pedriache

[pedriache]

yup… yuppp.. that’s it right there kado…. yup.. thank u…..

10 Things you hate about Clark Kent.

━━━ © bitterballad

PLOT! You had just moved to Metropolis from Gotham after quitting the Gotham Gazette. You thought it would be a breeze. But there's 10 things about your coworker that irk you more than you ever thought.

WARNINGS! corenswet!clark. gotham!reader. clark is kinda submissive in this... sorry. overstimulating. oral (fem receiving). unprotected p in v (wrap b4 u tap). kinda service top clark? but he gets submissive.

NOTES! i watched superman with my boyfriend and i need to dick down clark with every bone in my body. i had sm fun writing this. thank you to my baby girls out there, i see u. word count is 7.2k btw!

1. You hate that he’s always late.

Metropolis is cleaner than Gotham, sure. Shinier. The streets sparkle like they’ve never seen a body chalked on the pavement, and people here walk a little faster—like they’re going somewhere they actually want to be. But beneath the polish, it’s the same grind. New City, same newsroom. 

You should’ve known The Daily Planet wouldn’t be much different than The Gotham Gazette. The coffee is just as burnt, the interns just as sweaty, and deadlines still loiter like stormclouds, waiting to downpour. You expected chaos. What you didn’t expect was Clark Kent.

He’s late.

Every. Damn. Day.

You hear him before you see him—always the same: the hurried shuffle of too-big shoes, the frantic slam of a shoulder against the swinging glass door, and the apologetic murmur of “Morning” that barely beats out the time clock.

You don’t even look up from your monitor. “It’s 9:47.”

Clark wheezes into his cubicle—which, of course, is right next to yours. His tie is crooked, his glasses fogged, and his hair’s got a single, infuriatingly perfect curl bouncing on his forehead like it was placed there by angels. 

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Sorry. There was traffic.”

There’s always traffic in Metropolis. But that excuse is wearing thin, especially when he is the only one in the building who acts like he has to physically leap over it. 

You finally glance up, deadpan. “You know who else got stuck in traffic today? Me. Lois. The kid from copy who literally rides a unicycle to work. We all still made it to work on time.”

He runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly, like that’s supposed to mean something. And somehow, it always does—with everyone else. Lois laughs it off. Perry yells, but only half-heartedly. Even Cat calls him “Smallville” like it’s an inside joke and not an indictment of his incompetence. 

But you?

You are not charmed.

You’re Gotham born and bred. You’ve filed stories from under police tape, from fire escapes, from alleys where the blood was still wet. You didn’t claw your way out of that city just to share a byline with a man who treats deadlines like vague suggestions and shows up to work looking like he just wrestled a tornado.

Again!

“You’ve been late every day this week, Kent,” you mutter, turning back to your monitor. “If you’re aiming for a record, congrats. You’re winning.”

He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve shut him up, finally. But then—“I’ve never really been good at winning things,” he says softly, almost like he’s talking to himself. 

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. There’s something about the way he says it, not pathetic. Just… strange. Like maybe he means something bigger. You almost ask. 

Almost.

Instead, you scoff and shake your head. “Try winning a Pulitzer. Might help your case.”

He grins again, that irritating, dimpled grin, and unpacks his bag like he didn’t walk in almost an hour later. You hate that he’s always late. You hate that nobody seems to care. You hate that he never has a good excuse, but still somehow gets away with it.

And most of all?

You hate that you’re starting to care enough to notice.

2. You hate his 'aw shucks' act.

If Clark Kent’s lateness is a thorn in your side, then his personality is the knife twisting next to it. 

Not that it’s a bad personality, exactly. That’s the problem. On paper, he’s the perfect coworker—polite, humble, well-liked by every living soul in the building. He holds elevators. He offers to do coffee runs even when it’s pouring. He once helped Carol from Archives fix the jammed printer with nothing but a safety pin and a hopeful smile.

People adore him. They smile when he walks into the room. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Trust him. 

You do not.

Because you’ve been watching. You’ve been taking mental notes since week two. That “aw shucks, I’m just a small-town guy from Kansas” routine is too well rehearsed. No one is that gentle and that oblivious. No one stammers through meetings and then turns in a perfect copy by the end of the day. No one is that clumsy—spilling coffee, tripping over wires—and yet somehow always lands on their feet.

You didn’t come from Gotham to fall for the world’s oldest trick.

So when he chuckles nervously after Lois slaps him on the back for landing a quote from the Steel Syndicate leader—a quote you had been chasing for a week—you grit your teeth and mutter:

“Oh, give me a break!”

Clark turns to you, blinking. “Sorry?”

You don’t bother to fake it. “You play the ‘golly gee’ routine, but you’re sharper than you act. And frankly, it’s annoying.”

His brows knit behind his glasses. “I’m not acting.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Right. You just accidentally out-interviewed me and walked away with the best lead we’ve had all quarter.”

He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, all bashful. “I really wasn't trying to one-up you. I just—I guess he liked me?”

You scoff. “Of course he did,” you mumble. “Everyone does. Must be the charm of your down-home, butter-wouldn’t-melt-bullshit!”

“I’m from Smallville,” he says, like that explains everything.

You lean forward across your desk, voice low. “I’ve met people from Smallville. They don’t act like they’ve never heard someone curse before.”

Clark shrinks back slightly, like your words sting, but there’s a twitch of something else in his eyes—like he’s fighting a smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” he offers gently.

You narrow your eyes. “I save it for when I’m alone. Or keep it in my head. Like right now, for example. Internally? It’s a full symphony of four-letter words.”

He snorts, an actual snort, then claps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed by it. That’s when you realize something terrifying. He’s not pretending to be harmless.

He is harmless.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Because no one is harmless in this job. Not in journalism. Not in Metropolis. Especially not if they’re good at it. And Clark? Despite the dopey smile, the apologies, the way he trips over every desk in the bullpen. Clark is very good at it.

You hate that his small town bullshit works. You hate that it makes people underestimate him. You hate that it almost worked on you. But the worst part? You’re starting to realize it’s not an act. It’s who he is.

And that makes you want to scream.

You hate how he somehow always got the exclusive.

There’s something sacred about how the word exclusive in a newsroom. It’s the holy grail—the thing that earns you front pages, corner offices, Pulitzers. You’ve chased exclusives down back alleys, stayed on hold for eons, bribed a coffee-stained secretary with two croissants and a MetroCard just to get one measly quote from a crooked city councilman

But somehow, Clark Kent just gets them.

Every. Fucking. Time.

He never brags. That would at least make him bearable. He just shows up—late, of course—shrugs off his coat, and drops a crisp interview transcript on Perry’s desk like he tripped over it on the sidewalk.

It’s infuriating.

You first noticed it during the Union Square train derailment. Superman was spotted hauling survivors out of the wreckage. No reporters got near him. Police kept everyone back. Even Lois couldn’t get close. And she's Lois!

But the next morning?

There it was: Superman Speaks on Metropolis Disaster by Clark Kent.

You stared at the byline like it had personally offended you. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard as you read the quote—exclusive, lengthy, insightful. Too insightful.

“He said that?” you asked Clark across the bullpen.

Clark blinked. “Uh, yeah. He flew by while I was walking back from a source.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what, he just… pulled you into the sky for a heart-to-heart?”

Clark smiled, bashful. “We’ve talked a few times.”

You nearly choked on your burnt coffee.

A few times?

Since then, it’s been quote after quote. Superman says this. Superman warns that. Every piece is conveniently labeled “as told to Clark Kent.” You’ve pitched a dozen stories with solid leads, real impact, and Perry still passes them over in favor of Clark’s Superman exclusives.

You’ve tried to ask how he does it. Casually. Aggressively. Once while both of you were on a stakeout at a warehouse near Suicide Slums, you even offered him your last protein bar if he’d just tell you how the hell he keeps finding Superman.

Clark just smiled. That soft, maddeningly patient smile, and said, “I think he trusts me.”

Trusts him.

Like Superman sits around rating journalists on a Yelp scale.

You stare across the bullpen now, watching Clark quietly type something into his terminal. He looks like a librarian. One of those sleepy, gentle ones who offer you a tissue when you cry reading To Kill a Mockingbird. 

And yet somehow, he gets the hero in blue to spill his guts.

You hate it.

You hate that it makes you question your own work. You hate that you keep looking for the cracks in his story, the thing that explains how he’s doing this. You’ve doubled-checked timestamps. Scrubbed security footage. Asked sources. Nothing adds up. 

No one sees Clark talking to Superman.

And yet Clark knows things. Small details. Direct quotes. Reassurances Superman has never given anyone else.

You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling. Either Clark Kent is the luckiest man in Metropolis… or he’s hiding something.

And you don’t believe in luck.

You hate that he doesn't talk shit.

Newsrooms run on gossip.

That’s just a fact.

You don’t survive in this field—not in this city—without learning to weaponise information. It’s part of the culture. You swap barbs while the coffee brews, trade snark over late-night edits, hurl critiques and conspiracies like dodgeballs. Everyone does it. It keeps you sane. Keeps you sharp.

Except Clark.

Clark doesn’t talk shit.

At first, you assumed it was a tactic. A kind of passive power play, let everyone else tear each other down while he keeps his hands clean and his halo polished. You even waited for him to crack. Made space for it.

Lois stormed past your desks muttering, “If I have to rewrite one more of Franklin’s clickbait trash, I swear to God—” and you turned to Clark, ready.

Nothing.

He just said, “Franklin’s trying to juggle two kids and night school. He’s doing the best he can.”

You blinked. “That’s your take? Really?”

Clark smiled, easy. “Well, it’s not like yelling about it helps.”

You stared at him for a full beat, then scoffed, Wow. How do you make ‘reasonable’ sound so smug?”

He laughed. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… amused.

It keeps happening.

Gina in Copy fakes sick twice in one week to go see her boyfriend in Coast City. Nobody buys it. You expect Clark to at least comment. Something gentle, like “Must be nice to have a love life” but he just covers her calls without being asked.

When Jimmy blows a quote in a city council interview, you hear three people mutter about it near the break room. Clark hears too. You watch his eyes flick in that direction, but he doesn’t engage. He just brings Jimmy a coffee the next morning with no explanation.

You don’t get it.

You’ve worked with assholes and saints and everything in between. But there’s always a crack. A vent. A gripe. A single “Jesus Christ, can you believe this guy?” at happy hour.

Clark? He smiles, he listens. He takes the fall for other people's mistakes, and never once asks for anything in return.

It’s not that he’s quiet. He barks. He just doesn’t bite. 

You should hate it. Actually, no, you do hate it.

Because it makes you feel mean. Makes you feel like every time you roll your eyes or mutter something under your breath, you’re the one slinging mud at a guy who just… doesn’t throw it back.

He’s not better than you. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s not better. He’s just boring. But that’s not true, is it?

Because when Carol’s mom lands in the hospital, he’s the one who quietly organizes a grocery drop-off.

When Perry has a meltdown over a typo in the Sunday headline, Clark doesn’t flinch. He just calmly fixes it. Compliments the new intern’s formatting, and reminds Perry to breathe.

When you come in one morning with three hours of sleep and that coil, pre-caffeine snarl already at your lips, he places a black coffee on your desk without saying a word.

You hate how it makes your chest tighten.

You hate that he makes kindness look easy—not loud or performative or fake, just… part of him.

You hate that you’re starting to notice how often his eyes go soft when someone’s having a bad day.

You hate how your shoulders drop just a little when he walks in.

You hate how, for all the ways he frustrates you, he never gives you a real reason to hate him back.

You tap your pen against your notebook and glances at him—across the bullpen, bent over his desk, tie askew, glasses sliding down, that same stupid curl on his forehead. He’s reading something, mouth twitching like he might laugh, and you watch him longer than you mean to.

You shake yourself.

No.

This is just a strategy. Observation. Knowing your competition. It’s not softness. It’s not a crush. It’s not a slow-burn, late-blooming kind of fondness, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to fight it.

It’s not.

You just hate that he doesn’t talk shit. That’s all.

You hate how he remembers everything you say.

You’re not the type of person who expects people to remember things.

You’ve had too many conversations die halfway through a sentence. Too many men nod politely, only to ask you the same question a week later like they never heard your answer the first time. You’ve learned to file your words under ‘for now’—disposable, temporary, forgettable.

Clark Kent doesn’t see it that way.

You noticed it during your first lunch break, maybe two weeks in. You’d been ranting—venting, truly—about how every salad in Metropolise comes pre-drenching in some sort of smug artisanal vinaigrette. You weren’t even talking to him. Just muttering to yourself while stabbing a piece of limp kale in the breakroom.

The next day, he passed you a plain turkey sandwich from the deli on 6th and said, “They don’t just dressing unless you ask. Though you might like it.”

You blinked at him

“You remembered that?” you asked, caught off guard.

Clark shrugged with a smile. “You seemed passionate.”

You were half convinced it was a fluke. But it wasn’t.

Because the pattern kept happening.

You mentioned once—once—that your favorite weather is when it rains but the sun’s still out. A week later, during one of those golden, misty drizzles, he caught up to you on the steps and said, “Looks like your kind of day, huh?”

You told him offhandedly that your least favorite movie trope is the girl tripping while running. Three nights later, you passed each other in the hallways after working late, and he asked if you’d seen the new action flick in theaters. “No tripping heroines, I promise.”

You said that once your dad used to call you ‘kid’ and that one one’s used the word since.

He’s never called you that. But you catch him hesitating once. Mid-sentence. Like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

Because you never asked him to remember. You never wanted him to.

You’ve known people who remember birthdays because Facebook reminds them. Or likes and dislikes so they can use them later. But Clark? He never uses it. He just stores it. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like your words matter. Like they’re puzzle pieces he’s collecting, not to solve you, but to understand you.

And maybe that’s what bothers you most.

Because no one’s ever tried to understand you.

Not really.

Gotham trained you to guard your secrets with blood. To keep your walls high, your smile sarcastic, your stories brief and impersonal. But Clark listens like he’s trying to paint a picture of your in his head, one brushstroke at a time.

And you despise it.

You hate that it makes you feel seen. 

You hate that it makes you feel real.

You hate that it makes you wonder how much you’ve remembered about him.

You glance at his desk. Same stupid Superman bobblehead he swore he didn’t buy himself. Same chipped Kansas mug. Same pair of extra reading glasses tucked into the drawer, just in case.

You remember that he doesn’t like spicy food. That he uses semicolons like they’re going out of style. That he hums the theme from Star Wars when he’s writing something he’s proud of.

You remember that his middle name is Joseph, but he doesn’t like it because it was his dad’s.

You remember way too much.

So maybe you don’t hate that he remembers everything you say. Maybe you hate that you’ve started doing it too.

You hate that he looks at you like he sees you.

There’s a kind of look people give you when they think they know who you are.

Back in Gotham, it was always the same—calculating, wary, sometimes impressed. You were the youngest on the crime desk, the loudest in the pitch room, the one with the sharpest elbows and the thinnest armor. People look at you like a problem to solve or a rival to beat.

But that’s not how Clark looks at you. He looks at you like you’re someone. Not a headline. Not a byline. Not the girl from Gotham with a chip on her shoulder and a pen like a scalpel.

Just you.

And it drives you batshit crazy.

Because it’s not just in meetings, when you sneak up and catch his gaze across the table—it’s in the little moments. When you’re half-asleep at your desk and he walks by with a fresh coffee. When you’re biting your tongue in an argument and he gives you a look like he already knows what you want to say. When you laugh—really laugh—and you see him watching like it’s a rare event he doesn’t want to interrupt.

It’s too much. Too soft. Too honest. You don’t want to be known like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.

But he keeps doing it. Like it’s effortless. Like seeing you, the real you, the messy and angry and guarded parts is just what happens when he looks at someone.

And you hate that you notice it. And you hate that some small, quiet part of you never wants him to stop.

You hate how nervous he makes you.

You’re not nervous around people.

You’ve been yelled at by corrupt mayors. Cornered by gang members for writing the wrong names in the right story. You’ve told a Gotham crime boss to spell his name correctly if he wants to be quoted. You know how to stand your ground, spine straight, heart steady.

But Clark makes you so nervous that you might shit your pants.

Not in the usual nervous way—not in the way bad people do. He doesn’t threaten or belittle or hover too close. No, Clark stands a respectful distance away and still somehow manages to get under your skin. He fidgets when you talk. He laughs at your sarcasm. He listens like he’s memorizing you on purpose. 

And lately… you’ve been messing things up.

You dropped your pen the other day. Three times. In one meeting.

You forgot what you were saying mid-sentence when he looked at you—just looked at you—like the whole room had gone quiet except for you.

You called him Clark and it came out soft, almost breathless, and it startled you. Like your mouth knew something your brain just hadn’t caught up with yet.

When you brushed against him near the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, your pulse stuttered. Not fear. Not irritation. Something else. Then it hit you.

You like him.

God, you like him.

You like his stupid glasses and his kind eyes and the way he always holds the door for people even when they don't say thank you. You like the way he scribbles notes in the margins of his reporter’s notebook and the way he lights up when someone says the words human interest. You like that he takes his job seriously without ever acting like he’s the smartest man in the room.

You like that he’s good. You trust him. And that might scare you more than anything else on this planet.

You hate that he makes you nervous, because it means your guard is down. And you never let your guard down. Especially not for someone like him. Especially not when he might possibly, slightly, maybe, feel the same way.

Because if he does.. if he does… you’re not sure what happens now.

You hate how he’s Superman.

You almost died today.

Not in the dramatic, flashing-lights-before-your-eyes kind of way. More like sudden and sharp. One second, you were walking past LexCorp Tower with a coffee in hand. The next, the sky cracked open with a sound like the earth tearing apart, and something enormous. A ship? A drone? It spiraled out of control and straight into the street.

You didn’t scream. Not at first. Your body froze instead, the kind of instinct that Gotham should’ve removed. Get big, get loud. Scare the monster away from you.

But flight or fight invited a friend to the party. Fawn. And she told you not to move a muscle. To get small. Get still. And pray to Jesus of Nazareth that the monster passes.

It didn’t.

It was coming right for you.

And then, just like every headline you’d ever written about him, Superman was there.

He was a blur at first. Then red. Then blue. Then everything stopped. The drone crumpled against the pavement thirty feet away, a crater the size of a bus sinking into the asphalt. Wind whipped around you, debris in your hair, your coffee exploded on the ground. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly fine like the chaos had bent around him on purpose—

Him. 

Superman.

He turned to you, eyes impossibly soft for someone who could tear steel apart with his bare hands. “Are you hurt?”

You nodded dumbly. Maybe you shook your head. You don’t remember. Your voice wasn’t working.

He gave you a smile, the kind that should’ve made you feel safe. It did. But it also unsettled something deep in your chest. Almost like recognition.

He took off again in a gust of air and cape and godlike power, and you stood there shaking, your hands empty.

That night, you sat cross-legged on your couch with the local news running in the background, half-heartedly typing notes for tomorrow’s article. You watched grainy footage of Superman returning a flaming car to the street like it was a paper toy. You watched people cheering, waving, chanting his name.

You knew he was a hero. You knew he’d saved countless lives. But seeing him up close? Feeling the air shift around him, the sheer weight of him?

It rattled you.

And yet, what kept circling in your brain wasn’t just the blur of the cape or the force of the landing. It was his eyes.

The way he looked at you.

Like he knew you. Like he saw you.

And then your fingers stopped moving.

Because you’d seen that look before.

Early this week. At the Daily Planet. In the elevator, when you’d complained about the vending machine eating your dollar. 

Clark had looked at you like that.

You stared at the paused frame on your screen. Superman mid-turn, mid-expression.

You grabbed your phone, opened the gallery. A photo Jimmy had taken at Lois’s birthday last month. Clark, standing beside you with that same crooked smile. Same jawline. Same posture.

Your heart sank.

No.

You looked again. 

You zoomed in.

And all at once, every thing—every late arrival, every exclusive quote, every ‘You okay?’ after a tremor, every ‘How did he know?’—every moment fell into place like puzzle pieces you’d been too close to see. 

Clark Kent is Superman.

You sat there frozen, blinking at the screen as a sick kind of heat spread through your chest. You hate that he’s Superman.

Not because he’s dangerous. Not because he lied—though God, he did.

You hate it because you were just starting to fall for Clark. Sweet, awkward, late-to-everything Clark. Now you’re not sure where Clark ends and Superman begins.

And worst of all? You’re not sure which one of them you’re in love with.

You hate how he touches you.

You told yourself it was for the story.

That inviting Clark over to your apartment — late, after deadline, with a six-pack in the fridge and the lights dimmed just enough to feel casual — was journalistic strategy. You even made a notepad with scribbled questions, highlighted sources in your phone, and pulled up three articles from the Planet’s archive as “references.”

But deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.

Clark knocked once. Polite. Timid. He always knocked like he didn’t want to disturb you, even when he had to enter the bullpen three minutes before a press conference with ink on his tie. You opened the door and didn’t let yourself look too long at the way his glasses slid down his nose or how the sleeves of his white button-down were rolled to his forearms.

He stepped in, soft-voiced as ever. “You said you needed help with something?”

“An article,” you said, breezy. “About Superman.”

And God, you said his name like a test.

Clark blinked. Just once. Just barely. But you caught it.

You offered him a beer. You talked. You took notes on nothing. And he sat there — not relaxed, exactly, but trying to act like he was. He always had this charming nervousness to him. But now that you knew — knew — it wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. It was a man constantly folding himself into something smaller to pass unnoticed.

You kept waiting for him to lie.

He didn’t.

So you forced his hand.

You said it like it didn’t cost you anything: “You’re Superman.”

Silence. Stillness. The longest pause you’d ever heard.

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t laugh it off.

He just looked at you.

And it was like the air in the room shifted. Something cracked open between you. Not hostile. Not afraid. Just honest.

“You’ve known?” he asked quietly.

“I figured it out after the LexCorp thing. The way you looked at me.”

He closed his eyes. Like he was trying to protect you from something — or maybe protect himself from what he already knew was coming next.

“I never meant to lie,” he said. “Not to you.”

“But you did,” you replied. “Every day.”

And you should’ve been furious. You should’ve thrown him out. Written the article. Exposed everything. But you didn’t.

Because all you could think about was the way he looked at you in the cratered street. The way he always hovered a second longer when your hands brushed. The way he saw you — really saw you — even before you ever knew who he was.

And the way he touched you now, when he reached across the table to cover your hand with his own — gentle, grounding, warm.

You hated it.

You hated the way the contact burned up your arm and across your chest like he’d set your blood alight. You hated how steady it felt, how calm, how wanted. You hated the way it made you lean in, just slightly, like gravity was tugging you toward him.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“I should be.”

He swallowed. “Are you?”

You looked at him — really looked — and saw all of it. The weight of two lives. The softness behind the cape. The man who brought you coffee when you were hungover. The man who pulled a collapsing building off a school bus.

Clark Kent. Superman. Both. All.

And you hated that he made you feel like this. Hated the way his fingers curled around yours like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Hated that your heart was pounding so loud you were afraid he could hear it.

You stood.

He stood too.

You should’ve said something. Pulled back. Cut it off.

But when he stepped forward, eyes locked on yours — when he hesitated, like he needed your permission — and when you didn’t stop him—

His mouth met yours, and the world dropped out.

You hated the way it made you forget every single reason you were supposed to hate him. Hated the way his hands were patient, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Hated the way you melted into him like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.

You hated the sound you made when he pressed you gently against the wall. Hated the tremble in your breath when his lips found the spot just beneath your jaw. Hated how badly you wanted him — and not just the cape. Not just the secret.

Him.

Clark.

You pulled him closer.

And in that moment, you didn’t hate anything at all.

You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You meant to confront him. To unearth the truth. To hold him accountable. 

But now his hands are at your waist—warm, grounding, familiar—and he’s kissing you like he’s spent decades thinking about it. Like he’s imagined it in quiet mornings between bylines and burning buildings. Like it’s the one indulgence he never allowed himself to have.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes against your skin. You don’t. Because you’ve wanted this. Hated how much you’ve wanted this.

Not just tonight. Not just since he walked through your apartment door with that bashful smile and that stupid, careful politeness like he didn’t have a goddamn clue you were about to wreck both of your lives.

No, you’ve wanted this since the second week at the Planet. And you’ve finally got it.

You fist his shirt and push him back against the wall, chest heaving, and when he looks at you with wide eyes and his lips parted, looking so vulnerable in a way that makes your throat ache, something inside of you snaps.

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

His breath stutters. “I didn’t want to—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is desperate. Messy. Teeth knocking, breath uneven. His hands roam over you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dreaming about this for years. One palm slides up your back, the other fists in your hair, and you moan against his lips before biting down, just enough to make him groan.

You push him toward the bedroom.

He lets you.

You straddle him the second he hits the bed, pressing your helps down until you feel him twitching beneath his slacks, already hard, already straining. You grind slowly, deliberately, and his head drops back with a strangled sound.

You kiss him again, slower this time. Meaner. Like a punishment. Like retribution for every late arrival, every Superman scoop, every time he looked at you like you hung the fucking moon.

When you break away, you lean down, your mouth brushing his ear. “I hate you.”

His breath catches. His grip on your hips tightens.

“I hate how soft you pretend to be. I had that stupid fucking ‘golly gee’ act like you’re not hiding the most dangerous secret in the world. I hate that you touched me like I mattered, like you meant it.”

“God,” he breathes, almost broken. “Say it again.”

“I hate you, Kent.”

And then his hands are everywhere.

He rolls you over, yanking your shirt off so fast the fabric nearly rips. His mouth crashed to your neck, trailing heat down your collarbone, between your breasts, across your ribs. When he pulls back to look at you, there’s something primal in his gaze. Starved. Worshipful.

“Tell me where you want me,” he rasps.

You lean up on your elbows. “You’re Superman. Figure it out.”

His growl vibrates through your chest before he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your pants down your thighs. He doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t play coy.

His mouth is on you in seconds.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

You cry out, hips jerking, but his hands grip your thighs and hold you down, unmovable. His tongue flicks in tight, devastating circles, and then he flattens it. Slow and deliberate, until your eyes roll back in your head.

“Fuck—Clark—”

He moans against you, like the sound of his name falling from your lips is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I hate this. I hate how good you are at this.”

He groans again, deeper, louder. You feel him rutting slightly against the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you.

The thought makes you whine.

It’s almost unfair how good he is at this. Like he’s memorized you.

He finds your clit again, circles it with obscene precision, and you arch off the mattress with a sharp gasp.

“You’re close,” he whispers against you. “I can feel it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you pant.

“I’ll die happy.”

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you, hot and heavy and blinding, You cry out, sharp and breathless, thighs trembling around his head. Clark doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, soft and reverent. Like he wants to savor every second.

You look down at him, wrecked and panting. “I still hate you,” you manage.

He grins, a real one this time, crooked and infuriatingly gorgeous. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll hate this even more.”

And just like that, he’s crawling back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, the head of his clothes cock nudging against your soaked entrance.

And he’s still hard. Rock fucking hard.

You blink. “Jesus Christ.”

He pulls his pants and boxers down as his smile widens. “Not quite.”

You punch his arm. He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when he lines himself up and pushes in, slow and smooth, inch by inch. 

You both groan. You clench around him instinctively, and his jaw locks.

“You feel—fuck. Better than I dreamed.”

“You dreamed about this?”

He leans in, kisses you hard. “Every night.”

You’re still trembling from the first wave when Clark pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide like he;s been holding back an entire storm.

You arch up into his hands, desperate and aching. His lips descend again. This time with hungry insistence, sucking bruises into your skin—neck, collarbone, chest—a map of possession in deep, dark purples. You try to catch your breath but he pins your arms above your head with one hand, the other trailing fire down your ribs, across your stomach.

“Don’t move,” he commands, voice trembling like it’s torture holding himself back.

You whimper, and the sound sends a shudder right through him. He nips at your inner thigh, then drags his tongue over your clit again, slower, more torturous. You didn’t even notice that he pulled out. Your legs shake uncontrollably, and he groans. A ragged, desperate sound, a whimper escaping past his lips.

“Please,” you breathe, and he smiles like you just handed him the universe.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down.

His fingers slide inside you, circling, pressing that one perfect spot that makes your back arch and your breath catch in your throat. “God,” he pants, his mouth pressing wet kisses along your hipbone.

You’re drowning in pleasure, desperate for release. But Clark pulls back suddenly, his eyes dark and gleaming. “Not yet.”

You glare at him, frustrated and needy.

“You’re going to remember this,” he promises, voice low and intense. “Every damn moment.”

His mouth covers yours again, hot and insistent, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his fingers move faster inside you. He kisses and sucks at your neck, marking you like he’s carving your name into his skin. 

Another wave crashes through you, your body shaking with the force of it. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, he keeps licking, sucking, teasing until your hips buck wildly and you're crying out his name, desperate and undone.

He hums—a deep, satisfied sound—as he pulls you into a long, slow kiss, tongue swirling around yours, possessive and needy.

“Round three,” he whispers against your lips, voice shaky but still full of hunger. “I’m not done with you.”

You shiver, heart pounding as he slides his hands under your shirt again, fingertips tracing fire trails across your ribs. He’s relentless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re gasping, trembling under the weight of his touch. Your body still singing from the last orgasm Clark coaxed out of you. But he’s not done. Not even close.

His hands tremble as he touches you. The way he looks at you now—wide eyes, desperate, like he’s about to break—makes something wild flare inside you.

He’s not the untouchable hero tonight. He’s yours. And you own every inch of him.

His fingers shake as they ghost over your hips, then he trails a slow and reverent path back up his own body, touching himself briefly. You watch, breath hitching, as his hands work, fingertips teasing, tentative.

He looks up, eyes pleading.

You reach for him, your hands bold now, fingers wrapping around the hard length. He whimpers, a soft and needy sound, and his hips jerk forward, pressing into your grip.

You kiss him hard, biting his lower lip as you tug his jeans down just enough to free him. His skin is impossibly warm under your touch, slick with heat and desire.

Clark’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. He presses himself against you, hands tangled in your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go.

You take control, guiding him down until he’s lying back, breathless and vulnerable. You straddle him, sliding your heat against his ache. His hands cup your hips, trembling, and he whimpers softly as you begin to move.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with need. “So good… God, you’re so good…”

His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, exposing raw, desperate pleasure. He’s never been like this, the strong and invincible Superman, not when it comes to you.

He whines when you shift, when you grind, when you tease that sensitive spot that makes him arch into you, hips jerking uncontrollably. Then you sink down onto him.

“Please, don’t stop,” he begs, voice breathy and broken. 

Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart beneath your palms. He’s lost, undone, and it’s yours to keep. You ride him slowly, building, driving him higher, feeling every shiver and gasp as his pleasure months.

He whimpers your name over and over, voice cracked and raw. “More.” He begs, fingers clutching your hips tighter. You give it to him.

Faster now. Harder. The room fills with the sound of skin sliding, ragged breaths, and his desperate, needy whimpers. When he comes, it’s shuddering and loud—hips bucking wildly, mouth open in a ragged cry. 

You collapse against him, breathless, hearts pounding together in a thunderous rhythm. He pulls you close, lips brushing your hair, whispering your name like a prayer. And you hate that you don’t want this to end.

You hate that you love him.

You told yourself it wasn’t possible.

Not with Clark Kent—Mr. Always-Late, Mr. Aw‑Shucks, Mr. Exclusive‑Scoop Superman. The man who made you roll your eyes before you even opened his email. The man who kept secrets that could’ve rewritten your career. The man you once swore you'd never let in.

And now you’re waking up tangled in his arms, back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against your neck. He’s asleep—still shirtless, still soft beneath the weighted duvet like he’s the one who needs comfort, not the other way around. Your mind whips through all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this calm. This safe. This full.

You hate him.

You hate how he made you laugh at that stupid coffee joke you said while complaining about the crime desk. You hate how he trails kisses along your eyelids when you’re half-awake just to check if you're really real. You hate that he’s Superman—because knowing he could see the world in one blink, yet he chooses to stay here, beside you… it almost hurts.

You roll over carefully and catch his gaze.

He blinks. “Morning.” His voice is rough, like he’s just been dragged out of a dream you wish you were in too.

 You raise an eyebrow. “Morning? You know you’re not even supposed to exist before 8, right?”

He grins softly, stretching, then wraps an arm around you again. “I got a day off,” he says. “Superman’s on vacation.”

Your lips twitch. “Vacation. That’s rich.”

He chuckles into your shoulder. “So you don’t mind.”

You scoot back enough to face him. “I mind that you’re gorgeous at 7 a.m. and I can't even hate you for it.”

He quirks his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s fine.” You tap the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Let the world survive without Superman for one day. Let me hate you slightly less.”

He laughs, and it’s the softest thing in the room. Your chest tightens. You’ve hated him for a lot of things—his lateness, his lies, his speed-of-light heroism—but none of it compares to the strange ache of joy when he smiles at you this way.

“We should get breakfast,” he says, voice low like he’s testing gravity. “I know this place downtown that has killer cinnamon rolls.”

You sit up. Hair messy, pajamas rumpled. You cross your arms. “I hate cinnamon rolls.”

He scowls in mock horror. “Not real humans dislike cinnamon rolls.” Then softer: “Fine. We’ll go anywhere you like.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ve lived decades off burnt coffee and reuse foam. I don’t crave anything sweet.”

He’s thoughtful for just a beat. “Okay. Black coffee and stale bagels it is.”

A grin tugs at your lips. It’s so utterly him to tease. So… effortless. You're flooded with old habits—cynicism, sarcasm—and they feel braver than you thought.

But then his thumb brushes gently over your hand. And underneath the banter you suddenly realize how loud your heart is.

You clear your throat. “But seriously—I hate that I love you.”

He stills beside you. Heartbeat thunders under his palm.

“You know,” he says quietly, voice cracking just a little, “I hate how worried I get when you pull investigative duty alone.”

Your gut clenches. “You’ll fly here if anything happens.”

He nods. “In five seconds.”

You stare at him. Really stare. This is not Superman breathing next to you—this is Clark. Vulnerable. Human. Loving.

In that moment, all the hate evaporates.

“We’re a mess,” you laugh softly, looking away.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Best mess I’ve ever been in.”

He kisses your temple lightly. Tender. Long. Enough that you’ve lost count of everything you should hate about him.

And you hate that this moment isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.

taglist: @ickbite @halfwayhearted @pedriache @n4wst4r @crs6n

[pedriache]

🏎️ : F1 & F2 Master List

comment below if you want tagged in any posts for a specific person or all.

FORMULA ONE.

Lando Norris . . .

bf head canons

lover / over the moon

velvet mood

2hands

Franco Colapinto . . .

normalcy

all in good time

company

FORMULA TWO.

Arvid Lindblad . . .

boyfriend head canons

i hate it too

Jak Crawford . . .

christmas love

made to fall in love

Pepe Martí . . .

something great

apple cider

[pedriache]

⚽️ : Football Master List.

comment below if you’d like to be tagged for any of their fics.

All FCB players

pablo gavi master list

pedri gonzález master list

pau cubarsi master list

jude / jobe bellingham ML

arda güler master list

Leah Williamson . . .

sailor song

when she smiles

Marc Guiu . . .

strawberries / part two

kiss me

Kenan Yildiz . . .

My love all mine

love me that way

do i wanna know?

count to five

Leandro Trossard . . .

softly

cherry pit

Trent Alexander Arnold . . .

to say hello

the only exception

birch tree

Florian Wirtz . . .

bf head cannons

sidelines

silver linings

Lucas Bergvall . . .

keep driving

Fernando Torres . . .

better than this

all i need

João Felíx . . .

like real people do

apocalypse

Bukayo Saka . . .

always, forever

wait till you get home

Kai Havertz . . .

unrequited love (& other clichés)

Jamal Musiala . . .

ur so pretty

Cole Palmer . . .

mornings like this

sea of love

[pedriache]

Hey! Lamine meets a baker girl who is about 5 years older than him.Love at first sight.Shy teenager Lamjne.I would really like to see this.If it's okay with you, can you write such a request? Have a nice day.❤️🎀🍓

hey.. so thats actually pedophilia …. that’s a hard pass for me💔

[pedriache]

clark shouting "people were going to DIE" in the face of the "think of the consequences of your actions" argument is so fucking important to me bc it really IS that simple you can't look at a genocide and just twiddler your thumbs bc you're a afraid of the consequences ESPECIALLY when you can do something about it and THATS WHAT CLARK DID. WITHOUT HESITATION. WITHOUT CONSIDERING HOW IT COULD HURT HIM. bc hes a good person and in his brain its really just people were going to die so i had to step in bc what else would it be. superman i love you i love you i love you

[pedriache]

⚽️ : Pablo Gavi Master List

comment under this post if you’d like to be tagged in any gavi posts.

Domestic head canons

Boyfriend head canons

Oh my

You are in love

Heart shaped locket

Simulation swarm

Fade into you

Jealousy, Jealousy

We’ll be stars

Come down soon

Fine line

Calling after me

Over the moon

Adore you

Lovesick

Too much to ask

Tiny things

Casual / part two

Want you to want it

Fool for you

Fountain wishes

Cat parents

Hard to sleep / part two

[pedriache]

⚽️ : Pau Cubarsí Masterlist.

if you want to be tagged in future posts for pau, comment underneath this post.

Boyfriend head canons

Under the influence

Die with a smile

Rubberband

Efecto

Only friend

To be seen

Keep it cool

Coming clean

I can and I will

I’ll call you mine

Look after you

Heavy focus

Center of gravity

Feel something

She won’t go away

Either way

Too sweet

Ever seen

Warm glow

[pedriache]

📺 : Criminal Minds Masterlist

If you’d like to be tagged in any Criminal Minds posts, comment underneath this post.

Spencer Reid . . .

True Blue

Eyes in the sun

Birthday boy

Emily Prentiss . . .

Please be rude

Bittersweet returns

Aaron Hotchner . . .

Night shift

[pedriache]

⚽️ : Pedri González Masterlist.

if you’d like to be tagged in any future pedri posts, comment underneath this post.

Domestic head cannons

Boyfriend head cannons

Touch and go

Sunflood

Sweat heat lightning

Lover, you should’ve come over

No surprises

light blue linen

I miss you, I’m sorry

We’re the lucky ones

Save a kiss

Compromise

Not a lot, just forever

Orange-colored day

The one

Tuesday waltz

Waiting room / part two

Silver soul

Jealous

English love affair

Gold star

Peace

Soren

We’ll be stars

Give you my lovin

Add up my love

The perfect pair

I like (the idea) of you / part two

Let light be light

You know me

Kind of (type of way)

Right side of my neck

Cherry flavored

Kiss me

All I ever asked

Whatever, forever

Pretty boy

I love you, I’m sorry

Sweet

I love you

New additions

Morning cuddles

La santa

[pedriache]

Pau cubarsi x reader fluff!! Anything would be fine! Just something cute and heart warming!

Under the influence (Pau Cubarsi !)

synopsis. a little bit drunk and a lot in love with each other despite being best friends, you and pau accidentally let confessions slur from your lips.

wc. 950+

disclaimers. alcohol consumption mentioned, fluff, & kissing

notes. is beatrix!pedriache so back or what..

𝓕loral scented everything-cleaner filled your senses as you sprayed the contents of the bottle onto the kitchen island. You’d been cleaning all day and you finally made it into the kitchen, which by far was the worst.

Last night you’d had friends over for a birthday pool party and Pau had spilled a full cup of Vodka Cranberry all over the table. He’d apologized a dozen or so times, but the stain stayed.

You weren’t upset, in fact, it was the last thing on your mind. What was on your mind, was the loose, slurred words the two of you had shared.

You had a half dozen shots to thank for that.

“Mi Estrella?” Pau slurred, his lips tipping to the side along with his head as he swayed on the hammock beside you. [my star]

You loved that nickname. You were his star, his light. He’d called you it since you two were kids.

Lulling your head toward him, you smiled back. “Yes?”

There was only a foot of space between your hammocks, so it came as no surprise when his hand reached out and grazed yours. “You look beautiful, y’know that?” You nearly laughed at his almost unintelligible words. Your cheeks heated up and you found your fingers working before brain could process them.

Slipping your cold fingers through his, you squeezed firmly. “Is that so?”

Pau hummed, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “Do you ever…” He trailed off, whether it was a result of the alcohol lacing his veins or a lack of words, you couldn’t tell.

“Do you ever feel something more between us? Something deeper, something—“

Your heart rate increased to incredible levels, but you somehow found it in yourself to nod. “Something non-platonic?”

Pau shot up, and for a second you thought you said the wrong thing. That was until you saw his eyes had lit up. “Yes! You—“ he cleared his throat, tossing his legs over the edge of the hammock but never dropping your hand. “You feel it, too? I’m not crazy?”

“Pau, I’ve felt so deeply for you for so long, it’s hard not to feel it.” Sitting up, you took in the calming, deep scent of pine needles and dew grass.

The brunette looking back at you was grinning so hard it was all-consuming. You’d loved his smile since the first time you saw it when you were six and that love only grew.

“I think I love you, Estrella.”

Sucking in a deep breath, you tried to flush the memory from your mind. It was drunken words. He probably didn’t mean it.

“Estrella?” The nickname had your head snapping up. Pau stood in the kitchen door, half naked and rubbing his eyes.

He looked painfully hungover, but painfully gorgeous.

His messy hair was being brushed down with his fingers now, but Pau’s eyes were finally one you. Who was staring.

You were staring. You were being very weird.

Clearing your throat, you blinked and looked back to the table. Using your cleaning towel, you began wiping off the cleaner. “Uh, ‘morning.”

A moment of silence passed before Pau spoke your name softly. He was by your side in minutes, repeating your name once more.

Swallowing thickly, you set the rag on the table and glanced up, sucking in a sharp breath at his proximity. “Hey, sorry. What?”

A worried creased formed between Pau’s eyebrows as his eyes flickered across your face. “You okay?”

“Mhm.” You nod, lips pursed into a thin line.

Very believable. Wow.

Pau was just as unconvinced.

“Was it what we said last night?” He sighed, his fingers trailing up your right arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His hand came to a stop once it rested against your burning cheek.

“Because I meant it. Even if you didn’t, but I am sorry I only had the balls to say it drunk.” He continued, the pad of his thumb brushing against your heated cheekbone.

Lips parting, you found it awfully hard to speak. He meant it. You weren’t crazy. You—he—oh God.

Pau’s lip pulled to the side in a slight up tilt. “Why are you making that face?”

“What face.” You huffed, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m being very normal. Actually, all things considered, I’m actually reacting to this very well—“

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

“You’re the one that’s being — wait, what?” Your eyebrows shot up, but you didn’t have a chance to ask what exactly he meant by that.

Pau’s index finger and thumb tipped your chin upward right before his mouth slotted over yours. The breath in your lungs caught as your mouth automatically moved in sync with his.

Setting the bottle down, your hands found a home on his neck, pressing yourself as close as possible. The kiss was everything and anything you could have ever imagined. Full of passion, heat, love.

But, unfortunately all good things must end. You needed air. Pulling back, your eyes snapped open and your lips parted as you gulped in air.

“Okay..” You exhaled, “woah…”

“Yeah.” Pau nodded, blinking just as astonished as you were. “Woah is right.”

“So…”

“So…”

“This is weird.” You nodded, hands still planted on his neck before you dropped them to his shoulders. “What—uhm, what now?”

Pau shrugged, a sly grin sliding onto his lips. “We could do that again, just to.. make sure I remember what we did correctly.”

Rolling your eyes, you heave a heavy sigh. “Oh, lord give me strength.” But, you were certainly not opposed to the idea. “We talk after this, though. Okay?” Nodding, Pau cupped your cheeks and you lifted yourself onto your tip-toes so your lips could meet another time.

likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any of my fics.

ᝰ.ᐟ tags @halfwayhearted @ferrarifudds @spidybaby @unx100to @sakashq @joaoflms @piastri-fvx @n0vazsq @ilovebarcaaaa @jajajhaahaha @f1lover55

[pedriache]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[pedriache]

Could you write a fic where reader is a physio at Barca and gets along well with everyone but notices Pedri is a bit distant? And they interact a bunch and there’s a crap ton of tension eventually he caves and confesses he’s distant because he has feelings for her and he doesn’t wanna jeopardize her job.

Touch and go ✴︎/ Pedri Gonzalez !

Synopsis. Six months of working for FC Barcelona as their new physio had you creating small friendships with the team. All except for one. Pedri. He couldn’t seem to talk to you about anything that wasn’t strictly professional. And it sucked, because a part of you had wanted his friendship more than anything. If only you knew Pedri wanted all that and more.

Word count. 910+

Disclaimer/s. Miscommunication to fluff !

Notes. Haii 🥹 I am sooo back. Sorry if this isn’t exactly how you wanted!

𝓨ou’d been with Barça for four months before you noticed it. Pedri didn’t seem to look let alone speak to you unless he had to.

It wasn’t rude. It wasn’t even standoffish… just neutral. Like he’d drawn an invisible line in front of you the day you joined the physio team and that line wouldn’t budge an inch.

The others weren’t like that. Gavi pulled childish jokes out during stretches. Lewandowski always asked about your family. Even Hansi Flick went out of his way to personally thank you for all you did. Hell, he brought you coffee one morning!

But Pedri? Always polite. Always distant. And always tensing when your hands touched him.

For months you tried not to take it personally. Maybe he was just shy, he always seemed shy in the press, or maybe he just didn’t like being touched. Nonetheless, the tension never eased. Not when you worked on his shoulder after a minor muscle got pulled, not when you wrapped his ankles after matches. Never. If anything, it seemed to be getting worse,

“Something on your mind?” It was late, a Thursday after a match. The rest of the team was departing already, but Pedri’s leg had taken a been worn thin and was starting to get sore.

So, he stayed late for a post match recovery session — tight hamstring, nothing too serious. You were kneeling in front of him, thumb pressing into the back of his thigh, when you’d finally gotten the nerve to ask.

Brown eyes snapped up from the floor to meet yours. “No. . . why?”

“You’re stiff as a board.. And not just today,” you add lightly, eyes flickering up to find the flicker of guilt that passed across his face. Ah, so you were right. “You tense up whenever I work on you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you hate me.”

Your lips quirked slightly, trying to make light of how very much this was effecting you. It didn’t get past Pedri, though. He just watched as you adjusted his leg, your fingers skimming down the line of muscle with practiced care.

“You’re… good at your job,” he finally said. “Too good.”

You would’ve laughed if that statement hadn’t been so confusing. “That’s a compliment, right?” You question, raising an eyebrow.

Pedri’s jaw flexed. “I mean it makes it hard to stay away.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was charged, making your throat tighten. You pause then, hand still resting on his thigh. “Uhm, why would you want to stay away?”

Then, for the first time, his eyes met yours, and didn’t look away. “I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

“Because…?”

“Because I like you,” he stated simply. “Too much. From the start. In a way I’m not supposed to like a co-worker. And I just don’t know how to act around you normally.”

For the longest time, you just stared at him, breath caught in your throat while he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes finally dropping before he explained.

“Listen, I didn’t want to cross a line and make things weird. You’re here to do your job and if something happened between us, or if I made you uncomfortable… I didn’t want to mess things up for you.”

Oookay. Out of all the things you’d expected to happen today, this was not on that list.

Rolling back on your heels and planting your butt on the nasty locker room floor, you tried to steady your heart rate through long breaths.

“So, let me get this straight. Instead of just.. y’know what! Never mind. Instead, you just acted like I didn’t exist?”

Pedri flinched slightly, lifting a hand to run it through his damp hair. And fuck if he didn’t look good doing it. “I was just trying to protect you and your job.” He pauses then, “and myself.”

You looked at him, really looked—at the crease between his brows, the flush in his neck, the quiet vulnerability in his voice.

Smiling weakly, you give his knee a light squeeze. “You’re not the only one who’s trying to act normal.”

The males head shot up and this time the silence was almost comfortable. Soft. Something you didn’t dare to break because you found you liked this sort of silence with him. It was new and didn’t make you want to run for the hills unlike it had with any of your past relationships.

Standing, you wiped your hands off on your shorts and smiled gently. “There is no need to protect me from something I want, too.”

Mouth parting like he might argue, or say something he might regret, you didn’t give him the chance. Sticking out your hand, you offered him help up.

Taking it hesitantly, Pedri stood to his full height, meaning you had to crane your neck a few inches back to meet his gaze. He was close. So close.

Sucking in a deep breath, you stand on your tip toes and plant a soft kiss to his cheek. When you eventually pull back, you’re met with a face so goofy, you couldn’t help the breathy laugh that escaped you.

“Wha—“ Pedri choked before clearing his throat and straightening his back. “What was that for?”

Grinning, you take one step back. “That means you owe me.” Shrugging you add, “I like Thai food.”

It only took him two days to find a free spot in his schedule to fulfill that debt.

likes, comments, & reposts are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any of my future fics.

✴︎/ @halfwayhearted @ferrarifudds @luvvpedri @spidybaby @gadriezmannsgirl @unx100to @st4rgirl-ellie @joaoflms @piastri-fvx @sakashq

[pedriache]

I'm so glad I found another writer for Pedri and FCB🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻You write VERY beautifully, please keep uploading stories

awww thank you!! i was on a vv long hiatus but i’m back finally & i appreciate this sm :)

[pedriache]

Sunflood ( Pedri González ! )

synopsis. being around your boyfriend was like having a constant state of sun shining directly on your face, especially when his not-so-puppy ‘puppy’ was involved.

disclaimer/s: fluff fluff and more fluff

notes. missing nilo action rn + close to 1k even after a long hiatus, guyss tysm i love you ALL <3

𝓨ou weren’t quite sure how you got into this situation. Your chest held the heavy weight of your boyfriend while he smothered your face with kisses, peppering them along your hairline, your cheeks, your jaw, and your lips. You were wriggling, trying to get out of his grasp, but he was holding your hips firmly in place.

“Pedro!” You let out a breathless laugh, squirming in a way you knew was probably giving your skirt a grass stain.

Ignoring your pleads, the tanned brunette simply planted a kiss to your lips. “I missed you.” He murmurs, letting his head drop to the crook of your neck.

Smiling endearingly, you lift a hand to his chest, running it over his shoulder. “I was only gone for a week.”

“Week too long.” Pedri muttered right back, pulling his face from your neck to get a better look at you. “Did you get a sunburn on your nose?”

You’d been gone to Madrid to visit your sister in Uni, and the two of you may have forgotten to put sunscreen on before you left the house one unfortunately hot day, so…

“Perhaps?”

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Pedri let go of you and pushed off the ground. “I’ll go get you the Aloe.” And with that, he was gone.

You finally stood up from the ground only to be knocked right back down by a whoosh of black fur. Air escaped your lungs and pain shot through your butt as you landed hard on the grass, though the pain went away the second you came face to face with the culprit who was trying to lick at your face.

“Nilo!” You gasp, instantly moving to scratch his ears. The big black dog was probably the best investment your boyfriend ever made.

After another three minutes of jumping all over you along with continuous assaults to the face, you finally managed to calm the dog down. He had grown since you last saw him, a lot.

Smiling wide, you smooch his forehead. “Did you miss me too, baby boy?” You were promptly met with a tongue to the cheek.

Yes!

Pedri, now watching from the door, couldn’t hide the adoration in his face even after your eyes met. Aloe in hand, he walked toward you two chuckling to himself before easing down onto the ground beside you.

“You’re cute.” He whispers, leaning over to press his lips to your cheek. “And now, you can apply this yourself.”

The matter-of-fact tone of his voice caused your eyes to roll but you snatched the bottle anyways. “Nilo, why does your father hate me?” The tease earned a gasp from Pedri, and an enthusiastic jump from the energetic dog that was weaseling his way closer to you.

“Nilo, why does your mother lie so often?” Pedri’s tone grew lower as he snatched Nilo and pulled the giant onto his lap.

For the remainder of the day, you lounged about, mostly lying in bed with Pedri’s arms wrapped securely around your waist and Nilo at the foot of the bed. The TV was on, but neither of you two were paying much attention.

The night consisted of catching up, gossip, plans for the following week, and laughter. Everything was so much better now that you were home. So much brighter, too. And not a single time during those hours, did your smile falter for longer than a second.

likes, comments, & reblogs are all appreciated! lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any future posts.

ᝰ.ᐟ tags @halfwayhearted @ferrarifudds @spidybaby @gadriezmannsgirl @joaoflms @piastri-fvx @unx100to @st4rgirl-ellie @luvvpedri

[pedriache]

Need arvid fluff as an apology for that angst

Arvid Lindblad Boyfriend Head Canons

‘ It’s all I can think about, oh, you’re all I can think about. ’

Bf!Arvid who . . . never lets you know a moment of peace. This is a teen boy who is probably experiencing his first real relationship and no doubt you guys were friends beforehand. So, he feels free to be himself around you. He will annoy you with spammed TikTok’s and then will be annoyed if you don’t respond to each individual one.

Bf!Arvid who . . . tries to be nonchalant, but you simply won’t have it. You know he loves to crack jokes and say stupid things, so when he tries to be quiet and nonchalant, you just quirk your eyebrow at him and instantly he’s sighing and giving it up.

Bf!Arvid who . . . is awkward when giving physical affection. He tries to play it off but whenever he intertwines your hands together, his cheeks will flush. The most natural form of affection for him is an arm looped around your shoulder, since he does it with friends anyways. But, when you’re alone together it’s slightly different. He loves behind near you, holding you, everything. He just gets shy in public, but you don’t mind.

Bf!Arvid who . . . doesn’t know how to communicate at first. Like I said earlier, first real relationship. He struggles with keeping up with his strict schedule for F2 while also giving you the attention you need. When he gets frustrated he often gets away from his phone and that leads to you worrying and occasionally it causes fights. But, he is the best at making things up to you! He tries, and that is better than most teen boys.

likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any of my posts

ᝰ.ᐟ tags @halfwayhearted @ferrarifudds @piastri-fvx @spidybaby @joaoflms @sakashq

[pedriache]

Hiii you can write angst to comfort where Pedri has had a rough practice and once he comes back home, he wants nothing more than to just be close to you?? ❤️💙 luv ur writing lol

Sweat heat lightning ( Pedri Gonzalez ! )

synopsis. after a rough practice that leaves pedri worn down and in need of comfort, he always knows he can find just that in your warm embrace.

disclaimers. exhausted!pedri, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst if you squint

notes. super short since it’s my first time writing on here in a longg while..

𝓟edri was exhausted and worn down to his very bones. Today had sucked every living particle from him so much so that it’d taken him a solid twenty-five minutes to work up the courage to drive from the training grounds to your house.

Warily climbing out of his car, he grimaced as he caught the smell emanating from him. He hadn’t even had enough energy to shower in the locker rooms. Shrugging off his discomfort, he forced on a smile when he opened the door to your vibrant expression.

It’d only taken you a moment to register the forceful stretch of his lips. The way his ‘smile’ didn’t quite reach his eyes. Sure, there was relief brought on by seeing you.. but something was off.

His bag dropped from his shoulder and his feet practically dragged him toward you. That’s when your face contorted. “Pedri,” you exhale, “you need a shower.”

“I know, baby.” He mutters, “I know.” He reluctantly moves toward your shared bedroom without getting a welcome-home hug much to his disappointment.

Prancing after him, you make it to the door first. “I’ll join you? You look like you need a massage or something.”

The brunettes lips twitch, wanting to comment on the accidental innuendo, but he was far too tired for that. Plus, the thought of you being near him was enough to satiate.

The shower lasted far longer than necessary, mostly because he was too caught up holding onto you to actually wash himself—though, you ended up washing him anyways.

You frowned when you noticed how tight his muscles were, how every ridge and bump on his body was coiled so tight it made you ache for him.

After a quick massage mid-shower, your knuckles pressing into his skin, Pedri washed up with your help and the two of you barely bothered to fully dry off bring getting dressed.

Both of you only in two of Pedri’s plain T-shirts and your most comfortable pajama pants, you climbed into bed and turned on the new TV show you’d been binging.

It’d taken all of two seconds before Pedri was pulling you in between his legs. Your back was pressed to his stomach while his head nuzzled into your neck, inhaling slowly. “I missed you today.” He murmured, hot breath fanning your warm skin, sending goosebumps throughout your entire body.

Tilting your head to the side, you grin when his lips press to yours. “Missed you, too.” Your reply is swallowed by him deepening kiss. And you know just how badly he needs this time with you, how simply being near you had his body relaxing and unwinding.

Pedri’s arms tighten around your waist as his lips press soft kisses to your shoulders. “How was your day?” You ask, running a finger up and down his forearm, TV show long forgotten.

“I don’t even want to talk about it.” His voice is hoarse, tired but alive for you. “Tell me about your day, or something. Just talk to me.”

So, you do. The TV turns off, your position shifts so that his head is lying on your chest and you are running your hands through his silky locks. He’s half-asleep, but still humming in response to your stories, his arms locked tight around your middle.

Eventually, when his eyes grow more and more heavy, you hum a soft tune until you feel his breath even out. Finally asleep and relaxed. You smile down at your boyfriend, at the slight pout of his lips and the soft exhales as his lips part slightly.

likes, comments, & reblog’s are all appreciated lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any future posts.

ᝰ.ᐟ tags @halfwayhearted @gadriezmannsgirl @spidybaby @unx100to @st4rgirl-ellie @sakashq @joaoflms @piastri-fvx @luvvpedri

[pedriache]

the people who refuse to empathize with lizzie young just don’t understand what it’s like to be 16, bipolar, and traumatized!!! but i do!!! i see you lizzie young!!