#been thinking about this literally for A MONTH NOW

[shuastar]

Gurl Hawaiian night was delicious, literally,it was soon good,toe curling good,if ur free,maybe another two or three fic with gyucheol

23:36 hawaiian nights pt. 2

pairing: mingyu x f!reader x seungcheol genre/warnings: voyeurism (cheol); possessive!mingyu (esp. after part 1); p in v; MDNI; solo handjob (cheol); dacryphillia (if u squint); dom/sub dynamics; you being lowk overstimulated a/n: hopefully this scratched your itch because it definitely scratched mine.. mingyu is acc crazy. also holy shit my ex asked me if the person in my phone case was my boyfriend because i PRINTED OUT MINGYU ON A POLAROID ㅠㅠㅠ and stuffed it in my phone case like two weeks ago;;; and then i coincidentlaly met my ex today and he was like "oh u moved on fast." it's been seven months and i can move on from anyone quickly if its not kim mingyu sybau

The hotel room still smells like sex.

Your thighs are sticky with Mingyu’s cum, your body sunk deep into the cool sheets, chest rising and falling in slow aftershocks. He’s draped over you, half-asleep but not soft, cock still twitching inside you when there’s a knock at the door.

He groans. “Ignore it.”

But the knock comes again—sharper this time. Familiar.

And then, through the wood: “You said ten minutes, Gyu. That was thirty.”

Seungcheol.

You tense. Mingyu doesn’t.

He stays right where he is—thick and heavy inside you—only lifting his head with a smirk. “Guess I lost track of time.”

You start to shift, to say something, but his hips roll once. Deep. Slow. You bite back a gasp.

“I didn’t say I was done,” he murmurs against your cheek.

The knock becomes a shove. The door opens. “Are you—”

Seungcheol freezes just a step inside.

Mingyu doesn’t look away from you. Not even when his fingers slip down between your legs and spread you open just enough for Cheol to see.

“She’s a mess, hyung,” he says, voice low, smug. “All because of me.”

Your face burns. Cheol’s eyes flicker—wide, jaw tight, chest rising.

“She agreed to let me watch last time,” he says roughly. “That still stand?”

You’re breathless, caught between both their gazes, your thighs twitching from oversensitivity. But before you can answer, Mingyu pulls out just slightly—then slides back in, slow and claiming. Your back arches, a moan slipping from your throat.

“No,” Mingyu says, to Cheol this time. His voice is darker now. Sharper. “Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“She’s still full of me.”

You whimper.

Mingyu leans down until his lips are by your ear, and Cheol can watch the way you clench when he says, “You’re mine tonight, yeah? Just mine. Don’t even look at him.”

You turn your head—cheeks flushed, pulse racing—and Cheol is still watching, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight.

You almost open your mouth.

But Mingyu’s fingers catch your chin and drag your gaze back to him. “Eyes on me, baby.”

He starts to move then. A little faster. A little rougher. Just enough to make your legs shake.

From the doorway, Seungcheol swears under his breath.

“Next time,” Mingyu grits out, rutting deeper, “you can fucking beg for her.”

Seungcheol scoffs, stepping in fully, padding over to bring a chair around to the bed. "Didn't need to beg for her the first time," he mumbles.

You don’t see Cheol’s reaction—you can barely breathe, much less look away. Mingyu’s fucking you harder now, hips slamming into yours with a bruising rhythm, jaw clenched like he’s punishing you for even thinking about someone else.

You moan, high and wrecked, your head tipping back.

And just like that, it blurs.

You don’t even remember how it started again.

One second, you were limp beneath him, gasping, brain all foggy and warm as Mingyu came inside you with that low, broken groan—and the next?

You were on your back again.

Legs shoved up, wrists pinned above your head in one of his big hands, the other gripping your thigh so hard his fingerprints will bloom there by morning.

He was already sliding back in—deep, thick, and relentless—his voice pressed to your throat:

“You said you could take it,” he murmured, and there was something wild in his eyes now. “So take it.”

Now, you're taking everything.

His cock spears into you again and again, his grip iron around your wrists, holding you open like he owns you—like he needs to remind both you and Seungcheol exactly who you belong to.

You cry out, overstimulated and dizzy, and somewhere in the background, Cheol groans—deep and wrecked—his hand wrapped around his cock as he watches you fall apart beneath Mingyu’s weight.

And Mingyu?

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch.

He fucks you harder, until tears slip down your cheeks and your legs tremble, and even then—he slows just enough to wipe them gently with his thumb.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. You’re mine.”

Then he slams back in. Bruising. Possessive. Absolute.

Your voice is hoarse from crying out. Your skin is flushed and sticky. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes—not from pain, not really, but from the unbearable stretch of Mingyu’s cock slamming into you, the heat of his body crashing against yours again and again.

He’s panting above you, hair damp and wild, sweat dripping from his jaw. His grip on your waist is brutal, fingers digging in so hard you already know you’ll wear him tomorrow.

He fucks you like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. And maybe it is.

But what breaks you—is the low, ragged breath that comes from across the room.

You can’t even look, but you know it’s Seungcheol. Sitting in the chair just a few feet away, shirt undone, one hand wrapped around his cock, jerking himself slowly as he watches Mingyu take you apart.

Your voice cracks. “Cheol—”

“No,” Mingyu growls, fucking into you harder. “Don’t fuckin' look at him.”

His hand lifts, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek—so gentle it makes you ache—and he leans in close, forehead pressed to yours.

“Eyes on me, baby. You’re doing so good.”

But his hips never slow. He pounds into you mercilessly, every thrust making the bed creak, the sound of skin slapping skin mixing with your breathy whimpers and the slick wet squelch where he keeps driving into you.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, possessive. “He can watch. That’s all.”

Behind him, Seungcheol groans—deep, wrecked—as he watches your body bounce with every thrust, watches your lips tremble and your thighs shake, your fingers clawing weakly at Mingyu’s forearms.

“You see that?” Mingyu bites out, voice cracking as your pussy flutters around him. “She’s crying and still taking it. So fucking tight, so pretty—fuck—”

Your mouth falls open, and Mingyu kisses you through it—sloppy and tender, tongue curling with yours even as his hips snap harder, rougher, each thrust carving the shape of him into your body.

“You feel that, baby?” he groans, fucking you through your sobs. “Feel me bruising you? Gonna see it tomorrow—gonna see the way I left you ruined.”

From the chair, Seungcheol jerks faster now, breathing labored.

And then Mingyu's voice drops to a whisper—raw, reverent, still moving inside you like he’s desperate, like he’s never letting you go.

“Don’t cry for him,” he murmurs, brushing another tear away, kissing your nose so softly it confuses your cockdrunk brain. “Cry for me.”

[love-quinn]

— PHONE LINES

summary — when the city’s under fire, your coworkers' first priority is breaking the story. you, however, have more pressing issues. like finding your boyfriend, clark.

warnings — i haven't consumed a single other piece of superman media in the last 10 years so this is entirely based off the 2025 movie, i made lois a girlkisser because look at her (w supergirl because i shipped it at 7) , SPOILERS for the plot of 'superman (2025)'

pairing — clark kent x daily planet!reader

pronouns — she/hers

featuring — clark kent, lois lane, jimmy olsen, cat grant, perry white

word count — 2746

note — if this is innacurate to the Greater Superman Lore i do apologise i'm very much like,, dc adjacent i've been getting into more of the superhero genre over the past year and had the vague idea that i'd tackle marvel first but i went to the cinema to watch this and literally haven't stopped thinking about him since, again this will have spoilers for the movie read at your own risk. also the dialogue probably isn't right because i'm writing this from memory for a movie i saw two days ago.

There were times when you wondered why the hell you still lived in Metropolis. Why didn't you pack up your one bedroom apartment and high tail it out of there. The two recent attacks on the city lately, combined with the fact that Superman was allegedly on Earth to lord over everybody. You’d always thought Superman was kind of cool, and with everything that had happened lately, you were still hoping with a small part of yourself that he was who he said he was. 

California probably had enough news to keep you busy, probably had warmer weather too. You didn’t even do serious journalism, you worked the entertainment column. If anything, California would be better for your career. 

Sure, there were more earthquakes on average there, but you were pretty sure that none of the tectonic plates ever split to create an interdimensional void. At least, that’s what you thought was happening, based on the fact that the ground was coming apart and the chasm was glowing a bright purple. 

You’d been at work when it hit, sitting at your desk and staring blankly at the empty copy on your screen, your list of events for the week scrawled neatly on the front page of your notepad, knowing all you had to do was zhuzh it up a little. You were only procrastinating it because it felt like the only thing of substance you got to do that day, knowing that the second it was over you were going to have to launch directly into the important news that a hollywood actor and his wife had announced their divorce a few hours prior. Maybe if you got that done fast enough you could talk to Penny and ask if she wanted help thinking of crossword clues. 

Now, almost everyone had evacuated except you and a few of your coworkers. Lois was explaining the scandal to Perry, who sat in his chair smoking his cigar, something about Lex Luthor trying to buy a country. You couldn’t hear it over the yelling from the street and your phone pressed to your ear. 

Hey, you’ve reached Clark Kent of the Daily Planet, leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

You didn’t bother leaving a message, there was no way he didn’t know about this. You hadn’t seen him in almost two days, he’d answered your texts sporadically, apologising for taking off so suddenly. Stomach flu, he’d warned you when you’d offered to go to his apartment. Highly contagious. 

“And you have a spaceship?” Terry asked. You weren’t sure what conversation they’d been having, but maybe the stress was getting to your head. 

You dialled the number again. Hey, you’ve reached Cla-

“Shit,” you hissed. You and Clark had only been dating for a few months, it wasn’t even anything serious. You hadn’t even told anyone, that was how casual it was. He’d take you out on dates after work, make you dinner, sing your praises when you told him you didn’t feel like a real journalist. He was the sweetest guy you’d ever been with, and if things didn’t work out you weren’t sure what you would do. 

Because that’s what kept you tied to the Planet, you knew. Your lovely coworker sitting just two desks down from you, turned to your adoring friend who would smile at you over yesterday’s paper and tell you he knew you’d helped with the crossword. And now, Clark. Not quite your boyfriend, not quite not your boyfriend. 

You suspected Lois knew because there wasn’t a lot that woman didn’t know, and Cat seemed to have a sixth sense for that sort of thing. Jimmy you weren’t able to read as well, you guys weren’t as close, but he was always kind to you when the two of you found yourselves at the coffee pot together.

You hadn’t told anyone, but if Clark had you wouldn’t be angry. A glow bloomed in your chest at the idea that the two of you were important enough to be worth speaking of. 

“Hey,” Jimmy’s hand was on your shoulder. You glared down at your texts to Clark, unanswered, unread. “You coming? We’re going.”

“We’re just gonna-” you watched Jimmy heft Lois’s clue board – equipped with red string and a concerning amount of selfies from a pretty blonde – “We can’t just leave!”

“‘Course we can,” Jimmy said, struggling under the weight of the board and the baby-talk he was trying to cajole you with. “Come on, let’s go. We’re in a rush.”

You looked around desperately. You didn’t know where Clark lived, what side of town, if he’d been in the rip’s path yet or not. Your apartment was East, it’d hold for a little while longer. If Clark was looking for you, he’d come here. 

Still no sign of him. He’d left his suit jacket hung over the back of his chair the last time he’d come in. The Planet was mostly business casual, but you liked him in a suit, so you weren’t going to complain. 

Even Steve had grabbed his stuff to follow the group. You were the only one still standing there. “But what about Clark?”

Lois stopped in her tracks, for just a moment, turning around to face you. “I know where he is. Come on.”

She’d known what to say to you, alright. Lois had been the first person Clark had told about his budding relationship with you, or more accurately she’d asked him about it once and he’d caved without any pressure. 

She was also the only person in the world aside from his parents who knew his identity, and Lois knew if he’d told you, there was no way you’d still be standing there. 

You grabbed your stuff as quickly as you could, albeit clumsily, following the group. You weren’t sure what you were expecting as Lois hurried you along onto the building’s roof, Lois and Jimmy spewing all the information they had on Lex Luthor being behind the vicious decline in popularity that had befallen Superman lately, but a literal spaceship being parked there wasn’t it.

“I don’t understand-” you said, moving out of the way for Jimmy to load the board onto the ship. “Lois, where’s Clark?”

She looked at you from the other side of the doorway. “Last I heard, Kansas. At his parents’ place.”

Clark had gone to Kansas? He’d only been sick a few days. He hadn’t said anything, his last text to you simply reading: The second I’m better, you can expect a night in to make up for this. 

You’d sent back: can’t wait. He’d liked the message. 

“Why didn’t…” you couldn’t ask that, not when you were standing at the door of a literal spaceship. You clambered on, reaching behind you to pull Cat up with you. The two of you claimed the last available seats, with Lois at the helm. 

Perhaps you should have been listening earlier. Lois got Jimmy to transcribe with his pen between his teeth, talking about Lex Luthor’s big master plan to profit from the war, but you were still staring down at your phone. 

Hey, this is Cl-

Why hadn’t Clark told you he was going to Kansas? It had been two days since you’d last seen him, sure, but that message had been sent last night. Lois, in between trying to figure out the controls and verbalising her article for Jimmy to type, was looking back at you in your seat as much as she could. 

She couldn’t ease your worries, not now, not in front of everyone at work. You just stared down at your phone like it would suddenly will Clark to appear. Though, now you were in the sky, you weren’t sure that’s what you wanted anymore. 

You’d really liked him, maybe even enough to ask him to be your boyfriend. You weren’t very good at making the first move, and, to his fairness, neither had he. But he’d bitten that bullet for you, asking you out and spending countless nights making you feel special. 

Jimmy’s leg stretched over to kick you. He was sitting too far away for it to be unintentional, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the laptop for longer than a second, and with his pen in his mouth it was hard to ask what he wanted to. 

You nodded, and when you realised he didn’t catch it, spoke gently. “Yeah, Jim.” 

Jimmy handed his laptop off to Perry, who read the article. Within minutes, your phone was lit up with an alert. 

The Daily Planet — BREAKING: Billionaire Lex Luthor Colludes with Boravian Government to Invade Jarhanpur - by Lois Lane. 

Okay, that made sense, you supposed. Lois had mentioned something about Mr Terrific on the way up, so she’d clearly been speaking to the Justice Gang (crew? you could never remember their name), but you still weren’t aware of why Lois had one of their spaceships. 

There was a lot of stuff that you probably should have been paying attention to but you couldn’t take your focus off of Clark. The only thing you could think about were all the worst possible things. What if his stomach flu had knocked him out so he didn’t even know what was happening?

Why had he gone to Kansas if he wasn’t feeling well, and why hadn’t he told you? He’d told you about his parents, how he’d been adopted as a kid, how he grew up on a farm in Smallville. You weren’t sure if he’d mentioned you to his mom and dad, but that didn’t bother you. 

You would’ve appreciated a text, though.

The hurt was second only to the worry. This was common in Metropolis, world-ending cataclysms were what drove your career, if you were ever able to get it off the ground. There was the time that the library got hit with a huge ice monster while Clark was there and he’d dropped his phone somewhere in the stacks, hiding there while Superman dealt with the monster. That had been four days after your first date with Clark, and you’d kissed him right there in the break room, with no regard for who could have seen. 

You just wanted to make sure he was okay, gripping your phone in both hands until your knuckles turned white. 

“He’s okay,” Lois was keeping the ship steady. She turned to you for a moment before looking back out the front window. “I know you’re worried.”

“Why did he,” you had to pause to wet your lips, so dry they were cracking. “Why did he go to Kansas?” Your cheeks felt wet. You didn’t want to cry in front of your coworkers. 

Lois seemed to be very conscious of what she was saying in front of the rest of them. Steve was shakily trying to down a probiotic, Jimmy was texting frantically, pen still in his mouth, Cat seemed unbothered, Perry had a cigar in his mouth. “His glasses,” she said finally, tone even. “He had an issue with them - the glasses - and had to go see his parents.”

You’d never seen Clark without his glasses, not even the one time he’d slept over. You’d fallen asleep on him while watching a movie, and then the next morning he’d woke you with a soothing hand on your back, already dressed for work in yesterday’s clothing. 

But you had. It had been late one night, Clark had turned away from you to wipe them on his shirt and when he turned back, they were only mostly on. His face looked different from the split second, still familiar, still loving and comforting, but not quite like your Clark.

But perfectly like the man who had been plastered on the front page of the newspaper as recently as that morning. 

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Lois knew you weren’t talking about Kansas. 

“He wanted to,” she said. “He wanted you to be the first person he told. I… figured it out,” she glanced behind at you. “He…” she swallowed, looking back. “He… they closed the rift.”

You, despite your better judgement, unbuckled. Lois was already standing, gripping onto you tightly. Jimmy was at your other side, and he pressed a triumphant kiss to your hairline. Cat screamed in your ear but you didn’t even care.

As Lois landed the ship, the six of you poured out, all desperately looking for your loved ones. Jimmy was practically tackled by a gorgeous woman who ran at him so hard he had to lift her off the ground to avoid falling over. Lois was wrapped in a hug by a pretty blonde girl wearing a fur coat and red boots, looking more at peace than you’d ever seen her during the year you’d been coworkers. 

You stood there, beside the spaceship, clutching your phone and watching the sky. They’d fixed the rift, surely if Clark was dead it would’ve been major news. You’d already gotten eight more google alerts about Luthor since the Planet had broken the story. Surely a casualty like that would make for front page news.

“It’s Superman!”

And there he was, high in the sky above the now destroyed Luthorcorp building. He didn’t stop, though, heading straight west until he eventually went out of sight. Lois clapped you on the shoulder, still wrapped up by the blonde girl who looked slightly hungover and also apparently freezing by the way she clutched her coat close. “It’s obvious once you see it.” She muttered. 

You nodded, still gazing at the spot you’d last seen him.

“What is?”

His voice was different, now that you noticed. Clark’s voice went deeper when he was in costume, or perhaps out of costume, whichever he considered true really. But you didn’t turn for Superman, you turned for Clark. 

He caught you when you reached him, a strong hand on your back and the other on your hip. “Hi, honey.” Neither of you cared that your coworkers were right there. 

“I love you,” were the first words out of your mouth, terrified that you wouldn’t get a chance to say them. Not after the day you’d had.

Clark clutched you tighter. “I love you,” he said warmly, voice breaking like pancake batter spilling over a pan. Like a cup overflowing. “I love you.” Not too, not as well. Independent from yours.

He kissed you, after two full days without you, it made him feel better than the glow of the yellow sun, beginning to set but still high in the sky. “I wanted to tell you,” he urged against your mouth. “Every time I looked at you it felt harder. I love you, I didn’t want this to have to be something you deal with. Didn’t want you to know too much.”

You pulled away, chest heaving, one hand clenched around that tie he was wearing. Home and back in five minutes and he’d taken the time to put his tie back on. “I could know everything in the world about you and I’d still want more,” you said gently. 

“You’re not angry?”

You almost looked offended. “That my boyfriend stopped a geopolitical conflict? Or that my boyfriend has a second house I haven’t seen?”

Clark said your name, low on his lips and heavy in his throat. “I am sorry,” he was sincere, not apologising for either of the things you’d just brought up. The sidewalk was put together, but there was still a crack down the middle. 

“I believe I was promised a night in,” you said. “You can make it up to me then. Because I don’t care about this stuff, I never have, you know that. It’s not me. I care about you, about Clark Kent, who once tried to make me a birthday cake and ended up almost burning his apartment down. Who would hold my hand on the way to work like we had some huge secret, that lugged my couch up four flights of stairs because it didn’t fit in the elevator. That once told me he hopes people think of him as highly as they think of me.”

Your face was warm under the pad of his thumb. “I’m your boyfriend now?” He felt you get warmer. 

“I said that for dramatics,” you said, “You want it, you gotta earn it.” Clark laughed, the warmest sound you had ever heard. You continued. “Just like you earned all those interviews with Superman.”

[jarlskona-evilyoyo]

I was thinking of a post I saw a few days ago where it was like ‘Zoey never moved out of the US so Rumi and Mira end going to find her’ and I absolutely find the idea hilarious

Zoey has given up her music dreams and is now going to college (because her dad will pay for her apartment if she does) and is working some cafe job for cash and suddenly these two super hot weird chicks start coming to her job literally all the time.

Rumi and Mira grew up super rich so they have no sense of money, they don’t really know how tipping works and they have the natural desire to take care of Zoey (even if Zoey doesn’t know they’re like. Kinda soulmates.) so they keep giving Zoey massive tips all the time.

Mira and Rumi hang out at her job forever just to hear Zoey sing so they can fucking confirm it’s her (they’re like. 99% just from seeing her but they have to be 100% or else Celine is leaving them there forever)

Rumi, having told Mira she’s a half demon because without Zoey Mira wouldn’t leave her the fuck alone: do you think she’ll hate me for being half demon?

Mira, sipping an absolutely horrible drink that Zoey made: no. For one— a ancient magical entity literally said we were soulmates. For two— that girl is a monster fucker for sure.

Zoey is kinda into the whole sugar baby vibe she has going on but then Rumi and Mira start like. Asking about her music and stuff which, because she’s pretty much the main character in a Christmas movie who doesn’t believe in the magic of the season any more, makes her mad.

This whole idea was really because I thought of this exchange and giggled about it for an hour—

Rumi, trying to keep it low key that they’re all soulmates and destined to fight demons together: So, Um, do you want to be our third ?

Zoey: YES!! I’ve been waiting for you to ask forever ! It’s been months!

Rumi, surprised: I was expecting you to resist joining our band, all things considering?

Zoey:…. Oh. You want me to be the third member of your band :/

Mira, shoving Rumi out of the way: That kind too!! That kind of third too!!!

[revelboo]

I have endometriosis i wish the doctors would just euthanize me like it's time for old yeller to be put down im in literally the worst pain I've ever felt in my entire life and it happens once a month like RELEASE ME 💔 I wish I could hit my 3 weed smoking girlfriends blaster, jazz and soundwave with the period cramp beam

Oh, no, they wouldn’t know how to cope! I ended up with adenomyosis (and a few other issues) instead of endometriosis, but I can imagine that’s awful.

Sharing

Jazz, Blaster, Soundwave x Reader

• Sprawled on your belly on the heat pad of unknown origins that you’re not thinking about, because you refuse to feel guilty about one of your mates destroying a store to get it. Or using their holomatter avatar to shop lift. And you look up as Jazz nudges an iced coffee drink that’s mostly foam and sugar your way. Yeah, they’re definitely using their avatars to steal stuff for you. It’s the thought that counts, right? You’re tempted to ask how he conned the barista into thinking he paid, but you just pull the drink closer instead. Loving them for trying to make you comfortable and worrying over you.

• Venting as you sip at your drink, Jazz watches Blaster offer you another pillow. You’re at least not curled on your side around a pillow in a little ball of misery, yet. But you’re clearly uncomfortable as you lay your cheek on your arm, eyes nearly closed. Hates not being able to help more. “Need anything?” He asks and you offer him a small smile, shaking your head. Pretending like you’re fine. “It’s okay to ask for things you need.”

• “I know,” you tell Jazz, your voice soft. Even though they all know, you won’t ask, you’ll just suffer in silence. Pulling up a human movie on the console, Soundwave turns your way and reaches out to sink his servos into your hair before stretching out on his back and dragging you and your heat pad up onto his chassis. Watches Jazz ease down, sitting leaned against his side, an arm draped across you, servos rubbing your back. And his head turns to track Blaster as the other mech eases down on his other side.

• Resting his cheek against your hip, servos curling reaching to intertwine with your fingers, Blaster relaxes. Because this is what he needs, these quiet comfortable moments with you and the other two. Knows it’s weird to the other Autobots to be in a relationship with a Decepticon, but accepting you and Soundwave into his relationship with Jazz was the best decision he’d ever made. Hadn’t been that sure at first, had worried you two would ruin what he had with Jazz. But now he can’t imagine not having you two here. You belong with them.

• Relaxed on top of Soundwave as Jazz hands you a pillow, you only halfway pay attention to the movie playing. Listening to the rumbling, white noise of your mates’s internal systems and feeling Soundwave’s spark thrumming under you. This isn’t at all what you’d imagined when you’d thought about your future, a family. You wouldn’t trade it for anything, though. It’s comfortable and you never feel overwhelmed even with three mates. Sure, there are hiccups and misunderstandings that come from you being as alien to them as they are to you, but you’re happy here with them. Stretching as Jazz rubs your back, your eyes close. Listening to Blaster asking Soundwave about something called a Conjunx gift he’d been working on.

[morganblues]

𝓘T'S ALWAYS SUNNY IN METROPOLIS.

LIFE AND THE EDITORS OF THE DAILY PLANET PRESENT. . .

01. ‘ TEMPTATION SENSATION. ’ ★★★

series masterlist ! next chapter !

chapter summary⠀★⠀It was monday morning and your whole routine at the Daily Planet as a reporter got wrapped up by a chatty red squirrel, a chihuahua, and thousands of cameras everywhere. Could Clark Kent just shut up for a second?. warnings⠀★⠀for the moment, nothing, Jimmy Olsen comic accurate, Lois and Cat being the ultimate friends, slight mention of Clex lol, Clark Kent being Clark Kent as always, Lex Luthor slander? As it should be, english isn't my first language!!! when you see these symbols [ ] appearing and disappearing, it means they start talking to the camera. word count⠀★⠀6K notes⠀★⠀ I'M SORRY I'M LATE SO MUCH IK but honestly I'm a slow writer and it's hard for me to write quickly :( Anyway, did you see Superman? I can only think about that movie istg I'm also super excited about my first series here and I really hope everyone likes it.

𝓜ETROPOLIS — 9:15 AM.

You were running late.

You barely had time to close your doors before you started running down the street trying to catch the subway and not miss it for the fifth time this month. You’re not thinking about the bitter coffee you'll have when you get there, and you don’t care about what's going on in the world today because you honestly couldn't care less.

When you got Cat's message just before getting on the subway, you read it a couple of times without understanding why her unusual drama was happening. Come on, it was Monday morning, the weather was a bit chillier than usual, your cat Arthur had been crying on your shoulders all night because he hated the new medieval castle-shaped bed you had bought with all your effort as a cat mom, and for nothing because he detested it from the moment he saw it, and honestly, Mondays were your least favorite day of the week, followed by Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday.

[Cat]: GOOD MORNINGGGGGGG come to the office NOW!!!! idgaf if you take the subway, come hereeeee you'll get here faster by bike, buy a helicopter, run, or disappear and reappear in the elevator. Just get here NOW.

You held your breath for a second.

"Am I about to be fired?" You wondered to yourself, or at least you thought you did, because just then several people in the train car turned to look at you. You tried not to pay them any attention, just staring at your phone as if you hadn’t said anything at all. And suddenly you felt like you were overreacting; sure, you weren’t the one covering the best section in the entire paper, but you knew your boss appreciated you — or at least that’s what you wanted to think. Besides, everyone was nice to you, and you always pitched in when it came to celebrating holidays, not to mention hanging out with Lois and Cat almost every weekend. You tried calling her but then she just sent a message saying she couldn't answer, and that didn't help at all.

You were a good coworker, or at least that's what I wanted to keep believing.

It doesn't take long when you push the door open hard that leads to all the workstations, and the first thing you see is chaos. Literally chaos. People you didn't know were crossing the aisles carrying cameras, lights, and their dignity dragging behind them.

Lana was talking to someone from the sound team in what could only be described as heartbreaking for both of them. Lois was pacing back and forth talking to the boss, Jimmy was just chasing after the big camera as it moved from one coworker to another, and in the background, Steve was just furiously typing on his phone, probably planning out all the angles he’ll cover about tomorrow’s basketball game.

And there she was, Cat leaning against your totally messy desk with pictures of your cat, one from your last birthday at the most boring bar in Metropolis, and the last one with your mom and sister on a trip to Central City.

"You're late."

"Who died?" you ask in light of the morning disaster before your eyes. Perry switched desks, and now you see him coming in and out of his bathroom, "What does this mean?"

Cat clicks her tongue like she’s waiting for your answer. And honestly, you can’t blame her, she knows you like the back of her hand. "Perry called us in for a last-minute meeting to fill us in on this whole disaster."

"And it's all about...?"

She looks at you again as if you've grown another head or are dumber than usual. "The big documentary they told us about a while back during the talk, remember? I've been talking about this for months."

If you're honest with yourself, you don't remember anything, but you're more forgetful than you'd like to be, and just when Lois gets close to you, she hears what you're saying and you know she has all the answers. "Honestly, I wish I could forget this too. Jimmy is the only one who's excited."

"But it's in the contract! It's always been known."

You mutter under your breath about the obvious. Of course, it was all in that stupid contract that you didn't even care about beyond the paycheck. "I never read that damn contract! Fuck, I needed the money and they needed a reporter, that was it."

"Perry just said we should act like none of this is happening, so just act normal."

"Like I always do?" A doubtful question, even though you already know the answer and it’s most likely they’re right.

The cat puts on its bright smile that you know is fake, and you know it because you feel like they've been friends since birth. "You can create a new persona... Just like Clark, check him out." You all turn to him, "He's acting like he's some cool guy instead of a nerd from Kansas."

"That's so true," Lois states and takes a sip of a bitter coffee, and you know she hates it, everyone hates Daily Planet coffee. You were going to rant until a bald man, even though he doesn't look more than 30, yells at you from the lunch room.

"YOU!"

"Me?" The black girl asks, pointing to herself.

"No, her!"

"Me, me?" you asked, incredulous, pointing at yourself.

"Yeah, you, you! White wants you to be in the main interview group! She said you're charismatic and 'tragically functional on camera.'"

That's such a lie.

No way, not today. You know you’re not ready for what that circus act could turn into, and even though your friends aren’t ready either, their confidence is a step ahead of you. Like Lois, who stays a bit neutral about the situation while still being annoyed, or like Jimmy, who follows everyone around and wishes he could split into pieces to be in multiple places at once.

"It's in the contract!" Perry shouts at you from a few meters away, with his tobacco between his lips like it's his religion. It probably is.

You want to raise your hands in a sign of peace, but your mind knows that all the thoughts against the situation have you on the edge of "Damn contract".

You gave up. A few minutes later, you had someone putting a microphone on the fabric of your suit, Jimmy telling you "Try not to sweat, your shirt is a bit see-through" — and you really tried not to take it too seriously — and Cat shouting from her office, saying you look better than usual and to be ready for any camera that's close to you.

You should just act natural. You remember it and repeat it in your mind until you decide to dodge the call you got and go straight to sit in front of your work area.

Your boss decides to speak for everyone: "'QUESTIONS IN 10 MINUTES! AND NO ONE SAY 'THIS IS NOT MY JOB' Because unfortunately for everyone, it is... And they don’t pay me enough to handle your complaints, so... Let’s get to work!"

Once again, the hallway turns into a parade of chaos disguised as professionalism, and you're just trying to remember if you put on deodorant this morning and if anyone, hopefully Clark, brought donuts.

In the end, you find out that almost all of them were eaten by Lana, and Steve ate the last chocolate glazed one.

Now you wish you hadn't gotten up from the discomfort of having Arthur as your pillow, and you know it would have been better if you had called in sick for all the trouble that being a journalist at the Daily Planet brings you.

It's your fault, you know it. You should have never gone into journalism, you should have never picked up a typewriter as a kid and imagined made-up stories and commented on all the silly news in your school.

It's your fault for hating it, well not entirely, but that annoying chatter coming from the stupid red-haired squirrel a few feet away is a pain you can feel in your right ear that not even an alien invasion could take away. You know he's doing his job and now you realized that the contract said that at any moment, due to the high demand for news every day, your boss was going to find a way to pile even more work on you, and today was that day.

That damn documentary was eating away at you, and it was the first time ever that you found it impossible to solve a fact of that magnitude. You were tied up from all sides, and Perry White was laughing from his desk like some evil wizard looking for more exploitation. You were about to quit when Lois reminded you what your contract included, and no lawyer was going to get involved in nonsense just because you didn’t read the contract—or genuinely didn't care, but that was the fate you were stuck with. Now hundreds of cameras are roaming around the Daily Planet while your other colleagues are trying to act as natural as possible whenever any cold light shines in their eyes.

You see Clark sitting there talking to Lois about who knows what, but they've both been complaining about all the stupid stuff that comes with making a documentary, and you know, nobody cares about what a group of writers with no social life beyond a pet do from Monday to Friday as they just focus on what's happening in the city and the world day after day.

It was exhausting just to listen to it.

If you thought about it, it made some sense, but come on, no one at work should know that sometimes you don’t totally dislike your job.

But according to the one and only Perry White, this was the big future that the city was tied to, and it would make more future generations interested in the harsh truth of a story, in what it can generate, and thus learn that a good reporter doesn’t just get great stories. A good reporter makes them great.

And even if you don't know every stiff soul of your coworkers completely, you know you're not the only miserable one there. You see your gossip buddy Cat, who is the voice in your head telling you that even though she’s not excited, it’s the best for the paper, and you try not to let Olsen's whistling, calling you to look at the camera and act like a decent person, bother you.

"Day 01 of the documentary 'Metropolis: Veritas et Justitia'. Goal: to capture the essence of modern journalism. Today, we're here with another one of our reporters..."

"Could you do me the favor of removing that damn camera from my face?" you turn to the redhead who has not only taken it upon himself to harass all your colleagues but also to ask every stupid thing he could think of before he was called to take pictures of any early news.

You can feel how the camera zooms out from you to the point where you can see Jimmy's teasing smile behind the device, until he turns off the camera for a few seconds.

"This is just our first day shooting! Can't you make at least a little effort? You know... everyone else has wanted to chip in."

"I honestly don't understand all this preparation," you growl at the amount of lights surrounding Lana, as you watch her speak enthusiastically in front of a camera, "plus I remind you that you work for the newspaper, not whatever this is.

"Yeah..." Jimmy's smile shows up as he sits at the table behind him, adjusting his shirt between his khaki pants. "Perry said I could volunteer with one of the cameras to save some costs."

[ ]

"And did you volunteer on your own?" the cameraman asks alongside his crew, the question makes him feel smothered for a second, and it feels like the warehouse is smaller than it really is. He knew he was an idiot for agreeing, but that’s how things were. He couldn't back out now that he was so deep into the role.

Jimmy pressed his lips together in front of the camera that was filming him while he tried to come up with the most coherent thing he could say without looking like an idiot in front of everyone who would watch the documentary. "Honestly, Perry forced me and offered me a check for 8% to keep it a secret, but I can't tell her that; she'd tell everyone, and I can't face another embarrassment."

The camera guy behind him shakes his head in annoyance, and Olsen feels the room getting a little smaller. "There's nothing worse than lying as a journalist."

Jimmy apologizes before getting up with embarrassment, and leaves the mic dropped on the floor.

[ ]

"And you were the one who offered?" You smile ironically, "Woah Jimmy, you're quite the gentleman."

"Of course! Who else would do it?"

"Uh, I don’t know…" you deny in false understanding and lean in to pat him on the right shoulder twice, as if you’re feeling sorry for him. "Probably someone who likes getting paid poorly."

His huff is interrupted by Perry’s long walk towards you holding a poster with the day’s latest news. You lower your face toward your computer, and just when you want to pretend you’re typing, the sound of several pages falling onto your keyboard breaks the silence. You’re not scared because that’s how most days went, but today felt exceptionally heavy, and you wondered if you were finally going to cover something that actually interested you.

A yellow sticky note firmly covers Arthur's face, and you grin showing your teeth with a force that makes your jaw hurt. How dare he!?

12:00 PM — INTERVIEW WITH HELEN BRYCE: 'DOES HER CHIHUAHUA DOG SEE A PSYCHOLOGIST?'

"What is this?" You play dumb and point to the piece of paper placed on the amazing photo of your son. Perry squints, knowing what you're doing, and takes the tobacco out of his mouth.

"You need to go to her mansion in New Troy before that time, keep it professional like always, and please just ask her the important stuff. No talk about Belle Reve or her psycho boyfriend because I guarantee she'll start crying in an instant."

You get up from your seat, challenging him as the terrible smell of tobacco pierces through you. You hate it, and at this very moment, you hate your boss a little bit more. "Come on, Perry, I studied investigative journalism for stories like this," you point to the TV showing Flash saving thousands of civilians in Central City. "Not to ask some ex-socialite if her dog has daddy issues because of Lex Luthor’s abandonment."

"These are the news that people want to read."

"Yeah, but those aren't the ones I want to share."

"We've already talked about this," he resigns himself to your attitude while you're trying to stay calm. Obviously, you weren't going to blow up right then and there, especially with cameras around. Your mom still watches cable TV after all. You need to keep a more than presentable attitude, or at least that’s what you were going to try.

Jimmy comes closer again and focuses on your face. "Here’s one of our gossip journalists reporting a new case about one of the most famous dogs in the city. What will it bring us this time? Is it trendy now to take dogs to psychologists? We’ll find out..."

[ ]

"Rule #01 of Post-Modern Journalism: If you cover gossip about famous pets more than twice... Your dignity applies to euthanasia because they don't care about their pets, they care about them entering their branded bag" You stare at the camera with a certain attitude "Besides, if I'm completely honest, cats are even better and no one can prove to me otherwise"

[ ]

Clark walks up to them from a distance with the biggest grin you've ever seen, and Jimmy manages to make fun of him from afar while recording it, and you wonder if that'll ever air. You hope not. "He's all silly because we got our first front page together."

"Our?"

"I took the photos" Olsen smiles as if he just spotted a glazed donut that you miss, and for a moment you think about forgiving him for all the time he’s tried to film you.

You arrive and bump your fist against his shoulder, knowing he hates it, that's why you do it. "Congrats, Kent, which premise did you cover?"

The imprisonment of Luthor, if it's even possible, makes his smile even bigger, and Olsen gives him little jabs in the ribs. "Look," he hands over his newspaper, and you check today's date, along with the big headline in headlines and his name as the author in small print, with Jimmy credited as the photographer.

"Is it good?" he asks, adjusting his glasses.

"Uhhhhh I don’t know... Do you think it’s good?" You cross your arms, challenging him to reveal the truth.

He ignores your question and laughs, "I guess Perry wants all those words from the cutest puppy in town. YESTERDAY, and I think" he turns to Jimmy as if he’s about to make a joke, "that I already delivered mine."

[ ]

"Of course I read Clark's article long before he got around to showing it to me. Is it good? Yeah. Will I admit it? Never, my ego the size of Gotham City wouldn't survive if it found out."

[ ]

You frown and want to tell him that his article needs some tweaks, but he doesn't even give you time to share your thoughts before, out of nerves, he snatches it from your hand because his red-haired buddy just started filming it so he can share his experience. You laugh when he gives a shout-out to his parents right off the bat.

You take your coat in one arm and your dignity in the other, you remove the yellow sticky note covering your son and head towards the worst part of the city. You hear as breaking news that Steve never ate the last chocolate donut. Clark approaches you with that beautiful pink box shimmering with silver glitter, and without saying anything, he opens the cardboard box in front of you. In your mind, you want to make it more dramatic than it already is, and you thank any goddess that might be listening for this blessing that you have yet to name. You open it and there it is, the famous last glazed donut, yes, that one — the one you had cursed for not reaching.

You don't want me to know how much you want to hug him, so acting naive is your only weapon for now. "Is this your way of saying sorry for existing?"

He doesn't even bother to make another comment that takes up more of your time. "This is the last one, I thought you liked it more than Steve or Lana, or the city in general."

"And you don't?"

He shrugs as if he doesn't care, "I already had my moment of glory today, remember? Front page. I don't need a donut to feel validated."

You let out a big huff that you don't even care if any camera is recording or not. Their laughter warns you that their joke is nothing more than that, and there's no one but you who knows it, but honestly, today is just not your day and your brain doesn’t care to come up with another ironic joke to hurt Clark's feelings even though you desperately want to.

You decide to ignore them as you grab the only thing that can fill you with happiness right now: "I hate you."

They open their eyes as if what you just said is true, and at this moment, you don't care. They get closer to say goodbye to you, but you’re faster. You grab your coat, take off the yellow tag covering your kid, and head towards the worst part of the city.

[ ]

You look at the camera intently.

"Clearly, I don't hate him and he doesn't hate me. And yes, I ate the donut. What did they want me to do, leave it there? Share it? This is the Daily Planet, not a hippie commune, and if I die in that mansion, let it be clear that Clark Kent was... somewhat decent today. Not a hero, but almost."

[ ]

After taking a cab with the money Perry gave you, you arrived in torture territory, or as you like to call it 'the mansion of the recently dumped Helen Bryce and Lex Luthor.'

It's huge, Perry told you that Luthorcorp bought up big plots of land to build homes for all their corporate buddies, but since his imprisonment, they only finished one house, and that was his. Now it's been lived in by the woman he was supposed to marry, but the pictures of Lex as a cheater have multiplied ever since rumors came out about him dating Eve Teschmacher.

Her assistant evaluates you for a moment, and you observe yourself. You're wearing your coat now, and your sunglasses had hidden themselves deep in your purse, probably assessing whether you’re the real reporter or not, but she’s judging you more than you’d like. You're about to ask her why she’s staring so much until Helen Bryce’s brown hair along with her unmistakable Chihuahua appear in front of you, holding a smile that looks more creepy than friendly. Even though you know she’s just upset, or at least that’s what you want to think.

She seats you in one of those beach chairs that overlooks the pool and the tennis court, and hands you chamomile tea that one of her other assistants brought. You lean closer to Helen and start pulling out your recorder because you don’t feel like writing about any nonsense you plan to cover.

You think about formalizing your role as the established reporter you are and introduce yourself as you always do by saying your name, your position at the daily, and the reason for your visit, but Helen interrupts any thoughts you have before you can even remember them the moment you hear her speak.

"My baby Peanut" takes a little paw from the chihuahua and pets it. "She has nightmares about him, you know? Luthor would always threaten her if she broke stuff around the house."

You nod like it's tea time with a celebrity, and try not to smile for a second because it's almost the same as saying, "I get it, dog feelings are... pretty complex, right?"

"You have no idea!"

"Of course, and how has it been since the departure of...? Well, you know who I'm talking about." You're afraid that the awkward laugh you let out will be noticed, and you'll find yourself wrapped up in a pointless problem before 2:00 PM.

"Well, I'm fine, but my baby? My baby feels everything. Do you see how she's shaking?" She points again, trying to prove her point, and the worst part is she's right; you see the Chihuahua frowning just at the mention of the name Lex. "It's the real post-Luthor trauma! Ever since that... thing tried to turn her little doghouse into an anti-Superman bunker!

"You pause for a second. "A what, you say?"

Helen's face turns cold, and her features that were once tinged with sadness are now firm, realizing she said something she shouldn't have. She bites her lips and lets her pet run off to anywhere in the house.

"I’d prefer if you forget what I said..."

You shake your head, "Sorry, I can't. My values as a reporter won’t let me," you adjust in your chair as if that gives you more validation, "And you should also know, it's illegal."

[ ]

The cameraman looks at you with a face you translate as unfriendly, but you ignore it. "It’s not illegal, but she probably doesn’t know that."

"Is everyone in this Daily a liar? Real journalism doesn’t exist anymore," you try to keep a calm face when you see him shaking his head as if he’s disappointed, and you wonder who the other person who lied could be.

[ ]

"Lex did a lot of illegal things, it doesn't make sense to add another thing to the list."

"And where does that leave him?" You watch her, waiting for a huff or for her to kick you out for making her question things, but she says nothing, stiff like she doesn't know what to do.

Perry was crazy if he thought you were just going to stick with the interview about why a dog was sad. Now, if you could have some real news, one that was worth every word and every paragraph, but also one that could beat Clark's big scoop, and all coming from the same person.

Now you're holding your recorder like a weapon and definitely jotting down what you consider the most important: "All of our team at the Daily Planet needs you to not only show loyalty to your role as a person but also to yourself," you say, placing the big notebook resting on your knees. "Don’t do it just to look good in front of the world, do it for her," you point to the Chihuahua that’s biting a ball from a distance. "You know she would vote for you to do the right thing."

"No," she says firmly.

"Please."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"Please?" you ask, leaving your recorder on the chair and moving closer. "I'll make Lex Luthor the biggest idiot of an ex in the whole city if that's really what you want..."

Helen manages to smile and, overwhelmed with emotion, squeezes her puppy in her arms, sure that she will now need psychological help. "Really? Would you do that for me?"

You nod, getting excited about any juicy news she might tell you. Yeah, take that, White. You feel that victory on your lips, savoring it along with a trip to the Bahamas with Arthur having an assistant, and Clark fuming over your victory known throughout the Daily.

"You have to promise me you won't say my name in this," she gets closer to you, surprising you by grabbing your shoulders and looking you straight in the face. Her breath hits you, and for a second, you think about dropping everything and doing that damn report on the dog with daddy issues.

"I promise."

"No, I need you to swear it," she grips you tighter and shakes you. Your recorder lying on the ground shines brighter than ever, and you realize you're committed now. You can't back out.

"I swear!"

"Swear it on what you love most in life!"

"I swear on my cat!"

Her smile grows as she hears you. "You know, today I’m really feeling a deep kindness in my heart and I..." she starts, talking about the beginnings of their relationship and you know this will take more time than you feared. Her eyes cloud over and she lowers her voice, checking to see if her assistants are nearby. "He used to talk in his sleep about some projects. He said things like... Building global watchtowers, and he always talked about Superman, to be honest! I was so fed up with it! I think he's just in love.

"I think the right word would be obsessed," you assert, jotting down what she says.

"For me, he was in love but like I said, that’s just my opinion."

"Go ahead" you stop her before she starts rambling about things that don’t concern you and add nothing to your new story, she looks at you for a few seconds with a frown, as if she doesn’t understand you. "The bunker"

"Bunker?... Oh right! Peanut was sleeping in her cozy little heated house and was happily living her life, until he showed up with his blueprints," your surprised eyes watch her seriously. "He wanted to install a so-called urban camouflage that emitted rays which could weaken Superman."

You tried not to look surprised, but you were, and you were scared if Helen was just as crazy as her ex. Even though you had never seen Superman being anything but powerful, you had no doubts that if someone found his weakness, it was Lex Luthor. "I get it... And how did you react to that makeover?"

"Well, I couldn't say anything, after all it's her house, but Peanut didn't like it at all," she smiles proudly, "She pee on Lex's Italian shoe. And then with her help I stole something from him to follow through with his plans that genuinely make 0 sense to me."

"What was so important that you had to steal from her?" Your eyebrow raises, expecting something more interesting than just a simple innocent theft.

Helen pulls a flash drive from her left pocket. "This! We snatched it without him noticing when the Belle Reve officials came to get him." You take it in your hands and are surprised by its shape; its USB port is almost invisible on the base, and you notice it's not compatible with just any computer. "Lex called it his bone backup; he hid it in Peanut's little house because he thought no one would check there. Isn't that silly?" The Chihuahua reappears from behind some branches, barking non-stop at a butterfly, then comes over to you a few seconds later, panting like it just ran a marathon of about 10 kilometers.

"I didn't have much time to check it out, but there are all kinds of things related not just to Superman, and he always mentioned the construction of those power towers not just in the city, but all over the country."

You don’t know what to tell her. You definitely didn't have much info about Superman besides knowing him as the hero of the city everyone loves, but you have no clue where Luthor’s intense obsession with him comes from, and even less about how he plans to destroy him — if he even can.

"And what do you think Lex was planning to do with all this information?" You point to the flash drive, now yours. Sticking like gum in hair. And now you actually feel it, that sense of achievement growing in your chest with all this scoop in your hands. You don’t even know if Helen is telling you the truth, but her sad resentment towards Luthor was more than obvious, so you doubted it. All you know is that this whole situation is journalism, pure journalism, the kind you want to find in every newspaper, and for which that fucking Perry White would give you the front page.

"I guess so."

The recorder next to you picks up all the info you’ve been digging into and more, and you smile to yourself before thinking things through completely. You have a slight suspicion that your boss would fire you if they knew that not only did you not interview the damn dog, but also because you’re not following their rules and getting involved in situations that are driving you crazy.

"Mrs. Bryce, this is incredible, but pretty dangerous. If Luthor finds out you have this..."

She interrupts you before you can even think about what you were going to say next, "We have lawyers and the justice system isn't as corrupt as you make it seem."

Sure.

Your watch shows a different time, and you know it's your moment to leave before you find out something else that exceeds your expectations as a reporter. You say goodbye to another rude assistant at the door, and just as you turn around, you hear it. "Poor girl , she will urgently need a lawyer."

[ ]

Clark puts on his glasses and adjusts his tie, establishing a neatness he's been managing for longer than he can remember. "Hey ma and pa," he laughs as if they're watching him right now, "Hope you guys are doing well, everything’s great over here..."

"Cut to the chase, dude," the cameraman interrupts his speech before it can go on longer than anyone wants. "We don't have all day."

He gets embarrassed and nods as if he’s being scolded. "Well, the donut, like always, was a peace offering or a survival tactic, I'm not sure." He pauses for a second while turning to look off-camera and then looks back at the lens. "Look, she says she hates me, like a lot, and I tell her that every day too, but she always accepts the food I offer her, it's something, right?" There’s a moment of silence and he leans slightly forward, as if sharing a big secret. "Once I said that bagels were better, and she wouldn’t talk to me for like three days. Isn’t that stupid? But she’s really sweet, even when she’s about to murder me with her eyes, or throw her coffee cup at me... sometimes both at the same time."

[ ]

You're leaning against the cold wall of the elevator while you wait for the doors to open on your floor, praying to any God you believe in that there isn't a damn camera with a microphone aimed at the elevator door like working is the greatest thing in life.

You were wrong.

You hear the whistle as the doors open and quickly hit the button to close them again, but the camera has already caught you; you were about to look like the biggest idiot at the Daily.

You walk quickly over to the lunch table to get yourself a cup of coffee, and your smile couldn't get any bigger. Today was one of the happiest days of your life, and it’s all because you landed the scoop of your life that would shape your entire career—or at least boost the respect you get as a reporter. What’s worse? Perry wanted an article, and since the psychology of famous pets is the future, now you have the story that will overshadow Kent's scoop in a heartbeat.

You lose track of the sugar for a moment and notice Clark by the gleam of metal behind you. You squint your eyes and turn around, determined to hear any nonsense he might say. "Uh, Perry sent me to... help you with the dog interview," he extends the sugar container towards you, "Everything okay? You look excited."

"Kent, I don't believe a word you say."

"Well... Maybe he didn't say that, but I just want to know how it went. Nothing else," he chuckles, "You're very, very excited."

"Me? I don't think so, I just found out that Luthor's ex's dog hates its ex-owner more than you hate staff meetings."

"Is that it!?"

"Oh and it also has daddy issues!"

Clark smiles but his eyes don’t; they're fixed on the bulge in your pocket and you don’t pay attention. How would he know what you're hiding until you figure out what it really contains? An awkward silence settles under his persistent gaze while everyone else talks until the day ends, and you make up a whole story about Peanut and the anxiety of missing and hating his dad at the same time.

You got home before midnight after an endless day at the Planet, and you felt more than exhausted. You had no energy for much more than crashing on your green sofa next to Arthur, a bag of onion-flavored chips, and the crime documentary about Gotham that you had been meaning to catch up on for weeks. You felt good, way more than good; your day had gone from the stress of being interviewed by some idiot Jimmy and a competitive Clark to the craziness of chatting with a Chihuahua lover, and everything would be alright if you could just find a reader for that specific USB.

It was now Tuesday morning and almost everything had gone amazing on Monday, but that all changed when, that same night, the entire building you had lived in for 6 years was on fire. And now, while you were eating a hot dog from the corner near Lois's place, you knew a curse had fallen upon you because you had no home and all you had on was your pajamas.

taglist: @beforeroachfalls @neska223

[steveseddie]

you pick me up every time

written for the @steddiebingo splash into summer mini event and the round one main card | prompts: the hideout & road | rated: t | wc: 3,1 k | cw: alcohol | tags: steve pov, drunk eddie, pining, the corroded coffin guys being Done

read on ao3

When Steve’s phone rings in the middle of the night, he wakes up with a start. 

He’s out of the bed and running down the stairs in seconds, his brain going through countless nightmarish scenarios as he wonders who could be calling him so late, and more importantly, why.

Steve reaches the phone on the last ring, panting into the receiver, slightly out of breath. “Hello?”

He expects anyone from Robin to Dustin or one of the kids on the other side. Maybe Nancy or Eddie. He even entertains the thought of his parents being the ones calling, maybe to inform him that they’re staying away for another week–

“Harrington?”

He expects literally anyone except for the person he hears on the other end of the line. 

Eyebrows knitted together, Steve stares at the phone like it’s somehow playing a prank on him. “Gareth?”

It is, in fact, Gareth who sighs in relief and says, “Oh, thank fuck you’re awake.” 

So he was actually calling Steve, he didn’t accidentally dial his number– but why would Gareth want to reach him in the middle of the night? 

It’s true that in the last couple of months, Steve has spent plenty of time with Eddie’s friends– a direct consequence of him and Eddie growing close. He’s been to their shows at The Hideout and hung out with them during band rehearsals or Hellfire meetings. By now, they don’t act surprised when Steve shows up and they’ll even strike up a conversation with him, having finally accepted that Steve actually likes Eddie and isn’t trying to prank him. However, that acceptance hardly translates to being the kind of friends who call each other in the middle of the night or at any hour for that matter, not unless–

Unless something happened to Eddie. 

Steve’s stomach churns at the thought. “Why? What happened? Is everything okay? Is Eddie–” 

“Dude, calm down,” Gareth interrupts with a snort. “Eddie’s fine. Thought you jocks were supposed to be chill and laid back, man.”

“Fuck off, Emerson,” Steve snarks, pinching the bridge of his nose as he wills his heart to stop hammering, repeating Gareth’s words in his head– Eddie’s fine, Eddie’s fine, Eddie’s fine.

“Geez, remind me to never interrupt your beauty sleep again,” he says with a laugh, the sound almost muffled by the noise in the background. There’s actually a lot of noise coming from the other end of the line and Steve wonders where Gareth is calling him from. 

And why. 

“So if this isn’t about Eddie, then why are you calling me?” 

“I didn’t say this wasn’t about Eddie,” Gareth retorts, confusing Steve further.

“I thought you said he was fine–” 

“And he is, but he’s also a pain in the ass.”

Steve can’t help but snort. “You’re his best friend, you should know that by now. What makes you think I can do something about that?”

It’s Gareth’s turn to snort. “Please, man, you could bat your eyelashes and get Eddie to do whatever. Under normal circumstances, at least.”

Stomach fluttering at Gareth’s words, Steve feels himself blush. “Uh, what do you mean– ‘normal circumstances’?”

“Well, your boy is currently drunk off his ass,” he explains. More color creeps up on his cheeks when Gareth calls Eddie his boy. He’s infinitely grateful that they’re having this conversation on the phone. “And he’s asking for you.”

“Me?”

“Mhm, he says he’s not leaving until Steve– sorry, Stevie comes to pick him up.”

The nickname sounds weird coming from Gareth, who only ever refers to him as Harrington and it makes Steve scrunch up his nose. 

The noise in the background suddenly grows louder before it becomes slightly muffled again. Someone probably opened the door of whatever place Gareth is holed up in. “Where are you guys?”

“The Hideout. Had to talk Lenny into letting me use the phone in the back, now I owe him.” In the background, Steve hears a gagging sound, and then Gareth adds, “I’d like to not owe him a new couch if Eddie throws up on this one, so can you come get him?”

Steve checks the clock hanging from the wall. It’s twenty minutes past midnight. “Are you serious, man?”  

“Well, I didn’t call you just to chat, Harrington.”

Ignoring the remark, he says, “Can’t you just drag him out of there?” 

Eddie’s friends are all nerds not jocks, but Eddie is also built like a twig. If they set their minds to it, they probably can move him to one of their cars.

“And take him where? He might suffocate if we drop him off at the trailer.”

“Then take him back to yours.”

“Yeah, no. My parents are home. Can’t do that, man. ‘Sides, I told you. He refuses to go with us. Hear for yourself.”

He must hold the phone away from his ear because suddenly, Steve can hear Jeff trying to talk someone into getting in the car.

“No!” Another voice says. Eddie’s voice, a stubborn tilt to it that Steve has heard before, as well as a faint slur to his words.

“Eddie, come on,” Jeff insists with a sigh.

“No, Jeffrey, I’m not leaving without Stevie,” Eddie says, his voice becoming softer when he says Steve’s name.

“Eddie, Steve isn’t here,” Dougie says, probably not for the first time. “He didn’t come tonight.”

“Why?” Eddie asks, and even through the phone, Steve can hear his pout.

Eddie knows that Steve wanted to go to their show tonight. He’a not one to miss seeing him on stage. He told him as much before explaining that he had already promised to have dinner with Robin and her parents.

But that doesn’t stop Eddie from sounding miserable about Steve not being there. 

“I don’t know, dude,” Jeff says, fumbling for an answer. “But hey, he can come to the next one.”

Eddie sighs loudly. “I miss him.”

“You literally saw him yesterday at rehearsal, man,” Dougie says in a bored tone. 

“Well, I want to see him now!” Eddie snaps. “And I’m not leaving until he gets here!”

“He’s not coming–” Jeff starts, but he’s interrupted by Eddie yelling so loud Steve flinches away from the phone.

“I want Steeeeeve!”

He can’t hear what Jeff or Dougie say to him because Gareth presses the phone back against his ear. “See? He’s close to chaining himself to the door, man. Do us all a favor and come get him.”

Steve sighs, brushing his hair back. It does sound like Eddie isn’t changing his mind any time soon, and even if the guys manage to get him in a car, he doesn’t like the idea of a drunk Eddie being alone in his trailer. 

He’s also a weak man for Eddie, and hearing how much he misses him makes it impossible for him to say no.

“Okay, fine. Fine. I’m on my way.”

“Sweet! Thanks, Harrington,” Gareth says, then without hanging up the phone, he says, “Hear that, Eddie? Your Stevie is on his way!”

There’s the sound of clumsy footsteps followed by some swearing as the phone is wrestled out of Gareth’s hand, and then Eddie’s voice– “Stevie?” 

“Hey, Eds,” he says, his own voice softening. 

“Are you really coming or is Gare fucking with me?”

Steve chuckles as he pictures Eddie glaring at Gareth. “He’s not, I’m coming to get you. He says you’re being a pain in his ass.”

“The only ass I want to be a pain in is yours, big boy,” he retorts, pitching his voice lower seductively before letting out a snigger. 

Steve thinks he hears Gareth snort in the background, but he can’t be sure because of the blood rushing through his ears at Eddie’s words. 

“Um, I’ll– I’ll see you soon, okay?” he says when he fails to come up with a reply. “Drink some water in the meantime, please?”

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” Eddie purrs and sends Steve’s stomach flip flopping. There’s a sudden loud noise as Eddie unceremoniously drops the phone, yelling at Jeff to get him some water. 

Steve is about to hang up so he can head out when Gareth picks the phone back up. “Guess even in these circumstances you can get him to do anything,” he teases, and Steve doesn’t know him that well, but he thinks he can hear the smirk on his lips. 

Steve sputters uselessly. “Just– keep him alive until I get there, Emerson.”

“Sure thing, Your Highness,” he says mockingly, hanging up without another word. 

***

Steve goes upstairs to change. He doesn’t plan on staying at The Hideout longer than it’ll take to drag Eddie out of there, but there’s no way he’s showing up in his sleeping clothes. 

After trading his shorts for jeans, Steve’s hands hesitate on the hem of his shirt– a Metallica shirt that Eddie let him borrow one night and that Steve never gave back, enjoying how comfortable it was, and how it smelled like Eddie. He doesn’t know if Eddie noticed it went missing and didn’t say anything about it or if he thinks it’s somewhere in his closet or in the numerous piles of clothes scattered around his room. 

Steve considers if he should change out of it just to keep the secret a little longer, in case Eddie will ask for it back. He figures that he’s going to be too drunk to remember what Steve is wearing, and it’ll probably make him stand out less amongst the Friday crowd at The Hideout. 

So he grabs his jacket and fixes his hair and slips outside, towards his car. 

 ***

The drive to The Hideout goes by quickly and Steve barely runs into any cars. He parks as close to the dingy bar as he can, not knowing how easy it will be to get Eddie on his feet. Inside, he heads towards the back. He’s never been to Lenny’s office but he guesses it must be the one door that he can see through the thinning crowd. 

After he knocks, the door swings open almost immediately, revealing Dougie, who has never looked happier to see Steve. “Fucking finally!” 

Behind him, Steve can see Eddie sprawled on a ratty old couch, snoring softly. Jeff and Gareth are sitting on the floor, playing cards and occasionally shooting glances at Eddie to make sure he’s still breathing. 

They both look up when Dougie speaks, sighing in relief when they see him. 

Steve wiggles his fingers. “Hey, guys.”

“Took you long enough,” Gareth says, grabbing the cards and pushing himself to his feet. 

“You called me like, twenty minutes ago,” Steve points out in a bitchy tone. He thinks he’s allowed to be bitchy– Gareth woke him up in the middle of the night after all. 

“Yeah, well. I’ve been dealing with a drunk, mopey Eddie all night and I’m done. You’re up, Harrington.”

He clasps Steve’s shoulder on his way out, following Dougie. Jeff walks up to Steve, handing him what appears to be Eddie’s leather jacket. “Gare is driving the van to his house, so just let Eddie know he can come pick it up after he recovers from the bitch of a hangover that awaits him.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell him,” Steve says, grabbing the jacket, his eyes on Eddie. “Thanks for looking after him.”

Jeff gives a half shrug. “Thanks for taking him off our hands.”

“I thought he didn’t drink after shows–” Steve says, watching the way Eddie’s hair flutters every time he breathes. 

He thinks about the first time he saw Eddie perform, and how he declined Steve’s offer to buy him a beer after the show, claiming that the high from the show was all he needed to have a good night. 

Jeff opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. “He doesn’t– at least not since you started coming to our shows.”

And with that, he clasps Steve’s shoulder the same way Gareth did and leaves the room before Steve can ask what he means. 

Steve decides he will overthink what Jeff said, as well as Gareth saying Eddie was mopey and the fact that the only person Eddie seemed to be asking for was Steve, later. For now, he crouches down next to Eddie and smoothes his hair down. It’s a mess, probably from all the headbanging Eddie did on stage and his fingers get caught a few times. 

“Eds, hey.”

Eddie groans and his face scrunches up. For a moment, Steve worries he’s about to throw up, but instead he slowly blinks his eyes open. 

When Steve finally comes into focus, Eddie begins to smile. “Stevie?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“You’re here?”

“Told you I’d come get you.”

Eddie’s eyebrows knit together. “Thought I dreamed that.”

“No, man,” Steve says, pinching Eddie’s side gently. “I’m really here.”

The pinch isn’t enough to convince Eddie he’s there because he reaches out and pokes Steve’s cheek. His eyes widen. “Oh, hi.”

“Hey.”

“I missed you,” he says and Steve’s stomach flutters. He’s glad that Eddie’s friends aren’t here to see Eddie softly tracing Steve’s face with his fingertips with a lazy smile on his face. It would get them teased for weeks.

“Christ, Eds,” Steve chuckles, heat building up on his cheeks at the touch. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Don’t remember,” Eddie mumbles, his expression pinched. “Wasn’t the same– without you here. Thought drinking would make me feel good. As good as you make me feel–”

So Eddie was drinking because he was missing him, Steve was the reason why Eddie was both drunk and mopey. He bites his lip, wondering if it means what he wants it to mean. 

“But I– I don’t feel so good now,” Eddie continues and Steve shelves that for later. 

“Okay, let’s get you home,” he says, standing up and offering his hands to Eddie. When he takes them– missing the first couple of times thanks to his hand-eye coordination being even more off than usual– Steve pulls him to his feet. Unsurprisingly, Eddie sways a little and Steve grabs onto his elbows to keep him upright. “You okay to walk?”

Eddie’s eyes sparkle as they focus on Steve. “Gonna carry me to your car if I say no, big boy?” He asks with an eyebrow waggle. 

Steve gives a little shrug. “I already did that once, didn’t I?” Back when he carried Eddie out of the Upside Down.

Eddie shakes his head, sways a little more. “Doesn’t count. I barely remember.”

“You’ll barely remember this,” Steve snorts. “Come on.” 

He circles Eddie’s waist with his arm and loops Eddie’s around his shoulder. A giggle slips past his lips and Steve is hit by the smell of alcohol.

“Christ, Eddie, you smell like a distillery.”

Another giggle. “And you smell–” Eddie pauses and sniffs Steve. “Huh, you smell like me.”

Steve tenses up as Eddie’s eyes travel down to his chest, recognizing what he’s wearing. “Is that my shirt?”

Steve flushes deeply. “Y–yeah.”

“Hm. I wondered where that went.”

“I can give it back–” Steve starts but Eddie shakes his head firmly.

“It looks better on you anyway, sweetheart,” he says with a wink that looks more like he got something caught in his eye. 

It still makes Steve’s breath catch. “Alright, boozy,” he says, “let’s go.”

Eddie sniggers. “Boozy.”

***

Slowly and clumsily, they make their way to the car. Eddie almost faceplants a couple of times but Steve manages to keep him upright.

He fits Eddie into the passenger seat of the car, fumbling a little with his seatbelt with Eddie’s soft brown eyes peering up at him so closely. 

When it finally clicks into place, Eddie gives him a lazy grin. “Thanks, pretty boy,” he says and Steve has to take a few deep breaths before circling the car and sliding into his seat. 

He drives them away from the bar, occasionally sending glances towards Eddie to check if he’s feeling sick but it actually looks like he’s sleeping.

Which is why Steve is surprised when he asks, “We’re not going to the trailer?”

“No, you’re coming home with me,” Steve says, his eyes darting between Eddie and the road. 

“Damn, Harrington, at least buy me dinner first!” He jokes with a playful grin. 

Steve lets out a snort. “Just trying to make sure you don’t die in your sleep, Munson.”

“Aw, you care about me!” He exclaims giddily. 

Smiling affectionately, Steve says, “Dude, I literally love you.”

There’s a beat of silence in which Steve wishes desperately that Eddie somehow didn’t hear what he just said. 

“You– what?”

No such luck, Steve laments. “Nothing.”

“No, not nothing! You said you love me!” He insists. Steve’s admission seems to have sobered him up– he’s staring at Steve with wide and alert eyes.

Steve grits his teeth together and looks back at the road, gripping the steering wheel tight. 

“Stevie, pull over.”

He ignores him and keeps driving. 

“Pull over, Steve,” Eddie says, “ or I’m going to be sick all over your fancy car!”

Cursing, Steve pulls over on the side of the road. “Well?” He says when Eddie doesn’t move. He glances at him– he looks fine. 

“I lied,” he says with a shrug. “I just wanted you to stop the car.”

Steve drops his head against the steering wheel. “Eddie.”

“Stevie.”

With a sigh, he peers at him. “What?”

“Do you really love me?”

Steve can’t bring himself to lie but he’s still nervous to confirm it. “Yeah.”

Eddie squeaks– then starts fumbling with his seatbelt unsuccessfully. 

“What are you doing?”

“I love you too!” Eddie says urgently. “And as soon as I slay this seatbelt beast I will kiss you–”

Steve’s heart flutters at the thought but reaches for Eddie’s hand and stops him. “Woah, Eddie, stop.”

“What? You don’t want to kiss me?” Eddie asks with a pout.

“I do, but you’re drunk and you just told me you were gonna throw up!”

There’s also a part of him that worries Eddie might not remember about any of this. And if he doesn’t, Steve doesn’t think he can come back from it after having kissed.

Eddie hmphs, slumping against the seat, looking put out. 

“But tomorrow morning we can–” Steve starts. 

“Kiss?” Eddie interjects eagerly. 

“Talk,” Steve sputters. “But yeah, if you remember this, we can kiss.”

His stomach flutters wildly at the thought and how Eddie glances st his lips in anticipation. “I’ll remember,” he says, the corners of his mouth ticking up. “And then, I’ll kiss the hell out of you, Steve Harrington.”

Steve gulps, catching the way his cheeks turn red in the rearview mirror as he steers the Beemer back onto the road, driving them home. 

***

The next day, Steve is making breakfast when he hears footsteps on the stairs. He turns around and immediately gets an armful of Eddie. 

“I remember,” he says, looping his arms around Steve’s neck. “And I brushed my teeth,” he adds, shooting Steve a beaming smile. “And I love you, so can I kiss you now?”

Steve laughs, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist, and tells him– “Yes.”

[silent-stories]

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

Pairing: underground fighter! noah x reader

Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.

Tw: nightmares

Series mastelist

Noah stayed with you for the next two and a half weeks.

At first, things moved slowly. He still limped, still needed to sit often, still winced when he shifted the wrong way or stood up too fast. But he was healing, and you saw he was starting to feel better now.

You changed the bandage less and less, and you noticed that the wound wasn't as deep as you had initially thought, when you were trying not to panic and make sure he didn't die of a blood infection on your couch. And slowly, he started to walk without holding onto things.

He started eating more. And God, he ate like he hadn’t had a proper meal in months, which, you remembered, might actually be the case. Every day you made something simple: pasta, grilled cheese, rice and chicken, frozen dumplings, vegetables, baked potatoes. And every time, Noah would clean the plate.

“This is so good,” he’d say.

You blinked. “It’s literally just eggs and toast.”

“Yeah, but it’s warm. And it’s yours.”

You stopped arguing with him after a while. Let him compliment your ramen and frozen vegetables like they were gourmet.

Sometimes he offered to help. Tried to chop onions with one hand while holding onto the counter for balance. Tried to stir things. You let him. He liked being useful, even if it ended with you both covered in flour or laughing over something you burnt by accident.

You had work during the day, and the first morning you were about to leave, he looked at you like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. You gave him the Wi-Fi password, showed him how to work the coffee maker, and told him, genuinely, that he could use anything in the apartment. Anything at all. You meant it.

He didn’t use much. But you noticed, after a couple of days, that your books had been moved, your old DVD player plugged in again, a few dishes in the sink that you hadn’t used. He was finding ways to exist in the space, without taking up too much of it.

The first few days, you told him, gently, that he could take a shower if he wanted. He paused, still leaning against the wall, hands braced on the doorframe.

“Can I use the hot water?”

You blinked. It took a second to understand the question.

“Of course,” you said, quickly. “God, yes. Use as much as you want.”

He nodded. Didn’t say anything more. But later, you noticed he stayed in there longer than you’d expected, and the bathroom smelled faintly of your shampoo and steam.

You remembered that was his first hot shower in years. You didn’t comment. Just left a fresh towel for him on the counter the next morning, folded neatly. It was gone by the time you got home.

Over the past few days, Kole had sent you several messages, apologies, texts at three in the morning saying he missed you and he’d even called a couple of times. You hadn’t answered. You didn't care.

Alpine had her little corner now, an old box with a blanket, a couple of toys you picked up from the store, a small dish for food and another for water. But she never used it.

She was always on the couch. Or, more often, on Noah.

It didn’t matter where he sat, or how he shifted. She found her way onto his lap or chest, curled up against his side.

You loved how sweet he always was with Alpine. There was something so disarming about seeing someone like Noah, tall and covered in tattoos, lower his voice and smile softly just because a cat rubbed up against his leg.

He always spoke to her in this sweet, soft voice that made you love him even more. “Hey, sweet girl,” he’d murmur as she stretched up to nuzzle his hand, and you’d just sit there watching, heart melting, wondering how anyone could still think he wasn’t made for softness.

Or how he could have ever thought that himself.

He didn’t talk about Tyler again, and you didn’t push.

But something had changed after that night. Like letting the story out had made space for something else to come in. Maybe a bit of peace.

One night, you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder.

You were both on the couch, a movie playing quietly in the background. You were sitting close, not quite touching, until he shifted and you leaned in just slightly, your arm brushing against his. Neither of you moved away.

The next thing you knew, your head had drifted down, resting against the curve of his shoulder. You didn’t even realize it until you woke up later, hazy and warm, to find the screen dark and the apartment silent. Noah was still there. He hadn’t moved.

His arm was curled protectively around the back of the couch, and you could feel the quiet rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. His head was tilted slightly toward yours, his eyes closed, but you could tell he wasn’t asleep. He was just still. Careful. As if even breathing too loudly might wake you.

You lifted your head slowly, blinking the sleep from your eyes. “Sorry,” you murmured, “Didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You can go back to sleep if you want.”

You didn’t. But you also didn’t move very far. You spent the next hour chatting on the couch until you noticed he was getting sleepy too, and you went to your bedroom saying goodnight.

And some mornings, when you woke up, the apartment already smelled like coffee.

You’d stumble into the kitchen still rubbing your eyes, to fing him there: sitting at the little table, his legs stretched out under the chair, a mug in one hand, Alpine curled up on his lap.

“Morning,” he’d say with a little smile, brushing away the locks of hair that were starting to grow and fall over his eyes, and which you hoped he wouldn’t say he wanted to cut anytime soon, and he’d offer you a mug already poured.

It took you a few days to realize he always waited until you were awake to start drinking his.

Other times, you found him cleaning: your kitchen counters, the windowsills, the inside of the microwave, never because you asked him to. Just because.

He didn’t say it, but you could tell he was trying to be useful. To not feel like a random homeless man you were keeping in your house for free. You never once made him feel that way. But you let him help. Let him take care of the small things. Let him figure out what peace could look like.

One late evening, when you noticed how much better he was finally walking, with no more leaning against the walls, no more limping quite as badly, you knew it was time.

You remembered what he’d said, a week ago. That he missed hitting the punching bag. Not fighting. Not the ring. Just the bag.

You still weren't sure if he was going to come back to fight someday. For now, you hoped he was comfortable enough with you to stay. And never go back to that shithole again.

So you’d called in a favor.

Matt, the guy who ran the local gym, not far from your house, had always liked you. He’d been your trainer for a while, years back. When you explained things, without giving too much away, he didn’t even hesitate, just handed you the keys and told you to lock up when you were done.

“Tell your friend to take it easy,” he’d said.

So you told Noah to get his shoes on.

He raised an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

He gave you a look, a suspicious little half-smile, and he followed you out.

The street was quiet by the time you reached the gym. You let him unlock the door himself.

“You said you missed the bag,” you said, shrugging. “Thought maybe you wanted to say hi.”

He chuckleda and thanked you.

Then he pulled on a pair of gloves and started throwing slow, measured punches at the bag, just enough to get a rhythm going. You wandered the gym while he worked, trailing your fingers over machines you didn’t know how to use, pretending to study diagrams on the walls while sneaking glances at him every few minutes.

After a while, he tugged off his hoodie and tossed it onto a nearby bench, leaving him in a tank top that clung to the lines of his shoulders and arms.

You must���ve been staring, because he paused and turned to you with a crooked grin.

“You planning to just stand there and watch the whole time?”

“No, actually. I want you to teach me.”

That earned a little laugh from him.

“I’m serious,” you added. “C’mon fighter boy. I wanna learn.”

So he did.

The gym was all yours, just the two of you and you had all the time. It started simple, he showed you how to stand. How to breathe.

“Hands up,” he said, circling you.

“Like this?”

“No. God, no,” he laughed. “That’s how you get your jaw broken.”

“Well you just did it like this,” you argued, adjusting your posture.

“Yeah, but when you do it, it’s a disaster.”

"What? Why?”

“Because if you do that,” he said, stepping close, “then I can do this—”

And suddenly his hands were around your waist, and before you could react, he lifted you like you weighed nothing and slung you over his shoulder.

“Noah!”

“What?” he said, grinning. “This is a classic maneuver.”

“Put me down!”

“I’m demonstrating tactical dominance.”

“This is not fighting technique!”

“Sure it is. It’s called the ‘distract your opponent and then tackle her while she's laughing’ combo."

You couldn’t help laughing, half-struggling and half just hanging there, your fists lightly thudding against his back.

Then, he finally set you down, carefully, you landed on your feet, dizzy but laughing. He was smiling, wide and real, cheeks flushed from the movement. You hadn't seen him smile like that. Not like this.

He looked so beautiful in his tank top, tattoos all on display, a light sheen of sweat on his skin, hair falling messily into his eyes.

You started hitting him, light punches to his chest and stomach, not meant to hurt, just playful, kind of teasing. He laughed, arms loose at his sides, letting you take your tiny, harmless swings.

“You think you’re tough now?” he said between chuckles.

“Shut up,” you muttered, grinning despite yourself, landing another soft hit just under his ribs. “You’re the worst trainer I’ve ever had.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, stepping closer.

You kept swinging, lightly, and he kept dodging, laughing.

“Stop laughing,” you said.

“Make me.”

You went to throw another jab, but this time, he caught your wrist mid-air, quick, with almost no effort. You barely had time to react before he used that grip to pull you suddenly toward him. Not too hard, just enough to make you lose your balance and crash softly into him, your body landing against his chest.

He was warm and solid beneath your hands, his heart beating fast under your touch. You could feel it.

His hand was still around your wrist, his other resting lightly at your waist now. You looked up, and he was already looking at you.

Not smiling anymore.

“Noah…” you whispered.

There was a pause.

Then, softly, he asked, “Can I—?”

You didn’t even let him finish. You leaned in, closed the space between you, and kissed him, letting the gloves slide off your hands to bring your palms to his cheeks.

It started slow. Careful. His lips brushed against yours with hesitation.

But you kissed him like you’d been waiting for it for months, probably since the moment you first saw him. Since you looked into his eyes and saw a man carrying too much pain, and already knew that you could love him the way he deserved.

And that’s when he really kissed you back.

Everything changed in a second, his hand at your waist pulling you in tighter, his other slipping behind your neck, cradling you close as his mouth moved against yours.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like he didn’t want to come up for air.

You pressed into him, arms winding around his shoulders, fingers curling into his hair.

When you pulled back just enough to breathe, his hands were still holding you, gently.

“Is kissing the opponent into submission a new technique?” he asked, voice low, a smile tugging at his lips again.

You let out a breathless laugh. “God, you’re really a terrible teacher.”

Noah tilted his head, smirking. “You don’t look like you’re complaining.”

And you weren’t.

Not even close, because you let him kiss you again. And again. And again.

And that night, after the teasing, the laughter and the kisses, Noah didn’t sleep on the couch for the first time.

You led him down the hallway with a quiet hand tugging his fingers and when the door to your room creaked open, he stood in the doorway for a moment, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to stay.

You turned to look at him and gave a soft smile, one he mirrored without even thinking. Then he stepped forward, and that was it. Just two people who had been orbiting each other for days finally coming to rest in the same place.

When he slipped into bed beside you, it felt so natural. Like your body had already been waiting for his warmth.

You rolled onto your side, and he followed, pressing in behind you with an arm wrapping carefully around your waist. You took his hand and guided it over your ribs, holding it close. His nose brushed against your skin, then his lips.

His breath was warm, stirring the fine hairs at the nape of your neck. You felt the way he hesitated, just for a moment, and then, with a gentleness that nearly broke you open, he dipped his head and pressed the softest kiss to the curve where your neck met your shoulder.

It was so tender, so careful.

Then another, just a little higher. And another.

Eventually, you turned to face him again. He was already looking at you. Hair messy and falling into his eyes, mouth slightly parted, eyes sleepy but bright in the dark. You reached out and brushed your fingers over his jaw, down the line of his throat. He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, his lips soft against your skin.

You didn’t say anything when he leaned in closer, because there was no need to. His eyes were asking a question, and yours were already answering it: you wanted him.

You kept kissing him even when your clothes found the floor, when the room filled with the sound of your breathless voice repeating his name at every touch, every thrust.

And after, when you collapsed next to him, he pulled you into his arms. You buried your face against his collarbone, and he rested his chin on your head, his fingers trailing lazy circles along your back. His other hand found yours beneath the blanket and laced your fingers together without even looking.

The next morning, Noah was still asleep beside you.

His arm was wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close against his chest like his body hadn’t even considered letting you go during the night. His breathing was deep and steady, lips slightly parted, hair even messier than before. There was a tiny crease between his brows, like he was still halfway between dreams and reality. But not bad dreams.

You stayed there for a while, just watching him.

Then, you shifted a little, enough to press a soft kiss to his collarbone. He stirred then, his grip tightening slightly around you as he mumbled your name, barely above a whisper.

“Morning,” you said softly.

His eyes blinked open slowly, squinting a little against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, he just stared at you, his brows drawing in like he was trying to be sure you were real.

Then a quiet breath left his chest, and a faint, incredulous smile tugged at his lips.

“God, I don’t think I’ve ever woken up this happy,” he whispered.

"Good," You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Get used to it.”

One late afternoon, you came home from work and noticed something different right away: the apartment was too quiet. No TV, no music playing. Just the sound of Alpine’s soft paws padding toward you as you stepped inside. You dropped your bag by the door and bent down to scratch behind her ears, then glanced up.

There was Noah, sitting on the couch, your sketchbook open on his lap.

Your sketchbook, the one you’d never meant for anyone to see. The pages filled with sketches of him: studies of his hands resting on his knees, the way his jaw tightened when he was thinking, his hair falling messily over his eyes. There was a drawing you’d made the night he fell asleep on the couch, Alpine curled against his chest. And the quick sketch from memory of his back and shoulders, damp from a shower. And the drawing you did after the second time you saw him, one eye still dark because of a bruise.

Your heart started beating faster.

Noah looked up when he heard the door close, meeting your gaze with a teasing grin that made your cheeks warm.

“So,” he said, holding the book up, “I didn’t realize I was such a good subject.”

You moved to snatch the sketchbook away, but he pulled it just out of reach, chuckling. “Hey, don’t be so defensive. I found it on the table and just wondered if it was a book or something you were filling yourself. The drawings are amazing.”

You crossed your arms, trying to hide how flustered you were. “I wasn’t exactly planning on showing you.”

His smile softened. “I’m glad I saw them. They’re... beautiful. Really. It's nice to see how you see me. If I had a home, I would hang all of them on the wall of my bedroom.”

You blinked, heart suddenly squeezing a little, almost forgetting about the fact that he saw your drawings. “But you have one,” you said softly, “you know I want you here. I love having you here.”

“I know.”

“Then stop saying you don't have a home”

He hesitated for a moment. “Okay.”

He kissed your forehead and walked to the kitchen, leaving you alone with the sketches. You looked through them again.

Yeah, they really were beautiful.

Mostly because he was.

One night, you woke up suddenly to the sound of rustling beside you. Noah had jolted awake, his breath uneven and eyes wide, though this time the nightmare wasn’t as intense as the first one you’d seen him have.

You blinked awake, without saying a word, you scooted closer, wrapping your arms gently around him, giving him the time to move away if he wanted to. He leaned into you immediately, resting his forehead against your collarbone.

You kissed the top of his head softly, murmuring soothing words until his breathing slowed and the tension in his shoulders eased. After a few minutes, you whispered, “Do you want some tea? It might help.”

He nodded quietly after a moment. “Sounds good.”

You slipped out of bed and made your way to the kitchen, turning on the kettle and gathering tea supplies.

He followed you, barefoot and quiet, and he gave a small nod. Like a silent reassurance: I’m okay. I just need a minute.

He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down slowly, elbows resting on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them. You moved without thinking, drawn to him like always. You stepped between his legs and stayed there, standing, your body pressed close. He didn’t hesitate.

His arms slipped around your waist, and he rested his head gently against your stomach.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and held him. Your fingers found their way into his hair, soft and messy from sleep, and you let your other hand rub slow circles into his back. He sank into you.

And you noticed, again, how he never flinched from your touch. Or, at least, not anymore. How he never pulled away. How it didn’t matter how quiet he was or how few words he used, his body always answered yours. Always leaned in. Always took what you offered like it was something he desperately needed.

You could feel it in the way he exhaled against you, in the way his grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, holding you close.

And it reminded how much he needed it.

After years of being alone. After everything he had been through, he was letting you in, he wanted you there, your hands on him, your warmth, your kisses.

You drank your tea together in the quiet of the kitchen, your knees brushing under the table. You didn’t ask about the nightmare, and he didn’t bring it up.

When your mugs were empty, he took your hand, and the two of you went back to bed. He curled into your side again, and this time, he fell asleep without trouble.

It was a quiet Sunday morning when Amber came over for a visit.

Noah looked up when he heard a knock. “Expecting someone?”

“No…” you said slowly. “But I'm pretty sure I know who it is.”

You heard another knock, louder this time, followed by a very familiar, energetic voice.

“Open up! I come bearing pastries and my desire to talk to your new, now alive, boyfriend!”

You shook your head as went to the door and opened the dor to find Amber standing there with a paper bag and a triumphant smile.

“Good morning,” she said, waltzing inside.

She kicked off her shoes and made a beeline for the kitchen. And then she saw him.

Amber froze mid-step. “Oh, you! Finally!”

Noah looked up from his coffee. “Hi.”

Amber blinked once, twice. “You're upright.”

“I try to be,” Noah said, offering a small, amused smile, “glad to finally meet you while I’m not bleeding or unconscious.”

“Coffee?” You asked her.

“Yes, please,” Amber said, plopping into the chair across from Noah. “So. How’s the recovery arc going?”

“Surprisingly fast,” he said. “Still a bit stiff in the mornings. But I can make it down the stairs without swearing now.”

Amber raised her mug. “We love a low bar.”

You poured her a cup of coffee and sat down at the table beside Noah. She pulled a croissant from the paper bag, unwrapped it, and tore off a piece.

“Help yourselves,” she said. “They’re from that place by the tram stop.”

You and Noah each took something, and for a few minutes, the three of you just ate in silence, until Amber glanced between the two of you, then smiled softly. “You know… you look good together.”

You looked up. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “I don’t know. There’s just… something that fits. And you seem happier.”

Noah gave a small smile, glancing your way.

Amber leaned her elbows on the table, her tone gentle. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, after everything. But… You two make sense. I'm happy for you guys.”

Noah slowly reached for your hand under the table and gave it a light squeeze.

Amber caught the gesture and smiled again. “I’m glad,” she said simply. “Really.”

You chatted for a while until she said something like: “We should hang out one day, the four of us.”

You blinked. “Four?”

Amber gave you a look that was way too casual to be innocent. “...Maybe.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, the corners of your mouth already turning up. “Amber. Come on. Spill.”

She grinned. “Okay, okay! So... last time I went to the record store Vivienne might have asked for my Instagram.”

You nodded, already starting to smile.

“Well,” Amber said, practically glowing now, “we’ve been chatting on and off since then. Just like, music stuff at first. Then memes and fashion. A little art talk. A little 'I like girls' talk. And last night she said, and I quote, ‘I’d actually love to go out with you sometime, if you’d be into that.’”

You gasped. “Amber!”

She let out a happy, slightly breathless laugh. “I know! I mean, I wasn’t really sure she was actually flirting with me. Apparently she was. We're hanging out next weekend.”

“That’s amazing! I'm so happy for you!”

Amber shrugged, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

"Does this mean I get to tease you two now, the way you always do with me and Noah?" You asked.

"Don't push it."

You all kept talking for a while, until she stood up and stretched. “Okay, I’ve fulfilled my best friend duties. Fed you, approved the boy, mildly harassed you both. My work here is done.”

“Already?” you said.

“I have to go sew tiny sleeves onto a doll-sized mannequin before my professor has a meltdown. Fashion school waits for no one.” She grabbed her bag and pointed at you. “But text me if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

Amber gave you a quick hug on her way out, then pointed at Noah as she opened the door. “Just so we’re clear, if you hurt her, I will find a way to ruin your life.”

“Fair enough. But I promise I won't.” he said.

“Good,” she said, blowing a kiss at Alpine and vanishing into the hallway.

You and Noah stood by the door for a second after she left.

“She’s great,” he said.

“She is,” you agreed. “And now she’s officially on your side.”

“Good,” he said. “I think I’ll need all the allies I can get.”

You laughed and kissed him. Just because you could. Just because it was Sunday morning, Amber had croissants, and Noah was alive.

One late evening, when you got home from work, you were grinning from ear to ear. You found Noah in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, drying a plate, and the moment he looked up and saw your face, he paused.

“What’s got you smiling like that?” he asked.

You dropped your bag by the door and practically bounced over to him. “Okay, listen. This is kind of a big deal.”

He set the plate down. “I’m listening.”

You took a breath, barely able to contain the excitement. “Today at the shop, this girl came in, walk-in, didn’t have an appointment. She was just browsing through the flash designs, and she stopped in front of mine.”

Noah tilted his head, catching on. “One of yours?”

You nodded. “Yeah. She asked who drew it, because it looked into a different style and when Nick said it was me, she said, ‘That’s the one I want.’ And then she got it. Because Nick had a few hours free. Just like that. My design. On her skin. Forever.”

Noah broke into a slow smile, "No way."

“Yes!” you laughed, still in disbelief. “It wasn’t even a little one either. She got it on her forearm. It looks amazing.”

Noah crossed the kitchen and pulled you into a hug, warm and proud. “That’s huge. That’s more than huge. That’s incredible.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, still smiling. “I know it might sound silly, but… I don’t know. I'm so happy.”

Noah leaned back just enough to look you in the eye. “That’s not silly. That’s beautiful. It means your work said something to her.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, “That’s not even the best part.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “There’s more?”

You nodded, “Nick pulled me aside after, and he said… if I’m serious about learning, he’d be willing to actually start teaching me. Like, properly. One-on-one. He said we can count it as an informal apprenticeship and start logging hours.”

Noah blinked. “Wait, like… for real? So you’d be allowed to actually tattoo?”

You nodded again, this time a little slower, more hesitant. “Yeah. I mean, not on clients right away. But he said we could work on practice skins, maybe do some small stuff under his supervision. If I commit to it, I could start building a portfolio. It’d be a real start.”

“That’s amazing,” Noah said, grinning.

“I’d love to,” you said, quieter now. “But I’m scared.”

Noah’s expression softened. “Why?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to mess up. It’s someone’s skin. It’s permanent. It feels… scary.”

He cupped your face with both hands. “You would be an amazing tattoo artist. I would love to have you do my next one.”

You stared at him, searching his face. “Would you really let me tattoo you?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “I would let you tattoo every square inch of skin I’ve got left.”

You laughed, a bit flustered. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m all yours.”

You looked up at him, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “You’d really trust me with something permanent?”

Noah didn’t even blink. “I’d trust you with anything.”

“Even your skin?”

“Especially my skin,” he said, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It’s just skin. You already have all the parts of me that actually matter.”

You stared at him for a second, unsure if you were about to laugh or cry. “You’re not allowed to say things like that without warning.”

He just chuckled. Then kissed you.

And again. And again.

That night, you and Noah were out in the garden, lying on an old blanket spread over the grass, the sky above you clear and full of stars.

The porch light was off, leaving only the moon and the stars to cast their silvery glow over everything. The bushes rustled gently in the breeze, and the tall grass swayed with the wind. You could just make out the outline of the old fence, half-covered in ivy, and the faint scent of jasmine hung in the air from the corner where it grew wild.

Alpine wandered nearby, sniffing at plants and chasing some invisible bug in the dark.

You turned your head toward him, voice quiet. “Do you believe in fate?”

The moonlight caught the angles of his face, the curve of his nose, the soft line of his mouth. His eyes reflected just a hint of the night sky, and for a moment, you were sure you’d never seen anything, or anyone, more quietly beautiful.

Noah kept his eyes on the sky. “Don’t know. Why?”

“They say it’s written in the stars."

He glanced at you, thoughtful. “Maybe fate wanted me to walk into that fight club that exact night. Maybe it wanted me to get thrown out into that exact alley where you were standing.”

You looked over at him, eyebrows raised. “That’s a lot coming from someone who’s not sure they believe in it.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m just saying… if that’s how fate works, then I owe it a thank you.”

You were quiet for a moment, then said softly, “That night changed everything.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t see it coming. But I'm so infinitely grateful for it. For you.”

You reached for his hand, fingers finding his in the dark. “So… thanks, stars?”

He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Thanks, stars.”

You were quiet for a moment, then, gently, you asked, “Noah?”

“Yeah?”

You turned slightly on the blanket, “What are we?”

“Anything you want us to be,” he said.

“Because you don’t sleep in my bed every night because I don’t want you to be my boyfriend and... do stuff couples do.”

Noah let out a low, quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said.

"Like?"

“Like going to that weird diner with the alien murals and the supposedly world’s best grilled cheese, and walking through the farmers market on Sundays just to buy strawberries and tiny plants we���ll try not to kill, and sneaking snacks into midnight movies and pretending we’re smooth about it, and going on road trips where we stop every ten minutes for cow pictures or no reason at all, and getting lost on purpose, and singing along to terrible pop songs at full volume, and arguing about which fast food place has the best fries. And you staying here with me forever.”

He leaned in, leaving a couple of kisses on your jaw and on your neck, soft. “I like this. I like boyfriend.” He whispered against your skin.

You smiled. “Good.”

You stayed out there until sleep started to pull at you and your body completely relaxed against his.

Noah noticed first. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go in.”

Inside, you slipped into bed, and a moment later, he joined you, curling around you from behind. His arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

You let out a quiet sigh. “This is nice.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Yeah. It really is.”

And with him holding you like that, you fell asleep.

One early morning, after you went to work, Noah was sitting on the steps of your garden with a mug of coffee cupped in his hands, elbows on his knees, watching nothing in particular.

He was just starting to relax into the silence when a voice cut through it.

“Finally found you.”

He didn’t raise his head right away, but he didn’t have to. He recognized that voice. Dean.

Noah turned his head slowly. Dean stood near the edge of the yard, arms folded, casual.

“What do you want?” Noah asked.

Dean shrugged once. “Got a match lined up. Three nights from now. Thought I’d ask if you were in.”

Noah said nothing. His fingers tightened around the ceramic mug, tension creeping into his shoulders, his spine. Dean didn’t push, just waited with that same infuriating patience, like he already knew what was going on behind Noah’s silence.

And Noah was silent because part of him wanted to say no. To stand up and tell Dean that he had a life now, that he was done, that he had you. That he spent his nights tracing soft patterns on your back, not guarding his ribs. That he wanted to be someone else. Someone better.

But then there was Tyler.

Tyler, who still haunted his nightmares with his limbs twisted unnaturally on the ground, eyes wide open and empty. Tyler, whose blood had soaked the floor while Noah watched. Who had stepped in for him at the last second, still smiling, not knowing he’d never step out again.

Tyler, who died instead of Noah. Because Noah had hesitated. Because he’d been a coward. And no matter how much softness Noah had now, your touch, your warmth, the quiet safety of your shared nights, it couldn’t undo what he’d let happen.

And nevertheless, guilt was eating him alive.

So maybe he didn’t deserve to quit. Maybe people like him didn’t get to walk away clean.

Noah stared into the grass.

Dean gave a small nod toward him. “You’ve got time. Let me know.”

And then he was gone.

What he was starting to have with you, it was something beautiful. It was the closest this to peace and happiness he had ever known. And he loved you. He loved you so much, even if he had never said it out loud.

But sometimes that love felt like something he wasn’t allowed to hold.

And even though he’d thanked fate that night in the garden, there were some moments when he thought maybe it would’ve been better if you’d never stepped into that alley.

If he’d never met you.

Never tangled up your calm, steady life with the mess of his.

Sometimes he thought someone better should’ve had the chance to earn your beautiful heart.

And him?

He should’ve died alone in that abandoned building, bleeding out on the floor where he’d crawled after getting stabbed.

He was no longer sure of what he wanted to do now.

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog @pandora-08 @geminigirlfromfinland @rumoured-whispers @astronoids @mymindsnotebook

Fresh bruises tags: @1toreyouapart @respectfulrebel @dragoncopper @overmydeadbodysblog @fear-its-beauty @xslavicprincess @concreteangel92 @super-btstrash-posts @pipidoll @pipidoll @bluehairpunklol @tktstomydwnfall @jesuisunchaton @brutallysoftmuse @acatatonicpeace @spookieolson @dontwantthemoney @renegadebirch @awkwardalex @nojoyontheburn @jaded-and-hollow-souls

[mreowsu]

pt. 1

Re Al prohibits relationships, but you and a certain prodigy was most definitely not out of one

summary · itoshi sae was someone who made you swear to yourself not to risk it. and now?? HE’S THE ONE WHO BLEW IT.

—

you didn’t hear your phone go off the first time

your music was up loud—your workout playlist on shuffle, sleeves rolled, forehead damp. jt was your one hour of the day where you weren’t thinking about drills or curfews or if you were falling behind.

then it buzzed again.

and again.

yyu glanced at it mid-plank, rolled over and grabbed your phone, half-expecting a dumb group chat meme from a friend or something.

> 4 missed calls – sport rep

> text from sassy man

(11:49 AM):

don’t open socmed

you stared unblinking.

then, your phone buzzed again.

> new text from sport rep

(11:50 AM):

This is URGENT. Call me back now

“...what the hell did you do?” you whispered to yourself, breath fogging your phone, heart starting to crawl up your throat.

you yanked out your earbuds, nearly tripping over your water bottle on the way to the locker room. your fingers were still shaking when you called them back.

your agent picked up immediately. being one of the few people who knew of your relationship with the football superstar—was as expected, mid-hyperventilation.

“okay, first—hi—second, are you with sae right now?”

“no?? i’m literally—wait, what’s happening?”

“check his instagram.”

your heart dropped from your throat.

flashbacks of a simple burner account with a singular white highlight ran like a marathon through your head. accusations, denials, lies.

you didn’t want to open the app. every cell in your body knew not to.

but you did.

and there it was.

you did not expect to see your own face staring back at you.

his profile picture.

you were sunlit from madrid’s sun. mid-laugh. that photo. the one he took on your birthday, when you’d been smiling up at him and didn’t know he’d even snapped it. the exact kind of picture you take for one person and not the whole world.

your thumb froze mid-scroll. “what the hell—” you whispered, “no. no way.”

you hadn’t even processed it before your phone buzzed again.

> 3 missed calls – PR Team

> 1 missed call – Re Al Academy Admin Office

all calling.

you couldn't answer right away. you just stared at the screen and felt your lungs deflate.

because this wasn’t just a relationship reveal.

this was a retcon.

a contradiction.

you and itoshi sae were supposed to be a closed file—a teen relationship quietly phased out of canon. you’d played the role, gave the statements, stayed apart in public.

the PR teams had scrambled, denied it, and released a polished joint statement that you and sae had been in a “brief relationship during your early Re Al days” but were now amicably separated and “focused on football.”

and everyone bought it. eventually, the rumors quieted. the account went inactive. people moved on.

ut had taken months to clean the mess when that burner account first leaked. the white heart highlight. the photo of him kissing your cheek. your expression—over-the-top, exaggerated shock. like you’d been caught.

and you had.

caught loving him.

you were told to lay low. delete the photos. let the public forget.

you’d agreed.

he had, too.

so why… this?

why now?

why him?

why itoshi sae, who once stared straight-faced at a camera during a press junket and said “romantic distractions don’t align with my goals”—why did he change his profile picture to you?

you barely heard your own voice when you answered your phone.

“hello?”

“tell me he warned you,” your PR manager said. “tell me he gave you a heads up before putting your face on his profile.”

“i—he texted after.”

“oh, brilliant. perfect. because now we look like liars. you were supposed to be exes. EXES.”

“i didn’t post anything.”

“no, you didn’t. he did. and now every journalist we lied to last year is in my inbox with a pitch titled 'The Return of Itoshi’s Girl.’”

you hung up a few minutes later, not sure what you’d agreed to. something about staying quiet. not confirming nor denying. letting the storm pass.

you called him next.

he answered in the first ring.

“i told you not to open social media.”

“sae, how was i supposed not to? are you serious right now?”

“i don’t care if they know.”

“but i do,” you snapped. “because they already think we lied. because we did lie. and now you’ve made it look like we never stopped.”

“we didn’t.”

your throat closed up.

“you said we’d wait until we were out of the academy. that was the deal.”

“i changed my mind.”

you stared at your own reflection in the dark phone screen, furious at how easy it was for him to say it. how calm. how true.

“you make it sound so simple.”

“it is,” he said. “im not changing it.”

“you know this could get us kicked out.”

there was a pause.

“if they make me choose, i’ll choose you.”

the words punched the breath out of your chest.

he sounded final. like he’d already decided.

and for a second, the whole room fell away.

just you.

and the boy who was never supposed to love you in public again.

“we'll talk later. they'll probably have us called to a meeting soon.” you exhaled and hung up, not waiting for a response.

you closed your eyes.

you could see it: the public now knowing, finally, indisputably, that you and sae had been dating for years. the rumors weren’t rumors anymore. it wasn’t a fan edit or a deepfake or a friend accidentally leaking a blurry selfie.

it was him. he outed you.

mr. “don’t risk it.”

mr. “delete that.”

mr. “they don’t need to know.”

and now you were getting the calls for his mess.

your phone buzzed in your hand.

another text.

(12:17 PM) sassy man:

i'm sorry

you blinked hard this time, before dragging a hand down your face.

because the truth?

you’d always thought you would be the one to mess up first. that you would accidentally like a post, or get caught holding hands in the wrong hallway, or forget to switch accounts before posting something dumb and domestic.

you never thought it’d be him.

itoshi sae, the human embodiment of “do not perceive me”. your boyfriend, who once deleted a birthday story from you because it had your reflections in his sunglasses.

and now this?

“my god,” you whispered into the cracks of your fingers. “you’re worse than me.”

© mreowsu 2025

[neoslice]

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆.

a.) featuring. gojo satoru, nanami kento & geto suguru

b.) warnings. none, just daddy jjk men (literally fathers).

note. oh em gee, it's honestly been such a long time since i've written on tumblr (kinda nervous). been in a slump lately, i self-published my first book a couple of weeks ago (yay), wanna check it out? my ig's always available @/jomathilda (self-promo sesh). anyways, i hope you guys enjoy this one >__<

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

in all honesty, gojo satoru has never dreamt of forming a little family of his own, given the fact that he's the strongest sorcerer. pshh, who's got time for families and serious relationships?

and then you came. every resolve of him came crashing down. gojo would say that it's 'love at first sight', but you never really did fall in love with him until two years later — when he decided to swoon you with his very ugly singing skills, but that was the reason why you fell anyways (and you fell hard) — which led to marriage.

that wasn't all it to his relationship. one thing led to another; it started out as a small talk with you about babies, and then things led for the better. and then, bam. you guys were blessed with a little baby boy named kikoru, initially gojo had told you all about being the best girl dad ever, but when the gender of your baby was revealed, gojo was the most elevated one in the room. honestly, he didn't even care, he just wanted a baby.

and best believe that he's the best boy dad ever.

gojo had decided that his son will love dinosaurs, hence the dinosaur themed nursery, food platter, fork, toys, onesies. and hell, the baby isn't even born yet.

when kikoru was born, gojo cried a lot. three days, maybe. specifically, 72 hours, 30 minutes, and 48 seconds. you counted. he couldn't stop staring at your little one — gojo even set up a small baby cam by the crib (which is in the same room as his, he said in case he needed a boost during his missions).

during day offs, which were pretty much rare to none. gojo spends his days at home, as much as he could.

"look at those strong little legs of yours," gojo coos out softly to kikoru, who kicked his little legs in reply, beaming out a toothless smile and soft giggles, "think you can do a few steps for daddy? just a couple before daddy goes out for his mission."

as if he understood, kikoru planted his little feet on top of the rugged floor, and slowly gojo steadied his body; while keeping his hands by kikoru's sides in case he took a fall. as happy as he is, gojo (tried to) stay calm, gushing out internally as he scoots back to make room, "yes, yes, just like that, one two step, baby."

with wobbly legs, kikoru took two small steps before stumbling into gojo's arms. and gojo bursted out laughing happily, his contagious laughter sending kikoru into fits of giggles, "you walked, you walked to daddy!" he yells out happily, throwing kikoru in the air before catching his small body back.

kikoru squeals out happily, kicking his legs.

"babe, he just walked, he just walked two steps!"

and best believe me that he told ever single one of his students about the two steps kikoru did. very proud boy dad.

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

retiring from the jujutsu world was one of the best choice he has ever made besides marrying you. it's always a dream of his to form a little family far away from danger, and so he did.

"good morning, daddy," you raise your little daughter up as she yawns softly.

your nine month old daughter, akari giggled her heart out at the sight of nanami; her little arms all stretched out towards him. both nanami and you have been trying to get her to take a few steps with baby walkers, at least to stimulate her legs at first.

but akari had shown signs of her beginning steps a couple of times in the past week — so, you've always tried to help her walk when there's a chance to. now, perhaps is the right time.

you gently lowered her to the ground, steadying her on her feet, "okay, baby go on. daddy's just there," you whisper to her ear, letting her take the first step forward; although her body wobbled to the side, you were ready to catch her. flinching slightly with every step she took.

nanami slowly lowered himself to her height, slowly and quietly to avoid surprising his baby girl. with his arms outstretched to her, he sat on the floor, crossing his legs, "just a little more, sweetheart," he encouraged her.

the encouragement made akari grin happily, her arms continuously aiming for him as she took another wobbly step. a proud smile appeared on nanami's face as she stumbled towards him in a rush during the last couple of steps, eventually falling into his lap, thankfully.

he caught her little body, carrying her up to his chest. like a proud father, he smothered her in sloppy kisses all over her little face, muttering out soft praises, "good job, baby. daddy's very proud of you," he whispers, brushing her thin layer of hair back.

all you could do was smile. akari's always been such a daddy's girl anyways (not that you're complaining, they were unseparable).

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔

once in a blue moon, geto wished that things could have gone differently. and when the said blue moon came lingering over his mind, he just had to form a little family of his own — it was fleeting, but his love for you was real, and it stayed real until now.

no, he never expected it. and yes, he is also surprised with the turn of events. you were an anchor to him, and he's very thankful with the appearance of you and your little baby girl, asuka.

geto tries his best to be a present father for asuka — which went shit the first few months she was born, geto was barely present. spiraling into negative thoughts on how his baby girl was going to grow up in such a bad environment, especially the things that haven't dawned upon him. he was terribly worried. and so he decided to detach himself from both you and asuka.

he slips inside her nursery every night, taking a look at how his own flesh and blood grew. every day for eight months, she grew without him present most of the time and guilt gnawed inside out. he didn't have the face to show up in front of you, not after the couple of months he decided to disappear off into nothingness.

so, when asuka was awake late at night during one of his drop ins. he was a bit surprised, her doe eyes staring right into his despite the darkness of the room. her lips formed into a big smile at the sight of him, balled fists flailing around.

"you've grown so much," he whispers, taking her into his arms.

geto convinced himself that he shouldn't, he'd only get attached and that would be the worst thing to happen. but, seeing his daughter, he crumbled, looking down into her eyes as she flailed her small little arms around him, gurgling incoherently.

he sat on the floor of the nursery, holding onto the sights of her body. his lips pursed into a thin line as he watches her suckle on her little fists, "no, baby. that's dirty," geto reprimanded her, gently pulling away her hand from her mouth, but asuka whined and he lets out a small chuckle, "alright. just a couple more seconds."

he lets her down gently on the floor and walked to a nearby toy box, rummaging through it to find something for asuka to chew on. it was a yellow colored toy ring that he decided to choose for her, and the moment he turned around, asuka was both on her feet, arms stretched out to him, her little feet wobbling — but her strong resolve to get to him beats her continuous wobbling.

asuka's little gurgles continued as she stumbled to him a couple of times before tumbling onto her face. the toy now long forgotten by him, geto rushed to her, cradling her close to him, "you just walked, you just walked, baby," he repeatedly said to her, his fingertips brushing over her little nose.

asuka's bottom lip juts out as the pain from the fall finally kicks in and a loud sob emits from her throat. geto panics, bouncing her in his arms, "no, no. i'm sorry, baby, i didn't mean to let you fall... daddy's so sorry, pretty girl," he shushed her.

your motherly instincts kicked in the moment her sob reached your ear, even in your sleep, you stumbled up running to the nursery, ready to pound on whatever the hell kept your daughter awake.

"you let go of my daug — suguru?!"

geto looks up, his brows drooping low in worry, "it's me. i didn't mean to — she walked and fell, how do i make her stop crying?" he babbles out almost too quickly for you to comprehend.

"she what?" you mumble out, snatching her from his arms; and asuka calmed down almost immediately.

a lot of explaining happened that night (and apologies). oh, and a lot of baby cam footage replays too... since you missed everything, and were really upset about it.

© neoslice 2025. do not copy, modify, or post anywhere else!

[itneverendshere]

little miss perfect - r.c (+18) - the perfect dip

pairing: siren!reader x rafe. warnings: suggestive.

Rafe hasn’t slept much.

Not because of stress, or drugs, or whatever excuse he’d usually throw around when someone asked why he looked like shit.

Today, he blames the island heat or his mattress, the sound of the water heater ticking all night. But it isn’t any of that.

It’s you; the memory of your hand around him in the kitchen burned through every slow hour of the night.

Twelve hours later, Rafe’s losing his mind all over again, standing in the same kitchen with Topper and Kelce tossing empty beer bottles into the sink.

“She’s not here?” Topper asked, eyes scanning the hallway.

Rafe turns his head, eyes narrowed. 

“The fuck you care?” 

“Jesus, alright. Calm down, man.”

He hasn’t heard your door once today, no footsteps, no car.

Your purse is still on the hook by the door, your favorite cardigan is draped over the arm of the couch, the one you always wore when the AC got too cold.

Rafe hates that he keeps thinking about it, about what he heard, about what you did. How your voice sounded on the phone, or after you quite literally fucked the soul out of him.

You don’t sound like that unless you’re protecting yourself.

Topper watches Rafe now, realizing he said the wrong thing. 

“She your girl now or somethin’?”

Rafe scoffs.

“She’s not anything,” he lied.

Except you are.

You are everything he doesn’t know what to do with. Last night’s blur flashes once more behind his eyelids, that tight breath you let out when your hand wrapped around him and you leaned your forehead against his shoulder.

Topper’s still grinning.

“Chill, dude. We’re just saying she’s hot. It's a compliment, not a threat.”

Rafe tosses the beer bottle in his hand into the sink.

“You ever talk about her again, I’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth in.”

Kelce stares. Topper blinks, unsure if Rafe’s serious. He is; the last thing he needs is either of them thinking they have a shot with you.

Topper clears his throat, awkward as hell. 

“Okay, psycho,” he grimaces, trying to laugh it off.

Kelce, ever the peacemaker, grabs another beer from the fridge and hands one to Rafe without looking at him. 

“Can we go back to talking about the boat party or whatever? I didn’t sign up for a domestic.”

Rafe doesn’t answer, pops the cap, gulps half the bottle in one go, and stares straight ahead.

Topper shifts gears fast, talking about a touron girl he hooked up with last weekend—theatrical as fuck, using his hands too much, trying to prove something. Kelce is laughing again, feet kicked up on Rafe’s coffee table.

They’re back to being dumb, rich, and clueless and Rafe isn’t listening. His head’s still in the hallway.

You’re driving him insane.

He wonders if you’re sitting in bed right now with your knees pulled up, in flimsy pajamas. Topper’s still talking, something about coke on the golf course and almost crashing the cart. Rafe hears every third word, half-tempted to kick them out.

He could, they’d leave, no questions asked. He could walk straight to the bedroom door you left cracked wide enough for him to notice.

You wanted him to notice. You never left anything to chance.

He forces a lazy half-smirk as Kelce launches into a story about a girl from Boneyard who “definitely had a boyfriend but definitely didn’t care.” Topper interrupts every few seconds with unnecessary sound effects and finger guns.

It’s the same bullshit as always. Dumb, loud, harmless; a show they’ve all been running since they were kids.

“You know what we should do?” Topper slamms his empty beer bottle onto the coffee table. “Get the boat out. That bitch hasn’t touched water in a month.”

Kelce perks up. “We get some girls, bring a speaker—”

“We always bring a speaker,” Topper cuts in, laughing. “It’s not a fuckin’ seance.”

That gets a laugh out of Rafe.

“You coming or what, Cameron?” Kelce calls over to him. 

That’s when the hallway creaks.

He hears it, the scuff of skin on hardwood, you appear, timing it down to the fucking second—effortless, shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes still half shut from sleep or boredom or both.

Topper freezes mid-sentence, one arm halfway in the air. Kelce chokes on his beer.

You give them a polite smile.

Fuck’s sake.

“Oh,” you sound taken aback, tone featherlight, “I didn’t know we had company.”

Kelce stammers, straightening up like he’s in church. 

“Hey, we—we were just hanging.”

You nod, walking to the fridge after apparating out of nowhere. Your fingers wrap around a water bottle as you turn back to them, face glowing.

“You want anything?” you ask Kelce, soft as spun sugar.

He looks like he might cry. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

You finally glance at Rafe, no expression or twitch to spare. But he sees the glint in your eye when you take a sip of water, then turn to the boys again.

“You staying long?”

Kelce starts to answer, but Rafe cuts in.

“None of your business.”

That’s what you desserve after the shit you pulled last night.

He’s not guilty, you are.

“He’s so funny,” you giggle gently, folding your hands around the bottle. “You guys talking about the boat?” you ask, as if the idea itself is delicate, sipping your water with lashes lowered.

Topper’s nodding too hard, grinning again, probably thinking this is going somewhere for him. 

“Yeah. You should come. Water’s perfect.”

Rafe’s head snaps in his direction. Oh fuck no.

“What?”

You laugh—a breath of sound. “I couldn’t possibly…”

“Why not?” Kelce jumps in too fast, “We’ll bring drinks, music, just hang.”

Your eyes flick between them, a small, self-effacing smile curling your lips. He sees the faint smirk you hide as you turn your back to them again, tugging the fridge door open just so, the hem of your sleep shirt rising an inch higher when you reach.

None of this is accidental.

You want them looking at you.

“I’d be in the way.”

Rafe nods, brows furrowed. “Exactly."

“No, you wouldn’t,” Topper insists. “Seriously. You gotta come. I mean, unless you’ve got something better to do…”

You tilt your head, pretending to ponder over the invitation.

You’re not. You already decided. If only he could lock you in this stupid house, make you look at him the way they think you want them.

Rafe watches you toy with them, smiling politely, asking too many questions, making sure your eyes never stay on one of them long enough to mean anything.

How can you be so diferente when you’re alone?

“If Rafey doesn’t mind...”

You know what that nickname does to him, how it gets under his skin like sugar in an open wound.

Topper turns to Rafe like a dog who just heard the word walk.

“Dude!” he breathes, eyes wide. 

Kelce snorts, nudging him, all in on something now.

“Bro, what the fuck? You can’t be an asshole to your guest.”

Rafe’s staring at you—at the way you lean casually against the counter, that glimmer of mock-shyness in your voice, always the plan, puppeting the whole room with one shoulder and a smile.

“How the fuck is this on me?”

Topper raises both hands, grinning. “It’s my boat. She's invited."

“She’s not coming.”

“Why not?”

Rafe grits his teeth. “She just woke up.”

“So?” Kelce grins at you. “You still down?”

“Yeah.” You step closer to Rafe, enough that they notice it. He notices it too. “Sorry,” You chagrined, “Didn’t mean to step on any boundaries.”

You did.

Yeah—this spot, right here, right where you’re standing now, it’s where you had your hand down his pants twelve hours ago.

Now you’re gloating in his face, in front of his idiot friends, letting the hem of your shirt graze his thigh like you forgot what happened.

Rafe��s vision goes a little red.

He’s going to fucking kill you. He can’t even look at Topper or Kelce right now, if he sees either of them drooling at you with those dumb, dazed expressions, he’ll black out.

He stares at your face instead, at that sickeningly sweet grin, the one he knows is fake, the one you save for him.

He breathes in hard through his nose, lifting the bottle to his lips, eyes never leaving yours, and grinds out: “Fine.”

You lean in close, pouty lips pecking his cheek.

“Thank you, Rafe,” you whisper, acting like you’re doing him a favor, “I’ll go get dressed.”

You’re gone in seconds, that sweet sway in your step. He stands there, still as stone.

“Wow,” Topper breathes, staring after you like he just saw God. “Lucky fucking bastard.”

Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose in pure annoyance, wishing he could physically push the rage back down. 

Kelce follows. “You’re living the dream, man.”

The dream, yeah. 

The dream is waking up hard as a rock at four in the morning with his hand wrapped around nothing, thinking about you.

He swallows the last of his beer and sets the bottle down hard.

“Gonna grab my swim trunks."

He’s already moving toward the hallway.

They barely acknowledge it—Topper’s mid-sentence again, and Kelce’s laughing too loudly. Neither of them clocks how Rafe’s jaw flexes or how his eyes are fixed ahead, like a sniper. He’s not going to get his swim trunks; he’s going to you.

If you pick one of those bikinis, the tiny black one you wear when you want his hands around your throat, the strappy green one that makes his pulse spike like a fucking heart attack, he might drown you for good.

Or kill someone else, trying not to.

He hits the bedroom door with his knuckles and doesn’t wait before cracking it wider. You’re by the closet already, fingers drifting past hangers, selecting a weapon.

Your back’s to him, but he knows that curve of your spine, the way your hips move when you know he’s watching.

“You’re not wearing any of those.”

“Any of what?”

He closes the door behind him, crossing the room in even steps. 

“You know what.”

“Oh?” you murmur, all saccharine. “I thought I had options.”

You pull a hanger from the rack. Red. Strapless barely qualifies as fabric.

His eye twitches.

You’re holding it up to your chest.

“You don’t like this one?”

Rafe’s already in front of you before you can finish the sentence, snatching the hanger from your hand and tossing it onto the bed without looking.

“You wear that in front of them,” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek, “and I swear to God I’ll crash the boat.”

You blink up at him, filthy fingers sliding up his chest, testing that theory.

“They'll look at me no matter what I wear.” 

“You’re not gonna fuck with me in front of them again,” he says. “Not like that.”

“Why would it matter if I did?”

He’s still thinking about the way Topper’s mouth dropped open when you walked in, how Kelce straightened up like he’d just gotten his first fucking erection. He yearns to dump the stupid boat idea, the friends, the sun, and pounce you back onto the mattress.

He releases you and points to the drawer.

“Pick something normal.”

“Define normal.”

“If I can see your ribs, it’s a no.”

“Noted,” you hum, turning back to the closet like you haven’t already decided on something that’ll drive him mad.

Then your fingers are at the hem of your sleep shirt, lifting it like no one is watching. His pupils blow wide the second your arms lift, and you peel the fabric up and over your head in one long, unhurried motion.

Rafe stops breathing.

No bra, no warning. The shirt drops to the floor behind you.

You don’t turn around, continuing to move, opening a drawer like you’re alone. All that steel in his spine, the warnings, the threats—they dissolve into arousal in his gut.

His mouth parts slightly, and he thinks—

"Still here? Is this a thing now? Watching and doing what you’re not supposed to, Rafey?”

Nice dig.

Your bare back is lit up in the golden spill of light, smooth skin gleaming, and all he can think about is how you sounded on that call when you told your mom it wasn’t a good time. 

“I wasn’t watching,” he lies.

You straighten up, tugging on a white bikini top, letting the fabric cover what he’s already memorized. You don't turn around.

“Weren’t you?” you ask, “You’re getting good at hovering.”

He huffs, crowding behind you.

“You think I give a shit what you say on the phone?”

You glance over your shoulder, “Thought you were getting your trunks.”

Of course you change the subject. He swears, if you look at him for another second, he’s going to lose the last shred of whatever control he walked in with.

“Pick a one-piece,” he grits out.

You grin. Slow. Fucking victorious.

“Make me.”

“You’ve got five minutes,” He warns without looking back. “If you’re not in the car by then, I’ll leave without you.”

You hum.

“Sure, baby.”

He slams the door.

Back in the living room, Topper’s on his fourth beer, still talking like nothing’s happened. Kelce raises his eyebrows when Rafe storms past, shirtless now, accompanied by a god awful migraine.

“You good, bro?”

Rafe doesn’t answer, grabbing his swim trunks from the hallway closet with enough force to rattle the hanger, and slams the door shut behind him.

Thirty minutes later, Rafe glances over his shoulder when you start to peel your clothes off on the boat. Then he looks again.

Your bikini is not the one he let you pack, not the modest one. Not the one he approved, no. You changed for the millionth time.

This one’s black. Small, the strings on your hips are tied in bows he wants to rip apart. You’ve got sunglasses pushed up into your hair and a towel slung over one shoulder.

He can feel a heat prick at his collarbone and it's not a sunburn.

You walk around, pretending you don't feel his eyes drilling holes in your skin. Like you don’t know you’ve already made three guys choke on their drinks. You toss your bag near the cooler, peel your towel off, and stretch your arms like you’ve just woken up from a nap.

He storms over to you.

“What the fuck are you wearing.”

“A bikini, Rafe. That’s what people wear on boats.”

“Not that bikini.”

Your lashes flutter, feigning a thought.

“You meant the boring one?” You finally look at him. “You should’ve fucked me before we left. You wouldn’t be so tense.”

He gets a full blackout, bone-deep insanity. He steps back because he might put his hands on you if he doesn’t. You watch him with that poisonous smile as he turns away and clenches the railing hard enough to break it.

Topper walks by, wide-eyed. “The water's great man."

Rafe doesn’t answer, watching your reflection in the metal trim of the boat, the way you laugh with some girl he doesn’t recognize, how you arch your back when you sit, how the tie on your bikini hip seems to be slipping.

He ignores you like it’s his full-time job for the rest of the day.

When you laugh, he doesn’t look. When you lean over the side of the boat, stretching that stupid bikini across your back, he stares off toward the horizon like he's never had eyes.

Even when Topper elbows him with a dumb grin, looking at your ass, Rafe nods like he didn't hear a thing. He’s tired of pretending he doesn’t want to fuck you into next week every time you so much as tie your hair up, drowning the rest of his beers and pretending you don’t exist.

You glance at him once—he sees it out of the corner of his eye—but he grabs another bottle, and walks to the opposite end of the boat where the sun doesn’t hit as hard and neither do your eyes.

Topper laughs. “You’re going to jump?”

That makes him pause.

He turns just in time to see you laughing on the edge of the deck, one hand thrown up in mock celebration, the other girls cheering behind you. You glance at him and then you jump.

It's a perfect arc, clean splash. Water sprays the edge of the boat, a few people clap, some fucking idiot yells “Holy shit!”

Good, he hopes you drown. 

He stares at the choppy water with his jaw clenched so tight his molars hurt like a bich and a half, fists balled at his sides. Maybe you’ll stay down there long enough to come back with some fucking sense.

The water ripples, then stills.

You don’t come up.

Topper leans over, squinting. “Wait… where’d she go?”

Kelce laughs, a little uneasy.

“She’s probably swimming around the other side.”

You swam varsity for three years, and you used to brag about holding your breath longer than any guy could keep you interested.

Rafe's not worried.

His gaze slides back, still no sign of you, no arms slicing up, no smug-ass hair flip.

She’s fucking with me, he tells himself that twice. You have to be, you're probably under the boat. Waiting, that’s what you do.

“She’s not up yet?”

Rafe’s bottle almost slips from his fingers and clatters to the deck.

“She’s playing,” he mutters, low, tight.

Right?

But he’s already moving, shoving past the cooler, practically snarling by the time he reaches the edge again. His eyes scan every inch of blue. Still nothing. It’s been—what, a minute? More?

His stomach flips, and he dives in. Cold water slaps his skin as he hits, eyes burning, lungs tight with adrenaline. His brain blanks. 

There you are, beneath the hull, hair floating in slow motion, your back to him, arms stretched lazily, not moving. He’s on you in seconds, dragging you up with panic.

You’re limp in his grip.

He surfaces with a gasp, and that’s when you break.

You start laughing, coughing a little, sure, but mostly laughing, head tilted back, water beading down your face.

“What the fuck,” Rafe breathes, stunned, furious, blinking water from his lashes.

“I was bored. You weren’t paying attention to me.”

“I thought—” He can’t finish the sentence. He grips your waist so tight it’ll bruise. “You think this shit is funny?”

You’re smiling again, breath heaving, but smiling.

“You jumped in after me.”

“Drowning is a fucking joke to you?”

You’re giggling still, gasping wet air.

“You jumped,” you breathe, eyes bright with wicked glee.

He doesn’t hear that; his hands are locked on your waist, thumb digging too hard into your hipbone, breath ragged as he snaps.

“What if I hadn’t? Huh? What if you actually—Jesus fuck, do you ever think?”

Your arms wind around his neck like it's the most natural thing in the world, water slicking down your back as you float closer, legs looping behind his thighs.

“You do care about me,” you sing under your breath, a dare.

“I don’t!” he growls.

He’s gripping your ass now. Full palm, busy trying to burn a hole through your skull with his glare.

“I should leave you out here.”

“Okay,” you hum, lashes fluttering.

“Next time, I’ll let you sink.”

 “Liar.”

He looks down, and that’s when it hits him. Your legs wrapped around his waist, toned thighs snug at his hips, your arms hanging from his shoulders while his hands are clenching your ass like it belongs there, your breath mingling with his.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You grin. “Comfortable?” 

“Get the fuck off—” he glowers, but doesn’t move. Neither do you.

He could shove you off, throw you back, and swim away. But he’s standing there in open water with you clinging like a koala, and he’s not doing a goddamn thing about it.

You tilt your head, close enough now that your noses brush.

“I should’ve worn something smaller,” you whisper.

“I’m going to drown you.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Stop that shit."

Your lashes are clumpy from the water and pretty, and your skin is glowing. He's fairly certain the fucking stupid sun cracked open only to sit on your cheekbones.

Your lips brush closer, against the corner again.

“Why not?” Your hands are tangled in the back of his hair now, like they had been last night. “You gonna stop me?”

He doesn’t breathe or move, except for his fingers, which dig tighter into your thighs. You want him distracted; he knows it, and it’s working.

“Y’know I wasn’t actually in danger, right?” you murmur his ear, “I can hold my breath for over two minutes. Coach said I was built for underwater.”

Of course you were built to swim, to tease, to drown men like him.

Siren.

That’s what’s making him crazy. You weren’t scared, but he was. 

You hand slips up the back of his neck, brushing his hair off his nape, comforting him now, rewarding him for worrying.

“I’m serious,” he grits out, but even that sounds like a lie. “Stop looking at me like that."

“Like what?”

You’ve always been better at games than grief. His forehead drops against yours, eyes closed. He’s breathing hard—so hard—and you can feel it, right there between you.

You kiss him then.

Rafe fights it for half a second, less even, then it’s over.

He drags you in, mouth slanting over yours like he wants to leave bruises in the shape of his tongue. His teeth scrape your lip, your breath stutters, and he swallows the sound because it belongs to him.

He’s lost. 

The second your mouth parts for him, Rafe's brain goes quiet, his hands pull you flush to his chest, dragging you against him, craving to climb inside and drown right along with you.

You moan into him, and that’s it. Game over.

His tongue chases after yours, desperate, trying to punish you for making him jump—but your mouth is so sultry, and you taste like trouble, lakewater and a dare he couldn't turn down.

It’s obscene the way you grind against him underwater. He's hard—of course he is—and you’re not helping. You’re rubbing right against it, wet skin gliding with every wave that rocks you together, whimpering like it’s his fault you started this.

“Fuck,” he hisses against your mouth.

You’re still kissing him like you need to.

Rafe breaks it off, panting, his forehead pressed to yours again, eyes wild.

“See?” You purr, drunk on the high, on him, even with your lips kiss-swollen. “Good thing you jumped. Imagine Topper did.”

It lands like a slap.

His hands fall away like you burned him. You’re still clinging to him like some waterlogged siren sent to ruin him. He’s shoving you off, and you let him.

he distance is small, but it feels like a mile as the water chills between you.

Rafe’s chest is heaving, water lapping at his ribs, wanting to soothe him, but nothing can touch the heat in his blood.

It's always you. With your goddamn eyes, and that fucking mouth, and the way you say his name—a knife you want to stick in his ribs to see how deep you'd have to twist before he bled.

“You were thinking about that shit while I was kissing you?”

You tilt your head, calm as glass. He's two seconds from losing it completely, from dragging you under and letting the lake take both of you.

“Not while you were kissing me. After.”

After.

Rafe stares at you, something ugly boiling behind his eyes. His hands curl into fists under the water, wishing he had it in him to just swim the fuck away before he does something he can’t come back from. 

“I should’ve let you die.”

Your mouth twitches in satisfaction.

He surges forward without meaning to, water sloshing around his shoulders as he crowds you again, nose to nose, hate and want and heartbreak written in every jagged line of his face.

“And I should’ve twisted your dick off last night, but I didn’t.”

You go for him again—always—hands ghosting up his shoulders.

He’s afraid of what he’ll do if he keeps seeing you like this, half-naked and dripping and looking at him like he’s the only boy in the world while stabbing him straight through the heart with your words.

“You knew I’d jump after you. You were counting on it.”

You nod. “I was.”

You knew he felt guilty.

He lets go of your wrists, but you’re on him again, sliding back around his waist. Your skin fits to his like it belongs there, your fingers curling around his shoulders with practiced ease. 

Rafe’s body reacts before his brain does—he catches you, like the idiot he is. He grits his teeth as your tits press against his chest, mouth ghosting over his like you’re about to apologize.

But no, you don’t say sorry. You bite him.

Right on his lower lip, and he groans into it, head tilting back because you stole it. The sound claws its way out even though he doesn't want to give it to you.

You make out with him in answer.

He shouldn’t let you. He knows it once his hands get on your rack, knows it when your tongue slips past his lips again, and he doesn’t stop you like the dumb broad he is.

You hum, pleased while he’s melting into it, mirroring your rhythm, kissing you as the fool who doesn’t remember what came out of your mouth.

He breaks it off to breathe, and a second later, you swim off. Your laugh carries over the water as you paddle toward the boat, lazy, unbothered, the picture of summer mischief.

Rafe stays frozen in place for a moment, water up to his chest, mouth still stinging from your bite. His heart’s pounding. Thudding so loud it echoes in his ears over the sound of the lake

What the fuck just happened?

By the time he climbs back onto the boat, seething and horny, you’re already flopped back in your spot like a satisfied cat, sunglasses on, mouth smug.

He yanks a towel off the bench, scrubbing at his face praying it’ll erase the past five minutes, scrubbing you out of his system. 

You peek at him over the rim of your glasses, your expression all mockery, and know it when he still wants to go back in the water with you, drown himself again.

He always should’ve known better with you.

[slutforvika]

coming back home after sneaking out just to find your ex, violet, there too

warnings: fingering (reader receives), vi calls reader ‘slut,” divider: jimzittos

you were out at a party, having the time of your life. you met a girl there and really hit it off — exchanging numbers, dancing together, drinking together.

you sneak back through your window the faint smell of smoke and a candle filling up your dim room. you close the window, dialing the girls number on your phone.

“hey! i made it home safe,” you say, smiling as you talk to her. “yeah! i really enjoyed tonight — i’d love to meet with you again,” you continue, taking off your heels and throwing them on the floor. “mmhm sounds perfect! i’ll see you then,” you say, hanging up, and shortly after slipping off your dress, stepping out of it.

“sneaking out now huh?” a familiar voice says, you gasping before turning to your bed. it was vi, your ex, smoking a cigarette while laying on your bed. “who was on the phone with you?” she continues.

“what the fuck are you doing in my room violet?!” you whisper-yell, using your arms to cover yourself, a quiet laugh escaping her mouth, but you’re unamused. “are you just gonna laugh or tell me? who i’m on the phone with is none of your business, we aren’t even together anymore!”

“cmere,” she says, you easing your brows at her staying in the same place. “oh so now you wanna play hard to get? after you acted like a slut at whatever party you were at?” she says, taking another drag from her cigarette.

you missed her probably more than you should. i mean you literally fucked yourself thinking about her and it’s only been a month since the break up… so you gave in.

you slowly walk to her, your arms moving from your body and to your sides. you stand by your nightstand, facing vi who looks up at you while blowing smoke from her nose. “so you gonna answer who you were talking to?”

“just a girl i met at the party…” you say, her humming in response before one of her hands meet your waist, the soft skin turning cold by the touch of her hand. she looks up at you again, the cigarette meeting her mouth before using both her hands to pull you on top of her, straddling her waist.

looking down at her sharp features in the dim light, you feel yourself getting soaked when her hands start roaming your skin, “did you miss me?” she whispers, the cigarette still between her lips.

“i —“ you say, her raising her brows. “yes,, so much,” you say just above a whisper. her hand meets the waistband of your black panties, you letting out a deep breath.

“is this okay?” she asks, you nodding yes in return. she pulls them down ever so slightly, two fingers meeting your clit. “fuck — you’re soaked,” she says, the same two fingers stopping at your entrance for a second before pushing inside of you, a gasp coming from your lips. “go on, ride my fingers. show me how much you missed me,” she says.

without hesitation, you begin rocking your body forward and back on her fingers, quiet whimpers falling from your lips. “oh fuckk,” you cry, rocking faster.

she watches your with possessive eyes, blowing smoke out of her mouth as you ride her fingers. her free hand takes the cig from her mouth and pushes it into your mouth, you taking a drag with a cough, her smiling up at you.

you blow out the smoke with a moan, her thumb meeting your clit, slowly circling it. she gives you another drag before you move your body down and meeting lips with hers, whining against them as you blow smoke into her mouth, her biting your bottom lip.

you tighten around her fingers, the knot in your stomach coming undone. “i’m cumming — !” you say, your juices dripping down her fingers. “fuck…” you say, laying on top of her.

“i missed you too.” she says.

© all works by slutforvika, give creds if you take inspo

[joyswonderland1108]

🪞💍 JIKOOK LIVE REPORT – JULY 14TH: CHAOS, LIP BALM, AND UNHOLY VIBES (Part 1)

Note: This post might, once again, be very messy. And by "might" I mean "definitely." But we’re working with slightly more structure this time because I’m writing this while actually watching the live. Yes. In real-time. Reporting from the trenches. HOWEVER, because Tumblr hates joy and limits media posts to one video per post (how very anti-Jikook of you, Tumblr), I’ll be attaching what I can—screenshots, links, whatever unhinged content Twitter has to offer. Bear with me. It’s gonna be another Very Chaotic Jikook Post™.

✨ Opening Scene: Empty Chairs, “Still Life,” and Off-Camera Giggles

Imagine opening the live and the first thing you see is two empty chairs. Okay, Shakespeare. You’re telling me Jikook ghosted us for a whole month, then decided to make their ✨grand return✨ by giving us 15 seconds of symbolic empty chairs while “Still Life” by RM plays in the background? Poetic cinema. Give them Oscars.

AND THEN—you hear them giggling. GIGGLING. From off-frame. Like, sir? Are you telling me you pressed “go live” then hid behind the camera to laugh in sync before appearing like two twinks in a sitcom intro? Are you kidding me?

Then, finally, they grace the screen. The chaotic gay duo themselves. I was not ready.

🪙 The Silver Day Coincidence (or… not)

Oh, and did I mention? This live happened on July 14th, also known in Korea as... Silver Day. You know, that totally casual and not loaded with meaning couples' holiday where people exchange silver jewelry as a sign of commitment.

COMMITMENT. SILVER. COUPLES. JIKOOK. Tell me again how everything is a coincidence—I dare you. Literally ghosted for a month then pop up on a couples' holiday like “hey besties 😊” with matching soul energy? Yeah okay.

🍱 Time Zones, Lies, and Bro Hugs That Aren’t Bro Hugs

Jimin, soft-voiced and bright-eyed, says it’s lunchtime in Korea. Lovely! Thank you for sharing. But BOY—it was 5 A.M. for me. I was in REM stage 4, face smashed into my pillow, dreaming of simpler times. I woke up to find out that I missed THE LIVE OF THE CENTURY because our gay icons decided to go live during breakfast. I’m suing. Actually, i forgive you, because love is blind and I’m a clown.

Also, Jimin just casually throws in, “It’s been a while.” OH, YOU THINK? You made us all emotionally dependent on your chaotic duo lives and then dipped for a whole month like you were never here. But of course, all is forgiven. Because... they were together. So.. I'll allow it.

🤝 Let’s Talk About That Hug

So not even THREE MINUTES into the live and what do we get? A hug. Not just any hug. Not a side-pat. Not a “bro” arm grab. No. Jungkook hooks his chin on Jimin’s shoulder. Jimin cradles JK’s head like a precious Victorian orphan.

YEAH. Just “bros being bros,” right? Very heterosexual. June ended but these two renewed their pride subscription for the next 12 months. Auto-renewal ON. Jikook said Pride is a year-long membership and they are now on the deluxe gay tier with free rainbow refills. This is what we mean when we say “soft launch wedding content.”

💬 JK Says It’s “More Comfortable” With Just the Two of Them

Jungkook then has the NERVE to say doing lives with just the two of them is “more comfortable.” Oh, so you’re comfortable now? You’re feeling good? Relaxed? In your element? Cozy, even?

HUH. Why is he always proving the “JK is being forced” weirdos wrong so quickly? Like clockwork. “It’s more comfortable,” he says. Okay, homo. 🙄

💄 Lip balm: The Erotic Tale 🫦

This is where I start losing grip on reality.

JK goes off-screen to grab his lip balm. Normal. Fine. Then he comes back and starts hovering around Jimin, he decides Jimin’s lips are dry (they weren’t), like, “Hmm... maybe you need lip balm too 😏.” He literally tries to APPLY IT for him. Sir. If you want to kiss just say that. There’s no need for this oily, waxy foreplay.

🍝 “It Was Just Us Home Today”

They tell us today was their day off and the members all went out, so it was just Jikook at home. Oh and “someone from protocol.” Because apparently someone at HYBE realized you cannot leave Jikook alone in a house with WiFi and a camera.

Jikook being unsupervised = live going feral in under 10 minutes. Even WITH a staff member present, it was still giving “we’re two seconds away from kissing on camera.” Whose idea was this? Someone give that staff member a raise for witnessing the most rainbow-coded hour of BTS history.

🖼️ The Picture Segment (aka Emotional Damage)

Jikook, being the unserious duo they are, decide to show us very flattering pics of themselves. The type you’d normally bury in your camera roll under 12 folders. But they just show them. Proudly. JK even recreates the same pose from one of them ON CAMERA. Like. Boy.

But the real mystery: there was a photo they refused to show us. Like “oops no can’t show that one teehee.” JIMIN. WHAT. WAS. IT. You can’t just dangle forbidden content like that. My imagination is already conjuring scenarios. And none of them are safe for work.

🎤 JK Singing, Chest Touching, Pinky Promises, Oh My

Okay. JK watches Jimin sleep. Films him sleeping. Jimin tells us this ON LIVE. With a smile. Like it’s a cute anecdote.

Sir. That’s an AO3 summary. I’ve read this fic. It’s tagged “soft yandere Jungkook” and “obsessed but in love.”

Then, JK starts singing to Jimin. Touches his chest. Again. Like that’s just a regular Friday thing. They make pinky promises with all the intensity of a vow renewal ceremony. Honestly, at this point they might as well call their lives The Real Housewives of Bangtan: Jikook Edition.

🛍️ Shopping with Yoongi and Joon & The Inspection™

Jimin shares a wholesome little story about shopping with Yoongi and Namjoon. JK wasn't there but from what I understood, he might have wanted to go. In any case, Jimin went, came back with stuff, and JK—like the curious man he is—asks about it.

But here’s the thing: JK doesn’t just ask with his mouth. No no. He touches Jimin’s chest to “inspect” if the top is the one he bought. Jungkook-ssi. There are other ways to verify a shirt. But you chose hands-on validation. Bold of you.

https://x.com/13_KM_13/status/1944819903384387955

💬 The "Invasion of Privacy" Rant We Needed

And then—serious moment—Jikook called out the fact that people tried to access their accounts. 😐

Some clowns tried to dig into their accounts like it’s a game of The Sims. The calm, deadpan way they said, “There’s no more info to find anyway,” is both iconic and depressing. Translation: Y’all ain’t gonna find what you think you’re gonna find. Like… why are y’all like this? Are you so desperate to “prove” something that you’re willing to literally break the law? News flash: that’s an actual CRIME. And if HYBE ever decides to press charges? Bye jail.

Leave their privacy alone. Jimin and JK have already had enough of that line crossed. Be normal for once.

🎶 JK Plays “Golden” and Jimin Immediately Goes Into Defense Mode

JK plays Golden by K-pop Demon Hunters and the moment it starts, Jimin goes: “But Jungkook did it first!!! 😤” BABE. No one even accused anyone of copying yet. You were READY. Standing up for your man before anyone even opened their mouth. Iconic behavior.

JK just says: “If it’s good, it’s good.” Like the chillest, most supportive boyfriend ever. Yin and yang, honestly.

💀 The Comment Section Was a War Zone

Before i forget, let’s talk about those damn comments.

Some Cultist typed: “CHEATER JUNGKOOK.” Because he was doing a live with Jimin instead of Tae. I am not joking. Another wrote: “Jungkook please tell me you miss Taehyung.”

GUYS. WHAT. This is not a custody battle. Jikook being in a live together does not mean someone is cheating, dying, or divorcing. This is not a breakup announcement. Why are you acting like Tae is trapped in a basement?

Y’all need to go outside. Drink some water. Smell a flower.

🔚 Cliffhanger Ending Because I’m Dramatic Like That

Anyway. That was only Part 1. The live is almost 2 hours long and I haven’t even covered half of it. So yes, I’m pulling a Netflix and ending this post on a cliffhanger. Stay tuned for Part 2, which will arrive when my soul recovers and my brain stops buffering. (Actually my back hurts and my ass is flat now)

Will it be tomorrow? Probably. Will it be even more chaotic? Definitely. Will Jikook continue to act like we’re watching their honeymoon vlog? Without a doubt.

[kuronarnze]

a/n: another sae oneshot... I think I have an obsession with writing sae 💔💔 enjoy reading !!

Itoshi Sae x Reader !

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

"If we had more time"

In which... you and Sae fall in love again after years apart—

only to realize he was never yours to keep.

Just borrowed time…

and a goodbye written in his own handwriting.

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

You and Sae had always been an odd match.

He was quiet. You were not.

He was precise, cold, and blunt. You were warm, expressive, and full of life.

And yet, somehow—you fit.

In the cracks between his schedule and silence, he let you in.

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

You met again in Tokyo after years apart. He’d just returned from Spain. You were working nearby. The first time he saw you again, he didn’t say a word.

Just stared.

You raised a brow. “What, no ‘long time no see’?”

He blinked. “You’re taller.”

You snorted. “So are you. And more awkward.”

He didn’t deny it. But you saw the edge of his mouth twitch. That was his version of a smile. You missed that.

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

The weeks passed. He asked to see you more often.

Sometimes you met at a quiet café.

Other days, you just walked in silence, listening to the city breathe around you.

You never talked about the past—not the sudden distance, not the pain.

You didn’t need to.

Sae showed his love in little ways.

An umbrella waiting at your door before the rain started.

A scarf handed to you without a word when the wind got colder.

Him sitting beside you quietly, letting your voice fill the air as you rambled about your day.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was real.

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

One night, while watching the stars from the rooftop of his apartment, he looked over and whispered,

“If I asked you to stay with me, would you?”

You blinked, confused. “Stay with you?”

“Here. In Tokyo. Even if I leave again for matches. Even if I’m gone more than I’m here.”

You swallowed.

“If it means being with you… yes.”

He turned away, and you saw it—his eyes glistened. Just for a second.

“Good,” he said softly. “That’s good.”

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

The next few days were perfect.

He kissed your forehead before matches.

Left little notes for you when he knew you’d sleep in.

He held your hand like he never wanted to let go.

You should’ve known.

The way he stared at you a little too long.

The way he held you tighter each night.

The way he whispered “I love you” with something like desperation in his voice.

You should’ve known.

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

It came on a rainy Wednesday.

You woke up and the apartment was quiet.

His jacket was gone.

No note.

No calls.

Nothing.

You called his phone—no answer.

You tried the team. They said he was “on leave.”

Leave?

Panic began to bloom.

And then—

a small letter arrived at your door, sealed in Sae’s handwriting.

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

I’m sorry I didn’t say this sooner.

I didn’t want to ruin what we had.

But I’ve known for months now.

There’s something wrong with my heart.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

The doctors in Spain told me it’s degenerative. That I might have a few years, maybe less, if untreated.

The only way to live is to step away from the game. From the world I built everything on.

But I’m selfish. I wanted just a little more time with you.

I wanted to love you once in this lifetime.

Even if it meant disappearing before it got worse.

Please don’t wait for me.

Please don’t hate me.

Thank you for giving me the happiest version of myself, even if it was borrowed time.

— Sae

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

Your fingers trembled.

The room swam.

You didn’t know if he was in Spain. If he was in surgery.

If he was okay. If he was—

No.

You refused to believe it.

You held the letter to your chest and whispered,

“I would’ve stayed, Sae. I would’ve stayed even if you had no time left at all.”

But he was gone.

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

Sometimes you still see him.

In the rain, under umbrellas.

On rooftops, in stars.

You don’t know if he’s alive or if he just didn’t want you to see him fade.

But every year, on the anniversary of that letter, you receive a single envelope.

No return address. No name.

Just a pressed flower.

Your favorite kind.

And a postcard that says:

“Still thinking of you.”

You were his peace. He was your heart.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough—even if the story never got to finish the way it was supposed to.

‧₊˚🪾✩ ₊˚🍂⊹♡

aw hell yeah I'm sick and angst is my medicine 😈 I'm not so good at writing angst sooo this is prob my like uh 3rd? 4th? 5th? Angst fic !! Thank you sm for reading & have a nice day 🫶💗 THANK YOU SM FOR REQUESTING ANON !!

[astrae4]

WHY DO YOU DENY YOURSELF—HEAVEN? | Asakura Jo

pairings — &team’s Jo x reader (non-idol au)

genre — romance & angst

warnings — (wc. 2.3k) could be suggestive, jo’s lowkey hurting n crazy obsessed. um..could be borderline yandere

note — trust me when i say read this while listening to love drought by beyonce.

more works: navigation | &team!masterlist

I SHOULD’VE SAID NO.

I should’ve told Maki I was busy. Lied. Said I was tired. Said I had vocal lessons, or dance practice, or literally anything that kept me from walking into this house—into your house.

But the moment he sent me that text—

“Come over. Mom made too much dinner.”

—I said yes. So fast. Like I was waiting for the excuse.

And now I’m here.

Shoes lined up neatly at the door, the scent of soy and ginger and home-cooked something curling into my lungs like memory. I can hear Maki in the kitchen, clattering dishes, humming something off-key. I should go help. I should move.

But you’re sitting there.

Cross-legged on the living room floor, back to me, wearing that same hoodie you always wear when you’re home—too big, sleeves half-eaten by your hands. You’re flipping through a book, mouthing words under your breath like no one’s listening. And I know I should say something—a soft “Hi” or at least clear my throat—but I can’t.

I can’t—because the moment I see you, it’s like everything else dulls.

The lights dim.

The sounds flatten.

And all I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat—pounding, reckless, completely untamed.

You don’t even know what you do to me.

You never have.

Not when you passed me your umbrella at the station last winter.

Not when you laughed too hard at that dumb pun I made last spring.

Not even last month, when your fingers brushed mine as you passed the soy sauce across the table and I spent the entire ride home gripping the edge of my seat to keep myself from losing my mind.

You are Maki’s sister.

You are off-limits.

You are everything.

It’s a sick kind of irony. The kind that makes my chest tight and my head foggy. The kind that makes me breathless for no reason. I want so badly to not feel this way. So so badly—to unlearn the way my eyes find you even in a room full of people. But I can’t.

And the worst part?

You smile at me.

Like you don’t know what it does. Like you don’t know how my head spirals for days just thinking about it. Like you don’t know you’ve just lit something inside me I’ve been trying to snuff out since the moment we met.

“Oh—Jo, hi!”

Your voice cracks a little when you say my name. Like you weren’t expecting me. Like maybe… maybe you’re a little flustered too.

Fuck.

Don’t read into it.

Don’t be stupid.

Don’t let hope in.

I manage a nod. Just that. Not even a full “Hi.” Because if I open my mouth, I don’t know what’s going to come out.

“You look tired,” you say, standing now, closing the gap between us. You’re closer than you should be. Always so close. And your fingers reach out like you might—like you’re thinking of brushing a loose strand of hair from my face.

I take a half-step back, holding my breath slightly. It’s subtle. You probably don’t even notice. But I feel it—like a stab.

Because all I want to do is lean in.

Press my forehead to yours and say, “Please stop looking at me like that. Please stop being so kind. Or don’t—just… tell me it’s okay to want you.”

But I can’t.

Because Maki trusts me.

Because I’m supposed to be the safe one.

Because the moment I touch you, I won’t be able to stop.

And Jo doesn’t do that. Jo knows better. Jo keeps his feelings quiet.

Jo lives with it.

So I just smile.

Soft. Controlled. Fragile.

And I say, “I’m fine. Thanks.”

But inside?

Inside, I’m screaming.

There’s laughter.

Chopsticks clicking.

Maki’s mom is asking me if I want more rice, and I nod because it’s automatic, because I’m polite, because that’s what Jo does.

But I can’t taste anything.

All I can see is you—right there across from me, smiling as you nudge Maki’s arm and call him annoying for hogging the tofu.

And suddenly I can’t breathe.

I don’t know when it started.

Maybe it was last year. Maybe last week. Maybe it was that first night I heard your laugh from the hallway and thought, That sound could ruin me.

But ever since—

Everywhere I go, I see you.

In the curls of steam rising from tea cups.

In the way certain songs just ache now.

In the backs of strangers who walk with the same sway in their step.

In the trinkets I buy for you—making sure to spray my perfume so you’d smell like me.

You’ve invaded me. All of me. Quietly. Completely.

I can’t look away from you, and I can’t let myself look at you for too long.

It’s unbearable. This stupid in-between.

This pretending like I don’t want to memorize the way you hold your chopsticks or tuck your hair behind your ear when you lean forward to laugh.

You’re not even trying.

You’re just… existing. And it’s killing me.

You reach to refill Maki’s glass. Your fingers brush mine for a second—one, two heartbeats—and my throat clenches so hard I have to force down a cough.

You don’t even notice. You’re busy asking if anyone wants more side dishes.

And I—I sit here.

Smiling.

Nodding.

Laughing when it’s expected.

Answering when I’m spoken to.

But inside, I’m falling apart.

I want you.

More than I’ve ever wanted anything.

And it’s not just attraction—it’s bone-deep, soul-deep.

It’s that I notice when you’ve had a long day before you even speak. It’s that your silence says more to me than most people’s shouting.

I want to make you tea when your throat hurts.

I want to hear you complain about Maki in that low mutter you think no one hears.

I want to be the one who knows all the versions of you—not just the ones you show to family.

But I can’t.

I won’t.

Because you’re his sister.

Because that line is drawn in permanent ink, and crossing it would mean tearing apart something that’s never been mine to begin with.

And still—I sit here.

Dinner table. Normal setting.

Everyone’s happy. Everyone is full.

Except me.

Because I’m starving.

For you.

“You want to see the garden?”

You say it so casually.

A smile, a tilt of your head, your voice threading through me like sugar through tea.

And I say yes. Of course I say yes.

Because there’s no world where I say no to you.

I follow you out into the dark, barefoot on the back step, the air humid and thick with the scent of basil and crushed leaves. The light above the door flickers once before staying steady. Your shoulder brushes mine as you pass through the little gate, and my breath catches so hard I nearly choke on it.

You’re showing me your plants.

You’re pointing at tomatoes. Laughing about a failed strawberry pot. Telling me how the rosemary always overgrows no matter what.

I nod.

I smile.

But I don’t hear a word.

Because all I can think is:

You have no idea what you’re doing to me.

You have no idea what you’ve done.

This garden—this whole night—it’s not a casual thing for me. It’s sacred.

I will remember this moment until the day I die.

The moonlight catching the curve of your cheek. The way you talk with your hands when you’re excited. The tiny fleck of soil on your wrist you don’t know is there.

And the worst part?

You trust me.

You trust me enough to bring me out here. To talk to me about your little basil sprouts and the birds that keep stealing seeds and the sun that hits your favorite flowers best at noon.

And I—I’m standing here like a man possessed.

My hands are clenched in my pockets. My nails are digging into my palms. I am one breath away from ruining everything.

Because I want to kiss you.

No. I want to devour you.

I want to press you against the wooden fence and whisper everything I’ve locked in my throat since I first saw you that summer with wet hair and a juice box in your hand.

I want to tell you how your smile makes me dizzy.

How I replay every conversation we’ve ever had in my head like a favorite song.

How I’ve written entire verses I’ll never sing because they sound too much like your name.

You don’t get it.

This isn’t a crush.

This is something biological. Primal. Like my body recognizes you before my brain does.

And every second I spend near you is a second I’m burning alive just to keep the peace.

“Jo?”

Your voice is soft.

You’ve turned to face me, one hand resting gently on the rosemary. Because I’m staring.

Because I haven’t said anything in too long.

Because I’m not okay.

And you look at me—open, unguarded—like you’d trust me with anything.

And it ruins me.

Because I’d never betray that trust.

But I already have.

Just by feeling this much.

“I—”

I try to speak. I really do.

But I feel it—the crack. The break. The shattering inside my ribs.

And I can’t take it anymore.

The way you look at me like I’m safe.

Like I haven’t been thinking about kissing you for a year straight.

Like I haven’t built entire fantasies out of your laughter just to survive the days I don’t see you.

My mouth opens. Closes.

I try to swallow it down like I always do.

But my throat’s too tight. My chest is too full. And before I know it—

The words are falling out. Quiet. Hoarse. Real.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

My voice shakes.

I can feel it coming undone in my ribs.

“I shouldn’t—” I look down, anywhere but at you. “I shouldn’t feel this way. About you. I—I try so hard not to, I swear. But it doesn’t stop. It never stops.”

My breath hitches.

I clench my hands into fists to keep them from trembling.

And still, my eyes burn.

“Every time I see you, it gets worse.”

My voice breaks. Quiet. Like a confession in a chapel.

“I hear your voice, and my chest hurts. I remember things you said once, months ago, and I replay them like they mean more than they do. I—I can’t help it. I just…”

I laugh. Not really. Just the sound of disbelief slipping out of me.

“I want you. So much it scares me.”

The silence after that is deafening.

Not even the wind moves.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, softer this time. Choked. “For feeling this much. For looking at you like this. For not being able to stop.”

I lift my eyes, finally—and they sting.

I’m not crying, not really. But I’m close.

And I think you know that.

You’ve always been good at reading me, haven’t you?

You step forward.

You reach for me.

Your hand, light on my sleeve, your eyes searching mine with something that makes my knees threaten to buckle. My breath hitches—because this can’t be happening. You shouldn’t be this close. You shouldn’t look at me like that.

But you are.

And then—

You say it. Soft. Almost like it’s a secret.

“I like you too, Jo.”

Your voice wavers. “I think I’ve liked you for a while.”

The world slows.

My ears ring.

You’re right here. Inches away. And your words are honey. They melt into me. So slow. So real. And I think I forget how to stand.

But I don’t speak. Not yet.

Because you’re still talking.

Still nervously twisting the hem of your shirt, still trying to find the courage to meet my eyes.

And all I can think is:

Please. Please say more. Keep going. Let me live in this moment.

Because if I speak too soon, I’ll ruin it. If I breathe wrong, I might explode.

My heart is shaking. My hands are shaking, clenched so hard it hurts.

I’ve imagined this a thousand times and none of it prepared me for the realness of you—right here, soft and warm and mine, for a second.

You glance up finally, voice barely above a whisper.

“If… if you still want me.”

Still want you?

I almost laugh.

I’ve never stopped.

I can’t take it anymore. My voice trembles like it’s been underwater for months when I finally ask—

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod.

And that’s it.

The last thread of restraint snaps.

I move carefully at first.

One hand to your cheek.

I lean in slow, like I’ll scare you if I go too fast, like I’m afraid you’ll disappear.

Our lips meet.

Soft. Barely there.

And for one blissful, trembling second, it’s all shy wonder and stilled time.

But then—

Then something breaks.

I feel it in your exhale.

In the way you press closer.

In the way my fingers tighten against your waist like they’ve been waiting for permission to hold you properly.

And I can’t pretend anymore.

The second kiss isn’t shy.

It’s years of silence breaking all at once.

It’s months of stolen glances, of late-night dreams, of sitting across from you at dinner still starving.

I kiss you like I’m afraid I’ll never get the chance again.

Like I’ll wake up and find it was a dream.

Like if I stop now, I’ll never survive the hunger I’ve carried this long.

My hands are in your hair. Your lips part just enough to steal my breath. You gasp against me and I swear, I see stars behind my eyelids.

You pull back a little, dazed. Chest rising too fast.

And I..

I’m breathless too. I press my forehead to yours. Eyes shut, yet the only thing I could think of was your lips. I want more. I want so much more that oxygen isn’t even my main necessity anymore.

In fact, in this moment I wished oxygen wasn’t as important so I could feel your soft lips for all of eternity.

Still. I can’t scare you away. No. Not after restraining myself for so long.

I whisper gently, my thumb caressing your cheek.

“Let me kiss you again. Please.”

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @hyeinsveil @makixroll

NETWORKS: @lune-net @k-films @k-labels

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[fandomfablesunleashed]

Chosen fate

Zoro x reader

Summary: The day Zoro’s soulmate mark appeared, he decided it didn’t change anything. Despite the mark, he remained fully focused on his goal

Words: 0.8k

Notes: Something short to hopefully get me back into writing.

English is not my first language

Masterlist

It happened during a calm morning at sea. The Thousand Sunny sailed over still waters, the ocean unusually gentle. Crew members were spread out on the deck, enjoying a rare moment of peace. Zoro took this time to nap right there, his swords by his side, until a burning sensation flared across his left wrist, waking him immediately.

“What the hell…?” he muttered, scrutinizing his hand.

A name had appeared. Red ink, scrawled like fire across his calloused skin. It glowed faintly before blending in, like it had always been there.

“Zoro?” you asked, moving closer. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Luffy bounced over. “Whoa! Did you burn your hand or something?”

“No,” Zoro muttered, examining his wrist. “It’s a name.”

At once, everyone looked up and hurried over.

“A name?” Sanji’s eyes narrowed. “You mean a soulmate mark?”

“Wait, for real?!” Usopp shouted, already halfway to Zoro. “That’s, like, super rare!”

Chopper skidded to a stop beside them. “Does it hurt? Do you feel different?! Can I see?!”

Zoro groaned but didn't pull away as the little reindeer observed his hand with sparkling eyes.

Brook twirled his cane. “Ah, to be connected across by fate! Yohohoho! I would’ve cried… if I had eyes.”

Robin strolled over more calmly, but even she looked intrigued. “Some say those names are forged by destiny itself.”

“I think it’s dumb,” Zoro stated. “Don’t care who it is.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re really not even curious?”

“No. Doesn’t matter. My only goal is to be the world’s greatest swordsman. This changes nothing.”

“You’re telling me,” Nami said, folding her arms, “that a literal fated soulmate mark appears on your hand, and you don’t even want to know who it is?”

Zoro shrugged. “Nope.”

Days passed. Months passed. Even years. He never looked for the person. Never searched. Never talked about it or entertained crew teasing. He trained harder, like the mark had challenged his focus. He either treated it like he could sweat it out or like it was a ghost on his hand, nothing else.

Until the day came and he did become the world's greatest swordsman.

You were there. Of course you were. Right by his side, where you'd always been. No title or accolade could ever change how you saw him, but the sight of him standing tall, victorious with his dream accomplished, brought tears to your eyes. You had watched him bleed for this. Fight for it. Suffer for it. And now, he had done it.

You stepped forward, heart full, ready to offer your congratulations the moment he came into reach. But he didn’t give you the chance. His lips met yours, steady and certain, like he’d decided and didn’t need your permission to follow it. Like it had been decided long ago, and he’d simply been holding out for the right moment to act.

You pulled back, stunned. “What about your soulmate?"

“Still don’t care,” he said simply.

“But… that’s fate, Zoro.”

“I don’t follow fate. I follow what I choose. And I choose you.”

You stood there in silence. All this time, you had hidden your mark beneath a simple bracelet. It had been your choice. You had waited for this.

With trembling fingers, you unclasped the bracelet and let it fall to the ground. Your hand was bare now. The name stood out.

Roronoa Zoro.

He stared. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

“Why… why have you never shown me this before?”

“Because you never cared about the soulmate thing,” you said quietly. “And I didn’t want to get in the way of your dream. I didn’t want to be the thing that slowed you down.”

His jaw clenched. His brows drew low. “Stupid.”

“Hey!” you snapped, “I also didn’t want you to feel obligated or anything…” you trailed off. “I wanted you to choose me because you desired to do so…”

He appeared to be deep in thought. “So let me get this straight,” he said, lifting his arm, baring the name burned into his wrist. “You’ve had my name this whole time while I’ve been walking around with some random one on mine?”

You reached for his wrist. “That’s my name”

Zoro blinked, his eye moving from your face to the mark on his skin. “But… your name is—”

You shook your head, cutting him off. “No. That’s the name I chose for myself. The name I gave the world. But the one on your hand…” Your voice faltered slightly as your fingers paused, hovering just above the ink etched into his skin. “That’s the name I was given.”

Zoro looked down at the mark again, as if seeing it for the first time—not as some irrelevant scribble on his skin, but as you. The real you. The one he'd already chosen, long before he knew the truth.

“… So all this time,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I had you. And didn’t even know it.” 

You nodded. “And I had you. But I knew.”

“I don’t care what name is written on my skin,” he said, with a conviction so strong it felt like his new vow. “I care about the one I fought beside. The one I argued with. Laughed with. Bled with. That’s the one I chose. It was always you. Before I even knew fate had anything to say about it.”

[echantedtoon]

Ok! What if Cookies with witch reader have a child, but the child is also human and everyone is surprised cuz it's never happened before?!:0

Im still not taking requests but I'll do this one since it's interesting. how exactly this would work or happen with the size difference? The witches are magic. They either magically made the cookie husbands bigger or made themselves smaller for a baby to happen. Boom. Skipping that part over. I'll only do three cookies tho.

SHADOW MILK COOKIE:

-You'd think that someone who was imprisoned by witches would absolutely detest every single one right? ...Well many would be surprised to see Shadow Milk Cookie literally sitting on the shoulder of his gigantic wife in a witch hat. Pure Vanilla Cookie is shooketh when he first learns that. "Shadow Milk Cookie!! Do not attempt to corrupt the witch! I won't let you harm her!" SMC gets very offended by PV's accusations. "I'm not corrupting her!! SHE'S MY WIFE!!" "Oh. My apologies then for-....Wait." It takes poor PV a while to process his words.

-It's one thing to expect a baby dough, but everyone is shocked(and honestly horrified-) that SHADOW MILK COOKIE is the father. Every witch and Ancient is keeping a close eye on him with doesn't help his nerves at all in this situation. He's also nervous about what's going on with this. There's never been anything like this before especially with a corrupted evil cookie like him. When the baby is born he's not allowed to see them for almost three months which angers him and drives his anxiety through the roof. The witches are trying to decide if he's even worthy to see the baby or his wife again, but they reluctantly agree under H E A V Y supervision. SMC is nearly fainting when he's finally able to see both of you and there every witch in existence there staring at him.

-He's not allowed more than a yard near of the baby but you're happy to show him your little miracle. He's absolutely floored when he seems a baby human wrapped up in a blanket and cooing at everyone. White hair and blue eyes looking around at everyone. It's the most helpless, tiniest human he's ever seen despite the baby still being like a while foot bigger than he is, but he's mesmerized by how perfect they are. Now it's up to him whether or not he earned the right to be in his baby's life, but for now he cries seeing his chubby baby.

PURE VANILLA COOKIE:

-Would be the BEST dad ever whether it's a regular baby dough or a human baby. Everyone is still surprised by the fact his witch wife is expecting a baby but he quickly praises it as a miracle beyond miracles and is VERY excited to be a father. He'd probably insist for their safety that she either spend the entire time shrunk in the Vanilla Kingdom or insists that you stay with the other witches to ensure they're absolute safety especially if any of the Beasts or Dark Enchantress Cookie hears of this miracle.

-Unlike SMC he's allowed to be there during and after the birth of his baby, probably even gets magically hocus pocused into being large too so he can properly hold them. He's crying happily much to everyone's happiness holding a perfect blonde human baby in his arms. He's literally going to be the best dad ever.

BURNING SPICE COOKIE:

-HOW and WHY this man's bagged himself a hot giant witch wife is anyone's guess, but however it happened, he's VERY Territorial and protective over her. Everyone's even more concerned about Burning Spice having a witch wife including the other Beasts like Shadow Milk Cookie. Because...Yeah. SMC is deceitful but he's not as aggressive as Burning Spice and would be a better(aka safer) cookie to deal with at least temper wise and he could be reasoned/compromised with. BS..not so much. In fact there was a pretty awkward misunderstanding between Burning Spice and Golden Cheese Cookie when his wife was visiting him in her smol form

-"BURNING SPICE COOKIE!! I know you absolutely loathe me for allegedly 'stealing' your soul jam, but this is a new low even for you!! I WON'T LET YOU HARM HER!!"

"Huh? What are you on about, Birdie?"

"HER?!" She gestures to you, literally being carried in one of his arms, as she points her spear at Burning Spice's head. "I WON'T ALLOW YOU TO TAKE THAT WITCH HOSTAGE!!"

It finally clicks in his head. "She's not a hostage!! SHE'S MY FUDGING WIFE!!" He literally bellows at her holding you protectively away from her.

-Golden Cheese Cookie doesn't believe him and thus a massive fight breaks our, only stopping because you get between them and manage to convince her(after literally three hours of having to convince her you weren't under some spell or being forced to say this-) that you were literally married and your husband was showing you his latest destruction of a mountain he did in your honor that was ruined by Golden Cheese thinking understably that you were in immediate danger. Everyone who hears about this news is horrified or afraid or confused other than Nutmeg Tiger Cookie whom was his best man at the eloping ceremony.

-When baby comes around it's a LOT harder to convince the other witches to let BS near them, and it doesn't help he's literally causing destruction out of the stress and anxiety of being away from you and his baby for so long. It's the same situation as SMC but with more hard glares and actual chains and forks pointed at him in case he tried something. He was rarely intimidated but this?...Yeah he was pretty scared of so many holy beings around him, even more stunned seeing the baby sound asleep in your lap facing him. Unruly black hair and tired red eyes blinking around. Y'know that over stuffed plush of Burning Spice Cookie? Yeah. He has the chunkiest babies out of everyone and he's immediately reminded of that joke plush SMC made of him. He's both in awe and doesn't quite know how to feel about it.