#just tagging characters that I write the most

[myladybelle]

‘cause i can see you

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work, corenswet!clark yearns and pines and nobody can tell me otherwise warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong! word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3) note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x

masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were still new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

Strange, considering how different the two of you were.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.

The office changed at night. 

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

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

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

Almost like a different person entirely. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you liked being late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That caught you off guard.

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

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

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

Then you cleared your throat. “We should finish,” you broke the tension. “Perry wanted the draft by ten.”

Clark exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, too. “Right. Let’s get back to it.”

He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where he’d stood, and your breath never quite evened out. 

You didn’t look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didn’t want him to stop.

You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didn’t tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.

It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadn’t so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.

And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasn’t farm boy strength. 

Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.

You had work to do. Explanations could come later.

Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you weren’t really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist. 

The anchor’s voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.

“…Superman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolis’ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one arm…”

You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystander’s phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.

Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.

You blinked once. Then twice.

“That’s ridiculous,” you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. “…Isn’t it?”

Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview. 

And yet… Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??

You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.

For now.

You weren’t expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you weren’t expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.

He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone who’d slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though you’d both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.

Clark made a beeline for your desk.

“I thought I’d spare you the breakroom sludge,” he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasn’t the paper cup from the Planet’s vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.

Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.

In case no one tells you today: you’re doing great. –C

You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.

The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.

But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.

“Thank you,” you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. “I owe you one.”

Clark’s lips curved, slow and tender. “You really don’t,” he denied.

Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didn’t even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.

Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.

Until now.

You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.

You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention. 

This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.

This wasn’t just a shared article anymore. This wasn’t just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.

Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.

Something had changed, and you liked it.

Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.

Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea he’d brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.

Clark Kent? Superman?

You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.

You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.

Still, you didn’t delete the note on your phone.

A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last night’s draft and wondering if you’d remembered to respond to that source from the city clerk’s office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.

Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.

You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.

Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that day’s issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. “Look who made the front page,” she declared proudly.

You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didn’t process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.

Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.

Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviously—you’d lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tips—but it looked different in print.

Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.

The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You weren’t even breathing for a moment. You just stared.

By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.

“Hell of a job,” Perry said. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”

The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.

You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet “Thank you,” though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.

For so long, you’d felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different. 

Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’d known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.

Clark approached last. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.

Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. “For the star reporter,” he said, smiling softly. “Extra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.”

You looked at the cup, then back at him. “How do you always—?”

Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. “Like I said, I pay attention.”

You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” you said. “But you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.

Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perry’s approval, Lois’s quiet satisfaction, and Clark’s constant support, you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.

“Hey,” Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah—yeah. Just…” You let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”

“I read it twice this morning,” Clark admitted. “You nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearly—it’s not just good reporting, it’s honest and poignant.”

You stared at him for a second. “You read it twice?”

“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “once last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.”

Your eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, and you couldn’t look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to make a point. 

Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. “Not even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,” you teased, tapping the paper.

Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. “Ah, well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You blinked, amused. “What?”

“It’s a Smallville thing,” he said, shrugging, still smiling. “Means I’ve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and that’s exactly what should’ve happened today. Your story mattered.”

Your teasing faded into something quieter. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Don’t tell Superman,” he said, mock-serious. “I still want those exclusive interviews, after all.”

You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk. 

Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. “You’ve got ink on your jaw.”

You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. “Right—here.”

His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.

“Got it,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where he’d touched you. You didn’t move an inch.

You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

His eyes met yours one last time, steady. “Any time,” Clark said.

And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.

You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.

You hadn’t meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator. 

You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t want the day to end. 

Your name had been on the front page, and you’d written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen. 

So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrow’s pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.

Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morning’s front page byline, still propped up on your desk.

It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.

You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice say—

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.

The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.

You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.

“—but we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.”

A reporter off-screen asked, “Superman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?”

Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. “Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You rewound it again. And again.

Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.

Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat. 

You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?

Except no, they didn’t. 

You’d never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.

You stared back at the screen.

Superman wasn’t from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.

You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.

What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way he’d said it. And now that you were thinking about it—

That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.

Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched “Superman Smallville,” then “Superman phrases,” and then “Superman voice analysis.”

And just like that, you weren’t going home anymore.

You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth. 

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire,” Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.

You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morning—eyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.

Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You weren’t doing anything serious, not really. It wasn’t a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.

Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark? 

You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmy’s office birthday party last month. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.

Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces weren’t the same.

You sat back in your chair and stared.

“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”

Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t so much as shift his stance.

Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.

He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.

There was no way they were the same person.

You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clark’s archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. You’d always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.

But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.

You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.

That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming he’d had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.

You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clark’s, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.

Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.

Unless that was the point.

You scrolled back up. Watched the “barn fire” clip one more time. Played Clark’s laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.

You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.

You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.

You weren’t saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasn’t.

And if you couldn’t? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there.

The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you should’ve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.

Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All you’d meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.

The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so you’d come here.

Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. You’d been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and he’d told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself. 

Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city. 

You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldn’t slow down.

What exactly were you doing?

You weren’t just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasn’t even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark. 

Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.

You’d pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when he’d submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.

But every time you got close to feeling like you’d figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Superman’s voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clark’s was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.

And yet.

When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. You’d never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.

Now, you couldn’t help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.

You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.

The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Then—light. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.

Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaotic—and heading right for the Daily Planet.

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable. 

You flinched, braced for impact.

But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.

There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.

Nothing so much as grazed you. 

When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you. 

Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.

Superman’s cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you. 

You didn’t speak at first; you couldn’t after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.

“Are you alright?” His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.

You nodded automatically before your voice returned. “Y-yeah. I think so.”

Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.

When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didn’t. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldn’t stop staring.

Superman was right in front of you.

“Thank you,” you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.

Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didn’t wait for the facts—it reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didn’t care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.

You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadn’t cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system. 

You’d been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and you’d spent hours researching a connection between two people—of course, you’d be primed to see that connection even if it wasn’t there.

Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. You’d reported on them.

But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasn’t just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen. 

The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.

It should’ve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his grip—the way he braced you without hesitation—it didn’t feel foreign at all.

And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didn’t believe you were fine, even if you insisted.

Superman didn’t look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly. 

But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark. 

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Superman spoke, more gently this time. “It’s late.”

“I just needed some air,” you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.

Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. “I’ve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,” he confessed. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”

He smiled, just barely. It was faint—gentler than you’d expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.

Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldn’t let go. That smile wasn’t bold like a superhero’s. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clark’s.

God.

You were losing it.

Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.

It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks. 

He could have meant it generally, but you didn’t think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.

Superman shouldn’t know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planet’s building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his cape—no, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.

“Please, get home safe,” Superman said gently. 

Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.

You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.

The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.

But you knew. You knew.

Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. He’d seen this view, he’d felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasn’t conjecture anymore. It wasn’t a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.

This was real.

Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairs—barely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You weren’t even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.

The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.

Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.

And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.

You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins. 

It could all be bias, projection, or madness.

But you didn’t care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.

The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldn’t focus.

Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere. 

While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.

You glanced up.

Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasn’t looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilled—just slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.

Your eyes met.

It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into. 

It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you weren’t supposed to. Something dangerous.

Since the rooftop, every day had been like this—dense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Superman’s familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark. 

There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose. 

Clark hadn’t explained. You hadn’t asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.

You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.

Your thoughts circled back to the rooftop—the closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you weren’t ready to voice.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.

It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadn’t looked at you when he passed, hadn’t so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.

You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:

Tonight. My place. We should talk.

No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message. 

You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.

Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldn’t ask? 

The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.

Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.

You didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you didn’t think you could afford not to. 

Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didn’t look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.

You stood before the closed door of Clark’s apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday look—your favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.

Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from work—his usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tie—but his hair was less tousled than usual. 

There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.

You stepped inside hesitantly.

The apartment was surprising.

It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place you’d expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern way—glossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didn’t try too hard. 

The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.

You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.

It didn’t quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didn’t mesh with the clumsy way he’d knock over his mug, the scattered papers you’d noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.

This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark you’d never fully had the chance to know.

He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.

“Tea?” Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.

You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.

You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.

“So,” Clark started, voice careful, “how’s the Peterson piece coming along? Deadline’s Friday, right?”

You forced a brief nod. “Yeah. I’m still digging through interviews. The story’s bigger than I expected.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The newsroom’s been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.”

You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than you’d ever seen it. 

You thought of Superman—the cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence. 

How could the same man feel so different?

Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter you’d gotten to know at the Daily Planet.

Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Superman’s presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.

Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”

He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blinked. “Pretend?” You refrained from adding, That’s ironic.

Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That everything’s normal.”

You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. “It’s just been a long week.”

You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes. 

Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say no—but he didn’t. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.

Your breath caught.

Without the familiar frames, Clark’s face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.

Still unmistakably Clark Kent. 

And Superman.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clark’s eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.

Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. “You’re Superman.”

Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “I’m Superman,” he echoed.

It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first time—not just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before. 

It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.

Instead of the satisfaction you’d always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like you’d already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.

“How... how did I never see it before?” you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clark’s glasses.

He gave a small, rueful smile. “The glasses—they change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.” He started to explain, but something snapped inside you. 

“They’re supposed to—”

You cut him off before he could finish. “You interviewed yourself,” you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. “You lied to everyone at the paper—to the world. To me.”

Clark’s face tightened. “I had to. You know that.”

The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.

You watched Clark closely—watched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss. 

His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask he’d worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.

“You let me spiral,” you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. “You didn’t trust me. I’ve been tearing myself apart, wondering if I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, or if I’m the only one who sees the truth.”

Clark’s hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying. 

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he confessed, his voice desperate. “Every time I thought I could, I just—I couldn’t..”

Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, he’d always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions you’d held back began to surge to the surface.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” you said, raw and breathless, “to look someone in the eye every day and feel like you’re going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that they’re hiding something?”

Pain flickered across Clark’s features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.

“I imagine it’s something like hiding a part of yourself away,” Clark said quietly, “and realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.” There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. “Like falling for someone and being terrified that who you are—who you’ve always been—could ruin everything.”

You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. “And yet,” you said slowly, “you still let me believe I was wrong.”

Clark’s expression faltered.

“You watched me doubt myself,” you continued, your voice rising, shaking. “You watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasn’t even real.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. “I wanted to tell you every single day. I’d sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and just—just say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.”

“Well, congratulations,” you said bitterly. “Everything has.”

He flinched, like you’d physically struck him. But still, he didn’t retreat.

“I never wanted to lie to you,” Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. “I just didn’t know how to stop without losing you.”

You laughed once—short and hollow. “You were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”

His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,” Clark retorted. “I needed someone—you—to see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.”

“Of course I see you as ‘just’ Clark!” you exclaimed. “Even the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.”

“I know,” Clark breathed. “I’ve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose you—not because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didn’t tell you the truth.”

You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. “Then be honest with me now,” you whispered. “You asked me here—so say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.”

Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. “I love you.”

And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.

You looked at him—really looked at him. Clark’s pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out. 

Without his superhearing, you couldn’t know that his heart was thundering in time with yours. 

Clark Kent loved you.

“I’ve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,” he went on, voice shaking. “Since you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. I’ve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.”

You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadn’t let fall yet.

“I love you,” Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. “Clark—Superman—they’re all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when I’m with you, I’m only ever one thing. I’m yours. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”

His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. “Can I?” 

You nodded before your words could betray you.

Clark’s palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.

“I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.”

Clark exhaled shakily. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he added, voice nearly lost between you, “for so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.”

You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.

And then he kissed you.

Not like Superman. Not like a secret.

Like Clark. 

He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long and couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.

In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, “I won’t tell anyone. You know I won’t.”

His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “I know.”

You didn’t know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.

The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clark’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didn’t care.

There was no confusion now, just clarity—dizzying and sharp.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clark’s mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you.

You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at him—really looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasn’t. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.

It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.

“I see you,” you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. “All of you.”

Clark’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. “No one ever has like you do,” he said, the words a quiet confession. “Especially when I was trying to hide.”

Clark kissed you again, like he couldn’t risk the silence, couldn’t bear to let the truth echo too long. You weren’t sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.

The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadn’t meant to say aloud.

You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips. 

Clark kissed you like a vow—heady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you weren’t thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.

Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.

Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didn’t stop you. You undid one. Then another. 

The fabric parted just slightly—enough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric. 

You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clark’s chest—vivid and unmistakable—was his bold red-and-yellow insignia.

It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you weren’t just kissing Clark Kent but Superman. 

Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. “You’re wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?”

Clark’s face flushed, sheepish but fond. “Occupational hazard,” he declared.

You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. “You’ve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.”

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Clark pointed out.

You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. “Well, I did. And I love you too.”

And Clark smiled back—small and real and all yours.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.

Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

You spotted Clark before he noticed you—across the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners. 

Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.

He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.

The way Clark smiled—it wasn’t the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.

Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too late—you already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.

In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him there—more present than Perry’s voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.

At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clark’s hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.

“I had it first,” you murmured without looking at him.

Clark’s voice stayed low. “I bet you really believe that,” he teased.

It wasn’t flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You weren’t sneaking around because you had to—there was no rule against it, no fear of scandal—but because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.

You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.

And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.

Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perry’s office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.

Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.

“You two have been weird lately,” she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. You’d been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasn’t budging. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s a story, I better not be the last to know,” Lois quipped.

Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.

“Just long nights editing,” he said, straight-faced.

You nodded. “Stress does weird things to people,” you added in a pleasant tone.

Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, stepping out. “Journalists and their secrets.”

Then she was gone.

The elevator doors glided shut.

You just looked at each other—this charged, suspended second—and then moved in sync. Clark’s hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.

The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.

Clark’s lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like he’d been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didn’t stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctively—one hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.

You sighed against his mouth—quiet, surrendering—and felt him smile into the kiss.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.

Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.

You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.

“Clark,” you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.

He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldn’t get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kiss—softer, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.

“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Clark whispered against your mouth.

“I barely looked at you,” you whispered back.

“Exactly.”

You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clark’s hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.

Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clark’s body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.

“I missed this,” you murmured.

“I never stop missing it,” Clark whispered back.

It wasn’t until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.

You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. “Always.”

Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.

Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.

“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Think you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?”

Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. “Got a little carried away.” He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.

You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.

As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.

“I like knowing it’s there,” you admitted.

Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. “So do I.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.

Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.

Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadn’t just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator. 

Everything was back to normal.

Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didn’t look away.

note: please let me know what you thought!! i love any and all comments and feedback. the new superman movie is my current hyperfixation so if anyone would be interested in reading more clark kent fics from me, all you have to do is tell me 🤭

[mcu-binge]

Unspoken || Clark Kent x Reader ||

Pairing : Clark Kent x Reader Word count : ~2835

Summary : secret situationship clark kent x reader. you flirt back with someone new, clark short-circuits. cue petty office games

Tags/warnings : jealous!Clark, fluff, light smut (?)

A/N : Hellloooo I rewatched Twisters last night and I may or may not have written something inspired by David’s character Scott. Let me know if you would like to read it! Requests are still open feel free to send me one Clark Kent related or not!

=====================================

Daily Planet, 11:44 a.m.

You feel her before you hear her.

The intern. Madison. Or Madeline. Something with lip gloss and a fake laugh.

She floats past your desk again, third time this morning, armed with a stack of files she definitely doesn’t need help carrying.

You keep your eyes on your monitor. You’ve gotten good at pretending. Good at pretending a lot of things.

But you don’t miss the way her heels click to a stop at Clark’s desk.

“Oh my gosh, you’re seriously working through lunch again?” she coos, like it’s an original observation.

You can practically hear Clark smile. “I like to get ahead on edits. Makes Perry slightly less terrifying.”

She laughs way too loudly.

You tap your pen against your notepad. One, two, three. Breathe.

“You know,” she says, “I read that piece you did on the fires last month? The way you described the scene… it was like I was there.”

“Thanks,” Clark replies, gracious as ever. “It was a tough one to write.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. You’re so good with words.”

You look up then. Clark is smiling. Polite. Friendly. Maybe not flirting, but… not shutting it down either.

Your stomach knots not necessarily from insecurity, but from the quiet ache of knowing you don’t get to say anything. Not here. Not where people would ask questions.

Not where you’d have to admit that you snuck into his apartment last weekend and fell asleep wearing his flannel shirt. So you turn back to your screen. Focus. Breathe.

Until you hear her say “I don’t know how anyone expects me to get anything done with you sitting over there being all—” She lowers her voice. “Clark-y.”

You blink. Clark-y? What the hell does that even mean?

And that’s when you hear him laugh. Really laugh.

That’s it. That’s the crack. A fine, hairline fracture in whatever unspoken arrangement the two of you have been delicately well stupidly balancing.

You stand, a little too fast.

“I’m going to grab coffee,” you say, mostly to the air.

Clark looks up. “Want me to come with?”

“Nope.” You’re already walking away.

Behind you, the intern giggles again.

You’re back from the coffee run, to-go cup in hand and pride barely intact, when a voice stops you cold.

“Sorry—hold it right there. Light’s hitting you just right.”

You blink, turning toward the source.

He’s standing by the east-facing window, DSLR slung across his chest, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. Tousled hair, scruff like it’s grown in defiance, and the posture of someone who doesn’t know how not to be confident.

“I’m the new photographer,” he says, as if reading your mind. “Caleb.” He adds extending a polite hand to you

You raise an eyebrow suspiciously before shaking it. “And you just take candids of coworkers without asking?”

“Only when they look that good holding caffeine.”

It should make you roll your eyes. It should. But something inside you, the same something that had to endure Miss Clark-y 20 minutes ago nudges you to tilt your head, just a little and let him snap some photos.

You smirk just a little. It’s harmless. It’s fun. And most importantly, you know exactly who’s watching from the corner of the bullpen, hand halfway to his glasses like he’s pretending to clean them.

Clark.

He’s facing his screen, but his ears are pink. You know that pink.

“Anyway,” Caleb says, stepping back, “if I’m ever assigned to your stories, we should, uh, coordinate. Lunch maybe. Talk shop.”

You nod. “I’ll think about it.”

And just like that, he walks away. No lingering, no pushiness. Just a lingering impression and a very obvious audience.

You don’t even have to look to feel Clark’s gaze. Not just watching. Tracking.

You take one slow sip from your coffee and return to your desk like nothing happened. The rest of the work day drags on with you avoiding Clark's glances and heading straight home after.

--

Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to put it on Do Not Disturb.

Clark Kent

You hesitate. One beat. Two. Three. Then answer.

“Didn’t peg you as a night owl Mr. Kent,” you say, voice soft in the dark.

Clark chuckles. You can hear the faint rustle of his sheets. He’s in bed.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Thought I’d call my favorite insomniac.”

“Oh? And here I thought I was just your coworker.”

“You know better than that.”

There’s a pause a thick and warm and familiar one.

You let it hang a moment longer. “Hmmm… what’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know,” he says casually. “Just wondering how your day went. You were… smiley.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Am I not allowed to smile?”

“You are. It’s just…” He trails off. “New guy got you grinning like that on day one?”

You smirk, biting your bottom lip. “You mean Caleb?”

“Is that his name? I didn’t know; he didn’t come by and take my picture.”

You laugh. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”

“I’m just curious,” he says, too quickly. “Didn’t realize you liked… confident guys with man buns and vintage cameras.”

“He doesn’t wear a man bun, Clark. Is that jealousy I hear?”

“Nope.” He’s quiet for a second too long. “Just trying to figure out what your type is.”

You let that hang in the air.

“I don’t think I have a type,” you murmur. “But I do like when a guy makes an effort.”

He exhales. “I make an effort.”

“Do you?”

“Hey, I brought you soup when you were sick.”

“And I never said thank you properly.” Your voice softens, slow and warm. “You’re sweet, Clark.”

Another silence. Then “I don’t want to just be sweet.”

That does something to you.

You shift under your blankets, suddenly too aware of the sound of his voice through the line.

“So you’re calling me for a bedtime confession?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I just… didn’t like seeing someone else flirt with you.”

“Why?”

“Because…” His voice dips lower. “I prefer being the reason you blush.”

You’re quiet.

Clark clears his throat like he said too much. “Anyway. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make this weird.”

“It’s not weird.”

Another pause.

“You make me act weird, you know that?” he says.

You smile into your pillow. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Clark laughs, soft and wrecked. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

“Sweet dreams.” He adds.

“Dream sweet and of me,” You add with a smile before hanging up.

—

You don’t expect anything when you walk in.

No follow-up to the flirt-heavy, “I don’t want to just be sweet” phone call. Just normal Clark behavior: polished, polite, maybe a little sheepish for opening up the way he did.

You definitely don’t expect your exact coffee order, oat milk, half pump vanilla, cinnamon on top sitting on your desk like it manifested from a dream.

You stop. Stare.

There’s a sticky note stuck to the lid:

Figured I owed you caffeine after that late call. – C

Your stomach flutters.

You barely have time to recover before Kat waltzes past, side-eyeing your cup.

“Oof. Is that from who I think it’s from?”

You shrug, playing dumb. “No idea.”

“Sure,” she snorts.

9:05 a.m.

You’ve just settled back at your desk when Clark appears. Not his usual notebook-in-hand work mode. He strolls in like he owns the place. His sleeves rolled to the elbows. Glasses on dangerously close to heartthrob-who-reads-poetry territory.

And he’s beaming. Like nothing in the world is wrong.

He leans against your desk, tilts his head. “Morning.”

You glance up. “Little late, aren’t you?”

He taps your empty coffee cup. “Thought I’d give you time to enjoy that first.”

You deadpan. “That’s suspiciously thoughtful.”

He lowers his voice. “Just making sure I stay your favorite.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks betray you.

“Anyway,” he adds, dropping a paper bag in front of you, “they were out of your favorite muffin, so I brought you the second favorite. Blueberry and don’t pretend it’s not.”

That makes you smile. “You remembered that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” he says, voice dipping.

Before you can form a snappy comeback, he’s already walked off.

Kat peers around the divider again, mouthing: WHAT IS HAPPENING

You don’t answer. Mostly because you don’t know anymore.

1:12 p.m.

Caleb returns from an assignment and spots you in the copy room.

“Hey, smiley,” he says, stopping just short of the door. “You free for lunch?”

You open your mouth to respond friendly, casual, not flirty when a shadow moves behind you.

Clark appears out of nowhere, holding a takeout bag in one hand and a smug smile in the other.

“Ooof she’s booked. I grabbed lunch for us,” he says, breezy and bold. “Hope you’re still on your wings kick.”

You turn, confused. “You… ordered lunch?”

Clark nods. “Figured I’d beat the rush.”

He sets the bag down and for the first time in office history brushes his hand against the small of your back. Not obviously. Not possessively. Just enough.

“Sorry,” he says to Caleb. “Didn’t mean to step on your plans.”

Caleb blinks. “Oh. No worries. You guys enjoy.”

Clark just smiles and hands you a box of fries like a man very pleased with himself.

At 3:27 p.m. Flowers arrive.

It’s a small bouquet of wildflowers and peonies soft and subtle. There’s no note. Just a tiny card in the bottom of the vase with your initials. But the handwriting? You’d know it anywhere.

Kat is losing her mind.

“Girl. What is going on. Is this your boyfriend or a PR stunt?”

You laugh, half-exasperated, half-flushed. “It’s complicated.”

Clark walks past your desk with a mug of tea, glances at the flowers.

Then, audible enough to be overheard, he mutters, “Wonder who the lucky guy is.”

Kat actually squeals.

End of the day. The office is mostly empty. You go into the copy room to grab some print outs when Clark appears in the doorway. It’s quiet maybe a little too quiet. Like the building is holding its breath.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, low, almost careful.

You don’t look up. “Now’s not great.”

“Tough.” His voice drops. “I’ve been patient. That’s done.”

You freeze.

He walks in, not fast, but with purpose. Like every step is a choice. He doesn’t stop until he’s close.

“You smiled at him like he made your whole damn day.”

You scoff. “You mean the same way I’ve smiled at you for weeks?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. I’m the one you call when you can’t sleep. I’m the one you wear flannel shirts from like we’re already—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling.

You turn slowly, heart pounding, voice quieter. “Like we’re already what Clark?”

He stares at you. And it hurts. Because his eyes aren’t soft right now they’re hungry. Sharp. Bruised.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I do know I wanted to tear that camera out of his hands.”

You take a shaky breath. “You didn’t say anything.”

He exhales through his nose. “Because if I said anything, I was gonna say everything.”

You blink. “Then say it.”

He moves. One step. Then another. Until you’re backed up against the copy machine, the hum of it echoing your pulse.

“I want you,” he murmurs. “Not just late at night. Not just when no one’s looking.”

His hand grazes your wrist barely, but it sets your whole body on fire.

“I want to touch you whenever I want,” he says. “I want to sit in meetings and watch you try not to look at me. I want to take you to lunch and not pretend it’s platonic.”

You exhale shakily. “Then why haven’t you?”

His jaw ticks. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back up like it physically hurts him to look at you.

“Because…” he starts, voice low, tight, “I won’t be pretending. And if people know—if they connect us—then you’re not just some coworker anymore. You’re a target.”

You blink, a little thrown. “What?”

He swallows hard. “I interview Superman. People already watch me too closely. There’ve been threats before anonymous calls, notes, people trying to leverage my contacts. And if anyone figures out what you are to me—” His voice catches. “I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt because of me.”

The air between you thickens. Not with fear, but with feeling. Sharp and aching and all-consuming.

“Clark,” you whisper, stepping into him, hand curling around his forearm. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“But I don’t.” You shake your head. “I care about you. I’ve been waiting for you to say something—anything—but all I’ve ever wanted was for you to want me out loud.”

He looks down at your lips then your eyes and suddenly he starts leaning into your like gravity, hands finding your waist, your hips, hauling you into him like he needs to feel every word he can’t say. It’s clumsy, frantic, desperate.

You stumble backwards hitting the copy machine. He palms blindly resting his hands on it, never breaking the kiss, never loosening his grip.

“You drive me crazy,” he breathes against your mouth.

“Ditto” you gasp, already tugging at his tie, his shirt, anything to get closer.

He lifts you with a groan, setting you down on the copy machine like you belong there, like he’s dreamed of this a thousand times. His kisses trail down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, like he’s memorizing you with lips and tongue.

“This is reckless,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You curl your fingers into his hair. “You started it.”

He huffs a shaky laugh, then bites back a moan when you tug him in tighter. “I want you.”

“Then take me.”

His lips press against yours tongue begging to be let in, and there’s no more talking. Just moaning. Gasping. Your skirt is hiked up bunched at your thighs. You hastily unbutton his pants desperate to feel him. Desperate friction. You stroke his cock hungrily. His hand comes down moving your panties to the side. His name gasped against his shoulder as he moves inside you, forehead pressed to yours like prayer, like apology, like finally.

There’s nothing gentle about it just months of buried tension erupting into something real and raw and undeniable. His hands move your hips holding you tightly as he relentlessly thrusts into you. You lean back against the copy machine unable to keep yourself up anymore. He takes the chance and lets his hands explore every part of you.

And when it’s over when you’re clinging to him, lips swollen, heartbeat skittering against his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple.

“No more pretending” he whispers against your forehead

You smile, “No more.” You whisper back breathlessly

—

The next morning the morning air is crisp. City traffic hums in the background. You round the corner, distractedly tugging your scarf tighter, and nearly walk past him.

Clark. Leaning casually against the brick column like he’s in a cologne ad. Two coffees in hand. Hair a little windswept. Tie crooked in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

You stop short. He lifts your coffee and gives you that smile. The private one. The I didn’t sleep much thinking about you one.

“Good Morning,” he says, voice soft. “Brought reinforcements.”

You take the cup and stare at him for a beat. “You waited for me?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want to walk in alone.”

You glance at the Planet’s doors, then back at him. “You okay?”

“I’m great.” He bumps your shoulder. “Last night was… clarifying.”

You laugh under your breath, cheeks warm. “You mean wildly overdue?”

He grins. “That too.”

You sip your coffee, then glance sideways at him. “You sure about this?”

Clark’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “More sure than I’ve been about anything in a long time.”

He opens the door for you, lets you step inside first, hand gently pressed to your lower back like it’s second nature. It sends a chill up your spine, but not in a bad way.

You walk toward your desk side by side, your steps synced, conversation light. And then, right there, in full view of Kat, Perry, Jimmy, and every nosy intern with a crush, Clark does something unthinkable. He leans in.

Not dramatic. Not flashy. Just casual, confident, and real. He presses a soft, slow kiss to your lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” he murmurs, like it’s been your routine for years.

Then he walks off. Calm. Collected. Definitely smirking.

You’re frozen.

The bullpen? Silent.

Kat’s jaw is on the floor. The intern drops her pen. Perry mutters something about “finally.”

You sit down slowly, heart hammering in your chest, still holding your coffee like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

Kat leans in, eyes wide. “What the actual hell just happened.”

You take a breath. Smile.

“Clark Kent just hard-launched me to the entire newsroom.”

[zeka-maki]

HI i love ur writing tbh, could u do aventurine, sunday, phainon (and maybe other characters u want too add, i really don't mind) with a gn reader that's super clingy in private but when they meet in public they are a completely diff person?? If you do this thank you so mcuh oh my goodness because this is my first time requesting ^__^ (ps i love your account theme!!)

ʚɞ And I wanna spend some time with you, just the two of us ʚɞ

Pairings: Phainon x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader

Summary: Having a clingy lover, he thinks he's won in life. Until his lover becomes distant in public. Spiraling, he tries to figure out what's wrong. Only to find out you dislike the attention it attracts, now he needs extra hours of love as compensation.

Tags: Fluff, established relationship, Implied AE!Reader on Sunday's part but they can be a guest too,

A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! Jejwkwkw I'm glad you like the theme!!! No need to be nervous dww 🫡 hope i wrote this the way you wanted, enjoy!

⚘ Phainon:

Phainon never imagined anyone could rival him in clinginess — until he met you. At home, you’re always wrapped around him: lying on his chest, kissing his cheek, clutching his hand like you’ll float away if you let go. It makes his heart flutter so much he thinks it might combust.

So when you approach him in the Marmoreal Market and barely say a word, his world falters a little.

You don’t greet him with a kiss, or even a hug. Just a short hello. He blinks, stunned. “Are you… feeling alright?” he asks, voice unsure.

“Yeah. Just came to see you,” you say plainly, eyes already scanning the shops around you.

Phainon goes quiet. His mind races. Did he forget something? Your birthday? An anniversary? Did he say something wrong? Why won’t you look at him like you usually do?

He walks close to you, trailing your steps like a sad puppy. Even when you brush him off gently, he stays near — loyal and quietly heartbroken.

By the time you’re both home, he finally snaps. He wraps you in his arms in a desperate hug, clinging so tightly you nearly lose your breath. His face is tucked against your shoulder.

“…I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

You blink. “For what?”

“I don’t know. Just… sorry.”

You sigh softly, stroking his back. “Phai, there’s nothing to be sorry for. I just didn’t want to attract attention, that’s all. It’s not about you. I promise.”

His arms fall away. He stares at the ground. Then gently, he bumps his forehead against your shoulder, like a silent request.

You get the message and hug him again. He immediately latches back on, burying his face into your neck.

“I love you,” he mumbles into your skin. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” Like a chant to calm his panicked little heart.

⚘ Aventurine:

What Aventurine loves most about you is how clingy you are behind closed doors. In the quiet warmth of your home, you wrap yourself around him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear, and he eats up every second of it. It makes him feel wanted — truly, deeply loved. He wouldn't trade it for anything. A clingy lover? That’s the jackpot of his life.

So when he sees you walking into the casino, he lights up immediately. A sly, affectionate smile pulls at his lips. He stands up right in the middle of a game, brushing off the table like it means nothing.

“Sweetheart! Come to check up on me? How sweet of you,” he says, charm practically dripping from his voice.

“Oh. Yes. I just wanted to check in,” you reply, coolly — almost like you’re greeting a co-worker.

Aventurine freezes. Smile still intact, but there's a flicker in his eyes. He waits for more. A wink, a teasing remark, maybe a hidden kiss behind a hand of cards. Nothing comes.

“What happened to my usual ‘Good morning, my beautiful Aventurine’?” he says with a laugh that sounds a bit too forced.

No hugs, no kisses, no fingers tangling in his tie — he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you sit beside him silently. You’re calm. Collected. As if the two of you weren’t just tangled up on the couch this morning.

By the time you both return home, he’s trying not to spiral. And then — you kiss him. No hesitation. No distance. Just affection, pure and bright.

He looks at you, confused, even hurt. “…So nothing’s wrong?”

You smile softly. “Didn’t want to attract attention, love.”

Aventurine exhales like he just survived a fire. He pulls you in tight, burying his face in your neck with a dramatic groan.

“You should’ve warned me,” he grumbles. “I was this close to blowing all our savings and fleeing the planet.” Drama queen to the end — but yours, always.

⚘ Sunday:

Sunday’s not the clingy type. He loves affection, sure — he just doesn’t need it every second of the day. But you? You’re clingy in the most lovable way, and he’s always happy to indulge you. Whether you're clinging to his back in the kitchen or curling up in his lap on the couch, he never complains.

So when you slide into a seat beside him in the Astral Express parlor, quietly greeting him with a neutral “Hey,” he raises an eyebrow.

No nickname. No brush of your hand on his. Just silence and space.

He doesn’t push. He merely glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips twitching in thought. He watches you scroll through your phone while March chats with Dan Heng nearby. You're distant — deliberately so.

He waits.

And waits.

No explanation. No excuse.

By the time you return to his room together, he closes the door gently and wraps an arm around your waist, still calm but serious now. His golden eyes search yours.

You pause, then sigh. “Sorry, angel. I didn’t want to draw attention. March would’ve never let me live it down if I got all over you in public.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Then he leans his head on your shoulder with a tiny, amused pout.

“…I forgive you,” he says at last. “But you’re staying with me tonight. No takebacks.”

Oh, he’s playing the long game. Scheming bird indeed.

[goobstars]

Hey! I’m genuinely in love with the way you write, you make sure the characters are..well, in character which can be difficult, so I applaud you for that 🫶🏼.

I have a request though! Could you possibly, if you like the idea, write a Sebastian x Reader where the reader typically calls their friends (and people they feel closer to) by endearing nicknames, but since they haven’t had any social interaction with anyone besides Sebastian in a long while..they start accidentally calling him names such as ‘love’, ‘babe’; etc without realising. Maybe he gets flustered by it, but they never notice that. And he decides enough is enough, so he decides to do the same to see their reaction? Even better if they both have unspoken feelings for each other!

𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

summary : after hearing you call him nicknames for so long, sebastian decides that it was time he did the same.

tags : romance, nicknames, and bold sebastian.

note : thank you, and i totally didn't freak out when i read this request. (i did. i did freak out when i read this request you are a genius, anon.)

sebastian had been called many things throughout his time in the blacksite.

handyman, the saboteur, shopkeeper, fishman, fishyboy, and fairly vulgar things that would take forever to repeat if he said all of them. yet, out of all those nicknames, they never were out of endearment. they didn't make him feel anything. the only emotion he felt when people called him names was irritation.

or, at least that was until you came along.

throughout your first few runs, you called him by his name and left it at that. you'd greet him before entering the shop, buying whatever you needed, and then bidding him goodbye before continuing your journey throughout the blacksite. he didn't think much of you, of course. you were just the expendable that he somewhat tolerated since you treated him with respect, and he believed that it would stay that way.

you both would just help each other with what the other needed, and that's all there was to it.

but then those simple greetings you gifted him turned into conversations.

you started to refer to him as 'seb' whenever you entered his shop through the vent, and you'd go on about different things as you patched yourself up with a medkit. sometimes it would be about how you almost got snatched up by the searchlights, or how you just barely survived an encounter with the chainsmoker given how slow it was.

during those times, you'd really only talk about the blacksite, so sebastian couldn't be too irritated. it amused him to hear about how you just barely escaped the murderous monsters of the facility, and he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy your stories sometimes. it was nice to have a small conversation with someone who wasn't plotting to flash him with a beacon.

and after a bit, sebastian noticed how you'd start to stay longer. you wouldn't call him 'seb' anymore, but rather random nicknames that came to mind. the only thing about those nicknames?

they were terms of endearment.

the type of nicknames that sebastian wasn't used to.

if he was being sincere, he probably wouldn't have thought much about it if it wasn't for the fact you called him such things as if it were completely normal—like you had been calling him those things ever since you both first met.

you'd give him a quick hi, and it'd be followed by either handsome or love. you'd thank him, but of course, why would you just leave it at that? you just had to add babe to the end of it, didn't you?

now, every time you leave his shop, he's only filled with questions. why were you calling him these things? why were you so normal about those nicknames? was he supposed to make a comment on them? was this you trying to tell him something without actually saying it?

and the one that clouded his mind most of all, why did he like it when you called him by those names?

no matter how many times he tried to deny it, he couldn't excuse the way his face grew warm when you called him handsome, or the way he slowly started to look forward to your visits.

luckily for him, you never noticed his flustered state when you entered his shop. you just chatted as you purchased items, and he wondered how you didn't see the evident flush on his face whenever you glanced at him.

were you that oblivious, or were you aware of what your words were doing to him?

no matter what it was, sebastian had decided that he was tired of you being the only one to use nicknames. he was tired of watching you heedlessly smile at him like you weren't aware of what you were doing to him.

so, as soon as you came to his shop, he'd do something that he had been plotting for quite a long time.

fortunately for him, you didn't keep his plan waiting.

sebastian peered up from his hands before clasping them together, and he heard your light hums echo from the vent while the metal creaked.

your head poked out as you looked around, and once your gaze rested on sebastian, you shot him a smile.

you pushed yourself out of the vent before standing up, and you looked down at your clothes as you dusted them off.

"hi, handsome!" you greeted as you peered up at him, and you walked over to grasp the keycard that was by the radio before slotting it into the pocket of your jumpsuit. this was going to have to be a quick sebastian visit, for you had plans to check out the ridge, and that meant you had to go through about fifty more sets of doors.

so, that also meant you didn't really have time to chat. did you feel remorseful? yes, but the ridge was something that had been bugging you for a while, and you needed to get familiar with it as soon as possible.

"welcome back," sebastian spoke, and you noticed a light hue that crossed his face, but you didn't think much about it as you walked up to his tail.

there wasn't much that you wanted—let alone needed. you already had plenty of batteries, a medkit, and a flashlight. you were set.

but you couldn't just come in here without buying anything, right? you already weren't sticking around for long, so you might as well get something.

your attention settled on a code breacher as you shifted your backpack off your shoulders, and you opened it before handing some research to sebastian. "i'll take the code breacher."

sebastian took the research from your grasp as he nodded, and you plucked the code breacher from his pouch. this could be helpful in case you couldn't find a keycard, or maybe you'd come across one of those rooms that has the little kits in it. those typically had good items, or loads of research.

either way, you'd just have this on hand in case you needed it.

"thank you, babe!" you stuffed the code breacher into your backpack before zipping it up, and you placed it onto your shoulders as you smiled at sebastian. "i think that's all i want.." you uttered as you eyed his tail, and you turned around on your heel so you were facing the vent.

and that confused sebastian.

you were already leaving? you barely even spoke to him.

the man partially frowned as you gave him a wave, but you didn't even look at him. why were you already leaving? sebastian barely even got a chance to say anything.

"what's got you in such a rush?" he questioned, and you glanced over your shoulder. "i'm trying to get to the ridge with enough stuff as possible so i can explore it a bit. i want to get familiar with the area, you know?"

sebastian only nodded at your explanation, and you waved at him before looking forward once more. "anyways, i'll see you later!"

but before you could even take a step forward, sebastian cleared his throat.

"well, are you sure that's all you want, sweetheart?"

when it came to your reaction, sebastian didn't put much thought into it. he believed that you'd either just dismiss his words and leave his shop, or that you'd possibly get excited that he finally gave you a nickname. he never really called you anything but your name, so it wouldn't shock him if you were thrilled that he finally called you something else. it seemed like a thing you'd do.

but instead of those assumed reactions, you whipped around to stare at sebastian with wide eyes.

"what did you just call me?"

your words were spoken hastily, and sebastian stared at you for a minute before a chuckle left his throat. now, he didn't expect this, but he wasn't complaining.

you were staring at him in hopes that he'd answer your question, but he wasn't paying attention to that. rather, he was eyeing your flustered form.

and he'd be an idiot to say he didn't like what he was seeing.

"you heard me." his sentence was followed by a smirk, and at your silence, he tilted his head. "what? am i not allowed to give you a nickname? that seems a bit hypocritical, don't you think?"

"i never said that—" you asserted, "i just didn't expect you to give me one."

"and why's that, honey?"

his question appeared to rattle you even more as you slightly stammered before replying to him. "i don't know..."

you were quiet, and sebastian should've just left it like that, but he didn't want to. he wanted to make you speechless. he wanted you to know exactly how he felt every time you strolled into his shop with those nicknames flying off your tongue.

"don't tell me you're flustered over a little name..."

sebastian's voice was low as he leaned down, and his face was slightly in front of yours. you felt his hand grasp your chin while his eyes went lidded. his thumb grazed your bottom lip, and despite the fact you were quiet, your mind was screaming.

"are you, sweetheart?"

were three words really all it took for your mind to go blank?

you stood there in silence as your gaze flickered over sebastian's face, and all of the stuff you had shrugged off before became noticable. the hue that flushed on his face earlier was now a bit darker, and his eyes held a certain light in them that made you lean into his touch.

sebastian didn't even seem shocked at your action, and more than anything, he seemed satisfied with it. his smirk faltered as he leaned in closer, and his lips hovered over yours.

yet, neither of you made the first move.

his breath cascaded against your skin as your hand twitched, and you slowly lifted it to grasp his wrist. at your touch, his thumb left your lip while his forehead pressed against yours.

and you believed that was it. you truly thought that he was going to make a move, and as you leaned in, you were met with his hand gently pushing you back so you couldn't kiss him.

"don't you have somewhere to be?" his query was followed by a chuckle, and you frowned at him.

"i hate you..." you mumbled, and his grip on your chin loosened. "you say that as if you weren't trying to kiss me."

"i'm leaving—"

before you could finish your sentence, his lips pressed against yours, and a surprised hum escaped your throat. after a moment, you eased into the kiss while sebastian's thumb slowly started to caress your skin.

but, unfortunately, breathing existed.

sebastian pulled away from you, and his hand released your chin as he partially leaned away from you. the smirk on his face was still apparent as you stared at him, and he gestured towards the vent.

"be careful, sweetheart..."

and with that, you took a step back before turning around. you hastily made your way over to the vent before crawling through it, and you didn't bother to look back because you knew if you did, you would've wanted to stay.

sebastian straightened his posture as he eyed the vent, and when he heard the echo of the next door beeping before shifting open, he raised a hand to his mouth as his fingers grazed his lips.

you were cute when you were flustered.

maybe he'd have to give you call you nicknames more often.

[telephoniii]

Platonic!diasomnia reaction to malleus's little sister (y/n) saying "I wanna marry silver when I grow up!" How would they react?

THE WEDDING FIASCO

☆彡 in which malleus's sister wants to marry silver

platonic!diasomnia + malleus's little sister

word count: 190 per character + a 250 scenario at the end

tags: probably ooc but I had fun writing this, platonic, crackfick/very unserious

a/n: possibly the silliest thing I've written. i was going for normal headcanons and it spiraled out of control. lot's of fun little shenanigans. i hope you enjoy :>

sebek zigvolt

Well, Sebek's completely devoted to his master, Malleus. And Malleus's sister is an extension of Malleus to some extent... "Silver! Marry the young girl at once!" "What!?" After the initial shock, Sebek is a little offended by the fact she chose Silver over him. I mean, what attracted her to Silver and not him? He's the superior choice! He's way better at protecting Malleus compared to his lazy, human counterpart! Subconsciously starts doing cool stuff in front of the young girl to try and change her mind. Ironically, he tries to do moves that he's yet to master and falls on his ass. Tries to play it off like it didn't hurt that much when in front of Malleus's sister but once he's out of her sight he's crying. Sebek has no idea why he's vying for the attention of a child, but he's determined to win. At least it helps him get his practice in? With time he'll grow out of this 'phase' but he still doesn't like the thought that this child thinks Silver is the cooler attendant.

lilia vanrouge

Finds the situation very funny. "Sure you will, sweetheart." He teases Silver a lot, telling him he'd better find a partner soon before Lilia marries him off to the young girl. He'll tease Malleus too. "Your sister is fresh out of her egg and she's already found love before you~" Of course, he does have a bit of a fatherly possessiveness over her though. For as much as he teases, he starts having Silver around her less and less, sending him off to attend to Malleus while Sebek watches the young girl. He knows there's no chance in the universe that Silver and Malleus's sister would get together. It's just... dad instincts. The longer this goes on, the more he'll start saying things like, "No boys until you're ruling the kingdom." It gets to a point where the young girl starts crying because Malleus told her a relationship like that wouldn't work. Lilia swears he's turning gray. He tries to calmly explain to the girl that she's way too young and that another boy (or girl) will appear later down the road. In short? Found it funny at first but once it starts to drag on longer he's getting STRESSED.

malleus draconia

Oh! How peculiar. "A relationship between a Draconia and their attendant wouldn't work. Especially one of such a large age gap." He states like it's the most obvious thing in the world right next to his sister— crushing the young girl's dreams. Malleus really didn't have any malice when he said that. It was merely just him thinking aloud. He didn't anticipate for his younger sister to start crying. Malleus didn't know how to handle her and tossed her to Lilia. After hearing how much trouble Lilia is having calming her down, Malleus actually thinks about it for a moment. "Silver? How would you feel marrying a fae?" "... Please tell me you're not seriously considering it." An actual marriage might be troublesome, so Malleus proposes the idea of a fake marriage. Have her think she's married to Silver when in reality it's all just pretend. It's not like Silver is getting an actual partner anytime soon. With a snap of the fingers, he's arranged a fake bridal venue set up. Malleus easily gathered guests to attend and prepared a beautiful white dress for his sister. Is it way overboard for a fake wedding? 100%. But whatever makes his sister stop crying.

silver

The man of the hour. Unbothered at first. Might get a little flustered and murmur a 'Thank you', but that's about it. Everyone gets silly crushes sometime in their life, don't they? He doesn't really entertain her but doesn't avoid her. The guy just does his job. It's not until the other three start acting different where he's starting to get worried. The fact that Sebek and Malleus have both asked him to marry the young girl makes him panic a bit. He doesn't want to be the guy to marry a girl when he's twice her age?! Dragon years or not, that girl is way too young for him! He did not sign up for this. Silver considers asking someone, anyone, to date him so that he could just turn down the young girl gently. When Malleus proposes the idea of a fake marriage? Oh Silver wishes this was a dream. What do you mean he has to fake marry her. WHAT. Silver could never imagine arguing with Malleus, but he is mortified. He agreed only to get the young girl to stop crying. But internally he's the one crying.

.

.

Wedding bells ring at NRC and students are lined up in chairs, watching intently as Silver stands in front of everyone in a suit and tie. He's unbelievably tense. This is the one event where he isn't dozing off. And it's the one event where he wants to.

The Prefect soon rises to take the mic with a smile. They look down at the paper on the podium and begin reading. "Hello! Today we are gathered to celebrate the marriage of Silver and... Ms. Draconia?"

Malleus may or may not have forgotten to tell the guests that this was a fake marriage.

Suddenly, the doors burst open as Malleus's little sister walks down the aisle in white. Jaws are to the floor; there are whispers asking, "Is this legal??" None of it matters as the young girl takes her place to stand across Silver. The Prefect gives both of them concerned glances and contemplates whether or not to continue. Very hesitantly, they do.

"... Ms. Draconia, do you take Silver to be your wedded husband till death?" "I do!" The Prefect shoots Silver a what the hell is going on look before lifting the mic back up to their mouth to speak once more.

"And, Silver, do you take Ms. Draconia to be your wedded wife? Till death do you part?" "...Sure."

The Prefect now looks very disturbed as they clear their throat and continue to read off the paper.

"... Cool. Now, any objections?"

The entire room raises their hand.

Needless to say, the girl got over her crush.

[lithish]

so i went digging through the wacky watch's guts...

and found EXACT LISTS of all the 'quick facts' that can show up on any individual character's page!

i should note that i've been trying to get this post in the tag for DAYS, but it wouldn't show up. the original post is still up, you can go find it, it's true!

ANYWAYS, INTO THE MEAT OF IT! obviously, there’s a list of common phrases that are shared by every single character, including caine. these are as follows:

Was arrested in Toronto for screaming at modern art back in 1983

They famously can't tie their own shoes!

Known for inventing the phrase 'find the needle in the haystack, in reverse'.

In 1974, they famously led a group of protesters to the ministry of winter.

They own the largest chain of restaurants which are all built in the shape of a chicken.

They are Brutalist architecture's number one fan, they go on all the forums and praise it.

They are Brutalist architecture's number one hater, they go on all the forums and hate on it.

They once travelled between Montreal to Tokyo via Canoe because they're stupid.

They are the new property owners of Mels Hole.

They infamously ate 40 pounds of Chocolate in less than an hour one time!

They are the tallest characters in the circus, but only when they hand stand.

They famously won 7 simultaneous court cases in just one day.

On a trip to a New Jersey airfield, they might have accidentally caused the infamous Hindenburg Disaster.

They have the largest match box collection in the world, minus the matches, that and the boxes

They secretly created a life size replica of the Sydney Opera house made entirely of match sticks

The most Green, non Green character who is really Purple deep down, but physically they are Blue.

They are well known for their incredible fast gum chewing abilities

su evas su pleh namdam a si eniaC ,su evas su pleh namdam a si eniaC

naturally, if you reverse that last one, you get the following:

Caine is a madman help us save us, Caine is a madman help us save us

unsettling! and speaking of caine, he has a few lines that are COMPLETELY unique to his page! these are:

Bubble why...

You should probably vote for him…

They are EVERYONE's best friend!!!

now, about that last one — all seven characters have a certain set of facts that identify them as someone else’s best friend or rival (for example, "They are Pomni's best friend!"). at a glance, these may seem trivial, but despite being templated they are all VERY SPECIFIC and unique to each character. in fact, they seem to reflect things we already know about the characters’ relationships with one another while also providing some nifty new insights!

here’s a quick breakdown of what’s what there:

Kinger

Lists everyone as a rival. 

Only lists Ragatha and Pomni as friends.

Zooble

Lists everyone as a rival but Gangle.

Lists everyone but Jax as a friend.

Pomni

Lists everyone as a rival. 

Only lists Ragatha, Kinger, and Jax as friends. 

Jax

Lists only Ragatha, Zooble, and Gangle as rivals. 

Lists only Kinger and Pomni as friends. 

Gangle

Lists everyone as a rival by Zooble. 

Has the most unique friend convention - everyone is a friend but specifically Zooble and Pomni have two exclamation points, while Jax has a question mark. 

Ragatha

Lists everyone as a rival. 

Lists only Kinger and Pomni as friends. 

note that caine is listed in absolutely none of these. :) 

anyways, what’s neat about this is the insight it might provide into who each member of the cast trusts… AND who they DON’T trust. AND who they may feel conflicted about trusting! going into episode 6, which seems to focus on exactly that, i personally am feeling both more and less terrified with this knowledge in hand.

DO AS YOU WILL WITH THIS POWER!

(also shoutout to @poppyfromtheinternet for help combing through and formatting this info, as well as writing this post!)

[olderthannetfic]

Sorry, but your blog audience seemed ideal to vent about this topic.

That's it. I understand the desire to put something in cursive for emphasis and expressiveness reasons, I truly do. (Even if it tends to be overused). But the random cursive/capitalisation/all together on one "cultural" world in the middle of the sentence I do not understand. For example, some random japanise word for Japan-specific (or not) thing in a japanese setting and its in cursive. For fuck's sake, why fanfic authors keep doing it?

Do they want to underline "cultureness" of it? A weird way of showing how woke and enlightened they are for putting emphasis on words from foreign cultures?? For using words from the languages those cultures belong to? Just the quirk of some immature writing? What is it??? I am truly grasping at the straws here.

I've seen it across all fandoms I am in, though the severity and quantity varied. Maybe only Startrek was the only sane outlier, saved by the older fanbase. The manga/anime fandoms are the worst offenders here, given that either the characters are Japanese, or the plot os happenning in Japan.

For context of this rant: lately I've decided to return to Genshin fandom on Ao3, check what's new in my preferred ships and tags, etc. So, in this cursed random fic I clicked on we have a character from Russia-inspired in-game nation, a character from China-inspired in-game nation and they are talking about about some places and things from Japan-inspired in-game nation. In a span of less than ten paragraphs I have been blasted with: Kanzashi, Congee, Baobei, Solnyshko, Ryokan, Pirozhki, Kholodets, Kefir, Erhu, Wagashi, Baozi, Puer. Yes, capitalized and italicized in the middle of the sentence. Absolutely normal words (national food, terms of endearment, etc) with no plot relevance. Why. Why.

(Tumblr may be not Tumblering so cursive in my text may not be showing. Ironic)

--

Do you mean

italics

or

cursive?

I agree that that collection of words is a doozy.

But if you're asking why anyone would do this at all, various style guides do suggest using italics or quotes for foreign words that aren't usually borrowed into English. Most style guides have you do this for key concepts in your nonfiction article, and often, only the first time they appear.

It's a complete misunderstanding of this style advice to use it for most fiction or for words that are just loan words you'll find in an English dictionary, however foreign their origin.

The time I might do it in fiction would be to indicate that a character is doing that ridiculous thing where they have a totally American (or whatever) accent and then pronounce a specific foreign word ~authentically~ in a pretentious way. I still wouldn't capitalize those words though.

I suppose I could justify capitalizing 'baobei' and 'solnyshko' if they're being treated more as consistent nicknames than as ad hoc terms of endearment, but it's a bit of a reach. I wouldn't italicize them (except to indicate the shift of accent as above). The rest of the list is loan words that need no special style.

--

Here's someone's round up of some style guide advice if you want to know about the competent version of this:

[sourkiki]

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

NOTE: hihi, i decided to make a WIPS list for me to keep track and for you guys to have a sneak peek of what i have in store hehe. do take note some of the content shown here might change when i get to writing it. if you wish to be tag, just send an ask off-anon and i'll tag you when the teasers for the fics are done! (except for meddle about). also there's a chance i might not write all of them because let's be honest; this is me we're talking about!

𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆.

soundtrack.

[ I ] exs to lovers, producer au, has lots of plot, implied suggestive content, heeseung is trying his best here.

[ synopsis ] When you're asked (forced) to work with Lee Heeseung; your ex and an infamous song producer on a singer's full album, you had to face him again after ending your relationship. As you spend more time together, your feelings for him start to return. Will you make the same mistake again as before?

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆.

meddle about. (teaser out!)

[ I ] friends with benefit relationship, guitarist! jay x fan! reader, jay has committment issues, reader has some issues here, happy ending.

[ synopsis ] Being in a friends with benefit relationship with a guitarist from an infamous rock band spells nothing but trouble for the both of you. You had told yourself to not fall in love with him, to maintain the distance. But as time goes on and the lines start to blur, you realized you've fallen into a deep hole. You ended up backing out and Jay only realized his mistake when it was too late.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐍.

cold hands, colder heart.

[ I ] arranged marriage, angst, hurt with comfort, sunghoon is trying his best here, sunghoon is emotionally constipated, happy ending.

[ synopsis ] Being married to the CEO; Park Sunghoon, is not filled with laugher and love. Instead, it's filled with silence, treating one another like strangers and harsh exchange of words that deal more damage than one could think. Could the two of you ever find love in this life that none of you wanted? Or, are you simply doomed to live like this, forever?

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐖𝐎𝐍.

turbulence in heat.

[ I ] arranged marriage, omegaverse, pilot! jungwon x fem! model! reader, porn with plot, jungwon's kinda mean and cold here, angst, angst with comfort, fluff if you squint, happy ending.

[ synopsis ] Jungwon was never at home—always travelling around the world, spending most of his time in both airports and hotels. You, on the other hand, spend your time in studios. Everything was fine until, you were told if you don't spend your heat with your partner, there's a possibility of you dying.

𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐀 𝐍𝐈-𝐊𝐈.

the devil wears uniform (epilogue).

[ I ] established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, domestic fluff, angst, hurt with comfort, mentions of family issues, porn.

[ synopsis ] Everything was peaceful for a while, with you and your boyfriend; Riki, enjoying your time in Austraila. Riki had started planning on his proposal with the help of your shared group of friends. What he didn't expect however, is for an unwanted face to barge into his life without warning.

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐍.

ghost girl.

[ I ] heavy angst, hurt with no comfort, major character death, fluff if you squint, open ending, husband! yeonjun x deceased! wife! reader, heavy grieving.

[ synopsis ] Yeonjun couldn't accept it—your death. He wanders between dream and reality and somehow, you kept appearing before him. Maybe, just maybe, everything was a dream from the start.

off-limit.

[ I ] sister's best friend troupe, college/univeristy au, sexual tension, light angst, fluff, implied mature content, porn with plot, horny yeonjun (said what i said).

[ synopsis ] Yeonjun knew he shouldn't fall for someone like you—his younger sister's best friend. But fuck, he doesn't know if he can control himself whenever he's around you. Yeonjun always find himself fighting his innerself whenever you're in the same room as him. It was only a matter of time before he loses his mind. What he didn't expect is however, for you to feel the same way towards him.

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐎𝐌𝐆𝐘𝐔.

the 'one last summer' promise.

[ I ] childhood friends to lovers, summer romance, tooth-rotting fluff, beomgyu being beomgyu, reader getting mixed signals, light suggestive content, slow burn.

[ synopsis ] With graduation around the corner, you decided to spend one last summer at home before everything changes. You didn't expect your childhood friend; Beomgyu, to still be the same annoying and weird person he is. And he didn't forget the ridiculous pinkie-promise you made "if we're still single at 25, we'll marry one another." As you spend more time with him, your feelings start to waver. What will you choose?

[smooshednetwork]

Here’s a list of random things in a fic that make me immediately dnf or just not read at all in no particular order (aside from the obvious cause we wanna keep things fresh around here):

Disclaimer: I do not care, write and read whatever fics you want this is my own opinion and it should not be changing your opinion on anything

1: No paragraphs, absolute nightmare for me to read I always loose track of where I am and in most cases it’s just not worth it, words cannot describe the feeling of disappointment when I click on a fic and it’s all one big hunk of words.

2: tickle fics, I have just an unreasonable amount of dislike for these fics for no reason whatsoever. I should not hate these fics as much as I do.

3: pregnancy fics, the reason being I don’t fucking care about these characters babies. Idc if it’s mpreg or fpreg I will avoid both like the plague. 💔

4: age regression slash nonsexual “ageplay”, I just don’t like it, mainly cause I can’t relate to the age regression but also I just don’t find them fun to read, I have nothing against age regression or age regressors it doesn’t have anything to do with me and if that’s what you wanna do then cool go ahead, but I will still avoid these fics at all costs, no offense.

5: breakups slash cheating slash divorce. I love angst, I love when it’s so heavy the characters want to die, but this I just I just can’t get behind, if it’s a side pairing I don’t care about then I don’t really mind but if it’s like the main pairing I read the fic for like bruh you better get back together otherwise I will start punching metal for fun. I’ll read a breakup fic if i like the tags and length enough like sure why not but cheating with the guilt or divorce I just don’t like it. Not reading it if it’s too long though I don’t wanna get invested in these characters romance just for them to break up in the second last chapter. I like my pairings LOYAL.

Ok that’s it bye I’ll make another list for tags I like one day maybe idk have a good day

[kurapikapikachuu]

In your Smile

Dahlia x Reader

✦ summary ✦

Whispers in town tell you that you're not an ideal match for the favoured Deacon in Mondstadt. And though Dahlia's smile is the one thing you wish to protect, the words get the better of you. All in one night, Dahlia realises he needs to deal with his personal matters before the matters of his people.

Tags: fluff, mostly angst, hurt/comfort, suggestive content - kissing/biting, gender neutral terms

Word count: 1.6k

A/N: I couldn't stop thinking about Dahlia, I think I want to write more about him because his character is just so interesting.

⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡

Dahlia is a lively person. He loves people, he loves talking to them, understanding them, helping them. He could strike up a conversation with a stranger who was purposefully trying to blend into the walls and make them feel comfortable stepping away from it. All with a charming smile.

And that was exactly how he had approached you.

He approached you, pursued you, and continued to parade you around as his darling sweetheart.

You didn’t know what he liked about you. But you knew he adored you.

You tried not to think about it too deeply, but sometimes, it was difficult.

Since Dahlia was an important figure in the Favonius Cathedral, he was a central to the citizens of Mondstadt. And that came with… complications.

Eyes.

And lots of them.

Everyone knew Dahlia, and by association, they now knew you.

The person who would blend into the walls in any situation. You didn’t do it on purpose. It was just by habit. You were quiet, and kept to yourself. You didn’t think that would bother people so much, but it did. Whispers would soon arise.

“The Deacon’s precious lover never seems to smile”

“The Deacon deserves someone just as lively as he is”

“Perhaps Lord Barbatos is still searching for someone more suited for the Deacon”

You pretend not to hear the whispers, you didn’t think people could be so cruel in a holy space. But they are. You believe in the lord, and only hope he teaches his people to be more considerate of their words. Especially since Dahlia himself is aware of them.

Dahlia never addresses it. How could he? It wasn’t a good look. But he did hold onto your hand a little firmer as you walked back home. Kissed you a little longer, held you a little tighter and loved you a little harder. You pretended it didn’t affect you all whilst this happened, you didn’t want to place more stress onto him.

To you, Dahlia’s smile was the most important thing in all of Teyvat.

“Those two don’t know it yet, but I’m going to set them up soon. I’ve been planning it for some time, I’m gonna lock them up in a room…”

Dahlia was on his usual spill to you about what he’s been hearing and been up to during his time at work. You always loved listening to it. You were basking in the sun on a bench, Dahlia had his head rested on your lap as you run your fingers through his soft pink locks.

You giggle softly at him and his eyes seem to widen a little as he looks up to you. You don’t notice these things, but he absolutely adores the way you smile, the sounds you make as you laugh. His cheeks are a little rosier but he continues to talk about his day, hoping to make you laugh a little more, it was like an addiction. That was all he wanted to do.

If he could, he wanted to live in your smile.

He wondered if a small part of him truly liked being in people’s business because he got to talk to you about it. To him, you were talkative and lively, just in your own way – and that was perfect for him.

But over time, he found your light dimming. Your smile, fading.

He spent a little longer at the cathedral since his prayers seemed to extend longer and longer with these thoughts. But he also grew more aggravated when he heard a single more whisper that uttered your name.

“The Deacon’s lover seems to stray away from the cathedral. They’ve strayed from our lord.”  

He had just finished the last service of the night and was ready to leave. He wasn’t the type to let a word or two sour his mood. But this spoke of your sacred name, and the lord.

His walk home was silent since you weren’t there with him. He wondered what you were up to. He sighs as he thinks back to the empty space he would usually look to when he was in the Cathedral.

You hadn’t come for weeks now. He never asked. You gave him various reasons, but he didn’t believe them – at least not now.

Not when he saw you sat on the couch staring blankly at the tv, the tv that wasn’t even on. You seem to snap out of your daze when you hear the door close. He smiles from ear to ear, and you smile back softly. It broke his heart.

He didn’t know what to do.

He’s never been confrontational with his personal matters, only the matters of other people. It was easy to tell others what to do, but not himself. He understood that now.

He doesn’t have to make his way to you because you come up to the kitchen, you smile softly as you uncover the meal you had made him.

“I made your favourite”

Dahlia feels his heart warm, “Thank you. And I bought your favourite cake. Looks like we both have each other in our minds, huh”

You mumble a small thank you, but your eyes dart away from his. Theres a little silence between you two before you open your mouth to speak. Except nothing comes out. You feel your throat clog up, and it burns. You close your mouth shut again.

Dahlia notices.

“What’s wrong, hm?” he pouts, his eyes looking beady and doe. The way his eyebrows scrunch upwards makes you want to melt right into goo. His voice is so hushed now. His palms already reaching to cup the side of your cheek,

“Am I…boring?” you suddenly say and he freezes. He didn’t know what he was expecting to hear, but this wasn’t it. He didn’t have time to think. He just wanted to see you smile again, and right now, you looked furthest away from a smile. So he spouted the only thing he could think of,

“Why does it matter? I’m fun for the both of us, aren’t I?”

Dahlia scrunches his eyes closed as the words come out, instantly hating how he sounded. It was awful, and he knew it when he started to see you inhale a little sharper. And now, your lips were starting to tremble.

“C’mon, you know I wasn’t serious, right? I was just playing. Hey. You’re not boring. I’m sorry, I should have been a little softer with my words.”

He says quickly, trying to save himself. Really, he just wanted to lighten up the mood. But he was learning quickly that that wasn’t what you needed anymore. It wasn’t what either of you needed.

“It’s okay. I know. I’m sorry.” you say, looking to your hands, your fingers are fidgeting with each other, he can tell you’re nervous, and that you’re holding back. And with some silence, your mind begins to race in circles around itself.

“Don’t apologise, you didn’t do anything wrong” he starts, a little cautious with what he says at he continues to look at you with concerned eyes. You make no move to look at him. To Dahlia, you look like a child that has been scolded for doing something wrong.

“I think… I think we should break up”

The words start to break down the fake mask Dahlia had been wearing all day. He never wear’s it around you, but today, he had to. And today, it broke down.

“What?”

You didn’t say anymore, there was nothing more to say. And you couldn’t look at him either, he looked heartbroken.

That smile that you cherished so much, it was gone.

He wasn’t just upset, he was frightened.

“Hey, no. No no no. We’re not doing that. Please, talk to me”

You didn’t like that look on his face. The one that started to blame himself, so you told the truth. Even if you sounded childish and weak. You didn’t care anymore. You already looked and felt pathetic enough.

“I don’t deserve you. Everyone in town thinks so too”

“Aww my sweet Cecilia... c’mere” amidst your tears Dahlia begins to rope you in closer. His hands are always soft, gentle, as they settle on your waist. His arms wrap gingerly around you and props you up onto the counter, “you’re all too pretty when you cry, y’know? But it still breaks my heart seeing you like this”

“You’re so good to me, if anything, I am the one who doesn’t deserve you” he kisses you softly, leaning back only to look you in the eyes, “I pray to our lord to allow me the grace of having you in my life. I thank him every night for your existence. So please don’t say things like that”

He watches you as you try to calm yourself down, sniffling and wiping at the tears that made you feel so much more pathetic.

“I seem to put everyone else’s struggles in front of our own. That is entirely my fault.” He shakes his head with a sigh. His eyes, they look tired, but, they were honest. You felt safe. Even if your mind was clouded and your heart was clenching.

“I won’t let you leave, not until you let me fix this. Please.”

You nod your head slowly, noting the fire in his eyes. He was serious, and he was determined. It was probably the look he had whenever he had to solve the many dilemmas he’s encountered.

“You’re too good for me” he mumbles, leaning in to kiss you once more. This time, deeper. Slower, then rougher. Your arms had already clutched onto the back of his neck, feeling yourself holding on tighter as he pressed himself closer. Impossibly closer, as if he was afraid you’d leave at any moment. But you weren’t going anywhere – and he would never let you either.

You feel his lips ghost over your skin. His teeth grazing and biting into you with each word, almost like a prayer. It was painful, but you didnt mind it.

“So precious.”

“Don’t ever think any less.”

“You are my greatest blessing.”

“I’ll protect you, I promise.”

“Our love is sacred.”

“I won’t let your smile be tainted any longer. That is my oath”

A/N: crying cos all they want is to keep each other smiling, but they're just in pain

[ineffabildaddy]

fic nostalgia tag game

Share the fic you posted as close to exactly one year ago as possible. You can just post a link if you like, but feel free to talk about it too! How did you feel about this fic then, how do you feel now? Do you love it, hate it, has your writing changed at all? Anything you’d do differently in hindsight? Go nuts!

thank you so much for the tags @hazel-sage, @adverbian and @voluptatiscausa!

the fic i posted closest to one year ago (one year and two days ago to be precise) is angel and ash, with wonderful art by @wasleichtes!

this was written for the @transomensevents minibang and it was a really fun project. this doesn't happen often for me, but i managed to get most of it done in one day - i had spent the first 2k words or so of the 5k word limit fiddling around a little bit every so often, and then one evening i just said 'right i'm gonna plunge in now and try to get a flow going'. i found the word limit a great challenge as brevity is definitely not my strong suit in writing!

the fic and art seemed to resonate with a lot of people and i was really happy that people saw my canon-setting trans headcanon as 'true' to the characters. also, @outrageousring5655 made an incredible podfic of the story which i thoroughly enjoyed listening to and need to go back to soon<3 i was honoured that anyone liked my work enough to make a podfic of it<3 @portraitofalonelydyke also made a beautiful cover for it which i'm eternally grateful for!! you can see above

i think my writing has changed since then for sure. i'd like to think i've improved on my skills in terms of writing introspective moments, for example, and there are little techniques i've picked up here and there lately which i think give my writing a unique feel. and i'm not sure i'd write another 5k word limit fic in precisely that style, it's a bit of a departure from my usual fare. i think that's a good thing though!

no pressure tags (trying to tag people i haven't seen tagged yet, sorry if i'm mistaken!): @tawnyontumblr @foolishlovers @ineffable-rohese @greenthena @sabotage-on-mercury @itsscottiesstark @eybefioro @captainblou

[pico-farad]

What decks would GX characters play in each era of the TCG?

niche nerd content don't look at me

⇀ JUDAI / JADEN

Big City (2007)

A niche strategy at the time, I picked it because it's one of the only decks of this era that uses Elemental Heroes not named Stratos. Judai's cards... were not good. The deck uses Skyscraper 2 and Elemental Hero Ocean to swarm the board and recurse resources.

Deck Profile

Quickdraw Dandywarrior (2010)

Quickdraw Dandywarrior is one of THE most iconic decks of the 5Ds era, which is why I wanted Judai to show it off, even though Hero is still playable in the Synchro era.

Dandylion (which Judai created, along with the Neo-spacians) is a broken card once it leaves the GX era, and it's currently banned. Dandylion can easily be discarded or used for Synchro plays, which then generates tokens that can be used for more Synchro plays. Card Trooper, another of Judai's iconic non-Hero cards, is played to activate Dandylion off of milling.

Anyway, the only starshipping fic I'm ever writing is one where they pull off Quickdraw Dandywarrior in a tag duel.

Deck Profile

Electrum OTK (2013)

This strategy is jank as hell, but extremely fun and out-of-the-box. I think Judai would love it. It features Elemental Hero Electrum and Fusion Gate, which he used, and Chain Material, which is the card Yubel used to fuse the 12 dimensions.

Electrum is the fusion of Avian, Burstinatrix, Bubbleman, and Clayman, and is almost impossible to summon normally. But with the combination of Fusion Gate (which allows you to Fusion summon any number of times without Polymerization by banishing the materials), and Chain Material (which allows Fusion summons to be performed with materials from anywhere except the banished pile) suddenly you can summon any Fusion Monster as long as the materials are in your Deck.

What makes it all come together though is that Electrum's effect returns all banished cards back to the deck. That means you can keep on summoning Electrums, infinitely. And since Electrum is lvl. 10, it means you can keep Xyz summoning Gustav Max, which inflicts 2000 points of burn damage. Loop it four times, and you've OTKed your opponent.

Deck Profile | Deck List

Awesome HERO (2016)

This deck puts a different spin on Heroes, being focused on Xyz summoning out Toadally Awesome, a powerful negation piece, using Elemental Hero Bubbleman of all things because it's a Level 4 Water monster that can Special Summon itself. Combined with tools for summoning Masked Hero Dark Law, one of Judai's cards from the manga which banishes all cards that would be sent to the graveyard, it creates a game state where it's extremely hard for your opponent to do anything.

Deck Profile (at the bottom)

Invoked Shaddoll (2020)

Hero is the archetype that will never die and I could just put Omni Hero here, but I don't want this to just be a history of Hero in the meta... So here is a deck that combines two of the other most iconic Fusion decks in the game's history.

Look me in the eye and tell me that Judai wouldn't love to normal summon Aleister.

Invoked and Shaddoll both have dark monsters at their core (Judai having the power of Darkness), but their fusions are based off each of the six attributes (like the Elemental Heroes). It's also an infamous user of Super Polymerization.

Aleister is a protagonist of the Magistus lore who goes mad from power while summoning the Fusions from a different dimension (like Judai in season 3). The Shaddoll lore also reminds me of season 3 and Yubel, as their fusions are corrupted puppet versions of other cards.

Deck Profile

Modern HERO (now)

Some of you may be wondering why I didn't put Yubel here, since it was a very meta-relevant deck that even won Worlds. The answer is that I asked myself would Judai would be doing Fiendsmith combos and ending on 10 negates, or would he be pogging out in the rogue corner with a brick-filled Hero deck.

To be honest, I'm not a fan of what the Hero deck has become, but I can't deny the Rule of Hero Players which is that playing Heroes is automatically cool no matter what bullshit it spits out, and I think that pretty much encapsulates how Judai duels. The current version of the deck is full of cards printed as nods to him, and more than any other character's archetype, Judai's Elemental Heroes have stood the test of time and left their mark on the TCG.

Deck Profile

⇀ MANJOUME / CHAZZ

Perfect Circle Monarch (2007)

This deck was strong enough to get an entire format named after it. It centers around Light and Darkness Dragon, Manjoume's ace in the manga, using a variety of tools to special summon fodder, and the Monarch cards which are powerful tribute summons that benefit from the same toolbox. Zaborg the Thunder Monarch and Raiza the Storm Monarch both evoke Manjoume Thunder! It's also a $$$ deck. His rich ass owned the 2000 dollar Crush Card Virus.

Deck Profile

TeleDAD (2009)

This is one of the most infamous decks in Yugioh's history which completely dominated the field at the time. It uses the only Armed Dragon that was ever relevant -- Dark Armed Dragon. The deck was known not just for being almost unbeatable, but because it was a $$$ deck that made Yugioh pay-to-win, costing upwards of $2000 dollars for a children's card game in 2009. Very Manjoume Season 1 coded.

Deck List

Dragon Rulers (2013)

Like the previous two decks, I'm giving Dragon Rulers to Manjoume as another deck that was unquestionably the strongest of its time. Manjoume to me is the type to play meta decks just because they're the strongest... I'm saying is that I think he's a tier whore (that is until he turns into a rogue Ojama warrior)

Dragon Rulers are dragons obviously, which Manjoume uses a lot of -- his deck in the manga is just a dragon deck. The LV 3 baby dragons evolve into the proper LV 7 Dragon Rulers, much like how Manjoume's Armed Dragons evolve through LV Up (modern Armed Dragons are also always played with Dragon Rulers for their synergy).

I spotlighted Tempest because of storms -> Thunder. Mecha Phantom Beast Dracossack is the payoff of summoning your Dragon Rulers, and I think it's kind of XYZ Dragon Cannon-esque.

Deck Profile

ABC (2016)

Speaking of XYZ Dragon Cannon, ABC is the rehaul of them, three Union Machines which combine into ABC Dragon Buster. They also received crossover support with the Ojamas and Armed Dragons at the same time, but nobody actually played those lol.

Twin Twisters and Typhoon are both generic cards that help proc effects by destroying your own ABC equip monsters, but they're also thunderstorm-themed for Manjoume.

Deck Profile

Thunder Dragon (2020)

Manjoume Thunder!!! also hear me out....... I think this deck kind of plays like modern Ojama. It wants to generate hand advantage and discard its own cards (both often using a Danger! engine) to ultimately end on an annoying floodgate. It often makes use of chaos dragon strategies due to its light and dark monsters, which is similar to manga Manjoume's Light and Dark Dragons deck.

Deck Profile

Mystic Mine Burn (2021)

This is just very funny to me. Mystic Mine is an infamous card in Yugioh, one of the most hated cards of all time, that caused many people to straight up quit the game because it was so toxic and meta-warping. The Floodgate of Floodgates. Its effect reads that if your opponent controls more monsters than you, they can't activate monster effects, shutting down nearly every strategy in the game and then slowly burning you out with effect damage. The Ojama traps are perfect in this strategy, clogging up the board so Mine is always active while also burning for damage. Rage-inducing annoying gremlins as god intended.

What I'm saying is I think Manjoume's a toxic bitch <3

I have to include my honorable mention though, which is that I think Manjoume was 10000% playing Kashtira in 2023. Toxic zone-locking deck like Ojama King but it's meta and expensive and causes everyone to hate you. Also he has sweaty Kash player vibes. The Xyz cards are black and Shangri-Ira has 0 ATK which makes it an Ojama.

Deck Profile

⇀ RYOU / ZANE

Chimeratech OTK (2006)

Nowadays, a game of Yugioh ending in one turn is par for the course, but back then, these decks bore the suffix of OTK -- One Turn Kill. They were often highly specialized to take advantage of combos unforseen by the game's creators.

Ryou wasn't far off from performing the Chimeratech OTK in GX canon, as all of the critical cards belong to him. Future Fusion was meant to be a fair way to summon powerful Fusion monsters -- you can do so by sending the cards from your deck to the grave, but you have to wait three turns for the monster to be summoned. There's a loophole though. A card like Overload Fusion uses the graveyard for fusion materials, and Chimeratech Overdragon gains ATK and attacks based on the number of fusion materials.

That means that rather than having to wait 3 turns, you can use Future Fusion to send 12 machines to your grave, then immediately Overload Fusion into a Chimeratech with 12000 ATK that can attack 12 times. The strategy was nerfed quickly, but it would influence the design of Cyber Dragons permanently as a blistering going-second OTK deck.

Deck Profile | Deck List

Scrap Dragon (2011)

Scraps are an archetype of mechanical monsters, at the core of which are the bosses Scrap Dragon and Scrap Twin Dragon (echoes of Cyber Dragon and Cyber Twin Dragon).

If you read the deck guide below, the first line is: "For the self-destructive duelist, we've got the deck for you!" LMAO. ryou.....

This deck centers around destroying its own monsters, which reflects Ryou's transformation into Hell Kaiser and no longer caring about his cards. Thematically, powerful monsters arise from the resulting "scrap" or trash, which calls to mind Ryou's arc after hitting rock bottom in Season 2.

Deck Profile

Karakuri OTK (2013)

Solar Wind Jammer is a level 5 Light Machine that special summons itself if you control no monsters. Yeah, so that's Cyber Dragon. Cyber Saurus has nothing to do with the Cyber archetype, but coincidentally it's here to fulfill the same role as Solar Wind Jammer being a level 5 machine that's summoned off Instant Fusion in order to quickly make powerful Karakuri Synchros, which are all mechanical Shoguns, reflecting Ryou's title of Kaiser.

Deck Profile

Infernoid (2015)

Infernoid is an archetype of mechanical fiends based on vintage computer parts... In Japanese, the monsters are named after demons and the spell/traps are named Purgatory. Hell Kaiser, anyone? The main boss monster, Devyaty, even looks a lot like Cyber End Dragon imo.

The Infernoid strategy wants to fill up their own graveyard, similar to how Ryou uses the Cyberdarks in GX. Like how Ryou uses Power Wall to send half his deck to the grave, Infernoid players use cards like Monster Gate or Reasoning to try and send as much of their grave to the deck as they can, which reinforces the hell theme

Deck Profile

Orcust Cyber Dragon (2019)

Orcust is an archetype of Dark Machine monsters; like Infernoid and the Cyberdarks, they want to get sent to the graveyard. This is where their synergy with Cyber Dragon comes in, as Cyber Dragon Nachster will discard the Orcust cards from your hand to proc its effect, and after becoming Cyber Dragon on the field, you can use its new boardbreaking trick, Chimeratech Megafleet Dragon, to get rid of an opponent's Extra Deck monster.

Deck Profile

Tenpai (2024)

This deck is going-second OTK like you've never seen it before. If you've ever played against it, you've seen the shades of Chimeratech OTK there. Unga bunga 10 million attack point deck of serpentine dragons which turn into a two headed dragon which turns into a three-headed dragon, a la Cyber Dragon -> Cyber Twin Dragon -> Cyber End.

Deck Profile

⇀ SHOU / SYRUS

Machine Beat (2007)

Machines as a type got some of the most solid support and generally Good Cards during the GX era, and Machine Beatdown is this combination of those strong machine cards occasionally beefed up by Limiter Removal -- Cyber cards, Dekoichi the Battlechanted Locomotive (a train... vehicle...) and well, Drillroid is an okay card to deal with flip monsters. Sorry Shou, that's the best Vehicroid you have.

Deck Profile

Machina (2010)

Machina is an archetype of Machine-type monsters who are guys on wheels who sometimes turn into giant mechas. This is going to be a theme for Shou's decks. Also, you're just gonna have to trust me, but I think the vibe is similar to Vehicroids, with a more control-based playstyle and recursing resources.

Deck Profile

Geargia (2014)

Geargia is an archetype of Machine-type monsters who are guys on wheels who sometimes turn into giant mechas. They were very strong in 2014 and are also funny little guys like the Vehicroids :)

Deck Profile

Metalfoes (2017)

Realistically this deck would have Zoodiacs in it too but shhh.

Metalfoes are a Fusion-Pendulum archetype of guys who ride vehicles... which sometimes turn into mecha suits. Their Japanese name is a play on 'metal' and 'metamorphosis' which kind of calls to Shou's signature card in the manga, Transformation (which incidentally gives him a mecha suit)

Speedroids are an engine piece in this deck solely to make powerful Rank 3 Xyz (sorry Yugo), and I just think it's kind of funny how they technically share an archetype with Vehicroids. With a Qliphort engine on the other hand, you can make Cyber Dragon Infinity as a powerful negation piece.

Deck Profile

Trains (2021)

CHOO CHOO 🚂 let me take you for a ride <- shou

This deck, also known as Earth Machines, combines trains, Infinitrack (an archetype of heavy-duty vehicles), the aforementioned Machina, and rounds itself out with the best Earth Machines on offer. With strong Xyz boss monsters and heavy searching ability, it combines the card advantage strengths of the above decks with an ability to OTK, like his brother's decks.

Deck Profile

Rescue-ACE (2023)

WEE WOO WEE WOO 🚒 🚒 🚒 yeah obviously he plays Rescue-ACE come on. paw patrol-ass deck

Rescue-ACE is an archetype of mainly Machine-type mechas based on firefighter vehicles and equipment. Like the above decks, it's a control-based strategy that fits Shou's playstyle, taking advantage of strong Spells and Traps. Also it's often played with Diabellstar who's like Dark Magician Girl in 2023. Don't ask questions

Deck Profile

⇀ ASUKA / ALEXIS

Demise OTK (2007)

This is the first ritual deck that could be called good, it revolves around using Advanced Ritual Art to summon Demise using Normal Monsters, using Demise's effect to clear the whole field, and then using Swing of Memories (the card representing Fubuki and Asuka's bond) and other cards to revive the ritual fodder and wipe out the opponent in one turn.

Manju is a ritual support card based on Hindu/Buddhist mythology, a theme that runs through the Cyber Angel monsters too as many of them have the multiple arms going on (they're both Light Fairies as well)

Deck Profile | Deck List

Diva HERO (2011)

when synchros make rituals irrelevant :(

(they were always irrelevant)

There's not many pickings for Asuka in this era, but Diva Hero is a top tier deck with a sort of ice theme (which is what she used in the Society of Light and the manga), centering around Deep Sea Diva (which is part of an archetype of female performers like many of Asuka's dancer-themed cards).  And well, it's a Hero deck too. She and Judai worked on the deck together :) The deck uses the consistency of Hero cards plus Water-attributes like Deepsea Diva or Snowman Eater to fusion summon imo the first truly good Elemental Hero fusion -- Absolute Zero.

Deck Profile

Perfect Agents (2013)

Realistically the deck would have been without the rituals in this time period, but I wanted to spotlight Perfection here because it eventually becomes an integral part of Cyber Angels.

Heralds and Agents are both archetypes of Light Fairies like the Cyber Angels, being top tier at the end of 5Ds and start of Zexal. It has it all -- Rituals, Synchros, Xyz, and maindeck powerhouses like Archlord Kristya and Master Hyperion. The Agents are all named after planets, which feels akin to the planet series of cards in the GX manga, and look a little similar to Cyber Angels.

Deck Profile

Nekroz (2015)

Finally, it's time for rituals to shine. Nekroz is likely the GOAT of ritual decks, having the only honor of achieving Tier 0 status. Just like how Asuka in Arc-V builds her ritual deck to counter Fusions, Nekroz is made to dismantle Extra Deck strategies. Thematically, they're warriors that wear famous Extra Deck monsters as armor, such as Nekroz of Trishula and Brionac, which are both ice dragons (again, Asuka's ice theming). The non-Ritual monsters all have bonus effects on being Tributed, like the Cyber Angels. Dance Princess of the Nekroz also fits Asuka's dancer theme.

Deck Profile

Drytron (2020)

After 5 billion years they finally added the Cyber Angels to the game. And they're good :) um, well, benten is...

Drytron is a pretty ruthless archetype of Light Machine rituals that gains a lot of advantage via tributing. The Cyber Angels all get bonus effects from being tributed -- in particular, Cyber Angel Benten (one of Asuka's OG cards) can search any Light Fairy when it's tributed, including itself. Benten and other Light Fairies were eventually hit by the banlist because of the crazy things you could do via the combination of them, the Drytron cards, and the Herald cards I talked about earlier. Cyber Emergency is actually support for the Drytron side of the deck, not Cyber Angels, but the naming is a neat coincidence.

Deck Profile

Mikanko (2023)

Extremely Asuka-coded deck imo. They're rituals. The boss monsters are Light Fairies. Based on Japanese religion/mythology like the Cyber Angels. The Mikankos are dancers, and the equip spells they use are their dances. Their strategy is based on reflect damage (attack me and you get hurt) which is similar to how Asuka uses her signature card, Doble Passe.

Deck Profile

[bussolares]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ❪ BOUNCE MAN ❫ ✱ A ROBERT "BOB" REYNOLDS FANFIC.

⎯⎯ ﾟ.* +18 MINORS DNI, DISCLAIMER!!⠰english is not my first language; sorry for any mistakes, mental health themes, implicit mentions of suicide and attempts, mention of trauma, mentions of character(s) death (foggy nelson, ray nadeem, etc...), blood and other types of descriptive scenes of violence, morally grey characters because my girl amy is a sweetheart but a threat at the same time, friends to a third thing that no one knows how to describe to lovers (lol), slowburn (i think ?), addie mccracken as a faceclaim for my fem!oc because she's sooo beautiful.

⎯⎯ ﾟ.* SHIV'S NOTE!!⠰sooo… i'm so happy to be posting this! thank you so much to everyone who's responded to my post about this fanfic. it means a lot to me to know i have support, even though i'm new to tumblr. i hope you enjoy this story (and let me know you do, of course!) and that you love amy as much as I do. i will also try to write bob as accurately as possible. ♥︎ ♡̵̼͓ ❀͏͏ (original gif by @linusbenjamin)

⎯⎯ ﾟ.* 📁 ⸨ CHAPTERS!! ⸩⠰i. chapter one, making friends with the enemy the fugitive.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ YEAH, I TOLD YOU ALL ALONG…

⠀ ⠀ RUNNING AWAY DON'T MAKE YOU WRONG!

Amelia Murdock was never one to run.

She could tremble, freeze... but escape? No. Never. It wasn't in her blood, or her essence, or her soul.

She was a Murdock, and Murdocks get hit a lot. But they always get up.

However, now, with chaos devouring the streets of New York and a man in a suit—his hands stained with blood—declaring war on vigilantes and anyone who opposed him, for the first time in her life, Amelia Murdock was forced to run.

Her experience as a detective was her best ally. She knew how to dodge Fisk's men and evade security cameras as if it were as simple as breathing. For her, that was easy. The difficult part was the loneliness.

Until one night, while jumping from hiding place to hiding place in search of an abandoned building where she could sleep, even for a couple of hours, Amy was found.

Not by Fisk. Not by his men. Not by the one she once called a friend, who now went by the name Bullseye.

No. Not by them.

It was Yelena Belova, an old friend with an outstanding debt, who appeared with a half-smile and an unexpected offer:

"New Avengers Tower. A big place. A roof, food, and security. You’ll have everything."

Amy didn’t ask how the former assassin discovered her situation. It wasn’t a mystery: just watch the news or type her now-tarnished name into any search engine.

And then, she said yes.

Who would have imagined that one of the most wanted people in the country would take refuge in the dysfunctional New Avengers Tower?

⠀ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⊹     ⠀ ⠀*   ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𐙚    ⠀.     ⠀ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⋆      ⠀ㅤ⋰     ⠀࿔    ⠀.      ࿐

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ [ AMELIA "AMY" JOANNE MURDOCK ]

⠀ ⠀ THE SACRIFICIAL LAMB ╱ THE FUGITIVE.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ [ ROBERT "BOB" REYNOLDS ]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ THE SENTRY ╱ THE VOID.

DO NOT STEAL, REPOST OR COPY THIS STORY. ⸺‎ edits made by me, except for gifs: creators will be appropriately tagged. the character of amy murdock is entirely my own, the rest of the characters appearing in this story belong to marvel. ⠀☆ ⠀2025, @bussolares.

[starry-slithers]

Hi so this is a quick snippet of Love on Track just to get you guys hooked!

Dear Diary:

Trees, trees, more trees, a field, more trees…mum wanted me to document everything as I see it, starting with the train ride. It’s fairly deserted in my carriage, most people are here on holiday. They’re obviously from the city and found it exciting to have a countryside get away. Y’know, THOSE kind of people. They’re all in the front two carriages getting a train ride tour. Not that there’s much to show. The occasional lake or farm ground, noting special. But even so, Bluebell Railways are quite famous.

There’s a pretty dark blonde haired girl sat in front of me reading ‘The Great Gatsby’, but sunlight filters at just the right angle for it to be considered ‘main character-esque’. The man next to her, who I presume is her boyfriend, looks like a hobo and he’s been sulking the whole time.

I know we’re getting close to the station now considering the ever growingly frequent amount of cottages. I had to admit- thatched roofs, chickens running amok and the scent of hay did give a rather rustic feel. Maybe this would be good for me after all. Currently disembarking the train. There’s a pretty daisy patch. Note to self: press one in later.

Write soon

Love from Phoebe x

~*~

As I stepped into the station, I was struck by how this place seemed almost frozen in time. As if I’d accidentally walked into another era.

They didn’t have any modern ticket machines- I guess it would ruin the vibe and the way it’s been almost perfectly preserved. So people were lining up at a ticket counter. It was full of either men in their 80’s or instagram ready 40 year old women. The latter were gushing about the ‘countryside lifestyle’ while the former grumbled and purchased newspapers.

The line was taking forever. I should’ve been like the girl on the train and had a book on hand. My books were buried in my suitcase, which I didn’t want to start unpacking.

A deep sigh left my lips as I fumbled around in my cardigan pockets for a mint or something. Dad said this was a strictly no phone holiday- thought it would be good for my mental health, just like this trip.

That would probably prove true. Not the ‘no phones’ part. I mean, how else would I be able to check for updates on The Hive involving my favourite WIP’s? But I figured this whole trip would be good for me.

Ever since I was little, I loved visiting Grandma Susan. In a weird way I could breathe easier. But that sounds super corny. There was just something about the animals and the peace…it was safe. But this was the first time I was going alone, and it was also the first time I’d taken the train here- me and my parents normally drove here in dad’s beat up ford.

Why was the line taking so long? I peeked my head over everyone’s head. There was an old man who had misplaced his ticket, and instead of stepping back and letting others go first, he insisted that he ‘had it’ and he’d ’only take a minute’.

That’s it. I’d had enough. There was a boy sitting alone. He was in uniform but not the new uniform. The old one. I’d seen photos on the corkboard of people in that uniform from the war. Maybe he was just dressing up to add a touch of character to the historical guides. Either way, he was an employee- and wasn’t doing much as he was fiddling with a daisy from outside and just sat down.

“Excuse me?” He didn’t even look up. “Urm- Excuse me?” I repeated again, making sure he knew I was talking to him. He looked up, almost startled.

“Sorry to bother you but do you know where I can buy a brochure or something?” He was totally gobsmacked, as if someone hadn’t asked him for help in ages. On closer inspection, he looked almost my age- maybe 15, or 16. His name tag read ‘Arthur’. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off me as he pointed to the leaflets. He was kinda odd.

“Thank you Arthur.” I smiled before going to buy one. I could’ve sworn I saw him pinching himself. Weird kid. Everyone else in the station was ignoring him so maybe nobody had asked him for help in a long while.

[dragon-susceptible]

The Damien Lives Dragon Prince AU I Don't Have Time To Write

Characters: King Harrow, Prince-Consort Damien, Lord Viren, Prince Callum, Prince Ezran

Relationships: Past Damien/Sarai/Harrow, current Damien/Harrow (Sarai is believed dead)

Tags: Damien Lives AU, Sarai is still dead (at least to their knowledge), Viren being Viren, canon-typical discussions of death, vengeance, violence, and chronic illness

"We're leaving as soon as possible, to do this quickly and quietly, but I couldn't leave without letting you know." Harrow said distractedly.

"You couldn't - have you gone mad?" Damien demanded incredulously.

Harrow looked up at him in surprise, taken off guard by the usually soft spoken poet's vehemence. "What?"

"Listen to yourself!" Damien gestured wildly at him. "Sarai didn't want to go to Xadia in the first place, she advised you against it but you refused to listen, and she stood by you anyway. She gave her life for a cause she didn't believe in and now you're using her sacrifice as an excuse to go and do it again? How dare you?"

Harrow flinched as the words put a new perspective on what he'd just chosen to do. On what Viren had spoken about. He was quickly distracted by a cough from Damien and his husband abruptly sitting down, hand on his chest as he struggled to catch his breath from his angry rant.

"Damien-"

"How dare you risk-" Damien was cut off by another bout of coughing that shook his delicate shoulders and Harrow's rage at the dragon king evaporated into worry for his husband. He put down everything he had been packing and quickly moved to fetch Damien's breathing treatment. The little bowl herb infused water with a candle below to make it steam helped his lungs stop seizing somehow.

He knelt in front of Damien's seat and handed it to him, digging for a match. Damien tried to speak again and he squeezed his knee in warning. "Damien, I hear you," he promised. "I hear you, and I swear I will hear you out, we will talk about it, but for a moment just breathe. Please."

Damien's green eyes were narrowed with annoyance but his breath was coming thin and choked now, and he just clutched the apparatus as Harrow lit the candle for his treatment. As he was sure it would burn Harrow rose and took a seat beside Damien instead of facing off against him, rubbing his back in that gentle way he'd found made it that much easier for Damien to relax.

Eventually, the poet leaned on his side, still stiff and keeping his face in the steam, but touching. His breath still made alarming creaking noises in his chest but the movement didn't make him cough, which was an improvement. He carefully placed the apparatus in his lap to pointedly sign to Harrow. "I'm still angry with you."

Harrow winced but didn't stop rubbing his back. "I know." He said, remorse bleeding from his heart to his voice. "You have a right to be. Sarai. . . . Wouldn't want this."

"Sarai would hate you for this." Damien corrected with a sidelong glare. "You aren't just desecrating her memory, you are risking your own life. You're risking leaving our sons alone."

"Not alone," Harrow said, frowning, hand pausing on Damien's side. "They would still have you."

"I'm struggling to breathe from a coughing fit because I got angry. My life is always a question, Harrow. You know that."

Harrow grimaced and leaned his head on his husband's, pressing his lips briefly to the poet's temple. "I'm sorry. You're right. I don't know what I was thinking when Viren suggested this."

Damien paused for a minute and his lips pursed before he signed a careful reply. "You were thinking that he is your best friend, and most trusted advisor. That you trust him more than anyone. I just often wish you would think a little beyond that when you talk to him."

"Not more than anyone," Harrow said softly, the words cutting a little, moving his fingers back and forth around Damien's waist. "I didn't marry Viren. I married you. I trust you."

"Not more than Viren," Damien countered. "You take his word over mine. You even took his word over Sarai's. We knew that, we accepted it, I just can't stand by for it this time. I can't stop you from going, but Harrow, if you -" his hands faltered and his breath rattled. "But I'm asking you as a man who loved her just as much as you did, don't do this. Please don't do this. Don't do this to her and don't do this to us."

Harrow's eyes burned at the desperation in Damien's words and his shaky hands and he leaned a little harder into the poet, pressing a kiss to his head again and settling his arm firmly around him. "Okay." He gave in, taking a deep breath of his own and letting it out, letting his rage go with it. "You're right. It's too big of a risk for nothing more than personal vengeance. We've had relative peace since then. It's not worth risking everything for a vengeance she wouldn't want."

Damien leaned his head on Harrow's shoulder, shifting his steam treatment to keep himself in the cloud. "And when Viren comes to argue with you?"

Harrow winced. "I'll tell him what I should have told him a long time ago. I married you, not him - and the opinion of my friend and advisor can't come before the opinion of my prince. My king."

"Harrow?" Viren's voice came loudly through their door and Damien scowled as Harrow winced irritably. "Are you ready? I've gathered everything we should need."

"Go away, Viren," Harrow said loudly, sounding as cranky as he'd ever been with his friend. "We're having a moment."

The door opened to Viren's unimpressed frown. "I thought we agreed to tell as few people as possible," he said delicately. "We should strike while we can, not waste time on long goodbyes." His eyes landed on the apparatus in Damien's lap and he stiffened.

"My husband is struggling to breathe at the moment," Harrow said coldly. "Forgive me if I'm not jumping to your will. I wasn't going to leave without telling him at least."

Viren pursed his lips. "My apologies. But as soon as things are under control . . ."

"No, Viren." Harrow said, sighing, and rubbing his thumb across Damien's side to soothe the stiffness he felt there. "We're not going anywhere. Damien and I had a - discussion about it. Sarai wouldn't want this. Sarai wouldn't want us to avenge her, and Damien doesn't want me to risk my life for it either - I can't go through with it."

Damien squeezed his thigh gratefully.

Viren, on the other hand, sputtered and looked as though he had bitten a particularly sour lemon. "But - Harrow, think about this," he said in that all too persuasive tone of voice. "What kind of message are you sending to Xadia if you let the death of your queen go unanswered? You'll be seen as a weak king. What if Xadia decides to press their advantage?"

"Better weak than dead," Damien signed, and Harrow hummed an agreement.

"It will be worse if we fail," Harrow pointed out. "I need to be here for my sons, my husband, and my kingdom. If Xadia comes to us, I'll be here, but it's reckless and selfish of me to risk my life any more than I have to."

Viren ignored him, perhaps not seeing his hands move as he turned to gesture towards the windows. "Wouldn't it be better to try and decisively end this war before your sons have to face it? We have a chance to kill the dragon king and cripple Xadia for potentially decades!"

"If he stays alive, Harrow has plenty of time to ease the war." Damien signed pointedly.

"Damien's right," Harrow agreed, though he knew Viren once again hadn't seen it. "We also have a chance of dying and bringing Xadia's rage down on my sons when they are still children." Harrow said, frowning, heart sinking further at the shame of having agreed to this idea. "We're not going, Viren. That's final."

"We already have the spear!" Viren argued, shaking his fist.

"Get rid of it," Harrow snapped. "Put it away with the rest of your dark magic tools, I don't care. We're not going."

Viren drew himself up very straight, taking a deep breath in and looking down his nose at both of them, only to huff when Damien signed to him. "You know I don't know what you're even saying. Harrow, what is he saying?"

Harrow watched his husband's hands carefully to answer. "Unless you have another reason you want to go to Xadia, Viren?" He asked, and frowned as he took in the thought. His brows furrowed as he followed Damien's gaze up to his friend.

Viren's eyes were a little wider but he looked more offended than anything, sputtering as if shocked. "Of course not," He spat. "I'm only thinking of the future of this kingdom - someone has to when you're busy worrying about personal matters."

Damien flinched and Harrow's temper snapped again. He extricated from Damien carefully so he wouldn't dislodge his treatment, but he stood up and stepped between them with force. "Enough, Viren," He snapped. "This is not happening, and you are out of line."

"Harrow." Damien rasped behind him, and Harrow took a deep breath to compose himself, grateful again for his husband's calming influence.

"I know you mean well," Harrow said coolly, "But I've made my decision. Take the spear. Put it away. We're not going anywhere. Or are you questioning the orders of your king?"

Viren's nose wrinkled and he huffed an angry breath through it but he sullenly replied, "I wouldn't dream of it, Your Majesty. I'll just . . . get right to that."

"Thank you." Harrow said pointedly, and pushed past him to open the door to make his meaning clear. Viren skulked past him with the same sour expression.

When he was gone, Harrow returned to Damien's side at the bed and sat down with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, love."

"Thank you." Damien rasped softly, leaning his head on his shoulder again.

Harrow closed his eyes and turned his face into Damien's hair. "You shouldn't have to thank me for standing by you."

Damien laced their fingers together and gave his hand a squeeze.

Whatever he had to say was cut off by the doors opening again, this time completely unannounced - only two people had the nerve to do that other than Viren, and they both smiled automatically at the sight of their boys charging in.

Callum stopped abruptly in his tracks, letting Ezran run into his back, when he saw how they were sitting, though, and his smile dropped. "Dad?" He asked with sudden worry. "What happened? Are you okay?" He looked to Harrow for answers too as both boys got over their shock and rushed forward again.

"Your dad and I had a . . . disagreement," Harrow admitted apologetically, rubbing Damien's back. "I was careless, and I wasn't paying attention - I upset him."

Damien's hands flew in a swift response that Callum recited for him, frowning. "It was Viren's idea. I would rather blame him than you. Your father also made sure I was okay, and got my medicine. We've worked it all out already, don't worry."

Both boys were frowning at the words, Ezran even deeper than his brother, but the younger boy didn't speak just yet, instead hopping up on the bed and cuddling up to Damien's other side gingerly. Damien dropped his arm around the little boy in a small hug.

"I'm still sorry." Harrow said firmly, looking meaningfully into his partner's eyes before looking down at Callum remorsefully. "To all of you."

"If he's forgiven you, I can too." Callum decided aloud.

"I guess we know who the favorite dad is today," Damien rasped, and his dry humor caught Harrow enough by surprise to make him laugh.

"Hush," He said through his chuckles, nuzzling firmly into the poet's hair. "You know you shouldn't talk right now."

Damien rolled his eyes. "Ezran's here."

"We can talk for you, don't strain yourself." Callum said firmly. "Dad's right."

Damien sighed, though the sound was still too-wet and raspy, and moved as if to set his treatment aside and stand. Harrow quickly restrained him with an arm around his waist and on his elbow.

"Where do you think you're going?" He asked incredulously.

"Look at you, turning my own son against me." Damien signed, and shrugged his shoulders as if huffing at them.

"Our son is doing that all on his own," Harrow replied loftily, and winked at Callum, making the boy glow with the implied praise. "Now where do you think you're going?"

"At least let me get my shoes off, if I'm confined to the bed for now."

Harrow patted him on the shoulder. "Let me worry about your shoes. Callum, why don't you take my spot here and tell us what you and Ezran came to say while I get your dad's shoes off?"

Callum nodded and when Harrow stood up their sons boxed Damien in. The poet narrowed his eyes knowingly at Harrow but chose not to argue with it, turning his attention to their sons instead.

"We actually came to tell you that we . . . invented a new game." It was an obvious lie and Harrow bit his lip to keep from laughing, keeping his head bent to Damien's shoes so they wouldn't see his grin.

He could just imagine the unimpressed look Damien was giving the boys.

"Yeah," Ezran agreed, with a slightly more convincing tone. "It's like patty cake, but different!"

"Yeah," Callum said a little too quickly. "Uh, why don't you tell them why it's different, Ez?"

"Uh . . . You use your feet too!"

Harrow bit his lip a little harder as he took his husband's shoes away to the rack by the door, taking the time to compose himself before he turned back to his little family.

"Why don't we get your dad moved back up against the headboard while you tell him all about this game, huh?" He suggested, and the boys quickly agreed.

"It'll be easier to show him the game if we're laying down anyway." Ezran said optimistically.

Harrow met Damien's eyes and found them sparkling with amusement, though he too had kept his composure enough to not laugh. Harrow took the medicine away to let Damien move, and began, "Do you need help, or-?"

"I'll be fine," Damien promised, aloud, carefully moving himself up the bed and tucking his legs under their blankets. He was breathing a little too deeply when he settled again, not quite panting, and Harrow quickly arranged his medicine again to his partner's quiet thanks.

A knock on the door distracted him once again and Harrow made a frustrated noise. "I'm busy," He called through the door.

"You have a meeting, your Majesty," the guard's voice was hesitant. "With the Minister of Finance? Should I cancel it?"

"Go, Harrow." Damien rasped, and nodded when Harrow looked back at him. "I'm past the crisis. Callum is more than old enough to know what to do for me now. You're a king, too. Go take care of your kingdom."

"If you're sure." Harrow said, his instinctive stubbornness going out of his shoulders.

"I'm sure." Damien said firmly.

"I'll take care of him," Callum said just as firmly.

"We will." Ezran frowned at his brother.

"We will," Callum agreed apologetically.

Harrow couldn't help but smile at his little family and he came back over to the bed to give each of the boys a little hug - as best he could leaning over like that - and to press his lips to the corner of Damien's mouth, sweet and lingering, but not enough to hinder his breath. "I love you, my dear. I love you too, boys. Meetings with the minister of finance usually take a few hours. I'll have dinner brought up here tonight and we'll all eat in bed, all right?"

Ezran cheered softly and Callum's "All right!" was a little more subdued, but both boys glowed with happiness as Damien smiled softly at him.

"I love you, too, my king. Now go."

Harrow bowed theatrically to them all to make the boys giggle before he went.

[avdiobliss]

Lover, Please Stay - A Lockwood x GN!Reader Fic

AHHHH ITS MY FIRST EVER FIC

So, some backstory. This fic has been in the works for years, at one point I lost the original file and had to re-write the entire thing. But this song is based off of a Nothing But Thieves song. A very sad song, so I think that explains how this fic is gonna go. This is my first fic I've written, so you are not allowed to judge me in the slightest. Most of this is just a flashback, but oh well. 2K words :)

LMK if you want adding to the tag list :D

List: @maraschinomerry @uku-lelevillain @bella-rose29 @oblivious-idiot @neewtmas

TW: Character death, a panic attack, Written after THB

Lover, Please Stay 

It was two in the morning. He still wasn’t home. You were going to tell him off so bad he wished he’d never even thought about going out to this case alone. Ever since Lucy left he was different, they were so close it was almost painful to watch him destroy himself this way. 

You looked up and realised your tea had gone stone-cold, as had the one you made for Lockwood. George was going to be so annoyed at the waste of a teabag. Somehow, he knew when a cuppa wasn’t drunk, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he counted the teabags left in the box. You’ll have to ask him one day.  

You stood up and poured the tea down the sink, thinking about Lockwood. Stupid Lockwood, with his cheesy smiles and his secrets. You really hoped he was okay; all you needed was for him to stay. To stop giving up on his life and just stay. You would give him anything, whatever he wanted, if it meant he could stay with you. You were so lost in your own thoughts that you automatically started making another cup of tea. It was a second nature, and the process was oddly soothing. You ended up on the kitchen floor, the tiles beneath you adding even more goosebumps to your shivering figure. You pulled your jumper tighter around your shoulders and clutched the mug in both hands, holding onto the warmth like it was a lifeline. If you didn’t focus on that, you’d end up panicking. What would you do if you lost Lockwood? 

*Your mind flutters back to your first meeting* 

You knocked on the door of 35 Portland Row, already regretting every decision that had brought you to this moment. Your parents always told you being an agent was dangerous, and you weren’t cut out for it, and you believed them. But you saw this advert in the paper, and on a whim got on the train and didn’t look back. If you didn’t get this job, you were fucked. You had already quit your previous job and given the keys back to your landlord. He was a lovely man, but you could tell he wouldn’t let you move back in.  

You knocked again, huffing with impatience. “Hello?!” You shouted at the door. It quickly opened, and a scruffy bespectacled boy took up your field of vision. “Hello,” you stuck your hand out. “I’m Y/N, I’m here about the advertisement in the paper.” 

“Right hello, come on in.” He stepped aside and you walked through the doorway, immediately greeted by the sight of many antiques lining the walls. Next to those were newspaper clippings, showing a very smug boy doing many different activities. “Interesting decorations” you murmured, and glasses gave a shrug before indicating for you to enter the room opposite you.  

When you walked in, you were instantly met with the smell of cake, tea and sandalwood. Which was good, as you liked all three of those things. A guy sat on a dusty sofa, but once you walked in, he got up and stuck his hand out, sticking a grin on his face and starting the conversation with “Hi, I’m Anthony Lockwood, and this is Lockwood and Co.” You replied with a quick start, all the nerves clearly shown in your tone. You rambled “Hi, I’m Y/N Y/L/N and basically I have no agent experience, and I really need this job as I’ve quit mine and handed my keys in and I really want to do this also why are there no supervisors?” You ended with a sharp inhale, finally remembering to breathe. He looked amused, and he sat down and indicated for you to do the same on the couch opposite him. “Has George offered you a hot drink yet?” He questioned, looking at the first guy with a raised eyebrow. So that’s his name. You filed that information away as George replied, “not yet, I wanted to see how they do with the tests.” 

“Come on George, let's give them the benefit of the doubt and stick the kettle on. It’s just a teabag.” Anthony responded, looking at you apologetically before settling in and stretching his legs out. “So, Y/N, you have no previous experience. What do you have experience in?” 

You explained your job at the cafe, and how you always had a talent but never got into the business. You were practiced with a rapier, only by going to secret lessons, although you didn’t share the secrecy. The last thing you needed was to unload your family trauma onto a possible employer. He took everything in, nodding as you went along and offering a quiet thank you as George set the tea down on the table, along with a plate of biscuits. There was a wide selection, but you didn’t reach for one. Not yet. After this George sat in an armchair and picked up a book, trying to covertly eavesdrop on your conversation. You glared at him until he focused on the book, but you could tell he wasn’t really reading. 

Anthony cleared his throat, and you remembered why you were here. “Honestly, I don’t really mind what experience you may or may not have, the way I like to test people is seeing what they can do. I’m going to show you a couple of objects, and I want you to tell me what you feel.” With that, he removed a towel from the table with a flourish, revealing a small pocket watch. You picked it up and was instantly transported to the past. A man's voice repeated the same phrase repeatedly, slowly getting louder until you could hear what was being said. ‘I’m sorry’. There was a slice, and everything went silent. You focused in on the room again and said with a tremble “this belonged to a very unhappy man. He... killed himself. I presume this watch was beloved to him, and he still had unfinished business when he committed which meant it turned into a source.” 

“Excellent work Y/n, that is exactly the story. This belonged to my uncle, very sad man. But that happened years ago, old stuff. Next up is this ring. Tell me what you feel” 

You picked up the ring from the middle of his palm and held it close to your heart. That 

always gave the best results. Connecting to the source made the emotions multiply in 

severity. This ring contained anger and betrayal. A lovers quarrel that ended in murder. It 

was vile. The loss of trust was so devastating to feel, even twenty years later. You explained all this to Lockwood and he nodded. “But there’s something else,” you announce. Lockwood raises his eyebrows and George leans forward, book long forgotten. You reached even deeper into the emotions and felt relief. “This ring has so many different feelings,” you explained. “There is also a feeling of relief, and smugness. I think the original owner of this source got their revenge. Which from what I can tell was absolutely deserved. The range in this tiny ring is so shocking, I’ve never felt anything like this before.” 

Lockwood looked excitedly at George and as they made eye contact you stole a biscuit. All of this use of your talent made you hungry. They seemed to have a telepathic conversation and as soon as George nodded his head Anthony quickly stood up and held out a hand. “Welcome to Lockwood and Co Mx L/N.” 

*Back To Present* 

There was a jingling outside the door, and you instantly rose to make another cup of tea. You’d recognise those footsteps anywhere. There was a murmured “fucking shit” as the key slid into the door. You got busy making the warm drink, listening out for Lockwood approaching the kitchen. There was always an order to him getting home and you checked it off mentally as time passed.  

There was the sound of keys being dropped into a bowl.  

Tea bag in cup.  

The familiar scrape of the rapier being put in that second hand stand you managed to find a few months ago. The boys just left them on the floor, and you’d tripped over them enough times to start bruising. That was when you decided enough was enough and off to the charity shop you went.  

Hot water into the mug.  

The thump of a gear bag finding the floor. Good, he at least tried to keep himself safe.  

Milk added. 

The shuffling of feet as he takes his coat off and hangs it up. That was a Lucy edition.  

You went to add the sugar but realised something was wrong. Usually, he then came into the kitchen. Why isn’t he in the kitchen? You rushed to see what was happening and found him leaning against the wall, eyes shut in displeasure.  

“Anthony?” 

He opened his eyes are stared at you, pupils getting wide. “Hey Y/n. Did you make tea?” You nodded. He started shuffling towards the kitchen (there it is) and leant against the counter. He picked up the mug with a groan and took a sip. “Where’s the sugar? I know I’m already sweet enough, but this is so bitter.”  

“I was about to put it in before I realised you were still in the hallway. Sit down and I’ll get the sugar.” You moved towards the counter watching him and quickly ran to his side when he swayed. He sat and you grabbed the sugar, keeping as far away from him as possible as you sat at the opposite end of the table. “What the fuck were you thinking?” You whisper-shouted, not wanting to wake George.  

“Y/N its three in the morning can I please answer your questions in the morning?” 

“No, you bloody can’t. Why are you swaying? Are you injured? And why would you go out to a type two ON YOUR OWN?” Your voice was getting louder, the fear piling up from this evening into anger.  

“Number one, I am just tired. It has been a long night. Number two, I am not injured. Just scraped my chest a little but nothing concerning. And number three, because I could handle it. Are you happy now? Can I have my sugar back?” He asked, reaching forward to retrieve the pot. He groaned and you moved it even further away. “Y/N this is ridiculous,” he stood up and came round the table, “I am fine…” he tapered off, swaying even more. You rose, but you weren’t fast enough. He was on the floor, the cup smashed on the tiles and tea slowly surrounding his body, mixing in with the blood that had started oozing out of the cut on his side you hadn’t noticed till now. The red was such a stark contrast to the white of his shirt, it was jarring. 

This was exactly how you had imagined he would die. Overworking himself to the point that his body would give up. You started breathing heavier. Your vision was getting darker, the tea slowly starting to look more and more like blood. Oh god. You felt the beginnings of a panic attack start to emerge, your head pounding and heart beating faster and faster. How could this happen. Aren’t you supposed to do something? Call someone? You were stuck on the floor beside him in fear, hoping and praying that he would wake up. You would do anything. Please. You grab his hand, but it slips through, and you’re shaking so much that there’s no point in trying again. 

He could have had anything from you, whatever he needed. But he didn’t, and you lost him. He was gone. Why couldn’t he just ask for help?  You would have given him anything.