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neellscapsule · 2 days ago

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a resounding heart attack

summary | there are three romance rules you have to follow: don't date coworkers, don't fall in love with flirty people, and never show how whipped you actually are. clark fails the three of them.

pairing | clark kent x wayne!female!reader

warnings / tags | pure fluff with a bit of suggestive stuff (language & actions), but nothing actually happening except lingerie photos that reader does not send but they are from a production :D. reader is a menace but gotham loves her ??? she's actually so cheeky so flirty so everything (just one chance pls). clark is blushing mess especially when it comes to her. mentions to a sad childhood because reader it's literally a wayne ?????

word count | 4.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

i've written this with david!clark on my mind but you can picture him hoverer you want. i also believe in battinson agenda for this specific version of clark :D

THERE ARE LITTLE THINGS IN THE WORLD THAT CAN AFFECT CLARK KENT.

All the types of Kryptonite disturb him in different ways. Red sun weakens him, dulling his strength and senses until he almost forgets what it feels like to be invulnerable. Magic does a number on him too, inexplicable and chaotic, like trying to hold onto smoke with bare hands. Other aliens with tech far beyond Earth’s understanding have hurt him, too. Kara once punched his arm and left it all purple — it healed fast, but it still hurt.

There are, indeed, little things that can affect him.

But you?

You are at the top of that list.

He does not remember his heart beating that fast, almost inhumanly, on the edge of being impossible. Does not remember his cheeks ever being so red, his clumsiness bordering on being considered the dumbest man on Earth. Once he dropped his entire mug of coffee on his slacks just because you called him “Smallville” with that mischievous little smirk.

Jimmy, Lois and practically everyone just laugh at him, his quirks, but he can't help it.

He can't help how much you affect him. Can't help how much he likes you.

In his defense, there's no way he was able to not like you. Not only because he —and at least half the population— thinks you are hot. You are hot. Very much. He’s not going to lie to himself about that. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t feel like it was made for the front page of a magazine, but the kind that stuns you mid-sentence because of how effortless it is. You laugh too loudly sometimes, you talk with your hands, and you make eye contact like it’s a dare.

But it’s more than that.

You’re smart. Sharp as broken glass. Your writing is electric, biting in the way that Gothamites tend to be—your byline alone has caused five resignations, two public apologies, and one lawsuit (which the Daily Planet won). Not even Perry crosses you, that must count for something. You flirt with everyone, but with him, it’s different. You save your cheekiest lines, your softest smirks, your most infuriating whispers for him—as if you know how easily he folds.

The worst thing is not that you work together. No. Clark has a complete and long list about the worst —best— part of working with you.

In the first place, is that you share the same space with him. Your desks are pressed together, both of you facing one another, screens lit up, voices low as you trade edits, ideas, and insults. Your heel taps his shoe sometimes—grazing more than stepping. He’s convinced you don’t even notice it, that it’s just a habit, something subconscious.

From his seat, he sees you clearly. Memorizes your expressions like a song stuck on repeat. The way your eyes narrow when something doesn’t sit right. The sharp inhale before you pounce on a lead. You scrunch your nose when someone makes a poor argument, like it physically pains you to hear idiocy. You press your tongue briefly between your lips when you're deep in thought, which he pretends not to see but always does. You smile—oh, when you smile—it hits like sunlight through lead glass. Blinding. Honest. Beautiful.

The two of you share a corkboard pinned to the wall. His side is sparse—some clippings, a "Mighty Crabjoys" movie poster, and a coffee-stained sheet of work hours he never took down. But yours? Yours is filled to the brim, despite not being much space.

A series of colorful letters that spell your name, doodles, a Gotham National University pennant, and a printed photo of a night out with everyone —Lois, Jimmy, Steve, Cat, you, and himself included.

He hears the click of your heels before anyone else does.

It’s the kind of sound that parts his thoughts in two, makes them flutter like loose pages in a breeze. Sharp, rhythmic, deliberate. You don’t walk through the bullpen—you arrive. And every step pulls the air taut around him like fishing line.

He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you. His entire body already knows. His hearing adjusts itself before he can think better of it—your heartbeat, lighter than most, steady and confident, like it owns time. Like it’s never once skipped or stalled the way his just did.

You turn the corner and he’s already looking, caught in the act—he knows you catch him. You always do.

You enter the Daily Planet like you own it, and in some subtle way, you do. Not because of your name. You don’t need money or threats to command a room. You have something worse. Charisma. Ease. Danger. Power in a smile that knows it has claws and doesn’t care to hide them.

Your skirt is black and short—unreasonably so. Illegal in several states, maybe. Certainly illegal in Clark’s heart, because it just stopped beating. Your white stockings gleam slightly under the lights, spotless and smooth and devastating. You’ve tucked your ironed shirt into your waistline like some kind of cruel, beautiful war crime. Gold glints from your ears, your wrist, the edge of your collar. Not fake gold, not plated. Real. Heavy. Old money.

You wear your wealth the same way you wear your grin—like a challenge.

You look over, the corner of your mouth curling, and say, just for him, “Good morning, Smallville.”

Smallville.

He could snap the pen in his hand if he weren’t careful. You say it so softly. So wickedly. Like you know. Like you know that he’s already halfway undone and you’re just playing with the bow.

Clark already had your coffee in his hand—he'd been holding it since 7:43 AM, exactly three minutes after he arrived. Two sugars, no cream. Lid slightly ajar because you said it kept the flavor from suffocating. He didn’t really understand what that meant, but he listened. He always listened.

He handed it to you with trembling fingers.

“Good morning,” he says, trying not to clear his throat.

You sit down, smooth the back of your skirt behind you with grace and muscle memory, and lean to the side, setting your bag against the leg of your desk. Your voice is light as you bring your phone to your ear again. He doesn’t mean to listen. But he hears everything. He always does.

“Alfred,” you say warmly. “Yes, I got here. No, no traffic, thank god. Yes, I remembered my meeting with Lucius over the computer. No, I’m not eating fast food for lunch. No— No, I will not talk to Bruce unless he sends Dickie over for the weekend. I already told him that.”

Clark’s cheeks heat just listening to you talk. Not because of what you’re saying. But because of how you sound when you say it. Comfortable. Confident. Unfiltered. Even the way you say Alfred is affectionate and biting at the same time. Gotham to your core.

“Alright, Alfie. Gotta go. No, I’m not drinking too much caffeine. That’s a lie and you know it. Bye.”

You hang up and turn your attention to the rest of the room, sweeping your gaze around the bullpen like a queen taking inventory of her court.

“What’d I miss?” you ask, reaching for your coffee.

Lois, across from you, didn’t look up from her monitor. “You missed Jimmy flirting with Marcie from legal. Again.”

Jimmy Olsen, from the far side of the square of desks, turned his chair with all the mock indignation of someone deeply unashamed. “I wasn’t flirting. I was complimenting her boots.”

“You told her she had the stride of an Amazon warrior,” Lois deadpanned.

“Well, she does!” Jimmy said, throwing up his hands. “That’s empowering. I’m being supportive.”

You sipped your coffee, giving Clark a wink over the rim. “You’re one scandal away from a harassment workshop, Olsen.”

“Pffft. I’ve dated half the women on this floor.”

“Exactly.”

Lois snorted, and Clark tried very hard not to laugh. He tried even harder not to stare.

It was pointless.

You leaned back in your chair, arching slightly as you stretched—your blouse pulling just enough to make Clark look away before he went blind from the effort it took not to look. You tapped your pen against your lower lip as you glanced at the whiteboard across the bullpen.

��I see no one’s updated the lead stories,” you said casually. “So we’re still pretending the mayor’s brother being caught in a LexCorp-funded apartment with two unlicensed bounty hunters isn’t news?”

Perry White’s voice roared from his glass office. “I’m waiting on confirmation before we blast that one, Wayne!”

“Oh, sorry,” you replied, not even looking at him. “I forgot the Planet’s new slogan: ‘Cowards First.’”

Clark coughed to cover his laugh, and Lois shook her head, grinning.

“Do you wake up and choose violence or is it just muscle memory at this point?” Lois asked, not even hiding the fondness in her tone.

“Neither,” you said, rolling your chair closer to the below edge of the desk. Your knees brushed his. He stopped breathing. “I wake up and check if Gotham’s still a hellhole. Then I make myself look nice for Smallville here.”

You smiled at him, devilish. Clark’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

Jimmy leaned over the desk, pointing between the two of you. “This,” he said, “this is why I never bother flirting with you. I don’t like losing.”

“Oh, lover boy,” you purred. “No one even asked you to compete.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “And I never will again. Lesson learned.”

Lois chuckled, returning to her screen. “Good. Maybe now you’ll actually write your piece on the sewage reform bill.”

Jimmy groaned. “Please. Why do I always get the sexy stuff?”

Clark finally found his voice. “Because last time you covered a robbery, you took a selfie with the suspect.”

“He was holding the stolen merchandise!” Jimmy argued. “What was I supposed to do—ignore the story?”

You shook your head with a dramatic sigh. “You’re the reason Perry has a ‘No Selfies at Crime Scenes’ memo pinned to the break room door.”

Clark smiles, ducking his head toward his screen, pretending to reread a paragraph he’s already proofed twice. But your heel taps his shoe under the desk—lightly, casually—and the impact goes straight to his ribcage.

You sip your coffee and sigh happily. “Mm. You got the vanilla right this time.”

“I, uh—yeah,” Clark says. “I remembered.”

“Of course you did.” You grin, crossing one leg over the other. “You always do.”

He forces his eyes to his monitor. His vision is fine, of course. Superfine. He could read microscopic text if he wanted. Right now, though, even large font blurs when you look at him like that.

Lois finally glances up and gives you a once-over. “Did you steal that skirt from a teenager?”

You make a scandalized noise. “Lois Lane. Jealousy is unbecoming.”

“I’m just worried HR is gonna pass out in the hallway.”

“Please. HR loves me. They send me memes.”

Jimmy leans over the divider. “Is it true you threatened that CEO with a bottle of wine?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Technically, I described what a bottle of wine could do in the hands of a woman from Gotham. The threat was implied.”

Lois huffed. “God, you two are unbearable before ten.”

You wink. “We’re unbearable after ten, too. Just more caffeinated.”

A comfortable hum settles into the bullpen after that. Everyone returns to work—Lois muttering to herself, Jimmy editing photos, the low murmur of keyboards and printer hums filling the space. Clark focuses on his article, or at least pretends to. The screen glows back at him, a half-finished headline blinking expectantly. He tries again.

From his seat, he can see you—your expression flickering through a dozen small emotions as you scroll through your inbox, narrowing your eyes, muttering curses at editors, grinning when Jimmy shows you a ridiculous photo of a dog wearing sunglasses. He watches you like a man stranded in the desert watches a thundercloud. With reverence. With thirst.

It’s stupid, probably. This crush. This...thing.

But then again, everything about you is a little bit dangerous. A little bit impossible.

And still—he wants it. Wants you. Wants this part of his life that feels so close to normal, even if it isn’t.

Because you don’t know.

You don’t know who he is. What he is. You flirt with him like he’s just a man. You smile at him like he’s not carrying the weight of ten thousand secrets on his spine. And when your heel brushes his shoe again, just lightly, he lets himself smile back.

Just a little.

Just enough to make it through the rest of the day.

Moving to Metropolis had been a choice . . . unexpected to everyone close to you. Well, you didn't have many close people back on Gotham that weren't your brother, Alfred, and Dick. And Dick was your nephew, so that must say something.

Growing up as orphans took its toll on you and your brother, but each of you took different paths. While Bruce trained in his youth to become Gotham's vigilante—the glorious Dark Knight—adopting Dick while on it, you had become more of a celebrity, always the center of attention.

When you came of age, you became a model —while studying multiple careers: you were fascinated with the aspect of having many degrees since you could remember— and it wasn't until you moved to Metropolis several years later that you abandoned your career altogether.

It wasn't that you didn't enjoy it. You really enjoyed being a model. Especially when the shoot wasn't shared—the modeling world was very competitive, and quite exhausting, too.

But it wasn't enough.

You went to therapy for many years. Your brother hadn't been able to be convinced, but Alfred had insisted so much that you had no way of refusing. And it was in one of your last sessions that your psychologist had mentioned something about a new lease on life.

Perhaps she didn't mean exactly moving to another city, but you took it like that.

Gotham had been your cradle and your crypt. It raised you, starved you, scarred you. It made you what you are. But it also stole a piece of you when it took your parents. You were only eight, and you still remember the scream your brother made—guttural, inhuman—as he held your tiny shoulders and covered your eyes. He’d been just a kid, too.

You loved Bruce, deeply. You respected what he became. But the way he chose to fight back… it wasn’t your way.

You had to find your own.

That's how you ended up in Metropolis, with an excellent letter of recommendation (or rather, a favor) that led you right to where you are now. You lived well, combining the money from your last name with your salary, in a safe area, on the top floor of a tall building.

Metropolis differed vastly from Gotham. While Gotham rarely saw a ray of sunlight, Metropolis seemed flooded with it. There weren't as many villains as in your hometown either, but the ones that did exist were either pure aliens or completely enhanced. Meta-humans, they called them.

And here they didn't have a vigilante. They had a hero.

Superman.

Your brother doesn't especially likes him. Doesn't hate him either way. He just wants you safe, and if Superman is there to protect all of Metropolis, then he must be there to protect you as well.

You don't worry much about it. If it's about burglars, you have a gun, a taser and a pepper spray so powerful that you could be arrested in at least five countries. If it's about aliens . . . well, you had a good life.

Lunch breaks at the Daily Planet were a coin toss. Sometimes, you barely got a fifteen-minute window to scarf down a protein bar between deadlines and chaos. Other times, like today, you managed to sneak out with Lois Lane—two of the sharpest tongues in the city wrapped in designer sunglasses and sarcasm, tucked into a booth in a tiny diner four blocks from the office.

You liked this place. A hole-in-the-wall with cracking linoleum and a grumpy waitress who called everyone “sweetheart” and meant it in a way that could also mean “dumbass.” The coffee was terrible, but the fries? Perfect. Greasy, salty, served on cracked white plates with tiny cups of spicy ketchup. You and Lois had claimed the corner booth months ago, and no one had dared to sit there since.

You pulled your sunglasses off your head, tossing them onto the table as you sank into the squeaky vinyl seat.

“I swear to god,” you muttered, unbuttoning the top of your blouse to breathe, “if Perry gives me one more rewrite on that Luthor piece, I’m going to throw myself out a window.”

Lois smirked over the rim of her iced tea. “He only pushes you because your drafts are so clean. You know he likes to feel like he’s doing something.”

“Yeah? Next time he wants to feel productive, he can scrub the bathrooms.” You stabbed a fry. “He’s lucky I don’t invoice him for every time he makes me put a period after LexCorp instead of Lexcorp.”

Lois’s laugh was soft, knowing, the kind that made her seem lighter than she ever let herself be at work. “You need a vacation.”

“I need a raise.”

“You’re already rich.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want Perry’s money too. I’m a capitalist pig. I want your money while we’re at it.”

Lois chuckled again, shaking her head. “Gotham.”

“Damn right.”

It was easy, this. Effortless. You’d always gotten along well with women—grew up around men who didn’t talk about their feelings and a brother who bottled everything up until it cracked through his ribs—but Lois? Lois was like steel wrapped in velvet. Smart, intense, loyal to a fault. You liked her immediately. She reminded you of a fox—sharp, beautiful, and always watching.

You weren’t sure when you’d become best friends. It had just… happened. Shared assignments turned into late-night editing sessions, which turned into wine-fueled gossip nights, which eventually became something deeper. It felt good to have someone like her.

She didn’t care that you were a Wayne. She didn’t care about Gotham. You were just you to her. You hadn’t had that in years.

“So,” Lois said, her voice carrying that sharp edge she got when she was gearing up to dissect something, “are we gonna talk about it or do I have to drag it out of you?”

You blinked at her. “Talk about what?”

She gave you a look. The Lois Lane look. The one that could strip paint from a wall and force you to confess crimes you hadn’t even committed.

“Oh no,” you said, pointing a fry at her like a weapon. “I am not talking about it.”

“You are absolutely talking about it,” she countered. “Because you’ve been mooning over him like a teenage girl with a crush on her math teacher, and I’m this close to staging an intervention.”

Your entire body went hot, like she’d just shouted the truth to the whole diner. “Lois—”

“Don’t Lois me,” she said firmly. “You are painfully, pathetically, devastatingly whipped for Clark Kent, and it’s embarrassing for both of us at this point.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I am not whipped.”

“You’re whipped,” she said again, sipping her tea with infuriating calm. “You’re so whipped you buy your outfits based on how you think he’ll react. I saw you this morning. That skirt? That was a weapon of mass destruction.”

You peeked through your fingers at her. “Okay, first of all, I looked amazing. And second of all…” You hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah, maybe I wanted him to notice.”

Lois leaned forward, smug. “And did he?”

You hated that she was making you say it out loud. “He… looked at me.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes!” you hissed. “Lois, it’s Clark. He looks at everyone like they hung the moon. That man probably blushes at Perry when he’s in a good mood.”

Lois laughed so hard she nearly choked on her tea. “Okay, first, I wish I could un-hear that mental image. Second, you’re wrong. Clark doesn’t look at me like that. Or Jimmy. Or anyone. He looks at you like that.”

You snorted, leaning back against the booth. “He’s just… nervous. He’s nervous around everyone. That’s his thing. He’s like a giant golden retriever with anxiety.”

Lois leveled you with another one of her patented, withering stares. “You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you,” you said sweetly. “I work hard at it.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Y/N. He likes you. He’s just shy. Painfully shy. The man can barely string a sentence together when you’re around.”

Your heart gave an unhelpful little flutter, and you immediately tried to squash it. “Or he’s just… shy in general.”

“No,” Lois said flatly. “Trust me, I’ve known him for years. He’s quiet, but he’s not shy. He’s the kind of guy who’s comfortable letting everyone else take the spotlight. Except with you. You short-circuit him.”

You stared at her, trying to will yourself not to hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope led to heartbreak. And you’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. “You really think he likes me?”

Lois smirked. “I know he likes you. You could cut the tension between you two with a butter knife. Honestly, it’s nauseating.”

You bit your lip, fiddling with your straw. “He’s just… I don’t know. He’s Clark. He’s kind, and sweet, and ridiculously good-looking, and—”

“And you’re crazy about him,” Lois supplied.

“Shut up.”

“You are,” she said, grinning like the devil. “You’re so gone for him it’s painful.”

You shoved a fry in your mouth to avoid answering, chewing furiously. But she wasn’t wrong. Clark Kent had somehow managed to completely undo you. Which was ridiculous, because you’d grown up surrounded by some of the most intimidating, impressive men on the planet. Bruce. Alfred. Hell, you had met the most attractive men on Earth while being a model…

Clark Kent made your heart beat like you were sixteen again.

“He’s so fucking cute.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“Violently.” You popped another fry into your mouth. “Do you think he knows? Like, knows?”

Lois blinked at you over her straw. “Are you serious?”

“I mean… I flirt with him a lot.”

“You practically sit on his desk and purr.”

“He never flirts back.”

Lois put her drink down with a thunk. “Y/N. He stutters when you look at him. He spilled an entire latte on his lap last week because you called him Smallville.”

You tilted your head, considering. “Okay, but—he’s like that with everyone, isn’t he?”

“No. He’s not. He’s awkward, sure, but with you? It’s different. What I'm saying is that Clark Kent is terminally down bad for you. And has been since you showed up at the Planet for the first time in Prada heels and a war crime of a pencil skirt.”

You smiled, teeth flashing. “So you noticed that skirt.”

“Everyone noticed that skirt. Including HR.”

“Still not my shortest.”

Lois rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. And half the office thinks you’re already dating.”

You blinked. “They do?”

“Of course they do,” she said. “You two sit practically on top of each other all day. You bring him coffee, he brings you bagels, you touch his leg under the desk, he turns the color of a tomato… it’s a whole thing.”

You buried your face in your hands again, frustrated with yourself. “I’m going to die.”

Lois grinned wickedly. “Or you’re going to kiss him. Your choice.”

The walk back to the Daily Planet is slow, heavy with the weight of too many fries and just enough gossip to give the next hour of productivity a fighting chance. You and Lois move together the way you always do—shoulder to shoulder, stride for stride, two women used to commanding space and rarely apologizing for it.

Lois is telling you about a source she has in the Mayor’s office—a guy who apparently sweats like a faucet when asked about Luthor’s latest construction contracts.

“You should see him,” she says, half-laughing as you both round the corner. “One mention of ‘independent oversight’ and the man’s upper lip turns into Niagara Falls.”

You snort, adjusting your sunglasses on top of your head. “I’ll go with you next time. I’ve been told I have a very disarming presence.”

“Oh, you disarm alright,” Lois mutters, pushing open the lobby doors. “Mostly by blowing people’s equilibrium to hell.”

“Why thank you,” you grin. “I do my best.”

You ride the elevator up with the kind of easy silence only best friends share. Lois doesn’t press, not anymore. She’s said her piece about Clark—twice—and now she’s letting the cards fall where they may. Which is good. Because your heart is still somewhere back in that booth, fluttering like a moth caught in a lampshade.

The bullpen is quieter now, the post-lunch lull settling in. Phones ring, keys clack, and the occasional shout from Perry’s office cuts through like a cleaver. Jimmy’s at his desk, editing something with his headphones on. Lois splits off with a “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and you answer with “That’s a very short list,” earning a wink and a wave as she disappears.

You move through the bullpen with purpose—heels tapping soft but steady—and you’re halfway to your desk when something catches your eye. Or rather, someone.

Clark.

He’s exactly where you left him: sitting ramrod straight, tie slightly loosened now, glasses perched just so, brow furrowed in concentration. From behind, he looks painfully composed. Too composed. The kind of composed that only comes from total panic.

And the screen in front of him?

Well.

That’s your face.

Your body.

A high-resolution photo splashed across his monitor, larger than life. You in pale green lingerie, draped across a white velvet couch, lips parted, hair tousled, gaze direct. The photo is a couple years old, but unmistakably you. From a Gotham editorial that never ran publicly, just teased in hush-hush corners of the internet and fashion magazines. A private, exclusive shoot—back when you still occasionally let stylists talk you into anything.

It wasn’t obscene, not exactly, but it was… suggestive.

Clark Kent is staring at it like it might explode.

You stop walking.

Then, slowly, carefully, like a predator who’s just spotted something delicious, you change course. You drift behind his desk with feigned nonchalance, the lazy curl of a smirk already blooming on your lips. He hasn’t noticed yet. He’s too focused. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

You lean in close. Not too close—just enough. Close enough to breathe the same air. Close enough that he can feel the softness of your blouse graze the back of his shoulder. You rest your chin on the slope between his collar and the thick fabric of his suit jacket. He froze, every muscle going tight as though you’d just hit him with a Taser.

Your voice is warm honey when you speak.

“Well, well. I didn’t know I had a fan club.”

Clark jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

“Y-Y/N—!” His voice pitches up. He fumbles for the keyboard like it might save him, slamming a key—probably Escape, poor thing—but it only zooms the photo in further. Right on your midriff.

You raise an eyebrow, still resting your chin on him like you belong there. “Nice monitor, Smallville. That screen quality’s amazing. Did the Planet get new tech or are you just… investing in some private research?”

“I—No, I didn’t—This isn’t—” he’s turning bright red, hands practically slamming at the keys now in pure panic. The image disappears with a blur of motion, but the damage is done. The shade of him. Scarlet all the way up to his ears. You swear even the back of his neck is blushing.

You grin, slow and wicked.

“Relax,” you murmur near his ear. “It’s not like I’m offended. I’d say I’m flattered.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a strangled gasp.

You step around his chair, finally moving to stand in front of him. Not that it helps. You’re still too close—just standing, slightly leaning into the wood. And you’re looking at him now. Really looking. Fingers resting lazily on the edge of his desk, eyes soft but unreadable.

“That’s an old photo,” you said conversationally, eyes flicking toward the screen. “At least two years, maybe three. I’m impressed you dug it up.”

He made a strangled noise. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Oh, sure,” you interrupted again, smirking. “You just… accidentally stumbled across me in lingerie on a random Tuesday afternoon. Happens all the time.”

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rough with mortification. “I can explain—”

You tilt your head.

“But between you and me,” you say, voice low, “there are… better views than that photo.”

Clark blinks rapidly, shoulders so stiff they could crack. “Better—?”

You let the silence stretch, letting him squirm just a little longer. Watching him. Watching how hard he tries not to look at your mouth. Your legs. Anywhere but your eyes. He fails, beautifully.

You smile—real slow, like it knows too much.

“I mean,” you shrug, feigning innocence, “if you want an updated photoshoot, all you have to do is ask. I’m very cooperative when properly motivated.”

The sound that escaped him wasn’t even a word. More like a faint, startled noise from the back of his throat.

You straightened up at last, letting him breathe, and smoothed your skirt with a practiced flick of your fingers. “Anyway,” you said breezily, as though you hadn’t just completely destroyed him in front of his own computer. “I should get back to work.”

Clark turned slowly in his chair, wide-eyed and still visibly reeling, his tie slightly askew. “Y/N, I—”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “No need to explain, Smallville. Really. Just… try not to get distracted, hmm? Perry would hate for you to miss a deadline because you were staring at my legs on a screen.”

You gave him one last, devastating smile before gliding toward your desk, heels clicking softly on the floor. Behind you, you could feel his gaze follow you like a physical thing, hot and helpless and utterly, wonderfully Clark.

Yeah, maybe Lois was right.

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capuccinodoll · 3 days ago

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—LUCKY — (one shot) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (firefighter!joel x f!reader) MDNI!!

my masterlist | read on ao3 | capuccinodollupdates

summary: After a long, stressful week at the station, firefighter Joel Miller turns to the most natural form of stress relief: hitting a bar in search of a one-night stand. And as luck would have it, he finds you. WC: 8.3K

A/N: Quick backstory: a couple weeks ago I met this super hot forty-something firefighter, and that same week I started writing this one-shot. It had to be Joel. It sat in my drafts for weeks until last night, when I finally finished it in a random burst of inspiration, when I definitely should’ve been sleeping (but like, who even sleeps more than three hours these days anyway?) let me know what you think <3

Joel’s first act of rebellion that night was to light a damn cigarette.

He hadn’t smoked in years. Not since... well, it didn’t matter. Long day, his back hurt, and his temper had been riding the edge of dangerous for hours. Also, he was fucking horny.

He was still wearing what he’d had on at the station: black work pants, belt digging uncomfortably into his hips, a navy cotton T-shirt and boots that tracked half the parking lot’s mud into the bar. He hadn’t even stopped at home. Knew if he did, he’d lie down, blink, and it’d be morning.

He needed a drink, a break. Stress was eating him alive.

Joel coped with his daily life as best he could. Like the kid who set his bathroom on fire. A twenty-year-old with a tragic case of romantic impulse. Joel and the guys found him curled on the kitchen floor with a burnt towel, melted candles, and a charred tray of pizza slices. The guy wanted ambiance. Candlelight and bathtub acoustics. Maybe a little poetry. He got third-degree burns instead.

Also, Joel was sure he saw a burnt book in the hallway. That was poetic.

Curtains had gone up next. Then came the wine glass, shattered. The kid lived on the third floor. Nearly took out the neighbors. Almost. Well, Joel was probably dramatizing. He did that when he was irritated.

So yeah. Tonight, he ordered a whiskey and lit up, fully aware that the smoke would cling to his fingers for the rest of the night. And he didn't care.

The bar was crowded. Not packed, but full enough to feel like enough. It smelled like beer and cig smoke and wet dirt, thanks to all the muddy boots dragging rain in from the street. His included. The music was too loud to hear the storm tapping on the roof, but he could feel it anyway.

He scanned the room. Nothing caught. Then again, he wasn’t exactly a flame to be drawn to these days.

A blonde in a low-cut top leaned over the bar. A brunette at the pool table bent just the right way in tight jeans. He took a sip of his drink. Watched. Let his eyes rest on her for a couple of seconds.

He was worn the fuck out. And he knew it.

Twenty years ago, this same night would’ve started differently. He’d already be in someone’s backseat, or someone else’s bed, or maybe the goddamn bathroom stall if it came to that. He used to have a good mouth on him. A silver tongue. Knew how to talk, how to touch. And he’d been a lucky bastard once, golden even, for longer than he probably deserved.

Now? Forty-five. Body stiff in some places. Still carrying around a full tank of sex and no place to unload it.

He could’ve stayed home. Could’ve jerked off, taken a hot shower, gone to bed. But the tension in his back said no thanks to that routine. He needed something else. Something more.

He wasn’t even sure he remembered how to flirt anymore. The last time he’d fucked a stranger was years ago, after a night out with the guys from the station — tall redhead, forties, dirty mouth, smelled like vanilla. Her scent had stayed on his shirt, and for a full day after, he kept catching it on his own damn arms.

The last time he’d slept with anyone was eight months ago. Nothing dramatic. Two nights, zero chemistry, and then radio silence.

Now he had nothing. Not even decent porn. He’d spent the past week jerking off in half-hearted silence, scrolling through a sea of videos that didn’t make him feel a goddamn thing.

No. He didn’t want a screen, bad acting and cringey dialogue.

He needed skin. Sweat. Something to sink his teeth into.

So he didn’t overthink it. He got in the truck straight after his long shift and drove to the bar with a plan so simple it felt almost clinical: show up, drink, find someone, fuck, go home.

His eyes drifted back to the blonde. She was watching him now, of course she was. He recognized that look from miles away. She was already imagining how he’d taste.

Joel stubbed out his cigarette and shifted to stand. And that’s when the bell above the door rang.

You walked in.

Looking slightly lost, you looked like you hadn’t meant to end up here. Hair a little damp from the rain, short black dress clinging to your thighs. You didn’t belong in this place, and that made it worse somehow. Or better.

Joel’s gaze moved down, then back up. He exhaled. Sat back down.

Lifted his whiskey and drank.

“Um, whiskey, please. On the rocks.”

Your voice surprised him. Softer than expected. Especially for someone like you. And by that, he meant you looked like you’d rip a man open.

You sat down on the stool to his left. He turned slightly, watching you.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and sighed as you checked your phone, and Joel noticed your eye makeup was just a little smudged.

You bit your lower lip, distracted.

You looked young. Early thirties, maybe.

Joel wondered —for half a second— if it would be too much, too pathetic, to try anything. But the thought lasted barely a second before he shifted and felt the thick fabric of his pants pressing right in his crotch.

Fuck it.

So, yeah, he was about to say something. Nothing clever, really, just something, when you turned your head and looked straight at him.

“What?”

Joel’s fingers tightened around his glass.

So that’s the tone. That’s who you were. You looked at him with big eyes, long eyelashes. What the hell do you want?

“Tough day?” he asked, smirking before he could stop himself. He lifted his chin toward the drink the bartender had just slid in front of you.

You looked down at it, then back up at him.

“What makes you think that?”

“Intuition,” he said.

You faced forward again, hands wrapped around the glass. Your nails were painted crimson red. He liked that.

You took a slow sip. Nodded.

“Tough week.”

He nodded too. Fair enough.

“Did you walk here?”

You turned to him again. “Let me guess; intuition?”

He tried not to smile but failed halfway. Nodded.

“Your hair’s damp.”

You stared at him then, properly, eyes holding on his face before trailing down, and suddenly he didn’t need any other confirmation. He already knew how the night was going to end.

Not to brag or anything, you know?

You looked away. Sipped again. Looked back.

“Yeah, I walked. Just a few blocks.” A pause. “There was no way I was going back home like this.”

He tilted his head. “Wet?”

You almost laughed, not quite. It was just one of those soft, breathy sounds that didn’t make it out of your mouth, and Joel wanted to catch it with his.

He hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. But his horny brain was already too hot to care.

You crossed your legs, he didn’t look.

“And what’s a firefighter doing just sitting here drinking?” you asked, eyes flicking to the ashtray. “Smoking, too. Doesn’t that mess with your ability to climb stairs or something?”

He raised his glass. “Hell of a week, I’ll tell you that much.” He took a sip. Set it down again with a thunk. “And I ain’t the kinda man who unwinds with bubble baths and scented candles.”

“Oh, no?” You turned a little toward him, smile all gloss, shiny teeth and mischief. “Scented candles not strong enough for you?”

Joel slid one boot onto the footrest of your stool, settling it between your heels. Your eyes dropped, tracking the motion, but snapped back up to his way too fast.

“I got other preferences,” he said.

“Cigs and whiskey,” you teased, chin tilted up.

“Among other things.”

He sank deep into your eyes, feeling yours pull him under just as hard. A tight, invisible thread. That tickle-in-your-gut kind of feeling. And if he didn’t leave this bar with you tonight, he already knew he’d be thinking about it for a long fucking time.

“Well, that’s a shame,” you said, tracing the rim of his glass with one fingertip. “Something tells me you’ve never actually tried a proper candlelit bath. But cigs and whiskey get the job done, I guess.”

“I’d like to say they do,” he said, voice a little rough now. “But lately they ain’t workin’ much either.”

“No?”

“Not like I want ’em to,” he said, picking up the glass, fingers brushing yours on the way. “And anyway, you’re sittin’ here too, drink in hand. Candles let you down tonight?”

You laughed, soft cheeks rising, eyes going warm.

“And dressed like that, too,” he added, his fingertip grazing yours again, slower.

You tilted your head and bit your lip.

Could’ve looked intentional. Maybe to anyone else it could be, but he knew better. Something about it felt too natural. Like a habit you didn’t notice.

“Got stood up,” you said.

Joel grimaced. “Get the fuck outta here.”

“And you know what’s funny?”

He smiled, already knowing it probably wasn’t going to be funny at all.

“It was our third date,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“That’s the big one,” Joel said, nodding. “You reach number three, there’s expectations. You call him?”

You nodded, eyes dropping to the drink in your hand.

“You wanna know what he said?”

You looked up again, and Joel gave you a look that said hit me.

“‘Something came up,’” you said. Then, deadpan: “Which really sucks, ‘cause I was kinda hoping to get laid tonight.”

A surprised, breathy laugh caught in Joel’s chest. The luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.

He didn’t usually buy into fate —sounded too cheesy —but right then, with his brain running hot and you in that dress, it felt like the universe had sent you just for him.

“Well,” he said, dipping his voice, “if it makes you feel any better, I’d bet money he’s an idiot.”

His hand shifted a little closer, finger brushing against yours.

“No man with half a brain stands you up,” he said. “I sure as hell wouldn’t. Not even if the whole damn city was on fire.”

You laughed, and it lit you up.

You closed your ankles gently around his boot.

“Such a flirt,” you said. “That line usually work for you?”

“Ain’t heard any complaints.”

You hummed.

“And tell me,” you said, stretching out your other hand, letting your fingers rest on his chest, right over the red and yellow badge stitched into his shirt. “Is the uniform part of the appeal?”

Joel felt it hit him like a goddamn freight train, his eyes locking onto yours like magnets.

Yeah, it had been a long time. No doubt about it.

Because just the light touch of your fingers on his chest had his heart thudding harder, blood pumping faster through his veins, brain getting fuzzier by the second—

and it was only a matter of time before he was half-hard beneath his pants.

And his belt, suddenly, felt like the only thing holding him together.

His fingers gently tightened around your wrist, your hand still resting on his chest, and your breath hitched.

There it was. The sign he’d been waiting for.

Your eyes went brighter, pupils blown wide like deep, dark pools he wanted to drown in.

All. Fucking. Night.

He slipped his thumb under your palm, pressing gently, tracing slow circles against your skin, and your mouth parted, just slightly.

Joel wondered what it’d feel like to slide his fingers between your lips, feel your tongue on his fingertips. And if he let himself drift further, let the thought get a little dirty, a little vulgar, he wondered how it’d feel to have your mouth wrapped tight around his cock, eyes still locked on his like this, all glossy and wide.

Too many thoughts.

But a quick glance around told him no one was watching. Obviously.

The blonde he’d been eyeing earlier was long gone from the bar, and the brunette was still at the pool table, glued to someone else. Everyone else looked too drunk or too damn tired to notice anything at all. And when he looked back at you, your hand—still tangled with his—had drifted down his chest, settling on his thigh.

Joel tightened his grip around yours, thumb still stroking lazy circles on your skin.

He licked his lips. “Tell me, why this bar outta all the others?”

You exhaled through your nose. “I don’t know. It was close.”

“Must be my lucky night, then.”

You smiled, and your hand squeezed his thigh, thumb pressing into the inside, right where it made his brain short-circuit.

Too close.

Too fucking close.

You leaned back just slightly, dragging your hand down the length of his thigh, slow as sin, until you reached his knee.

You squeezed again.

“I’m pretty sure I could use a little of that luck too,” you said.

“Well, I’m sure of that, sweetheart. Lucky for you, I like to share.”

“You like to share?”

“You know what they say about good manners.”

“I know what they say about firefighters,” you murmured, leaning in just a bit, your ankles brushing his foot softly. “But I ain’t never seen it up close.”

Joel smiled sideways, feeling a little dizzy.

“Guess that makes it your lucky night too, then.”

A sweet smile spread across your lips.

“Restrooms?”

For a moment, he said nothing.

But then he caught himself.

Come on, dumbass, get your shit together.

Joel didn’t speak. Just nodded once and jerked his chin over his shoulder.

You let go of his glass to grab your own. Knocked the rest of your whiskey back like a shot, no hesitation, and set the empty glass down.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just watched you as you turned. Eyes locked, blood hot.

You saw him the second you walked in. A surprise, considering your sour mood.

Didn’t mean to. Weren’t even looking, really. But there he was; tall, broad shoulders, whiskey in hand, salt just starting to thread through his pepper hair.

And just like that, your shitty night cracked open.

Two fucking hours. You’d waited for Ashton at that overpriced restaurant bar, drinking water like a loser, checking your phone every ten minutes only to get stood up, and then a reply only after you texted him first.

Which, in hindsight, made sense. It was the final nail in the coffin of a situation you’d already outgrown.

You’d prepared for tonight. You’d been looking forward to it.

Months had passed since you’d been with anyone, and Ashton boasted he was gentleman enough to wait for the “right moment.”

Fuck the right moment. You just wanted to fuck. And he was a goddamn liar.

Full of shit. “Something came up,” he’d said. And then, on your way out, there he was; smiling like a jackass in someone’s Instagram story. At a party. Holding a beer. Definitely not waiting for anything.

You’d been ready. Perfumed, waxed, exfoliated, moisturized within an inch of your life.

And all for nothing.

All of it, apparently, for yourself.

Until you saw the man at the bar.

And ordered the same drink he was having.

Now, standing beside him, your hand still resting on his knee, you looked at him one last time and let go. Slipped off your stool and walked toward the restrooms. You didn’t look back right away.

You waited until you were almost there. Then, you turned. And he was watching you. Of course he was. Head tilted, eyes tracking you. And just before you pushed the door open, you saw him move, slow, rising from his seat.

Your heart pounded once, then again, faster.

You’d never done this before. You saved your courage for more reasonable things, like doctor’s appointments, awkward phone calls, breaking up with somebody or declining invitations.

The restroom had two stalls. One sink. A worn mirror. A half-full soap dispenser that looked like it’d seen things.

You didn’t care.

You wanted this.

Right now.

You closed the door and caught your reflection: you looked good, really good, actually, considering you’d walked a couple of blocks in the rain. Your hair still a little damp, eye makeup just barely smudged. Your lips still glossy. It was sexy, to be honest.

Three knocks on the door.

Your heart stopped.

You fixed your hair in the mirror, and then walked to the door, cracked it open, just enough to see him standing there. He looked taller standing up.

He stepped inside in a second, closing the door behind him. You heard the lock click, but all you could see were his eyes fixed on yours.

“Tell me your name,” he said, moving forward until your thighs pressed against the cold sink. He rested his palms on either side, not touching you.

From this new angle he was even closer, and you felt wrapped up in him, in his scent: deep, sexy cologne, whiskey with a hint of smoke. Something you’d never noticed before, or particularly liked, but now couldn’t get enough of.

You said your name with a smile. “And yours?” you asked a second after, sliding your hands up his chest until your fingertips brushed the hot skin at his neck beneath his shirt.

“Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeated, your lips barely brushing his.

You smiled, or tried to, but didn’t get far—his mouth crashed onto yours, stealing your breath and pulling you tight against him.

Joel’s hands squeezed your hips, fingers digging into your ass as he hauled you closer, his belt biting into your stomach. He made low, guttural sounds in his throat as your hands slid down his chest, one pressing against his stomach, the other slipping even lower, past his belt.

You adjusted your palm and gave the bulge in his pants a gentle squeeze. Just to see. Just out of curiosity.

Joel broke the kiss with a moan, breath hot and shaky against your wet lips.

“Jesus, sweetheart, gettin’ luckier by the second.”

“You’re desperate for this, aren’t you?” you whispered against his mouth, squeezing a little harder. “Knew it the second I saw you, undressing me with your eyes. I could feel your heart pounding under my hand.”

Joel smiled, then leaned in to steal a kiss. Quick, soft, gone too fast.

“And now?” he murmured, thrusting his hips forward, deepening the pressure of your hand against his crotch. “You feel it beatin' now, too?”

You squeezed again, a moan rumbling in your chest as you leaned in and dragged your tongue across his lips.

Softer than you expected.

Joel let one hand slip from your hip and cupped your jaw, pulling you in, kissing you just as you were about to taste him again.

His tongue met yours, and his mouth claimed yours in a deep, hungry kiss, full of controlled desperation.

Because yes, he was desperate. So were you. But he kissed you like he didn’t want to devour you too fast.

God knew Joel Miller appreciated a proper meal, and he took his damn time savoring it.

You slid both hands up to his neck and pulled him closer, closer, until his whole body was pressed up against yours. Your legs parted around him, and he lifted you onto the sink with both hands, setting you right at the edge.

Your body was melted into his, so close you could feel the rise and fall of his breath against your stomach. Legs wrapped around his hips, hands tangled in the back of his neck and his hair, mouth full of him; you were coming apart right on top of him.

Your dress had ridden up past your hips, and the porcelain beneath you was cold against your ass. But Joel’s hands were warm, dragging heat over every inch of skin they touched. Gripping, kneading, getting you warm as they went.

You pulled away from his lips, leaning back, your head tipping until your neck was fully exposed to him. And Joel wasted no time; his mouth found your skin, teeth and tongue at your throat like some goddamn vampire, biting gently at your pulse point. And then—

A sudden chill kissed your chest, your nipples tightening instantly.

You looked down.

He’d tugged down the top of your dress, one strap slipping off your arm without grace.

One breast bare, the other still half-covered.

Joel cupped it with his hand, fingers rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, both of you watching it happen, breath catching, uneven.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot,” he murmured against your jaw, rough, a little shaky as he kept touching you. “Soft… beautiful… almost feels like a shame to eat you up.”

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head back, your hand stroking the warm skin at the back of his neck.

“You’re not gonna back out, are you?”

Joel lifted his gaze, locking eyes with you. A crooked smile pulled at his lips.

“Baby,” he said, smug, “I never leave a plate unfinished.”

Saying that, he slid his hand down your stomach and rested it on your thigh, easing your legs open just a little more.

He pressed his palm, fingers angled down, against your underwear, dragging them slowly up and down with the lightest pressure. Just enough to make your whole body tremble.

“Look at this,” he muttered, grinning. “Already soaked.”

You rocked your hips forward, chasing the contact, and he pushed his hand in closer, fingers circling your clit through the damp fabric, drawing moans straight from your chest.

Your head fell back with a gasp.

“Fuck, Joel, yes,” you whispered, eyes shut, fingers stroking the back of his neck. “Right there, right there.”

He kissed your neck, his tongue leaving a wet trail up along your jaw until he reached your ear—then, he softly bit your earlobe.

A gasp slipped from your lips. He let out a breathy laugh.

“You like that?” he whispered, almost surprised, voice barely there—meant only for you.

He bit again. You shivered, your hips grinding harder against his fingers.

“Goddamn, look at you,” he murmured, hot breath spilling over your skin. “So fuckin’ pretty, so desperate, so wet.” His voice dipped lower. “Dragged me into the restroom just to get what you wanted, didn’t you?”

You nodded, eyes shut, breath catching.

“Tell me what you want,” he ordered, his hand moving rougher. “ Tell me. Say it.”

You opened your eyes, lids heavy, and looked at him, hoping the hunger in your stare would swallow him whole.

You exhaled, shaky. “Your—your tongue.”

Joel stilled. His hand stopped.

His mouth found your neck again, and his grip tightened on your hips, pulling you hard against him as your mind spun like a goddamn carousel.

“Your mouth,” you murmured, clutching at him. “Joel—oh my God.”

He laughed against your skin, satisfied, then pulled back. His hands slid down to the inside of your thighs, and without looking away, he started to open you up, inch by inch.

His eyes were shining, dark as midnight, pupils blown wide; lips flushed, cheeks hot and glowing.

Then, the doorknob rattled.

Someone tried to get in.

Three knocks hit the door.

“Occupied,” Joel called, eyes never leaving yours, his hands still gripping your thighs as he dropped to a crouch.

Whoever was outside said something, but you didn’t hear it. Couldn’t. Your focus was locked on the man between your legs.

Joel hooked his fingers into your panties and dragged them to the side.

A breath caught on his lips.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes glued to you.

And instinctively, you rolled your hips forward, offering more, opening for him.

Joel started kissing the insides of your thighs, inching higher with every breath. But the tension was killing you, you needed him over you, right now. Right this second.

Your hand found his hair, fingers tangling in it just tight enough to make a low laugh rumble from his chest.

And then he moved closer, and closer, and—

“Oh my… God,” you gasped, head thrown back, mouth open.

Joel was gentle, tender. His mouth felt soft against you; tongue licking slow, lips wrapping around your bud, sucking softly, releasing with a wet, needy sound: music to your ears.

He moaned against you, sending vibrations through every nerve ending, and you gripped his hair tighter. That seemed to ignite something, because he plunged deeper, faster, sucking harder, with desperate intensity.

You knew you were soaked, felt it slick between your thighs. And when you glanced down, Joel’s mouth and nose were glistening too.

He pulled back for a moment, fingers spreading you open, tracing circles over your clit.

“Look at you, so goddamn beautiful and sweet,” he murmured, then kissed the inside of your thigh quickly, his stubble tickling you.

Without warning, his mouth closed over you again, hungry and relentless.

Holy fuck, you could come just from the sight of it.

Joel had your clit wrapped in his lips, sucking hard while his tongue flicked inside his mouth and over your wet heat.

You couldn’t hold back any longer.

Fisting his hair, head thrown back, a breathy sigh tore through you, and a moan escaped—too loud, too raw—from deep in your throat.

Your hips moved on their own, riding the waves as Joel kept the pace, dragging you over the edge nonstop.

You were trembling, jaw clenched, when his mouth finally pulled away with a soft, satisfied plop.

He touched you one last time, just to kiss your clit like he was sealing a job well done.

No, no... Perfectly done. You had just come harder than you ever had in your life.

The man was talented. You almost climbed off the sink to give him a round of applause, but a dozen other ways to thank him were already lining up in your head.

God bless firefighters. Always reliable service.

When he kissed you, you were still half-dizzy, but you wrapped your arms around his neck to steady yourself.

His mouth tasted like you. His tongue was soft in yours, even though now you knew exactly what it was capable of.

You pulled away, trailing your mouth down his jaw with soft kisses until you reached his neck.

“That was fucking incredible,” you murmured, a smile audible in your voice.

He laughed deep and low, vibrating right under your lips.

“My pleasure,” he said, smug as hell.

You leaned back, grinning, eyes locked on his as your hand slid down to his belt. Fingers trembling but quick, undoing the black leather buckle.

Once undone, you pulled down the zipper of his pants and without breaking eye contact, your hand slipped under his boxers.

Your eyes fluttered as your hand brushed against bare skin, wrapping around his thick, pulsing length.

You swallowed hard.

Your hand stroked him gently, heart pounding at how swollen and hard he was. And when you looked down, just in time to see him slide free from his boxers, a breath caught in your throat.

His dick was big. Long and wide, the soft hair above framing it like a crown. The mushroom-shaped head was round and swollen, pink and leaking. Veins stood out, thick, pulsing, and suddenly, your mouth watered.

Joel seemed composed, at least from a distance. And you say this because up close, you could see how hard he was breathing, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts.

You didn’t want to make him wait any longer—you didn’t want to wait any longer either— so you pressed your hand gently against him, urging him to step back. And with a quick leap, you slid off the sink and dropped to your knees.

Looking up, you caught how his hand immediately tangled in your hair, fingers gripping your scalp.

You placed one hand on his thigh, the other at his base, thumb gently pressing and caressing his balls. You knew he liked it, because a soft sigh slipped past his lips the moment you did.

Without a word, you opened your mouth and flicked your tongue over the head, slow, until your lips wrapped around him.

Joel gasped, tightening his grip on your hair. You smiled up at him.

He smirked back, that crooked grin lighting up his face.

“Enjoyin’ yourself, darlin’?”

Suddenly, you decided to wipe that smug smile right off his face.

Your tongue traced the length of him, sliding all the way down to the base, while your hand started pumping him steady and your mouth wrapped around his scrotum, lips sucking and tasting that perfect, salty flavor.

Joel groaned, leaning forward, one hand braced on the sink, eyes squeezed shut and, for once, no damn smile.

You licked back up to the head again, hand sliding down to the base to stroke as your mouth took as much as it could, lips tight and wet, tongue working every inch it could reach.

“Oh, shit, fuck,” Joel gasped, eyes wide as he looked down at you, fingers gently massaging your cheek.

Wet sounds slipped from your mouth and throat as you took him deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until your nose nearly touched his base, completely filled, no room left in your mouth.

Joel moaned, a broken, fragile sound, then tugged your hair softly, pulling you back slowly.

You took a breath as he released you, fingers brushing over your damp chin. You were drooling, thick drops slipping from your lips.

You leaned forward and flicked your tongue out, but before you could take him back into your mouth, Joel grabbed your shoulders, impatience clear in his grip.

“Joel,” you whined, hands resting on his arms, eyes glazed and cock-drunk.

“Sweetheart, don’t get me wrong,” he said, fingers brushing your cheek, needy. “But if you stay on your knees any longer, this’s gonna end way different than how I wanna end it.”

You nodded, understanding. Pff, you were so kind.

You wiped the back of your hand over your mouth, then cupped his face with both hands, pulling him in for a fierce, hungry kiss.

Suddenly, there were knocks on the door.

“Occupied!” Joel shouted again, leaving your mouth.

You chuckled low and clenched his shirt in your fists while his hands slid to your hips, kneading and gripping the skin there.

He bent down and planted a kiss between your neck and shoulder. Then, in one smooth move, he lifted you back onto the sink.

You leaned back, palms pressed against the cold porcelain behind you, while he slipped a black package with tiny white letters from his back pocket.

He popped it open with a quick tear at the corner and popped it in his mouth.

So that’s how it was... this man carried a bareskin raw in his pocket. Look at him.

You smiled to yourself and brought your hand to your mouth, quickly licking your fingers as you watched him roll on the condom, the thin latex hugging him perfectly.

Your hand slipped down between your legs, fingers teasing impatiently while he positioned himself at your entrance. But you stopped touching yourself the moment you felt him start to slide in, your hand immediately gripping his tanned, strong arm; a vein traced along his bicep, disappearing under his shirt.

You shifted your hips just slightly, and Joel eased himself in, slow and steady.

Inch by inch, his face stayed controlled, but his eyes gave him away. You were completely mesmerized, watching him—watching his reaction as he slid inside you, feeling yourself stretch around him with every second. A slow, delicious burn spreading through your whole body.

With just one hip push, Joel pressed deep, fully inside you.

A gasp escaped your lips, your body overwhelmed by the perfect fullness, the delicious weight of him.

“Fuck,” you threw your head back, breathing calm but heavy.

“Look at it,” Joel managed to say, rough.

You obeyed, eyes dropping right to where your bodies met.

“Look at it; fittin’ like a glove,” he added.

His hands slid up to your waist, gripping tight to keep you steady while you adjusted to him. Joel took the moment to lean forward and bury his mouth in your chest. His tongue flicked lively and wet, and damn, it was almost too much.

Your hand traveled up his arm to his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Joel—Joel, move,” you whispered, voice ragged. “Move.”

He let go of your nipple with a wet, filthy sound and tightened his grip on your waist. His eyes locked on yours while he pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in one smooth thrust. Then again. And again. And again.

He started moving against you, his hard, heavy cock sliding between your legs, and the heat inside you flared instantly.

And if before you were melting, now you were straight-up dissolving. Joel was fucking you with that fucked-and-broken look in his eyes, and your heart was pounding like a drum. Your body was burning, nearly feverish, and your hands clung to him however they could; gripping his clothes, his neck, his hair, anything within reach.

And he let you hold on, pressing his body against yours, gasping as he gave it all; his mouth trailing kisses down your neck, your shoulders, biting here and there, leaving wet marks on your hot skin, making your head spin.

His thrusts were rougher now, faster too, and so were the sounds spilling from his chest. You were probably making all sorts of noises yourself, but you couldn’t focus on anything except his, because they were fucking delicious.

Joel pulled out of you slowly, eyes glued to where your bodies parted.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice thick. “Look at the mess you made.” He looked up at you, a drunk smile tugging at his lips. “You always this messy?”

You looked down, your mouth falling open.

A mess. A fucking mess. His length was coated with your slick, completely drenched and shining.

The image was so obscene it dragged a moan straight from your throat, just in time for Joel to slam back into you with one deep, hard thrust.

He picked up the rhythm again, hot skin against yours, his breath coming out in short, frantic bursts.

Then... more knocks.

“Dude, c’mon!” someone shouted from the other side. “Get the fuck out already!”

Joel stilled.

“Fuckin’ perverts,” the guy muttered, still banging on the door.

You both let out soft, breathless laughs, and just as quickly, Joel began pulling out.

“No,” you whispered in protest, hands pressing flat against his chest. “Joel…”

“My truck’s out front,” he said, tucking himself back into his pants, belt clinking as he fastened it. His voice was low and final.

You nodded fast, obeying without question. He helped you down from the sink, and your shaky legs hit the ground.

You adjusted your dress as best you could, tugging it down while checking your reflection. You washed your hands, smoothed down a damp strand of hair, and made sure your gloss was still sort of intact.

Joel did the same — no rush, no panic. He washed his hands, ran a quick hand through his hair, and that was it. His face gave nothing away, except maybe the heat still lingering in his eyes, or the huge hard-on he was carrying but, right... anyway.

He took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Walked toward the door, and right after opening it, he murmured a polite “excuse us” you barely heard, mostly because all your focus was trapped in the sticky, warm feeling between your thighs.

You stepped out of the restroom in silence, passing through a few nosy stares. Joel didn’t flinch. Or maybe he just didn’t care. And your legs were still a little shaky, your thighs damp.

You squeezed his hand tightly.

Joel pushed the door open.

And outside… it was still raining.

In a hurry, he led you by the hand across the lot, and you got a little wet on the way. No pun intended.

His truck was parked near the back; black, relatively new...

Wait, like, seriously? Who gave a shit about the make and model right now? Your legs were shaking, and all you could focus on was the weight of Joel’s hand wrapped around yours.

He clicked the alarm off, opened the door, and helped you up, gripping your thigh as you climbed in.

You watched him walk around the front, rain catching in the shine of his hair, his broad chest rising as he pulled open the driver’s side door and got in.

The second it shut behind him, he looked at you.

Silent.

A smile crept across your lips and his, too. And then you both laughed, because Jesus, it was all so fucking ridiculous.

Joel reached over and squeezed your thigh, right near where you were aching for him. He leaned in, and you cupped his face with both hands, kissing him like two teenagers sneaking around behind someone’s back.

His hand moved higher, then around, grabbing a handful of your ass while yours slid down to palm the bulge in his jeans again.

He groaned, broke the kiss, and leaned back with a breath.

“Not here,” he muttered, eyes flicking forward as he shoved the key in the ignition. “Too many people. And traffic.”

You didn’t complain. Didn’t even say a word. You just watched him start the engine, eyes focused on the road ahead, trying to see past the streaks of rain while the wipers swung wildly back and forth.

“Where are we going?” you asked, already sliding down into his lap.

Joel shifted his hips upward, maybe instinct or need, and you had his belt undone and fly open before he could even answer.

“Someplace quieter,” he said, voice tight, breath catching in his throat.

You freed his cock from his jeans and took him into your mouth without hesitation. Still thick. Still hard. Still yours—if only for tonight.

Your mouth was wet within seconds, and so was he, your lips gliding up and down while soft moans hummed in your chest. You could hear his breathing shift, get heavier, rougher.

You looked up at him, hand stroking him as your mouth worked. He looked laser-focused on the road, the red and white lights of traffic bouncing in his eyes, fractured through the rain on the windshield.

“Keep doin’ that,” he muttered, glancing down at you for just a second like it might fucking kill him to look away for more.

You obeyed without question, hand stroking him before your lips wrapped around the tip again, sucking with just enough pressure to pull a groan out of him; one he clearly tried to bite back, for whatever stubborn reason.

Joel drove a little longer, tension coiled tight in his body, until the truck rolled to a stop. The engine cut out, and he let his head fall back against the seat.

His hands tangled in your hair.

“Fuck, baby, such a good fuckin’ mouth,” he breathed, finally giving into it, hips twitching as he bumped the back of your throat a couple of times. “Keep doin’ that.”

But then he pulled you off him, hand firm under your jaw.

“Backseat,” he said, rough and urgent.

You didn’t hesitate. You slipped between the front seats, catching a quick smack from him on your ass as you did. It made you grin.

Joel followed, slower with the limited space, but the second he was back there with you, he dropped onto the seat and grabbed your hips like it was instinct, pulling you right into his lap.

His hands fisted the hem of your dress and dragged it up your body, stripping it off without ceremony and tossing it carelessly into the front seat.

Suddenly, you were bare; completely exposed, save for your panties, which Joel had no intention of letting stay on. He slipped them down and off you in one swift, practiced motion that probably deserved some kind of medal.

Straddling him, you glanced around the truck. You were parked in an empty lot, and even if someone was out there, it didn’t matter. The rain was coming down hard, drumming over the roof and windows, cloaking you both in sound and shadow.

Nature’s way of saying go ahead.

The cool air inside the truck kissed your skin and raised goosebumps along every inch of you. Your nipples tightened as you settled over Joel, heat clashing deliciously with the chill.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, barely above a breath.

You smiled, cheeks somehow blushing even more than they already were.

“Thanks. You too.”

Joel grinned, his thumb pressing into your hip.

“Thanks, sweetheart. You gettin’ shy on me now?”

You stifled a laugh, shook your head.

His hands gripped your waist while your arms draped over his shoulders. Glancing down, you saw his cock, thick and ready lying hard against his stomach, and you rocked forward, back, again, your slick dragging over him and pulling a sharp gasp from his throat.

Still grinding, your fingers toyed with the hem of his T-shirt. Joel, always sharp, always tuned in, pulled it off in one swift motion and tossed it forward, somewhere near where your dress had landed.

You sighed as you looked at him, your hands roaming his bare chest, caressing and kneading the golden skin while your hips kept moving and his hands squeezed you tighter.

He threw his head back, and wasting no time you kissed the curve of his neck, making him moan while his hands slid up your bare back, squeezing and stroking as he pulled you closer against him.

The feel of his bare chest pressed to yours and his hard length rubbing against you was too much, too fast. Your clit brushed his tip, and a gasp escaped your lips as your hips quickened, the friction intensifying.

Joel’s hands dropped hard and fast onto your ass—two sharp slaps echoing inside the truck. And then, he stopped you immediately, his grip firm, holding you still.

Your mouth left his neck as you pulled back slightly, hands still resting on his shoulders. You looked into his eyes just as he lowered his gaze and his hand to grip his cock, positioning it beneath you.

You held your breath for a moment, feeling him settle at your entrance, and then Joel placed his hands firmly on your hips.

Slowly, you began to lower yourself. Inch by inch, until he was fully inside, and a soft sigh escaped your lips.

You pressed your forehead to his while Joel’s hands roamed everywhere; your ass, your thighs, your back, caressing every inch of exposed skin he could.

Your hand gripped his jaw, tilting his face up, and you kissed him as you started to move.

Up, down. Up, down.

You could feel him stretching you just right with every thrust, and soft, broken little sounds slipped from your lips, only to die against his.

Joel was panting, making those low, rough noises like he was trying not to, but couldn’t help it; and God, it drove you wild.

His hands clutched at your ass, guiding you faster, and you leaned back, grabbing onto the frontseat headrest next to you for balance.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, his voice wrecked, thicker now. One hand slid down to your clit as his hips pushed up into you. “You feel so fuckin' good, I can’t—shit—”

You threw your head back, and Joel lost it.

His movements turned rougher, faster; his cock driving in and out, burying deep with every thrust. Your legs were trembling from the tension coiled tight inside you.

Then his hands clamped down on your waist, and with a sudden, forceful motion, he grabbed you and dropped you flat on the seat, on your back.

He moved fast, adjusting his position, hiking your legs up until your knees were pressed on either side of your head, and then he was inside you again, all at once.

Joel leaned forward, his full weight pressing down on the backs of your thighs, keeping you pinned right there as he fucked into you hard.

Your chest rose and fell in time with each thrust, every breath and sound synced with the rhythm of him. Your hands were reaching for anything; his hair, his face, his neck, desperate to touch whatever you could. So he brought his face down to yours and kissed you, his wet lips trembling, parted and hungry.

Your moans were falling apart now—shattered, messy sounds— as Joel hit every soft angle, brushing every nerve inside you. You were helpless, bent in half beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“Joel,” you whispered, over and over, barely a sound between cries. “Joel…”

And something in him broke. His thrusts turned rougher, deeper. His groans dropped lower, turned primal. The truck rocked beneath you both, creaking wildly with the force, but he didn’t care.

He wasn’t gonna stop—not even if the entire city was burning.

The look on your face was undoing him. You were wrecked; utterly open for him, given over, gone. Eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

And you felt just like he’d imagined.

No, fuck, better.

Clenching around him, slick and tight and pulling him in like you were made for him. Perfect. Every damn angle.

You were close. And so was he.

He’d spent the last ten minutes trying to think about anything else... the weather, maybe? No, the scented candle kid. No. Fuck, wathever. He was squeezing his eyes shut, desperate to hold on just a little longer—to be good for you.

Then he brought his hand down, fingers trembling as they found your swollen clit.

You stopped breathing. No sound, no breath, just stillness.

He had you right where he wanted you.

Joel kept working his fingers, fucking into you like there was no tomorrow until suddenly, your whole body trembled. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your eyes squeezing shut tight as the orgasm hit you hard.

He didn’t stop.

“Oh my—fucking—Joel—Joel—don’t stop—oh my—baby—” The words tumbled out of you in a rush, frantic and breathless, as your climax tore through you.

Joel buried his face beside yours, cheek pressed to your knee, still moving, still inside.

“Oh, shit,” he managed, the words raw, cracking in his throat—

And then it hit him.

The orgasm slammed into him like a wave, dragging him under. He groaned deep, broken, guttural sounds spilling from him as he came, undone and breathless, lost in you completely.

On the way home, your legs were still shaking.

Never in your life—never in all your fucking years alive—had you felt anything like that.

And you didn’t know if it was just Joel, or if it was the rush of fucking a stranger you’d only just met. You had no idea. But your body was still riding the aftershocks, even an hour later, as he drove toward your neighborhood.

An hour later because… well, after it was over, the two of you had just collapsed in the backseat.

You didn’t know how long you laid there, staring at the ceiling, breathing. Not talking. Just existing.

And then Joel turned his head and asked if you were hungry. So he drove to a fast food place, ordered burgers and fries at the drive-thru, and you ate in the parking lot while he told you about the fire he’d worked earlier that day.

Which, now, made his hatred of scented candles make a lot more sense.

To be fair, Joel seemed like a good man. More than good, actually.

And it wasn’t just because of how well he’d fucked you or the way he’d helped you clean up afterward, or how sweetly he’d asked “What d’you want to eat, sweetheart? Burgers? Fries? Tenders? Sprite or Coke?”

No, it was something else. Inherent. Built in.

But it was too late in the night for that kind of analysis. And something inside you twisted at the thought of even trying, anyway.

Food finished and truck parked just outside the park, Joel turned to look at you.

“I can drop you closer, y’know. For real.”

“No need, seriously.” You waved him off, already reaching for the door handle.

“Wait,” he said, his hand landing gently on your thigh. “It’s late. I mean it.”

“I live in that building,” you pointed out through the open window, but there were several behind you, and Joel had no clue which one you meant. “It’s not far. What, you wanna move a couple more feet?” You smiled.

“You sure?”

“Of course.”

“All right,” he said, pulling his hand back and watching as you pushed the door open.

Something in him told him to stop you. To say something else. Ask you a question. Anything.

But he didn’t.

He just watched as you stepped out and shut the door behind you.

You leaned in through the open window.

“Thanks for the ride, stranger,” you said, smiling. “And take that however you want.”

Joel let out a breathy laugh, and you turned away, still smiling.

He watched you walk a few steps, and then—

“Wait,” he called, leaning across to the passenger-side window.

You turned around.

“Give me your number.”

You smiled again, like you were actually thinking about it for a second.

“I already have yours, remember?”

Joel frowned, confused.

“3-1-1. Fire department.” You recited it with a little shrug.

Before he could respond, you turned around again and walked away.

For a few seconds, you were still close enough. He could’ve said something. Anything. Stopped you. Called your name.

But he didn’t.

He just watched as you crossed the street and disappeared between the buildings.

And that night, Joel couldn’t stop thinking about you.

The nights that followed, he didn’t either.

divider by @/enchanthings

tags: @stylesispunk @vanishintoyoubby @onlythehobi

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julietcpulet · 3 days ago

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When did Maomao fall in love?

There’s not necessarily a conclusive moment when we know Maomao’s feelings change from ambivalence to friendship to romantic interest. For me though I think her feelings for Jinshi were progressing from attraction to love somewhere around light novels 5-9. Maomao isn’t someone who ever directly says the word “love”, it’s only implied in the strength of her affection or defense of a person. And a moment I really see as pivotal for exemplifying this feeling from her, towards Jinshi, as falling in love is in her comparison to Luomen from light novel 9.

Who was she talking to? She knew Jinshi was standing in front of her, but for some reason she kept seeing Luomen’s face.

Her adoptive father is the only man Maomao has ever felt genuine attachment and love for without voicing it directly. Her respect, concern and daughterly affection for Luomen are some of the only times we see her think genuinely in a fond way of another person or be willing to speak boldly on their behalf. So to compare Jinshi in any way to this man whom she holds in such high regard and consider them similar, that’s huge. Also because of how she’s comparing them.

The principle that drove Jinshi’s behavior seemed very similar to Luomen’s. She was afraid that if he went on like this, he would end up just as luckless in life as her old man.

It has to do with her worry. That Luomen’s kindness ends in his own suffering and Jinshi will be much the same. She’s not comparing them to contrast, she’s comparing them to show how alike they are. Although Jinshi has now stepped into his role as Ka Zuigetsu, he struggles to leave behind all he knew in the rear palace. However, it’s not just due to him being a workaholic, actually he would enjoy far less responsibilities, the reason he still has dealings with his past role is because of the people there and the trust he has established amongst so many. It’s this trait of his, his dependability and willingness to shoulder others troubles that is why Maomao and others close to him know he would be crushed as Emperor. As although he has the acumen to fulfill his duty, he would hold himself responsible for the lives of every individual until it ran him dry.

She discovered, though, that there was something else behind her boiling anger. Her hands went to Jinshi’s cheek. “You’re only human, Master Jinshi. You’re not some mythical immortal who can save everyone.” She held his face in her hands, the fingers of her left hand brushing his scar. “You can be wounded, scarred, brought low. Only human.”

Maomao especially sees similarities to Luomen in this, how he gives charity to others at the apothecary shop where she would charge people. How he spends his mind and health when he’s already worn down. So we notice in these small comparisons that she’s coming to care what happens to Jinshi should he be put in a position where he’d be compromised. Although she wants him to use his position for good, what she truly wants is him to stop burdening himself unnecessarily like her own father. And that, to me, is a show of blossoming love.

She respected Luomen immensely. A man who never lost his kindness no matter what unhappiness he encountered was like a miracle. The price, though, was that his body and his heart were both battered. In time he became so that everything he did, he did in the expectation of defeat. Would Jinshi end up like him one day?

That she’s realizing she fears for Jinshi but also respects him because of the way he is almost breaking himself to help others. Only on the flip side, this is what makes her worry it will be the end of them both. This is where I think we see her falling in love even without expressing it, in comparing him to the one person she’s let down her guard for, the man who raised her. Now Jinshi is the person she’s beginning to see as a different kind of safety, someone worthy of letting past her defenses and her worry is transferring to him.

“Please, please don’t go do anything else like burning a brand into your skin,” Maomao said. “I heard you…the first several times,” Jinshi replied. “Are you sure?” A smile flitted across Maomao’s face, and she slowly pulled her hands away. Except they didn’t leave his cheeks. Jinshi held them there.

It’s a quiet kind of change but she very much acts like a future wife might in this moment, giving loving counsel and advice, mixed with honesty and concern. No, her feelings are not outwardly acknowledged yet nor may they ever be as “love” in the way we expect but to me this is where it began. 💜💚

#the apothecary diaries #kusuriya no hitorigoto #jinmao #jinshi x maomao #maomao #jinshi #jinmao rambles #knh light novel

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orphicmeliora · 2 days ago

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You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 2

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 6.6k

NOTES: people. if you want to be tagged please please please just leave a comment under the masterlist post because it's really hard to keep track of who wants or does not want to be tagged. please it's a request.

part 1 | MASTERLIST | part 3

two years ago

It started, like most things in your marriage, with silence.

Zayne’s back is to you, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The navy-blue sheets have slipped low on his hips, leaving the smooth expanse of his back exposed in the soft, amber wash of early morning light.

He looks so peaceful like this. Sleeping. His features are unguarded, carved free of the cool, impassive mask he wears in waking hours. His lashes rest against his cheekbones. His lips—so rarely parted in anything but clipped conversation—are slightly parted now, soft and pink and so heartbreakingly human.

Your hand hovers halfway between you.

There’s an itch in your fingers you can’t scratch. A need you can’t name.

You want to touch him.

Brush the dark strands of hair away from his forehead. Trace the strong, elegant line of his brow, the bridge of his nose, the stubborn angle of his jaw. You want to learn his face like a map you’ve been handed in the dark.

And his lips.

You wonder if they’d yield beneath your thumb. If they’d part for you, just once. If the same mouth that barely speaks your name could be coaxed into something more.

But your hand doesn’t move. It stays frozen in the space between you. Caught on the edge of an invisible line he never drew aloud but made damn sure you understood.

You lie back down, folding your fingers against your own chest.

There’s a ring on your finger. A symbol of permanence, of intention.

You wonder what it means to him.

Because he sleeps in the same bed as you but never touches you. Wakes up before you do and leaves without a word. Comes home late, eats dinner at the hospital—if at all—and disappears into his study like the thought of sitting across from you might drown him.

You’ve asked yourself a thousand times why he married you.

You know the reasons the rest of the world believes. A good match. A stable alliance. Respectable. Practical.

But you still remember the way your heart had stuttered when he slipped that ring onto your finger. You’d told yourself it meant something. That surely no one would vow themselves to another without hope buried somewhere under all that ceremony.

You were wrong.

And is there anything more cruel than intentional neglect?

Because there are moments—glimpses—that keep you tethered. When he refills your tea without asking. When he checks if your car tires need air. When he walks you to the elevator and presses the button without looking at you.

Care without closeness. Duty without warmth.

It’s not enough.

But still—you stay.

You stay through the quiet dinners you eat alone. Through the long stretches of silence when the only sound in the house is the clock ticking into midnight. You stay because some traitorous part of you believes this is just the prologue. That the story will begin soon.

So instead of leaving, you learn to dream.

And in your dreams, Zayne is different.

In your dreams, he looks at you like you matter. Like you’re something he’s chosen, not inherited.

He speaks your name with weight—like it tastes like honey on his tongue, not obligation. There’s laughter. Real, full-bodied laughter that shakes his shoulders and lights up his eyes. There are inside jokes. Shared looks across rooms. His hand on the small of your back when someone looks at you too long. The brush of his fingers against yours when he passes you tea in the morning.

He listens in those dreams. Not like it’s a chore, but like your voice is a favorite song he’s trying to memorize.

And at night?

Dream Zayne touches you like he’s drowning and you’re the air.

He kisses you like he has something to prove—like he can’t believe you let him touch you, and he’s terrified it might be the last time. His hands are everywhere—possessive, reverent, hungry. He doesn’t just make love to you—he claims you.

He whispers your name like a prayer. Like it hurts to say it, but he can’t help himself.

In dreams, you are his home. His haven. His choice.

But with the inevitable sunrise, morning always comes.

And with it, the rustle of Zayne’s footsteps across hardwood. The quiet zip of his bag. The soft click of the door closing behind him.

When you open your eyes, the bed is cold.

The dent where he slept is already fading.

And so, you lie still, the echo of a kiss you never received still burning on your lips.

The boutique is elegant—marble floors, high ceilings, and racks of designer gowns arranged like works of art. You trail your fingers over silky fabric and shimmery beading, pretending not to notice the way Zayne hovers a few paces behind, hands shoved in his coat pockets like he has no idea what to do with them.

He’s clearly out of his element, but you catch him stealing glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

“Does it have to be long?” you ask, turning toward a rack of slinky, floor-length options.

He shrugs. “It’s formal. Wear what you like.”

You hum under your breath. That helps. Not.

Zayne doesn’t offer opinions, just follows you silently, occasionally brushing past you in narrow aisles. Every time he does, there’s a static hum in the air—an awareness of nearness that sits too close to your skin.

You pause by a velvet dress, running your hand over the soft material. When you glance at Zayne, you catch him watching your fingers, his gaze unreadable.

It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing.

You step away.

And then your eyes land on a display tucked slightly behind a pillar.

It’s not part of the formalwear section.

It’s... lingerie.

Your gaze sticks before you can pull it away. Among the sheer lace and silk, one piece stands out—midnight black, scandalous in its cut, with delicate embroidery tracing along the edges. The kind of nightgown that whispers promises just by existing.

You don’t mean to stare.

You definitely don’t mean to lean in a little.

But you do.

And that’s exactly when you feel him come up behind you.

His presence is quiet, but unmistakable—his breath warm against your temple, the subtle shift in the air as he steps close enough for your senses to latch onto him.

Zayne’s voice is quiet, rough-edged. “Do you... want to get that?”

You flinch, turning so quickly your bag nearly smacks him.

“What?” you choke, mortified. “No! I mean—what would I even need it for?”

Your voice is too high. Your face is on fire.

Zayne’s ears flush pink. He looks slightly stunned that he even asked. His jaw tenses like he’s mentally cursing himself.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts.

“You meant exactly what you said,” you mutter, trying to will the ground to swallow you whole.

“I just... saw you looking at it.”

“And?”

“And I thought maybe... you liked it.”

You do. You do like it. That’s the problem.

But there’s no way in hell you’re admitting that—not when your heart is thundering and your skin is betraying you with every shade of red imaginable.

And then—

As if summoned by the sheer mortifying timing—a saleswoman walks up, bright and chipper. “Oh, that piece is very popular with newlyweds! Especially for honeymoons or staycations,” she says, beaming at the both of you. “It’s from our Moonlight Temptation collection. Very sensual, very soft. Would you like to try it on, dear?”

You make a strangled sound in your throat.

Zayne doesn’t say a word. But his hand rubs the back of his neck, ears still visibly flushed.

You shake your head rapidly. “Nope. No, thank you. That’s—uh—not why we’re here.”

The saleswoman glances between you both, smile widening as if she sees something neither of you wants to admit. “Of course,” she says, brightly. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll pull a few gowns I think will suit you.”

You don’t dare look at Zayne as she walks away.

He clears his throat. “Sorry. That was... awkward.”

You finally meet his gaze, still flustered, but curious despite yourself. “You really thought I’d buy that?”

He doesn’t tease. Instead, his voice dips—low, honest.

“I thought it would look good on you.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. Not flippantly. Not as a joke. But like the truth he’s only just realized himself. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it either.

You say nothing, heart pounding in your ears, because what could you possibly say?

Instead, you turn back toward the rack of gowns, fingers fumbling with the fabric to hide the way they’re shaking.

Eventually, Zayne moves back to the front of the boutique, giving you space. You try on a few options, thankful for the privacy curtain and the moments to catch your breath.

But even as you pull a deep maroon dress over your hips and smooth the fabric down, your mind drifts—

To the warmth of his voice in your ear.

To the way he looked at you—not with clinical indifference, but something else.

Something dangerous.

Something tender.

And you can’t help but wonder...

If he really meant it.

If he wants more than a dress and a date for a night.

If maybe—just maybe—he’s finally beginning to see you.

You tried on four dresses after the maroon one.

The first was too frilly. The second, too stiff. The third had promise until you looked in the mirror and saw someone trying too hard.

But the fourth?

The fourth was different.

It slid over your skin like it belonged there. Heavy but fluid, with a neckline that didn’t scream for attention, just whispered confidence. The sleeves barely brushed your shoulders, and the fabric pooled at your feet in a way that made you stand a little taller without realizing it.

It was green.

A deep, quiet green—rich like the forest after rain.

You weren’t thinking of his eyes when you chose it. You weren’t.

But standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps, you felt it creeping in anyway.

That familiar, impossible shade.

You swallowed.

It didn’t matter. The color didn’t matter. His eyes didn’t matter.

Not when they never looked at you long enough to leave behind anything real.

You drew in a slow breath, trying to steel yourself. Then you pulled the curtain aside.

Zayne was seated in the corner, elbows resting on his knees, scrolling through something on his phone. He didn’t notice at first. The saleswoman did. Her eyes widened subtly.

You stepped out fully.

Zayne looked up.

And froze.

His phone slipped slightly in his hand, fingers going lax before curling around it again. He said nothing at first, but his gaze didn’t waver. It dragged over you slowly—shoulders to waist to floor and back again, lingering a fraction too long at the curve of your collarbone.

His lips parted. Just slightly. Like there was something he wanted to say but didn’t have the words for yet.

And then, softly, “That’s the one.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That’s the dress,” he said, straighter now. More certain. “It’s… perfect. You look beautiful.”

Your mouth went dry.

Zayne wasn’t the kind of man to throw around compliments. Especially not like this—low, reverent, honest.

You wanted to say something light in return. A quip, a brush-off. Anything to defuse the weight of his words.

But you couldn’t.

Not when he was still looking at you like that.

The saleswoman clapped her hands gently. “It’s stunning on you,” she said, stepping closer. “Would you like us to hold it at the counter?”

You nodded, barely trusting your voice.

Back in the fitting room, you rested your hands on the vanity. The dress still clung to you, warm from your skin. You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment, unsure of the person looking back.

She looked...hopeful.

You hated that.

When you stepped out again, changed into your regular clothes, Zayne had already paid for the dress. You opened your mouth to protest, but he took your hand and the bag with a firm look.

“Let me do this.”

You exhaled through your nose and didn’t argue.

The walk back to the car was quiet, your steps echoing lightly in the underground parking lot. He opened the passenger door for you, and for once, you didn’t fight him on it.

Inside the car, the silence stretched.

He didn’t start the engine right away.

“I didn’t expect today to go like this,” he said quietly, fingers drumming the steering wheel.

You gave a dry laugh. “Neither did I. I came in for a dress and walked out completely humiliated over lingerie.”

He huffed a breath. “You weren’t. Humiliated, I mean.”

You glanced at him. “You turned pink.”

“...I didn’t,” he muttered, rubbing his cheek. “That was just unexpected.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap. “I wasn’t looking at it for any reason. It just caught my eye.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“If you ever did want something like that,” he said, voice slow, deliberate, “I’d want to be the one you wear it for.”

You turned your head so fast it nearly gave you whiplash.

He stared straight ahead, like he couldn’t believe he’d just said that out loud.

The tension tightened again, dense and warm and impossible to ignore. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

So he started the car instead.

And the dress sat quietly in your lap like a secret neither of you were ready to say out loud.

You had no business being this nervous.

You told yourself it was just a hospital gala. A formal evening, full of handshakes and speeches and finger food no one actually liked. You’d show up. You’d smile. You’d leave. Simple.

And yet, here you were, in front of the full-length mirror, heart pounding like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

The dress lay draped across your body like it had been born for it. Soft and sculpted. Modest but magnetic. The color deepened in the dim light of the bedroom, pooling in folds at your feet and tapering upward to delicate straps that swept across your shoulders.

The only thing between you and perfection?

The zipper.

You grunted under your breath, tugging at the stubborn fabric. It caught just at the middle of your back—too far down to see, too far up to reach properly.

“Need help?”

You turned at the sound of Zayne’s voice.

He was leaning against the doorway, half-dressed in slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. Dark strands of hair still damp from his shower fell over his forehead. The sight punched the air from your lungs in a way you refused to acknowledge.

You hesitated. “It’s stuck.”

He walked in slowly, unhurried. Controlled.

“Turn around,” he murmured.

You did.

His hand found the base of your spine first. Just resting there. Warm. Heavy.

You tried not to react.

Then—deliberately, achingly—he dragged the zipper up.

It was a slow climb. A whispering slide of metal against fabric. His fingers brushed up along the line of your spine with every inch, trailing fire in their wake. You felt his breath fan against your nape. Close. Too close.

You shivered.

He didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he said lowly, “This dress was made for you.”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “You’re just saying that.”

He shook his head. His fingers stilled between your shoulder blades, not letting go just yet. “No. I’m saying it because I won’t survive the night if anyone else sees you in it.”

You stared at him, pulse thudding in your ears.

His gaze burned. Hungry and unreadable. It made the air feel thick and too tight against your ribs.

“I was supposed to be divorced by now,” you say quietly, breaking the silence, your voice tighter than you want it to be.

He pauses behind you. You don’t have to see his face to know his jaw clenched.

Then, low—measured—unapologetic:

“Not anytime soon.”

You inhale, sharply, ready to fire back, but he steps closer before you can speak. His chest brushes your shoulder blades.

His voice is right beside your ear now, velvet-wrapped steel.

“And I promise you…” he murmurs, “…it’ll be you who tears them up. Willingly.”

Your heart stutters.

You hate how it rattles you. Hate that your pulse trips like a caught rabbit. Hate more that you can’t—don’t—move away.

“You clean up well,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.

His eyes flicked to the mirror. “So do you.”

You swallowed.

Neither of you looked away.

The moment drew out too long. His hand still hovered at the middle of your back. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just resting. Like he couldn’t make himself let go.

Like he was trying to memorize what this felt like.

And then—his voice, softer than silk. “You’re shaking.”

You closed your eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“Liar,” he breathed.

You felt him step closer—so close that the heat of him seeped into your skin. His free hand came up to gently brush a curl from your shoulder. The back of his fingers grazed your collarbone.

You shivered.

He noticed. His eyes darkened.

“I don’t want this to be pretend anymore,” he said quietly, looking at your reflection.

You gripped the vanity edge.

“Zayne…”

“If you tell me to stop, I will.” His breath ghosted over the shell of your ear. “But don’t lie to me and say you don’t feel it too.”

You turned, barely, enough to face him over your shoulder.

“I don’t know what I feel,” you whispered. “You’re the one who spent all this time acting like I didn’t exist.”

Regret flickered through his features.

“I didn’t know how to have you without losing you,” he murmured.

You frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

��It does to me.” His voice cracked slightly, his hand finally falling from your back. “Everything I’ve ever cared for has slipped through my fingers. I thought if I wanted you too much—if I reached for you the way I wanted to—I’d ruin it.”

You stared at him.

At the vulnerability he didn’t often show. The grief he tried to carry alone. The love you never saw in words but now finally recognized in his silence.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

He smiled. Not out of amusement. Out of something far more tender.

“You won’t always be. Not if I keep doing this wrong.”

You didn’t have an answer for that.

But you did take a breath. One shaky inhale. Then turned fully, letting the dress rustle around you like a secret. You reached up and fixed his collar for him.

“Let’s not be late,” you said gently.

Zayne’s jaw clenched. Not from anger. From restraint.

“Right,” he said, voice thick. “Let’s go.”

You walked out the door together. But neither of you said what hung between your lungs:

You’d never been more dressed up.

And never felt more bare.

The event was exactly what you expected—opulent, polished, and exhausting.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above a sea of suits and gowns, everyone wearing their best smiles and most neutral opinions. Strings played softly from the corner, the delicate hum of a cello echoing against marble floors. Waiters circled with glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres that looked more like abstract art than actual food.

You stood beside Zayne, who looked maddeningly comfortable in his element. Crisp tux, silk tie, not a hair out of place. Calm, unreadable expression. Like this wasn't his seventh sixteen-hour surgery week. Like he hadn’t just confessed things in your bedroom you were still trying to process.

Socialites and colleagues floated by, eager to shake his hand, congratulate him on the recent research breakthrough, ask about future conferences. He handled them all with clinical politeness, his palm resting lightly on the small of your back whenever someone new approached.

You didn’t speak much.

You smiled. Nodded. Sipped water and counted down the minutes until you could leave.

Until he appeared.

You didn’t even catch his name the first time—he spoke it too quickly and too close, leaning in without invitation. Mid-forties, sharp suit, smug confidence of a man too used to hearing yes. An investor, he said. Big donor to the hospital. Enthusiastic about “Dr. Zayne’s innovative direction.”

But none of that interest was on Zayne now.

It was on you.

“You must be the wife,” he said, his smile bordering on a leer. “I’ve heard so little about you. A shame, really.”

You offered a thin, polite smile. “That’s probably because I prefer to keep a low profile.”

“Modesty. I like that.” His eyes scanned the length of your gown. Lingered. “But you shouldn’t hide something so… stunning.”

You took a step back, nearly bumping into another couple. “Thank you, but I—”

“You know, Dr. Zayne’s lucky. If I had someone like you on my arm, I’d never make it out of the house.” A chuckle, like he thought he was charming.

You stiffened.

He didn’t take the hint.

Your eyes darted toward Zayne, but he was deep in conversation with the hospital director across the room, his back to you.

“Do you dance?” the man asked smoothly. “Tell you what—why don’t we give the good doctor a break, and I’ll borrow you for one song? It’s just a dance.”

You could feel the heat rising in your chest, but not from flattery. From sheer, cold discomfort. You didn’t want to cause a scene. Didn’t want to embarrass Zayne in front of his colleagues. So you opened your mouth to decline—diplomatically, gently—

“I believe my wife said no.”

Zayne’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Low. Calm. Terrifyingly sharp.

You blinked.

He was suddenly beside you. Standing too tall. Too still.

The investor turned, surprised. “Ah, Dr. Zayne— I didn’t mean any harm—”

“No,” Zayne said again, with a frosty expression that sent chills down your spine. “You meant to ignore the discomfort on her face and corner her under the guise of a compliment. There’s a word for men like you, but I’m trying to be polite.”

The man’s face turned a mottled red. “I think you’re overreacting—”

“I think you should go find someone who actually wants to talk to you. Which isn’t her.” Zayne stepped forward slightly, his shoulder brushing yours. Protective. Possessive. “And definitely not me.”

The man muttered something under his breath and retreated fast, disappearing into the crowd with his ego tucked between his legs.

The hum of conversation resumed.

You stood frozen.

Zayne turned to you, brows furrowed. “Did he touch you?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He exhaled, jaw still tight. “Good.”

Silence stretched.

Then, quieter: “You should’ve signaled me.”

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” you said, voice hushed.

“I don’t care about scenes,” Zayne snapped, more emotionally than you’d ever heard from him. “Not when you’re uncomfortable.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

His eyes softened. “Because you’re my wife.”

It wasn’t said with ownership. It was said with reverence. A claim wrapped in vulnerability.

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you looked down at your shoes, trying to collect your breath. “Thank you.”

“I should’ve been watching you more closely,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“You’re not my bodyguard, Zayne.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I am your husband.”

And for once, he said it like he meant it.

Not like an obligation.

Like a vow.

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

He offered his arm to you, and after a beat, you took it.

“Come on,” he murmured near your ear, “let’s dance.”

You blinked. “Wait—you dance?”

He smirked. “Not well. But I’d rather you be stepped on by me than leered at by anyone else.”

A laugh escaped you—genuine, light.

And just like that, some part of the ice between you began to thaw.

The music shifted to something slow and sweeping, a soft waltz that melted through the golden lighting of the ballroom. Zayne’s hand rested at your waist, the other curled gently around yours as he led you toward the center of the dance floor. You hesitated only for a breath—then let him pull you close.

Your bodies fell into rhythm surprisingly well. He wasn’t lying—Zayne wasn’t exactly a graceful dancer, but he made up for it with focus. Precision. As if he was memorizing your every movement and adjusting for it. The small crease between his brows deepened when he accidentally stepped slightly to the side. His thumb skimmed over the back of your hand.

“I’m trying,” he murmured under his breath, eyes fixed on you.

“I know,” you said, unable to keep the smile from your lips. “That’s what makes it endearing.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Endearing. Great. Just what every man wants to hear.”

“Would you prefer infuriatingly hot?” you teased softly.

His fingers tightened just a little at your waist.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The tension coiled between you was no longer just a thread—it was a live wire, vibrating with the kind of electric heat that made your skin flush.

For a moment, the world softened. The music drowned out the buzz of conversation. Zayne looked at you—not through you, not past you. At you. Like you were something he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold.

Your heart started to ache with it.

Because just as you let yourself settle into that rare, precious warmth—

“Is that really her?” someone whispered, too loud to ignore.

You didn’t recognize the voice, but the words struck like a slap.

“I mean, she’s pretty, but… for Dr. Zayne?”

“She wasn’t even at the last two galas. Maybe she’s just a placeholder. The family probably wanted someone traditional—quiet.”

A scoff. “Can’t imagine her fitting in here long-term.”

Someone laughed.

Your stomach dropped. Ice flooded your veins. The music dimmed in your ears as white noise took over.

You froze mid-step.

Zayne’s hand on your back tensed. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you slowly turned your head and locked eyes with the pair of women standing near the bar. They immediately looked away—but not before you caught the smirk. The judgment. The quiet condescension.

You couldn’t breathe.

The past few months—your loneliness, the silence, the empty dining table, the aching questions about why he married you—all of it surged back in a single wave.

You pulled your hand from Zayne’s.

“Excuse me,” you said, tightly. “I need some air.”

“Wait—”

You were already walking away. Not fast, but with purpose. Each step burning, each breath harder than the last. You could feel the stares, feel the whispers lingering like perfume in the wake of your departure.

Zayne caught up just outside the building, where the night air bit sharp and cold against your flushed skin.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing your arm gently. “Talk to me.”

You turned around, eyes stinging. “Why? So I can pretend to be graceful while your world watches and whispers about how I don’t belong?”

Zayne blinked, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t hear them?” You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Of course you didn’t. Because you do belong here. They all love you. They admire you. No one questions your worth.”

“I don’t give a damn what they have to say.”

“But I do!” you snapped.

The words came out louder than intended. You saw him stagger.

You lowered your voice. “I do. Because I already feel like a ghost in your life, Zayne. Like I’m always waiting in the background, watching you exist in this perfectly curated orbit that I was never meant to touch. And tonight, when those women looked at me like I was… disposable? It felt true.”

His expression shifted—anger, confusion, something more vulnerable.

“You’re not disposable.”

“Then what am I?”

Silence.

The wind whispered through the trees lining the parking lot. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your heart slamming against your ribs. Zayne looked at you like he wanted to say something, but the words weren’t coming fast enough.

You shook your head and turned toward the curb. “I’m calling a cab—”

“No.” His voice was low, steady.

You turned back, startled.

“I’ll take you,” he said, already pulling out the car keys from his pocket.

You didn’t argue.

You spent the second anniversary of your marriage burning with a fever.

A cruel twist of irony, really. You'd managed to go your entire life dodging sickness with near supernatural luck, but all it took was one chilly evening, a forgotten shawl, and rain-soaked clothes to send your body spiraling into a fever that left your limbs weak and your head pounding.

At first, you thought you'd sleep it off. Wrapped tightly in all the blankets you could find—you let the fever burn through your skin in silence. You didn’t call out for help. You didn’t expect it. Not from him.

But Zayne noticed.

Of course he did. A man like him didn’t miss details.

When he came home that evening, he found you curled up, shivering beneath layers of blankets, your breathing ragged and uneven. You didn’t hear the door open. You didn't see the flowers, the gifts. You didn’t see the expression on his face when he stood in the doorway, brows pinched, jaw tight.

But you did feel his fingers, cool and clinical, touch your forehead.

"You have a fever," he muttered, more to himself than you.

Your eyes cracked open, lashes damp with sweat. "It’s nothing. It'll pass."

"You're burning up. How long have you been like this?"

His voice wasn’t cold. Not warm either. Neutral, but threaded with something you hadn’t heard from him before: urgency.

"Since last night, maybe. I didn’t think—"

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

You blinked up at him, dazed.

"Because you don’t want me to bother you."

There. The words landed between you like a glass shattering on tile. Zayne went still. For a long beat, he didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, "That’s not what I meant."

You closed your eyes again, too exhausted to argue. "Didn’t you?"

He stood, his footsteps echoing out the room. You thought that was it. The end of whatever strange moment had bloomed between you.

But then he returned. With a cold compress, a thermometer, and a bottle of medicine that rattled as he uncapped it.

He didn’t say anything as he pressed the cool cloth to your head. As he helped you sit up and pressed the glass to your lips. As he waited, silently, for you to swallow.

You watched him through bleary eyes.

He didn’t have to do any of this.

"Thank you," you whispered.

Zayne looked up from where he sat beside the bed.

His eyes searched your face like he was trying to decipher something written between your freckles. He looked tired. Not physically, but emotionally. Like carrying the weight of his silence had cost him something.

"I never wanted this marriage to hurt you."

You flinched. Not from the pain—your head was already screaming—but from the admission itself. A truth, finally. You clung to it like a rope.

"Then why do you act like you’re not in it at all?"

Zayne’s jaw tensed. He looked away. "Because I’ve only ever ruined the people I loved. I thought... if I stayed away, I wouldn't ruin you too."

Your breath caught. That wasn’t an answer you were expecting.

"You think loving someone ruins them?"

His gaze flicked back to you, dark and unreadable. "In my experience, yes."

You let the silence sit for a beat. Then: "That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard."

Zayne didn’t flinch at your honesty. Instead, he sighed, the sound low and tired. He stood then, slowly, his hand hovering at your shoulder. You didn’t flinch. He tucked the blankets around you more securely.

"Rest. We’ll talk more when you’re feeling better."

You nodded faintly. But before he turned away, you reached out and caught his wrist.

"Zayne."

He looked down at you, startled.

"Don’t disappear again."

He nodded once.

"I won’t.”

Liar.

Because as soon as you recovered, he returned to work with a vengeance. Longer hours. Empty dinners. More silence.

That night, you saw the man Zayne could be.

But like everything else in your marriage—it was temporary.

Like a pulse.

Here, then gone.

You stepped into the house with your jaw set, your heels clicking a little too sharply against the tile. Zayne followed, quiet as a shadow but twice as heavy.

Your clutch hit the hallway table with a soft thud. Without a glance back, you turned down the hallway toward the guest bedroom.

“Don’t go to bed angry,” Zayne said behind you.

You stopped. Laughed—short, bitter. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Your fingers had barely grazed the handle when it happened.

A thin, crystalline film crept across the surface, shimmering pale blue in the dim light. The doorknob let out a crackle as frost bloomed over it like a warning.

You blinked.

Tried again.

Solid.

Frozen shut.

You turned slowly.

Zayne stood a few feet down the hall, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just weaponized his Evol against you. His expression was infuriatingly unreadable—except for the small, dry quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” he said, like he’d just noticed it himself. “Seems like you’ll have to sleep in our bed after all.”

You stared at him, disbelief crashing into your ribs like a wave.

“I’ll take the couch.”

He tilted his head.

A beat.

Then, without a word, he flicked two fingers behind his back. You heard it before you saw it—that same sharp, cold whisper of ice forming.

You darted to the living room, half praying he hadn’t—

The couch was a glistening sculpture now. Icicles hanging off the armrest like smug punctuation marks.

“Are you serious?” you snapped, whipping around.

He leaned against the wall, ankles crossed, absolutely nonchalant. “It’s out of service.”

You glared at him. “Now what, then? You’re gonna freeze the floor?”

His brow arched—just a fraction. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

You dropped to the ground in protest, but the second your fingers brushed the hardwood, a shiver shot up your arm.

Ice.

The entire floor was now ice.

You scrambled back to your feet, livid. “Are you going to turn the whole house into a damn ice rink?!”

He shrugged, and you hated how casual he looked. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “Our bed is an exception.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t look away.

And that—that was what stopped you. Not the ridiculous pettiness of his power trip. Not even the childish escalation of it all.

But the way his eyes softened, just slightly, in the quiet. Like he was hoping you'd see something underneath all the frost. Something unspoken.

You exhaled, sharp.

He didn’t move. Just watched you from across the hall, standing in the middle of a house half-entombed in ice, like this was the only way he knew how to ask.

Not with warmth.

But by freezing every escape.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sigh. “This is psychotic,” you muttered, stalking past him toward the bedroom.

He moved aside, silent.

You stopped at the door. Paused.

Then turned your head, your voice flat. “Touch the blanket with your ice, and I’m adding carrots in every single meal.”

His mouth twitched, that almost-smile back. “Duly noted.”

You stepped inside.

The room is steeped in silence. Not peaceful silence—weighted silence.

The kind that vibrates in your chest like thunder that never breaks.

The lamp on the nightstand is still on, casting golden light against the walls. Shadows flicker gently as the breeze from the open window stirs the curtains. The bedsheets feel too crisp, too heavy. You’ve been lying there, backs to each other, for what feels like hours. Both awake. Both pretending not to be.

You stare at the same patch of wall, your thoughts spiraling. He’s just a breath behind you. Warm. Still.

Too still.

Then his voice breaks the quiet.

“Do you really want us to divorce?”

The question doesn’t come sharp. It’s… soft. Careful. Like he’s not sure what he’ll do if the answer is yes. Like the very act of asking might splinter something already fragile.

You don’t answer. But you breathe—deep, just once. Enough to say: I hear you.

He doesn’t fill the silence. Not yet. And for a moment you almost think maybe he’s done, maybe he’s going to let it drop.

But then he speaks again. This time quieter.

“Do you despise me? Do you hate the very thought of me near you? Is this what I’ve driven you to?”

His words crack at the edges—like he's been rehearsing them in his head for days but saying them aloud costs more than he expected. There’s no accusation in them. Just... damage control. The kind of questions a man only asks when he's already built the worst answers in his head.

You press your eyes shut, your throat tight.

You should speak. You should end the misery. But it’s hard, trying to sort through all the mess in your chest. You want to scream at him some nights. And others, like now, you just want to understand him. To figure out why he’s the way he is—why he disappears behind walls he doesn’t invite you through.

But even when you hated the silence, you never hated him.

You roll over, just slightly, so he can see your face in the lamplight—shadowed, but open.

Your voice doesn’t lash out. It lands soft.

“I don’t hate you.”

You pause. Let it sit between you like a bandage being pressed against a bruise.

“I'd sooner hate a thousand sunsets than ever hate you.”

And the way his breath leaves him—slow and shaky—isn't relief exactly. It's grief. It’s longing. It's all of it.

“But… if there's one thing I hated, it was the wedding. The grand venue, the unfamiliar people, the dress”—you stopped abruptly before your voice could take on an ugly tone. You didn't want to sound ungrateful. Or spoiled.

You could still hear her voice sometimes whispering—at times even screaming in your head.

Men don't like ungrateful women. So don't ever complain to him. A good wife speaks pleasantly—

“Continue.” Zayne turns toward you—no hesitation now. He closes the space between you like a tide claiming the shore.

One arm wraps around your waist. The other threads beneath your neck, pulling you gently, but decisively, into the curve of his chest. You feel the press of his mouth in your hair, the slow inhale like he’s memorizing the scent of your skin.

He breathes you in like you’re medicine. Like you’re salvation.

His fingers splay across your stomach, not possessive, not demanding—just present. Anchoring.

You stay stiff for a second—surprised. Then… your spine softens, your head leans back into the hollow of his throat.

Your fingers—clumsy and unsure—find his where they rest against your waist. You don’t squeeze. You just touch. Lightly.

“...I'd much rather have preferred to elope instead.”

And that’s all he needs.

He doesn’t say anything else. Neither do you.

But there’s an unspoken agreement in the way he holds you—tighter than usual. Like he knows what he’s done. And maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to stop hiding behind it.

Your heart beats in quiet rebellion.

You don’t move.

You don’t forgive.

Not yet.

But you stay.

And that’s the first truce you’ve had in a long time.

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sixeyesonathiel · 23 hours ago

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your highness has no idea

pairing — childhood bsf satoru x fem reader

synopsis : gojo satoru has always been a little ridiculous when it comes to you. that’s what happens when you grow up with someone who once wrote “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in the second grade yearbook and never quite stopped deserving the crown. twenty years later, he’s still finding new ways to treat you like royalty—carrying your bags, buying you candy, pretending it’s all just friendly devotion. but the truth is, satoru’s been yours longer than he’s willing to admit… and it’s starting to get a little too hard to hide.

tags -> slice of life-ish, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, misunderstanding but it’s soft and stupid, first kiss, white rose symbolism, fluff, YEARNER SATORU, oblivious idiots in love, princess treatment, satoru-centric, lighthearted with feelings, emotional constipation, love confessions, happy ending, art not mine—will credit as soon as i find source!

wc — 10.3k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: this was supposed to be a short, silly fic about satoru being down bad and giving you princess treatment because of something you wrote in a second grade yearbook. but then i blacked out and woke up 10.3k words later, emotionally compromised and surrounded by strawberry candy wrappers. so yeah. i hope you enjoy this soft, dumb, painfully slow-burning love story between two idiots who’ve clearly been married since they were seven. as always, reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated and returned with a consensual kiss on the forehead 😽🌹

satoru's brain operates on a frequency that should probably concern medical professionals. right now, that frequency is completely hijacked by the sight of you sprawled across his couch, ankles crossed, unwrapping a piece of strawberry candy with the kind of focused concentration most people reserve for defusing bombs. you hum something tuneless under your breath, fingers working the wrapper with methodical precision, and he thinks this might be how people spontaneously combust.

the thing is, he's been in love with you since the second grade, which makes him both devoted and completely unhinged. it started with a yearbook—those flimsy little books where seven-year-olds write their life plans in crayon. you'd written “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in that careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration like it always does when you're thinking hard. when you asked what he wanted to be, he'd scribbled “astronaut” because it was the only job he could think of that might get him to the moon fast enough to bring you back a rock that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.

twenty years later, he's still trying to make good on that promise, just in different ways.

“satoru, you're staring,” you say without looking up from your candy wrapper, voice carrying that familiar note of fond exasperation. your lips curve into the smallest smile as you speak, and his pulse does something acrobatic against his ribs.

“i'm appreciating,” he corrects, settling into the opposite end of the couch with deliberately casual movements. his hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the window—those impossible pale strands that seem to drink in sunlight and reflect it back like spun moonbeams, never quite behaving despite his half-hearted attempts to tame them each morning. the light makes them appear almost translucent at the edges, ethereal in a way that's always made strangers do double-takes on the street. “there's a difference.”

you finally look at him properly, lifting your gaze from the candy wrapper, and he gets to see the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you're trying not to smile. it's the same expression you've had since childhood—that particular combination of amusement and affection that you've never quite learned to hide. the sight of it makes his chest feel too small for his heart, like someone's trying to stuff an ocean into a teacup. “appreciating what, exactly?”

“your dedication to proper candy unwrapping technique.” he gestures toward your hands with exaggerated seriousness, watching the way you smooth out each wrinkle with your fingertips. “very thorough. very princess-like.”

there it is—that little snort-laugh that means he's being ridiculous but you're charmed anyway. your head tilts back slightly with the sound, exposing the graceful line of your throat, and you ball up the wrapper with unnecessary force before throwing it at his face. he catches it with reflexes that are definitely overkill for crumpled plastic, his hand moving faster than thought, fingers closing around the small projectile before it can make contact. “you're so weird.”

weird doesn't begin to cover it. he's the kind of weird that keeps mental notes about how you like your coffee (too much sugar, splash of vanilla creamer, stirred exactly twelve times counterclockwise), the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking hard about something, how you always steal his hoodies but pretend it's accidental even though you've been doing it for fifteen years. the kind of weird that's been carrying a torch so long he's surprised it hasn't burned his hands off.

“weird in a charming way though, right?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. his eyes—those unsettling ice-chip irises that seem to shift between arctic blue and pale silver depending on his mood—fix on your face with an intensity that would probably make anyone else uncomfortable. but you've been looking into those eyes for two decades, watching them go from bright and mischievous in childhood to something deeper, more complex now. something that holds secrets he's never quite brave enough to voice.

“weird in a… uniquely satoru way,” you concede, and the fondness in your voice makes his stomach flip. you've moved on to the next candy, and he watches the precise way you smooth out the wrapper again, fold it into a tiny perfect square like you're performing surgery. these are the moments that undo him completely—not the big gestures or dramatic declarations, just you existing in his space like you belong there. like maybe you always have.

his phone buzzes against the coffee table, vibrating insistently, but he ignores it. nothing's more important than this: you humming off-key under your breath, the late afternoon sun painting everything golden and soft, the way you've unconsciously tucked your feet under his thigh for warmth. your toes wiggle slightly against his leg, and he has to concentrate on not shivering at the casual contact. domestic bliss wrapped up in strawberry candy and the scent of your shampoo—something floral and sweet that he's never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere.

“remember when we used to do this in elementary school?” you ask suddenly, holding up the neatly folded wrapper between your thumb and forefinger. the paper catches the light, creating tiny rainbows at the creases. “you'd always try to make yours into origami cranes.”

“key word being ‘try,’” he says, but he's smiling at the memory, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself. his hair falls across his forehead as he tilts his head, those pale strands shifting like seafoam. you sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, patient as anything while he struggled with paper folds, your small hands guiding his through the steps over and over again. telling him it was okay that his cranes looked more like abstract art, that they were beautiful in their own way. you'd been doing that his whole life—making his failures feel like victories just by witnessing them with that soft, encouraging smile.

“i still have some of them,” you admit, ducking your head slightly as if embarrassed by the confession. your fingers twist the new wrapper, creating small accordion folds. “in my apartment.”

his heart does something complicated against his ribs, a stuttering rhythm that makes him wonder if cardiac episodes can be triggered by pure affection. “the terrible cranes?”

“the terrible cranes.” you pop the candy into your mouth, and he tracks the movement without meaning to, watches the way your lips close around the sweet treat, the slight movement of your throat as you swallow. when you catch him staring, a faint blush creeps up your neck. “they're in my memory box with all the other important stuff.”

important stuff. he files that away with all the other small revelations you drop without realizing their weight, adds it to the mental catalog he's been building for years. you keep his terrible origami. you think their childhood memories are important enough to preserve in a special box. you're sitting in his living room like it's yours too, feet tucked against his leg like the contact is natural, necessary even.

“what else is in there?” he asks, genuinely curious but also desperate to keep you talking, to hear more about the pieces of your shared history you've deemed worth saving.

you consider this, working the candy around in your mouth thoughtfully. “lots of things. movie ticket stubs from our first pg-13 movie—remember how we snuck into that theater in eighth grade? your mom's chocolate chip cookie recipe that you wrote out for me in high school because i wanted to learn how to bake. that polaroid from senior prom where you're making bunny ears behind my head.”

each item hits him like a small revelation. he remembers all of it—remembers the way you'd grabbed his hand in the dark theater during the scary parts, how you'd insisted on writing out the recipe even though you'd never shown any interest in baking before, the way you'd laughed so hard at his bunny ears that you'd snorted and immediately turned red with embarrassment.

“you kept the recipe?” his voice comes out softer than intended, almost wondering.

“of course i kept the recipe. your handwriting was so bad i could barely read it, but i kept it anyway.” you grin at him, that bright, uninhibited smile that makes his chest feel too tight. “still can't make cookies worth a damn, but i have the recipe.”

“i could teach you,” he offers without thinking, then immediately wants to take it back because it sounds too much like a date, too much like something more than friends would do together.

but you just nod enthusiastically, bouncing slightly on the couch. “yes! we should definitely do that. i've been wanting to learn forever, but every time i try on my own they come out like hockey pucks.”

the casual way you accept his offer, like spending an afternoon in the kitchen together is the most natural thing in the world, makes his pulse skip. he can already picture it—you in his kitchen, flour in your hair, probably getting more ingredients on yourself than in the bowl. him standing behind you, hands covering yours as he shows you how to fold in the chocolate chips, trying not to think about how perfectly you'd fit against his chest.

“satoru?” you're looking at him with that slightly concerned expression that means he's been quiet too long, lost in his own head again. your brow furrows in that particular way it does when you're trying to read his mood. “you okay?”

“yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended, scratchy around the edges. he clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that's become automatic over the years. “just thinking.”

“dangerous,” you tease, but there's something softer in your eyes now, something that makes him wonder if you can see right through him. if maybe you've always been able to see through him, and he's been the only one pretending otherwise.

the afternoon stretches out, lazy and warm, filled with the comfortable silence of two people who've known each other long enough that conversation isn't always necessary. you've finished your candy and are now absently braiding the hem of your shirt, fingers working the fabric with the same methodical precision you'd used on the wrapper. he thinks about how easy it would be to just say it. to tell you that he's been yours since before he knew what that meant, that every day feels like borrowed time because surely someone this good, this bright, this perfectly imperfect can't actually want to spend her free time with someone like him.

instead, he reaches for the tv remote and pretends his hands aren't shaking. pretends he doesn't notice the way you watch him move, doesn't see the little frown that crosses your face when he turns away from you to focus on the screen.

the opening credits of some mindless sitcom fill the silence, but he's not really watching. he's thinking about memory boxes and terrible origami cranes and the way you said “important stuff” like it meant something. like maybe he means something.

like maybe twenty years of almosts might finally be leading somewhere.

the farmer's market on saturday morning is your idea, which means satoru trails behind you like a devoted shadow, carrying your reusable bags and pretending he's not cataloguing every smile you give to the vendors. you're wearing that sundress he likes—the one with tiny cherries printed on cream-colored fabric that makes your skin look like it's been kissed by sunlight—and he's having what can only be described as a religious experience watching you examine peaches with scientific precision.

the dress hits just above your knees, swaying gently as you move from stall to stall, and he has to actively work to keep his eyes from following the movement. the morning sun catches in your hair, highlighting strands he's never noticed before, and when you lean over to smell a particularly promising piece of fruit, he has to look away before he does something stupid like stare at the graceful curve of your neck.

“these are perfect,” you announce, holding up a peach that's blushed pink and gold, soft to the touch but not too yielding. your fingers cradle it carefully, thumb brushing over the fuzzy skin with reverence. “smell.”

you thrust the peach toward his face with the enthusiasm of someone who's discovered buried treasure, and he dutifully inhales, though mostly what he's registering is your proximity and the way your hair smells like vanilla and something uniquely you. something he's never been able to identify but would recognize in a crowded room. “smells good,” he manages, and you beam like he's just solved world hunger.

your whole face lights up with the compliment, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he thinks distantly that he'd probably agree with anything you said if it meant seeing that expression again. you could tell him the peach smelled like old socks and he'd nod along just to keep you smiling.

“right? we're definitely making cobbler this week.” you're already moving toward the vendor, pulling crumpled bills from the small purse slung across your body, but the words stop him cold.

we. the casual assumption that he'll be there, that his kitchen is your kitchen, that making cobbler together is just what you do. his chest goes tight with affection so intense it borders on medical emergency. you don't even question whether he'll want to spend his sunday afternoon elbow-deep in flour and fruit—you just assume, with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to doubt their welcome in his space.

“whatever you want, your highness,” he says, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. it's been happening more frequently lately, that old childhood nickname finding its way into casual conversation. you've been ‘your highness’ in his head for so long that sometimes it escapes into real conversation, and every time it does, you get this look—half amused, half something else he can't quite read but desperately wants to understand.

“you and that nickname,” you mutter, but you're smiling as you hand the vendor your money, counting out bills with careful precision. your cheeks are slightly pink, though whether from the compliment or the morning sun, he can't tell. “i swear you're never gonna let me grow up.”

if only you knew. he's acutely aware of how grown up you are, how you've traded pigtails for soft waves that catch the light and crayon drawings for the kind of smile that could probably power a small city. he's noticed every single change, catalogued every new freckle and laugh line, the way your voice has gotten slightly deeper, more melodious. somehow he's fallen deeper with each transformation, like he's been in love with every version of you that's ever existed.

“excuse me,” the peach vendor says as she hands you your change, coins clinking softly in your palm, “you two are just the cutest couple. how long have you been together?”

satoru's brain short-circuits so completely he's surprised smoke doesn't start pouring from his ears. his mouth opens and closes without sound, and he can feel heat creeping up his neck, probably turning his face an unflattering shade of red. you laugh—that bright, surprised sound that makes his stomach flip—and shake your head quickly, hands fluttering in denial.

“oh, we're not—we're just friends,” you say, but there's something in your voice, a slight hesitation before the word ‘friends’ that makes his pulse stutter.

just friends. the words hit him somewhere behind his sternum, not quite pain but not quite relief either. the vendor looks embarrassed, starts apologizing profusely, but you wave her off with easy grace while satoru stands there wondering if his internal combustion is visible from the outside. his hands tighten on the straps of your bags, knuckles probably white with the effort of appearing normal.

“happens all the time,” you tell him as you walk away, weaving between other shoppers with practiced ease, and there's something in your voice he can't identify. something almost… wistful? “people always think we're dating.”

“yeah,” he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of strained. his throat feels tight, words coming out rougher than intended. “weird, right?”

you glance at him sideways, and for a second he thinks you might say something else. your lips part slightly, like you're considering it, but then you just shrug and move toward the flower stand, leaving him to follow and contemplate the particular torture of being mistaken for your boyfriend by strangers when he'd give anything for it to be true.

the flower stand is a riot of color and fragrance, buckets of blooms arranged in careful rows. the vendor is a tiny elderly woman with silver hair pinned back in a neat bun, and she takes one look at them approaching and immediately starts gushing about her roses, hands gesturing enthusiastically toward a display of pink blooms that smell like summer and promises.

“for your girlfriend?” she asks satoru with a conspiratorial wink, gesturing to the roses with the confidence of someone who's been in the matchmaking business for decades.

“just friends,” you say again, quicker this time, the words tumbling out before satoru can even process the question. he tries not to read too much into the way your smile falters slightly, the way your shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.

but the woman is persistent, pressing a single white rose into his palm with another wink that suggests she knows something they don't. the flower is perfect—petals like silk, stem thornless and smooth. “sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, young man. trust me, i've been selling flowers for forty years. i know these things.”

satoru stares down at the rose, its petals soft as silk between his fingers and impossibly white, like fresh snow or clean linen or every perfect thing he's ever tried to find words for. when he looks up, you're already walking toward the next stall, shoulders tense in a way that makes him want to chase after you and demand to know what you're thinking. what you're feeling. whether the flower vendor's words affected you the same way they affected him.

instead, he pays for the rose without arguing about the price, tucking it carefully into one of the bags where it won't get crushed, and follows because that's what he's always done. followed you, waited for you, hoped that someday you'd turn around and see him the way he sees you.

the way he's always seen you.

“satoru, come on,” you call over your shoulder, already three stalls ahead, and he realizes he's been standing there longer than he thought, lost in his own head again. you're holding up a small jar of honey, sunlight catching the golden liquid inside. “they have lavender honey. remember how much you liked it at that restaurant last month?”

you remember. of course you remember. you remember every small preference, every casual comment, every little thing that most people would forget within minutes. it's one of the things he loves most about you—the way you pay attention, the way you care enough to file away the smallest details about the people you love.

he jogs to catch up, bags bouncing against his side, and finds you already chatting with the honey vendor about different varieties and flavor profiles. you're animated when you talk about food, hands gesturing as you describe the restaurant where he'd first tried lavender honey, and he finds himself falling in love with you all over again just watching you exist in the world.

“we'll take two jars,” you're saying, already reaching for your wallet, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.

“i've got it,” he says, pulling out his own money before you can protest. your skin is warm under his fingers, and he has to resist the urge to let his thumb trace across your pulse point.

“you don't have to—”

“i want to.” and he does. wants to buy you honey and flowers and anything else that makes you smile like that. wants to be the reason for that soft, pleased expression that's currently gracing your features.

you let him pay, but not without rolling your eyes in fond exasperation. “you spoil me.”

“good,” he says simply, accepting the jars from the vendor and tucking them carefully into the bag with the rose. “you deserve to be spoiled.”

the words slip out before he can stop them, too honest, too revealing, and he watches your expression shift into something he can't quite read. you duck your head, hair falling forward to hide your face, but not before he catches the faint blush creeping across your cheeks.

“come on, your royal highness,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours, and the casual contact makes his heart stutter. “let's go home and make that cobbler.”

home. you said home, not his place or his apartment, but home. like it's yours too. like maybe it always has been.

maybe it always has been.

back at his apartment, you're quiet in a way that sets his nerves on edge. you've been friends long enough that he can read your moods like weather patterns—the slight tension in your shoulders that means you're thinking too hard about something, the way you're biting the inside of your cheek that suggests internal debate. right now there's definitely a storm brewing behind your eyes, thoughts churning in a way that makes him want to reach out and smooth the furrow between your brows.

you're sitting on his kitchen counter, legs swinging in a restless rhythm, heels occasionally bumping against the cabinet below. he's putting away the morning's purchases with probably unnecessary focus, arranging the peaches in a bowl like they're precious artifacts, trying to ignore the way your silence is making his skin feel too tight.

“satoru,” you say finally, and something in your tone makes him turn around immediately, abandoning his careful arrangement of fruit.

“yeah?”

you're fidgeting with the stem of the white rose he bought, twirling it between your fingers like you're trying to solve a particularly complex equation. the petals have opened slightly since this morning, revealing deeper layers of ivory and cream, and in the afternoon light streaming through his kitchen window, it looks almost ethereal in your hands.

“can i ask you something?” your voice is smaller than usual, uncertain in a way that makes his chest tighten with immediate concern.

his heart starts doing that thing where it forgets how to beat properly, rhythm stuttering against his ribs. “always.”

“do you ever think…” you pause, take a breath that seems to require effort, start again. “sometimes i wonder if i'm reading too much into things. like maybe i think someone likes me and it's all just in my head.”

the bottom drops out of his world.

someone. you think someone likes you, which means there's someone you're paying attention to, someone who's maybe been giving you signs that you're trying to interpret. his brain immediately starts cycling through every male friend you have, every coworker you've mentioned in passing, that guy from your yoga class who definitely stares at you too much and makes comments about your form that seem less than professional.

the rose trembles slightly in your hands, and he realizes you're nervous. actually nervous about asking him this, which means whoever it is matters to you. matters enough that you're seeking advice, validation, reassurance that you're not imagining things.

“like who?” he asks, and his voice comes out strangled, like he's being slowly crushed by invisible hands. like all the air has been sucked out of the room and replaced with something thinner, harder to breathe.

you look up at him, and there's something vulnerable in your expression that makes his chest ache. something raw and uncertain that he wants to protect, even as it's currently destroying him from the inside out. “never mind. it's stupid.”

“it's not stupid,” he says quickly, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn by the magnetic pull that's existed between you since childhood. “whoever it is would be crazy not to like you.”

wrong thing to say. he knows it immediately because your face does something complicated, cycling through disappointment and resignation before settling on a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. that careful, practiced smile you use when you're trying to hide how you really feel.

“you have to say that. you're my best friend.”

best friend. there it is again, that careful designation that feels more like a cage every time you say it. he wants to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that he's been crazy about you since before he knew what crazy about someone meant, that every day he doesn't tell you feels like a small betrayal of everything you've ever meant to each other.

instead, he says, “i don't have to say anything. i say it because it's true.”

and it is true. brutally, completely true. whoever this mystery person is, they'd have to be blind and stupid not to see how incredible you are. not to notice the way you light up a room just by entering it, the way you remember everyone's favorite coffee order and check in on people when they're having bad days and laugh so hard at terrible jokes that you snort a little, which only makes you more endearing.

you're quiet for a long moment, still twirling the rose, and he can practically see the thoughts churning behind your eyes like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. when you finally speak, your voice is small in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and protect you from whatever's making you doubt yourself.

“sometimes i think i make up feelings where they don't exist,” you say, barely above a whisper. “like maybe i want something to be there so badly that i convince myself it is.”

and oh. oh, you're talking about him, aren't you? you're sitting here in his kitchen, talking about reading too much into things, about wanting feelings that might not exist, and he's too much of a coward to realize you're talking about him. the signs are all there—the way you've been looking at him lately, softer and more lingering than usual. the casual touches that seem to happen more frequently. the way you said “home” earlier like you meant it.

except what if you're not? what if there really is someone else, someone who's been giving you mixed signals while satoru's been pining from the sidelines like an idiot? what if he's the one reading too much into things, projecting his own desperate hopes onto innocent moments of friendship?

“you're not stupid,” he says finally, because it's the only safe thing he can think of, the only response that won't reveal everything. “if you think someone likes you, there's probably a good reason.”

you slide down from the counter, rose still in hand, and for a second you're standing close enough that he can count your eyelashes, see the tiny flecks of gold in your eyes that he's memorized over years of study. close enough that if he just leaned down a little, if he was brave enough to close the distance...

“maybe,” you say, but you sound doubtful. disappointed in a way that makes him want to take back everything he just said. “or maybe i'm just really good at lying to myself.”

you're moving toward the living room, and he follows because he always follows, brain spinning through every conversation you've had recently, every look, every moment that might have been a sign he was too scared to read properly. you settle onto the couch like you're planning to stay for a while, curling up in the corner with your legs tucked beneath you, and he takes his usual spot on the opposite end, careful to maintain the precise distance that says ‘best friend’ instead of ‘hopelessly in love with you.’

the white rose ends up in a glass of water on his coffee table, petals catching the light from his windows, and you're staring at it with an expression he can't quite read. contemplative, maybe. wistful.

“this person,” he starts carefully, hating himself for asking but needing to know, “how long have you been thinking about them?”

you give him a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated, head tilting in that way it does when you think he's being particularly dense. “are we really doing this?”

“doing what?”

“the thing where you help me analyze my pathetic love life like we're in high school.” you're picking at the throw pillow in your lap, fingers worrying at a loose thread. “sitting around dissecting every interaction and trying to figure out what it all means.”

pathetic love life. as if you could ever have anything pathetic about you. as if whoever this mysterious person is doesn't realize they're the luckiest person alive just to be on your radar. just to have you thinking about them, analyzing their behavior, wondering if they feel the same way.

“i'm being a good friend,” he protests, though the words taste bitter in his mouth. bitter like the coffee you drink when you're stressed, bitter like the medicine you have to swallow when something's wrong.

“you're being nosy.”

“can't i be both?”

you laugh despite yourself, and the sound goes straight to his chest like it always does, warming him from the inside out. “fine. but you can't make fun of me.”

“when have i ever made fun of you?”

“constantly. it's like your primary form of communication.” but you're smiling now, some of the tension leaving your shoulders, and he counts it as a victory.

you’re not wrong. teasing you has always been safer than the alternative, easier than letting you see how seriously, completely, utterly gone he is for you. easier than admitting that every joke is just a way of buying more time in your presence, every playful insult a cover for the compliments he really wants to give.

“i promise to be nice,” he says, crossing his heart with exaggerated solemnity, and you snort at the theatrical gesture.

“i'll believe it when i see it.”

you're quiet for a moment, picking at the throw pillow, and he can see you working up the courage to say whatever it is you're thinking. your teeth worry at your bottom lip in a gesture he recognizes from childhood—you used to do the same thing before spelling tests and soccer tryouts and the first day of school each year.

when you finally speak, your voice is so soft he has to strain to hear it, has to lean forward slightly to catch every word.

“it's been a long time,” you admit, not looking at him. “like, a really long time. since we were kids, maybe.”

since we were kids.

since. we. were. kids.

his heart stops beating entirely, just quits on him right there in his living room, because unless you had some secret elementary school boyfriend he doesn't know about, unless there's some childhood friend he's completely forgotten about...

you're talking about him.

you've been thinking about him.

since you were kids.

“oh,” he says, because his vocabulary has apparently shrunk to single syllables, because every word in the english language has suddenly abandoned him when he needs them most.

“see?” you say quickly, finally looking up at him with eyes that are bright with what might be tears. “i told you it was stupid. forget i said anything.”

“no,” he says, too loud, and you startle slightly at the volume. “no, it's not stupid. it's...”

it's everything. it's his every prayer answered, every birthday wish granted, every star he's ever wished on coming true all at once. it's twenty years of hoping and waiting and pretending to be content with friendship finally, finally meaning something.

“it's what?” you ask, and there's something hopeful in your voice that makes his chest feel like it might crack open, like his heart might actually burst from the sheer force of what he's feeling.

he opens his mouth to tell you, to finally, finally say what he's been carrying around for twenty years, and then he panics. because what if he's wrong? what if you're talking about someone else after all? what if he says everything and ruins the most important friendship of his life? what if you look at him with disgust or pity or worse, that careful politeness you use with people who make you uncomfortable?

“it's brave,” he says instead, taking the coward's way out, watching the light in your eyes dim slightly. “whoever it is would be lucky to have you thinking about them.”

your face falls so subtly he almost misses it, just a slight dimming of the light in your eyes, a barely perceptible tightening around the corners of your mouth. but he's been studying your expressions for twenty years, cataloguing every micro-expression, and he knows he's fucked up. knows he's missed something crucial, said the wrong thing, let fear win when courage was what the moment required.

“right,” you say, and your voice is carefully neutral, scrubbed clean of the hope that had been there moments before. “lucky them.”

you're pulling away from him, not physically but emotionally, retreating behind the walls that friendship has never required before. building barriers in real time, and he's sitting there like an idiot, watching it happen, knowing he caused it but not knowing how to fix it without potentially making everything worse.

the rose on the coffee table seems to mock him with its perfect white petals, a symbol of something he was too scared to claim when he had the chance. when you were sitting right there, telling him everything he's ever wanted to hear, and he was too much of a coward to hear it properly.

too much of a coward to take the leap that might have changed everything.

you leave not long after that, claiming an early morning tomorrow and some excuse about laundry that you both know is bullshit. the way you gather your things—phone sliding into your palm with deliberate precision, keys jingling once before being muffled in your grip, that little cross-body bag with its worn leather strap that you always adjust twice before leaving—feels like watching his entire future pack itself away in slow motion.

satoru's throat constricts as he tracks each movement, his vision tunneling on the careful way you avoid his gaze. there's something devastating about the ordinary nature of your departure, the way catastrophe can masquerade as routine. you're folding in on yourself, shoulders curved inward like you're protecting something fragile in your chest, and he knows with sickening clarity that he put that defensive hunch there.

“text me when you get home safe,” he says, one hand automatically reaching up to rake through his hair—those moonspun strands that never learned proper behavior, always catching and scattering light like captured starfall. the words scrape against his vocal cords like sandpaper. it's what he always says, has been saying since you got your first car at sixteen and his anxiety about your well-being became a living thing with teeth and claws.

“always do,” you reply, your fingers worrying at the delicate chain of your necklace—that thin silver thing that catches at your throat when you swallow nervously. your voice carries the hollow ring of obligation rather than affection. you still won't look at him directly, your gaze fixed somewhere around his left shoulder where his sweater pulls slightly across his collarbone, and the absence of eye contact feels like a physical ache behind his sternum.

the click of his door closing echoes through the apartment with the finality of a coffin lid. satoru stands there for a full minute, staring at the wood grain, before the magnitude of his cowardice hits him like a freight train carrying twenty years' worth of missed opportunities.

the apartment transforms in your absence, walls stretching impossibly wide, ceilings vaulting into cathedral heights that make him feel ant-small and infinitely alone. the couch still holds the impression of your body, cushions dented where you'd curled your legs beneath you, and he finds himself gravitating toward that spot like a moth to flame. when he sits down, the lingering warmth of your presence soaks through his jeans, and he has to press his palms against his eyes to keep from doing something pathetic like burying his face in the throw pillow you'd been hugging.

the white rose sits on his coffee table like an accusation, its petals pristine and mocking. sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and satoru had been too much of a fool to recognize the universe handing him a script.

his phone buzzes against the glass surface: home safe. thanks for today.

the message glows on his screen, twelve words that somehow contain multitudes of disappointment. he can picture you typing it, thumb hesitating over each letter, probably tucked into your favorite corner of your couch with that oversized cardigan pulled tight around your shoulders, rewriting it three times before settling on something safely neutral. you used to add heart emojis to these check-ins, little digital affirmations that he'd treasured more than he had any right to. their absence now feels like a door slamming shut.

he types: anytime. sleep well. his thumb hovers over the send button for thirty seconds, jaw working silently as he wars with himself.

then deletes it. tries: we should talk about what happened. his teeth catch his lower lip, worrying at the skin until it stings.

deletes that too. his fingers hover over the keyboard, shoulders hunched forward in defeat, cycling through seventeen different responses that range from desperate to devastated. i love you gets typed and erased four times, each deletion making his chest cavity feel emptier. please come back so i can fix this makes it halfway before he chickens out, his hand scrubbing down his face hard enough to leave red marks. i've been yours since we were seven and i'm sorry i'm too scared to be brave never even makes it past his mental rough draft.

finally, he settles on: anytime. sleep well.

the delivered notification appears, and then... nothing. no immediate response, no typing indicator, no late-night follow-up like you sometimes send when you can't sleep. just radio silence that stretches into the night like a chasm.

satoru spends the next six hours staring at his ceiling, replaying every microsecond of your conversation with the obsessive precision of a crime scene investigator. his hair fans across the pillow in ethereal wisps, those pale strands seeming to glow with their own inner light against the dark fabric, like captured lightning or the first frost of winter given form. the way your voice had gone soft and vulnerable when you said since we were kids. the hope that had flickered in your eyes—those beautiful eyes he'd never been brave enough to hold contact with for more than stolen moments—before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, your shoulders drawing inward and your hands clasping tightly in your lap until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.*. the hope that had flickered in your eyes before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.

since we were kids. the phrase loops in his mind like a broken record, each repetition driving the knife of realization deeper into his chest. unless you'd harbored some secret elementary school crush he'd never known about—which, given that you'd been attached at the hip since kindergarten, seemed unlikely—there was only one person you could have been referring to.

him.

you'd been talking about him.

and he'd been so paralyzed by the possibility of being wrong that he'd missed the moment entirely, let it slip through his fingers like water through a broken dam.

by the time dawn creeps through his blinds, painting everything in shades of regret and determination, he's made a decision that will either save his life or end it completely. the resolution sits in his chest like a live wire, sparking against his ribs every time he breathes. he's going to tell you everything. twenty years of accumulated feelings, every birthday wish spent on your happiness, every star he's wished on while thinking of your smile. all of it.

the thought terrifies him so completely that he has to grip the edge of his mattress to keep from floating away on a tide of panic.

sunday afternoon arrives with the punctuality of a church bell, and with it comes the familiar sound of your key in his lock. you'd exchanged spare keys sophomore year of college, a practical decision born of too many instances of locked-out roommates and forgotten textbooks. what had started as convenience had evolved into something more significant—the quiet intimacy of belonging in each other's spaces, of being trusted with unrestricted access to the small, private corners of each other's lives.

now, listening to that key turn, satoru's heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to break free and run away before his mouth can ruin everything permanently.

“hey,” you say as you appear in his doorway, and the single syllable carries the weight of exhaustion that makes his chest constrict with guilt. there are shadows under your eyes that weren't there yesterday, and your smile—when it finally appears—lacks its usual wattage.

“hey yourself,” he manages, his voice cracking slightly on the second word.

you move through his space with less than your usual confidence, the easy familiarity replaced by something more cautious. instead of immediately claiming your usual spot on the far end of the couch—the corner you'd long ago designated as yours, complete with the throw pillow you'd brought from your own apartment and the way you always tucked your feet up under you—you hover near the armchair, fingers worrying at the strap of your bag.

the careful distance you're maintaining might as well be measured in miles rather than feet. it's like watching you interact with a stranger's apartment, all politeness and uncertainty where there used to be ownership and ease. the sight of it breaks something fundamental in satoru's chest, some load-bearing beam of his emotional architecture crumbling under the weight of what his cowardice has cost them.

“about yesterday,” he starts, the words tumbling out before he can lose his nerve entirely.

“we don't have to talk about it,” you interrupt quickly, finally settling into the armchair but perched on its edge like you're ready to flee at the first sign of discomfort. your hands clasp in your lap, knuckles white with tension. “i was being weird, and awkward, and i made things uncomfortable. we can just pretend it never happened and go back to normal.”

but normal is what got them here in the first place—twenty years of careful boundaries and unspoken feelings and the kind of willful blindness that masquerades as friendship when it's really just elaborate emotional self-harm.

“you weren't being weird,” he says firmly, rising from the couch to face you properly. the movement is too quick, driven by urgency rather than grace, and you startle slightly at the sudden change in his position. “i was being an idiot.”

something flickers across your expression—surprise, maybe, or the faintest spark of hope quickly tampered down. “satoru—”

“just let me say this, okay?” the words come out rougher than intended, scraped raw by a sleepless night and the weight of everything he's been carrying. “before i lose my nerve completely and spend another twenty years being a coward.”

you go very still, and he can see the exact moment you decide to let him speak. your shoulders settle back against the chair, hands unclasping to grip the armrests instead, and you give him a small nod that somehow contains multitudes of permission and trepidation.

the silence that follows feels crystalline, fragile enough that the wrong word might shatter everything beyond repair. satoru runs his hand through his hair—those pale strands that never quite cooperate, that catch light like spun moonbeams even in the dim afternoon glow filtering through his blinds. the gesture is pure nervous energy, fingers combing through the silky mess as if he might find courage tangled somewhere in the roots.

“when you were talking yesterday,” he begins, then stops, takes a breath that tastes like terror and determination in equal measure. “about thinking someone liked you since you were kids...”

he watches your face carefully, cataloguing every micro-expression. the way your lips part slightly, the flutter of your eyelashes as you blink too fast, the barely perceptible forward lean of your body like you're drawn toward his words despite yourself.

“you were talking about me, weren't you?”

the question hangs in the air between them, loaded with twenty years of almosts and maybes and the kind of hope that feels dangerous to voice. your breath catches—a sharp, barely audible intake that he might have missed if he weren't paying attention with the focused intensity of a man whose entire future hangs in the balance.

“satoru—” you start, but he's already moving, dropping to his knees in front of your chair with the graceless desperation of someone who's finally found the courage to stop running from the thing that matters most.

his hands hover just above your knees, not quite touching but close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating through the soft cotton of your sundress—a different one today, this one scattered with tiny daisies that make him think of childhood summers and innocence and all the ways you've been beautiful to him across the years.

“because if you were,” he continues, words spilling out in a rush now that the dam has finally burst, “then i need you to know that you weren't reading too much into anything. you weren't making up feelings that don't exist or convincing yourself of something that wasn't there.”

your eyes are wide, pupils dilated in a way that makes the familiar color seem deeper, more infinite. he can see his own reflection in them, distorted and desperate and more honest than he's ever been in his life.

“i've been crazy about you since the second grade,” he confesses, the words scraping against his throat like they're made of glass. “since you wrote that you wanted to be a princess in our yearbook and i decided right then and there that i was going to spend the rest of my life making sure you felt like one.”

the admission settles between them like a living thing, breathing and vital and impossible to take back. your hands tighten on the armrests, knuckles going white again, but this time it looks less like tension and more like anchoring—like you're holding on to keep from floating away on the enormity of what he's just revealed.

“every door i've ever opened for you,” he continues, momentum carrying him forward now that he's started, “every time i've carried your bags or bought you flowers or called you ‘your highness’—it wasn't just being a good friend. it was never just friendship.”

his voice cracks on the last word, twenty years of careful pretense finally crumbling under the weight of truth. “it's all been because you're my princess. you've always been my princess, and i've been too much of a coward to tell you.”

silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded with possibility. satoru can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, can feel the subtle tremor in his hands where they still hover near your knees. you're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, cycling through what looks like shock and disbelief and something that might be the beginning of joy before it gets tampered down by uncertainty.

he's never felt more exposed in his life, kneeling here in his own living room with his heart splayed open like a roadmap to twenty years of devotion. the vulnerability is excruciating, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive, waiting for you to either pull him back from the brink or push him over the edge entirely.

“you,” you say finally, and your voice comes out barely above a whisper, thick with something that might be tears or laughter or both. “you complete and utter idiot.”

the words hit him like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp exhale. his heart, which had been hammering with nervous hope, stutters and nearly stops entirely. this is it, then. the moment where twenty years of friendship dies on the altar of his feelings, where he learns what it costs to love someone who can't love you back.

“look, if you don't feel the same way—” he starts, already beginning the retreat, already starting to build the walls that will let him survive the aftermath of this spectacular emotional implosion.

“of course i feel the same way!” you explode, suddenly on your feet, the force of your movement sending him rocking back on his heels. your hands are gesturing wildly now, cutting through the air with the sharp precision of someone who's been holding back way too much for way too long. “i've been in love with you since we were kids, you absolute disaster of a human being!”

the words slam into him with the force of a freight train, reorganizing his entire understanding of reality in the space between one heartbeat and the next. of course i feel the same way. the phrase echoes in his skull, bouncing off the walls of his mind like a pinball machine gone haywire.

“you have?” he asks, and his voice comes out small and wondering, like he's afraid that speaking too loudly might break whatever spell has made this moment possible.

“yes!” you're pacing now, three quick steps to the window and back, your sundress swirling around your legs with each sharp turn. “why do you think i've been hanging around your apartment every weekend for the past fifteen years? why do you think i never date anyone seriously? because i've been waiting for you to figure it out!”

he's scrambling to his feet now, desperate to close the distance between you but afraid to move too fast, like you're some wild thing that might bolt if he makes the wrong move. “you've been waiting for me?”

“forever,” you say, and now you're definitely crying, tears streaming down your cheeks while you laugh with what sounds like relief and frustration and twenty years of pent-up emotion finally finding release. “i've been waiting forever, and you just—yesterday when i was trying to tell you, you just—”

“i panicked,” he admits, finally closing the space between you in two quick strides. his hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing away the tears with a gentleness that belies the tremor in his fingers. “i thought maybe you were talking about someone else, and i couldn't handle it if you were.”

your skin is soft under his palms, warm and real and perfect, and he can't quite believe he's allowed to touch you like this. that you're letting him catch your tears, that you're leaning into his touch instead of pulling away.

“someone else,” you repeat, shaking your head with enough force to send your hair flying. “as if there could ever be someone else. as if anyone else could even compare to you.”

the words hit him like salvation, like every prayer he's ever whispered to the dark finally being answered. “really?”

“really,” you confirm, and then you're rising up on your toes, hands fisting in the front of his shirt to pull him down toward you. “now stop being an idiot and kiss me before i lose my mind completely.”

he doesn't need to be told twice.

their lips meet in the middle of something that's been building for twenty years, soft and desperate and perfect in a way that makes his brain go completely offline. you taste like the strawberry lip balm you've been using since high school, sweet and familiar and right in a way that makes him wonder how he's survived this long without kissing you.

your mouth is warm and yielding under his, and when you sigh against his lips—this tiny, breathy sound of contentment—he thinks he might actually die from the sheer overwhelming rightness of it all. his hands slide from your face into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he deepens the kiss, pouring twenty years of accumulated longing into the connection between your mouths.

when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together like you can't bear to be more than an inch away from each other. your hands are still fisted in his shirt, holding him close, and he can feel the rapid flutter of your pulse where his thumbs rest against your throat.

“holy shit,” you breathe, and the profanity sounds like a prayer falling from your kiss-swollen lips.

“yeah,” he agrees, voice rough with emotion and the lingering effects of the best kiss of his entire life. “holy shit.”

you laugh, the sound bright and bubbling and infectious, and he finds himself grinning back at you with an expression that probably makes him look completely unhinged. he doesn't care. he's just kissed his best friend, his princess, the love of his entire life, and she kissed him back, and if that's not worth looking a little crazy over, then nothing is.

“so,” you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice even with his eyes closed, can feel it in the way your lips curve against his when you speak. “what now, your highness?”

the nickname—his own endearment turned back on him with teasing affection—makes him groan and drop his head to your shoulder in mock defeat. “you're never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“absolutely not,” you confirm cheerfully, arms winding around his neck to hold him close. “i've got twenty years of princess jokes stored up, and now that i know you meant them...”

“i meant every single one,” he says, pulling back to look at you properly. your hair is messed up from his hands, lipstick smudged in a way that probably matches his own mouth, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars just for you. like he's something precious and beloved and yours. “i meant all of it.”

“good,” you say, going up on your toes to kiss him again, soft and sweet and lingering. “because i've got twenty years of being your princess to catch up on.”

this time when you kiss, it's slower, more exploratory. a conversation conducted in the language of lips and tongues and shared breath, twenty years of friendship providing the foundation for something deeper and more complex. he maps the shape of your mouth with the dedication of a cartographer, memorizing every curve and hollow, the way you taste like strawberries and forever and every dream he's ever had.

your hands slide up into his hair, fingers combing through the pale strands that have been catching light and hearts since childhood, and he thinks distantly that he's never going to get tired of this. of touching you, of being allowed to touch you, of the way you melt against him like you were made to fit in his arms.

when you break apart this time, it's with the reluctant awareness that you still have things to talk about, logistics to work out, twenty years of carefully maintained boundaries to navigate in this brave new world where you're allowed to love each other out loud.

“we should probably talk about what this means,” you say, though you make no move to step out of his arms. if anything, you settle more firmly against him, like you're claiming your space in his embrace.

“it means i'm yours,” he says without hesitation, the words coming as easily as breathing now that he's allowed to say them. “if you'll have me. it means i've been yours since we were seven years old and you asked me to be your friend, and i'm never letting you go again.”

your eyes go soft and liquid at his declaration, and he watches you blink back fresh tears with the tender fascination of someone who's finally been given permission to witness your every emotion.

“i've been yours too,” you whisper, voice thick with feeling. “for so long that i can't remember what it felt like before.”

“then it's simple,” he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo and the new, intoxicating knowledge that he's allowed to do this now. “we stop pretending otherwise.”

you laugh, the sound muffled against his chest where you've pressed your face. “you make it sound so easy.”

“isn't it?” he asks, genuine curiosity coloring his voice. “we already do everything else together. we already know each other's worst habits and biggest fears and what makes each other laugh until we can't breathe. now we just get to add kissing to the list.”

“and other things,” you add, pulling back to look at him with an expression that's equal parts innocent and suggestive, and he feels heat pool low in his stomach at the implication.

“other things,” he agrees, voice dropping to something rougher, more intimate. “lots of other things. twenty years' worth of other things.”

you shiver slightly at the promise in his voice, and he files that reaction away for future reference, cataloguing it alongside every other response he plans to learn by heart.

“so what's first?” you ask, settling more comfortably in his arms like you're planning to stay there for the foreseeable future.

“first,” he says, pressing another kiss to your hair because he can, because you're his now and he's allowed, “we order way too much chinese food and eat it on the couch while we figure out how to tell people that we're finally together.”

“people are going to say they saw it coming,” you predict, tilting your head back to look at him. “we're going to get so many ‘about time’ comments.”

“let them,” he says, grinning down at you with unrepentant joy. “they can say whatever they want. i'm just happy i don't have to pretend anymore that i'm not completely gone for you.”

“completely gone,” you repeat, testing the phrase like you're tasting wine. “i like that. makes it sound properly dramatic and ridiculous.”

“it is dramatic and ridiculous,” he confirms. “twenty years of pining? that's shakespearean levels of absurd.”

“but worth it,” you say, and it's not a question.

“absolutely worth it,” he agrees, sealing the promise with another kiss that tastes like strawberries and new beginnings and happily ever after.

later, when you're curled up together on his couch—your couch now, he supposes, since everything that's his has always been yours anyway—sharing lo mein and sweet and sour chicken while some forgettable movie plays in the background, he thinks about that second-grade yearbook tucked away in his bedroom closet.

about seven-year-old you writing about being a princess in careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration. about seven-year-old him deciding that if you wanted to be a princess, then he'd find a way to make it happen, even if it meant becoming an astronaut just to bring you back moon rocks that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.

mission accomplished, he thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head where it rests against his shoulder. though the seven-year-old version of himself probably never imagined it would involve quite this much kissing.

not that he's complaining.

“satoru?” your voice is sleepy, muffled against his shirt where you've pressed your face into the curve of his neck.

“mm?”

“next time just tell me you love me from the start, okay? save us both some time.”

he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and making you smile against his skin. “deal, princess. though for the record, i do love you. have always loved you. will always love you.”

“i love you too,” you mumble, words slurring slightly with approaching sleep. “my ridiculous, dramatic, completely wonderful disaster of a man.”

“your disaster,” he corrects softly, fingers combing through your hair with reverent gentleness. “always yours.”

you hum contentedly, settling more firmly against him, and he thinks this might be what happily ever after feels like. strawberry lip balm and sunday afternoons and the girl of his dreams finally, finally in his arms where she belongs, where she's always belonged, where she'll stay for as long as he has breath in his body to keep her there.

yeah, he could definitely get used to this.

the white rose from yesterday's market sits on the coffee table beside their empty takeout containers, petals still pristine and perfect in their small glass of water. a symbol of new beginnings and answered prayers and the kind of love story that starts with friendship and ends with forever.

sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and as satoru drifts off to sleep with you warm and safe and his in his arms, he thinks she might have been the smartest person he's ever met.

taglist: @raendarkfaerie @thisuserisnotfunctioningproperly

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emmanation · 2 days ago

Text

regardless, i've already got x / i've already shifted, your golden ticket

let's chat shifting and loa, and my best "hack" for either of those things for a sec.

now, i'm sure you've all heard a thousand and one explanations, but let me break it down easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

so, as well all know, shifting your reality or manifesting your desires all boils down to your consciousness (sounds fancy, i know), but it's just your awareness choosing a lane on a road with, give or take, a gazillion exits.

think about it as if you are having your pick of the litter for your future outcomes.

your consciousness is practically hopping into one of these countless potential futures, so there's no big mystery here going behind the curtains, it's just selecting a different apple to pluck, nothing more and nothing less.

let me steer away from that a bit and talk about why people fail?

the simplest way to put it is this: their awareness never really leaves their current reality. and yes, sure, they might be saying the right things, but inside they're still checking every little box in the 3d, still checking the scoreboard, still measuring whether it's working.

and when you do that, what occurs is that your awareness stays stuck on the version of reality where your desire isn't there.

they never truly handed over the reins to the desired version, and so their consciousness keeps circling back to the present version, to what's missing or how long it's taking.

and if your internal focus is sitting in the version where nothing's changed, then that's the version you keep experiencing, simply because that's how awareness works. it stabilises whatever you keep feeding it, so if you want to know why something isn't shifting, start by asking:

where has your awareness actually been living?

because if it's been camping out in your cr, then yes, it's no surprise you keep waking up there.

and it makes sense, your cr is like right up in your face, breathing down your neck, impossible to ignore.

it's as if someone screaming at the top of their lungs next to you, and you can't exactly pretend you don't hear them. people always ask me, how do i ignore the 3d? how do i pretend xyz isn't happening? and look, i'll be honest, ignoring your current reality is a bit of a tall order.

it's something akin to trying to pretend the elephant in the room isn't knocking over your favourite vase.

but hey, you don't actually have to ignore your 3d completely.

now! hear me out, because doubts are totally normal.

feeling unsure, getting hit by circumstances, it's part and parcel of being human.

life throws curveballs, and sometimes they're a doozy.

so, rather than fighting tooth and nail to block out reality completely (which is exhausting, trust me, i've been there), you kinda just..... roll with it. acknowledge it. but then just shift your attention away.

shifting your awareness, your consciousness, even a little bit, does the trick more than giving all of your weight back to your cr / 3d.

and that's exactly where the phrase regardless, i've already shifted or regardless, i've already got xyz becomes your best buddy.

why does this little phrase work so well, you may ask, to which i delightfully reply, because it steers your awareness back to the reality you've chosen, without you having to beat yourself up for noticing the current one.

the second you shift your consciousness, even slightly, you've already moved into a different outcome. holding onto your cr (which, even then, is ever shifting) or obsessing over what you see right now is like replaying the same old record, you're gonna keep hearing the same old tune.

but when you say regardless, you're getting yourself a get-out-of-jail-free card, and then it's simple as that.

i know god of your reality-ism can feel a little dramatic, but it's actually very simple, and it'd still wouldn't hurt for me to explain it to those who might still be a bit confused by it.

your consciousness, your awareness, your focus, your dominant inner story, is what selects which version of reality you shift into.

you're shifting into the version where your desire is already real.

so let's say you want to be in your dr, or you want to be in a reality where your desire is fulfilled.

you don't have to build it from scratch, (simply because that reality already exists, and now) your only job is to shift your awareness toward it.

your words will help you do that, because every time you say something, especially something like i already have this or i've already shifted, you're literally directing your focus, your awareness, toward a specific version of a future outcome.

that's why saying regardless, i've already got it works, it's a directional statement, akin to a little compass that points you back toward the version of reality where you already have what you want.

and every time you say it, you're reinforcing your alignment with that outcome.

the logistics are honestly this: the moment your awareness rests in the reality where you already have what you want, you've already shifted.

you're choosing. and your choice gets honoured, because that's how awareness works. it moves you.

so, every single time you gently remind yourself regardless, i've already shifted, you're choosing to live the experience you've picked out from those countless possibilities.

you don't have to pretend things aren't bothering you.

and you most definitely don't have to lie to yourself or go full ostrich escue with your head buried deep in the sand.

instead, you'd be, simply, steering your consciousness back to where you actually wanna be.

so.

next time doubts creep in or your cr feels too messy, remind yourself regardless, i've already got it. regardless, i've already shifted.

because that, my friends, is how easy shifting your consciousness can actually be.

#shifting #reality shifting #loa tumblr #shifting blog #loassumption #manifesting #loablr #loa blog #loassblog #shifting antis dni #shifting community #shifting motivation #shifting consciousness #self concept #manifestation #law of attraction #affirm and persist

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squipa · 2 days ago

Text

touch tank

you're a teacher, currently trying to fill up your summer vacation with freelance work when you stumble into not one, but two situationships with clark kent, the adorkable reporter from the daily planet, and superman, the hero you can't stop running into. overall? you're having a very interesting break.

wk: 14.8k (worth it i pinky swear)

the best and the worst part of teaching is that you never stop having summer break— two and a half months of pure boredom and relaxation that always go the same. you find a job, you visit family, you take random classes at the community center just to get yourself out of the house. you really did not expect this year to be any different, any better. you expected the same boredom, the same routine, the same desperation to find someone to occupy your time.

however, you didn’t count on clark kent to stumble into your life and take your world by storm.

you met in late may, the first time you came around the daily planet selling pictures for the paper. you spent a lot of your free time behind a camera, capturing moments you didn’t want to lose— and you really needed some extra cash. metropolis might pay better than most cities, but at the end of the day, a teacher’s salary is a teacher’s salary.

you were hopelessly turned around, clutching a small, manilla file that was nearly overflowing with the photographs you felt were relevant enough to submit with one hand and biting your freshly manicured thumbnail with the other, staring up at the very useless building directory, reading the names and numbers with little understanding. the receptionist had told you to go to perry white’s office for your meeting— but she hadn’t been so kind to tell you exactly where you could find it.

the signs were no help. you are embarrassingly lost, and—

“need any help?”

you turn around, dropping your hands to your sides. you’re met kindly with the direct view of a man’s chest, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

and there he was. six foot four, built like a linebacker and stuffed into a suit, wearing glasses that looked a bit too small and a smile that seemed a bit too warm. the man you would come to know as clark kent— the center of your universe.

and those eyes. bluer than the ocean, captivating you so wholly you forgot to breathe. one’s that looked to you with such unequivocal kindness, coupled with a smile that was breathtakingly gentle— you forgot how to breathe.

he’s staring down at you as if he’s not the only one who needs to catch his breath. as though he finds something about you to be just as overwhelming as you find him.

he pauses, clearing his throat. “i just mean— ah, sorry, you look lost. i-i can help you. i work here. uh, reporter— um, i mean—“ he takes a deep breath, extending a hand. “clark kent.”

god, he’s adorable.

you smile up at him, taking his hand in yours and giving it a gentle shake. you note how large and uncalloused his hand is, and try to ignore the shocks of electricity you feel with that first, all-consuming touch. you tell him your name, thankful that you don’t manage to stumble over your words, and he jots it down in the back of his head like it’s sacred. “i’m looking for mr. white’s office? i have some pictures for the paper.” you explain, holding up your file.

“oh, yeah, that’s my boss. i’ll walk you there.” he says, looking down at you with a soft grin that renders you so useless you nearly forget why you’re here. carefully, he motions for you to follow him, and you oblige, walking slowly down the arched hallways of the daily planet at his side. your heart begins to pound out of your chest.

there’s a beat of silence as you walk, before he breaks it with, “can i see them?”

he points to the folder in your hands, the one that you’re clutching like a lifeline. you hand it over without a second thought— how are you supposed to say no to the ridiculously cute, dorky guy guiding you through the building? you’re just not.

he cards through them carefully, commenting on the quality, the angles, the color grading, basically just complimenting every picture while you try not to swoon. he pulls one of the prints out of the file, a rare picture of superman you managed to get two weeks ago. you consider it the strongest picture in your portfolio. most of the photos of superman are blurs of red and blue, or shaky selfies he’s taken with fans. this one is still, certain— hopeful. you took it candidly. he was crouched with a kid, one of your students, helping him fix his broken project with gentle hands.

you think about that moment every now and then. it changed you from a casual viewer of superman’s heroics to someone who supported him completely. you watched him stop, and with hands capable of much greater things, sooth the worries of a child when he could have been doing anything else. it instilled a kind of faith in humanity you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“i like this one.” he mumbles, sliding it out of the folder, staring at it like it means as much to him as it does to you. superman fan, noted.

he pauses, staring at it a second longer than he did your other pictures, memorizing every detail before sliding it back inside the folder. “i don’t see how perry wouldn’t buy these— you’re an amazing photographer.” he says with a smile, handing you back the file.

you do your best not to turn completely red at the compliment, looking up to meet his gaze. “i’m a teacher, actually.” you explain, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “just looking for a side hustle. that picture of superman? he’s helping one of my kids.”

“really—? wow that’s really, uh, very cool.” he says, wearing a smile that you try your best not to read into. you both stop in front of an office with the name Perry White stamped across the door in shiny silver lettering. as anxious as you are to start the meeting, your heart sinks when you realize your time with clark is over. “well… good luck.” he says, all shy and dorky in a way that makes your knees weak. “i have a feeling i’m gonna see you around.”

you can’t help but grin, thanking him for walking you— and for the vote of confidence. you really don’t want to say goodbye, not when one look from him already disarms you.

he opens the door for you, and he’s lucky enough that you don’t realize how long he lingers by the office, memorizing every detail he can catalogue— the way you stand so confidently, yet with a demeanor that is so kind and genuine it makes him reevaluate everything he’s been looking for, the way the draft from the vent in perry’s office blows through your hair and makes you look like a movie star, the way you speak like it’s your favorite thing to do.

you leave the meeting with a steady freelance gig, and a yellow post-it note you hadn’t noticed earlier, tucked into an interior pocket inside your file.

i really hope you call me (xxx-xxx-xxx)

-clark :)

you’re in your apartment when you find the note, and you can’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl, heat rising to your ears and dusting your face a rosy shade of pink. you waste no time dialing that number.

——

you meet superman before you see you clark again. actually, you’re on your way home to get ready for your first date with clark, trying to not let the nerves and anticipation shake you.

you’re excited. like— bouncing off of the walls, can’t stop thinking about him kind of excited. you text constantly, and he calls you like talking to you is the highlight of his day, not some chore he has to do to maintain a relationship. you’ve been talking for about a week, and all the time with him has done is confirm your many blooming suspicions about him: he’s sweet, gentle, incredibly well-spoken and not afraid to be open about his interest in you in this shy, dorky kind of way that makes you kind of want to melt.

you’re practically skipping down the street when it happens. it’s barely sunset, but you suppose crime doesn’t really depend on time of day anymore, not in the era of aliens and meta-humans. a hand darts out of the alleyway, grabs your arm, and pulls you into the shadows. before you can think to scream, to ask for help, anything— there’s a knife at your throat and you realize that your silence is a lot more valuable than your survival instinct.

“wallet, now.” you can barely see him— a combination of the dark alleyway and blurry vision. you make out dark clothes, dark eyes, and an expression that tells you to comply with whatever he says.

your heart is beating so loudly you can feel it in your fingers. you’re shaking like a leaf— fumbling with your wallet, trying to hand it to the mugger.

it drops from your hands. you look up at the man, eyes wide with the overwhelming fear for your life. you fucked up. it’s over. you can practically envision your funeral: sad, sparse, the death of someone who’s never really lived. you slam your eyes shut.

but then there’s a gust of wind, and the knife disappears from your neck.

it takes a moment for you to breathe, to process, to blink open yours and face a blue chest with a red and yellow emblem.

“are you okay, ma’am?”

your gaze moves up to meet his. you’re not all there yet. there’s still adrenaline moving like shocks of lightning down your veins and the phantom breath of death sticking up the hairs on your neck. all you can really focus on is his eyes. impossibly blue like the deep sea, captivating you so wholly you forget yourself for a beat too long.

“ma’am?” he repeats, and his voice less authoritative. instead a gentle, concerned call to your senses, breaking out of your haze.

you down, taking a deep breath. “yes, uh…” your hand darts to your neck, feeling for any imprint the knife could’ve left. you’re grateful to find nothing but untainted skin, like it had never happened at all. “i’m fine.”

he nods, but there’s something in his expression that tells you he isn’t totally convinced. he hands you your wallet, a small, green leather clutch you’ve carried around since you were eighteen. somehow it had become the last thing on your mind.

“you’re safe, i promise.” he says, and his voice is so tender it makes you nearly forget that it’s superman standing in front of you, making sure that you’re okay. “the danger’s gone.”

you look up at him, eyes wide, brimming with tears you don’t know if you can hold back for much longer. he leans in a little closer, just enough for you to notice, his eyes checking over you carefully. maybe you’re just thrown off, because of the whole… mugging situation. but he almost looks a little scared, maybe a little relieved, like you mean a bit more to him than a civilian he saved.

you shake the thought. you’ve heard he’s like that anyways, kind, caring, a boy scout through and through. the look you’re seeing now can’t be anything more than that.

he clears his throat, leaning back, taking on a more official, heroic posture. “can i take you home, ma’am?” and just like that, the moment’s over.

you nod, letting him guide you out of the alleyway with a touch that is impossibly gentle for someone you’ve seen pummel aliens into the ground with a single punch. a comfortable silence hangs between you, and you’re grateful the streets are empty enough for no one to pay the pair of you any mind.

you must look ridiculous together. the thought makes you smile, and your adrenaline-induced panic is officially over.

“thank you.” you say, breaking the silence. you smile up at him, craning your head to meet his gaze. he honestly looks a bit surprised that you’re thanking him. “for… y’know, saving me.”

“of course. i’m glad i made it in time.” he says with a quiet nod, his eyes meeting yours. his smile is so genuine, so human, you wonder how anyone could really hate him.

you miss the lovestruck look in his eyes.

you laugh. “me too.” you say, your hands swinging freely at your sides. “i know you don’t normally handle, uh, muggings, so… i feel pretty lucky.”

his eyes dart away, looking around at the block— anywhere but you, really, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “well, i try to keep an eye on the street. y’know, on the rare days when aliens and robots don’t tear apart the city.”

you grin, his eyes meeting yours again. “yeah, i know.” you say, looking up at him with wide, starry eyes that make him forget he’s superman and not anything besides the man lucky enough to be by your side.

your eyes are so focused on the god beside you that you miss a step, losing your balance because the tip of your heel got caught in a sidewalk crack. you fall into him— no, you practically dive into him, because of course you do.

“woah there.” he says. his hands, which are just warm and huge and tender, carefully grab your sides and he steadies you, lifting you back onto your feet.

you pause, flush with embarrassment. “i’m so sorry,” you cringe, looking up at him. “my heel got stuck because i had to humiliate myself and ruin the moment.”

he laughs, sliding his hands away and looking down at you with a soft smile. “no harm done. just glad i caught you, miss.”

you pause, returning his smile with a grin that you just can’t seem to push down.

“i saw you once, with one my students. he broke his history project, a popsicle stick model of the golden gate bridge?”

“i remember— jackson, right?” he asks, and there’s something so touching about him knowing the name of the random child he helped— it makes you want to melt. “smart kid, i’ve never met someone so knowledgeable about geography.” he says, nodding towards you.

“right? he’s a little genius. i’m pushing him into architecture. i teach third grade, which is, i think, the best, ‘cause you get to see their passions develop in real time.” you say. you’re not sure why talking with him feels so easy, so natural. maybe it’s the whole superhero thing, or his impeccable bedside manner— but whatever the reason is, you can’t remember the last time you smiled so much.

“that sounds very rewarding.” he says, a gust of wind blowing his cape through the air. “i wanted to be a teacher, once.”

“got busy?” you ask, gesturing to the suit.

he laughs in the sort of way where his shoulders shake and his voice booms throughout the street, even though you didn’t say anything particularly hilarious.

“you could say that. how’s jackson doing now?”

“he’s on his way to becoming a very talented fourth grader.” you hesitate, before you continue. “i got a picture of you two, when you helped him.” you pause, stopping in front of your apartment building. “not in like a creepy stalker way— i’m a photographer too. kind of. hence the photo.”

he pauses, peering down at you curiously. “may i see it?” he asks.

you stop, your eyes locked with his. you can’t kick that feeling— how familiar he is. you can’t quite place it, so you push it back down deep for another day. “yeah.” you say, softly, pressing on the door. “i’ll be right back.”

it only takes you about a minute to retrieve the photo, digging through that same manilla file for your spare copy, the same file that clark stuck his number in. god— you were supposed to start getting ready, like, fifteen minutes ago.

you pray clark is late.

there’s a shadow over your window before you start heading back downstairs. right. flying. superman can fly. not crazy at all. you stumble over towards your fire escape, grinning up at him while you slide up the window.

you stick your head out, leaning on your arms, halfway out the window.

“here, uh, this just a print.” you say, handing him the picture. he takes it gently, his fingers brushing against yours. he stares at it for awhile, his eyes tracing over every detail.

“could i… keep this?” he asks, looking up at you like you’re the most important thing in the world— in a way that knocks the air out of your lungs.

you nod, because really, how could you say no when he’s staring at you like that? you didn’t have a choice.

“thank you.” he says, before clearing his throat, floating back out towards the alleyway. “i, uh, i should be going.”

“you got big plans tonight?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

he laughs, a soft chuckle that rings like wedding bells in your ears. “something like that.” he pauses again, looking back down at the picture and then up to you. “…see you around… miss.”

there’s a burst of wind and just like that, he’s gone.

and maybe, just maybe, you have a tiny crush on superman.

——

your date with clark was an awkward, disastrous, mess— in all the best ways. the flowers he brought you had somehow gotten smushed, even though he insisted they came from the little shop on the corner right by your apartment— but they were your favorites. the restaurant lost your reservation, so you ended up having a picnic with food from the best food truck you’ve ever been to. the conversation was bumpy, at times a little difficult to navigate, but by the end, you had never laughed so hard in your life.

you really had never met anybody like clark kent.

he’s a gentle giant, a man who, despite being extremely built, you truly incapable of hurting a fly. he’s also the perfect gentleman, the definition of a man. for the entire evening, he refused to let you open a door, or pay, and when you started feeling a little chilly when he was walking you back to your apartment, late at night, he tucked his jacket over your shoulders before you even had the chance to complain. he’s also just… kind, plain and simple. he stopped to help an old woman cross the street, to ask a kid where his mom was and led him back to his parents, and, no shit, he literally rescued a cat from a tree. mind you, all in the span of four hours. he’s a good person, the kind of guy you read about in fairytales and grow up thinking doesn’t exist.

but here he is.

“i had a really good time tonight.” he says, lingering by your door. you nodded in absolute agreement, looking up at him with a giant, uncontrollable smile that he returns in full.

“yeah, me too.” you respond. the distance between you closes quickly, you lean in just enough to feel clark’s breath ghost on your face.

he flushes and looks down to his feet, like he’s working himself up for something— before his eyes dart back to yours. “i, uh… i really want to kiss you right now.”

you can feel a red hot fire spread to your cheeks, and you pray that the dim light of your apartment prevents him from seeing it. your eyes meet his, staring through his glasses into a sea of endless blue.

you’ve never actually wanted someone to kiss you more than you do right now.

“yeah?” you ask, your voice teasing him ever-so-slightly while you move in closer, your fingertips brushing against his.

“may i?” he asks, sliding his unbelievably large hands on your sides then down to your waist, leaning over you in a way that makes you feel incredibly warm. you have to physically tilt your head back to meet his eyes, and your mood nearly sours at the idea that at some point you’ll have to pull away.

you nod, and slowly, delicately, he leans in— pulling your body gently against him, his lips pressing into yours. it isn’t an eruption of passion, or some overwhelmingly fervent kiss, no. it’s soft, slow, sensual, an agonizingly perfect connection that makes you knees go weak when you’re in his arms.

it’s too short, that’s your only complaint. he pulls away breathless, smiling down at you with a pink tint dusting his cheeks, ushers you back into your apartment and demands that you have a wonderful night, insisting that he’ll call you in the morning.

you go to bed that night an hour later, only certain of two things.

this was going to be the best summer ever

you like clark kent so much it makes your head hurt

you want to see if superman is as good a kisser as clark

——

“here.”

clark pushes a cup of coffee that is somehow still piping hot into your hands, smiling down at you. you’re not sure how he even knew you were coming to the planet today, much less when to meet you at the door, but you liked that about clark. he always knows a lot more than he lets on. you chalk it up to the investigative journalist in him.

“you got me coffee?” you ask, feeling the warmth from the cup spread through your hand. apparently, no matter how hot it is outside, none of that leaks into the planet. it’s freezing.

“yeah, i didn’t know what you liked, uh, so there’s cream and sugar— not too much, though, uh, well, i mean, hopefully there’s enough—“

you press a kiss against his cheek and that effectively cuts off his rambling and leaves him quietly flushed, his eyes focused only on you. “thanks, clark.” you say, taking a sip. it’s a bit too sweet, but so incredibly thoughtful you might just start taking your coffee this way.

he smiles, going red from his neck to is ears— god, he’s so cute. “you’re seeing perry today?” he asks, walking with you down the hall. you nod.

“apparently he likes my work so much i get a daily planet issued camera.” you say excitedly. clark chooses to leave out the part where he practically begged perry to lend you one, a privilege freelancers don’t usually receive. he has to do an extra mountain of paperwork every night for a month— but gosh was it worth it to see you so giddy.

“makes sense.” he muses. “perry rewards the incredibly talented.”

he says it in a silly way, but you can tell he’s completely serious. he’s so sweet it literally makes your teeth hurt.

you’ve been on three other dates since the first, and you’ve bumped into each other at the daily planet a couple times before this— everything is going extremely well. he’s so caring, thoughtful, and the more you learn about him the more infatuated you get. you swear, when he puts his hands on you it makes you dizzy.

it’s perfect. he is. there’s only one issue: his constant tardiness, and his tendency to cancel last minute, or just not show up at all. it bugs you, when you’ve gotten all dolled up just to have to fight back tears at midnight, forced to leave an angry voicemail or two after you’ve downed a glass of box chardonnay, stuck alone, in your living room.

but he makes up for it with a thousand apologies and small gestures that make you wonder why you were ever mad.

it’s frustrating— the doubt creeping in about whether or not he likes you, the anger of being left behind without so much as a call, the loneliness that swallows you like a black hole. but when you’re with clark, he makes sure that his feelings for you are never in doubt, swearing up and down that he just has supremely bad luck and it doesn’t have a thing to do with you. still, it makes you wonder: what makes clark kent so busy?

“my lunch break is at one,” he says, taking your folder like it makes all the sense in the world for him to carry it and not you, “if you want to hang around a bit after your meeting, we could grab something together?”

you nod, looking up at him as you approach perry’s office. “that’s perfect. i was gonna stop at the bookstore down the street and grab something for my mom’s birthday. pick me up there?”

“yes ma’am,” he says in a way that is all too familiar, and he hands you back your folder, tucking it underneath your arm, his hand ghosting at your side. “good luck.”

“don’t need it. i’ve got you.” you say, opening the door and heading in. you don’t see the way clark flushes, this time redder than a tomato, nor jimmy laughing at him from all the way from across the building.

——

you’re on your way to the bookstore when it happens— the sky opens up, a giant alien-whatever pops down and starts wreaking havoc on the skyline of metropolis. the event is far enough away to where you would normally just shrug and continue on your path towards the bookstore while the people wait for superman to show up.

except that you’re a photographer now. professionally. and professional photographers run towards their killer shot, not away from it. besides, your meeting with perry didn’t go… the greatest. he said most of your shots were unusable— and he wanted more pictures of superman.

but it would be stupid to run into danger like that— clark would disapprove, so would probably anyone with common sense. the ground is literally shaking because that demon thing knocked a skyscraper over like legos— you really should walk away.

so, obviously, you end up climbing a tree about a hundred yards away from the creature (and superman, who stepped in about a minute ago), trying to find your perfect shot. it’s stupid, really, the way that you’re about twenty feet off the ground, perched just right on the branch so that if you can get superman and the alien to stay still for half a second— you’ll have your picture.

unfortunately, you hadn’t accounted for the monster to have giant fireballs spewing out of its fingertips, with one specially aimed at you. foolishly, you expected it to be the normal kind of cryptid.

so, you shut your eyes and brace yourself, praying that you’ll be the sexy kind of burn victim and not a crisp, dead one— but the impact never comes. instead, a pair of arms wraps around you and you’re on a rooftop— ridiculously far away from the scene with no way down.

“stay here,” superman says, flying back with a harsh burst of air. he sounded… angry, probably from the fight but… you can’t shake his eyes met yours in that single glimpse, before he had gone back into the fray.

the fight takes four minutes. you’re like, a mile away, on top of some random building with a pretty subpar view of the action— but you manage to still make out the flashes of blue and red that surround the being and shoot him back off to space.

you frown, peering over the edge of the building. there’s no rooftop access, no door, nothing. you’re kind of just stuck— which is perfect, because it’s 12:55 and clark’s about to get off for lunch, so he’ll get stood up while you figure out how to get down.

“you need to be more careful.” a voice behind you says, and you jump, nearly toppling over the side of the building.

a hand grabs your arm and spins you around to face him, steadying you— it’s superman. thank god.

you nod. “yeah. probably.” he looks unconvinced, and maybe a little pissed. his arm drops back to his side and he shoots you a stern look.

“it’s irresponsible to run into danger like that. you could have died, ma’am.” he says. his hair looks a bit windswept, curling around the edges like clark’s does when he tries to tame it. his eyes zero in on the camera hanging around your neck. “no picture is worth your life, okay?”

you nod, looking down, a tad embarrassed. “yeah… adrenaline kinda beat me on this one.”

he shakes his head. “promise me you won’t do anything like that again.” he says. when you look up at him, he doesn’t look angry anymore. he looks scared. its the kind of thing that makes your heart jump into your throat.

“please?” he asks quietly, his gaze locked with yours.

you nod, swallowing down the strange feelings twisting around in your gut. “okay. i promise.”

there’s a beat of silence before he steps towards you, beaming down at you like you’re any other citizen. “let me get you down from here.”

“please do.” you agree, and he lifts you by the waist like you’re featherlight, slowly flying you down until your toes touch the concrete.

“by the way,” he begins, speaking quietly as you land, stepping back, “i framed that picture you gave me. thank you.”

he’s gone before you can say ‘you’re welcome,’ just a blur of red and blue that disappears into the sky like a shooting star.

he remembered you.

he probably remembers everyone he meets on the street— he’s known for stuff like that, being so kind, so hopeful.

but he remembered you. and that feels different.

your phone rings and you shake off whatever you’re feeling, because clark, the guy that you really really like and who really really likes you is calling and there’s no reason you should be thinking about someone as untouchable as superman in the way that you are right now.

“clark, you will never believe what just happened—“

——

today is july first.

your one month anniversary with clark. the day that marks one of the best months of your life coming to a close— and hopefully a sign that these next months are going to be just as good, if not better.

this month, clark kent has literally swept you off your feet. perfect dates, amazing chemistry, gentlemanlike in a way that all seems too good to be true. and maybe it is.

because, well, it’s three hours after your date was supposed to start. clark had been talking about today all week, texting you every free second about the amazing evening he had planned— but he’s not here. he couldn’t even send you a text, “hey, so sorry i can’t make it. raincheck?’ nothing.

you wonder what the excuse is, this time. had to work late? ma called and he lost track of time? you hate it, how small you feel when he forgets about you. you suddenly wish it was august again, so you could have school and a whole new pack of students to occupy your time with— you wouldn’t even have to think about clark, you’d be so busy.

right as you reach for another glass of wine, there’s a knock at your door.

you frown, tiptoeing silently towards the peephole like you don’t already know who it is.

it’s clark— and he looks rough.

there’s a nasty shiner on his eye, and he’s got blood peeking out from under his collar, and you wonder what other injuries his clothes are hiding. it takes you half a second to swing the door open, your hands flying to his face.

“holy shit clark— are you okay?” you ask, eyes wide, checking every inch of his face to see just how bad it is. you’ve never seen him have so much as an odd bruise before, but now…? he looks beat. “what happened?”

his eyes don’t follow your hands, or your movements, they don’t stick to the ground, they just find yours and hold your gaze once you’re done giving him an extremely thorough once-over for any prevailing injuries. “you were crying.” he frowns, looking down at you.

you pause, lowering your hands. “yeah, but—“

he hands— which are notably shaky, press against your biceps, wrapping around your upper arms as if to ground himself.

“i’m so sorry.” his voice is so tender it practically kills you, pure, genuine guilt and sadness that makes you feel like a jerk for even being mad in the first place. and those eyes— god, those eyes. they take you and they refuse to let go.

“clark, you look like shit, i’m not upset—“ you start, biting down on your lip. he cuts you off by pulling you into a suffocating embrace, holding you so close and so tight he practically knocks the air out of your lungs, not that you mind.

he traps your lips in a kiss— one that isn’t soft, or gentle, not the way that clark usually kisses you. it’s fervent, sloppy and overwhelming— he surges into you like he never thought he’d be able to do it again.

what you don’t know is— with the battle he had, the one he lost, that was exactly what was on his mind.

“i’m sorry i missed our date. i promise i’ll make it up to you.” he mumbles as he pulls away. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, squeezing you like he can’t get you close enough. you have no idea what’s going on, but you like the way you feel when he holds you, so you don’t stop him.

you tentatively wrap your hands around him, unaware of the fallen god that has you in his arms. “what happened?” you ask quietly, your voice just a whisper against his ear.

he gives you a final squeeze that toed on the line of breaking your ribs before pulling back, looking down at you. “uh, i just… this lady got her purse stolen, picked a fight i couldn’t win. i’m fine, promise.”

you nod, your heart swelling with both concern and pride. you picked the guy who’d risk his own safety to help an old lady get her purse back— the thought makes you all warm and fuzzy, especially now that you know he’s okay.

you have to push down the feeling that there’s more to the story than he’s letting on.

“do you wanna come in?” you ask, tilting your head. he shakes his head.

“i uh, i can’t. gonna sleep this off— but i’m gonna make this up to you. i swear— you can take that to the bank. i just didn’t want you to think i flaked for no reason.”

you smile up at him, shaking your head. he’s too damn sweet for his own good.

“okay, well, get home safe, okay?” you say, pressing a kiss on his cheek before sending him away with the promise that everything will be fine in the morning.

——

you didn’t think that “i’m gonna make this up to you. i swear— you can take that to the bank.” meant breaking into your apartment to make you breakfast, but apparently that was clark’s exact line of thought.

you didn’t even register the sound of him in your apartment when you stepped out of your bedroom— your hair a mess, makeup peeled off, wearing nothing but an oversized sleep shirt and your panties. you yawned, stretched, then nearly jumped out of your own skin when you noticed him staring at you from over your stove like you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

“what are you doing here?!” you yelled, darting back into your room, searching frantically for a hairbrush.

“uh, i, um— i wanted to make you breakfast?” he starts, putting his hand to his face and shaking his head. “starting to realize how creepy this is.”

you sigh, laughing softly to yourself, the shock slowly wearing off. “it’s really sweet, clark, just give me a minute to look… presentable.” you say through the door.

“you look beautiful— but, sorry. take all the time you need.”

you emerge ten minutes later with your rats nest combed out, your makeup done, and wearing a pair of shorts that fit snuggly around your thighs. clark smiles at you in a sort of, i’m-sorry-for-breaking-in-but-hey-here’s-some-breakfast, kind of way.

you shake your head, walking over to him and letting him wrap an arm around you, taking a deep breath to smell the absurd amount of pancakes he made for the two of you. seriously, there’s like, three stacks and half a bowl of batter left. you lean against him, enjoying the warmth.

“sorry for freaking out.” you say as he presses a kiss against the top of your forehead.

he shrugs. “sorry for breaking into your apartment.”

you laugh. “yeah— how long have you been here, and how did you get in—“ you pause, looking up at him, noticing how clean his face is for the first time. “your bruise is gone.”

he leans back, rubbing his neck. “yeah, uh… i’m a fast healer.” he pauses and shrugs like that’s the only answer he can give you. “i’ve been here for like, thirty minutes. your neighbor let me in. mrs. stilinsky?”

you nod— decide not to question anything, moving back to lean on the countertop. you note the way he shifts in the back of your head and move on.

“i still feel bad about last night,” he starts, pausing to lift you up and onto the counter like you’re featherlight. you giggle, leaning in to press a quick kiss on his lips. “hence the breakfast. if you’re not busy today, i’d like to make it up to you.”

you raise a brow. “you know you don’t have to make up ‘getting jumped’ to me, right? i kind of get that one.”

he leans back to flip another pancake, shaking his head. “this is non-negotiable, honey.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing a pancake off of one of the stacks. “actually, i could use another set of hands to help me decorate my classroom…” you say, taking a bite of the pancake, looking up at him. “god, this is good— how did you make this?” you ask, mid-bite.

he laughs, a motion that moves through his shoulders. “kent family recipe. ma would kill me if i shared.”

“—is there pumpkin spice in this?”

——

clark insisted on being the only one to carry anything— so you’re mapping out your classroom while he hauls stuff from your car, little by little.

you’re switching to second grade this year, so you have a newer, slightly crappier classroom a mile farther from the teacher’s lounge, and a new curriculum to teach— but you don’t particularly mind. eight is a good age, you’ll just need to practice a little more crowd control during your lectures.

most of your stuff was brought over from your old classroom last week, this is just the stuff you bought with your daily planet money to get a fresh new look for your class.

clark drops the last of the junk gently by the door, smiling down at you as he approaches. he hooks an arm around your waist and presses a kiss atop your head, giving you a quick squeeze. “so, what are we doing today?”

you grin up at him, leaning into his side while you begin rambling about your big plans for the room.

you kinda prefer this to big dates. there’s something special about the mundane when you get to do it with clark. you just like being around him, basking in that sweet farm boy energy that has you totally whipped.

“okay, so, i’m gonna move my bookshelf to this corner, and then i’m gonna put up a bunch of posters in this area and make it, like, a reading corner, right. i’m gonna put up one of my big art wall things here and the other over there, and—“

you’re cut off by an earthquake.

clark instinctively tightens his grip on you, looking up and around for any danger. your frown, leaning into him.

he looks up at the ceiling for what seems like a beat too long when the ground shakes again. a couple trinkets fall off of a bookshelf, and one of your boxes topples over. he looks down at you, ushering you out of the classroom. “is there somewhere safe to hide?” he asks, looking up and down the hall.

“here, c’mon,” you start, leading him down the hall. “kids go in the gym for tornado drills— it’s kind of the same thing?”

he nods, following you with his hand tightly interlaced with yours. the ground shakes again and little bits of drywall fall from the ceiling— none big enough to do any real damage, but enough to spook you.

you and clark make it to the gym, where the infrastructure seems a lot more sturdy. you run inside— but he hangs by the door. “i’m gonna see if anyone else needs help, okay? i’ll be back.”

“clark—!“ you start, but he’s already gone.

you frown. the school is empty save for the two of you. he should be back in two, maybe three minutes.

but he’s not. he’s not back in five. or ten.

by the twelve minute mark you’re worried in a way that is all-consuming— and the building keeps shaking. you nearly got smashed by a ceiling tile that came loose, and you’ve spent the last few minutes half focused on clark’s survival and your own.

you give up on waiting, going to the administrative office to check the cameras for him, a relatively easy journey. you flip through them all twice. you give time for him to leave any blindspot. he isn’t there— he just ditched you.

you try not to throw the computer across the room. you could, logistically, and you could blame the damage on the whatever going on outside— but you don’t. you just storm out of the building, looking up at the sky.

superman’s fifty feet above your school fighting some robot-looking thing mid-air. to be fair, he’s winning, but not enough for you to be particularly thrilled about the sighting. you look around for clark, and he’s nowhere, which is just great.

“clark!” you call out, looking for him, ducking debris from the action above you. you turn the corner of the building, looking around by the dumpster, trying to see if he was hiding with some sweet old lady or doing anything besides running away and abandoning you.

you rush past the wall— and maybe if you were a bit less panicked and a bit more observant you would have noticed the pile of clothes peeking out from under the dumpster, or the glasses that belonged to clark kent reflecting sunlight onto the stack of bricks behind you.

but you continue, rushing out to the courtyard, met with a great big field filled with nothing but astroturf and gym supplies.

“clark!” you call again. he’s not there— you know he isn’t and you’re really, really freaking out. what if he got caught under a chunk of debris? what if that robot monster up there crashed into him? what if he really did just abandon you and leave you to fend for yourself?

you brush that last one off. he wouldn’t do that. you know him well enough to know that. he’s good to his core, he’s not the type of guy to run from danger.

you look up at the fight above you. superman is pummeling into the robot like there’s no tomorrow, getting closer and closer towards the ground. he’s right above the field you’re hanging around, and—

oh shit.

they both crash against the ground, knocking a literal crater into the field. the impact of the collision knocks you onto your ass, and despite being fifty feet away, the yelp you let out when you hit pavement attracts superman’s attention— and the thing he’s fighting.

it happens in slow motion: you, with wide eyes, scrambling to get up on shaky legs, the robot, hurling towards you impossibly fast, and superman, an inch behind, trying to stop it

you’re frozen. you can’t run, or fight, or even move— you’re just stuck, shaking, your heart beating out of your chest, adrenaline shooting through your veins like fire.

you think it’s the end, but superman grabs hold of the thing when it’s an inch away, pulling it back and throwing it across the field so hard the boom that follows sounds like a missile strike. you just stare, your breaths uneven and panicked, watching with teary eyes as superman punches that thing into the ground, ripping the machine’s head off with bare hands, tearing it apart until it’s nothing but scrap metal and wire.

and then he turns to you, moving faster than the speed of light across the field to gently help you up.

“are you alright?” he asks, taking your hand. your legs are shaking so bad that he has to practically hold you upright, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

you nod. “yeah, i’m okay.” you say, taking a deep breath, swallowing down your panic.

he checks you over for any injuries, the same way he did the first night that you met. “you shouldn’t have been out here.” he says, and he sounds frustrated— you feel bad. bad that he always seems to be saving you, and that you seem to be his least favorite regular. he’s saved you once a week for the last month at least, sometimes when you’re taking pictures for the planet, sometimes when trouble just seems to follow you home. either way— you have seen a lot of superman lately.

“i uh, yeah, i was looking for… clark kent? i know he’s interviewed you before, have you seen him?”

his gaze softens, and he takes a breath, looking down and shaking his head softly like he’s having a conversation in his head you aren’t privy to.

“he’s fine.” he says, looking up at you. you’re captivated— it’s always those damn eyes. bluer than the pacific, you don’t know how a man so perfect can exist.“i, uh, he was about to get crushed by some debris, so i moved him half a mile west.”

you breath a sigh of relief. “thank you.” you say, steady enough to stand a bit taller. he doesn’t let go.

“you get into a lot of trouble, don’t you?” he asks— not in a, ha-ha we run into each other a lot way, but in a, hey i’m kind of concerned about your well-being kind of way. your heart leaps to your chest.

“yeah. kept my promise though. didn’t come out here for a picture.”

he smiles— you almost swoon— and shakes his head. “do i have to start keeping a special eye on you, miss?”

you try not to blush. you fail. “with my luck, that might just be necessary.” you say, smiling up at him.

you pause.

you are totally flirting with superman. and even crazier— superman is totally flirting with you.

you have clark. loving, caring, sweet, handsome clark.

but can it really hurt to indulge in the fantasy for a minute longer?

“well, if you need anything, ma’am, call out for superman, and i’ll be there.” he says.

“anything?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “i might just take advantage of that.”

he laughs— a laugh that seems too familiar. “i hope you do.”

you look up at him, tilting your head. “thank you, again, for saving me.”

he smiles, looking down at you, giving your hand a final squeeze before he lets you go. he leans in a bit closer, smiling down at you in a way that makes your heart jump to your throat. “i’m always gonna save you. i promise.”

the way he says you gives you pause. it makes your knees want to buckle. it makes this whole thing seem completely unreal.

because he’s talking about you like you mean a lot more to him than a pedestrian he’s had to save a couple times. like you’re someone he cares about— which confuses you a lot more than you care to admit.

he leans back, clears his throat, acts like he said a bit more than he should have and returns to that superman persona he let slip for half a second. “you try to stay safe, okay?” he says, raising an eyebrow, and you nod, a little dazed.

“on it.”

he steps back and shoots back off into the sky, and you stare until he’s completely gone, now just a whisper of blue in the skyline of metropolis.

“hey! there you are!” clark’s voice echoes from behind you. you spin around, overwhelmed with relief that he’s safe and running back towards you.

you practically crash into him, simply relieved that he is safe and not smushed under a building or something like that. his arms wrap around you so tight you can barely breathe, and you hold him so close you think your arms might break.

“i got so scared when you didn’t come back.” you mumble into the fabric of his shirt. he nods, pulling back, looking down at you.

“yeah, uh, i was looking for others and this giant piece of wall almost got me— superman swiped me out and took me like, three blocks away.” he says, taking a deep breath. “i’m really glad you’re okay.”

you nod, swallowing down the guilt forming in your chest. here clark is, all worried about you, who literally ran back from half a mile away to come and get you, and you were just flirting with superman.

“yeah, uh, superman saved me too. guess we both got lucky.” you say, chewing on your lip. you feel horrible.

he frowns. “a-are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head. you hate how he can read you like that.

you nod. “yeah, uh, i think i just want to go home.”

——

that night you sent clark home, promising you would call him in the morning. you told him that you were just a bit shaken— and you were. but not from the whole… robot trying to kill you thing. from the superman one.

you just felt guilty about it. confused on what made superman so keen on you. you’ve felt confused a lot, lately. about clark, superman, your own feelings.

to make it clear: you are 100% whipped for clark. he is your perfect man, and he has never made you doubt for one second that he likes you just as much as you like him. the whole superman thing feels like a fantasy come true— having some angelic, godlike protector single you out. it’s probably very human to have some feelings, to get a little flustered when someone like superman flirts with you.

there’s just something about superman that feels achingly familiar, in the kind of way that bugs you wholly. his laugh, his voice, his eyes. the eyes get you the most— like there’s something right in front of you that you just can’t see.

you take another sip of your beer, looking out at the moonlit skyline from your fire escape.

“are you alright?”

you jump, whipping your head around to see superman floating ahead, approaching you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll scare. he smiles, leaning against the railing of the fire escape, looking down at you with this weird, soft look in his eye. like he’s worried.

you nod. “what are you doing here?”

he shrugs. “i wanted to make sure you were okay, after today.” he says, staring at you with those impossibly familiar blue eyes.

you raise an eyebrow. “do you check up on all the people you save?”

he chuckles, and shakes his head. “just the lucky ones.”

you pause, offering him a beer. he waves his hands no, climbing over the rail to sit with you.

“you’re real friendly.” you observe, taking another swig of your drink. he shrugs.

“just concerned.”

there’s a long beat of silence before either of you speak again. you’re not really sure what to say, how to proceed. you can feel him staring at you, while your eyes trace over the buildings around you.

“how’s your day going?” you ask, blinking back up at him. he stares for a second, then smiles— and those eyes capture you once more.

“been an odd day. y’know, stray robot attacks and all.” he pauses, giving you a once over. “you?”

you shrug. “odd’s probably the best word for it.”

“would you like to talk about it?” he offers. “i’ve been told that i’m a good listener.”

do you wanna talk about it? it’s kind of been an emotional roller coaster of a day. of course, it’s the kind of thing that would only happen to you, having superman on your porch step, asking how you feel. at first, all the running into each other seemed like dumb coincidence— now it all feels a lot heavier.

“i’ve been seeing a lot of you lately.” you say, tilting back your head to get a better look at him.

he nods. “is that a bad thing?”

you shrug in response. “it’s an odd one. especially ‘cause—“ you start, cutting yourself off. you look down, chewing on your lip so you don’t confront superman for being a huge flirt.

he looks at you inquisitively, a small frown playing on his lips. “‘cause?”

you take a deep breath, looking down. “i have a boyfriend. well— he’s not technically my boyfriend, yet. he hasn’t asked, but like, y’know. i really like him.”

you look back up and he’s smiling, almost like he’s trying to suppress a grin, which confuses you even more, because, like, two minutes ago he was acting all into you.

“and how are things going with your not-boyfriend?” he asks, leaning back.

“great. so i need you to stop flirting with me.”

he laughs— he actually laughs, with his full chest. acts like you saying that is the silliest thing in the world. like he didn’t randomly show up at your apartment to ‘check on you.’

he smiles up at you with this weird, knowing twinkle in his eye. “you’re right. i’ve got no business getting between you and clark.”

you pause, your eyebrows knitting together. you didn’t mention anything about clark.

“how’d you know it was clark?” you ask, frowning.

he pauses— like his body stutters. “uh, well—“ he starts, stumbling in a way that seems so familiar, just like everything else he does. god, what is it about him? “i assumed, since he was who you were looking for at the school.”

you nod, training your eyes on the loose curl sitting on his forehead. you guess that makes sense, at least, enough for you to not dwell on it any longer. yet, coupled with everything else you’ve noticed, it’s all just… very strange.

“i’m onto you, superman.” you say, looking up at him, eyebrows raised. you see it, just the briefest, tiniest moment of panic in his eyes before the superhero persona sets back in. it’s just enough to let you know that you’re not crazy.

“onto me?” he asks, slightly incredulous. “what for?”

you shrug, leaning back against the railing, taking another quick sip of your beer before placing it down against the barred floor of your fire escape. “just whatever it is that you’re hiding from me.”

he nods, like he’s barely entertaining the idea. “i could just stop running into you.” he says, a bit more serious now than he was a minute ago. “if i was hiding something.”

you smile, shaking your head, standing up and leaning back against the railing. “you could. i doubt you will.” you say, flashing him a grin, hoisting yourself up to sit on the railing.

he tilts his head. “why’s that?”

now, you wouldn’t do this if you weren’t at least two beers deep, and right now, you’re three and a half in, so your judgement is maybe… slightly impaired. besides, it’s not like this is the farthest you’ve ever gone to prove a point.

you slide your legs over the rail, and without a single thought or hesitation, you push yourself off.

you plummet for a bit longer than you thought you would— not like the drop would kill you, anyways, you live three stories up, but you’re a lot closer to the ground than you thought you’d be when he catches you.

his arms wrap around you bridal style— and he looks kind of pissed. he doesn’t quite look at you, not until you’re back up safely on the fire escape and he’s floating back out in the alleyway.

“that was, gosh—“ he starts, looking down at you, arms crossed. “why would you do that?”

“i knew you would catch me.” you say, your eyes glancing up to find his.

he shakes his head. “promise me you won’t do that again. ever.” he asks, eyebrows firmly knit together.

you nod, which, doesn’t seem to be good enough for him, because he tilts his head and looks at you with a gaze that is incredibly stern. you reach out your hand, extending your pinky finger out towards him.

“i pinky swear.”

he smiles, locking his finger with yours. “thank you.”

there’s a boom somewhere off in the distance, one loud enough to attract his attention. his hand slips away from yours, and with a nod, he’s gone.

you’re gonna figure him out.

——

it’s been two weeks since that night— and that was the last time you saw superman, a new record for you and him. you enjoyed the space as much as it infuriated you— so your time has been spent cataloguing every interaction, sorting through everything that bugged you, even slightly.

you don’t tell clark about it. it can’t feel good to hear that your girl is constantly thinking about another guy— especially one that is a god amongst men.

you and clark do have a good rhythm, though. he spends most nights at your place now, and he spoils you with two ‘real dates’ (as he calls them) a week. it’s nice, having him around. someone you can force feed your baking to and cuddle up with when watching scary movies.

it’s nights like tonight, actually, that make you so into him it scares you. he came over after work, and after making you a pasta salad that tasted like heaven on your fork, you sat together on the couch to watch some random sitcom he liked. his arms wrapped around you immediately, and he held you so close and so tight it was basically impossible not to fall asleep in those big, bulky arms of his.

you blink awake now, soft light and sound still playing on your television despite how quiet everything else seems. you listen to clark’s breathing, steady and even, snoring softly with his grasp loose around you.

you slide out of his arms quietly, surprised that you didn’t manage to wake him when you knocked into the table behind you on your way to the bathroom. you come back two minutes later, wiping your hands on your sleep shirt and looking down at him.

he looks so peaceful, so relaxed. it makes you smile. carefully, as to not wake him up, you slide his glasses off of his face and put them on your coffee table, and grab a blanket off of your armchair to throw over him.

in this motion, you realize you’ve never actually seen clark without his glasses before. you look down at him, tilting your head, squinting for whatever shapes you can make out with such little lighting.

you didn’t realize how strong his prescription was, because he looks quite different. like— noticeably different.

huh. he looks a lot like superman.

you frown. squint a little harder. besides the hair, he’s nearly identical.

you shake the thought. it has to be some weird coincidence, right? clark, your clark? not possible. you’re too sleepy to give it much thought, anyways.

still, it bugs you. it bugs you the next morning, when he makes you breakfast. it bugs you the day after, when you see him at the planet. it bugs you for another week, because the similarity is just too damning.

you stare down at that picture you have of superman. of him, helping your student. the one that inadvertently led you to clark. the one that superman himself framed. you’re looking at all the similarities of note between clark and him. sure, they’re different, but everything different is something easily changed. hairstyles, tone of voice, hell, even posture.

you chew on your lip. it’s 5:30, clark’s supposed to pick you up in two hours.

but, hypothetically, if you went to his place now and looked around when he wasn’t expecting you… would you find this picture hung up somewhere?

it would be just to get the thought out of your head. you’re like, 95% sure there is no way in hell that clark kent can be superman. especially because, if he was, and he’d been flirting with you as superman? you’d be beyond pissed.

you knock twice on the door. “clark?”

you hear a shuffle and a pause. it takes thirty agonizingly long seconds for him to open the door, but when he does it’s all smiles and laughter— “hey, what are you doing here? thought i was picking you up later.”

he urges you in and gently shuts the door behind you, smiling down at you. your eyes trace every inch of the apartment, looking for something you pray you don’t find.

“i didn’t want to wait any longer,” you say, looking back up at him, “i missed you.”

he grins, wrapping an arm around you and giving you a squeeze. he looks nice— white button up, black slacks, his hair impossibly perfect. you lean into him, nearly forgetting about your mission.

“do you want to just hang out here tonight? skip the date?” he asks, sliding your purse off of your shoulder and setting it down on his mahogany front table— one that he made himself when he still lived in smallville.

“actually,” you say, uncertainly, sliding off your jacket. “that sounds perfect. i wanna talk.”

he raises a brow, taking your jacket and hooking it the coat rack. you lead him to the living room, flopping down on the couch. “do i need to be worried?”

he sets himself behind you, leaning against the back of the couch, smiling down at you. you look around, still looking for that picture— one you’re sure you won’t see amongst the decor of his apartment.

“yeah, maybe.” you say, your eyes meeting his. his smile fades, and those ocean blue eyes stare down at you with just enough concern to make your heart skip a beat. “what are we?”

you don’t know why you picked that question to stall for time, but here you are.

he takes a breath, like that question somehow relieves him— what an odd guy.

“what do you want us to be?”

he asks it gently, hopefully, like he’s easing you into it. he is— he wants you, bad. more than just a summer situationship. clark isn’t built for that. but he understands hesitation, he understands if you want to take your time. he’s got all the time in the world.

you pause, taking a breath. “well, i really like you clark.” you say, scooting back on the couch, patting the empty space next to you as a signal. he dances around the side of the couch, extra careful not to knock into anything and disrupt a moment like this one. the couch dips beside you and you sit with your legs crossed, facing him.

“i really like you, too.” he says, quietly, like it kills him not to say more.

you nod, chewing on your lip. “and i want to be your girlfriend.”

he breaks out into a grin, leaning back, looking at you with nothing but love in those ridiculously blue eyes. “yeah?”

“not that you don’t still have to ask me, cause you do, and you have to make it, like, the most romantic thing i’ve ever seen.” you say, smiling up at him. he nods— super serious, like one of your kids planning out an assignment in their head.

“i promise.” he says, leaning in. “i’m gonna romance your socks off, babe.”

you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him against you. he presses a quick kiss against your lips— one you’re careful not to get sucked into; you’re not done yet.

“now that that’s settled,” you say, forcing him back with a playful push that elicits a groan from him. “if i’m gonna be with you— you can’t hide anything. i need complete, open honesty.”

he nods, looking away. you frown. “is there anything you haven’t told me? anything important?”

he pauses, his eyes trained to the wall, like he’s deliberating on something super important.

were you right? is clark really… superman?

he looks back at you, smiling, like that moment didn’t happen. like everything is alright. “i stole one the toys from your classroom.” he shrugs, laughing a bit. “the stuffed deer? it reminded me of you.”

you gasp, feigning offense. “i’ve been looking for him everywhere!” you exclaim in fake horror, but you can’t help but giggle.

what were you thinking? clark, superman? sweet, adorkable clark? it’s more likely that he’s secretly mother teresa.

his laugh grounds you, and he slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him. “i’ll let you know if anything else comes to mind.” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “wanna watch a movie?”

you nod, looking up at him. “i’ll let you pick it if you make popcorn.” you grin, pressing a kiss against his jawline.

“yes ma’am.” he says, standing up, lingering in your touch a second too long before leaving for the kitchen.

you watch him, unable to suppress a giant, dorky smile. god, you love him.

oh god, you love him.

you decide to table that thought for when you get home.

“i’m gonna change into one of your shirts!” you call out, standing up and heading towards his room. you’re still in date night attire, and you would much rather be dwarfed by one of clark’s nice, cotton, smallville t-shirts than brave the night in jeans and a tube top.

“have fun!” he calls back, and you can hear the sporadic popping of the popcorn from the kitchen.

you make it to his closet, filtering through the half-dozen tees he keeps hung up. he doesn’t have that many clothes, you note, a few dress shirts, a couple cheap suits, two pairs of jeans, and a box of ties below it. you look around a bit more, noting the weird amount of dress shoes he has lined up on the ground when you notice a pair of black wingtips sat above a silver, face-down picture frame.

huh.

maybe if you were a bit more trusting and a bit less suspicious you would have left it alone— but that isn’t you.

your eyes flicker to the doorway, which is empty, and back to the frame. carefully, you crouch down, sliding the shoes down to the ground, tentatively picking up the frame and flipping it towards you.

your heart beats out of your chest.

it’s the picture.

the one you took of superman, the one you gave him that first night, the one he told you he framed— the one that you decidedly did not give to clark, the one that clark never told you he framed, the one that clark would have no reason to hide except—

that he’s superman.

that you were right.

that he lied to you.

you take the picture. hold it so tight your knuckles turn white. walk out of the closet, out of the bedroom, into the kitchen. drop it on the countertop so clark can see it.

the look on his face tells you everything you need to know. he looks shocked, caught, then scared, guilty. his eyes dart from the picture to you in an instant. the microwave beeps three times, the popping slows to a stop. it’s over.

“i can explain.”

you shake your head. he doesn’t need to— it’s pretty open and shut. he lied to you, and if it was just him hiding the superman thing, you could understand. “you talked to me as superman— flirted with me, asked personal stuff— you lied. you’ve been lying, this entire time, i—“ you take a deep breath, fighting tears. “i should go.” you say, spinning around on your heels.

he grabs your hand before you can move, squeezing it gently. “please, wait— let me explain it. please. you don’t understand.”

you pull away, looking at him with nothing but hurt in your eyes— because you are hurt, you feel betrayed and broken and everything you thought you wouldn’t feel with clark. you stare at him, trying your hardest not to cry— not in front of him. he looks hopeless, half-defeated, uncertain, and lost in a way that overwhelms him.

you sniffle, shaking your head. “i understand fine, clark.” you say, swallowing down your heartbreak and peeling towards the door.

“this is over.”

——

the days that follow are bleak. all you have to show for the breakup are dark, lonely hours wasted in pints of ice cream and dirty tissues. your only solace is scrolling through article after article— either ones written by clark, or ones written about him.

you push yourself through it with everything you can muster, praying that he doesn’t hear your sobs from across the city. you love him. loved him. and you’re not sure you’ll ever be so in love again.

but he betrayed you, he lied to you— he hurt you in a way that you can’t explain. you don’t want to let that push you down any more than it already has.

so, you push back. get up, out of bed, get dressed, call your friends, make plans. put yourself in a situation where you don’t have to think, especially about clark. it’s been ten days since you stormed out of his apartment and you have to move forward. it’s the last day of summer before you go back— you can’t have let it all been a waste.

you club. you party. you convince yourself that you’re having fun. you drink too much and then you spend an hour sobering yourself up before you home. you kiss your friends goodbye and toss the numbers you had pocketed in the trash outside your apartment. you head upstairs, taking a deep breath to try an avoid letting yourself think about the silence.

about clark.

and, when you get to your door, fumbling for your keys— you notice a piece of neatly-folded card stock taped below your peephole, your name encircled by a heart on the front of it.

carefully, you take it down, removing the tape with little tear and opening the letter, recognizing the handwriting before you can even read a word.

to start this, you were right. i shouldn’t have lied, i shouldn’t have pretended i wasn’t lying, i shouldn’t have spoken to you under false pretenses. the last thing i ever wanted was to hurt you, and for that, i am so sorry.

i hope, for you, this past week hasn’t been as miserable as it has been for me. i hoped to have seen you at the planet, or bump into you on the corner, or find some way to see you and try and redeem myself— but i couldn’t wait any longer to explain.

yes, i am superman. i was born on the planet krypton, sent here as an infant, and adopted by my parents, john and martha kent. i have a cousin who too, is from krypton, but remembers much more than me about home, and i take care of her superpowered dog, krypto, in a secret fortress in the arctic. i can fly, i can move incredibly fast, i have inhuman strength, x-ray vision, laser vision from my eyes and breath that can freeze nearly anything, all given to me by the earth’s yellow sun.

i came to you as superman at first by accident. the night i saved you from the mugger, before our first date. i had spent the days leading up to our date spiraling. you, who are so perfect, so beautiful, and so kind, were going out with me, and i was terrified to mess it up. i realized how easy it was for me to talk to you as superman, when it was difficult for clark kent. the times i saved you, i shouldn’t have lingered. the times i spoke to you as him, i shouldn’t have been there. at first, it had been a crutch, but by the last time, it had become a compulsion.

i had to see you. to make sure that you were safe, and warm, and happy. i realize now that i violated you in a way i cannot make up for. for this and for everything else, i am truly sorry. while my betrayal is inexcusable, know that i did it because i love you. this summer has been the best of my life, i have never met someone as compassionate, hilarious, talented, and beautiful as you, i have never wanted to be around someone more than you, i have never had someone plague my thoughts and dreams the way you do. you have quickly become my everything, my reason for waking up, for helping people, for pushing through every day.

you asked me, the day of our fight, to make my request for you to be my girlfriend the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen. and i promised you that i would.

and while i have lied to you, hidden things from you, and hurt you, i have never broken a promise.

open the door, please.

you look up from the note, wiping away a river of tears that had just poured out of you. carefully, your hands wrap around the doorknob, slowly turning it and pushing the door open.

and there he is.

standing in the center of the room, surrounded by a thousand rose petals, holding a giant bouquet with an iron grip. candles litter the foyer, giving his face an ethereal glow in the low light. his glasses are gone. his curls are out. he’s someone between clark kent and superman now, someone who you desperately want to know.

he clears his throat, his gaze holding yours hostage with those infinity blue eyes captivating you so wholly.

“i promise never to hurt you again. never to lie to you, or hide things from you, or betray your trust— if you’ll let me be yours again.” he says, smiling down at you like he’s on the verge of tears. “will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, as you approach taking in the entire set up slowly, trying not to lose what little composure of yours you still have.

you take a breath, your eyes locking with his once more.

“yes.” you say, grinning while tears— happy ones, slip from your eyes. he smiles wider than you’ve ever seen, practically throwing the bouquet so he can wrap his arms around you in a giant bear hug.

he lifts you up and spins you off of the ground, pulling an exciting giggle from your lips. it takes you a second to realize he’s off the ground too, that you’re both mid-air inside your tiny apartment— but you’re too focused on clark to mind.

he holds you close, leaning in just enough to warm your face with his breath.

“i love you.” he says, quietly, like if saying it any louder would have scared you away.

“i love you too.” you say, smiling.

he grins, leaning into you and crashing against you with a kiss so fervent it nearly topples you over— so passionate it makes your chest explode with warmth.

and suddenly, just for a moment, just for now— everything is okay again. and you know that as long as you have clark at your side, it always will be.

——

there are two quick knocks on the door, followed by a rasp “honey? you okay?”

you tremble, sat with your back against the door, bunched up in your wedding dress, trying to force the tears to stop falling to avoid messing up your ridiculously expensive bridal makeup. ten minutes ago the pressure got to you, and five minutes ago you sent your entire party— bridesmaids, stylists, even your mom —out the door so you could properly break down.

“yeah.” you say, sniffling. your voice shakes so much that the lie isn’t even half-convincing. clark can see right through you anyways (literally), so it’s not like you were really trying to lie. you just didn’t want him all concerned. it’s his wedding day too, you want it to be the happiest day of his life, even if your own experience is a train wreck.

you can practically hear his frown. “kara told me what happened.” he says, softly.

oh. yeah. your bridezilla breakdown. not one of your best moments. you aren’t exactly proud of screaming at your mom to stop messing with your hair, or your aunt for commenting on the fit of your dress, or your bridesmaids for giving you all sorts of unsolicited advice. you yelled, threw a fit, and pushed everyone out of the room so you could sob mascara into your veil.

“can i come in?” he asks, gently, and you let out a weak laugh.

“the groom can’t see the bride before the wedding, remember?” you say. he groans, sliding down against the door, his back to you.

“that’s a silly rule.” he says, and you smile. you love how much he makes you smile.

“i don’t need any more bad luck.” you wince. “did kara tell you about my bitch fit?”

you hear him snort a little bit through the door. “she used nicer words.” he says, pausing. “wanna talk about it?”

god yes. it’s all you want to talk about. but you don’t want to bring clark down any further than you already have. you want him to have the perfect wedding, even if you are decidedly not.

“it’s fine. i just needed a minute.” you say, your voice shaking again— enough to where you know clark won’t drop it now. you bury your head in your dress, taking a deep breath.

“c’mon. i’m your husband in like, ten minutes. you can talk to me.” he says. his voice is so sweet and syrupy— you’re not sure how you can refuse him.

you lean up, back against the door, shutting your eyes so tight it hurts. the words spill out of you so fast you don’t even think about them before they do. “i wanna be married to you so bad. but god— i know we spent so much on this and we spent so much time planning it but… i just want this over with. my dress is so goddamn tight and nobody can leave me alone for half a second without telling me something i need to be doing or something i’m doing wrong. and i just— it all got to be too much. and now my mom is probably gonna storm out ‘cause i yelled at her and then my dad won’t be there to walk me down the aisle, and i just ruined everything for no good reason.”

the end of your rant is met with a beat of silence. a terrifying, overwhelming, moment where you think you might have finally scared off clark.

of course, you didn’t. you couldn’t. “hey, honey— nothing’s ruined. look, don’t think about what your mom wants, or what your bridesmaids want, or even what i want. what’s gonna make you happy? ‘cause i could fly you off to a courthouse right now and ditch the party. all i want is to married to you— you could be in your pajamas for all i care and you would never have looked more beautiful. i just— darn it, i want you to be happy.”

you’re crying again, but this time you’re smiling, because god, your fiancé is just so sweet it makes your knees weak.

“what do you want, sweetheart?” he asks again, his voice so soft and tender it makes you turn to putty.

you sniffle again, wiping your tears with your fingers while trying not to further destroy your $120 makeup. “i really want a hug.” you mumble, staring down at your mascara-stained hands.

“on it.” he says, and you hear him stand up and try for the door— which is still very much locked.

you giggle a bit, standing up with him “i can’t let you in, though. the rule?”

he scoffs. “that rule is just plain— gosh, it’s just ridiculous. let me in, please, or I’m gonna break this door down.”

you laugh— god, it feels so good to laugh. you haven’t seen him all day and it felt like you were drowning.

you pause, giving in and slowly turning the lock, but you don’t quite open the door yet.

“promise me you’ll keep your eyes shut?” you ask, knowing how silly it sounds. god help you, you’re a bit superstitious.

“scouts honor.” he confirms, and you slowly open the door, peeking out to see clark, who looks breathtakingly stunning, with his tie wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold.

you laugh, smiling so wide the muscles in your mouth start to get sore.

“there she is.” he says, reaching out blindly for you, his hands— impossibly warm, feeling around for your shoulders. “you feel very beautiful.”

you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and burying yourself against him, your head in his chest. his arms circle your body and he squeezes you so tight you might faint— exactly the kind of hug you needed.

you do your best not to let yourself cry, but clark has a way of forcing the tension out of you, one way or another. one hand presses into the small of your back, the other strokes your hair softly. little praises and comforts slip from his lips like sugar, while you sob into him.

“i love you so much.” he whispers, giving you another squeeze.

“i love you too.” you cry, holding him so tightly your arms ache. “i am so excited to be married to you— this is not cold feet i promise.”

he laughs, nodding against you. “i know, honey, i know.” he says, and god, he knows just how to sooth every one of your worries away.

finally, you pull away, looking up at him. his glasses are tucked into his pocket, his hair is slicked back with one little curl popped out against his forehead. his suit is a deep black, with a navy blue tie (still covering his eyes) and a matching pocket square that makes him look irresistible.

“you look really nice.” you say, sniffling, but you can’t wipe the smile off of your face.

he shrugs. “i’m sure it’s nothing compared to you.” and he says it like you aren’t already a mess and you’re not blushing like, well, a bride.

you grab the edge of his sleeve and use it to wipe away your tears. his thumb brushes against your cheek, falling to your bicep when you let his sleeve go.

“so, what’s the plan, gorgeous?” he asks, grinning down at you with that five-star smile that gets you every time. “are we sneaking out and going downtown?”

you take a deep breath, shaking your head. “no, no we’re doing this.” you say, leaning into his touch. “but if you, say, asked one of your superhero friends to slip a roach down my mom’s dress, i think i’d skip down the aisle.”

he laughs, squeezing your arm and pulling away. “i’ll see what i can do.”

you smile, memorizing how dorky he looks with that tie around his eyes and his cute open mouth smile.

“see you on the other side?” you ask, tilting your head.

“see you on the other side.” he confirms, stepping back with just enough uncertainty to let you know that he’s not using any x-ray vision.

you watch him through the crack in the door until he’s gone, smiling so wide you might be stuck that way.

half an hour later the music starts, your dad takes your hand, and you’re walking down the aisle like nothing ever went wrong.

first you eye the crowd, looking over the array of friends, family, and superheroes that showed up. thank goodness clark is a reporter and not, say, an office worker, because you don’t know how else you could explain the random celebrities like bruce wayne and oliver queen who are sat in the audience.

then you look at your feet, which, are hidden beneath the dress, but you want to make sure you don’t stumble and embarrass yourself with a hundred pairs of eyes on you.

finally, you look up at clark, who’s staring at you in the sort of way that makes you feel faint. like you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. like you’re about to make his knees buckle. like he’s in pure awe. he doesn’t even look nervous— a trait which you envy, because you’re an absolute mess right now. he just looks captivated.

you make up to the alter, looking up at him with a healthy mix of nerves and excitement. he’s looking down at you like he’s never been more certain of anything in his life.

“i love you.” he mouths, grinning at you.

“i love you more.” you mouth back, and he shakes his head with glee.

“—you may now share your vows.” the officiant says, looking to clark.

he smiles, looking down at his feet, taking a deep breath before looking back up at you.

“for… for a long time i didn’t know what to write. i had about six… thousand drafts, but i don’t think there’s any way i can put into words how much i love you. how much i depend on you, how much of my happiness is thanks to you. i have so much purpose now. because if i can make you happy— if i can make you safe, if i can make you feel loved and supported and half as good as you make me feel every day by just being you… i’ll have accomplished more than i’ve ever dreamed of. i love you, honey, so much it makes my chest hurt. and i am the luckiest man in the world to be the man who gets to marry you— my soulmate.” he looks back up at you with stars in his eyes— your spaceman.

there’s like, five tears sliding down your cheeks by the end of that speech. you literally cannot stop smiling. you expected a lot— his job is writing for chrissakes— but wow.

wow.

“i, uh, wow. i don’t think i can top that.” you say, and a gentle laugh echoes from the crowd. you take a deep breath. “clark, i— i spent a lifetime thinking i’d never find someone like you. you’re, literally my knight in shining armor. when we met, and you walked me to perry’s office when i was so, horribly lost, i remember thinking how much i wanted this guy to ask me out. and then i found your number in my files, and i didn’t even realize how lucky i was. clark— my life has become so much better because you’re in it. having you, my rock, my best friend, my soulmate— i don’t have to dream any more. every morning with you is one come true. you are the incredibly dorky, adorable, and unfathomably amazing love of my life, and marrying you is the best thing i will ever do. i’ve never been certain of anything, but for this i have no doubt: i love you, clark kent, and i will love you no matter what life throws at us— i know that despite any tragedy or circumstance, i am yours, always and forever.”

you smile up at clark, droplets of water falling further down your face while a single tear drops from his eye. he smiles at you like you’re all he could ever want. you are.

“by the power vested in me by the state, i now pronounce you mr. and mrs. clark kent, husband and wife. you may now kiss the bride.”

clark grins at you and leans in, his lips pressing gently against yours, his hands pulling you in by your sides. the music plays, the church erupts in applause, and your husband knocks the breath out of you and for one moment, just one, everything is completely perfect.

this is so easily the longest fic i've ever written.... i am very proud of her though i very much hope you all enjoy!!

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erimyya · 2 days ago

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Thinking about an Otome game au with Phainon with sprinkle of self aware au. Someone said Phainon is born to be in otome game but force to be a tragic character in turn base game. I cannot unseen it.

Imagine if hoyo made an otome game dedicate to Phainon after the whole Amphoreus patch.

You get to interact and see more of the character outside of the story quest and literally date him. Although it's a different game, it still connected to one another. You can call the otome version as a sequel to the main story in their main game. Take it as a heart warming dessert all of us player deserve after sobbing over this man.

Tbh it's almost the same as LaD concept, you can custom made your mc, dress your mc and take picture with Phainon in various poses. The different is you can run around freely in the open world with him or not— that's up to you. Now, why wouldn't you bring Phainon along with you? What is he there for? Decoration? You can explore the Amphoreus world in different perspective, more detail perspective. The building that you can't enter in hsr? You can enter it but whatever you saw in there better stay there. Phainon had to drag you out before you cause more peace disturbance and get in trouble.

Not to mention, you can jump now. Don't try to jump off the building. You don't want to give Phainon a heart attack now, would you? Game or not, you can respawn or not, just don't do it. Ignore the intrusive thought. He's begging you.

You can toggle with the pov perspective too! You want to feel more immerse in it? Use the first person pov! You want to see the world in more wider perspective? Just use the third person pov! Use the first person pov more often, Phainon may kabedon you when there's no one around.

You can fight too! But you gotta bring Phainon with you or else the game won't let you. That man forbid you from fighting by yourself.

Don't forget to build him. Yes, you gotta grind for his relic all over again. Additionally you need to build your mc as well. Then you just log in the next day and find Phainon hitting big damage. When you check the build, your Phainon is almost perfectly build. You just startle like two days ago? Let's just assume that the game copied your phainon's build in hsr since the two game is connected.

Did I say the two game is connected? Yes. If you used the same account to play the otome game, when you log into your hsr game, there will be some easter egg where he mention you from the otome game after you finished the whole Amphoreus quest. Phainon mention of your very recent activity from your interaction in the otome game almost everytime when you play around in his voice line or just talking with him in the over world.

When you log in into the otome game, Phainon will sometimes slip something like "You're not getting bore of me, are you?" or "You haven't been using me for a while now. Why is that?". You never suspect a thing because you thought the otome game keep track of your characters usage in hsr. You're not wrong, he did keep track of your interaction with other character.

Gacha system? Yes, they have it there too. Is it really hoyo without their gacha system?

You can gacha the lightcone —brace yourself for the fluff and angst those lightcone brought along— that come with their own specific outfit. Cough cough Flame Reaver's outfit. Phainon may or may not be jealous if you prefer his alter ego more though. But most of the time, I'm sure he don't mind.

Sending message to you. Yes. You bet he will. Phainon cannot send message directly to you in hsr but in otome game his own dedicated otome game. He can freely do that. So don't be surprise if you get a notification from the otome game, a message from Phainon begging asking you to take a stroll with him.

After what he's been through? Let this man have his quality time with you. He will appreciate it very much.

#just a random thought #otome game au #self aware au #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail phainon #hsr phainon #hsr phainon x reader #phainon #phainon x reader #x reader #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere phainon #yandere x reader #yandere phainon x reader

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doodlepipsy · 3 days ago

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* JUST KEEP WATCHING / part 1

pairing: lando norris x y/n fewtrell summary: lando finds out you have an onlyfans and debates whether or not he should subscribe warnings: 🔞minors dni!!!! 18+, mentions of mature content below the cut. nothing explicit though x notes: just hope it's ok :) it's very long and wordy before we even get where he finds out, i'm sorry lol. please let me know what you think and interact with it if you want part 2!!! maybe a pre-singapore meetup or the singapore race weekend? btw she is theo's twin sister

SET IN EARLY AUGUST 2024

It had been months since Lando had actually seen Y/N in person. And whenever they did cross paths, there was always something new or different about her. He never knew what to expect anymore, but it was kind of interesting. A new piercing here, a fresh little tattoo there; one time he and Max nearly walked right past her because she'd dyed her hair blonde and hadn't warned anyone. Y/N's decision to move to London seemed to have been the right one. She just seemed much more confident in herself, having had the opportunity to experiment and explore, to bloom.

But living in the same city as her big brother didn't mean they were in each other's company often. In fact, Max had barely seen her these last few months because if he wasn't him off travelling around the world, then she probably was. Or she was just busy with other plans, other people. Max liked to joke that she'd become too cool for him... but these days, he was actually starting to believe it was true. And Lando had no idea how it happened. How "Baby Fewtrell" wasn't so little anymore, but a fully grown woman. Sometimes he'd catch her stories on Instagram and it felt like he was observing a stranger.

But she'd never be a stranger. She was still his best mate's baby sister; the same girl who had a huge fear of being struck by lightening, that cried when Max surprised her with Harry Styles tickets, that once consumed a Solero smoothie too quickly and almost threw up on Lando's shoes and that definitely thought Carlos Sainz was stupidly sexy, which the lads teased her mercilessly about.

Lando was not known for being punctual. But for once, he was arriving early to a function because Lando knew that if he waited around in his hotel room any longer, he was going to end up falling asleep and turn up late. They'd concocted a plan to surprise Max at his birthday barbecue, acting like Lando couldn't make it to the bash. And technically, Y/N said he could arrive anytime after midday and it was now midday. Max and Pietra (who was in on the surprise) were due to arrive in a few hours, giving everyone plenty of time to be ready.

One could argue that this was a housewarming party too, with Y/N and five of her friends renting a house together to share the burden of rent and stay local in London to their jobs and studies. Their end-terrace in Chelsea was perfect, it had a small but comfortable garden and a self-contained little apartment in the basement which their friend and his partner shared, while the other four were spread over the two upper floors in various sized bedrooms. And although Y/N hadn't managed to snag the biggest room, she'd lucked out the bedroom that was connected to a cute little roof balcony space.

Lando wasn't at all surprised to see the front door was painted some loud colour, and wondered if it was Y/N's idea. She always said one of her favourite things about London was the doorways. He was facing a bright shade of teal, with a ring of coloured flowers hand-painted around the garish brash door knob. He gave it a good knock and made awkward eye contact with the Ring doorbell camera, waiting for a few seconds before pulling out his phone. But just as he was about to hit send on his message to tell Y/N he'd arrived, the door swung upon. Lando found himself greeted by the biggest smile.

Her hair was cut in some sort of shaggy hairstyle that he didn't know the name of (wolfcut) but it really suited her. Lando couldn't tell if her freckles were real or not but those suited her too.

"Oh my god, is that race winner Lando Norris??" she giggled, clearly excited to see him. She hadn't actually congratulated him in person since his Miami win in May. And although the last few races had been difficult (Hungary especially), he was still riding the high of achieving his first Formula 1 win. His mouth immediately expanded into the widest grin, his eyebrows doing a little dance above his interesting eyes. "Come 'ere, you!" Y/N squealed, throwing her arms open and inviting him into a hug.

He couldn't help but notice; her baby tee was so fitted and so light coloured that it was impossible not to see it. Not only was she braless right now, she appeared to have pierced one of her nipples. Lando's eyes did the quickest flash, impossible for her to notice that he'd looked. Right? God, he hoped so. "Hello, BF." he teased, knowing she was most likely rolling her eyes.

As the pair embraced, her hands resting on his back as she pulled away from him mid-hug. "I'm almost 22!" Y/N pouted, bored of this long-running "Baby Fewtrell" joke. She let go of Lando and looked down at her Cherry Kitten t-shirt, frowning slightly. "Shit, sorry. I've got a little bit of jam on my shirt... it's not got on you, has it?" she asked, placing her fingertips to his chest as if to investigate, searching for any stickiness. He glanced down at her nails, peach coloured with colourful little daisy-like flower designs which stood out against his dark green t-shirt so perfectly.

"Oh, it's alright. Can't see it anyway." Lando replied, trying to remain as nonchalant as possible. But he was feeling very chalant right now. Particularly when she turned around and revealed the text on her shirt. On the front was some cute vintage-style illustration of a kitty. On the back it said "my mental health isn't great but my pussy is"

Y/N didn't even realise, she'd just chosen the first shirt she didn't mind getting dirty while working in the kitchen. She liking cooking and loved to bake, and had made a Victoria sponge from scratch to accompany the classic butterfly cakes she'd prepared yesterday. "Right well, come through and I'll introduce you to everyone. I was just finishing the potato salad when you knocked so excuse the mess." Y/N explained she closed the door behind Lando and gestured to a nearby internal door. "Let me give you a quick tour! This is our living room," she began, opening the door and flicking the lights on.

He didn't expect to see a man staring back at him in the mirror that was fixed above the fireplace. So much so that he let out a weird startled noise, voice cracking out of fright. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry! It's... hold on..." Y/N disappeared behind the door only to return with the offender. "Sorry, that's just... Paul?" she explained, so casually as if this wasn't nothing out of the ordinary, holding onto the cardboard head of the life-sized cut-out of Paul Mescal that was currently living behind their living room door. Lando could see a bright pink feather boa appeared to be hanging around his neck. He didn't even know what to say, only that his heart still thumping loudly in his chest. And Y/N could tell that Lando was thoroughly confused by his bewildered expression. "Yeah, sorry. I wish I could explain but it's... he's like our mascot. Anyway it's just Paul, don't panic!" she laughed, leaving Lando even more bewildered than before.

They trapsed through the lounge and into the dining area, which was separated by what appeared to be a double-doorway with no doors. Compared to the dark vibes of the living room, Lando was pleasantly surprised by how open-plan and light the kitchen was with it's conservatory-style extension and roof. The doors were wide open, leading to their small garden area and he could smell the charcoals were already burning. The kitchen wasn't in a mess at all, in Lando's opinion. Music played at a low volume from a bluetooth speaker on the kitchen, almost drowned out by something louder being played outside. She'd been in the zone, in her own little world. A creative bubble of chopping, mixing and various timers set on her phone for the grill and oven. "Do you need a hand with anything?" he asked, slotting his phone back into his back pocket.

Y/N shook her head vigorously, hands resting on her hips. "No, I'm pretty much done now. Thanks though! Just gotta put things away to keep cool and ready to go. You know you're like, really early, right?" she asked, wondering if he'd got mixed up with the time. He travelled to so many different timezones throughout the year and lived an hour ahead of her in Monaco that she wouldn't blame him if he had.

"Oh yeah, I know. Is that alright? If I spent too long sitting down at the hotel, I'd end up taking a nap and you know how that goes." laughed Lando, as he knew Y/N was well aware of his ability to fall asleep anywhere, at any time and in any situation. If Lando Norris needed a nap, Lando Norris would find a bloody way.

Y/N smiled knowingly and gestured to the roof. "If you want to have a kip for an hour or two, I don't mind. I'll wake you before Max gets here."

He'd love to, actually. He was coming off a race weekend and had spent the last day at the MTC for debrief and media duties. He'd been working through emails and taking phone calls about various projects and brand commitments all morning. A nap sounded fabulous right now. But he shook his head and tucked his hand into the pocket of his dark jeans. "Oh, no, I'm good." Lando replied, and watched as Y/N tilted her head ever so slightly.

"Honestly, Lan. You're more than welcome to, no one is going to be here for at least another hour and I've gotta shower and change anyway. Are you sure?"

He didn't want to seem rude to her friends, rude to her as the gracious host and his best mate's little sister who he hadn't seen in so long. But Lando knew that she was genuine, that she wouldn't offer if she knew it would cause a problem. Although he also knew that she'd do the same even if it did upset somebody. He knew she only cared about his wellbeing.

So when he asked, almost timidly, if she was sure no one would mind, Y/N rolled her eyes at him in an overdramatic fashion. "Yeah, course! Christ, no one wants to deal with you in 4 hours when you're grumpy 'cause you're tired. You become a right gremlin." she joked, pointing her index finger at him accusingly before flicking the same finger to the doorway. "Let me just introduce you real quick to the gang and then I'll take you up."

Everyone was congregating in the small yard, which had a patch of fake grass down and a picnic table with a garden parasol that looked suspiciously like it belonged in a pub beer garden. There were several ashtrays dotted around the place and a shelving unit that had been turned into a makeshift bar with a dozen or so bottles of booze, mixers and empty glasses all lined up. Her friends looked like your typical mix of arty London fashion types. She'd once described them on Instagram as her "girls, gays and theys" and he didn't really understand that last bit but he tried not to judge. "Ok so guys... guys!" Y/N barked, interrupting their conversation (or debate) to introduce her guest.

And they all immediately went quiet, eying the newbie in the garden. Which wasn't daunting at all. "This is Lando, Max's friend that I've been telling you about! He's gonna go have a quick nap before Max gets here but I wanted to bring him over first very quickly. So we've got Julian," she began, gesturing to the impossibly handsome and tall sandy blonde guy sat on the picnic table with a Lost Mary in hand. Lando gave him "the nod" and a small, barely audible greeting. "He lives downstairs with his boyfriend Marco. Then we have Peachy," she pointed towards her friend that Lando assumed was the aforementioned "theys" part of the group because he couldn't actually tell if Peachy was a him or a her but Max had pre-warned him not to ask. Max also mentioned that he knew Peachy's real name was Olivia Peach, if that helped. Which it didn't... but as advised, Lando wasn't going to ask. "And I think you've met Zia and Keeks?" Y/N referring to the set of girls sitting on outdoor beanbags on the ground, gazing up a him behind sunglasses.

Both greeted him with a synchronised "hi" and he smiled down at the pair before acknowledging that he remembered meeting them, albeit very briefly, on some night out last year. He remembered one of them definitely got very drunk and expressed a great interest in putting her tongue down his throat. But he wasn't sure if which one of them it was and he sure as fuck hoped that no one remembered it. Y/N knew that with all the attention on him, Lando would be feeling awkward and shy which is why she made it brief.

A chorus of nice to meet yous and see you laters could be heard as they re-entered the kitchen, with Y/N guiding him from behind towards the hallway. "Come on, I'll just grab my stuff and set you up in my room. Follow me." she said, overtaking him to trudge the first set of stairs. "Be glad I'm on the first floor!" she huffed, as she glanced towards a second set of stairs. "This is my lil room, I actually cleaned it yesterday so you're welcome." cooed the brunette, entering the room first and quickly hooking her finger through the strap of the bra hanging from the back of her computer chair, holding it behind her back as if it was a dirty secret. "The sheets aren't clean on though, sorry. I can change them if you want?" she blurted out, realising that Lando was very used to crisp white hotel linens and not her Ikea ditsy floral set, however cute and whimsical they were.

But he adamantly shook his head, holding up his hand. She always did this, starting fretting about little details and thinking something wasn't right or adequate. "Nah, don't be silly. It's only for an hour. This is fine, thanks Y/N." Lando said softly, and Y/N knew he was being genuine when he used her name like that.

She nodded her head and glanced around for a few items that she needed to get dressed and do her hair. "I'll go upstairs to shower so if you need the toilet, the bathroom is the door with the laundry basket outside. Ok?" And when she was satisfied that he was ok, Y/N left him to snooze in her sanctuary, hoping that she'd moved anything embarrassing or potentially incriminating well out of sight.

Because as suspected, Lando couldn't help but have a little look around, as if he was trying to get to know a bit more about this version of her. She had quite the array of Instax mini Polaroids on the wall, framed by toadstool string lights and other delightful little embellishments. It seemed like she had a thriving social life, judging by photos and the sheer amount of old wristbands in the glass bowl on her shelving unit. It made Lando smile. He always thought of her as that shy little 12 year old who was obsessed with saving caterpillars from being squished. This particular caterpillar had evolved into such an interesting butterfly.

On top of the shabby chic white chest of drawers were so many trinkets, a collection of bits and bobs that she'd collected over the years that obviously meant something to her or just looked cute. There was an interesting amount of candles in various shapes, sizes and colours, that had yet to be lit. Did she collect them? There were at least two that were the shape of a women's body. And, when he peered towards the back, he realised one of them was shaped like a cock and it was set in front of a really small red notebook with "A Tiny Sex Diary" written in gold lettering on the front. Huh.

The computer desk was fitted with a fairly decent camera and lighting setup, and it had Lando pondering if she was into streaming or something. He couldn't actually recall what she was doing at university, he just knew it was fashion related. But he couldn't remember the specifics, and he wondered if maybe she was doing content creation. Her Instagram was certainly well-curated, plenty of dumps with well-taken shots and she liked to showcase her style. Maybe he'd delve into it later with her, ask for an update on what she's doing these days. She worked part-time at Urban Outfitters, last time he checked. And this was confirmed by the staff lanyard he'd just noticed was hanging on the left knob of the top drawer. Lando almost missed it, too consumed by the sight of pastel purple coloured lace underwear peeking said top drawer, which was stopping it from closing fully.

The man puffed his cheeks up and turned away, forcing his feet out of his trainers without untying the laces and sitting down on the bed. He really had to stop falling into that place in his mind, allowing himself to think about her in ways that were disrespectful to her or to Max. He wasn't even sure when it started happening, it just crept in so slowly that he didn't notice it at first. All of a sudden, she was there and she was different. But nothing was different between them, their dynamic hadn't changed at all. They really didn't spend a lot of time around each other anymore and only interacted in messages and on social media.

It was social media's fault, he had decided. Catching all these glimpses of her life over the last few years and witnessing her transition into adulthood through Instagram stories set for close friends only and her silly little drunken Snapchats. Maybe that's why it felt weird. Because Max still thought of her as a teenager and so they all referred to her as such. She was still Baby Fewtrell to their friendship group, but she wasn't a baby anymore. And he can't have been the only one who noticed, yet none of their friends mentioned it.

The pillow smelled so heavily of her, all perfume and shampoo. It reminded him of sweeties, like Parma Violets. He was on his side with his arm tucked under it and it didn't take him long to fall asleep. It didn't feel like he'd been out for long when he felt the weight of someone's hand on his chest. One eye peeped openly lazily, reacting to the sound of someone softly repeating his name. "Ayy, there he is..." he heard a familiar feminine voice say, and opened his eyes fully this time to see Y/N's face smiling down at him. "Fuck me, this is like trying to raise the dead." Y/N giggled, one knee and her other hand pressed into the mattress next to him, as if she was crawling onto the bed. And that made his sleepy brain short-circuit for a millisecond, glimpsing down at the way her thigh was dangerously on show through the slit in her animal print satin skirt. "You need to get up, mate. The birthday boy is on his way!" Y/N told him, getting off the bed and turning to look at herself in the mirror on her dresser, satisfied with her effort.

He sat up, forcing the heels of his hand into his eyes to give them a rub. "Sorry, I was knackered." Lando said, voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and looked at Y/N, who turned to look at him.

"I know, that's why I left you for a bit." she replied and Lando scrunched his eyes before forcing them open in a wide stare.

She watched as Lando did his best to force himself to wake up properly. "What time is it?" he asked, concerned that Max was already on his way and he was still in bed.

"Almost 2:30..." was her reply, to which he groaned loudly and swung his legs off the bed and on the floor, reaching down for his shoes.

Lando furrowed his brow. "Why didn't you wake me?" he whined, huffing as he fiddled with the laces that he'd left knotted.

"Because, I knew you needed it." Y/N told him in the same stubborn matter-of-fact tone that Max used when he did something for Lando's own good. "Besides, you don't have to come down as soon as he arrives. He's due in about 15 minutes and you can take another 10 to wake up. God, look at the state-" she started to laugh, reaching out to try and tame the way his hair was stuck up. Lando swallowed hard, ignoring the way her hands in his curls made his tummy feel funny. "Maybe use those 10 minutes to sort whatever is going on with your barnet." She playfully pushed his head to the side and he smirked, watching as she moved away and towards the door. "But for real: t-minus 15 mins according to P's text."

When Lando realised how low his battery was, he left his phone on Y/N's beside table to give his phone a quick charge and made his way to the bathroom to finger-brush his hair and use a bit of water to control the coils if necessary. He trudged back to Y/N's bedroom to wait for his mate's arrival and busied himself on his phone, glad that Y/N had one of those cables with multiple chargers attached. The music downstairs was playing a little louder now and he was fairly sure he could hear the familiar voices of Tom and Connor chatting with Y/N. He assumed their girlfriends were also in attendance, to keep Pietra company more than anything.

Soon he heard Max enter the house, heard the group greet him with a variety of different happy birthday wishes before moving towards the back of the house. Y/N's bedroom had very small roof patio, which partially overlooked the garden. He leaned to look through the door which lead to it, unable to see over the fence. Lando wondered when he was supposed to make his entrance, if he was meant to sit here and wait for Y/N to come and get him. He chewed on the skin next to his thumbnail, anxiously scrolling on his phone when there was a knock on the door. Lando froze for a moment, only relaxing when a familiar choppy hairstyle swung around the door. "Just making sure you've not gone back to sleep. You can come down now if you want!" she whispered excitedly, proud of the way she'd pulled this off for Max.

It couldn't be easy, not seeing your best mate very much throughout the year unless you were jetting off to a race weekend (where you still wouldn't get to see him) or some all-expensed paid holiday for a few days when he had the downtime. It certainly had to suck that you couldn't spend important days together very often, like birthdays. So Y/N did her best to make sure the stars aligned for this one. She knew he'd be in the country after his race weekend debrief and she didn't have to beg Lando to show up for Max because even if he had a tight schedule, he'd have made the time anyway. Thankfully, Lando had some time off before the Dutch race but they lied to Max, saying that McLaren had him working on something for one of their sponsors.

Max was in the garden, already holding a glass of something and coke with his back to the kitchen. Lando knew that P would have her phone out ready but secretly he hoped she wouldn't, because not everything needed to be filmed. Y/N stood in the doorway, using the back door's step to her advantage, still having to get on her tippy toes (which wasn't easy to do in chunky Doc Marten sandals), throwing her arms around her brother's shoulders to cover his eyes with her manicured fingers. "I almost forgot, I've got something for you..." she said quietly, feeling Max lean slightly to put his glass down on the nearby table.

"Oh God, what else have you bought?" Max asked, flustered and slightly paranoid he was about to be embarrassed by some gag gift in front of his mates. She had already gifted him a nice pair of trainers in a style he liked, and he thought that was it. He didn't like Y/N spending her money on him, not when she was a student and always arranging her little Euro trips; she was probably perpetually broke. And he was so thankful for the spread she'd put on, he knew she was trying to impress him, trying to prove that she was a grown up now too.

"Relax, it's nothing scary." Y/N reassured her brother, who was now doing some sort of awkward lean back to accommodate her shorter height.

When she let go and placed her hands on his shoulders, it didn't register immediately that the hands were bigger, heavier. He opened his eyes and expected there to be something in front of him. He was looking at the faces smiling back at him, confused as hell. "Happy birthday, you muppet." Lando grinned, and Max whipped his head around so fast that his neck made a quiet crack.

"Fucking hell, mate!" Max yelped, clearly startled. Lando cackled and Y/N beamed, hands clasped together and tucked into her chest. Lando was considered family in their household, and the bond he had with her brother made her heart so full. She watched as the boys embraced, before Max was pushing Lando and ranting about the little fibs he'd been fed over the last few weeks and days. Y/N asked him more than once if he really had no idea, if there wasn't an inkling that maybe they were up to something and Max confirmed each time that he really thought Lando was busy shooting for yet another advertising campaign.

Music bumped in the background as conversations flowed easily, as food was eaten and as glasses were emptied, with the group singing Happy Birthday to an bashful Max before he blew out the colourful candles on his cake. "Can't believe you made this yourself, for me." Max said quietly to her, one arm around Y/N's shoulders and giving her a squeeze while she was removing the candles. "You know you didn't have to do all this." he added, leaning to give her a quick kiss on top of her head. She smiled, the kind that caused her eyes to crinkle because the apples of her cheeks were being pushed so high. She knew he wasn't only referring to the food or for hosting the gathering.

"But I wanted to. I mean, it's not every day that you're second favourite brother turns 25." Y/N joked, as Max rolled his eyes at her.

"Theo isn't even here, you could at least make me the favourite this one time!" he protested and Y/N cackled.

"What is Sam, chopped liver?"

The pair laughed and Max gave her shoulder another squeeze as she cut two pieces of cake for him and P before dishing out more pieces onto a collection of mismatched small plates for people to take. As Lando stood next to her, Y/N attempted to unlock her phone while avoiding getting cake residue on the screen, presenting it to Lando with a mix of jam, cream and crumbs of sponge on her fingertips. "Can you hold this for a sec?" she asked, and Lando obliged, looking away as Y/N used her knuckle to type her PIN. "Will you find something?" she asked, referring to the Spotify app open on her phone. They'd turned the music off while they sang to Max and now they needed the tunes back on while she handed out plates.

"Yeah, yeah, let's have a look..." Lando replied, tongue resting in the corner of his lips as he browsed the playlists she had, some of which weren't even saved under actual titled. She had so many that were just named with a few letters or the default Playlist #5. What a mess, how could she find anything? He'd hate to see what her Liked Songs looked like. Scrolling through the playlist that they'd been listening to already, he saw something by Wilkinson and selected it and was about to see if the Smart Shuffle was on because it should be, when an Instagram message notification popped up.

He was attempting to swipe it away but ended up clicking on it by mistake. Shit. He couldn't help but clock the last message sent, his light eyes widening at the sight. Lando planned to exit the message before he could read anything, not wanting to invade Y/N's privacy. But he didn't know how to use her fucking phone; so instead of leaving the app, it just went back to her inbox which was full of unread messages. It didn't escape his notice that this definitely wasn't the Instagram account he knew of and followed. The profile picture she had was very different and the username was one that Lando didn't recognise at all.

What felt like an eternity, was really it was only 15 seconds of fumbling to figure out how to exit the app entirely. Lando set the phone down on the dining table as if holding it burned him and left the scene of the crime as quickly as possible. While he stood nearby Max and their friends, trying to look as though he as definitely paying attention to the conversation, his thoughts were elsewhere. His brain felt like it was going at warped speed, overthinking every little thing he'd just seen. Why did she have a secret Instagram that he didn't follow (when she followed his finsta) and more importantly, why she had she sent a link that looked suspiciously... familiar?

It had been so big and bold in her message, too obnoxiously obvious to ignore. And now he was obsessing over it. He had to be mistaken. Surely it was just something very similar. Because why the fuck would Y/N be sending someone an OnlyFans links on a secret Instagram? What on earth was going on right now? Had he fallen into an alternate dimension? Was this the Upside Down? Had he hit his head and this was all an elaborate hallucination? Was he having a fucking stroke?

Seeing Y/N in the corner of his eye made him stiffen. He dared not look in her direction, paranoid that she could read his thoughts, scared that she'd figured out what he'd seen. He mumbled something about going to the bathroom and dipped back into the house. "You alright, mate?" Someone asked as Lando made a beeline past them for the hallway and he tried not to stammer in his response.

"Yeah, mate yeah. Just dying for a piss." Lando replied, a little too quickly, before he legged up the staircase and into the sanctuary of the first floor bathroom. Locking the door behind him, Lando perched himself on the edge of the tub and whipped his own phone out. It had to be a misunderstanding. There had to be a logical, reasonable explanation for this. It couldn't possibly be what it seemed like. He was desperately trying to remember the format of the username from the inbox. There was some full stops involved and he was currently searching variations of what he recalled until he saw it - the same profile picture. It was the red and white gingham off-the-shoulder bikini top with white frills, like something you'd expect Sabrina Carpenter to wear and while you couldn't see her face as she lay on the bed, he recognised the background as the bedroom he'd been in earlier. Her small tattoos was visible too, but the thing that was really on show was her pert bum.

Lando's hammering heart had gone well past his stomach and was currently in arse.

The fizzy cocktail-from-a-can mix that he'd forced down his throat 5 minutes ago was threatening to come back up. He was scared to scroll, scared to move his thumb on the screen in case he accidentally interacted with something and revealed his presence. So he just sat there, staring at the screen below him, mouth ajar as he documented every little thing. The pepper and flame emojis next to a linktree url, the selection of Instagram-friendly reels and photos posted. And the alias she appeared to be using was "Bambi" and that alone sent a shiver ricocheting up his spine. Wasn't that something they jokingly called her, after ice skating at the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park? Y/N could barely keep upright anytime they tried to skate towards the middle of the rink and so she refused to move away from the wall, irrationally terrified of "slicing off her fingers" if she fell.

Knowing it was pissing her off, they teased her for weeks afterwards. Lando even updated her name on WhatsApp to include a deer emoji and they'd occasionally drop a Disney's Bambi gif in their group chat just to annoy her.

He felt sick.

And not because Lando judged her for it or because he was disappointed. How could he, when he'd subscribed to various OF models in the past? He probably still had some subscriptions ongoing that he'd forgotten to cancel. No, Lando felt sick because his immediate reaction hadn't been disgust or disappointment and it hadn't been discomfort, like perhaps it should have been. It had been intrigue. It had had been curiosity.

It had been arousal.

And now he couldn't stop thinking about it. Not when he returned the party downstairs, not when he helped Y/N's housemates clean up empty bottles and cans into bags for recycling and not when he hugged Y/N goodbye and thanked her for having him at her home. Not when he sat in the back of the taxi, nor when he returned to his hotel room. Not even later, in the shower, could he get Y/N and her spicy link out of his head. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd rubbed one out to the thought of her, and he was realising quite quickly that it wasn't going to the last time either. Regardless of how guilty he felt about doing it, how dirty and dishonest it made him feel. It didn't stop him from having a quick wank in the luxury bathroom of the luxury hotel, before climbing into the luxury bed. If only he could get some luxury fucking sleep.

It would be disrespectful to check it out, Lando knew that. Disrespectful to Y/N, to Max, to Theo. To the whole family, really. He knew their grandma, for fuck's sake. He'd stayed at their house and eaten at their dinner table. Lando was a part of the family. And yet, here he was at 11pm, contemplating the ethical implications of checking out his best mate's little sister's Only Fans page. He absolutely hated himself right now for even considering it. But Lando knew that he couldn't let it go until he'd scoped it out, even briefly. He wasn't going to subscribe. No way. That would be beyond messed up, a truly unforgivable act. But a little peak couldn't hurt. Just to sate his sick sense of curiosity.

He regretted it immediately.

It was real. It was actually not a sick joke being played on him. Baby Fewtrell really had an OnlyFans account, with a list of what she offered, with a profile picture that knocked his socks off, with over 2 thousand likes logged. Lando had no idea about what he was supposed to do with this information. How was he supposed to be proceed? Did he tell Y/N that he knew? Did he tell Max about it?

Fuck. That.

He knew what he shouldn't do. The fact that he even considered it made him feel so guilty, so that was a good sign, right? Lando closed the tab before he could talk himself into subscribing and lay his phone down on the bed beside him. This was so surreal. Earlier they had talked about her plan to come and watch him race in Singapore as a birthday treat to herself, and he had already sent off requests for paddock passes so that she and her friend could accompany Max. He point blank refused to hear her argument, wanting her to enjoy the full experience as his guests instead of the GA tickets the girls had intended to use for the Sunday only.

How was he supposed to just pretend he didn't know, and look her in the face in a few weeks time? Act like he wasn't wondering about the webcam setup that he saw in her bedroom earlier. About the bed that he'd slept in today; was that the backdrop for her content? Did she work alone? Did she collab with other creators? Did someone film for her? Did her housemates know? Did they do online sex work too? It that why they could afford that fucking house? Was it actually an OnlyFans pad? Those Polaroids of Y/N kissing all her friends. Did she make content with other girls? Where was the safest place to masturbate in a 5 star hotel room?

He was exhausted just thinking. Lando didn't want to think about anything anymore, he just wanted to go to sleep and have very bland, ordinary, unseasoned dreams about cars or puppies. Absolutely no steamy, sensual nudie rudie thoughts about someone he'd known for almost 12 years which was more than half of her whole bloody life. Hand reluctantly sneaking under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, thumb hovering dangerously close to that subscribe button. He paused briefly at the sound of a text and nearly knocked himself out with how fast his hand moved out of those boxers at the sight of her name. Lando's heart skipped several beats. It was like she knew. He swallowed thickly, unlocking his phone and reading the message quickly.

y/n: thanks for coming today, it all went just how i pictured it 🥹 y/n: and it was so great to see you!! 🥰 hopefully see you again some time before singapore? but if not, can't wait to come and see you race in september x

He'd send her passes to every race if Y/N wanted them. Hell, he'd invited her on holiday with him this week if he thought Y/N would say yes. He'd probably invite her over to his hotel room right now if that wasn't the most absurd thing in the world.

You know, if she wasn't Y/N fucking Fewtrell.

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