you would just be another notch in Suguru Geto's bedpost - but he'd only be another one in yours
synopsis: your best friend has always been an asshole - whether it's in his band or in his bed. him ditching you? nothing new. but when one bedroom door closes, another one opens
pairings: rockstar!Suguru Geto x f!Reader x childhood fwb!Sukuna
content: MDNI, band AU, rivals, multiple endings (happy ofc!!), angst and fluff and smut, friends with benefits, jealousy, pining, oral (m! + f! receiving), fingering, piv sex, toxic relationships, falling in love, Jin + Sukuna are twins, baby Yuji lol, Sukuna is terrible at feelings, threesome, sex tapes, soft dom Geto, sukuna is YEARNING and suffering, more tags to be found in individual chaps <3
how to lose a frat guy in 10 days! chapter two: day one.
PAIRING: frat!jo x sororitygirl!reader
CHAPTER SYNOPSIS: After meeting Satoru Gojo, the frat boy with a notorious womanizer title, your interest is piqued. Satoru Gojo has never paid attention to the same woman twice, so why are you stuck on his mind like a cheesy love song? After being sucked into a bet with two of your sorority sisters, you now have ten days to push away the infamous fraternity boy, why not start with an expensive dinner?
CHAPTER TAGS: crackfic, romcom style, reader attempts to be cringey but gojo finds it endearing, gojo may be obsessed with reader, sukuna being a good guy bestfriend (wow!), reader has her work cut out for her, mentions of alcohol
WORD COUNT: 5.8k
a/n: i believe in the sweet, fuckboy frat!jo agenda!!
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10:45 am
You could see the pink hair peeking up above everyone else's heads at the campus coffee shop. Ryomen Sukuna, probably the only Kappa Rho Psi man you could ever trust, was the perfect person to gossip with.
Despite saying that he didn’t care at all for drama, he always seemed to immerse himself in whatever situation was happening, giving his two cents and giving you advice if you needed it.
Yesterday at the party, you had interrupted his heated sucking-face session, telling him that you two needed to meet the next day. He had pushed the girl he likely only met that night away, telling you what time he could meet before he stalked off to the kitchen.
Ryomen was always late whenever you two planned to hang out, so you always knew to show up at 10:45 am instead of 10:35 am as you two had originally planned. It seemed he wasn’t as late today, considering he was already at the counter ordering when you walked in.
The earrings in his ear glinted in the sunlight streaming in from the window, causing the metal to reflect light on the walls of the coffee shop. His outfit was weirdly chic, as it always was. He claimed to have no style, yet he outdressed most of his fraternity brothers by a clear mile.
It was actually how the two of you came to be friends, with you complimenting his shoes, and him noticing you were wearing the exact same ones. No one else sat by him in your freshman seminar, so you chose to, ignoring the other girls in the class shooting daggers into the back of your head as the two of you sat in the front.
When the two of you decided to pledge freshman year, you both decided to still be friends no matter where the other went, which was hard considering where the two of you had ended up when bid day had arrived.
Jin Itadori, Ryomen’s cousin, was a member of Kappa Rho Psi when Ryomen was rushing, so it was almost obvious he would get a bid from Kappa Rho Psi. You, on the other hand, were pleasantly surprised when you received a bid from your number one choice, deeming before bid day that it was doubtful you would receive a bid from Zeta Mu Theta in the first place.
Ryomen rolled his eyes, looking down on you once you finally appeared at his side. “So now you’re the one showing up late?”
Shrugging your shoulders, you averted your eyes from his, watching one of the baristas hard at work while making drinks.
“What did you get?”
Ryomen crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps flexing slightly as his arms settled over each other. “Black coffee, then whatever it is that you usually get.”
Your hand rose to your chest as you beamed up at your friend, “You truly must be the only person who knows me.”
It was very typical for Ryomen to roll his eyes at you, which explained why he didn’t hide the grimace he shot your way. “Yes, perhaps I know you too well.”
Scrunching your eyebrows in what can only be explained by pure confusion racking your brain, you blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
Ryomen opened his mouth to talk before the barista called out his name from behind the counter. He waved you off to find a table in the crowded coffee shop, freshman seeming to crowd every crevice as they explored campus in between their orientation stops.
You managed to snag a booth that was freshly cleared, shooting a glare at someone in a “Welcome Week” shirt as you sank into the plush seating. Ryomen walked over to the table, freshmen parting to clear a walkway for him. Meanwhile, you had bumped into every single person as you attempted to find somewhere to sit.
That was what tended to make your eyes roll whenever you interacted with anyone from Kappa Rho Psi. It was as if they had some unknown aura that made everyone bow to their every whim.
With Ryomen Sukuna, it made sense that a path was cleared for him. He was basically a dictator for the past three years. Everyone was either too scared of him to say anything or they somehow admired him enough to keep a far distance away.
You were a healthy middle. Yes, your friend was terrifying, but he was also strangely kind. It was partly the reason you didn’t cut him off after pledge season had wrapped up freshman year.
Every other guy in Kappa was either stupid, a fuckboy, or weirdly smart but somehow got stuck in the frat with the most notorious reputation. Your mind couldn’t help but drift to Satoru Gojo. Although he fell cleanly into the first two categories, you had realized after hanging out with him the night before that he had a goofy charisma that had you weirdly halfway smiling in the mirror when you got back.
Ryomen sat down, sliding your cup against the table to you. Reaching out, your fingers curled around the cup. You raised your cup to your mouth, catching the scraggly handwriting that read “Sukuna” on the side of the disposable cup.
Of course, they would spell his name right, even though they always find a way to botch yours worse every time you decided to stop by the coffee shop.
You may be more well-known in the different Greek Life organizations, often waving at other girls from different sororities when you recognized their letters or crests, but your popularity was nowhere near as vast as the boys from Kappa Rho Psi.
It made you think that every single person on campus must have memorized the composite photos hanging on the walls of the frat house and committed them to memory. This way, maybe they could have a shoe in to the most elite organization on campus.
Fighting the urge to grimace, you flicked your eyes to Ryomen. He was picking at his nails, his jaw clenching as he chewed on his gum, something he always seemed to have on him. He looked up, raising an eyebrow at you. “What?”
Shrugging, you leaned back in the booth. “Why is your brother suddenly showing interest in me?”
Ryomen blinked at you, his jaw pausing.
You raised your eyebrows at him, “Well, you must know something.” Your hand slightly urged him to talk. Based on his obvious reaction, he definitely knew something about Satoru Gojo’s weird behavior.
“I don’t know, Gojo must be bored.” Ryomen’s jaw began working on the gum again.
You hummed, lacing your fingers together on the table. “How did you know I was talking about Satoru?”
It was Ryomen’s turn to shrug, “Because he wouldn’t stop asking me about you when he got back last night.”
Your eyebrows raised, your fingers unlacing to rap your fingernails against the wooden table. You doubted that Ryomen would give up much information on his brother, assuming that he didn’t tell Satoru much about you when he had asked.
He studied you carefully, his eyes narrowing before he groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re interested in Gojo, of all people.”
Blinking, you brought your cup back up to your lips, pausing the motion to speak. “My interest has been piqued.”
Setting the cup down after a drink, you raise a skeptical eyebrow at Ryomen, “You’re acting like I’m inviting Satan in for a drink.”
Your friend sighed, disposing of his gum before he finally took a sip of the black coffee he seemed to prefer so much. You once had told him to stop trying to act so mysterious by drinking the bitter drink, but the glare he shot you made you stop bringing it up.
“I think he might have a worse track record with women than I do,” Ryomen said, shaking his head as he lowered his cup.
You knew that before he had even mentioned it. Satoru Gojo had one of the most prolific reputations on campus for being a fuckboy. You remember seeing a girl raise hell on YikYak when the girl found out he was sleeping around with multiple people despite telling her that he only had eyes for her. She ended her post with #idstilldoit, but you digress.
You were almost positive that Satoru Gojo’s sweet nature that he had expressed to you the night before, was a ploy to be invited into your apartment. His plan didn’t work, since you waved him off from your doorway. Yet, he was still trying.
1:45 am
you: hi, now you have my #!
satoru gojo 🥸: surprised u texted me
satoru gojo 🥸: wyd tmrw???
you: meeting ryo for breakfast 🤨
satoru gojo 🥸: meet me instead of sukuna
10:54 am
satoru gojo 🥸: i see how it us 😔
satoru gojo 🥸: us**
satoru gojo 🥸: fuck
satoru gojo 🥸: is**
You turned your phone over on the table, already annoyed at the massive amount of texts that Satoru had already sent you since you walked into the coffee shop.
Ryomen raised an eyebrow, his eyes angled towards your phone. You furrowed your eyebrows at the man across the table from you. “Is that Gojo?” He asked, amusement flickering across his face.
You so badly wanted to wipe the smirk off your friend's face now that it was quite obvious that his frat brother was suddenly into you. “Perhaps.”
Sighing, you eyed a group of freshman that were obviously hungover, their slumped posture and puffy under eyes evidence enough of what they had been up to the night before. Tapping your forefinger against the back of your phone case, you chewed the inside of your cheek.
“I talked to Ieiri and Iori yesterday…” You trailed off, slowly dragging your gaze up to your friend, who already had an annoyed look on his face. He always hated it when you didn’t say things outright and dragged on a sentence.
“And?” He said with an irritated sigh, “Why not just say whatever you were going to say?”
Ignoring him, you continued rapping your fingernails against your phone case. “They said it was okay if I pursued Satoru; in fact, they green-lighted it wholeheartedly.”
Ryomen mocked with a shocked face before blinking at you blankly, “If you want to, go ahead.”
You debated on whether you should let Ryomen in on your plan or not; you were certain he wouldn’t snitch on you to Satoru. But, you weren’t sure if his loyalties lie more with you or his fraternity, and you weren’t sure you wanted to find out.
Ryomen eyed his watch before he stood up, “I’m cutting it close to this meeting.” Not bothering to wait for you, as per usual, he started walking towards the entrance of the coffee shop. Once again, the heaps of people crowded in the coffee shop made a part of the crowd for him.
Now that you thought about it, the coffee shop was definitely over capacity.
You followed after him, narrowly missing being swallowed by the crowd until you exited the coffee shop. The door was still swinging when you approached it, and you narrowly made it through before it shut on you.
Ryomen was standing next to the trash can, holding out his hand for your drink that was nearly empty. Passing it to him, you watched as he threw it away, his phone ringing in his hand. “You know, it’s your funeral when he eventually ends up hurting you.”
You shrugged, “I doubt it will affect me that much.”
Your friend picked up the phone, and you could hear someone on the phone practically yelling through the speaker that was pressed to Ryomen’s ear. “Alright, alright. I’m on my way.” He spoke into the receiver, his natural grimace settling on his face as he waved you off, already headed to his car. He was most likely headed to the fraternity house for whatever meeting Kappa had planned.
11:34 am
Satoru Gojo was currently staring down his pledge brother, who was sitting across the room from him. His pledge brother had the same typical, scary look that seemed to naturally settle on his face. Satoru remembered that when they were pledging, it just made him want to punch the shit out of him, but now he was almost desensitized to it.
Yet, why is the urge to punch his pledge brother suddenly returning?
Ryomen Sukuna arrived late to the first meeting of the semester, something that was very normal for him. His pink hair was tousled and sticking up with the same hair gel he used every day of college.
Satoru thought back on his messages with you after he had dropped you off. He knew that you were close with Sukuna, but you two were close enough that you grabbed breakfast together. Satoru couldn’t name any of his friends who were girls that he would grab lunch with, except for maybe Shoko, but he barely considered her a girl anyway.
If Satoru was to prove he was serious enough to take you to his first frat formal of the year, he needed to actually commit to this. He almost felt lucky enough that you weren’t like the other girls who would practically beg on their knees for him to take them.
When the meeting wrapped up, Satoru sauntered up to his fellow frat brother, “Sukuna.”
“Gojo,” Ryomen Sukuna greeted, seeming as if he already knew why Satoru had approached him.
Satoru leaned against the wall next to Ryomen, crossing his arms over his chest. “Have a nice morning?”
Ryomen hummed, brushing a piece of lint off his jacket. “I got coffee with a friend, so yeah.”
Satoru mimicked his hum, his blue eyes scanning his fraternity brother’s face. “Yeah, I remember that being mentioned.”
Ryomen deadpanned, “Then why ask?”
Satoru shrugged, his slender hand running through his stark white hair. “Why not?”
Ryomen took his phone out of his pocket, eyeing his notifications as he brushed by Satoru, “You are both so weird.”
Satoru watched his frat brother walk off, cursing himself for not asking if you had mentioned him at all at breakfast. Not that Ryomen would tell him.
Satoru had no problem being annoying, as his frat brothers called it. He was far from nonchalant and far from caring if he came off as overbearing. If anything, it made girls typically more interested in him; everyone loves a man who cares, after all.
He pulled out his phone, opening up his messages. Your name sat prettily at the top, emojis decorating your contact name as if they had any meaning.
satoru gojo 🥸: did my typos scare u off
you: no
you: why do you type in lowercase
you: thats for the girls
satoru gojo 🥸: girls dig it🤷♂️
you: dinner later?
satoru gojo 🥸: knew u digged the lowercase
11:36 am
Iori peered over your shoulder, eyeing your texts with Satoru. “You need to come off sort of crazy; you just seem uninterested.”
You turned in your chair to glare at your annoying sorority sister, rolling your eyes at her before directing your gaze back towards your phone. “I have to reel him in first; he’s used to girls being head-over-heels for him.”
Iori hummed before migrating over to the couch in the apartment. She draped herself across the sofa, propping her feet on the armrest. “Are you sure he won’t just lose interest?”
You shrugged, “I don’t think he will. Ryomen told me that Satoru has been hounding him about me.”
“What are you planning for dinner?” Iori asked, yawning into her hand.
Your hand made its way to your chin as you pondered. “Should I insist on something really fancy or expensive?”
Iori Utahime clapped her hands, “Yes. That is perfect.”
Your friend started laughing, tears welling up in her eyes as she imagined the look on Satoru Gojo’s face when you would eventually bleed his pockets dry after the week and a half of entertaining the frat boy ends.
“What are some things that turn guys off?” You asked, throwing your phone onto the coffee table as you reclined in your chair opposite Iori.
Your friend looked at the ceiling in thought, “You should definitely tell him to stop talking to other girls.” Iori hummed before thinking, “Maybe even accuse him of sleeping with other girls while you are both eating.”
You grinned at her idea, “That’s not bad, but maybe accusing him of cheating on a first date is a little extreme.”
Iori tsked at you from her spot on the sofa, “The whole point of this bet is to drive him off, that has to be the quickest way to shut that down real quick.”
You leaned forward, your gaze flickering to Iori. “Okay, but having the bet end in just one day is boring, no?” Your foot tapped against the floor. “Shouldn’t I try to keep it going a little longer than that?”
Iori turned her head in your direction, “You say that now and watch, in like three days, you are going to be head over heels for that idiot.”
You made an ‘X’ sign with your hands, “I think Satoru Gojo is the last person that I would willingly date, Iori.”
Your friend gave you a look that read ‘I-don’t-believe-you.’ “Whatever you want to do, you’re the one who owes me money if you end up falling in love with him.”
Snorting, you threw a pillow at her, “Well then, get ready to pay me.”
Iori caught the pillow, retaliating by throwing it back at you with the such accurate precision that it nailed you in the face. "I won't have to."
Glaring at your friend, "Have some faith in me."
6:30 pm
The thought process was to make Satoru Gojo spend a lot of money on you for dinner, but you still would need to retain your manners for this meal. You had to make sure you had him hooked before you went for the next phase of your plan.
You assumed that the more money he spent on you, the more he would look at you hesitantly, like most daddys-money fraternity boys did when they had to spend their weekly allowance on girls they just wanted to sleep with, but Satoru stared at you with hearts practically bursting out of his eyes.
Your gaze trailed over to him when you finished ordering, handing the menu back to the waitress who seemed slightly concerned at the large steak you had just placed an order for.
“Ma’am, are you sure you want that much?” She held up her hands to demonstrate how big a steak like that would be.
Satoru held up his hand, “You heard the woman, she wants that size.”
The waitress blinked at the two of you before grabbing the menu from Satoru, her fingertips slightly brushing his hand as she took the menu. Your gaze locked onto her fingers when a rather good idea found its way, weaving through your brain.
When the waitress walked up, you reached for the wine bottle from the ice bucket. Satoru seemed to be thinking the same as you, figuring his warm hand was now placed over yours on the wine bottle.
You couldn’t help but lock your eyes with his bright ones from across the small, candle-lit table. It felt oddly intimate, as if this were a real date. It is a real date, but you refused to treat it as if it were. This was a bet, after all.
You cleared your throat, removing your hand from the wine bottle as Satoru’s long fingers wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle. The wine is old, and the waitress explained it had been flown in from France after being kept in a wine cellar for decades. She had also explained how expensive it was, and Satoru just waved as if the cost of that wine wasn’t the same amount you spend on groceries every week.
Satoru reached for your wine glass, filling the glass up halfway before filling his glass up as well. Once he placed the wine bottle back into the ice bucket, you reached for the bottle again.
Bringing the wine bottle over to your glass, you filled the glass up to the rim, humming satisfactorily at the very full, very unconventional wine pour you had going on. Satoru blinked at the gesture before grabbing the wine bottle, copying your pour into his own glass.
Satoru lifted the wine bottle and pinched an eye shut, his long white lashes grazing his eyelid as he spied how much was left in the bottle. “Do you think we’ll need another bottle?”
Raising an eyebrow, you raised your glass off the table. “Do you really think we’ll drink more than a bottle?”
Satoru shrugged, “I’m not much of a wine type of guy.”
You had guessed as much when you saw how he had copied how much wine you had poured into your glass. You would’ve thought an unconventional wine pour would be a turn-off for a guy who clearly grew up around people with money.
Wasn’t drinking wine something that rich people did daily? Hell, you were a broke college student, and you drank cheap wine almost every night.
Taking a sip of the dark red wine, you hummed as the bitternesscoatedg your tongue satisfyingly. “You’re more of a hard liquor type of guy?”
He pointed at you, “Correct.”
Setting the wine glass down for a second, you tilted your head at Satoru, watching him carefully as he cringed at the bitterness of the wine.
“You know,” you spoke in between another large sip of wine, “if you want to date me, then you should probably stop flirting with other girls.”
Satoru looked up from his glass, a white eyebrow etched up on his face. “Flirting with other girls?”
“Yes, flirting with other girls.” Nodding, you gestured to a different table where your waitress was talking to other guests. “Our waitress was obviously flirting with you, and you were eating it up.”
Satoru’s eyebrows furrowed a fraction, “I think I know when a girl is flirting with me, and she was not flirting.”
Scoffing, you leaned forward in your chair. “Are you trying to defend her?”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. The look on Satoru’s face was priceless; he looked so confused that you almost felt bad for getting mad at him. But you could only imagine the looks on Iori and Ieiri’s faces when you would give them the debrief later.
“Her hand was practically feeling yours up when she took the menu.” You widened your eyes, giving him a look of disbelief. “So everyone was right about you.”
Satoru’s nose twitched. “Fine, if you don’t want me to speak to other women, then I won’t.” He crossed his arms over his chest, looking around the restaurant.
You honestly weren’t expecting a response like that from Satoru. You pursed your lips, “Good, that’s all I wanted to hear.”
Satoru was right. When the waitress came to your table with your food, Satoru didn’t utter a word to her. He didn’t even spare her a glance when she set his food down, his eyes trained on you while she settled the plate in front of him.
Thanking the waitress before she walked away, you placed your purse in your lap, rummaging around in the bag. “We should take a picture with my camera, so we can show our future children what our first date was like.”
When you looked at Satoru, he had an amused look on his face, gesturing to you to go ahead. “I’m sure they would love to see how hot their dad was in his prime.”
You tried to mask the surprise that was fighting to show on your face. It was unsettling how he went along with everything you have said or done on this date with a smile on his face. He was willing to do whatever you asked of him.
You could not help but laugh at him, “Yeah, sure.”
Dragging your chair over to Satoru’s side of the table, you were sitting pretty close to Satoru before he grabbed your hip, dragging you to sit almost on top of him. “I’m sure they would also love to see how hot their mom was, too.”
His voice was gravelly, sending a wave of shivers down your spine, and you hoped your face wasn’t covered in red as you raised your digital camera. “Okay, make sure you’re smiling and not making a serious face like on your Instagram.”
Satoru chuckled in your ear, “How do you know what my Instagram posts look like? Do you even follow me?”
You ignored him, snapping a few photos before quickly scurrying over to your side of the table, where your huge steak was waiting. You had no idea how you were to finish this, but maybe Iori and Ieiri will get lucky and have some leftovers waiting for them at the apartment when you get back.
8:09 pm
You didn’t expect to drink as much as you did at the nice, fancy dinner that Satoru Gojo had planned. You guessed that neither did he, judging by the way he was practically leaning all of his body weight onto you.
After finishing the first bottle, Satoru insisted on another one, quickly calling over another waiter to ask for a bottle similar to the first one that the pair of you had quickly drained.
You groaned, trying to push him upright, but he just laughed at you. He started to laugh so hard, bent over at the waist, that a sudden hiccup escaped his throat. You narrowed your eyes at him, “How are you more drunk than me?”
He lifted his torso back up, covering his mouth when he hiccuped again. “I told you I wasn’t a wine guy.”
Sighing, you leaned against the exterior wall of the nice restaurant, waiting for Ieiri to pick the two of you up.
When you had called your best friend about you and Satoru needing a ride, she thought it was the funniest thing she had ever heard. She was laughing so hard through the speakers that Satoru had asked who was laughing so hard on the phone.
When Ieiri pulled up in her car, Satoru leaned against the side, peering inside to see who it was that was picking the two of you up. His face seemed to light up at the sight of Ieiri.
“Shoko! What a good friend you are to me.”
You could see her rolling her eyes, “Yeah, yeah, can you two get in?”
Reaching for the passenger door, your fingers grazed it before your hand was forcefully ripped away. Satoru had your hand in his, interlacing your fingers together as he shook his other pointer finger in your face.
“Ladies do not open their own door,” he reached for the passenger door, opening it for you.
You stared at his hand that was enveloping your smaller hand. This was the second time tonight that his hand was on yours. Why were you now blushing? It had to be the wine.
Unlacing your fingers from his, you settled into the passenger seat, glancing to Ieiri, who was giving you a look that definitely read ‘what-the-literal-fuck.’ Your best friend leaned in to whisper in your ear, “Hooked ‘em.”
You puffed air into your cheeks to keep from laughing when Satoru opened up the back passenger side door, settling into the backseat.
“To the Kappa house, Shoko.” Satoru yawned from the backseat, leaning forward to point ahead of the two of you.
“A please would be nice, Gojo.” She said with a sneer on her face. “And the Kappa house is the opposite way, dumbass.”
The driveway was lit up at the Kappa house, the party banner still hung from the balcony that overlooked the entrance to the fraternity house. The banner read, “Kappa Welcome Party!” with the art of the school mascot dragging a wagon with dorm supplies piled on it.
Funny, that was your job when Freshmen were moving in, while all Kappa did was throw soap on cars and lazily wash it off while being shirtless.
Ieiri glanced in the rear-view mirror, “Satoru, wake up.”
He stirred in the backseat, yawning before sitting up straight. He threw the door open before opening up the front passenger door, staring down at you once he had it opened.
“Um, what are you doing?” You asked, blinking up at Satoru.
“Walk me inside,” He said, using one of his arms to lean against the car as he stared down at you.
“The guy is supposed to walk the girl to her place or whatever, but I won't have the opportunity to, so walk me inside?”
You wanted to laugh at him. What a diva.
Ieiri held back a snicker from beside you, “Yeah, go walk him inside.”
You reached back and pinched her before stepping out of the car, the warm summer night breeze brushing some of your hair out of your face. Satoru’s hair was messy, as it always was. White strands of hair fell over his forehead, falling over his matching white eyebrows.
He had ditched the regular baseball hat he typically wore around campus, but he still somehow had hat hair.
The walk to the entrance of the Kappa Rho Psi house was quiet, the sound of bugs buzzing around the lights lining the brick driveway, and the waving sound of the light breeze filling the emptiness between the two of you.
“Not gonna lie, I only asked you to walk with me because I thought it would be weird to ask in front of Shoko.”
You looked over at him; his long legs naturally made his stride a lot longer than yours, yet he had slowed down to walk beside you. “Ask me what?”
You both slowed down as you approached the door, and he leaned against one of the pillars on the porch. “Kappa is throwing a bonfire tomorrow, you’re coming with me.”
You blinked at him, “That’s not asking me.”
Satoru sighed, “Okay, fine, I’m telling you.”
You narrowed your eyes at him for a fraction of a second, “Hm…”
His gaze met yours, his eyebrows raising. “Do you want me to grovel?”
Holding up a hand, a small smile rested on your face. “No groveling needed, I’ll come.”
Satoru grinned, “Bet.”
Just ‘bet?”
Satoru pulled you into a hug, ruffling your hair as he stepped back. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
You nodded and watched as he stuck his hand out towards you.
“Are you seriously trying to dap me up, right now?” You asked, pursing your lips to keep from laughing.
Satoru’s hand was still sticking out towards you awkwardly, “Please don’t leave me hanging.”
Rolling your eyes, despite the smile on your face, you reached your hand out, the clap crisp as his hand connected with yours.
Satoru didn’t finish the dap-up, though; he clasped his hand in yours, bringing the back of your hand up to his lips as he placed a kiss on your knuckles.
“Night.” He simply spoke, releasing your hand and finishing the handshake with a snap before he stepped inside.
Standing at the door with your lips parted in shock, Ieiri honked from down the driveway.
later that night. 11:24 pm.
“HOLY SHIT.” You heard a scream from the living room, a sound that was so loud that you swore the prints hanging on your bedroom wall shook a little.
The makeup wipe in your hand was caked in makeup from your stranger-than-strange date with Satoru, a blend of foundation, mascara, eye-shadow, and other makeup products mixed into the wipe.
Standing up from your vanity, you throw the makeup wipe into the trash on your way out of your bedroom. Ieiri and Iori were looking at something on Ieiri’s phone, their jaws practically on the ground.
“What are you two screaming about?” You muttered, “I think the building shook a little.”
Ieiri waved you over, her mouth still open.
You walked over to the pair, using your hands to close their mouths once you reached them. Ieiri put the phone in your face, all you are able to see is a blur of pixels.
You grabbed the phone, placing it farther away from your face.
It felt as if you were on a rollercoaster, and the drop was happening that very moment as you viewed the Instagram story from Ieiri’s phone.
Posted on Satoru Gojo’s Instagram story, the account that had nearly 5,000 followers, the account that was branded with shirtless pictures, resort pictures, and fraternity formal flicks, now had your face plastered on it.
When Satoru had asked you for the selfie of the two of you that was taken on your digital camera, you didn’t think anything of it.
Now, you were staring back at the dinner selfie, the one that was now posted on Satoru’s Instagram story. The text on the story read, “Nah, I’d win🌟,” with your Instagram handle tagged right under it.
“Holy shit,” your jaw was the one on the ground now.
Iori grabbed the phone from you, “When you said you hooked him, I didn’t think you would have him like this!”
You threw your arms up, “I had no idea he was going to do that!”
Iori faced the phone screen towards you, your eyes naturally finding Satoru’s blue ones on the story post. “It’s been one day!”
Huffing, you pointed at the phone. “Go to his following.”
Iori tapped on the phone, going straight to his profile, then his ‘following’ section before passing the phone to you. Scrolling, you were sure your jaw was in hell at this point.
Satoru had unfollowed the mass amount of girls he was following before tonight. How you knew he was following a lot of girls was simply because you were curious last night and wanted to take a glance.
You gave up on counting how many girls he had followed. But now, he only followed two. You, and then Shoko. And a newly followed account, the Zeta Mu Theta Instagram account.
Groaning, you covered your face with your hands. Trying to get rid of this guy was going to be a lot harder than you thought.
a/n: omg i just realized that they are veryyy 'sally, when the wine runs out' coded. saur sorry for releasing this so late, shawty was exploring washington state <3
Seeing all the Wicked: For Good takes and I realise why media literacy is so important. No Elphaba was not wicked. Yes the wizard is bad. Yes it’s political, MM flip it around WW is that way for a reason.
The wizard and Madame Morrible are a parallel to Glinda and Elphaba.
And the worst one. Elphaba was not a bad friend to Glinda for “taking” Fiyero. Their whole relationship is shallow and stated multiple times how “you’re perfect.” “You’re perfect, so we’re perfect together”. Please guys
♯┆ [dilf!dick grayson x pregnant wife!reader] INCLUDES.ᐟ
⤿ DICK GRAYSON was a man who aged like fine wine, and you certainly weren't complaining. You two had been married for a while now, but he never got tired of waking up to your beautiful self every day.
!! fluff. domestic. fem reader. established relationship. entirely based off of that comic panel. dilf grayson is so special to me. sexual innuendos. you two have two kids together. no real warnings. ENJOY.
The house was loud in the way only a home full of small children could be. Crayons rolled off the coffee table, a blanket fort sagged dramatically between two chairs, and someone had left a trail of goldfish crackers leading from the kitchen to the hallway like a breadcrumb map to chaos.
You stepped over them carefully, one hand resting on the curve of your belly, the other holding a half full sippy cup you’d rescued from the stairs.
In the living room, Dick was on the floor, cross legged, with your youngest perched on his shoulders and your oldest dramatically narrating a story about space pirates and magical ducks with flailing hands. He looked up when he heard you step into the room, and the grin that spread across his face was instant, soft, familiar, and so full of love it made your chest ache.
“Hey, babe,” he greeted, voice warm and a little breathless. “We’re deep in negotiations with the pirate queen. It’s tense. She's telling me I need to give her all my ducks or I'll have to walk the plank.”
You leaned against the doorway, watching him with a smile that felt too big for your face. His sweatpants were slung low on his hips, his shirt stretched across broad shoulders, and his salt and pepper hair was sticking up in every direction thanks to the tiny, sticky hands grasped in it. He looked tired, he looked perfect.
“You’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen,” you shrugged, and he blinked like he hadn’t expected that in the middle of a pirate-duck business deal.
“Even with glitter in my hair? I'm pretty sure there's juice stains on this shirt too.” his chin dipped and his eyebrows raised as if that would help him get a better look at his shirt. Your daughter (the pirate queen) took to prancing around the couch and throwing herself onto your leg with an excited "Mommy!" and some incoherent, excited shouting.
“Especially then,” you murmured, your hand brushing your daughter's hair out of her face and crossing the room to sit beside him. “It’s the dad energy. It’s lethal.”
He chuckled, his hands steady on your son's sides while gently lowering him onto the floor. “You’re biased.”
“I’m pregnant with your third child,” you replied, nudging his knee with yours, a tired but happy sigh leaving your lips when you shifted to rest your head on his shoulder. “I’m allowed to be biased.”
Your oldest flopped dramatically onto the couch, declaring the ducks had betrayed her and now they were at war. Dick gave a solemn nod, then turned back to you, his hand finding yours and resting over your belly.
“You’re glowing,” he mumbled softly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I know people say that to pregnant ladies all the time, but you actually are. You look like you’re made of the sun.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart fluttered anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m obsessed,” he corrected, leaning in to kiss your temple. “You’re carrying our kid, you wrangle two tiny tornadoes every day, and you still look at me like I hung the moon.”
“Because you did,” you shrugged, your words leaving your tongue like it was the simplest fact you've ever known. “You make grilled cheese with bat shaped cookie cutters, you patch up scrapes and read bedtime stories in your patrol voice. You’re literally everything I have ever wanted.”
Dick’s gaze softened, and he pulled you closer until your head rested against his shoulder again and your body was flush against his side. The kids were still chattering, building a new fort with couch cushions and wild ambition, but for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you.
“I still can’t believe you picked me,” he whispered.
“I picked you every day,” you replied. “Even when you were late to our first date. Even when you forgot to take off your mask before meeting my family. Even now, when you snore like a freight train and leave your gear in the laundry hamper.”
He laughed, low and rough, and kissed the top of your head. “You’re stuck with me.”
“Good,” you said, closing your eyes. “I am right where I wanna be.”
The kids erupted into giggles as the fort collapsed again, and Dick groaned playfully, pushing himself up to help rebuild. You watched him move — strong, graceful, and just a little slower than he used to be, but not because he was slowed from age, but because he didn't need to rush. The silver in his hair suited him. So did the laugh lines around his eyes and the way he carried himself like someone who’d finally learned how to be soft without breaking.
Later, after dinner (which involved three spilled drinks, one dramatic tantrum, and a very enthusiastic dance party), you found yourself curled up on the couch while Dick cleaned up the kitchen. You could hear him humming again, totally off key but entirely content, and you smiled into the throw pillow.
He came back with two mugs — tea for you, hot chocolate for him — and settled beside you, pulling your legs into his lap like it was second nature. His hand found your belly again, fingers tracing lazy circles as he sipped his drink.
“You’re staring,” he gave a toothy grin withut looking up.
“God forbid I look at the man I love. Who, might I add, is aging like absolute fine wine.” You leaned over and gave him a quick but loving kiss.
He snorted against your lips with eyebrows raised, “I’m aging like a guy who’s been thrown through too many windows.”
“Still hot,” you shrugged and he finally looked at you, eyes crinkling with amusement.
“You’re the hot one here.”
“I’m pregnant, Dick,” you replied, as if that took away from how attractive you could be. "And I'm married to the textbook definition of a dilf."
Dick leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. “I expect you to keep saying things like that forever.”
“I plan to,” you said, tugging him closer. “Even when we’re old and gray and the kids are grown and the house is quiet.”
He kissed you properly then, slow and sweet, and the world faded again. Just warmth, and love, and the quiet hum of a life well-lived.
Eventually, the kids called out from upstairs because someone needed water, someone else had lost a stuffed animal, and Dick groaned dramatically as he stood.
“I’ll go,” he said, already halfway to the stairs. “But only because you’re carrying Dick Grayson Jr. and I’m trying to earn brownie points.”
“You’ve got a lifetime supply.. but we're not naming the poor kid Dick in this day and age!” you called after him.
And as you listened to him soothe sleepy voices and tuck tiny bodies back into bed, you felt it again... that deep, overwhelming love that came from watching someone grow into the best version of themselves right in front of you.
Dick returned a few minutes later, barefoot and rumpled, and collapsed beside you with a sigh. “They’re finally down.”
You curled into his side, hand resting over his heart. “You’re amazing.”
He kissed your forehead. “Of course I am, just for you.”
Re reading twilight and have many points to make about it and why they’re better than the films. I could go into so much detail about everything but these are my key points
1 - Book Edward and Bella make so much sense, her wanting to be with him and being obsessed is reciprocated and they’re also so sweet.
2 - Edward having certain to ask or be asked questions making their relationship actually real and not just “hot vampire x weirdo loner”. They know and understand one another
3 - Bella Swan I love you. You’re funny and smart while also cool and down to earth, she doesn’t throw away her friends for Edward, she’s selfless and not some shallow selfish girl.
4 - Every relationship that’s portrayed. Mainly Rowling about Charlie and Bella. She cooks for him and he always does little things to make sure she’s okay and vice versa. Deposits not always Rowling they actually are close and understand each other, he knows she likes the quiet just like him and she knows that he is there for her, even if he’s unable to show it. Their relationship was so butchered in the film because she actually loved and spent time with her father and her mother wasn’t that bad (still don’t like you Renee).
5 - These books despite being written by a Mormon were actually peak and no wonder they’re such a cult classic and referenced in pop culture often
(If there were any book Edward fanfics send them my way xo)
Youtube is full of ads, spotify is full of ads, tumblr is full of ads, pinterest is full of ads. Everything uses ai. Every new update makes the website/app worse. Youtube auto translates almost every video I want to watch. Sometimes pinterest only loads ads for me. Check out this new ai feature. Here's a new update that breaks ur laptop. Here's a new update that breaks ur phone. Why are u complaining about ur phone, just get the newest iphone lol. Join my patreon. Join my membership. Pay a monthly membership to get all features. Upgrade your membership to get even more features. Subscribe to netflix. Subscribe to disney. Subscribe to amazon. Subscribe to hulu. This content isn't available in ur country. This content was removed. This website was removed. This feature only exists for apple. This app only exists for apple. U need to a WiFi connection to play this game. U need an account. We need your email to finish creating this account. We need your number to finish creating your account. We need your id to finish creating your account. In order to delete your account please write an email. In order to delete your account you need a laptop. Oops our database was hacked and ur information was stolen. Ur data was sold from this random website u used once 10 years ago. Spam call. Spam call. Spam call.
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summary: Rafe is never coming back to one of these.
word count: 3.7k (i got carried away w the fights lmao)
warning: language. talks about past-relationship. talk about a deceased father. parents fighting against each other. something else? probably. (as always English isn't my first language so apologies for any possible grammatical error).
author's note: thank you guys for all the love w everything i posted about this AU 😭 i hope you like this one bc i had fun writing lollllll. i'm so excited to explore this dynamic.
also should i make a tag list ?! a few people asked me
Rafe Cameron.
Your dear ex-husband for two years now (the divorce anniversary was last week, not that you've been counting) and you have to meet up again for your kids' school conference, the ones Rafe normally doesn't assist because he's working, always saying he has some major deal to deal with that falls casually on the same day these meetings do, but you forced him to come today. There's no way you're going through this hell all alone one more fucking time.
There he is, standing in all his glory while typing on his phone. Office suit still on, but he keeps it open and makes sure that his tie is still well done. He knows how much you've always liked to see him all sharp. You tried not to look more than two seconds and hide behind your sunglasses.
You sighed at the sight and decided to think nothing of it while you clutched the purse in you shoulder, one that Rafe bought you years ago. Beautiful, designer, expensive. It's your favorite.
He looked up when he heard footsteps, he could recognize those heels anywhere. "Hey, baby." He said all too natural to his ex-wife and mother of his two kids. You, like this is just part of the routine gave half of a wave, clearly wanting to be out of this place as soon as possible.
"Hey." You said lazily and you kissed cheeks as a greeting, pushing your sunglasses up your head. You have told yourselves that this is way too engraved in your habits to take it out of them, so you don't waste your time on trying to be any different.
You're still annoyed, you haven't really been able to stand to be next to each other without sensing some form of irritation, but you're really trying your best here. You forced yourself to come here today because you know this is out of his usual events and you just can't wait to pick on him. The last time he picked up your kids you told them, on purpose, in front of them that you guys had a parents conference to attend to.
And he really couldn't say no when you put him in that position.
You sighed, brushing some expensive well done hair out of your face and gestured the school building. "Let's go." You walked inside the school with all the other parents, your heels clicking against the floor. Always so loud and demanding. He followed behind, eyes still on his phone as he walked next to you.
Typical.
You rolled your eyes and he didn't even have to look up to know that you did. He rolled his eyes too because after so long you do start getting similar with each other, he put his phone down, putting it in the pocket of his suit pants. And he adjusted his cufflinks, one of your gifts that you brought for him years ago when you were in Paris for work. They were gold (you wear gold, so he obviously started to do it as well), along with a delicate engraving.
You notice them. It's almost on purpose, the way you keep wearing each other's gifts around the other one without a single care. As if saying yes, your gift was good, the divorce won't change that.
He took a chance to look around, the last time he really been here was... probably when he graduated. I mean, he didn't even make it inside when it was your kids' first day of kindergarten (you know, emotional crying and all that bullshit), so it was a bit odd to be back. "No way they still have that fuck-ass water dispenser—" He noticed as he walked past.
You raised your eyebrows, unimpressed with his comment as you kept your walk fast, watching all the other parents also arriving at the meeting, some older couples and some people you didn't know. You felt some eyes on you. This was probably the first time at the school of you and Rafe walking together since the divorce. And if there's something about Outer Banks, people for sure like to talk.
"You look good." He commented under his breath. Not flirty, not really sweet either. Just... true, as if the fact that he noticed at all pisses him off.
But you rolled your eyes. "Save it." You scoffed, not taking him seriously anymore.
"Just sayin' how it is."
You groaned internally when you finally arrived the classroom where the meeting was being held. You stepped inside and stopped when Rafe stopped his walking on the door. "What?" You asked.
"Here? In the kids room?" He asked, already looking around the place.
Is he really so out of touch?
"Yes." You said like it was obvious. Because it was. "Where else is it gonna be?"
"I don't know, a place where they have chairs my ass actually fit into." He walked past you as he finally went inside, choosing the desk closest to the door in case he needed to escape at some point. But he knows you won't allow it. You had to laugh at that, the chuckle that escapes you admits just how right he was.
He grabs the back of one chair and pulls it back for you, offering you the place like he has always done. You gave him a stoic look and take the chair out of his hold and you sit yourself in it.
He sighs. "C'mon, honey. Can you cut me some slack?" He murmured. Words dripping with the right amount of charm (and sarcasm) to make you both nostalgic and enraged. "Been a long week."
He rolled his eyes and made a mental note on to count how many times he did it by the end of this goddamn circus.
"Ugh, tell me about it." You agreed with a groan as you rested your ching on top of your hand, looking around.
"What, full of idiots?"
"Full of them. Oh, my God—" You said in disbelief.
"Yeah, I bet."
He sat down, being obviously too big to fit into the kids' sized desk. Why is this meeting even happening here? This big ass school that has a very expensive tuition has an auditorium where these things can be held. Do they do it here because... it'll make you more empathetic? They think you'll think about how your kid feels in the same classroom? Or really they're just lazy people that only use the auditorium in especial occasions.
"Fucking kindergarten setup." He complained, uncomfortably moving in the tiny desk like a caged animal, knees spread too wide for the space (which you're definitely trying not to touch with yours). He was uncomfortable, so naturally, the arm that couldn't fit in place was stretched along the back of your chair. And you pretended you didn't feel the warmth emanating from him. Or his perfume.
You watched the classroom getting filled by other people, some other couples who came here together and you are sure that Rafe is wondering why the hell do they need both parents here, some other people who came here on their own: mothers who are married but their husband couldn't be here today (which was your case most of the time a few years ago), some who are divorced (now you're one of those) and the occasional one who shows up for their kid today for the first time.
That's Rafe.
Sure, he's pretty present (now) in any other thing that involved the kids but anything school related that required his presence was always a no for him. Until today.
There's a few people who you already know; from around the island, the country club and there's obviously those other high school sweethearts that are still married. One bitchy couple that graduated on your same class that never got the same attention you and Rafe did (because apparently they weren't relevant enough) and apparently they are still hung up on that by the way they're looking at you like they obviously just won.
Jesus, if only they knew what Rafe knows about them.
And then: "You cut your hair." He noticed.
You looked over your shoulder, back at him as you blinked slowly after what he said. "Just a few inches. Like always." You hummed, shrugging it off with indifference.
"Hm."
You nodded, with half of your mind already outside of the classroom and thinking about dinner. You looked around and your eyes ended up falling on him and the crooked collar of his shirt that you just noticed. You only gave him half a glance but it's enough to notice the imperfection. "You're over 30 years old and you still don't know how to dress?" You said while reaching out to accommodate what was looking wrong.
Rafe tried to ignore the shiver that went down his spine when you touched him and he pulled away, pretending this wasn't exactly what he wanted. "You always gotta be criticizing something or what—"
"If you knew how to dress I wouldn't have to—"
"Yeah, yeah."
At that moment, the young woman known as Ms Jones enters the classroom. A way too bright girl, who you're sure was genuinely a really sweet smile to see in the morning, but at 4 pm, at the end of the school day, you can see how she's pulling the strings to keep going. And you can't blame her, a parents conference wouldn't be your favorite activity at all.
"Good evening everyone, thank you so much for showing up today. We know you all have a tight schedule, so this is appreciated." She started, smile up to her eyes almost. Not all of us, Rafe thought as he looked at some people. "Today we're here to talk about the upcoming science fair next month, the end-of-year recital and class dynamics." She sighed softly and look down at her notes once again before continuing. "And by the end I'll go talk to each of you individually about your respective kid, just a few words so you can see how they are all doing—"
She wasn't even finished when you hear this agitating, unbearable voice. The same one you've dealt with for years while you were in high school. Eleanor.
"Excuse, Ms, hi—" She raised her hand, talking before even allowed. Hm, you could already sense the headache coming up. "My daughter practiced for hours for the starring and now it's suddenly a 'shared part'? How is that fair?"
You immediately tensed, frowning a little bit at the question because your daughter got the other part. She finally, finally dared to come out of her little cage and do something different because you know how much she's been struggling with opening up ever since the divorce happened.
And Rafe knew it as well, Olivia has been nothing but beaming ever since she got it. He felt the way you tensed underneath the touch of his fingers that had been slowly coming closer to touch your back.
"Well, ma'am, this is also elementary school," The teacher clarified more sternly, clearly prepared for people like this (or she already knows how Eleanor behaves). This is not a music orientated school, they don't focus on this. "All kids deserve their time to shine and to do their own thing." She was being as rational as she could be. "And Olivia really worked for her part as well, she deserves it too."
Eleanor scoffed, like she had better things to do and acted like she already won this case. "Her mom—"
"Her mom *what*?"
The room fell silent after Rafe's intervention. He was not letting anyone speak on your name like that, he was daring her to finish the sentence.
"She works in this—" She pointed out the fact of your profession.
"I didn't make my daughter audition for a school recital." You said indignated. Does people really this dense exist in real life or are you just hallucinating after such a long week?
"Oh, please." The woman rolled her eyes. The one time you asked Rafe to come to a conference just so he could also see how much of a shit show the whole thing was and how you were never wrong about this people. "Her daughter suddenly got a second position in a role that wasn't even shared to begin with and she happens to be a music producer. The show didn't even had two stars and now it does."
"She didn't make our daughter do anything, she didn't call anyone. Olivia auditioned like everyone else, are you fucking serious right now?" Rafe scoffed, almost going nonverbal at the implications this woman was making against a kid?
"Oh, you're one to talk, Cameron." Eleanor's husband, Michael, talked now.
"Excuse me?"
"It's the first time I see you at one of these." He gestured around the place to signal the situation they were in. "So, if I were you I would stay quiet if I don't know how this normally works." He said firmly, pretending to be democratic about this whole thing as if it actually counted for something other than just school merit that no one cared about.
"Yeah, Mike," Rafe said in that same tone that he used to call the guy in high school when they played in the same football team for years and he never really got to be a quarterback because of Rafe. Rafe used to be a little condescending just to make him boil.
"I'm actually working, y'know? That's why I don't have time to come to this bullshit and deal with people like you, y'know..." He shook his head, ignoring the daggers that you were sending at him through your eyes. "I'm a little busy actually providing for my kids. I mean, man's got three kids and you're still living off your daddy's money and your wife's reputation, huh?" He taunted, knowing he immediately touched a nerve.
Then Rafe leans back, arms crossed over his chest as he breathes out, too calm for your own liking.
"I didn't know a divorce was what would take you to lock in." Michael said again, with that snake tone that you always sensed around this kind of people.
You sensed Rafe shifting on the chair, the way he was moving to be the absolute same kind of man that he always was: a reactive one. He was always faster to take in action than in word.
You placed a hand on his arm and held him back shaking your head. Not worth it.
It's electric, massive. Even tho it's through clothes, even tho if you're not really touching him.
He goes still again, feeling incredibly bewildered by your touch again. Because, despite everything, the jokes, the flirting that goes around sometimes, you don't touch him like this anymore.
And he can't help but being absolutely shocked that you still manage to have such an effect on him. He doesn't dare to defy you and do the opposite of what you say now.
And he feels absolutely bitter because this man definitely touched a nerve. If there was something Rafe hated was the reminder of how they got to a divorce, how it was obviously his fault and how everyone around can tell how you definitely got away.
And Michael sees it, the subtle touch, the exchange of looks that a couple (or ex-couple) like you shouldn't even have anymore. But it lingers. "Still whipped, huh?"
Rafe takes a deep breath.
His eyes flick to Michael's hands, no ring tan line, but he's still wearing that same cheap-ass watch from graduation day— and then he looks back up with a smirk so sharp it could cut glass.
Rafe wishes he still had his ring tan line, he might as well get it tattooed so the mark permanently stays there. A reminder of what it had been.
He frowned and leaned against your touch in his arm like it was the only real thing he could rely on in a room full of assholes. "At least I'm not cheating on my wife—" He managed to say before being cut off by the teacher.
"Okay!" She interrupted. "I suggest that personal feuds are left outside the classroom during this meeting." She said, tense as a stretched elastic. It obviously isn't the same to deal with kids than with adults' tension, everything cuts deeper.
Rafe sighs and leans back in, settling on the tiny chair that he really wants to break right now. He looks down, your hand still on his arm like you're holding him with a leash, you might as well have.
Michael tensed after Rafe's words, it's not that what he said is exactly a secret but they like to believe he hides what he does in the country club pretty well. and Eleanor glance at each other with smug smiles. But leans forward in his chair, all too proud. "Speaking of cheating..."
And Rafe snaps from the moment, eyes darkening at the implication. "Hey." He warns. He knows all about what people say around the island since they separated and since Rafe really makes use of his singleness.
Rafe is not a cheater.
"Sir—" Ms Jones tried to stop the conversation.
Michael scoffs at him and does not let the conversation be interrupted by the teacher, knowing he made Rafe nervous on purpose —he really likes to be detestable— and looks over at you with that same condescending grin that you used to see in his high school days.
"How's your business, honey?" Eleanor asks now, voice dripping in sweet, fake sympathy. The petname on its own makes you want to throw up. "Still tryna' sell those tunes no one buys?"
You frowned at the and let out a sarcastic chuckle. Really? Of all people, she's the one that's going to tell you that right now? When she doesn't work, didn't go to college, didn't do anything other than staying on this island, hooked on her husband's arm while letting him cheat on her because she's also too busy cheating with her personal trainer.
And you're not usually one to answer and waste your time on people who don't matter but: "You mean the ones that got me a Billboard award last year...?" You asked with a smirk.
No need to explain more.
Rafe can't hide his damn proud smile. God, if he doesn't find this hot...
Even after the divorce, he kept the magazine with a picture of you at the ceremony, the one with you holding that award and smiling like a kid at Christmas.
Eleanor's smirk falters slightly when she realizes she just stepped in a pile of bullshit. But she still goes for it, looking for something to grab on to. Michael's smug expression falters a bit, because, yeah, he didn't expect that answer.
But he quickly covers up his wife with a scoff. "Yeah, yeah, we heard." Bullshit. They probably didn't even know about the goddamn Billboard Awards. "Must be real easy to get those awards when Daddy paid the record label to get you on the ballot."
Michael's always known it's a sore spot for you, being called Daddy's girl.
And you hear a few gasps the more the conversation progressed. You saw the young teacher's face, almost going pale when she saw that she can't be the one to control the situation. She's probably thanking that she decided to work with kids.
You laughed at that, rolling your eyes at how these people have never been smart enough to actually make something out of their lives or at least have proper encounters with other people, especially when they are the ones starting every altercation.
They have always been like this. Jealous, envious.
"Jeez, I wonder how he does it six feet on the ground." You said with a smirk to make him uncomfortable, you have talked about this topic way too much in therapy to not make a joke out of it. "At least my dead father does something, what has yours done, huh? Other than trying to hide you because you couldn't even work for him—" You barked back.
Rafe can't help it — he snorts loud, a rough, unfiltered laugh that cuts through the tension like a blade.
His head tilts toward you, blue eyes alight with something dangerously close to pride. Holy shit, he thinks. That fire in you —sharp, fearless— always hit him right in the chest. And yeah, maybe he misses it.
Michael goes red. "Excuse me?"
But you’re already moving forward in your seat, voice cool and smooth like velvet over steel.
“Think hard,” you say with a slow blink. “Does ‘bankruptcy,’ ‘embezzlement,’ and ‘community service for public indecency’ ring any bells? Or did Mommy wipe that part from the family photo album as well?”
A beat of silence.
Then—a few parents actually gasp.
Eleanor jerks like she’s been slapped and her husband looks ready to combust. Are they really that stupid to be the ones starting fights they can't even win? It's almost pathetic, really.
Rafe leans back now, arms crossed again, one leg bouncing under the desk because he’s still buzzing from how fast and clean you just shut it down.
You leaned forward, eyes steady and penetrating with the purpose of killing. "My daughter's staying on the recital and you hope I don't hear about this again." You didn't stutter, your voice didn't shake, you meant it.
"Are you threatening us?" The woman's voice went high pitched.
Everyone immediately started making noise as the young lady who was in charge of this meeting started talking again, decided to put an end on this. "No, no one—"
"I am—" Rafe said clearly in the middle of all the hubbub.
"No one's threatening anyone, okay?" Ms Jones interrupted, finally successful in her attempts as the four of you decided to step back. "Can we continue? We're here to talk about the kids, not to start a fight over things that are nobody's business."
Rafe, resting his arm on the desk and his chin on top of his hand, murmured: "That's what I'm saying."
You rolled your eyes and sighed, leaning back again as you crossed your arms over your chest.
Rafe glances at you over his shoulder, not hiding the smile with the immense amount of pride that he's having right now. You've never been one to get into unnecessary feuds with anyone (Rafe has, all the time), so the fact that he gets to see you get out of that structure of grace, respect and elegance by giving such answers... Yeah, he can't hide his reaction. You need to talk back more often for sure (you normally do, you talk back to him...).
He taught you well.
You bite the inside of your cheek as you look at him, and for once, you don't fight the smile either.
summary: When Superman came to your rescue a few weeks ago, you thought that would be the only time you'd ever see him up close. That is until he crash lands on your balcony battered and bruised (aka this is my take on hooking up with Superman before ever knowing Clark Kent) word count: 8.5k content: superman x reader, wound tending, pwp, power dynamic???, fingering, p in v w/ no physical protection (bc mentioned), superman has soft dom vibes, he talks you through it, size kink, multiple orgasms, aftercare, this is quite filthy if I'm honest, im posting this at 4:42 am after staying up all night so this is not proofread
A loud boom rings outside your window, thunderous enough to make you jump. When you stand up from the couch to investigate the noise, the last thing you expect to see is Superman lying on your balcony floor. You’ve only seen him up this close once before, nearly two weeks ago.
That morning on your way to work, you unfortunately found yourself in the middle of a massive attack in town. A monster the size of a two-story house, appeared out of nowhere on your commute. Out of fight, flight, or freeze, you froze when the monster ran towards you. Completely froze. The gigantic creature’s claws swooped right at you, but your feet might as well have been made of lead. Closing your eyes, you braced for impact, and tensed every muscle in your body.
The impact never came. Instead, you opened up your eyes to the city street far below you. Superman made it just in time, wrapping you in his arms and flying you away from the scene at lightning speed. As quickly as he picked you up, he placed you back down on a rooftop nearby. “T-thank you,” you stuttered between panicked breaths.
His voice was deep and calm as he spoke. “Sit down, and take some deep breaths. You’re safe, now.” Superman flashed his signature grin before he flew back down to finish off the creature. That smile has stuck with you ever since; the pictures of him don’t do it justice.
You snap out of your thoughts and run over to open the balcony door. The balcony isn’t in total ruin. He narrowly missed the glass pane table during his crash landing. Two of your flower pots, however, were not so lucky. Dirt and shards of pottery cover the floor. Not to mention the concrete beneath him is cracked.
This is not the Superman you typically see close up on TV, or the one that saved you two weeks ago. Right now, his suit is covered in dust, dirt, and who knows what else. Cuts of various depths and sizes cover the skin of his face. Instead of that bright smile, he grimaces with a busted bottom lip as he clutches at his side.
“Superman? Are you—are you okay?” It’s a stupid question. You realize that the moment it slips out of your mouth, but what else are you supposed to say?
He coughs to clear his throat. “Peachy,” he rasps. You walk closer to him, avoiding the pottery pieces to kneel at his side. Pain paints over his face as he moves his head to look at you. “Sorry about the pots. I’ll, uh, get you some new ones.”
“Don’t worry about that—what on earth happened?” For Superman to be this banged up, it must have been a major incident.
“Metahuman—a very strong one. Packed one heck of a punch,” he winces as he shifts to sit up. “I got some good blows before it launched me. The justice gang’s got it from here.”
“Here, let me help you inside.” You offer him your hand, and try to lift the very tall hero to his feet. Once he’s up, you throw his arm over your shoulder and direct him inside. “You know, it’s kinda funny. This is like a total role reversal,” you ramble as you both step over the threshold into your living room.
“What do you mean?” he asks, stumbling onto the couch as soon as he reaches it.
“Oh! You rescued me two weeks ago—from that giant monster thing in midtown. I thought I was going to get shredded by its claws, but you saved me just in time.” Heat grows in your cheeks as you retell the story.
“Gosh, yeah. I remember you—Sorry I never caught your name. I was kinda in a rush,” he smiles. Although his bottom lip is completely busted, he still has that same smile, dimples prominent as ever. You try not to dwell on the fact he remembers you, but a small grin slips past your lips at his words.
There’s a small lull before you speak again. “Can I do anything to help you? At least clean you up a bit until you feel strong enough to leave?”
“I don’t want to intrude—” He moves to sit up straighter on the couch, ignoring the pain in his side. “I’ll get out of your hair in just a couple of minutes—”
“I really insist,” you interrupt. “It’s the least I can do. You quite literally saved my life.” He lets out a deep exhale, before nodding in agreement. “Do you need me to help you up again?” A chuckle leaves his lips. It’s quick. Easy to miss.
“I think I can manage,” he replies. In the next moment, he’s up. “Where do you want me?”
“My first aid kit is in the kitchen,” you say, motioning towards that direction.
“Don’t people normally keep those in the bathroom?”
“My horrible knife skills made me move it. I’ve cut my hand more times than I can count,” you explain. Superman follows you as you step into the kitchen. You grab one of your barstools and place it beside the kitchen sink, before opening a cabinet to grab the first aid kit. “Okay, you sit on the barstool, and I’m going to get a washcloth really quick,” you direct before walking down the hallway to the bathroom.
He does as he’s told, sitting down on the stool. He takes in your apartment, looking at the pictures you have on the wall, and the way you’ve decorated the place. It’s only a few moments before you return with the wash cloth in hand.
You turn on the water faucet to wash your hands before you get started. “I know you have healing abilities or… whatever, but cleaning you up can’t hurt right?” The interlude in conversation is killing you a little bit. “Well, it might sting a little” you trail off, lathering soap in your palms.
“I heal from the sun. It’s why I’m not healing right now. No sun, and the moon doesn’t have enough sunlight to work,” he elaborates sheepishly. He’s not used to this much conversation while being in the suit, let alone having a stranger help him instead of the other way around.
“So you’ll be completely better as soon as the sun comes up?” you ask as you reach for a paper towel to dry your hands.
“Pretty much, especially since this isn’t that bad.”
You finally turn towards him with a pensive look on your face. His height will make this a challenge to actually reach his face. Even while sitting down, he’s practically looming over you. “Um—can you reach under and press the paddle thing? On the bottom of the stool?”
“Oh, sure,” he responds. He reaches for the wrong side at first before he finds the lever. When he presses it, the stool lowers quickly, catching him off guard.
“There. That’s much better.” You’re at eye-level with him, now. The brighter lights in the kitchen illuminate the damage on his face. A bruise begins to bloom on his left cheek, and the gashes look much worse than you originally thought. “Man—if you’re this rough I can’t imagine the other guy,” you marvel.
Superman laughs again, but this time it’s louder than before; a deep belly laugh, which is followed by a wince as he grabs his side. He knows his ribs are bruised. The pain isn’t sharp enough for them to be broken. He recovers the conversation quickly. “Trust me, he’s much worse. This is nothing,” he insists.
A comfortable silence develops between the two of you. Turning back to the side, you wet the rag under the warm water and squeeze out the excess to start on him. The dirt is what you tackle first. Careful of the gashes, you wipe away the dirt covering his skin, rinsing out the rag between every few passes. His eyebrows are caked with dirt and blood, taking multiple passes to get clean.
You reach up to hold his head gently, directing him to lean his head back so you can get the grime off of his neck, too. Superman’s glad you can’t hear his heart pounding inside of his chest. Butterflies form in his stomach at your touch on his skin. Your hands are so careful with him, like you could hurt him more somehow.
“So what do you normally do when you get beat up like this? I’m assuming crashing into apartments isn’t a regular thing for you,” you ask, breaking the silence.
“I’m not beat up. The other guy is beat up,” he counters.
“Sorry—sorry. What do you do when you get… slightly wounded like this?”
His throat bobs before he responds. “Uh—let’s just say I have a place to go to when it gets bad. like I said earlier I can get out of your hair if you need me to—I can probably fly now with no problem.”
Immediately, you hold the side of his face between both of your palms and tilt his head down to meet your eyes. “This isn’t a bother. I would tell you if it was.” He nods, gaze diverting to the ground. Your hands leave his face to rinse the rag again. “Okay— I’m going to start on the actual cuts now. This will probably sting.”
The gash on his forehead catches your eye first. It extends all the way from his temple to his hairline; The wound is deep, concerningly deep. With brows furrowing in concentration, you wipe along the wound, getting off the dirt and dried up blood. “Sorry,” you whisper, seeing him grit his teeth together.
The longer this goes on, the harder Superman finds it to ignore how pretty you are. Your genuine care for him, and how your eyes search over his face is not something he’s ever experienced before. When he’s at the Daily Planet, he blends into the background, and when he’s Superman, he’s more focused on other people than caring for himself
If he’s honest, he’s thought about you quite a lot since that day. After disposing of the monster, he went back up to the rooftop to check on you, but you were already gone. He assumed within a couple more weeks he would forget about you. Fate had other plans. Ones that included crash landing at your apartment.
Your voice interrupts his train of thought. “Are you sure you don’t need stitches for something like this? Or at least steri-strips? It’s a really deep cut, and it’s still oozing a little bit of blood.” You step back for a moment, reaching back to the med kit on the counter. “I think I have some in here—“
Superman catches your wrist, halting your movements before you start digging through the supplies. The action is simple, gentle even, but you can’t ignore the sheer strength of him. If you wanted to break free from his grasp, you wouldn’t be able to. “I promise I’ll be fine. I don’t want you to waste them on me,” he asserts, letting go of your wrist. You miss the feeling of his hands on you the moment it’s gone.
His eyes overwhelm you. Such a deep blue color that you could drown just by looking into them. It feels like he can see right through you. Sighing deeply, “If you say so, Superman,” you quip, getting back to the task.
He has another cut along his cheek. This one is not as deep as the gash on his forehead, so it won’t take as long. You repeat the same motions, wetting the rag, squeezing it out, and cleaning off the dried blood and dirt from around the cut. As you work, his dark, long eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, making perfect contrast with his blue eyes.
“So, how did you end up in the middle of that mess a couple weeks ago?” He asks. It’s the first time he’s initiated conversation since getting here.
“Well, it’s a boring answer. I was heading to work. I picked up the shift from one of my coworkers so she could go to a doctor’s appointment. Just my luck.”
“Getting to be saved by Superman is pretty good luck though—not everyone can brag about that,” he says through a smile.
“You know what? That’s a good point. I was telling people about it all week long,” you confess. After a few more passes, you finish the cleaning cut on his cheek. All you have left is the area you’ve been dreading the most, his busted bottom lip.
Superman has no idea where to look, especially not when your eyes focus so keenly on his lips. The rag brushing against his lip should hurt, but he’s too distracted to really feel the pain. He doesn't mean to listen in so closely, but he does. The sound of your heart pounding in your chest resounds in his ears, much faster than it was ten minutes ago.
Meanwhile, you're doing everything in your power to avoid eye contact, keeping your gaze focused on the task. You’re close to him. Probably too close. Every breath he takes hits your skin. The dried blood on his lip is particularly stubborn. You turn the facet to be warmer, hoping the temperature change will help.
His leg bounces steadily while you press the near hot cloth against his lip. The nervous energy has to escape him somehow, especially since he can’t mumble his way through conversation.
Finally, you pull the rag away, toss it in the sink, and turn off the water. You don’t move other than that, standing between his parted legs. “There. All finished,” you whisper. He stays leaned forward, eyes locked into yours. He doesn’t dare move back. The tension is palpable, so thick you can barely breathe. You’re not sure if you’re imagining the way his eyes flicker to your lips and back your eyes.
The magnetic pull towards him becomes unbearable, eating at you from the inside out. All the inhibition you have left is wearing thin. Screw it. You fall forward, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his mouth. The pressure against his lips is light, not wanting to hurt him. You pull away from him quicker than you leaned in to kiss him.
Your eyes are wide, like you’re shocked at your own actions. “Shit—I don’t know why I did that. I’m so sorry. That was so not cool of me to do—“
Superman doesn’t let you finish your sentence. He replies by kissing you back—hard. The last thing on his mind is his busted lip. It might as well be healed with how he’s kissing you. Both of his hands wrap around your waist and tug you to him, moving you with hardly any effort. Within seconds, he’s on his feet, causing you to stumble backwards. The barstool falls to the floor and you gasp at the loud clatter. Taking the opportunity, he presses his tongue into your mouth to deepen the kiss.
With nowhere else to move, you walk backwards. Superman mirrors your every step until you run into the wall behind you. Leaning down, his hands slide to the back of your thighs, and he lifts you. His body is all encompassing, completely overwhelming you. The only thing that stops your head from hitting hard against the wall is his hand cupping it. Your hands travel to his hair, threading into his dark curls, while your legs wrap around his waist.
He kisses you in a way that tilts the world on its axis.The act is messy. His hands are all over you. Respectful, but still all over you. One of his hands grips your thigh tight. Tight enough to bruise. With his other hand, he holds your side, and inadvertently nudges up your shirt in the process. Rough and callused fingertips clutch your bare skin.
He licks into your mouth, tongue pressing against yours. The kiss is messy. His lips slotted between yours. You both alternate between who gets the bottom lip. If his busted lip was hurting, you wouldn't know from the pressure against your mouth. A faint taste of iron hits your tastebuds when his saliva mixes with yours.
Overwhelmed, you break away for a moment. You don’t risk looking into his eyes, burying your face in his shoulder instead. Superman is sensitive. That’s clear to you the second your lips touch his neck. His hand tightens on your hip as his head falls back. The action exposes more skin for you to kiss. “Jeez Louise—" he pants. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt anything like this. Your lips are hot against his skin as you mouth all over him.
You’re only stopped from going lower by the collar of his suit. When you suck at his pulse point, he groans. Loudly. The wanton noise should embarrass him, but he’s lost the ability to care. His heart hammers in his chest, pulse throbbing under your tongue. Your hands tug gently at his curls. The soft noises he lets out only encourage you to pull harder. You feel the vibrations in his throat from all the moans he’s holding back.
There’s a voice of reason in his head trying to convince him to stop, or at the very least slow down. He tangles a hand into your hair and pulls you back from his neck, while his other hand cups your face. Your pupils are huge, completely darkened in comparison to before. Looking at him with wide eyes, you pant through your parted mouth, desperately trying to catch your breath.
Without thinking, his thumb moves from where it rests on your cheek. The digit runs across your bottom lip that was now covered in his spit and swollen. He’s on the verge of speaking before you move.
It’s too close for you to resist. You open your mouth and wrap your lips around his thumb as you take it deeper. He's completely exasperated. “Oh my goodness.” His pupils dilate as your tongue presses against the pad of his thumb. The moment doesn’t last long. The way his eyes bore into you makes you lose nerve fast.
After you release his thumb from your mouth, you start examining his suit closely. Your hands slide down his frame, touching at his sides. You can’t feel any of his skin, the tough fabric prevents that. The separation is driving you crazy. You want to touch him. You want to feel his skin. "How do you—how do you get this suit off?” you ask hazily.
He pauses, dead in his tracks. The gravity of the situation is catching up to him all too quickly before he sets your back down. “I-I really don’t think this is a good idea—we shouldn’t—I shouldn’t.” He takes a small step back from you with his hands held up in surrender like he had done something wrong.
“Why not?” You don’t mean for your voice to sound so desperate, but he’s awoken something in you. His chest aches at the sound of your voice.
“B-because I’m Superman. I rescued you like two weeks ago…” he stammers. He takes a moment to rub his temples in an attempt to relieve the building stress. “This has to be an inappropriate power dynamic,” he sighs. “It just wouldn’t be right.”
“I’m a fully grown adult if that’s what you’re worried about,” you contend.
“That’s—“ he pauses and huffs, almost frustrated. “No that’s not the issue here.”
“Superman’s not allowed to have some fun every once in a while?” You tread lightly, taking small strides to close the distance. This time, you corner him against the counter and tilt your head to meet his eyes. Your hand falls to his abdomen, wandering dangerously close to the part of him that’s aching, that’s been aching ever since your lips touched his.
“Gosh—you’re making this really hard,” he gulps, voice almost pained. It's taking all of the strength he has in him to resist. More strength than he used to fight the meta human earlier
“Yeah, I can tell,” you taunt, glancing down to the fabric of his trunks.
“Not like that!” he protests, eyes going wide with bashfulness. His presses his eyes closed as he pinches the bridge of his nose
“Please? I don’t kiss and tell if that’s your concern. I won’t run off to the daily planet to tell everyone,” you continue.
“I just— I don't want to take advantage…” he begins to argue, but you’re not having it. Your hand trails from his abdomen to palm him over the trunks, placing enough pressure to make him gasp.
“Please? I’ll be good,” you beg. Superman’s last bit of resolve disintegrates at those words.
“Shoot. Gosh. O-okay. There’s uh—a zipper in the back.”
“I was expecting something more elaborate than that,” you giggle. You reach for his hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. Nerves pulsing in your skin, you guide him down the hallway to your bedroom. He looks at you longingly as you stand in front of the bed, which only makes your nerves worse. “You wanna turn around?” you ask.
“Oh! Yeah. Yes,” he stutters. Without a word, his hands reach up to detach the cape from his suit. When he turns around, you spot the zipper running down the middle of the suit. As you unzip it, the broad muscles of his back come into view. His creamy skin is covered with bruises from the fight. You allow your hands to explore the expanse of his back. The rigid muscle of his shoulder blades tense under your touch.
When you take your hands off of him, he instantly turns back around. He begins the task of getting the rest of the suit off. He’s not off to a great start, nearly falling over while pulling his boots off. You help him with the rest of it, tugging the fabric down his body, and onto the floor.
Entranced by the newly exposed skin, your hands roam over his chest. The suit hides most of his muscle definition. Superman melts into your touch. He can’t remember the last time anyone traced over his skin with such reverence. Your fingers are careful not to apply too much pressure over any of the bruises. You smile when you notice the goosebumps rising on his skin.
A particular bruise stands out to you, right below his pec over a rib. It’s already a dark purple, despite the fight being less than an hour ago. Your head moves before you can think, pressing your lips gently over the bruise. Almost as if a kiss would make it better.
Superman’s almost convinced it does make it better. His mind is racing. He’s never done anything like this before, ribs aching in his chest, lip throbbing. He pushes the feeling down, much like he pushes your sweatpants down.
The adrenaline takes over for him. He steps towards you again and leans down to attach his lips to your neck. He’s practically making out with your neck. Indulging in the taste of your skin as his tongue glides against your carotid artery. A whine leaves your lips.
You overwhelm his senses. He can feel your heart pump under his tongue. He can taste the salt on your skin. He can hear the blood traveling through your veins. All the while, he’s touching you like you might disappear. A hand in your hair. Around your waist. Cupping your cheek.
It’s not long before his mouth trails up your neck, to your cheek, and lands back on your mouth. Superman kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s been poisoned, and you’re the only antidote that can save him. It’s so messy—spit threatening to drip off of your lips.
You exchange groans and moans between each other as he lays you down softly on the bed. When he breaks the kiss, the look of desire in his eyes almost melts you into a puddle. His gaze examines you, looking at the skin of your legs he couldn’t see before.
Now that he’s out of the suit, you’re finally able to get a good look at him. He’s in a pair of black boxer briefs. They hug his skin, showing off his strong thighs. His happy trail catches your eye. Dark black hair disappears underneath the band of his underwear. He’s broad. The way he’s standing in front of you while you’re laid back on the bed should be daunting. His abdomen is taut, but he’s not obnoxiously ripped.
You're still in a shirt and underwear, laying back on the bed. “I- I don't think I can handle much more of the staring,” you mumble. Superman doesn’t say anything, not at first. Instead, his hand skims the hem of your shirt, pushing it up to reveal the waistband of your underwear.
His eyes, while blown out and dark, are comforting. You feel safe under his gaze. “Can I—“ he pauses, fighting the voice on his shoulder telling him this is a bad idea. “Can I touch you?” He’s trying to keep eye contact, but his eyes keep flickering back and forth from your eyes, to the damp spot on your underwear. His breathing picks up at the sight of it. Your legs spread wide for him, knowing exactly what he’s looking at.
You nod your head eagerly. “Want you to touch me.”
He begins over your underwear, finger dipping just enough under the elastic waist to make it snap lightly against your skin. “These are pretty,” he says, looking back up at you.The underwear is from a multipack you bought at Walmart, not exactly what one would typically describe as pretty.
You stifle a laugh, “Funny joke.”
“I’m being serious.” His eyes are locked on the space between your legs as he traces down your slit. You take in a sharp breath as he finds your clit through the fabric and presses gently. “The pattern on them is pretty—I like them.”
His finger drifts lower. “You’re so wet,” he mumbles as he reaches the damp spot. “You’ve soaked through these.” His voice is one of awe, like he’s surprised he warrants this much of a reaction. He presses a fingertip over your entrance through the fabric. The action grows the size of the darkened fabric. Superman’s eyes flicker to yours for a brief moment, and the heat in your cheeks increases by tenfold.
“Can I take them off?” You answer the question for him, lifting your hips and pushing the fabric hastily down your legs. The urgency brings a smile to his face. “Eager?” he asks.You nod, not trusting your voice to answer. He helps you pull them all the way down and off your ankles before discarding them to the side of the bed. “Scoot back for me,” he mutters.
Clumsily, you move back on the mattress, leaning against the pillows on your headboard. You watch him through hooded eyes as he sinks to his knees on the bed, before resting on his chest between your legs. His body just barely fits on the mattress.
Both of his hands rest on one of your thighs, engulfing your skin in his grip. His calloused thumbs rub gentle circles into your thigh as he watches for any signs of discomfort. When he finds none, he guides your legs to spread open. The act is incredibly vulnerable, especially with the way his gaze dissects you.
Without thinking, your legs close, or at least try to close. “Don’t need to be shy with me,” he whispers, voice thick with desire. Superman keeps your thighs spread open, letting him take in the sight of you in front of him. “Pretty here too,” he mumbles. It’s quiet enough that it probably isn’t meant for you to hear, but you do. Loud and clear.
The comment makes your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Your hands reach up instinctively to cover your face, muffling your voice as you speak. “You can’t just say stuff like that.” His deep chuckle doesn’t help calm the fire burning on your skin.
“M’just telling the truth,” he remarks. “Take your hands off your face.” You listen, stomach feeling warm at the command.
One of his hands slides up your inner thigh, making you shiver at the touch. In the next moment, he takes his thumb and spreads your folds, looking like he's about to devour you whole. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he’s going to do just that. He breathes in sharply when he sees the wetness at your entrance, threatening to drip down onto the sheets.
He removes his thumb, only to let his pointer finger slide through your folds. The touch is featherlight, sending electricity through your veins when he nudges your clit before stilling at your entrance. His bright blue eyes dart back up to you. “Need to stretch you out a little bit… is that okay?” he asks, voice gentle.
The words weigh on you for a moment. Stretch you out. Evidently you weren’t hallucinating the massive bulge in his boxers. Still, you nod eagerly, “Y-yeah. Mhm.”
He circles around your entrance first, collecting the wetness on his finger. He watches your face as he eases his middle finger into you slowly. Even just one finger causes all the muscles in your body to tense as you whimper. Meeting resistance, he eases back out before trying to sink deeper into you. “Relax for me.” His head rests against your thigh, curls splaying on your skin. The sight is enough to send another pulse through you. His gaze is caring, bordering on full adoration.
You relax enough for him to sink deeper into you. He’s slow and careful, pressing in all the way until his knuckle. You pulse around him when he, just as slowly, pulls his finger back out to the tip. He watches your little gasps. The way that your hips grind ever so slightly with each thrust of his finger. He’s not in a rush, letting the rhythm of the slow steady strokes continue for a couple of minutes. It’s obvious the goal right now isn’t to get you off. He’s prepping you for him.
“Can I add another?”
“You can do whatever you want,” you whine.
“Careful, sweetheart. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he warns.
“You’re Superman—I trust you.”
His heart tightens in his chest. You trust him. The voice deep down screams at him to stop, that he shouldn’t be doing something so depraved, but your voice is louder. His pointer finger easily joins his middle finger inside of you.
It’s the rare time he takes his eyes off of your face. He’s too entranced by the way your entrance accommodates the stretch. “Wish you could see this. Taking it so well.” His face is concentrated, and the movement of his fingers is intentional. He doesn’t rush for a single second, slowly working you to take both fingers as deep as he can press them inside of you.
When the tip of his ring finger slips into you, you feel the stretch. The movement is unhurried, letting you take him in at your own pace. Your head lulls back into the mattress. “Oh, God,” you whimper as all three fingers fully sink into you.
His head still rests against your thigh as he watches your reaction. “That’s it… there you go…” he coddles before turning his head to press a sloppy kiss against your thigh. Now that he’s managed to fit three fingers inside of you, his goal shifts again. He needs to make you fall apart.
He sets a pace with his hand, not too fast, and not too slow. You whimper, the sound desperate. Rolling your hips against him, you reach down to hold his other arm. You need a touch to ground you. “I know, baby. I know,” he whispers. There’s not an ounce of condescension in his words.
You jolt when his fingers stroke against a specific spot. He grins wide. “There it is,” he says under his breath. “That’s the spot isn’t it?” When you don’t immediately reply, he continues. “Talk to me, baby. Is that where it feels good?”
“Y-yeah—yeah. Feels s’good. R-really good.”
He curls his fingers to nudge against the spot repeatedly, and your reaction is instantaneous. You buck against him, but his strong arms keep you from moving away from the stimulation. “Can feel you pulsing around me. Doing so good f’me.” Once his thumb drifts to circle over your clit, you’re done for.
Your orgasm hits you like a freight train as your head falls back against the pillows. Your hips spasm in his grip, muscles tensing with pleasure, Superman continues pistoning in and out of you throughout the waves. You’re too distracted to notice his own hips grinding against the mattress.
He slows down the pace of his fingers as your orgasm fades. He lifts his head from your thigh to place a chaste kiss to your pulsing clit, before he finally removes his fingers from you. You whimper at the loss.
He stands again at the foot of the bed, looking down at his hand and spreading his fingers . Superman’s fingers glisten in the dim light of your bedroom, strings of slick between them. He doesn’t give it a second thought before he pushes his fingers into his mouth to clean them off. He’s confident with it. The way he licks them clean like it’s no big deal almost makes you mad. Key word, almost.
“Oh my God,” your jaw drops.
His eyebrows raise as he pops the fingers out of his mouth. “What is it?” he asks. If you didn’t know better, you would think this was an act.
“You just—“ your eyes flicker to his hand that’s now damp with saliva.
“Oh—golly. M’sorry if that was—weird.” Superman is shy in front of you. Actually shy. The blush scattered over his cheeks and nose grows more vivid by the second.
“Don’t apologize. I think that’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen,” you reassure him. He’s within arms reach, so you grab his hand and pull his body closer to the bed. Looking up at him with wide eyes, you palm him through his boxers. His length is solid underneath your hand. He chokes back a groan at the pressure, head falling back.
When you take away your hand, his eyes are instantly back on you. You reach down to the hem of your shirt to tug it off of your skin. Your sports bra follows quickly afterwards. He gets starry eyed the second he sees the skin
He lets a gentle hand cup your breast, thumb tracing over your nipple. Slowly, he trails feather light finger from the base of your collarbone, all the way down to your nipple. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his finger. It’s almost like he’s forgotten where he is—how hard he is right now. He’d be content enough to stand here and study you if you’d let him.
His lips follow the trail of goosebumps, leaving sloppy kisses over your skin. He takes your nipple into his mouth, letting his tongue swirl around it while his other hand grasps your other breast. Your hands tangle into his messy black hair as his mouth works on your chest. When you think he’s finished, he switches to your other breast instead.
You tug on his hair, trying to get him to stand back up. He takes the hint, giving your nipple a slight graze of his teeth before standing. Both of your hands press against his abs. “Wanna see you, too,” you plea. There’s no care in the way he strips his underwear off of his body, leaving himself bare to you.
You can’t hide the way your eyes widen in shock. “You’re really big…” you mutter breathlessly without even thinking. The words tumble out of your mouth, and it;s much too late to take them back.
He turns red. Tomato red. You’ve seen him a million times on tv in the midst of battle, soaked with sweat and blood. Yet, you’ve never seen him as flushed as he is in front of you. His hair, usually so put together and styled, sticks up in all directions from your hands running through it. His curls become more prominent from the sweat of his skin.
“I’m sorry. We don’t have to do anything—we can stop.”
“No, no! I didn’t say that, I just—never taken anything like that before.” He’s trying, really trying to not lose his mind at your words. You're not making it easy.
“I’ll be gentle—say the word and I’ll stop. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” He doesn’t move immediately, and you can basically see the gears turning in his head. “Do you have any condoms?”
“Shit, uh—no.” “But I’m on birth control if—if that’s okay with you?”
He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing. He knows what the answer should be. He should scramble to put back on his suit and fly back over to his apartment to grab the sealed box of condoms that have been collecting dust in his drawer. It would take less than five minutes to make it there and back.
Patience is not his strong suit. Especially when you’re laid out in front of him like this, with your thighs spread wide. He watches how you pulse around nothing. He can hear how your blood pulses, rushing down to your core. He tries to calm down, but the pure desire drips off of him as he speaks. “That’s fine with me.”
He strokes himself a few times, precum leaking from his tip. He kneels on the bed between your legs. His free hand softly lands on your knee, thumbing your skin. He’s staring at your entrance like he’s trying to figure out how he’s going to make this work. Your voice interrupts his thoughts.
“Um.” You push yourself up a little bit on your elbows. “I’m realizing I don’t even know what to call you… I can’t call you Superman while you’re inside me, that’s just weird.”
The bluntness of your words makes him cough on the saliva collected in his mouth. “Goodness, uh,” he stutters, stopping the movement of his hand on his dick. He’s breaking all kinds of rules right now, so why not another? Lex’s video already published it to the world.
“Call me Kal-El,”
“Kal-El?”
“Y-yeah.” He hasn’t heard another person call him that before. It lights a fire in his stomach.
“Okay. Please, Kal-el. Want you.”
His eye contact is too much. Way too much. His gaze somehow makes you feel more naked. The feeling in your stomach from his beautiful eyes looking into yours grows to be too much. When he lines himself up, nudging at your entrance, you let your gaze fall to the ceiling. Without missing a beat, his hand grasps your jaw, capturing your chin between his thumb and fingers. His palm rests on the front of your neck. The grip is gentle. He’s barely applying any pressure. He tilts your chin. “Keep looking at me.”
“O-Okay.”
You’re glad he makes you look, because the sight of him sinking into you is heavenly. He’s gorgeous. His eyelids flutter for half at second, and his mouth falls open. The groan that leaves his mouth is downright sinful, and causes you to pulse around him. You gasp at the intrusion.
He moves slowly, filling you up inch by inch. Kal-El’s hips jolt, accidentally pushing in faster than he meant. You wince at the stretch, letting your nails dig into his back.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles. As if to prove his apology, he presses kisses all over your face, before moving to your hairline, and then your forehead. The action is so incredibly affectionate, making your heart tighten in your chest.
It’s around the half way point when you really start to struggle with his size.
“Shit—so much. Too much—”
“Shh—you can take it. It’ll fit,” he coos. One of his hands comes up to stroke your side to soothe you. “Breathe, baby. Take a deep breath for me, yeah? Let me in.” He praises you the second you steady your breathing, taking one large breath to calm yourself down. “That’s it. Can I keep going? I can stop if you need me to.”
The idea of stopping nearly sends you into panic mode. “No, no—no. Please, don’t stop. Want more.” Your hands grab at his back, trying to keep you as close as possible. He twitches inside of you at your words. It’s clear that you’re struggling to take him, but you want more. You want to make him fit.
“O-Okay sweetheart. Calm down. M’not going anywhere.” He kisses you to keep you distracted while he eases himself into you, urging you to open up for him. “Being so good for me,” he mumbles in between kisses. His hand engulfs your neck, wrapping around it to hold your jaw and keep your lips on his.
Your nails claw into his back when he bottoms out inside of you, scratching down his skin. It’s almost too much, like you’re nearly being split in half. “Kal-El—fuck. Oh, fuck. You’re so deep. Oh my god.”
“I know baby—” His eyes are closed tight above you. It’s clear he’s holding back, and it’s taking everything in him to do so. “Golly, you feel so good. So warm. Gosh, gosh, gosh,” he rambles.
When he finally opens his eyes and sees you underneath him, the expression on your face melts him on the spot. Your eyes water at the stretch. The sight shouldn’t stroke the fire in his stomach, but it does. He did this to you. Taking your face in his hand, his thumb swipes away the tears that escaped your eyes. He leans down to press soft kisses to your lips, swallowing every sound you make.
“Did so good, baby. I’ll wait as long as you need me to wait,” he mutters against your mouth. His lips drop down to press at your neck. The kisses are sloppy, mostly his tongue licking at your skin, tasting the salt that’s accumulated there. The care in his words makes you dizzy, and him sucking into your neck doesn’t make you feel any less lightheaded.
He sticks to his word, not moving an inch inside of you. At least five minutes have passed before you speak up. “You can—you can move. Please move.”
The pace he sets is just as slow as he moved his fingers earlier. He doesn’t want to do too much too quickly. The ache fades the more he grinds into you, pleasure replacing it. Kal-El’s blue eyes remain on you, looking for any sign that he needs to stop.
Every stroke of his cock inside of you sends stars across your vision. “Feel you—feel you in my stomach—” you whine. You look down through glassy eyes at the sight of your bodies connecting. Seeing just how thick he is between your legs makes you whimper. Your gaze is drawn elsewhere, though. It’s slight, oh so slight, but you can see it. The subtle bulge right above your mound that moves with every thrust. “Kal, look—” you whimper.
He leans back onto his knees, no longer hovering over you like before. It makes the bulge even more visible this way, with your ankles wrapped around his back. “Jeez—goodness sake—” He’s completely speechless, watching the way it becomes more prominent the deeper he thrusts.
Your hand moves, slipping between your bodies before resting over the bulge. When you press down, you feel him moving from the outside. Fireworks explode across your vision. Heat bubbles in your veins. You can barely breathe.
“S-See?”
“Yeah—” he swallows. “I see it, baby.”
You want him to feel it, not just see it. Grabbing his hand from where it holds onto your thigh, you move it to rest over the spot. He groans deeply. Desperately. He presses down, hard, grinding his hips to thrust against the top of your walls. “Feel so full—s’full,” you gasp, barely able to get the words out.”
“Shh—I know. Taking it like you’re made for it.” You nod your head at that. Like you want that. Like you want to be made for him.
“D-do you like that? Like the idea of that?”
“Please—please, please, please,” you beg. You’re not sure what for, but Kal-El moves like he knows.
“I’ll give you what you need, baby.” He unwraps a leg from around his waist and throws it over his shoulder. You gasp at the change in angle, and your hands grab at his skin. His thrusts become slow and calculated, like he’s teasing you. In actuality? He’s trying to hold himself together, because he knows the sooner he cums, the sooner this whole thing ends. The last thing he wants is for this moment with you to end because he can’t control himself.
Kal-El watches as you fight the pleasure growing in your belly. He counters this by finding your clit with his thumb. While his thrusts are gentle, his thumb circles your bud at a pace so fast your head spins. “Let go, baby. Let go for me,” he encourages. The heat bubbles in your stomach, releasing through your veins as your orgasm hits you. Your body shudders with each wave of pleasure. You murmur his name over and over again like it’s the only work you know.
He stops circling your clit, but he doesn’t stop the pace of his hips. Your leg falls from his shoulder as he presses his forehead against you. He cages you in with his body, forearms at the side of your head holding him up. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist, trying to get him as close as possible.
“So pretty. So gosh dang pretty,” he moans. Your eyes are weepy and red. Your swollen lips are covered in spit. Sweat collects on your forehead... But gosh, you’ve never looked more pretty to him. Completely coming undone for him. Being so vulnerable with him.
People aren't vulnerable with him, especially not as Superman. Though, you have no problem showing him your weaknesses, showing him the spots that make your eyes roll into the back of your head. You're more than happy to show him your achilles heel if it means you get to stay in this haze for a little while longer.
He’s getting close, dangerously close. His thrusts grow erratic and powerful. The force behind them jolts you in the bed. You’ve reached the point of pure overstimulation. Broken whimpers and moans leave your lips. He wants to keep you grounded, to keep you focused on him. He grabs your hand, and pins it beside your head, fingers interlacing with yours.
“Want you to cum again for me. You can do it, sweetheart. Know you can.” He’s moved on from thrusts to deep grinds. His pelvis nudges against your clit. You shake your head at his request.
“C-can’t. It’s too m-much,” you whine. He doesn’t let up on the pace, snapping his hips roughly against you.
“Wanna see you cum for me one last time. So beautiful when you do. Please? Be good for me.” You sink into pleasure as your third orgasm overtakes you. Your cunt pulses around him, squeezing tight. You shake in his grasp, muscles completely out of your control
“Oh gosh, gonna—where can I—”
“Inside—p-please,” you say in the most hazy, fucked out voice he’s ever heard. With a few more calculated thrusts, he spills inside of you. You whimper with every pulse of his cock inside of you. You cling onto him like a lifeline.
He falls against you, pressing every inch of his skin to yours. You’re almost asleep when speaks. “Gotta get you cleaned up. C’mon, sweetheart.” He’s lifting up off you, urging you to sit up.
“Sleepy—Don’t wanna move,” you mutter, trying to hold onto his arm. You hear a faint chuckle above you. Kal-El takes matters into his own hands. He finds your bathroom, and brings a warm, wet rag to wipe between your legs and your thighs. You barely acknowledge the touch, drifting into a deep sleep. The last thing you recall is the feeling of a shirt slipped over your head.
The first time you wake up, it’s when the sun is just about to rise over the horizon. Your curtains are open. The light just starts to hit your face as your eyes flutter open. Around your waist, you feel the weight of his arm holding you close to his chest. He has you tightly against him, legs entangling with yours. You’re practically engulfed by his warmth. You let sleep take you once again, content to stay as long as possible in his arms.
The next time you wake up, the curtain across from your bed is closed, and the space next to you has gone cold. It’s silly to feel disappointed, but you can’t help the frown on your face as you sit up in bed, trying to rub the tiredness out of your eyes.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a neon sticky note pad on your nightstand. The writing on it is slightly messy, like he left in a rush.
Unfortunately, Superman has a secret 9-5 job. I couldn’t bring myself to wake you up before I left… you looked too peaceful. Thank you for fixing me up the best you could. The sun finished the job this morning. See you around.
-S
As usual, Clark finds himself very late to work four weeks later. Extremely late. He can’t even blame it on Superman. He just forgot to set his alarm. He decides to go to a bakery that opened up a couple months ago near the Daily Planet. If he’s going to be this late, he might as well bring donuts.
He’s not paying much attention, reading the paper in his hands as he stands in line. He glances up when it’s finally his turn, and instantly becomes a deer in headlights when he sees you. It takes him way too long to remember the glasses—you have no idea who he is right now.
Despite his very awkward pause, you don’t lose the smile on your face. “Can I get you something?”
“Oh uh—hi yes. Can I get um—a dozen assorted donuts and…” Clark barely manages to pull himself together as he blabs out his, Jimmy, and Lois’s order from muscle memory.
The stream flickered to life with the kind of slapdash timing only she could get away with, the screen filling with a familiar explosion of neon overlays, chaotic alerts chiming in the background, and then—her. Y/N slouched in her desk chair, one knee tucked up to her chest, headset crooked over her messy hair, a juice box in one hand like it was fine wine. She gave the straw a long, defiant sip as the chat counter spiked, the side panel instantly cascading with thousands of hellos, emotes, and over-excited greetings. Without missing a beat, she squinted into the webcam, scowling with exaggerated betrayal.
“Yo, yo, chat. We need to talk.” Her tone was dramatic enough to make the scrolling flood of comments falter for half a second, her free hand lifting in accusation. “I have a problem with you people.”
She leaned closer, elbow clattering against the desk as the juice box thudded down beside her keyboard, sticky condensation bleeding into the mousepad. “So my editor had a baby last week—yeah, yeah, miracle of life, blah blah. I don’t even like babies, they look like potatoes with feelings, but this little dude?” Her lips twitched into something dangerously close to fondness. “This kid screamed like a banshee every time someone touched him, but when I held him, he chilled. Just like that. Me and him—locked in. Soulmates. But while she’s been on maternity leave, I’ve been doing all my own editing.”
The chat began to light up in anticipation, like they already knew where this was going. She slammed a hand against her chest, mock wounded. “And I was scrolling through YouTube comments last night, right? And some bitch—SOME. BITCH.—commented, and I quote: ‘Jesus, you can tell Livvy didn’t edit this. Y/N did.’ And guess what, chat? You traitors liked it. So many of you little rats liked it.” She jabbed a finger at the scrolling text, feigning outrage while the chat roared with laughter.
user: your editing is shit bro😭 user: WHY WERE THERE SO MANY EXPLOSIONS?? user: almost every clip had an explosion 🤣🤣
user: no bc how did she ever edit her own videos 💀
Her eyebrows arched, one corner of her mouth curling. “You guys don’t understand my swag. If you were on my level of swag—cosmic swag, galaxy-brain swag—you would have understood the explosions. It was art.” She leaned back, sipping triumphantly from her juice box like it was champagne at the Oscars.
But before the chat could pile on, her attention derailed, as it always did. She gasped suddenly, hands flailing for emphasis. “Oh my God, wait, hold up, I literally love you guys so much but I might just have a new favorite fan.” She swivelled in her chair, rummaging off-screen with the kind of frantic energy that made her whole stream feel like teetering on the edge of disaster. “So, I was going through my mailbox, right? Checking to see if my Playgirl magazine—the Peter Steele edition, obviously—had shipped yet. It didn’t. Tragic. BUT. I did get a box. At first I thought it was from my stalker David—shoutout David, hope you’re in jail—but no. It was from the cutest fan in existence. Olivia.”
Her voice softened into mock sincerity, eyes wide as if she were telling a campfire story. “She sent me—get this—a customized fucking headset. As in, she customized it herself. Isn’t that insane? Like, look at this masterpiece.” She yanked it into view, shoving it almost comically close to the webcam so the paint and glitter details blurred into psychedelic chaos on screen. “Olivia, babe, this is the coolest thing anyone’s ever given me. Thank you, I love you too. BUT—don’t do the shit I do. You said you look up to me, which is adorable, but if you want to make it past twenty-five? Don’t copy me. Please.”
user: you’re so cute sometimes
She froze mid-sentence, blinking at the highlighted message before wrinkling her nose. “Cute? Ew. Don’t ruin this for me, chat. Cute is for kittens and anime girls, not for me.” She shoved the headset onto her head, the mic crooked and too low, making her sound like she was broadcasting from the inside of a tin can. She smirked anyway, shaking her head. “Wait. Hold up. I gotta piss lowkey.”
The camera caught the exact moment her expression crumpled into mischief, her voice dropping into a whisper. “I’m just gonna leave you guys here with… I don’t know, the BRB screen and elevator music. Don’t touch my stuff.” She pushed her chair back with a dramatic screech, headset still on, mic hot as the sound of her half-laughing, half-tripping exit echoed into the stream.
user: there goes the cuteness user: bro didn’t even mute 💀
The BRB screen flickered on late, clunky, as though she’d only remembered it existed halfway to the bathroom.
When she finally shuffled back onto camera, hair a little more disheveled than before and cheeks flushed from laughing at some joke she’d clearly only told herself in the bathroom mirror, she collapsed into her chair with a theatrical sigh. “Guys. Okay. I almost forgot. Do you know what today is? Do you know what blessed, cursed, divinely ordained event is happening tonight?” She leaned toward the camera, squinting like she was peering into the souls of the thousands watching her. “We’re going to be live with Peter. The hot nerd. You know exactly who I’m talking about. Don’t play dumb.”
Her hands flew up, fumbling with the hem of her cropped baby tee before she stood halfway out of her chair to shove her torso at the webcam, proudly showing off a faded NASA logo stretched across pale cotton. “See this? I bought a NASA shirt. I am committed. And can we just—can we be civilized adults for like five seconds and ignore the fact that I’m not wearing a bra under this? Laundry day, people. Laundry. My mommy has all my clothes right now.” She gave the camera a solemn nod, as though this were a reasonable explanation, then collapsed back into her seat, sipping at her juice box like a smug little kid.
user: why does ur MOM do ur laundry 😭 user: she's twelve
Her head snapped back toward the screen, eyes wide in mock outrage. “Excuse you? First of all, I’m not twelve, I’m—” she waved vaguely, “old enough. Second, my mom does my laundry because she does it nice, with the softener and the folding and everything. None of you wash your sheets as often as you should so don’t even start with me. Third—” she pointed dramatically at the chat feed, “—you didn’t even compliment my shirt. Fake fans. Actual betrayal.”
user: OHHHHHHHH are u wearing that for Pete 👀 user: bro she’s down bad already
She grinned, feral and unrepentant, plopping back into her chair with renewed energy. “Hell yes I am!” She leaned forward to grab her mic, dragging it close with both hands until her breath hissed against it in exaggerated waves. She took a deliberately long inhale and exhale, the noise crackling so loud her sound levels peaked red.
user: here comes the “ASMR” 🙄 user: my ears actually started bleeding thx
Y/N squinted at the chat through a curtain of hair, snorted at the spamming skull emojis, then sat up straighter, her face suddenly carved into a mask of faux-serious determination. “You don’t get it. This isn’t a joke. I will make that man fall in love with me. It’s not optional. It’s prophecy.”
She sank back into her chair like a villain reclining on a throne, straw still poking comically out of the juice box she raised in a toast. Her eyes sparkled with a dangerous mix of mischief and sincerity as she took a long sip, letting the slurp echo into her mic like she was sealing an infernal bargain. “You all laugh now, but when you see me on his stream giggling like a schoolgirl, twirling my hair, acting like I don’t know what a motherboard is—just know you were here for the origin story. This—” she gestured wildly around her setup, nearly knocking over a Funko Pop in the process, “—this is patient zero of my rom-com era.”
Chat detonated in response, the feed moving so fast it blurred into a vertical waterfall of crying emojis, ship names, and bets on how fast she’d embarrass herself.
user: rom com era is crazy user: clip this so we can play it back when he ghosts her 😭😭😭
She cackled at that last one, clutching her stomach until she wheezed. “Ghost me? Oh, you sweet summer children. No man can resist this. This shirt is basically lingerie for nerds.”
❝𝑾𝑬𝑩𝑩𝑬𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑪𝑯𝑺 𝑰𝑺 𝑳𝑰𝑽𝑬.❞
Peter had already been live for close to an hour, his stream a familiar mix of rambling tangents and accidental charm. He was half-leaning over his desk, shoulders hunched, his hoodie hanging loose around him while a plate with a half-eaten sandwich teetered dangerously close to his keyboard. Beside it sat a mug of coffee long gone cold, steamless and forgotten, its handle shaped like the periodic table. His camera caught the exact moment he gestured with one hand while still chewing, voice animated as he answered a viewer’s question about his jeans.
“So, end of the story, right—if you skate, thrift your jeans. Don’t blow three hundred bucks on designer denim when you’re literally just going to split them doing a kickflip. Not that I totally ripped a hole in mine down the crotch last week or anything. That didn’t happen. Totally fine.” His grin widened, sheepish and boyish all at once, as he shrugged and swiveled back toward the chat. “And if you’re not a skater? I don’t know, live your life. Be normal. Don’t listen to me.” He finally took a sip from his mug, grimaced at the bitterness of room-temperature coffee, then set it down with a little thud.
After a pause, he leaned forward on his elbows, face suddenly mock-serious. “Okay, listen, I need you guys to be civil with me. Just for a second, alright? I want you to think with your brains, not what’s in your pants. You think you can manage that?” He pointed two fingers toward the lens like he was addressing them one by one.
user: Idk the thing in my pants is pretty smart user: better than my brain tbh user: peter don’t underestimate me
His mouth dropped open for a second before he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Wow. Okay. Family friendly channel, I thought. Family friendly.” He shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself, then pushed back from his desk to stand. His hoodie zipped halfway down his chest, clinging to him loosely until he shrugged it off with a careless roll of his shoulders.
user: OH OH OH YESS GIRL DINNER 🍽️ user: I PAY WIFI FOR THIS EXACT REASON user: ONE CHANCE PLS 🙏🙏🙏
He tossed the hoodie onto the back of his chair and sat back down, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “So, it’s laundry day, which, apparently, is a universal curse. And all my undershirts? In the laundry. Gone. So here I am, wearing a t-shirt with nothing under it, basically raw-dogging the cotton. I feel… weird. Exposed. Like my arms are just out here, vulnerable.” He stretched one arm toward the camera as if to prove the point, flexing absently before frowning at himself.
user: I don’t mind going raw 👀 user: why does he have bigger tits than me tho user: laundry day every day PLEASE 🙏🙏🙏
His eyes narrowed at the flood of comments, clearly not processing the innuendo as intended. “Uh, no? That’s… that’s wasteful? Wasting water? Laundry uses a lot of resources, actually, so…” His words trailed off, brain tripping over itself, until he caught one comment and huffed. “And I do not have boobs. Thank you very much.” His hands immediately flew to his chest, covering his pecs with exaggerated horror.
He couldn’t help but laugh, biting back his smile as he shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. “You people objectify me every day and for what? Why am I letting this happen? Honestly.” The words came out half-defeated, but his grin gave him away. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll drop it.” His hands fell back to the desk with a light thump, posture loosening again.
“Anyway,” he sighed, suddenly casual again, “I’m supposed to be joining Y/N’s stream today. Kind of scared, not gonna lie. Are you guys scared? Because I’m scared.” He raked his hands back through his hair, trying and failing to look nonchalant, his leg bouncing under the desk.
user: she’s literally so nice wdym user: don't lie to the boy
Peter’s brows furrowed, his lips tugging into a crooked smile. “Right. Okay. Not helping.” He gave the camera a long, flat deadpan stare, one that was instantly clipped and spammed with laughing emotes, before his shoulders dropped into a quiet laugh he couldn’t contain. “I don’t know why I thought you’d reassure me. I’m walking into the lion’s den and you’re all just—yeah. Great.”
His chat scrolled faster, speculation already spiraling about how badly Y/N was going to corrupt him live on stream, and Peter sat there, still shaking his head, sipping cold coffee like a man awaiting his fate.
He put his cup down, turning to the camera. “Do you guys think I should buy more undershirts?” Peter asked, his voice carrying that boyish blend of sincerity and awkwardness that made chat light up. He tugged at the hem of his t-shirt, smoothing the fabric down over his torso, then rubbed his palms over his chest as if trying to iron invisible wrinkles into place. His brows knit together, lips tugging downward in thought. “Because, seriously—this is insane. I really thought I had enough undershirts to last me years.”
He sighed, glancing down at his hands, then froze, his mouth falling open in alarm. “Wait. I should probably stop—this looks like I’m… yeah, nope. Looks like I’m playing with my nipples. Sorry. My bad.” He dropped his hands so fast it made chat howl.
user: peter WHAT 😭😭😭 user: oh??? hello????
Peter doubled over in his chair, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as his hands flew up to cover his face. His shoulders shook, hair falling into his eyes as he gasped out little half-words between fits of laughter. “God—you guys are—” He couldn’t even finish. Instead, he distracted himself by fiddling with the cord of his headset, twisting it nervously around his fingers, when suddenly the sharp, unmistakable ping of a Discord call sliced through his headphones.
His head snapped up, wide eyes darting to the corner of his screen where Y/N’s username had just popped into the call. Instantly, his chat went nuclear. The scrolling comments blurred into a single waterfall of chaos, so fast it was unreadable. Emotes, screaming, ship names—all detonating at once.
“Alright, alright, everybody breathe,” Peter muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he could physically shield himself from the chaos. “Be normal. Please. Just—once in your lives. Be normal.” His words fell flat against the tidal wave of excitement in chat.
And then—her feed blinked on.
Y/N appeared like a force of nature, nose and eyes pressed far too close to her webcam so that her features were hilariously magnified, lashes framing her wide, mischievous eyes. She blinked, suddenly realizing just how much of her face was on display, and jerked back with a gasp. “Oh fuck.” A beat passed. Then her mouth broke into a grin. “Hiii!” She waved like she’d just remembered this was supposed to be casual.
Peter couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth. Something about her energy was so unfiltered, so impossible to fake, that it made his chest loosen with a warmth he wouldn’t dare acknowledge aloud. “Hey,” he said softly, lifting one hand in a shy wave.
user: why is he trying to be all nonchalant rn 😭 user: ACT NATURAL ACT NATURAL user: my parents on stream
Peter huffed, chuckling nervously. “I’m not nonchalant. I’m… normal. That’s what this is. Being normal.” He shifted in his chair, tugging at his seat like it might anchor him, then ran his fingers through his messy curls in a habit that betrayed just how un-normal he felt.
“That’s probably one of my viewers,” Y/N cut in, rolling her eyes as she adjusted her headset. Her voice was alive with dramatic indignation. “They like ragebaiting. They’re literally the reason I have anger issues.” She leaned back into her chair, arms spreading wide as if to put her chaos on full display.
“Explains a lot,” Peter teased under his breath, though the way his lips twitched betrayed how much he was holding back a grin. His eyes flicked between her feed and the chaos of his own chat, catching glimpses of messages declaring how cute they looked together. A faint blush threatened to creep into his cheeks, but before he could spiral, his gaze landed on her shirt.
“Oh—by the way, I like your shirt,” he said, genuine warmth bleeding into his smile.
Her entire face lit up at the compliment, posture shooting upright. “Thank you, Peter! Finally, some recognition. My chat said I looked stupid.” She shot a pointed glare at her scrolling messages, as if she could scold them into retracting their earlier insults.
user: this is actually so cute and awkward user: mamá y papá confirmed user: he was 100% staring at your nipples btw
Peter had been casually scanning chat when that last message hit him like a slap. His head jerked up, panic sparking across his expression. “No! I was not—hello?!” His words tumbled out in a rush, his voice a little higher than usual as he scrambled to defend himself. His hands shot up instinctively, palms open as though he could push the accusation away. “I was not doing that. Don’t put that on me.”
Y/N snorted so loud she had to slap a hand over her mouth, eyes crinkling as she tried to stifle her laughter. The chat, of course, only spiraled further into chaos, sensing blood in the water.
Peter groaned, dragging his hands down his face again. “This was a mistake. This was an actual mistake.” But the curve of his smile said otherwise.
“What should we play?” Y/N asked, half through a laugh, the last of her giggles still spilling into her mic. She leaned back in her chair, spinning lazily, the straw of her juice box poking from her lips like she was taunting him through the screen.
Peter let out a breath that was part sigh, part laugh, and pivoted toward his setup. The clack of his keyboard filled the quiet for a moment as he pulled up his library. “Uh… we could do Fortnite,” he said, scanning his screen. “Or Minecraft. I know you love that game.” His tone was casual, but his eyes flicked to her window again, quick, like he couldn’t help it.
Her grin was immediate, sharp as it was playful. “You don’t wanna play Fortnite with me. I’ll beat your ass.”
That earned her an eyebrow raise, a spark of confidence flickering across Peter’s usually careful expression. “Big words,” he drawled, settling back in his chair, “for someone who rage-quit last time we played together.”
The reaction was priceless. Her jaw dropped, dramatic enough for chat to spam rows of skull emojis. “I did not rage-quit. I… emotionally exited.”
Peter laughed then—an unguarded, genuine sound that cracked through his usually soft tone. It was the kind of laugh that carried, boyish and warm, shaking his shoulders until his curls fell into his eyes. His chat went feral, spamming hearts and crying emotes in equal measure.
user: oh my god his laugh STOP user: clip it rn
“Sure,” Peter managed, still grinning, “emotional exit. We’ll call it that.” He leaned forward onto his desk, elbow propped up as he shook his head, still fighting another smile.
Y/N squinted at him through her camera, narrowing her eyes like she was preparing to duel. Then she jabbed her straw straight at her webcam as though it were a dagger. “You better hope I don’t emotionally exit this call.”
His hands shot up instantly, palms out in mock surrender, his grin tilting crooked as he leaned back again. “Wouldn’t dare risk it.” His voice was playful, but his expression softened as his eyes flicked to her stream feed again, watching her tuck her hair back and adjust her headset. It was a small glance, quick, but it lingered with something gentler, like the idea of her leaving—even jokingly—wasn’t something he wanted to imagine.
user: they’re sooo flirting rn user: ugh you guys are cute it’s making me mad
Y/N caught sight of the comments and rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. “Chat is getting ideas. This is how fan edits happen, you know.”
Peter chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah? And whose fault is that?”
Her eyes widened like he’d just flipped the script, a laugh bursting out of her before she could stop it. “Okay, wow, bold. Did Mr. Undershirt just try to flirt with me?"
Peter hid his face behind his hand, laughing so hard he didn’t even try to answer, and chat erupted like fireworks.
user: BOY IS BLUSHING user: SHE GOT HIMMM user: this is rom com level banter i swear
Y/N leaned smugly toward her mic, voice dropping into a whisper meant to carry just enough menace. “Peter… I’m going to destroy you in Fortnite.”
Peter peeked at her through his fingers, grin wide and unstoppable. “Guess we’ll see who emotionally exits this time.”
Yeah, dueling a nerd at Fortnite turned out to be a lot harder than she ever could have imagined. She’d walked in cocky, smugly twirling her straw and talking about how she was going to “wipe the floor with him,” only to discover Peter wasn’t just a casual gamer—he was the kind of player who had muscle memory for ninety different building mechanics. The kind who could edit walls faster than her eyes could even register, land headshots from distances she didn’t even know the game allowed, and craft entire fortresses in the time it took her to locate the sprint button.
“Pete!” she squealed into her mic, mashing random keys as her character tried—and failed—to flee a spray of bullets. Her avatar zig-zagged chaotically across the digital landscape, crouching and uncrouching so erratically that chat was spamming “😭😭😭” and “girl is panicking IRL.” Peter’s camera showed him doubled over, his laugh uncontrollable, cracking and wheezy in the way that made his shoulders shake and his headset slip.
She had been downed so many times in the past hour that his revives were practically routine. He swore if Fortnite gave out “Most Helpful Teammate” awards, he’d have it framed already.
“Peter! I am being shot at! Help me!” she screeched again, voice so shrill it peaked her mic.
“Where are you?” Peter gasped through his laughter, squinting at his minimap like it was life-or-death. “You keep running the opposite direction—I told you, stick with me!”
“I can’t! I don’t know where you are! I’m about to die!” she huffed, her character crouching repeatedly in what looked more like a toddler tantrum than a defense tactic.
Peter’s laugh came so hard it cut in and out. He shoved his curls back, dimples carved deep into his cheeks. “Hold on, hold on, I’m coming—”
“Hurry up!” she squealed, smacking her desk like that would somehow help. “I’m almost dead! What am I supposed to hold on to, Peter?! I’m dying!”
And then it slipped. He wasn’t even thinking, just too caught up in the chaos, the words tumbling out like second nature. “Hold on, baby, calm down—I’m coming!”
The effect was instant.
user: WHAT DID HE JUST SAY 😳 user: BABY??????? user: WAS THERE A SOFT LAUNCH WE MISSED?? user: THEY DID NOT JUST CASUALLY DROP THAT
Neither of them noticed right away. She was too busy panicking, mashing buttons, and he was still half-choking on his own laughter. By the time Peter finally got to her, it was too late—her character dropped with a dramatic flop, the defeat screen lighting up bold across her monitor.
Peter lost it. Like, really lost it. His camera showed him throwing his head back, hands clutching his stomach as he laughed so hard his mic crackled.
Her feed, meanwhile, caught the exact moment her jaw dropped. “I hate this game. I hate you. I’m uninstalling.” She crossed her arms like a sulky kid, glaring at the defeat screen like it personally wronged her.
Peter was still grinning, shaking his head, cheeks flushed pink from laughing so hard. “Nah,” he said, voice teasing but warm, “you love me. Don’t lie.”
The way she froze gave her away instantly. She tried to school her face into a flat glare for the camera, but her ears were red and her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. Chat noticed before she could hide it.
user: SHE’S BLUSHINGGGG AHAHA user: FIRST TIME SEEING HER FLUSTERED OMGGG
She pressed her palm over half her face, groaning like the world’s most exasperated human. “Chat, shut up. He’s just—ugh.” Her laugh betrayed her, high and embarrassed, slipping through even as she tried to fight it.
Peter leaned into his mic, smirk still tugging at his mouth, voice dropping just enough to make it sound like it was meant for her more than his audience. “Just what?”
Her heart jumped. She hated that it did, hated that she had no good comeback sitting on her tongue. And suddenly, uninstalling Fortnite didn’t seem nearly as tempting as uninstalling him—because if he kept looking at her like that, if he kept laughing like that, there was no way she was making it through another match alive.
The game finally booted them back to the lobby, her character standing there with its goofy little dance, while she slumped in her chair dramatically, head tilted back like she’d just lost the championship.
“I’m never playing this with you again,” she groaned, tossing her controller onto her desk with a clatter.
Peter was still laughing, cheeks pink, curls a mess from pushing them back every two seconds. “Oh, come on. You almost had it that time.”
She snapped her head toward her camera, giving him the sharpest side-eye she could muster. “Almost had it? Peter, I lasted three minutes. And only because you revived me twice.”
He bit his lip, shoulders shaking as he tried to smother another grin. His chat noticed instantly.
user: NOT THE LIP BITE user: he KNOWS what he’s doing user: HELLO???
She caught it too, and her stomach flipped before she could stop it. She hated that one little twitch of his mouth could derail her brain like that. To cover, she leaned forward, chin propped on her hand as she squinted at her monitor. “Chat, tell me the truth. He’s bullying me, right? You saw that?”
Peter tilted toward his mic, his voice dipping low, velvet and teasing. “Oh, I’m not bullying you.” He let the pause hang just long enough to make her cheeks warm. “I’m teaching you. There’s a difference.”
Her jaw clenched, mostly to keep her lips from curving into a smile. “Teaching me how to lose?” she shot back, trying to steady her tone, but it came out breathier than she intended.
Peter’s grin spread slow, like he heard it too. “No. Teaching you how to keep up.” His eyes flicked toward his second monitor, toward her. And even though she knew thousands of people were watching, it suddenly felt like the two of them were the only ones in the room.
user: THE EYE CONTACT??? STOPPPP user: THEY FORGOT WE’RE HERE 😭 user: omg I feel like I should leave this is too intimate
Her heart thumped. Too fast, too loud. She shoved her hair back, rolling her eyes for the camera like she was unbothered, even though her pulse betrayed her. “Well, maybe you should teach me better, then,” she muttered, fingers fidgeting with her straw.
Peter leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging at his lips, voice dropping into something that was definitely not meant for chat. “Careful. I might take you up on that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t really silent—chat was exploding, her desk fan whirred softly, Peter’s chair creaked—but it felt silent, like the air was suddenly heavy between them.
She swallowed, hard, forcing a laugh to break the moment. “Okay, next game. Before you say something even dumber.”
Peter just smiled, slow and knowing, eyes still on her feed. “Sure. Next game.”
Her fingers tapped nonsense against her keyboard, pretending she was still focused on the lobby screen. Anything to distract from the heat that was climbing up her neck. “What happened to shy Peter?” she muttered, low enough that she thought maybe chat wouldn’t catch it.
But Peter heard. Of course he did.
He leaned back in his chair, lips twitching into a crooked grin as his eyes never left his monitor. “I’m comfortable with you now,” he said simply, voice smooth but threaded with that boyish honesty that always made her chest tighten.
The sound she made—half snort, half laugh—was an instinctive deflection. “That’s dangerous,” she quipped, though she didn’t dare glance at her own camera, not when she could see his feed open on her monitor. He was staring straight back at her, that grin softening into something almost… warm.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The game music looped faintly in the background, the stream chat buzzed like static, but it all blurred together when they just sat there—two people, screens apart, holding each other’s gaze like it meant something more than it should.
user: should we leave? 💀 user: this is more romantic than my parents’ marriage user: I’d watch the tape. user: @/user crazy thing to say holy shit 💀
Her eyes flicked down at chat, then back at him. “Your viewers are weird,” she teased, though her voice came out softer than usual, less of the usual bite.
Peter grinned, finally breaking the silence, though he still didn’t look away. “They’re just observant.”
She rolled her eyes, but her lips betrayed her, curving into a smile she couldn’t quite smother. She pushed back in her chair, crossing her arms like she was unaffected, though her heart was thudding in her chest. “You should be careful, Parker. Comfortable you is… a lot.”
Peter leaned closer to his mic, “Maybe that’s the point.”
The way her breath caught didn’t go unnoticed by him—or by chat, who instantly lost their minds.
user: HELLO??? THE POINT???? user: shy peter is dead and I’m mourning user: nah this tension is ILLEGAL
She blinked at the monitor, the weight of his words finally catching up to her, and in a flustered panic she blurted, “Okay, no—nope, I’m leaving. Bye. BYE.” With that, she slammed her mouse, cutting the call and the stream in one messy click.
Peter sat frozen for a beat, his eyes wide at the empty screen where she’d been just seconds ago. Then it hit him, and he folded over in his chair, wheezing with laughter so hard his mic crackled.
user: WHAT JUST HAPPENED???? user: DID SHE JUST RAGE QUIT IRL??? user: bro she was FLUSTEREDDDDDD
Still laughing, Peter scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to catch his breath. “Jesus Christ… okay, guys, uh—I’ll maybe go live again later. I should probably go check on her before she actually combusts.” He shook his head, dimples deep as his grin lingered.
With one last little wave toward his camera, he ended the stream—still grinning like an idiot, already reaching for his phone.
like you can always tell they're characters written by men when suddenly this carefree independent career woman starts talking about how wonderful it'd be to have a child & settle down booooo tomato tomato
the stories that piss me off most are where she's clearly like. dreading it and seems shellshocked and starts talking about how this isn't what she had wanted for her life and she doesn't even consider abortion.
like it doesn't come up. as a possibility. for someone who does not want to be pregnant and is panicking about how hard birthing and raising a child will be.
like she doesn't even say "no but I don't want an abortion because..." it's more like abortion was never invented. she doesn't consider it and no one suggests it to her.
Or when they clearly don’t want kids and have never wanted them but then all of a sudden are pregnant and they’re so happy and they never knew why they felt that way.
There’s only a few characters where it makes sense like Katniss Everdeen since she don’t want children in the world she grew up in.
But other than that it’s sloppy and just disgusting to further show how women are “meant” to be mothers
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