“baby,” yuta rasped, as long, shaky fingers squeezed on your bouncing hips. tethering his soul to the sinful way in which you came down on him. thighs smacking, hips grinding. you rode his lap like you were trying to squeeze out every semblance of his sanity.
“just like that— ah, so perfect,” pale lips pressed together. dark hair spread out on the wrinkled pillows as his head fell back. tossing with the bed that jumped with every clamour of your hips.
the epitome of beauty, an angel, a devil, both— when you squeezed around his cock and slicked his balls all messy. when your pretty nails dug on his shoulders and collarbones. when your gorgeous eyes dazed down at him through your fluttering lashes.
“mm, feels good yu? am I doing good for you?” you crooned, slowing your hips into a lazy, nasty drag that pulled a pitched moan out of him.
“so good— so, so good. hah. how'd I get so lucky?” he smiled up at you. through glossy eyes and trembling lips.
his head crooked so he pressed a kiss to your inner wrist. worshipping your veins, your blood, your pulse that allowed you to be here.
wrapped so perfect and velvet around his cock— squeezing every vein and kissing his tip with whatever darling spot you desired. working him to a high that had him clinging to you. gripping onto your very soul with his tightening fingers and every thrum of his dick.
cold hands smoothed over you. up your thighs, caressing your hips, worshipping your sides and cradling your breasts. he thumbed your nipples in tender swirls. in time with your hips that began to stutter.
“no, no. come on,” he ushered, bucking up once for encouragement. “you can do it, angel. don't stop now.”
his voice thinned. sucking in a breath as he watched your pace go sloppy. clumsy and overstimulated— but you were still smiling through your needy moans.
“yu babbyyyy,” you whined, playful. as you hunched over him, nails scratching on his chest and lips ghosting his. a promise. a tease.
“can't help it. feels so good. just gonna have to deal with it, hm?”
“you're a curse, you know that?” he returned your smile, despite the flicker in his dead eyes.
his hands slipped back to your ass. squeezing. a pout settled on his lips. “my poor pretty girl. so worked up. . ."
shlap!
pale skin smacked into yours. wet, rough, and strikingly abrupt— you squealed. slumping over your boyfriend who squished on the plush of your ass and rolled his hips up. deep and dirty. smooching his tip into a crook that curved your spine and shook your thighs.
“oh fuck— hngh.”
“don't worry, angel.”
yuta crooned to your ear as he pressed a deep kiss to it. arms hugging around your bouncing body tight. hips that once laid limp now pistoning in feral thrusts up into you. mean, merciless and nothing like the way he melted beneath you just a moment before. “I'll help. 'cause I love you so—”
his pelvis crammed! up into you. rutting rough and ragged on your cervix. slacking your jaw and blurring your vision.
“mngh— yuta!”
“— sooo much.” he didn't need to grin, not with the devil in that smile.
soft hands squeezed your thighs together. squished them tight to put pressure on his blur of thrusts. faster, harder, rougher than your sinful bounces. slapping his balls on your puffy pussy and milking your slick all over the sheets. splattering it over your thighs.
the lights flickered above. his cursed energy surged his pounds into a blinding prowess that sent your eyes rolling and tongue drooling. spluttering his name in a pitiful, ah ah ah!
“aww,” he cooed, pouting. he had the audacity to flash you those puppy eyes, like he wasn't pummeling your pussy into a creamy mess. “what was that, lovely girl? I can't hear you.”
“f-fuck— fuck you—!”
“now that's not very nice.”
he hummed, pale hand slipping up to pat on your ass that he chased ripples into with his merciless hips. “here I am making you cum so sooo good and you're being so mean.”
his cold touch slipped forward, thumb ghosting your swollen clit. drawing a whimper from your trembling lips as you flicked your head back.
“yuta. . . please, wait I can't—”
“sshh,” he hushed, swirling his thumb on the twitching nub with a feather touch, already sending your lashes fluttering while his batted up at you. innocent. infuriating.
“I can be mean, too.”
and then he flicked your clit.
pinched it hard between his fingers and rubbed it into a spasm that threw your spine into an arch and squeezed your pussy into a messy splutter.
all while he surged you higher into euphoria by plunging his cock up in a sharp stroke— humping on your cervix to spread your orgasm into a nervous wreck. trembling your body into a ruinous tremor.
“f-fuck— fuck fuck, ah.”
as you tumbled through your shattering climax, his hand snaked to yours. threading your fingers together. holding you tight. close. as he thumbed on your promise ring and rode out your high with tender praises.
“thereeee you go,” he blissfully sighed, his own eyes fluttering as he eyed the sticky mess between your thighs. “such a lovely girl with a lovely pussy.”
honkai star rail! aventurine x ratio (ratiorine? aventio?)
a rewriting of the events in the lightcone, "Final Victor"
x was cross-posted on AO3 a while ago: [link]
warnings: 18+, two-part series, angst, smut, GAY (blowjob, sexual tension, sex, they're both flip positions)
part one will be linked below after reading, have fun!
Ratio finds himself stuck onto the couch, arms bent on his sides to balance while Aventurine ravages him from top to bottom. He feels the same lips he had just kissed pepper all over his neck, ticklish on every exhale. Never in a million years could he have imagined such sensation bestowed on his skin— but perhaps the Aeon of Elation felt like toying with him today.
He admits pleasure with a low groan when Aventurine climbs over him, knee nudged just the right way to stimulate his crotch.
"Well, well... isn't this new. Doctor Veritas Ratio at my mercy. You're enjoying this alot, aren't you?"
Ratio shoots him a dirty look, "I suggest that you choose your next words wisely. You dare pin your lies on me?"
"Lies, huh? Is this another clever joke of yours, doctor?" Aventurine laughs lightly and straddles his lap, close enough for their breaths to mingle as one. He taunts with a finger on the chest, "Aren't you the one lying below me, hm? Your words spin like a revolver, shooting all but a real bullet."
Ratio scoffs, grabbing Aventurine's pointing hand, "Quoting your inopportune luck so soon? What a shame that it did not shoot you."
"Ouch. Must you jest me with such aggression?"
"Hah," He mocks, "It is the truth."
"Mhm... and yet you deny truths. A habit of yours, perhaps?"
The scholar groans in annoyance, fed up with the comebacks. He hooks an arm around his lover's waist and flips their position, quick to connect their fingers together and forcing the latter to submit underneath. Aventurine's laugh is music to Ratio's ears, and even better when he snuggles his nose into the crook of the blonde's neck. Kissing it, licking it, sucking it; earning a hard-earned moan that made the hair on his nape stand. Aventurine's back arches off the couch when his hands trickle down to his chest.
"Doc—"
"Veritas Ratio." He says softly, "That's my name."
Aventurine makes the show of breathily saying his name. "Veritas... I.. touch me. Please."
It sends his brain into absolute overdrive. He needs to hear his name being said again— whatever the cost. A moth pathetically drawn to a flame, aware of the lingering danger yet attracted all the same. His heart skips a beat at the reaction he's receiving just from tracing the line on his exposed chest; an airy sigh so dreamy it could rival the entirety of the Dream World.
Ratio peels the gloves off his hands, laying them on the coffee table next to them. Raw fingers explore what they could, the velvety cloth of uniform being the only thing separating them apart. Oh how he wishes he could examine the soft skin lying right underneath.
However, he must wait.
"P-Please," Aventurine's voice breaks, "I-I can't take this anymore. You're teasing me."
"Patience is a virtue."
For the first time in the history of the cosmos since his birth, Veritas Ratio breaks into a smile.
Aventurine whines, high-pitched and childish. There's a pink hue flushing his cheeks and he can't take his eyes off his opponent's lips, "I can't believe this is my first time seeing you smile. At my misery, nonetheless! How cruel of you."
Ratio hadn't even noticed how his complexion changed befitting his mood: true, he took pleasure in teasing the younger man. Aventurine's flushed face and pouty lips is a divine sight to behold, reserved for only the chosen. The Aeons can go kiss ass for abandoning him; Aventurine felt like a whole religion, and Ratio would be down to worship and favor his name forever.
"Perhaps I am. Where did that playful, pliant and... replusively seductive act of yours go, I wonder?"
"Ha ha, very funny." Aventurine mocks sarcastically. His eyes widen when he feels Ratio's hand slip underneath his jacket, feather-light touches trailing along his abdomen. His fingers are warm, and the touch makes him suck a breath in, generous enough to make his abs contract.
Ratio hums, capturing the blonde in another kiss. A hand reaches behind to unzip the lengthy coat off the blonde's body, tossing it to the floor. He's on his knees now, towering over and raking his eyes lazily all over the body of a man— his man— and taking in every single detail in his picturesque memory. He thanks the Aeons for it.
Absolutely picture perfect, Ratio thinks, the scars bearing history all over the naked canvas.
Aventurine casts his eyes to the side, embarassed.
"It's... ugly."
"What is?"
"My body. The wounds. No matter how much I try to clean and heal them, they won't go away."
Ratio drops his gaze and returns to those beautifully crafted eyes. He sighs in adoration, "I have never once implied that. That's a second lie you've imposed on me, gambler."
"But..." Aventurine retorts.
"You are perfect just the way you are. I hope that you'll believe in such truths the way I do in you."
"..."
"Do you not believe me?"
Aventurine hesistates; in a moment of vulnerability, his shoulders bear a devil and an angel, debating each possibility. Why would he ever trust someone he had just met? Let alone someone who would leave him right after tonight, a mere acquaintance to his plan?
But he's shown devotion! The angel on his right screams, advocating for all the love and care Aventurine needed and wanted but never had. He could love and cherish us like no other.
Lies. The devil says, chucking a metaphorical gun into his hand. Shoot him and break his heart. He will leave us like all the others did.
"Prove it."
Ratio is left to his own devices to prove his love. He thinks, how? Love isn't science. Love is pliable and ficky; love is all things senseless. Love is watching the sun rise through the day and the moon settling in the night. Love is when the birds chirp at dawn and bats taking flight by twilight. Love is sharing, caring, and daring. Love is everything and nothing all at once.
And to Ratio, love comes in the form of a blonde-haired, bigger than life, overly traumatized, cunning, sly, yet handsome and suicidal, maniacal gambler ready to bet his life on the line for a laughable cause: revenge.
If he had to lay down his life just to seek the sun's smile one last time, he'd do it without a moment's hesitation.
Ratio tugs on the waistband of his pants.
"May I?" Ratio pecks his lips delicately.
"Hah... how gentlemanly of you, doctor." Aventurine chuckles tiredly, chest heaving. "Of course. I'm yours, just for tonight remember?"
Remember, he did.
But for some reason, he freezes in his spot. His stomach churns inexpicably painfully.
Just for tonight.
For a time, not another time.
For this time, and not a lifetime.
For tonight, and not forever.
Ratio pulls away almost immediately at the realization. A metaphorical bullet shot right into his heart, deafening enough to make his ears ring. Tinnitus, they call it. In the medical world, they'd have to administer treatment. However this was beyond that— it was a mental and emotional slap to the doctor's very being: the realization that no matter how much he rationalizes it— his lover will be no more and gone by the morning.
"W-Wait, why'd you stop?"
"I..." For once, Ratio is at a loss for words. Only then did it dawn on the scholar. That the luxury and affection he never thought he needed could only be felt in this particular instance, with a gambler who he so morally despised yet craved for. Aventurine pants, propping himself up with an elbow and with heavy eyes that held a painful concoction of confusion, lust, and rejection all at once— staring at him with a look that questioned his entire being. "I... I'm afraid I must go."
"What? But... you promised me you'd stay?"
"I... believe I've overstayed my welcome."
"Wait. Ratio, I-I don't understand. Why are you doing this? Did I say something wrong?" Aventurine manages a grip on the doctor's sleeve, crestfallen at the sudden change.
Ratio crumples his fists, unable to turn his back on Aventurine. Not when they've shared a deep moment together. Not when he's vulnerable and afraid to be left alone. Not when he might not ever see the blonde anymore. He manages a solid eye contact, though his fist trembles from sadness.
"By the time this is all over and you must fool yourself into believing your role— would you forget?"
"Forget of what...?"
"Forget of everything tonight." Ratio mumbles, holding Aventurine's wrist in place. "Will you continue to remember, or will I be left the only person to ruminate over tonight when I lose you to your own delusions by the morning?"
Aventurine opens his mouth, then closes, unable to formulate a concrete answer.
"Tell me, gambler. No.. Aventurine. What is all this to you? Is this whole predicament a game to you?"
"...Veritas..."
"And when the time comes for me to faithfully restore my duties as an accomplice, betraying you to Sunday... will you look at me the same way ever again? Or will you berate me a wretched fool?"
The blonde looks as crestfallen as Ratio feels; neither of the two had really thought this through. Aventurine averts his gaze away, thinking, knowing, that he would be thrown into a den of wolves by the morning. Though willingly, he notes to himself. But there's really no lying to himself when it involves an erasure of his memories.
"I... I don't know." He gulps in reply at the purple-haired man. There's something in those golden eyes that makes his heart throb. The look of adoration yet full of uncertainness, not knowing what to do.
Ratio sighs profusely, letting the wrist go. "Then let's not indulge in this momentary activity. I will remain here, however not like thi—"
"You'll find me."
"...What did you say?"
"I said, you'll find me. Regardless of how twisted my memories may be in the morning, you will find me. You will remind me, and you will make me remember." Aventurine sits upright, both hands pressed on the edge of the couch. "Besides, you'd be too drunk on me to let me go like that. Isn't that right, doctor?" Ratio huffs at the response, pinching between his eyes at the words that he finds...
Terrifying. Yet he knew he would.
"You will, won't you?" It comes out almost breathless, full of hope. Iridescent eyes search for the truth on the scholar's face, "And I'll remember eventually."
Ratio's face remain stoic, though softened.
"Promise me?" The gambler pleads.
The doctor replies, "Fine. I promise."
Needy hands shake as they reach out to their lover, grasping each other with a newfound level of need. Breaths mingling, touches buzzing on skin, and a ringing in Ratio's ears as their lips met once more, gentle and loving and sweet. His eyes flutter close, choosing to lose himself in the man that he half-detested, knowing well to savor tonight's moment instead of his usual remarks.
Aventurine moans into the kiss, his body burning with fiery passion and lust. Unsure of what to make of his resting arms, he hooks them around the latter's shoulders and deepens their bond.
Cute, Ratio thinks. Not like he'd admit that aloud.
He fails to conceal it however, when he chuckles into the kiss when Aventurine lets out a slow groan, starting to grind up his hip. The scholar does it back, grinding on him, feeling his pants tighten around where his member is. A whine in his ear shoots blood straight into his cock, and he parts the blonde's legs apart with a thigh in between.
Aventurine pulls away from the intensity to catch his breath, chest rising and falling to the tandem of his heart.
"Wow.." The blonde teases, wiping the saliva from his lips. "Who knew the esteemed Veritas Ratio was so good at kissing? I must be dreaming!"
Ratio exhales, moving to the blonde's neck. Gloved hands reach up, carding through purple hair. "That sweet mouth of yours. It will get you into trouble one day, Aventurine."
"Already did, doctor."
"Hm." He simply hums in response, licking and biting on supple flesh. The cologne Aventurine wears.. its spot close to his nose, he inhales it. Something luxurious yet a hint of sweetness in it. In a show of valor, Ratio palms Aventurine by the tent of his pants, grinding on it gently. His hastiness earns him a gasp, Aventurine's arms shuddering from the feeling of being pampered, legs wrapping themselves around Ratio's hip as they press deeper into the couch.
The blonde moans his name, and it made the man's cock throb in his pants. "Please, just have me already."
"Wait." Ratio pulls back from Aventurine and starts undressing. The blonde watches, feeling saliva pooling in his mouth from the supple show of muscles and fair skin revealed to him. He was quick to take his sash off, the clip in his hair allowing bangs to fall over purple eyes. While the doctor was well-known for his sassy antics and beautiful face, it never occurred to the gambler that he'd be so...
Aventurine quips, "Aeons, you're hot."
"Any less than that would be shameful." Ratio mumbles as a response, slightly embarrassed, and pushes the blonde to rest his back flat on the couch. "Let's resume, shall we?"
His lover nods, stripping himself of his shirt as well to reveal his lean body, covered in several scars. Ratio lets his bare hands explore, feeling the delicate skin underneath. It tickles Aventurine, the blonde giggling when Ratio hooks his pants and unzips his pants.
"So gentle with me, doc."
"I have to be," Said doctor plays along with the flirt, one hand pushing up knees to take white pants off. Now they're both undressed, left in mere briefs. There's a pool of precum staining Aventurine's black ones, and he loops his hand underneath to take it off. Beautiful, Ratio thinks, as the blonde's cock springs up in its slightly reddened form. Smaller than most, however slender and pretty similarly.
Rough hands work its way, and Aventurine lets out a shuddered gasp when he feels heat around his cock. Never in a million years did he dream of getting a handjob from the infamous doctor, let alone being given a—
"Hands in my hair. Two taps if its too much."
"Y-You.." Thighs shake as Ratio goes down on his partner. He first kisses the tip, and Aventurine had to hold himself back from cumming on the spot, the shock and pleasure mixed into one. "W-Wasn't I supposed to be the one.. ah.... that.. ah..."
Words fall flat on ears as the doctor takes the whole length into his mouth, bobbing his head slightly. Flailing hands anchor in the purple doctor's hair, gripping tight for Aeons almighty as stars burst into his vision. Moans and gasps fill the room, the pressure coiling in the depths of his stomach and toes curling against the lavish carpet.
He takes it even further, increasing the speed and hooking a thigh under his arm to prevent Aventurine from closing up.
"Veritas... oh.. Veritas..."
The tone only pummeled the man further, tongue gliding underneath and toying with the texture on it. He could feel Aventurine's cock twitching in his mouth, the taste almost delicious on his tastebuds.
"I-I'm gonna... I'm gonna.."
Cum, he tries to say. But all that came out were ragged breaths and the sultry tone of moans.
A burst of white. Ratio pays no heed, allowing the man to shoot his load right into his mouth. He closes his eyes, not minding the taste of it, swallowing the seed down his throat. Aventurine pants hard, body vibrating and spasming, overwhelmed by the aftermath. His gaze is fleeting, eyelashes wet with tears and cheeks rosy as he stares at Ratio standing up, towering above him.
"Good?" Ratio asks with a slight smile, nosing the blonde on the cheek. Aventurine mumbles a drunk "mhm", arms grasping the back of his lover's head and a little whine when he feels a finger circling around his hole. A strong hand lifting his thigh, crossing it against Ratio's hip, "Look at you. A Stoneheart reduced to a mess."
"Mm.." Inaudible response. Aventurine was long gone, and all he knew was that he wanted Ratio inside of him. Pleads, once again, sound like music to Ratio's ears. "Please... need you so bad..."
"Patience. I need to prepare you."
"It's in the... drawer..." Aventurine rasps, pointing at the dresser beside them. "Lube and whatever. T-take what you need."
"How convenient." The doctor clicks his tongue, ripping it open and finding a half-used bottle of lube and a neatly stacked array of condoms. He pops the cap open, lathering his left hand in a generous amount and kneels before Aventurine's open thighs. "Relax." A hand on the gambler's abdomen, rubbing soothing circles by the thumb.
Aventurine grumbles at the wait, cuffing Ratio's wrist in his hand. "Just do it already, doc. I can take it."
"Okay." Ratio pushes a finger in, and lightly hisses at the pressure. The blonde held his breath, body tensing from the intrusion. The doctor catches this and places a hand on his cheek, "Focus on me, gam- Aventurine. Breath in and out. It'll be over soon."
"It's not that," The blonde mumbles, "I-It just feels good."
"Good." He says nothing more, pushing it and retracting it at a steady pace. Aventurine winces at it, tossing his head onto the couch arm. His cock swells once again from the pleasure, and Ratio curls a finger inside, smiling to himself when his partner starts to tremble underneath his touch. Absolutely beautiful like this, he thinks, and he would do it all over again if he could in the near future.
After a moment of stretching it out with a condom on, Ratio positions himself at the entrance. He tosses his briefs aside, and Aventurine peeks from above, eyes slightly large at the size of it.
"C-Can it fit?"
"Two taps to stop." Was all the response they both needed.
It stretches deliciously on his cock, and Ratio props himself next to Aventurine's head. They meet at the middle; another kiss, tears running down the blonde's cheeks from how it good it felt to finally, finally, have the one he loved inside of him. Ratio grunts into his mouth, tongue sloppy and about, his hips moving on his own.
Unlike all his hookups, something felt different about this.
The raw emotions felt in each coming tide, the kisses and doting and care over his body; it felt more than just sex. It felt like a declaration of love, a form of makeup sex despite never having done it at all.
"Doc," Aventurine moves from the kiss, a hand behind Ratio's head as he stammers, "A-Are you making love to me?"
Ratio quells the little voice in his head to say yes. Golden eyes blink in response, warm yet unreadable. He simply groans, attaching his lips to Aventurine's neck yet again and fastens the pace a little. It earns a fluttery whimper from the latter, butterflies in his stomach from the quiet admission. The blonde mumbles an acute "it's okay, it's okay", sobbing from how good it felt to be stretched full.
With every thrust, Aventurine could feel just how desperate Ratio was to keep him like this. Perhaps its the SoulGlad talking, but one shot isn't usually this effective on him and his body.
"Making love..." Ratio is sweating now, hair sticking to his forehead and beads of slick covering his body. "Perhaps I am, gambler."
"F-Fuck." Aventurine curses, even more turned on. "Y-You and your sweet mouth, doctor..."
Ratio grins at the words, making it obvious through his response as his hips buck faster at the words. Aventurine is an absolute mess now, eyes crossing out at the sudden change. Full-on crying, his slight makeup ruined and the sweat beading by the side of his head; the unusually upkept scholar loved it. Everything about the mess: the parted lips, the shade of red painted across his face, the sloppy kisses and the speck of blonde hair that felt across iridescent eyes.
"V-Veritas, I'm gonna..."
"Do it for me." Ratio keeps his pace steady, slamming his hips into sore thighs. Aventurine's vision is hazy, and he stares up at his lover looking back at him in adoration. "Just like that, steady."
"I-I'm.." A cry leaves his lips, whimpering once his seed shoots out onto his stomach. He sighs after, needy eyes looking up.
Purple hair cascading over his eyes, unkempt yet handsome still.
Ratio chases his own high, groans becoming louder by each growing second. Aventurine is practically a ragdoll now, his hole thoroughly abused yet walls closing tight from every thrust. It's when they lock eyes that the purple-haired man finally settles with one sharp force, filling up the condom inside. He's breathless, and pulls out of Aventurine wordlessly, allowing himself to sink into welcoming arms.
They stay like that wordlessly, turning putty in each other's company, the world stilling for a moment as sex lingers in the air.
"I'll remember this for sure." Aventurine was first to break the silence, kissing Ratio on the forehead. The latter mumbles something incoherent under his breath, arms caging around the blonde's smaller figure and burying his face into the crook of his neck. "Oh, what's this? Going all soft on me now, Veritas?"
Ratio's ears turn red at the mention of his name. "Quiet, gambler."
"I have a name, you know."
"Aventurine."
"No, my real name is Kakavasha. You can call me that." Fond fingers part through slick purple strands, twisting each end. "And I'd love to do this more, doc. Only if you want—"
"I do." Ratio replies almost immediately.
Aventurine smiles.
Ratio found it within himself that he didn't mind this being a regular routine at all.
"And I will find you, Kakavasha."
------------------------------------------------------------> part one here!
⸺ ⟢ contents. mydei x gn reader. modern / roommates au. food mention. a hint of pining and mutual feelings. sfw + fluff.
The apartment is dark as you attempt to quietly rummage your way around the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge and sifting your way through cabinets. You’re sure if you were to squint towards the clock in the living room it would be somewhere between one and two in the morning, which is all the more reason for you to try and be stealthy unless you’re trying to wake the whole block.
But you’re starving, your appetite feeling insatiably hungry and you’ve come to realise that having a roommate that’s so keen about his health and fitness has its own set of downfalls, the main one being: there’s not a single snack in this apartment. And at this moment, not even him being as handsome as he is makes up for it.
You allow yourself a long, drawn out sigh as you blindly throw your arm around the top storage cabinet, only finding yourself coming across various protein powders and gym supplements. Your stomach appears to make a sound in protest, and at this point you consider just taking a bite out of the couch.
It’s either the soft, plush fabric of cushion or whatever the hell casein powder and ‘greens’ can be mixed into.
But just as you cast a glance towards the living room with a disgruntled sort of sound, an even louder one starts from behind you. Starling you into a sudden shriek when it catches you off guard.
“How noisy.” Mydei, your roommate, sighs from where he’s resting against the kitchen doorway. His arms crossed over his chest as he pushes himself up to full height. “You could benefit from being a little quieter.”
You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long, but it was more fact than fantasy that Mydei was incredibly handsome. Especially now, you can only assume he’s only just woken up considering the slight mess of his hair, his eyes are a little drowsier looking than usual and he’s shirtless, as drool-worthy as that is, leaving him in only a low hanging pair of sweats that pinch at his hips.
Even his voice sounds much lower than usual. A drowsy, deep sort of drawl that you feel flush across the back of your neck. And if he weren’t standing right infront of you, you’d be convinced he was a God in some other universe…. or a prince even.
It almost makes you drop the barrel of protein powder between your hands, fumbling with the cylinder before you slam it down into the counter. And you only realise you’re gaping at him when Mydei gives you a tilted frown.
“What the hell, Mydei.” You finally say after a stifling beat, trying to play off your own ogling. “What’re you doing awake?”
“Should that not be my question?” Mydei says, stepping forward until he’s opposite you and you swear you can feel the natural heat radiating off of his huge body with the new proximity. His eyes sweep across your body in a way that makes you shift.
“I asked first. Have you just been waiting around to scare me?”
Your question earns you a chuckle, and if your brain wasn’t so unreliable due to fatigue and hunger you’d believe the sound to be much softer than usual.
“How absurd.” Mydei says, glancing over your shoulder at the mess you’ve made of the counter. Looking at the destruction you’ve left in your wake— from herbs and spices to protein powder— nothing particularly appetising in your opinion, before his eyes are back on you. Tender almost. “It seems I was right to be worried.”
You try not to let it affect you, but you silently thank the dim city outside for atleast helping to conceal your expression. It’s not that you and Mydei are dating or even sleeping together, but you often find yourself in scenarios that sometimes feel close enough to flirting to make you a bit flustered.
You’re not opposed to it— look at the man— but you also would rather not make things awkward… considering you both live together. So you clear your throat before trying to change the subject, for your own sake.
“I always assumed you to be a much heavier sleeper.” You say before turning your back to him, making your way over to the counter with the excuse of beginning to tidy things away.
Mydei doesn’t move behind you, but you can feel his eyes regardless.
He huffs, seemingly unsatisfied. “Answer the question, why are you awake?”
“I was hungry. You know if you bought more snacks then perhaps you would be sleeping soundly right now.”
“What a poor excuse.”
Mydei scoffs, and your shoulders tense up in defence.
“It’s the truth!”
But then as if on cue, your stomach makes a terribly embarrassing grumble in argument. Which is equal parts humiliating but also especially convincing as Mydei remains silent in his space behind you. You don’t have it in yourself to turn around and see what sort of expression he’s wearing, so you instead just shift around a few of the things on the counter infront of you, biting on the inside of your cheek to try and alleviate the awkwardness.
Eventually, after a few too many gruelling seconds of silence you open your mouth as if to say something again, though you’re not exactly sure what it was going to be, perhaps something like excusing yourself to just go to bed hungry. But before you can get that far, you hear Mydei shift before you feel him, his body suddenly stepping into place behind you as you try to resist the urge to turn to face him.
It comes after that, the strong, grounding touch of his hands on your hips, though it still remains gentle when he shifts you to his left a little and your body brushes past his chest during the movement. It takes everything in you not to just melt back into the warmth of him, so you just let him guide you instead, until there’s enough space for Mydei to take up your previous spot once you’re out of the way and he gives you a subtle, plain glance.
“What is it?” You say as you narrow your eyes curiously.
You find yourself a little breathless following the interaction, but you soon fall silent when he begins to wordlessly pull different ingredients and such out of the cabinets and the fridge before placing them down on the counter. The exposed muscles of his body are quite distracting, and you watch the red tattoos across his physique shift with every stretch of his arms until he finally speaks.
“I happen to be awake now and it makes little difference to me so enough of this nonsense.” Mydei says, shrugging but still soft. “I’ll just prepare something for you myself.”
It takes you a moment to realise what he’s saying, but when you eventually do you can’t get your words out fast enough.
“What? You…. you don’t have to…”
“Don’t make a fuss,” He grumbles, silencing your protests. “You’re hungry and I’m more than capable of handling it. Nothing matters past that.”
You just stare at him, no doubt looking as stunned as you actually feel. But when your stomach makes another terribly hungry sound, this one feeling more like an act of celebration, you can’t find it in yourself to argue. Especially not when Mydei casts you another, seemingly softer glance that looks a lot like he’s smiling.
“Okay.” You say, deciding to lean on the counter beside him and you watch as he begins to prepare a few sweet ingredients on the counter with such an ease.
You admire Mydei’s hands closely as he works, taking in the strong cut of his fingertips and the strength in his palms, trying not to let your mind drift back to how they felt on your hips just a moment ago. But when you cast another glance up towards Mydei’s face you almost get startled when you realise he’s already staring.
“Well, what is it you wish to ask?” He suddenly says, as if picking up on your thoughts.
You clear your throat, quickly looking away. “Mind if I keep you company then?”
A beat seems to pass between you both, before Mydei moves from his position again to stand close to you. It’s probably accidental the way he cages you in this time, but his size alone makes you melt a little into the edge of the counter and you have to fight to stop your mind from running wild with it.
But betore you can even say much else, he’s reaching out for you once more and suddenly those same huge hands are suddenly on your waist this time, and just as easily Mydei helps you prop yourself up to sit on the kitchen counter with a soft “Here then.”
It takes your breath away, especially when his hands don’t leave your waist until a second longer than you expect, and you wonder if you imagine the way his fingers appear to tenderly stroke along the skin there before he eventually pulls away.
He returns back to his usual station, just to your left, and you decide not to mention the flush on the tips of his cheeks when he clears his throat with a final huff and begins to work.
Clark twists the smaller, compact clear tube between his palms. Microscopic particles of iridescent green swirled in the plastic, mixing around in a quaint concoction of shea butter and vanilla. Even through the bottle, his skin prickles in the vicinity of Kryptonite, even in its faintest form.
So just why would he willingly be allowing himself to be vulnerable and in pain with what was by far the stupidest idea he's had to date?
The answer is as simple, it was all for you.
Being Superman granted Clark Kent tons of abilities — and his most useful? His super-healing. Immunity against threats almost always secured him an upper hand in things.
Admittedly, it was a rather bizarre chain of events that had let to the discovery and inconvenience of said ability.
In your short and quick courtship with Clark, this had to be one of the most frustrating recurring experiences.
For the better half of fifteen minutes, where you were perched on your boyfriend's lap, you'd been meticulously leaving love bites on his pulse point, down to his collarbone.
But what were once beautiful, dark hickeys that bloomed right beneath his skin, faded in the matter of minutes.
You'd pulled back with a frown, thumbing over the faded dotted purple.
"…Everything alright?"
Clark blinks at you, puzzled, when you grab at his jaw, tilting it to the other side to survey.
"No," you mumble after an annoyed huff. "Healed. It's all completely healed."
"What is?" He manages through a daze, thumbing idly at the fat of your thighs. It was hard to pay attention to what you were saying when your ass was sandwiching his neglected hard-on.
"The hickeys!" You pout exaggeratedly, hands falling to an angry bump to his pecs.
Clark hums a slow 'ah…' before he readjusts you to sit higher on his abdomen, in an attempt to relieve himself from his newfound torturous routine. But this time, he had a solution in hand.
You were in the midst of your usual rant, something about his healing and quote on quote 'being cock-blocked by Superman' when Clark curls an arm around your hips — holding you in place as he retrieves a little tube.
The confusion dies in your throat when he plops you back in place, twisting the cap of the tube off.
Clark's palm cases your jaw to hold you in place, and lean in regardless, "what are you … — mmn?!" It catches you off guard when the cold, gel-like balm is introduced without warning.
You let him smear it gently over your plush lips. Whatever he was doing, it felt good, but you were still confused about why he was suddenly putting lip balm on you.
"You could've just told me my lips were dry." There's a tinge of embarrassment in your words as you smack your lips to smear it around properly.
Clark shakes his head, wiping off the rest of the balm that was already stinging the pad of his thumb.
"You're perfect, baby." He leans in to press a reassuring peck onto your lips. Eyes twitching at the potency of Kryptonite. "I called in a favour from a friend, and he came up with this," Clark lifts up the tube for you, letting you curiously twist it around.
"You called in a favour for a lip balm?"
"…M—mm, not just any lip balm. Laced with Kryptonite."
You frown, "I'm not following. Doesn't that stuff hurt you?"
"It does…" Clark slumps back with an exhale as he drags his palm down his jaw, "but in small doses, it slows my abilities in general. Thought you might've liked that."
The realisation settles after a few seconds, and you coo loudly, "Clark! You'd do that for me?" You curl your arms around his neck with a downturned smile, nose crinkled in both glee and awe.
"Mhm. Don't wanna hear you complain about how much I love you." He chides, stroking the small of your back.
"Shall I take it for a test drive?" You say through a grin.
Clark groans reluctantly, tipping his head to give you some room as you'd leaned in. The feeling prickled at first, where your lips dragged. You could feel his body tense beneath you, and especially so when you sucked and bit at his ears.
"Feeling okay?" You mutter, tracing your fingers down his features, easing the tension lines on his face.
"Mhm. Jus' stings a little."
Which, really, was an understatement. His ears were turning red, prickling like needles where the meteor rock dust lingered.
"Okay. Tell me if it's too painful."
You don't wait for a confirmation when you press kisses down to his jaw and neck. Lips wrapping over the span of his pulse. "Mmh — o…w…urgh…" His occasional whines don't stop you from appreciating the blooms beneath.
"It's not fading…" You whisper, tracing your fingers down his chest, over the darkened markings. Instinctively, you rock your hips over the softness of his belly, eyes glinting with a level of excitement he hasn't seen from you in a long time.
"Geez…" he mutters low when he notices the trail of shine collecting at the coarse hair littered beneath his navel, "this is what you like? Really?"
You shoot him a look that silences him in seconds. He supposes it's a fair game, considering every time you'd made love, the soreness would paralyse you for days.
"Keep your mouth shut. I've been waiting a real long time for this."
And god, you had.
In barely twenty minutes, you'd effectively left marks all over Clark — his biceps, forearms, neck, shoulders, even around his nipples littered with angry, purpled blooms. All while you were grinding and chasing the friction of your abdomen to ease the dull ache in your cunt, no less.
"Babyyy…"
You lift your head up at his soft whine, meeting his softened, watery eyes, "killin' me here…"
The alarm stirrs in your heart instantly, but it's the shift back onto his lap that had you realising just why this poor guy was whining.
He was hard as fucking rock.
"So much for it being painful, huh?" You tease.
"Don't start. You've been licking me all over and rubbing yourself on me, baby. I'm definitely not immune to that."
You let out a sharp giggle at the particularly hard tug he gives, "lemme make you feel better." The motion causes you to slump your forearms onto him.
Clark lets out a playful growl into your neck as he clumsily tugs his shorts down. Mouthing down your neck and shoulders as his hard cock, already leaking with pre, bobs up against his abdomen.
"Had your fill yet?" He grits, lifting you up a fraction to properly line your cunt onto his length. Clark's already guiding you up and down his length to coat him with your slick impatiently, sending further spikes down your spine.
With a soft kiss to his nose, you shake your head, "think I might like seein' you cry for real this time."
Clark shuddered at the look of want in your gaze, your own fingers parting his lips, still laced with the remnants of the kryptonite balm.
You smear it to the edge of his lips, then press his jaw open, the pads of your thumb pressing flat onto his tongue. Then, you pull out the string of saliva that follows, tracing it over your folds.
"Is my mouth …the only place you can put it?"
Clark's cock twitches, and he tugs at your wrist, urging you to slide higher up his torso.
Newest on the team at the Daily Planet, your co-workers set a high bar in terms in friendship.
You like Lois. Jimmy is a decent desk-mate. Cat is nice enough. You don't even want to talk about Steve.
But Clark Kent... There's something about him that irks you.
His niceness.
No-one is that nice. And honestly? You'd rather keep him at arms length, then let him worm his way into your heart — because you’ll be damned if you let that stupid thing get broken again.
(Or: Clark Kent and the string of terrible, horrible, very bad attempts to woo his co-worker. Unsuccessfully.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
[15k, coworkers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, one-sided enemies to lovers, fem!reader, you are, lovingly, a difficult women (with some trust issues) but that is exactly what clark likes about you <3 - title from the waitress soundtrack of the same name!!!]
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Click-click. You click your pen, off then on.
The screen of your monitor hums with a faint buzz, just like all the fluorescent lights in the Daily Planet do.
The office murmurs around you, slowly waking with chatter, and it's just one more thing to mentally convince yourself you can't hear. On a good day, you can ignore it.
On a bad day…
Click-click. Off and then on.
Displayed on your screen is what's been served up to your chopping block, a new piece for you to tear to shreds with edits.
You've become the unofficial office shark, a one-stop shop for ruthless edits. Nothing leaves your sight without being slashed to pieces with red pen.
Beside you, on your desk, is a copy of yesterday's print.
You're trying hard not to look at it —not the title, Superman Saves Downtown; No Casualties in Extraterrestrial Attack— and not the byline either, printing Clark Kent's name on the front page.
Stupid Clark Kent and his dumb, stupid exclusive Superman interviews.
It's actually laughable how your envy reduces you to the insults of a second-grader – which actually is probably making you dislike it all the more.
With a huff, you try to redirect to the piece you're supposed to be editing.
"You know, your screen's gonna set alight if you keep glaring that hard."
You move your glare from your screen to the speaker behind it. Daily Planet's finest photographer, your desk-mate, and occasional pain in your ass, Jimmy Olsen.
He grins, despite being at the receiving end of your pointed stare. Jimmy is one of the few lucky ones immune to it.
"Alright, Medusa. What's got your panties in a twist this early in the morning?"
"Nothing has any effect on my panties whatsoever," you mumble back, breaking your glare to look back at your screen. Dropping the pen on your desk, you shake the mouse back to life.
"Have you considered that maybe that's the problem?"
"I'm gonna file a formal complaint if you keep talking about my panties," you grouse back, to which Jimmy laughs.
It's all bark and no bite really.
Jimmy is one of the only ones who have actually figured that out about you—that you're prickly to begin with, but you never really mean it.
The shuttered swirl of the heavy revolving door announces the arrival of, none other than, the object of your morning envy — though the dropped files are a classic of the Clark Kent entrance.
Papers fly as they hit the floor, scattering in a flutter you can hear across the office. It's quickly followed by Clark's muttered shoot!
One particular piece of paper does an elegant arc, swooping high and settling close to yours and Jimmy's desk.
Out the corner of your eye, you squint at it, but it's too far to make out the words.
Clark scampers after his spilled papers, hasty apologies spilling from him like an overzealous printer stuck on reprint. "Hi–sorry. Morning, hi, sorry, lemme get that—"
He ends up beside your desk by the time he's gathered them all in his hands, straightening up to his full height.
It's just for a moment—then he's hunching back over, shoulders curling forward.
Like it does much good; he's still at least 6 feet tall.
"Morning, guys," Clark says warmly, nodding to Jimmy, then you. His retrieved papers are in an untidy pile, held against his chest precariously. "What are we talking about?"
He's probably asking to be polite. Or to distract from his fumble with the papers.
Unfortunately for him, you've decided making Clark squirm is an easy way to enact a quiet retribution.
"My panties." You say plainly.
Jimmy coughs out a laugh, even though you're technically telling the truth. Hey, he was the one who brought them up! You shoot him a wry grin – then watch Clark.
His mouth has opened, as if to give a response to that, but then he closes it, thinking the better of it.
You imagine it must be hot, blushing that fiercely. His cheeks and the tips of his ears both appear as if he’s had too much time in the sun. Farm boy red, you'd call it.
In the end, Clark only swallows. Then nods at you both, his eyes averted, and scuttles away with a mumble you can't hear.
A glimmer of enjoyment toys a smile on your mouth. You convince yourself it's from watching him squirm. For grudge-related reasons, obviously.
"Must you torture him?" Jimmy asks, the moment Clark's out of range.
"No," you answer with a shrug, turning back to your screen. "But he makes it easy."
You don't add that you're pretty sure his bashful disposition is almost surely put on. He's a grown man. No one… blushes and sputters like that actually. Certainly not at you.
Instead, you punch the keys of your keyboard a bit too rough, deleting a whole sentence from the piece on-screen.
"It's the Midwestern in him," Jimmy says, with a sympathetic sigh.
"Yeah, well, it makes you wonder how he became such a hard-hitting journalist." You snort, though you make an effort to keep your voice low.
"Seriously, how is it that he's the only one who gets the exclusives with Superman?"
Across the desk, Jimmy's eyebrows raise an inch. "Ah. So that's what the glare was for."
You don't dignify that with a response—mainly because he's hit the nail on the head. Damn you for choosing a profession where your coworkers are paid to be nosy and observant.
You shrug again and remove another sentence that has the gall to have three adjectives in a row.
Jimmy leans forward. "Y'know, maybe that's the real secret to good journalism – he's just nice. You could try it sometime?"
He's joking of course, but there is still something in you that stiffens. He's brushed an exposed nerve by accident.
You're nice. You are.
It's just… There's something about Clark Kent – something that seems to irk you specifically.
Beyond his ability to cop all the limited interviews with Metropolis' hero —which does indeed drive you up the wall— there is just something about him that gets under your skin.
He's so perfectly polite – so nice, it's almost to a fault.
You've seen him give his lunch away to someone who forgot theirs. He knows the names of the janitor's kids. He says hi to everyone in the office.
He says 'golly' for Christ's sake.
It's simply too good to be true. No one is just that good by nature — well, maybe Superman — and definitely not without something else, some other motive lurking below.
The journalist instinct in you itches. Something about him doesn't quite add up.
Besides, you've been around one of these guys before. Had the displeasure of being the idiot who fell for them and dated one. They're always a real sweetheart, convincing everyone that the sun shines out their ass.
They're the honey in a trap. They lure you in with sweetness for long enough, and you never realise it's slowly become vinegar in your mouth.
You like to think you know better now.
And on top of Clark's infuriatingly nice demeanour, and his penchant for snagging the front-page at the last second — he's knocked you to the second page of print twice now — is the fact he's, undeniably, attractive.
You have eyes. You can, begrudgingly, use them.
Even you can admit that Clark Kent is a 6 foot something, dark-haired and light-eyed, tall glass of water.
You suppose it's good thing that he doesn't strut around like he knows it. That might be the thing that tips him from a slight thorn in your side to downright unbearable.
Alright, now you're being dramatic. It's not like he's Lex Luthor or anything of that sort.
It's just that you're somehow the only one who seems to be wary of him, to notice the inconsistencies in his absences, to be distrustful of his kindness.
(You pointedly ignore the voice that tells you that says a lot more about you than it does about him).
It makes that little voice in your head, the one you spent so long working to keep quiet, wonder if you've got it all wrong. If you're losing your touch.
Because you know there is a chance that he is that nice and you're the only one too cynical, too scornful to believe it.
The cursor on the screen blinks back at you, almost mocking.
You steal a glimpse to your left, towards Clark. As if sensing the movement, he looks up from his computer. He smiles crookedly and gives a little wave.
You purse your lips and nod, acknowledging it, eyes quickly back on your own screen.
The cursor is still blinking tauntingly at you, in the same place as before.
You start typing just to get it to stop.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's usually a good day when the culinary column has leftovers for the office, you've learned.
It doesn't happen often. Today, it's a much needed pick-me-up. The November weather is gloomy. Overcast. The rain had fallen in sheets this morning, puddles pooling along the path to work.
You're trying very hard not to feel the squelch in your socks.
Impossible when you can hear it, a gross wet noise with every hurried step you take toward the break room, which is where they said the macaroons would be waiting.
Sweet, sweet sugary goodness, not far away — if you're not too late, that is.
You'd been entirely too wrapped up in your latest article, headphones in and world blocked out, that Lois had to tap you on the shoulder to get your attention.
You'd jumped, then turned with a fury in your brow at being interrupted—then clocked the treat in her hand.
"Better hurry," she had said, brows wiggling.
Springing to your feet, your thanks is nearly swallowed up by the swiftness of your stride— broken when you hastily have to backtrack to avoid having your headphones violently ripped out.
Headphones safely removed, you depart your desk at double speed.
As you walk, you roll out your sore shoulders. God, it's been a moment since you moved about.
Your neck isn't grateful for the hunched position you've kept it in either, twinging its annoyance. Still, you round the corner to the break-room with an impressive haste.
And—there.
On the table, perched in adorable ruby-coloured cupcake wrappers, are macaroons. Sage green little discs, cream sandwiched between them.
There are only two left.
Beside them, standing at the table, are Jimmy and Clark. Thankfully, both already have a wrapper in their grasp, meaning they've at least had one.
"Yo," Jimmy says, as you beeline for the table. "Just in time—"
Clark, for once, doesn't greet you with a smile. Instead, he frowns a bit, seeing your locked focus as you lead with an outstretched hand towards the plate.
"Oh, gimme," you urge.
Then, right as your fingers close around one, it's suddenly batted out of your hand.
It flies from your hand and makes not a sound as it lands on the ground, crumbling into the world's saddest pile of green crumbs.
Bewildered, you gape down at it, bottom lip unconsciously jutting out.
Your sorrow turns quickly to indignation. You look up at the culprit, eyes narrowed—but don't even get to speak before Clark's explaining himself.
"You're allergic to pistachios!" Clark stresses, sounding appalled. "What- why would you— that's why I didn't bring you one!"
Right, okay. What? Well, fine, okay, yes, pistachio would explain the green colour of the macaroons.
And yes, you are, technically, in the eyes of the law, allergic. Barely.
What's some itching in the throat?
Actually, better question: How does Clark know that?
Your brain skips a couple times, struggling to compute through both the implication that he's somehow figured out your very mild nut allergy—or that he would've brought one to your desk.
Your eye twitches. "You— how do you even know that?"
"You… You mentioned it during one of the team-bonding exercises they made us do," he says, abruptly sheepish.
He shifts on his feet. One hand scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly.
Jimmy, who usually can't take the cue to be quiet, picks now to say nothing. You decide you hate him.
"That—" You start, still reeling through Clark's answer. That exercise was months ago, when you first started at the Planet.
Born of tiredness, the weather, and the fact Clark's appalled expression is nearly, nearly cute — which is infuriating — a pettiness rises within you.
Despite being entirely correct, suddenly, you can only think, who is he to tell you what you can or can't eat?
"It's a mild allergy, Kent." You stress the word mild. "I think I'll live."
You can tell on his face that he doesn't really like that answer.
Frankly, you've decided you don't really care.
Glancing between the plate on the table and Clark, you make a split-second decision.
Your hand shoots out, but Clark is faster—and he snaps up the final macaroon before you even reach the plate.
Incredulity colours your face as you whip around, a scoff forming on your lips. Clark holds the macaroon between his fingers, his face one of tentative panic.
Then he promptly stuffs it in his mouth, whole.
"Clark!" Jimmy says, finally breaking his silence.
Clark, his cheeks now a burning red, begins to chew awkwardly through the treat in silence.
You stare at him.
What the hell? You're not sure if you're more pissed off that he stole the final macaroon from right under your nose – or that he did it to self-proclaimedly help you.
You can't quite believe the sheer audacity of the move. Or that he also, somehow, manages to look cute while he does it.
Woah. Cute? You blink hard.
The lack of sleep and excess of caffeine has to be getting to you. You do not find Clark Kent cute. Much. Not when he's just cheated you out of two macaroons now.
You open your mouth, ready to unleash a string of how dare you and just who do you think you are and what the freak, dude — and then you catch Jimmy's eye.
And you remember his stupid comment about being nice—and think about how he probably thinks Clark did something good.
Noble Clark Kent, saving the office idiot from herself. You close your mouth, say nothing.
Biting your tongue, it feels like your socks squelch extra loud in your aggravated exit.
Left behind in the break-room, Clark watches you go.
He finally manages to swallow the macaroon, which goes down lumpily. Cringing, he thinks that might be a top competitor for the driest mouthful of his life.
Never mind that. It's definitely taking out the top spot for one of his trying-to-help-turned-bad-turned-worse moments with you.
Clark has more of those than he cares to admit.
Gosh, how did he manage it? To not only fumble in the worst ways whenever it came to you, but consistently?
You might be one of the only people on the planet with a genuine reason to potentially dislike him. And it's entirely by accident.
Ironic, really, considering he feels pretty much the opposite.
Maybe that was the cause of this, his newest fail of epic proportions. The daft betrayal of his heart to go sky-rocketing at the simple sight of you. Though, Clark thinks simple is too small a word to describe you aptly.
Scintillating. Gorgeous. Otherworldly — and he actually has some idea of that. None of the words really match up to the image of you.
You've got purpose. Fire. You're a woman who knows how to do her job well—and that's exactly the kind Clark can't help being drawn to.
Too bad it's completely fruitless.
Clark stares at the doorway you've just disappeared through and positively wilts.
"So." Jimmy says, a thousand words stuffed behind the single syllable. Clark turns with a soft sigh to find Jimmy grinning like he's definitely enjoying this.
"How's that wooing going for ya?"
Clark sighs again, more weary this time, his cheeks no less hot.
He's beginning to regret telling Jimmy of his feelings for you—despite the fact it's good to have someone to lament to about your constant rejection.
Though, it's not as though he really handed that information over willingly. Jimmy had wormed it out of him after catching one too many lovesick glances across the office. Clark had vehemently denied it, but to no avail. He's pretty sure Lois has also caught on.
"You know, I think this was easier when you didn't know."
"Sorry, man," Jimmy grimaces, though he's really not radiating apologies. "Hey, I'd take it back if I could."
Clark delivers him a look that tells him exactly how much he believes that—not at all.
Jimmy laughs. "Yeah, okay, I'm lying. It's fascinating, watching you crash and burn every time."
He makes an airplane noise, a little neeeow, swooping his hand through the air before miming an explosion. Really helpful stuff.
It just makes Clark slump over even more than usual. His shoulders droop so much he's almost in danger of dragging his knuckles on the ground.
His eyes roam over the remains of the first macaroon you'd attempted to eat on the ground. Staring at it, Clark can admit it wasn't his finest move— and his only defense was that he'd acted in surprise.
Batting it out of your hand, though? Jeez, you probably think he kicks puppies in his spare time too.
It's just a touch humiliating that the situation he is so desperate to succeed in, is in the most hopeless.
Sure, he can save the world, but a regular interaction with his co-worker whom he happens to be crushing on? No dice.
His cheeks flare hot again. In an attempt to preserve some of his dignity, he buries his face in his hands.
"I don't know how you think this is helpful," Clark says, words muffled behind his hands.
"Okay, I'm sorry," Jimmy relents genuinely, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'll be helpful. What about… Have you thought about doing, I don't know, a romantic gesture? Getting her flowers?"
Clark drags his hands off his face, knocking his glasses as he does. A fingerprint smudges on one of the panes. He fixes them, straightening up at the seriousness in Jimmy's tone.
"You think?" He asks earnestly. "Wha— but I'm not even sure I know which kind she likes the most."
Jimmy does that half-hearted eye roll he always does when Clark's being infuriatingly earnest. He shrugs, slowly backing toward the exit. "You're a journalist, Clark. Figure it out."
Just before he disappears through the door, Jimmy pauses.
Mouth twisting to hide another smile, he points down to the crush of green macaroon that's slowly sinking into the carpet.
"Better clean that up before Perry sees it — otherwise we'll never get culinary treats again."
Then he leaves Clark alone in the break-room - with nothing but the remaining evidence of his latest fumble and a plan.
Half a plan.
The beginnings of one.
It's something at least, Clark thinks wistfully.
The siren of an ambulance whirs by on the street down below. Someone three floors up coughs. One of the interns peeks around the doorway, her face hopeful.
Clearly, word of macaroons passed round quickly.
Her face droops at the sight of the empty plate on the table. Well, Clark hopes it's because of that – and not the sight of him. She moves on without a word.
With a final sigh, Clark pushes back his sleeves and crouches down beside the green mess. As he picks, he ponders.
Flowers. Sure. Yeah, he could do flowers.
How on earth could he possibly fumble that?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There's a bouquet of flowers on your desk.
It's Monday morning, 8.45am, and you already have a plan of exactly how this day will unfold.
It's going to go swimmingly. You'll tackle the brute of that interview you'd gotten from Todd Inc. Industries yesterday; you'll treat yourself to a sandwich from Benny's for lunch; and you'll have no interactions with Clark Kent, if you can help it.
You've forgiven him for the macaroon incident — solely on the fact that he had somehow been a little bit right.
Not that you went home, bought yourself your own damn pistachio macaroons, and had to wheezily jab your EpiPen in your own thigh.
Of course not. You would never do such a thing. (Nor admit that to Clark).
So, begrudgingly, you've decided he's forgiven. The incident is not quite forgotten though.
All of this is to say—nowhere in your plan is a bouquet of flowers.
Treading a little slower, you approach your desk like it holds a ticking time-bomb and not an array of freshly cut greenery.
Your skeptical gaze darts over them, narrowed, looking for… something.
But they're just flowers.
Displayed in a pale blue vase, wrapped in coloured cellophane, bright marigolds and deep blush-coloured posies peep over the side.
You step closer, tentative. Your nose twitches. God, you can smell them sweetening the air. Which means they're probably expensive.
Which means your first thought is that this must be some kind of mistake — you are not the person who just gets flowers.
Stepping closer yet, you eye the bouquet as if it's going to grow teeth and bite you, dropping your bag into your seat.
Your face pinches together in thought, then quickly glance around the office, hunting for someone who's missing flowers.
Clearly, they've been put in the wrong place.
No obvious flower-shaped indent glows back at you, indicating their true place. You huff a sigh and look back at the flowers.
They are… lovely, you'll admit. Automatically, you check the office, making sure no-one's observing you.
Then, gently, you reach out and brush your thumb pad over one of the posy petals. It's fleshy, soft. Unbidden, a soft noise of longing escapes your throat.
When was the last time you got flowers?
The thought stains as it hits, and you remember exactly what the last occasion was. You snap your hand back.
Then squint at the flowers as if they might give you the answer. Would he…?
No. No, you hadn't heard anything since the break-up and that had been- been like a year ago.
He wouldn't. He wouldn't. You had been very clear.
You give a forceful shake of your head to clear the thought.
If it's not him, you're still not going to be foolish enough to entertain the thought they're meant for you.
Wrangling your bag to the ground, you slump down into your chair. The elevator chimes, people still trickling in. The clock reads closer to 8.50am now. You glance past your monitor.
The absence of your desk-mate is actually somewhat of a relief. Even though you have nothing to do with this, Jimmy is precisely the guy who will rib you for days for this mix-up.
You can already hear him now: Any flowers this morning, milady? Any callers to court you today? Shall we be expecting a marriage proposition any day now?
"Good morning."
Speak of the devil — you've spoke a smidgen too soon.
You turn, eyes already narrowed at Jimmy returning from the printers. He spots the flowers, face contorting into surprise, and really hams it up — which means he's definitely already seen them. Fantastic.
"Ooh, lucky lady." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Flowers, huh?"
You're not sure why you feel so defensive. "They're not for me."
"Aren't they? They're on your desk."
You cut him a look. You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from commending his incredible observational skills.
But then, Jimmy leans forward, plucking a delivery card you hadn't spotted from the bouquet.
He turns it in his hand—and your name is printed on the other side in swoopy, curled letters.
Huh. You blink at it. They are for you.
After a moment, your brows knit together. That… might not be a good thing.
Did you piss off another band of lawyers, are getting sued to hell, and this is to soften the blow?
Are you being pranked right now?
Maybe you're getting fired. A moment later and you laugh at yourself at that thought. Yeah, that and Perry has grown a sudden unexpected soft spot for you overnight, enough to send you off with a fresh bouquet. Unlikely.
Jimmy offers out the card, and you take it, bringing it closer, as though the letters might change form if you look closer.
They don't. It's your name, for sure. Your desk number and everything.
You turn the card over in your hand. There's something written on the back.
I hope you can forgive me.
Blinking hard, you read the words again.
What day is it today? Your eyes glance to your desk, at the small flip calendar you have, and familiarity flashes from the date.
You read the card again.
Then once more, just to be sure—eyes darting between it and the date.
"Everything okay?" Jimmy's voice filters in, muted in your ears.
You make some noise in response, but it's far away from you. A sinking feeling begins to bury itself in your stomach. You really didn't want to be right, but you are. You must be.
Marigolds and posies. On the 16th day of November. I hope you can forgive me.
The sinking feeling transforms into a sharp sort of anger.
This Monday is really not going the way you planned. No way you're getting goddamn stalked.
Brashly, you stuff the card back into the bouquet, uncaring of the way they crush under your harsh movements.
"Woah, okay, what—?"
You ignore Jimmy and his surprise – you'll explain it later, or maybe never – and scoop up the flowers from the vase.
Water trickles out, leaving a scatter of fat droplets across your desk. You'll be pissed about it later, undoubtedly, but right now, you need these flowers out of your sight. Shredded. Do flowers burn well?
Goddamn, you thought this was done.
You thought he was out of your life for good—and that he could be remembered as a shitty ex, your worst mistake, and nothing more.
But, no. Of course, he's the type to love-bomb.
To think he can swoop back in, a year later, and pretend that nothing even happened. Your boots click loudly as you head for the trash at the front of the bullpen.
Which is, of course, when Clark makes his arrival.
You spot him coming around the corner and can already sense his unfathomably polite greeting. He sees you and smiles, giving an awkward wave that he plays off as adjusting his glasses. "Oh, hey—"
He appears to just now notice the flowers in your hands.
"Oh! Um, flowers-! Wow, those sure are nice—"
"I don't have time for you this morning, Kent." You say, for once not meaning to snip at him in particular. He's just in the crossfire of your very, very bad morning.
“You don’t…?”
Clark’s sentence trails off as you don’t even pause, breezing right past him.
The flowers crumple beneath your fingers further as your grip tightens without even meaning to, mind blazing with a well-rooted anger. You come to a stop before the trash.
With a resounding flourish, you dump the flowers.
They hit with enough force to flutter your hair back and send a loose sticky-note afloat for a second.
You huff, a little more settled at the sight of your ex's unanticipated attempt at a re-entry into your life exactly where it should be: going out with the garbage.
"Wow." A voice snaps you from your focused stupor.
You glance up, relieved to find Lois—even if she is glimpsing at the ruined flowers amongst the junk of the office with an amused look.
She asks, "What'd they do to you?"
You huff again, your shoulders sinking down as you do. "Let's just call them an unwanted advance."
Lois' dark brows raise, her lips pressed together as if holding back her next comment. She eyes the greenery in the trash once again, then her eyes travel over your shoulder. She focuses back on you.
"Well," she says evenly, her smile polite. "I'm sorry it feels that way."
Her eyes dart over your shoulder again, just momentarily.
You almost want to peer over your shoulder to see what had drawn her gaze. But the string twined around the flowers snapped, the cellophane around the flowers unwrapping in a loud, dramatic crinkle.
You eye the marigolds with a barely contained contempt.
The thought of who gifted them to you—of him tracking you down, finding your work, figuring out your very desk number—is nearly enough to make your lip curl.
A droplet of water slips down your forearm. You look down, spying the dew on your arms.
Abruptly, you're aware of just how you'd stormed across your workplace with all the grace of a toddler in the midst of a tantrum. All to trash some flowers.
You blink, then press your hands to your jeans, half to wipe them, half to calm yourself.
Right. You were fine. This was fine.
Just because— you weren't— just because he used to call you crazy didn't mean it was even remotely true. Even if you crashed out over a bouquet of flowers sent on your old anniversary.
You screw your eyes up and take a breather. This is why you kept your distance from him. He toyed with you. He liked seeing you rattled.
Feeling less ruffled, you wipe your hands again and trek back to your desk.
You pass Clark's desk, footsteps slowing. He sat now, his head bowed.
Despite all your usual prickliness, his averted eyes and the memory of your snappish tone brings a lump to your throat. An apology lodges it in.
Even your worst envy and disgruntlement hadn't had you being quite this rude before.
You open your mouth — then close it.
How does that apology even go?
So sorry Clark, my ex-boyfriend— who I nearly considered getting a restraining order against —sent me a bouquet of flowers, the same kind he always used to, specifically on our old anniversary as a pathetic bid to see if any chance with me — or maybe just to fuck with me — which isn't your fault, so I really shouldn't have snapped at you and your handsome, likeable face.
Bit of a mouthful, really.
You decide, maybe a bit cowardly, you'd rather swallow the regret instead. Continuing forward, you collapse into your seat opposite Jimmy.
For only a moment can you pretend to not notice his gaze.
Clearing your throat awkwardly, shuffling your papers, your eyes flick up. Your desk-mate stares across at you for a long moment, his eyes a little wider than usual.
Slowly, one eyebrow floats up.
He doesn't even have to voice his question aloud for you to know what it is. You can feel it.
What the fuck, man?
"Sorry," You exhale tiredly, too tired to explain for the same reason you didn't apologise to Clark.
It's barely a sentence. Even as his eyebrow joins its others' raised position, Jimmy is kind enough not to comment.
He only narrows his eyes into a bewildered squint. It doesn't match the polite, absentminded smile on his face.
Which you suppose is fair, considering the sentence you just said makes you sound like a six-year-old being asked her opinion on boys.
Shuffling your papers again for something to do, you sink down further in your seat. Embarrassment slights you.
God. How the hell did your morning get so bent out of shape?
The baby blue vase is still intruding on your desk space, so you nudge it to the side. The water within sloshes.
You sigh. "I'll explain later, okay?" you say, and you leave it at that.
Jimmy takes the cue from you and dutifully begins actually doing his work, as opposed to simply pretending to.
It takes another half hour to stop glancing over at the place you know the crushed flowers lie. It crosses your mind an infuriating amount of time, the niggling worry that they— that you might be wrong.
But you steel yourself. Marigolds and posies and on today, of all days. It has to be him.
You're too good a journalist to ignore the coincidence. Occam's Razor agrees with you too.
Besides, who else would be getting you flowers?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Okay, I do think maybe the universe is working against you," Jimmy says, his chair gliding across the tiles of the Daily Planet.
He's got a cup of coffee in his hand, and the motion of his roller-chair nearly spills it, a wave of amber liquid sloshing up the side of the ceramic.
Clark watches it worriedly — it's a bit too late for coffee, but Jimmy never seems to let that stop him. It doesn't spill somehow. Jimmy comes to a halt next to his desk, thinking face on.
"That or she hates you." He offers, far too blasé about that potential for Clark's liking.
He's rolled over because you've taken a break from your desk to head to the restroom. It's the first time you've left your desk since The Incident. The blossom blunder. The flower fiasco.
Gosh darn writer's brain, Clark thinks, wishing he could turn it off for a moment.
He's grateful for Jimmy, but he's not sure he really wants to talk about it so soon after.
"Please don't say that," Clark says with a sigh, then drops his head forward into his hand. It's an all too familiar motion now. "I think I need to- or I don't think- I—"
He cuts himself off with another sigh, unburying his face from his hands.
He'd told Jimmy, yes, because the other man had all but squeezed the information out of him, but mainly because he needed help.
It had become evident that, despite all his best attempts, no wooing that Clark Kent can offer can seem to capture your attention. Now he can see it a bit more clearly.
You're inscrutable.
Or completely uninterested — in him.
"I think I need to leave it." Clark says with finality. He glances at the door that leads to the restrooms, checking you haven't returned. "I'm clearly bothering her."
"Mm, no." Jimmy says immediately. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "There's something else there. I can, like, sense it."
"Sense it?" Clark echoes, almost too eagerly. He feels himself flush.
"Yeah, sense it." Jimmy shrugs nonchalantly, taking a sip of his coffee. "Call it my journalistic instinct. It… It doesn't make sense. It's gotta be something else."
Clark opens his mouth to defend you, to say that actually, you not being interested in him is something that may make perfect sense — but Jimmy beats him to the punch.
"How'd you pick the flowers?"
Clark blinks. He checks the door again. "Um. Social media."
"Social media? Which one?"
"The- the pictures one?" If Clark's being honest, there are far too many sites, and he's on none of them. "I just typed her name in, and a bunch of photos came up."
"In where?" Jimmy presses, eyes a little narrowed.
"The search bar…?"
Jimmy's face twitches, as though Clark's given a severely wrong answer, but he doesn't say anything.
Instead, he pushes back to his desk — coffee floundering again — and returns with his laptop in one hand.
"Okay," he starts, finally placing his hazardous coffee down, both hands rested and ready to type. "What and where exactly did you—"
In a manner much unlike himself, Jimmy abruptly shuts his mouth.
He presses his feet against the tiled floor and sails back to his desk smooth - just in time for Clark to catch a glimpse of you heading back for your desk.
Clark straightens up instinctively — then hunches back over. For once, he's not trying to catch your eye, not trying to sweeten your day with a smile.
It feels wrong to ignore you. But, well, whatever Jimmy says, whatever sense he says he has, Clark thinks you've made yourself perfectly clear.
You are not interested in him in the slightest. Not even as friends.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
For the remaining Monday, a day that feels like it's dragging its heels just to spite you, you do what you do best.
You ignore the flowers, the office, and dive headfirst into your work.
You're half an editor for the office – hence the office shark title – but half trying to shed the title. The big goal has always been to commit fully to your writing. It's… a steady work in progress.
Perry likes what you show him, enough that he keeps giving you assignments, but you're far from being relieved of editing duty.
Today, you're happy to have it. Tearing through first drafts and all but rewriting entire sections is much easier than doing any writing yourself.
The day goes slow, feeling as though time barely trickles by.
But no day can exceed its 24 hours. Five o'clock drags around, eventually, and frees you from the shift.
You have a date with your bed, hidden beneath the covers, and a re-watch of Dirty Dancing. Maybe some wine – though it is Monday.
It's as you're packing up with haste, eager to be out through the revolving door and away from work, that your gaze sweeps across the office. The realisation comes gently. Despite being in his usual place, you haven't seen Clark all day.
Huh.
And it continues that way.
Not that you're noticing, no. Of course not.
You actually normally make an effort not to notice Clark. He makes it difficult, what with his height and Midwestern manners that make him the nicest guy in the office.
But, somehow, when you make an effort not to notice someone, it can somehow have the opposite effect.
Like the task suddenly becoming suspiciously easy.
You make it all the way through Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday before you slip up.
Because, really, you should know better than to invite Lois Lane into your business. Doing so is basically giving her a pass to snoop into your feelings. And snoop she will, when given the chance.
Still, the question has been bugging you since the beginning of the week.
So much so that you can allow some snooping if it gives you some answers.
"Is Clark avoiding me?"
You're stopped at Lois' desk.
She's here early, like you are, and there's no Jimmy, no Clark, no Steve, no Cat, or much of anyone else to eavesdrop on your conversation.
"Mmmm," Lois barely manages to drag her eyes away from her screen to focus on you. The question you've asked sinks in a second later. "Avoiding you? Doesn't sound like Clark. Why don't you ask him?"
"You know, the funny thing about avoidance is…" You say dryly.
Lois' gaze is already back on her article. She shrugs, voice distracted. "Maybe the flower thing."
That has your eyebrows raising.
A glum guilt forms a stone in your throat that you have to swallow back. What, because you had a bit of a meltdown, he suddenly can't stand the sight of you?
You feel ticked off. Then realise you're feeling ticked off that Clark Kent, who usually irks you, is ignoring you. What has the world come to?
"The flower thing?" You start, already a bit ready for a tiff. "That's not—"
"Look," Lois interrupts you, a quiet desperation in her tone. "Can we please pin this? I'm in the middle of something here, and I really need to get this done before 1pm."
Your annoyance washes away in a moment, face pulling a sympathetic scrunch. "Yikes, a Perry-special deadline?"
Lois nods, an exasperated sigh blowing out of her mouth. "The very one." She pulls a thankful smile at your understanding.
"Need more coffee?" You offer.
"Oh, so much." She groans, moving to grab her cup. You take it from her, well aware of the pressure of a Perry-special deadline, and more than happy to help.
You grab yourself a cup while you're there and decide to brew a fresh pot for the office too, because it gives you more time to think.
Because, really, if you think about it, you shouldn't have noticed.
Since starting at the Daily Planet a couple months ago, a transplant from Metropolis Star, from day one has Clark Kent's seemingly innate niceness been there.
And since day one, you've been suspicious of it.
You maintain: no-one is that nice.
And not to you, least of all.
You're, for lack of a better word, abrasive. You know you can be… harsh.
According to your ex-boyfriend, you're seven kinds of crazy and a bitch too. A rude woman who's never going to find someone else who will love you like he does. (In your books, that's a relief).
You try not to take that to heart, because he certainly is an ex for a good reason—but, you also know that there is some degree of truth to his words.
You're… unpalatable to some.
You'd knocked heads with Lois for a while before eventually, shakily finding your footing in that friendship.
Jimmy and you had taken at least a month to move out of the frosty zone and start talking beyond glib comments.
You still can't stand talking to Steve.
But Clark? He'd been nice to you from day one.
There has to be a catch. The other shoe must be dangling, invisible and overhead, waiting to drop.
Because if there is, the grudge is easy.
Clark Kent stays at a distance, with you holding a ten-foot pole made up of unresolved issues.
You don't have to worry about what it does to your heart that he's still kind to you, even when he's seeing the worst parts of you. Let's you excuse the moments you've been storing to the side, harbouring, fueling something.
The grudge means you don't have to worry about what it means if he sees you.
It keeps you safe from the part of you that wants him to see you.
When the coffee smells like it's nearly burning, you're shaken from your thoughts, with a suspiciously yearning-shaped lodge in your throat.
You take the coffee off just in time to rescue it. It's a tad overdone, but you don't think Lois will be complaining. You hope.
You pour a cup for her, then half the sugar jar in too.
As you pour one for yourself, you resolve that you're… just not going to think about it.
Grudges, Clark Kent, feeling safe? Sounds like a problem for Future-You.
Probably to be dealt with in a healthy way, never.
You tell yourself it's a good thing that he seems to be avoiding you, because you can get more work done.
Then you nod to yourself as if that can make it true, and set off to deliver Lois' coffee.
Time dwindles by.
Jimmy makes a remark about the burnt coffee when he makes it to his desk, to which you glower in response.
Perry chews out some intern in the back for a serious misprint in yesterday's paper.
Keyboards clatter, and the soulless blink of the cursor taunts you all day.
You're ready for home by 5 o'clock, but — "You coming tonight?"
You look over your desk and blink at Jimmy before frowning. "Tonight? What's tonight?"
"Drinks." Jimmy reminds you, eyebrows raised. "Remember? For Cat's birthday?"
Right. As he says it, the memory does tickle at your mind.
The plan that Cat had made cute, personalised invitations for: black card, cat-themed, very fitting.
You quite liked Cat, even if you didn't know her too well.
Truthfully, going to a bar sounds like the last thing you want to do right now.
You've had a date with a big bottle of red wine booked and waiting since Monday—since the very moment those flowers graced your desk—and the last thing you want to do is try to socialise.
"Yeah," you say eventually, though it comes out a bit weary. "Yeah, I'm coming."
Jimmy grins. "Great. We're all thinking of walking together."
Your eyes travel up past him to the little group that's congregating close to the door, waiting for the stragglers to finish packing up.
Clark, Lois, Steve, a couple girls from other departments you don't know the names of.
Great. Cool. That won't be an awkward walk at all.
Though, you guess Clark isn't avoiding you anymore.
The revolving door has dragged a bit of snow in, the tiled ground wet with its melt. Stepping out into the chilly November night, you shiver instinctively.
Snow has been falling all day, a little softer now, little flurries that pass by and stick to your hair. The streetlights glow amber. The city is quieter under the muffle of fresh snow.
You keep your hands buried deep in your pockets. You end up at the back of the group.
It's a short walk to Crowley's, the dive bar Cat's chosen, so you don't mind too much. You're still the newest addition to the work group so you know how this goes.
Though, there had been some half-baked plan to stick by Jimmy's side. That idea clearly had been shared. The two girls whose names you don't know walk on either side, giggling easily.
Right. Because, somehow, Jimmy is the ladykiller of the office.
That had been surprising to find out — because if you had to pick anyone at a glance, you'd have put money on Clark.
Not that you would admit that. Aloud.
As you round the last block, you slide a little on an icy patch, stomach swooping. You curse under your breath, righting yourself a moment later.
Silently, and watching your feet more closely, you huff a sigh of relief, because wiping out with co-workers you're still getting to know ranks up there in terms of embarrassing.
You look back up, making sure you're still with the group — and lock eyes with Clark momentarily. He's looked back to check on you.
But then he's tugged back into conversation with Cat.
His head turns, showing an aggravatingly attractive side profile. You watch as his dimples appear with an easy smile, then subsequently curse yourself for finding them so endearing.
The chill has nearly made its way through your coat, so it's a relief to get down the stairs into Crowley's.
Inside, it's warm, crawling with heat that brings a flush to most everyone's faces.
A crowd of bodies fill the space, packed loosely. It's pretty busy for a Friday night.
Thankfully, Cat has had the forethought to book out one of the booths. You follow the single file of your group, filtering through the crowd one by one til you reach the back of the bar.
The booth fills up quickly, and in a matter of moments you realise there's only one seat left— the one next to Clark.
He looks at you still standing and blinks before giving you a hesitant, crooked smile.
You feel your treacherous heart give a lurch and damn it to hell. Then damn Clark for being as attractive and nice as he is.
You look at the seat again, considering.
Think of the flowers from Monday and his avoidance all week; think of the mess of your heart that only threatened to worsen when you got closer to Clark.
Yeah, you're gonna need a drink before that happens.
The wooden bar is sticky from spilled drinks— a fact you find out after placing your hand on it.
You pull it back with a frown, shaking your hand out with a quiet bleh! You make sure not to lean on it as you survey the scene before you.
Behind the bar, the bartenders look flustered. There's three of them, each moving with a pace that is both not fast enough and entirely unsustainable - making you extra thankful your retail days are behind you.
The wait gives you time to think. Gives you time to decide on exactly what you want to do tonight.
You'd been, for lack of a better word, moping for the better part of this week.
It had been an unsettling Monday, followed by a bout of paranoia that had you checking all your accounts.
Maybe you missed one; maybe there was something you'd forgotten.
You hadn't. Your ex was blocked on every single one of them, just as you'd left them a year ago.
It should appease your anxiety. Instead, it just makes it that much worse that he'd managed to figure out your exact desk.
The only regret you'd had with dumping the flowers, the only glimmer in your angry armour, was not taking the message card, hunting down each and every shop the brand had, and confirming your suspicions.
You decide that, between the flowers and the weirdness of Clark actually avoiding you back, you deserve a drink.
And an irresponsible hook-up.
Cat would forgive you — in exchange for the gossip.
Which is all good and well, because as you're done deciding, someone sidles up beside you, pushing through the crowd.
It's a man — a decent-looking one too, from what you can see.
He's tall, not quite as tall as Clark (shut up, brain), and he's got a beard that could probably be better taken care of.
But he's got a strong jaw and a decent head of hair. You can't tell what colour his eyes are in the dimness of the bar.
Eyes which fix on you for a moment.
Then he leans two arms up on the bar. "What's your poison?" He says, in lieu of a greeting, nodding in your direction. His voice is low.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say with a smile you don't quite feel.
You're testing the waters. Sue you, you like to play with your food a bit - see if they can handle you being a little mean.
"I would," the man says, turning more to face you. His eyes flick up and down, clearly checking you out. "That's why I asked, isn't it?"
It's a good enough response for you. You eye him up and down and decide, yeah, fuck it, you deserve this.
You know exactly the kind of guy he is.
He won't call you. The sex will be good… enough. It'll scratch the itch, leave you feeling probably a little shit about yourself.
Right up your self-deprecating alley for tonight. After all, misery does love company.
"Scotch." You say, in answer to his first question.
That makes his eyebrows raise. "Really? You can handle that, huh?" His eyes glitter darkly. "Didn't peg you for that kind of girl."
"You have no idea what kind of girl I am."
It comes out a little harsher than you're going for, but you blame it on the bad week chafing.
You go for a more simpering look to make up for it — but the man's eyes aren't on you anymore.
They're over your shoulder. You become aware of a sudden warmth behind you.
"Everything okay over here?"
You don't recognise the voice at first, as it's deeper than it usually is, but you don't even have to turn the whole way to know.
Striped tie, white button-up, broad shoulders.
Your simper turns into a scowl on a dime.
"Kent," you greet, through slightly gritted teeth. "What are you doing?"
Clark looks down at you, surprise showing on his face at your expression.
His 'tough' demeanor — tough your ass, Clark Kent doesn't have a tough bone in his body — melts under your glowering gaze.
"I'm— I was checking in." He stammers. He seems to shrink down a little, realising there seems to be a misstep somewhere.
"I don't need you to—"
"This guy your boyfriend or something?" The man at the bar interjects.
You whip back around, already blinking in shock. Boyfriend? How in hell did he make that jump?
"No," you say — at the same time Clark says, "Boyfriend?"
You shoot another glare over your shoulder because he isn't helping. It's too late.
You can tell the man has decided you're not worth the fuss, his hands raising up in a defensive motion.
"Look," he says. "Whatever you've got going on, I'm not getting in the middle of it. My bad."
You watch as he slips away from the bar, disappearing through the throngs of people, with a sinking feeling in your chest.
The moment he's out of sight, you tear around to face Clark. He at least hasn't fled the scene — which is more than you can say you would've done.
Your eyes scrunch closed, your hands raised in little claws of confusion. "What… just happened?"
Clark has the decency to look sheepish when you open your eyes, his shoulders rolled in, head hung low. "I thought he was harassing you."
"Harassing me?" You repeat, in a bit of disbelief. You'd love to know what hoops he jumped through to reach that conclusion. "I was flirting with him."
"Flirting?" Clark echoes. "You sounded mad at him!" He defends himself.
"Yeah? Well, do I sound mad at you?" You drop your hands, flexing them at your side. "Because I am! I can't believe you– you- ugh, that just cost me my hookup."
"Hookup?" Clark says — and oh my god, is there an echo in this bar?
You glance up at him, still confused, and notice there's a colour to his cheeks that wasn't there a second ago. "You were gonna sleep with him?"
Your jaw drops open an inch. Okay, yeah, he's from a small town in the South, you can excuse it a little bit.
But you hadn't expected him to be so tightly strung about this—especially considering it's none of his business.
You fold your arms tight across your chest. Clark gets an expression that embodies the word apprehension.
"Okay, Smallville, I don't know if you know, but it's 2025—"
Clark cottons on to exactly what he's said wrong, and though it seems impossible, his face flushes darker.
You barrel on, "—which means I don't need to be married to—"
"No!" He interrupts desperately. "That is not what I-! I would never insinuate that— I firmly believe in a woman's right to choose. You can… do as you wish…"
It ends on a feeble, quiet note as though Clark's realised all his problems tonight stem from talking too much.
He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks still flaming.
He does seem genuinely remorseful — because he's so goddamn genuine in everything he does — that it softens you a bit. You know he would have had the best of intentions stepping in.
However, good intentions only go so far to dull your sharpened tongue.
"Yeah, well, thank you so much for your permission, Kent."
Clark's eyes shutter closed, an obvious regret rolling off him in waves. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep, I— I'm just sorry."
God, how are you in this situation — where your co-worker, who you begrudgingly think is hot, but also don't like much (liar, says your brain), scares off your hookup and gets called your boyfriend in one exchange?
Deciding you'd rather apologise with a bottle of wine to Cat, you do what you should've done at the beginning. You decide to go home.
You sigh, "I think I'm just gonna head out."
"Because of me?" Clark says, sounding incredibly guilty.
It must be contagious, because you suddenly feel quite guilty too.
He rolls on, pleading in his voice, "No, please don't. I'm sorry- I'll help you find another one, another, uh," He coughs awkwardly. "Hookup."
He nods, not at all confidently.
Somehow, you doubt that would go over well.
Though, the thought does amuse you — Clark going around the bar, politely tapping different gentlemen on the shoulder, asking their availability and then talking you up.
God, you can't imagine he'd have all that much to sell them on.
His expression reminds you too much of a kicked puppy to fib to him. "No, not because of you," you say with a soft sigh. "It's just been… a week."
Somehow, it's as though your words make him look guiltier.
Blue eyes wide, he swallows thickly. "Look, I know I likely contri—"
"Kent," you cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it. I'm just," you heave another sigh. "I'm taking this all as a sign. It's not my night."
You shove your hands in your pockets, already dreading the cold that awaits you outside. "Think you can apologise on my behalf to Cat?"
Clark, looking more downtrodden than you've ever seen him, gives a slow nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that for you."
"Thank you," you say, lips pursed tightly. You nod awkwardly, already ready to excuse yourself through the crowd. "Goodnight, Clark."
He watches you go.
The cold keeps you company the whole long, lonely walk home.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
November rolls into December and cold, snowy weather gets pulled along with it.
Despite Jimmy's protests, Clark knows he was right to stick to his instinct — that you were thoroughly uninterested in him.
He loses himself in assignments, head down, as the whole office struggles to meet deadlines in the abysmal weather driving down morale.
The only light glistening at the end of the tunnel? The Daily Planet Christmas party.
It's held at this swanky ballroom, same as every year. The fanciness of the place is balanced out with its cozy decor, dozens of couches and cushy armchairs dotted around the place.
Wreaths and garlands are strung around in all the colours of Christmas, sparkling under the fairy lights.
There's holly in every corner, tinsel around the doorframes – and Clark's sure he's seen some mistletoe under one of the doors out to the balcony.
It's Christmassy in a way that reminds him of home.
Reminds him of Smallville, plaid bedsheets, and the smell of Ma's fresh apple pie.
He's only half hoping you'll come.
A half hope because it appears that whenever he has any interaction with you, it somehow ends with him inserting his foot into his mouth.
It was becoming a concerning pattern at this point – one that he was rather desperate to break.
Yet still, some other part of him – a larger part if he was really honest with himself – still wanted to see you here tonight.
Amongst friends, even if he wasn't one of them.
And it's that part of him that sighs, a wistful romantic sigh he really should work on containing, when you wander in.
It's only been twenty minutes since the party started, so you're not exactly late.
And Clark would be lying if he said he hadn't been counting each minute of it, his eyes checking the door each time it had opened and someone new wandered in.
As subtly as he can, he takes you in with another longing sigh.
There's snow in your hair and on your coat. You look a little peaky from the cold, but Clark can already see the good the warmth of the party is doing to you. There's a bit of glitter on your eyelids, a berry-red colour on your lips.
You look captivating.
Gosh, he's in deep. Clark curses himself and his gooey heart. Despite all his fumbles, all his missteps, he can't shake the crush just yet.
He will. He will. You're perfectly within your rights to rebuff and reject him – you don't owe him a single darn thing.
But feelings are silly things. No matter how respectful he might be of your own, there's no quick fix to get his own to fade.
And with the way you look tonight, enigmatic and beautiful, all at once, Clark knows he's far from getting over it.
Tucked away in a corner, waiting for Jimmy to return with some drinks for the both of them, Clark fiddles with his tie awkwardly.
It's one Ma sent for his birthday – spotted and autumnal in colour.
He's not sure if it's in style or anything that suits him, but his Ma bought it for him, so of course, he's going to wear it.
"Yo," Jimmy announces his arrival, both hands occupied with two cups that are nearly overflowing with eggnog. "My bad I took so long. Got caught up talking to Cassidy at the punch bowl."
Jimmy hands one cup to Clark – who takes it – and then he glances over his shoulder, back at the punch bowl.
With one hand free, Jimmy sends a little wave back to the drinks table, to Cassidy. She promptly bursts into flustered giggles.
Clark takes a sip of the eggnog, though he knows it won't have an effect on him in the slightest. He gives an awkward smile at Cassidy, attention back on Jimmy when he spins back with a sudden, renewed interest.
His eyes are wide, sparkling with a devious enthusiasm, like when he's picked up a new lead in an assignment.
The moment he speaks, Clark realises why.
"I think I know why y/n trashed the flowers."
Clark holds back a little groan. It's nice that Jimmy is still rooting for him, really, it is. But there comes a time when it needs to be put to rest.
"Jimmy–"
"No, Clark," Jimmy interrupts – and he's grinning a little in a way that catches Clark's attention properly. "I was so right about my sense. It was something else altogether. I think, if you– just, wait–"
He takes a chug of his eggnog as he fishes his phone out of his back pocket, eyes fixed on it as he begins to hunt through.
A few clicks and then— he's holding it out towards Clark, showing a recognisable photo.
It's you – and another man, technically. But Clark hadn't been looking at that, just at the bouquet of flowers in your hands.
Marigolds and posies. You're smiling at the camera, but, looking a little closer, he can tell it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
"The photo you found, was it this one?" Jimmy asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.
Suddenly feeling a little timid, Clark shifts on his feet. Then nods. "Uh, yeah. Why does that matter?"
"Clark," Jimmy starts, phone still held out. "That's her ex. After what happened, I looked up her name, like you did. And look, I follow her, and these photos? Nowhere on her page."
He takes another fast sip of the eggnog, talking through his mouthful. "So I followed the thread, and all of those photos are on his. He just accepted my follow, just now. Look, he has all these photos up, but she's deleted them."
Jimmy's pulled the phone back, his thumb scrolling down the page on his screen.
Photos flash by, the dates stretching back, and you're in all of them – smiling stiffly, on his arm, looking like a completely different person.
"And," Jimmy adds on, drawing his hand back. He studies his phone intently, clearly looking for something in particular. "Look. Look. The day you sent them?"
He waits until Clark's squinting at the screen – taking in the date of the post in particular.
"It was on their goddamn anniversary."
Clark blinks, taking in the information. The realisation settles over him, feeling like a burst of sunlight amongst the snowy weather.
"She didn't know it was me who sent it." He murmurs more to himself, tasting the words, the understanding, as it melts on his tongue, sweeter than anything.
You hadn't known it was him.
You'd thought it was – your words suddenly ring back through his memory. Let's call it an unwanted advance.
An ex you've all but scrubbed from your life, clear you want to be rid of—an ex that still has all your photos posted, clearly holding on.
Gosh, no wonder you'd trashed the flowers in the manner you did.
Then you'd hunted for something to soothe the sting in the bar – just for him to ruin that too.
Oh, Clark thinks he might be the unluckiest fool in all of Metropolis.
Jimmy watches all the shades of Clark's realisation, pocketing his phone and trying not to look too smug. He fails horrendously.
"See, what'd I tell you?" He sips his eggnog again, brows raised a mile high. "Sensed it."
"She didn't know." Clark repeats, unknowingly clenching his cup of eggnog a bit too tight.
Did it get warmer in here? His tie suddenly feels too tight.
He blinks and looks down at Jimmy with a seriousness usually reserved for Superman affairs. "I have to let her know."
"Yeah, you do!" Jimmy says, giving an affectionate punch to Clark's shoulder.
It bounces off easily, and Jimmy hides his wince, giving his hand a delicate shake. "Universe working against you, I called it. There's still hope, man."
"Wha– Jimmy, no." Clark pivots, realising what his friend meant. "Look, what matters most is that she knows she isn't getting– getting stalked by an overbearing ex, okay? Not my feelings."
He thinks back to the bar, the fumbling interjection, the misread situation, the frustration in your face.
No, Clark had dug himself a big enough hole. It was time to put down the shovel.
Jimmy's expression grows serious, his brows pinched together.
"Look, Clark, you haven't tried just… telling her. How you feel. You've been so focused on these hints, these gestures, and look where it's got you."
Clark winces at the reminder, and an apologetic look settles over Jimmy's face.
"Sorry, sorry. Just – maybe being forward is the best thing here?" He offers, shoulders hunching up in a shrug. "Like, as far as we know, she could have no clue what your feelings are. Don't you think you should at least let her decide before you take away the chance?"
Clark sighs, glancing up from his eggnog to look across the room.
You're easy to spot, because Clark has so much practice, his eyes drawn to you easily.
Jimmy did, despite all his smugness, have a point.
"Fine," Clark says eventually, a sigh laced through it. He's crashed and burned through several interactions with you; what's one more? "Okay. I'll tell her."
An infectious grin spread across Jimmy's face like wildfire, his cheeks rosy from the eggnog that he's probably already had too much of.
Jimmy's a small guy. Him and liquor are an interesting equation.
"Attaboy!" He crows – going to sock Clark in the shoulder again, before he thinks the better of it. "Trust me, it'll go well. I can sense it."
Clark's pretty sure Jimmy's just talking it up to make him feel better – but if Clark pretends to believe it, he can use it.
He rolls his shoulders back, ditches his half-finished eggnog on a nearby table, and swallows nervously as he adjusts his tie.
Sure, yeah, Jimmy's sense was usually right. It's just a lot to hang on a usually.
Clark tries to haphazardly fix his hair, running a few fingers through the black curls. He hopes his cologne still lingers.
As he straightens out his sleeves, he looks back to Jimmy, nerves already rearing up. "Do I look alright?"
"Buddy," Jimmy says earnestly. "You look like a million bucks. Go get her."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Christmas parties aren't usually your thing.
Work events are a strange in-between social activity, where co-workers cross lines they never would at work, and you get the pleasure of seeing your boss in a tinsel bowtie.
Christmas jingles play all night, and the drinks are either not boozy enough or far too boozy.
Taking a sip of the punch you've served yourself, you cough a little, throat burning. Definitely on the too boozy side.
You silently pray no one witnessed that, taking a quick glance around, to quickly realise that at least one person did. Lois sidles up to your side, holding back her laughter with a smile.
"Don't say a word." you say a little hoarsely, before she can speak.
That makes her break, a laugh tittering out. She hides it behind her cup of punch.
"The punch has been taken over by Cat. If you'd been here earlier, I would've made sure to give you some warning."
She gives you a delicate nudge with her elbow. She looks beautiful tonight – a darker lipstick that she normally wouldn't wear to the office. Her blue eyes are darkened with make-up, her lashes long and spidery.
She comments idly, "I wasn't sure if you were gonna make it."
You decide you need another sip of punch so the honesty can slip out.
"I wasn't sure if I was gonna make it either, to be honest."
You glance around the party filled with your co-workers – and wonder if you'll ever truly shake the feeling of alienation. You know half of it is in your head. Yet, you've been at the Planet for months, and you still feel so new.
"Yeah, well, given you didn't stick around at Cat's drinks…" Lois trails off, and when you turn to her, she's fixed on you. Her eyebrows raise an inch.
She wants you to explain. You suppose that's fair.
Mulling over your thoughts, you think of how best to put it, when– "Was it because of Clark?"
You blink, a little surprised at her question.
"What?" Then, a beat too late. "No. No, it wasn't because of Clark."
Lois doesn't seem convinced by your answer, tilting her head with a little hum. "Mm, I saw him go up after you to the bar. Which, shortly after, you left."
You feel exposed that she witnessed your little spat with Clark. You'd hardly call it a spat though – it was more like, well-intentioned, incredibly nice Clark Kent stepped in and you snapped in his face.
You heave a sigh, thinking back to where you should start. The flowers?
Actually, now that you think about it, Lois never did tell you why Clark was avoiding you over that.
She beats you to the punch again, this time with a question that peels back all your layers. "You don't really like him, do you?"
She's not wrong, so why does the question bite?
Maybe the sting in your chest means she and you are both wrong.
You think over how much Clark has plagued your thoughts these last few months, how he'd managed to aggravate you, managed to draw your attention seamlessly.
He just… vexed you.
He's tall and handsome and so fucking nice — and he pushes your articles to the second page, gets all the Superman interviews, and, apparently, remembers you have a nut allergy.
He's– He's Clark!
You suck in a sharp breath. "What? No."
It sounds weak, even to your ears.
For some reason, that seems to irk Lois. She takes another sip of her drink, brows still raised at you over the rim of it.
"I don't get it," she says, after she swallows. "He's so nice. Like, chronically nice. Why is it such a chore for you to admit that he's a good guy?"
Something inside you stings and recoils at being called out for being unreasonable. Your excuses start tumbling out.
"Because I can't!" You hiss quietly. "Because– because he steals my front-page spots, and he gets all the exclusive Superman interviews. He rubs it in my face!"
Lois scrunches her face up a bit. "He doesn't steal them; Perry gives them to him." She states factually.
Which, yes, you know that Lois — but isn't she supposed to be on your side?
"And he can't control who Superman decides to talk to." She continues on, her tone nonchalant, easily picking all your gripes and dissolving them to nothing. "They have a relationship that allows Clark an in. It's a source the same as any other—you can't expect him to share that."
You huff, shoulders deflating, the wind thoroughly taken out of your sails by Lois' sound logic.
Of course she's right. Of course you're the stubborn idiot who can't let it go.
"Aren't you supposed to be on my side?" You whinge.
"There are no sides." She says with a smile and an affectionate roll of her eyes.
"Seriously, I think you're getting in your own way with this one. Why is it so hard to admit that you might have no real reason to dislike him?"
"Because-" The word gets stuck on your teeth. "Because he can't just be that nice! And if he is, and if I do admit it, then I have to admit how much I actually like him."
It comes out scathing — as if that can cover up the truth of what you've just revealed.
You don't even hear it until Lois's expression settles into something far too close to a smirk.
Oh shit. What did you just say?
"Wow," Lois says, blue eyes bright. "How much you like him? Do you… Do you have feelings for Clark?"
A preposterous idea. Positively ridiculous. Nonsensical.
No, you've never thought of Clark in that way—nor how great he would likely be at being a boyfriend.
You didn't think of how different he treated you compared to your last boyfriend, how much nicer he was to you, without the two of you even being friends.
Your denial is fast.
"No!"
Lois is faster.
"So you're just pretending you don't have feelings for Clark?"
"Yes!" You sputter, then realise exactly what you've just admitted. "No, I mean, no! Fuck, stop interviewing me right now, I'm- I'm not—"
Your words trail off into a lackluster sigh. You couldn't even kid yourself now, not with Lois' interrogation tactics shoving you into a spotlight.
You swallow, feeling the uncomfortable truth go down, burning like a gulp of the too-strong punch.
Clark Kent is nice. You like that he's nice. You like him – and there was zero chance in hell that he liked you back.
And you would rather tie yourself in knots than look that truth in the face.
"Okay, you know, this actually makes a lot of sense," Lois muses, more to herself than to you. She's staring at the floor, clearly turning things over in her head.
"Yeah–and yeah, but, then," she looks up, now graciously including you in the conversation again. "Why trash the flowers?"
You sigh again, the chafe of your ex coming up yet again wearing you down. "Look, my ex–"
Someone clears their throat behind you.
You watch Lois' expression as it changes from polite surprise to something far more knowing. A smile pulls on her lips.
"Hi, Clark," She says – and you feel a jolt of anxiety run through you.
God, is this the Christmas party from hell? You've barely been here 15 minutes, had your feelings for your fellow co-worker weaseled out of you by a different co-worker, and now he's here? Behind you?
God, you can't catch a break.
"Hi, Lois," he says as you slowly spin on your feet.
You go slowly, as though it might somehow, through divine intervention, change who's standing behind you.
No dice. Clark stands before you, in one of the most hideous ties you've ever laid eyes on, his attention fixed on you.
You swallow thickly. Think about saying hello, then decide nothing but a squeak will come out if you open your mouth, and save yourself the embarrassment.
It doesn't deter Clark.
In what looks like a nervous motion, he nudges his glasses up his nose and clears his throat.
"y/n. Might I talk to you for a moment?" He glances up to Lois, then back to you. "Privately."
Another jolt of anxiety, this one straight to your system. You feel your pulse pick up a bit, wondering what wicked deity above had it out for you.
Steeling yourself, you think: fine, let's rip this bandage off.
It sounds strong in your head, but your voice comes out as a croak when you say, "Alright."
Still, Clark nods.
He turns, and you, albeit reluctantly, follow him through the crowd, making sure to keep your distance. You don't look back at Lois, already picturing the expression on her face.
Ahead of you, Clark's eyes spy over his shoulder every couple seconds, as if checking you're still there. When he reaches the edge of the room, it's apparent he hadn't thought about what private place to take you to.
"Darn," he says, more to himself. "There isn't exactly…"
He trails off, eyes locking onto something, and you follow his gaze to the balcony door. You resist the urge to snort.
It'll be private for sure — no one else is foolish enough to brave the cold outside.
Clark glances back at you, an infuriatingly endearing expression that reeks of polite guilt. Yet still, he pushes forward, sliding the door open and stepping out into the snow.
You glance at the mistletoe hung over the balcony doorway and gather yourself with a slow inhale. Then bravely follow him out.
Outside is a whole different world.
Whiter than white, flurries of snow twirl about in the soft wind. You can see the street out here, a traffic light cycling through its rainbow of greens, ambers, and reds. There are cars on the roads too, yellow taxis and blue buses braving the slippery streets.
The sound of them is muffled against the snow, so much so that all you can really hear is the crunch of your own footsteps on the balcony.
It's decently tucked away from the party, wrapped around the part of the building that none of your co-workers are really inhabiting.
Private, indeed.
Your breath comes out in a cloud before you. Really, you would've grabbed your coat if you knew you'd be facing the frosty climate again so soon.
Wrapping your arms tightly around your middle, you focus on the man you'd followed out here.
Clark, irritatingly, doesn't appear cold at all. In fact, his arms remain at his side, his hands clenched into tense fists.
You eye him up and down and prepare for the worst.
Rip off the bandage, Kent, you will him mentally.
"I want to apologise."
You blink. Huh?
"W-What?" It's so unexpected that you stumble over your response.
"I'm sorry," Clark says genuinely, then keeps going like he's on a roll, and if he stops he won't be able to get the words out. "I– it was meant to be a nice gesture, but, well, the wires got a little crossed. And I can see now, that was my fault. Really, I should've signed the card but I…"
Signed the card…? You know you must be looking very confused right now.
"I," Clark clears his throat, then shoves his hands in his pockets. "I was the one who sent you the flowers."
A dim realisation goes off, like a lightbulb at the very, very back of your head.
The card he should've signed; the flowers. The flowers! The flowers!?
The very ones you had very publicly, in front of the whole office, in front of Clark, trashed.
You can feel the confusion pulling at your face, contorting it to a bewildered expression.
There are a thousand questions.
One stands out.
"Why would you get me," You jab a finger into your own chest harshly. "Flowers?"
"Well, uh, originally to apologise for the macaroon incident in the break-room. But also because…"
Clark sucks in a deep breath, then stares up at the sky, as if gathering his strength. A few snowflakes find a home on his eyelashes. God, he's so pretty (shut up, brain), it's not even funny.
"Because I like you." He says, evidently nervous. "In a romantic sense."
Maybe when you came outside, you slipped on the ice and hit your head.
That must be it – this has to be some dazed dream from a knock to your head.
Because you could've sworn Clark Kent just told you… he likes you.
Romantically. As in, with romance in mind. He's crushing on you, so to speak.
Wants to hold your hand and kiss you on the mouth.
Unwittingly, you warm a little at the thought. It's overshadowed by the much, much stronger emotion: astonishment.
"You…" You can't help how the disbelief colours your words. "Like me?"
"Well, uh," Clark clears his throat, glancing up at the sky again nervously for a moment. He nods, finds your eyes, and speaks more surely this time. "Yes. Yes, I do."
Yes, you've hit your head. You're probably in the back of an ambulance, high on pain-meds, at this current second.
That, or Cat spiked the punch with magic mushrooms and you're experiencing a very, very vivid hallucination.
It doesn't compute.
"But I'm…" You struggle to find the right words. He can't like you. It just doesn't make any sense.
The words come out a bit opposing on instinct: "But I'm rude."
"You are not," Clark defends quickly, his brow furrowed. He pulls his hands out of his pocket to wave them around. "You're spirited."
"I'm distrustful." You counter.
What are you doing!
"You're protective!" Clark claims.
"I stole an assignment from under you in my first week at the Planet!" You say with indignation.
Internally, you reel at yourself. It feels like there are a thousand little gnomes running around wildly in your brain, bashing it with hammers.
Why, why, why are you trying to convince him not to like you?
"You needed to establish yourself as a writer." Clark says easily, with a shrug of his shoulders. "And it was a beautiful article, much better than how I planned to write it."
"I threw your flowers in the bin!" You remind him, a little more desperately now, despite the fact you very much did not know they were from him until about 70 seconds ago. "In front of you. And everyone else at work."
"You thought they were from an ex," Clark says with another shrug, far too understandingly. "Who you suspected was stalking you."
"I'm…" You're running out of things to say now.
How is he not flinching in the face of all your flaws? At all your ugly parts?
How have you done all this to keep him at arm's length, and he's still decided… still says he…
"I'm mean." You say firmly.
So why does it feel like your bottom lip is about to start trembling?
That for some reason makes Clark chuckle, a smile breaking out on his gorgeous face.
He shakes his head. "Well, that one is just plain untrue."
You stare at him for a long moment. He has an answer for all of it. He means it. He likes you.
"You really believe all that about me, don't you?" You ask, and it comes out a little awed.
Like his faith in the world, in people, is something you're finally seeing the size of — and you can't see past the end of it. It goes on forever. He really does think you're wonderful.
It makes a stone form in your throat. It doesn't matter what he thinks; you know how this ends.
Good intentions only get you so far—and whilst you've somehow convinced Clark you're worth it, you can't keep that up. Something will fracture. He'll get tired of something – of you.
"It doesn't matter," you say, a little bitterly, your eyes dropping to the ground. "It's- we— I couldn't."
Clark shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet. "Well, yes, if you don't feel the same way, I–"
You don't mean to cut him off, but a laugh, a nearly delirious, scornful one, bursts out of you.
You hadn't been looking at it, but Clark's confession slides your feelings right under the microscope – magnified and impossible to ignore.
You're laughing at yourself. For letting a pretty face and some niceness win over your best attempts to deny yourself this. You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair, clearly.
This is such a bad idea. Why do you still want it anyway? You're wildly torn, head and heart tied in a vicious battle. How do you have this and keep your heart safe at the same time?
"I," you begin, stammering to a stop. "Clark, you're– you're you! Of course, even when I was trying not to, I had… I had feelings for you."
There's a long moment. You worry your words have been swallowed up in the snow. You really don't want him to make you repeat it.
But he only asks, quietly, "Had?"
You want to laugh again — because you could probably have slipped that past anyone else. Not Clark.
"Have," you say, feeling pathetically exposed.
You can't look at him. You're studying the pile of snow building up on your shoes with intense interest, wondering how the hell this doesn't end wrong.
Part of you is still reeling from his confession, still churning out new disbelief. He likes you. He likes you.
"You say you couldn't." Clark says gently, making a very important distinction. "Did you mean… you wouldn't? Why not?"
"Me." You state plainly, finally looking up at him.
You gesture to your chest - to the big, gaping hole in your heart - like it's obvious, like he should be able to see it from freaking space.
"I'm why not. I'm—"
You cut yourself off to a mutter.
"It wouldn't be good. We'd go on one date and– and it'd go bad, or I'd mess it up, and you'd realise what everyone else already knows. And then we'd have to be awkward co-workers for the rest of time. Which, if you think before was bad, let me tell you, it can get worse."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, eyes studying the ground, and you think, with half relief and half devastation, that you've convinced him.
Oh god, please don't have convinced him.
You feel like your heart's on a string, and you keep tangling it up, then giving Clark the knot—waiting for the one he can't undo.
Waiting for the problem too difficult, the one that's finally not worth the effort.
"Maybe," Clark says eventually, with an even shrug, and your heart sinks.
Plummets. You wanted this; you wanted this – you can't be this devastated.
And then he says, "I can't promise the date will be good, but…"
Your heart soars again, tugged up your throat. You look across the balcony at him, and you can barely feel the chill of the wind anymore.
"I know that I like you enough that I'd like to try."
Your gaze shifts to stare at the ground, hard, because you don't think you can take something that genuine head-on.
God, he really gives a shit about you. Like, he really likes you, the full ten yards, and everything. How did that happen?
You can do this. Can you do this?
He wants to take you on a date. You're spirited, protective, a bit too harsh sometimes, and Clark has looked at that whole package and said, That's the one I want.
You've been helpless at denying yourself this whole time. Really, what's one more time?
Despite the part of you that screams about how it could all go wrong, you grip the hopeful part of you that sings, What if it all goes right?
Shit, is that itchiness behind your eyes? Are you about to cry?
You sniffle and give yourself away in one sound.
"I haven't been on a date in a while." You admit very quietly, letting yourself open up just a crack. "I might not be very good, uh, company."
You hear the snow crunch as he steps closer, closing the distance between you. The balcony suddenly seems so much smaller.
You force yourself to be brave, to look up — and you're instantly rewarded with a smile you've never seen before.
Clark is beautiful when he's happy—grinning with the radiance of the summer sun.
You realise you've never really had that grin directed at you. For you. Because of you.
"That's okay," Clark says, closer to a whisper. It sounds like he really means it. "We can figure out a good date together. Whatever you wanna do."
God, he looks gorgeous out in the snow. It eddies around you, carried by the wind, and even with the cold, it feels like a part of you has finally thawed out.
You might not get to have this – but you get to try. And that's enough.
Clark huffs, a happy sound, opening his mouth to speak when–
"Yo!"
A loud rapping on the glass door startles you both, whipping towards the sound in an instant.
It's goddamn Jimmy Olsen.
He's holding a cup of the eggnog, and you can spot a bit that he's spilled down his front.
His cheeks boast the warmth of indoors – or maybe it's just the booze of his drink. You and Clark both blink at him, bewildered by his interruption.
"Mistletooooooe!" He points above the balcony doorway, at the one you'd remembered seeing as you passed under it.
It stretches the rules a bit — you and Clark aren't under it — though you have a feeling Jimmy doesn't care about that in the slightest.
His voice is a bit muffled through the glass, but you can clearly make out what he says as he yells, "Them's the rules!"
You fluster a little, turning back to Clark – who, adorably, looks much the same.
"He's drunk," he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "And he's been listening to me try to woo you for months, so," he coughs awkwardly. "Excuse him."
Only Clark Kent would use the word woo and mean it with complete sincerity.
The other words catch up. Months. Months, he said.
How did you deserve this?
It’s a small voice in your brain you’re becoming very unfond of. Shaking off your past, you decide, at least for tonight, you're done with that question.
You step a little closer, close enough to feel the fan of Clark's breath over your skin.
He smells like bergamot, something musky, and a spiced Christmas pie.
"It's the rules, right?" You say, a little breathier than you intend.
But Clark is watching you closely, pink colouring the apples of his cheeks. His beautiful mouth is pulled into a hopelessly endeared smile, his dimples showing.
He's looking at you like you're all he wants.
"Right," Clark breathes, the word barely audible.
You can hear it just fine, because it's a murmur that passes his lips as he leans down, nearing your lips.
He hesitates. You know it's because he wants you to be sure you want this so soon. But you've think you’ve wasted enough time already.
Press up on your toes, you grip him by his unsightly tie, and – for the first time in months – you meet him midway.
And with his lips against yours, soft, warm, entirely dedicated to kissing you breathless?
You can't even feel the cold anymore.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
ok my loves i'm posting this thang so i can get OUTTA here and start watching me show :) i hope it is enjoyed!! @citrinesparkles @sparklingsin are the two peeps i know would like to be tagged and my usual frends @spideystevie @djarinova @brettsgoldstein @strangerstilinski, i relinquish this the tumblr void & hope it doesn't flop :P
★ genre ; nsfw! (mdni) — hybrid!au, title is a play on the zootopia quote wtv, samoyed!phainon, horny!phainon, pervert!phainon, dwarf rabbit!yume, phainon is a humper, possessive phaichan, lwk yandere!phainon, missionary, doggy style, knotting, biting so slight mention of blood, mating, breeding kink, creampie, dryhumping, dacryphilia, dubcon/noncon, size difference, dom!phainon, sub!reader, reader is shy but also kinda bratty, brat taming (?), multiple rounds, maine coon!mydei mentioned, scent kink, reader lwk stalks phainon LOL, porn with lots of plot, oral sex, reader has a crush on mydei lwk, mydei likes teasing phainon and pissing him off, edging, phainon calls reader bunny, phainon has too much stamina, both reader and phainon are kinda obsessed with mydei and mention him even when hes not even there LMFAOOO
★ lyric count ; 6102
★ composer's note ; its finally here!! kinda wanna make this a series… thats why theres so much worldbuilding… if this does well maybe i will!!
★ listen on ao3, check the album playlist, or back to main playlist!
dividers by cafekitsune!
The samoyed next door is strangely obsessed with you… You can only wonder what will happen when he finally gets his hands on you.
The samoyed that lives next door is… strange.
As a house bunny, you’ve only run into him during the rare occasion your owner does yard work or decides you need the extra sun, but, whenever he sees you, he practically vibrates from excitement.
The first time he caught your scent outside, he immediately started dragging his owner towards your house. Your owner, Idrila, had been tending to the array of white and red roses decorating the border of THEIR front yard. THEY had set up a blanket for you on the grass, along with a basket full of your favorite snacks. You were lying on your stomach, book open in front of you. As your fingers reached over to bring a strawberry to your mouth, you were startled by a loud bark.
“Ahhh—Is that a bunny!! You’re so cute!”
The voice made you drop the strawberry and stained the page you were reading a soft pink. You frowned, brows furrowed as you opened your mouth to give the culprit a piece of your mind. When you lifted your head up and were confronted by a massive dog leaning over the fence, you curled into yourself instead, ears flattened against your head.
“Phainon!” yelled someone behind him (you assume it’s his owner), “Get back here!”
You scrutinized the dog in front of you. Based on his ears, you could tell this “Phainon” was a samoyed. Although, he seemed way too big to be one. His size was more akin to the wolf hybrids you met at the shelter, but, looking at his nonstop wagging tail, he was definitely too friendly to be a wolf.
(Was he some kind of genetically-mutated samoyed?)
Though, you will admit, he wasn’t unappealing to look at. You’d even say he’s pretty handsome. Phainon’s white hair framed his face nicely. It looked soft to touch and you could imagine yourself petting it. His skin was clear (how unfair) and he had an incredibly well built body, but his eyes were what entranced you the most. They are so vibrantly blue and even glittered, like the ocean shimmering under the rays of the sun. You could see yourself getting lost in them.
(Speaking of which… has he blinked once since you met his eyes?)
“Idrila, I apologize for Phainon’s behavior,” his owner lets out a sigh, “He must still be excited from—Oh? Who’s this?”
As you began to get uncomfortable under the samoyed’s intense gaze, his owner had just given you the perfect excuse to break eye contact. You turned to look at the person who was now standing next to Phainon. His owner was very handsome too, with THEIR tan-olive skin and braided white hair. You noted that THEIR yellow eyes contrasted nicely next to Phainon's blue ones.
Idrila paused on THEIR gardening to greet the pair. THEY walked up to the fence while dusting off any dirt that had gathered on THEIR sundress.
“Good afternoon, Nanook!” Idrila smiled and gestured to you with THEIR hand, “This is [Name]. A precious little dwarf rabbit I’ve been taking care of for about a week now. It seems like your puppy has taken a liking to her.”
(“Puppy?” That… ‘wolf’ is not a “puppy.”)
“Hi!! I’m Phainon! I’m a samoyed hybrid and—Wow—You smell really good!!” the aforementioned “puppy” said with a wide grin and a tilt of his head.
That confirmed your suspicions about his breed, but did he have to comment on your scent? It weirded you out and you weren’t going to respond—until you noticed that Idrila was looking at you expectantly.
“Hello…” you muttered with shy reluctance, finally meeting his gaze once again. That simple word seemed to spark something in him and you watched as hearts formed in his blue eyes.
“Ahhh—Even your voice is cute!!” Phainon said as he leaned further over the fence.
Alarmed at the sudden movement, Nanook reached over, grabbed the back of the blue collar the dog was wearing, and dragged him back towards THEM. Phainon released a yelp, but never once did he look away from you. A snarl appeared on Nanook’s face as THEY sneered at Phainon.
“Maybe too much of a liking…” THEY commented under THEIR breath, but you heard it with your enhanced hearing, “It was nice to meet you, but we should get going now.”
Moving THEIR grip to Phainon’s wrist, Nanook dragged him towards the house next door. A pout formed on the samoyed face as he got scolded by his owner about respecting boundaries and learning to think before speaking. You let out a soft giggle at the sight and Phainon visibly melted at the sound. His reaction made you raise an eyebrow, but you tried not to pay too much mind to it. You shook out the left over tension from the encounter, and turned back to your book as Idrila returned to THEIR gardening.
Aside from that, you like to study Phainon from the window of your bedroom. Your room is on the second floor of Idrila’s home, giving you an apt view of the Nanook’s backyard. Phainon is out there more often than not. Either roughhousing another hybrid that’s over at his house at the time or training with his owner. At times it can be amusing but other moments make you genuinely concerned for the hybrid’s well-being.
(One time you saw him climb on top of a poor blonde maine coon and start humping him… luckily his owner shut it down and scolded him before it could escalate.)
Unfortunately, your “Phainon-Watching” came to an abrupt end only 2 weeks after it started. One Friday evening you had been lounging on your window seat, enjoying the breeze coming through the slightly ajar window. You almost fell asleep—that is—until Phainon slammed his backyard door open.
“Nanook! I learned something new while training with Mydei today! Let me show you!!”
You watched as his owner followed the samoyed outside. Phainon showed him a move he learned at “training” that day and Nanook watched with THEIR hands clasped behind THEIR back, nodding in acknowledgement once Phainon finished.
(You could only guess what his… “training” actually is… What he performed looked more like martial arts than dog tricks… Maybe he’s training to be a guard dog…)
Phainon visibly brightened at the small gesture like the man had just spoken him a million praises. His tail wagged in joy and you could tell he was going to do another trick before a particularly harsh breeze passed by. It had you shivering and reaching over for a blanket, but you stopped once Phainon froze and began to sniff the air like a madman. He followed the scent and eventually turned upward towards your window.
The samoyed squinted, seemingly to make out your shape, and once he finally did, he perked up, like he did when he first caught your scent.
“[Name]!!” he exclaimed as he rushed over the fence dividing your homes, “Were you watching me?! Did you like what I did?! I learned it, so I can protect you! Hey, [Name]—”
Your blood went cold and you were frozen in place as Phainon started waving too excitedly and attempted to climb the fence to get to you. While you rushed to close your window and the curtains, you caught out of the corner of your eye how Nanook grabbed Phainon by the collar and dragged him back inside.
(Yep, there’s no way you’re gonna watch the samoyed ever again.)
“[Name], this is Mydei,” Idrila introduces, “He’s Yaoshi’s maine coon hybrid and I’d like it if you two became friends.”
A week following your incident with Phainon, your owner has decided that you need more friends.
Out of fear and embarrassment of running into Phainon outside, you’ve locked yourself in Idrila’s house. Every time THEY would offer to take you outside with THEM, you would kindly deny and state that you’d rather spend the time napping inside.
It seems that THEY’VE reached the limit of listening to your pathetic excuses and brought the outside to you instead.
“She is so adorable!” Mydei’s owner remarks as THEY clasp THEIR hands together and press them against THEIR cheek, “I hope you two get along while Idrila and I catch up over some tea.”
Your ears shoot up in alert at the idea of being alone with a predator hybrid. THEY seem to notice your hesitancy and quickly add on, “Don’t worry! Mydei is trained well and won’t act like some feral dog. He won’t do anything you dislike!”
The words do little to calm your nerves, but Idrila and Yaoshi are already moving towards the living room, leaving you and Mydei on your own devices. You shift awkwardly as you ponder on what to do. Mydei’s presence doesn’t help. He stands against the wall with his arms crossed, long tail occasionally thumping against the floor.
As you fidget with your fingers, you attempt to sneak glances at the cat, who makes no move to… “get along with you.” Mydei has his eyes closed and his breathing is even, like he’s sleeping. His blonde hair fades to a soft red when it reaches his shoulders. You internally squeal when you notice that he has a part of it braided and resting on his right shoulder—and are those tattoos peaking out from under his black shirt? You have to hold yourself back from causing a scene.
Like with Phainon, you think he’s beautiful with his solid build (one you note is bigger than Phainon’s) and big arms. The way he has his arms crossed accentuates his chest and creates more tension on his already tight shirt. You have to force yourself to stop staring and squeeze your eyes shut. His appearance reminds you of another maine coon—
(Wait a minute…)
Upon closer inspection, you realize that this is the same hybrid you saw Phainon… hump all those weeks ago. You feel yourself flush at the revelation and shake your head to rid yourself of the memory that appeared in your head.
When you open your eyes again, you’re met with Mydei’s golden eyes staring back at you. He has an eyebrow raised and his head is tilted in question. Your sudden movement must have aroused him from his meditation.
(You’re sure you look as red as his tattoos right now.)
In an attempt to quell the awkward air, you let out an admittedly depressing giggle and scratch the back of your neck, “Um—Do you want to go to the sunroom? With me..?”
You watch as Mydei lets out a huff and a small smile makes home on his face. To your surprise, he agrees and asks you to lead the way. Your ears perk up at his agreement and you bounce up and down in excitement. You grab his hand and start dragging him down the hallway, surprising him at the sudden skin to skin contact.
When you make it down the hall, you push a door open and bring Mydei inside with you. The sunroom is your favorite place in Idrila’s home. It’s the perfect place to relax and get some sun, while still staying in the house.
It’s where you’ve been hiding from Phainon for most of the week.
However, the samoyed isn’t here right now and instead this handsome maine coon is. You excitedly tell Mydei about what you like doing here: about the books you read, the snacks Idrila makes you, and how this is the perfect place to take a nap.
You’re still holding on to his hand when you finally bring Mydei to the biggest window in the room. In front of it, a blanket is placed on the ground. A book sits open on top of it with a bookmark marking the page you last left on. There’s a small table on the edge of the blanket, placed near the window, that holds a glass of lemonade, the condensation still visible on the outside of the glass even though the ice has melted.
You’re about to drag the maine coon to sit with you when it hits you that you’ve been dragging Mydei around this whole time and making him listen to your nonsensical ramblings. All while holding his hand! You abruptly pull your hand away from his and grip the end of your skirt instead.
You miss the way Mydei frowns at the loss of contact.
“I’m so sorry! I just spent that whole time rambling to you and you haven’t even been able to say a single thing back—” you start, hot from embarrassment, but Mydei cuts you off.
“It’s alright,” he says with a soft smile, “I enjoyed listening to your “ramblings.” It was quite cute.”
You cover your face with your hands and know you are blushing hard under them, “Ah—Thank you..?”
Taking note of your current state, Mydei takes the initiative and invites himself to sit on your blanket. Well—It’s not really sitting. It’s more like lounging. He drapes himself on the floor, with one knee bent and the other extended out. His weight rests on one arm, elbow bent as he rests his chin on his hand, while the other pats the area next to him.
“Join me, won’t you?”
Mydei’s voice is borderline seductive and you find yourself entranced. Your body moves on its own and you awkwardly lay down next to him. First, you start on your back, but eventually turn to face him. Your ears flatten on your head and you open your mouth to say something. The words are lost on your tongue when Mydei puts his hand on your waist and pulls you flush against his body. Legs tangle with each other as you hold your breath, scared to breathe on him. You let out an exhale and involuntarily relax when Mydei brings the same hand up to your head, scratching the junction at the base of your ears. He lets out a chuckle that rumbles through his body when he sees how your tail twitches at his touch.
You cuddle closer to Mydei, trying to chase his touch. Your hands rest on his chest and grip onto his shirt when he rubs a particularly sensitive spot. It has you flushing once again and before you can apologise, Mydei brings his head down to your neck. You feel how he rubs his face against your scent glands, occasionally leaving nibbles on your skin.
(Is he… Is he scenting you?!)
Overwhelmed by his maneuvers, in your haze, you return his affection and begin to scent his own neck. All you can smell is Mydei and you find yourself getting droopy. The combination of the warm rays of the sun through the window and Mydei’s strong scent is just what you need to get sleepy.
You fall asleep with Mydei’s warm body pressed against yours.
“Why do you smell like that?”
“Smell like what?” Mydei pauses in his stretching to look at the white-haired hybrid.
Later on in the day, long after Mydei’s morning visit with you, he meets up with Phainon to train together. It’s something that the pair have been doing for a while, brawling as a healthy way of expelling pent up energy and satisfying their more animalistic instincts. This is the first meetup in a few weeks. Mydei had to separate himself from Phainon after a particular incident. However, meeting with you had put him in a good mood that had him reaching out to the samoyed to start their weekly meetings once again.
Phainon has a confused look on his pretty face, with his brows furrowed together and it's even completed with a pout. He gets closer to Mydei, leaning into his neck to get a better whiff. The maine coon isn’t fazed, already used to his antics, and patiently waits as Phainon sniffs all over his scent glands.
“Like [Name].”
Phainon abruptly pulls back, startling Mydei with his sudden seriousness, “Why do you smell like [Name]?”
The look on Phainon’s face is one Mydei can only identify as terrifying. The cute pout is erased from his face and the light disappears from his eyes. Gone is the kind and affectionate samoyed and what’s left is a feral wolf challenging someone that has entered his territory.
Mydei composes himself, and the startled look is gone as quickly as it came.
“[Name]?” the blonde pretends to question, “Ah, [Name], you mean the bunny that lives next door to you.”
“Yeah. [Name].” Phainon says again, harsher this time, “Why do you smell like her?”
He says it like it disgusts him, like it pains him to even say the words. Mydei watches as the hybrid in front of him tightens and loosens the fists resting at his sides.
The maine coon tilts his head in a mocking manner, “I was over at her house earlier today. Yaoshi wanted to meet with Idrila and took me along. Something about [Name] needing to meet more hybrids, so I spent some time with her.”
Mydei remains vague on purpose. Some part of him wants to egg him and see how the samoyed will react.
How far he’ll spiral.
He can practically see the cogs turning in Phainon’s head as he tries to make something from Mydei’s words. He gave him essentially nothing after all. Anything else that he conjures up in his mind is from his own imagination.
Mydei studies Phainon’s face with vigor. The samoyed is staring out into space, and Mydei watches as his look of neutrality begins to morph into anger. Phainon’s eyebrows twitch and his nose scrunches. His mouth turns into a snarl, baring his teeth. Mydei can see the waves of anger exuding from his body.
“Did you—” Phainon scoffs, “Did you mate with her?”
Mydei says nothing, letting the silence linger in the air and allowing a few more seconds of Phainon’s imagination to run rampant.
“Maybe I did,” he finally breaks the silence, “I don’t see how that concerns you.”
Now it’s Phainon’s turn to be silent.
“She had no scent of a mate and no markings,” Mydei continues, “Would it truly be that concerning if I was the one to take her?”
Something snaps in Phainon and he stomps closer to the cat. Mydei thinks the samoyed is going to fight him, but all the samoyed does is place a shaking palm on the maine coon’s shoulder. His grip is tight, painfully so, but Mydei keeps his eyes on Phainon’s.
Phainon stares back into Mydei’s, eyes dark in anger. Now concerned, Mydei opens his mouth to say something to calm the dog down, but Phainon beats him to it.
A flip is switched and, like nothing has even happened in the past few moments, the smile is returned to Phainon’s face. The sparkle returns to his eyes and he joyfully says, “Of course not!”
He closes his eyes and tilts his head like an unassuming puppy, “You’re right! She wasn’t claimed. How lucky you are if you actually managed to woo her over. Haha. You should watch your back, Mydeimos. Someone might jump at her before you are able to complete the bond.”
Mydei’s eyes widen at the thinly veiled threat. Phainon called his bluff. He doesn’t like the chill that goes down his spine.
Fuck.
Apparently, the samoyed that lives next door is sick.
You would beg to differ. With a body like that, surely you wouldn’t get sick to the point your neighbor has to watch over you.
According to Idrila, Nanook had called THEM with concern in THEIR voice. Nanook wasn’t the type of person to worry like this, so Idrila was immediately alarmed at THEIR intonation. THEY had told THEM that Phainon hadn’t been eating the last few days and locked himself in his room. The samoyed had refused to come out, telling Nanook that he wasn’t feeling well, coughing and groaning every other word.
To you, it sounds like bullshit.
But the ever kind Idrila agreed to look over the dog while Nanook attended an important meeting THEY couldn’t afford to miss.
That brings you too now, as Idrila picks up a spare key from under a barely-hanging-onto-life plant on Nanook’s front porch.
(Clearly, THEY don’t concern themselves with plant life like Idrila does.)
You’re holding a basket full of at home remedies. Idrila had quickly cooked up some soup and packed some over-the-counter medicine. All you could do was scoff as THEY did so.
Idrila finally unlocks the door and you’re greeted by silence. You step in and are almost knocked out. You’ve never been in Phainon’s house before, but you can smell that it’s his.
His scent is everywhere. In the air, on the walls. Every single nook and cranny.
(Is this how Idrila’s house smelled when Mydei came over? Is that why he was.. “meditating”?)
You shake your head. Now’s not the time to think about Mydei. You turn back to Idrila, who had taken the basket in your stupor and was now heating soup up on the stove.
THEY continue to mix the concoction and, without taking THEIR eyes off the pot, requests something of you.
“Go check on, Phainon!” THEY hum out the samoyed’s name, “Maybe seeing another hybrid will make him feel better!”
(Bullshit.)
However, you reluctantly nod, and turn to move further into his house. You’d have to find Phainon’s room first if you wanted to “check on him.” You let your nose be your guide and follow the scent to where it’s the strongest.
It guides you to a light blue door and you stand awkwardly in front of it. You don’t want to open it. A part of you is scared. This is the first time you’d be seeing the samoyed since he caught you spying on him from your window. On the other hand, you’re annoyed. This most definitely is some bullshit Phainon pulled to get to you. Surely it has to be.
You’ll never find the true reason unless you knock on the door, so you suck it up and finally do it. You place 3 firm taps on the door.
“Phainon? Are you okay? Nanook said you were sick, so Idrila and I came to check on you.”
There’s no response from the other side of the door.
“Hello..?” you question. This is the right door. You trust your nose enough to at least discern that.
The annoyance bubbles over at the continued lack of response and you finally break, “Hey! If you don’t open this door right now I’ll—”
The door slams open and Phainon jumps out. You let out a shriek as Phainon shoves you into the wall of the hallway. Your back hits the wall with a loud thud and you let out a yelp that only partially escapes your mouth as Phainon now has his hand covering the bottom half of your face.
All the commotion must have alerted Idrila downstairs as THEY question, “Is everything alright up there?”
“Everythings alright! Just startled each other, haha!” Phainon responds for the two of you while you struggle against his hold.
That seems to satisfy THEIR worries, “Alright… Nanook just texted me asking me to pick up your medicine, Phainon. Will you two be alright while I head out for a moment?”
“Of course!” Phainon says, voice too cheery for someone who’s supposed to be ill. You watch as his tail begins to wag.
(No, Idrila! Don’t leave me here with him!)
You attempt to yell against his hand, but your screams are muffled. It's no luck as you listen to Idrila leave through the front door. Now alone and sick of his behavior, you bite Phainon’s hand and kick him in the groin. Now, it’s his turn to yelp and his hands move away from your body and to his dick instead.
“You—You jerk! What the hell is wrong with you?!” You exclaim as you watch Phainon attempt to grip onto the wall and balance himself.
(Good. You managed to do some damage to him.)
“[N—Name],” he groans out, voice riddled with pain, “I just want to talk to you!”
You scoff, “Well you didn’t have to pretend to be sick to do it.”
“I did!” Phainon springs up, and it startles you, “It was the only way I could get you into my house.”
Your eyes widen in a mixture of shock and fear and your ears point out in alert.
The pain that Phainon was experiencing before seemingly evaporated and his hands returned to you. They come up to cup your face and bring it closer to his. Your hands grasp his wrists and you can feel his breath tingle on your lips.
You think he’s about to kiss you when he suddenly pauses, sniffing the air. He transfers his grip on your face onto one hand and grips your chin as he forcefully pulls your head to the side. Phainon buries his face in your neck and you can feel him sniff all over it.
“Mydeimos.”
His voice has dropped to a lower, growly pitch. It’s guttural, like a wolf.
“W—What? What does Mydei have to do with this?!” your voice comes out awkwardly due to his grip on your face.
Phainon lets out an actual growl and you feel it against you, “Don’t say his name.”
Suddenly, you feel something wet slide across your scent glands.
(Is—Is he licking you?!)
Your shoulders scrunch up at the sensation on your sensitive glands. It's so warm and wet, but for some reason it has you melting in his embrace. Phainon supports you by wrapping his free arm around your waist and pressing your body against his. He continues his relentless attack on your neck.
“When I’m done with you,” he starts, breathlessly, “You’ll smell like me. Not him.”
“And it’ll stick.”
Before you can question what he means, Phainon releases his grip on your face and picks you up bridal style. You grip onto his shoulders as he carries you into his room, closing the door behind him with his foot. He gently places you on his bed. The blue sheets are soft against you, but you can’t study his room any further because Phainon begins to strip himself in front of you.
You watch, jawslacked, as Phainon starts by taking off his top. Now that his shirt is off, you can truly see his body. His abs are defined and chest is pronounced.
(You’re sure the only person that rivals him is Mydei, but Phainon wouldn’t like you thinking that.)
He doesn’t give you enough time to appreciate his chest as he hastily moves onto his bottoms. Phainon pulls off his pants and underwear in one combined motion and, if your mouth could fall open even further, it has. The size of his dick is almost frightening. Its size is intimidating just like the rest of his body. It curves slightly upward and the tip is flushed a light pink. There is a prominent knot where his dick meets the base. A vein runs up on the side of his shaft from the base to the tip. Against your wishes, you feel yourself getting wet in between your legs and your mouth begins to water.
But as he climbs on top of you, the realization hits you all at once.
Phainon is trying to mate with you.
You place your hands on his chest and attempt to push him away, but he’s too strong and your push does nothing to deter his movements.
“W—Wait! Phainon, I’m not so sure—!”
The samoyed cuts you off by dropping himself on top of you. You let out a wheeze as the air is knocked out of you and you barely have enough time to catch your breath before Phainon is licking and kissing your ears. Your face is pressed into his chest as he continues his assault.
“Why?” Phainon questions, voice dark once again, “Did Mydei mate with you already?”
Now, you’re confused.
(What’s this about Mydei and you mating?!)
“I—I don’t know—”
“Bullshit!” he cuts you off, “I smelled you all over him the other day. You can’t lie to me.”
“W—What?! We were just cuddling—”
Phainon lets out a manic laugh, “Haha—! Then how about we do some cuddling, too?”
He pulls away from you to grab onto the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. However, he doesn’t have the same amount of patience with your bra and grips it with both hands at the center before ripping it apart. You let out a gasp at his actions and yell profanities at him. Phainon pays no mind as he moves down to your skirt, hands gripping onto your panties and pulling them down along with the skirt.
Now you’re bare in front of him like he is with you.
You can’t do anything but grip the sheets next to you as Phainon brings himself down and his mouth immediately meets your wet pussy. His tongue licks circles into your clit and it has you arching into his mouth. The sounds of your moaning and his mouth on your cunt fill the room. You squirm at the overwhelming pleasure and Phainon places a hand on your stomach to press you back down onto the bed. The added pressure doesn’t help you at all and tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes. Phainon seems to notice and brings his other hand to your cunt and presses it into you. It slides right in with the help of all your slick that has now built up at his ministrations.
His finger is longer than yours and immediately hits places you couldn’t reach yourself. He prods around until he finds a spot that has you wailing. The tears spill from your eyes as your legs begin to shake at the pleasure. Before you know it, Phainon adds another finger and presses his tongue harder against your clit. You feel yourself right on the edge and you clench around Phainon, but he abruptly pulls away, taking his fingers with him.
You whine at the loss of feeling full and are about to complain when Phainon says, “I’m sorry, bunny, but the only time you’re gonna come is on my cock as I fuck you full of my cum.”
Your face grows impossibly red at his words and you sink further into the haze that is Phainon. He climbs back on top of you in between your legs and lines himself up with your entrance. You hold your breath as you feel Phainon push himself into you. The stretch is intense, so much more than his fingers.
“Too—Too much, Phai!” you squeal at how full you are.
Phainon lets out a chuckle and presses himself back into your scent glands, “I’m only half-way, bunny.”
You let out a moan as Phainon continues to push in despite your protest. When your cunt finally meets his knot, you feel impossibly full. So full to the point that you can feel him up in your throat. Phainon lets out a loud groan when you squeeze down on him and he has to bite the sheets next to your head to stop himself from cumming right then and there.
“C—Careful. If you keep doing that I’ll cum sooner than I want to.”
His words have you whining and Phainon takes that as a sign to start moving. He places his hands under your knees and presses them against the bed as he begins to thrust into your pussy. It makes a loud squelch every time his knot nudges your cunt. You can feel him deep in your stomach, your womb.
He’s hitting every pleasurable spot inside of you and you can’t help but clench around him. You feel yourself on the edge of your orgasm once again and this time Phainon doesn’t pull himself out to stop your high.
You cum with a loud whine, clenching hard around Phainon’s cock. It has him letting out a moan and his thrusts grow erratic. Soon he’s joining you in your high as he comes inside you, but he doesn’t push in his knot and the cum leaks back out of your cunt when he slides out.
You're both breathing heavily, breaths mingling with each other as you attempt to get air back into your lungs.
But Phainon doesn’t give you a moment of respite and he’s gripping your waist and flipping you over onto your stomach.
“Phai—Wait—Still sensitive—!”
Your words are knocked out of you when Phainon pushes his still hard cock back inside your cunt from behind. It slides back in easily with all the cum that's inside of you already. He holds you up by your hips, leaving your head on the sheets, and grinds into you.
“F—Fuck! How are you even tighter like this—” Phainon groans as he presses his eyes shut, relishing the pleasure of your sensitive pussy pulsing around him.
However, a scowl returns to his face when he remembers how this all started. Without taking his hands off your hips, he leads down near your ears. You feel his body heat against your back and he whispers into your ears as they twitch.
“Did Mydei fuck you like this? Was his cock big enough to hit all these spots inside of you? Did he have you leaking all over the sheets like I am?”
All you can do is respond with a moan and Phainon bites down on an ear as he drags your body up and down his cock by your hips. The position has him hitting even deeper than before and you feel him hit your womb every time he thrusts back in. It’s intense, and when Phainon lets go of your ear, you turn your head to the side to be able to breathe. Tears are streaming down your face again, and you feel Phainon grow harder inside of you. He brings mouth to your cheeks and licks up your tears before pressing his face into your scent glands.
“Y—You’re even cute when you cry. Sh—Shit—!” he exclaims as you clench around him, close once again.
“If you’re close again, I’m gonna have to fuck you harder if I want to cum with you, bunny,” Phainon breathes out, “Hang on.”
You grip the sheets as he brings himself upright again and pulls out, leaving just the tip. You whine at the loss of his cock, but you mewl when he shoves himself back in by thrusting his hips and simultaneously bringing your hips to meet his. He moves faster now, chasing his own high. You attempt to crawl away from him, but his grip on your hips is unrelenting and he pulls you back onto his dick every time.
Phainon’s moans grow in volume and you know he’s close like you. He leans back once again and places his mouth over your scent glands. You think you hear him mutter an apology when he suddenly pushes his knot into your sloppy pussy, cumming inside you. At the same time, he bites down hard on your gland, creating a mating mark. When his knot slips in, it has your eyes widening at the sudden intrusion. The feeling of being so overwhelmingly stuffed as you falling apart on his cock, tail twitching erratically. You cum on his dick with a loud moan of his name and you feel pulse after pulse of his cum fill your womb and pussy.
After a few moments, his mouth lets go of your neck and he licks the blood away. Phainon presses light kisses on your scent gland.
“Now, you’re mine,” he says, still in a sex daze, “Not Mydei’s. Mine.”
“Yours,” you reply before you can stop it.
The word has Phainon perking up and his tail wags behind him. He peppers kisses all over your face and begins to grind himself against you.
(Wait—Is he getting hard again?!)
By the time Idrila returns, you’ve been fully fucked out.
Bite marks litter your body and a mixture of your slick and Phainon’s cum slides down your legs. You can’t feel your body and all you can think about is Phainon.
You’re sure the smell of sex is clear in the air even to your owner’s nose.
Phainon has finally taken a break to get you some water and your suspicions about Idrila are confirmed when Phainon returns with some soup and the aforementioned water.
He also mentions the news that Idrila has given you permission to “sleepover.”
Even with your aching body, you can stop the sigh that escapes your lips.
You’re in for a long night.
PHAINON GIVE ME A CHANCE PLEASE!!! also i wrote this in an actual daze sorry if some of it didnt make sense LOL
please like, comment, reblog, and share if you enjoyed!!
MDNI- smut, cockwarming, Soft dom, doesn’t end up as just cockwarming..
_________________________________________
“Satoru…”
You sighed his name as you felt him behind you, already hard and thick against your thigh, nudging at your bare skin under the covers. It was well past midnight, and the only light in the room was the soft bluish glow of the moon slicing through the curtains.
“I know, I know,” he murmured, kissing the back of your shoulder. “I promised. Just wanna cockwarm, that’s all.”
You were too sleepy to argue. His body was warm, his hands gentle, and the way he slowly eased inside you—inch by inch, sighing like he’d been waiting all day—had your breath catching.
He settled deep, spooned around you with his arm tight across your waist. The stretch felt so good, so familiar, and even though you weren’t fully awake, your body responded to him without hesitation.
For a moment, he kept still, just holding you, lips brushing your neck as he whispered something soft—maybe your name. Maybe I love you.
And then— He moved. Barely at first. A slow roll of his hips. Then again, deeper. Slower.
“Satoru,” you warned sleepily, your voice trembling with a whine. “You said—”
“Shh,” he cut you off gently, thrusting in again, this time dragging it out, like he wanted you to feel every ridge of him. “I know what I said, but… you feel too good. Can’t help it, baby.”
Your fingers curled into the sheets as he kept the pace lazy but insistent, hips rocking against your ass, each motion pressing him right where you were most sensitive.
“Just a little more,” he whispered, kissing below your ear. “You’re already so wet for me, sweet girl. How am I supposed to stop now?”
You whimpered, head falling back into the pillow as he kept going—slow, deep, unhurried like he had all night. Like he wanted to ruin your sleep just to remind you how well he fits inside you. And when you finally gave in—hips meeting his halfway, breath hitching—he groaned, teeth grazing your neck.
“God, I love being inside you,” he whispered. “You’re mine. Always mine.”
His promise was long gone. But so was your will to resist.
Request for @n0lleb0lle
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Zenless Zone Zero Von Lycaon transparent renders!
Google Drive Link for full quality
> Please do not repost
> Renders are F2U, and credit is not required when using.
> If you prefer Discord, here is a link to my server!
> Reblogs greatly appreciated ❤️
You were probably his first real listener. First fan, even.
His account had no followers. No clout. No tags. He wasn’t even looking for one. He just posted banger songs—heavy and haunting.
You were high out of your mind one night, scrolling through underground tracks, trying to find something that hadn’t been overplayed into dust.
Then you hit the bottom.
Clicked on his album.
And it changed everything. The voice was deep, like smoke and rage.
The beat was grimy and sharp. It wasn’t just rap. Or rock. Or alt.
It was all of it. And none of it. It sounded like a demon crying through broken speakers.
You thought for sure he’d be famous. But he wasn’t. So you DMed him. Didn’t even think he’d see it.But that same night, he replied. You talked for hours. He asked for your number. You FaceTimed until the sky turned grey.
The next day, he invited you to his spot.
To listen. To smoke. To just... be.
Honestly it could have ended badly and it would have been the worst decision you ever made. But the vibe—the intensity—
You didn’t have to speak. Just your eyes did all the talking.
It wasn’t lust. Not really. It was that aching, desperate something that clutches your ribs and won’t let go. You didn’t know if he felt the same, so you played it casual.
Casual as in…
Basically living together.
Unspoken everything.
No sex. No labels. Just you and him.
He’d send you unreleased tracks. Half-finished verses. You started running his page, organizing stuff, posting updates. You weren’t official. But you kind of became his manager.
His shadow. His safe place.
His favorite ear.
He never said thank you. Not in words, anyway. But every song had pieces of you in it. A line that sounded like something you once whispered. A beat that matched the rhythm of your laugh. A song titled with your birthday, but flipped backward so no one else would know.
And then it happened.
One day, everything changed.
Some random TikTok kid found one of the old tracks and used it for an edit. A week later—millions. Plays, likes, followers.
He hated it.
You watched him pace around the apartment, wild-eyed, muttering,
“They don’t even get it.”
“They’re just biting now.”
“Where were they before?”
But you were still there. Sitting on his kitchen counter. Hoodie that wasn’t yours. Eyes tired but soft.
You handled it. Emails. DMs. Interview requests. Labels circling like vultures. You told him which ones to ignore. Which ones to play with.
He let you do it. Trusted you. Only you.
He didn’t post selfies. Didn’t talk in interviews. He just kept making music. And every time, you were the first to hear it. Headphones passed between you. Knees touching. Eyes closed.
One night, he paused a track halfway through. You looked up at him.
He didn’t say anything for a while.
Then “You think I’d be doing any of this if it weren’t for you?”
You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t. You just reached for the play button.But he stopped you. Caught your hand in his. Held it for a second too long. Then another.
Your chest felt like it would crack open.
Still, nothing happened.
Still, it was... casual.
A year into the fame, you were all the way in. No more crashing at his place—you lived there. The two of you had upgraded to a bigger apartment, one that felt more like a bunker than a home.
Dark walls. Concrete floors. Unfinished ceiling that looked like it belonged in a warehouse.
But it was warm. It smelled like weed and sage and your shampoo.
Music always humming from a speaker somewhere. Sometimes his guitar was just lying on the couch. Sometimes your books were.
You shared space like you shared silence—easily.
You were still juggling school, barely hanging on some days,
but you made time to manage his account, answer emails, line up deals. He made music and money. A lot of both. Labels wanted him. Brands begged. Venues called. You handled most of it.
He hated everyone except you.
And the relationship is still undefined. Still everything.
He’d hold your hand in public. Pull you close when crossing the street. His arm would always be around your shoulders like it belonged there. To anyone watching, you were together.
Like… together together. And maybe you were, just not officially.
No titles. No pressure.
He kept his mystery locked up tight. Still no face. No selfies. No stories. That was about to change though. His first concert was coming, a real one. Not an underground event or livestream, but a sold-out, packed venue with screaming fans.
You asked him, quietly one night, “Are you nervous?”
He just looked at you, exhaled smoke, and said, “Not about them. Just about you seeing me like that.”
You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t need to. Just reached over, took his hand, and held it like you always did—like it was normal.
Like he was yours.
---
The city was buzzing like a live wire. You could feel it in your teeth.
The venue was packed, lines curling around the block. People had signs. Painted their faces. Screamed lyrics. It was insane.
You watched from backstage, heart beating a little too fast,
wearing his leather jacket and tight short black dress.
He was pacing a little, fingers twitching, jaw tight. But he looked good. Too good. Tall, jacked, inked up— black tank clinging to him, tattoos peeking from his neck to his fingers. Hair messy like always, like he rolled out of bed and still looked like a god.
No mask tonight. No hood.
This time, they’d see him.
You caught his eye just before he walked out. Just looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him. You nodded once. That was enough.
Then he stepped out.
And the place. Exploded.
Screams.
Like actual shrieking.
Phones shot up so fast the light almost blinded you.
Someone in the front fainted.
A girl sobbed.
The crowd was feral.
He didn’t flinch.
Just walked to the mic like he owned the world.
When he finally spoke—
“Yeah. It’s me.”
—people LOST it.
A whole different war broke out online .
“WHY IS HE HOT??”
“I THOUGHT HE WAS UGLY???”
“HE LOOKS LIKE HE KILLS PEOPLE AND WRITES POETRY ABOUT IT.”
“Someone said he was faceless—why is he the face of my future now???”
His name trended within an hour. Clips went viral before the second song ended. People were pausing videos just to zoom in on his hands, his tattoos, his jawline. New fan accounts popped up in real-time.
But he only looked at you.
Once.
Halfway through the set, spotlight behind him, crowd screaming his name, he glanced toward the side of the stage. Found you. Smirked like the devil. Then tore into the next song like his soul was catching fire.
When it was over, and the venue started to empty out, he came offstage drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling. Still high off the energy, off the chaos. You handed him water. He took it, but didn’t drink. Just stared at you.
“They love me now,” he muttered.
Then, quieter, “But I still only care what you think.”
Your throat closed up.
You didn’t answer, didn’t need to.
He tossed the bottle. Stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. His hand found your face like he’d been meaning to do it for years. Fingers on your cheek, thumb brushing your lip. His forehead rested against yours, and he whispered, “Say something. Anything.”
You looked up at him, breath caught.
“You’re mine,” you said.
And this time, he kissed you.
---
The concert was over, but the night wasn’t.
You two didn’t even go back home. He tugged you into the car, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, saying nothing but “Let’s go out.” You didn’t ask where.
The club was already dark and pulsing by the time you got there. Lights flickering red, music loud enough to feel in your ribs. People turned when you walked in, like they knew. He hadn’t even been unmasked for four hours, but already, the city recognized him.
He didn’t care. Just grab your hand and pull you to the middle of the floor. Bodies everywhere, sweat, bass, smoke. And still, it felt like it was just you two.
He was behind you, hands on your waist. Not even grinding, not all sexual—just close. Like he wanted to keep you tethered to the ground. His face buried in your neck every now and then, lips ghosting skin. You leaned into it. Eyes closed. Smiling.
Someone recorded it.
Of course they did.
Posted it within minutes.
On Twitter (or X whatever that cursed app is):
@.cryboutitgrl:
this man just revealed his face and already pulled up to the club with the baddest girl i’ve ever seen????
@.undergroundangel666:
bro was faceless yesterday now he’s 6'4 tatted and got a mysterious girlfriend. i’m sick. 😭
@.smokysylvia:
wait wait wait. is she the one from the side stage?? the one he kept looking at????
@.hotguyshateus:
yeah i zoomed in. it’s her. same leather jacket. same girl. he’s in love i’m sorry.
@.helooksinlove:
she whispered something to him before the encore and he kissed her after the show. we lost. I fear the album’s gonna be sad and horny now 😩
The internet was spiraling. Fan edits were already in motion.
Clips of him touching your face, that blurry club video, someone even managed to catch a shot of the two of you leaving the venue—
his arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into his chest.
You checked his account the next morning. A million new followers. Inbox was flooded. Everyone wanted to know: Who was she? Who was the girl?
And all he did was post a blurry photo of the two of you sitting on the floor that night, you leaning against him, laughing into your cup,
and him looking at you like you were the only thing he’d ever believe in.
Caption: “She been here since zero followers. Don’t ask again.”
--------
bonus::: the first text and meet up...
It was around 2:37 AM when you messaged him.
“idk why no one knows abt you yet. this is actually insane.”
You didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t even think he’d see it.
But twenty minutes later—
“yo.”
One dot. No emojis.
You blinked at the screen.
“that was you?”
“the message?”
“yeah. thanks.”
Simple. Dry. But then he asked:
“wanna hear some unreleased?”
Your breath caught.
“yeah.”
He sent a file. No title. Just noise at first. Then the beat dropped— low, almost crawling. His voice— raspy, like smoke and teeth. You could barely breathe.
Before you could even process, your phone lit up again.
“what’s your number”
Not a question. Not begging.
You gave it.
Thirty seconds later: FaceTime.
Your heart slammed. You almost didn’t pick up. But your thumb moved on its own.
Click.
It was dark.
No light but the red glow of a monitor on his side. Backlit tattoos.
Shadows across his jawline. Hair messy. Shirtless. Sitting back in a desk chair like he owned time.
You didn’t speak.
He didn’t either.
He looked at you. Eyes flickering across your face through the screen like he was studying something rare.
A small smirk tugged at his lips.
“damn.”
One word. But it cracked something open.
You laughed, too soft. Told him he looked like a villain.
“good.”
Then:
“you real?”
You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head. Let him stare.
And then, just like that— you both started talking. Not loud. Not excited. Just low. Whispers like secrets in a church.
He showed you the corner of his room. Posters. Wires. A mic stand leaning. Unfinished lyrics on the wall in sharpie.
“i stay up all night,” he said.
“no one to talk to.”
“you do now,” you whispered.
His lips twitched. He leaned forward like he was trying to see more of you through the screen.
“can i call you again?”
You bit your lip.
“i’m not hanging up.”
And you didn’t. Not until the sun started bleeding through your windows. Not until your eyelids got too heavy. He didn’t say goodbye. Just watched you drift off to sleep. And whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it:
“don’t leave.”
You woke up with your phone in your hand, battery barely alive.
Your screen still had his name on it. Still connected. He never hung up.
You sat up slow, blinking through sleep. Heart pounding when you remember everything. The music. The call. His voice. The way he watched you fall asleep like he meant to remember it forever.
And then—your phone buzzed.
him:
“u still down to pull up?”
No address.
No time.
Just that.
And still…
you replied:
“drop the pin.”
You didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t even think it through. He could’ve been a killer. Could’ve chopped you up, turned you into a beat.
But your chest was quiet.
Calm.
It was cold when you stepped out. Your hoodie swallowed your frame.
Headphones in, but no music playing— just replaying his voice in your head like a loop. When you reached his spot, it looked like nothing. Gray building. No buzzers. Just a metal door and the pin.
You texted him once.
No reply.
Then the door creaked open. And there he was. Tall. Sleeves rolled up. Tattoos crawling up his arms. Hood half on. Eyes heavy like he hadn’t slept.
He looked at you for two full seconds before stepping back.
“come in.”
You did.
It was dark. Not scary dark—just dim. Curtains closed. Cigarette smoke faint in the air. There was a speaker set up on the floor and wires running like veins all over the place. A mic stand crooked in the corner. A mattress on the ground, black sheets. And his scent—something between weed, laundry, and the ghost of cologne.
You stood there like you were in a museum.
He didn’t touch you. Just nodded toward the couch.
“u want tea? or... water? i got like 4 capri suns too.”
You laughed. He smiled for real that time.
You stayed for hours.
Then one day.
Then two.
The playlist never stopped. He let you read his notebooks. You found one where your name was scribbled on the top corner of a page.
He didn’t explain.
At night, he didn’t try anything. Just let you lay next to him, in his clothes, backs turned but feet tangled.
You remember the first time he turned to you in the dark and whispered: “i don’t like being alone anymore.”
Chef Mydei x the food blogger reader who leaves his cooking a review for her thousands of followers and she says “it tastes divine but the presentation is a little sloppy” and he takes that so personally, like so personally LOL and it’s just a cliche lighthearted enemies to lovers and there’s eventually a scene where he’s at your apartment cooking for you and accidentally burns something while you’re making out on the counter and you say “I’m gonna tell my viewers about that, btw” and he eats you out and says “too bad you can’t tell your viewers about my personal favorite meal”
There would also be a scene where you unknowingly try Phainon’s cooking at the same restaurant another day and you rate it’s plating and presentation as “improved” thinking it’s the same chef and Mydei absolutely loses it
areudirty
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
2087
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