Requests are open!!! I can write for JJK, Avatar, The Maze Runner, and check with me if you have any other ideas!! However, I am not comfortable writing smut, thanks.
đđđŠˇđđŠ gojo, desperate to let you know about his feelings, starts leaving you notes signed with âs.â and hopes to gain the courage to confess to you on valentineâs day. the problem occurs when you start suspecting suguru of being the one to leave you notes.
contents. gojo x fem reader!! gojo is down BAD. suguru is so done. this is just cutesy stuff. gojo being desperate and in love. also there is a lot of blushing in here IM SORRY PEOPLE WHO CANT BLUSH I CANT EITHER i just find it very cute im sorry :(( light misunderstanding trope, unrequited requited crush. if you know fhe artist pls lemme know so i can credit.
part 1: operation secret admirer.
gojo satoru slumped so deep into the worn-out beanbag of their cramped campus apartment that he was practically being swallowed whole, limbs splayed out in every direction like a discarded marionette. his sunglasses, pushed up and perched precariously on top of silky white hair, caught the dull afternoon light filtering through blinds they never remembered to dust. he stared at the ceiling with the intense, unblinking focus of someone hoping the cracks and water stains might rearrange themselves into something resembling divine intervention.
gojo was many thingsâ like, an almost obnoxious amount of things. he was top of his class in advanced physics, the kind of annoying genius who understood quantum mechanics while the rest of the room was still trying to figure out the syllabus. he was the unofficial mvp of the universityâs informal basketball pickup games, all long limbs and effortless agility, drawing cheers and sighs in equal measure.
and he was definitely the guy who could charm his way out of any late assignment with a disarming grin and a lazy wink, leaving professors half-heartedly scolding him while stamping his form with an extension. he was confident, cocky and carried himself like the world was his personal stage.
but when it came to you he was a total disaster. like, a complete, flailing, word-vomiting catastrophe.
many instances of him trying, and failing, to make a decent conversation with you solely because words would literally escape his mind and he would be no better than a vegetable, all empty and useless, and you would give him a sweet smile and turn back to your friend. or when he would ask you to explain the simplest things about the classes and subjects you shared, and you, knowing that satoru was pretty much a genius, would give him a confused look and still go on as heâd record the sound of your voice into his memories. fuck, you were the cutest.
valentineâs day loomed on the calendar like a ticking bomb, just two short weeks away. fourteen days. three hundred and thirty-six hours, give or take, not that he was counting. he was definitely counting. and gojo still hadnât figured out a single, coherent way to tell you he liked you.
you, with your quiet voice and your literature major brain full of words he only half-understood but wanted to learn. you, who smiled soft and small like you werenât sure you were allowed to take up space with it. you, who tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating and who, when called on by professors in your shared contemporary poetry elective, went red around the edges and spoke so quietly the people in the back row had to lean in. you, who sat three rows ahead of him every tuesday and thursday, scribbling in that impossibly tiny, perfect handwriting that looked like it belonged in a museum or maybe just pressed between the pages of a very expensive book.
you, who had accidentally slammed into him at the campus coffee shop last semester, sending your iced latte cascading down the pristine white front of his favorite sneakers. he remembered the exact sound of your sharp inhale, the way your eyes went huge and round and horrified, your mouth opening and closing like you were trying to apologize in seventeen different languages at once and couldnât pick one.
youâd crouched down with napkins, babbling about dry cleaning and replacement costs and oh god iâm so sorry i wasnât looking and youâd looked up at him with those eyes and gojo satoru, who had never believed in love at first sight or fate or any of that clichĂŠd nonsense, felt something crack open in his chest like an egg.
and heâd been hooked ever since.
pathetic, right? gojo satoru, who dated casually the way other people changed socks, who had never once lost sleep over a crush, who kept his phone contacts full of numbers heâd never call againâ reduced to doodling your name in the margins of his notebooks like some lovesick high schooler with a spiral-bound diary and a gel pen collection. heâd caught himself doing it last week during a lecture on postwar japanese poetry. your name, over and over, surrounded by little stars and question marks and, embarrassingly, a few hearts heâd tried to scribble out but only made worse.
âsuguruuuu,â he whined, the sound stretching out into multiple syllables as he let himself roll off the beanbag and onto the floor with a loud, dramatic thump. the carpet smelled faintly of instant ramen and the candle suguru had lit once, weeks ago, to try and fix the instant ramen smell before his girl came over. gojo stared up at the water-stained ceiling from this new angle, arms spread wide like he was making a snow angel in the debris of his own emotional crisis. âsuguru. hey. suguru. are you listening. suguââ
âwhat now, satoru?â geto suguru didnât even look up from his laptop, fingers still moving steadily across the keyboard. his long black hair was pulled back in its usual low ponytail, sleeves rolled to the elbow, posture perfect. he was irritatingly calm in the face of his best friendâs struggles. âif this is about that group project again, i already told you iâm not doing your part just because you donât like your assigned poet.â
âitâs worse.â gojo sat up so fast the blood rushed to his head, but he didnât care. he fixed suguru with his most serious expression, which wasnât very serious at all but he was trying. âinfinitely worse. this is, like, too bad.â
suguruâs fingers finally stilled. he looked up, one dark eyebrow slowly rising. this was the look that said he was bracing himself, the look heâd perfected over years of friendship with someone who once tried to microwave a fork just to see what would happen. âis someone dead?â
âno.â
âinjured?â
âno.â
âdid you finally get that overdue library fine sorted out?â
âsuguru, this is about my heart.â gojo pressed both hands to his chest for emphasis. âmy fragile, beating, completely unprepared heart.â
âthe heart belonging to you, who told me last month that romance was âa social construct designed to sell mediocre chocolate and overpriced flowers.ââ
âi was younger then. dumber. a different person entirely.â gojo waved this away like it was irrelevant, which to him it absolutely was. âvalentineâs day is in two weeks. two weeks, suguru. and i need to confess to her. but i need to do it right, like, without looking like the worldâs biggest idiot. which is difficult because i am an idiot. i know iâm an idiot. you know iâm an idiot. but she doesnât know iâm an idiot, or maybe she does, i donât know, but i need her to think iâm a charming idiot. thereâs a difference.â
suguru closed his laptop. the click of it sounded, to gojoâs ears, like the gates of mercy swinging open. âyouâre going to have to be more specific.â
âher.â gojo dropped his voice to a whisper, like he was sharing a dream. âyou know, the one from poetry. the one who reads before class with her hair falling in her face. the one who uses like six different colored highlighters. the one whoââ
âthe one you havenât shut up about since october, yes, iâm aware.â suguru rubbed his temples. âwhat about her?â
âwhat if i confess and she laughs?â gojoâs voice cracked on the word âlaughsâ, which was humiliating in on itself. he was twenty years old. his voice should not be cracking. âor worseâwhat if she doesnât laugh and just, looks at me and i canât tell if sheâs horrified or confused or both. or what if she thinks iâm pranking her? like that time in chem lab with the fake spider? i put that thing in like five different peopleâs backpacks, i have a reputation. she probably thinks iâm incapable of sincerity. maybe i am incapable of sincerity. what if i try to be sincere and it comes out sarcastic and she thinks iâm mocking her. what ifââ
âsatoru.â suguruâs voice cut through the spiral, calm and steady. theyâd done this dance before, many times, over many girls and a few guys and that one time with the exchange student from osaka that gojo still refused to talk about. but this was different, suguru could tell. gojo had never, in all the years suguru had known him, looked this genuinely terrified over someone. âjust be direct. ask her out. women throw themselves at you.â
âbut sheâs not like that.â gojoâs voice went soft at the edges, losing its usual theatrical edge. he was picking at a loose thread on the carpet now, not looking up. âsheâs like⌠like a little rabbit. if i go in all guns blazing, sheâll bolt. iâll blink and sheâll just be gone and iâll never even get to try.â
suguru was quiet for a moment. then, he shrugged casually, âso donât go in guns blazing.â
gojo looked up.
âyou need subtlety. romance.â suguru leaned back in his chair, considering. âsomething poetic, since thatâs her thing. whatâs her major again?â
âliterature. contemporary poetry, specifically. sheâs always carrying like three books at once and they all have those weird pretentious covers with like, minimalism. and birds.â gojoâs expression was dreamy now, completely unguarded in a way he never was around anyone else. âlast week she had a collection of translated neruda and i almost asked her about it but then i realised i only know him from that simpsons episode.â
âdumbass.â suguru snorted. âokay. so start small.â
âwhat do you mean, small.â
âi mean⌠hm. you could leave her notes? anonymous. make her curious.â suguru was warming to the idea now, the way he always did when presented with a problem that required strategy. ânothing too intense right awayâjust observations and compliments. things youâve noticed about her that she might not think anyone notices. sign them with an initial, keep it mysterious.â
gojo stared at him. his mouth was slightly open. and then, like the sun finally managing to punch through weeks of cloud cover, his face split into a grin so wide and bright it was almost blinding. âsuguru. suguru, you beautiful, beautiful bastard. thatâs genius.â
âi know.â
âno, like, actual genius. this is why i keep you around.â gojo was already on his feet, pacing, hands flying as he talked. âokay, okay, notes. anonymous notes. what initial though? g. s. is too obvious. what aboutââ
âjust use âgâ or âsâ, there are like a hundred people like that,â suguru said smoothly. âsheâll wonder.â
âperfect. notes from s. mysterious s. sheâs going to be dying to know who it is. sheâs going to think about it in class and look around like who could it be and iâll be sitting right there, completely incognito, and sheâll have no idea.â gojo stopped pacing, pointed at suguru. he was practically vibrating with excitement now. âand then, when the time is right, boom. i look her dead in the eye, say something smoothâi donât know what yet, iâll workshop itâand sheâll realize itâs been me all along.â
âthatâs the plan,â suguru agreed, already turning back to his laptop. ânow please let me finish this outline.â
gojo didnât let him finish the outline. gojo spent the next hour and a half interrogating suguru about exactly what the notes should say, what color paper he should use, whether he should write in print or cursive, whether he should spray them with cologne (suguru vetoed this immediately and firmly), and whether âi think about you approximately 4,763 times per dayâ was too intense for a first note (suguru suggested he maybe scale it back).
by the time gojo finally retreated to his own room, armed with a fresh pack of stationary heâd ordered for express delivery and a head full of half-formed couplets he was definitely going to google later, suguru was already mentally preparing for the fallout.
gojoâs plans, no matter how well-intentioned, had a tendency to implode spectacularly. but suguru had to admit that heâd never seen his friend like this, so genuinely worried about making someone feel good instead of just trying to win.
suguru looked at the ceiling, the same one gojo had been staring at an hour ago, and let out a long, slow breath. he really hoped it wouldnât implode. gojoâs heart, it turned out, was actually quite fragile. and suguru wasnât sure either of them knew what to do with that.
â
the first note was a triumph.
gojo had spent approximately forty-seven minutes agonizing over it, which was forty-six minutes longer than he'd ever spent on anything romantic in his entire life. he'd gone through three different types of paperâ too formal, too basic, too aggressively scented because apparently some of his stationary had been sitting next to an old candleâ before settling on a simple pink sticky note.
his usual script was messy, impatient, the letters slanting forward like they were trying to escape the page. but for this? for you? he'd slowed down and shaped each character with the kind of care he usually reserved for, well, nothing.
your quiet laugh in class today made my whole week. canât stop thinking about it. - s.
suguru had said not to go too intense and this felt like the right balanceâ specific enough that you'd know it was real, vague enough that you'd have to wonder. gojo read it seventeen times, folded it into a neat square, and tucked it into his palm where his sweaty fingers could clutch it like a talisman.
the delivery itself required a level of stealth gojo didn't know he possessed. lecture break. you'd gotten up to refill your water bottleâ he knew this because he'd been tracking your movements with the focus of a nature documentarian observing a particularly skittish woodland creatureâ and you'd left your bag on the floor beside your chair, unzipped like always. an invitation, almost. a sign from the universe that this was meant to be.
he slipped out of his seat, crossed the three rows between you in what felt like slow motion. his heart was slamming against his ribs so hard he was genuinely worried other people could hear it. his hands, usually so steady, were shaking. gojo satoru, who had never been nervous a day in his life, who approached everything with the unshakable confidence of someone who'd never truly failed at anything, was trembling over a pink sticky note.
he dropped it in your bag quickly, then he returned to his seat, dropped his head into his hands, and spent the next three minutes trying to remember how to breathe properly.
you came back, sat down, didn't notice anything amiss.
gojo spent the rest of the break staring at the back of your head with such intense concentration that he was genuinely surprised your hair didn't catch fire.
eventually, the class resumed. the professor launched into a lecture on syllabic meter in traditional japanese poetry versus free verseâwhatever, honestly, who gives a fuckâ gojo heard approximately none of it. he was too busy watching you, watching the way you idly reached into your bag for a highlighter and paused. felt around. pulled out something small and pink.
your head tilted, a tiny furrow appearing between your brows as you unfolded the note.
gojo forgot to breathe.
he watched your eyes move across the wordsâ once, twiceâand then watched the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen happen in real time.
the blush started at your neck, crept up your throat, flooded your cheeks in a wash of rose pink so perfect it should have been illegal. you bit your lip, which only made it worse. your mouth was doing this almost-smile you were clearly trying to suppress, and your eyes darted around the room like you expected to catch someone watching.
you were looking for him. you didn't know it was him, but you were looking.
gojo slumped lower in his chair, pulled his sunglasses down from his forehead to cover his eyes, and tried very hard not to scream. victory. complete, total, absolute victory.
you tucked the note into your jacket pocket, the one right over your heart, like it was something precious, something worth keeping, and for the rest of the lecture you were visibly distracted. you checked the note twice more before class ended. your leg bounced under the desk. you chewed on the end of your pen and stared into the middle distance with that tiny secret smile still hovering at the corners of your mouth.
gojo felt like he was going to ascend directly into heaven.
score one for satoru.
he told suguru everything that night, sprawled across the couch while their takeout ramen went cold on the coffee table. the color of the note, the angle of his approach, the exact sequence of expressions that had crossed your face. he reenacted your furtive glance-around-the-room with such dramatic flair that he nearly rolled off the couch cushions.
âshe was flustered, man,â he said, his voice gone reverent and breathless. âlike, blushing like a tomato. the cutest tomato. i didnât know tomatoes could be cute but she was. sheâs revolutionized my entire understanding of tomatoes.â
suguru chuckled, low and fond, twirling cold noodles around his chopsticks. âdonât screw it up.â
âscrew it up? me? iâm literally incapable of screwing up.â he paused. âwhat if i screw it up.â
âyou wonât.â
âbut what if i do.â
âsatoru.â
âokay. okay. i wonât. iâm not going to. the note was perfect. she liked the note. she put the note in her pocket, suguru. her chest pocket. thatâs basically, like, the human equivalent of a treasure chest. iâm in the treasure chest.â
suguru just shook his head, but he was smiling. gojo counted that as a win too.
âŚnote two came three days later, timed for maximum impact.
heâd done his research. or, more accurately, heâd done three days of very casual, very not-obvious stalking that definitely didnât count as stalking because it was romantic and suguru said it was fine as long as he didnât follow you home or something. heâd learned your schedule through careful observation and one innocuous question to the poetry professor about whether there was a shared class calendar available. there wasnât. but heâd gotten what he needed anyway.
thursdays. you worked the evening shift at the campus library, reshelving returns and manning the front desk when the student staff was short. thursdays, 4 to 8 pm. heâd borrowed a book from the section you always restocked firstâ a slim volume of translated contemporary poetry heâd grabbed at random, the cover tastefully minimal with a single bird silhouetted against fog. heâd checked it out properly and everything. he was committing to the bit.
the note went inside the front cover, positioned so it would flutter out the moment you opened the book. cream paper this time, slightly textured, because pink felt too repetitive and he wanted you to know that s was paying attention. that s noticed things. that s put thought into these details in a way that was definitely not obsessive and completely normal.
saw you recommending that novel to the freshman. your passion for stories is captivating. wish i could learn more from you. - s.
he lingered in the stacks afterward, pretending to browse manga heâd already read three times. his heart was doing that aggressive thing again, his palms were sweating. he was pretty sure heâd been staring at the same volume of attack on titan for twelve minutes without processing a single word.
eventually, though, you found it.
you were shelving returns, your cart parked at the end of the aisle, and you pulled the slim poetry volume from the stack with efficient, practiced hands. the note fluttered out. you caught it and unfolded it with shaking fingers.
your eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping you, barely audible even in the relative quiet of the library. that shy, beautiful smile, the one that was trying so hard to stay hidden and failing completely the other day, appeared again. your fingertips traced the words. once, twice, as if you were memorizing them by touch.
you slipped the note into your apron pocket. the same pocket, he noticed. the one closest to your heart.
you glanced over your shoulder, scanning the aisles, searching for a face to match the initial. gojo ducked behind a shelf so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, pressing his spine against the cold wood and holding his breath. his heart was going to kill him, fuck, it was going to burst right out of his chest and flop around on the library carpet like a dying fish and you would find it and know everything and he was not ready for that yet.
he waited until your cart moved to the next aisle before he peeled himself off the shelf and practically fled the library.
you were flustered all shift. he knew because he circled back twenty minutes laterâ for research purposes, purely for researchâ and watched from behind a display of new arrivals as you shelved books with distracted hands, pausing every few minutes to touch your pocket. to press your palm flat against the paper inside and to smile at nothing in particular.
pure gold. absolute, undiluted, one hundred percent pure gold.
he floated home that night, feet barely touching the pavement, texting suguru a string of heart-eyes emojis so long it fractured into three separate messages. suguru replied with a single eye-roll emoji, which gojo chose to interpret as enthusiastic support.
âsheâs so cute, god,â he announced the moment suguru walked through the door from his TA gig. he was upside down on the couch, legs draped over the backrest, phone balanced on his stomach. âsuguru, she kept touching the note like it was magic. like iâd written her a spell instead of, you know, some nice words.â
ânice words, huh?â suguru set down his bag, eyeing him warily, but there was something soft underneath it. something that looked almost like hope. âjust donât overdo it. valentineâs day is next week. you need to either escalate or reveal.â
âpatience, grasshopper.â gojo tossed the cushion aside, already reaching for his phone to start brainstorming note three. âyou canât rush art. this is a delicate process. weâre building anticipation. weâre establishing narrative tension. weâreââ
âyouâre going to give yourself an ulcer.â
ââcrafting a love story for the ages. now shh, i need to concentrate. do you think âyour hair smells so good and also i want to marry youâ is too weird or the right amount of weird?â
suguru stared at him for a long, long moment. then he walked to his room and closed the door.
gojo took that as a maybe.
part 2: valentine's catastrophe (and chaos)
the notes kept coming, each one a tiny arrow straight to gojo's ego, which was already dangerously inflated to begin with. by the end of the second week, he'd left eight of them scattered through your life like breadcrumbs leading directly to his stupid, hopeful heart.
eight notes. eight perfect little moments of watching you react.
note number two had been slipped into the sketchbook you always carried to your open studio sessions on wednesdays. gojo had done reconnaissanceâ casually asked around, discovered your art minor, your preferred medium (charcoal, apparently, which he'd had to google), your habit of leaving your supplies unattended while you went to rinse your brushes. easy access. he'd written it on a piece of textured cream paper this time, something that felt artistic, and folded it into the exact page you'd been working on last week.
that smile of yours? weapon of mass distraction. - s.
he'd watched from the doorway of the studio, pretending to be on his phone, as you returned to your seat and found it. your hand had flown to your mouth. your cheeks had gone that perfect shade of rose again, and you'd looked around the room with those wide, searching eyes, and gojo had to physically restrain himself from doing a victory lap around the entire fine arts building.
note number three found its way onto your locker, held in place by a tiny piece of tape he'd borrowed from the campus library desk when the librarian wasn't looking. he'd waited until you were in classâ he knew your schedule now, duh, had memorized it like exam materialâ and stuck it there with shaking hands, heart pounding at the sheer audacity of doing something so unlike him.
there is no better way to describe you other than: you're art. - s.
you'd found it between second and third period. he'd positioned himself at a bench across the quad, sunglasses on, pretending to read a textbook that was definitely upside down. you'd stopped in front of your locker, spotted the note, and hid your beautiful smile behind your hand. it didn't work. you'd looked around, he'd ducked behind his book, and then you'd carefully, so carefully, peeled the note off and tucked it into the pages of the poetry anthology you always carried.
note number four was probably his favorite, if he was allowed to have favorites, which he definitely was because he was the one writing them.
he'd followed you to your usual cafĂŠâ the one with the good matcha and the terrible lighting and the cat-shaped napkin dispensers on every table. you'd sat in your usual corner, ordered your usual drink, pulled out your usual book. gojo had ordered an iced coffee he didn't want(too bitter) and sat three tables away, watching over the rim of his sunglasses as you read, occasionally looking up with that soft, distant expression you got when you were thinking about something in the text.
when you'd gone up to order a second drink, as you were clearly settling in for a long study session, he'd made his move. quick, efficient, heart trying to escape through his throat. he'd written the note on a napkin from the dispenser at your table, tucked it under the sugar packet where you'd definitely see it, and retreated to his seat just as you were coming back with your cup.
he heard you humming today. made my heart skip a beat. - s.
you'd sat down. reached for the sugar. paused. picked up the napkin. and thenâand this was the part gojo replayed in his head approximately eight hundred times that nightâyou'd laughed. a real laugh, not the quiet one he'd mentioned in the first note, but something brighter, surprised, delighted. you'd clapped your hand over your mouth immediately afterward, but it was too late. he'd heard it, he'd literally catalogued it! he'd added it to the growing collection of your sounds that lived in his brain rent-free.
every time he left a note, he found a way to watch. across the quad, through the library stacks, pretending to study at a nearby table, lurking in doorways like the world's most obvious secret admirer. he was not subtle. he knew he was not subtle. but somehow, miraculously, you never noticed him. you were too busy blushing, too busy smiling, too busy showing the notes to your friends with that excited, wondering expression that made his chest feel too full.
and your reactions? pure gold. absolute cinema. better than anything he could have scripted.
your shy smilesâ the ones you'd been giving the world since he first noticed youâ had transformed into full-on grins that you'd try to hide behind your hand, behind your hair, behind whatever book you happened to be holding. it never worked. the joy leaked out around the edges, visible in the crinkle of your eyes, the way your shoulders lifted, the tiny bounce in your step when you thought no one was watching.
once, he caught you showing a note to your friend in the art lounge. he'd been "coincidentally" walking pastâ he'd waited outside for twenty minutes for this coincidence to occur âand through the window he'd seen you pull out the collection of them, spread them on the table like evidence, your hands moving excitedly as you talked.
"who do you think 's' is?" you'd asked, and even through the glass, even from this distance, he could see the genuine curiosity in your face.
you looked so happy, so intrigued. so completely, utterly unaware that the idiot responsible was currently pressing himself against a wall outside to avoid being seen, grinning so hard his face hurt.
gojo floated through classes on cloud nine after that. he aced a quiz he hadn't studied for because the universe was clearly on his side. he helped an old lady carry her groceries and felt genuinely good about it. he even did his share of the dishes without being asked or yelled at, which made suguru check his forehead for fever.
"you're gonna get caught," suguru warned him for the fifth time, watching gojo practice his signature on a scrap of paper. the final note, the big reveal. he'd been working on it for days.
"worth it," gojo said without looking up, adjusting the loop of the s in his name. "totally, completely, absolutely worth it."
"you're not even trying to be subtle anymore."
"subtlety is for people who have something to hide. i have something to share. there's a difference." gojo held up the note, examining his handwriting with the critical eye of an art connoisseur. "this is the one, suguru. she's going to read this and her heart is going to explode with romance and then i'm going to walk in and she's going to realize it's been me all along and we're going to live happily ever after and you're going to be the best man at our wedding."
"you haven't even spoken to her yet."
"i've spoken to her! i said 'excuse me' that one time in the coffee shop. we have a history." gojo waved this away. "the point is, this is happening. valentine's day. tomorrow. i'm ready."
suguru looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. "and if it doesn't go the way you're planning?"
gojo's pen paused. "what do you mean?"
"i mean, what if she's not into you? what if she's been enjoying the mystery and the reality is disappointing?" suguru's voice was gentle, because he knew he was poking at something soft. "you've built this up a lot in your head. just... be prepared for any response. okay?"
gojo was quiet for a beat, but after a second, he grinned, bright and blinding, the armor sliding back into place. "she's going to love it. she's going to love me. i'm lovable, suguru. statistically, it's very likely."
suguru didn't push. he just nodded, clapped gojo on the shoulder, and went back to his own work. but the worry stayed in his eyes, tucked away behind his usual calm.
⌠valentine's day dawned crisp and sunny, the kind of perfect february morning that made everything feel possible. the sky was that particular shade of blue that only happened in early spring, the air carried the faint smell of something blooming, and gojo satoru woke up feeling like the main character in a rom-com. which, in his mind, he absolutely was.
he stood in front of his closet for forty-five minutes, trying on and discarding approximately seventeen outfit combinations. too casual. too formal. too try-hard. too whatever the opposite of try-hard was. he finally settled on something that looked effortless even though it had taken genuine effort: black jeans that fit him well, a simple white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, his favorite sunglasses perched on his head. he looked as approachable as always, plenty charming and handsome enough for it to get to his head.
the final note was a masterpiece. he'd written it on proper stationary this time, pastel blue-colored with a slight texture, and folded it into an envelope with your name on it in his neatest handwriting. inside, the words he'd rehearsed a hundred times and a place and time.
all he had to do was get the note into your poetry class folderâ the shared folder you and suguru used for group assignments, which was admittedly a little risky but also kinda cleverâ and then intercept you after class for the big reveal. you'd open the folder. you'd find the note. you'd read it. and then he'd be there, leaning against the doorframe, sunglasses pushed up, smile in place, ready to say the line he'd been practicing in the mirror for three days.
all this time, it was me, sweetheart. (or maybe not sweetheart, yet? though you definitely are a sweetheart, the prettiest girl everâ okay, shut the fuck up, satoru.)
you'd melt, obviously. there was no other possible outcome.
gojo skipped his morning lecture to plant it. the humanities building was quiet at this hour, most students still in bed or nursing hangovers or actually attending their classes like responsible people. he slipped into the classroom where your shared poetry elective met on tuesdays and thursdays, found the shelf where the class kept their shared materials, and located the folder with your name and suguru's name on the tab.
his heart was hammering. his hands were shaking.
he slid the envelope inside, positioned it so you'd see it immediately when you opened the folder and stepped back to admire his work. the culmination of two weeks of careful planning and romantic genius.
"game on," he whispered to the empty classroom, and absolutely nobody was there to witness the dorky little dance he did on his way out.
now all he had to do was wait.
three hours until your class started. three hours until you found the note. three hours until everything changed.
gojo spent those three hours in a state of escalating nervous energy, texting suguru approximately forty-seven times with updates on his emotional state ranging from "i'm fine this is fine" to "what if she says no what if she already has a boyfriend" to "suguru why aren't you answering me are you dead if you're dead who's going to be my best man" to "okay class starts in ten minutes i'm going in wish me luck".
suguru's response, when it finally came, was characteristically brief: shut the fuck up.
gojo pocketed his phone, took a deep breath, and made his way toward the humanities building.
toward whatever happened next.
â
poetry class dragged for you, but in the best way possible. the minutes ticked by slowly because you were counting them, because your brain was elsewhere, because for the past two weeks, tuesdays and thursdays had become something you actually looked forward to instead of just another obligation on your schedule.
it was all because of the notes.
the mysterious "s" notes that had started appearing in your life like little gifts from the universe, folded into your things with such care, such attention, such perfect understanding of exactly what would make your heart stutter.
they'd begun right after you and suguru had bonded over haikus last monthâ that moment in class when the professor had asked for volunteers to share their attempts at the traditional form, and you'd both looked at each other with identical expressions of please don't make me do this, and somehow that shared terror had cracked into laughter, into light conversation, into a small friendship that made the class infinitely better.
sharing the class with suguru made sense, you'd told yourself. he was easy to talk to, calm in a way that balanced out your nervous energy, always ready with some insightful observation about the readings that made you see them differently. he had that quiet smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and he never seemed to mind when you rambled about a poem you loved or asked him to explain a concept you hadn't quite grasped.
the notes mostly seemed like they where him. the timing and the location and your shared schedule.
that was the thing you couldn't stop thinking about. the handwriting wasn't hisâ you'd seen enough of suguru's scrawled notes passed across the table at the library to know he wrote like a doctor with somewhere better to beâ but the content was poetic and sweet and observant in a way that made you feel seen, really seen, not just noticed.
whoever "s" was, they paid attention to the small things: your laugh, your blush, the way you hummed when you thought no one was listening. they never pushed, never asked for anything, just left these little affirmations tucked into your life like secrets.
your stomach had been doing this thing lately, fluttering and swooping. and the butterflies, god, the kind of butterflies you'd read about in novels but never really believed in until now. every time you thought about the notes your insides turned into something warm and liquid and terrifying.
because whoever "s" was, they saw you, they saw all the awkward edges and quiet quirks, and they liked it. they liked you.
class ended eventually, the professor's voice fading into the background as students began packing up, chairs scraping against floor, the usual end-of-lecture chaos. you were slower than everyone else, distracted, your eyes already scanning the shelf where the shared folder lived.
an envelope, your name written on the front in handwriting you'd memorized by now, even though you'd only seen it on seven previous notes. this one was different thoughâ proper stationery instead of sticky notes or napkins, something that felt significant, important.
your hands trembled slightly as you pulled it out, as you opened it, as your eyes found the words inside.
every note, every smile i caused: it's because i'm crazy about you. meet me by the oak tree after class? âs.
your breath caught in your throat. today. he wanted to meet today. right now, probably, since class had just ended and the oak tree was only a five-minute walk across the quad. your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears, feel it in your temples, in your throat, in your fingertips where they clutched the paper like it might disappear.
okay. you could do this. you could walk to the oak tree and find out who "s" was andâ
and if it was suguru, you'd have to let him down gently.
the thought made something twist in your chest, uncomfortable and guilty. you liked the notes. you liked the attention, the validation, the feeling of being seen. but the person you'd been thinking about lately, the one who made your pulse skip for reasons you couldn't quite explain, the one who'd been orbiting your life like some kind of beautiful disaster⌠that wasn't suguru.
that was the tall one. the one with the sunglasses perpetually perched on his head, even indoors, even on cloudy days. the one with the white hair that looked deliberately messy but probably took actual effort to achieve. the one who laughed too loud in public spaces and made terrible jokes and seemed to exist in a permanent state of chaotic energy that you found yourself strangely, inexplicably drawn to.
gojo satoru.
you didn't even know him, not really. you'd exchanged approximately five words with him in your entire life, most of them apologies for the coffee incident that had stained his sneakers forever. but ever since that day, you'd been noticing him everywhere. in the quad. at the library. at your cafĂŠ, of all places, sitting three tables away with an iced coffee he barely touched, his sunglasses doing nothing to hide the fact that he kept looking in your direction.
you'd caught him watching you during poetry class, too. multiple times. you'd pretend to be absorbed in your notes, but you could feel his gaze on the back of your neck, warm and heavy, and whenever you'd risk a glance over your shoulder, he'd be looking away too fast, a flush creeping up the back of his neck that he probably thought you couldn't see.
it was confusing, it was annoying, and it was also, against all logic and reason, completely endearing.
so if suguru was "s"â and it made sense, it really did, the timing and the sensitivity and the way he always seemed to know when you were having a bad dayâ you'd have to tell him the truth, gently and kindly. you'd have to explain that you valued his little friendship too much, that you hoped this wouldn't change things, that the notes were beautiful but your heart was already leaning in a different direction.
toward someone who was probably going to break it, if you were being honest with yourself. someone who flirted with everything that moved and would never look twice at someone like you. (except he did, donât give up, reader-chan!!)
but still, your heart wanted what it wanted.
you spotted suguru across the room, gathering his books with his usual unhurried grace, long hair falling over his shoulder as he bent to pick up a pen he'd dropped. now or never. you had to know.
"suguru?"
your voice came out smaller than you intended, barely above a whisper, and you felt the familiar heat already creeping up your neck, flooding your cheeks. you approached his desk like you were walking toward an execution, the envelope clutched in your hands like evidence.
he looked up, and there it wasâ that warm surprise in his expression, the slight lift of his eyebrows, the way his mouth curved into something gentle and questioning. "hey, everything okay?"
no. yes. you didn't know. you fidgeted with the envelope, unable to meet his eyes, words tumbling out before you could stop them.
"the notes. the ones signed 's'. i thinkâi mean, are they from you? it's valentine's, and this one..." you held it out, mortified, determined, your hand shaking slightly. "i just need to know. because if they are, i need to tell you something, and i don't want to hurt your feelings but i also don't want to lead you on, andâ"
suguru blinked. once. twice. and then his eyes went wide in a way you'd never seen before, something between realization and alarm flickering across his usually composed features.
"notes?" he said slowly. "waitâ"
he stopped, looked at the envelope in your hand. looked at your face, suffering matching his own face flushed and anxious. looked toward the door, where you realized distantly that someone was standing, someone tall with white hair and sunglasses pushed up and an expression on his face that you couldn't quite read from here.
suguru looked back at you. opened his mouth, then closed it.
and then he did something you'd never seen him do beforeâ
geto suguru, calmest person you'd ever met, put his face in his hands and started laughing.
â
gojo lurked outside the lecture hall like the world's most obvious secret agent, which is to say he was doing a terrible job of being subtle about it. he was bouncing on his heels, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved deep in his pockets to stop himself from doing something insane like pacing or screaming or both. his sunglasses were firmly in place because they were his armor, his shield, the only thing standing between the world and the absolute mess of emotions currently ricocheting around inside his chest.
any minute now. any minute now you'd emerge from that classroom, having found his note, having read his words, having realized that the mysterious "s" had been right there all along. you'd look around with those wide eyes, searching for whoever had left you that envelope, and he'd be here, waiting, ready to deliver the line he'd practiced in the mirror approximately eight thousand times.
all this time, it was me.
you'd probably swoon. people swooned around him all the time, statistically it was very likely.
he checked his phone. checked the door. checked his phone again. bounced on his heels some more. a few people walking past gave him weird looks, but that was fine. he was used to weird looks.
the door opened.
gojo straightened immediately, heart launching into his throat, as he failed to hideâ
you stepped out of the classroom with geto. his geto, his roommate, his best friend, the voice of reason who had helped him plan this whole stupid scheme in the first place. you were walking close together, too close, your head tilted up toward him, your mouth moving animatedly. and in your hand, clutched like something precious, his envelope.
gojo's stomach dropped through the floor, through the ground, through the earth's core and out the other side.
no.
no no no no no.
this was not happening. this could not be happening. he was dreaming. he had to be dreaming. any second now he'd wake up in his beanbag chair with suguru yelling at him to do the dishes and this would all have been a terrible nightmare.
he didn't wake up.
suguru was shaking his head at whatever you were saying, his expression doing that thing it did when he was very fond of someone. and you were smiling. shyly, sweetly, that soft smile gojo had been cataloguing for months, the one that made his chest hurt in the best way. you were gesturing with your free hand, the envelope waving slightly with the movement, and you looked so hopeful, so earnest, soâ
suguru's hand came up, rested on your arm, gently and comfortingly.
or flirty?
gojo's brain, which had already vacated the premises, officially short-circuited.
the realization hit like a truck: you thinks it's suguru. of course you thinks it's him. poetry classâyou shared it, you'd bonded over haikus or whatever, suguru had mentioned thatâsuguru had those in spades, the long hair, the calm demeanor, the way he looked at people like he could see right through them. the perfect "s." suguru, not satoru. his roommate, not him, the idiot currently having a crisis outside the lecture hall.
and now you were confessing? on valentine's day? to his best friend? with the note satoru wrote still in your hands?
panic clawed up gojo's throat, sharp and immediate, stealing his breath. he couldn'tâhe wouldn'tânot like this. not after two weeks of perfect notes and your smile and the way you'd tucked each one into your pocket like treasure. not after he'd spent forty-five minutes picking out stationery and another hour practicing his handwriting and another three days rehearsing a single line.
not after he'd fallen for you so hard and so completely that he couldn't remember what his life had looked like before you stumbled into it, literally, iced coffee and wide eyes and apologies tumbling from your lips.
his legs started moving before his brain caught up.
he burst between you and suguru like a, slightly out of breath, definitely out of his mind, grabbing your wrist lightly, enough to stop whatever was happening.
"they were from me!"
the words came out louder than intended, echoing slightly in the open space. several heads turned. a couple of passing students stopped walking to stare. gojo didn't care, his sunglasses had slid crooked on his face, revealing one wild blue eye, the other still hidden behind smudged lens. he took them off, hissing at the pain briefly, before shoving them into his pocket and continuing.
"the notes," he gasped, because he was still out of breath from sprinting, because his heart was trying to escape through his throat, because you were looking at him with an expression he couldn't read and it was terrifying. "the 's'âall me! not suguru!"
you froze, your body going still as a statue. your eyes, those beautiful eyes he'd been dreaming about for months, went impossibly wide. the envelope crinkled in your grip.
"w-what?" your voice came out tiny, disbelieving. "gojo?"
suguru stepped back, both hands behind his back, and he was smirking, that he absolute menace. he was smirking like he'd known this would happen all along, like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.
"took you long enough, satoru."
gojo ignored him, because you were still looking at him with those wide eyes, still holding his note, still close enough that he could see the way your pulse fluttered at your throat, the way your lips had parted slightly in surprise.
"please don't tell me you like suguru." the words tumbled out in a frantic rush, unstoppable now that he'd started. "i saw you two talking, and the note, and it's valentine's day, and you were holding my envelope, andâoh god, you were gonna confess to him, weren't you? after all my hard work? i did it all because i like you! like, like you. a lot. don't pick him!"
you were staring at him through the absolute, complete, terrifying silence. suguru was watching with barely concealed amusement. somewhere in the background, a bird chirped, completely oblivious to the fact that gojo satoru was currently having a full emotional breakdown in the middle of the quad.
a few seconds later, you started laughing. soft at first, barely there, like you weren't sure you were allowed to let it out. but then it grew, bubbled up from somewhere genuine, your hand coming up to cover your mouth even as your eyes crinkled at the corners. it cut straight through gojo's panic like sunlight through clouds, although he wasnât sure what you were laughing at.
"no, gojo." your voice was muffled behind your hand, but he heard it. heard every syllable. "i thought it was suguru because of poetry class. but i wasn't confessing." you lowered your hand, and your smile, full and warm and directed at him, made his knees feel weird. "i was gonna reject him."
gojo blinked. processed. failed to process. tried again.
"reject... him?"
"yeah." you held his gaze, even though your voice got more vulnerable. "the notes were really sweet, and whoever wrote them obviously put a lot of thought into them. but..." you swallowed. "my heart was already kinda taken. by someone else."
someone else.
someone else.
not suguru. someone else.
gojo's brain, which had been through quite enough today thank you very much, struggled to catch up. someone else meantâit couldn't meanâwas it possibleâ
your fingers reached for his hand.
the one still hovering near your wrist, gentle and tentative. you laced them together, soft and warm, and gojo forgot how to breathe. your palm against his, your fingers slotting between his fingers, your skin, warm and real and actually touching him.
you stretched up on tiptoes.
time slowed, the hall faded, the staring students disappeared. suguru ceased to exist. there was only you, rising up, your face coming closer to his, your breath warm against his cheek as your lips brushed his skin.
a quick, feather-light kiss. barely there and yet absolutely, completely earth-shattering.
gojo's world tilted on its axis.
heat flooded his face, rushed through his entire body, turned his bones to jelly and his brain to static. his knees actually wobbled. gojo satoru, who had never been weak in his life, who had never been at a loss for words or composure or confidence, felt his legs turn to liquid beneath him.
she kissed me.
the thought echoed through his skull, bounced around, refused to settle.
she kissed ME.
stars burst behind his eyes. like in cartoons, like in movies, like in all the ridiculous romantic comedies he pretended to hate but secretly loved. his grip on your hand tightened instinctively, the only thing keeping him upright and keeping him from floating away entirely on a cloud of pure, undiluted joy.
a dopey grin spread across his face.
"you... you like me?" his voice cracked on the last word. "like, me?"
you nodded, and then you were hiding half your smile against his shoulder, your face pressed into the fabric of his shirt like you were embarrassed, like you hadn't just turned his entire world inside out with three seconds of contact.
"yeah, satoru." your voice was muffled against his shoulder, but he heard it. "all this time."
satoru. you'd said satoru. his name, in your voice, with that shy smile hiding against his shoulder. gojoâsatoruâfelt like he might actually explode.
suguru cleared his throat, loud and pointed. "you two are disgustingly cute. i'm out."
satoru barely registered the wave, barely noticed his best friend disappearing into the crowd. all his attention was on you, on the way you felt against him, on the way your hand was still tangled with his, on the way his cheek was still tingling where your lips had been.
he pulled you closer, like he'd been waiting his whole life to hold you and hadn't known it until this exact moment.
valentine's day was saved, no, better than saved. it was perfect. better than any plan he could have made, any note he could have written, any line he could have rehearsed. because you liked him back.
"so," he managed, voice still slightly wrecked but improving, "does this mean you'll still meet me at that place by the oak tree? because i had this whole thing planned, you know. romantic. candles, maybe. i don't actually know if they allow candles on campus, i didn't check, but i was gonna figure something out."
you laughed against his shoulder, and the vibration of it traveled through his entire body, settled somewhere warm in his chest.
"i'll meet you anywhere, satoru."
"and you'll have dinner with me?"
"yes."
"and maybe let me hold your hand again? because this isâ" he squeezed your fingers gently, marveling at them, "âreally nice. like, really really nice. top five hand-holding experiences of my life, easily."
you pulled back just enough to look at him and your smile made his heart stutter.
"only top five?"
"okay, top one. definitely top one. the only one, actually. i've never held hands with anyone before. that was a lie. but this one is the best one, i can already tell."
you rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling, still holding his hand, still standing close enough that he could count your eyelashes if he wanted to, which he kind of did, actually.
"you're ridiculous."
"and now iâm yours," he countered, and then immediately flushed because that was cheesy, that was so cheesy, what was wrong with himâ
but you ducked your head again in that way that made his chest ache, and he knew heâd said something right.
"yeah," you whispered. "you are."
and standing there in the middle of the quad, surrounded by curious stares and the distant sounds of campus life, with valentine's day sunlight warming his shoulders and your hand in his and your laughter still lingering in the air between youâ
gojo satoru decided this was the best day of his entire life.
so far, anyway. he had a feeling it was only going to get better from here.
synopsis; being friends with gojo satoru isn't easy. it's even harder when you're in love with him and he doesn't love you back. the mixed signals are at an all time peak, and when you finally decide to make a leap of faith, you fall.
A/N: hello guys im back ! this was supposed to be a angst fic but somehow ended up more like a crackfic to me but its all good whatever. inspired by recent events or sum ngl no beta we die like men
red means stop. orange means maybe or slow down, green means go. everyone knows what the stoplight colors mean, and they have been so ingrained into our daily lives in society, that when you seen these colors you know what they mean.
gojo, has absolutely ruined your perception of those colors. some days itâs all green, you feel great about the level and aspect of your relationship with him, and others itâs the orange color of the crunchy autumn leaves below your feet.
it was autumn, the first time you met gojo satoru. the leaves had all fallen from the trees, and had begun to litter the school grounds, in various states of decomposition. you were sitting on the bench, waiting to be assigned your buddy for the day. eyes turned down towards your feet, you kicked the leaves around, feeling the warmth of elation and exhilaration tight in your chest.
the earthy smell of fall was almost pungent in the air, and the sharp bite of the wind was bringing color to your cheeks, reminded you of your country home. leaning your head back, you stare up at the bare branches of the tree above you, eyes tracing the descent and fall of a singular burnt umber cherry blossom leaf as it falls down in front, landing in your lap.
you pick the leaf up, crumbling its frail exoskeleton between your fingers, rejoicing at the crunch of the brittle oval shape.
your technique alerts you that another person has entered the courtyard, and is nearing you. you donât look up from the leaf you had begun to rip apart in your hands, throwing it over your side to join the rest of its brethren in the rite of passage, reduced to soil and ground.
a shadow falls over your form, and you look up, the sun blinding your eyes as they struggle to focus on the face looking down at you. Itâs a guy, maybe your age, with bright white hair and blinding blue eyes. He grins, teeth shining at you as he speaks.
âyouâre the new first year, right?â he asks, âIâm gojo, gojo satoru.â
since then, satoru has been a never ending presence within your life, shining brightly like an annoyingly persistent star, blinding you constantly with his flair and annoyance.
but at some point, the annoyance faded into something else. It was a slow process, not something that randomly exploded like fireworks and synapses in your head.
but soon, you started looking forward to every time you knew you would see him. something fluttering in your chest when he leaned in too close, pulling a leaf out of your hair after he pointed and laughed.
and soon, it was all the time. little hopeful thoughts when he looked at you too long, and when he seemed to remember something small you wanted him to.
you stayed silent, with so much build up of unanswered questions that caused your heart to clench whenever he turned away from you, turning to speak to someone else.
did you look at him funny? did you not laugh in time? what was it?
so many possibilities, so many could've been, would've been, wasn't.
"he cares about you, you know?" shoko says to you, the two of you sitting in a little cafe as you both watch satoru and suguru stand at the counter, ordering your desserts.
"who?" you ask, despite you knowing her answer.
"satoru." she says, giving you an eye like she knows what you're denying.
"he likes the attention." you say, as a distraction as you sip your drink, avoiding eye contact with shoko.
shoko watches you watch him, as if something in the way you observe every single thing he does will give insight to who you are as a person.
she's yet to learn anything, but she refuses to admit it to herself. all she knows about you is that you're soft, and will cave into satoru.
you swore that there was something from him towards you as well. unquestioning stares, where he looked at you like there was nothing else in the room, nothing else that would drag his blazing blues away from you.
but then there would be something that would distract him, and then heâd turn away, laugh, and act like there had never been something in the first place.
so what did it even mean? calls that outlasted the nights, voices blurred, eyes heavy, sleep kept at bay. and other nights, silent calls, just listening to him breathe on the other end as you closed your eyes.
when youâd wake up the next morning, youâd still be on call, and you could hear him shuffling around quietly as not to wake you up.
he remembered conversations you had months ago offhandedly, remembered your stupid specific order of subway sandwiches and liked to shower you with gifts.
the thoughtfulness you received from him was out of character, and something unseen and unprecedented in terms of gojo satoru.
and thatâs what made you feel special.
moments like these, where a guy had gotten too close to you within a party, his hands brushing over your hips as you danced.
satoru slammed in, cutting off the other guy's access to you, as if he had been your personal guard dog.
"i don't know why you let him, " he says, "we shouldn't associate ourselves with the likes of him."
the collective pronoun causes a flip in your heart, something that sounds suspiciously like jealousy present in his voice clenches at your heart like it has a personal vendetta against you, like it wants to rip your blood, your heart, your very soul and being out of of your body and watch you bleed out on the floor.
but satoru made you feel special. you thought you were special.
in hindsight, you shouldnât have. there really shouldn't have been something.
conversations with geto that hushed when you walked by, ending abruptly before you can hear, sometimes a sliver of a name being whispered from a mouth.
and the girls.
too many of them. its not like they were actively doing anything, and you cld never get him to tell you, but you were confused,
you donât know how he found all of them, but he always swore they were just friends. and soon, he was pulling away further. night-time calls gone unanswered, cerulean blue eyes no longer meeting yours across the classroom.
one time, he called you up in the middle of the night, asking you if you could help him with something. you agreed, and the next thing you knew, he texted you back saying that some other girl had helped him out.
it seemed like every time he just had to mention it was another girl, the gender pronouns emphasized heavily with the pair of observant, shocking eyes.
you hated that about him. or did you love it? humans are doomed to love what will hurt them the most.
âwhy donât you just tell him?â shoko asks one day, annoyance written across her face. sheâs heard you talk about this yuki girl almost four times within the last hour, where youâve been crashing out because you saw him hand her his sweater.
stupid december weather, am i right? you canât deal with this shit.
you'd been coming back from a mission, and you'd seen them sitting together on the bench. he had a smile that was on his face as bright as the sun, and you'd felt a sink in your chest from the jealousy of the source of the smile, wishing you had made him beam like that.
you'd run back to your dorm, a couple of tears pricking at your eyes. shoko had heard you running down the hall, and had comem to check on you.
and honestly, the amount of times youâve crashed out over the guy youâre not even dating is truly peak clown behaviour. you can't be a clown and have your grades slip, right?
the next thing you know, youâre staring at gojoâs dorm door
you turn to see shoko throw you a thumbs-up, before she disappears out of sight. probably to give you both space.
you sigh, and before you knock, you hear a shuffle, and the door unlocks and opens by itself.
you look up to see satoru staring down at you, eyes tired, and hair a mess.
âhey. whatâs up?â he smiles, tired but still happy to see you.
âsatoru, i need to tell you something.â the smile drops from his face, and he looks worried.
you stumble over your words, trying to get them out. âitâs not bad, i promise, unless you think itâs bad and then i guess-â
ây/n, calm down. whatâs wrong?â gojo asks.
you sigh.
âshit, satoru i like you. like really badly, and im sick of not knowing how you feel because one minute youâre acting like youâre in love with me and the next youâre out with some other girl, amd i know this is me ruining the friendship, but this was ruined as soon as i started liking you.â
you pause, heart hammering in your chest. you feel tears prick at your eyes, and then -
you hear a burst of laughter.
you look up, confusion evident and clear in your eyes.
âwhat?â
satoruâs laughing. and not some kind of half-assed laugh, but a genuine full bellied laugh where heâs hunched over grabbing at his stomach.
âthatâs- thatâs hilarious. youâre so funnyâ he manages to gasp out, tears pricking at his eyes as if heâs the one who just tried to confess his feelings.
youâre silent. genuinely. speechless. what does one even do in this situation?
âshit, did geto put you up to this?â satoru giggles, finally calming down, finger reaching up to wipe a genuine tear away from his eyes.
so you do what any self-respecting, reputation loving girl would do.
you lie.
âyeah. youâre right. how did you know?â you lie, the bold lie causes a heart string to knot in your chest.
âthere was no way that youâd like me, not in a million years.â satoru finishes, eyes somewhat blank andâŚwrong?
âhaha. yeah.â you deadpan. the tears are going to rush out now, so you slap your knees and go âwell, iâve got work to do now. thanks for your time! sorry, getoâs so funny that way, isnât he?â you say, tears pricking at your eyes.
âwait. you were being serious?â satoru interrupts, brows furrowed as he leans against the door frame.
youâre silent, facing away from him like youâve been caught in your escape route, because in some way, you have. your last shred of dignity, ripped away from you, torn to slivers, and it's almost as if you can see them ribbon and fall to the floor.
you sigh, refusing to turn around to meet his eyes, to meet the reality of your situation. how could you ever think that he had cared for you too? what kind of delusion was this? was everyone else just as blind as you, in all those times that they'd cheered you on, calling fated pair?
the same red string that you had fantasized being wrapped around your finger and connected to satoru was wrapped around your neck now, choking you till your face turned blue.
âshit, y/n. I- I canât. Iâm sorry.â is all satoru says, and you shrug, hoping that he could believe you, with the little words youâve said. you hope to keep some dignity and nonchalance, but all you can think about right now is how many people have lied to you.
you shrug like you can shrug away the months of pining, the anticipation, the will they or wonât they that everyone had commented on to you, but you canât.
âjust, i need some time. donât come by for awhile.â you say, before leaving without turning back to look at him.
satoruâs silent, and just as you walk away, you hear a girlâs voice from within his room.
âwho was that?â yuki asks, her fingers already curling into the sweater just earlier today he had given her to wear, now returned to his original owner.
the same sweater you wore, on the night he took you to watch the shooting stars and comets as they flashed across the sky, a year ago now, on the third of december.
he still recalls the way he'd stared at you as the light blue had shined on your face.
satoru takes one long hard look out the door, before he shuts it, turning back to her.
i saw that you were open for requests, and i was hoping i could make one. could you think about continuing or making another part of mixed signals with gojo? it was sooo good! đĽ°
tyy
haiii im so glad u liked it !! im totally open for it!! but just curious if we wanna continue on the angst route or more of a happy ending?
synopsis; being friends with gojo satoru isn't easy. it's even harder when you're in love with him and he doesn't love you back. the mixed signals are at an all time peak, and when you finally decide to make a leap of faith, you fall.
A/N: hello guys im back ! this was supposed to be a angst fic but somehow ended up more like a crackfic to me but its all good whatever. inspired by recent events or sum ngl no beta we die like men
red means stop. orange means maybe or slow down, green means go. everyone knows what the stoplight colors mean, and they have been so ingrained into our daily lives in society, that when you seen these colors you know what they mean.
gojo, has absolutely ruined your perception of those colors. some days itâs all green, you feel great about the level and aspect of your relationship with him, and others itâs the orange color of the crunchy autumn leaves below your feet.
it was autumn, the first time you met gojo satoru. the leaves had all fallen from the trees, and had begun to litter the school grounds, in various states of decomposition. you were sitting on the bench, waiting to be assigned your buddy for the day. eyes turned down towards your feet, you kicked the leaves around, feeling the warmth of elation and exhilaration tight in your chest.
the earthy smell of fall was almost pungent in the air, and the sharp bite of the wind was bringing color to your cheeks, reminded you of your country home. leaning your head back, you stare up at the bare branches of the tree above you, eyes tracing the descent and fall of a singular burnt umber cherry blossom leaf as it falls down in front, landing in your lap.
you pick the leaf up, crumbling its frail exoskeleton between your fingers, rejoicing at the crunch of the brittle oval shape.
your technique alerts you that another person has entered the courtyard, and is nearing you. you donât look up from the leaf you had begun to rip apart in your hands, throwing it over your side to join the rest of its brethren in the rite of passage, reduced to soil and ground.
a shadow falls over your form, and you look up, the sun blinding your eyes as they struggle to focus on the face looking down at you. Itâs a guy, maybe your age, with bright white hair and blinding blue eyes. He grins, teeth shining at you as he speaks.
âyouâre the new first year, right?â he asks, âIâm gojo, gojo satoru.â
since then, satoru has been a never ending presence within your life, shining brightly like an annoyingly persistent star, blinding you constantly with his flair and annoyance.
but at some point, the annoyance faded into something else. It was a slow process, not something that randomly exploded like fireworks and synapses in your head.
but soon, you started looking forward to every time you knew you would see him. something fluttering in your chest when he leaned in too close, pulling a leaf out of your hair after he pointed and laughed.
and soon, it was all the time. little hopeful thoughts when he looked at you too long, and when he seemed to remember something small you wanted him to.
you stayed silent, with so much build up of unanswered questions that caused your heart to clench whenever he turned away from you, turning to speak to someone else.
did you look at him funny? did you not laugh in time? what was it?
so many possibilities, so many could've been, would've been, wasn't.
"he cares about you, you know?" shoko says to you, the two of you sitting in a little cafe as you both watch satoru and suguru stand at the counter, ordering your desserts.
"who?" you ask, despite you knowing her answer.
"satoru." she says, giving you an eye like she knows what you're denying.
"he likes the attention." you say, as a distraction as you sip your drink, avoiding eye contact with shoko.
shoko watches you watch him, as if something in the way you observe every single thing he does will give insight to who you are as a person.
she's yet to learn anything, but she refuses to admit it to herself. all she knows about you is that you're soft, and will cave into satoru.
you swore that there was something from him towards you as well. unquestioning stares, where he looked at you like there was nothing else in the room, nothing else that would drag his blazing blues away from you.
but then there would be something that would distract him, and then heâd turn away, laugh, and act like there had never been something in the first place.
so what did it even mean? calls that outlasted the nights, voices blurred, eyes heavy, sleep kept at bay. and other nights, silent calls, just listening to him breathe on the other end as you closed your eyes.
when youâd wake up the next morning, youâd still be on call, and you could hear him shuffling around quietly as not to wake you up.
he remembered conversations you had months ago offhandedly, remembered your stupid specific order of subway sandwiches and liked to shower you with gifts.
the thoughtfulness you received from him was out of character, and something unseen and unprecedented in terms of gojo satoru.
and thatâs what made you feel special.
moments like these, where a guy had gotten too close to you within a party, his hands brushing over your hips as you danced.
satoru slammed in, cutting off the other guy's access to you, as if he had been your personal guard dog.
"i don't know why you let him, " he says, "we shouldn't associate ourselves with the likes of him."
the collective pronoun causes a flip in your heart, something that sounds suspiciously like jealousy present in his voice clenches at your heart like it has a personal vendetta against you, like it wants to rip your blood, your heart, your very soul and being out of of your body and watch you bleed out on the floor.
but satoru made you feel special. you thought you were special.
in hindsight, you shouldnât have. there really shouldn't have been something.
conversations with geto that hushed when you walked by, ending abruptly before you can hear, sometimes a sliver of a name being whispered from a mouth.
and the girls.
too many of them. its not like they were actively doing anything, and you cld never get him to tell you, but you were confused,
you donât know how he found all of them, but he always swore they were just friends. and soon, he was pulling away further. night-time calls gone unanswered, cerulean blue eyes no longer meeting yours across the classroom.
one time, he called you up in the middle of the night, asking you if you could help him with something. you agreed, and the next thing you knew, he texted you back saying that some other girl had helped him out.
it seemed like every time he just had to mention it was another girl, the gender pronouns emphasized heavily with the pair of observant, shocking eyes.
you hated that about him. or did you love it? humans are doomed to love what will hurt them the most.
âwhy donât you just tell him?â shoko asks one day, annoyance written across her face. sheâs heard you talk about this yuki girl almost four times within the last hour, where youâve been crashing out because you saw him hand her his sweater.
stupid december weather, am i right? you canât deal with this shit.
you'd been coming back from a mission, and you'd seen them sitting together on the bench. he had a smile that was on his face as bright as the sun, and you'd felt a sink in your chest from the jealousy of the source of the smile, wishing you had made him beam like that.
you'd run back to your dorm, a couple of tears pricking at your eyes. shoko had heard you running down the hall, and had comem to check on you.
and honestly, the amount of times youâve crashed out over the guy youâre not even dating is truly peak clown behaviour. you can't be a clown and have your grades slip, right?
the next thing you know, youâre staring at gojoâs dorm door
you turn to see shoko throw you a thumbs-up, before she disappears out of sight. probably to give you both space.
you sigh, and before you knock, you hear a shuffle, and the door unlocks and opens by itself.
you look up to see satoru staring down at you, eyes tired, and hair a mess.
âhey. whatâs up?â he smiles, tired but still happy to see you.
âsatoru, i need to tell you something.â the smile drops from his face, and he looks worried.
you stumble over your words, trying to get them out. âitâs not bad, i promise, unless you think itâs bad and then i guess-â
ây/n, calm down. whatâs wrong?â gojo asks.
you sigh.
âshit, satoru i like you. like really badly, and im sick of not knowing how you feel because one minute youâre acting like youâre in love with me and the next youâre out with some other girl, amd i know this is me ruining the friendship, but this was ruined as soon as i started liking you.â
you pause, heart hammering in your chest. you feel tears prick at your eyes, and then -
you hear a burst of laughter.
you look up, confusion evident and clear in your eyes.
âwhat?â
satoruâs laughing. and not some kind of half-assed laugh, but a genuine full bellied laugh where heâs hunched over grabbing at his stomach.
âthatâs- thatâs hilarious. youâre so funnyâ he manages to gasp out, tears pricking at his eyes as if heâs the one who just tried to confess his feelings.
youâre silent. genuinely. speechless. what does one even do in this situation?
âshit, did geto put you up to this?â satoru giggles, finally calming down, finger reaching up to wipe a genuine tear away from his eyes.
so you do what any self-respecting, reputation loving girl would do.
you lie.
âyeah. youâre right. how did you know?â you lie, the bold lie causes a heart string to knot in your chest.
âthere was no way that youâd like me, not in a million years.â satoru finishes, eyes somewhat blank andâŚwrong?
âhaha. yeah.â you deadpan. the tears are going to rush out now, so you slap your knees and go âwell, iâve got work to do now. thanks for your time! sorry, getoâs so funny that way, isnât he?â you say, tears pricking at your eyes.
âwait. you were being serious?â satoru interrupts, brows furrowed as he leans against the door frame.
youâre silent, facing away from him like youâve been caught in your escape route, because in some way, you have. your last shred of dignity, ripped away from you, torn to slivers, and it's almost as if you can see them ribbon and fall to the floor.
you sigh, refusing to turn around to meet his eyes, to meet the reality of your situation. how could you ever think that he had cared for you too? what kind of delusion was this? was everyone else just as blind as you, in all those times that they'd cheered you on, calling fated pair?
the same red string that you had fantasized being wrapped around your finger and connected to satoru was wrapped around your neck now, choking you till your face turned blue.
âshit, y/n. I- I canât. Iâm sorry.â is all satoru says, and you shrug, hoping that he could believe you, with the little words youâve said. you hope to keep some dignity and nonchalance, but all you can think about right now is how many people have lied to you.
you shrug like you can shrug away the months of pining, the anticipation, the will they or wonât they that everyone had commented on to you, but you canât.
âjust, i need some time. donât come by for awhile.â you say, before leaving without turning back to look at him.
satoruâs silent, and just as you walk away, you hear a girlâs voice from within his room.
âwho was that?â yuki asks, her fingers already curling into the sweater just earlier today he had given her to wear, now returned to his original owner.
the same sweater you wore, on the night he took you to watch the shooting stars and comets as they flashed across the sky, a year ago now, on the third of december.
he still recalls the way he'd stared at you as the light blue had shined on your face.
satoru takes one long hard look out the door, before he shuts it, turning back to her.
synopsis; being friends with gojo satoru isn't easy. it's even harder when you're in love with him and he doesn't love you back. the mixed signals are at an all time peak, and when you finally decide to make a leap of faith, you fall.
A/N: hello guys im back ! this was supposed to be a angst fic but somehow ended up more like a crackfic to me but its all good whatever. inspired by recent events or sum ngl no beta we die like men
red means stop. orange means maybe or slow down, green means go. everyone knows what the stoplight colors mean, and they have been so ingrained into our daily lives in society, that when you seen these colors you know what they mean.
gojo, has absolutely ruined your perception of those colors. some days itâs all green, you feel great about the level and aspect of your relationship with him, and others itâs the orange color of the crunchy autumn leaves below your feet.
it was autumn, the first time you met gojo satoru. the leaves had all fallen from the trees, and had begun to litter the school grounds, in various states of decomposition. you were sitting on the bench, waiting to be assigned your buddy for the day. eyes turned down towards your feet, you kicked the leaves around, feeling the warmth of elation and exhilaration tight in your chest.
the earthy smell of fall was almost pungent in the air, and the sharp bite of the wind was bringing color to your cheeks, reminded you of your country home. leaning your head back, you stare up at the bare branches of the tree above you, eyes tracing the descent and fall of a singular burnt umber cherry blossom leaf as it falls down in front, landing in your lap.
you pick the leaf up, crumbling its frail exoskeleton between your fingers, rejoicing at the crunch of the brittle oval shape.
your technique alerts you that another person has entered the courtyard, and is nearing you. you donât look up from the leaf you had begun to rip apart in your hands, throwing it over your side to join the rest of its brethren in the rite of passage, reduced to soil and ground.
a shadow falls over your form, and you look up, the sun blinding your eyes as they struggle to focus on the face looking down at you. Itâs a guy, maybe your age, with bright white hair and blinding blue eyes. He grins, teeth shining at you as he speaks.
âyouâre the new first year, right?â he asks, âIâm gojo, gojo satoru.â
since then, satoru has been a never ending presence within your life, shining brightly like an annoyingly persistent star, blinding you constantly with his flair and annoyance.
but at some point, the annoyance faded into something else. It was a slow process, not something that randomly exploded like fireworks and synapses in your head.
but soon, you started looking forward to every time you knew you would see him. something fluttering in your chest when he leaned in too close, pulling a leaf out of your hair after he pointed and laughed.
and soon, it was all the time. little hopeful thoughts when he looked at you too long, and when he seemed to remember something small you wanted him to.
you stayed silent, with so much build up of unanswered questions that caused your heart to clench whenever he turned away from you, turning to speak to someone else.
did you look at him funny? did you not laugh in time? what was it?
so many possibilities, so many could've been, would've been, wasn't.
"he cares about you, you know?" shoko says to you, the two of you sitting in a little cafe as you both watch satoru and suguru stand at the counter, ordering your desserts.
"who?" you ask, despite you knowing her answer.
"satoru." she says, giving you an eye like she knows what you're denying.
"he likes the attention." you say, as a distraction as you sip your drink, avoiding eye contact with shoko.
shoko watches you watch him, as if something in the way you observe every single thing he does will give insight to who you are as a person.
she's yet to learn anything, but she refuses to admit it to herself. all she knows about you is that you're soft, and will cave into satoru.
you swore that there was something from him towards you as well. unquestioning stares, where he looked at you like there was nothing else in the room, nothing else that would drag his blazing blues away from you.
but then there would be something that would distract him, and then heâd turn away, laugh, and act like there had never been something in the first place.
so what did it even mean? calls that outlasted the nights, voices blurred, eyes heavy, sleep kept at bay. and other nights, silent calls, just listening to him breathe on the other end as you closed your eyes.
when youâd wake up the next morning, youâd still be on call, and you could hear him shuffling around quietly as not to wake you up.
he remembered conversations you had months ago offhandedly, remembered your stupid specific order of subway sandwiches and liked to shower you with gifts.
the thoughtfulness you received from him was out of character, and something unseen and unprecedented in terms of gojo satoru.
and thatâs what made you feel special.
moments like these, where a guy had gotten too close to you within a party, his hands brushing over your hips as you danced.
satoru slammed in, cutting off the other guy's access to you, as if he had been your personal guard dog.
"i don't know why you let him, " he says, "we shouldn't associate ourselves with the likes of him."
the collective pronoun causes a flip in your heart, something that sounds suspiciously like jealousy present in his voice clenches at your heart like it has a personal vendetta against you, like it wants to rip your blood, your heart, your very soul and being out of of your body and watch you bleed out on the floor.
but satoru made you feel special. you thought you were special.
in hindsight, you shouldnât have. there really shouldn't have been something.
conversations with geto that hushed when you walked by, ending abruptly before you can hear, sometimes a sliver of a name being whispered from a mouth.
and the girls.
too many of them. its not like they were actively doing anything, and you cld never get him to tell you, but you were confused,
you donât know how he found all of them, but he always swore they were just friends. and soon, he was pulling away further. night-time calls gone unanswered, cerulean blue eyes no longer meeting yours across the classroom.
one time, he called you up in the middle of the night, asking you if you could help him with something. you agreed, and the next thing you knew, he texted you back saying that some other girl had helped him out.
it seemed like every time he just had to mention it was another girl, the gender pronouns emphasized heavily with the pair of observant, shocking eyes.
you hated that about him. or did you love it? humans are doomed to love what will hurt them the most.
âwhy donât you just tell him?â shoko asks one day, annoyance written across her face. sheâs heard you talk about this yuki girl almost four times within the last hour, where youâve been crashing out because you saw him hand her his sweater.
stupid december weather, am i right? you canât deal with this shit.
you'd been coming back from a mission, and you'd seen them sitting together on the bench. he had a smile that was on his face as bright as the sun, and you'd felt a sink in your chest from the jealousy of the source of the smile, wishing you had made him beam like that.
you'd run back to your dorm, a couple of tears pricking at your eyes. shoko had heard you running down the hall, and had comem to check on you.
and honestly, the amount of times youâve crashed out over the guy youâre not even dating is truly peak clown behaviour. you can't be a clown and have your grades slip, right?
the next thing you know, youâre staring at gojoâs dorm door
you turn to see shoko throw you a thumbs-up, before she disappears out of sight. probably to give you both space.
you sigh, and before you knock, you hear a shuffle, and the door unlocks and opens by itself.
you look up to see satoru staring down at you, eyes tired, and hair a mess.
âhey. whatâs up?â he smiles, tired but still happy to see you.
âsatoru, i need to tell you something.â the smile drops from his face, and he looks worried.
you stumble over your words, trying to get them out. âitâs not bad, i promise, unless you think itâs bad and then i guess-â
ây/n, calm down. whatâs wrong?â gojo asks.
you sigh.
âshit, satoru i like you. like really badly, and im sick of not knowing how you feel because one minute youâre acting like youâre in love with me and the next youâre out with some other girl, amd i know this is me ruining the friendship, but this was ruined as soon as i started liking you.â
you pause, heart hammering in your chest. you feel tears prick at your eyes, and then -
you hear a burst of laughter.
you look up, confusion evident and clear in your eyes.
âwhat?â
satoruâs laughing. and not some kind of half-assed laugh, but a genuine full bellied laugh where heâs hunched over grabbing at his stomach.
âthatâs- thatâs hilarious. youâre so funnyâ he manages to gasp out, tears pricking at his eyes as if heâs the one who just tried to confess his feelings.
youâre silent. genuinely. speechless. what does one even do in this situation?
âshit, did geto put you up to this?â satoru giggles, finally calming down, finger reaching up to wipe a genuine tear away from his eyes.
so you do what any self-respecting, reputation loving girl would do.
you lie.
âyeah. youâre right. how did you know?â you lie, the bold lie causes a heart string to knot in your chest.
âthere was no way that youâd like me, not in a million years.â satoru finishes, eyes somewhat blank andâŚwrong?
âhaha. yeah.â you deadpan. the tears are going to rush out now, so you slap your knees and go âwell, iâve got work to do now. thanks for your time! sorry, getoâs so funny that way, isnât he?â you say, tears pricking at your eyes.
âwait. you were being serious?â satoru interrupts, brows furrowed as he leans against the door frame.
youâre silent, facing away from him like youâve been caught in your escape route, because in some way, you have. your last shred of dignity, ripped away from you, torn to slivers, and it's almost as if you can see them ribbon and fall to the floor.
you sigh, refusing to turn around to meet his eyes, to meet the reality of your situation. how could you ever think that he had cared for you too? what kind of delusion was this? was everyone else just as blind as you, in all those times that they'd cheered you on, calling fated pair?
the same red string that you had fantasized being wrapped around your finger and connected to satoru was wrapped around your neck now, choking you till your face turned blue.
âshit, y/n. I- I canât. Iâm sorry.â is all satoru says, and you shrug, hoping that he could believe you, with the little words youâve said. you hope to keep some dignity and nonchalance, but all you can think about right now is how many people have lied to you.
you shrug like you can shrug away the months of pining, the anticipation, the will they or wonât they that everyone had commented on to you, but you canât.
âjust, i need some time. donât come by for awhile.â you say, before leaving without turning back to look at him.
satoruâs silent, and just as you walk away, you hear a girlâs voice from within his room.
âwho was that?â yuki asks, her fingers already curling into the sweater just earlier today he had given her to wear, now returned to his original owner.
the same sweater you wore, on the night he took you to watch the shooting stars and comets as they flashed across the sky, a year ago now, on the third of december.
he still recalls the way he'd stared at you as the light blue had shined on your face.
satoru takes one long hard look out the door, before he shuts it, turning back to her.
summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
word count: 14.5k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst
Clark was pacing. Not unusualâhe did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomedâbut this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasnât the usual âPerry wants three rewrites before lunchâ kind of stress. This was real panic.
You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. âClark, youâre going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.â
He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. âSmallville.â
You blinked. ââŚThatâs a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.â
He shot you a lookâhalf exasperated, half pleading. âThereâs a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.â
âOkay,â you said slowly, sipping your coffee. âAnd this is a crisis becauseâŚ?â
Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. âBecause theyâve beenâŚasking if Iâm seeing anyone. For months.â He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. âAnd I may haveâŚimpliedâŚâ
âOh, Clark.â You set your cup down with a grin. âYou didnât.â
âI did,â he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. âI didnât mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely andâI panicked. I didnât want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy Iâd found someone, and by the time I realized what Iâd done it was too late.â
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. âSo let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now youâre about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?â
Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. âExactly.â
âThat is hilarious,â you said, fighting back giggles.
He peeked at you through his fingers. âItâs not funny.â
âItâs so funny. Youâre basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.â
He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. âThatâs why I wanted to ask you something.â
Your eyebrows rose. âOh boy. This sounds serious.â
âWould youâŚâ He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. âWould you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they donât think Iâm a complete failure at dating.â
You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But noâClark Kent didnât joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.
âOh my God,â you breathed. âYou are in a Hallmark movie.â
He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. âSo you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.â
He winced. âWhen you say it like thatââ
âClark, thatâs not fake dating. Thatâs method acting.â But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didnât know what to do with them. And suddenly⌠you werenât laughing anymore. âWell,â you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. âIâve always wanted to see Smallville.â
The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like youâd just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. âYou will? Really?â
âYeah,â you said, shaking your head at him. âBut you owe me, Kent. Big time.â
He grinned, sheepish and grateful. âDeal.â
And just like that, youâd agreed to be Clark Kentâs fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?
---
Clarkâs apartment was exactly what youâd expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.
You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. Heâd insisted on making teaâbecause apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.
He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.
âSo,â you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, âwe should probably set some ground rules.â
âGround rules?â he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.
âObviously,â you said. âFake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If weâre going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.â You ticked off on your fingers. âWe need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conductââ
âRules of conduct?â His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.
âYes,â you said firmly. âFor example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this âspur of the momentâ stuff.â
He choked a little on his tea. âKissing?â
You raised an eyebrow. âClark, if your entire hometown thinks youâve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. Youâre not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.â
He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. âI just⌠didnât think about that.â
âYou didnâtâClark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?â
âI panicked!â he said, voice higher than usual. âI just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasnât thinking that far ahead.â
You laughed, shaking your head. âUnbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree itâs necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.â
Clark looked up at that, indignant. âI wouldnât do that.â
âOh, you wouldnât?â You leaned forward, smirking. âYouâve got thirty yearsâ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you wonât let me suffer?â
His ears turned pink. âIâd never embarrass you on purpose.â
You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant itâyou could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.
âFine,â you conceded softly. âRule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number threeâŚâ You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. âWe need a believable backstory. How we met, how long weâve been together, that sort of thing.â
Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. âThatâs easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.â
You narrowed your eyes. âThatâs boring. And vague. If people ask questions, youâll fold like a cheap suit.â
He frowned. âI donât fold.â
âYou fold,â you said flatly. âYouâre too nice to lie convincingly.â
He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. âI can lie!â
âClark,â you said sweetly, âwhat did you have for breakfast this morning?â
ââŚToast,â he replied, after an oddly long pause.
You arched a brow. âUh-huh. And that little hesitation wasnât suspicious at all.â
âI did have toast,â he muttered, flustered. âI just also had⌠three pancakes.â
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. âExactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, youâll crack in seconds.â
Clark sighed, conceding. âSo what do you suggest?â
âWe build a story with details,â you said, warming to the task. âSomething casual but sweet. Like⌠you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized weâd been accidentally dating for weeks already.â
His mouth softened into a smile. âThatâs actually⌠really nice.â
âSee? Believable and romantic.â
Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. âOkay. That works. And, um⌠how long have we been dating?â
You tapped your chin. âLong enough that meeting your parents isnât weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?â
He nodded thoughtfully. âThat sounds right.â
You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad youâd stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each otherâfake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. âWhat?â you asked.
âNothing,â he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you werenât entirely sure what that meant.
You shook your head, setting down the pen. âAlright, Kent. Weâve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.â
Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. âWhat could go wrong?â
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. âOh, donât say that.â
---
The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on drivingâsomething about âwanting you to see the view,â though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.
The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasnât hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his worldâcornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.
By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Marthaâs flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesqueâlike the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kentâs girlfriend could unravel in an instant.
Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. âOkay. This is it.â
You glanced at the farmhouse. âYour childhood home. No pressure at all.â
âYou donât have to be nervous,â he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. âMa and Pa⌠theyâll love you.â
The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. âI meanâtheyâll love meeting you. Because youâre⌠you know⌠nice.â
You bit back a smile. âSmooth, Kent.â
Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.
âShowtime,â you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.
Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. âWeâve got this,â he said softly.
Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.
Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. âClark Jerome Kent, you didnât tell me youâd be here this early!â
Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. âHi, Ma.â
Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. âAnd this must be the mystery girl weâve been hearing about.â
Oh God. Here it wasâthe test.
Clarkâs hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. âMa, Pa⌠this is my girlfriend.â His voice wavered only slightly. âWe, uhâwe work together at the Planet.â
Marthaâs face broke into the warmest smile youâd ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. âWell, arenât you just lovely. Iâve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, Iâve got pie cooling on the counter.â
Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. âBetter warn her about your Maâs pie, son. Once youâve had it, youâll never eat another slice without comparing.â You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smileâreassuring, like youâd passed the first round
Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathanâs. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.
Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clarkâs ears went red at that, but he played along. âIt was good takeout,â he muttered defensively.
You smiled into your fork. âIt was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. Thatâs when I knew he was trouble.â
Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. âSounds like our boy.â
Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.
Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. âSorry about all that. They, uh⌠they can be a little enthusiastic.â
âTheyâre wonderful,â you said honestly. âHonestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out soâŚâ You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.
He tilted his head, curious. âSo what?â
You shook your head quickly. âSo polite. Thatâs all.â
He didnât push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, âjust so you know, uh⌠thereâs a chance theyâll show you baby pictures tonight. They⌠do that.â
You grinned. âCanât wait.â
Clark groaned. âYouâre supposed to dread it.â
âWhy? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.â
His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at youâreally lookedâthere was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasnât regretting a thing.
The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredibleâsavory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadnât even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.
Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of hisâlike he wanted to guide you but wasnât sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if heâd been caught.
The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. âSit, sit,â Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. âClark, donât let her hover. Sheâs company, not a farmhand.â
âI wasnâtâMa,â Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was⌠nice.
Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. âSo,â she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, âwhatâs it like working with Clark?â
You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. âWell,â you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, âheâs punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But heâs also⌠dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.â
Marthaâs eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. âSheâs exaggerating,â he muttered.
âAm I?â you teased. âYouâre the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.â
Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. âOh, I like you.â
Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. âMa, no.â
âYes,â she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. âIf youâre bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.â
Jonathan smirked. âBrace yourself.â
You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. âOh my God,â you breathed, grinning. âLook at those curls.â
Clark covered his face with his hand. âPlease donât.â
But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. âHere he is at five, trying to wear his fatherâs work boots. Couldnât lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this oneâoh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.â
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. âA cape? Really?â
Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. âI was imaginative.â
âYou were adorable,â you corrected. âDonât fight me on this, Kent.â
Jonathanâs eyes twinkled as he added, âThat pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.â
By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. âI like how she teases you,â she said to Clark. âYou need someone who doesnât let you get away with hiding.â
Clark shifted uncomfortably. âMaâŚâ
But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expressionâthe faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.
Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, âheâs happy with you here. I can tell.â
You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. âOh, well, weââ You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. âHeâs easy to be around.â
Martha smiled softly, knowingly. âThat he is.â
When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a momentâbarely a flickerâyou saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.
Like he really was happy you were there.
And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule youâd written down.
---
The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt differentâpeaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.
You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked⌠comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy whoâd grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.
âCouldnât sleep?â he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.
You shrugged, joining him. âToo quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.â
Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than youâd ever seen them in the city.
For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. âSo. Pillowcase cape, huh?â
Clarkâs head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. âMy motherââ
ââis a treasure,â you cut in, grinning wickedly. âAnd she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?â
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. âPlease donât.â
âNo, really, it makes sense!â You leaned against the railing, smirking. âThe cape, the heroics, the dramatic posesâit all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, Iâm impressed. Youâve been workshopping the look since you were seven.â
Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. âIâm never forgiving Ma for that.â
âYou should thank her,â you teased. âIf not for her laundry, the world wouldâve been deprived of Supermanâs fashion choices.â
âI canât believe youâre making fun of me for this,â he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.
âOh, Iâm never letting this go,â you said firmly. âNext time you swoop in to save the day, Iâm going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.â
He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasnât embarrassed so much as he was⌠delighted that you were delighted.
The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.
âItâs funny,â you murmured after a moment. âYou always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But hereâŚâ You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. ââŚyou just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.â
He turned toward you, his expression soft. âI like being just Clark. At least here, I donât have to pretend as much.â
Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.
Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. âWell, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.â
His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.
The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. âYou two donât stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.â
Clarkâs ears went pink again. âYes, Ma.â
When she retreated, you smirked. âShe thinks weâre sneaking kisses out here.â
Clark nearly choked. âWhat? Noââ
âRelax,â you said, fighting a grin. âI didnât say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.â
He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. ââŚI suppose thatâs true.â
You leaned back, eyes twinkling. âDonât worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.â
Clark groaned. âYouâre going to make this week unbearable, arenât you?â
âAbsolutely,â you said cheerfully. âThatâs what fake girlfriends are for.â
But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting closeâtoo closeâon the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.
And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.
---
Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected thatâfarm boy habits die hardâbut you hadnât counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone whoâd been teased mercilessly the night before. âSorry,â he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. âDid I wake you?â
You blinked blearily at him. âYou mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, youâre just the cherry on top.â
His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. âI thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If youâre up for it.â
You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. âYouâre really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?â
Clarkâs expression faltered. âWe donât have to. I just thoughtââ
âIâm kidding,â you interrupted, fighting a grin. âGive me ten minutes. Iâll even make myself presentable for Smallville.â
He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. âYou donât have toââ
âYes, I do,â you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.
The drive into town was short. Clarkâs truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadnât changed in fifty years.
Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisieâs, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. âClark Kent!â an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. âWell, Iâll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.â
Clark flushed but smiled politely. âGood morning, Mr. Jenkins.â
âMorning,â the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. âAnd whoâs this?â
Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. âThis is my girlfriend.â
It was the first time youâd heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasnât borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. âWell, ainât you full of surprises, Kent.â
By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. âYou realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?â
Clarkâs smile was small, almost apologetic. âYeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.â
âFantastic,â you muttered. âBy lunchtime, someoneâs probably going to ask me when the wedding is.â
The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. âWell, if it isnât Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?â
âYes, maâam,â he said politely.
âAnd whoâs this?â she asked, smiling at you.
âMy girlfriend,â Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.
The waitress grinned. âWell, sheâs prettier than the last girl you brought in here.â
Clark nearly choked. âThere wasnâtââ
âSheâs teasing,â you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. âRelax, Kent.â His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. âYou get flustered so easily.â
âI donât,â he protested weakly.
âYou do,â you said, amused. âIâm starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. Youâre going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.â
Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. âIâll get better at it.â
âI hope so,â you teased. âBecause if not, Iâm going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.â His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. âKidding,â you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.
Clark muttered something that sounded like ânot funny,â but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.
When the food cameâpancakes stacked high, eggs, baconâthe smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. âThis is dangerous,â you said between bites. âIf I lived here, Iâd weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.â
âYouâd get used to it,â Clark said with a chuckle. âSmallvilleâs good at simple comforts.â
He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced youâmy girlfriendâwith the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.
By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.
After breakfast at Maisieâs, Clark offered to give you âthe tour,â which seemed ridiculousâyouâd seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didnât protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.
The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.
It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so wellâquiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you werenât paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.
You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. âClark? That you?â
A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clarkâs face lit up with recognition. âPete,â he said, shaking the manâs hand. âItâs been a while.â
Pete glanced at you, curious. âAnd this must beâŚ?â
Clarkâs hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. âMy girlfriend,â he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. âWe came down for the wedding.â
Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. âWell, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Donât let him fool you,â he said to you, âhe was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.â
You laughed, squeezing Clarkâs hand just enough to make him squirm. âSome things never change.â
Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.
As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, âyou didnât have to encourage him.â
âOh, but itâs fun watching you squirm,â you teased. âBesides, youâre very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.â
Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, âwe should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.â
You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.
At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. âClark Kent, as I live and breathe! Havenât seen you in years.â Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. âAnd whoâs this pretty thing?â
Clarkâs voice didnât even waver. âMy girlfriend.â
The woman beamed. âWell, arenât you two a pair. Heâs always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.â
You smiled politely, but when you caught Clarkâs pink ears, you nearly laughed. âDonât worry,â you said sweetly. âI plan to.â
Outside the shop, Clark groaned. âYouâre enjoying this too much.â
âYouâre not?â you asked, arching a brow.
He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to sayâsomething true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.
By the time you made it back to the truck, youâd been introduced as Clarkâs girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. âWell. That was exhausting.â
Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. âThat was Smallville.â
You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked⌠happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.
---
The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.
Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. âClark Kent!â someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.
You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. âThis is my girlfriend,â Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man whoâd been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stoneâand not in the way you expected.
The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. âSo this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.â
âOh, Iâm very real,â you said, smiling as Clark went red. âAnd Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.â
âOf course he has,â Lucy said warmly. âHe always was.â
The groomâbroad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sunâshook your hand firmly. âBrave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyoneâs gonna talk.â
You laughed lightly, squeezing Clarkâs hand beneath the table as you all sat down. âLet them. I can handle it.â Clarkâs glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.
Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.
The conversations flowed easily at firstâneighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. âSo,â an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. âHow did you two meet?â
Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. âWe worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew weâd been accidentally dating for weeks.â The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if youâd passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didnât stop.
âWhat was your first date like?â someone else chimed.
You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. âIt was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didnât want the night to end.â
The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasnât embellishing. He wasnât grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.
The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. âDance with me?â Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.
You blinked. âClark, people are watching.â
âThatâs the point,â he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.
Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.
But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. âYouâre good at this,â you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.
âIâm trying not to step on your toes,â he admitted, smiling faintly.
âYouâre doing fine.â
The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held youâit didnât feel fake. It didnât feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didnât let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadnât quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.
Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. âYouâre enjoying this too much,â you teased, though your voice wasnât as steady as you wanted.
Clarkâs smile was soft, almost shy. âMaybe I am.â And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.
The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night skyâvast, jeweled with stars, endless.
You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.
Clarkâs hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. âYou did good,â you said finally, breaking the quiet.
He glanced at you, puzzled. âGood?â
âConvincing,â you clarified. âNot even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.â
His mouth twitched. âPractice makes perfect.â
âPractice, huh?â you teased, tilting your head to study him. âWell, if you keep this up, youâre going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.â
Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. âDonât say that.â
âItâs true,â you pressed, amused. âYou really didnât notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.â
âSheâs married,â Clark protested.
âDoesnât mean sheâs blind.â That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fieldsâthe relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldnât resist, you said, âso, Kent. About that dance.â
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. ââŚWhat about it?â
âYou didnât seem like a man faking it.â
His jaw worked, but he didnât answer right away. The truckâs engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. âI wasnât trying to fake anything.â
The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. âClarkâŚâ
He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. âI just meantâit was nice. Thatâs all.â
You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say moreâand saving you from having to admit you werenât sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.
Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like youâd been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. âYou donât have to come out to chores tomorrow if you donât want to. Most people donât find feeding chickens relaxing.â
You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. âIâll think about it.â
When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldnât be accidental, not anymore.
At the door, you paused. âGoodnight, Clark.â
He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, âgoodnight.â You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldnât quite bring himself to voice.
---
The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings werenât so bad after all. âMorning,â he said. âI made pancakes.â
Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. âDo you ever not make pancakes?â
âTheyâre easy,â he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. âBesides, Ma says Iâve been hooked on them since I was five.â
You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were goodâfluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. âSee? Worth it.â
After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protestedâhalfheartedlyâuntil he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like heâd done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. âYouâll like this part,â he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.
The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. âThey look⌠aggressive,â you muttered.
âTheyâre harmless,â Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. âCome on.â
Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. âSee?â Clark said reassuringly. âThey just want food. Here.â He handed you a scoop of feed. âScatter it on the ground, not on yourself.â
You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold henâa plump white one with a sharp little beakâmade a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. âClark. Clark, itâs coming at me.â
He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. âSheâs fine. Just toss it further away from you.â
âSheâs not fine! Sheâs charging!â The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. âClark!â you shouted, scrambling toward him. âDo something!â
Finally looking up, Clark triedâand failedâto hide his grin. âSheâs just curious.â
âSheâs a demon,â you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. âThat thing is going to kill me.â
Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. âYouâre safe,â he said, still chuckling. âI promise.â
You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. âYou think this is funny?â
âA little,â he admitted, eyes twinkling. âI didnât know you were afraid of chickens.â
âIâm not afraid,â you insisted, scowling. âI just have⌠a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.â
Clarkâs smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. âDonât worry. Iâll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.â
âGee, thanks, Kent. Youâre my hero.â
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at thatâsomething flickering in his eyes, something you couldnât quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.
âCome on,â he said, voice a little rougher than before. âThereâs more to see than just chickens.â Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. âYouâll like this better,â he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. âCows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.â
You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didnât look dangerous, but they also didnât look like creatures you wanted charging at you. âFriendlier?â you asked doubtfully. âTheyâre huge.â
Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. âJust follow my lead.â
He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presenceâuntil one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. âClark.â
He glanced back at you. âWhat?â
âItâs coming this way.â
âThatâs okay,â he said calmly. âTheyâre curious animals. Just stand still.â
The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. âClark, itâs not walking. Itâs charging.â
âItâs not charging,â he said, though his brow furrowed now. âShe probably just wants to sniff you.â
âSniff me? Clark, sheâs the size of a car!â
By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked inâClark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backwardâinto youâand the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.
The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clarkâs jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. âDid Superman just get taken out by a cow?â
Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. âDonât start.â
âOh, Iâm starting,â you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. âThe man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.â
His ears went pink. âHer nameâs Daisy.â
That only made you laugh harder. âEven better.â
Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, âIâm never going to live this down, am I?â
âNot a chance,â you said, still giggling. âIf the chickens didnât take you out, at least the cows did.â
He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gazeâsomething warm, unguardedâthat made your laughter catch in your throat. âGlad I broke your fall, at least,â he murmured.
The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. âDonât flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.â
Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with himâliterallyâdidnât feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didnât think hair could manage.
Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a motherâs could. âWhat on earth happened to you two?â
Clark winced. âThe cows.â
âThe cows?â
âThey, uh⌠got curious,â he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.
You ignored it. âOne of them full-on tackled him.â
Marthaâs hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. âA cow tackled you?â
âBumped into me,â Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. âIt wasnâtââ
âShe flattened him,â you cut in, grinning. âAnd took me down too, by the way. So much for Supermanâsmall-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.â
Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. âYouâre never going to let that go, are you?â
âNot in a million years,â you said sweetly.
Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. âWell, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.â
You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, âsome of us more than others.â Clark shot you a look but didnât argue.
Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. âThought you might need this,â he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like⌠Clark.
âThanks,â you said, taking it from him. âYouâve got grass in your hair, by the way.â
He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. âHere.â Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. âGuess I lost the fight, huh?â
âYou lost to a cow, Kent,â you reminded him, grinning. âThereâs no coming back from that.â
âTechnically, you went down too,â he pointed out.
âDetails,â you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.
His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. âAnyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we canât be trusted unsupervised.â
Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. âYeah. Good idea.â
---
Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.
Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about âshowing up respectable.â
And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he triedâand failedâto wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. âYouâre going to strangle yourself,â you said finally, stepping into the room.
Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like youâd caught him in something compromising. âItâs⌠fine. Iâve got it.â
âYou donât,â you said, laughing softly. âCome here.â
He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologneâsomething subtle, woodsyâdrifted around you as you worked. âStand still,â you murmured, looping the tie neatly. âYou wear these every day and you still donât know how to tie one?â
âI usually donât rush,â he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. âGuess Iâm nervous.â
Your eyes flicked up to his. âAbout the wedding?â
âAbout all of it,â he said simply.
Something in your chest tightened, but you didnât push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. âThere,â you said softly. âNow you look like you could charm a whole town.â
Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. âThanks.â
Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. âWell, donât you two look nice.â
Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. âYour son cleans up well.â
Martha winked knowingly. âHe does.â
The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of babyâs breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. âYou two ready?â he asked as he grabbed his jacket.
âAs weâll ever be,â Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.
The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clarkâs hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.
By the time the church came into viewâwhite clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guestsâyou were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clarkâs entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didnât say anything. Just⌠looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, âweâll be fine. As long as we stick together.â
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. âTogether. Got it.â
When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if thisâthis closeness, this easeâwas really something you could just pretend.
The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.
Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walkedâneighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. âDonât look now,â you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, âbut weâre officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.â
Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. âTheyâll get over it.â
âWill they?â you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. âFeels like weâre about to be written into the town newsletter.â
That earned you a faint, amused smile. âThereâs no newsletter.â
âOh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if itâs just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.â He huffed a quiet laugh but didnât argue.
The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.
Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: Iâm here. Youâre not alone.
The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could makeâfilled with promises of âforeverâ and âhomeâ and ânothing fancy, just us.â The brideâs voice trembled as she said âI do,â and the groom grinned like heâd won the lottery.
Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound likeâwhat promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.
The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. âThey look happy,â he murmured.
You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. âYeah. They do.â
When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, âdonât they make a picture?â
Another voice replied, âMartha must be over the moon.â
You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.
Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. âIs it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?â
Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. âPretty much. Smallville doesnât have secrets. Just⌠stories waiting to spread.â
âGreat,â you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. âBy now, half the town has us married with three kids.â
His lips curved into a smile, but he didnât look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. âWould that be so bad?â
You blinked. âWhat?â
Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirkâjust something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. âI mean,â he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, âIâm not saying⌠I justââ He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. âForget it.â
You tilted your head, studying him. âClark.â
He sighed, shoulders slumping. âYou make this whole thing feel⌠easier than I thought it would. Thatâs all.â
The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. âWell, you picked the right fake girlfriend. Iâm very convincing.â
But Clark didnât laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. âYeah,â he said softly. âYou are.â
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the cornerâit all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. âReception time,â he said, his voice steadier than his expression.
You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. âRight. Reception.â
The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.
As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt itâthe way people were watching, whispering. âHere we go again,â you muttered, leaning closer to him.
Clarkâs lips quirked faintly. âThey mean well.â
âSure,â you said. âUntil one of them asks when weâre having kids.â
You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. âThis is her,â Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like theyâd been waiting for this exact moment. âThe girlfriend I told you about.â
The women descended like hawks.
âOh, isnât she lovely.â
âClark, you clean up nice, donât you?â
âLook at the way heâs holding her handâso sweet.â
You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.
Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the brideâs uncle leaned across to ask, âso how long have you two been together?â
âFour months,â you answered quickly, sticking to the story.
âFour months?â The man grinned. âWell, Iâll say thisâhe looks at you like itâs been forty years.â
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. âGo on,â Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. âDonât just sit there. Dance with her.â
Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. âWould you like to dance?â
You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touchâit didnât feel fake. Not one bit.
The song ended, but Clark didnât let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the brideâs voice rang out. âBouquet toss!â
A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. âThis is ridiculous,â you muttered, glancing back at him.
He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. âTradition.â
The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, âlooks like Clarkâs next!â
Your face burned. Clarkâs ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. âGuess thatâs our cue,â he murmured.
You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. âDonât get any ideas, Clark.â
The cheers still hadnât died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, âbetter start ring shopping, Clark!â and âdonât let her get away!â
Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. âI told you this would happen,â he muttered, his voice low, just for you.
âOh, donât blame me,â you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. âYouâre the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.â
Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, âkiss her, Clark!â
The chant caught like wildfire. âKiss her! Kiss her!â
Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretendâhandholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. âWhat do we do?â you whispered, your throat dry.
âTheyâre not going to let it go,â he murmured, voice taut with nerves. âIf we donâtââ He didnât finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.
You swallowed hard. âSo weâŚ?â
His Adamâs apple bobbed as he nodded. âOnly if youâre okay with it.â Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowdâs chant grew louder, impatient. Clarkâs hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. âItâs just for show,â he whispered. âRight?â
âRight,â you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.
And then he kissed you.
It was tentative at first, carefulâlike he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clarkâsolid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.
Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didnât want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.
Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.
The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. âGuess that sold it.â
You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. âYeah. Totally believable.â
But as you looked up at himâat the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldnât quite look awayâyou both knew the truth.
It hadnât felt fake at all.
---
The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didnât speakâdidnât dareâbecause every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.
You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. âLong day,â he said finally, voice quiet.
âYeah,â you agreed. âYour whole town knows my life story now.â
His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didnât quite reach his eyes. âTheyâll forget in a week.â
You snorted. âYou donât actually believe that.â
For the first time since youâd left the reception, his gaze lingered on youâsteady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. âYou should get some rest. Tomorrowâll be busy too.â
âRight.â
You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadnât rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directionsâhis room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. âGoodnight, Clark.â
He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. âGoodnight.â His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between youâlouder than any words you couldâve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.
Leaning back against it, you let out the breath youâd been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched itâbut it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.
And maybe⌠thrilling.
---
Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kissâthe kiss most of all.
You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.
Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softenedâthen he quickly looked back at his plate. âMorning,â Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. âSleep well?â
âFine,â you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.
Jonathanâs eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. âYou both look a little tired. Long night?â
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. âReception ran late,â he said smoothly.
Marthaâs smile was quiet, knowing. She didnât press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Marthaâs occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different nowâcharged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.
When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. âYouâll be heading back today?â
Clark nodded. âYeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.â
Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. âWell, weâre glad you came. Both of you.â
Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. âDrive safe.â
The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, âCome back soon.â Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, âso. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.â
Clarkâs hands tightened faintly on the wheel. âIt wasnât an act to them.â
You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. âClarkâŚâ
He shook his head, cutting you off gently. âI just meanâthey believe it. Thatâs what matters.â
You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.
The silence between you wasnât uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something elseâfull, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didnât mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you⌠it was coming home, too.
---
The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when youâd left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadnât paused at all while you were gone.
But you had.
You slipped back into the rhythm easily enoughâsorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.
You didnât talk about Smallville. You didnât talk about the kiss. You didnât talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.
Normal.
Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at youânot exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.
The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldnât ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. âDo I have ink on my face or something?â
Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. âWhat? No. Why?â
âBecause you keep staring,â you said lightly, arching a brow. âAt my face. My mouth, actually.â
Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. âIâI wasnâtââ He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. âI was justâthinking. Aboutâabout the article.â
You bit back a smile. âRight. The article on zoning ordinances thatâs apparently written across my lips.â
His expression was pricelessâcaught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.
You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.
Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you werenât thinking about zoning ordinances either.
The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.
But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didnât shrug it off, and he didnât remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.
And through it all, Clark was Clarkâearnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes youâd catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like youâd caught him red-handed. âProblem?â youâd ask innocently.
âNo,â heâd mutter, ducking behind his screen.
And still, the cycle repeated. It didnât help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. âSo, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?â
Your pen froze mid-sentence. âWhat?â
Jimmyâs grin widened, oblivious. âOh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybodyâs talking about it.â You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clarkâs reactionâhis chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. âOh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, donât wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.â With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.
You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.
The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple thingsâsharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notesâseemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.
By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didnât. He only offered a small, quiet smile. âSee you tomorrow.â
You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. âSee you tomorrow.â As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didnât know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.
---
It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.
Youâd been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled youânot loud, but steady, unmistakable.
When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked⌠disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like heâd just come from something he didnât want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyesâthose soft, steady eyesâwere brighter than usual, like he hadnât been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.
âClark?â you asked, confused. âItâs late. What are youâ?â
âIâIâm sorry,â he blurted, shifting on his feet. âI didnât mean to wake you, if you wereâwere sleeping. I justââ
He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. âI couldnâtâgo home withoutââ
âClark,â you said gently, stepping back to let him in. âYouâre rambling. Come inside.â
He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.
âYou look like you wrestled a tornado,â you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.
âSomething like that,â he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head. âWhatâs going on?â
Clarkâs jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. âIâve been trying to ignore it,â he admitted, his voice low, rough. âBack at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was justâpretend. That it didnât matter.â
Your heart thudded. âClarkâŚâ
He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way youâd never seen before. âBut it does matter. More than I thought it could.â
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. âWhat are you saying?â
Clarkâs hands flexed at his sides, restless. âI want to kiss you again.â The words tumbled out, fast, like heâd been holding them back for too long. âI know we said it was fakeâthat it was just for show. But I canât stop thinking about it, and Iââ His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. âI donât want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just⌠between us.â
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.
âClark,â you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, âfor someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.â
His laugh was shaky, breathless. âI know.â
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. âThen stop talking.â
And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.
This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything youâd both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.
âThat,â Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, âthatâs what I wanted.â
You smiled, your heart racing. âGood. Because I think I want it too.â
hey gang sorry ive been ghost recently- i had exams and then my laptop broke. ive got a new one now!! and on holidays so expect some drops (or not im really all over the place ) :)
synopsis: mark grayson, who removes himself quietly from your life as if he was never in it in the first place. as if he wasn't your best friend for years and years. who shows up to your house for the first time in months, beaten and bruised.
wc: 3.8k
a/n: i finished it, posted it, and then i deleted it by accident. had to rewrite ending and i hate myself rn because i deleted it.
your friendship with mark had started when you'd first moved in, just down the road. you'd been young, still baby faced at 11.
you'd been helping your mom move the boxes out of the moving truck when you heard a small "you need any help?"
it made you jump, seeing how you'd not heard him approaching, and when you turned around to face him, he saw the fear on your face and quickly apologised, "oh my god, i'm so sorry. my mom told me to come help"
you'd told him it wasn't a big deal, and he'd introduced himself to you. you'd done the same.
after that, he'd come over so many times, and soon enough, you'd been inseparable.
you'd joined his school once the summer was over, and you spent lunchtimes with william and mark together, always talking about that comic mark loved, seance dog.
while you didn't like the comics as much as they did, you loved to hear them talk about them, especially the way mark got so animated when arguing with william about it.
you realised at some point at a lunchtime during school that you'd liked him a lot more than a friend. he'd been leaning forward talking to you, and when he'd gotten too close, you'd gotten nervous. your heart thumping, palms sweaty kind of nervous.
and that made you scared. he was your friend, first and foremost, and your feelings for him were pushed down, deep, deep, deep. locked in a little box where your heart would have been, in a bigger box, in a bigger box. which was then locked in large steel chains.
a little bit of an overkill, but you really weren't risking shit.
your friendship was sweet, mark was sweet, and he especially was sweet to you. mark was too sweet, too good to you.
kind, charming and funny, always cracking jokes to you in class, teasing you just enough to get you flustered, but only as a joke, which he would say.
it hurt a little, but as you said before, friendship was more important to you.
problem was, as soon as you hit 16, he'd stopped. stopped talking to you in the halls, stopped talking to you in class, stopped coming over. he'd dodge you in the halls, and pretended not to be home when you'd come over.
william didn't get it either, saying how mark wouldn't tell him why he'd been avoiding you, and goddamn, it hurt.
you'd been hurt, so hurt, and you'd had enough. he stopped responding to your messages, and had just stopped leaving you on read, opting instead to leave you on delivered.
that was the last straw for you. so you stopped trying. stopped looking for him the halls, stopped going over to his house to look for him, stopped messaging him, and stopped sitting with them at lunch.
and as soon as you'd disappeared from their normal table at lunch, mark had gone back to sit with william.
you'd seen it happen first time. sitting next to a guy who'd been begging you to sit with you at lunch for months, you'd zoned out from the boring conversation as soon as he'd started. he was going on about something about being on the football team and being the MIP of the team, but you weren't listening.
your eyes were on mark as he made his way through the hustling and bustling cafeteria, his yellow shirt underneath his blue sweater always standing out.
his sleeves were pushed up his forearms, and you'd been able to see the muscle in them, flexing as he carried his tray with one hand. you hated how it still invoked the butterflies in your stomach, and it pissed the hell out of you.
you dragged your eyes forcefully away from him, trying to pay attention to jacob and whatever he was saying about his football. but no matter what happened, your eyes went right back at mark.
him laughing, talking with william and just acting completely unaffected by your absence.
'fuck him'. you thought to yourself.
and just as easy that mark had come into your life, he disappeared from it.
a year had passed since then, and it was easier than it was before, but still not as easy as your friendship had been.
you still loved him, which pissed you off to no end, despite his completely lack of care for you.
initially you had tried to smile at him in the halls as you'd walked by in different directions, but he always stood straight, ignoring you completely, eyes ahead as you stumbled over your steps.
you told yourself it was for the better, that you didn't want his attention anymore, but that little box in of your heart ached every time you thought that.
william and you still spoke, but you'd found another group of friends, only ever talking to william when mark wasn't around.
and then, there was a new superhero.
invincible, (cue title card) or so he called himself. quite frankly, mark was horrible at hiding his identity.
ducking out of class, only minutes later invincible arriving on a scene. he had the same hair, same build and height, and that sameâŚ.mark feeling.
but you didn't tell anyone, you didn't say anything to anyone, and god, why did it matter if you knew who he was. he wasn't your mark anymore, you weren't even friends.
you'd watched him as he changed over time, growing taller, broader and stronger.
you couldn't help but notice, and yet again it was something you cursed your stupid little heart box for.
in the halls it was easier to notice, he'd shot up over the summer, especially now that he's got his powers.
it's crazy to think that mark is invincible, especially the guy who was once your mark. well, he's no longer your mark, as you should be able to tell due to the complete and absolute avoidance of you.
still, with absolutely no reasoning whatsoever behind it.
william, even a year later, still urges you to speak to mark. but you refuse, saying that "it was completely unwarranted," And that "you didn't do anything that deserved this kind of treatment." all that could have possibly happened would be that he had enough of you.
he just stopped liking you and that there was absolutely no other reasoning behind it. which lowkey sucked but still, men ain't shit (says you who literally sometimes still cry remembering about how fucking upset you were when he just disappeared out your life.)
william is done. he really is. he's had enough of both you and mark, how mark just refuses to talk to you and how you just fucking won't talk to mark either.
it's not really your fault. you tried, you really did, messaging him, showing up, just anything you used to do together.
debbie, who you still see around occasionally, gives you a sad smile sometimes, like she knows what's happening. but you never ask, because maybe you don't want to know. but you also do, which is a big problem.
you're currently just hanging around at williams, watching TV with him when there's a news alert. 'Breaking, invincible in fight with (generic) villain'
you watch with bated breath, watching mark, or invincible, getting absolutely beaten up, quite frankly, and youre really worried for a moment there that you're gonna be attending a funeral.
but somehow, like normal he always managed to get out of it, but it leaves him bruised and bleeding. you're so irrevocably fucked, you want everything in the world to pause just so you can check if he's okay.
but you have to remind yourself you can't do that anymore, he's not your friend.
you're tired, so unbelievably tired. you're missing your conversations together, you're missing just being near him, being allowed to look at him with more than just stolen glances. you're just tired, and you want it all to go back to normal.
fuck normal, honestly.
you're done. with worrying and you don't want to see the news. knowing mark got out is enough, and you want to go home to cry.
william doesn't get why all of a sudden you're so tired, and you bode both him and rick goodbye as you leave, not really wanting to third wheel anymore.
rick's sweet, he is, but you just want to be home alone now, and not with anyone else.
the trek back home isn't a long one, but you soften the walk with some music. it's dark out, a little earlier than usual.
just as you reach your house, you look up to your room to see the light is on, and the windows open, which is strange because you swear you switched it off just before you headed out and closed your windows.
you can see the light shining down through the large oak tree in your front yard, and the way the light filters through the leaves is gorgeous.
you can see the curtains billowing from the night air, and you furrow your brows.
might have been a slip of the mind, you reckon.
nevertheless, you unlock your front door, setting down your coat on the hangers, dropping your keys onto the mantle, before heading into the kitchen to make yourself some quick noodles.
your parents are out again, on a date night, most likely. they won't be home for awhile.
as you're waiting for the water to boil, you're standing there rather impatiently. you just want to collapse into bed, it's been a tiring day.
your hands itch for your phone, to search up if invincible managed to get away compltely alright. but you won't. you have to remind yourself that you don't care, that you can't care.
next thing you know, you're letting out a sigh of relief, seeing that invincible got away alright, and then you're swearing at yourself for even caring.
but it's hard to switch it off like a switch, you just can't do that.
once your noodles are done, you're halfway up the stairs when you hear a shuffle coming from your room.
you freeze.
you're waiting for the sound to come again, and when it doesn't, you think it's just a trick of your mind, and you keep walking up.
stopping right at your door, something makes you pause but you're not sure what it is or why you're pausing, but you force yourself to move past it. you push open your door.
it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the rather bright light all of a sudden, coming from the rather dark hallway. once your eyes do adjust, you see it.
mark.
he's sitting on the floor of your room, holding a hand to his stomach, eyes closed as he rests his head on edge of your bed, his jaw sharp, his neck taut.
his mask is off, flung to the side. you can see it in the corner, and it's covered in blood. his or someone else's, you're not sure.
but the absence of a large abundance of blood on his face makes you think it's someone else's.
"what the fuck." you say, more annoyed than anything else.
then you process the blood. it's on your floor, which is stone, so it's not so bad to clean up, but his suit is torn, and he looks like he's in pain.
"what the fuck, mark." You repeat, and only then does he open his eyes, to look at you.
"hey." he says.
a year and a couple months and all you fucking get is a "hey" like it's only been hours since he's seen you last?
"don't 'hey' me." you snap, setting down your quick noodles and your glass of water, before you think again, picking it up and passing the glass of water to him. he takes it with a grateful look, trying to smile at you.
even his teeth are stained with blood. his injuries look a lot worse in person, rather than on TV.
you stare at him for a while, before you walk to your bathroom, grabbing your first aid kit that you'd once run out to buy once when mark had fallen from the tree in your front yard when you were 13, the one you had used to clean up his cuts back then.
it had sat unused for four years, just waiting to be used again, in the corner under your sink. you have to brush the dirt off of it.
then you have to wash your hands, for the fear of infection.
you come back out, pulling out everything you think you might need.
"what the fuck are you doing here, mark." you snap at him again, pissed that he just shows up after 16 months of absolutely nothing, pretending that everything's fine when he's covered in blood, and this is the first time you've seen him up close in a year.
you're taking out your scissors, cutting the cloth around his cuts, trying to stop the fabric from sticking to it. you hate how close this makes you, hate how it makes the box in your chest ache, hate how you want to be closer.
"i wanted to see you." he groans, when you pull a certain strip of fabric away from a particularly deep cut. even his voice has changed. it's deeper, far more self assured, and somehow just moreâŚmark.
"you wanted to see me?" you scoff, setting your scissors down and picking up some antiseptic cream and a piece of gauze. "you haven't spoken to me in 16 months. you've ignored and dodged me at school, you've left me on read for months, and. you just show up, bleeding and beaten in your invincible suit just completely out of the blue?" you can feel your throat close up as you finish speaking, tears pricking at your eyes.
you rub at them with your sleeves, making sure that your hands remain clean. you put just a little too much iodine solution on the gauze, pressing a little bit harder than you need to.
he lets out a hiss of pain, and it doesn't make you feel better, unlike what you were hoping. "fuck you, mark" you say to him again.
he's silent. he's just staring at you, his face unreadable.
you can see how much he's changed since the last time you were this up close.
you avoid his eye contact, knowing that if you made eye contact with him, you wouldn't be able to hold back 16 months of anger and pain back.
"will you just fucking say something?" you demand, bandaging him up with the rolls and rolls of bandages, basically wrapping him up like a mummy.
"mark. please." you beg.
you feel his hand cup your jaw, making you look up at him, his eye contact making you nervy, tears threatening to spill over your lash lines.
he swallows, mouth dry before he says; "i just⌠couldn't be around you anymore."
that admission makes you crumble, and you automatically assume the worst. but the way he's handling you now, so soft and gently is at odds with his words.
"what..do you mean?" it's your turn to swallow now, and you realise how parched you really are.
he sighs, as your eyes hone in on a cut on his upper eyebrow, and you're picking up the gauze and iodine solution again, shuffling closer.
you're hesitant to dab at his eye, holding out the gauze out for a moment, to see if he's alright with you being this close to him.
he nods, once, but you notice. of course you notice. you can count the amount of tiny tiny scars he has on his face from here.
you can see the one that's just under his brow , the one he got from a branch when he fell down from the tree, the one you'd helped him clean.
you dab slowly, gently. you've slowed down a little, waiting for his response. you're trying to avoid direct eye contact with mark, but you can still feel his eyes zeroed in on you.
"mark, what do you mean." you repeat, demanding answers. you've had enough of this cat and mouse, where he's constantly running from you. you're not letting him go till you're getting your answers.
he sighs, seeming to understand that you aren't letting go.
"you know, i just couldn't control myself. i want you. like desperately. like more than a friend, more than a best friend. i knew it was more than you were willing to give me , so i tried to distance myself. and once i did, it was harder for me to go back to normal, so i couldn't."
wow. okay. erm. not what you were expecting. but still, that was still a completely dick move.
"you want me?" you ask him, shy. you're hopeful, needing him to say it. the chain around the boxes of your heart snaps.
"i don't just want you, I need you. do you know how much it killed me to see you sitting with that tool jacob?? you smiling at whatever he was saying, but still looking at me? do you know how hard it was for me to pretend like i didn't see you in the hallways? like it wasn't suffocating to walk by you and not talk to you?" your outer heart box splinters.
you want to say something, you really do, but you can't get anything in with the way he's rambling
"my heart squeezes every time i look at you, and it killed me to stay so far away from you." he says, looking up at you again. your hand has stilled from where you were dabbing at his cut, and you're breathless. when the admission sinks in, another shell around your heart breaks.
"i fucking love you, and i never said anything because i didn't want to ruin our friendship." he whispers, like it's hard for him to say it. it probably is. the final box that was keeping your feelings locked up and tucked away, just fucking breaks. you're crying, and you're trying not to show him.
"and i know, i ruined it by walking away, but i didn't want to ruin it by telling you i loved you. and i'm sorry, i'm sorry⌠i just can't stay away anymore. it really took me almost dying to realise how much i've been needing you." he says to you, his hand cupping your jaw again. his other hand reaches up to your cheek, and his thumb brushes away a tear.
his head is no longer resting against your bed edge, and now he's sitting up rather straight. he's moving into your space, he's so close you can feel his breath fanning across your lips. he smells like blood and the minty spider man toothpaste he's been using for years. he likes to pretend he uses adult toothpaste, but he used to always go back to it.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, and you can feel the words on your lips. "i'll do anything it takes to make it up to you."
"it really took you almost fucking dying to apologise, huh?" you say, voice cracking, brittle from tears. you're trying to play it off, make it seem a little funnier to show him that it's okay. well it's not okay, but you get what he means.
he's trying, and he's always been bad with feelings, and you know this. 16 months will take forever for him to make up for, but you just want him back. you want him back in your life. you want to sit with him at lunch again, you want to be close to him again.
he laughs, and even he sounds like he's been crying.
"you're too good to me." he says, and you're glad he knows it, because if it was anyone else, they'd have been dropped like hot potato.
when you rest your forehead against his, his hands move to your waist, and he lifts you so easily onto his lap. you forget he's a superhero now, and it's too easy for him it's unfair.
you swat him lightly on the chest, apologising when you hear him grunt in pain.
"are you going to kiss me?" you ask him, voice hushed, excited, nervous.
he laughs, and pulls you closer before he captures your lips in his.
he tastes just like he smells like; metallic and minty, a taste so addicting you don't want to come up for air. he somehow tastes sweet in your mouth too, and he groans when you bite him lightly on his bottom lip.
his hands are warm and heavy on your hips, and your knees are pressed against the stone floor on each side of his hips.
your hands tangle into his hair, pulling lightly at his roots. when your nails scratch gently at his scalp, he groans into the kiss.
his groan vibrates through him into your mouth, and you smile against his lips.
he's unrelenting, all fierce kisses and licks, as if he's trying to devour you.
he licks slightly at the line between your lips, and you open, pliant and obedient for him, his tongue snaking in to meet yours, dancing together.
he tastes sweet, if you haven't said before.
when you finally have to break away for air, you rest your forehead against his, breathing hard. he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your lip, and you kiss another to the scar above his eye, underneath his brow, that he got when he tried to climb the tree up your yard into your room, the one he'd fallen down from.
"this alone isn't going to make up for 16 months," You tell him, despite the smile on your face. "you're not magically forgiven."
he leans in again, smiling against your lips as he whispers, "i know."
later, you're both lying on your bed, both of you tired and exhausted, leaning into each other, when he whispers to you, "weren't you surprised that i was invincible?"
"not really." you respond, not opening your eyes. your head is resting on his uninjured shoulder, face tucked into the crook of his neck.
"why not?" he asks. you think about telling him that you recognised him almost immediately, from the curve of his back, the strong line of his jaw, and the light scar underneath his jaw.
but those things had only been memorised by you because you'd spent more timing staring at him then talking to him, so you decided not to tell him that. maybe you'd tell him one day.
instead, you tell him, "i recognised your voice immediately."
he huffs in response.
a/n: goddamn i locked in for this. i had literally posted it and then tried to edit it to check word count but then accidentally deleted it and had to rewrite the entire thing from the kiss scene onwards. i was crying lowk.
anyway. hope you enjoyed!! as always, thank you if you made it all the way down here!!!
as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated, and let me know if you have any comments!! i love reading them.
synopsis: mark grayson, who removes himself quietly from your life as if he was never in it in the first place. as if he wasn't your best friend for years and years. who shows up to your house for the first time in months, beaten and bruised.
wc: 3.8k
a/n: i finished it, posted it, and then i deleted it by accident. had to rewrite ending and i hate myself rn because i deleted it.
your friendship with mark had started when you'd first moved in, just down the road. you'd been young, still baby faced at 11.
you'd been helping your mom move the boxes out of the moving truck when you heard a small "you need any help?"
it made you jump, seeing how you'd not heard him approaching, and when you turned around to face him, he saw the fear on your face and quickly apologised, "oh my god, i'm so sorry. my mom told me to come help"
you'd told him it wasn't a big deal, and he'd introduced himself to you. you'd done the same.
after that, he'd come over so many times, and soon enough, you'd been inseparable.
you'd joined his school once the summer was over, and you spent lunchtimes with william and mark together, always talking about that comic mark loved, seance dog.
while you didn't like the comics as much as they did, you loved to hear them talk about them, especially the way mark got so animated when arguing with william about it.
you realised at some point at a lunchtime during school that you'd liked him a lot more than a friend. he'd been leaning forward talking to you, and when he'd gotten too close, you'd gotten nervous. your heart thumping, palms sweaty kind of nervous.
and that made you scared. he was your friend, first and foremost, and your feelings for him were pushed down, deep, deep, deep. locked in a little box where your heart would have been, in a bigger box, in a bigger box. which was then locked in large steel chains.
a little bit of an overkill, but you really weren't risking shit.
your friendship was sweet, mark was sweet, and he especially was sweet to you. mark was too sweet, too good to you.
kind, charming and funny, always cracking jokes to you in class, teasing you just enough to get you flustered, but only as a joke, which he would say.
it hurt a little, but as you said before, friendship was more important to you.
problem was, as soon as you hit 16, he'd stopped. stopped talking to you in the halls, stopped talking to you in class, stopped coming over. he'd dodge you in the halls, and pretended not to be home when you'd come over.
william didn't get it either, saying how mark wouldn't tell him why he'd been avoiding you, and goddamn, it hurt.
you'd been hurt, so hurt, and you'd had enough. he stopped responding to your messages, and had just stopped leaving you on read, opting instead to leave you on delivered.
that was the last straw for you. so you stopped trying. stopped looking for him the halls, stopped going over to his house to look for him, stopped messaging him, and stopped sitting with them at lunch.
and as soon as you'd disappeared from their normal table at lunch, mark had gone back to sit with william.
you'd seen it happen first time. sitting next to a guy who'd been begging you to sit with you at lunch for months, you'd zoned out from the boring conversation as soon as he'd started. he was going on about something about being on the football team and being the MIP of the team, but you weren't listening.
your eyes were on mark as he made his way through the hustling and bustling cafeteria, his yellow shirt underneath his blue sweater always standing out.
his sleeves were pushed up his forearms, and you'd been able to see the muscle in them, flexing as he carried his tray with one hand. you hated how it still invoked the butterflies in your stomach, and it pissed the hell out of you.
you dragged your eyes forcefully away from him, trying to pay attention to jacob and whatever he was saying about his football. but no matter what happened, your eyes went right back at mark.
him laughing, talking with william and just acting completely unaffected by your absence.
'fuck him'. you thought to yourself.
and just as easy that mark had come into your life, he disappeared from it.
a year had passed since then, and it was easier than it was before, but still not as easy as your friendship had been.
you still loved him, which pissed you off to no end, despite his completely lack of care for you.
initially you had tried to smile at him in the halls as you'd walked by in different directions, but he always stood straight, ignoring you completely, eyes ahead as you stumbled over your steps.
you told yourself it was for the better, that you didn't want his attention anymore, but that little box in of your heart ached every time you thought that.
william and you still spoke, but you'd found another group of friends, only ever talking to william when mark wasn't around.
and then, there was a new superhero.
invincible, (cue title card) or so he called himself. quite frankly, mark was horrible at hiding his identity.
ducking out of class, only minutes later invincible arriving on a scene. he had the same hair, same build and height, and that sameâŚ.mark feeling.
but you didn't tell anyone, you didn't say anything to anyone, and god, why did it matter if you knew who he was. he wasn't your mark anymore, you weren't even friends.
you'd watched him as he changed over time, growing taller, broader and stronger.
you couldn't help but notice, and yet again it was something you cursed your stupid little heart box for.
in the halls it was easier to notice, he'd shot up over the summer, especially now that he's got his powers.
it's crazy to think that mark is invincible, especially the guy who was once your mark. well, he's no longer your mark, as you should be able to tell due to the complete and absolute avoidance of you.
still, with absolutely no reasoning whatsoever behind it.
william, even a year later, still urges you to speak to mark. but you refuse, saying that "it was completely unwarranted," And that "you didn't do anything that deserved this kind of treatment." all that could have possibly happened would be that he had enough of you.
he just stopped liking you and that there was absolutely no other reasoning behind it. which lowkey sucked but still, men ain't shit (says you who literally sometimes still cry remembering about how fucking upset you were when he just disappeared out your life.)
william is done. he really is. he's had enough of both you and mark, how mark just refuses to talk to you and how you just fucking won't talk to mark either.
it's not really your fault. you tried, you really did, messaging him, showing up, just anything you used to do together.
debbie, who you still see around occasionally, gives you a sad smile sometimes, like she knows what's happening. but you never ask, because maybe you don't want to know. but you also do, which is a big problem.
you're currently just hanging around at williams, watching TV with him when there's a news alert. 'Breaking, invincible in fight with (generic) villain'
you watch with bated breath, watching mark, or invincible, getting absolutely beaten up, quite frankly, and youre really worried for a moment there that you're gonna be attending a funeral.
but somehow, like normal he always managed to get out of it, but it leaves him bruised and bleeding. you're so irrevocably fucked, you want everything in the world to pause just so you can check if he's okay.
but you have to remind yourself you can't do that anymore, he's not your friend.
you're tired, so unbelievably tired. you're missing your conversations together, you're missing just being near him, being allowed to look at him with more than just stolen glances. you're just tired, and you want it all to go back to normal.
fuck normal, honestly.
you're done. with worrying and you don't want to see the news. knowing mark got out is enough, and you want to go home to cry.
william doesn't get why all of a sudden you're so tired, and you bode both him and rick goodbye as you leave, not really wanting to third wheel anymore.
rick's sweet, he is, but you just want to be home alone now, and not with anyone else.
the trek back home isn't a long one, but you soften the walk with some music. it's dark out, a little earlier than usual.
just as you reach your house, you look up to your room to see the light is on, and the windows open, which is strange because you swear you switched it off just before you headed out and closed your windows.
you can see the light shining down through the large oak tree in your front yard, and the way the light filters through the leaves is gorgeous.
you can see the curtains billowing from the night air, and you furrow your brows.
might have been a slip of the mind, you reckon.
nevertheless, you unlock your front door, setting down your coat on the hangers, dropping your keys onto the mantle, before heading into the kitchen to make yourself some quick noodles.
your parents are out again, on a date night, most likely. they won't be home for awhile.
as you're waiting for the water to boil, you're standing there rather impatiently. you just want to collapse into bed, it's been a tiring day.
your hands itch for your phone, to search up if invincible managed to get away compltely alright. but you won't. you have to remind yourself that you don't care, that you can't care.
next thing you know, you're letting out a sigh of relief, seeing that invincible got away alright, and then you're swearing at yourself for even caring.
but it's hard to switch it off like a switch, you just can't do that.
once your noodles are done, you're halfway up the stairs when you hear a shuffle coming from your room.
you freeze.
you're waiting for the sound to come again, and when it doesn't, you think it's just a trick of your mind, and you keep walking up.
stopping right at your door, something makes you pause but you're not sure what it is or why you're pausing, but you force yourself to move past it. you push open your door.
it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the rather bright light all of a sudden, coming from the rather dark hallway. once your eyes do adjust, you see it.
mark.
he's sitting on the floor of your room, holding a hand to his stomach, eyes closed as he rests his head on edge of your bed, his jaw sharp, his neck taut.
his mask is off, flung to the side. you can see it in the corner, and it's covered in blood. his or someone else's, you're not sure.
but the absence of a large abundance of blood on his face makes you think it's someone else's.
"what the fuck." you say, more annoyed than anything else.
then you process the blood. it's on your floor, which is stone, so it's not so bad to clean up, but his suit is torn, and he looks like he's in pain.
"what the fuck, mark." You repeat, and only then does he open his eyes, to look at you.
"hey." he says.
a year and a couple months and all you fucking get is a "hey" like it's only been hours since he's seen you last?
"don't 'hey' me." you snap, setting down your quick noodles and your glass of water, before you think again, picking it up and passing the glass of water to him. he takes it with a grateful look, trying to smile at you.
even his teeth are stained with blood. his injuries look a lot worse in person, rather than on TV.
you stare at him for a while, before you walk to your bathroom, grabbing your first aid kit that you'd once run out to buy once when mark had fallen from the tree in your front yard when you were 13, the one you had used to clean up his cuts back then.
it had sat unused for four years, just waiting to be used again, in the corner under your sink. you have to brush the dirt off of it.
then you have to wash your hands, for the fear of infection.
you come back out, pulling out everything you think you might need.
"what the fuck are you doing here, mark." you snap at him again, pissed that he just shows up after 16 months of absolutely nothing, pretending that everything's fine when he's covered in blood, and this is the first time you've seen him up close in a year.
you're taking out your scissors, cutting the cloth around his cuts, trying to stop the fabric from sticking to it. you hate how close this makes you, hate how it makes the box in your chest ache, hate how you want to be closer.
"i wanted to see you." he groans, when you pull a certain strip of fabric away from a particularly deep cut. even his voice has changed. it's deeper, far more self assured, and somehow just moreâŚmark.
"you wanted to see me?" you scoff, setting your scissors down and picking up some antiseptic cream and a piece of gauze. "you haven't spoken to me in 16 months. you've ignored and dodged me at school, you've left me on read for months, and. you just show up, bleeding and beaten in your invincible suit just completely out of the blue?" you can feel your throat close up as you finish speaking, tears pricking at your eyes.
you rub at them with your sleeves, making sure that your hands remain clean. you put just a little too much iodine solution on the gauze, pressing a little bit harder than you need to.
he lets out a hiss of pain, and it doesn't make you feel better, unlike what you were hoping. "fuck you, mark" you say to him again.
he's silent. he's just staring at you, his face unreadable.
you can see how much he's changed since the last time you were this up close.
you avoid his eye contact, knowing that if you made eye contact with him, you wouldn't be able to hold back 16 months of anger and pain back.
"will you just fucking say something?" you demand, bandaging him up with the rolls and rolls of bandages, basically wrapping him up like a mummy.
"mark. please." you beg.
you feel his hand cup your jaw, making you look up at him, his eye contact making you nervy, tears threatening to spill over your lash lines.
he swallows, mouth dry before he says; "i just⌠couldn't be around you anymore."
that admission makes you crumble, and you automatically assume the worst. but the way he's handling you now, so soft and gently is at odds with his words.
"what..do you mean?" it's your turn to swallow now, and you realise how parched you really are.
he sighs, as your eyes hone in on a cut on his upper eyebrow, and you're picking up the gauze and iodine solution again, shuffling closer.
you're hesitant to dab at his eye, holding out the gauze out for a moment, to see if he's alright with you being this close to him.
he nods, once, but you notice. of course you notice. you can count the amount of tiny tiny scars he has on his face from here.
you can see the one that's just under his brow , the one he got from a branch when he fell down from the tree, the one you'd helped him clean.
you dab slowly, gently. you've slowed down a little, waiting for his response. you're trying to avoid direct eye contact with mark, but you can still feel his eyes zeroed in on you.
"mark, what do you mean." you repeat, demanding answers. you've had enough of this cat and mouse, where he's constantly running from you. you're not letting him go till you're getting your answers.
he sighs, seeming to understand that you aren't letting go.
"you know, i just couldn't control myself. i want you. like desperately. like more than a friend, more than a best friend. i knew it was more than you were willing to give me , so i tried to distance myself. and once i did, it was harder for me to go back to normal, so i couldn't."
wow. okay. erm. not what you were expecting. but still, that was still a completely dick move.
"you want me?" you ask him, shy. you're hopeful, needing him to say it. the chain around the boxes of your heart snaps.
"i don't just want you, I need you. do you know how much it killed me to see you sitting with that tool jacob?? you smiling at whatever he was saying, but still looking at me? do you know how hard it was for me to pretend like i didn't see you in the hallways? like it wasn't suffocating to walk by you and not talk to you?" your outer heart box splinters.
you want to say something, you really do, but you can't get anything in with the way he's rambling
"my heart squeezes every time i look at you, and it killed me to stay so far away from you." he says, looking up at you again. your hand has stilled from where you were dabbing at his cut, and you're breathless. when the admission sinks in, another shell around your heart breaks.
"i fucking love you, and i never said anything because i didn't want to ruin our friendship." he whispers, like it's hard for him to say it. it probably is. the final box that was keeping your feelings locked up and tucked away, just fucking breaks. you're crying, and you're trying not to show him.
"and i know, i ruined it by walking away, but i didn't want to ruin it by telling you i loved you. and i'm sorry, i'm sorry⌠i just can't stay away anymore. it really took me almost dying to realise how much i've been needing you." he says to you, his hand cupping your jaw again. his other hand reaches up to your cheek, and his thumb brushes away a tear.
his head is no longer resting against your bed edge, and now he's sitting up rather straight. he's moving into your space, he's so close you can feel his breath fanning across your lips. he smells like blood and the minty spider man toothpaste he's been using for years. he likes to pretend he uses adult toothpaste, but he used to always go back to it.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, and you can feel the words on your lips. "i'll do anything it takes to make it up to you."
"it really took you almost fucking dying to apologise, huh?" you say, voice cracking, brittle from tears. you're trying to play it off, make it seem a little funnier to show him that it's okay. well it's not okay, but you get what he means.
he's trying, and he's always been bad with feelings, and you know this. 16 months will take forever for him to make up for, but you just want him back. you want him back in your life. you want to sit with him at lunch again, you want to be close to him again.
he laughs, and even he sounds like he's been crying.
"you're too good to me." he says, and you're glad he knows it, because if it was anyone else, they'd have been dropped like hot potato.
when you rest your forehead against his, his hands move to your waist, and he lifts you so easily onto his lap. you forget he's a superhero now, and it's too easy for him it's unfair.
you swat him lightly on the chest, apologising when you hear him grunt in pain.
"are you going to kiss me?" you ask him, voice hushed, excited, nervous.
he laughs, and pulls you closer before he captures your lips in his.
he tastes just like he smells like; metallic and minty, a taste so addicting you don't want to come up for air. he somehow tastes sweet in your mouth too, and he groans when you bite him lightly on his bottom lip.
his hands are warm and heavy on your hips, and your knees are pressed against the stone floor on each side of his hips.
your hands tangle into his hair, pulling lightly at his roots. when your nails scratch gently at his scalp, he groans into the kiss.
his groan vibrates through him into your mouth, and you smile against his lips.
he's unrelenting, all fierce kisses and licks, as if he's trying to devour you.
he licks slightly at the line between your lips, and you open, pliant and obedient for him, his tongue snaking in to meet yours, dancing together.
he tastes sweet, if you haven't said before.
when you finally have to break away for air, you rest your forehead against his, breathing hard. he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your lip, and you kiss another to the scar above his eye, underneath his brow, that he got when he tried to climb the tree up your yard into your room, the one he'd fallen down from.
"this alone isn't going to make up for 16 months," You tell him, despite the smile on your face. "you're not magically forgiven."
he leans in again, smiling against your lips as he whispers, "i know."
later, you're both lying on your bed, both of you tired and exhausted, leaning into each other, when he whispers to you, "weren't you surprised that i was invincible?"
"not really." you respond, not opening your eyes. your head is resting on his uninjured shoulder, face tucked into the crook of his neck.
"why not?" he asks. you think about telling him that you recognised him almost immediately, from the curve of his back, the strong line of his jaw, and the light scar underneath his jaw.
but those things had only been memorised by you because you'd spent more timing staring at him then talking to him, so you decided not to tell him that. maybe you'd tell him one day.
instead, you tell him, "i recognised your voice immediately."
he huffs in response.
a/n: goddamn i locked in for this. i had literally posted it and then tried to edit it to check word count but then accidentally deleted it and had to rewrite the entire thing from the kiss scene onwards. i was crying lowk.
anyway. hope you enjoyed!! as always, thank you if you made it all the way down here!!!
as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated, and let me know if you have any comments!! i love reading them.
synopsis: mark grayson, who removes himself quietly from your life as if he was never in it in the first place. as if he wasn't your best friend for years and years. who shows up to your house for the first time in months, beaten and bruised.
wc: 3.8k
a/n: i finished it, posted it, and then i deleted it by accident. had to rewrite ending and i hate myself rn because i deleted it.
your friendship with mark had started when you'd first moved in, just down the road. you'd been young, still baby faced at 11.
you'd been helping your mom move the boxes out of the moving truck when you heard a small "you need any help?"
it made you jump, seeing how you'd not heard him approaching, and when you turned around to face him, he saw the fear on your face and quickly apologised, "oh my god, i'm so sorry. my mom told me to come help"
you'd told him it wasn't a big deal, and he'd introduced himself to you. you'd done the same.
after that, he'd come over so many times, and soon enough, you'd been inseparable.
you'd joined his school once the summer was over, and you spent lunchtimes with william and mark together, always talking about that comic mark loved, seance dog.
while you didn't like the comics as much as they did, you loved to hear them talk about them, especially the way mark got so animated when arguing with william about it.
you realised at some point at a lunchtime during school that you'd liked him a lot more than a friend. he'd been leaning forward talking to you, and when he'd gotten too close, you'd gotten nervous. your heart thumping, palms sweaty kind of nervous.
and that made you scared. he was your friend, first and foremost, and your feelings for him were pushed down, deep, deep, deep. locked in a little box where your heart would have been, in a bigger box, in a bigger box. which was then locked in large steel chains.
a little bit of an overkill, but you really weren't risking shit.
your friendship was sweet, mark was sweet, and he especially was sweet to you. mark was too sweet, too good to you.
kind, charming and funny, always cracking jokes to you in class, teasing you just enough to get you flustered, but only as a joke, which he would say.
it hurt a little, but as you said before, friendship was more important to you.
problem was, as soon as you hit 16, he'd stopped. stopped talking to you in the halls, stopped talking to you in class, stopped coming over. he'd dodge you in the halls, and pretended not to be home when you'd come over.
william didn't get it either, saying how mark wouldn't tell him why he'd been avoiding you, and goddamn, it hurt.
you'd been hurt, so hurt, and you'd had enough. he stopped responding to your messages, and had just stopped leaving you on read, opting instead to leave you on delivered.
that was the last straw for you. so you stopped trying. stopped looking for him the halls, stopped going over to his house to look for him, stopped messaging him, and stopped sitting with them at lunch.
and as soon as you'd disappeared from their normal table at lunch, mark had gone back to sit with william.
you'd seen it happen first time. sitting next to a guy who'd been begging you to sit with you at lunch for months, you'd zoned out from the boring conversation as soon as he'd started. he was going on about something about being on the football team and being the MIP of the team, but you weren't listening.
your eyes were on mark as he made his way through the hustling and bustling cafeteria, his yellow shirt underneath his blue sweater always standing out.
his sleeves were pushed up his forearms, and you'd been able to see the muscle in them, flexing as he carried his tray with one hand. you hated how it still invoked the butterflies in your stomach, and it pissed the hell out of you.
you dragged your eyes forcefully away from him, trying to pay attention to jacob and whatever he was saying about his football. but no matter what happened, your eyes went right back at mark.
him laughing, talking with william and just acting completely unaffected by your absence.
'fuck him'. you thought to yourself.
and just as easy that mark had come into your life, he disappeared from it.
a year had passed since then, and it was easier than it was before, but still not as easy as your friendship had been.
you still loved him, which pissed you off to no end, despite his completely lack of care for you.
initially you had tried to smile at him in the halls as you'd walked by in different directions, but he always stood straight, ignoring you completely, eyes ahead as you stumbled over your steps.
you told yourself it was for the better, that you didn't want his attention anymore, but that little box in of your heart ached every time you thought that.
william and you still spoke, but you'd found another group of friends, only ever talking to william when mark wasn't around.
and then, there was a new superhero.
invincible, (cue title card) or so he called himself. quite frankly, mark was horrible at hiding his identity.
ducking out of class, only minutes later invincible arriving on a scene. he had the same hair, same build and height, and that sameâŚ.mark feeling.
but you didn't tell anyone, you didn't say anything to anyone, and god, why did it matter if you knew who he was. he wasn't your mark anymore, you weren't even friends.
you'd watched him as he changed over time, growing taller, broader and stronger.
you couldn't help but notice, and yet again it was something you cursed your stupid little heart box for.
in the halls it was easier to notice, he'd shot up over the summer, especially now that he's got his powers.
it's crazy to think that mark is invincible, especially the guy who was once your mark. well, he's no longer your mark, as you should be able to tell due to the complete and absolute avoidance of you.
still, with absolutely no reasoning whatsoever behind it.
william, even a year later, still urges you to speak to mark. but you refuse, saying that "it was completely unwarranted," And that "you didn't do anything that deserved this kind of treatment." all that could have possibly happened would be that he had enough of you.
he just stopped liking you and that there was absolutely no other reasoning behind it. which lowkey sucked but still, men ain't shit (says you who literally sometimes still cry remembering about how fucking upset you were when he just disappeared out your life.)
william is done. he really is. he's had enough of both you and mark, how mark just refuses to talk to you and how you just fucking won't talk to mark either.
it's not really your fault. you tried, you really did, messaging him, showing up, just anything you used to do together.
debbie, who you still see around occasionally, gives you a sad smile sometimes, like she knows what's happening. but you never ask, because maybe you don't want to know. but you also do, which is a big problem.
you're currently just hanging around at williams, watching TV with him when there's a news alert. 'Breaking, invincible in fight with (generic) villain'
you watch with bated breath, watching mark, or invincible, getting absolutely beaten up, quite frankly, and youre really worried for a moment there that you're gonna be attending a funeral.
but somehow, like normal he always managed to get out of it, but it leaves him bruised and bleeding. you're so irrevocably fucked, you want everything in the world to pause just so you can check if he's okay.
but you have to remind yourself you can't do that anymore, he's not your friend.
you're tired, so unbelievably tired. you're missing your conversations together, you're missing just being near him, being allowed to look at him with more than just stolen glances. you're just tired, and you want it all to go back to normal.
fuck normal, honestly.
you're done. with worrying and you don't want to see the news. knowing mark got out is enough, and you want to go home to cry.
william doesn't get why all of a sudden you're so tired, and you bode both him and rick goodbye as you leave, not really wanting to third wheel anymore.
rick's sweet, he is, but you just want to be home alone now, and not with anyone else.
the trek back home isn't a long one, but you soften the walk with some music. it's dark out, a little earlier than usual.
just as you reach your house, you look up to your room to see the light is on, and the windows open, which is strange because you swear you switched it off just before you headed out and closed your windows.
you can see the light shining down through the large oak tree in your front yard, and the way the light filters through the leaves is gorgeous.
you can see the curtains billowing from the night air, and you furrow your brows.
might have been a slip of the mind, you reckon.
nevertheless, you unlock your front door, setting down your coat on the hangers, dropping your keys onto the mantle, before heading into the kitchen to make yourself some quick noodles.
your parents are out again, on a date night, most likely. they won't be home for awhile.
as you're waiting for the water to boil, you're standing there rather impatiently. you just want to collapse into bed, it's been a tiring day.
your hands itch for your phone, to search up if invincible managed to get away compltely alright. but you won't. you have to remind yourself that you don't care, that you can't care.
next thing you know, you're letting out a sigh of relief, seeing that invincible got away alright, and then you're swearing at yourself for even caring.
but it's hard to switch it off like a switch, you just can't do that.
once your noodles are done, you're halfway up the stairs when you hear a shuffle coming from your room.
you freeze.
you're waiting for the sound to come again, and when it doesn't, you think it's just a trick of your mind, and you keep walking up.
stopping right at your door, something makes you pause but you're not sure what it is or why you're pausing, but you force yourself to move past it. you push open your door.
it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the rather bright light all of a sudden, coming from the rather dark hallway. once your eyes do adjust, you see it.
mark.
he's sitting on the floor of your room, holding a hand to his stomach, eyes closed as he rests his head on edge of your bed, his jaw sharp, his neck taut.
his mask is off, flung to the side. you can see it in the corner, and it's covered in blood. his or someone else's, you're not sure.
but the absence of a large abundance of blood on his face makes you think it's someone else's.
"what the fuck." you say, more annoyed than anything else.
then you process the blood. it's on your floor, which is stone, so it's not so bad to clean up, but his suit is torn, and he looks like he's in pain.
"what the fuck, mark." You repeat, and only then does he open his eyes, to look at you.
"hey." he says.
a year and a couple months and all you fucking get is a "hey" like it's only been hours since he's seen you last?
"don't 'hey' me." you snap, setting down your quick noodles and your glass of water, before you think again, picking it up and passing the glass of water to him. he takes it with a grateful look, trying to smile at you.
even his teeth are stained with blood. his injuries look a lot worse in person, rather than on TV.
you stare at him for a while, before you walk to your bathroom, grabbing your first aid kit that you'd once run out to buy once when mark had fallen from the tree in your front yard when you were 13, the one you had used to clean up his cuts back then.
it had sat unused for four years, just waiting to be used again, in the corner under your sink. you have to brush the dirt off of it.
then you have to wash your hands, for the fear of infection.
you come back out, pulling out everything you think you might need.
"what the fuck are you doing here, mark." you snap at him again, pissed that he just shows up after 16 months of absolutely nothing, pretending that everything's fine when he's covered in blood, and this is the first time you've seen him up close in a year.
you're taking out your scissors, cutting the cloth around his cuts, trying to stop the fabric from sticking to it. you hate how close this makes you, hate how it makes the box in your chest ache, hate how you want to be closer.
"i wanted to see you." he groans, when you pull a certain strip of fabric away from a particularly deep cut. even his voice has changed. it's deeper, far more self assured, and somehow just moreâŚmark.
"you wanted to see me?" you scoff, setting your scissors down and picking up some antiseptic cream and a piece of gauze. "you haven't spoken to me in 16 months. you've ignored and dodged me at school, you've left me on read for months, and. you just show up, bleeding and beaten in your invincible suit just completely out of the blue?" you can feel your throat close up as you finish speaking, tears pricking at your eyes.
you rub at them with your sleeves, making sure that your hands remain clean. you put just a little too much iodine solution on the gauze, pressing a little bit harder than you need to.
he lets out a hiss of pain, and it doesn't make you feel better, unlike what you were hoping. "fuck you, mark" you say to him again.
he's silent. he's just staring at you, his face unreadable.
you can see how much he's changed since the last time you were this up close.
you avoid his eye contact, knowing that if you made eye contact with him, you wouldn't be able to hold back 16 months of anger and pain back.
"will you just fucking say something?" you demand, bandaging him up with the rolls and rolls of bandages, basically wrapping him up like a mummy.
"mark. please." you beg.
you feel his hand cup your jaw, making you look up at him, his eye contact making you nervy, tears threatening to spill over your lash lines.
he swallows, mouth dry before he says; "i just⌠couldn't be around you anymore."
that admission makes you crumble, and you automatically assume the worst. but the way he's handling you now, so soft and gently is at odds with his words.
"what..do you mean?" it's your turn to swallow now, and you realise how parched you really are.
he sighs, as your eyes hone in on a cut on his upper eyebrow, and you're picking up the gauze and iodine solution again, shuffling closer.
you're hesitant to dab at his eye, holding out the gauze out for a moment, to see if he's alright with you being this close to him.
he nods, once, but you notice. of course you notice. you can count the amount of tiny tiny scars he has on his face from here.
you can see the one that's just under his brow , the one he got from a branch when he fell down from the tree, the one you'd helped him clean.
you dab slowly, gently. you've slowed down a little, waiting for his response. you're trying to avoid direct eye contact with mark, but you can still feel his eyes zeroed in on you.
"mark, what do you mean." you repeat, demanding answers. you've had enough of this cat and mouse, where he's constantly running from you. you're not letting him go till you're getting your answers.
he sighs, seeming to understand that you aren't letting go.
"you know, i just couldn't control myself. i want you. like desperately. like more than a friend, more than a best friend. i knew it was more than you were willing to give me , so i tried to distance myself. and once i did, it was harder for me to go back to normal, so i couldn't."
wow. okay. erm. not what you were expecting. but still, that was still a completely dick move.
"you want me?" you ask him, shy. you're hopeful, needing him to say it. the chain around the boxes of your heart snaps.
"i don't just want you, I need you. do you know how much it killed me to see you sitting with that tool jacob?? you smiling at whatever he was saying, but still looking at me? do you know how hard it was for me to pretend like i didn't see you in the hallways? like it wasn't suffocating to walk by you and not talk to you?" your outer heart box splinters.
you want to say something, you really do, but you can't get anything in with the way he's rambling
"my heart squeezes every time i look at you, and it killed me to stay so far away from you." he says, looking up at you again. your hand has stilled from where you were dabbing at his cut, and you're breathless. when the admission sinks in, another shell around your heart breaks.
"i fucking love you, and i never said anything because i didn't want to ruin our friendship." he whispers, like it's hard for him to say it. it probably is. the final box that was keeping your feelings locked up and tucked away, just fucking breaks. you're crying, and you're trying not to show him.
"and i know, i ruined it by walking away, but i didn't want to ruin it by telling you i loved you. and i'm sorry, i'm sorry⌠i just can't stay away anymore. it really took me almost dying to realise how much i've been needing you." he says to you, his hand cupping your jaw again. his other hand reaches up to your cheek, and his thumb brushes away a tear.
his head is no longer resting against your bed edge, and now he's sitting up rather straight. he's moving into your space, he's so close you can feel his breath fanning across your lips. he smells like blood and the minty spider man toothpaste he's been using for years. he likes to pretend he uses adult toothpaste, but he used to always go back to it.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, and you can feel the words on your lips. "i'll do anything it takes to make it up to you."
"it really took you almost fucking dying to apologise, huh?" you say, voice cracking, brittle from tears. you're trying to play it off, make it seem a little funnier to show him that it's okay. well it's not okay, but you get what he means.
he's trying, and he's always been bad with feelings, and you know this. 16 months will take forever for him to make up for, but you just want him back. you want him back in your life. you want to sit with him at lunch again, you want to be close to him again.
he laughs, and even he sounds like he's been crying.
"you're too good to me." he says, and you're glad he knows it, because if it was anyone else, they'd have been dropped like hot potato.
when you rest your forehead against his, his hands move to your waist, and he lifts you so easily onto his lap. you forget he's a superhero now, and it's too easy for him it's unfair.
you swat him lightly on the chest, apologising when you hear him grunt in pain.
"are you going to kiss me?" you ask him, voice hushed, excited, nervous.
he laughs, and pulls you closer before he captures your lips in his.
he tastes just like he smells like; metallic and minty, a taste so addicting you don't want to come up for air. he somehow tastes sweet in your mouth too, and he groans when you bite him lightly on his bottom lip.
his hands are warm and heavy on your hips, and your knees are pressed against the stone floor on each side of his hips.
your hands tangle into his hair, pulling lightly at his roots. when your nails scratch gently at his scalp, he groans into the kiss.
his groan vibrates through him into your mouth, and you smile against his lips.
he's unrelenting, all fierce kisses and licks, as if he's trying to devour you.
he licks slightly at the line between your lips, and you open, pliant and obedient for him, his tongue snaking in to meet yours, dancing together.
he tastes sweet, if you haven't said before.
when you finally have to break away for air, you rest your forehead against his, breathing hard. he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your lip, and you kiss another to the scar above his eye, underneath his brow, that he got when he tried to climb the tree up your yard into your room, the one he'd fallen down from.
"this alone isn't going to make up for 16 months," You tell him, despite the smile on your face. "you're not magically forgiven."
he leans in again, smiling against your lips as he whispers, "i know."
later, you're both lying on your bed, both of you tired and exhausted, leaning into each other, when he whispers to you, "weren't you surprised that i was invincible?"
"not really." you respond, not opening your eyes. your head is resting on his uninjured shoulder, face tucked into the crook of his neck.
"why not?" he asks. you think about telling him that you recognised him almost immediately, from the curve of his back, the strong line of his jaw, and the light scar underneath his jaw.
but those things had only been memorised by you because you'd spent more timing staring at him then talking to him, so you decided not to tell him that. maybe you'd tell him one day.
instead, you tell him, "i recognised your voice immediately."
he huffs in response.
a/n: goddamn i locked in for this. i had literally posted it and then tried to edit it to check word count but then accidentally deleted it and had to rewrite the entire thing from the kiss scene onwards. i was crying lowk.
anyway. hope you enjoyed!! as always, thank you if you made it all the way down here!!!
as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated, and let me know if you have any comments!! i love reading them.
âď¸ gojo satoru who kisses you for the first time during shoko's version of spin the bottle, where you're blindfolded and thrown into the closet, and the bottle that you spun lands on him, but you don't know who joins you, and takes your first kiss.
âď¸ gojo satoru, who doesn't know he just took your first kiss, can't stop thinking about kissing you. you don't know it was him who kissed you, but god, does he want to do it again.
âď¸ gojo satoru, who can't help biting his own lip when he looks at your lips, all pretty and god, he can just remember the saccharine way you tasted when you kissed for the first time.
âď¸ gojo satoru, who you've had a crush on for the last 2 years, without him knowing, is finally, somehow, realising his feelings for you, but you can't stop thinking of the mystery man who kissed you soft and sweet, but just had the drive behind.
âď¸ gojo satoru, who doesn't know how to tell you it was he who kissed you, because the idea that he just might love you so much that he can't bear to lose you scares him, and he doesn't know how to deal with his emotions.
âď¸ gojo satoru who can't ever look at you the same without thinking about the kiss, and who can't help but want to do it again, can't deal with these new feelings he's realised he's had along.
âď¸ gojo satoru who kisses you for the first time during shoko's version of spin the bottle, where you're blindfolded and thrown into the closet, and the bottle that you spun lands on him, but you don't know who joins you, and takes your first kiss.
âď¸ gojo satoru, who doesn't know he just took your first kiss, can't stop thinking about kissing you. you don't know it was him who kissed you, but god, does he want to do it again.
âď¸ gojo satoru, who can't help biting his own lip when he looks at your lips, all pretty and god, he can just remember the saccharine way you tasted when you kissed for the first time.
âď¸ gojo satoru, who you've had a crush on for the last 2 years, without him knowing, is finally, somehow, realising his feelings for you, but you can't stop thinking of the mystery man who kissed you soft and sweet, but just had the drive behind.
âď¸ gojo satoru, who doesn't know how to tell you it was he who kissed you, because the idea that he just might love you so much that he can't bear to lose you scares him, and he doesn't know how to deal with his emotions.
âď¸ gojo satoru who can't ever look at you the same without thinking about the kiss, and who can't help but want to do it again, can't deal with these new feelings he's realised he's had along.
âfuck, fuck, fuckâ youâre whispering as you run up the stairs, back to the common room. you barge into hermioneâs room, glad to see that sheâs already lying on her bed.
she rises to see who it is, and immediately drops her book as you stumble towards her.
âwhat- whatâs wrong?â she asks you, worry etched into her face.
itâs only then youâre vaguely aware of the tears on your face, and you can taste the salt on your lips.
you flop down face first on her bed, and scream into it.
you arenât too sure what youâre going to do now, especially after this moment.
once youâre able to control yourself, and after hermione manages to roll you over so that youâre staring up at the ceiling, do you sigh and begin to tell her everything.
hermione sits there and listens, giving you the support that you werenât aware that you needed so badly. she listens attentively, nodding every so often as to let you know that sheâs still listening, despite her silence.
once youâve finished recounting, you hang your head, hodling your hands to your face.
âwhy didnât you just tell him?â you hear her ask you, and when you look at her, sheâs staring back at you intensely, and you canât tell why you feel slightly embarrassed.
âi canât. I canât face that rejection. Iâve been friends with him so long, i donât know how i would deal with that.â you respond, voice hoarse.
she hums.
âyou donât know his answer.â she finally says, after a moment of silence, before she scoots closer to you, your shoulders touching, before you lay your head on her shoulder.
âi do. if it was going to work out in my favour he wouldnât have waited so long to bring it up to me. or do everything that he did.â you try to explain lamely.
âyou donât know that. George isnât a very confrontational person by nature. the only times he ever gets back at someone for something they did is when theyâve done it to other people, not him. heâs a prankster by nature, but heâs not all that outgoing.â she points out.
you donât really notice that youâve shaken your head until you hear her sigh.
âlook, y/n.â she begins, and you know youâre not going to enjoy this, âi think you should have told him. iâve said this from the beginning. your feelings are probably reciprocated. you havenât seen the way he looks at you like everyone else has.â
you donât realise you even huffed when she cuts you off before you even speak; adding on that, âno seriously, remember when harry was needing your help during their end of year exams? and how he kept sticking to your side? George was in a huff for the entire exam period, constantly glaring daggers at harry.â
you sigh, shaking your head again. âhe was probably just annoyed of seeing harry all the time, and plus, wasnât that when harry and ron were arguing again?â you try to explain.
you let out a little laugh, before saying; âi mean, iâd love to think that he cared for me the same way i care for him, but realistically, i donât think thatâs possible. plus, isnât he super into angelina bell?â
âwhatâs the worst that would happen if he found out that you liked him?â she tries.
âuhhh, he hates me and never talks to mee again because he feels disgusted??â you respond, trying to seem lighthearted, but the mere thought of it is painful.
hermione stares at you, a frown on her face before she shakes her head. (thereâs a lot of head shaking going on.) she realises that she wonât win against your self delusion and negativity, so she just tries to make you feel better instead.
the next few days are hard to get through.
you try your darned best to avoid the crap out of george, and itâs effective enough that even oblivious little harry is able to tell.
it starts off with you darting into a different hall, or empty classroom you see george in the halls.
you switched seats, so you were sitting with katie instead, as soon as classes that you had with george ended, you ducked out, running to your next one, often forgetting your friends behind as well.
avoiding him in the dining hall was a bit harder. you had to wake up a bit earlier in the mornings so you could get food, and everytime you saw him coming in, youâd have to shove what was left on your plate into your mouth, and then get running.
finally, on a sunday morning, fred corners you in the common room, when youâve just come up from breakfast. luckily, (or unluckily, as you still feel a pang of sadness when you realise you havenât seen george in forever) george isnât with him, so you have a peace of mind. (YOU ARE LYING TO YOURSELF YOU LOOK LIKE A SAD LITTLE PUPPY)
âwhatâs wrong with you.â fred merely states, rather than asking you a question.
âi donât know what you mean.â you respond, monotonous, and avoiding eye contact, as he looks so much like george you still hurt inside, but he and fred are still so different.
âyouâve been moping like a kicked puppy, and youâve been avoiding george, so youâre both just moping, and he looks like he wants to end himself.â fred responds, eyes narrowing.
you sigh, before simply stating, âi canât deal with my feelings, and he confronted me and i canât deal with it.â
freds eyes somehow manage to narrow further, looking at you suspiciously. âeveryone knows youâre in love with each other.â
âwe arenât. at least i am and he isnât.â you respond simply, sighing as you close your eyes and rub them with your hand.
fred pulls your hand away from your face, and peers into your eyes, not letting go of your hand, he takes it and uses it to lightly slap yourself.
âare. you . dumb.?â he enunciates with each slap. itâs not painful, but its enough for you to fight back against him.
âwhat, fred.â you manage to snap out.
âhe wants you so bad.â fred tells you.
âno he doesnâtâ
âyes he does.â
âno he doesnâtâ
âyes he doesâ
âno-â
âoh my gosh i am not doing this with you. he wants you, heâs in love with you, and heâs totally going to kill me for telling you this but i cannot stand this anymore.â
âwhat?â you ask, a little worried, which is kind of an understatement, as your heart is literally pounding in your chest.
âhe is sooooo down bad for you.â fred says, shaking you by your shoulders.
âno.â you respond simply. you want to believe it, you do, but it doesnât really make any sense.
âwhat-? âŚyes he is. i would not be telling you this if i was not the one who had listened to him complain for the entire two months every summer about how much he missed your ass.â fred asserts, continuing to shake you. youâre getting dizzy, so you have to step out of his grip.
âhe what?â is your oh so genius response, as you struggle to maintain your composure, dizzy from being shaken and this revelation.
âhe wants to kiss you and date you and profess his stupid undying love for his best friend who likes him back but you are dumb and keep trying to run away from him?â fredâs peering at you intensely, before he sighs. âi think itâs better if you hear this from him, so would you please do all of us a favour and just stop running? heâll probably be on the quidditch pitch now so please please please go talk to him. heâs been working to the bone on the pitch because of you.â
you canât even give fred a response, your brain is running a mile a minute.
you donât process that your feet are even moving until youâre out of the castle until the cold hits you. you keep going anyway, until you see a little red blob in the distance, above the quidditch pitch.
as you make your way to the quidditch pitch youâre able to see that the little blob that was just a speck of red in the distance is slowly descending, until you realise its just george.
you break into a run, and as youâre getting close you can see the confusion on his face just before you collide into him, hugging him tight.
âwhatâs wrong?â he asks, the worried is etched onto his face. he processes that youâre not wearing a jumper, and youâre just in a thin top and jeans. âarenât you cold? why arenât you wearing a jumper?â he demands of you as he tries to warm you up, his warm hands rubbing up and down your arms.
âiâm sorry,â comes tumbling out your mouth, as you pull back from the hug. thereâs a loss of warmth, and only then you shiver.
the lines of worry on his face smooth out, and he lets out a little sigh. âitâs alright, but please please donât do that again, it was really horrible.â
you shake your head, your apology seems insignificant. it doesnât seem like enough.
âiâm really sorry.â you repeat.
âitâs okay.â he asserts, and he picks his broom off the floor as he pulls you close.
âletâs go back in. you must be freezing.â he just says, and the walk back to the castle is mainly quiet. but itâs a good quiet, because youâre happy enough just to spend time with him. you realise you should probably bring up the candy gram incident, but you just donât know what to do.
itâs as he leaves your side for a moment to set his broom back in the broom cupboard, when you finally muster up the courage. youâre watching him as he sets his broom down gently before you blurt it out.
âabout the candy gram-â you start, before he interrupts.
âitâs okay. it was a joke i get it.â he says, as you watch him from the door frame of the cupboard. heâs deliberately avoiding making eye contact, but you need to get over this now or else you never will and fred will also probably commit murder if he was being honest.
âit wasnât.â you manage to squeak out.
he spins around, and heâs completely silent, as if he wants you to keep on talking, or to explain yourself, or to burst out laughing that youâre just joking again.
âit wasnât a joke.â there. you said it.
âit was never a joke. I couldnât say it outright, so i was looking for a way that was less obvious, and when professor Mcgonagall came up with the idea, it seemed like a good idea to get my feelings out and finally get a break. i just didnât think youâd realise who it was.â you finish, before you finally look up from where you were staring at the ground.
you didnât hear him come closer to you as you were too stressed out, but now heâs standing close, too close. close enough that if you just leaned forward by a bit, you could touch him.
you look up at him, and the way heâs looking at you has you breathless.
âof course i realised it was you. I know what your handwriting looks like. iâve sat next to you for years, and weâve traded so many notes that iâve saved over the years that i could copy your handwriting without even looking at it. i notice everything you do, even the things you donât notice you do. you mean the world to me, far beyond what a best friend would be. i want to be more, and itâs something iâve craved for so long.â
if you thought you were breathless before, you are definitely breathless now. you look at him, searching, searching his face for something that could just show how much he actually means it, or something thatâd give it away that heâs not being serious. but you canât find anything because heâs so earnest.
you know you need to say something, but youâre just searching for something perfect to say in response to the absolute poetry that heâs just sprouted, but the only thing that falls from your parted lips is a squeaked âreally?â. itâs embarrassing, so you flush.
he laughs at that, and pulls you in by the loops of your jeans, so that youâre pressed up against him. he leans in close to you, his lips a fraction from yours. you can feel his hot breath fan over your cheek and you shiver, because its a stark contrast to the cold dreich weather outside.
heâs emanating warmth, and everything youâve ever wanted. he finally leans in and⌠kisses your forehead, before heâs stepping away.
youâre left standing there confused and annoyed, before he sees the disappointment on your face before he laughs, pulling you in again, and giving you what he knows you both want.
itâs a kiss thatâs hard and soft, and he lulls you into some sort of rhythm thatâs just addicting, and you sigh happily into his mouth, and you can feel the way he smiles against you.
âyouâre not funny.â you mutter, when he finally pulls away.
âiâm hilarious.â he laughs and you canât stop fight against the smile thatâs breaking out across your face, before he kisses it again.
âyou wish.â you manage to get out, when heâs done.
âyou love me.â he teases, and you donât respond to it, which makes him smile even harder. youâre walking off without him, trying so hard to not start laughing out of giddiness. he stands there with a smile so big that he knows you canât see, before he runs up to catch up with you.
he pulls you in close as he walks you back to the castle together, his hands clasped with yours naturally, and you think to yourself that you have a lot of lost time to catch up on.
later on, youâre tucked into georgeâs side in the common room as you warm up near the fire. his armâs around your shoulder, and when fred comes in through the portrait, and his eyes land on the two of you together, youâre able to hear a sigh of relief coming from him.
âitâs about time. i was going to go insane from all the negative tension. why did it take so long?â fred complains, falling into the couch across from you.
you both look at each other, and without a response, you both look at him with a smile.
@aceofspades190 @mirkwoodshewolf @blackqueengold @serenablamelessheart. @hooneeyydroops (sorry wasn't sure if u wanted to be tagged so if not im sorry)
i. candy grams: g.w. x best friend!reader, pt 2 soon!
⪠you've been in love with george for as long as you've known him. one day in year 6, you make the mistake of sending him a candy gram, anonymously of course, and you think that's the end of it. you're wrong.
fred weasley
i. felix felicis or liquid luck; f.w. x fem! reader.
âŞyou're sat next to fred in potions, and make felix felicis. in the end, you try to decide who gets to keep it, and it becomes a game. what happens if one day, you keep waiting for him to give it back, and he doesn't?
