#like she isn’t going to sit around and wait for him

[jungkooklover777]

𝑀𝑦 𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑜 ; clark kent / superman

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

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

trope: office romance + coworkers to friends to lovers.

genre: fluff + some angst + slow burn romance.

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

word count: 11,031.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knock on his door and open it.

“Alright, Kent— oh. Here she is.”

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

Damn, he’s kinda big.

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

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

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

You hope your ogling isn’t obvious.

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

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

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

AND HE HAS DIMPLES?! HOLY FUCKIN’ SHIT!

“It’s nice to meet you.”

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

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

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

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

Of course this had to happen to you.

“Oh, okay.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay, Clark—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whaaat?” The guy laughs in surprise.

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

What do you say to that? Truly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, what are the plans for today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, let’s get started.”

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

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

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

“L/n.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most of the people leave but some stay behind.

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

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

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

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

“Bitch.” He mutters to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He holds the elevator for you and you gulp nervously.

“What… was that?” You dare ask.

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t even try.

That part replays in your mind.

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

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

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

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

Chivalry isn’t dead?!

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

“Hey, Y/n?” Clark calls out.

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

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

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

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

“You deserve that promotion.”

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

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

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

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

You blink and feel lightweight.

“Thank you.”

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

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

You deserve that promotion.

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

“L/n.”

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

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

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

You’re impressed with yourself. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

“Right. Thanks.”

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

“Focus, Y/n. Focus.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that smell?”

“It smells like… like smoke?

“Is something burning?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is everyone alright? Nobody hurt?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

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

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

“Can you stand?” He gently asks.

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

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

“Your ankle.”

“Yup.” You hastily grit out.

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

“Do you mind if I carry you out?”

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

I didn’t hear that.

“Uhh…”

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

He’s strikingly handsome, so unfairly dashing.

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

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

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

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

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

Is this a bad time?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a headache and headline this is going to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You softly gasp. “Holy shit.”

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

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

He titters softly, finding your reaction amusing.

“Can I come in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You left your purse.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not many would do what’s right.”

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

“You have faith in humanity?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You'll bite.

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

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

“Well said.” He nods.

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

“Your turn.”

He raises an eyebrow at your proposed question.

“What do you do?” You ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he's gone.

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

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

You don't see that often.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sooo?” She asks, strangely enthusiastic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lois.” You sigh.

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

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

“Clark, are you alright?”

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

Lois doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s hot.”

“Oh my god.” You groan.

“No, like, seriously.”

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

“Do you guys think he’d go for me?”

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

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

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

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

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

She purses her lips apologetically.

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

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

“Get out.”

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

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

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

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

“I believe he stopped the plane from crashing.”

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

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

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

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

A few people murmur in doubt but you continue.

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

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

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

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

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

“He carried you out?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Perry feels a headache coming on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Some of us have jobs to do.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you just say to me?”

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

He actually thinks he's got you this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You squint your eyes in suspected belief.

Mark continues his verbal assault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get in here. Right. Now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bite back an explanation and a smirk.

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

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

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

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

You close your eyes and mentally prepare to be fired.

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

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

“What happened, L/n?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still no answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He groans, satisfied with the drink.

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs in satisfaction once more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you hear him.

“Y/n?”

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

“Clark, hey. What’re you doing here?”

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

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

“Ah.” He nods.

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

“I was doing the same.”

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

“This late?”

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

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

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

Clark pretends not to notice.

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

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

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

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

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

Had he stayed this long for you?

“Clark…”

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

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

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

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

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

You turn to face him. “You did?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hum before yawning lightly. “Makes sense.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n?”

“Hm?”

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

“I heard about what happened.”

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

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

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

You’re touched.

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

“I know,” He says. “But I care.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.” You say. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

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

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

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

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

“Perry still giving you the Miranda treatment?”

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

“You do. Who’s your Emily?”

You both take a moment to think about this.

“I got nothin’.” You say.

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

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

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

It gets a good laugh out of him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good night.” He murmurs fondly.

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

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

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

Okay, that was a bar, Jimmy concedes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You must feel the same way. Right?

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

After some careful consideration, Clark comes to a conclusion.

“Okay.” He says.

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

“I’m going to tell her everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Come in.”

Clark pokes his head in comically.

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

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

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

His takes in your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get it together, Clark he warns himself mentally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You even did a celebratory squeal before containing yourself.

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

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

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

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

You stare at her expectantly, blinking.

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

“He is?” You say, hopeful.

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

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

“That was rhetorical.”

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

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

You nod along, finding her logic unarguable.

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

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

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

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

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

Lois smiles encouragingly, being your best hype-woman.

“You’re fucking amazing.”

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

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

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

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

You fucking love this girl.

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

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

“Go get him, tiger!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi.” He hums.

“Hi.” You say, equally as soft.

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

“Panera?” You say with glee.

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

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

“So.” You hint subtly.

“Sooo.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're just so—

“Beautiful.”

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

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

You watch him scramble for a way out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gulps, growing jumpy from your silence.

“Say something, please.” He whispers.

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

“I... I feel the same.”

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

“I have for a long time.”

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

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

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

“Not longer than me.” You suppose.

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

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

He hums.

“Now, you.”

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

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

You nod, involuntarily fighting the tears you sense.

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

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

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

“There she is.”

You chuckle weakly, sniffling once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

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

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

“Yeah..? Why?”

You look at the door then back at him.

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

“What? No way!” Clark gasps.

You nod cooly.

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you saying?”

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

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

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

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

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

Clark’s trying to get a read on you.

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

He feels reassured.

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

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

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

It all makes perfect sense.

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

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

“Why are you telling me this?”

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

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

You can fly right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have to go.” He regretfully informs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[iammclovinn]

number neighbors!

summary: you decided to try out the number neighbor trend going around. (fluff & crack-ish) (proofread and lowercase intended) (little bit of an smau)

pairing: alex albon (23) x fem!reader

content warning: reader is american but her race isn’t defined, cursing

parts: part 1 part 2

note: probably needed a hug, goes to the other side of the coin and writes fanfics on tumblr. this one is a little long so enjoy 😊

note 2: wrote the the intro while watching silverstone at 4am and i’m posting this on the 14th… let that sink in

you and your friend find yourselves on your couch once again, talking about the same topic… once again.

“sooo…” your friend pauses the show, turning to you. “his name is alex.” you say, picking up the remote to unpause the tv. your friend is quick to snatch the remote from your hands. “nuh huh. we are talking about alex right now.” she says, emphasizing his name.

you groan, “i mean, what’s there to say? we talked, exchanged insta’s-“ your friend cuts you off, “you have his account?!?! show me him!!” you roll your eyes “he hasn’t accepted my request yet..” your friend ou’s, “so he’s a private man? did you find out if he lives here?” you shrug slightly, “i dunno, i forgot to ask.” your friend groans dramatically, “let me see your guys text?” she says, extending her arm and holding her palm out, waiting for you to place your phone in her hand.

“you’re so annoying,” you say as you reach for your phone on the coffee table, unlocking it and going to imessages before giving her the phone. she says a small sarcastic ‘thank you’ as she begins scrolling up to the beginning of the texts. “imagine he’s like this rich cool guy” your friend says, emerged in your phone.

“err wrong.” you say, snatching your phone back from her hands. your friend huffs, “you suck at flirting by the way, and he left you on read??” you hit your friend in her arm. “literally shut up and unpause the show” your friend kissed her teeth, mumbling an ‘mkay’ as she reachers for the remote, unpausing the tv.

__________________________________

your phone buzzes on your desk, taking your attention away from whatever you were doing.

@/alex23_a accepted your follow request.

@/alex23_a started following you.

@/alex23_a sent you a message.

__________________________________

instagram

5:24 pm - july 2nd

alex : hey

alex : sorry for late reply’s i’ve been busy with work and what not

you : that’s okay! i was just worried you ghosted me lol

alex : who hurt you?

you : shhh 😭😭

alex : sorry if this is weird but i just went through your highlight and you’re beautiful

seen

__________________________________

your friend picks up the phone on 4th ring, “hello? i saw you texted me SOS. is everything okay?”

you take a deep breath before responding, “okaysohefollowedmebackoninstagramandadmittedtogoingthroughmyhighlightsandthenproceededtocallmebeautiful.”

silence

“yeah i’m gonna need you to repeat that but a bit slower, mkay babes?”

you sigh, sitting down as your legs are now tired from pacing around. “he followed me back… admitted to going through my highlight… and then called me beautiful”

“what’d you say back?!”

silence

“no..” you friend says slowly, realizing that you didn’t say anything back… cause you left him on seen

“oh my god- it’s over, i fumbled.” you say, sinking into the pillows on your bed

“go respond! now!!!” your friend says before hanging up on you, not waiting for a response.

__________________________________

5:30 pm

you : hi sorry for leaving u on seen i was freaking out

you : but thx sm

alex : 😂😂

alex : are you always easily flustered?

you : only when they’re good looking

alex : me?

you : maybe

alex : 👀

alex : so how was your day?

you : pretty boring tbh

you : i’m assuming yours was busy?

alex : yep, was traveling for work

you : ohh what do u do?

alex : woah take me out to dinner first…

you : it’s only funny when i do it 😒

you : will u at least tell me where you traveled to

alex : i’m actaully back in the uk

you : omg we should meet up

alex is typing…

you : if that’s okay with u ofc

seen

__________________________________

“mate, are you okay?” carlos asks an alex that’s pacing back and forth. alex sighs loudly, taking a seat next to the concerned spaniard.

“there’s this girl…”

carlos laughs

“oh cmon, it’s not funny” alex protests

“whats her name?” carlos asks, putting all his attention alex

“um…” alex starts, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding eye contact

“bro…”

alex winces, “i know, okay? just- let me show you our texts.” alex says, grabbing his phone from his pocket, unlocking it and handing it to carlos.

“you flirt like shit.” carlos states, handing alex his phone back.

“no here- look at our chats on ig.” alex says, handing the phone back into carlos’ hand.

“wh- you left her on seen?!”

alex rubs his hands over his face, “i know!! i’m not sure what to say. i mean- what if she doesn’t like me when she sees who i am?”

“she just liked one of your post.”

“huh?!” alex says, quickly snatching his phone back from carlos.

__________________________________

@/youruser liked your post.

alex23_a

view 3 more photos

liked by youruser, carlo55ainz, logainsar2, and 12 others.

alex23_a i don’t eat fast food but my flicks still popeyes 🥶

view comments

logainsar2 caption was my idea, where’s my credit

alex23_a logainsar2 just let me have my moment

carlo55ainz alex23_a horrible caption, no matter who came up with it

alex23_a carlo55ainz smooth ‘brain’ operator

__________________________________

“oh my god, i’m cooked.” alex says, tossing his phone into carlos’ lap and shoving his face into his hands again.

carlos puts the phone into alexs’ lap saying a quick, “you’re welcome” while getting up, patting his shoulder whilst doing so.

alex eyebrows furrow in confusion, not knowing what carlos did.

__________________________________

5:42 pm

alex : yeah i’d love to

alex : sorry for leaving u on seen, i was freaking out

you are typing…

you : so who’s the flustered one now?

alex : 😒😒

you : where do you want to meet up? and when

alex : silverstone gp? maybe this new cat cafe? it’s called cats and dreams.

you : yeah that sounds nice

alex : and maybe tmrw?

alex : sorry if it’s too soon but i’ll be busy after that

alex : does that work for u?

you : yes! that actually works perfect

__________________________________

“it does NOT work perfect” you tell you friend on the phone, pacing back and forth once again. “well then why’d you agree?” you groan at your friends response.

“oh my goddd, im so cooked.” your friend sighs heavily, “you’ll be fine, okay? you can improve over night if you need to, which you don’t… and plus you guys haven’t even established a time!”

you breath in and out, “okay, you’re right…”

silence

your friend sighs, “do you want me to come over to help pick an outfit?”

you let out a breath of relief

“oh my god, yes please, i thought you’d never ask”

“okay i have to go now, i’m actually employed” you roll your eyes, “i-“

“getting paid to review songs on spotify is not a job, do not start. i’ll call u later?”

“i’ll pick up” you say as you remove the phone from your ear, hanging up the call.

__________________________________

“carlos!” alex shouts as carlos finally pick up the phone

“aye cabron, don’t yell at me”

“this is your fault! she said she wants to meet, TOMORROW.”

“how is this my fault again?” carlos asks, rubbing his temple with his free hand

“you texted her, as me! i- i don’t even talk like that!” alex says, pacing back and forth

“she wants to meet? tomorrow?”

“at- wait hold on.. hold on i’ll call you back in like 5 minutes!” alex says, hanging up the phone to going to your chats.

__________________________________

5:53 pm

you : so what time works best for u?

alex : i was gonna ask the same thing 😭

you hearted a message!

alex : umm maybe 7:30pm?

you : that’s perfect!

you : are you sure you’re okay with this? you can say no if you want cuz ik it might be early

alex : yes

you : ??

alex : yes, i want to meet you

alex : sorry that sounds weird

you : LMFAOO

alex : don’t laugh 😭

you : bless ur heart

alex hearted your message!

__________________________________

“call me one more time and i’ll block you”

“what? i- anyways, she said 7:30.. no i said 7:30 and she agreed” alex says, completely ignoring what carlos said

“congrats hermano, do you want a tie? maybe some dress pants?” carlos teases through the phone

“okay so one, you’re suppose to support me, and two, we’re going to this small cafe so i wouldn’t even need a tie… or dress pants.” alex states matter of factly.

silence

“god i’m so nervous, i- what if she sees me, and just.. i dunno, not like me? i know it’s stu-”

carlos cuts alex off, “it’s not stupid— and she’d be a fool not to like you”

alex sighs, raking his fingers through his hair, “do you really think that?”

“mate, you’re like the hot girl of f1”

alex laughs softly at carlos horrible attempt to reassure his nerves, “thanks, carlos. i’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

“anytime my friend.” carlos says, hanging up the call

__________________________________

“7:30” is all you say once your friend picks up the phone.

“pm i suppose?”

you hum a yes in response

silence

“how are you feeling?” your friend asks, breaking the short silence

“i have no idea what to wear.. i mean, god, what if he sees me and just… doesn’t like me?” you say softly, afraid that if you say it too loud it’ll be true.

“quit that, he’d be a dumbass not to like you— and if he is a dumbass, i have a back up man.”

you laugh, “shut the fuck up, no you don’t”

silence

you laugh louder, “holy shit you do!”

“listen, i’ll come over to your place around 3:30, okay?” your friend suggests

you hum a yes. “thanks for.. everything, really.”

“please, this is the bare minimum-“

you cut your friend off, “maybe, but it means a lot…seriously, thank you.”

your friend sighs, “you’re welcome. remember, 3:30.”

“yeah, yeah. i’ll see you tomorrow.” you say, hanging up the call

__________________________________

part 3 coming soon 🤫

[goonforgeto]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 07

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (12.2k) not proofread

CONTENT — angst, death, sickness, hospital settings, descriptions of violence, name insert once (i didnt wanna use yn)

a/n: sorryyyyy

series m. list | m.list

The first day Satoru doesn’t hear from you, he doesn’t think much of it. Sure, you’re on his mind just like always, but he doesn’t let the silence bother him. Maybe you’re busy, maybe you need space after the argument. He tells himself it’s nothing.

By the second day, the unease starts to creep in.

You’ve never gone more than a day without talking. Not in years. And what unsettles him more than the silence is the fact that your location—something he’d only ever checked to annoy you—hasn’t updated since a few hours after he walked out of your office.

It’s enough to tighten his chest. He knows something isn’t right.

But he convinces himself you’re just really mad at him — and honestly, after the things that were said, maybe you have every right to be.

You’re stubborn when you’re angry, he reminds himself. You’ve gone cold before, pulled away before, and every time, you’ve come back around.

So he decides to wait. Just a little longer. Give you space, let things cool.

On day three, Satoru wakes up before sunrise, groggy and tangled in sweat-damp sheets after barely four hours of restless sleep.

His first instinct is to check his phone. No messages.

Still no update on your location.

His thumb hovers over your contact — debating whether to call, text, teleport straight to your house. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

Something doesn’t feel right.

You’ve iced him out before and gone silent, slammed doors, even blocked him for a whole 48 hours once.

He settles on a simple text message.

[ Satoru ] : we should probably talk

He stares at the screen for a second longer, thumb hovering, then finally hits send.

The message is delivered instantly, no read receipt.

He tosses the phone onto his nightstand and runs a hand through his hair, pacing once around the room before sinking back onto the edge of the bed.

She’s mad, he tells himself again. Still mad. She’ll text when she’s ready.

But the knot in his chest tightens anyway.

He plans to go about his daily routine the same way he does every day — coffee that’s made almost entirely of creamer and sugar for breakfast, teaching his classes at Jujutsu High, sitting through several mind-numbing meetings with the higher-ups who have never once stepped foot into battle, and wrapping up the day by exorcising a curse or ten in the late afternoon just to get some peace and quiet.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would give him too much time to think. But by mid-morning, his phone’s still silent.

The call comes around three, just as Satoru’s headed into the first of three meetings he’s already dreading.

He answers without checking the caller ID, expecting it to be Utahime yelling his ear off or maybe Ijichi whining about scheduling.

But the voice on the other end is unfamiliar.

“Is this Gojo Satoru?”

He stills, the edge of annoyance in his voice evaporating.

“Yes?”

“This is Shinjuku Central Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for [Name]…”

His breath catches.

“…she was brought in 2 days ago.”

Time slows. The hallway noise around him fades.

“What happened?” he asks sharply, all levity gone from his voice.

“She was found unconscious. Multiple lacerations. Some internal bruising. We’re still assessing the extent of her injuries, but we’re not entirely sure what happened.”

He’s already moving, teleporting before the woman can finish her sentence. And for the first time in years, the Strongest Sorcerer is scared.

His first stop is Shoko’s infirmary – the quiet, always-too-cold clinic tucked away in the basement of Jujutsu High.

He doesn’t even think about it. His body moves before his brain can catch up, teleporting straight into the hallway, boots echoing sharply against the concrete floors as he throws open the door without knocking.

Shoko looks up from her desk, a half-eaten rice ball in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Her brows lift, unimpressed but not surprised.

“Didn’t even knock,” she mutters. “I could’ve been in the middle of surgery.”

Satoru doesn’t respond right away.. Just stands there, breathing shallow, fingers twitching at his sides.

That’s what makes her freeze.

“Satoru,” she says carefully, sitting up straighter. “What is it?”

Your name falls from his lips. His voice is too quiet for him. “She’s in the hospital.”

Shoko’s already setting the rice ball aside. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Some nurse called. Said they found her unconscious. Internal injuries.” His jaw tightens. “They wouldn’t say more.”

Shoko grabs her coat from the back of her chair.

“Come on,” she says, all business now. “We’re going.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

The air outside is thick and wet, the sky a dull gray threatening rain, but Satoru barely notices. He walks beside Shoko, teleporting them to the hospital entrance with a jolt of cursed energy sharp enough to make the receptionist flinch when they appear.

“Name?” the woman at the desk asks, hands trembling slightly under Satoru’s stare.

Shoko flashes her credentials before the receptionist can say anything else. After a few frantic clicks of the mouse and a radio call, a nurse appears to escort them upstairs.

Room 327.

Satoru's fingers twitch at his sides the whole elevator ride up. Shoko watches him quietly but doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t breathe until they reach the door. Doesn't move until the nurse pushes it open.

And then he sees you.

You’re lying in the bed, IV in your arm, half your face bandaged, bruises blooming purple and blue across your cheekbone and neck. There’s a monitor beeping steadily beside you, the sound almost deafening in the silence.

“Shit,” he whispers.

You’re alive — that’s the first thing his brain manages to process. But the rest of it?

The blood-soaked memory of you curled in that bed. The fact that he hadn’t heard from you in three days. That he thought you were just mad at him.

He thought wrong.

Satoru crosses the room in seconds, standing at the side of your bed, fingers hovering inches above your hand but not quite touching.

“You idiot,” he says softly, voice cracking. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Shoko moves around him without a word, checking the chart at the end of your bed and then your vitals. Her face stays neutral, but her eyes tighten slightly.

“She’s stable,” she says after a moment, glancing at Satoru. “But whoever did this… they weren’t human.”

Satoru’s jaw clenches. “Cursed spirit?”

Shoko nods slowly. “Special grade. I’ll run some scans once she wakes up. But this wasn’t random. It knew what it was doing.”

He doesn’t respond. Just sits down slowly, carefully taking your hand in his, staring at you like you might disappear again.

He’s quiet for a long moment before he finally says, voice low, “I should’ve come sooner.”

Shoko finishes reading over the monitor, eyes narrowed. She checks your chart again, then pulls the curtain closed behind her with a slow sweep of her hand.

“She’s not going to heal properly here,” she says, voice low but firm. “Human medicine isn’t going to cut it.”

Satoru looks up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve seen cursed wounds like this before. Superficially it looks like trauma, but it’s deeper — metaphysical. It's already interfering with her energy channels. If we leave her here, she’s not walking out. Maybe not waking up.”

His hands tighten into fists. “Then what do we do?”

Shoko glances toward the door, then back at him. “We take her back to the school. Quietly. The infirmary’s warded, so I can treat her properly there, but we can’t have this traced back to us. Not if she was attacked off-duty.”

Satoru frowns. “There are cameras.”

“I’ll handle the nurses,” Shoko says, already slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat. “You just do what you do best.”

He nods once.

Shoko peeks out the curtain, then turns back. “You have under five minutes. I’ll make sure no one’s watching this wing.”

The moment she steps out, Satoru stands, brushing a hand gently over your hair.

“Sorry to do this, angel,” he murmurs. “But you’ll be better off with us.”

When he lifts you into his arms after unhooking your machines, you don’t stir. You’re frighteningly still, warm but unresponsive, your breath shallow.

He takes a breath.

Then, in one blink of cursed energy, you're out of the hospital room, the sound of beeping monitors and sterile white light replaced with the soft hum of Jujutsu High’s underground infirmary.

Satoru lays you gently on the cot Shoko always keeps prepped. It's empty and the place is clean, quiet, faintly humming with barriers. He brushes your hair back again, gaze lingering on your bruised cheek.

Then he’s gone — teleporting back to the hospital.

Shoko’s chatting up the nurses at the main station with her usual dry charm, blocking their view of the hallway. Satoru doesn’t stop. He makes his way calmly down the corridor, steps casual, hands in his pockets.

He exits the hospital through the main doors, nodding politely to a few passing visitors. Shoko follows suit. 

Only when he’s safely around the corner, out of frame of any camera, does he wrap his arm around Shoko’s shoulder, and vanishes again, teleporting back to Jujutsu High.

They land with a soft thud just outside the infirmary entrance, the familiar buzz of the school’s protective barrier humming faintly beneath their feet. Satoru drops his hand from Shoko’s shoulder as she straightens her coat, brushing imaginary lint from the lapel.

“Next time, a little warning would be great,” she mutters, adjusting her balance. “I’ll never get used to that.”

“Didn’t want to waste any more time,” he says, already moving toward the door. “She didn’t look good.”

Inside, the infirmary is dimly lit, quiet but for the faint rhythm of your breathing. You’re still curled on the cot where Satoru laid you down, but there’s something in the set of your jaw, the twitch of your fingers, that suggests you’re closer to waking than before.

Shoko wastes no time. She crosses the room, grabbing a tray of tools and cursed-energy treated bandages, rolling up her sleeves as she settles beside you.

“She’s stable,” she says after a moment, voice clipped and focused, “but whatever did this wasn’t what she’s used to handling. Her body’s rejecting any standard healing, even my cursed energy is getting repelled unless I regulate it to her baseline.”

“So?” Satoru presses, pacing at the foot of the cot.

Shoko doesn’t answer right away. She’s busy threading cursed energy through the bandages wrapped around your ribs, her eyes scanning for any sign of rejection. Only when she’s sure the seal is holding does she sit back slightly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “They found her near that old shopping district we all used to hang out at. The one with the mochi stand you used to steal from.”

Satoru’s jaw tenses. “That’s not exactly a cursed hotspot.”

“No,” Shoko agrees.

He runs a hand through his hair, restless energy bleeding through his movements. “The hell was she doing out there alone?”

Shoko gives him a look. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

Satoru slumps back in the chair, still holding your hand. He hates this — the stillness, the helplessness, the not-knowing.

“She’ll wake up,” Shoko says, more gently now. “She’s tougher than you think.”

Satoru doesn’t reply. Just keeps watching you, thumb brushing the back of your hand, voice low when he finally speaks again.

“She’s the toughest person I know.”

Shoko doesn’t say anything else for a while — just returns to her silent work, her cursed energy pulsing low and steady as she stabilizes you.

Satoru watches your chest rise and fall. It’s better now, less shallow than it was when he first arrived. Still too pale, too still. His stomach twists.

He stands abruptly.

Shoko doesn’t look up. “Where are you going?”

“To check out the district,” he says, voice tight. “You said that’s where they found her?”

Shoko nods. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m not the one who wandered into a cursed zone without backup,” he snaps, softer than he means to — not angry at her, just angry at the situation, angry at himself.

Shoko sighs. “She probably didn’t mean to walk into anything. It found her.”

Satoru doesn’t respond. He’s already halfway to the door.

The shopping district is quiet when he arrives, in fact a little too quiet for this part of Tokyo, even in the middle of the day. No foot traffic. Most of the stalls are closed. A few cursed spirits still linger, low-grade things, scuttling like insects at the edge of his perception.

The barrier is up and he wipes them out with a flick of his wrist. They’re not what he’s looking for.

He walks deeper into the alley where the nurses said you’d been found, that familiar turn past the shuttered bookstore and the old claw machine with the cracked glass.

That’s when he feels it. A sudden, nauseating pulse of cursed energy, cold and wrong and far too strong for this area. A special grade.

And then it’s on him.

It lunges from the shadows — a mass of twisting limbs and too many eyes, mouth stretching impossibly wide as it lets out a bone-rattling shriek.

Satoru doesn't flinch.

In an instant, the air stills, the pressure of his domain leaking through the cracks of his control like cold fire.

“You’re the one who hurt her,” he says quietly. There’s no smile on his face now. No jokes. No blindfold.

His Six Eyes glow.

“I’m going to kill you for that.”

The fight isn’t long. It tries to run — claws scraping against the walls in a panic when it realizes what it’s up against. But Satoru doesn’t let it.

He’s faster, smarter, meaner. He’s Satoru Gojo.

By the time it realizes it’s already inside his domain, it’s too late.

And when it’s over, there’s not even a body left. Just a smear of energy and the silence of an exorcised curse.

Satoru exhales slowly and closes his eyes, drawing his blindfold back down his face

It’s done, but it doesn’t make him feel better. 

He teleports back to Jujutsu High in a blur of light.

The infirmary is quiet when Satoru arrives the next morning. Shoko’s asleep on the cot across from you, an empty energy drink tucked under her arm and a stack of handwritten notes on the floor beside her.

You’re still unconscious.

Satoru moves carefully,  like if he’s too loud, he might scare away whatever fragile thread is holding your soul to your body.

Your breathing is steadier now. The color’s come back to your face. But your cursed energy is faint.

He pulls up the chair from the desk beside your bed and drops into it heavily, letting his long legs splay out in front of him.

He hasn’t slept. He knows you’d scold him if you saw him like this — wrinkled uniform, shadows under his eyes, hair a mess.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough. “We haven’t spoken in four days, you know. This is getting dramatic, even for you.”

Silence. Just your soft breathing.

Satoru swallows hard and leans forward, forearms resting on his knees.

“I killed it,” he says quietly. “The one that got you. It’s gone.”

He pauses.

“I thought that would help. But it didn’t.”

He reaches out, brushing a piece of hair from your face with gentle fingers.

“You’ve gotta wake up, alright? I’m not good at this part. I can fight gods and curses and annoying councilmen, but this? Sitting still? Waiting?” He huffs out a weak laugh. “You know I hate this.”

His hand lingers against your cheek for a second longer than it should. Then he pulls away and leans back, slumping in the chair.

“I’ll be right here. Like always.”

Shoko stirs just after sunrise.

Her head lifts slowly from the cot, joints popping as she rolls her shoulders and stretches her neck, then drags herself to her feet with the exhaustion of someone who’s run a marathon in place. Her lab coat is half-buttoned, hair a mess, and she’s still got a faint red crease on her cheek from where she slept on her clipboard.

Satoru doesn’t move from his spot by your bedside, he just watches her approach with tired, expectant eyes.

Shoko drops the clipboard on the edge of your bed and exhales.

“I worked through the night,” she says, voice gravelly. “Managed to stabilize the cursed injury with a constant application of reverse cursed technique, but it’s… slow. Too slow. Whatever cursed technique that thing used on her, it wasn’t normal. It tore through her natural resistance and latched on like a parasite.”

She runs a hand through her hair. “I’ve essentially got her in stasis. If I pull back too far, the cursed wound could start advancing again. I think the special grade didn’t just injure her — it tried to anchor itself into her cursed energy channels.”

Satoru’s throat works around a dry swallow. “But she’s going to be okay.”

Shoko pauses.

“I think so. But it’ll take time. I’m doing what I can… and she’s fighting, Satoru. Her energy’s responding to mine, even if it’s faint. That means she wants to stay.”

He exhales like the wind’s been knocked out of him, and when Shoko looks over, his sunglasses are off, pinched between his fingers. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped together.

“I shouldn’t have fought with her,” he says, voice low. “She’s a Grade 1 — she’s strong, but we’ve always worked together when it came to anything special grade. If we hadn’t argued, she would’ve called me.”

Shoko’s expression softens slightly, though her exhaustion keeps her voice flat.

“You don’t know that.”

“She’s never not called me,” he mutters. “Not once in six years.”

Silence stretches. He rubs his face with both hands and leans back in the chair, elbows resting on the armrests, head tipped toward the ceiling.

“She always calls.”

Shoko pulls over another chair and sits beside him. She doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches your chest rise and fall — shallow but steady.

“I think you both just forgot,” she says after a moment. “You’re not invincible.”

Satoru doesn’t reply. Just stares at the ceiling, lips tight, jaw locked.

She sighs, rubbing her eyes.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” she murmurs. “Gotta recharge before my brain falls out of my ears.”

She pats his shoulder once as she passes.

Satoru stays where he is.

He’s always been there. But right now, he feels a thousand miles away from the one person he wishes would open her eyes and remind him that she’s still here too.

Satoru leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. The room is quiet now in the same kind of way hospitals always are, where every soft beep and slow inhale feels too loud.

Your hand hasn’t moved since last night.

His fingers twitch toward it, hesitate, then curl gently around yours, just enough to feel that you’re still warm.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, not sure if he wants you to hear or not. “For what I said… And for not being there.”

His voice cracks. Just barely. But it does.

“I got too comfortable, y’know? I thought… we’d always have time. That you’d always call me before it got bad. I’ve been so focused on holding everything else together I didn’t even see us cracking.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, steady. His other hand reaches up to rub at his eyes.

“I know I’m not easy. And I know I push people too hard sometimes, but I can’t lose you too.”

He swallows hard, shoulders stiff. “I won’t come back from that.”

Words hang heavy in the air. His grip on your hand tightens just slightly, grounding himself.

“So just… come back, okay? Yell at me, call me dramatic, fight with me. I’ll take anything.”

He presses your knuckles to his lips, eyes closed tight.

“I’ll be here. However long it takes.”

And with that, he stays — unmoving, guarding the silence, as if his presence alone can tether you back to him.

Day five rolls in under grey skies and rainy conditions, and the room is still.

Satoru stirs to the low hum of hospital equipment, the cold of the vinyl chair seeping through his clothes, and the distant sound of wheels squeaking against tile.

A sharp voice cuts through the fog of sleep.

“Satoru, up.”

It’s Shoko, snapping her gloves on with a loud smack, wheeling a crash cart to the bedside.

He doesn’t respond right away. His head still resting on your stomach, arms lazily folded across your torso like a shield. He’d fallen asleep like that again, trying to keep you close to him somehow.

“Oi, I said get off of her!”

That’s when he hears it.

The flatline.

The steady, shrill note of your heart monitor ringing out like one continuous scream of silence.

Everything in him snaps to attention. His head shoots up, blood turning ice-cold as his eyes find the monitor: no peaks, no valleys, just a flat green line.

His chair screeches back as he leaps to his feet.

“What—”

“She’s coding,” Shoko says, her voice steady but brisk. “Help me get her shirt up, now!”

Satoru’s already at your side, trembling hands fumbling with the hospital gown as Shoko slaps conductive pads against your chest, her own cursed energy already flaring, hands glowing faintly.

“Clear!” she shouts.

Satoru jumps back as the paddles meet your skin. Your body arches violently off the bed. The flatline continues.

Again.

“Clear!”

The jolt ripples through you, but still, no response.

His eyes are wide. “Shoko—”

“Don’t panic, I said don’t panic!” she snaps. Her voice breaks on the edges, but her hands don’t falter.

Her reverse cursed energy pours into you — radiant, glowing pale-blue where her hands press to your chest, just above your heart.

One minute passes. Then two.

Satoru can’t breathe.

“Come on,” Shoko grits through her teeth. Sweat beads at her brow. “Don’t do this. Not you.”

The third minute ticks by, cruel and slow.

Then — your fingers twitch.

A single, tiny flicker.

The flatline cuts out.

Beep.

Then another.

Beep… beep…

Your heartbeat returns in weak, slow stutters.

Satoru nearly collapses from the force of his breath. His knees buckle, and he clutches the edge of the bed.

Shoko exhales, chest heaving, finally pulling her hands away from your chest as your vitals steady. “You’re welcome,” she mutters, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Satoru stares at you, still pale, still unconscious… but alive.

Alive.

His fingers reach out, brushing your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. “Don’t do that again,” he whispers. “Please. Don’t ever do that again.”

Shoko wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, immediately leaning over to check your other vitals — pulse, breath sounds, pupil response, everything.

The room is thick with tension, your heartbeat now a soft but steady beep on the monitor beside her. It's the only sound Satoru can focus on.

“Clean yourself up,” Shoko mutters without looking at him. “You’re getting snot on my equipment.”

“What?” Satoru blinks, dazed.

She glances over her shoulder, just once. “You’re crying.”

He snorts (or maybe chokes). “I don’t cry.”

Shoko doesn’t argue. She just turns back to you, adjusting your oxygen and jotting something on her clipboard. “Right. Must be your sweat, then. From all the sitting you were doing.”

Satoru runs a sleeve across his cheek without thinking. It comes away damp. His throat tightens again, and this time, he doesn’t bother with a smartass remark.

He just sinks back into the chair beside your bed, gripping your hand like a lifeline.

Satoru doesn’t realize it at first.

Not even when Shoko snaps at him about the equipment, it doesn’t register until the chill hits his face, until the back of his hand comes away wet and he stares down at it like it belongs to someone else.

His breath catches, a sharp, involuntary sound that rattles out of him, low and hoarse. It’s not dramatic or cinematic. It’s almost worse — silent, stunned, like his body is reacting faster than his mind.

Because Satoru Gojo doesn’t cry.

He didn’t cry when his best friend left. He didn’t cry when he had to bury his friends. He didn’t cry when he received immense backlash from his clan for choosing his career, or on Suguru’s birthday every year, or when everyone he had grown up with left him. He doesn’t cry.

But here, in the pale light of the infirmary, with your hand cold in his and your heart only just starting to beat again… he’s crying.

Not the loud, heaving kind. It’s quieter. Slower. Almost confused — like he doesn’t know how to handle this kind of feeling anymore.

His shoulders shake once, barely perceptible. His jaw is clenched so tight it aches. And still, the tears fall. He thinks to himself that these hot, traitorous things sliding down his cheeks and soaking into the sleeve of his uniform aren’t a sign of weakness like he had always thought.

His head bows over your hand like a prayer he’s too stubborn to say out loud. His grip is tight, like if he lets go, you’ll slip away again.

“I had one job,” he whispers — to no one, to himself, maybe to you. “I’m always with you. I always show up. And the one time I don’t…”

His voice breaks.

Shoko doesn’t say anything. She just works quietly, professionally, knowing that the worst part is over, and the rest is his to carry now.

For a moment, Satoru presses his forehead to the back of your hand, breath uneven.

“I’ve told you a million times, but,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I can’t lose you.”

And though you’re still unconscious, your heart continues to beat beneath the monitor’s hum.

It’s not a response, but it’s enough to keep him there, crying quietly beside you — the strongest sorcerer in the world, undone by the thought of losing the one person who still made him feel human.

A few hours later, Satoru returns to the infirmary, shoulders stiff with exhaustion despite the effortless gait he tries to maintain. The weight of everything hangs heavy, but life doesn’t stop, not even for him. He still has classes to teach, students to train, meetings to attend, a whole world that insists on moving forward while he feels like his has been turned upside down.

He pushes the door open with his foot, a cafeteria tray balanced in each hand, and wordlessly sets one of the plates on the edge of Shoko’s cluttered desk.

“Bribery?” she asks, eyeing the food.

“Peace offering,” he replies, collapsing into the chair next to her. “You’ve been down here for hours.”

“And whose fault is that?” she mutters, but it’s not without fondness. She pokes at the plate, then glances at him. “You didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t want you passing out on top of her. Then I’d have two patients on my hands.”

A beat of silence passes. The infirmary hums gently around them, your breathing now stable.

“Any updates?” he asks finally, voice low.

Shoko sighs and rubs her eyes before answering. “Vitals are steady. I’ve been reinforcing the cursed technique every hour. The injury in her abdomen is healing slower than I’d like, but the internal bleeding’s stopped. No new signs of cursed energy interference. She's… holding on.”

He nods once, quietly.

Then: “What happened this morning?”

Shoko sets her chopsticks down, more serious now.

“I’d just finished what should’ve been the last pulse of reverse cursed technique when her vitals flatlined,” she says. “Nothing I did should’ve triggered it — my guess is her energy reserves were too depleted to regulate her body on their own. Her heart stopped. Fully arrested.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens.

“I had to shock her back,” she continues. “Three times. And I pushed more of my own cursed energy into her than I should’ve. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would work.”

He closes his eyes. Exhales shakily.

“You know what scared me the most?” she says softly. “You. I’ve never seen you look like that before. Not even when Suguru left or Haibara died.”

Satoru doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you, motionless in the bed, bandages peeking out from under your hospital gown, eyes still shut.

“I didn’t realize how much of my life she filled until I thought she was gone,” he says, voice almost a whisper.

Shoko doesn’t press. She just picks up her chopsticks again, quiet for a long moment.

“She’s not gone,” she says finally. “So figure your shit out before she wakes up.”

He nods, slowly.

“But when do you think that’ll be?” he asks, eyes still locked on your face. “When she might wake up?”

His voice is quiet, like speaking too loudly might shatter something delicate. It’s not the usual Satoru, not the cocky teacher or the strongest sorcerer in the room. 

Shoko leans back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “Honestly?” she says. “I don’t know.”

Satoru’s head turns sharply, but she holds his gaze.

“I’ve done what I can. Physically, she’s healing, albeit slowly. But the rest?” Shoko gestures vaguely at your temple. “That’s up to her.”

“So it’s—what? A coma?”

“Not exactly,” she says. “More like… her cursed energy’s dormant, or inactive. Like a really long nap. She’s not in pain, she’s just weak right now.”

Satoru leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. “She always calls me. Every time. When it’s too much, when something’s wrong, even when she just wants to talk. She always calls.”

“She would’ve this time too, if she had the chance,” Shoko says gently. “You know that.”

He nods once, jaw clenched.

Shoko watches him for a moment longer, then rises from her chair and walks over to the bed, checking your IV line, adjusting a monitor.

“She’s a fighter,” she says quietly. “You know better than anyone. If there’s a way back, she’ll find it.”

Satoru’s hand reaches out, fingers ghosting over your blanket-covered wrist, as if he’s afraid to touch too hard.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right here when you do.”

Shoko turns away, giving him space, but not before seeing the look in his eyes — the kind of look that only comes when someone you can’t live without is lying silent in front of you.

He goes home to sleep that night.

The next morning, Satoru barely makes it through the front gates of Jujutsu High, coffee still half-full in one hand and dark circles bruised beneath his sunglasses, when Yaga storms toward him like a man with purpose — and a grudge.

“Gojo,” he snaps, voice like a whip, “my office. Now.”

Satoru blinks, then sighs. “Morning to you too.”

Yaga doesn’t slow down, and Satoru barely has time to chuck his coffee into a nearby bin before he’s being all but dragged down the corridor.

The door slams behind them as soon as they step inside.

“You’re in trouble,” Yaga says flatly. “Big trouble.”

Gojo raises a brow, feigning innocence. “What’d I do this time? Forget to sign the mission logs? Skip a meeting? Wear my uniform wrong again?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Yaga growls. “I went to the infirmary last night to drop off reports. Imagine my surprise when I find one of our senior sorcerers nearly dead, hidden in a bed like some dirty secret.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. “She wasn’t hidden—”

“You didn’t report it.”

“She wasn’t safe in the hospital.”

“You still should’ve told me!” Yaga slams a palm on his desk, voice rising. “There are protocols, Satoru. People who care about her. People who deserve to know she almost died.”

“She did die,” Gojo says quietly, voice sharp around the edges now. “For three minutes, she was gone. You think I didn’t want to tell you? You think I didn’t panic? But I didn’t even know what was happening until it was almost too late.”

Yaga’s expression falters.

Gojo pushes forward, hands planted on the desk. “I brought her back here because Shoko was her best chance. Because if I had wasted even five more minutes dealing with paperwork and phone calls, she’d be gone. And you’re yelling at me because I saved her without signing a form?”

Yaga exhales heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “This isn’t about paperwork. It’s about trust.”

Satoru’s voice drops. “Then trust me. I did what I had to do.”

Silence stretches in the office, heavy and bitter.

Finally, Yaga nods stiffly. “Fine. But I want a full report by tonight. From both of you. No more secrets, Satoru.”

Gojo straightens. “You’ll have it.”

Yaga looks tired as he sits down. “And for what it’s worth... I’m glad she’s alive.”

Satoru nods once, already half-turned toward the door. “Yeah. Me too.”

Yaga leans back in his chair, folding his arms tightly across his chest. His voice lowers, more controlled now, but still laced with tension.

“I won’t tell the higher-ups about this,” he says. “Not yet. But I need to be updated.”

Satoru nods once, jaw tight.

“The second she takes a turn for the worse,” Yaga continues, “it’s no longer in our hands. You understand that, right?”

Gojo doesn’t answer right away. His sunglasses hide most of his expression, but there’s a flicker in the way his throat works — a swallow, tight and slow.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice quiet. “I get it.”

Yaga exhales through his nose, watching him closely. “You care about her. I know that. But you’re not invincible, Satoru. And neither is she. If you want her to survive this, you need to let people help.”

For a moment, there’s only silence between them. Then Gojo straightens, hands shoved into the pockets of his uniform jacket.

“She’s not going to die,” he says, almost like a promise. 

And with that, he turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.

He makes his way down to the infirmary directly after, his long strides echoing softly through the quiet hallway. He’s always late for his classes — it’s practically a given by now — so it shouldn’t matter if he is today. Even though it’s the first time he’s actually been on time in weeks.

Still, it’s not like they’ll be surprised.

His hand hesitates on the door for a second. Not out of fear — not exactly. But because every time he opens it, he braces for something to be worse. For her color to fade, for the machines to start screaming, for Shoko to look up at him with that expression again. The one that says not even you can fix this.

He pushes it open anyway.

The room is dimly lit, filtered sunlight creeping through the blinds. The soft mechanical beeping of the monitor — steady, mercifully — greets him first, and then the sight of her, still unconscious, still too still.

Shoko’s in the corner, hunched over a mess of papers and notes and cursed technique charts. She looks up at the sound of the door.

“You’re early,” she says, eyebrows raising.

He shrugs, stepping inside, letting the door swing closed behind him. “Didn’t feel like pretending to be a good teacher today.”

She snorts. “And here I thought you’d turned over a new leaf.”

Gojo doesn’t smile. He drags a chair to the bedside like he always does and sits down. His eyes flick to the IV line, then to the faint twitch of her fingers — involuntary, maybe hopeful. His hand hovers, then settles lightly over hers.

“Any changes?” he asks, voice low.

Shoko glances at her clipboard. “Vitals are steady. Cursed energy response is still sluggish, but not flatlining. Reverse technique’s helping, but she’s not out of the woods yet. You’ll be the first to know if something shifts.”

He nods, thumb brushing gently along her knuckles.

He doesn’t say anything else for a long moment. Just stares at her hand in his.

When he finally speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “You’ve slept enough.”

“Don’t be selfish,” Shoko scolds without looking up, scribbling something quickly onto her clipboard. “By the way, Yaga stopped by last night.”

Gojo leans back slightly in his chair, a humorless scoff escaping him. “Yeah, I was just ambushed by him in the front hall.”

Shoko glances up now, arching a brow. “What’d he say to you?”

He stretches his legs and crosses his arms. “That he won’t tell the higher-ups — yet. But I have to keep him in the loop. And if she takes a turn for the worse again…” He trails off, jaw tightening.

Shoko sighs, setting her pen down. “He said the same to me. Told me this is already pushing it. Technically, she should be in a secure facility under the higher-ups’ watch.”

“But that would kill her,” Gojo says flatly.

“Yeah. Which is why I didn’t argue with you when you came to me.”

There’s a long pause. The only sound is the quiet rhythm of the heart monitor.

“Did he say anything else?” Gojo asks.

Shoko shakes her head. “Just that this is the last chance. If anything happens again, they’re pulling rank.”

Gojo exhales slowly, rubbing his eyes. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

They both look toward you again, unconscious but stable.

“She’s always been stronger than people give her credit for,” Shoko murmurs.

Gojo doesn’t respond right away. Then, quietly responds, “I know.”

He pulls his hand up, rubbing his eyes once again and wincing.

“You okay?” Shoko asks, watching him from the corner of her eye.

“No,” he mutters, voice tight with annoyance. “I forgot my blindfold at home.”

Shoko snorts softly. “Rookie mistake.”

He shoots her a glare, though it lacks any real heat. “The light’s been killing me all morning.”

Without missing a beat, Shoko pulls open one of the drawers beside her and tosses a roll of bandages in his direction.

“Here,” she says. “Use these. I keep extras for the kids.”

Gojo catches them one-handed, lifting a brow. “You’re giving me pity supplies now?”

“I’m letting you walk around without looking like a zombie,” she deadpans. “You can thank me later.”

He sighs, unwinding the bandages with a resigned expression. “Remind me why I ever thought you were the nice one?”

Shoko smirks, going back to her notes. “Because I’m the only one who hasn’t smacked you upside the head yet.”

Gojo grumbles as he starts to wrap the bandage around his eyes, but there’s a softness to his movements now as he turns his head back toward your sleeping form.

Just as Satoru finishes adjusting the bandages over his eyes, a small mechanical beep interrupts the quiet in the infirmary.

Shoko glances up, frowning at the monitor.

“What was that?” he asks, immediately straightening.

Her eyes scan the readout. “Her heart rate just stabilized.”

Satoru’s breath catches. “Stabilized? Like—”

“It was like this for a bit yesterday, but it started fluctuating all night,” Shoko says, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead, then carefully lifting one of your eyelids to check your response. “But this is the first time in days it's holding steady…”

She checks your reflexes and notes something down quickly. “There’s… faint muscular activity. Twitching in the hand and upper eyelid. That’s new.”

Satoru is at your side in a heartbeat, crouching low, eyes hidden behind the fresh bandages but voice trembling just slightly. “Does that mean she’s waking up?”

Shoko doesn’t smile — she rarely does — but her voice is lighter now. “It’s not a guarantee, but it’s a very good sign.”

Satoru exhales hard, like he’s been holding his breath for days.

He reaches out, fingers brushing the back of your hand with aching care. “Hey,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good. Just… keep going. I’m right here.”

And this time, your fingers twitch again just enough for him to feel it.

He freezes.

“…Did you feel that?” he whispers.

Shoko nods. “Yeah. I felt it too.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand for a long moment, just watching, like if he stares hard enough you might open your eyes completely.

“You stubborn idiot,” he whispers, a laugh caught in his throat. “Only you would wait until I’m on the edge of a breakdown to give me a sign.”

Shoko steps away to update your chart, giving him the space — her version of privacy. She knows him well enough to know that even small hope makes him feel too much all at once.

Satoru leans forward, pressing his forehead lightly against your hand. “Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll go to class. But I’m coming back the second it’s over. And you better keep improving, got it?”

He pushes himself up, tugs the blanket a little higher on your shoulders, and casts a glance over at Shoko.

“Let me know if anything changes?”

“I will,” she says, scribbling something onto her clipboard. “And try not to traumatize your students today.”

“No promises,” he mutters, the ghost of a grin touching his lips.

He makes it halfway to the door before turning back one last time, lingering in the frame. The early light of morning glows faintly through the infirmary window, casting long shadows across the floor.

“I’ll see you after class,” he says softly. “So don’t do anything dramatic without me.”

Then, with one last look, he disappears down the hall.

To his disappointment, class didn’t end at 3 like it usually did. One thing led to another — an emergency faculty meeting (sans Shoko of course), a last-minute curse sighting in Harajuku that ended in a shattered plaza window, and an injured second-year who insisted they “definitely didn’t need stitches” while bleeding all over the training grounds.

By the time he returned to campus, the sun was already dipping behind the trees. His limbs were heavy, his bandage blindfold askew, and his brain fried from dealing with bureaucracy and curses alike. Still, as he pushed open the infirmary doors, every ache and annoyance seemed to vanish.

You were awake.

Not fully, not like before — but your eyes were open, lids fluttering as you blinked slowly at the ceiling. Your chest rose and fell steadily under the thin blanket, and your fingers twitched when he stepped closer.

“Hey,” he breathed, voice breaking the quiet of the room.

You turned your head slightly, the movement sluggish. Your eyes found him, and though they were hazy and half-lidded, they focused.

“…S’toru?”

It came out in a whisper, barely audible, like your throat hadn’t quite remembered how to speak yet. But it was enough to bring the air rushing back into his lungs.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, crossing the room in seconds. “It’s me. I’m here.”

You gave the faintest smile before your eyelids began to droop again, your body clearly still exhausted. Satoru crouched down beside you, resting his forearms on the bed.

“I thought you were gonna sleep forever just to mess with me,” he murmured, watching your breathing even out again.

A moment later, the quiet shuffle of footsteps from the hallway announced someone approaching. Shoko entered, pulling the door shut behind her with Yaga lingering just out of view, deep in conversation.

“She woke up about twenty minutes ago,” Shoko said softly. “Still groggy. But it’s a good sign.”

Satoru nodded, brushing your hair away from your forehead. “She said my name.”

“Of course she did,” Shoko replied, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve been breathing down her neck for days.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and leaned back in the chair beside your bed. The weight on his shoulders didn’t disappear, but it eased  just a little.

“Yaga’s on his way down,” Shoko says. “He needs more information for the report you half assed.”

Satoru groaned, slumping further into the chair beside your bed. “Of course he is. Can’t even have one peaceful minute.”

Shoko arched her brow as she crossed to the other side of the infirmary, checking the IV drip and making a few notes on the chart. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t scribbled ‘got her out, saved her life, she’s fine’ and called it a day—”

“I was emotionally compromised,” he cut in, tossing his head dramatically. “My muse doesn’t perform under stress.”

“You spelled ‘hospital’ wrong.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then promptly closed it.

Shoko smirked. “Yaga wants more detail on what exactly you found at the scene and how you handled it. He’s been nice about this so far, but the higher-ups will want answers eventually.”

Satoru rubbed his face with both hands, sighing loudly into his palms. “I know. I’ll give him the real report. I just… I didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if I was late. If I didn’t go looking.”

He glanced back at you — still sleeping, but your brow was relaxed now, your breathing steady. No beeping machines screaming back to life. No Shoko elbow-deep in a healing technique that might not work. Just… quiet.

Shoko’s voice softened. “I know. But she’s awake now. Go fill in the damn report.”

Satoru stood reluctantly, stretching his arms overhead and casting one last glance at you before heading toward the door. “Fine. But I’m coming back after. And if Yaga gives me more than two pages’ worth of paperwork, I’m quitting.”

“Don’t let the door hit your ego on the way out.”

He flashed her a tired grin and disappeared into the hallway just as Yaga rounded the corner, gruff and unreadable.

The next morning rolls around, and for the first time since you'd been brought into the infirmary, you're more responsive than you’ve been the entire time.

When Shoko checks in just after sunrise, she’s surprised to find your eyes cracked open, blinking slowly against the pale morning light filtering in through the window.

Your head turns— sluggish, hesitant— toward the sound of the door opening, and your fingers twitch against the blanket.

“Well, good morning,” Shoko says, tone light but cautious. “Thought we might be stuck playing the long game with you.”

Your throat is dry, voice barely a whisper. “What… time is it?”

Shoko moves to your bedside, checking your vitals with quiet efficiency. “Just after six. You’ve been asleep for about five days.”

Your eyes widen slightly, the weight of her words settling in your chest. Your body still feels like lead, muscles sore, energy low, but there’s clarity in your gaze now— a spark of awareness that had been missing.

“Water,” you croak.

Shoko nods, already reaching for the cup beside the bed. She helps you sit up— carefully, gently— slipping a hand behind your back and raising the cup to your lips.

“You gave us a bit of a scare,” she says once you’ve sipped. “Flatlined for a couple minutes. Satoru nearly broke my equipment crying on you.”

You manage a small smile. “He’s a crier?”

“A dramatic one.”

Before you can respond, the door creaks open again.

Satoru steps in, hair a mess, blindfold hanging loosely around his neck, coffee in hand— and freezes when he sees you awake and sitting up.

His jaw drops slightly. The cup nearly slips out of his hand.

“Hey,” you say softly, voice still hoarse.

He crosses the room in three strides, setting the cup down so fast it tips slightly. He doesn’t sit, just crouches beside the bed, both hands reaching for yours, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

“You’re awake.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

He huffs, blinking hard. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You squeeze his hand, weak but steady. “I missed you too.”

Shoko clears her throat. “I’ll give you two a minute. But don’t get too emotional, I haven’t checked her oxygen levels yet.”

She walks out, muttering something under her breath.

You and Satoru just look at each other for a long moment, the weight of everything unspoken hanging gently between you.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says.

“I know.”

Your lips part, the beginning of an apology already forming, something quiet and earnest, something like I’m sorry for going alone or I didn’t mean to shut you out—but Satoru just shakes his head and squeezes your hand more firmly.

“No,” he says, voice low but certain. “Not now.”

You blink, a little stunned. “But—”

“I mean it.” His gaze is steady on yours, still a little too bright. “You almost died. You don’t have to explain anything to me right now. We’ll talk later.”

The finality in his voice silences you, and all you can do is nod, your chest aching with something tender and heavy.

Instead of pressing you further, he shifts your blanket gently up around your shoulders, then takes his place in the chair beside your bed. He leans back, exhaling like he’s finally allowed to. His knees bump lightly against the frame, and one hand never leaves yours.

A comfortable silence stretches between you. Outside the window, the morning sun begins to filter more brightly through the clouds, casting everything in that familiar pale gold you used to watch together between missions.

After a few minutes, you glance over at him. “Are you gonna stay there all day?”

He smirks, the edge of his usual humor returning. “Unless Shoko kicks me out. Again.”

“Won’t you get bored?”

“Not a chance.” His expression softens. 

Shoko returns with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, her clipboard tucked under her arm.

She gives Satoru a look—half warning, half amusement—before walking over to your bedside and setting the clipboard down. “Alright, sunshine,” she says, sipping from her mug. “Let’s see how we’re doing.”

You shift slightly as she checks your vitals, listens to your heart, and shines a small light in your eyes. Her touch is brisk but careful, clinical with a thread of gentleness running underneath—though she’d never admit it out loud.

Satoru watches the whole thing closely, eyes narrowed in thought, even if he tries to look relaxed.

“Still a little sluggish, but not bad,” Shoko mutters. “Vitals are stabilizing. Reverse cursed technique is holding. Muscle tone’s returning slowly, and your cursed energy has started regulating again.”

She jots a few notes down, then looks back up at you. “You’re going to be monitored here for the next 24 hours. If everything keeps trending the way it is, you can go home the day after tomorrow. That gives me enough time to wean you off the cursed energy support.”

You exhale slowly, some of the weight in your chest easing. “Home sounds good.”

Satoru’s shoulders finally drop a little too.

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Shoko says, raising a brow. “You’ll still need to check in with me twice a week. No fieldwork. No cursed spirits. No pushing yourself.”

You nod obediently, but she narrows her eyes. “And I mean it. I will sedate you if I have to.”

Satoru snorts. “She’ll do it too. Last month she stabbed me with a tranquilizer mid-sentence.”

“Because you were being insufferable,” Shoko mutters into her coffee.

You smile despite the dull ache in your body.

Shoko pulls the blanket up a little higher over you, a rare kindness, then straightens. “I’ll be back later with something to eat that isn’t vending machine soup. Get some rest.”

And just like that, she’s gone—leaving you alone again with Satoru, who’s now smiling a little too smugly.

“See?” he says. “Told you you’d pull through.”

You give him a tired look. “You were sobbing into my hospital gown two days ago.”

His smirk falters. “…No, I wasn’t.”

“Sure, Gojo. I could hear everything.”

He sticks his tongue out at you—because maturity has never been his strong suit—and sinks back into his chair with a dramatic sigh. But his hand never leaves yours.

The next day, just past noon, Satoru strolls into the infirmary balancing two paper bags and a drink carrier with his elbow.

“Your chariot awaits,” he announces, bright and loud as ever, kicking the door closed behind him with the heel of his boot. “Also I brought lunch. I figured hospital food has done enough emotional damage.”

You’re sitting up now, looking more alive than you have in a week, already dressed and ready, though a little pale around the edges. The fatigue still clings to you like a second skin, but there’s a flicker of your usual sharpness in your eyes.

“You’re late,” you say, but it’s soft. Teasing.

“Blame the kids,” he grumbles, setting everything down. “Someone started a cursed spirit summoning circle in the girls’ bathroom. I had to bribe a first-year with my pudding to rat them out.”

You raise a brow. “You bribed a kid with pudding?”

“It worked.”

He helps you into your coat, gently pulling the collar up around your neck even though it’s not cold out. You swat at his hand, and he swats back.

Shoko pops her head in just as you’re sliding off the bed. “Vitals are good, cursed energy stable. No stress, no lifting heavy objects, and if you feel dizzy, sit your ass down. Your ribs are still bruised, so stay off your feet.”

“Yes, doctor,” you both say in unison, and she rolls her eyes.

Satoru loops your bag over his shoulder, holding out a hand with a half-smile. “Come on, I’ll walk you out. You’ve got a date with the couch and a stack of bad reality TV.”

You take his hand. “Sounds perfect.”

You slide into the backseat of the car, the leather cool beneath you. Ijichi gives you a small, polite nod from the driver’s seat as you buckle in.

Satoru climbs in after you, shutting the door with a casual thud. “Ijichi, you know where to go.”

“Yes, sir,” Ijichi says, eyes already on the road ahead.

You glance sideways. “Where are we going?”

Satoru leans back with a smug smile, arms stretched out across the backrest behind you. “My place. You’re staying with me for a few days.”

Your eyebrows lift. “I am?”

“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You almost died, remember? You're not exactly cleared for independent living yet.”

“I can take care of myself.”

He scoffs.

You try to protest again, but he cuts you off, voice just a little softer this time. “I’m serious. You need rest. Just... be somewhere safe. With someone who can keep an eye on you.”

Your lips part, but the sincerity in his tone stalls your words.

“…Fine,” you mumble. “But only because I don’t want to hear Shoko yell at me.”

“She’d kill you,” he grins.

“And probably bring me back just to do it again.”

“Exactly.”

Ijichi pretends he doesn’t hear any of it, eyes on the road, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays his amusement.

It had only been a little over a week since you'd last been in Gojo's apartment — cooking dinner barefoot in his kitchen, curled up under a throw blanket on his couch while some forgettable movie played in the background. But to him, it felt like a lifetime.

The moment you step through the door, something in the air shifts.

He doesn’t say anything right away — just watches as you take slow steps inside, your gaze moving over the familiar furniture, the books scattered on the table, the mug he never washed because it reminded him of that night.

You hesitate at the entrance, almost like you’re not sure you belong there anymore.

“Same place as before,” he says gently, nodding toward the bedroom. “I washed the sheets. Even got you new pajamas.”

You glance back at him, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, walking past you to toss his keys into the bowl by the door. “Well, I didn’t plan on almost losing you either. So here we are.”

You don’t answer, just move farther inside, letting your bag slide off your shoulder and onto the couch. The familiar scent of him — something warm and sharp, like citrus and incense — settles around you, and for the first time since waking up in that infirmary, you let your guard down.

Satoru stands in the kitchen for a moment, pretending to busy himself with the kettle, but his eyes are still on you.

“You good?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

“Then rest,” he says simply. “You’re safe here.”

You nod again, this time slower, and head toward the bedroom, your fingers brushing the edge of the hallway wall as you pass.

Behind you, he exhales softly and lets the kettle boil.

“I’m going to swing by your place with Ijichi,” he calls out from the kitchen. “Do you have anything you need?”

You pause in the doorway of the guest room, glancing over your shoulder. His voice carries easily from the kitchen, but there’s something gentler about it than usual — no trace of his usual teasing lilt.

“My charger,” you call back. “And maybe my laptop? If I feel up to working tomorrow.”

There’s a moment of silence before he responds, “Got it. Anything else?”

You think for a second. “Toothbrush, skincare. And that grey sweater I borrowed from you on my desk chair.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then adds, “I’ll text you if I can’t find anything.”

You nod even though he can’t see it and step into the room, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. It smells faintly of his laundry detergent  and despite the dull ache still lingering in your body, you feel the tension in your shoulders start to unwind.

From the kitchen, you hear the rustle of keys, the soft clink of a mug being set down.

“I won’t be long,” he says, appearing in the hallway, jacket already slung over one shoulder. “Shoko said she’ll swing by later to check on you, but if you need anything before I’m back—”

“I’ll call,” you finish for him, smiling faintly. “I know.”

Satoru gives you a look and then nods. “Good. Lock the door behind me.”

And with that, he slips out, leaving the apartment quiet, warm, and oddly comforting  like a space that was waiting for you to return.

You sit there for a few minutes after the door clicks shut, listening to the faint sounds of Satoru's footsteps retreating down the hall, then the distant whir of the elevator.

The quiet is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. The light filtering in through the window is soft, early afternoon sun warming the apartment in a way that makes you feel... safe.

You let out a slow breath and glance around. His place is tidy, but lived-in. A throw blanket half-folded on the couch, a stack of paperwork on the kitchen island, a half-read manga beside his bed, and a small glass cabinet filled with old digimon memorabilia. It’s so Satoru it almost makes you smile.

You pad into the kitchen first, tugging open a cabinet to find a glass. It's exactly where it was last time. The familiarity is soothing. You fill it with water and sip slowly, the coolness grounding you.

After setting the glass in the sink, you open the fridge. A few energy drinks. Miso soup in a container with Shoko’s handwriting on the lid. Way too many instant puddings.

You shake your head with a tiny laugh, grab a pudding cup anyway, and make your way to the living room. You curl up on the couch, blanket over your legs, spoon in hand.

The silence settles again, but now it feels companionable. Like the apartment is breathing with you.

Eventually, you gather the strength to shower. You find a fresh towel folded neatly in the guest bathroom and one of Satoru’s oversized shirts folded at the end of the bed — probably left there on purpose. You smile to yourself, tug it on after your shower, and sink back onto the couch with damp hair and clean skin.

By the time Satoru returns — arms full of your things, sunglasses pushed up into his hair — you’ve drifted off, curled into the corner of the couch, the pudding cup half-empty on the table and one of his throw blankets pulled over your shoulders.

He stops in the doorway. His expression softens.

“Home already, huh?” he says quietly, mostly to himself. He moves around the apartment like he doesn’t want to disturb the peace.

He’s grateful you’re here to disturb it at all.

Satoru moves as quietly as he can, closing the door behind him with a soft click before walking past the couch where you’re sleeping. He pauses for a second, taking in the slow rise and fall of your chest, the soft grip you have on the edge of his throw blanket. His lips twitch into a quiet smile.

Then he exhales and gets to work.

He carries your duffel bag into his bedroom. He sets the bag on the bed, then crouches to unzip it. For a second, he just stares. The sight of your things — your hoodie, your face wash, the book you never finish — hits him in a way he doesn’t expect.

“This is fine,” he mutters to himself. “Totally normal.”

He begins unpacking, carefully placing your clothes in the top drawer of his dresser. Not all of them — just the essentials. He folds each piece neatly, smoothing out the wrinkles like it’ll somehow make you feel more at home. He sets your charger on the nightstand. Lines up your shampoo and skincare in the bathroom next to his ridiculous five-step eye cream routine.

He swaps out one of his pillows with your smaller one from home. Adjusts the blanket. Fluffs the comforter

He stands there for a second, glancing around. His bedroom has never really felt like anyone else’s space. But now, your things sit in small, careful clusters. It looks like you belong.

He walks back out into the living room, catching another glimpse of you curled up on the couch, still in his shirt. His chest pulls.

Quietly, he grabs a spare hair tie and your toothbrush from the bathroom — remembering how annoyed you get when you forget the little things — and sets them on the nightstand, too. Then he picks up your water glass, refills it, and places it gently beside the bed.

When he’s done, he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and lets out a breath.

His room has never looked so good.

He lingers for a moment longer before finally pushing off the doorframe with a quiet sigh, heading toward the bathroom. The shower runs hot the way he likes it, steam curling around him as he scrubs away the exhaustion and lingering stress. He lets the water run down his back for a minute or two longer than necessary, grounding himself in the silence before stepping out and toweling off.

His hair, damp and unstyled, flops messily over his forehead, sticking out in soft waves. He doesn’t bother to fix it. Instead, he throws on a hoodie and sweatpants, then pads back into the bedroom.

You’re still curled up on the couch, wrapped in the throw blanket, face soft in sleep. He crouches beside you and gently brushes your hair out of your face. “Hey,” he whispers, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Come on, sweetheart. Time for bed.”

You blink slowly, eyes still heavy with sleep, and look up at him. Then you squint, lips tugging into a sleepy, amused smile. “Your hair… it looks like how it did in high school.”

He snorts quietly, cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah, I just washed it.”

Still half-asleep, you mumble something incoherent and reach for him. He scoops you up easily, carrying you bridal-style across the room and gently settling you into his bed. Once you’re tucked in, he disappears for a moment, then returns with your meds in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“Sit up for a second,” he murmurs, helping you take the pills before placing the glass on your nightstand. “There. You good?”

You nod sleepily, already sinking back into the pillows.

He’s gone again before he returns with a small bowl of rice and miso soup, carefully balanced in his hands.

“You didn’t eat anything earlier,” he says, sitting beside you. “Just a few bites, okay? You’ll feel better.”

He helps you sit up again, blowing gently on the spoon before holding it out to you. You eat quietly, slowly, with your eyes half-lidded, and he doesn’t rush you once.

When you’re done, he sets the bowl aside, tucks you back under the blankets, and sits beside you for a while, brushing your hair back from your face again.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice still faint but steadier than before.

He offers you a gentle smile, brushing your hair back one last time. “Yeah… of course,” he says. “Get some rest, okay?”

He starts to stand, turning to head out, but your fingers curl around his wrist before he can take a step.

“Wait,” you whisper. “We need to talk.”

He stills immediately, eyes flicking down to where your hand holds his. Then he nods—quiet, solemn—before sinking back down to sit beside you.

“I know,” he says, voice low. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Now,” you say firmly, eyes locking onto his.

“Not now,” he tries, gentler this time. “You’re tired. You just got out the infirmary.”

You shake your head, voice unwavering. “Satoru, if you don’t sit here and listen to what I have to say, I swear I’ll get up and walk straight out that door.”

He stares at you for a second, jaw tightening, before he swallows hard, defeated.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

You pat the mattress beside you. He hesitates for just a moment, then walks over and sinks down slowly onto the bed, settling on top of the covers beside you.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

“I’m sorry,” you both murmur, breaking the silence.

You blink, then let out a small, breathy laugh. “You first.”

But he shakes his head. “No, you go.”

You sit up just a little, eyes still heavy with exhaustion but gaze steady on his. “I… I’m sorry,” you say again. “You were right. About Suguru. I keep holding on to him like if I just try hard enough, maybe I can make sense of everything again. But I can’t, I know I can’t. And it’s not fair to you to drag you into this mess, I know you miss him too.”

He listens in silence, eyes fixed on yours. When you finish, he sighs, looking down at his hands.

“I shouldn’t have picked that fight,” he says, voice low. “There was no reason to push you. I just… I don’t know. I was scared. You always call me when something’s wrong, and this time, you didn’t. If I hadn’t been such an asshole, maybe you would’ve felt safe enough to.”

“That’s not true,” you say gently, reaching for his hand. “You weren’t wrong. I just… wasn’t ready to hear it.”

He lifts your hand slowly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I still should’ve handled it better.”

“You were just being honest. You were right.”

“No, I was wrong.”

“No—”

He cuts you off with a quiet chuckle. “God, we’re really doing this?”

“What, apologizing each other to death?”

“Exactly.” He leans back on one elbow, eyes tracing your face. “But… if we’re being honest… then I guess I should say it.”

You raise an eyebrow, heart beginning to race.

“Satoru?”

He hesitates for only a breath. “I’m in love with you.”

It’s quiet again, except now, it’s a different kind of quiet.

You don’t say anything at first, just stare at him, stunned. His eyes stay on yours, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I know it’s a bad time,” he adds quickly. “And you don’t have to say anything. I just… needed you to know. After everything, I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t feel that way.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “Satoru…”

Your breath catches, the weight of his words sinking in.

“It’s okay,” he says again, voice softer now, as his thumb brushes over your hand. “But you almost died, and I was so scared you’d go without knowing how much you mean to me.”

His eyes flick away for a second, jaw tightening.

“I remembered how much I regretted not telling Suguru. I kept thinking… if I’d said something sooner, maybe—” He cuts himself off, eyes glossy but steady. “I don’t want a repeat of that. Not with you.”

You squeeze his hand, heart twisting.

“I’m still here,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, glancing back at you with a quiet sort of relief. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You are.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you. Slowly, carefully, he scoots a little closer, just enough for your knees to touch beneath the blanket. He doesn't want you to move, not when you're still healing.

“You’re my best friend,” you murmur, voice quiet against the soft cotton of his shirt. “And my favorite person in the world.”

You feel the hitch in his breath before you even glance up.

Without really thinking, your fingers seek out his. Like second nature, he lets you pull his hand into yours. His thumb brushes along the side of yours, tracing idle lines into your skin.

“You’re mine too,” he says.

You lift your head, eyes catching his. There’s something in his gaze that hasn’t been there before, or maybe it has, and you just hadn’t dared to look closely enough.

Neither of you says anything for a beat too long.

And then, without planning to, you lean in and he does too.

The kiss is hesitant at first. Barely there. Just the brush of lips, a question asked in silence. But the second you move closer, hand tightening in his, Satoru deepens it — careful, reverent — like he’s still afraid you’ll vanish.

When you part, your foreheads rest together, breath shared.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

You thought saying it would feel like release, but instead, it twists like a knife in your chest. The words fall from your lips, and the guilt that follows crushes you. You can feel it in your throat, in the way your body trembles as the sobs begin to rise — small at first, then unbearable.

Satoru lets his head fall back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling in stunned disbelief. “Don’t be,” he says softly. “You don’t know how many years I’ve imagined that… kissing you.”

But he doesn’t notice at first. Not until your shoulders start to shake.

When he looks down, he finds the tears already slipping down your cheeks, silent and raw. His expression shifts instantly, the warmth of that moment fading into worry.

“Hey,” he says gently, reaching for your hand again. “What’s wrong?”

You can’t even look at him. “I still love him,” you confess, voice cracking. “I still love Suguru.”

The silence after feels like the air has been sucked from the room, your loud sobs filling the space.

“I care about you,” you continue, voice strained and trembling. “I do, more than anyone. But I don’t know how to stop loving him. And it’s not fair to you.”

You finally look at him. His lips are parted slightly, like he’s about to say something. But nothing comes out right away. Just the weight of truth sitting between you both.

“I’ll take it,” he says, so quietly it makes your breath catch. “I’ll take whatever part of you you can give me. Even if it’s not all of you. Even if he still has most of you.”

Your face crumples again. “You don’t deserve that.”

He doesn’t argue. Maybe because he agrees. Maybe because he knows it wouldn’t matter — not to his heart, which has always made terrible, stubborn choices when it comes to you.

The silence stretches long and heavy.

“I’ll go home tomorrow,” you murmur. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. “Stay.”

You look at him in confusion, eyes puffy and rimmed red. “Why?”

“Because I’d rather be near you, even if it hurts, than wonder if you’re okay from a distance.” His voice breaks a little. “And someone has to make sure you take your meds and eat and actually sleep through the night.”

There’s something unbearable in his kindness.

So you stay.

And for the next several days, he takes care of you like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t ask for more. He just… shows up.

He brings you tea in the morning. He warms the food even when you only eat a few bites. He gives you space when you need it and company when the silence gets too heavy. He doesn’t say Suguru’s name. He doesn’t cry in front of you.

But you notice the way his eyes linger sometimes, full of something you can’t bear to name. You notice the way he always sets out two glasses of water, even if you only use one.

You notice how, even with a broken heart, Satoru Gojo still chooses you.

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[heymelissachambers]

compiled my ramblings into one comprehensive post of:

everything i noticed during opening night of tgwdlm reprised!

spoilers under the cut!

act one

emma’s outfit in the opening is slightly different than the costume she wears throughout the show (she has a longer sleeve shirt instead of the short sleeve button down)

the show started with everyone dancing in front of a scrim and then during bill and melissa’s verses they raised their arms up and the scrim raised with them to reveal the set!

they were using the fuck outta those office chairs for choreography in the opening. at one point all the girls were sitting on office chairs and the guys were pushing them around

ccrp had a clock hanging down from the ceiling which could just be for the office setting. but also, time bastard reference?

ted’s entrance was him zooming onstage in a rolling chair except he overshot so he had to scoot backward while talking to paul

bill sat refreshing his webpage for SO LONG before he answered paul’s question about beanie’s

there was so much physical comedy with the office setting, including paul realizing his mouse isn’t working and trying to fix it

charlotte drank SO MUCH from her flask

every time nora mentioned emma having a line it beanie’s it was either just barry swift or paul standing there. and emma would turn to him like ??? and he would turn around to the empty cafe like ??? bc there’s no fucking line

when barry swift goes to leave beanie’s he says (to emma) “that sign’s bullshit!” and then he turns around to paul and says “the sign’s bullshit!”

after the broadcast about peanuts, there was a ton of paul getting ready for the day where jon was just miming on an empty stage with nothing but sound effects it was great. apparently paul has a bunch of locks on his front door and he forgot to unlock the bottom one when exiting his apartment at first

lauren and will came on dressed as ruth and max for la dee dah dah day! and corey was dressed as frank! everyone was so excited! jaime played who i’m assuming is a new background character who wore a pale blue bucket hat and jeans.

near the end of the song everyone lines up to give paul a brief moment of physical torment and both the homeless man and jaime’s character slapped paul on the ass

ted was fully on his phone while bill was talking about alice

after bill points out charlotte putting a ton of sugar in the coffee and paul comes in to talk about the “flashmob”, charlotte starts pouring the sugar out of the coffeepot in the background

when charlotte was talking about sam singing the lights started getting dim and closing in on her and creepy music started playing until the “he got home late last night” “he didn’t get home at all” part and everything immediately went back to normal while everyone stared at ted. and then charlotte kept going on and the tech went back to being creepy

until melissa popped in to call paul into mr. davidson’s office and everything went back to normal except the other characters were so startled like they were caught doing something wrong. or maybe melissa’s just disconcerting. love that for her <3

melissa fully waited in the doorway for paul to walk past her and then followed him very happily which was just. a little character detail i loved as a melissa fan. is it bc she has a crush on him? is it bc she knows she’s sending him to his death? is she already infected? idk but she’s so unhinged i love her

jon shouted “that’s too many!” during what do you want paul when mr. davidson was making the many-curved woman

mr. davidson wrapped the phone cord around paul’s neck and was choking him during the call to his wife

there was a lot of chair choreography in this one too. i think mr. davidson was pushing paul around in a rolling chair at multiple points.

joey was pete for the hot chocolate bit AND for cup of roasted/poisoned coffee! will was also there dressed in a pastel patterned button down talking to pete like they were friends. they were DEFINITELY gossiping about paul and emma and fully pointing at them when paul dragged emma away from the counter. it was will’s character who tipped emma and made her sing cup of roasted coffee! and corey was also there dressed in a light blue shirt and pink tie! and then they all died!

during cup of poisoned coffee nora and zoey were yanking emma back and forth between them. i don’t think there’s a single actor who doesn’t toss lauren around like a rag doll

the bit where paul and emma go through the alleys starts off with emma saying “oh my god i’m unemployed” and paul saying “well the job market is good Now In 2018” and then emma asked him how he knew the streets so well and paul was like “uhh when i was a kid they called me alley cat” and emma went “what???” and paul was like “no no actually forget i said that”

during the fast bit of show me your hands it’s choreographed so that everyone is in the back of a cop car

that whole number was a crazy blur. extremely enjoyable!

after sam gets knocked out charlotte keeps trying to adjust his legs/shoes, at one point ted reached for her and she swats his hand away

the scrim went down for hidgens’ introduction and then when he let emma in it raised to see the set had changed to include stuff for his house!

hidgen’s house had a lab, an orange couch, a bar, a fireplace, and painting of hidgens over the fireplace. 10/10 set design

ted and charlotte Going At It lasted for longer than i expected and was lit with purple light. i love them.

ted sounds like he’s on the verge of tears when he says “i’m gonna go hit on that crabby barista”. that whole ted/charlotte scene was played a lot more serious than the original which i appreciate so much. there’s a moment where ted leaves and charlotte runs after him and calls his name and you really think she’s gonna leave with him!! but she doesn’t!! fuck man!!

jeff wore a wig for sam except it kept falling off near the end of you tied up my heart but he couldn’t pick it up bc he was supposed to be tied to a chair. so he kept scooting toward it. at one point jaime put it on his head and it immediately fell off. jeff (still supposed to be tied to the chair) reached out and put it back on and it fell off again. eventually jaime just flung the wig offstage. everyone was losing their minds it was hilarious.

at one point jon and will came onstage in black hoodies and sunglasses and pick up sam’s chair and charlotte’s like “sam you’re flying!! how are you doing that??”

i know that last one sounds fake. i stg it's real.

when sam was fake dead during the song and charlotte was checking on him to see if he’s alive she says something like “i didn’t know you had such good memorization” (referring to him singing the whole song)

there were also disco lights in the audience for you tied up my heart they truly did the most for that song

emma and paul clink glasses at “fuck clivesdale”

infected sam and charlotte puppet emma and paul around during join us and die and almost make them kiss at one point. they also both tweak ted’s nipples while beating him up

at one point charlotte is using her intestines as a guitar and sam is using bill's leg

after that ted spent most of the scene just standing/sitting by charlotte’s dead body

by the time paul declared he would never be in a musical he and emma were the only characters onstage. and then he marched off to join bill and she stood alone onstage in front of charlotte and sam’s corpses as the curtains slowly closed. which oooooo foreshadowing to the fact that she’s the last one to be infected by the hive??

act two

paul and bill were fully crawling on the ground to show them crawling through the window of the teacher’s lounge

paul had a flashlight that he was shining around the dark stage which set the vibe of the scene so well

alice had blue goo coming out of her mouth!!

instead of bill trying to talk to alice in between her verses for not your seed he was silent the whole time

alice kept shoving him away but during the “it’s not my fault anymore” bit she was curled up on the ground and bill was holding her. absolutely devastating

and then at the end of the song alice and the other infected girls placed the shotgun in his hands which was CHILLING

when joey’s army character is throwing grenades he yells “smoke bomb stage left! smoke bomb stage right!”

when hidgens first goes to play the piano emma and ted are like “no no no!” while he slowly lowers his hands. and then he slowly raises his hands away from the piano and emma and ted are like “phew!” and then hidgens goes back to the piano and they start going “no no no!” again

will as hidgens was fully bending over leaning against the piano while talking about his business boys. it was so horny. his whole performance was so horny. amazing.

when hidgens says “d’ya mind if i give you the pitch” ted says “fucking go for it hidge”

hidgens also gets REALLY in ted’s face when pitching working boys

during showstopping number when the infected working boys enter they repeatedly pantomime playing basketball and golf/baseball but never football which was another reminder that the hive doesn't fucking know how humans work. and possibly a reference to pete miming golf/baseball when singing about the football team in if i loved you (and i’m saying golf/baseball bc i truly can’t tell which it is)

there’s one piece of choreography where hidgens is making the hands of a clock with his arms and ticking down the minutes which is like. SO SMART

instead of saying “today has taught me something” to paul and emma, ted says “that guy’s show taught me something” (talking about hidgens doing working boys)

when ted was making his way to the park to meet up with the army there were a ton of vines hanging upstage and there was a whole bit where he kept getting tangled in the vines. it was so silly and made no sense. 10/10

after ted made his way through the vines he kept going “it’s in my mouth! it’s in my mouth!” and then he did a borat impression and turned to paul but then realized paul wasn’t there (bc he just abandoned him) and was like “fuck!!”

there was a lot of cool slow motion choreography during america is great again. and let me tell you that song was hitting hard for the audience considering. well. everything.

after america is great again macnamara is carried out like a corpse by ted + the military characters

during the blackout after the helicopter scene jon had to run around from backstage and lie down center stage for the next scene. and the audience could hear jon throwing himself to the ground in the dark and we were all laughing

the meteor was HUGE and shaped like pokey’s mask!! the eyes and mouth glowed blue!! everyone lost their MINDS when they saw it there was a whole round of applause just for the meteor.

mariah still had the blue goo on her mouth for this song!

the ensemble’s “we will not be resisted” during let it out was sung!!

in her final scene emma was wearing the shirt she wore in the opening to bring it full circle when inevitable started!

i was disappointed that mariah and jon didn’t have their little duet moment in inevitable but! that was because mariah was changing into her melissa costume! and jaime changed into the charlotte costume she wore in the opening as well! full circle!!

ted and melissa stand next to each other a lot during inevitable which was a huge win for me, the person writing a fic series about them being besties

also during inevitable all the signs from prior scenes were hanging from the ceiling: clock from the office, beanie’s sign, hatchetfield high sign, the vines from the park, and the pokey meteor!

the bows were fully in character while emma was begging the audience for help and at the end hidgens just picked her up and started carrying her off while everyone else started exiting (still in character and at one point ted and melissa were chatting which made me so happy)

misc

dan and donna did the pre-show announcements which included dan saying he’s never been to a musical, but if he knows all the lyrics and dialogue, should he sing along? and donna saying “Absolutely Not!” which got a round of applause

the lights for multiple numbers had a honeycomb pattern that i eventually realized was because it’s a hivemind!

there were so many strobe lights! most notably during the helicopter crash and the meteor explosion

lauren being tiny was truly made use of throughout the whole show. there were SO many songs where she was just being tossed around

though honestly it was a super tactile show. everyone was shoving and grabbing everyone.

something they did in the theater was tape over the gendered bathroom signs with wiggly-branded all gender bathroom signs

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Puppy

A/N: There isn't much plot tbh just smut thanks to the idea of Frank calling you Puppy

Warnings: NSFW 18+, Soft!Dom Frank, lap play, oral (f receiving), praise, rough pace, possessive behavior, "puppy"/ pet name kink, overstimulation, morning sex, overstimulation, intense focus on reader's whimpers/sounds, breeding kink undertones, emotional Frank, intense vulnerability, dirty talk, softness that breaks him, praise, shaking, very slight angst because Frank is full of feelings, aftercare implied.

X0X0X0

The rain’s been falling for hours, steady and rhythmic against the windows, drowning the city in soft thunder and silver haze. The power flickered once and never came back, but you didn’t light a candle. Didn’t move.

You were waiting for him.

You’re still in his shirt, curled up on the edge of the bed, bare legs tucked under you, hair damp from the earlier shower you’d meant to take your time with. But now, you sit frozen as the door swings open-and in comes Frank. Soaked through. Covered in rain, blood, and silence.

He doesn't speak. Doesn’t even close the door all the way before he locks eyes with you and starts stripping off his tactical gear--gloves, jacket, the layers beneath. He peels them off like they’re too heavy to bear, his stare never once leaving your face.

“You’re wet,” you murmur, too soft, too small.

Frank doesn't answer.

He steps forward slowly, like gravity’s dragging him toward you, and kneels in front of the bed. One large, calloused hand comes up to cup your cheek, tilting your face up so your eyes meet his.

“You been waitin’ for me like that, sweetheart?” he rasps, voice wrecked and low.

You nod, breath catching----and whimper.

It’s soft. Barely a sound. An involuntary, breathy noise that slips from your lips like a secret.

But Frank hears it. And he stops instantly.

His eyes go dark, hungry. You can practically see his control start to fray as he presses in closer, thumb dragging slowly across your lip like he's trying to memorize it. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself. “That little sound. That’s what you sound like when you’re needy, huh?”

Your thighs press together instinctively. You try to look away, but he’s already moving--climbing into your space, pulling you into his lap with a grip that says you’re fucking mine. He settles you over the hard line of his thigh, his big hands dragging up under the shirt you're wearing--his shirt--like he already knows there’s nothing on underneath.

“You whimper for me,” he growls, mouth brushing your neck, “and you think I’m not gonna lose my fuckin’ mind?”

“Frank—”

“There it is again.” His voice is warm and rough against your throat. One hand wraps around your jaw while the other grips your hips, rocking you against him. “That little noise. That’s it, baby. That’s what you are right now, isn’t it?” You feel him smirk against your skin. “My puppy.”

You make that sound again--whining, helpless--and Frank groans, low and broken, like that whimper just short-circuited his brain.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, sliding his hands beneath your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing. “You’re gonna kill me with those sounds.”

He lays you out flat on the bed--slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping something fragile--and pushes your knees apart with two rough palms. You try to say something, anything to slow down and try and get him to allow your brain to breath and catch up, but it turns into another whimper as he drops to his knees between your legs.

“There she is,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours as he leans in. “My soft little thing. Softest fucking thing. All soaked and shaking, just from a little name.”

Then his mouth is on you. It’s not gentle. It’s not teasing. It’s hungry.

His tongue licks deep, his nose presses against your clit, and he moans into you like he’s starving. His arms lock around your thighs, holding you still, keeping you there while your hips try to buck and run.

You cry out, one hand flying to his hair, tugging hard--but all that does it make him fucking grin into you. “Don’t run from me puppy,” he growls, licking a long, slow stripe. “You stay right fuckin’ here and take what I give you like the good fuckin' girl I know you are.”

Two fingers slide inside you and curl, just right.

Your head rolls back against the pillow. “Frank--Frankie--I--!”

“C’mon,” he pants, voice rough, dark eyes glittering. “Let me hear that sound again. You want me to stop?”

You whimper brokenly.

“That’s what I thought.”

Your first orgasm hits like a crash of lightning--sudden, full-body, leaving you breathless and trembling as Frank licks you through it without letting up. You twitch under his mouth, sobbing, shaking--and he still doesn’t stop.

Only when your hand pulls weakly at his hair does he finally climb up your body, eyes wild, mouth wet, voice low.

“You sound so so fuckin pretty when you cry for me,” he whispers, kissing your cheek, your temple. “Bet you’ll sound even better when I’m inside you.” He lines himself up, pants half-undone, and pushes into you with one deep, slow thrust.

You gasp feeling so full-- too full, too deep--and cling to him like you’ll fall apart if he moves. But he does move. And every thrust is measured, devastating, deliberate.

“Feel that?” he growls, hips grinding into yours, hand flat on your belly. “That’s me. Stuffin’ you full ‘cause you need it. You gonna keep whimpering for me, puppy? Gonna let me fuck you dumb?”

Your head nods but you can’t form a word--just a cracked moan that sends him over the edge. He pins your wrists above your head, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat.

“Mine,” he growls. “My needy little thing. My girl.”

And then he cums--deep, warm, full--and you swear you feel your heart stop. His body shakes over yours, muscles tight, voice a hoarse rumble in your ear. “Take it,” he whispers. “Take every fuckin’ drop.”

You sob as your second orgasm hits you without warning, clenching around him, whimpering into his mouth as he kisses you through it.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just breathes. Presses his forehead to yours and whispers things you don’t even register. Eventually, he pulls out gently, scooping you up like you’ll break.

You don’t resist.

He carries you to the bathroom, bath already running, warm water ready--because he knew. Somehow, he just knew what you’d need after all this. And even in the water, even after he’s cleaned you up and kissed your knees and wrapped you in a towel like you’re something precious, you whimper again.

Just once. Barely a sound. But Frank hears it. And he smiles.

“Puppyyy,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “Goddamn. You’re gonna be the end of me.”

X0X0X0

You wake up to fingers trailing slow over your bare back, your body tucked against a chest that feels like stone wrapped in velvet. Frank breathes like he doesn’t want to wake you, but his grip on your hip says otherwise--like if he lets go, you’ll drift into the ether.

It’s quiet. The rain has finally stopped. But he hasn’t moved.

You hum softly, shifting against him--bare skin to bare skin--and he groans low behind you, nose pressed into your shoulder.

“You’re so warm,” you mumble.

“So are you,” he murmurs, voice sleep-rough and ruined. “Don’t move yet sweetheart.” His hand splays across your stomach, pulling you tighter. You feel him--already hard, twitching against your lower back--but he doesn’t grind into you. Not yet.

He’s holding it. Like touching you means too much now. Last night comes back in pieces. Your legs over his shoulders. His mouth. His voice. The name. Puppy.

You shift again, this time slower, purposefully... with intent.

And you whimper. It’s soft. Purposeful. Breathless. A sweet, wounded little sound.

Frank freezes. Then he moans. Full-bodied. Guttural. Like he just got hit in the gut and liked it.

“Ohhh fuck,” he growls, voice deep and strangled. “No, baby--don’t. Don’t do that shit to me right now.”

You whimper again. Higher.

“Jesus fucking Christ--” His hips jerk. “That sound--fuck, you know what it does to me. You know.” His words die off with his own whine escaping from his lips before he could bite it back.

You twist in his grip until you’re on your back, watching his eyes darken as you stretch beneath him, all smug and soft and warm in the morning light.

“Say it,” you whisper. “Call me again.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers shake on your skin.

“Please?” you ask, blinking up at him.

And that’s it. He snaps.

“Puppy,” he growls, nearly choking on it as he settles between your legs, already pushing in. “That what you want, huh? Want me to lose my fuckin’ mind again?” You nod, biting your lip, already whimpering just for the hell of it. Just to ruin him. And ruin him you do.

Frank gasps--gasps--when he bottoms out. He thrusts once, slow, deep, and then drops to his elbows, burying his face in your neck. “How-Why do you do this to me?” he mutters, voice shaking. “Why does it wreck me when you make that sound?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He starts moving--slow and deep, dragging it out, whispering filth into your ear between praise like he’s praying.

“So good… so soft… I ain’t never had fuck… ain’t never felt this—"

He starts to shake...Literally. You feel his body tremble as he presses deeper, wraps one hand around your throat--gentle, just to feel the pulse--and looks down at you like he’s drowning. “I’d kill for this,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “You know that?"

“I know,” you breathe, kissing him softly. “That’s why I whimper for you.”

Frank just loses it.

He cums with a broken sound-- raw and helpless, buried in your neck, shuddering through every second of it. His voice cracks. His chest heaves. His hands grip your face like you’re slipping through his fingers.

You cradle his head as he falls apart. Your big, brutal, war-torn man--wrecked.

Just from a whimper and a name.

X0X0X0

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! If you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3

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[obvithe-bestsoph]

Can u write one supporting pedri with one of his injuries last year? Like he’s just so exhausted of all the injuries and tries his best and just breaks down to reader about it and she comforts him

not how this was supposed to go.

masterlist requests word count: 970

a/n: pobre pedri ☹️☹️ genre: comfort/angsty. warnings: pedri's euros injury.

summary: pedri breaks down after being ruled out of euro 2024 with a knee injury, and you comfort him as he finally lets himself cry.

not how this was supposed to go.

The hotel room is too quiet when you open the door.

Pedri is sitting on the edge of the bed, half changed, hoodie on, but he clearly has yet to get the energy to attempt to change his pants, his left knee set straight in yet another brace, sticking out in front of him, his shoulders curled forward like the weight of it all finally caught up to him. His gaze is locked on the floor and he doesn’t look up when you step inside.

You close the door softly behind you. No words yet. Just the familiar shuffle of your shoes being kicked off, your jacket shrugged over the back of a chair, the crinkle of a water bottle in your hand. Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Only when you lower yourself beside him on the bed does he finally blink. Like he just remembered you exist. Like he’s trying to stay afloat but keeps slipping under.

“They told you?” His voice is raw, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” you say. “The team doctor was outside the physio room. He looked like he saw a ghost.”

Pedri huffs a dry laugh, except it’s not really a laugh. It’s hollow. Cracked at the edges.

“Kroos got me good, huh.”

You don't answer that. You just lean forward and place a hand gently on his thigh, just above the swelling. He flinches, not from pain, but from shame.

“I felt it right away,” he says. “The second I landed. I knew it. Left knee again.”

His voice breaks on that last word. You inch closer, pressing your shoulder to his, anchoring him with warmth, hoping it’s enough to keep him grounded.

“I didn’t even cry when it happened,” he goes on. “Didn’t scream, didn’t freak out. I just sat there. Waiting for the ref. Waiting for the doctor. Like… like I’d been here before.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Because he has been here before. Too many times for someone his age.

“It’s not fair,” he mutters. “I trained for months. Got back into form. Played clean. Got stronger. I did everything right. Everything they asked.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t deserve this.”

“No, you didn’t.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s just heavy. It sinks into the room like fog, touching everything. He leans into your side a little more, and you let him. Let him have this moment. Let him come apart without holding back.

“They ruled me out for the rest of the Euros,” he says, and you can tell he’s trying to keep his voice even, but it wobbles halfway through. “I came all this way. All that recovery. For this.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. His head dips, forehead resting against your shoulder now. He’s shaking a little, barely noticeable, but you feel it.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers. “Tired of being strong. Tired of saying ‘I’ll come back better.’ Tired of pretending like it doesn’t get to me.”

His body crumples into yours then, arms wrapping around your waist, face hidden in the crook of your neck. It’s not a pretty cry. It’s raw. Gutting. Quiet but intense. Like he’s been holding it in since the stretcher carried him off the pitch.

You hold him tighter, not saying anything yet. Just letting him break. Letting him release it all.

“I’m not even scared of the pain anymore,” he chokes out. “I’m scared of being forgotten. Replaced. Left behind. Like I’m just another player who couldn’t stay fit long enough.”

“Stop,” you say, firm but soft. “That’s not who you are. You’re not disposable. You’re Pedri. You’re still the heartbeat of this team. Even if your leg needs a break, your worth doesn’t disappear.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are red and puffy, lashes clumped together, bottom lip trembling. You brush your thumbs over his cheeks, wiping the tears that keep falling.

“They keep calling me injury-prone,” he says. “Online. Even some journalists. Like I’m fragile. Like I’m made of glass.”

You nod slowly. “And yet every time, you get back up. You fight. You play again. That’s not fragility. That’s strength. You’re not made of glass. You’re made of grit.”

He lets out a slow breath, like your words are the first real ones he’s heard all day.

“Do you wanna lie down?” you ask gently. “Just rest for a bit?”

He doesn’t answer, but he shifts backward on the bed, curling up on his good side. You grab the blanket from the foot of the bed and drape it over him, then slide in beside him.

His fingers search for yours under the covers, and when they find them, he grips tight. Like you’re a lifeline. Like you’re the only thing holding him together.

You watch him blink slowly, body still tense from the day, from the pain, from the disappointment. So you whisper, soft and steady.

“You’re allowed to be upset. You’re allowed to grieve the version of this tournament you wanted. But this doesn’t define you. This doesn’t take away who you are or what you’ve done.”

He’s quiet for a while, just breathing. Then, finally, his body relaxes against yours.

“You’ll stay?” he asks.

“Of course.”

“Even when I’m not playing?”

“Especially then.”

He closes his eyes, and you see the tear that slips down onto the pillow. But this time, he doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t fight it.

You stay there, wrapped around him, until his breathing evens out and his grip on your hand softens. The city outside is quiet. Germany sleeps, the tournament continues without him, but in this room, he’s not just a footballer who couldn’t play.

He’s just Pedri.

And you’re here.

[kittydruthers]

College au Melangdon

Mel comes into the ER injured and the team (besides who Frank has told) doesn’t realise that Mel is Frank’s wife and it’s a whole thing when it comes out (not in a bad way in the end)

Can for sure see this happening while Mel is in med school.

She’s used to a bit more of a temperate climate, and certainly not walking around a city when it’s so icy. She ends up taking a nasty fall, landing on her right side and she thinks she might have possibly broken something. She takes herself to PTMC because Frank insisted she always go there if she ever got hurt because he trusts his people and he only wants the best for her. She ends up sitting in the waiting room for a bit but the Langdon at the end of her name surely speeds up her first vitals check.

Her nurse’s name is Perlah, she’s efficient and kind, and Mel notices the double take at her name before she inevitably asks if Mel knows Dr. Langdon. It’s reflexive to answer because yes she does know Dr. Langdon, he’s her husband actually. Perlah’s eyes go wide as she glances back out towards the floor to who, Mel doesn’t know. But Perlah stays where she is, does her initial assessment and notes, asking what happened before she disappears with, I’ll let him know you’re here.

Except Frank isn’t the next person she sees. A number of people seem to be walking by her bed trying not to obviously look at her but clearly wanting to catch a glimpse to the point that she ends up getting up to shut the curtain for some privacy. She doesn’t like feeling like a sideshow attraction.

The first person to shove the curtain aside, thankfully, is Frank. He looks fresh off some big case but his focus is all on her now. Demanding to know what happened, sweetheart?

She goes through the story replayed plenty already, she was headed back from class when she slipped in a patch of ice and went down like a load of bricks landing particularly hard on her shoulder. He gently checks her over, notes the scrapes on her leg and promises to order scans to see if anything is broken. Then he realizes, how in the world did she get here? And she has to admit she almost drove herself, sees his jaw tense, before she tells him she called in Uber and he relaxes. He tells her next time, if she has to come in, the second she gets to the desk she better flash her ring and say she’s Dr. Langdon’s wife because she shouldn’t have to wait. Mel disagrees but doesn’t argue now. She sees feet stopping outside the room but ignores it with Frank here.

Technically, he’s not allowed to be doing this but Mel has a feeling he insisted. At one point she hears a stern voice tell the onlookers, will you leave the kids alone?

Then Dana pops her head in to check on them. They’ve only met a handful of time, but Mel likes Dana a lot. She’s glad there’s someone keeping Frank’s chaos contained at work.

Langdon’s wife is hot news around the floor especially with the nurses and it even reaches Yolanda who starts poking fun at ER Ken for marrying a Barbie doll, speaking of Barbie’s did his wife still play with them? She’s thinking the latest dream house would be a perfect wedding gift. Mel actually watches him flip her off before taking her home, rest of his shift be damed, despite her protests. She only has a sprained shoulder, sling already carefully placed on by her very attentive doctor. He insists he needs to be the one to ice it for her.

There’s plenty of stares as they walk out of the ER holding hands but Mel doesn’t mind so much. It’s nice for people to know he’s hers and he’s wrapped around her finger.

[heldbybarnes]

Where the Light Used to Be

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Death, grief, war themes, memory loss (dementia/Alzheimer’s implications), references to past violence, implied injury, hospitals

----------

You always joked that Bucky would outlive you.

"You’re a damn super soldier," you’d say, flicking his shoulder, "You’ll be climbing mountains when I'm stuck yelling at the neighbor’s cat for pooping in the garden."

He’d laugh, tuck you under his chin, and promise, “Not going anywhere without you, doll. That’s the deal.”

But promises don’t mean much when the brain forgets how to hold them.

The diagnosis comes in a white room that smells like antiseptic and defeat. You don’t cry, not then. Not when the doctor says “neurodegenerative” or “possible early onset Alzheimer’s due to prolonged trauma.” Not when Bucky grips your hand and says it’ll be okay.

You wait until you're in the car, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

Then you shatter.

It starts slowly. A missed appointment. A forgotten pot on the stove. You catch him staring at a wall once, blinking like he’s in a different time, a different body.

You call Sam that night, voice breaking like glass.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper.

Sam comes over the next morning. Brings groceries and doesn’t mention how Bucky couldn’t remember his name for the first ten minutes. He just puts on a movie and sits next to him, the way brothers do.

You will always love Sam for that.

Some days are good. Bucky remembers the garden you planted. He helps water the tomatoes, kisses your cheek, and tells you he loves you like he always has.

Other days… You find him curled in the hallway, whispering Hydra activation codes through his teeth. You sit with him, heart torn open, whispering You’re not him anymore. You’re Bucky. You’re mine.

Eventually, he stops reciting them.

That’s when you start losing him.

The last time he calls you by name is on a Tuesday.

It’s raining. You’re trying to fix the leaky window in the living room, swearing under your breath. You look up and there he is, standing barefoot in his worn flannel shirt, hair a mess, eyes a little clearer than they’ve been in weeks.

He smiles.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

You drop the wrench. It hits your foot. You don’t feel it.

You just run into his arms.

And for five minutes—five perfect, stolen minutes—he remembers.

He remembers everything.

The wedding. The night you met. The way your voice sounds when you're laughing at your own bad jokes.

He kisses you like it’s the first time again. Cries into your neck. Holds your hand like he never wants to let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For when I forget.”

You just nod, because you can’t speak past the lump in your throat.

He doesn’t call you anything but “miss” after that.

One night, you wake to screaming.

Bucky’s not in bed.

You find him in the backyard, naked from the waist up, knees in the mud, blood on his knuckles from punching the earth. You wrap a blanket around him and try to guide him back inside, but he jerks away.

“Where is she?” he growls. “What did you do to her?!”

“Bucky—”

“WHERE IS SHE?!”

You don’t argue. You fall to your knees and hold his face in your hands.

“I’m right here,” you whisper. “It’s me. I’m safe.”

His breathing slows. He blinks at you, pupils wide with terror.

Then he starts crying. And you just hold him until the sunrise.

Eventually, the house becomes unsafe. He leaves the stove on. Walks into traffic. Hurts himself during night terrors.

You take him to a facility where they have quiet rooms and gentle voices. It tears something inside you to sign the papers. You sit in the parking lot for an hour, clutching his wedding ring in your hand.

You don’t go home for a while. Because home is where he isn’t.

You visit every day.

Sometimes, he smiles at you. Sometimes he flinches away like you’re a stranger.

Once, he mistakes you for his sister.

Another time, he tells you about a girl he loved once. “She had paint under her fingernails all the time. Smelled like oranges. I think I loved her,” he says wistfully.

You bite your lip so hard it bleeds.

Because he’s talking about you. And he doesn’t know it.

There’s a nurse named June. She calls you every evening. “He had a good day,” she’ll say. Or “He didn’t eat much, but he was calm.” You start to live for those calls.

Until one day, she doesn’t say anything at all.

Just breathes, once. Then:

“You should come. Now.”

You sit beside him, clutching his frail hand, metal fingers long replaced with a smooth prosthetic. There are deep lines on his face now. Not age—just wear. The weight of too many wars, too many lives, too many memories that have gone to dust.

His eyes open, slowly. Cloudy. Unfocused.

You lean close. “Hi, Buck. I’m here.”

There’s a long pause. Then, miraculously, a flicker.

“…Doll?”

You choke out a sound between a sob and a laugh.

“I’m here. I’m always here.”

He squeezes your hand. Barely.

“You—you stayed?”

“Of course I did.”

A single tear slips down his cheek.

“…Love you,” he whispers, so faint you almost miss it.

“I love you too.”

You stay until his hand falls limp in yours.

Until the room goes quiet.

Until there’s only the sound of your heart breaking.

He’s buried beside Steve.

There’s a plaque with both their names. It doesn’t say "hero." It doesn’t need to.

You bring sunflowers every week. He used to say they reminded him of you—bright, stubborn, always turning toward the light.

You sit in the grass and read aloud from his favorite books.

You keep talking.

Even if he can’t hear you anymore.

Even if the wind is the only thing answering back.

Because that was the promise.

Not to live forever.

Just to love until the very last second.

And God, you did.

You still do.

You always will.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

max ☠️ and 🪷?? 🥺👉🏽👈🏽 the power of your mind goes crazy, such creative concepts executed so well

THANK YOU!

500 for ☠️:

---

“Who can say what’s on his mind?” Chim asks evasively.

“You’re right,” Maddie sighs. “Well, I guess it’s not a bad thing. It’s a happy thing! But why is he coming to me and not to you?”

“Guy advice?” Chim suggests weakly. “You know, maybe he… He doesn’t want advice on how his sister would want to be proposed to. I know Eddie better.”

Maddie rolls her eyes. 

“Fine,” she says. “Whatever. I guess it’s his proposal. He can do what he wants. But you keep me in the loop, okay?”

Oh, this is such a big lie. Such a big, stupid lie. 

“Uh huh,” Chim nods. “Definitely. Will do. Who does Buck think he is, keeping secrets from his sister?”

“Exactly,” Maddie says. “But wait. Why does he want the kids to come?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“I think he’s gonna ask Jee to be his flower girl.”

Maddie’s face crumples.

“That’s so sweet!”

Chim is screwed. And Buck actually might be too, if he lives long enough for this lie to come back around. 

▪️▪️▪️

“Daddy, where are we going?” Jee asks on the drive.

“To a friend’s house, then for lunch,” Chim says. It’s a lie. Madame Mollard is not a friend. “But the first part is a secret, okay? A surprise. So you can’t tell Mom.”

Does he feel like a piece of shit? Asking his daughter to lie? Yes. Yes, he does. But he doesn’t know what other options he has. Bertie was easier. He slept through his whole curse revelation. But Chim has to know about Jee. He can’t risk her, too. 

“A surprise?” Jee asks.

“Yes,” Chim insists. “So if Mommy asks, we just say we had lunch with Uncle Buck.”

“Lunch with Uncle Buck!” She repeats happily. 

“Maybe we can go to a PlayPlace?” Chim suggests. What’s a little bribery on top of all his other crimes?

“YAY!” Jee squeals. 

Maybe Chim can pull this off without Maddie finding out. Maybe. 

▪️▪️▪️

Buck meets Chim and the kids at Madame Mollard’s with Eddie in the Jeep. 

“He’s not coming in,” Buck says. “He didn’t want me driving alone, per your instructions.”

Oh, good.

“You know, what a good man,” Chim says emphatically. He hands Buck the baby carrier so he can focus on Jee. “Willing to sit out in the sun for you, like a neglected dog? Willing to go a medium, against all his values? Generally not wanting you to die?”

Buck frowns. “Yeah, he’s… He’s a good boyfriend…”

“Have you considered marrying him?” Chim asks. “I mean, you should really just propose.”

Buck coughs. He looks over his shoulder, back at the Jeep, as if to make sure Eddie isn’t listening.

---

500 for 🪷:

---

Howie doesn’t look like he knows that at all.

“And how the hell are you to blame for mine?” Kevin asks. “I made a choice, I knew what could happen. I’d make it again. I saved someone. Two someones. She was pregnant.”

Howie looks at him. Really looks at him, finally. He looks sort of heartbroken. Kevin doesn’t know what to think. 

“You would have never been there if it wasn’t for me,” Howie says, voice breaking a little.

Where? On the roof? Both their stations were called! What is he? King of Dispatch assignments? 

“Okay, wait,” Harry says, speaking up for the first time. “We have two theories, now. Two possible explanations.”

“What?” Buck and Bobby say in unison, turning to gape at him incredulously. 

“Hold on,” Harry says. He looks at Howie. “Chimney, man, you know I respect the hell out of you as a friend and a firefighter. I don’t think you’re to blame for any of these people dying. I never blamed you for Bobby. But we’ve got to look at all possible connections, right?”

What is he? A detective? 

“That makes sense to me,” Maddie agrees, still holding Howie’s hand. “I don’t think it’s your fault, either, Chim. But you do. And these are all deaths you were there for. So there is a connection to you.”

Buck nods. “True. A number of us were there for Shannon and Bobby, but Chim was the only one there for Kevin’s.”

“So see?” Howie says. “This could be my fault.”

“Or it could be something to do with the kids,” Eddie says. “This happened to both my kids today.”

“Right,” Harry nods. “Two theories. Two hunches.”

“Two suspects?” Bobby asks him, hint of amusement in his expression.

“Don’t do that,” Harry shakes his head, scowling a little.

“You know who you sound like, though?” He asks.

“A scientific mind,” Harry suggests. “Like my father the architect.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s who I was thinking,” Bobby replies. 

Kevin is so confused. 

“We need to think of what could happen next,” Maddie says. “If it’s the children, is it one returned loved one per child? Like, should we be looking for someone else connected to us because we have two children, like you and Eddie? Harry, should you and May be? Should Denny and Mara and Maya?”

“Who’s Maya?” Bobby asks.

“Ravi’s daughter,” Howie answers at the same time Eddie says, “our niece.”

Bobby looks very confused. Kevin is also confused. 

“And what if it’s not just loved ones?” Maddie continues. “Should I not send my children to school on Monday for fear of them finding Doug on the playground?”

“Oh, fuck,” Buck sighs.

“You weren’t there for that one, Chim,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, but I was involved,” Howie replies bitterly. 

Kevin is still confused.

[velarisdusk]

Chapter 3 — Not Clean

series masterlist word count: 1,586 author's note: the AC is out yall, you know what that means >:) we're STRIPPING (no)

“So, it felt like staying in was the safer option,” Rhysand said, not as a judgment, but as a reflection. 

“Yeah,” you muttered, your gaze falling to the couch. “But it didn’t feel safe. It felt like I was letting her down. And—I mean—I did let her down. She’s been wanting me to go out with her for ages and I just… can’t. Each time.”

The room was silent for a moment, save for the faint hum of the noise machine by the door. Rhysand gave you a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was firm, but kind. “And now?”

You frowned slightly, turning the question over in your mind. “Now what?”

“How do you feel now, sitting here with me, after all that?”

You took a breath, trying to sort through the mess of emotions tangled up inside you. “I feel…” You hesitated, searching for the right word. “Silly.”

He raised an eyebrow slightly, a quiet signal for you to elaborate.

“I know it’s not silly,” you said quickly, your fingers tightening over the arm of the couch. “I know depression is serious, and the problems from it are real problems I’m having to deal with. I know that. But paying you to sit here and listen to me tell you I had a full-on breakdown because I couldn’t find something to wear?” You let out a hollow laugh. “It feels so… ridiculous. Like, of all the things in the world to fall apart over...”

Rhysand didn’t laugh or brush it off. Instead, he leaned back slightly—his charcoal button-up pulling just enough across his chest to make your brain short-circuit for a moment. It was maddening, how even his quiet patience came dressed like that. 

You blamed the heat for the way your skin prickled, for how your pulse jumped—never mind that the front desk had warned you the AC had been out for a few days. Never mind that it had nothing to do with the temperature.

“It might feel that way in retrospect, but it isn’t ridiculous,” he said. “We both know it wasn’t about the clothes.”

You nodded slowly, a soft exhale leaving your lips. “No, it wasn’t about the clothes.”

But his gaze stayed steady, the kind of calm that managed to loosen something in you. He didn’t rush you, just waited—and that stillness made you want to fill the space. 

“I wanted to go out,” you said. “I’m sick of being in my room. I wanted to go have some fun. But then I started thinking about who else would be there, and…” 

He gave the barest nod, enough to show he was following. “And?”

You sighed. “My other friend was going to be there too. I haven’t seen him in a few months. Kinda ghosted him after the last time we—” You stopped. “We’re not just friends anymore. Or maybe we are. I don’t even know.”

Rhysand didn’t tilt his head this time. He just stilled, his pen going quiet over the page. “Muddled lines? Not sure where you stand anymore and don’t really want to confront it?”

A dry laugh slipped from you. “Exactly. It’s messy. I don’t know where we stand, or if we even stand anywhere. And I didn’t want to deal with that on top of everything else. It was already bad enough, but the thought of seeing him there…” You shook your head. “Didn’t matter anyway. Saw him the next morning.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” you ran a hand through your hair. “He drove Gwyn home—my roommate. And he came inside for a bit.”

Rhysand didn’t react much, but you felt you knew him well enough to catch the slight shift in his posture. He didn’t interrupt as you recounted the events of Sunday morning. Just listened, his expression unreadable, the way he got when he knew there was more you hadn’t said yet. That therapist stillness—not cold, just practiced.  

“What did it feel like,” he asked eventually, “being in the same room with him again?” 

You toyed with the hem of your sleeve. “Complicated. I don’t know how to act around him anymore. There’s all this shit between us.”

“Did it feel like he was testing the boundaries you set?” Rhysand asked. “Assuming you set boundaries at all.”

You frowned. “I—maybe? And, I mean, he didn’t really say or do anything crazy, but it felt like he was waiting for me to, I don’t know, give him something? Like he wanted me to be the one to crack first.”

“And how does that sit with you now?” 

You huffed. “It pisses me off, honestly. I’ve spent months trying to untangle myself from him, and he just walks in, looking at me like—like we’re supposed to pick up where we left off.”

Rhysand was quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you think that’s what he wants—or is that just what you see in his face when he looks at you?”

The question hit harder than you wanted to admit. “I don’t know. Maybe both. I mean, he’s not exactly subtle, but… yeah. Maybe I’m projecting.” You rubbed your temple. “Either way, it’s exhausting.”

“You’re allowed to feel that way,” he said. “But what I’m hearing is that he’s taking up a lot of space in your head. Space that might be better used elsewhere.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Easier said than done. It’s not like I want him in my head. He just… ends up there.”

“That happens,” Rhysand said simply. “Especially with someone who meant something to us.”

You shifted again, uncomfortable under the weight of the truth. You knew he was right, but that didn’t make it easier. The morning kept replaying itself behind your eyes, every glance and word. It looped in your mind like a scene you couldn’t reshoot—except you weren’t even sure which part you were supposed to fix. Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. 

Across from you, Rhysand methodically rolled his sleeves to his elbows. The motion was smooth, practiced, exposing forearms you’d somehow managed not to notice before—inked through with dark, winding tattoos that caught the light when he moved. Your eyes lingered a second too long. Of course he had tattoos. Of course they looked that good.

Then he rested his forearms on his knees, gaze steady on yours like he hadn’t just derailed your entire train of thought.

“You said you ghosted him a few months back,” he said. “Why?”

You stiffened. “I don’t know. It felt like the right thing to do at the time. Like I needed space.”

“Did it help?”

You hesitated, sinking a little deeper into the couch. “At first, yeah. I felt like I could breathe again. But then I started feeling… lonely. Like, stupidly lonely. And it’s not like I wanted to reach out to him, but I still wanted him to see me. I’d post stuff. Pictures. Stories. And when he watched them… I felt something.”

“Validation?”

You nodded. “I guess. It’s fucked up.”

Rhysand gave a low huff. “Yeah, it is.”

Your head snapped up, surprised.

He lifted a hand in a slow shrug. “You said it, not me. I’m just agreeing.”

You blinked. “Not what I expected.”

He arched a brow. “Were you expecting me to say it’s fine because ‘feelings are complicated’?” His tone wasn’t unkind, but there was a pointed edge to it. “You already know it’s not fine. That’s why it’s bothering you.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, softer: “It’s not like I meant to mess with him. I just…”

“Wanted to feel wanted,” he said. 

You blinked. He wasn’t supposed to interrupt—therapists are trained not to. You knew that. But he had, and you hadn’t even minded. Maybe because he was right.

“Even if it was on your terms,” he added.

You looked away. “Maybe.”

 “Wanting space and wanting attention are two very different things. Maybe start with figuring out why you needed both.”

Your jaw tightened. “I don’t know.”

Rhysand ran a thumb along the edge of his notebook. “You don’t have to right now. But this kind of back and forth? It’s draining—for both of you.”

You didn’t respond. The room felt heavier now.

Rhysand didn’t press. 

Eventually, you said, “It’s not like I think we could’ve been something. I’m not as delusional as he is.”

“Would it have been easier if you were?”

You gave a weak laugh. “Maybe.”

“Is that what hurts?” he asked quietly. “That you don’t want him? Or that he might want you, and you still couldn’t meet him there?”

You flinched. 

“I think we just broke each other’s timing,” you murmured. “Like, maybe we could’ve been something if we’d met when I wasn’t like this.”

“Like what?” 

“Messy. Uncertain.”

Rhysand nodded once. “And you think he’s not those things too?”

You didn’t answer. 

Rhysand leaned back against his chair. “There’s no clean version of you waiting at the end of this. Just… more honest versions. With better boundaries. Better coping. That’s what we’re building.”

You swallowed. Nodded.

He glanced toward the clock, then back at you. “Five minutes left. Want to try grounding again?”

You groaned lightly, dragging a hand over your face. “Not really.”

His lips twitched. “Then we’ll call it exposure therapy. Five minutes of tolerating me being annoying.”

You rolled your eyes. But something in your chest eased. 

And when you finally left the office—stepping out into the too-bright sun—you didn’t feel good. Not exactly. But you didn’t feel worse, either.

And that, maybe, was something.

[dumbbandpoetic]

Omgg so excited for pop star reader !! Could we get one where they facetime while she’s on tour after one of her shows because they miss each other and they can’t sleep ? 🩷 love you

☆ late night calls

popstar!reader x carmen berzatto

a/n: hey anon!! love this idea, thank you so much for your request <3 i hope you like this xoxo... love you too 🩷

wc: 484 words

She felt a little bad about thinking of calling Carmen. She’d just finished a show in New York, not a wildly different time zone, but enough that he was probably sleeping by now. But she couldn’t sleep. That was the point. The other side of her hotel bed was empty, with no sign of the man who always took that side up.

She spent too long thinking about it. So long, in fact, that her phone started to ring while she was lost in thought. Lucky enough, it was Carmen. She answered without a second thought, sitting up against the headboard.

“Hey, peach.” His voice was a murmur through the phone, thick with sleep (or perhaps, lack of it.) “How was your show tonight? Did it go well?”

“It was great.” She smiled, tucking her pillow higher up under her head. She loved seeing his face, even if it was a little distorted through the phone. “But I wish you were there. I kept looking for you, but you know. You weren’t there.”

“No, I wasn’t.” He agreed with a soft grin, his hand running over the length of his face. She could tell that he was tired. But there was something else.

“Why did you call, Carm? Isn’t it like 2am over there?” She asked quietly, lips pursed as she stared into the phone, rolling over onto her side and holding it up carefully so the angle wasn’t completely awful.

“I can’t sleep.” He angled the phone to show her the empty side of his bed that she always slept on. A small laugh slipped past her lips. “I miss you, peach. When’s your next gap?”

She did the same thing, mirroring the empty side. “I’m almost finished with my US leg. Then I have two months of being in Chicago-”

“And being back in my bed.” He cut her off sleepily, a grin finally painting his features. This is why she liked talking to him at night. He let go of his worries and stresses from the day, and really allowed himself to enjoy his life. He always smiled the biggest at night.

“And being back in your bed.” She repeated, nodding her head gently. “Probably all day. I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept properly in like a week.”

“Do you wanna see if we can fall asleep on this call?” He sounded a bit sheepish, like it embarrassed him to say. The idea wasn’t horrible. But he did sound a little like a high-schooler. But she wasn’t going to tease him for that. He was fragile.

“Yeah, we could try that.” She murmured back, setting the pillow down on the bed and shifting around so she was comfortable.

Their gentle conversation ended soon after, and she could hear his soft snores through the phone. She drifted off with the knowledge of what was waiting for her when the performing was all over.

like and reblog to promote if you can!!! i appreciate everything i can get <3 also please drop reqs in my inbox! i already have one that's coming but more are always always welcome since i love this pairing right now

creds to kodaswrld for the dividers!

[friendlyrandomperson]

Howdy everybody! Before you start this fanfiction, I want to warn you that there is a bit more angst in this one than I usually make. Without further ado, here is the fic!

Which is fine!

Everything feels sharp, his breaths like glass shards in his lungs, his sobs scraping his throat. Everything feels sore, his heart pounding, his head throbbing with each beat. Everything feels cold, the wind whirring through his ears, his cheeks left with streaks from tears. Everything feels warm, his face burning, the fresh tears reaching his cheeks before they fly off like all the others.

He doesn’t know when it started. He doesn’t know why. All he knows is it hurts. All he knows is it hurts and he wants it to stop. He is dizzy, his throat is sore, well… everything is, his lungs burn, his ears hear the rush of wind against them.

Everything was okay. Completely okay. Well, a couple things went wrong, but it shouldn’t be such a big deal!

He simply woke up thirty minutes late and didn’t get to say goodbye to Eddie, which also meant he didn’t get to give him his lunch and a kiss goodbye. Which is fine. He can just make up for it with extra kisses and cuddles tonight!

Then, he was going to go out with Julie, but she made plans with Wally and forgot to tell Frank, so those plans were cancelled and it left Frank with nothing to do, which is fine! He can use the alone time well; he decided to catch up on a book he’s been needing to finish!

But the book gave him a paper cut, and it stung a lot, so he had to go fix it. He grabbed the disinfectant and opened the lid before dropping it and spilling it everywhere. In his panic to grab the disinfectant, he knocked the roll of gauze off of the table and into the puddle, soaking into the entire brand-new roll and leaving it unusable. Which is fine! Now it’s easier to clean up and he can just go buy a new roll. Of course, Howdy wasn’t a big fan of his jokes so he’ll have to wait for Julie, and he isn’t sure how long she’ll take.

Oh, and his finger is still stinging.

Which is… not fine.

Nothing is fine. Not a single thing. Everything has gone wrong and now he’s a bawling mess on the floor next to spilled disinfectant and squishy gauze and his eyes hurt and his body hurts and his head won’t stop spinning and everything is just awful. He can handle inconveniences but for some reason this is all so hard to handle and it’s overwhelming and nobody is coming home for another hour and he still has to clean up that spill—

“Frank? Frank, you home?”

Eddie? Eddie’s not supposed to be home yet. Or is he? How long has Frank been sitting on the floor? He hasn’t done anything and—

“FRANK!” Rapid footsteps and then a thud. “Omph, that smarts.” Gentler, more soft sounds follow, as if someone was crawling. “Oh no, what’s wrong, what happened to yer finger?”

What is Eddie even saying? He can’t hear anything!!!

Frank feels Eddie gently take hold of his hurt hand before the warmth leaves again. Suddenly, it comes back.

“This is gonna sting, okay? I know it’s not real nice, I don’t like it mahself but you’re really hurt an’ I wanna make ya feel better, okay sugarplum?”

A cold stinging sensation runs over his finger, causing him to hiss. A gentle pressure wraps around his finger, where the cut is, followed by a ginger kiss.

“‘S alright, I got chu.” Even though Frank can barely hear, he can clearly tell that Eddie’s voice is gentle and loving. He feels himself be softly pulled into Eddie’s lap, with the taller man stroking his hair and his back, giving him kisses on the top of his head for what seemed like forever and not even a minute until Frank’s loud, harsh sobs downed into quieter, less achy ones.

When the sobbing fades, sounding less rough than before, Eddie speaks softly. “How long you been on the floor in here?” A gentle sniffle comes from Frank. “I don’t know, I- I just dropped the- the-“ Frank whimpers, not even being able to get the words out. “Hey now, it’s okay, don’t beat yerself up over it.” Eddie lifts his face, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You need a break, huh? Whatchu wanna do?” Gently pushing stray hairs off of Frank’s forehead and waiting for an answer patiently, Eddie takes time to observe his husband.

— Hair tousled and sticking out in various directions but somewhat stuck outwards, his head has been spinning for more than thirty minutes. He will have a headache.

— Eyes pink and red around the edges, clear and shiny lines down his face and neck, he’s been crying for over forty minutes. He probably shouldn’t read for a bit and is tired.

— His voice sounded rough when he responded, he needs water.

“How ‘bout this?” Eddie carefully stands and picks Frank up, holding him in his arms like one would hold a sleeping child. “I’m gonna get chu some water and a painkiller or two, then we can just cuddle fer a bit until you don’t wanna. Unless you don’t wanna cuddle at all and wanna do somethin’ else.” Frank shakes his head, his arms tightening around Eddie quickly. “No, no I want to cuddle.”

Eddie softly chuckles, kneeling down and picking up the gauze, using the dry side to get the rest of the disinfectant off of the floor. Luckily, there’s not much left in the bottle, so the puddle is easy to clean up. Eddie picks up the now empty bottle, still holding the gauze, and walks to the trashcan, dropping both in and walking out of the kitchen, flicking off the light as he does so. “Alright, we can cuddle fer a bit.”

~~~

“No, that’s what happened? Baby gimme yer hand, that musta hurt!”

Frank snorts, giving Eddie his hand. “It did, but it doesn’t anymore because you helped me.” Eddie holds Frank’s hand, the thin finger wrapped in a butterfly band-aid. He gently kisses the top of the band-aid, earning a soft giggle from Frank. “Kisses can make just ‘bout anythin’ better, huh?” Frank nods.

“Only from you.”

“Hmm, I dunno, yours work purty well if I say so mahself.”

Frank playfully rolls his eyes. “Oh, Eddie, you don’t mean that.”

“I bet I can prove it.”

“How?”

Eddie quickly kisses Frank’s lips and pulls back.

“Hmm… yup, I’m right.”

Frank scoffs quietly.

“What did I make better?”

“I was cravin’ somethin’ sweet.”

[butchbloodhound]

heyyy I was wondering if you could do like a best friends to lovers with Hyunju where she had a shitty boyfriend in the past or smth like that?

and like we confess our love to her a while after she broke up with her bf

(preferably fem lesbian reader but if not that's ok 🤭)

Thank youuuu 🫶

CHO HYUN-JU (120), confession.

NOTE: thank you so much for the request !! this is a really cute idea, friends to lovers is honestly my favourite trope lol so hopefully you enjoy <3 had so much fun writing this fic.

warnings: none.

you remember that night so vividly.

it was 2am and you’d been sleeping soundly when you received a desperate call from hyun-ju. the chattering of her teeth and the rumbling of cars in the background had dispelled the fog from your brain immediately. she had pleaded, “please, can you come get me?”

you were awake, dressed, and in your car faster than you’ve ever been in your entire life, cutting a 40 minute journey down to 20 minutes.

when you saw her outside her then-boyfriend’s apartment, shivering and pacing around anxiously, you’d never been so angry in your life. the relief on hyun-ju’s face when she actually noticed your car was palpable and the first thing you asked when she got inside was, “okay?”

she breathed an exhausted sigh, “mhm. now that you’re here.”

maybe that was the moment everything began changing, the moment you became aware of your own feelings. you didn’t bring hyun-ju home, instead taking her to your place. she slept beside you in bed while you stayed up pondering the sickly, fluttering feeling in your stomach. it was a long night, and the next morning hyun-ju had confessed that she was the one who left him but wouldn’t tell you why, “i’ll tell you soon, okay?”

she never did, and you didn’t bring it up again.

you’re not sure why you’re remembering this now, but hyun-ju must notice your unfocused gaze because she asks, “what’re you thinking about?”

she’s laying beside you on your couch, head on your thigh as your favourite show plays. it’s almost perfect, and it kills you that you can’t be satisfied with just this, “your shitty ex.”

“what?” she laughs, and the sound makes you so happy it’s embarrassing, “why?”

“i’m not sure,” you answer, twisting a piece of hyun-ju’s hair around your finger. she blushes as you do, and now neither of you are paying attention to the tv, “i’m just… do you know how you said you’d tell me why you left him, but didn’t? will you- can you tell me now? if it’s okay?”

she laughs again, although this time she sounds more self-conscious than anything, “ah, it’s okay. it’s just, i’m, i’m not sure i like men as much as i thought, but uh- i was nervous about telling you.”

nervous?

you sit up so fast that you almost give yourself whiplash, “nervous? but you know i’m…” you trail off, and a plethora of emotions hits you all at once: shame, disappointment, delight, giddiness- but mostly confusion, “why?”

“because at the time, i didn’t want our relationship to change.”

hyun-ju isn’t looking at you, clearly avoiding your questioning stare. you don’t say anything, you can’t, you have no fucking clue what the ‘correct’ or ‘appropriate’ response is in this situation. maybe she wants your relationship to be different now? or does she know about your feelings for her, and it’s uncomfortable so she didn’t tell you so you wouldn’t get the wrong idea?

you’re clueless, and hyun-ju is silent. she’s flushing, the back of her neck turning a bright red that’s usually seen only when she drinks.

you’re overthinking. your palms are clammy, heart racing uncomfortably fast and your mind is going through every worst case scenario but ultimately, you trust in hyun-ju. she wouldn’t just abandon you so easily, you believe that.

perhaps that’s why you say it.

“i love you,” you blurt out. it’s not planned, it’s not romantic, it’s clumsy and panicky and awkward but sincere. you have waited so long for a chance, a perfect moment, but here in your home is the safest you’ll feel, “i’ve loved you for a really, really long time. i’m sorry i’m putting it on you now.”

there’s a long, drawn out silence, and every second that goes by only makes you feel more and more nauseous.

hyun-ju’s bottom lip is trembling, and your voice quivers when you continue, “you can ignore everything, we can pretend this didn’t happen if it isn’t what you want, if you still don’t want our relationship to change, but i wanted you to know.”

your favourite show persists in the background, but it feels like the world has stopped.

you can’t run away, hyun-ju still laying on your thigh. she’s clutching the couch below her tightly, and finally she turns to you. her eyes are glassy with unshed tears as she admits, “i wasn’t ready for a relationship then, but, i wanted to tell you while we were in your car that i’m in love with you. the moment you came in the middle of the night to get me, i knew that i loved you.”

she pauses, and your own breathing suddenly sounds incredibly loud. you understand the words she’s verbalising but can’t process them.

“i’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to say it.”

and as she looks up at you, vulnerability and longing clear as day, she’s beautiful.

your hands are shaking when you brush away a single tear at the corner of hyun-ju’s eye. there’s a weight- a crushing, suffocating weight- that’s been taken off of your chest. you ask the question you’ve been thinking about for ages but didn’t have the confidence for before, “can i kiss you?”

she’s smiling again, “it would make me really happy if you did.”

and every day, every week, every month, every fucking year of waiting is worth it. the yearning, the sleepless nights, the doubt- you’d do it all again as long as this was the ending, and hyun-ju is kissing you like she’s making up for every second she spent not doing it. it’s utterly perfect.

you sacrifice breath after breath just to continue kissing her and when you eventually can’t anymore, you’re not upset. you know you’ll have more time in the future.

it’s everything you’ve been dreaming of.

above all else, you’re happy you could be there when she called, and you’ll be there for her again the next time too, for as long as she’ll let you.

although she definitely won’t require saving from shitty boyfriends any time soon.

[tgmsunmontue]

Won't let you be my Waterloo - 3/?

Hangster getting together fic set after TGM. Jake receives messages from Rooster meant for someone else and it opens some channels of communication. Shame they're still terrible at it. Fleshed out "wrong number" story from @caystar13star

Waterloo: a decisive or final defeat or setback.

CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

                Of course, he can’t just take off and live in Izaak and Izzy’s guest room for three months. Not least because he and Mav are doing a delicate dance of becoming reacquainted with one another, which is sort of nice while also a lot awkward, although watching Mav and Penny Benjamin do a similar type of dance is entertaining, and Amelia seems… normal. He doesn’t really have experience with teenage girls to have a metric to compare her to, but he does feel judged sometimes when she looks at him. It makes him think of Phoenix and he looks forward to introducing them.

                He wakes in the middle of most nights, heart pounding, breath coming in sharp breaths and he struggles to get back to sleep. Knows he’s going to have to talk to someone, suspects it’s because he’s got time now. Time to process what he’s just experienced. Survived. So for the first time in a long time he stays put, looks around him and decides he might as well try and do some work on the house. It needs it and it’s not like he can make it worse.

…            …            …

>>Did what you suggested and went and patted all the dogs at the shelter. Helped a little.

                He knows this isn’t meant for him, because he sure as hell hasn’t ever suggested that Bradshaw go and do such a thing. But attached to the message are about five photos of some cute dogs. Jake finds himself smiling, although he wonders why Bradshaw needed to go and do that and what he’s been saying to the person he intended this for. Jake isn’t stupid, knows Bradshaw is probably having nightmares. He is himself and he didn’t go through the experience of the SAMs and then getting shot down.

                So instead of messaging Rooster and telling him he’s got the wrong number again he simply finds himself on Rooster’s porch step again, frowning at the dry-rot and peeling paint, kicks at it absently and the urge to fix it is still there but it’s not his place, either literally or figuratively and he raps his knuckles on the door, waits. Knows Bradshaw has to be home because his bright blue monstrosity of a gas-guzzler is sitting in the drive like a beacon.

                “Hey.”

                “Hey. What are you doing here?”

                “Want me to leave?”

                “Would you actually?” Bradshaw asks with a scoff, pulling the door open wider.

                “Probably not.”

                “Yeah. Thought so. Might as well come in then.”

                Since their morning of shared chicken wings things have been… easier. Not easy, definitely not the level of comfort he relaxes into when he’s with Javy or at home with his family, but whatever tension was there previously has bled away and he supposes the whole life-saving has probably helped as well. Now there is an uneasy sense of something there and Jake’s not sure if it’s friendship or if that’s simply wishful thinking on his part. He follows Rooster through to the kitchen, gets a hand waved in the direction of a half-filled coffee pot and invited to help himself. He declines, then spies the small pots of sample paint and the quirks up an eyebrow.

                “Planning on doing some redecorating?”

                “Yeah… the whole place needs some desperate TLC.”

                “I mean… yeah. I wasn’t going to say anything.”

                “You feeling okay?” Bradshaw asks, and Jake is certain there’s a joke heading his way judging from the way Rooster’s lip is twitching. So easy to read.

                “Yeah. Why?”

                “Not like you not to say anything.”

                “Oh fuck off…” Jake mutters, flipping him the finger. “Are you planning on keeping it or selling it?”

                “Uh. Keeping it. Why?”

                “Well… if you were going to sell, then there wouldn’t be any point in me offering my help. I mean. Developers will just buy it and knock down the house. So no point spending time and money fixing things up. However if you want to live here… then there are some things I can help with.”

                “Really?”

                “Yeah, really. My dad is a carpenter and I was helping him from a young age. I can’t say I am looking forward to the paint job this place needs but stripping it off will be satisfying at least.”

                “You’re… you’re offering to help me fix it up?”

                “If you want the help…”

                “I… yeah. Yeah. Definitely. Please.”

…            …            …

                Other than learning his dad was a carpenter, Hangman hasn’t mentioned his family further and Bradley doesn’t want to ask, well aware of the fact that the topic can be a minefield. Hangman is going through his dismal collection of tools, muttering under his breath and Bradley feels helpless, but doesn’t know what else he can do. An engine he can work with, a house, not so much.

                “Did you enjoy petting the dogs Rooster?”

                The out-of-the-blue question makes him blink, not least because he didn’t tell anyone about that… except…

                “Did I send you a message again?” Bradley asks with a sigh, and if his eyesight wasn’t checked regularly he’d think he needed glasses. But it’s just his lack of attention, although he remembers them feeling tired and gritty the night he drank too much and shit, maybe he should get them checked properly.

                “Yep. Food pictures and cute dogs… I’m really suffering here Bradshaw.”

                “Yeah yeah, whatever. I’m sorry.”

                “It’s fine. Just… who is it you think you’re messaging?”

                “Oh. Izaak. He’s, uh, my best friend,” Bradley says, because saying brother wouldn’t be accurate regardless of how they feel about each other and how Bradley feels a part of the family.

                “Huh. Right beside Hangman in your phone then.”

                “Same when you were Jake.”

                Hangman startles at his words, turns round to stare at him.

                “You have me in your phone as Jake?”

                “Um. Not anymore? I changed it to Hangman, but then it still puts your contact right beside I either way. And to be honest, I’d rather be accidentally messaging you than Hondo…”

                “Uh… do I want to know why you have Hondo’s number?”

                Bradley definitely isn’t mentioning asking for it so he could put him in as a buffer between Hangman and Izaak, not that he did it anyway, because he’s up in the Bs under Bernie because he hasn’t bothered changing it.

                “He’s one of Mav’s best friends… or maybe just one of the few people Mav listens to. Or pretends to listen to…”

                “Sounds like Maverick. Anyway, you’ve got nothing we need. Going to need a trip to the hardware store. You’re paying.”

                Bradley splutters.

                “Why am I paying?”

                “Your house, your dime. You’re already getting my labor for free.”

                Bradley opens his mouth to argue and then snaps it shut, because actually, that seems more than fair. The temptation to make a quip about having to suffer through Hangman’s company, but he doesn’t want to rock the boat.

…            …            …

                Jake finds himself a tool belt and a few things he knows he’ll use again, like a good hammer that’s weighted just right and a decent measuring tape. He’s already thinking of ripping out the nails on the porch steps, lord that will be satisfying to fix. His actual tool belt is at his parents, but with them away he’d have to bother one of his siblings, and they’re all plenty busy without going on a goose chase for him.

                “You’re, uh, buying that?”

                “Well I’m not flying all the way to Texas to get my one.”

                “You… you have your own one?”

                “Yes Bradshaw, I have my own tool belt,” Jake says slowly, and he wonders what the hell is going on in Rooster’s brain right now to make him look like he’s currently been knocked on the head; remembers belatedly the man is still recovering. “You okay?”

                “Yeah… uh. How about I buy this one and you just use it? You are doing me a favor after all…”

                Jake shrugs, adds it to his cart but keeps hold of the hammer before Bradshaw rolls his eyes and grabs it from him. Ah well, he can have a surprise at the checkout. Then they go and get wood and he holds back all the jokes on the tip of his tongue, feels a little juvenile until he spies Rooster biting his lips to hold in a laugh. Then he’s talking to the hire team, organizing some saws and horses to support the wood. Bradshaw stands there and listens, silent.

                “You actually know about this stuff…” Bradshaw says as they make their way to the checkout and Jake nods.

                “Sure do,” Jake replies, doesn’t want to ask about Bradshaw’s upbringing, knows about his dad and Maverick so doubts it’s pretty. “Good thing you’ve got a truck. Let’s get back to your place and get to work.” Part of him expects Bradshaw to grumble, but instead he does as Jake instructs and helps load the wood and supplies into the back of his truck and Jake’s already thinking he’s going to need some gloves. He can get things measured up first though.

…            …            …

                “I keep sending Hangman messages I mean for you,” Bradley says to Izaak later, prodding at the piece of fish he has in the pan. “But I went to the shelter this morning, patted lots of puppies. It was good.”

                “Glad it helped, won’t tell Izzy you still haven’t sent her photos of puppies… actually, I was thinking of getting her one. Was there one that stood out?”

                “Fuck off, I’m not travelling across the country with a puppy…”

                “Not even for us?”

                “No.”

                “Where’s the love gone?”

                “Go to a shelter near you, even better, take Izzy and let her have some stress relief. I know the whole wedding planning is getting to her.”

                “I’m trying to help!”

                “I didn’t even say anything!”

                “Ugh. Sorry. Just getting defensive. Her mom is being…”

                “Challenging?” Bradley provides, because he’s met Izzy’s mom and he’s not quite sure how Izzy turned out so chilled out and relaxed if that was what she grew up with. Maybe that’s why she’s so relaxed though.

                “Yeah. Let’s go with that. But enough about my future mother-in-law… you’re still messaging boner-boy huh?”

                “Hangman…” Bradley corrects.

                “Hangman, Boner-boy… same thing.”

                “It’s really not,” Bradley says with a tired sigh. “Anyway, I’m not messaging him. Not on purpose.”

                “I think that’s your brain trying to tell you something…”

                “Fuck off, it is not.”

                “No, seriously, I think you should actually send him some messages. Open up those lines of communication. Actually have an adult conversation. I know you can.”

                “We actually spent the afternoon together. He’s going to help me do some work on the house. Apparently his dad was a carpenter… he definitely seems to know more than I do.”

                “Wait wait wait. Boner-boy has offered to help you work on the house? And you accepted?”

                Bradley bites his bottom lip, because yeah, he gets why Izaak is asking with such disbelief. He wasn’t ready to work on the house previously, it felt too emotionally charged. Now though, having nearly died? He wants to make it his, the same way it used to be his parents. As for Hangman’s presence…

                “Yeah well… I’m ready to make some changes and he’s free labor.”

                “Wow…” Izaak says, the word drawing out. “You feeling okay?”

                “He’s not as bad as he was…” Bradley says with a sigh, because of course he’s complained about Hangman to his best friend before. “Things happen. Things I can’t tell you about. But… we’re okay.”

                “Things happen? Like… is this in the same ballpark as you now talking to your dick of a godfather again?”

                “Yep. Things… happened. I’m talking to Mav. He told me that my mom didn’t want me to fly.”

                “Oh. Fuck… how are you coping with that news?”

                “Well… not great. But. It is what it is right? I’m not going to give up my career, and lots of kids go against their parents’ wishes…”

                “Most kids don’t have dead parents they can’t argue with,” Izaak says, and it’s this level of candour that Bradley has always appreciated. No avoidance. Sympathy but not pity. And in the case of Izaak the easy invitation to join him for every single family thing ever since the time they first met.

                “It’s fine. Your parents think I’m amazing.”

                Izaak sighs, because he knows Bradley is right. Despite everything there are somethings that Izaak’s parents just don’t get about Izaak, and Bradley is the weird golden child because he doesn’t have a complicated history with them, or feel their expectations on his shoulders like he knows Izaak does.

                “You are amazing. I don’t make a habit of having best friends who aren’t.”

                “Love you too. Izzy and I both. Your parents been okay? Not too overbearing?”

                Izaak sighs again and Bradley can imagine him standing there, rolling his shoulders as he stares out of a window.

                “Yeah. They’re fine. They want you to go to a suit place. They have people.”

                “Of course they do,” Bradley laughs. “Just ask you mom to send me the details and I’ll figure it out.”

                “Lucky you. Mom and Cheryl are going to be at my fitting,” Izaak says, and Bradley winces. The mother-in-law.

                “Yikes. Sorry man. Rather you than me.”

…            …            …

[ujisthings]

Here y'all go I'm still gonna post the other fanfic about wonwoo to satisfy everyone I'll upload it this weekend

Title: "Burning Blue"

Pairing: You × Best Friend’s Dad!Kim Mingyu

Genre: Smut, Fluff, Slight Angst, Plot Twist

Warnings: Age gap (reader is 20+), explicit sexual content (NSFW, 18+), swearing, slight angst, slight infidelity theme, DILF!Mingyu energy, secret relationship, light dom!Mingyu, power dynamic

Plot Twist: Hidden in the story—wait for it.

---

You never expected to fall for your best friend’s dad.

Mingyu was just that—Mina’s ridiculously attractive, tall, golden-skinned, ever-smiling dad. The kind of man who wore white T-shirts that clung to his muscles in all the right ways, who always smelled like cedarwood and fresh rain. The kind who could cook better than any man had a right to. The kind who smiled at you with the corners of his eyes and called you "sweetheart" without knowing what it did to you.

You’d always known he was handsome. But lately, it was different.

Maybe it was the summer heat. Maybe it was how he’d started lingering a little longer when you were in the kitchen late at night. Or how his eyes sometimes dropped to your lips when you spoke.

You were staying at their house while Mina was away for two weeks visiting her mom in Busan. A harmless favor—you’d watched their dog before, and Mingyu traveled for work, so the house would’ve been empty. Except this time, he hadn’t left.

“It’s fine,” Mina had said on the phone, “He’s barely home anyway.”

She was wrong.

---

Night One: The Spark

You’re curled up on the couch in one of Mingyu’s oversized hoodies—an accident, you’d grabbed it out of the laundry without thinking. It smells like him. He walks into the room holding a glass of red wine, wearing sweatpants low on his hips, hair slightly damp from a shower.

His eyes drop to the hoodie, then back to your face.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says, voice rougher than usual.

You smile, pretending your heart isn’t going crazy. “It was on the chair. I was cold.”

He sits beside you, so close your knees almost touch. “Looks better on you anyway.”

That’s the first time it happens.

His hand finds your knee. Warm, firm, lingering.

You should stop it. You should move. You should remember this is your best friend's dad. But you don’t.

You stay still.

And then he kisses you.

Slow. Deep. Like he’s been dying to for a long time.

---

Night Three: The Heat

It starts in the kitchen.

You’re cooking pasta. He walks up behind you, hands brushing your hips as he reaches for something. You feel the heat of his body, the silent tension vibrating between you. You turn to say something—anything—but the moment you look up at him, his mouth is on yours again.

This time, it’s hungrier. Hot. Wet. Desperate.

You end up on the counter, legs wrapped around his waist, hands gripping his shirt, his mouth devouring every inch of you. His hands push under your shorts, dragging the fabric down, fingers sliding through your folds like he owns you.

"You're playing a dangerous game, sweetheart," he mutters against your skin as he dips down, sucking bruises into your inner thigh. "Do you know what you're doing to me?"

You gasp, grinding into his palm. “Then do something about it.”

He does.

Right there on the kitchen counter.

---

Night Six: The Confession

You’re lying in bed together. His chest is warm under your cheek, fingers lazily running through your hair. You’ve just had the most mind-blowing sex of your life—again—and you're floating somewhere between sleep and soft affection.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers. “You’re Mina’s best friend. If she knew...”

“I know,” you whisper, fingers tracing circles on his chest. “But it feels right.”

He turns his face toward you. “It does.”

Then softer, more vulnerable: “I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

You kiss him. “Me neither.”

---

Night Nine: The Twist

You’re standing in the hallway, late at night, when you hear the front door open. You freeze.

No one’s supposed to be home.

“Mina?” Mingyu calls out.

But it’s not Mina.

It’s her older brother—Jae.

Your childhood crush. The one who moved to the States two years ago.

He walks into the kitchen and stops short when he sees you.

And then he smirks. “Well, well. Still hanging around, huh?”

You laugh awkwardly. “Just staying for a bit. Helping your dad.”

“Helping him how?” he teases, pouring himself a drink. “Wait—don’t tell me you’re still into him?”

You blink. “Still?”

He shrugs. “You used to write his name on your notebook when you were like, fifteen. I remember catching you once. Called you Mrs. Kim for a week.”

You laugh nervously. “I was a dumb kid.”

He eyes you. “Are you now?”

Before you can answer, Mingyu walks in. His hair’s a mess. He’s wearing your lip gloss on his neck.

And Jae sees it.

There’s silence.

Then, very calmly, Jae says, “Holy shit. Are you sleeping with my dad?”

Mingyu’s face hardens. Yours turns pale.

“Don’t do this,” Mingyu says.

But Jae just lets out a wild laugh. “Oh my God. You are. This is insane.”

You take a step back, heart hammering.

And then the twist hits.

“Do you even know?” Jae says, eyes locking onto yours. “He never told you, did he?”

“Told me what?”

Jae stares at Mingyu. “She deserves to know.”

You look between them, confused and terrified. “Know what?”

Mingyu’s jaw is tight. He doesn’t speak.

Jae exhales and says the words that shake everything:

“You’re not just Mina’s best friend. You’re her half-sister.”

---

The Aftermath

It all comes out.

How Mingyu had an affair years ago. How you were the result. How your mom never told you who your real dad was. How your mom and Mina’s mom used to be close—until everything fell apart.

And now you’ve fallen in love with your own father.

But you’re not biologically related.

The timing doesn’t overlap. You were born from a woman Mingyu knew during a break from Mina’s mother. He didn’t even know you existed—until your mother told him a year ago, and he chose not to say anything. He didn’t want to destroy you. Or Mina. Or whatever you were starting to build together.

But now everything’s destroyed anyway.

---

One Month Later: A New Beginning

You're sitting on a bench in a quiet park, sunlight pouring through the trees. Mingyu walks toward you, hesitant.

“I didn’t know how to fix this,” he says. “I thought maybe leaving you alone would be better.”

You look up at him. “You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You’re... you’re technically my dad.”

He sits beside you. “Biologically, no. Legally, no. But I still crossed a line. A big one. And I hate myself for it.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

“I still love you,” you whisper.

He turns to you, shocked. “You do?”

You nod. “And it’s fucked up. But it’s real.”

He takes your hand. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever this is. We’ll find a way.”

You lean into him, letting yourself hope.

Maybe love doesn’t have to be perfect.

Just real.

---

END 💔🔥💫

[zombofreak]

Everything's worth a try.

As promised, the sylus (LADS) x reader pegging fic.

WARNINGS: PEGGING!! PEGGING!! MORE PEGGING!! oh also face sitting. and obviously aftercare :3

☀︎

“Are you sure about this, Sylus?” You wearily ask. Your eyes raking over his half naked form. He’s only in boxers, clearly hard. You were no better, you could feel your own panties growing wet at the thought of what was to come.

He only smirked at you, his scarlet eyes having a certain glint you couldn’t quite place. “Oh, i’m beyond positive, little dove.”

You glance at the.. pretty large strap on in your hand. You shakily let out a breath. Sylus had offered this idea before, though, you never thought he was serious. Not because you’re not into it, god no, you were just nervous. This isn’t exactly something they taught in Sex Ed in highschool.

“Come on now, where’s that strong huntress that snuck into the N109 zone? Don’t tell me she’s hiding in there somewhere..?” He teased, larger hands resting on your hips as he pulled you closer. “Nothing to be scared of here, i assure you I can handle all you throw at me.” Sylus reassured, the snarky expression turning soft slightly as he reassured you.

It started with small kisses, your hands exploring each other’s bodies. Then, it got more heated, desperate on both ends. Sylus groaned into the kiss when you landed a particularly hard bite on his lip, a wide smile on his face as he continues to kiss you. “There she is..” He hums. You pull back from him, an odd surge of boldness coming through your body like a tidal wave.

“On the bed, Sylus.” You spat out, he chuckles but, obliged. As you reached for the lube and turned your back, sylus had already slipped his boxers off, on his back with no shame. The sound of the lube cap popping open echoed through the room, Sylus’ body pale under the gentle moonlight from the open window. “We don’t have all night, do we?” He looked at your form up and down, you scoffed. “Oh shut up, you’ll be singing different tune after this, asshole.” You laugh out, Sylus raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh? is that a threat or a promise?” He retorts.

You laugh quietly, “whichever you prefer.” You hum out as you properly seated the strap on around your thighs and hips, making sure it’s securely on. 

You can tell Sylus chose such a size specifically for this. It was heavy on your hips, around 9 inches, maybe? It was girthy too, he wanted to push his limits. You pour a good amount of lube in your hand, as Sylus got comfortable and spread his legs to give you a better view. He even fucking shaved for this.

“You were ready, huh baby?” You tease, you could have swore you saw red on his cheeks as he laughs back. “Only wanted you to get the best experience, sweetie.” He says back.

You press one lubed finger to his hole, he tenses, you feel him twitch against the pad of your finger. You shuffle so you’re on the bed, between his legs. “Calm down, ‘m not going to do anything if you aren’t ready, Sy’.” You mumble as you press soft kisses to his neck, waiting for him to relax.  He only grunts quietly, which amazed you. Usually he can’t keep his damn mouth shut when you’re in bed.

His body slowly goes pliant, you slowly sink your finger in to the first knuckle. “Christ.. that feels..” His voice trails off, you laugh breathily. “Give it a moment, gotta get you used to it.” You reassure him, he only sends a glare. Not missing the tone of voice you used— the same tone he’d use to tease you when he was on top.

His quiet gasps were now shaking moans by the time you properly stretched him, three fingers stuffed inside. “Very greedy, i must say, my love.” You quietly coo. You laugh when all he could muster was a grunt in response, his chest starting to heave with heavy pants. You eye his body language, before slowly moving your finger in and out--

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

You continued, listening to his stifled grunts and huffs, before you deemed him ready for a second.

You hear him mumble, under his breath. "Cant hurry this up, at all? You seem to be enjoying this a bit too much." 

Your eyes meet his, "never seen you this impatient, Sylus." You say, barely holding back a smirk. Sylus scoffs.

"Only because you seem to be staring quite hard."

It was only a matter of time, between muffled grunts and groans, and teasing smiles and statements. The skin-toned strap pressed against his ass. You feel his body tense, rubbing a gently hand down his side and sharp hips. 

You line the lubed silicone up with him, gently leaning over his body, quietly asking if he was ready. Your lips kissing that spot right under his ear, trailing down his neck as he laughs, speaking in a breathy tone.

"Beyond ready, sweetheart." His voice was slightly hoarse.

With a final, deep breath- you slowly push in, Feeling Sylus tense under you, stilling. "Deep breath- ease up..-" You grunt as it physically becomes harder to push in due to resistance. 

"'m trying.. 's fucking big.." He huffs. You try not to laugh but.. a giggle or two slip out. "Sy' you chose the size.." 

He only rolls his hooded eyes at you, head turning away, you wear you can see his cheeks turn red. He'd never admit that though, heaven and hell no.

You raise up as your hips (finally) pressed to the backs of his thighs and ass. You wait for him to adjust, when you hear him talk again.

"Plannin' to move any time soon?" He says gruffly, you look down at him. His hair was stuck to his forehead in patches- chest heaving. The matching trail of white hair trailing down his naval heaved with his stomach.

You glare, "I dont want to hurt you, wait." You state, knowing sylus has the habit of thinking he can take anything- which.. he probably could, you just didnt want to risk it.

You wait a minute.

Then two, then three. Your hips finally slowly pull back, gently thrusting into him at a slow pace. Your lips moving back to his neck as your hands find home on his strong thighs.

He's just barely lifting his hips, pushing back. Hes aching for more, you could tell. Again- he would never admit that. Quiet moans left his lips, eyes closing as he gets used ti the pleasure, the bobbing pale pink tip of his cock hitting his stomach with every thrust.

"God, Sy you look s'good, baby.."

You mutter absent mindlessly. 

"So, s'much better when youre not sassing me..-" You groan quietly,hips subconsciously grinding deeper, speed increasing. You shift, looking for.. that one spot..

"Oh.. shit!" Sylus gasps in shock, back arched slightly when you find his prostate. His hands balled into the sheets under him. When he cracks his eye open, nose scrunched, he sees an evil glint in your eyes, smile widening in mischief. "W- ..fuck!..- Whats that-.. ngh.. look for..?" He tried to question between moans.

"You're just.. so, so much prettier underneath, y'know? Big bad criminal, under me whimpering and moaning." You muse as your hips deliver a harsh thrust. 

His eyes widen, voice dying when he tried to respond. "The h.. oh-- fuck!" He grits out between clenched teeth, you rise forward as your fingers toy with the buds of his nipples. 

His face was flushed, the red of his eyes now a sliver from his blown pupils. That cocky smirk was replaced by a wobbling lip. You dug your heels into the carpet floor under you, doubling down on your actions as he gasps harshly. 

His cock jolts, beads of pre-cum leaking as it starts to pull at by his belly button. His toned stomach twitched and heaved as he groans. "God- oh.. my.." He barely manages through moans.

"Yeah? Feel good Sy'?" You mumble back, as you pant slightly from your movements. Your hips still continued to zero on his prostate, as his stronger hands hold at your forearms. "Fuck! Hang on, gon'a cum..-" He mewls out with a whimper. white hair sprawled on the bed as his bangs stuck to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat.

You chuckle, "already?" He glares, "Well when y- ngh..- You're being so harsh, i don't have m..much of a .. choice-" He tried to say through moans.

"Mad you got your own medicine in bed?" You laugh as a hand goes to jerk at his aching cock- red, hot, and furious- His back arches as his groans get louder, his eyes shut as he twitches against your palm. 

"mm.. Cumming.. god, 'm cumming!" He grunts as his body tenses, back finally jerking back onto the bed as white shoots out the mushroom tip. It paints his chest and stomach, he pants harshly as you continue. Your pace was slower now, removing your hand as you slowed to a stop. 

A gentle smile as you watch him try to recover, cock softening. Your hand goes to his flushed cheeks, "you okay, baby?" You coo. He pants as he chuckles, eyes flashing to your lips.

"Suppose I.. got what I proposed." He states the obvious. "Mhm, What was it i said earlier? 'You'll be singing a different tune when we're done?' I think i proved myself quite right." You giggle.

He sits up, looking at your form. "I can't be all pleasured while my lady is still unsatisfied." He hums. You tense, nope, if he does anything with you- it's for sure gonna be pay back for what you did.

But, before you could reply, his hands are on your hips. Not caring for the semen on his body as he pulls you chest to chest with him. The strap-on slid off your waist with his skilled hands.

"Sylus-" You start as he shushes you. "Mm, quiet, just, let me do this." He mumbles back. He scoots back on the bed, easing your hips to straddle his hips, then his chest.. Then his face. 

Your knees laid on each side of his head. He smirks at you between your thighs. "Your panties are soaked through, did you fucking me affect you that much, sweetie?" He muses.

You glare at him. "Shut up, will you?" He only chuckled, pulling your panties to the side as he licked a broad stripe up your cunt. He groans at your taste.

Your eyes close, a hand tangling into his white hair as your hips bucked against his tongue. His nose bumped against your clit deliciously as his tongue prodded at your entrance, dipping in constantly as he swipes his mouth left to right. He's constantly moaning against you, vibrations only intensifying. 

Your eyes roll back, "sy'.. 's s'good..-" You gasp when his mouth latches to your clit, you instinctively look down, his eyes were already trained on you, his nose pressed to the fat of your pussy. His eyebrows were knitted, he was hellbent on making you finish. "Sylus! Oh god, fuck, please! Right there, don'stop, mnnmm!" 

You whine into the air as your head throws back again, hips now moving on their own as you grind against his mouth and tongue, he simply allows you to. You chase your own high, hips riding and bucking wildly as your stomach churns. 

"Gonna cum.." You rasp, breathless as you continue to moan. Sylus moans as you hand on his hair , pulling his tongue back to your clit as you basically rub yourself raw on his tongue, the warm muscle only obliging to your movements.

One more thrust and you break, hips shaking as your body spasms. A loud cry of Sylus' name leaves your lips as your eyes roll back, back arching as sylus' hands move from your hips to your thighs, rubbing small circles as he then moves to coax your through your high. 

Recovering after a moment, you shift off him, he smiles at you.

"Better?" 

You nod., "much.." You meekly respond. "All shy again? Cute." He teases, moving to clean himself off. 

Embarrassingly, all of the previous moments had drained your energy, and your tummy. Your stomach growls loudly. Sylus, who stepped into the master bedroom's bathroom, laughs. "Hungry? I'll ask Mephisto to bring your favorite dish. Fresh." He offers as he returns with a warm rag, wiping you off aswell. He simply threw on a pair of boxers, grabbing one of his shirts and a clean pair of panties for you to sleep in after he finished. 

After a warm, fresh meal, followed by cuddles and kisses, small affirming words and phrases, you laid in the bed, sylus at your side. You were drifting off, listening to the steady pulse of his heart beat as your ear pressed to his chest, his arms around your torso to hold you close.

Though, with a few soft strokes to the small of your back, you were out like a light. Only managing to hum a incoherent reply when Sylus tells you goodnight.

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FOR MY BABIES WHO ASKED FOR IT. ITS VERY LATELY DELIVERED!! @iwillpissyourpants @fellowhamster @bigclownshoes @archaic-achiever @mxvladdy @hirostrvw