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jungkooklover777 · 2 days ago

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𝑀𝑦 𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑜 ; clark kent / superman

summary: an office romance sounds good in theory but what happens when it goes according to theory?

pairing: fem!reader x corenswet!clark kent + journalist!reader x journalist!clark kent.

trope: office romance + coworkers to friends to lovers.

genre: fluff + some angst + slow burn romance.

warnings‼️: crude language + minor alcohol consumption + near-death experience + misogynistic remarks towards reader (from a jealous coworker who’s also a man r we surprised) + idk shit abt journalism.

word count: 11,031.

random disclaimerrr: heyy haha… heyy… how y’all doin… ik ik it took me for-fucking-ever bc in all honesty, i forgot about dat doe. & i lowk had writer's block but ITS OUT NOW SO YAYYY!! happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jungkooklover777

A knock sounds at your already open door, causing you to pause your typing and look up.

“My office in five.” Your boss and an editor-in-chief— Perry White— commands.

You send him a nod and he’s on his way back.

It was a chill day until the cloud of quiet chatter evaporated and was replaced by a thick blanket of excitement.

“What is going on out there.” You curiously mutter.

You think about entering the crowd but you decide against it as you remember your initial task.

Perry may be a fair boss but his agitation takes on several forms, you do not wanna be caught on the receiving end of it.

You knock on his door and open it.

“Alright, Kent— oh. Here she is.”

You can’t see how this ‘Kent’ guy looks but he’s definitely a little over 6 feet. His gray coat outlines the broadness and muscly look of his back.

Damn, he’s kinda big.

He turns around and the only thing you can think of is Squidward whining in frustration, Oh no, he’s hot!

His eyes are a remarkable shade of blue, a lovely bunch of black curls sit atop his head, and his skin reminds you of the nice sand accompanied by the local beach.

Kent’s sporting a pair of black framed glasses and he’s the handsomest “nerd” you’ve ever seen.

You hope your ogling isn’t obvious.

“L/n, meet Clark Kent. Kent, this is Y/n L/n.”

This Greek God of a man shakes your hand and it’s warm. So. Warm.

He smiles and goddamn it is beautiful. It’s so perfect with all his perfectly straight, perfect shade of white teeth.

AND HE HAS DIMPLES?! HOLY FUCKIN’ SHIT!

“It’s nice to meet you.”

And of course, an attractive voice that matches his equally attractive face. It’s deep and confident and you’re crushing so hard on him right now.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” You calmly say.

“Get acquainted well because you’ll be showing our new guy here the ropes. Starting now.”

Your heart drops down to your ass and you retract your hand.

Of course this had to happen to you.

“Oh, okay.”

It was in fact not okay but it’s not like you had much of a choice in the matter.

You exit first and are met with so many faces outside the office. Comically, they all look away and pretend to do something important.

Now you realize why there was a crowd earlier, because of the handsome new guy.

You ask him to wait for you while you go grab some things from your desk.

“Okay, Clark—”

You’re gone for literally 1 minute and the poor guy’s already being swamped.

There’s a blonde girl, bit of a ditz. Twirling a strand of hair while giggling over something seriously unfunny.

She’s accompanied by a guy who’s much shorter in comparison to Clark.

He’s yammering away about how he’s always wondered what it’s like to be on a farm…

“I mean, I was at one for the DP but they didn’t have much internet so we couldn’t cover much. And the smell?” He shuts his eyes and wrinkles his nose in disdain. “I can’t imagine how it was for you, man.”

You watch in horror as he takes a sniff, yes; a sniff at Clark and hums, “You smell great, though! What is that, uh, aftershave. Or sum’?”.

Clark responds with a nervous laugh at his sudden proximity. “It’s Polo by Ralph Lauren. Uh, the blue one.”

“Whaaat?” The guy laughs in surprise.

Clark folds his lips inwards and raises his brows in an awkward manner.

What do you say to that? Truly.

What an idiot, you cringe internally before coming to his aid and kicking off his first day.

It’s the end of Clark Kent’s second week. He’s a great addition to the Daily Planet team and you have to say, he’s really nice.

His first few days were spent showing him around. Perry’s office, your office, the newsroom, break room, copy room, mail room, bullpen, so on and so forth.

You were sure Clark could use a better mentor but he thought otherwise. ‘You’re a good teacher, I like learning from you.’ He said.

He was very quiet at first, kept to himself and didn’t approach anyone unless he absolutely needed to.

You were the only person by his side almost every hour he worked so it made sense to just go to you.

The more you talked to him, the more he got out of his shell.

A friendly relationship blossomed and soon, he was a willing participant.

You like to drink something in the morning while you work and you didn’t realize Clark took a mental note of that.

Since your first week together, he brought you something everyday.

“As much as I appreciate this, you’re not the drink guy.”

You were worried he thought you’d expect him to do this all the time now but he denies the notion.

“Oh it’s no big deal, I pass by a cafe on my way here so it works out. Plus, I know the owner so I get a discount every time I go.”

You smile at that. This little tradition has become an essential part of your day, it’s how you start it. It’s also special to you because it’s just for you.

Your crush on him grows by the day but you can’t help it! It’s so hard not to like this guy.

He’s still a bit shy at times but you think that’s part of his charm, and he’s got you good. He’s just Clark, a sweet guy from a small town with big arms dreams.

“So, what are the plans for today?”

He asks this everyday in hopes of going on a side quest with just the two of you.

Alas, that doesn't happen nearly as much as he'd like but at least he still gets to see you whenever he likes.

“Today, we’re going to a meeting.” You answer as you quickly send out one last email.

You grab your purse and Clark brings his notebook to the conference room.

He pulls out a chair for you and you smile gratefully, whispering a ‘thank you’.

Perry and the other senior position holders make their way in and take their seats.

“Alright, let’s get started.”

Perry announces that at the end of the meeting, there will be a spot open for another editor-in-chief.

Instantly, there’s hushed chatter of who can be nominated to fill the slot.

You’re positive you hear your name among the many different routes of conversation. You don’t notice Clark glancing at you when he hears it, too.

“L/n.”

You feel everyone’s eyes on you and want to fuse with the chair you’re sitting on.

“She’s our most talked-about reporter and has been here for almost three and a half years. How she’s doing better than most of you at this table, I have no idea. Great work, Y/n.”

You purse your lips in an awkward smile at the jab towards everyone else layered between your praises. “Thank you, sir.”

Clark allows his lips to be pulled back in a small grin, unable to hide his happiness for you.

You know some people in the room are envious of you and are incapable of witnessing your success, but you’d be damned if you let them ruin this moment for you.

The rest of the meeting goes by smoothly and it’s time for Perry to announce the new editor-in-chief.

“Of course, it came as no surprise for us to come to unanimously nominate Y/n L/n as one of our new editors-in-chief.”

You know you should be happy and a small part of you is relieved that your hard work paid off, but you’re not entirely sure.

You’ve only been here for 3 and a half years and this is a huge promotion.

Are you ready for this? How do you know you’re ready? When do you know you’re ready?

You force yourself to get out of your head and express your gratitude.

“Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.” You smile as you shake their hands, accepting their approval.

You still had some time before accepting the offer but it felt like you had to take it.

The reality is: you don’t know what you want.

Most of the people leave but some stay behind.

“Congratulations, Y/n. You definitely earned it.”

Remember the envious people that were mentioned earlier? This guy— Mark Callahan— is one of them.

He sticks his hand out for you to shake but you clock his underlying tone.

“Thanks.” You smoothly move past him to the door with Clark following.

“Bitch.” He mutters to himself.

Clark stops dead in his shoes. “What did you just say?”

Mark smirks lazily and the few of his dastardly henchmen eye you with jealousy.

Your eyes are a bit wide, lips agape at his sudden change in attitude. “Clark..?”

This is Clark Kent. The shy, dorky, kind of an aloof guy with long legs, a killer smile, and a nice heart.

You never thought he could get mad. You haven’t even see him annoyed up until this very moment.

Mark takes a step towards you but Clark is quick to get in between you and him.

He pokes his tongue into the side of his cheek and chuckles. “Relax, man. I’m not gonna hurt your little girlfriend.”

Clark steps forward, his height giving him the upper hand as Mark’s ego forces him to maintain eye contact, even if he has to tilt his chin up a bit.

“You couldn’t even try.” He softly yet subtly mocks.

Mark tightens his jaw and you can feel the tension growing.

You tentatively reach out and put a hand on Clark’s shoulder. “We need to go.”

He maintains eye contact with Mark for a moment longer before budging and walking out.

Clark’s jaw is set and you see the faintest twitch of the muscle, his face stern and hand sweeping his curls.

He holds the elevator for you and you gulp nervously.

“What… was that?” You dare ask.

He assures you it's nothing but you can feel the intensity of his annoyance radiating off of him. It fills the elevator when you step in.

You don't know how badly his blood boils at the thought of someone being so casually disrespectful towards you.

His hands were clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He forcefully wipes his hands on his trousers and tries to cool down.

You let that go but can’t let go of how badly he gave you the butterflies.

You couldn’t even try.

That part replays in your mind.

It was the way he said it, like he was so sure of himself.

He was obviously putting Mark in his place but for you? He did that for you?

Your lips fold inwards to conceal the squeal (read: scream) that's begging to be released.

As the elevator arrives at your floor, Clark extends his arm for you to get out first then follows you out.

Chivalry isn’t dead?!

You don’t know much longer you can contain yourself.

“Hey, Y/n?” Clark calls out.

You swiftly turn around on your heels. “Yeah?”

He stares at you for a moment, like he’s gathering his thoughts carefully.

He has so much he wants to say. Every time you thank him for bringing you your morning drink, he wants to say, you deserve nothing but the best. He wishes to say how beautiful you look everyday, how smart you are when you're feeling doubtful.

Instead, he holds it all in and says something a friend would say. It doesn't mean anything less to you, he knows that. So he says something so kind, it leaves you with heart eyes.

“You deserve that promotion.”

In all the time you’ve spent here, not many people have said anything like to you.

There’s the fake compliments said out of spite. You’ve already gathered a mental list of who fits that category.

Then come the words of encouragement, said by a select few genuine people. Perry and your best friend, Lois are— were the only members of this group.

Clark being an addition to this list is obvious, it was only a matter of time, but it means so much coming from him.

You blink and feel lightweight.

“Thank you.”

He gives you that award-winning smile you love seeing so much and is on his way to work.

You feel distracted as you work, smiling like an idiot every now and then when his words ring in your mind.

You deserve that promotion.

Resting your head in your palm with your elbow extended in a comfortable position, you sigh dreamily; staring blankly at your loading computer screen.

“L/n.”

You immediately straighten your back and set both hands on the keyboard, suddenly irritated with how slow the network on your computer is.

“Sir?” You acknowledge him by poking your head out from behind the screen.

“Good work on the Stenson article,” He shows the newspaper bundled in his hand. “It’s gotten Star’s attention.”

You’re impressed with yourself. “Oh.”

He angles his head down to where he can see you through the space above his glasses. “You okay?”

You nod in a way that is more convincing yourself of what you’re saying than him. “Mhm. Just, uh… surprised because they’re our rivals.”

Knowing The Daily Star has its eye on you is a bit unnerving but what kind of opps would they be if they didn’t.

He hums in thought. “Well, I thought I’d stop by and let you know.”

“Right. Thanks.”

You track his movements until you’re sure he’s gone and smack some sense into yourself.

“Focus, Y/n. Focus.”

You are invited to attend a conference in Washington, D.C. along with a few handpicked journalists.

As you await for the plane's landing, your mind wanders back to the new guy. You wish Clark could’ve came.

You just think he would’ve had so much to learn and experience, nothing else…

A rattle echoing through the jet brings you out of your thoughts.

The captain makes an announcement but you feel like something’s off.

It’s the reporter in you, a 6th sense.

Another shake and now everyone’s a bit nervous, worried looks painted across their faces and yours.

You open the flap to your window and see nothing but soot. Dark gray matter surrounds the jet and it’s so thick, you can’t see past it.

You start to smell it soon and so does everyone else.

“What’s that smell?”

“It smells like… like smoke?

“Is something burning?”

The captain makes an announcement telling you to not to panic but of course that ironically makes everyone panic.

Oxygen masks drop down and you don’t waste any time grabbing yours but the dread spreads all over you when you take a deep breath in.

Suddenly, the jet jolts forward and it feels like you’re diving into something. It’s going headfirst into the direction of the ground so quickly and you can’t make sense of anything.

The passengers frantically scream and descend into chaotic paranoia as they hold on to dear life. Your heart pounds in your chest, threatening to jump out.

This is it, you think. This is how it ends for you: in a freak accident.

You close your eyes in fear and hope the impact crushes you so quickly, you don’t feel any of it.

A quick and easy death is a death that is most favorable.

Suddenly, you feel the aircraft being lifted up. The speed of which is swift yet steady, unlike the previous moments when it felt like you were falling to your deaths.

You don’t dare look out your window in fear of it all being a figment of your imagination but someone else does.

“We’re… we’re saved.” Someone calmly informs.

The plane is set down on the ground and the doors open up automatically.

Your eyes widen when you see a man in a blue suit and red cape step onboard.

He’s kind-looking. The steely blue eyes somewhat familiar, maybe it’s his aura.

“It’s alright, everything’s okay.” He smiles and you’re taken aback with how eerily familiar the action is.

“Is everyone alright? Nobody hurt?”

Everyone shakes their head simultaneously as if in a trance, left and right.

He nods in consideration. “That’s good. You all can step out now, it’s safe.”

Nobody moves. No one can! They’re still trying to wrap their heads around this miracle.

There’s this man— in a cape, no less— and he’s asking if everyone’s okay from what could’ve happened.

There’s no doubt in your mind that somehow, he is singlehandedly responsible for saving you all.

Someone in front dares to speak everyone’s mind. “You saved us.” They say as they make their way to him.

The mystery man looks at the passenger with a humble look.

He puts a comforting hand on their shoulder and escorts them out, everyone else following suit.

Everyone else but you. You’re frozen in a whirlwind of emotions, mostly shock.

You’re so out of it that you don’t even notice him coming up to you, his striking blue eyes steady on your form.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

You whip your head up at him and realize you’re the only one onboard the plane.

“Umm, yeah. I-I think.” You furrow your eyebrows as you feel your foot stuck in a comatose position.

“Can you stand?” He gently asks.

You go to stand up from seat when a sharp pain shoots through your ankle.

A quick breath is drawn from your teeth and he notices immediately.

“Your ankle.”

“Yup.” You hastily grit out.

He looks at you in contemplation for a moment before doing what he has to do.

“Do you mind if I carry you out?”

You pause your unsteady breathing and look up at him through your lashes.

I didn’t hear that.

“Uhh…”

There is a right answer but you don’t know if it’s the answer.

He’s strikingly handsome, so unfairly dashing.

He’s looking at you with those kind eyes and waiting patiently for your word.

“No. No, I don’t mind.” You clear your throat gingerly.

The soft curve of his lips make you feel a bit at ease for a moment.

He holds his hand out for you to take and gently pulls you into him when you do, wrapping that arm around your back. He bends down to hook his other arm under your knees and lifts you so effortlessly, you feel yourself swoon at his display of strength.

Your brain goes quiet and you can’t think about anything else but him. You’re starstruck by him.

Is this a bad time?

He looks straight ahead as he walks towards the open doors but the slight curve of his lips gives the impression of a soft smile.

Soft gasps and wide eyes paint the picture of surprise and you’re immediately flushed so deeply into embarrassment.

The man holding you doesn’t say anything but he silently shares your opinion.

As he walks down the ramp, you look anywhere but at him and the very obvious audience in front.

The symbol on his chest catches your eye and you’re analyzing it. It appears to be a red diamond encasing a capital letter of the same color, an ‘S’.

You wonder what it stands for, what it means to him.

People make room for him as he walks to a spot where you can comfortably rest.

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you and it bothers the hell out of you, but you bear with it for the moment.

He finds a bench within the stagnant ocean of people and sets you down on it, an apologetic expression framing his face.

“I’m sorry.”

You peer up at him in surprise. “For what?”

He sets his hands on his hips, subtly tilting his head to the left and you see behind him the wandering eyes and gossipy mouths.

You snort softly, shaking your head lightly at their antics.

“It’s not your fault. They’re just… trying to figure out what just happened.”

He nods, turning back to the plane with a determined look.

“The ambulance is on its way.” He says as he turns back to you.

You nod, not wanting to look away from his eyes.

The air is thick with so many unanswered questions left unasked, but your throbbing ankle takes a backseat to it all.

This man is a miracle in the flesh and he’s filled your mind with so much curiosity, you don’t know what to do with it.

“You’re gonna be alright.” He says it with such confidence that you believe him.

And he’s gone, flying upwards into the air and in a direction one can only point to.

People crowd the spot he just stood in and stare up in awe at the phenomenon: a man just flew right to the sky!

What a headache and headline this is going to be.

Your ankle was as swollen as an orange, thankfully like the ones that are really small and are known as ‘Cuties’ or whatever the hell.

There's a brace on it to keep from hurting as much but the swelling's still got a long way to go.

You're currently icing it as much as you can before it falls off when you hear a knock on your window.

You hold your breath and lean ahead a little, trying to hone in on the knock truly being real or a part of your imagination.

It's when you hear it again that you decide, nope, totally real.

You move slowly, setting the ice pack on your dresser before carefully moving your leg and setting your foot down on the floor.

Eventually, you make it to your window and look through the blinds to see what could be causing that noise.

You softly gasp. “Holy shit.”

It's the guy from earlier, the same man who may or may not have saved your life. But he's floating, literally standing on air.

You pull your blinds all the way up and open your window, not hiding the shock on your face as you stare at him dumbfounded.

He titters softly, finding your reaction amusing.

“Can I come in?”

You wordlessly step aside with your mouth slightly agape, not really grasping the gravity of the situation.

He flies right into your bedroom while you budge the window back down and close the blinds.

With his back turned against you, you take this chance to make yourself look more put together. Your hands find their way into your hair and subconsciously pat down your body to press the fabric of your clothes as flatly as possible.

He’s studying your room and now you’re even more self-conscious even though it’s relatively tidy.

“I’m sorry for showing up here unannounced.” He says as he turns around to face you. “I hope I don't come off as a stalker.” He snorts softly.

You laugh along, nervous. “I was just icing it before...” You trail off, making a gesture towards the window.

He nods, clicking his teeth. “Ah, right. Sorry, once again.”

You shake your head. “No, don’t be. It’s okay.”

You move to sit back down on your bed and continue icing your ankle.

“You left your purse.”

He reveals the black purse to you and you gasp at the revelation, so relieved as you thought you were going crazy looking for it.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.” You say as he chuckles softly and hands you your purse.

“No, don’t thank me. Just doing what’s right.”

Something about his words makes you pause. The familiar syntax reminds you of someone who’d do what he just did.

You don’t even look inside to see everything in order because oddly enough, you trust it is.

Your grin makes the man in front of you feel strangely victorious.

“Not many would do what’s right.”

He squints his eyes and tilts his head to the side, as if to disagree. “I think we all deserve a little grace every now and then.”

“You have faith in humanity?”

You don’t mean to start a conversation about the moral dilemma of being human but his response intrigues you.

“I do.” He answers with such confidence that you believe him.

“At least that makes one of us.” You look back down at your hands applying pressure to the pain.

“Why don’t you?” He asks with genuine wonder.

You tilt your head at him, intrigued. “Are you really asking me that?” You squint your eyes playfully. “I’m an investigative reporter. I’ve seen and heard things that have made me come close to quitting.”

“Why haven’t you then?” He cheekily asks with a smirk of his own.

You're taken aback with his playful wit exuding a flirty vibe.

You'll bite.

“Because even though my job can be draining, I still love what I accomplish.”

He's delighted with your reasoning, appreciating your love for the game.

“Well said.” He nods.

You tilt your head up, the reporter in you wanting to talk to him more.

“Your turn.”

He raises an eyebrow at your proposed question.

“What do you do?” You ask.

He clicks his teeth lightly. “Well, you’ve seen me fly. I can hear well over the distance and lift very heavy things, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He knows that’s not what you’re asking, you know he knows that.

You smile, shaking your head at his quips. “As in your occupation, Mr..?”

He stands with a knowing smile. “I’ll tell you next time.”

You blink, startled by his suggestion. “Next time?”

He walks towards your window and you follow, opening it for him.

“Until next time, miss L/n.” He says with a wink,

And he's gone.

You're left staring at his fantastic display of power, soaring into the night sky before he disappears into the clouds.

You've never been this fascinated with anything before, but he isn't “anything” or “anyone”. He's a phenomenon, man with great power.

You don't see that often.

You wonder who he really is, where has he been all this time? What's his story?

So many questions, so little time but you'll hold him to that promise of a next time.

“Next time.” You murmur in confidence that he'll find you again.

Lois enters your office with a particular pep in her step, a knowing smile on her lips as she sees you.

You don’t look up from your work as you know there’s nobody else that can enter your office that way. (even perry knocks, lois)

“Sooo?” She asks, strangely enthusiastic.

“So.” You reply uninterested, flipping through pages.

She stares at you like you know what she’s talking about before bombarding you with questions.

“Who is he? What’s he like? Where's he from—? Wait, he’s human, right?”

Your eyes widen just a fraction before you dial it down.

You can't tell anybody about your encounter with him. At least not until you've had some questions answered.

A hurried breath is pushed past your lips, your eyebrows furrowing in annoyance at your friend’s prying form.

“No comment.” You say plainly, not indulging her.

Clark walks by with a new drink of the day and sets it down on your desk, a sweet smile on his face.

“For you.”

You know those certain people who just have you on automatic smile as soon as you see them? He's quickly becoming that person for you.

“You are such a nice guy, Clark.” Lois shakes her head in amazement.

She can't believe men like him do, in fact, exist.

That causes a noticeable blush to coat the tips of his ears and spread thinly across his cheeks.

He's humble. “I appreciate that Lois.”

This tradition is a declaration of friendship, a bond he claims to regard just as much as you do.

A sip of it simultaneously warms your heart and reawakens the butterflies lying dormant in your stomach.

“I agree.” You softly smile. “You’re committed to keeping up with this.”

He looks down and pushes his glasses up with an index finger, clicking his teeth together shyly. “Well, I’m no guy in a cape.”

There he goes downplaying his efforts and staying humble, as usual.

“How’s your ankle?” He asks as he eyes it.

You look down like you just remembered. “Oh, yeah, it’s fine. The swelling’s gone down a lot so I’m good to come back.”

Lois watches the news on one of the tv’s in the room play a clip someone managed to record of said guy fly up into the air, departing with a sonic boom.

She leans into Clark a bit, looking straight at the tv with that same damned topic on her mind. “Clark, do you think he’s handsome?”

He clears his throat lightly, sniffing as he tries to figure out how to answer that wild question. “Well, I— uhh… um— he’s, he’s… conventionally attractive.” His tone gets pitchy at the end, like he's asking, not telling.

“Lois.” You sigh.

“What? He’s so cute guys, I don’t know why no one else is talking about it.”

You take a peek at Clark and find quite a bit of blood rushing to his face.

“Clark, are you alright?”

“Huh— yeah. Yeah, no, I-I’m good! I’m fine, it’s just uhh… hot.” He nods, trying to look convincing.

Lois doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s hot.”

“Oh my god.” You groan.

“No, like, seriously.”

And it’s your fault for knowing how serious she is.

“Do you guys think he’d go for me?”

“Oh, yeah. For sure.” You nod with a fake smile. “He’d be all over you.”

She bursts out laughing, her focus on the poor guy in your midst. “He’s as red as his cape.”

You turn your head to see and it’s true, he’s super red in the face and just refuses to make eye contact.

“I’m just gonna go… do that thing Perry wanted.” He sends you girls a quick nod and smile before basically running out of y’all’s presence.

You watch him go and find his vulnerability endearing. He’s not afraid to show his feelings but like in typical Clark fashion, gets a little embarrassed when he does.

She purses her lips apologetically.

You shake your head at her. “Lois, if you were a man...” You raise your eyebrows and push air out in yet another sigh.

She takes your lack of words as a sign to contemplate the idea, then says, “You’d be my first target.” with a nod and serious look.

“Get out.”

You hadn’t anticipated your savior to be the subject of fascination so soon. Later on in the afternoon, in fact.

“L/n, you’re a firsthand witness. What do you think?”

Everyone’s eyes are on you as they wait for you to tell your story. You haven’t felt this nervous since your interview with this place.

You clear your throat a bit, feeling your nerves on fire.

“I believe he stopped the plane from crashing.”

You don’t need to be a telepath to know what they’re all thinking: you’re fucking crazy.

Of course, that’s an impossible thing to do but not everyone in this room was there.

“You think… he was responsible for saving everyone that day?” Perry asks, intrigued by your line of reasoning.

“Yes. He opened the doors and immediately asked if everyone was alright and if anyone was injured.”

A few people murmur in doubt but you continue.

“I sprained my ankle somehow and he offered to help me off and took me to an area where I could wait for an ambulance.”

They eye your gloved ankle, unimpressed. (it’s not like you’re here to knock their socks off anyway)

“He helped you off the jet? How?” Someone asks.

“He, um… carried me out.” You quietly say.

The atmosphere shifts and you can really feel and see just how shell-shocked everyone is.

“He carried you out?!”

“As in, in his arms? You were carried out in his arms..?”

You immediately jump to your defense. “I’m not sure why and, or how that matters.”

They’re incredulously adamant about it. “How come? You’ve not only had a conversation but also came into close contact with him—”

“And that’s where your focus lies?” Perry cuts in.

You look at him in thanks and he nods in acknowledgment.

“I dunno.” A board member sighs. “Some mysterious, muscular man coming to save the helpless woman story won’t run headlines.”

You scoff in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Perry feels a headache coming on.

“You asked about my encounter and I told you. I’m not here to be a headline.”

The man who thought of that “brilliant” idea is coated in embarrassment, feeling annoyed at receiving the heat.

“Anyone have any useful ideas?” Your boss asks with his thumbs pressing down on his temple.

There’s some chatter about this man and how he managed to save the plane, if he did. Some even discuss if he’s capable of being a potential threat to the country.

“You’re dismissed.” Perry says with a pointed look.

You leave with your head down and jaw tight, coming to sight with Mark.

“Excuse me.” You drop the hint of ignoring him but he doesn’t care.

“Going somewhere?” He asks with a smug expression.

You still push past him with him only to turn around and tail you.

“Yeah. Some of us have jobs to do.”

You don’t care how you look and/or sound.

You just got reduced a damsel-in-distress by a board member while your boss ignored him. Granted, he stuck up for you when it came time but he also dismissed you like you weren’t needed anymore.

Mark pokes a tongue into his cheek, his frustration with you at its boiling point. “And what’s yours? Playing hooky with Superman?”

You don’t know whether to be offended or question the ridiculous choice of name for the man, first.

You choose the first option as it’s the most relevant.

“What did you just say to me?”

He smirks like he just found a pressure point on you. He takes a step closer. “You heard me.”

He actually thinks he's got you this time.

“What, got nothin' to say now that Kent isn't here to save you?”

All that annoyance you were feeling just know? Yeah, that's amplified by a thousand now that he brought that up.

“I can stick up for myself, and I definitely won’t take any shit from you.” You spite. “If I took that promotion back then, you would’ve been fired and on your ass in less than a minute.”

You're pulling rank but it isn't rage-bait if it's true.

He's seething now. A vein protrudes from his forehead and he inhales deeply to try to keep himself together as much as possible.

“Oh, I know how you got that promotion.” He spits that venom so carelessly with the most malicious intent.

You squint your eyes in suspected belief.

Mark continues his verbal assault.

“Yeah,” He nods. “It wasn't that hard to figure out why the old man favors you so much.”

You were right, it had been what you were thinking.

The envy in him has always given off a strong stench, he literally gives the evil eye to those better than him in every way possible.

At your loss of words and hurt expression, he smirks before delivering what he thinks is the final blow. “I’m willing to bet you slept your way to the top.”

In this very moment, you realize you don’t have to listen to his shit any longer.

Your strike his face, open-handed; hard. A powerful smack resulting in a red handprint on his blanched face.

The ear on that side of his face rings piercingly loud and in his disoriented state, nearly collapses onto the floor.

A chorus of sharp gasps and sound grimaces snap you out of the adrenaline-fueled rage consuming you.

It seems that you’ve gathered quite a crowd of spectators. The horrified look on your face isn't nearly enough to convince your innocence to anyone just joining now joining in.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Perry's voice booms.

You shakily inhale, meeting his accusing gaze and you watch as he tracks a path between you and Mark writhing on the floor.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at his pathetic acting.

“Get in here. Right. Now.”

With your chin up, you walk right past the whimpering mess on the floor; your heel almost crunching his fingers if it weren't for his reaction time.

You know you shouldn't be the one to feel embarrassed but there's still a part of you that does.

After all that you've put into this place, some overzealous, whiny little piece of shit wants to humiliate you by attempting to slutshame? In this day and age?

You huff in exasperation of being on your way to overstimulation by the very quick turn of events.

You're already sat when Mark comes in and Perry shuts the door, but not before yelling at everyone to get back to work.

You feel your victim to your far right, not wanting to sit down.

“Sit down, Mark.” Perry says before looking at him quizzically. “And why are your hands covering only one side of your face?”

You bite back an explanation and a smirk.

Mark doesn't say anything but instead opts to show, he drops both hands hesitantly to his sides.

Perry's reaction is nothing short of priceless. He thinks about exclaiming but when side-eyeing you and carefully assessing your careless reaction, he clocks it.

“I was counting on you being bitch-slapped one of these days but I was not expecting you to be dumb enough to try her.” He dryly chuckles in half admiration and half disappointment.

“Sir? You're actually siding with her right now?”

You close your eyes and mentally prepare to be fired.

Perry’s expression is that of a Don’t try me and Mark actually takes it seriously this time.

Wonder what’s the difference in you giving him that look and Perry…

“What happened, L/n?”

You open your eyes nervously and take a breath, preparing yourself to speak your truth.

“I slapped him… because he accused me of sleeping my way to the top for the promotion.”

There’s about a few seconds of silence before Perry speaks up.

“What.” He just says but it’s his tonal shift that makes Mark sweat.

“W-well, I just said that in the heat of the moment.” He chuckles nervously. “I didn’t mean that—”

Perry pinches the bridge of his nose to try to calm himself down. “I have no tolerance for this kind of behavior, Callahan. You know that.”

Said boy clears his throat and sniffs. “Y-yes sir, I do—”

“Then why did you do it?” Perry’s eyes bore into his with such intensity, it makes you a bit uneasy as well.

Mark opens and closes his mouth trying to come up with an answer to that obviously rhetorical question like a fish.

At his lack of words, your boss scratches his forehead. “Here’s an easier one: what did you think you were accomplishing by demeaning her character like that?”

Still no answer.

He puts a finger on Mark's chest, pressing into it as he says, “I’ll tell you. She is your superior because she, unlike you, gets it. She gets this job, what it means to be a reporter.”

His condescending tone towards the other male isn't unheard of but it sure as hell surprises you a lot.

Mark tightens his jaw and turns his head to look at you in malice. “With all due respect, sir, you should understand why I said that.”

“I don’t have to understand a goddamn thing.” His gruff voice reverberates through the walls, causing you to straighten your back.

Perry then carefully and slowly says, “Get the fuck outta here, you’re fired.”.

Mark dares to speak up even now. “But, sir—”

“Right now!” The older man barks his orders and like the sad little puppy Mark is, follows one last time.

When he leaves, Perry sighs and turns to sit down in his chair. He pours himself a drink, offering one to you.

You stare at him wearily before declining but he pours you a drink, anyway.

He silently takes a sip, prompting you to do the same and you feel the smooth, mellow taste of Brandy.

He groans, satisfied with the drink.

You set your glass down, feeling your nerves becoming slightly undone by the aftertaste.

It’s momentarily quiet, the awkward silence now comfortable.

You’re the first to break it. “Am I being fired?”

This is apparently funny to him because he laughs. Yes, he wheezes before giving in to the chest-laugh every man his age has.

You awkwardly chuckle along, not knowing if that's the right move.

He sighs in satisfaction once more.

“Y/n,” He begins warmly. “I can't fire you after that shitshow.”

Anyone else would think that statement was made in fear of being seen as an asshole who doesn't stand in solidarity with women but not you.

Perry White can put on a show of being a bitter old man but now's not one of those times.

“You did what you had to do and since I'm being honest,” He leans in a little like he's about to share a secret. “I'm glad you gave me a reason to kick his ass out.”

That brings a soft smile on your face, one that expresses your gratitude.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Most bosses wouldn't give a fuck.” The word rolls off your tongue with such smoothness, you forgot to code switch.

He takes no mind and instead lets you talk informally, he gathers you deserve that much.

“I'm not most bosses.” He wittily replies with a wink and tight-lipped smile.

“No, you are not.” You say with an appreciative nod.

You ignore everyone that didn't need your help for the remainder of the day.

As Mark took the walk of shame, it made you feel a little better when you saw people who you've never spoken to give him dirty looks and shake their head at him in disapproval.

Even though he got at least half of what he deserved, you still felt the aftermath of his words. They stung and it just made you think, how many other people feel that way?

You drowned yourself in work, you felt as if you're now obligated to work twice as hard.

Then you hear him.

“Y/n?”

You move your head from your hand and look up above your computer, spotting no other than your trusty colleague and friend.

“Clark, hey. What’re you doing here?”

“Hey, I was just about to ask you that.” He says with a boyish smile and points at you.

You smile back instinctually. “I'm just finishing up some stuff, meeting deadlines.”

“Ah.” He nods.

You eye the time and decide to save what you have left, planning to resume tomorrow.

“I was doing the same.”

You put on your jacket and grab your purse, walking out with him.

“This late?”

Poor guy, you hope he doesn't have a workload as big as yours if he's staying until almost 2 am.

“Yeah.” Clark sighs tiredly. “Perry gave me Mark's last assignment.”

You pause locking your office door, not expecting that answer.

Clark pretends not to notice.

As you enter the elevator (before clark, of course), you make light conversation.

“So ready to go home to my bed.” You tip your head back close your eyes, letting yourself rest for a moment.

“For real, I was about to fall asleep at my desk if it wasn’t for you.”

Both of your eyes open. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I was the only person here but then I saw your lamplight on so, I figured why not fight it for as long as I can.”

Had he stayed this long for you?

“Clark…”

You feel guilty and why wouldn’t you? He was basically waiting on you to call it in and stood by the entire time.

“It’s okay! No harm done.” He insists.

He was actually meaning to go home the same time you were, so he could talk to you.

He knows how pathetic that sounds but he'd rather be a pathetic man with a crush, even if that sounds elementary.

Instead, he opts on telling a half truth. “I needed the extra hours anyway.”

You turn to face him. “You did?”

Uh oh. He wasn’t supposed to say that.

Stupid sleep-deprived brain making him say things he’s not supposed to.

“Yeah, cause my research and work ethic is different from Mark’s.” He purses his lips and nods lightly.

Though he may look confident on the outside, he’s freaking out on the inside.

What was he supposed to say, the truth? Yeah, I was out late saving the planet one country at a time. That kind of stuff tends to get tiring if I have to wake up on time, ha ha ha.

He hopes you believe him and don’t inquire any further so he won't have to come up with another lie.

You hum before yawning lightly. “Makes sense.”

Clark watches you cover your mouth with the back of your hand and notices how you close your eyes when you yawn.

He also notes that you're really comfortable around him. You don't think twice about saying certain things in front of him.

He likes being the reason you let your guard down, he does the same around you.

You can see him staring into the side of your face so you turn your head, meeting his warm yet intimidating stare.

Your lips automatically purse into the friendliest awkward smile you have and he returns the sentiment.

You both then look away simultaneously. You look up at the countdown whereas he looks down on the shining metallic floor.

There’s still 25 more floors to go before you meet the garage parking lot.

The atmosphere grows a little awkward but is forgiven as there’s a shared understanding: you’re both fucking exhausted.

Though, there is something Clark wants to talk to you about.

“Y/n?”

“Hm?”

He hesitates for a moment, his mouth opening then closing as he thinks about how to bring this topic up.

“I heard about what happened.”

You slowly turn your head to him wordlessly, waiting for him to continue.

He stares back at you and you notice how blue his eyes look under fluorescent light.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, affected by the outburst as anyone else who gave a damn.

You’re touched.

“You don’t have to apologize, Clark.” You say as you look down at your shoes, suddenly growing shy of his eyes.

“I know,” He says. “But I care.”

The sentiment doesn't go unnoticed. Your lips turn up appreciatively.

“I know that as a woman, I'll be undermined at times but that was seriously a low blow.” You vent. “Even for him.”

Your disappointment isn't hard to assess. Even though you knew he'd be the one to say something like that, you still would've liked to be proven wrong.

Clark feels for you, you shouldn't have to feel alienated by your colleagues.

“I'm sorry nobody spoke up. I would have.”

“I know.” You say. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

You think about how nice it is of Clark to say this but you’re reminded of his absence prior.

“Where were you today, by the way. I barely saw you.”

He lies straight through his teeth. “I was out running some errands.”

He was actually stopping a country from getting actively bombed but that’s a story for another time.

“Perry still giving you the Miranda treatment?”

He chortles at your reference. “What can I say, I make a great Andrea.”

“You do. Who’s your Emily?”

You both take a moment to think about this.

“I got nothin’.” You say.

Clark agrees, although he’s come up with an alternative approach.

“There’s Mark, but he’s more Emily to your Andrea.”

You make a motion to wrap your hands around your neck and pretend to choke yourself.

It gets a good laugh out of him.

You blow a soft raspberry. “I just want my Nate. Without the “I'm insecure and feeling jealous because my partner is having it better” part.”

You look up at him and say without thinking, “You’d make a great Nate.”

You’re so tired, very exhausted from the day taking a toll on you, which explains why you’re just saying random shit.

Clark feels hot, like his whole face is on fire. He chuckles bashfully, very obviously failing at trying to not let that affect him so much.

The elevator dings and you both look up, finding the doors to open and reveal the garage parking lot.

“So, what do you mean by that? Exactly.” He furrows his brows and pushes his glasses up.

You step out, feeling all of your nerves turn to ice as you realize the weight of your words. “Oh, you know. You'd be a supporting and secure boyfriend.”

He's stumped, left watching as you walk to your car.

You wave goodbye before getting into your car and he returns the gesture.

You turn to face him, walking backwards. “Good night, Clark.”

He feels the blood wash over his heart like the ocean returning to shore.

“Good night.” He murmurs fondly.

“Dude, this is a terrible idea.” Jimmy scolds. “Your worst one yet, and you barely have those!”

But Clark isn’t listening, he’s already made his mind up.

“If I like her as a man then I have to respect her as Superman.”

Okay, that was a bar, Jimmy concedes.

“Besides, she wouldn’t tell anyone.” Clark adds.

Of course you wouldn't tell anyone about Clark’s identity, he knows that.

“I know that,” Jimmy sighs. “But think of your relationship with her as Superman from a journalistic standpoint.”

Jimmy just wants the best for his best man, he wants Clark to really think about this. l

“She won’t let her bias for you stop her from doing her job, even if that means asking questions you can’t answer directly.”

Diving headfirst into something like a romantic relationship without going over the logistics is bound to crash and burn.

But it’s you, the same woman who understands him. You see him, know him. You’re not one to hide how comforted you feel when he’s around, he literally hears your heart rate when he dotes on you.

You must feel the same way. Right?

But how would you react to this? Would you still feel the same? Would you still view him as the same Clark who goes out of his way for you?

After some careful consideration, Clark comes to a conclusion.

“Okay.” He says.

Jimmy closes his eyes in relief, sighing at the fact that his friend chose his mind over his heart.

“I’m going to tell her everything.”

Jimmy slaps a palm across his forehead all wide-eyed, not believing he got bamboozled this way.

He now has to watch his best friend throw everything away for the ruzz (reporter huzz).

Clark feels a weight lifted from his chest at this decision. He's always wanted to tell you but his moral obligation was to this planet, regardless of what heart entails.

He walks to your office, stopping just before the door to check on his appearance. He moves his head to the side, inspecting his hair. He then fixes his tie and glasses.

Satisfied with himself, he knocks and waits for your approval.

“Come in.”

Clark pokes his head in comically.

Your eyes flit up and when you see him, giggle at his silliness. “Hey, you.”

His chest warms at the sight and sound of your delight.

You seem so easygoing, truly content when you smile or laugh. Do you know that?

His takes in your face.

Your hair shines from the light, cascading down your shoulders and framing your it nicely.

Your eyes are on him and every time you look at him, he feels as though he can tell you anything. And though they're beautiful, his favorite part about your face have to be your lips.

You're a very expressive person so your words and reactions make up everything about you.

He loves seeing them pull you into a smile and laugh, especially when he's the reason.

It’s like a reward, seeing you joyful because of him.

He's momentarily distracted by the sight, always on the verge of forgetting his objective as soon as your pretty lips move around.

You say his name like you're in the middle of something.

He blinks, shaking himself out of his daydream. “I'm sorry, what? I was not paying attention, I'm sorry.”

It's refreshing to see a man apologize so much but it feels weird coming from him.

“It's too early for this, I know.” You jest kindly. “I was asking what can I do for you?”

“Oh! Right, why I'm here.” He chuckles, embarrassed.

Get it together, Clark he warns himself mentally.

“I, um... I wanted to ask you something.”

You lean your elbows on your desk, giving him your undivided attention. “Sure, what's up?”

He walks to your desk, taking out a sticky note folded in half. He hands it to you.

I have something I want to talk about, meet me in the mailroom? Lunch on me ;)

You can't with this guy sometimes. Asking you to lunch via sticky note?

“That is seriously the cutest thing ever.” Lois coos.

You've been smiling since he gave the note to you, grinning at him as he walked out of your office.

You even did a celebratory squeal before containing yourself.

“Isn't it?” You giddily ask. “Ugh, he's so cute.”

Lois nods in agreement, wondering when she's gonna find her own Clark Kent.

“What do you think he wants to talk about?” You ask.

Lois looks at you bewildered. “What do you mean? Isn't it obvious?”

You stare at her expectantly, blinking.

“Oh my god.” She groans. “He's gonna tell you how bad he wants you, Y/n!”

“He is?” You say, hopeful.

She nods ecstatically and spins you around in your chair to face her. “Think about it. You two have been dancing around this unspoken attraction between you for how long?”

You instantly give her a time period. “Almost a month.”

“That was rhetorical.”

“Oh.” Your lips pull to the side, sheepishly. “Sorry. Continue.”

“The point is, he obviously feels for you. It was just a matter of when he’d get the balls to make the first move.”

You nod along, finding her logic unarguable.

“Okay. Okay, so I just walk in and tell him—”

“No, no, no. What? Don't do that! He's the one asking you to come over so let him go first.”

“Right, right.” You blink. “Let him go first, you're right.”

Lois puts a sympathetic hand on your shoulder. “You're nervous, and that's okay. Just breathe, be calm, cool, and collected. You're Y/n L/n, investigative reporter at the Daily Planet.”

“I’m Y/n L/n, investigative reporter at the Daily Planet.” You repeat like a mantra.

Lois smiles encouragingly, being your best hype-woman.

“You’re fucking amazing.”

You close your eyes and blindly trust her. “I’m fucking amazing.”

“You’re the baddest bitch here and you know it.”

You blow air deeply, feeling yourself relax a bit. “I’m the baddest… bitch here and I know it.”

“Fuck yeah, you do!” She exclaims and you find yourself smiling, shaking your head at her theatrics.

You fucking love this girl.

“You got this, okay? Don't think too much, it'll feel natural once you let him talk.”

You feel like you’re about to get in the boxing ring with your everything that could go wrong.

“Go get him, tiger!”

It's lunchtime and for the first time in history, you're not hungry.

You can't even think about eating out of anxiety.

You walk towards the mailroom and suspire when you go to twist the door handle.

You're immediately met with the dreamy pair of eyes you were hesitant to see.

You shut the door behind you, none of you want to be the one to move first.

“Hi.” He hums.

“Hi.” You say, equally as soft.

He clears his throat lightly and gestures you over, some sandwiches and sodas decorating the table.

“Panera?” You say with glee.

His lips pull back at your reaction. “Yup.”

You reign in your excitement, remembering why you came here in the first place.

“So.” You hint subtly.

“Sooo.”

You tilt your head at him, narrowing your eyes playfully at him. “Sooo, what'd you have to tell me?”

He clicks his teeth. “That's the question.”

You tip your head back and half-whine, half-laugh. “Oh my god, stop baiting me!”

Clark finds humor in edging you on like this, how often does he get to see you so highstrung?

“Okay, okay, alright.” He airily chuckles. “I'll stop.”

You blink patiently, the remnants of a grin on your face.

He soughs, building up the confidence to tell you how just much he feels for you.

“Okay.” He licks his lips, meeting your gaze.

He's caught, mesmerized by the way your attention is on him. He doesn't realize just how heavy his stare is until he watches you squirm.

“Clark..?” You call out to him thinking he's spacing out.

“Sorry.” He says on default, though he's not really apologetic for anything at all.

You're just so—

“Beautiful.”

Your breath catches in your chest and he's mortified.

“I, I just said that... outloud.” He stammers.

You watch him scramble for a way out.

“I'm sorry— not that you aren't beautiful, which you are. You so are.”

He cringes at himself and you hold back a simper, finding him so endearing.

“I just, um... Alright, here's the thing.” He claps both hands together softly.

“Mhm.” You nod, furrowing your eyebrows and to show you're just as serious about what he has to say.

“I... I have, uh— wait, no. That's not right.” He mutters to himself.

You come closer, standing right in front of him. “Clark.”

He looks down, stunned at your proximity and stops babbling.

“Just say it.” You coax gently. “Whatever it is, I'm sure we can work through it, together.”

Together. He thinks about the good ending, the one where you do end up getting together.

As you look up at him with those kind eyes, he feels everything he has to say come right out.

“I can't stop thinking about you.” He confesses.

You blink, startled by this even though you were expecting it.

“I like you, a-a lot, and I have so much to tell you.”

Clark's eyes flit between yours, desperately searching somewhere for you to feel the same.

He hears your heartbeat skyrocket, he feels your hands shake slightly from the adrenaline. The smell of your perfume thickens the air and he can't get enough. He can almost taste the color of your lips with how close they are.

He gulps, growing jumpy from your silence.

“Say something, please.” He whispers.

Another moment of quiet, not voluntarily. You're just trying to find the right words, yourself.

“I... I feel the same.”

That familiar megawatt smile graces his lips and you feel the tables turn, you in his previous postition and he in yours.

“I have for a long time.”

His eyes crease at that and he can't help the laughter bubbling out of him.

You laugh with him, not believing this is happening right now.

“You have no idea how long I've been holding that in.” He tells you, leaning on the table behind him.

“Not longer than me.” You suppose.

His eyes quirk up, silently asking you to go first.

So you do. “Since you started bringing me my daily dose of energy.”

He hums.

“Now, you.”

He looks at you with the fondest expression ever, you hold yourself back from kissing him stupid.

“Since my first day.” His voice thick with honey.

Your eyes soften and though he's won, you don't take this as a loss.

“Seriously?”

You don't mean to be so anticlimactic but how else does one react to feelings of romance being reciprocated?

As if Clark Kent couldn't get any more attractive, he takes your hand with the utmost care and rests it right on top of his heart.

“Can you feel that?” He asks while gauging your every little microreaction.

It speeds up gradually as your hand connects with the fabric of his shirt, pure electricity binding you together.

You nod, involuntarily fighting the tears you sense.

“Aw, don't cry.” He cradles your face in his hands and you close your eyes, overwhelmed by his affection for you.

“Come on, let me see you.” He ducks his head down, trying to catch your shy eyes.

When you finally do, he smiles so brightly that you swear it's like looking directly into the sun.

“There she is.”

You chuckle weakly, sniffling once.

He lets go of your face and can't resist the temptation of not touching your arms. He rubs them up and down a couple times, feeling goosebumps arise in their wake.

“Can I have a hug?” You ask, looking back at him through your lashes.

He feels his heart stop right there, that look sends him over the edge and you don't even know it.

Clark wordlessly leans down and pulls you in, his strong arms wrap around your waist comfortingly while you reach up on your toes.

You rest your head on his shoulder and feel your hearts beating under each other so passively, a sigh escaping the confines of both your mouths simultaneously.

Something about this feels like déjà vu, like you've been in a similar position.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Remember that conference I was supposed to go to in DC but got cancelled because the jet almost crashed?”

He pulls away with a straight face, hiding the absolute chaos unfurling behind those eyes.

“Yeah..? Why?”

You look at the door then back at him.

“I haven't told anyone about this but afterwards, Superman came by my place.”

“What? No way!” Clark gasps.

You nod cooly.

“So, what happened? What'd you guys talk about?”

You tell him how he stopped by to return your purse but something has been bugging you since.

“I just don't know how he got my address.”

“Oh, that's easy.” He doesn't feel like playing this game anymore, too many sweats. “I know where you live.”

You’re perplexed and then some because what does that mean?

“What are you saying?”

He puts both hands on your shoulders and gives you a riddled look that says, Come on, think about it. You know what I’m saying.

A lightbulb turns on in your head but it can’t be. There’s just no way you’re thinking what he’s thinking.

You’re too flabbergasted to say a word. You just stare at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed as you say it out loud.

“You’re… you’re— you,” You chuckle dryly, your head spinning a bit. “You’re Superman?”

He doesn’t give any indication of agreeing with you but his silence does.

Clark’s trying to get a read on you.

You then cover your mouth with both hands, muffling an excited ‘Oh my god!’.

He feels reassured.

“You’re Superman!” You whisper-scream.

“Yes, yes. I am.” He nods while checking the door to see anyone coming in.

You just stare at him in wonder, taking this all in.

It all makes perfect sense.

Who else would be selfless enough to protect those who can’t protect themselves? To have integrity the most Clark Kent trait you can think of.

You know Clark has a big heart but this? This is next level.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He looks at you like the answer to that is simple, which to him, is. It’s always going to be simple if it involves you.

“I don’t want to start this on a lie.” He reveals as those damned blue eyes fixate on you.

You can fly right now.

He leans in ever so slowly, tracking any detail on your face that may give away the impression of not wanting him in your space.

When he finds none and is absolutely sure, he puts a hand on your cheek and asks, “Can I kiss you?”.

“Yes.” You sound softly and it’s as if a prayer has been answered.

Your eyes flutter shut and he parts his lips for you, you anticipate them to be just as soft and lush as they seem.

He believes he’ll finally be able to understand the languid nature of your mouth and decipher its meaning.

Sparks fly when you make contact, it strengthens the electricity that makes your chemistry.

The kiss is a breath of fresh air, the kind that blows in quietly; peacefully.

He’s sweet, undoubtedly so. His palms hesitantly splay across the curves on your waist. You smile at the soft touch and he does as well.

Your hands are on his chest and you can feel every pulse, flutter, and pang of his heart.

You think it’s poetic; the influence you have on his heart, both figuratively and literally.

He rests his forehead on yours and you look up at him from under your lashes.

He’s about to speak up when he hears something, something you don’t.

His ears perk in the direction of the distressed sound and he turns his head apologetically.

“I have to go.” He regretfully informs.

You reach up to kiss his cheek and rid him of guilt.

“When you come back, I’ll be right here.”

Clark hugs you once more and asks, “You’re my hero, you know that?”.

You chortle and respond with, “Is that Superman talking or you?”.

“Both.” He pulls back with a kiss on your head, winking at you with a cheeky grin.

He runs out the door and leaves you with the ghost of his touch and words that form a sappy smile on your face.

Superman may be the world’s hero, but Clark Kent is yours.

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anon-188 · 3 days ago

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kansas

pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 0.4k

summary: clark tells you everything, but there’s just one thing you can’t get past.

a/n: i loved the new movie and just had to write something! no big spoilers. just a tiny one, if it even counts?? (iykyk.)

Clark Kent had just spilled everything to you. Confessed his love. Told you he was Superman, which—if you were being honest—wasn’t as shocking as he thought it would be. But you didn’t say that. Didn’t want to ruin the moment.

He finally told you where he grew up—Smallville, Kansas. He said it quickly, almost like he hoped you’d miss it, before circling back to the part that mattered most: that he loved you.

One thing had led to another. Something between kisses, half-smiles, and uneven breaths. A blur of soft touches and quiet urgency.

Now you lay there in your bed, limbs still loosely tangled with his. Your head rested against the steady rhythm of his chest while his hand moved along your back in slow, absent strokes—soothing and familiar. Your breath had started to even out, but your mind still hadn’t caught up.

He was Superman.

He was yours.

And those two things alone should’ve been front and center in your mind, but they weren’t. Not even in the slightest.

"I can't believe it," you whispered.

Clark shifted, his chest rising with a quiet inhale. "I know. I should've told you sooner. About Superman. About who I am."

You lifted your head, turning to look up at him. "I knew you weren’t from here, but I didn’t think there.”

He furrowed his brow, confused. “You mean… Krypton?”

You made a face. “No. Kansas.”

“Everyone knows you’re from Krypton. But Clark Kent? I thought maybe, like… Vermont. Or Oregon. Definitely not Midwest.”

Clark’s eyes narrowed in mock offense. “What’s wrong with Kansas?”

You gave a half-shrug, still curled against him. “Nothing. Just… explains a lot. I mean, you’re like, painfully polite. I should’ve known.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face like you’d just wounded him, but the smile gave him away.

“No, really.” You grinned, propping yourself up slightly. “I bet you’d even stop mid-battle to save a squirrel. Like, buildings crumbling, alarms going off—and there you are, making sure it gets to safety.”

Clark shook his head, pretending to protest, but you could already feel the laugh building in his chest.

“I can totally see it,” you teased, as he slipped his other arm around you and pulled you closer.

His lips brushed yours, soft and warm.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you murmured against his mouth.

He didn’t answer. Just kissed you—deep and unhurried, laughter still dancing behind it.

It was the kind of kiss that said you weren’t wrong at all.

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: open!

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3

• links: masterlist | wattpad | summer request fest

#superman #clark kent #superman x reader #clark kent x reader #superman 2025 #david corenswet #dc comics #dc universe #drabble #fluff #superman fluff #clark kent fluff

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carnalcrows · 14 hours ago

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SAY PLEASE

pairing: abby saja x top male reader

synopsis: Abby’s been throwing hints left and right—flirty touches, cocky smirks, lingering glances that scream take the damn bait already. But his manager just keeps smiling at him like nothing’s going on. Sweet. Harmless. So when Abby finally snaps after a brutal night and drags him into a supply closet, desperate to blow off steam, he figures he knows how this ends. A quick hookup. A little control. Easy.

He doesn’t expect the guy he’s been teasing for weeks to turn around and beg for something filthier. Something softer. Something that leaves Abby shaking by the end of it.

And the worst part? He kind of loves it.

content warnings: 18+, smut, brat Abby, top male reader, power dynamics, closet scene, manager x idol, begging, dom/sub elements, praise kink (good boy, prince), manhandling, ass eating, overstimulation, [smut], post-scenario emotional softness, mild internalized shame, possessive behavior, freaky obsession (hidden under a sweet exterior)

word count: 1.2k

"You gonna help me or not?" Abby asked, breath short, jaw tight.

You blinked up at him from where he dropped you. “...What kind of help are we talking about?”

He exhaled like he was about to throw something. “Are you serious right now?”

"I mean—" You sat up slowly. "You’ve been kinda vague."

Abby crouched in front of you, both hands planted on either side of your thighs. His eyes were glassy with frustration. "I dragged you into a closet. What do you think I want?"

You tilted your head, all soft lashes and fake innocence. “Hug?”

His face twitched. “You are such a fucking menace.”

"Then why do you keep flirting with me?"

“I—what—?” He paused, short-circuited.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” you asked, voice dropping a little, just enough to make his breath catch. “You think I haven’t been waiting for you to finally do something about it?”

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. You were already rising to your knees, closing the space between you, until you could hear the way his breath stuttered when you leaned in.

Abby blinked, startled. “Wait—so you knew?”

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, brushing your fingers under his chin, “I’ve been starving for you.”

His whole body tensed, heat crawling up his neck.

You smiled. “So. How do you want me?”

Abby licked his lips, fast. “I thought you’d maybe wanna… I dunno. Suck me off. Or let me—”

“Nope.”

You kissed the corner of his jaw. “Wanna eat you out.”

He jerked back like you slapped him. “You what?”

“I said—”

“No, no, I heard you. I just. What the fuck.”

You shrugged. “You dragged me in here. You said you were stressed. Let me help.”

“That’s not—Guys don’t usually—I’m not—” He looked like he was glitching out. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

You gave him that look. Soft. Puppyish. Lips parted, a little pouty. Not even putting it on.

“Please?” you whispered. “Want you so bad, Abby. Been thinking about it forever.”

His throat bobbed.

"You're not gonna tell anyone, right?"

"Course not."

You kissed him.

That shut him up fast.

Abby stiffened, caught off guard, but he didn’t pull away. His hands twitched at your sides like he couldn’t decide whether to push you off or pull you in. And then—slowly—he kissed you back. Tentative at first. Almost shy, like the fire he’d come in with was starting to burn inward now.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, breath catching like he’d just realized what he was agreeing to.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, smiling gently. “You don’t have to.”

He hesitated. Really hesitated this time. You could see it—pride and desire wrestling under his skin, chewing at the edge of his mouth. His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt like he needed to hold something while he decided.

Then finally, he let out a breath and nodded.

“Okay,” he said softly. “But if I tell you to stop, you have to stop. No matter what.”

You beamed up at him, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. “Deal,” you agreed easily. “Now turn around and brace yourself against the wall.”

Abby did as you asked, hands splaying against the shelves as you positioned yourself behind him—before pushing his pants down, along with his boxers. You could see the way his body trembled with anticipation, hear the shaky inhale of his breath.

"Tell me if you need me to slow down or stop," you reminded him gently, hands coming to rest on his hips. "I'll check in with you throughout."

With that, you leaned forward and dragged the flat of your tongue over his entrance. Abby jerked, a gasp leaving his lips at the sudden contact. You hummed encouragingly, licking again before sealing your mouth around him and sucking lightly.

"Oh fuck," Abby breathed, fingers scrabbling at the shelves. "That feels... holy shit."

You just continued your ministrations, varying your technique to figure out what he liked best. It didn't take long before he was pushing back against your face, breath coming in short pants as you worked him open with lips and tongue.

"Please," he whined after a few minutes, hips rolling desperately against the wall. "I need more. Need your fingers or something."

You pulled back just long enough to slick up two fingers before pressing them inside him, curling them just so to hit his prostate. Abby cried out, back arching as he struggled to take the new stretch.

"Right there," he gasped, head thrashing from side to side. "Fuck yes, just like that. Don't stop."

You didn't, doubling down on your efforts until he was babbling incoherently, thighs shaking with the force of his pleasure. Only then did you pull your fingers free, sealing your lips back around him and sucking hard as you pushed three fingers inside this time.

"Shit," Abby panted, eyes rolling back as he struggled to take the new stretch. "So fucking full. Can't... can't take much more."

You just stayed there behind him, gaze locked on every twitch, every shiver, working him over with your mouth and hands like you were starving for it. Abby’s fingers scrabbled against the wall of the closet, breath hitching. His head dropped forward with a soft, choked sound—he couldn’t see you, but he didn’t need to. Every nerve in his body was screaming for you.

"Gonna come," he warned shakily, hips starting to stutter. "Fuck, I'm gonna come."

You just hummed around him, continuing to work on his prostate until he was screaming your name, spilling a hot and sticky mess from his cock, that dribbled down to his hole and across your tongue. You swallowed it down greedily, continuing to work him through his orgasm with lips and tongue until he was spent and shaking.

Only then did you pull away, licking your lips clean as you rose to your feet. Abby looked up at you with glassy, satisfied eyes, a dopey grin on his face— reaching up to pull you down for a proper kiss. You went willingly, letting him taste himself on your tongue as he clung to you.

You were both still on the floor ten minutes later.

Well. You were on the floor. Abby was draped across your chest like a dramatic little prince, sweat cooling along his collarbone, your jacket half-tucked beneath him like a makeshift pillow.

He hadn’t spoken in a while. Just kept exhaling soft and shaky, like he didn’t quite know how to be alive again yet.

Finally, he muttered, “...Fuck.”

You laughed quietly, one hand stroking up his back.

“Never speak of this again,” he said.

You hummed. “You said that already.”

“I mean it.”

You kissed the top of his head. “Sure, baby.”

He didn’t argue. Just curled in closer, fingers fisting the fabric of your shirt.

"...You were really good,” he mumbled, voice too quiet for how bratty he usually was. “Like. Stupid good.”

You smiled. “I know.”

"Ugh." He shoved at your chest half-heartedly. "Don’t get cocky."

"Too late. Got you crying in a closet."

He groaned into your neck. “I hate you.”

You laughed. “You will. Until the next time you’re stressed.”

Taglist: @belovedengie @jrxkar @yippee-yippee8 @faggotboulevard @bleedingbl0ssom @green-turtle3 @mazettns @laynnetteii1 (comment to be added)

#male reader #top male reader #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters #x reader #gay #smut #x male reader #kpdh #abby saja #saja boys x reader #abby saja x reader #saja boys x male reader #bottom saja boys #kpdh x male reader #bottom character #top reader #kpdh brainrot #kpop demon hunters x male reader

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vastwillcurse · 2 days ago

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Pluto in the 1st House

Your presence forces people to reveal who they are without them knowing.

Your silence isn’t just silence it’s a diagnostic tool. People spill, tremble, confess.

You don’t just intimidate you extract people’s unconscious reactions. That’s how you see who’s fake.

You can “possess a room” without speaking not through ego, but because your aura has already entered people’s nervous systems.

Pluto in the 2nd House

You can feel the worth of a thing, person, or opportunity before it’s visible.

You instinctively know what others will cling to when afraid and how to move without it.

Money is never just money you sense where it’s leaking, hoarded, or tainted.

You might give everything away just to reclaim what can’t be taken: your self-worth.

Pluto in the 3rd House

You speak in a way that shocks people into self-awareness, even if you whisper.

You can decode someone’s mental programming in a glance and slip questions into their mind they never recover from.

Words aren’t communication for you they’re surgical tools. You rearrange perception with a sentence.

Pluto in the 4th House

You feel your ancestors’ secrets in your organs not your mind.

Your body remembers what others have repressed you transmute it when you cry, dream, or scream into the pillow.

You can sit in someone’s grief and not flinch because you’ve lived the grief that wasn’t even yours.

Your home may be simple but it’s a sacred war room where generations shift through your healing.

Pluto in the 5th House

When you love something, you obsess and that obsession births magnetism others copy.

Your creativity isn’t self expression it’s exorcism. People feel changed after witnessing it.

Lovers may become obsessed or transformed but not always because of you. Because you showed them their own fire.

You’re here to make pleasure uncomfortable because real pleasure transforms.

Pluto in the 6th House

You can sustain intensity others can’t even survive. You don’t just endure chaos you alchemize it into order.

Your body holds onto trauma like a filing cabinet and you know how to reorganize it through movement, food, or repetition.

Work isn’t just a job it’s a sacrifice and transmutation. You heal through mundane actions.

You get stronger through suffering because your suffering wasn’t pointless it had instructions inside.

Pluto in the 7th House

People don’t fall in love with you they fall into themselves through you.

You attract others’ deepest unresolved issues, not because you’re cursed, but because you’re their only shot at seeing it.

You’re a relational exorcist people leave you raw, healed, or haunted.

You don’t just do intimacy. You reprogram what it even means to be seen.

Pluto in the 8th House

You have experienced pain so deep it gave you clairvoyance.

People hand you their secrets without realizing it not because you asked, but because your presence burns through their masks.

You don’t heal by “letting go” you go into the wound and walk it home.

Others sense your intimacy isn’t romantic it’s metaphysical. You change their soul contract.

Pluto in the 9th House

You don’t “believe” you consume belief and see what survives.

You have burned through every philosophy that tried to cage you and came out with a personal cosmology that works.

Your spiritual truth isn’t light it’s lava.

You travel to touch truth, not escape and sometimes you bring back monsters to study them.

Pluto in the 10th House

You were born to disturb comfort at the top.

Your success isn’t a flex it’s a mirror of what others refused to become.

Reputation doesn’t matter to you impact does. Even if they hate you, they change because of you.

You don’t just rise you topple corrupt hierarchies by existing in their field.

Pluto in the 11th House

You can feel when a group is rotting from the inside before anyone else sees it.

You aren’t an outcast you’re the version of the future they aren’t ready for.

You restructure society through memes, movements, or revolutions others won’t dare voice.

You don’t follow trends you birth new timelines.

Pluto in the 12th House

You can sense spiritual death before it happens in people, systems, and dreams.

You are a psychic compost bin things die in your aura so they can transform.

You feel things that aren’t yours and instead of absorbing, you metabolize them for the world.

Your power is so deep, you have to forget it to stay sane and then remember it when the world’s ready.

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wetpussyju1ce · 2 days ago

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+18 mdni | oral sex, riding clark's face, thigh fucking, fem!reader (she/her - pussy used for genitals)

969 words

thinking abt older!Clark Kent. maybe you've been married for a while and he's been operating as superman for years now. he's calmed down a little since then, from when he was young and his emotions and powers overwhelmed him. when he'd almost go crazy at the smell of you pussy getting wet in his vicinity alone.

but now he was older. wiser. a little calmer. more grounded.

now Clark is laying in bed, reading w his little glasses dressed in a robe over matching stripped PJs. looking like a picture perfect husband from those vintage nuclear family posters.

you stroll in, and Clark doesn't have to look at you to know you're a little agitated, got energy buzzing under your skin.

he hums at your presence, too lazy n tired to greet you properly. but you don't mind. you've been together for so long that it doesn't offend you or make you question whether he really likes you or not, I mean you're freaking married, Clark put a ring on it and married you in his parents farm.

"Clarkie, baby," You climb on the bed and climb him too, knocking on his book so he can look at you. and he's so handsome from this angle. looking at him from above.

He lowers his book, puts it down on his chest, face down so he won't lose his page, "Hey, sweets," He smiles, bringing a big hand to one of your thighs, grabbing it n pinching it a little as you smile down at him, heating up from his attention.

He blinks at you, eyes heavy lidded, he looks tired, ready for bed, and yet he was too invested in his book to actually put it down. but now here you are. wanting his attention that he so gracefully gives.

"Can I ride your face? Please? You don't have to do anything, I just need it," You ask, absolutely shameless and a little out of breath, heartbeat fast like a humming bird in your chest. Your eyes are wide too, a little glassy.

"Whatever you want, honey," Clark doesn't hesitate. he smiles, his eyes closing a little, his crows feet looking more prominent now with his age. and he's just so fucking handsome it makes your teeth hurt.

"Thank you so much," You say, ever so thankful to have him in your life, ever so polite. If anything you know about Clark, is that he loves manners, loves it when you say thank you and please. you're not sure why he loves it so much, but whatever it is, it won't stop you from being polite and thanking your husband whenever he indulges you in trying a new sex position. or from thanking him whenever he does anything for you for that matter.

Clark puts his book aside and doesn't move from his position on the bed, laying down w his feet one over the over, and he puts his hands over his stomach, linking his fingers together like an old man about to take a nap.

and that's when you strip off your pj's, getting rid of your t-shirt, trousers and panties as fast possible. you're totally naked while he's too dressed for bed, but it doesn't matter, if anything it makes the whole ordeal that much more erotic. to you at least.

Clark's calm and composed, he's smiling contently too, truly relaxed and at ease, hair a little mussed and fluffy on his head, falling a little over his forehead.

you slowly take off his glasses and put them aside on the bedside table, kissing his eye lids and nose. you turn around and slowly scooch back on your knees, up his stomach, over his chest, to hover over his face.

"Okay, baby?" You ask, voice a little shaky and pussy absolutely drooling.

"Uh-huh," Clark nods as if you can see him, but it doesn't matter because you know what he meant. you slowly lower yourself down on his face with both hands on his big, cushy chest. and when your pussy makes contact with his warm plush lips, you tremble.

Clark really doesn't move, there's an obnoxious tent between his legs but he doesn't move an inch while you ride his face and cover him in your juices. the noises coming out of your pussy are loud and wet, while your lovely husband makes out w your heat lazily, he kisses and sucks and pushes in with his tongue while you grind back on his nose, his stubble giving you that delicious friction you were looking after.

he's just so strong, so patient, so big and attentive. Clark's an absolute dream. he doesn't mind the mess you're making out of his face, you don't need to worry about how hard you were riding his face, he's not easy to break. he's a giver. he's a lover. and he's everything you've ever wanted.

by the end of it, you've gushed all over him while Clark attempted to drink you in as much as he could, but at the end, his neck and the collar of his shirt were soaked along w his robe.

you were too drained out to move, laying down on his belly, face pressed against his bulge. but like the gentlemen Clark is, he lifts you off him with ease and asks if he could fuck your thighs, you nod, of course.

you're on your side and Clark's still fully dressed. he's got his dick out and he's behind you when he slips it between your thighs, right against your hot and wet pussy.

it doesn't take him long to come undone, making you more of a mess than you already were. and you must've finally passed out then, because you're limp when he wipes you down and tucks you in bed by his side.

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miange1 · 2 days ago

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I WANNA TALK TO YOU✷

owners dish. . . : ceo x male reader

side dishes. . . : jealous boss, toy uses, unprofessional themes, overstimulation, sir kink, punishments, semi public sex, vouyer(?) kink, slight spanking(on the thigh), bondage, barely any plot, one sided angry sex, complicated relationships

owners note. . . : i never proofread. miangel hate needs to stop🫩. more sugar daddy fics soon

ceo, who has a very interesting relationship with you. he was very adamant about keeping everything perfect and professional, even the hairs on your chin. he was sure to be an annoyance, especially since half of it was certainly directed to you no matter what you did. he would tell you to fix your tie, your hair, your shoes, slacks, face? everything.

ceo, knew he had you frustrated but it was his habit of straightening you up and pointing out everything because he couldn't say a normal conversation. unless normal conversations were bending you over his desk, spreading your legs wide in front of the buildings large windows, or having you suck his dick in the archive room. sure, all he could truly do was annoy you.

ceo, who had made the first mistake of his entire career. he never made mistakes until this, not ever. but hiring that man— that boy who was a disgrace to breathing the air you did? he would never make a mistake like that again. the constant side touches, the leers he'd give you each time you walked past him and his eyes would gaze down. constantly finding excuses to stay close to you. how could you not notice?

ceo, who truly had no issue if you didn't notice. he would simply make you notice and the problem would be solved. his fingers quickly typed along the keyboard, papers swishing, his shoes tapping against the marble tiled floor. the lovely sound of the nights birds tweeting, the printer shuffling, and the low hum of vibrators.

ceo, had you perched up on his desk like some cheap whore. your legs were tied with rope, forced to bend and have you sit on your heels. your arms were tied behind you, two toys connected to your body. he had taped the vibrator to your leaking cock, watching it move from aching so. the other was shoved up your hole, bigger than you usually handled. you hadn't known what you did, he never punished you without a reason, you didn't understand!

ceo, who slapped your thigh a different shade when you answered wrong. oh, he wanted you to guess what you did because he believed you did it on purpose. "p–please sir, im sorry.." his hand rested on your thigh, not even turning his head towards you. "for?" you shook your head, sniffling. "for upsetting you.." "and how did you upset me?" you squirmed, a whine cracking out of your throat. "i don't know!" a harsh thwak to your thigh had shut you up. it was a message. wrong answer, try again.

ceo, let you go after you had cum god knows how many times. two..three? five? you were crying, eyes too blurry to even see much at all. "sir please.." you had to beg, beg him for him to even consider listening. "im sorry, i didn't mean to." didn't mean to what? fuck, you still didn't know. he let the toys turn off, roughly untying those forsaken ropes that dug into your soft skin. "be here early tomorrow. no excuses.

ceo, who made sure you never saw that guy again.

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redrage71890 · 16 hours ago

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Backing Voice (Yan! KPDH x Fem! MC) Part 4

Synopsis: Sorting out ways to help Rumi's voice one day leads to the discovery of an emerging demon boy band. Their song hypnotic as they hastily gain fans all around. HUNTR/X being less than happy with the results.

Genres: Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn, Yandere

CW: None

Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Word Count: 3.6k A/N: Hi I took a break and might have forgotten a few plot points whilst forgetting to write them down before hand :D

————————————————————

"Girls! *huff* I'm sorry I'm late! I got caught up with someone..."

Bursting through the door of the empty restaurant (Y/N) apologises first without thinking. Seeing the three girls at a small table as they long forget their food.

Zoey and Mira gleams seeing the (f/c)nette, though Rumi looks more surprised. "(Y/N)! You made it." Zoey waves at her as the manager awkwardly waves back, taking a seat in between Mira and Rumi.

"Again, I'm sorry..."

"Hey. Its alright. We haven't really started eating anyway."

"No. Its not only that. What happened during rehearsals, I didn't mean to sound mean o-or dismissive of you girls. Its just stress for me. But! I p-promise I'll be better and I'll be there to back you girls up no matter what."

(Y/N) puts on a confident smile for the girls, a fluttering sensation flowing through their hearts at the rare sight. Zoey breaks the silence by giggling at the feeling in her chest. (Y/N) not particular sure why the black-nette started giggling but joined her nonetheless.

"But. Back to before." Cutting off their giggles with a more serious expression. "I'll be honest here, its going to be hard to reschedule the live show because of the sudden cancellation."

"We got that impression from Bobby earlier..." Mira states.

"I...I'm sorry guys. My voice, its in trouble."

'Trouble? That's new.'

"Wait, in trouble? Then why did you push up the 'Golden' release?"

"Because we're so close, and its so important." Rumi states. But her tone and words made (Y/N) curiously think more.

'So close?'

"Okay, how do we handle this? What do we tell the fans? Maybe we should call Celine?"

"I don't advice that. We know what she'd say."

"Oh, right."

"We are hunters. Voices strong. Your faults and fears must never be seen."

Zoey and Mira reciting what their predecessor echoed at them. (Y/N) furrowed her brows at the phrase.

Her and her mother were never one to follow that motto. Mother in particular despising it. It being forced upon her as she tried to hide all her faults to the point of breakdowns and frustration. It always made her searing patterns appear.

"Rumi, why don't we take a break? We'll skip the Idol Awards this year and-"

"No. No way. Its our most important show. Its when we strengthen the honmoon for the entire year. We can't skip it. We just can't. Not when I'm so close."

‘Close to what? You’re not telling us something Rumi. Though….isn’t that ironic…’

What’s (Y/N) to say about secrets when she herself hasn’t been completely honest. But when has anyone ever been completely transparent. It’s not like every secret needs to be spilled just because someone wants to know. We have a right to keep things to ourselves.

Though in this case, Rumi’s secret might become a massive headache for them.

”Hey, we’ll get through this. We can get through anything. Together.” Zoey’s encouragement bringing on a slightly more relaxed expression on Rumi.

”Okay. We have two weeks to fix Rumi’s voice. Any ideas?”

”I do have one idea.”

”Just one?”

“Shoot, Zoey.”

”Okay, actually, 57, but let’s start with my favourite. Don’t worry. It’s totally legit.”

Shrugging her shoulders and leaning on her elbow against the table, (Y/N) watches the girls listen to Zoey explaining some of her ideas.

She won’t outright say it in the moment, but some of these ideas boarded along the lines of obvious scams and false promises. As much as Zoey at times annoyed (Y/N), she didn’t have the heart to tell her the likely truths.

“(Y/N), why aren’t you eating? We ordered plenty for you.” Zoey questions their manager. “O-Oh, right. Sorry I’ve been a bit lost in thought recently.” Brushing off their stares she picks up her utensils and began digging into her food.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Mira asks with a more worried frown. Zoey and Rumi holding similar expressions with more concern.

Seeing as she can’t get herself out of this conversation, she just sighed and stopped eating. “(Sigh) I’m not getting away from this, am I?” Averting her gaze up to meet the three sets of eyes on her. “Okay then. I….had another….one of my episodes. Right when Rumi left rehearsals...”

Uttering those words, the hunters all clung to her body in a tight yet comforting hug. It’s not been the first time this happened. Well. More like the third time this happened.

The first time was after their debut, a quite public breakdown occurred back stage. It was embarrassing to be seen by the staff. Her mother was the one that told the girls of her anxiety attacks.

The second was right before the tour started. The sheer amount of organising, meetings and calls she did was breaking her mind out of pure exhaustion. The girls found her hyperventilating in the bathroom on the dirty tiles with her attempted eyeliner dripping down her face.

And now, marks the third time.

Well, they technically weren’t there for this one.

A private meltdown with no one to hear or comfort her.

"Never apologise for experiencing that. We should be sorry for not being there for you." Mira gently pats her (f/c) hair.

"Please don't be afraid to come for us! We will always be there for you!" Zoey cries out clinging to her back.

"Yes, (Y/N). Let us know if anything troubles you. We'll do anything to help in anyway!" Rumi adds hugging her side.

The three hunters felt guilty for there actions. Not being there for (Y/N) hurt them. They hate seeing her so stressed. The girls really wish their lovely manager would confined in them more.

Unfortunately though, their said manager just really needed a breath of fresh air that's currently being crushed out of her lungs.

"G-Guys....y-you can let go n-now..."

————————————————————

After a big hugging session putting the four of them to sleep, the girls dressed in their best disguises and went out in the streets of Seoul. (Y/N) was glad she managed to sleep for a whole night for once. But she still wished she slept in her own bed and not on the couch with the girls.

Donning her classic baggy attire but with a cap obscuring her eyes. Ignoring the face mask as she got the feeling it wasn't necessary. Though she also remembered Jinu and his buddies putting on a show today. Just before leaving she stuffed the flyer in her pockets as a reminder.

But as of now, she follows the girls to make sure this guy Zoey recommends doesn't do anything.

Though hearing what Zoey is saying makes her want to divert them away as fast as possible.

"He's got this special tonic. Apparently, it can heal anything from sore throats to relationship problems."

'Oh you don't say!'

"Ssh! Quietly, Zoey."

"Why are there so many people today?"

(Y/N) noted how populated the area is at the moment. Of course the girls are worried about being seen and finding their disguises online. Our girl especially would rather not be seen on any post.

"Down that alleyway."

Diverging their path from the busy streets, they stood at the foot of an old hanok building refurnished to a clinic with an LED sign with the name 'Han 의원'.

'Yeah... this seems totally legit...'

"Yep, about as legit as I expected."

"Glad to know I'm not the only one thinking that." Mira smiles her way unknowingly.

"Earth and herby. Smells legit to me."

"Yay! That's the spirit! 가자 가자 가자!"

"Hurry, before someone sees us."

Entering the building the girls are greeted with the appearance of a usual doctors front desk/office. Though catching the eyes of our manager and Rumi was a wall lined with numerous signed framed pictures of the doctor and what appears to be celebrities. Seemingly other idols.

Though one picture caught her eye.

A group of four boys giving each other a back hug whilst leaning on the others shoulders, with the doctor strangely at one side gesturing to them. Those faces were oddly familiar.

Dragging her out of her head was the sound of the doctor entering. Standing up to bow and greet the doctor as he urges them to sit.

"You need no introduction. So, a problem with your voice."

"Yes. So we need one of your awesome tonics. Something that will work super fast."

"Okay, let me see."

(Y/N) automatically knew they guy ain't legit. Not bothering to do a proper examination of her throat and instead just staring at her with bulged out eyes.

"I see. I see.... No. Actually, I don't see. Very strange. You have lots of walls up."

"Whoa! He's so good, right?"

"I dunno about that Zoey..." Muttering to herself while messaging her temples.

Rumi scoffs at the comment but Mira quickly affirms that she indeed, does. Denial is not exactly on her side today.

"I'm just trying to stay focused."

"Focus is good, but focusing on one part leads to ignoring other parts, making you separated, isolated."

Her brows raised at the observation. Her own experience agrees with the statement. Mira and Zoey quickly agreeing with the doctor and stating their own views of the sometimes emotionally closed off workaholic known as Rumi. Their leader.

'This does not feel like a doctors appointment. If anything, its just a guy stating out obvious traits and iss-'

"Quiet, yet vocal. A mind racing with thoughts unheard. Silenced by those around, only eager for something else."

She didn't realise the doctor was pointedly staring at her.

"W-What?"

"Yeah, what are saying to our dear manager!" Zoey exclaims clinging onto her side.

"Z-Zoey. Its fine. P-Please let go." She asks of the eager girl, the said giving her some sparkly puppy eyes before letting go.

"How does this help me get my voice back?"

"As I said, to treat the part, we must understand the whole."

"(Groan) That's great, but I thought we were here just for your tonics."

"Just give us the voice juice."

————————————————————

Whilst the girls were waiting for the tonics, (Y/N) decided to wait outside for them. She trusts them enough to get the tonics, as much as she isn't fond of them.

That picture on the wall seemed oddly familiar.

'Where have I seen those boys from...'

With her time as a manager for HUNTR/X, she's seen and met a fair share of trainees and idols. Perhaps that is why they seemed familiar. But even then, nothing noteworthy comes up when she saw their faces. Man she wishes she could remember where she saw these guys.

Shaking her head to try and ward off these strangely curious thoughts.

'This shouldn't be occupying my brain as much as it should. I should be thinking about another song to sing for tomorrow night, I have another pacifying to d-'

"Oof!"

"Sorry, are you alright?"

So caught up in her mind that she ended up wandering out of the alleyway. Clashing bodies with a strong built guy and falling to her knees by accident.

"Y-Yeah, I'm f-fin- Oh. You're the guys I saw with Jinu last night." Meeting the familiar short pink haired friend of Jinu. The said male had his eyes widen slightly before turning down back to normal. A glint of mischief in his eyes with a thought.

"We never fully introduced ourselves, I'm called Abby." Bowing his head slightly as a greeting whilst helping her up.

"I'm Romance, Jinu mentioned me last time we saw each other." The longer pink haired male comes up from behind and leans on Abby's shoulder.

"I remember that."

"The one pouting behind me is our maknae, Baby Saja. And the last with the long fringe is Mystery." The mentioned maknae side-eyed Romance from his confirmed pouting face.

(Y/N) felt a chin resting on her shoulder, feeling the fluffy silver grey hair of Mystery tickling her face and neck. His close contact sent an uncomfortable shiver down her spine. Glancing her gaze down slightly, she can see the slight run-through of purple patterns across his exposed face, a quick reminder on what they are really.

Moving her shoulders up forces Mystery off with a sad pout on his face from the action.

"Well, its nice to meet you guys. Aren't you performing today?" She questions with a shiver to her body, still uncomfortable with Mystery's strange 'greeting' to her.

"Why yes, we are. Are you sticking around to watch us?" Romance asks with a flirtatious wink.

(Y/N) already decided she was going to watch them, purely to see what kind of concept her and HUNTR/X are working against. Though the pastel clothing was enough to tell her. Now its a matter of curiosity.

Shrugging her shoulders while stuffing her hands in her pockets. "I don't see why not. I'm actually also waiting for some friends, so I may as well kill some time."

"I'm so glad to hear that!"

Turning up her attention she sees Jinu pushing past the other boys (who don't look that happy with the action), an excited expression etching onto his face upon seeing her. His presence calming her shivers ever so slightly.

"I'm gonna assume you were organising your stage Jinu?" Crossing her arms and putting on a more professional tone. She may consider Jinu a new friend, but that doesn't mean he's off the hook as a demon yet.

His reason for being on the surface is enough to raise suspicion.

"Your powers would be of great use, considering you guys don't seem to have a manager in sight. (muttering) Even I don't think a company is willing to sign you and debut you the same year, let alone week." Her muttering went under their ears, replaced with shocked expressions to hear that she knows of their faces behind the disguises.

Jinu awkwardly chuckles, sort of amused by her bluntness, but is still heavily questioning how she knows this. "(chuckle) You have no fear in what we are, do you?" Leaning closer to her ear, his voice sending another nervous shiver through her body.

Taking a short breath in before leaning closer to his ear. "Why would I fear someone who doesn't hold such malice in his eyes."

The male had a thrilling shiver go up his spine. Not only from the proximity, but the words from her quiet melodic voice.

"I only see shame and guilt."

————————————————————

"WHERE DID (Y/N) GO?!"

"I DON'T KNOW?!"

The three girls were panicking upon coming out of the clinic, their box of tonics in hand. They were cheering about helping Rumi's voice, but stopped when they couldn't find their dear manager.

"Did anyone find where she went?"

"No?! We were inside for honmoon's sake!"

"Oh no! She might have been taken by demons! No she must be so lonely and-"

"What is going on?!"

Swerving their head around, they see (Y/N) with a confused face seeing their panicked state.

"My god...I thought you guys found a dead body or something. There is no need to yell for me, you don't want to be attracting ANY attention. Right?"

Her firm strict tone being a quick reminder of what role (Y/N) has played ever since their debut. A more strict version of Bobby with her hands in the creative process. Even when she wasn't fully comfortable with the girls yet, she still managed to steer them in the right direction when avoiding scandals and demos for songs.

"Y-Yeah...sorry (N/n)." Zoey frowns apologetically.

Sighing to herself like her mother usually does when she breaks a vase.

"You guys are the ones that said you wanted to stay out of sight." Her muttering causes guilty expressions to pull on the girls. "Don't worry about that now. I should be sorry as well, considering I just walked away without an explanation." Forgiving the girls for this is easier than letting it drag on more.

Rumi and Mira were about to provide an explanation for their panic, but their ears were picking up the faint sound of an instrumental beginning to play in the background.

"Wait. What is that?"

Rumi's question urges the girls to pop their heads out of the alleyway. Only to see a strange pink smoke beginning to form near the centre of the busy area. The backing instruments sounding positive and bubbly as it went on.

Adjusting their disguises, they make their way towards the commotion.

"Hey, hey"

"Hey"

Five silhouettes can be made out in the smoke, all striking poses before the pink suddenly disappears to reveal the performers.

"Don't want you, need you"

"Yeah, I need you to fill me up"

"Masigo masyeo bwado"

"Seonge chaji ana"

"Got a feeling that, oh, yeah (Yeah)"

"You could be everything that"

"That I need (Need), taste so sweet (Sweet)"

"Every sip makes me want more, yeah"

"Its those stupid jerks again!" Rumi exclaims. "Wait. You know those guys?" (Y/N)'s confusion evident but is ignored by the sheer number of people gathering around.

"These guys are a boy band?" Another question Rumi exclaims. Irritation growing in her more.

"Lookin like snacks 'cause you got it like that (Woo)"

"Take a big bite, want another bite, yeah"

"Neoui modeun geol nan wonhae, wonhae, wonhae"

"Neo malgon modu pyeonhae, pyeonhae, pyeonhae"

"Whеn you're in my arms, I hold you so tight (So tight)"

"Can't let go, no, no, not tonight"

"That jerk stole one of my pouches!" Recounting her tonics upon seeing Jinu drinking one.

(Y/N) deciding to question later why Jinu decided to intentionally or not, magically send back an ahjumma with a hip thrust.

"Jigeum dangjang nal bwa sigan еopjana"

"Neon naekkeoya imi algo itjana"

"'Cause I need you to need me"

"I'm empty, you feed me so refreshing"

'A drop?'

"My little soda pop"

"You're all I can think of"

"Every drop I drink up"

"You're my soda pop"

"My little soda pop"

"Cool me down, you're so hot"

"Pour me up, I won't stop"

"You're my soda pop"

"My little soda pop"

The chorus infectiously going around the crowd with shoulder movements galore. Bopping their bodies to the earworm worthy song. Not even Zoey or (Y/N) were immune to the rhythm.

As much as Rumi and Mira glare for them to stop, their bodies couldn't deny the contagious beat.

"It is annoyingly catchy, though."

"Its infectious."

Romance and Baby Saja sending out kisses of hearts into the ground, physically knocking out those hit.

"They can make hearts out of thin air?" Mira's questions go unanswered, but (Y/N) can think of ways to reply.

But reflecting in the sunlight, catching the hunters eyes, was the faint purple patterns running through their arms and the hint of gold in their dreamy irises.

"(Gasp) They're demons!"

"Magicians! Demons. Obviously demons."

"My little soda pop"

"Uh, make me wanna flip the top"

"Han mogeume you hit the spot"

"Every little drip and drop, fizz and pop, ah"

"Soreum doda it's gettin' hot"

"Yes, I'm sippin' when it's drippin' now"

"It's done? I need a second round"

"And pour a lot and don't you stop"

"'Til my soda pop fizzles out"

"Dang they're good."

"Incredible. But a demon boy band? Why?"

"I don't care. A demon's a demon. We kill them." Rumi and (Y/N) stops Mira before anything can happen.

"No, its too public."

"Do you want everyone to grill us into being cancelled?"

"What if they try to kill these people?" Mira's reasoning is valid from her perspective. But everything around them says otherwise.

"It doesn't look like they're gonna hurt anyone." Zoey's observation being noted by (Y/N), seeing as the five boys helping out a few people struggling with little things.

"Kkum soge geuryeowatdeon neo"

"Nan jeoldae nochil su eopseo"

"Neol wonhae kkok"

"I waited so long for a taste of soda"

"So, the wait is over, baby"

"Come and fill me up"

"Just can't get enough"

"Oh"

"In fact, it almost seems like they're nice demons?"

"Demons are never nice!"

Seeing the girls rush over to destroy the very things the demons touched. Panic washing over with her usual professionalism masking it. Purchasing another hotdog for the girl with the right amount of sauce and giving the children smaller gifts in replacement for the destroyed ones, giving them all a soft smile in comfort.

'Think before you act, girls.'

"You're all I can think of"

"Every drop I drink up"

"You're my soda pop"

"My little soda pop (Yeah, yeah)"

"Cool me down, you're so hot"

"Pour me up, I won't stop (Oh, oh)"

"You're my soda pop"

"My little soda pop"

The sudden appearance of a stage large soba can was a choice, in (Y/N)'s opinion. But the wave of pastels and illusionary magic is what set her off.

Pushing her way through the crowd to catch up with the girls, she found her way near the front.

'I see what's going on...'

"Ooh, ooh"

"You're my soda pop"

"Gotta drink every drop"

Striking their ending poses, Jinu looks down at the crowd, meeting the (f/c) and gold gaze with his brown ones. Smiling softly at her before diverting his attention.

"That's it for now. See you tonight on everyone's favourite variety show. Saja Boys love you!"

The demon boy band disappearing in a puff of smoke.

The three hunters grew more irritated at the easy work the demons have accomplished by just performing once! Determined to end this boy band as fast as possible.

(Y/N) on the other hand had other thoughts.

'Well then, if you want to play like this Jinu, I hope you know what's coming for you.'

*Ding*

Her phone vibrated with the indication of a text message. Opening up her messages to see the new text, reading made a small sigh release from her mouth.

Jinu: Hey (Y/N), lets meet up tonight. I'll meet you at the place we met.

————————————————————

Edit: I took a break and I managed to fall down into my Record of Ragnarok phase again whilst also watching the new Superman movie (really good I recommend). Also if anyone wants to be tagged, pls ask in the recent parts bc it just makes the list a lot easier to find and compile.

Tags: @kitsune-05, @the-bookish-artist, @apelepikozume, @shoopershtar, @ravvilicous, @valeriele3, @vikc, @lasa27, @chipster-321, @greensunflowerjuna, @napbatata, @that-one-girl2020, @tagmepls, @thoughtfulbananaduckcroissant, @minepugs, @crescent-z, @colorfulgardenerduck, @poem-bee, @deityofprocastinating, @0-undead-0, @gremlinartstudio, @jessica-mcd, @strayharmony943, @fruityg0rl, @cherryblossomfox, @aominehaven, @kyxmlii, @ssaischilling, @sweaterkitty-fluff, @historygeekqueen, @satansdaughter123, @theall-seeingone, @nvmkyuu, @amenabii, @julianne1024, @doggyteam2028, @nisarelle, @theall-seeingone, @hi-itsmee28, @celesteelysia, @maritheillusion, @levifiance, @kangsae-byeokfan, @hornehlittleweeblet12, @scara-simp69, @fancyhawk45, @shqyou, @enerofairy, @futuristicdefendorfart, @scentwombatarcade, @eliengoddes, @irethepotato, @sra7riddle-malfoy, @jessica-mcd, @koda-lupinn, @yoursleeparalysisdem0n, @tsukimoon-chan, @ityourguy, @elaemae, @neverending-animelove, @type-ink, @pandafuriousa60, @mazzk1ng, @theall-seeingone, @rorotvt2025

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suliigwp · 2 days ago

Text

IT TAKES TWO— TO TOXIC

max verstappen x reader | angst

SULI: it was a little hard for me to finish this cus I was feeling quite bad if ykyk lol but I did finish it— this is part one, I have the second one planned... Hope you guys like it — this is set in MV33 era. PART ONE.

SUMMARY: you two were young, didn't know what you were doing, didn't know how to handle something so serious both of you got yourselves into.

WORD COUNT: 4,987

WARNINGS: Sexual Scenes, 19yo. Having sex, Swearing, Toxic Situationship, Jos Verstappen.

It was nearing one in the morning, and you were still wide awake—though not by choice.

Your tiny apartment off campus was dimly lit by the glow of your desk lamp. The pages of your criminal law textbook were starting to blur as your highlighter hovered over the same line for the third time. The coffee you made at eleven had long gone cold. You’d been wearing the same hoodie since yesterday. Your legs were tucked underneath you, bare skin chilled against the worn couch, and a dull ache pulsed behind your eyes from reading too long.

You didn’t even hear the first knock.

Just a faint, distant tap. Then another. Then again—sharper this time.

You frowned, paused your music, and turned your head slowly toward the source. The window. The one by your kitchen table.

You already knew.

With a sigh heavy enough to carry a storm, you got up, heart already pounding as you pulled the curtain aside.

There he was.

Max Verstappen. Hoodie pulled over his messy hair, a smirk already ghosting his lips. One hand shoved in his pocket, the other lightly rapping his knuckles against the glass.

Like it hadn’t been four days since you’d heard from him. Like he hadn’t vanished after his last race without even a text. Like he belonged here.

You unlocked the window, sliding it up just enough to hiss, “Are you serious?”

He grinned. “You gonna let me in or make me stay out here with the raccoons?”

You gave him the coldest look you could manage. He climbed in anyway.

He landed softly, moving through your apartment like muscle memory. Like he still remembered the creak in the third floorboard or where your slippers always ended up. He shook out his hoodie, dropping it on the back of a chair, and straightened up, looking around like something had changed.

Nothing had.

Not really.

"You look tired," he said, nodding toward the scattered textbooks. “Midterms?”

You blinked at him. “Don’t.”

Max looked at you then. Really looked. You hated that he still had that effect on you—like you were some kind of puzzle he never quite solved, like he’d missed something and was always chasing the answer.

“Four days, Max,” you said flatly. “Four days and not even a message.”

“I figured you didn’t want to hear from me,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer.

You backed away.

“Stop doing that. Just... dropping off the planet and showing up whenever it suits you. I’m not a stop on your way home from the airport.”

He raised a brow. “I didn’t come from the airport.”

You crossed your arms. “Where, then?”

“Hotel,” he said. “Dropped my stuff off. Thought about sleeping. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You hated how fast that cracked your composure.

You hated him for knowing it would.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, voice lower now. “This doesn’t mean anything, Max. You don’t text me. You don’t call. You don’t want anything real. You made that pretty fucking clear.”

He was right in front of you now. So close you could smell his cologne, the rain on his jacket, the faint scent of grease still clinging to him from the garage. You didn’t move.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know I fucked everything up.”

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” you whispered. “Because there was nothing to ruin.”

His hand brushed your wrist. Just a touch. Gentle. Familiar. Dangerous.

“Then tell me to leave.”

You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.

Because you didn’t want him to.

Because part of you still ached for him, no matter how much it hurt to admit it.

So you didn’t say anything.

And he kissed you.

Hard.

You gasped against his mouth, stumbling backward until your hip hit the edge of the table. His hands were under your hoodie in seconds, fingers finding your waist like they never forgot where they belonged. You let yourself melt into it for one stupid, selfish second—his body pressed against yours, his breath warm on your skin, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt like you needed to hold onto something.

“You’re not staying,” you mumbled against his lips, but your voice was already trembling.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “I never do.”

But he was already kissing you again. Pulling you closer. Lifting you up until your legs wrapped around his waist and he carried you to the bed like he hadn’t done this before—but like he wanted to do it right this time.

Later, the room was quiet.

You were curled under the blanket, back to him, staring at the wall. His arm was draped over your waist, fingers tracing mindless shapes into your skin.

“You make me feel crazy,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer at first.

Then, finally, a whisper: “You drive me insane too.”

You turned, just enough to see his face in the dark. His expression unreadable. His mouth drawn into a tight line like he wanted to say more but didn��t know how.

“Do you even care what this does to me?” you asked, and your voice cracked.

Max looked at you, and for once, he didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

And then he stood.

He got dressed slowly. Pulled his hoodie back over his head. Grabbed his keys. And without another word, he slipped out the window and disappeared into the night.

You lay back, eyes burning.

You told yourself next time, you wouldn’t open the window.

But you knew you would.

…

One of their good nights—late, quiet, unguarded.

It was 2:13 a.m. The streetlights outside her apartment blinked slowly against the curtains.

She should’ve been studying. She still had case briefs open on the floor, a half-highlighted textbook on her desk.

But he was on her bed—half-asleep, shirtless, hair still damp from the shower she made him take after sneaking in.

She sat cross-legged beside him, highlighter in one hand, the other idly tracing the line of his shoulder blade.

“That can’t be comfortable,” he murmured.

She looked down. “What?”

“Sitting like that. While you study. You’re gonna destroy your back.”

She raised an eyebrow. “This from the guy who gets thrown around in a car at 300 kilometers per hour.”

“Still. Come here.”

He reached out lazily and pulled her in by the wrist until she was lying across his chest.

Her cheek pressed against the warm skin just above his heart. It was beating steady. Softer than she expected.

She closed her eyes for a second.

“You know this is stupid,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

“It’s going to end badly.”

“Probably.”

“So why are you still here?”

He didn't answer right away. Just curled his arm tighter around her back. His thumb moved in small, slow circles against her spine.

“Because when I’m with you,” he whispered, “the noise shuts off.”

She stilled.

“And that never happens for me. Ever.”

The room went quiet. Her hand moved up to rest just beneath his jaw.

He turned his head slightly. Kissed the top of hers.

“Just stay,” he said. …

The office was too quiet.

You’d been staring at the same corner of the window for five minutes. Your fingernail scraped the edge of your paper cup like it might crack under your thumb.

Your therapist waited.

She always waited.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” you said finally.

You knew it was a lie. But you said it anyway.

Across from you, she gave you a gentle nod. “That’s okay. We can figure that out together.”

You rolled your eyes. You hated that kindness. That soft, neutral patience. You weren’t used to it. You didn’t trust it.

“I’m tired,” you said, more sharply this time. “Of pretending like I’m fine with everything. Of trying to be fine when clearly I’m not.”

She leaned forward a little, still calm. “Is this about Max?”

Your stomach clenched.

You shrugged, trying to look unaffected. “It’s always about Max.”

Silence again.

You looked down at your hands. Your nail had finally broken. You picked at it like that was more important than this conversation.

“He’s not even... He’s not my boyfriend. He never was. He’s just this—this stupid habit I can’t quit.”

“Do you care about him?”

You swallowed.

“That’s the problem.”

The words fell like they’d been waiting to escape for weeks.

“I care too much. And I hate it. I hate how easily he gets to me. I hate that he doesn’t have to try. I hate that he doesn’t even want the same things, and I still let him in.”

“What do you want?” your therapist asked, gently.

You blinked.

“I want him to feel it,” you said slowly. “I want him to know what it’s like to not be enough.”

There it was.

Your throat felt tight. Your hands were suddenly too hot. You crossed your arms and sat back in the chair like the confession hadn’t cracked your ribs open.

“I’ve done everything right,” you said. “I work hard. I don’t get attached. I study. I keep my shit together. I try to be good, and I try to be calm, and I try to be the better person—and it never fucking works.”

“So what would happen if you stopped trying to be the better person?”

That question landed hard. You looked away.

Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Then maybe he’d finally hurt like I do.”

…

It was late. Again.

You didn’t ask how he got in this time—whether it was the window or the spare key you hadn’t had the guts to take back. You were in the kitchen, barefoot in a t-shirt and shorts, when he walked in like he owned the air you were breathing.

Your spine straightened.

“You’re back,” you said flatly, not even looking at him. “Must’ve run out of other places to go.”

Max dropped his bag without answering. He stood in the doorway like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

“You’re pissed,” he said, voice quiet. Too calm.

You snorted. “You disappear for four days, show up in the middle of the night like it’s your fucking right, and you think I’m pissed?”

You turned then, and he looked just as tired as you remembered. Maybe worse. Red-rimmed eyes, messy hair, jaw clenched tight like he was swallowing everything he wanted to say.

“You didn’t text either,” he said. “Don’t act like it’s one-sided.”

You stared at him. That stupid, familiar twist in your chest burned.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He stepped closer. “Why? Because I don’t grovel when you go quiet for days?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Because I don’t have time to babysit a man who doesn’t know what the hell he wants.”

The second it left your mouth, the air in the room shifted. He laughed—but there was no humor in it. Just that mean, sharp, cutting edge he knew how to wield when you touched a nerve.

“You think I don’t know what I want?”

“Clearly you don’t.”

“No,” he said, stepping into your space. “I think I do. I think you just like pretending you don’t care.”

He was close now. Too close. And your voice dropped.

“Don’t act like you love me, Max.”

He didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t back away either.

“You’re not special,” you added coldly. “You think you are, but you’re not. You’re just another boy who thinks wanting me is enough.”

His hands curled into fists. You turned your back.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “I’ve actually been trying. To be good for you. To keep up.”

You exhaled a laugh—hard and hollow. “Trying?” you repeated, venom in your tone. “You flirt with every girl in the paddock. You disappear. You show up like this and expect what? Gratitude? You’re a little boy playing at being serious.”

Max’s face darkened. “I didn’t know there was a checklist.”

You walked past him, brushing his shoulder. Intentionally casual.

He was breathing harder now. You didn’t stop.

“I don’t need you to try,” you said, twisting the blade. “I don’t need anything from you.”

“Then why do you let me in?”

You turned slowly, arms folded, jaw tight.

“Because you're easy.”

His face changed.

“Because you make it easy to forget how alone I am. Because you’re stupid enough to come back every time. Because I know how to use you.”

He didn’t move. You could see it happening behind his eyes—that part of him cracking, splintering, trying to patch itself back together before you noticed.

But you wanted him to feel it. You wanted him to know he wasn’t the only one who could cut deep.

“I’m not stupid,” he said.

You stared at each other. Breathing hard. The silence stretching thin.

He nodded— like he understood, or tried to make himself understand.

“You’re right,” he said. “This is easy. Because it’s nothing.”

Then his hand reached up. Brushed against your jaw. And just like that, the whole thing snapped.

You kissed him first—angry, teeth, heat. He kissed you back like he wanted to make you pay for it.

Your hands were in his hair, dragging him in. His mouth was rough, relentless, like he was trying to forget everything you’d just said. He shoved you back against the wall, and you clawed at the hem of his shirt. It hit the floor. So did yours.

He lifted you in one movement. Your back hit the bedroom door.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whispered, as he kissed your throat.

“No,” he muttered, voice raw. “Just fucking convenience, right?”

You ripped his hoodie off, fingers tangling in his shirt, clawing it over his head. He pushed you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress, lips never leaving yours.

“You hate me?,” he breathed, as he pulled your shorts down.

“I do.”

“Liar.”

He shoved your knees apart, dragging his fingers up the inside of your thigh slowly—like he was daring you to stop him. You let your head fall back as he sank two fingers inside you without warning. You gasped.

“Still so fucking wet for someone you hate,” he growled, curling them.

You moaned, one hand gripping the sheets, the other fisting his hair.

“You’re and idiot if you think it's because of you,” you said again, like you did most nights.

“Keep saying it,” he said, “see if I believe you.”

You pulled him in, and the moment he lined up, there was no pause. No tenderness. He pushed into you in one sharp, brutal thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

��Fuck—Max—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Take it.”

His rhythm was relentless. Angry. Your bodies colliding with enough force to shake the frame. You kissed like you hated each other. Touched like you couldn’t stop. Every time you cried out, he swore under his breath like he was falling apart.

“I fucking hate you,” he whispered into your neck. “And that's the only thing that makes this enjoyable— fuck.”

You choked out a sound that could’ve been a sob. Could’ve been a laugh.

“That’s what you’re good for.”

He pulled your wrists above your head, pinned them there. His mouth met yours again, slower now, but more vicious. Tongue, teeth, lips. Bruises bloomed along your collarbone. His name left your mouth like a confession.

You came around him with your body arching violently, and he followed right after, groaning against your throat like your skin was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

…

The debrief room was empty when Jos walked in.

Max sat alone at the small table, still in his fireproofs, elbows on his knees, sweat drying at his temples. He hadn’t spoken to anyone. He hadn’t taken off his race boots. He just stared at the floor like it might change what happened out there.

He heard the door open.

Didn’t look up.

He didn’t have to. The air changed when Jos walked in. Always did.

The silence dragged.

Then, quietly—flat and surgical:

“P7.”

Max swallowed. Didn’t speak.

“I watched that lap twice. You braked too early into Turn 9. You hesitated on the exit.”

Still, Max said nothing.

Jos stepped closer. Voice still calm. Still cold.

“You don’t trust the car. Or you don’t trust yourself. Which one is it?”

Max blinked once. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

Jos walked a slow circle around him. Not pacing—hunting.

“I warned you,” he said. “Didn’t I?”

Max stared at the floor.

“That girl—what’s her name? The one you sneak off to every time you’re home. She’s in your head. And now?” He gave a humorless chuckle. “Now she’s in your driving.”

Max finally lifted his eyes. Just for a second.

That was enough.

“You think I don’t see it?” Jos said, sharper now. “The late nights. The missed sim sessions. The soft hands on track. You’re slipping, Max.”

Silence.

“And for what? Some law student who strings you along when it’s convenient? Who wants to feel important because you’re hers?”

Jos leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re a world champion. Act like it.”

“Or walk away now—before you humiliate yourself further.”

Max’s throat worked, but no sound came out.

He couldn’t look at him.

Because Jos wasn’t wrong—not in a logical way. Not in the way Max had been taught mattered.

And worst of all?

Jos didn’t yell.

He didn’t even raise his voice.

He didn’t have to.

Max nodded once. Small. Robotic.

Jos didn’t say goodbye. Just left him sitting there—small in a room that suddenly felt too big.

…

TWO MONTHS LATER

The rooftop was already buzzing. Warm amber lights stretched from one end to the other, strung between trees and wrought iron posts like constellations of people wealthier and weathier than each other. Champagne clinked against crystal. Laughter drifted like perfume. Everyone looked like they belonged.

She didn’t.

Still, she moved through the crowd like she had somewhere to be. Like she wasn’t already scanning every face before she even made it to the bar.

A friend had dragged her here. Said she needed to “come back to life.” She’d laughed at that—come back to life from what?

She accepted a glass of something dry and cold from a passing tray and forced herself to sip. The music was light jazz, layered under the hum of conversation and the occasional stiletto on tile. Her heels clicked softly as she stepped away from the crowd and toward the edge, where the view swallowed the coastline whole.

And for a minute—just a minute—she almost relaxed.

She took a breath. Closed her eyes. Let the wind lift her hair off her collarbone.

You’re fine. It’s fine. He’s not here. It’s Monaco. You’ll never see him again.

She turned to face the party.

And then—

there he was.

It felt like a blow.

Like the air had been sucked out of the rooftop and into her lungs all at once—too much and not enough.

He stood maybe ten feet away, a little to the left. Backlit by gold lighting and the soft, artificial warmth that made everyone glow. Dressed in black. No tie. Shirt open just enough to show skin. One hand curled around a whiskey glass.

The other?

Resting on the waist of a girl she didn’t recognize.

Blonde. Long legs. One of those bright, effortless smiles that made people look twice. She was saying something—leaning in too close—and Max was grinning. At her. With her. Like it was easy.

Her chest tightened. Not dramatically. Not like in the movies. Just… pressure. Like the zipper on her dress had suddenly been pulled too tight.

He hadn’t seen her yet. Or if he had, he was doing a damn good job pretending he hadn’t.

She couldn’t look away.

There had been a time—not long ago—when that hand had rested on her waist like that. When his smile only softened when he looked at her. When he whispered things meant only for her in the dark of her apartment, skin to skin, breaths tangled like confessions.

Now he was here. With someone else. Laughing like he hadn’t gutted her. Like he hadn’t left her in silence.

Like she’d never existed at all.

She took a slow step back. Then another. Her fingers gripped the flute so tightly the stem might snap.

Someone brushed past her shoulder, and still she didn’t move. Just watched.

And then—he looked up.

Eyes straight to hers. No warning. No build-up. Just bam—eye contact like a slap.

She didn’t flinch.

He did.

Barely. But enough. The shift in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. He knew. He remembered.

His smile faltered. His shoulders squared. He said something to the girl—quick, quiet, brushing her hand away like it burned.

And then?

He just looked at her.

No expression. No excuse. No apology. Just stood there, like a monument to everything he wasn’t brave enough to say.

The noise of the party dulled around her. Her vision narrowed. All she could see was him, and all she could feel was—

Nothing. Just hollow.

And that was worse.

Because once upon a time, she’d wanted to scream at him. To cry. To beg. To understand.

But now?

She just wanted to leave.

So she turned, slow and deliberate, and walked away. No drama. No words. Just her spine straight and her heartbeat in her ears.

He was smiling. He was touching someone else. He looked well.

And she stood there like a fool with a champagne flute and shaking hands, trying not to throw up on her heels.

So when the guy from earlier—Luca, or maybe Leo—brushed past her again with that smirk and a flirty little, “You changed your mind yet?”

She smiled.

“Actually, I did.”

She took his arm.

It was too easy. He was tall, attractive, probably rich. Wore his confidence like a linen blazer. He looked at her like she was the most interesting thing in the room—and for once, that’s exactly what she wanted.

But it wasn’t about him.

Not even a little.

They moved through the crowd slowly, deliberately, like something worth watching.

She let her hand rest on his chest. She leaned in when he spoke. She laughed at nothing.

And then, like a magnetic force pulling her spine to attention—

She felt it.

Eyes.

Heavy. Unrelenting. Burning into her like headlights on an open road.

Max stood where she’d left him. Same black dress shirt, same perfect hair. But now?

He was still.

The girl who’d been beside him was gone—just an empty space and a lowball glass in her place.

And Max was staring.

Across the entire rooftop, through the sea of fake smiles and soft jazz, straight at her.

Jaw clenched. Expression blank. That specific kind of rage that looked calm to strangers but sent her heart racing because she knew better.

Let him feel it.

She turned slightly in the other guy’s arms, just enough to face Max.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she leaned in and said something into Luca’s ear—something low and meaningless. It didn’t matter what.

He grinned. Handsy. Confident.

“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” he murmured against her hair.

It took exactly eight seconds of watching her drape herself all over that guy for Max to lose it.

He saw the laugh—the way she tilted her head, all neck and soft skin. The way she pressed her hand to the guy’s chest like she owned him.

And when the guy leaned in and kissed her?

Max didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

He moved.

Straight across the rooftop. Fast. Focused. Unforgiving.

People noticed. Someone called his name. He didn’t care.

“What the fuck is this?”

His voice hit her sharp—cutting straight through the crowd like a shot fired.

She pulled back from the guy, slow, and turned to face him.

“Don’t start with me.”

“Start? You’re the one playing games like some bored little brat.”

“Go back to your blonde,” she snapped. “You seemed perfectly fine thirty minutes ago.”

“Don’t fucking mention her.”

“Oh? Why not?” she spat. “Did I ruin your perfect night with your arm candy? Sorry, Max, I forgot I’m not allowed to exist anymore.”

The guy beside her shifted. “Is there a problem—”

“Stay out of it,” Max barked without even looking at him.

“Jesus,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You think you still get to talk to me like that?”

“I think you’re acting like a goddamn child.”

“And you’re acting like you have a say over my actions.”

The slap still echoed when he grabbed her arm.

Not roughly. Not gently either.

Just… firmly. Like he was done holding back.

“We’re not doing this here,” Max said, voice low and dangerous.

“Get off me—”

“Now.”

“Let go of me!” she barked, heels scraping across the tile as Max dragged her down the hallway just off the rooftop terrace.

He didn’t. Not until they were far enough from the music, the chatter, the pretty fucking people pretending they didn’t just witness a public meltdown.

The second they were alone, he spun on her.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

She shoved him hard in the chest. “Don’t touch me like that ever again.”

“You’re lucky that’s all I did! What the fuck was that?”

She laughed—a sharp, bitter, fuck you sound.

“You mean the part where I kissed someone? God forbid I get a taste of how it feels to be you.”

“I don’t parade people around to get a fucking reaction.”

“No, you just disappear and show up with some blonde on your arm like you didn’t ghost me for months.”

“Are you still crying about that? Jesus Christ.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole.”

“And you’re still obsessed with me. Look at you.”

“Obsessed?! I didn’t even know you were gonna be here, Max!”

“Yeah? That why you’ve been eye-fucking me all night while hanging off some guy who couldn’t even spell his own name?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No. You want to act like a child, I’ll treat you like one.”

She got in his face then. “Try me.”

“You don’t want that.”

“No, you don’t want it—because the second I hit back, you fold like a little bitch.”

He stepped closer.

“Keep talking, princess. You’re a fucking expert at running your mouth until someone actually calls you on your shit.”

“Says the one who ran away.”

“I ran because you were a ticking fucking time bomb!”

“YOU ran because you’re a coward!”

“I ran because I was sick of pretending I wanted more than just fucking you!”

Silence.

“You fucking bastard!” She lunged at him, open-palmed fists pounding at his chest, arms, shoulders—anywhere she could reach. He didn’t block it. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there while she screamed.

“You really think you’re some gift to the world?! You think I was lucky to be used like that? You think that makes you a man?!”

“Don’t fucking twist this,” Max growled.

“Twist it? I lived it! I bled for it! I broke for you, and you’re standing here like it was all some joke?!”

“You’re not the only one who got fucking hurt!” he roared, finally shoving her back just enough to breathe. “You think I didn’t hate myself every time I left your place?! You think I didn’t feel like shit every time I lied to myself and said it was casual?!”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you stay?!”

“Because you made it impossible!”

“No, Max—YOU made it impossible. You needed me to be a fucking lifeboat while you drowned in your daddy issues and your career and whatever the hell you blame the world for, and the second I needed YOU—gone. Like a fucking ghost.”

“Oh shut the fuck up about needing me. You needed control. You needed power. The second I stopped crawling, you didn’t want it anymore.”

She shoved him again, harder this time. “You are so fucking delusional! I didn’t need control. I needed someone who didn’t treat me like a goddamn distraction.”

“You were a distraction! You were the only thing I couldn’t shut off!”

“Then you should’ve told me that before you shoved yourself inside me like it meant something!”

“Don’t do that!”

“Why not?! Too real?! Or too fucking true?!”

“You never cared about me!” she screamed. “You just liked that I made you feel wanted!”

“And you just liked that I hated myself more than you did!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you too!”

“Hey! Enough!” Carlos burst in, grabbing Max by the shoulder, yanking him back so hard he nearly stumbled.

“Get your shit together, man. What the fuck are you doing?!”

At the same moment, Rebecca slipped between them, arms out, shielding her like a wall.

“Hey, hey—look at me. You’re done. That’s enough.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she snapped, eyes wild, voice still shaking.

“I’m not touching you,” Rebecca said calmly. “I’m standing between you and another goddamn breakdown.”

Max tried to surge forward again, eyes burning. “You think I liked walking away?! You think that was easy for me?!”

Rebecca held her ground. “You’re not saying anything that’ll fix it now!”

“Let him say it,” she spat. “Let him say every shitty little thing he’s been dying to throw in my face.”

“No,” Carlos said. “Because he’s not thinking. He’s not feeling! He’s burning everything to the ground because he’s afraid you’ll beat him to it.”

She blinked. Swallowed. Shook her head hard. “Don’t do that therapist shit right now.”

“Then go,” Rebecca said softly, still in front of her. “Come on. Let’s just go.”

“You’re not walking away from me again,” Max said, still breathing hard.

She looked over Rebecca’s shoulder. “Watch me.”

Then she turned and walked out. Rebecca followed.

Carlos waited. Watched Max.

“That’s twice now,” he muttered. “You gonna make it three?”

Max didn’t answer.

He just leaned back against the wall, dragged both hands down his face, and whispered—

“Fuck.”

PART TWO INCOMING...

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress @suibianupyourass make sure you can be tagged!

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formulafanfics13 · 2 days ago

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Everything She Is - CL16

Masterlist

summary: While visiting the F2 paddock, Charles Leclerc discovers that his younger brother’s race engineer isn’t just brilliant — she’s Bella Wolff, Toto’s daughter, and she’s been a fixture in Arthur’s life for years. What starts as a casual introduction spirals into jealousy, curiosity, and reluctant admiration as Bella proves herself in every way that matters.

warnings: language, implied emotional tension, light jealousy, light angst, motorsport realism, Toto Wolff being a DILF, slow-burn admiration, no smut

The pit lane shimmered with the late morning heat, that strange Monaco brightness that always made Charles feel like he was walking through a spotlight. Glamour, pressure, wealth — everything felt more performative here, even when no one was watching. Which was exactly why he liked coming to the junior series when he could. It was quieter, simpler, raw. Not everything was wrapped in branding and PR filters. You could still breathe in F2.

Carlos walked beside him, sunglasses on, espresso in hand, eyeing the paddock with that dry little half-smirk he always got when they were off-duty. "God, this takes me back," he muttered, looking around. "The smell of burning clutch. The sheer panic of pre-season testing. You can't buy this kind of nostalgia." Charles huffed a quiet laugh, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. "You mean trauma?" "Same thing."

They wandered past the ART GP garage, nodding to a few engineers and mechanics lingering outside. It wasn't that they didn’t get noticed — they did, of course — but no one was jumping for selfies here. It was a more reverent silence, like people understood the sanctity of a Leclerc watching his younger brother test.

And there was Arthur, fireproofs to his waist, helmet off. Leaner than last year, sun on his shoulders, standing like he belonged. Charles felt that tug of pride twist in his chest. Protective. Familiar. But then—

"Wait," Carlos said, slowing. "Who's that?"

Charles followed his gaze. A young woman was walking beside Arthur. Not trailing — walking with him. Their arms brushed. He slung one around her waist like it was muscle memory. They looked intimate. Not necessarily romantic, but close. That kind of close.

"You didn’t tell me your brother had a girlfriend," Carlos said. "He doesn’t," Charles muttered.

She laughed at something Arthur said. Threw her head back. Easy. Loud. Real. Arthur looked at her with this softness Charles didn’t recognise — not on him.

Then they were walking over.

Arthur grinned like a little shit. "Look who finally showed up." Carlos clapped his shoulder. "Just wanted to make sure you weren’t driving like an idiot." "Too late," Charles said, quietly.

Arthur turned to her. "This is Bella. My race engineer. And best friend. Bella, my brother Charles, and Carlos."

She stepped forward, stuck out a hand. Warm smile. Confident grip. Casual and unfussy.

"Race engineer?" Carlos echoed, blinking.

"Yep," she grinned. "Been with him since Formula Regional. He won’t let anyone else touch his setup now." "That’s because no one else puts up with your radio tantrums," Arthur muttered.

Charles shook her hand, brain still trying to catch up. She was sharp. Not arrogant — precise. Calculating. "You're really young," he said before he could stop himself. "For an engineer." "I’m twenty-two," she replied evenly. "I don’t mind being underestimated. It makes proving people wrong more fun."

Carlos coughed a laugh. Arthur slung an arm over her shoulder.

"Told you she was scary."

Charles was spiralling. Why had Arthur never mentioned her?

"So where’d you learn to engineer?" Carlos asked.

"Karting mechanics, sim work, telemetry analysis. Then Mercedes’ junior development programme." She said it casually, like it wasn’t a flex.

Carlos blinked. "Wait. You came through Mercedes?"

Bella nodded. "Yeah. My dad insisted." "Who’s your dad?" he asked.

Before she could answer, a hand landed on her shoulder. Charles turned just in time to see Toto Wolff step into view, dressed down in black, aviators on. He pulled Bella into a hug, kissed the side of her head.

"My girl. You were fantastic." "Thanks, Papa," she murmured.

Charles froze. Carlos visibly blinked.

Toto turned to them. "Charles. Carlos. Good to see you both."

Bella smiled. "They were just asking who my dad was."

Carlos made a noise like a broken machine. "You're... Toto’s daughter?" "Surprise," she said cheerfully.

Arthur looked smug. Charles felt his world tilt.

"You didn’t think to mention this to me?" he demanded. Arthur shrugged. "Didn’t think it mattered. She’s not your engineer."

"She’s your engineer. And she’s his daughter—" "I’m standing right here," Bella said dryly.

Toto, thoroughly entertained, checked his watch. "Will you be home for tea?"

Bella shook her head. "Going to Arthur’s mum’s." "Alright. See you in the morning."

No negotiation. Just respect. Like she wasn’t just his daughter, but an equal.

"You’re going to Pascale’s?" Carlos asked. Arthur nodded. "She’s got tea on. You should both come."

Charles blinked. "You want us to come?" Arthur shrugged. "Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be."

Carlos grinned. "Not saying no to Pascale’s cooking. Especially if this afternoon comes with more answers."

Bella smiled. "Let them spiral. It’s fun."

Inside Pascale’s kitchen, Bella was barefoot, slicing tomatoes beside Charles’ mother like she belonged there. Pascale kissed both Charles' cheeks but only after nudging Bella’s hands away from the knife so she wouldn’t hurt herself turning to wave.

"You didn’t tell me she calls you maman," Charles muttered. "She comes over every week," Pascale replied. "Helps me fix the Wi-Fi. I’d adopt her if Toto would let me." "You’ve known her longer than I have." "Maybe you should visit more."

Carlos leaned over. "She’s got her own apron. With her name on it."

Bella and Arthur moved like a unit. Cooking, laughing, eating. Like she’d been part of the family for years — because she had. She picked olives off Arthur’s plate, wiped sauce from Pascale’s hand mid-story, poured Charles wine before he could reach for it.

"You're being too aggressive into Turn 9," she told Arthur. "I'm making up for understeer." "You’re making it worse. Dial back the diff."

Carlos turned to her. "You talk like an engineer." "I am an engineer."

Charles tested her. "What diff setting would you use at Spa in the wet?"

"Depends. You like a looser rear but you overcorrect. I’d say 4.1 for a more progressive slide. And stop turning in late at Rivage."

Carlos let out a low whistle. Charles blinked. "That’s... accurate."

"And you think you know better than my engineers?" "I don’t think. I know."

Carlos asked a strategy question. She answered it without pause. Purple in sector one or abort. Precision. Confidence. No hesitation.

"You ever considered working in F1?" Carlos asked.

"I’ve had offers," she replied. "Too many," Toto added. "She turned them down," Arthur said, sharp with meaning.

"Why?" "Because I believe in finishing what I start. Arthur’s not done yet."

That one sentence slid into Charles' ribs like a knife.

Later, as Bella and Arthur cleaned up, Carlos leaned toward Charles.

"You’re thinking about changing the setup to what she said, aren’t you?" "Maybe," Charles muttered. "Most uncommitted ‘yes’ I’ve ever heard."

The next morning at the track, Charles was up early. No sleep. Just Bella’s voice echoing. Try 45-60. He asked Luca to change the diff.

"That’s unorthodox," Luca said. "Just try it."

Three laps in, Charles went purple in sector two.

"Car feels good." "Throttle traces look cleaner. Rear’s calmer. Keep the setting?"

"Yeah. Keep it."

Back in the garage, Carlos was already there.

"You’re not going to say it?" "Say what?"

Carlos smirked. "She was right."

Charles didn’t answer. But he didn’t need to.

Because she was.

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plutopos · 1 day ago

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The People have an infinity of free and open source options that don't bug you and only wish for you to prosper, but they tend disregard them because they don't wanna get out of their comfort zone.

Look for alternatives! That's how you make a change. I can ASSURE you there's something for your needs out there in some github repository.

Yes, even for smartphones, as long as you don't stop at the ominous "you're gonna get malware!!!!!" sign google gives you when you try to install anything from outside of the play store.

Note: you are not, in fact, gonna get malware as long as it's vetted by the community and the source code is open. If the source code is open, it means anyone can read it and check that it's safe.

Here's some examples:

Startpage for web search (& as your browser if you're on android)

Librewolf as your browser

Debian as your PC operating system

F-Droid for TRULY free android apps

Aurora Store to bypass play store restrictions on android

Newpipe for youtube on android (& also music)

Freetube or Invidious for youtube on pc

Monophony for music on pc

ProtonMail as your e-mail provider (or better yet, get a pi and host your own e-mails yourself)

Bandcamp to buy music (anyone who uses spotify is a corpo bootlicker. No matter what reason they state, it's an excuse)

GOG for videogames that don't put you through a million DRMs to play them (Steam also offers some DRM free games, but it's more of a gamble and less user-friendly overall)

And for the, uhm, adventurous of you:

Mullvad as your VPN (could be vital depending on where you live)

Stremio + Torrentio for films & TV

Z-Library or Anna's Archive for books

Hydra Launcher for videogames (don't forget to enable seeding!)

QBitTorrent for torrents

Capitalism does not breed innovation.

Tech gatekeepers have escaped so many investigations and consequences from breeches of trust.

The People need to make a change.

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centrally-unplanned · 2 days ago

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I have lost the original link alas, but right after the 2024 election there was an article breaking down the "ecosystem" of new right-wing online influencers that are an increasingly large source of the news for younger, typically-male Americans. It was a good article - lots of cool graphics - and generally spoke about how these people were just heavily right-wing at their core, even if they talked about a wide range of non-political content, which was forming a new, closed-off ecosystem.

I had a whole piece I was writing, which I eventually scrapped, partially challenging that notion. I went in and I watched a half-dozen of the highlighted YouTubers, finding their "big moments" talking about the election, and while for sure they leaned right - sometimes heavily so - they were also much more diverse than the article was giving them credit for. Flagrant was one of the ones I was going to highlight specifically - his video on the election itself was, you know, nothing I would watch organically, but it was a legitimate conversation. He had a bunch of guests on who didn't all agree, they spoke positively about Obama, highlighted Kamala failing to focus on cost of living and distancing herself from Biden, took jabs at Trump's ethics, etc. They even cracked a classic joke about abortion, calling it "guns for women - most will never need one, but just in case they fucking want one", which is a little crass but not honestly inaccurate and the point was they were very chill with women not voting Trump because he was pro-life.

A lot of these guys just aren't the bubble you might think they are - they essentially can't be to maintain their audiences, which have a lot of diversity of thought under the hood. What they are, though, is dissident - they all unite around hating the establishment. The mainstream media, the woke agenda, the big money elites, all that stuff. In the Biden years this comes off as very right wing? In a sense it is, fair enough, but in another sense they just hate the center, whoever that is. This is the reality of thermostatic shift in US politics - and how the audience for this kind of content works. They can't maintain that audience saying "yeah, everything is fucking great now".

And so when you win on the back of this audience, and become the center, it's baked in that they will in some ways turn on you. Which is why I was very much not surprised reading a piece from Brian Beulter on influencer responses to the Epstein topic and seeing him highlighting a clip from our boy Flagrant just absolutely ripping into Trump on the whole thing. He was out here saying he is either an opportunistic liar or a pedophile, it wasn't subtle! The brand wasn't MAGA, it was "being interesting". It was also "fuck the wokes", man humor, all that stuff too - which matters. But while there is absolutely the Fox News audience for slavish cult loyalty, that just does not describe the whole world of the "right" by any means.

Which I do think is politically relevant, because I saw a lot of democratic discourse doing a combination of defeatism and "pipeline" myopia. Essentially you had the people going "the info environment is totally cooked, everyone just wants right wing propaganda" and then grasping at straws to be like how do we build our own Joe Rogan. Because going on Joe Rogan as a lib is impossible. But it isn't, right? The info environment is kinda cooked, the thermostatic swing of public opinion in the US is because people are really fucking stupid in some ways. That is the game board though, and you actually can just go on Joe Rogan as a lib, particularly once you are out of power, and if you actually adopt stances that don't completely piss these people off.

I think part of the reason people think the above is that they confuse audiences with the commentary. Something I remember from watching that original 2024 election coverage video was looking at the comments. I know, the comments of a YouTube video about politics, am I insane?? Yes, actually, and so what I noticed is that the comments were much more right wing than the video itself. Often critical, even, of the "both side-sing" of various topics:

That last one aged like fine wine, incredible. All this can make you think that, man, this audience is fucking all in on MAGA. And then you go to the latest Epstein video and:

People are ripping into both Trump and the dumbasses who voted for him! You could convince me half of these people are career libs if you tried.

The conclusion here is not that everyone changed their mind - though some did. The conclusion is that YouTube comments are absolutely fucking useless as data about anything! They are the frothing, rage-fueled tail end of the political bell curve, with a healthy dose of professional trolls, meme hustlers, and shilling bots. But political analysts of all stripes see these comments - and the same shit on twitter and the like - as the audience. They reason from a biased sample, so of course they have the wrong suggestions.

Anyway, TL;DR - after the 2024 election you saw a lot of people talking about the "new online right ecosystem" like it was an impenetrable MAGA cult and it was never that, it was actually a decently diverse field with a mix of insane priorities and actually real issues, and you can authentically try to meet these people where they are to do politics and exploit the thermostatic shift. Get your ass on Rogan and talk shit.

#Politics & The Internet - the song that never ends

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teaboot · 5 hours ago

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hi! friend problems anon here. So, I've known this girl and her sister for my whole life, lets call them sis 1 and sis 2. Sis 1 is around my age so I've connected more with her, but in the past 5 years sis 2 has been the person I text most, and is the person i tell most things and we've got a roleplay going. This itself isn't the problem, i'm good friends with both sisters. This is just to state like, how much of a connection we've had BEFORE I started having issues. Sis 2 likes to talk a lot about her friends and school and such, while I'm more introverted and very very focused on my fixations and such. I love talking to her, and I love listening to her talk, really I do. But sometimes I say some things about my interests or hey this cool thing happened on tumblr today (this is my first social media account but I'm not super young? so it feels like a big milestone for me and I wish the people in my life cared more about that) And it kind of feels like she doesn't really care? like she responds a little about a small detail about what I said and then continues with the rp. or just doesn't reply. or talks about doing things with her friends that I kind of feel left out about. And it makes me feel like I don't really matter. And this isn't a recent thing either, its just been building up in me. So I sent a message about it, which the app SAID she saw, but she then didn't reply or speak for the whole day. which. obviously made me upset and i deleted the message. So last night i asked sis 1 if she was mad at me, and sis 2 came back the very minute I sent the message. So I asked her what that was about, that i sent a message to, and she said "the app sometimes says i've seen things when I haven't, whatd you say?" And I sent the message again, and again it said she saw it. and she still has not responded. and I don't know what to do because whats the point of talking things out if she's not even going to talk. TLDR My good friend makes me feel like what I have to say doesn't really matter, or that she doesn't care enough to make it matter, and when I tried to talk to about it she ghosted for a day. then i talked to her sister about it and she reappeared, only to ghost again when i resent the message

I think- and I’m not close enough to this to be certain, so you’d know better than me- that there’s a chance that, while she IS a friend who you can enjoy some level of trust and mutual enjoyment with, she may not feel capable or comfortable handling the deeper connection you’re reaching out for.

This doesn’t mean she’s a bad friend, or that she doesn’t care about you- but if it is the case, then she may just not be the right person for that kind of connection.

My mother told me once, when I was having a hard time with my bio father and feeling like he was emotionally available but physically absent, like he SAID he loved me but didn’t take the initiative to be present- “we can’t make people love us the way we need to be loved.”

I love my bio father. I love him deeply. He did his best, and he never once hurt me on purpose, and he’d let me cry when I was sad and hang up my drawings on his fridge and let me nap with him on the couch, but he was never the kind of man who could be there. He was never the kind of man who would go out in public, in crowds, or to my school- and no matter how I explained it or how I asked, it never seemed to click for him that sometimes, when you love someone, you suck it up and do boring shit you don’t want to do.

He loved me. He still loves me. But if I need someone to attend an award ceremony, or a school competition, he was never going to be that person.

My mom- she was similar. She’d show up, when she could, and she wouldn’t complain- would talk and talk about how proud she was, and support anything I set out to do, but work kept her away, and she didn’t really grasp emotional availability. Emotional intimacy, or being vulnerable.

So if I needed someone to rub my back while I cried and talk about my fears, I went to my bio father, and if I needed someone to cheer me on from the bleachers or get back at a bully, I’d go to my mom.

I have friends now as an adult who I go to when I’m sad, or depressed, or need to talk about the past, and they do the same with me.

I have other friends who I see far more often but will likely never know that side of me.

I know my bus driver by name, about her family and her cats and her favourite lipstick, and she knows about my work and what I do at the gym, and talking to her is nice. I enjoy her company. But she’s never going to come to my house for coffee, or know about my relationship with my step-parents.

Because nobody can be everything. Almost nobody in the world can be everything, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love you- the way they express the love they have for you just doesn’t match the love you need to have in order to feel loved.

If you want to have that conversation with her, if you really want her to try to be that person, you can have that conversation, but she may be looking for something else that YOU aren’t able to provide HER.

Maybe that can be discussed. Maybe you can both work towards the middle. Or maybe that’s just not in the cards, and you can enjoy what you DO get out of your relationship as it is, and seek that other support elsewhere.

Which is to say, I doubt very much that she doesn’t care about you or your feelings- but she may just not be the right person to provide what you’re seeking.

You don’t buy your squid at the gas station, after all. It doesn’t mean you can’t still go to the gas station

#Long post #Askboot

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nysrevenge · 2 days ago

Text

My Litte Love pt.2

Elias “Stack” Moore x Black!Reader

After holding in her emotions for weeks, Y/N finally breaks down under the weight of single motherhood and heartbreak. While trying to stay strong for baby Akari, she collapses on the kitchen floor, overwhelmed and exhausted. Smoke and his wife Annie arrive just in time to comfort her, revealing their deep love for Akari and their silent struggle with infertility. As Y/N cries in Smoke’s arms, she finally allows herself to feel vulnerable, realizing she doesn’t have to carry the burden alone. Annie gently reassures her that she and Smoke will always be there — a reminder that sometimes, family is who steps up, not who shares blood.

WARNING- This chapter contains themes of emotional breakdown, single motherhood stress, infertility, and grief. There are moments of crying, overwhelm, and vulnerable emotional expression that may be triggering for readers who have experienced postpartum struggles, betrayal, or loss. Tiny bit of Marry slander if you squint Please read with care.

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

You held it together for two full weeks.

Two weeks of fake smiles. Two weeks of bottles, spit-up, half-eaten meals and a baby that only slept in your arms. Two weeks of quiet cries into your pillow so you wouldn’t wake her.

You’d done everything right. You didn’t call him. Didn’t argue when he dropped Akari off late last Sunday. Didn’t flinch when she came back with that faint smell of Mary’s perfume on her blanket.

You held it all in.

Until you couldn’t anymore.

It started with the bib.

Just a regular, soft, pink bib that Akari wore when she babbled over oatmeal that morning. She looked so proud, so damn happy with cereal all over her cheeks. You went to rinse it in the sink, and outta nowhere — it hit.

That this was it.

This was your motherhood story.

Alone.

No one to share baby milestones with. No kisses on your temple. No arms wrapped around you while you made bottles at 3 a.m.

Just you… and her… and an aching silence that made your chest burn.

You sank to the kitchen floor, bib still in hand, and broke. Finally. Loud and ugly and messy.

And that’s how Smoke found you.

He didn’t knock. He never did.

“Y/N—” he froze, keys jangling in one hand, Annie close behind him.

You tried to sit up. Wipe your face. Say I’m fine, even though you were anything but.

But Smoke dropped everything in his arms and knelt beside you.

“Come here,” he said, voice low, strong.

You didn’t fight it. Didn’t hold back when his arms wrapped around you like a brother should. You buried your face in his hoodie and cried like a little girl who lost everything.

“I can’t do this, Smoke…” you sobbed. “I’m tryna be strong for her but I—I’m so damn tired.”

“I know, ma,” he said, rubbing your back. “I know you are.”

Annie stood behind him quietly, hands over her mouth, eyes already wet.

“She don’t deserve this. Akari don’t deserve this,” you choked out.

Smoke didn’t say Stack gon’ fix it or he didn’t mean it. He didn’t lie to you.

He just held you tighter.

“You doing everything right,” he whispered. “Don’t matter what Elias did. You… you showing up for that baby every damn day. You hear me? That’s real strength. And if you need help—me and Annie here. You ain’t gotta carry this alone.”

You pulled back slowly, makeup smudged, cheeks stained.

“I feel like I’m breaking…”

Smoke looked at you with all the softness the Moore brothers rarely let the world see.

“Then break. We got you.”

Later, when the tears slowed and you curled up on the couch with Akari finally napping in her bassinet, Annie sat across from you, quietly folding a blanket.

You glanced at her. She was smiling at the baby like she was made of gold.

“You really love her,” you whispered.

Annie nodded without hesitation. “Like she’s mine.”

Something heavy passed between you. Something you’d never said out loud.

Smoke came back into the room with two mugs. Handed you tea, then sat beside his wife.

“She is ours too, in a way,” he added gently. “Me and Annie… we’ve been tryin’ for years. IVF. Prayed on it. Doctors said it ain’t gon’ happen for us. But God still gave us Akari.”

You blinked at them. Heart full, eyes hot again.

“So when you need rest, or peace, or just air,” Annie said softly, “let us be your village. Let us take care of her. You trusted the wrong one before, but we won’t let you down.”

You swallowed hard. Couldn’t speak. Just nodded as fresh tears slid silently down.

Akari stirred in her bassinet. Annie moved quick, scooping her up with practiced ease, kissing her forehead like she’d done it a hundred times.

“She’s not alone,” Annie whispered.

“And neither are you.”

Somewhere, Stack was still figuring out what love really meant. But for now, Y/N finally had room to breathe. And Akari? She had more love than she could ever understand.

Later on that day.

He came early.

You weren’t expecting Stack until 6 p.m. But he pulled up at 3:42 — same black hoodie, same tired eyes, same tension in his jaw like he’d been pacing outside for twenty minutes before finally knocking.

You were in the kitchen, cutting grapes for Akari to snack on, when the door swung open and his voice came low and hot.

“So this what we doing now?”

You turned slowly.

Stack stood in the doorway, eyes locked on the sight in front of him.

Smoke was seated on the couch, Akari sitting between his knees while he braided her tiny curls into little twists. Annie beside them, handing him clips, smiling gently when Akari babbled something half-coherent.

Stack’s eyes burned through the room like heat.

“My brother, though?” he said, stepping further in. “You got Smoke taking care of my daughter like that’s his responsibility?”

You clenched the knife tight for a second before setting it down. Wiped your hands slow. Calm.

But your voice? Was not.

“Don’t come in here raising your voice when you ain’t raised a bottle in two weeks,” you snapped, stepping into the living room.

Smoke stood up, cool and quiet as ever, but his eyes cut sharp. Annie scooped Akari up instantly and headed down the hall, giving space.

“If you would’ve stayed down and loyal,” you hissed, “I wouldn’t need help taking care of a baby that didn’t ask to be here—or have a dad who’d rather cheat with a side bitch that only love him when he buying her shit!”

Stack flinched like you smacked him.

“That’s not fair.”

“Life ain’t fair, Elias,” you shot back. “Akari crying at night and I’m in here rocking her with tears in my own damn eyes while you laid up with Mary and her fuck ass bob.”

His jaw tightened. His fists balled.

“I didn’t mean for it to go that far.”

“You ain’t mean to get caught,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Before he could respond, Akari’s cry pierced the room from the hallway.

Sharp. High-pitched. Real pain in it.

You froze.

Then bolted down the hall, Stack on your heels.

Annie stood in the nursery, trying to calm her but nothing worked. Her little face was red, fists balled, legs kicking hard against the mattress.

You swooped her into your arms, rubbing her back, whispering, “Shhh, it’s okay, mama’s here. Mama’s here…”

But she wouldn’t stop. She screamed harder, flailing.

And your heart broke.

You tried everything — rocked her, bounced her, rubbed circles into her back.

Nothing worked.

And then… you broke, too.

“I—I don’t know what to do…” your voice cracked as your eyes filled up. “She won’t stop… she’s been like this all week… I’m so tired…”

Tears slid down your face as Akari wailed against your chest, and suddenly Stack was beside you, arms coming around both of you like instinct.

“Let me help, baby…” he whispered.

You didn’t pull away.

He wrapped his arms around the both of you, holding you tight, steadying your shaking hands as you gripped your daughter. She calmed just a little, still whimpering, but her fists relaxed.

“I’m sorry,” Stack whispered against your temple. “I fucked everything up. I was selfish. I didn’t protect you… or her… and I see that now.”

You didn’t say anything. Just cried softer, pressed against his chest.

He held you tighter.

“I wanna fix this, Y/N. I don’t care how long it take. I want my family back.”

Your voice came out small. Fragile.

“She needs peace. I need peace, Elias, and you can't give me that."

“And I’ll earn it,” he swore. “I swear I will. I ain’t never meant to break the best thing I had…”

You looked up at him with glassy eyes.

“She cried for hours last night.”

“I’ll stay,” he said instantly. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you need me. I got her. I got you. Just let me prove it.”

Akari finally settled against your chest with a shaky sigh.

And for the first time in weeks… you exhaled too.

Tag list:

@secretisme4 @heyyimmisunderstood @zenonsdreams @deexoxomuah @psych1scs @christinabae @bxunyx @deel3st @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @universal-s1ut @kcundercover0 @httpwwwhoney

#black reader #michael b jordan #elijah x reader #sinners x reader #elijah smoke moore #annie moore

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quinty-sky · 3 days ago

Text

dude, if my fav fanfic writers didn't write, or my fav fanfics were never posted I'd be a completely different person because man does fanfic open my eyes, like, fanfics are DEEP. yes, even if your fic is "just a gay fic" it's likely to make me ponder about love and longing and how to make a relationship work, and the effects of trauma on love language (i love my hurt/comfort). fanfics make me exposes to difficult topics such as child abuse and bigotry and such that i haven't faced, so that i GET them almost first-hand (because man these writers really know how to make you feel in the place of the main character, the immersion is so impressive).

the pandemic was rough on my mental health, as it was with practically everyone, and i remember reading this dsmp fic called "Life Itself" with it ending with '“The meaning of life is life itself. You’re here, and you’re living. That’s all that matters. You’re here. That’s what the meaning of life is.” He smiled. The meaning of life is life itself.' (i know its not an original quote - but i wouldn't have heard it if not for this fanfic and the fic showcased the meaning of the quote amazingly)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34485247/chapters/85827661

both the ending lines and the fic as a whole genuinely had a huge effect on how i viewed life and helped me with my not-so-fun thoughts, and like - imagine if the writer never posted it? the write themself said they look back on their old works, including this, and cringe - what if they never posted it in the first place because they thought it was "cringe"? even I don't know the answer to that.

every piece of writing has an impact, whether its a published novel and won #1 on new york times or a dsmp fanfic with a few hundred kudoses - it has an impact.

so write, post, and don't you ever think that it has less value because it's fanfic!

Reminders for fanfic writers who think it “doesn’t count”

✦ Your writing counts. like, a lot. If someone felt something because of what you wrote, then it matters. That scene you almost didn’t post? Yeah. Believe me, someone out there bookmarked it for a reason.

✦ Writing existing characters doesn’t make it “less than.” You’re building arcs, crafting dialogue, emotion, pacing. You’re studying character psychology like a scientist. That’s not “just fanfic,” that’s storytelling.

✦ “but it’s just fanfic” ...no. STOP, it’s craft. It’s understanding tone. It’s hitting emotional beats. It’s layering theme and backstory and prose into something people feel. You’re doing the work, you just don’t get graded on it. (Which, honestly is a blessing.)

✦ Writing fanfic means you love stories enough to live inside them. You care, deeply. You care enough to reimagine, to explore, to add something of yourself to a world you didn’t create and somehow still make it feel brand new.

✦ Someone out there rereads your fic like it’s their favorite book. Maybe they’ve saved a line to their notes app,or they quote it to a friend. Maybe they just think about it when they’re having a bad day. That little fic you almost deleted, it’s comfort now.

✦ Your comments section is real. Every “I needed this” and “this made me cry in a good way” is proof, you don’t need a book deal to matter. You don’t need a publisher to have an impact, because you already do.

FANFIC IS WRITING! Fanfic is yours.

You’re not “just” anything. You’re a writer, own it. Be proud of that.

#ao3 #ao3 fanfic #fanfic writer #the meaning of life #is #life itself

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itsnotyouithink · 3 days ago

Text

AFRAID

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: tara feels like she knows you - your charm, busted ankle, and the desire to be the best. but, after attending mindy’s long-awaited student film festival, she realizes she barely knows what’s underneath the obsessed artist you are.

warnings: mature language, torn acl (rip)

word count: 6.1k

author’s note: not so sure about this chapter but here it is!

previous part | next chapter

——————

The second the front door clicks shut behind you, a collective exhale leaves your group like you've just disarmed a bomb. You all freeze for a second, waiting for some noise from inside — a thud, a groggy Sam scream, the unmistakable sound of Tara trying to use the blender at one in the morning.

Nothing.

Mindy silently throws her head back, arms raised to the sky like she's seen God. "Holy shit. I didn't think we were gonna make it."

"She kept saying her key was in her boot," Chad adds, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead. "She wasn't wearing boots."

"I'm still emotionally recovering from when she tried to kiss the doorknob goodnight," Anika says, tugging her oversized cardigan tighter around her shoulders as you all start heading back toward campus. The pavement is wet with leftover rain, glistening in the streetlights. The air smells like hot dog water, weed, and victory.

"She thought the doorknob was a person," Mindy corrects. "She said, and I quote: 'You've always seen me for who I really am.'"

You laugh — harder than you mean to — and your breath clouds up in the air in front of you. Everything feels a little surreal. Your ankle still aches from the game, your voice is half-gone from yelling, and there's a dried smear of Gatorade on your sweatshirt, but none of it matters.

Because you won. And Tara was there. Watching. She showed up to the party, drunk off her ass from frat-party vodka and looking at you like you'd hung the moon.

"Okay, but," Chad says, suddenly grinning. "She was kinda obsessed with you tonight."

You glance at him, playing dumb. "What?"

"Oh, don't 'what' me." He bumps your shoulder. "Every time you touched the ball, she gasped like she was watching a murder documentary. And when you hit that floater in OT? I swear to God, she grabbed my arm and whispered, 'That's my favorite play.'"

"She doesn't even know what a floater is," Mindy mutters.

"She knows now," Chad says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Because her hot jock crush did it."

"I don't have a—" you start, but Anika cuts you off, spinning around to walk backward in front of you.

"Oh please. She was basically wrapped around your shoulder the whole walk home. If she had been even one tequila shot more coherent, she would've proposed."

You shove your hands in your pockets and look down at the sidewalk, trying to hide the way your face is heating up. "She was drunk."

"Drunk minds, sober hearts," Mindy intones like it's gospel.

You roll your eyes, but it's no use. They've got you cornered, and they know it.

And maybe it's not just teasing. Maybe there's truth under it — in the way Tara had leaned against you like you were gravity, or how she'd looked at you with those sleepy brown eyes and whispered, "You smell like orange Gatorade. I think I love you." You'd laughed at the time, brushed it off like a joke.

But now? Now you're not so sure.

Your friends keep talking — Chad's going on about post-game waffles, Mindy and Anika are arguing over the ethics of shipping real people — but your mind stays back at that house, with that girl.

The night's cold, but you're buzzing.

And you're not sure if it's the win, or if it's her.

Your dorm is quiet. Everyone else is probably passed out — teammates drunk off cheap beer, fans still posting shaky game clips to Instagram. Your ankle's elevated, still sore from overtime. You've showered, iced, changed, but your brain hasn't shut off. Not with the win. Not with her. Not with the amount of alcohol you should've never touched an hour ago.

But you were used to this - your brain never quite shutting up. Celebratory parties had been a normal occurrence for the basketball team this past year with your sudden burst of talent. But nonetheless, it still hit you like a truck.

You're lying on your bed, one arm behind your head, scrolling through your camera roll — not looking for anything in particular, just avoiding sleep. You stop when you get to a photo someone AirDropped after the game. A blurry shot of you mid-jump shot.

And in the background — Tara. Sitting just a little too close to the court. Hands cupped around her mouth, eyes locked on you.

Your phone buzzes.

Tara Carpenter [2:11 AM]

question

if i showed up at your door right now

would you make me food

or would you kiss me

just wondering

Tara Carpenter [2:13 AM]

ignore that

tequila and shame

i'm gonna disappear now

You [2:14 AM]

depends

what kind of food

what kind of kiss

Tara Carpenter [2:15 AM]

food: grilled cheese

kiss: the kind that makes people sit down after

You [2:15 AM]

damn

you're aiming high for 2am and no warning

Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]

you played good tnn

i'm vulnerable

Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]

and you won the game

and looked stupuudly hot doing it

so maybe this is your fault actually

You don't respond right away. You're reading every word like it's written in code, like she's going to take it back the second you answer wrong.

Then:

You [2:19 AM]

i'd let you in

grilled cheese first

kiss second

then you can pretend it never happened in the morning if that makes it easier

There's a pause. You stare at the message. Your heart is a little louder now.

Then:

Tara Carpenter [2:22 AM]

i wouldn't want to forget

just wouldn't know what to do after

That one stays on your screen for a long time.

You don't move.

You reread it five times.

Then you type:

You [2:25 AM]

maybe don't think about the after yet

just think about the now

and the fact that i want you here

Typing... Then:

Tara Carpenter [2:26 AM]

that makes two of us

fuck

goodnight

And that's it.

No emoji. No follow-up. No jokes to soften the edge.

Just honesty. Brief and blazing.

And now you're just lying there, heart pounding, wide awake at 2:30 AM — smiling like a fucking idiot.

⸻

Tara Carpenter is ninety percent sure she died last night and this is purgatory.

She's seated on the lowest step of the auditorium stage, hunched forward in a hoodie she stole from Mindy three months ago and never gave back. Her hair is pulled into the kind of messy claw clip arrangement that says I've given up, and her sunglasses are oversized, crooked, and doing a barely adequate job shielding her from the blazing overhead lights Mindy insisted on turning to "full stadium brightness."

The room is a disaster: folding chairs half-unstacked, extension cords snaking across the floor like live wires, glitter already stuck to Tara's socks. There's a faint buzzing from the AV booth that's threatening to break her last functioning brain cell in half. And through all of it, Mindy is marching around the room like a caffeinated auteur on the verge of a nervous breakthrough.

"Can someone explain to me why the projector screen is hung at a 73-degree angle?" Mindy calls, pointing dramatically at the ceiling like she's directing Inception. "I said cinematic, not asymmetrical trauma!"

"Those are the same thing," Tara mutters from her corner.

"I heard that!"

Tara slumps further into herself and presses her forehead to her knees. She is not built for this. She is built for drinking four and a half tequila shots, dancing to Rihanna, sending risky texts at 2 a.m., and then disappearing for a full 24 hours. Not public service. Not ladders and paper lanterns and Mindy yelling things like "non-linear aesthetics."

"You good down there, T?" Chad asks from a few feet away, where he's unraveling yet another string of tangled fairy lights with all the enthusiasm of a man serving time.

"I'm thriving," she mumbles, deadpan.

"I think I saw your soul leave your body ten minutes ago," Anika adds, stepping over an extension cord with a roll of black gaffer tape in one hand and an iced chai in the other.

Tara lifts one middle finger, then rests her head back on her knees.

And then—

The doors open.

They creak a little too loudly, and Tara winces like a vampire mid-sunrise. But when she lifts her head and looks toward the light, the glare fades — and there you are.

Hoodie on. Sweatpants. That familiar confident walk that says you definitely slept in. And in your hand: a brown paper bag, slightly grease-stained, clutched like a talisman. You scan the chaos, zero in on her like a heat-seeking missile, and start walking.

Tara's stomach flips.

It's you. With food. And a smile she absolutely does not trust.

She immediately looks away. Bites the inside of her cheek. Tries very hard to pretend she didn't send a string of late-night texts about kissing you and sandwiches — in that order — and then double texted. It's fine. You probably didn't read them. You probably forgot.

But then you're right in front of her.

"Morning, Princess of Darkness."

She peers up at you over the rim of her sunglasses. "Are you here to help or just to mock me?"

"I brought you breakfast." You shake the paper bag like it's a peace treaty. "Which technically makes me a hero."

She stares at it, suspicious. "What is it?"

"Grilled cheese. Fresh off the griddle. Or, like... fresh-ish. I stole it from a freshman who looked like he might cry if I made eye contact."

She sighs. "You are so full of shit."

"And cheddar," you say, winking. "Come on. I figured you were still deciding between kissing me or eating, and I didn't want to make you choose on an empty stomach."

Tara turns fully toward you, pulling her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose like a judgmental librarian.

"So you read the texts."

You grin. "Printed them out. Had them laminated. Gonna hand them out at the next team dinner."

She narrows her eyes. "I hate you."

"But," you say, crouching beside her and placing the bag in her lap, "you're also currently accepting my grilled cheese."

She opens the bag with caution, like it might bite her. The sandwich is slightly flattened, a little too crispy on one side, but it smells amazing. She takes a bite before she can stop herself and immediately closes her eyes.

You watch her chew with a smirk.

"See? Better than your drunk imagination."

"I was imagining more cheese," she says flatly. "But this is... acceptable."

You fall back onto the floor beside her with a satisfied sigh, arms behind your head. "I bring you comfort food and witty banter and you still insult me. Incredible."

Tara glances sideways at you. Her voice softens just a touch. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," you say, looking up at the ceiling. "But I wanted to."

There's a beat. Her fingers tighten around the sandwich.

Across the room, Mindy is shrieking about someone using duct tape on the "vintage projection screen," and Chad is pretending to care. But here, in this little corner of the chaos, it's just you and Tara — her hoodie sleeves too long, your shoulder brushing hers, the ghost of last night's texts still hanging between you.

She nudges your arm with her elbow. "If I was drunk when I said I wanted to kiss you, does that mean you're gonna hold it against me forever?"

You glance at her. "Nope."

"Really?"

You smile.

"I'm gonna hold it against you now. You know. Just in case you want to say it again — sober."

She stares at you. Eyes sharp. Mouth twitching.

Then she takes another bite.

"Shut up and eat your own grilled cheese," she mutters.

"You didn't bring me one."

She leans back against the stage with a sigh and tosses you a crust. "Sucks to suck."

An hour later, lights are strung, the banner's (slightly crooked) but finally up. Chad's been gone for at least forty minutes, Mindy's yelling about lens ratios from behind a stack of folding chairs, and Tara — uh, well — Tara is sitting at the edge of the stage again, legs dangling, your half-eaten grilled cheese in one hand, the other tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her sunglasses are finally off. Her eyes are tired but clear now — and every time they glance at you, it's like the rest of the room fades.

You're standing just a few feet from her, tangled lights still wrapped loosely around your arm, pretending not to notice how she's watching you. Like you didn't spend the night texting each other things that neither of you have acknowledged since.

She licks a bit of melted cheese off her thumb and mumbles, "This is terrible, by the way.

You smirk. "And yet you're still eating it."

"I'm fragile and easily manipulated by carbs."

You walk over, gently toss the rest of the tangled lights onto a plastic chair, and say, "I'll keep that in mind next time I bribe you."

She hums. "Next time? Oh, you wanna hang out with me more, Varsity?"

You freeze for a second. You weren't expecting that, you never do whenever she calls you a stupid nickname. But then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out.

You feel the shift before you even check the time.

It's subtle — a change in the way your heartbeat settles, the way the lights on stage suddenly feel too bright, the way your chest starts to tighten like something's wrong.

1:06 PM.

Shit.

The press junket started at 1.

You were supposed to be there fifteen minutes early. Hair neat. Posture perfect. Answers locked and loaded — the same way you've been doing since you were fifteen, since the day they threw you in front of a local news camera after your first 30-point game and said, "Smile like that again, kid, and you'll get a full ride."

You've been smiling ever since.

You were the one who never broke routine. The one who never flinched. Early to every team meeting. First out on the court. Face of the program. Captain. Role model. The "serious one." You didn't have time to mess around. Didn't give anyone room to doubt you — not your coaches, not your family, not the girl who said once, "You never shut off, do you?"

But now?

You're in a dim auditorium filled with tangled fairy lights, folding chairs, and a last minute Postmates half-eaten grilled cheese cooling in a paper bag next to Tara Carpenter.

She's sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, hair up in a loose clip, hoodie sleeves swallowed over her hands. There's a streak of red marker on her wrist from the banner she was working on earlier, and she's squinting up at the projector screen like she actually cares if it's perfectly centered.

You were supposed to stop by. Just for a second. Mindy asked for help. You said sure.

But really — it wasn't about the projector. It was never about the projector.

You wanted to see her.

Tara, who hasn't brought up your late-night texts.

Tara, who took the grilled cheese without flinching.

Tara, who hasn't stopped looking at you like she knows you're off your game, but hasn't said a word.

You tear your eyes away from her, throat dry.

"I have to go," you say, already backing up. Your voice comes out tight. "I'm—I'm so late."

Tara looks up, blinking like she just realized you were still here. "What?"

"Press. I was supposed to be at media by 11:40."

Her brows raise. "You're over an hour late?"

You grab your bag. "I lost track."

"Since when do you lose track?"

The words sting more than they should. You offer a tight smile. "Guess I'm slipping."

She watches you. Doesn't say anything. Just picks at the corner of the sandwich bag.

"I'll see you later?" you ask.

She shrugs. "You know where to find me."

That one hits low.

You don't say anything else. You turn, push the auditorium door open, and walk out into the light. Your heart's in your throat. Your legs feel heavier with every step.

For the first time in months, you feel like you're walking into something unprepared.

⸻

You don't see her at first.

You're running — not sprinting anymore, but that focused, panicked jog that says you know you're already late. Your legs ache. Sweat's pooling between your shoulder blades. Your chest is tight, but not from exertion. It's the shame. The spiral.

You shouldn't have stayed at the auditorium that long.

You shouldn't have forgotten what time it was.

You shouldn't have let her get to you like that.

And then you round the corner — cut behind the old campus bookstore — and she's there. Like a trap you didn't see until it was too late.

Leaning against the back of the brick wall like she's exactly where she was always meant to be. Hoodie unzipped. Leg up on the wall. A crutch tucked under her arm. Messy curls. Faded knee brace visible just under the hem of her biker shorts. And eyes locked on you before you can even process what's happening.

Riley.

You stop short.

Your breath catches. Your heart — already sprinting — stumbles in your chest.

She hasn't changed.

Still has that smirk that dares you to do something reckless. Still wearing her hoodie like armor, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Still chewing gum like she owns the sidewalk.

"You're late," she says, voice cool and unbothered.

You blink. "Riley."

"I heard you dropped forty last night," she adds, straightening slightly. "Big win. Real press-junket shit."

"I have to be there now," you say, already trying to step past her. "I can't—"

She moves just a little. Not blocking your path. But not exactly making it easy, either. "I'm not gonna keep you," she says. "Just thought it was funny. Watching you run like that."

You don't answer.

She cocks her head. "You always used to walk. Strutted like you didn't owe anyone anything."

"That was a long time ago."

"One year," she says. "Not that long."

You glance at your watch. Time slipping like sand.

"I can't do this," you mutter.

Riley exhales a laugh — sharp and low. "Why? 'Cause it's not part of your little routine? Wake up. Stretch. Get coached. Smile for the cameras. Pretend the game still matters."

Your jaw tightens. "It does matter."

"To who?" She steps in, voice low now, less mocking — more real. "You used to play with teeth. You remember that? You'd claw for the ball like it owed you rent. Elbows out. Head down. Angry. Mean. Beautiful."

You look away.

"I remember," she says. "You were fire back then. You played like the world hurt you and you were gonna hurt it back."

"I had to."

"No, you wanted to. That's what made you better than everyone else."

She's closer now. You can smell her — vanilla and sweat and old gym floors. You remember late nights in the rec center, the sound of rubber on concrete, her laugh echoing off empty bleachers. You remember splitting a pack of Sour Straws and a warm water bottle between you and calling it dinner. She was your best friend - your role model in the sport of basketball, but since her injury the two of you had never been the same.

You took her spot as the best player on the court and she hated you for it.

"You've gone soft," she says.

You flinch.

She nods toward your chest. "Press junkets. Gatorade deals. You used to burn. Now you just, kind of… float."

"I've changed."

"Yeah. You have." She says it like a compliment. But it feels like an insult.

Your voice is small when you say, "That's a good thing."

Riley looks at you — really looks at you — and for a second, there's no smile.

Just honesty.

"You don't even look like you believe that."

You inhale sharply. Stare past her. Focus on the double doors to the athletic center. Focus on anything but the guilt blooming behind your ribs.

"I have to go," you say.

She steps back, slow, letting you pass.

"You always do."

You're already walking away when she calls out behind you. "Hey. You were more dangerous when you were angry. Now? You're just trying to be liked. Hope that works out for you."

You keep moving. You don't look back.

But something in you flickers.

Something old.

Something red and hot and loud.

You tell yourself you're better now.

You tell yourself she's wrong.

But God, it would feel good to play like that again.

You shove the door open to the athletic wing and instantly feel it — the shift in temperature, the sterile fluorescent light, the silence that isn't really silent.

The press room is just down the hall, past the trophy case and the wall of grainy team photos. You can hear muffled voices inside, the tap of a mic being adjusted, someone clearing their throat. And standing just outside the door, back to you, arms crossed so tight his biceps strain against his quarter-zip?

Coach Ryan.

He turns before you can even open your mouth. "You wanna explain to me what the hell this is?"

You freeze.

He walks toward you in three long strides, and suddenly he's too close — the way he gets when he's really mad. That sharp cologne. The clipboard clutched in his hand like it's the only thing keeping him from throwing something.

"I gave you one job. One. Show up. Look sharp. Represent this team."

"Coach, I—"

"You're over an hour late," he snaps. "An hour. Do you know how bad that looks?"

"I was—"

"Don't say film club," he growls. "Don't give me that bullshit again."

You clamp your mouth shut.

"You think you're untouchable because you dropped forty last night? You think that means you get to roll in here whenever you want, looking like you just crawled out of bed?"

Your jaw clenches. "It wasn't like that."

He jabs a finger at your chest. "Then tell me what it was like."

You open your mouth. Close it again.

You can't say Riley's name. You won't say Mindy’s.

So you lie. "It was tutoring."

Coach stares at you.

His voice goes quiet — which is worse. So much worse. "Don't test me."

You look away.

"I stuck my neck out for you," he says, still low. "Told them you were the future of this program. Told them you were a leader. You're lucky your teammate's been covering your ass in there. You're lucky the press is obsessed with you right now. But that shine fades fast, kid."

Silence.

Then: "You think you're focused, but I see it. You're slipping. Just enough. Just enough for someone to start wondering if you're worth betting on."

That one lands. You feel it deep. In your chest. In your stomach. In your legs.

You finally meet his eyes. "I'm still locked in."

Coach steps closer.

"Then prove it. Get in there. Own the room. And stop letting whatever—whoever—is pulling your focus drag you off the court."

You nod, stiff. "Yes, sir."

He doesn't step aside. Not yet.

"You screw this up again?" he says, voice deadly quiet. "You're not starting next week. I don't care how many points you drop. I need consistency. Not drama."

You swallow hard. "I understand."

Finally, he moves.

You walk past him toward the press room, trying not to feel how heavy your feet are. You swipe your hoodie sleeve across your forehead. You adjust your posture. You smooth out your face.

By the time you open that door, you're someone else. Smile tight. Shoulders straight. Answers ready.

But in the back of your mind, Riley's still there.

And Coach's words echo louder than the flash of any camera.

"You're slipping."

⸻

The lighting is low and warm, the air smelling like popcorn, eucalyptus body spray, and a flicker of something sweet from the nearby snack table — maybe pink lemonade punch or store-brand cupcakes with too much frosting. Fairy lights zigzag across the ceiling, flickering slightly, and someone's pressed a red filter over the projector so the entire room glows faintly like an afterparty no one invited you to — but everyone showed up for anyway.

And then there's you.

Not overdressed. Not showy. But the kind of unintentionally perfect that turns heads anyway. You're wearing a soft white tank-top over your favorite push-up bra — too much, in your mind, actually — right above your loose jeans. Your jacket is cropped, dark green, slightly faded at the collar, the kind you've worn to death and still get complimented on. Hair half-up with a claw clip, a few strands falling in that soft, face-framing way. Lip balm. Gold necklace layered with a team pendant. Nails painted — chipped, but still pretty.

You enter with your team behind you — your teammates trailing like a tide. All chaos and all clearly dragged here against their will.

Zoey, in bike shorts and a "Property of Women's Basketball" hoodie, is yawning dramatically while balancing a snack plate in one hand and a Gatorade in the other. Tasha, always dramatic, has a silk headscarf and a matching mini-purse slung over her shoulder, even though she's wearing sweats. Naomi, queen of judgment, is already critiquing the zine like it's a Yelp review. "Why are there six films about grief and none about revenge? Film kids are so unserious."

You settle into the back row with them, dropping into the middle seat like a queen returning to her court. You tug your jacket sleeves over your hands and glance forward —

— and you finally see her for the first time since the morning.

Fourth row. Burgundy dress with a slouchy knit cardigan thrown over it now, sleeves pushed up. She looks the opposite of death - a contrast of how exhausted she looked that morning. Her boots are laced all the way, but one sock is slightly rolled. Her hair's up, her gloss is fresh, and she's surrounded: Mindy, pacing like a tiny director; Anika, lounging with a lollipop in her mouth. They look like a perfectly styled trio of indie film festival royalty.

Tara hasn't looked back.

But her shoulders tense when you laugh.

And when your teammates loudly drop into their seats behind her row, exchanging gum and talking way too loudly about how "the girl in that poster kinda looks like you," she adjusts her cardigan like she's trying to focus. Like something is under her skin.

You lean toward Zoey and take a sip of her drink without asking. "You think anyone here knows what a pick and roll is?" you whisper.

Zoey scoffs. "No. But they definitely know what sexual repression looks like. And I think you're the cause."

You huff out a laugh — but your eyes flick back toward Tara.

She still hasn't turned around.

But she knows.

You're here. You're watching.

And she's wearing that dress like it's armor now.

Mindy taps the mic at the front, the room buzzing low with whispers and last-minute texts. "Welcome to REEL LOVE, a night of short films, long feelings, and no budget," Mindy deadpans. "Please don't leave during the one that's silent and sad. It's about grief, and also bees.”

Laughter rolls through the room. You smile without meaning to.

The lights dim. The screen flickers. A lo-fi opening title card appears. And as you shift in your seat, tugging your jacket a little tighter, you swear Tara glances over her shoulder.

Just once.

Long enough to see you.

Long enough to know she's not winning tonight.

Not when you look like that.

Not when you don't care if she looks or not.

⸻

Tara Carpenter is not the type to overdress.

But the maroon dress isn't overdressed — it's calculated. Soft velvet, subtle square neckline, sleeves that hug her wrists. Her hair's up, gold clip catching under the theater lights every time she leans in to whisper something to Anika. The kind of outfit that says: I came to support my friends. I came to look hot doing it.

And maybe — maybe — she came to see if you'd say something.

You're two rows back, stretched out with your teammates like you own the row. Laughing too loud. Throwing popcorn at each other. Every time the light from the screen flickers just right, she swears you're looking at her.

The festival's going well. Mindy's lineup is tight. The shorts are weird, sharp, short enough to keep the crowd from shifting in their seats. Everyone's relaxed. Comfortable. Tara even laughs once — really laughs — when a claymation character swan-dives into a bowl of tomato soup.

She leans in toward Anika, "I need to pee. Save my seat."

Anika nods without looking.

Tara stands, smooths her skirt, and slips into the glowing aisle light.

The hallway outside is jarringly bright. Stark white. Cold tile floors. The overhead lights buzz faintly — the kind of artificial hum that makes you feel like you're waiting for something to go wrong.

Tara rolls her shoulders back, stretching out the tension from sitting. She glances toward the restroom, already halfway there, when she hears them.

Two girls.

Standing by the water fountain, dressed in layered thrift-store cardigans and vintage skirts that scream effortless film major. One of them is fiddling with a camcorder keychain. The other's reapplying clear gloss, talking with the ease of someone who always assumes she's being listened to.

"I saw Riley last night at the club off Main Street and now I see Y/N tonight? Such a small world, to be honest. But, I still can't believe Y/N just walks around like nothing happened."

"Right? Like, full smile, no guilt, just... laughing with her little team."

"It's so insane. Everyone knows she's the reason Riley doesn't even go here anymore."

Tara slows mid-step.

Her brow furrows.

“She didn't break her knee, obviously, but she made sure that spot stayed closed, you know? Riley tried to come back."

"Yeah, and Coach just 'couldn't make room' Please."

"Exactly. And now she's all over Mindy and Tara like she's some reformed jock lesbian with a Letterboxd account."

“She’s totally trying to date Tara.” The girl with the lipgloss snickers, “I heard she asked Carpenter to tutor her.. classic athlete stereotype.”

Laughter.

The mean kind. Shiny and sharp and fast.

"Honestly, I give her a month. Tops. She'll ghost both of them, she’ll stop acting dumb in school and date a junior in a varsity jacket who thinks Carol is a foreign film."

"Tara's so smart. Like, how does she even fall for that?"

"Because she thinks she's different around her. They always think that."

Tara goes still. Fully still.

Not angry.

Not shocked.

Just — hit.

Like someone tossed cold water at her chest, and now she's trying not to react. The voices around the corner don't lower. They're not trying to be quiet. They're trying to be right.

She stares ahead at the wall, blank. Posters curl at the edges. Someone's missing cat flyer flutters in the AC vent breeze and for the first time tonight — maybe the first time since you showed up in her world with that lopsided smile and quiet confidence — Tara thinks:

Who are you? Like… actually?

Because yeah, you bring her grilled cheese when she's too hungover to move. You show up to study sessions half-asleep but still remember the exact timestamp of the scene she couldn't stop analyzing. You lean into her space like it belongs to you, throw her looks across the quad that make her forget how to breathe. You flirt like it's your first language, but every now and then — every rare now and then — it softens into something that feels like maybe you mean it.

And maybe she started to believe it.

But you also have this whole other version of yourself tucked away like it doesn't exist — a version she's only just starting to glimpse through whispers and side-eyes and conversations she wasn't supposed to hear. A version that makes her realize how much you've chosen to keep from her.

Not lies.

Just... silence.

That's almost worse.

Because now she's re-running everything. The study sessions. The walks home. The near-moments that could've been something more if either of you were better at being honest.

And she realizes:

She doesn't really know you.

She knows about you. The things you let people see, the cool detachment. The jokes that always come before sincerity, the way you brush off compliments like they're nothing but flinch when someone says your name with real weight. She knows you're good at math, that your coach rides you harder than anyone else on the team, that your teammates trust you but don't really get you.

She knows your dad's a sore spot. She knows there's something buried there — something bitter and sharp — but you've never said a word. She's guessed at it, sure. She's pieced things together from the way your face hardens when family gets mentioned, from the times you go quiet after a win, like celebration doesn't feel safe.

She knows. But not because you told her.

Because she watched.

Because she paid attention.

Because she wanted to understand you without you ever asking her to.

And maybe... maybe that was the problem.

Because Tara does the same thing.

She hides behind precision. Behind snark and sarcasm and perfect eyeliner. She controls her space — her image — like it's armor. And the worst part? She thought maybe you understood that. She thought maybe that's why this thing between you felt different. That you saw each other's closed doors and knocked gently instead of barging through.

But tonight — hearing people talk about you like they know you — Tara realizes something gutting: She doesn't know if you'd ever open the door at all.

And it's not that she thinks you're cruel. Or calculated. Or cold.

It's that maybe you're just like her.

Too used to surviving to let anyone all the way in.

And that terrifies her. Because if she was letting herself hope — if she thought this meant something — then what does that say about her, falling for someone who never promised anything real?

She thought the flirting had weight. She thought the silence between jokes mattered.

She thought maybe you were waiting, like she was.

But maybe you were just good at pretending.

And she was just easy to believe it.

She walks back into the auditorium quietly. Shoulders straight. Dress clinging just enough to feel present.

She takes her seat next to Anika.

Doesn't look back.

Doesn't lean sideways.

Doesn't laugh when your teammates burst out giggling during the next short's credits.

She crosses her arms. Picks at her thumbnail. Tries to focus on the screen.

But your laugh carries.

And suddenly, it sounds a little different.

————

second author’s note: this was written at 4am no proofread so bare w me

#aesthetic #fiction #fanfic #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #wlw #itsnotyouithink #scream #scream 5 #scream 6 #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #wlw post #ncaa wbb #wbb

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