be a surprise,” you say. 

He looks at you. Your eyes are poking into one anothers. You feel so close but you know you’re not. You just can’t pinpoint his face. 

“I knew it was going to be good,” he says. “I’ve read your previous work, from before your Daily Planet days.” 

You hum. 

“You’re talented. I wouldn’t help someone untalented, or unmotivated. Or someone who isn’t curious.” He leans down and plants a kiss on your head. “Don’t question your skills.” 

You smile and gift everyone who passes you a lovely grin – which isn’t many, because it’s three in the morning and everything is closed. Trash cans with fleeing rubbish line the streets and you hear barking throughout closed doors and windows. 

“I wish you could fly us to my place,” you think out loud. 

He chuckles. The sound vibrates across your body. “We could,” he tells you. “Do you want to? Will you be nauseous?” 

You shake your head profusely like a child. “No, I won’t be. Pinky promise.” You wrap your pinky around his and hiss when he takes it overly serious. 

He then tugs you into an alley and before you know it, you’re in the sky, overlooking the Metropolis skyline. 

tag list: @boogiemansbitch

[theegyal]

Hush [ Annie x Smoke ]

Chapter 11 (Part I) : Past wounds

Warning : this chapter contains smut and crude language.

A/N : the chapter 11 is very long, so I split it into two part. The series will end with 15 chapters. Only 3 chapters left.

2 : 00 AM

“You livin’ good, huh,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “Long damn way from da roachy-ass motel you used to sneak off an’ meet me for yo’ lil’ deals”

She walked past him without an invitation, bringing her peculiar scent of tonka bean and sandalwood into the room. He closed the door, not without checking on her surroundings.

“So what’s next ? ” she asked rolling her hips inside the living room. She sat on the sofa. “ya need my help to snatch that brother of yours outta mud. Shit funny huh, last time ya begged me to help you black ass I ended taking a drug trafficking charge that was yours.” She barked a cold laugh “five damn years. I recount the minutes, the hours I prayed to see your face at the parlor…”

Carol looked away, swallowing the ache on her face.

Guilt, washed over Stack. He had no defense. “Carol…”

“Don’t,” she cut him off, her voice dangerously sharp. “we’re not old friends. I was stupid enough to be in love with you, and you were smart enough to use it. End of the story.”

She crossed her legs, lighting a cigarette. Her fierce eyes now fixing on the man stood by the doorway.

“Was it worth it, Stack? Bullshittin’ all sweet tingz to da prostitute you were ashamed of, just t’get her do ya dirty work? I mean—no shade but did ya ever feel a single ting fa me ? or was it all part of da job?”

He couldn’t meet her gaze. He turned away, his jaw clenching so hard it hurt. She was telling facts—undeniably. Still, there was a more complicated truth than she knew.

He had felt something, a damn protective urge to get her out of Delta streets. Shoot to death them drunkards, fuckers who bent her over for half 10 bucks. he’d buried all these feelings under layers of shame and ambition. Admitting them now would be a self-serving insult.

“I got me a solid plan fo’ our business. That’s all that matter now.” he said, his voice colder than he expected. Stack needed to get back on solid ground.

An humorless laugh left her Carol’s mouth. We could almost hear in her throat, the weight of pain.

“Of course…” she puffed on her cigarette, eyes closed trying to act tough “wut we got ?”

“Big house down the 7th street. Few blocks away from here. I need documents. Same kinda gig we pulled in Clarksdale.”

“Yeah da gig that cost my life behind bars. I’m doin’ it for Annie”

“I know.” He replied bitterly

“want details and time”

Stack ain’t add nothing more. His eyes lingered on her for few minutes. His gaze cutting her plastic, hard. As if he was trying to dissect her and see her inside. Totally bare.

He waved his hand, signaling her to follow him upstairs.

Stack leaned against the bar, one hand pouring another glass of rum, the other lending the phone to Carol.

“Read that.”

She read the informations on the screen, then rolled her eyes.

“These are some—anyway how many years I risked ?”

“None” he set down his glass on the bar counter “I neva let you get back in that shit babe”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me. Forty years ? Lifetime ?” She insisted.

Stack darted his gaze on the marble wall he suddenly found more interesting.

“Lifetime”

Carol swallowed, cutting tears midway. She weeped her eyes through the apartment. The ceiling carefully built, the marble walls, the downstairs living room with all its amenities.

Time was still up. She could cancel everything. But no.

Annie was there for her.

When she was rotting behind the bars, she brought her meals, visited her to chat. She even described the landscape.

Carol owe her freedom to Annie. Thanks to her she’d felt human, not some trash tossed apart society.

“Fine. When we start ?” She put the phone down the bar.

Stack jaw tensed. She was persuaded to end behind the bars again. He wouldn’t allow that to happen. Not again.

She’d suffered. He knew she had. All because oh him.

“Stack ?” Carol repeated “hello ?”

“Ha— sorry.” He apologized, startled. “Some acquaintances gave me details bout the mansion and some info. Tomorrow Octavio Manson organized a party. Sort of political rally. Pure interest.”

Carol tapped her chin with her finger, thinking. She would need a pass card undoubtedly is she wanted to entered the house as a waitress or else she could simply do what she did the best. Let the man stare, touch enough and get her way to the room they classified the documents.

“And how I get in that party ?” She asked just in case he’d prepared a better approach.

“Waitress. I know the owner of the company that’ll provide them staff.”

“Ok” she puffed a last smoke of her cigarette and crushed it on a nearby ashtray “I take the couch”

“I got a guess room, you can—“

“The couch will do. Great night Moore”

6:00 AM

The translucent morning light filtered through their windows, caressing Annie’s face. Her bonnet had come loose in the night, tilting

on the left, one ribbon slipping down her cheek, the other waving gently over the coiled hair pooled on her shoulder.

She stirred. The sheets rustled.

Ready for her day to start, she shifted to rise but a hand coiled around her waist held her still.

Elijah.

Her husband was sleeping quiet behind her. He hadn’t move, his palm was resting beneath the fabric of her dress, right on her belly, fingers unconsciously grazing around her bellybutton.

“Morning darling” she turned, brushing her lips to his, letting her her breath glide along the column of his neck.

He groaned in response, fatigue peeping behind his half-open eyelids. His grip tightened, pulling her deeper into him, drowning in Annie’s softness.

The night had been good to them. And this morning kiss remembered every touch the moon had watched them share.

Elijah moved his palm, gliding up under his wife nightgown. The back of his knuckles trailing the slope of her ribs before he cupped her plump breast.

“Oh no papa.” She sighed, her throat catching a moan “I got work today. I’m on morning service at the pharmacy”

“No one get sick this early morn’ baby” He rasped,lifting himself just enough to press his body over hers, tugging her gently down the mattress, coaxing her back beneath the covers.

“Ye—yeah but there still—“ he hushed her with his finger stuffing her mouth.

“shh—here…” he languidly swept the point of his nose along her collarbone, gliding up slowly to the slope of her ear.

“War been hard on me woman…” He whispered hot, slicking his tongue across her ear’s lobe.

“Lemme heal baby…lemme love you more” He said, pulling out his finger from her mouth

His breath fanned against her flushed skin as he pulled the nightgown higher, inch by inch. His free hand eased along her thigh, palm dragging slow over her flesh, settling in the dip behind her knee, then gliding upward again.

Annie exhaled, when his lips darted from her ear and caught her collarbone again. He kissed it once, twice, then followed the line toward her shoulder. Her fingers clutched at his forearm, surely not to stop him but to hold something steady.

Under her gown, the pad of his thumb traced the pudgy weight of her tit, circled her brown nipple slow. It rose — erected — under his touch, asking for more.

“aah—Eli—Elijah”

“You want papa to strip that shit off baby ?” he asked, his lips working her shoulders with wet touches.

Annie grunted, her breath caught between pleasure and anticipation. Elijah undressed her totally, leaving solely the blue laced cloth of her panties.

Elijah bent down his face between the curve of her breasts, tracing the salt, faint taste of vanilla butter cream she’d wore last night.

His mouth hovered above her right tit —while his fingers were rolling the hardened peak of her left nipple—, then his hungry lips descended, sucking her right brown nipple deep into his mouth, the tip sliding against his tongue. Elijah’s teeth nipped at the swollen bud, playful enough to sting deliciously.

His other hand never stopped squeezing her left breast. It was so big in his palm, he felt the flesh spilled overly, spongy between his fingers. He kneaded, smoothing, malaxing her fullness.

“mmmh—God you’re so delicious babe—“ he hummed, rough. His mouth still occupied.

His lips sealed tight and hard, coiled around her erected nipple. He flicked his tongue on it, then sucked the pulse, drinking her milk.

“Mmh—Elijah— I’m still milking it’s—aah”

Annie’s breath hitched, a low moan slipping past trembling lips, cascading shivers down her spine.

Elijah switched sides, lavishing the left breast with sloppy kisses, his tongue flicking wet circles around the nipple, sucking it hard enough to leave a faint dark bruise.

“Fuck Annie—you’re mine.” He kept lapping her bud, sliding along her areola “the man is starved babe—” he grunted, his voice hoarse with hungry desire “I can’t get enough of you. I might never satiated”

He drifted, tracing the curves of her hips until he reached the waistband of her panties.

His fingers curled beneath the lace, hooking the thin fabric just enough to pull it down a hair, exposing the slick, glistening folds beneath.

“Love it when you cooked her right fa me…” he groaned, guiding her gently so she sat on his face.

Annie thighs parted to the extremities of his laid body —left and right —, her pelvis loomed just above his mouth, the thin lace of her panties still clinging to her sensitive flesh, outlining the meat of her clit.

His breath hit her skin, the delicate heat of her pussy flushing near his nose. He smelled her flower — her morning scent, earthy and sweet make his dick throb in his pajama pants.

Annie froze, eyes widened in shame and surprise “It’s… it’s morning,” she said, her voice sheepish. “I ain’t washed up yet. ‘Cept… well… I reckon I been marinating all night down here.”

She tried to run away, shifting her weight away but Elijah seized her hips, grounding her deeper.

Her right thigh — unbalanced — brushed slight the stiff of his bulge.

“Eli—“

He chuckled softly “Good baby” he greased his tongue on her damp panties “I want it just like that” His grip around her hip tightened, stronger “don’t run away from that hungry man mama”

And before she could say another word, he buried his face in her pussy.

His tongue flattened against the wet fabric, licking a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit. Her taste bled through the lace—salt, sweat, sugar.

With his teeth he tugged the lace aside, exposing her completely.

There she was. Swollen lips glistening, inner folds flushed and parted slightly from how wet she was. Her clit peeked out, plump and twitching, begging to be sucked.

“Shit, Annie…” he muttered into her cunt, breath hot and humid. “You’re fuckin’ dripping.”

He drank her juice. Licked a wide stripe up her slit, then circled her clit with the tip of his tongue. Then, impatient he sucked her bud into his watery mouth, tonguing it with care.

“Fuck!” Annie cried out, grabbing the cushions by her sides.

Elijah moaned into her pussy. He slid one finger in, then two — curling them slow, pressing against her front wall, deep rubbing her g-spot.

“Feel that?” he said, voice muffled. “That little spot right there—god, you grip me so tight baby.”

Annie’s thighs clamped around his head as he thrusted her with his fingers, tongue lapping her clit.

“Elijah, I—I’m close—”

He didn’t pause, swirling his tongue deep through the sludgy ripple of her fluttering walls. He dragged her close and closer to the edge of orgasm until she came, gushing all over his face.

Her pussy juice and thick creamy load splashed into his mouth, over his cheeks, slicking the cushions beneath him.

Annie was still quivering above him, her thighs trembling, pussy slick and threshing from the strength of her climax.

Elijah grabbed her hips, dragging her down along his chest, smearing her wetness over the hard line of his stomach. His cock throbbed against her thigh—hot, bulky, leaking against the cotton of pants.

He sat up, muscles tense, and kissed her passionately, tasting her lips, flicking her tongue.

“Mmmh—“ she moaned.

“You feel that baby ?” he rasped, grinding up into her. “That’s how bad I need to be inside you.” He hummed against the flush of her lips “Lemme in Annie. Let that big man go home”

She whimpered — Salivating —, reaching between them, fingers stroking his length through the fabric. His dick jumped at her touch.

“It’s so—big Elijah” she squirmed, gliding her fingers on it, her lips slightly parted.

Elijah hissed through his teeth, catching her wrist, guiding her palm to wrap around him properly.

“Take it out, baby,” he growled, voice husky and full of gravel. “Pull it out for me.”

Annie obeyed, tugging his pajama’s pant along with his briefs down over the swell of his cock. His big, curved dick sprang free, veiny and flushed dark, the tip slick with pre-cum. She didn’t even get the chance to stroke it—Elijah was already pushing her back onto the mattress, hovering above her on his knees.

His hand caught her behind the knee, spreading her wide, watching her pussy twitch open for him.

“mmmh— look at that,” he mouthed, stroking the head of his cock along her folds, painting her slit in wet, teasing glides. “That pussy still pulsing for me” He tapped his base on her clit “Shit babe—you fucking wet. Da cunt still leaking from my tongue.”

Annie writhed under him, breath ragged, her large hips lifting to catch his teasing cock, trying to make him slide in.

“ ‘lijah please—“

“What you want me to do baby ?” He played with her mind, slapping her thighs with his stiff cock.

Her vagina’s cream burped out her tight, gaping and gushy pink hole. Calling to be scuffed.

“Fuck me Elijah—pound your wife pussy baby” she answered, feverish, line of drool leaking from

Her mouth.

“I’m gon’ fuck you real slow at first,” he said, dragging the head of his cock right over her swollen clit, making her jolt. “Then I’ma split you wide mama. You want that ? Want pop fat dick deep in your saucy cunt, huh ?”

She nodded, her big brown eyes shining obediently. Her lips parted, too breathless to speak. One more second, one more thrust and—

A phone ringtone. Elijah’s phone on the nightstand. He grumbled,

“Fuck is that now ?” His head dropped against her shoulder.

Annie blinked up at him, her flower queefing with each exhale. “Don’t…take it…let it ring”

Elijah growled in his throat, his cock pressed right at Annie’s entrance, soggy and throbbing.

“Prolly Stack,” he whispered against her collarbone, “I ain’t talk to him since we left the hospital.”

“You gon’ left all o’, sure ?” Annie mewled, her hips rolling sensually, teasing him with her glistening heat.

He cursed and kissed her temple softly “must be important babe. Don’t me mad at me”

He rose upward, snatching the phone from the nightstand. He guessed right. It was stack.

“It better be great news ya wanna talk bout Elias” He roared, mean.

Annie rolled her eyes, pushed Elijah out — above her —.

“Got late to work for that ? Talking bout sum important ? My ass” she mumbled, clearly annoyed while she got up.

Elijah watched her backside sway as she stood. She yanked her blue laced panties back on and shoved herself in her nightgown.

Barefooted she walked out their bedroom door, not without giving him a terrifying glare.

“Annie…” Elijah muttered low. Stack on the line gulped — certainly guilty.

“Guess I interrupted something” Stack said

“And it better be for a damn good reason,” Elijah shot back, frustrated.

“It is,” Stack replied. “Carol arrived earlier. Round two this mornin’.”

Carol ? Elijah couldn’t put a face on that name. Yet somehow it ring a bell. However, not loud enough to bring back memory oh her.

The way his brother honeyed her name in his voice, she must be important to him.

“That’s your woman ?” Elijah innocently questioned.

On the other end, Elias went silent. Suffocating suddenly in his opened-chest morning robe. His woman.

Might she be if he closed his eyes and dream hard.

But it doesn’t work like that.

“She—“ Elias began, his throat tight and lips trembling.

He paused, then shuddered. There was only one way Elijah’s broken mind would remember her. And that way hurt more than any bullet Elias ever took in a war zone or back alley. “Da prostitute that worked for Nana Jo. Back in Delta”

The words spilled bloody from his mouth.. His fingers twitched hard, fisting around the phone.

On the other end, Elijah hiccuped, recognition slicing through the fog of his memories.

Montenegro.

He remembered. Of course he did. He used to loathe her. Wouldn’t even acknowledge her as Elias half. Even though she’d gone through hell for his brother.

Elijah had known about the deals they were running in Delta—he wasn’t blind nor deaf—, drugs, scams... That was part of why he dragged his wife North and persuade his brother to move to Chicago with them.

“Elias—“

“We got a plan for Manson. Steal the doc about our desertion and hopefully find evidence of his Iranian armament trafficking…could be enough to shut him down and sent us free” Stack cut his twin mid-sentence, explicitly stating their upcoming move.

Elijah exhaled, jaw tight. “Man, you know—”

“You ain’t at fault. Ya only tryna protect me.” Elias grip on his phone weakened, his jaw clenched, tears threatening to fill up his eyes “she…took years fa me you know”

“What you mean ?” Elijah asked clearly confused

“Back then. We were on a bigger blast. Some men from Louisiana wanted packs of it…white powder. I was the one negotiating everything, I loaded the car. She was just—“ Elias mumbled, his tone broken with shame and guilt.

He descended the staircase of his penthouse, bare feet thudding on the cold marble, landing in the stillness of the living room. He leaned on the kitchen counter. His eyes found Carol curled up on the couch. Fully clothed. Arms wrapped tight around her body.

“…She was just doin’ the delivery,” he whispered. “I figured—hell—I figured the sheriff wouldn’t suspect her.”

“There was an informant among the buyers,” Elijah muttered, piecing it together.

“Five years Elijah. Five fuckin’ years. I was too ashamed. I couldn’t visit her. They let her rot in that shit hole.”

He sniffed.

“Annie…she was the one giving her company…I don’t want her to get back there…”

Elias was crying. Impossible to dry off these salt cascading on his face.

“It’s lifetime. We failed. She took lifetime or penalty” The young twin barked, gritting his teeth.

A silence stretched between the two brothers. Then the old one asked

“You still love her ?”

“I’d take a bullet right in my damn skull for her” Elias groaned. Anger, guilt, sorrow and love mixing together.

“We three on this,” Elijah affirmed strongly. “Ain’t gonna let you and her carry it alone. Got some change for Manson… and I always pay my debts.”

His brown eyes blackened, his temple pulsing with veins. Lips pinched, a veil of fury choking his features.

The film of his life unfolded.

Bombs. Died children. Bullets piercing his body in Fallujah.

His wife being humiliated, threatened with eviction from the damn house he fully paid.

His daughter crying every night, longing for her father warmth.

Those damn meds to make him go crazy and forget about what mattered the most : his family

And yes— this rapist. Olivia Manson.

His irises went plain, blank with wrath and revenge.

Fallujah taught him good. He knew the right methods to deal with men like Commander Octavio Manson.

“When we move?”

“Tomorrow 1 PM. You’ll join me on a parking near the Manson’s. I planned to fetch Carol a uniform later today. She’ll wear a mic and an earpiece. The plan is to take a photo of the docs, sending ‘em thru mail. We stole them then and swapped with the false…—“

“We shouldn’t talk bout this on phone. Got sum to do this morning. Will stop by your place later evening. So we can discuss this matter”

8:00 AM

The sky turned fully blue, overcasting the golden light of the sunrise when Annie backed her Honda Civic out the gravel drive, tires crunching loud.

She had showered efficiently and quick but her blouse still clung damp against her chest where Lois had nursed half-heartedly then wailed for more. Her baby didn’t want to take the bottle this morning. Annie was left with no choice than giving her a spoon of boobie.

She had one hand on the wheel and the other bracing her sore breast with a crumpled burp rag tucked inside her bra.

Her husband’s heat had barely cooled from between her legs when the damn phone rang, and everything turned domestic again.

This new day felt normal. Like she hadn’t been a widow just weeks ago. Like her man hadn’t been claimed by another woman. Like she didn’t fear her baby girl would grow up knowing her father only through old photographs and cassettes tapes.

In the rearview mirror, Annie caught her own reflection smiling.

Her name tag was no longer —just— a sign. The Moore on it stood proud and tougher than ever.

She pulled into the clean lot of The Haye Pharmacy with one hour and ten minutes late. The health sign was already glowing — green cross in the front window.

She caught the black BMW of Mrs. Haye.

“Oh no.” She cried, foreshadowing her reprimand.

Annie entered by the back door. The clinical scent of antiseptic and paracetamol welcoming her gracefully.

She barely had time to peel off her jacket, a shrill voice came flying beside her.

“You’re late, Mrs Moore.”

Annie straightened her back, holding her blouse shut with one hand. “Morning, Mrs. Haye.”

The old woman’s glared up and down — judging.

“The only reason I haven’t fired you is because you’ve got those letters after your name,” she sneered. “Doctor Pharmacist or not, don’t think you’re irreplaceable.”

Annie was wrong. She bowed her head like a teenager who was being scolded and didn’t offer an answer. She walked past the old woman to the restroom — to put her white uniform on and glued her tag name on her chest. As she went, her blouse had gaped of few inches, teasing the mess Lois done with her food.

Mrs Haye squinted, arching a brow.

“And next time dear, pay attention to clean yourself before coming to work. Breastfeeding stop at ten months. Isn’t your child enough to take the bottle ?”

It wasn’t a close question. The old woman let it hang there and walked away.

Annie sighed. This would be a very long day.

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