Summary: When you agree to go on a double date for your best friend’s sake.
Word Count: 2.6k
Disclaimer/s: none really. FLUFF! flirting! Good stuff. Idk.
Vienna’s Voice! hiiiii!!! f1 writing is soooo back. Ahem. yeah anyways. hope u enjoy :3 cooking up so oscar stuff too teehee
Blind dates weren’t really your thing. After months of working non stop, you just happened to be in town visiting and your best friend insisted.. no, begged.. you to tag along on a double date because her boyfriend’s good mate “just happened to be single.”
Right. Of course.
But, you supposed it wouldn’t be the worst way to spend an evening in Monaco.
Wrong.
The date itself had been… fine.
Lando was nice. Very easy to talk to, and funnier than you expected. If nothing else, you could at least say you met a celebrity over an overpriced dinner.
But the issue wasn’t him.
The issue was the two people sitting across you, who had absolutely no regard for personal space.
You sighed, glancing at your best friend and her boyfriend, who were currently fused at the mouth like their lives depended on it.
It had started out subtly. A quick kiss here, a whispered word there.
But now?
Now it was a full-blown make-out session in the middle of the cozy and intimate restaurant, and you were seconds away from pouring boiling tea over their heads just to break them apart.
You cleared your throat. “Hey, guys. Maybe come up for air? Just a suggestion.”
Nothing.
Not even a flinch.
Lando shot you a side glance, his eyes practically screaming: what the hell is happening.
You had to bite your lip to keep yourself from laughing.
Lando tilted his head, watching them in exaggerated horror. “Do you think if we just… got up and left, they’d even notice?”
You drummed your fingers on the table. “Honestly? I could set this whole restaurant on fire and they wouldn’t notice.”
Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That’s.. yeah. That’s probably true.”
Your best friend let out a breathy little whimper between kisses, and Lando physically recoiled.
“Oh, my god—” He turned to you, exasperated. “I don’t think I can eat anymore.” His giggles were contagious.
“Please… Lost my appetite 5 minutes ago..”
“Where is the self respect?”
“Gone,” You said flatly before a laugh escaped between your lips. “Long gone.” You added, sipping your champagne, attempting to avoid the sight.
Lando gazed back to the scene at the table, where your best friend and her boyfriend were locked in some sort of kiss that looked more like a wrestling match than anything remotely romantic. He muttered, “Well.. at least one of us is enjoying this,” And you quickly snorted.
“What ever happened to asking how someone’s night is going?” You whispered to him.
Lando laughed. “Well clearly they’re having a good night.” He pointed. “How’s yours?”
“I want to kill myself, you?”
Another laugh. “Pretty much the same boat.” He said before looking back up at the lip-wrestling couple.
“I want to stop looking but I’m honestly impressed.” He let out, his eyes locked on the scene.
You softly giggled. “Kind of hard to miss when it’s right there.”
Lando took a deep breath, biting down his lip, clearly trying to keep his composure, but his eyes couldn’t seem to look away, but finally they did as his eyes met yours. “To be completely honest, if I had to rank my worst date experiences, this might just top the list, and I’ve been on some awful ones.”
“Yeah. You and me both.” Your eyes glanced over across the table again, hoping the two faces were finally separated—Wrong.
“Okay yeah, definitely tops my most recent date.”
Lando leaned in a little. “Care to share..?” His tone curious.
You laughed, slightly turning your body towards him, a small sigh escaping your lips. “I went out to a sports bar with this guy and he tried to explain to me how basketball works.” You brought your champagne back to your lips.
“He spoke to me like I was clueless… almost like I was a baby... but I—” You trailed off with a laugh. “I’m a social media manager for the Los Angeles Lakers.”
Lando’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief, and he couldn't help but laugh. "Wait, are you serious?” His hand clamped over his giggling smile.
“Yeah.” You nodded, trying not to burst out laughing again. “He gave me a full, detailed breakdown of the rules and how the game works… and at one point he even said I’d understand it better if I paid more attention to ‘interesting things’ instead of makeup.”
Lando’s eyes widened before cringing, “Oh, pfft, low blow from him.” He scoffed, clearly stunned. “But did you at least tell him you worked for the NBA?"
“Of course not,” You replied, shaking your head, reaching for your drink again which caused you to catch a glimpse of the ongoing scene in front of you.
Good lord.
"Did not have the guts to tell him.. And besides, he didn’t even ask what I did for a living. Just launched straight into his interests.” You paused to sip. “The first one being basketball of course."
Lando shut his eyes and cringed at the thought. “That’s brutal.”
A shrug lifted at your shoulders. “Clearly he didn’t get a second date so...” You paused. “Yeah, enough about me. What was your worst date?”
Lando leaned back, sighing as he ran a hand through his hair, clearly weighing the options for which disaster to share. "Well...I think my worst date would have to be the time I went out with this girl who was fun...until her boyfriend showed up."
You nearly spat your drink. “No way you were the other woman?” You choked on a laugh. “Or other man, I mean. Sorry.” You corrected yourself with a snicker.
Lando let out a laugh, shaking his head. “I would never be the other woman! I had no clue she was taken.”
“Oh my god that’s horrible.” You were practically mortified, but that didn’t stop the giggles from spilling through.
Before the conversation continued, your friend pulled away, finally, and gasped. “My goodness, I think I forgot my lipstick in his car.” She announced.
Her boyfriend, without missing a beat nodded, before adding, “I also forgot her lipstick in my car.”
Silence.
You blinked.
Lando blinked.
“That,” You said flatly, “Is the worst excuse I have ever heard in my life.”
Lando nodded solemnly, eyeing his friend. “Dead awful, mate.”
“Excuse you, it’s valid,” Your best friend insisted, already standing up.
“Yeah,” Her boyfriend added, also rising from his seat. “It’s a… uh… really good lipstick.”
“Oh, for sure,” Lando said, crossing his arms. “And you definitely can’t live without it for another twenty minutes?”
“Exactly,” Your best friend chirped, grabbing her boyfriend’s hand. “We’ll be right back!”
They threw some cash on the table and practically bolted out of the restaurant, giggling like schoolkids.
You and Lando sat there, watching them go, neither of you speaking for a long moment.
Finally, you exhaled dramatically. “That went well then?”
Lando let out a breathy scoff. “Super.”
“Right..” You said reaching for your bag, hoping to pay. “So, I think I need to stab my eyes.” You shook your head in disbelief “Might just go home and pretend that never happened.”
“Don’t worry, I got it.” He pulled out his wallet and set his card down.
“Are you sure? I can cover for me—“
He shook his head. “Take it as financial compensation.”
You laughed. “Don’t you also deserve that too?”
Lando smirked. “Well if you’re offering a round of drinks on you, then I accept…” He trailed off playfully.
“Smooth.. real smooth.” You quirked a brow. “But, deal.” You agreed.
He smiled. “Too easy.”
After paying, you both stood up, and Lando offered you his arm like some sort of gentleman.
You smiled, giggling before slipping your arm through his, and walking out of the restaurant, into the cool night air.
The city streets felt alive, the faint hum of traffic and distant chatter from people enjoying their own nights out, but the two of you were now caught in a bubble of conversation, just the two of you as you headed to a nearby bar.
Lando held the door open for you as you entered, giving you a playful grin as he followed you inside. You found a quiet booth near the back, away from the noise but close enough to feel like you were still part of the world.
After a few drinks, the conversation flowed effortlessly, bouncing from one topic to another, everything from embarrassing childhood stories to what kind of movies you both secretly liked.
It was one of those nights where time seemed to stretch, and for the first time, you realized how comfortable it felt just being around him.
“So, you work for the NBA then?” He asked.
You nodded. “Yeah. Season just ended so I usually visit here in my off time.” A pause. “Unfortunately she’s been preoccupied with her new lover so.. tonight was kind of her idea of bonding with me when.. you know..”
He grinned. “Her idea of bonding was the worst double date ever, essentially?”
“Yeah.” You laughed and eagerly nodded in agreement.
“Hm. What’s your ideal date then?” He asked, taking a sip of his drink, his eyes sparkling with that familiar mischievous glint.
You bit your lip to think about it. “Hmm, nothing too extravagant, honestly. Probably just a nice dinner, somewhere intimate.” You paused.
“Somewhere you can actually hear the other person talk. Maybe a walk after, in the city or by the beach, depending on the weather. And then a stop for dessert, like a really good tiramisu.” You smiled.
Lando nodded, intrigued. “Sounds perfect..”
You smiled softly, surprised he got it. “Yeah. Just a time where you can really connect with someone. Not get distracted by too much going on around you… unlike some events from tonight." You joked as Lando laughed.
He leaned back, studying you for a moment, as if trying to read between the lines. “Honestly, I think I could make that happen.”
You blinked. “You think you could?”
Lando gave you a playful smile, the corners of his mouth curling up. “I know I could.”
You both laughed, the energy between you light and teasing.
It felt nice, easy, almost as if you’d known each other much longer than you really had.
When you finished your drinks, Lando paid.
It caught you off guard because you thought the deal was that he paid for that disastrous dinner and you covered the drinks… but nope.
Not on his watch.
It was Lando Norris, and he was not going to let the lady pay, ever.
Once the two of you started walking back down the street, the breezy night air made the atmosphere feel even more romantic.
Lando stopped just outside a corner, turning to face you. The smile on his face softened, and for a second, the playful teasing from earlier faded into something more serious.
“I meant what I said by the way,” He said, his voice quieter now. “I’d like to take you on that date.”
You stared at him, your heart picking up pace, though you couldn’t quite place why. Something about the way he was looking at you made you feel like this was more than just a casual offer.
You tilted your head slightly. “Yeah?”
Lando’s eyes softened, and he nodded. “Yeah.”
A pause lingered between you, both of you standing there in the quiet, before you finally smiled. “Okay.. I’d like that.”
His smile grew in return, and it felt like everything around you slowed down for a second. He stepped a little closer, his presence warm and inviting.
“Really?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, that teasing edge still in his voice.
You nodded again, your heart feeling just a little too full for comfort. “Yeah, really.”
Lando’s smile deepened as he took a step closer, now standing just in front of you. The cool night air swept past, but the moment felt still, like the world around you had quieted down just for a moment.
“Hm. Need a ride?” He asked, his voice suddenly more tender.
You thought about it for a second before nodding your head slightly. “Mmm yes.. but… I’ve been staying with my friend while I’ve been in town and I’m not too sure if I want to.. go home to that… ”
Lando grinned softly. “Well…”
You cut him off, holding up a finger with a playful warning, although you wouldn’t be opposed. “Don’t you dare offer your place.”
He chuckled, stepping even closer now, his breath mingling with yours. "Well, would you rather spend more time with me or go home to whatever scenario you and I both know is happening right at this moment?”
There was that familiar teasing glint in his eyes again, but this time, his gaze lingered a little longer on your lips. You could feel the pull between you, something charged and undeniable, and before you knew it, the words were lost to a moment that felt like it had been waiting for its time to happen.
Without thinking, you giggled. Stepping forward and kissed him.
It was soft at first, tentative, like the world was holding its breath, but then it deepened, both of you leaning into it, as if the night itself had been waiting for this.
The kiss was slow and just the right amount of daring, the kind that spoke of something neither of you had been expecting but were both undeniably drawn to.
When you pulled away, there was a breathless silence, and Lando’s grin was all warmth now, his eyes locked onto yours.
“Wise choice,” He murmured softly, his voice hoarse.
You laughed, your heart racing as you tried to gather yourself, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling up as you subtly tried to hide your face in his chest.
“Let’s just get out of here.”
And with that, he offered his hand to you, leading you to his car, the night feeling just a little more alive than before.
likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated! ^_^ and pls Lmk if you wanna be apart of my permanent tag list :3
Summary: When she's your saving grace after a man (Sigh.) is ruining your night.
Word Count: 1.7k
Disclaimer/s: idk just fluff, heavy flirting allat :3
Vienna's Voice! hiii!!! so happy to be writing again, aghhh i wanted to get this one out before thanksgiving but i got too BUSY... but here u go!!!:3 recycled plot from a paige one i did but ykw, its something at least..! hope u enjoy!... <3
You regretted coming here the second you stepped inside. But you decided to stay anyways.
It was supposed to be a chill night, one drink while waiting for your friends, who were already twenty minutes late and “on their way.”
The bar was dim enough to feel cozy, loud enough to feel alive, and yet… small enough for unwanted attention to find you.
And unfortunately, one guy had found you.
Of course he had.
You’d given him three polite smiles, two vague answers, and one desperate attempt at pretending to text someone very important.
He didn’t care.
“So,” he said, leaning his forearm on the bar so close you could smell his cologne, “What’s a pretty girl like you doing out alone on a night like this?”
You kept your eyes on your drink. “I’m not alone.”
“Mmh,” he hummed, unconvinced. “Looks like it.”
You gripped your glass a little tighter.
You had two options: keep humoring him until your friends arrived, or—
“Take the hint, dude,” You said at last, your patience snapping clean in half. You didn’t raise your voice, but it sharpened like a blade. “I have a girlfriend.”
Lie. And it was clear you had made your choice.
And before you could even process what you were doing, your body moved.
You latched onto the nearest person walking past.
Her.
The tall girl you had seen earlier, even if you hadn’t admitted it to yourself. The one whose height made the whole room seem too small for her. The one with beautiful curls pulled back, sleeves fitted to her biceps, casual confidence in every step she took.
You’d caught her eye once when you walked in, a split-second glance that felt longer than it was.
And apparently, she’d noticed you too.
She halted the second your fingers wrapped around her arm. Your heart jumped into your throat.
She looked down at your hand. Then at you. Wide-eyed. Stunning. Taller than you expected.
Her brows lifted, confused, but only for a moment.
Because she saw him. And her face changed instantly, clearly taking the hint.
Protective. Sharp. Territorial in a way that wasn’t loud, but incredibly clear.
This wasn’t some random stranger anymore. This was someone stepping into a role she understood without needing instructions.
“Hey,” She murmured, voice low and smooth, tilting her head toward you. “There you are.”
Her arm slid around your waist before you could breathe, before you could think.
She pulled you gently but firmly against her, your body fitting against hers like she’d done this a thousand times before.
Her hand settled just above your hip, possessive, warm, and terrifyingly natural.
“I’ve been looking for you,” She added, soft but pointed, as if you’d been hers all along.
The guy blinked. “Wait—this is your girlfriend?” There was almost a hint of disgust to it.
She didn’t even look at him.
She kept her eyes on you, thumb brushing your waist in a slow, steady reassurance you didn’t know you needed.
“Everything okay, baby?” She asked quietly, but loud enough for him to hear, but she meant it only for you.
You barely had time to react.
Because— god, she smelled good.
Her voice was rich. Her presence swallowed the entire space between you and everything else.
You nodded shakily. “Y-Yeah. I’m good.”
Finally, she turned her head toward the man, her expression flattening into something cold.
“She said she’s with someone,” Her voice was calm. Territorial. Final. Dangerous.
The guy swallowed. “I didn’t know she was telling the truth.”
“You do now,” She replied, hand tightening once at your hip, a warning with a pulse. “So get out of my face.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t look back. He just left.
And only once he was fully gone did she release a slow breath.
Her arm stayed around you. Her fingers still rested at your waist. Her body stayed angled protectively behind you.
A sigh escaped your lips before you slowly turned, not realizing you were still holding onto her arm.
She glanced down at your hand, then over at you.
Her smirk was small. Lethal. Stunning. “Wasn’t aware I had a girlfriend?” There was almost a hint of teasing in her voice.
You flushed, heart stuttering. “Sorry… you were just the closest,” You admitted, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly. “I panicked.”
She tilted her head, eyes roaming over you with an intensity that made your stomach knot. “Lucky me, then.” Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, one that made it very clear she wasn’t joking.
You swallowed, words caught somewhere between your brain and your mouth. “Uh…right.” You tried to shake it off, finally removing your hand from her arm. “Sorry again, for just… grabbing you like that,” You said, gesturing vaguely.
Her hand stayed firmly on your waist, thumb brushing lightly over your side, showing clear interest. “No complaints,” She said, that smirk lingering, sharp and certain. “Not one.”
You could feel your pulse quicken. Every time her fingers moved even slightly, your chest felt like it might explode. And God was she attractive.
“Well,” She grinned, finding your slight blush amusing. “Can I at least get my girlfriend a drink?” She teased.
You raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across your own features. “Actually, I think my girlfriend owes me her name first,” You countered, trying to gain some confidence.
She laughed, your heart hammering as you let your hands settle back lightly at her arms, savoring the electricity between you.
“Fair enough.” She said. “I’m Juju.”
“Juju,” you repeated, letting the name roll off your tongue like it belonged to you.
And maybe it already did.
You continued to share your name with her, and she smiled.
Juju leaned in slightly, curls brushing your shoulder, eyes glittering with that unreadable mix of challenge and warmth. “Now how about that drink?,” She murmured, her hands tightening ever so slightly on your waist.
You exhaled shakily, a grin tugging at your lips despite the heat rushing through you. “By all means,” You said, your eyes never leaving hers.
Her laugh was soft, melodic. “Good answer,” She said, pulling you just a little closer.
And just like that, the crowd, the noise, the bar itself, all of it faded. There was only you and Juju, the space between you charged with something too thrilling to ignore.
It’s always nights like this that are the most enjoyable.
But maybe this was now the start of something new.
likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated! ^_^ and pls Lmk if you wanna be apart of my permanent tag list!!!
꒰ groceries ꒱ civilian life and jason todd did not mix. but you hate grocery shopping alone, so it’s not like he had much of a choice.
It took a lot longer for Jason to adjust to a simple lifestyle with you. One of those bigger adjustments was doing something as simple as grocery shopping. After he came back as the Red Hood, he’d survived off of take out, mini mart reheat-able foods, and diners.
Now with you, he was eating at least two fully prepped and cooked meals a day. The downside to said meals, happened to be the shopping for the ingredients.
He liked spending time with you.. just not walking around a grocery store for well over an hour.
You’d be walking down the bread isle, bottom lip tucked firmly between your teeth as you debate whole wheat or sourdough.
“Hey, Jay?” You call over your shoulder, eyes darting between the two. He answers with a short, ‘hmm?’ But that was to be expected.
It was—to your great displeasure, his response to most things.
“Sourdough or whole wheat to go with Spaghetti?” You grab both options, turning around to face him. He looked cute hunched over the shopping cart, scowl on his face.
The scowl softened the moment he met your eyes, taking on a softer, more light side that you adored so dearly. “I don’t care. Couldn’t tell you the difference.”
Face falling almost comically fast, you narrow your eyes. “Wha—you know what! Never mind. Sourdough it is.”
You two dance around the same questions every time you are stuck between options. Half of the time, Jason wondered if you continuously asked him things simply to keep him awake.
By the end of the excruciating shopping, you always rewarded him with a kiss and first dibs on the movie you watched before bed—that is, your bed time, not his.
Likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future posts. This is just a thought post ngl idk half of what i wrote
꒰ holy ground ꒱ john never imagined himself dating a regular civilian. but seeing a someone helpless who happened to be the most beautiful person he’d ever seen—well, the rest was history.
John Constantine who; strayed away from anything serious when it came to civilians. But that came crumbling down the second his eyes landed on you that fateful day in the grocery store across from his favorite run down tobacco shops.
He’d halted in his steps — literally. His body frozen in the bread isle as he watched the scene unfold in front of him; you on your tip-toes, brows scrunched, and bottom lip tugged between your teeth. You were struggling to grasp a bag of everything bagels just out of your reach.
The trench coat around him brushed back behind his hands that were stuffed into his pockets. He debated on approaching to help a pretty woman in need, but he knew very well he should not get involved.
Nonetheless, his feet worked without his consent until he was standing less than three feet away, amusement tugging at his lips as he admired your persistence.
Feeling a presence, you’d turned to see the dirty blonde, shaggy haired, scruffy man smirking up at you. “May I help you?” Your eyes narrowed suspiciously despite the flutter of your heart.
Sure, he was rough around the edges.. but it was oddly charming in a way.
“Looking like you’re the one who needs s’help.” A thick Scouse accent slipping from his lips had your heart rate skyrocketing and expression growing more perplexed.
John liked that about you. No matter what, your face expressed exactly what you were feeing. It was comforting in the long run.
You’d huffed, falling flat on your feet and crossing your arms in defense. “Excuse you, mister-“
To your further annoyance and his smugness, he brushed against your side, grabbing the bag for you. And just like that, the both of you were screwed.
John knew he shouldn’t involve you in his life. You didn’t deserve that torture. But he found falling in loving with you was harder to stop than usual.
You’d accepted his lifestyle fairly easy, though you were sure you’d started sleeping less since you two began dating.. a small loss to win so much.
Likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated! Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any future dc/marvel/or john posts. Lowk uncharacteristic sorry… just had a thought. This is lowk a ramble. Idk.
꒰ june gloom ꒱ summer was once your favorite season. that was until your boyfriend broke up with you for another girl the same day you got fired. in search of a new start, you get an interview for a job at wayne enterprises—only for it to get off to a rough start when a certain wayne child spills his coffee all over you.
Everything sucks. Four days ago you were cheated on, broken up with, and fired all in the span of six hours. Now, you were pushing through the sweltering heat of Gotham City mid-June and trying not to get mugged in broad daylight.
You hate this city.
Clutching your purse close to your body, you side step a family. Two kids with their parents, smiling and licking ice cream without a care in the world. If only you could be that carefree again. If only the stench of the sewers didn’t put a damper on your mood—something you hadn’t much cared for as a kid as you were too busy fantasizing about mermaids or something.
Heels clicked against the broken pavement shortly before you hit the right side of Gotham. The wealthy, larger than life side.
There was a time to envied these people. The ones with pressed shirts and ties worth more than your rent. But, then you came to the realization after the last catastrophe the Black Mask caused, that they—more than ever, were at the mercy of the worst of the villains that flooded the city.
Inhaling briefly, smelling the exhaust from cars mixing with the aroma of a hot dog stand you pass, you force a smile onto your lips.
Wayne Enterprises were looking for a new desk secretary, and considering you had many qualifications for said job, you were more confident than usual.
Of course you’d have a lot of competition, but you still stood a good chance.
The skyscraper of a building rose far above the others, but in the clear sky you could narrowly see the tip of it—truly beautiful in its glistening, glass glory.
Calming your semi-racing heart, you take all of four steps inside when a burn pierces through your new off-white blouse.
It took you another forty seconds to process the brown stain blossoming over your chest. Fuck. No. Rage simmered beneath your skin as your eyes flickered up and just like that—the fire was smothered out.
Wide-eyed and mouth agape, Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson stood frozen and horrified in front of you. Bruce Wayne’s adopted child—or man now, you supposed.
“I am so sorry—“ he sputters out, reaching out before snapping his hand back.
Swallowing thickly, you press another fake smile onto your lips. Remain professional. Remain…
You shake your head and breathe deeply. “It’s fine! It’s fine. Just.. never mind.”
Dick winces, “do you have an extra shirt in your office..?”
Is he serious? Your face falls blank. You weren’t going to make the interview now, so you might as well cut your losses and just head back home.
The man was now apologizing to the janitor who was shooing him away from the pool of coffee on the ground. You’d ‘happily’ stepped away from it long ago.
Dick then turned back to you, his brows knitting together in apology. “The answer to your question, Mister Grayson, is no. I do not have a blouse in my office,” your voice took on a condescending tone despite your promise to remain professional, “as this was me coming here for an interview.”
His face blanches. “Shit.”
“Yep.. shit.” Nodding slowly, you clear your throat and push your bag up your shoulder.
A few awkward seconds pass by in which you could practically see his brain churning in thought. “What if I buy you a new shirt—we can go to the—“
Shaking your head, you stifle a laugh. “No. I’ll just go. Thanks.” Turning on your heels, you make your way toward the exit.
“Or—“ he keeps going, footsteps heavy as he follows after you. “It’s Bruce. I’ll get you another interview!”
You wanted to decline out of spite, truly. But… why would you miss such an opportunity? Using his nepotism could help you in the long run. “Fine. Deal.”
Dick smiles as you spin around to face him, your own expression mirroring his. “Thank you for your kindness, Mister-“
“Dick. Just Dick.”
You fought the frown halfway down your lips, slipping into an happier expression. “Thank you, Dick.” You exchange your name in return after, your shoulders slumping in relief.
Taking the silence that followed as your cue to leave, you make it three steps before he’s calling after you, your name slipping off his tongue as sweet as honey. “Hold on! Is it..” he rounds you, taking up the space where you were supposed to be exiting, “this could be considered a.. what do they say in the movies? A meet-cute?”
The bellowing laughter coming from your lips narrowly echoes off the walls, eyes crinkling in amusement. He’s not laughing, though. His beautiful, sculpted face is a mixture of expressions, mainly; confusion.
He is serious. Oh!
“Well… technically, yes. But we’re missing a key factor here.” You feign a serious look, eyebrows drawn together.
Dick grins, the corner of his lip tipping upward. “And what’d that be?”
“I suppose an exchange of numbers.”
He thinks real hard on that, nodding slightly. “You might be right.” It takes him one slip into his pocket, a slight dig through his wallet, before he hands you a police card.
“…detective Grayson.” You read thoughtfully, “i’ll give you a call when I get that interview set up.”
He laughs at that, opening his mouth to say something more but you already side step him, making a breezy walk out the front door.
And if you added a little sashay to your hips, well that was between you and the man who watched your exit with a smirk in tact.
Likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated!! Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future dick or dc posts <3 this was so rushed and lazy but i will start putting more effort in soon… trust.. & credits to @uzmacchiato for blue divider!!
꒰ easy life ꒱ jason didn’t expect domestic life to be this simple. and yet, here you were. so simple, yet so sweet.
After what seemed to be the longest night of his life, Jason found refuge—or he usually found refuge, in your comforting arms. Tonight was different. He’d only made it two steps inside your apartment before he grunted, the sharp pain of the corner of a night stand had him halting.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Your apologetic tone coming from the kitchen had his confusion growing.
Eyes alert and scanning the room, Jasons eyebrows knit together. Everything was rearranged? The couch was facing the wall where two recliners used to sit and said recliners were sitting where the couch once was.
Jason didn’t like change. He didn’t like the things he couldn’t predict. That’s why it’d been so hard accumulating to your lifestyle. You were a wrecking ball of change and the unexpected.
And somehow he found himself loving you for it. The very thing he despised somehow became what he cherished
“Jay?” He blinked twice, gaze flickering from the living room, to you.
He exhaled quietly, because no matter how many times he was greeted by your face, he could never quite accept that such a beautiful person had seen him and said; yes. Him. I want him.
Your small frown turned into a lopsided smile. “What?”
“Nothing.” Jason shrugs off his leather jacket, tossing it over the couch and rolls his tense shoulders. “What happened to the living room?”
Grinning as he made his way toward you, you shrug. “Got sick of the old layout.” Your warm, vanilla-y scent flooded his senses as your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his own arms snaking around your waist, hoisting you up.
“Welcome home.” You smile, legs wrapping tight around his hips. “Thought about making dinner… but got caught up cleaning.”
Jason hums, burying his head in your neck, inhaling. “‘Smell good.” He notes, ignoring the comment on food, focusing on the only thing that mattered in the moment; you.
Rolling your eyes playfully, you kiss the top of his head. “So… you gonna shower while I order some Chinese food, or what?”
The grime of a long night out in Gotham wasn’t something that you particularly enjoyed about your boyfriends extra circulars, but you wouldn’t ruin a perfectly good night by bringing up your opinions on that topic.
Jason nods against your shoulder, setting you back onto solid ground. “Do I get a prize?”
Your eyebrows lift shortly before laughter follows. “Get the hell out of here.” Her hands press against his chest, pushing him lightly away from her. “Go!”
Smirking, Jason lifts his hands in surrender, taking a few steps backwards toward the bathroom. “I’ll be quick.”
A total lie, by the way. Ever since Jason partially moved into your apartment, you swore your water bill went up tenfold. But, it made you happy, oddly enough.
Showering meant he was getting used to seeing his scars, perhaps even comfortable with them.
Smiling to yourself, you turn on your heels and head straight for the phone. A nice night of Chinese takeout and your favorite series—which had a new episode airing tonight—meant you got to cuddle up next to your boyfriend. That thought alone made you have an extra pep in your step.
likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future jason or dc posts!! this is my first time publishing a dc - related post on this acc <3 i plan on doing it more, though!!
Love your writing! I know it is farrr from Christmastime but could you write a fic where Pedri and reader kiss under the mistletoe because all their friends are teasing them and then obviously leads to a lil confession later on
Under the mistletoe ( Pedri González ! )
synopsis. finding yourself under the mistletoe with your best friend along with the incessant demands of your friends, you and pedri find yourselves in a situation that could only lead to the best christmas present of your life.
disclaimers. kissing, gender isn’t specified — no use of y/n.
notes. idk how to feel about this.. i haven’t written in a veryyyyy long time. ( 1.75k words )
𝓡ed, green, and golden hue’s lit up your living room giving the room a distinct Christmas-like feeling. It was by far your favorite season, especially since it meant you got to have all your friends together in one place.
Steaming mugs full of creamy cocoa warmed your hands and chest as you walked through the open kitchen door into the bustling living room. Three mugs was a lot to carry, but as a former server at a restaurant it was no bother.
You pause under the doorway to admire the scene laid out in front of you.
Leandra was scowling at Hosea as he juggled three ornaments, harsh scoldings leaving her lips to hide the laughter in her eyes. A few feet away, Gavi was explaining a dramatic re-telling of his ordeals at the airport last weekend — a story he’s told a thousand times since it initially happened — to four grinning friends who would rather let him drone on than spoil his mood
And then there was him. Pedri. Your best friend.
He was smiling softly as he listened to Gavi’s story to the loveseat a few feet away. His green knitted sweater sleeves were rolled up half of his forearm and the adorable pin Raphinha’s daughter made him for Christmas was pinned right over his heart.
The man looked good. You had no qualms admitting it, either. It was a well known fact.
Your smile lifts when his head snaps up to you like he had a sixth sense for your presence. Your friends liked to joke that he had spidey-sense for two things in life; football and you.
Pedri rose quickly, slinking around the furniture and straight toward you, hands outstretched. “Let me help.” He said simply, and who were you to decline such an offer?
“Thank you.” Exhaling in relief as he diligently takes two mugs, his hand brushing yours briefly. A shiver runs up your arm at the small contact, but you don’t have time to think about it before a loud whistle interrupts the moment.
Two heads snap in the direction of the sound only to find the culprit—a young Lamine Yamal, who’s giggling with Gavi.
Pedri spares you a questioning glance before Leandra bursts into laughter, as well. By now, the whole room has turned to face the two of you.
“What?” You frown, “is there something—“
Clearing his throat, Pedri murmurs, “look up.”
So you do. An instant wave of nausea and something else hurls through your stomach. Cheeks flaring a vibrant red, you could practically feel the blood pumping through your heated face, you swallow hard.
Mistletoe. Thanks, Marco.
“About damn time!” Leandra chuckles, “quick! We have been waiting for this—wait who has a phone on them?”
Hosea lifts his hand, waving his phone proudly. You groan, Pedri shifts on his feet, laughing quietly.
“What’s so funny.” You hiss, “they are—“ Pedri sets his mugs aside casually before taking yours, leaving you stunned and all too silent. What is he doing? “Pedri.”
He’s not speaking, at least not yet. His eyes swipe across your face, flicking to your lips. The room’s buzzing laughter and chanting dies in your ears then.
Is he really going to do this?
Scratch that. Are you really about to let this happen?
Then, your name leaves his lips like a prayer to whatever God is listening—or maybe just you. A pleading for you to answer it. To answer him.
You blink a few times to make sure this is real. You think that maybe you should pinch yourself. He says your name again, and you spare a glance at your eager friends who seem all too pleased by the situation.
“Uh—okay.” You finally choke out, tongue darting out to wet your dry lips. He doesn’t seem pleased by that answer, though.
Pedri takes a small step forward, “gonna need a real response, cariño.”
“Yes!” You can already hear the jokes your friends will be making for years over this.
His hands, so soft and gentle, cup your cheeks moments before his lips collide with yours. It was hesitant for a moment before it melted into something better. You felt the smile prick at his lips when his tongue prodded at your lips, seeking entrance without forcing it.
Gut churning and cheeks ablaze, your lips part for him. He takes the chance, tongue swiping your lips before he takes his fill of you.
Holy hell—or maybe heaven. Because it sure feels like you’ve ascended into some other—much better place.
Time passes, how much you aren’t really sure, before he pulls back. Your ears ability to hear comes back at the same time, hoots, hollers, whistles, and cheers fill the room.
Your face hurt from blushing, and you can’t quite get yourself to meet Pedri’s gaze as you reach for your mug. “I hope you’re all real happy with yourselves.” You grumble to your friends who seem far too prideful for your liking.
“Hot-damn.” Leandra claps, “Pedro, I was unfamiliar with your game!”
“Shut up.” Pedri rolls his eyes, yet humor fills his voice as he brings one cup of cocoa to Fermín before settling into his spot on the couch once again.
The rest of the night passes in a blur, yet you weren’t sure you were fully present for any conversation after the kiss. Your eyes seemed to find his every chance you found and it was reciprocated.
There were a few small instances where you found his touch lingering when he passed you, a hushed, ‘excuse me’ along with it.
Or when he had plenty of space to grab a cookie from the plate beside you, but his shoulder brushed yours all the same.
It wasn’t until people started trickling out that you found yourself alone with him.
The kitchen sink was soapy and warm as you cleaned dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher, a half-assed attempt at keeping yourself busy.
You felt his presence before you saw him. “Everyone gone?” You ask over your shoulder, meeting his eyes for the first time in conversation since before the mistletoe.
He hummed out a reply, “mhm.”
Your hand felt heavy as you set a wreath-patterned cup into the dishwasher. “Ah, are you on the way out as well?”
His footsteps were heavy on the tiled floor as he walked over to the counter a few feet away, leaning his back against it and crossing his arms. He didn’t speak for a moment and when he did it came rough and quiet.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
The simple sentence shouldn’t have been so nauseating, but your stomach churned violently. “About earlier? The—uhm, the mistletoe?”
“Yeah.” Pedri confirms, rubbing a hand over his jaw like it could sooth him somehow.
You didn’t know what to say. If you should laugh it off, if you should try to change the topic, or if you should confront the growing, longing ache in your heart that came with every glance of him that had only grown impossibly stronger over the past year.
Wiping your hands on a rag, you turn to face him to confront him head-on. “What about it?”
He almost seemed baffled. “What about it?” He repeats, taking a long breath, “fuck—I..” Pedri trails off, his mouth opening and closing twice before he finds the ability to speak again. “I didn’t imagine that’s how our first kiss would be.” He admits through a breathy laugh, “I was hoping for something not so… public, I guess.”
He’d thought about those things?
“Pedri—“
“No, wait—“ Rubbing his temples, Pedri steps around the dishwasher, crowing you back into the counter. Your back presses against the wooden countertop, leaving you little room to escape.
Not that you wanted to.
His head cocks to the side, eyes examining you with a sort of reverence you’d never seen from a man. “Did you.. feel anything?”
The desperate twang to his otherwise confident tone had your heart melting into flowing lava. “Besides your unnaturally soft lips?” You tease, not to make light of the moment, but to ease the tension and worry lining his face.
It works, too. His eyes crinkle slightly, lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “Besides that.”
“Yeah.” You answer honestly. “I did. I do.”
“Present tense?” He lifts an amused eyebrow.
“Pedri, I’d be a fool not to feel something for someone as amazing as you.” The confession slips from your lips without much thought. It was easy because it is the truth.
He’s a gentleman, but not condescending. He’s caring without expectation. He remembers your favorite snack even though it changes so often. He gives you the time of day even when he’s busy beyond belief.
And he did it all as a friend.
Pedri’s touch burns your skin as his hand trails up your arm, over your shoulder, finding its resting place against your cheek. “And I’d have to be the stupidest man on the planet to not feel something for a person like you. I’ve been a goner since I first locked eyes on you in Mr. Garcia’s class.”
Laughter bubbles in your chest at the thought of him seeing a thirteen year old version of you with your crooked glasses, braces, and scared-as-shit face when you stepped into the class. You’d been new to town and he’d been the first to approach you.
“Why’d you wait so long?” You ask quietly, leaning into his touch.
Pedri chews on his cheek. “Wasn’t really sure I deserved you, for one. And two? I was scared of rejection and losing the only person who had the ability to make or break me.”
The rosy tint to his cheeks and nose would have had you swooning if you weren’t already drunk on his words. It’s hard to comprehend that Pedri—your Pedri, didn’t think he deserved you.
“You more than deserve me, Pedri. Christ.” You laugh, “I guess we, unfortunately, have Lamine and Marco to thank for this.”
That draws a small chuckle from the brunette before he’s pulling you in with a hand on your waist and tipping your head up with the hand still on your cheek. “We can thank them later… for now, though.. I’d like to kiss you.”
“Who would I be to deny such an offer?” You gasp dramatically, grinning wide when he shakes his head in silent laughter, his head dipping down to meet your lips.
Likes, comments, and reposts are all appreciated. Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future posts.
synopsis: you didnt know the boy behind the counter at a record store you were a regular at was such a good guitar player and an even better songwriter!
note: ive been back into my gumi moment bc of kade sry. Anyways enjoy this messiness — anime masterlist.
It started when he was seventeen, standing behind the counter of the tiny record shop where he worked weekends. The bell above the door chimed, and you walked in. Your hair caught the light like something untouchable, your long skirt swayed around your ankles, and the tank top you wore clung effortlessly to you. He told himself he didn’t care, he never cared, but for some reason, he couldn’t look away.
Then you started coming in often. The shop was never crowded—half the time, it was just him, the hum of an old ceiling fan, and the faint crackle of whatever vinyl was spinning behind the counter. But somehow, even in the smallest groups, his eyes found you without trying.
By the time he was nineteen, things had shifted. He wasn’t just stocking shelves and cataloging albums at his dad’s shop anymore, he was performing. Nothing big, just small venues: coffee shops, school dances, anywhere that would let him and his two friends, Nobara and Yuji, play a set. He never admitted it to them, but every lyric, every song, still circled back to you.
He always circled back to where it started—the record shop that had practically raised him. The place smelled faintly of dust and vinyl, the walls lined with posters that hadn’t been changed in years. It was quiet, overlooked by most of the city, but every Tuesday afternoon he claimed the little stage tucked in the back. That was where he’d sit with his electric guitar, fingers tracing out chords that were less practice and more memory, as though he was talking to the ghosts of every song he’d ever written.
When you saw him for the first time in two years, a smile pulled at your lips before you even realized it. “Hey, you’re back!”
His strumming faltered, the chord dying mid-note. Your voice cut through the hum of the shop, and he swore it was better than anything he could ever pull from his guitar. He blinked at you, glanced over his shoulder like you might’ve been speaking to someone else, then back again. “…Me?”
You giggled, the kind that made his chest tighten. “Obviously. Why’d you stop coming around?” The record in your hands was forgotten, your attention fixed fully on him now.
You didn’t even know his name. All you knew was that he’d always made small talk at the register, that his dry humor and quiet smile had a way of making your day brighter whenever you bought vinyls.
He shifted, lifting the black-and-red guitar in his lap as though it could explain everything. “I got a better gig,” he muttered, a little hesitant. Then, after a beat, “…I’m in a band, I guess.”
“No shit! What’s it called?” You stepped closer, scanning him up and down for anything you could.
“It’s called the First Years, we just do small stuff now but it’s been really cool,” his smile was small, almost non-existent, but it was there.
“I love bands! Do you think I could come to a show?” Your smile never wavered; it had been there the whole time, bright and warm.
Megumi’s mind raced. You could love it… hate it… heck, you could even tell him his playing was terrible and that he should just quit forever—
“You can come watch us rehearse! I can send you the address!” he blurted before his brain could catch up with his mouth.
You giggled again, “Deal.” You dug into your black purse and pulled out your phone, opening your contacts. “Here,” you said, holding it out to him.
Megumi stared at the screen like it was a puzzle he wasn’t sure how to solve. His fingers hovered over it, then he slowly typed in his information, his brow furrowing in concentration.
“Uh… okay,” he muttered, finally handing it back. “I’ll send you the rehearsal address.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused at his awkwardness. “You’ll send it? That’s all?”
He swallowed hard, looking anywhere but directly at you. “Y-yeah. I… I don’t want you to get lost or—whatever.”
You smiled softly, a warmth in your chest that made your stomach flutter. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Megumi nodded quickly, as if agreeing to that were the hardest thing he’d ever done. “My name is Megumi, just so you know,” He gave you a small, almost imperceptible smile before picking up his guitar again, the familiar chords filling the space between you—but this time, they sounded a little different, softer, almost like they were meant for you.
When he next saw you, Megumi thought he was completely fucked.
It wasn’t just that you were smiling at him again, or that your hair caught the light like it always did—it was the way your eyes seemed to find him before he even noticed you. His chest tightened, and his hands itched to strum chords he didn’t have the courage to play.
Of course, none of that made his legs stop feeling like lead. You waved, leaning casually against the doorway of the rehearsal space, and suddenly all his carefully rehearsed coolness evaporated.
“Uh… hey,” he managed, his voice just a little rougher than usual.
You smiled, tilting your head, clearly delighted at the flustered version of him that only appeared around you. “Hey, ready to play?”
And just like that, he was screwed—because every chord, every note he played from then on would have to compete with the way your smile made his heart hammer.
Yuji, who was the drummer, tilted his head and frowned at him. “Dude… are you okay?”
Megumi blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the doorway for longer than was socially acceptable. His hands gripped the guitar a little too tightly, and he cleared his throat.
“Uh… yeah. Totally fine,” he said, his voice flat but clearly not.
Yuji raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second, but shrugged and returned to his kit. “Okay… if you say so,” he muttered, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Megumi exhaled quietly, forcing himself to focus on the chords in front of him. Focus on the music. Focus. Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her…
He looked at you, really looked at you—your bright smile, the denim miniskirt, the pink crop top. His chest tightened and he realized his boat was more going into uncharted waters.
Nobara, perched near the mic stand, noticed his distraction immediately and smirked. “Oi, Megumi,” she called, voice dripping with amusement. “You staring at the doorway or are you actually going to play something?”
Megumi’s hands twitched over the guitar strings. “I’m playing,” he muttered, his eyes darting back to the chords like they might save him.
Nobara rolled her eyes but didn’t push further, hopping onto the stage. “Yeah, sure. Just don’t screw up in front of our guest star, Romeo.” She gave him a wink, clearly enjoying his panicked state.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. Every note now carried double weight—because you were watching, and every fiber of him wanted to impress you without completely falling apart.
They started playing Brick by Boring Brick by Paramore, it was number one on their set list for now until Megumi finishes writing a song for just them.
When they finished playing, Nobara’s last note lingered in the small space. You clapped, smiling brightly. “That was amazing! But… I swear you kept looking at me the whole time.”
Megumi froze mid-strum, his cheeks heating. “I-I wasn’t…”
You giggled, tilting your head. “Sure you weren’t. You’re lucky I like it when people stare at me.”
Nobara snorted from the mic stand, clearly enjoying the show. Megumi swallowed hard, gripping his guitar a little tighter.
You leaned against the doorway, watching him carefully pack up his guitar after Nobara and Yuji left. “You know,” you said, tilting your head, “you play way better than I expected. And… you’re really serious about it, huh?”
Megumi’s fingers froze on the strap of his guitar. “I—I guess I’ve been doing it for a while,” he muttered, voice low. He avoided your eyes, scanning the floor instead.
“Do you write songs?” you asked softly. Your tone was curious, gentle.
He hesitated. “Yeah… I mean… I just… I don’t really play for anyone, usually. Just… me.”
You stepped a little closer, your smile warm. “I get that. I mean… I’ve always liked music that feels personal. I like knowing the person behind it.”
Megumi’s throat tightened. He wanted to say so much more, wanted to explain how every lyric, every chord, every song he’d written had you somewhere in mind—but the words stuck. Instead, he just nodded. “Yeah… personal,” he murmured.
You studied him for a moment, your gaze softening. “I’m glad you let me see this side of you,” you said quietly. “I think… it’s really good.”
Megumi blinked, trying to keep his expression neutral, but a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips. He picked up his guitar again, strumming a soft chord. “Thanks,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “It… means a lot that you think so.”
For the first time since you’d walked into the shop, he felt like maybe, just maybe, you were starting to understand him in ways nobody else ever had.
Ever since then, you started showing up more and more. You and Nobara had become close—laughing about the band’s inside jokes and teasing Megumi mercilessly whenever he muttered under his breath.
You and Yuji had become an unstoppable Fortnite duo, yelling at each other over headshots and reviving each other in ways that made Megumi’s ears burn in secondhand embarrassment.
Megumi, meanwhile, still got nervous to speak around you, his words stumbling over themselves like they had a mind of their own. But little by little, he started leaving the door open for you, literally and figuratively, so you could hang around the studio without him feeling like he had to force conversation.
And then there were Megumi’s cousins, Maki and Mai, who you met one Saturday when Nobara had dragged you along to help with some “totally serious band business.” They were both kind but sharp, teasing Megumi with questions about you that made him fidget like he’d swallowed a cactus.
Through it all, the dynamic was chaotic and warm. You were becoming a part of their world, the one Megumi usually kept so carefully at arm’s length. And every time you laughed at his bad jokes or nodded at a lyric he’d scribbled down in his notebook, his chest tightened with that same familiar feeling—something he hadn’t named yet, but definitely recognized.
Speaking of very important band business, Nobara had dragged you out for a shopping day—just the two of you. She said it was because, as “the only person in the band with style,” she needed to buy new outfits for their next gig at a local rave.
You, of course, had agreed. Who were you to say no?
The two of you wandered through racks of glittering fabrics and sequined tops, Nobara’s sharp eye catching every detail. “You need something bold,” she declared, holding up a soft pink dress that shimmered under the store lights but stopped around the midst of your thighs. “Something that stands out.”
You laughed, holding it up against yourself in the mirror. “I don’t think my mom would approve of this one,” you said, tugging at the shiny fabric.
Nobara’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Honey, this isn’t for her. This is for you.”
The hours passed in a blur of handbags, boots, and daring outfits, until Nobara’s hand hovered over a delicate, baby blue dress. It was elegant, flowing, and utterly unlike anything you would normally pick for yourself.
“You have to try this,” Nobara insisted, shoving you toward the changing room. “It’s… wow. Just wow.”
When you stepped out, Nobara’s grin widened. “Oh my god. Stop. You look like—like… like the person Megumi’s going to fall head over heels for.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think this is girlfriend material?”
“Girlfriend material?” Nobara scoffed. “Please. I’m just saying you look incredible. Maybe it’ll be useful someday, I dunno.”
You couldn’t help the flutter in your chest. Nobara had no idea just how useful it would be—and how much it would drive Megumi crazy when he saw you in it.
The night of the “gig” —which was technically just a casual hangout with the band—you hadn’t expected much. Nobara had insisted you wear the blue dress, saying it was “just to feel fancy.” You hadn’t realized she meant this fancy.
When you stepped into the rehearsal space, the chatter and laughter of the band came to an abrupt halt.
Megumi froze. His fingers, which had been lazily drumming on his guitar strings, stopped mid-air. His dark eyes widened, and he blinked at you as if trying to make sure he wasn’t imagining it.
You twirled slightly, the dress catching the light, and it flowed around you like it was made for movement, for attention.
Yuji whistled lowly. “Okay… wow.”
Nobara smirked, leaning against the keyboard. “Told you. Looks like a date-ready dress, doesn’t it?” She didn’t even realize the implication, but the smirk on her face said she knew exactly what she was doing.
Megumi’s throat felt dry. “You… look—” His voice caught, the words failing him. “You look good.”
You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Thanks… I guess Nobara picked it out?”
“She did,” you said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t even know it was for a… date.”
Megumi’s chest tightened. A date. The word echoed in his mind, uncomfortably familiar and strangely thrilling.
Nobara grinned wider. “Well, maybe you should take notes, Megumi. This is how you notice someone.”
He wanted to protest, wanted to tell her it wasn’t like that. Instead, he just nodded, his mind racing. He could feel it already—every chord he played next, every lyric he wrote, would somehow end up about you.
And he had no idea how to tell you that without sounding like a complete fool.
After rehearsal, the others had drifted off, Nobara insisting she had “urgent errands” to run and Yuji disappearing to raid the vending machine. That left just you and Megumi in the quiet studio, guitars and scattered sheet music surrounding you like a little cocoon.
“You didn’t have to stay behind,” you said, leaning against the keyboard. “I’m fine on my own.”
Megumi shrugged, running a hand through his dark hair. “I wanted to.”
You raised an eyebrow, sensing something different in his tone. “Wanted to… or felt like you had to?”
He smirked faintly, leaning against his amp. “Maybe a little of both.”
You laughed, the sound soft but teasing. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
Megumi’s gaze flicked to your lips for just a moment before he looked away. “Maybe I like being impossible.”
The air between you warmed with a comfortable tension. You moved closer, picking up a pick from the floor. “So… how’s the songwriting going?” you asked casually, but there was a spark in your eyes.
“Depends,” he replied, stepping just slightly closer. “Am I writing for the band… or for someone specific?”
Your heart skipped. “Someone specific?”
Megumi’s lips curved in that almost-smile he reserved for rare moments. “Maybe.”
You grinned, leaning in just a little, letting your fingers brush against his as you handed him a pick. “You know, I think I’d like to hear that song… the one for someone specific.”
He swallowed, the tension between words and unspoken feelings crackling in the room. “Maybe… you’ll get a private performance soon.”
You laughed softly, a warm, teasing sound that made him want to play that song right now, just for you. “I’d hold you to that.”
Megumi’s dark eyes met yours, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. Only the quiet hum of the empty studio filled the space as the flirting lingered, playful but loaded with meaning.
The next week, the four of you had decided to grab lunch after a long afternoon of practice. Nobara insisted on choosing the place, naturally, dragging everyone to a tiny, trendy cafe she’d been bragging about all week. Yuji was in heaven, already diving into the menu, while Nobara rolled her eyes at his enthusiasm.
Megumi slid into the seat across from you, his gaze casually meeting yours as soon as you sat down. “So… what are you getting?” he asked, voice low, just enough for you to hear.
You leaned forward, smirking. “I was hoping you’d pick for me. You’re decisive.”
He raised an eyebrow, a teasing curl tugging at his lips. “Me? Decisive?”
“Mhm,” you said, leaning closer. “Or maybe I just want to see you squirm under pressure.”
Megumi chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I think you do.”
Nobara, pretending to scroll through her phone, shot you both a side-eye. “You two are ridiculous. Can you not act like everyone else isn’t here?”
Yuji snorted, shoving a fry into his mouth. “I like it. It’s entertaining.”
You grinned, elbowing Megumi lightly. “See? Someone appreciates us.”
Megumi’s eyes flicked to yours, just for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach do that familiar little flip. “I’ll make sure you’re always entertained, then,” he murmured, leaning back slightly, letting the comment hang.
Nobara groaned, tossing a napkin at him. “Ugh, you guys are hopeless.”
You laughed, but your gaze stayed locked on Megumi’s. “Maybe we are, but at least we make lunch more fun.”
Megumi smirked, reaching across the table just enough to brush your hand lightly as he picked up his drink. “Fun… I like that word.”
Yuji, oblivious to the tension, said, “So, who wants fries?”
You rolled your eyes at him, laughing, but your hand lingered a moment longer near Megumi’s. The flirtation didn’t need words—it was in every glance, every brush of fingers, every small smirk exchanged across the table. Even Nobara couldn’t stop grumbling about it, and honestly, that just made it better.
The afternoon had slipped by faster than you realized. The cafe had emptied out, leaving you and Megumi outside on the quiet street, the sun soft and golden on the pavement. Nobara and Yuji had gone ahead to grab snacks for the way home, leaving the two of you alone.
You walked beside him, shoulder brushing against his occasionally, and each time, it sent a small jolt through your chest. Megumi seemed unusually quiet, his usual calm aura tense in a way that made your heart beat faster.
“You’ve been awfully quiet,” you teased, nudging him gently.
Megumi’s dark eyes flicked to yours, holding yours just a beat too long. “Maybe I just like listening to you,” he said softly.
Your breath hitched slightly. “Me?”
He nodded, almost shyly, though the intensity in his gaze made your stomach twist. “Yeah, you make things feel easier.”
You smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, though your hand lingered near his chest. “You’re full of compliments today, huh?”
Megumi smirked faintly, his hand brushing yours—just a brush, but enough to make you flinch in the best way. “Maybe… I’m just realizing some things I shouldn’t have ignored before.”
Your heart beat faster, and before you could second-guess yourself, you stepped closer. Megumi’s dark eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he leaned in as well, closing the tiny distance between you.
The kiss was soft at first, almost tentative, but the warmth in it made your chest tighten and your knees weak. He rested a hand lightly on your cheek, tilting his head slightly as you deepened the kiss, letting the words you hadn’t said all afternoon melt into the moment.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were a little breathless, foreheads resting together.
“I… wanted to do that for a while,” Megumi admitted quietly, voice low but sure.
You smiled, fingers lacing with his. “Me too.”
And somehow, the world felt a little brighter, a little lighter, with just the two of you standing there, the sun setting behind you and nothing else in sight but the warmth of each other.
The day after he asked you on a date. The moment you two ducked into the arcade, the smell of popcorn and the clang of metal from the games hit you. Bright neon lights reflected off the shiny floors, and laughter and cheering filled every corner.
“You’re really bad at skeeball,” you teased, watching him hurl another ball past the target. It bounced off the side, clattering to the ground with a pitiful thud.
Megumi frowned, glaring at the machine. “I’m just warming up,” he said, though his smirk betrayed him.
“Uh-huh,” you said, arms crossed. “Warming up for what? To embarrass yourself in front of me?”
“I’m just letting you win. Don’t want you to feel bad.”
“Sure,” you said, rolling your eyes, though your lips tugged into a grin. “I don’t need pity points, thank you very much.”
Megumi laughed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.” He grabbed a ball and shot again, hitting the lowest ring. “See? Not impossible—just… strategic.”
“You’re terrible,” you said, giggling. “Terrible.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a teasing whisper. “Maybe… I like seeing you laugh more than I like winning.”
Your heart skipped a beat. The arcade lights made his eyes glitter as he looked down at you, that quiet, smoldering look he always got when he wasn’t trying too hard.
You stepped closer, closing the small space between you, and pressed a quick, teasing kiss to his cheek. “Oh really? You just like making me laugh?”
Megumi froze for a second, then let out a soft chuckle. “Maybe I like more than that,” he murmured, catching your hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.
You pulled your hand back, grinning mischievously. “Hmm… I’ll have to see about that.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “I think you already have.”
The two of you spent the next hour bouncing between games—air hockey, claw machines, and racing simulators—laughing and teasing each other. Each stolen glance and playful touch made the tension thicker, the arcade no longer just a place for games, but a playground for something far more exciting.
By the time you left, cheeks flushed and hearts racing, neither of you could stop grinning. Megumi leaned close as you walked out into the cool night air. “Next time,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I’m winning. And maybe… I’ll get a real kiss, not just a cheek one.”
You laughed, pretending to scoff. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Fushiguro.”
And just like that, the game was far from over.
The next time you guys went out, the rain that had started as a drizzle quickly turned into a steady downpour, drumming against the pavement and turning the streets into shimmering rivers of neon reflections. You groaned, gripping your umbrella as you trudged down the street, cursing the weather under your breath.
“You’re soaked,” Megumi’s voice came from beside you, calm and steady despite the rain. He was under his own umbrella, but you could see a few droplets clinging to his dark hair.
“I know,” you muttered, pulling your coat tighter around yourself. “I didn’t think it would rain this hard.”
He smirked, a little amused. “Typical you, always caught off guard.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lifted into a small smile. “And you? You planned this walk in the rain just to make me miserable?”
“Maybe,” he replied, shrugging, though his eyes were fixed on yours, warm and attentive.
You walked in silence for a few moments, the sound of the rain filling the space between your words. Somehow, it felt intimate, like the rest of the world had faded away, leaving just the two of you under the grey sky.
Finally, he stopped, letting his umbrella hover just enough to shield both of you. “You know… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said, voice low, serious.
Your heart skipped. “Oh? And what’s that?”
He took a deep breath, looking down at your intertwined hands. “I’ve… I’ve liked you for a long time. Longer than I probably should’ve.”
You froze, your chest tightening, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Megumi…”
He stepped closer, just enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from him, your umbrellas tilting together, shielding you in your small bubble. “I try to act normal, joke around, focus on music… but it’s always you in my head.”
Your lips parted slightly, eyes wide. “You… you mean that?”
He nodded, biting his lip nervously. “Yeah. I didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to ruin what we have… but I can’t keep it in anymore.”
You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. Slowly, you lifted your hand to his cheek, brushing away a raindrop with your thumb. “Gumi, I like you too.”
His eyes widened for a split second before a soft smile tugged at his lips. “You do?”
“I do,” you whispered, stepping closer, closing the small space between you. “I’ve liked you for a while… I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
For a moment, the world seemed to pause—the rain, the sounds of the city, the neon lights—they all faded. All that mattered was him, and the way he looked at you, vulnerability and warmth mixing in his dark gaze.
Then he leaned in, slowly, letting you pull him closer if you wanted, and pressed his lips to yours. Soft at first, testing, lingering, tasting the rain and the thrill of the confession. Your hands found his jacket, tugging him a little closer, and he smiled against your lips, a quiet laugh vibrating through him.
When he finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, rain dripping down both of you, he whispered, “So… does this mean I get to write a real love song about you now?”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Go ahead. But maybe… save the chorus for me.”
He grinned, eyes sparkling despite the storm around you. “Deal. But you’re the inspiration, so you better be ready for it.”
And in the rain-soaked streets, holding each other under a single shared umbrella, it felt like the start of something unstoppable.
The black SUV rolled to a stop in front of a sleek, modern house tucked behind tall hedges and an iron gate. Rain slicked the driveway, droplets glinting in the soft streetlights. Megumi adjusted the strap of your bag as you both stepped out.
“This is my home,” he said, voice quieter than usual.
You tilted your head, taking in the house. “Wow. This is… impressive.”
He gave a small smile. “Yeah… he likes things fancy.”
You giggled. “You’re excited to have me meet him, aren’t you?”
Megumi’s lips twitched. “Maybe a little.”
You squeezed his hand, warmth spreading through him despite the chill in the air. “Don’t be nervous. I like your dad already.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Adopted dad.”
“Right,” you corrected with a grin. “Your adopted dad.”
Before he could respond, the front door swung open and Gojo stepped out, as vibrant and chaotic as ever, his white hair glinting even in the dim rain.
“Megumi! And… is this the girl I’ve been hearing so much about?” Gojo’s voice boomed with excitement.
Megumi nodded, his voice tight but polite. “Y/N. I wanted you to meet her.”
Gojo grinned and stepped forward, arms open wide. “Finally! The girl who makes my adopted son actually smile! Come on in!”
You laughed, stepping into his hug. “Nice to meet you, Gojo-sensei. Megumi’s told me a lot.”
Gojo winked at Megumi. “Oh, I bet he has. And I’ve been dying to hear it from her perspective!”
Megumi flushed, but before the tension could fully fade, his gaze flicked to the corner of the room. Leaning casually against the wall, exuding that familiar, dangerous calm… was Toji.
His chest tightened. Memories of past encounters, unspoken threats, and old fears crowded his mind. He tried to focus on your hand in his, the comfort of it, but Toji’s presence threw him off balance entirely.
You noticed his stiff posture. “Megumi… what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he muttered, though his fingers squeezed yours subconsciously. “Just… focus on me.”
Gojo, oblivious to the tension, waved his hands. “Enough standing around! Let’s get inside. Snacks, drinks, stories about how my son met this amazing girl…”
Megumi followed you, still distracted by Toji, but the warmth of your presence at his side eased some of the unease.
Once inside, you whispered, “Hey… I like your dad. And… you. Even if your other guest is intimidating.”
A small, genuine smile crossed his face. “Thanks. That… means a lot.”
Despite the lingering tension, as Gojo’s laughter echoed through the house and Toji remained a silent shadow, Megumi realized something important: with you beside him, he could face anything.
You looked up at him, eyes bright and teasing. “Ready for the full tour?”
He leaned down slightly, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. “Always,” he said, his voice low, just for you.
But now he couldn’t focus. Gojo’s laughter, the clinking of glasses, the chatter of the house—it all blurred together. But Toji. Toji was a constant, looming at the edge of his vision, calm and calculating, like a shadow that refused to leave. Every muscle in Megumi’s body tensed.
“I… I need some air,” he muttered, barely looking at anyone, and before you could respond, he stormed toward the front door.
“Gumi—wait!” you called, but he didn’t stop. The rain had let up slightly, but droplets still clung to your hair as you dashed after him.
You caught up to him just as he reached the driveway. He stopped abruptly, whirling to face you, his chest heaving, his eyes sharp. “What are you still doing here?!” His voice cracked, louder than he intended.
You froze. “Megumi… I—”
“No!” he snapped, running a hand through his damp hair. “You don’t get it! You shouldn’t even be here. I can’t… I can’t deal with this right now!”
Your heart sank. “Megumi… I just wanted to—”
“I said leave!” he yelled, voice sharp, frustration boiling over. “I can’t—don’t—stay here!”
The hurt in his tone was like a physical blow. You opened your mouth, wanting to argue, to tell him you understood, but the words stuck. Instead, you stepped back, your hands falling to your sides.
“…Okay,” you whispered, voice trembling. Without another word, you turned and walked away, rain dripping from your hair, leaving Megumi standing alone, chest tight and mind spinning.
He watched you go, the sting of his own words hitting him immediately. He hadn’t meant to push you away, not like that—but Toji’s presence, the tension, the past—he couldn’t think straight. And now, you were gone.
Megumi’s fists clenched at his sides. “Damn it…” he muttered to himself, feeling the weight of what he’d just done.
His phone buzzed repeatedly in his pocket. He glanced down: You there?
I… I’m sorry. Can we talk?
Please, don’t ignore me.
He watched the screen, jaw tight. No reply. He hated that he’d let his temper get the better of him, hated that you were hurt—and hated even more that he didn’t know how to fix it.
Megumi spots you at the record shop and he freezes, trying to think of how to approach.
“Y/N…” he starts, voice low, almost pleading.
You glance up, eyes cold, and walk past him without a word.
He swallows, frustration and guilt mixing. “Damn it…”
Megumi leaves a vinyl you know you’ve been wanting on the doorstep of your apartment with a note:
I messed up. I’m sorry. Please let me make it up to you.
You pick it up but don’t respond. He watches from a distance, heart aching, unsure if you’ll ever forgive him.
Days later, he corners you near a café. Rain drizzles down, mirroring the tension.
“Please, just talk to me,” he says, voice strained. “I… I hate that I hurt you.”
You cross your arms, staring away. “You did. And right now, I don’t want to hear it.”
Megumi swallows, pain flashing in his eyes. “I get it… I just… I can’t stop trying.”
I’m
On a Thursday, your phone buzzed on the table. A message from Nobara:
Hey, can you meet me here?
You frowned, glancing at the address she sent. “Is Megumi there?” you texted back immediately.
Nope I’m all alone
You hesitated, but curiosity got the better of you.
The venue buzzed with energy, the small crowd swaying to the rhythm as Nobara introduced the band. Megumi stepped up to the microphone, fingers brushing the strings of his guitar. He cleared his throat, glancing at his friends, and then at the audience—but his eyes immediately found you.
“This next one… uh,” he paused, awkwardly shifting his weight. “This one’s called about you.”
The words slipped out before he could think better of them, but the way the crowd murmured only made him more aware of you in the front row, your eyes wide and curious. His fingers trembled slightly on the fretboard, heart racing.
He strummed the first chords, voice low but steady. As the lyrics poured out, it wasn’t just a song—it was a confession woven into melody. Every word, every note, carried the weight of months he’d kept to himself.
Midway through the chorus, he glanced up again. Your gaze was locked on him, and for a moment, everything else blurred. He leaned closer to the mic, almost shyly, and muttered, louder this time so only you could hear:
“I’m… sorry. Every single song is about you.”
The room seemed to fall away around him. Your lips parted slightly in surprise, your heartbeat thundering in your chest. Megumi’s fingers danced over the strings with more confidence now, eyes never leaving yours, as if the song existed only for this moment between the two of you.
Nobara, on stage with a bass, looked at you and smiled. “You deserve this,” she mouthed.
And as the final chord rang out, a hush fell over the audience, leaving only the two of you in that suspended, electric space where every lyric had been meant for your ears alone.
The crowd had dispersed, leaving the venue quieter now, the low hum of cleaning and chatter lingering. You leaned against the wall outside, still processing the song, still trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.
Then you felt a shadow fall over you. Megumi’s hands were shoved into his pockets, eyes darting up to meet yours, hesitant. “Hey… can we talk?” His voice was quieter than usual, almost vulnerable.
You crossed your arms, pretending to look past him. “About what? The song? Or the yelling?”
He flinched slightly at the mention of the argument, running a hand through his hair. “Both… I screwed up, okay? I didn’t mean to yell at you. I just… I don’t like it when you leave like that, and I—I didn’t know how else to… handle it.”
You glanced at him, still frustrated but softening at the sight of him standing there, clearly nervous. “You scared me,” you admitted quietly.
“I know,” he whispered, stepping closer. “I’m sorry. I was being stupid. I—” His voice caught, and then he looked down at you, eyes full of something raw and honest. “I just… I don’t want to lose you. Not over me being an idiot.”
You felt your anger melt just a little. “Gumi…”
He hesitated for a heartbeat, then slowly closed the distance, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Can we… start over?”
You swallowed, heart racing, and finally nodded. “Yeah… we can start over.”
A small, relieved smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away—but you didn’t. Instead, your lips met his in a soft, tentative kiss, the tension of the past few days melting away in that single moment.
When they finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his. “Just… no more yelling, okay?”
He chuckled softly, holding you a little tighter. “No more yelling. I promise.”
And for the first time in days, everything felt right.
PLOT! You had just moved to Metropolis from Gotham after quitting the Gotham Gazette. You thought it would be a breeze. But there's 10 things about your coworker that irk you more than you ever thought.
WARNINGS! corenswet!clark. gotham!reader. clark is kinda submissive in this... sorry. overstimulating. oral (fem receiving). unprotected p in v (wrap b4 u tap). kinda service top clark? but he gets submissive.
NOTES! i watched superman with my boyfriend and i need to dick down clark with every bone in my body. i had sm fun writing this. thank you to my baby girls out there, i see u. word count is 7.2k btw!
1. You hate that he’s always late.
Metropolis is cleaner than Gotham, sure. Shinier. The streets sparkle like they’ve never seen a body chalked on the pavement, and people here walk a little faster—like they’re going somewhere they actually want to be. But beneath the polish, it’s the same grind. New City, same newsroom.
You should’ve known The Daily Planet wouldn’t be much different than The Gotham Gazette. The coffee is just as burnt, the interns just as sweaty, and deadlines still loiter like stormclouds, waiting to downpour. You expected chaos. What you didn’t expect was Clark Kent.
He’s late.
Every. Damn. Day.
You hear him before you see him—always the same: the hurried shuffle of too-big shoes, the frantic slam of a shoulder against the swinging glass door, and the apologetic murmur of “Morning” that barely beats out the time clock.
You don’t even look up from your monitor. “It’s 9:47.”
Clark wheezes into his cubicle—which, of course, is right next to yours. His tie is crooked, his glasses fogged, and his hair’s got a single, infuriatingly perfect curl bouncing on his forehead like it was placed there by angels.
“Yeah,” he huffs. “Sorry. There was traffic.”
There’s always traffic in Metropolis. But that excuse is wearing thin, especially when he is the only one in the building who acts like he has to physically leap over it.
You finally glance up, deadpan. “You know who else got stuck in traffic today? Me. Lois. The kid from copy who literally rides a unicycle to work. We all still made it to work on time.”
He runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly, like that’s supposed to mean something. And somehow, it always does—with everyone else. Lois laughs it off. Perry yells, but only half-heartedly. Even Cat calls him “Smallville” like it’s an inside joke and not an indictment of his incompetence.
But you?
You are not charmed.
You’re Gotham born and bred. You’ve filed stories from under police tape, from fire escapes, from alleys where the blood was still wet. You didn’t claw your way out of that city just to share a byline with a man who treats deadlines like vague suggestions and shows up to work looking like he just wrestled a tornado.
Again!
“You’ve been late every day this week, Kent,” you mutter, turning back to your monitor. “If you’re aiming for a record, congrats. You’re winning.”
He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve shut him up, finally. But then—“I’ve never really been good at winning things,” he says softly, almost like he’s talking to himself.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. There’s something about the way he says it, not pathetic. Just… strange. Like maybe he means something bigger. You almost ask.
Almost.
Instead, you scoff and shake your head. “Try winning a Pulitzer. Might help your case.”
He grins again, that irritating, dimpled grin, and unpacks his bag like he didn’t walk in almost an hour later. You hate that he’s always late. You hate that nobody seems to care. You hate that he never has a good excuse, but still somehow gets away with it.
And most of all?
You hate that you’re starting to care enough to notice.
2. You hate his 'aw shucks' act.
If Clark Kent’s lateness is a thorn in your side, then his personality is the knife twisting next to it.
Not that it’s a bad personality, exactly. That’s the problem. On paper, he’s the perfect coworker—polite, humble, well-liked by every living soul in the building. He holds elevators. He offers to do coffee runs even when it’s pouring. He once helped Carol from Archives fix the jammed printer with nothing but a safety pin and a hopeful smile.
People adore him. They smile when he walks into the room. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Trust him.
You do not.
Because you’ve been watching. You’ve been taking mental notes since week two. That “aw shucks, I’m just a small-town guy from Kansas” routine is too well rehearsed. No one is that gentle and that oblivious. No one stammers through meetings and then turns in a perfect copy by the end of the day. No one is that clumsy—spilling coffee, tripping over wires—and yet somehow always lands on their feet.
You didn’t come from Gotham to fall for the world’s oldest trick.
So when he chuckles nervously after Lois slaps him on the back for landing a quote from the Steel Syndicate leader—a quote you had been chasing for a week—you grit your teeth and mutter:
“Oh, give me a break!”
Clark turns to you, blinking. “Sorry?”
You don’t bother to fake it. “You play the ‘golly gee’ routine, but you’re sharper than you act. And frankly, it’s annoying.”
His brows knit behind his glasses. “I’m not acting.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Right. You just accidentally out-interviewed me and walked away with the best lead we’ve had all quarter.”
He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, all bashful. “I really wasn't trying to one-up you. I just—I guess he liked me?”
You scoff. “Of course he did,” you mumble. “Everyone does. Must be the charm of your down-home, butter-wouldn’t-melt-bullshit!”
“I’m from Smallville,” he says, like that explains everything.
You lean forward across your desk, voice low. “I’ve met people from Smallville. They don’t act like they’ve never heard someone curse before.”
Clark shrinks back slightly, like your words sting, but there’s a twitch of something else in his eyes—like he’s fighting a smile.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” he offers gently.
You narrow your eyes. “I save it for when I’m alone. Or keep it in my head. Like right now, for example. Internally? It’s a full symphony of four-letter words.”
He snorts, an actual snort, then claps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed by it. That’s when you realize something terrifying. He’s not pretending to be harmless.
He is harmless.
And that somehow makes it worse.
Because no one is harmless in this job. Not in journalism. Not in Metropolis. Especially not if they’re good at it. And Clark? Despite the dopey smile, the apologies, the way he trips over every desk in the bullpen. Clark is very good at it.
You hate that his small town bullshit works. You hate that it makes people underestimate him. You hate that it almost worked on you. But the worst part? You’re starting to realize it’s not an act. It’s who he is.
And that makes you want to scream.
You hate how he somehow always got the exclusive.
There’s something sacred about how the word exclusive in a newsroom. It’s the holy grail—the thing that earns you front pages, corner offices, Pulitzers. You’ve chased exclusives down back alleys, stayed on hold for eons, bribed a coffee-stained secretary with two croissants and a MetroCard just to get one measly quote from a crooked city councilman
But somehow, Clark Kent just gets them.
Every. Fucking. Time.
He never brags. That would at least make him bearable. He just shows up—late, of course—shrugs off his coat, and drops a crisp interview transcript on Perry’s desk like he tripped over it on the sidewalk.
It’s infuriating.
You first noticed it during the Union Square train derailment. Superman was spotted hauling survivors out of the wreckage. No reporters got near him. Police kept everyone back. Even Lois couldn’t get close. And she's Lois!
But the next morning?
There it was: Superman Speaks on Metropolis Disaster by Clark Kent.
You stared at the byline like it had personally offended you. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard as you read the quote—exclusive, lengthy, insightful. Too insightful.
“He said that?” you asked Clark across the bullpen.
Clark blinked. “Uh, yeah. He flew by while I was walking back from a source.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And what, he just… pulled you into the sky for a heart-to-heart?”
Clark smiled, bashful. “We’ve talked a few times.”
You nearly choked on your burnt coffee.
A few times?
Since then, it’s been quote after quote. Superman says this. Superman warns that. Every piece is conveniently labeled “as told to Clark Kent.” You’ve pitched a dozen stories with solid leads, real impact, and Perry still passes them over in favor of Clark’s Superman exclusives.
You’ve tried to ask how he does it. Casually. Aggressively. Once while both of you were on a stakeout at a warehouse near Suicide Slums, you even offered him your last protein bar if he’d just tell you how the hell he keeps finding Superman.
Clark just smiled. That soft, maddeningly patient smile, and said, “I think he trusts me.”
Trusts him.
Like Superman sits around rating journalists on a Yelp scale.
You stare across the bullpen now, watching Clark quietly type something into his terminal. He looks like a librarian. One of those sleepy, gentle ones who offer you a tissue when you cry reading To Kill a Mockingbird.
And yet somehow, he gets the hero in blue to spill his guts.
You hate it.
You hate that it makes you question your own work. You hate that you keep looking for the cracks in his story, the thing that explains how he’s doing this. You’ve doubled-checked timestamps. Scrubbed security footage. Asked sources. Nothing adds up.
No one sees Clark talking to Superman.
And yet Clark knows things. Small details. Direct quotes. Reassurances Superman has never given anyone else.
You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling. Either Clark Kent is the luckiest man in Metropolis… or he’s hiding something.
And you don’t believe in luck.
You hate that he doesn't talk shit.
Newsrooms run on gossip.
That’s just a fact.
You don’t survive in this field—not in this city—without learning to weaponise information. It’s part of the culture. You swap barbs while the coffee brews, trade snark over late-night edits, hurl critiques and conspiracies like dodgeballs. Everyone does it. It keeps you sane. Keeps you sharp.
Except Clark.
Clark doesn’t talk shit.
At first, you assumed it was a tactic. A kind of passive power play, let everyone else tear each other down while he keeps his hands clean and his halo polished. You even waited for him to crack. Made space for it.
Lois stormed past your desks muttering, “If I have to rewrite one more of Franklin’s clickbait trash, I swear to God—” and you turned to Clark, ready.
Nothing.
He just said, “Franklin’s trying to juggle two kids and night school. He’s doing the best he can.”
You blinked. “That’s your take? Really?”
Clark smiled, easy. “Well, it’s not like yelling about it helps.”
You stared at him for a full beat, then scoffed, Wow. How do you make ‘reasonable’ sound so smug?”
He laughed. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… amused.
It keeps happening.
Gina in Copy fakes sick twice in one week to go see her boyfriend in Coast City. Nobody buys it. You expect Clark to at least comment. Something gentle, like “Must be nice to have a love life” but he just covers her calls without being asked.
When Jimmy blows a quote in a city council interview, you hear three people mutter about it near the break room. Clark hears too. You watch his eyes flick in that direction, but he doesn’t engage. He just brings Jimmy a coffee the next morning with no explanation.
You don’t get it.
You’ve worked with assholes and saints and everything in between. But there’s always a crack. A vent. A gripe. A single “Jesus Christ, can you believe this guy?” at happy hour.
Clark? He smiles, he listens. He takes the fall for other people's mistakes, and never once asks for anything in return.
It’s not that he’s quiet. He barks. He just doesn’t bite.
You should hate it. Actually, no, you do hate it.
Because it makes you feel mean. Makes you feel like every time you roll your eyes or mutter something under your breath, you’re the one slinging mud at a guy who just… doesn’t throw it back.
He’s not better than you. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s not better. He’s just boring. But that’s not true, is it?
Because when Carol’s mom lands in the hospital, he’s the one who quietly organizes a grocery drop-off.
When Perry has a meltdown over a typo in the Sunday headline, Clark doesn’t flinch. He just calmly fixes it. Compliments the new intern’s formatting, and reminds Perry to breathe.
When you come in one morning with three hours of sleep and that coil, pre-caffeine snarl already at your lips, he places a black coffee on your desk without saying a word.
You hate how it makes your chest tighten.
You hate that he makes kindness look easy—not loud or performative or fake, just… part of him.
You hate that you’re starting to notice how often his eyes go soft when someone’s having a bad day.
You hate how your shoulders drop just a little when he walks in.
You hate how, for all the ways he frustrates you, he never gives you a real reason to hate him back.
You tap your pen against your notebook and glances at him—across the bullpen, bent over his desk, tie askew, glasses sliding down, that same stupid curl on his forehead. He’s reading something, mouth twitching like he might laugh, and you watch him longer than you mean to.
You shake yourself.
No.
This is just a strategy. Observation. Knowing your competition. It’s not softness. It’s not a crush. It’s not a slow-burn, late-blooming kind of fondness, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to fight it.
It’s not.
You just hate that he doesn’t talk shit. That’s all.
You hate how he remembers everything you say.
You’re not the type of person who expects people to remember things.
You’ve had too many conversations die halfway through a sentence. Too many men nod politely, only to ask you the same question a week later like they never heard your answer the first time. You’ve learned to file your words under ‘for now’—disposable, temporary, forgettable.
Clark Kent doesn’t see it that way.
You noticed it during your first lunch break, maybe two weeks in. You’d been ranting—venting, truly—about how every salad in Metropolise comes pre-drenching in some sort of smug artisanal vinaigrette. You weren’t even talking to him. Just muttering to yourself while stabbing a piece of limp kale in the breakroom.
The next day, he passed you a plain turkey sandwich from the deli on 6th and said, “They don’t just dressing unless you ask. Though you might like it.”
You blinked at him
“You remembered that?” you asked, caught off guard.
Clark shrugged with a smile. “You seemed passionate.”
You were half convinced it was a fluke. But it wasn’t.
Because the pattern kept happening.
You mentioned once—once—that your favorite weather is when it rains but the sun’s still out. A week later, during one of those golden, misty drizzles, he caught up to you on the steps and said, “Looks like your kind of day, huh?”
You told him offhandedly that your least favorite movie trope is the girl tripping while running. Three nights later, you passed each other in the hallways after working late, and he asked if you’d seen the new action flick in theaters. “No tripping heroines, I promise.”
You said that once your dad used to call you ‘kid’ and that one one’s used the word since.
He’s never called you that. But you catch him hesitating once. Mid-sentence. Like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.
You don’t know how to feel about that.
Because you never asked him to remember. You never wanted him to.
You’ve known people who remember birthdays because Facebook reminds them. Or likes and dislikes so they can use them later. But Clark? He never uses it. He just stores it. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like your words matter. Like they’re puzzle pieces he’s collecting, not to solve you, but to understand you.
And maybe that’s what bothers you most.
Because no one’s ever tried to understand you.
Not really.
Gotham trained you to guard your secrets with blood. To keep your walls high, your smile sarcastic, your stories brief and impersonal. But Clark listens like he’s trying to paint a picture of your in his head, one brushstroke at a time.
And you despise it.
You hate that it makes you feel seen.
You hate that it makes you feel real.
You hate that it makes you wonder how much you’ve remembered about him.
You glance at his desk. Same stupid Superman bobblehead he swore he didn’t buy himself. Same chipped Kansas mug. Same pair of extra reading glasses tucked into the drawer, just in case.
You remember that he doesn’t like spicy food. That he uses semicolons like they’re going out of style. That he hums the theme from Star Wars when he’s writing something he’s proud of.
You remember that his middle name is Joseph, but he doesn’t like it because it was his dad’s.
You remember way too much.
So maybe you don’t hate that he remembers everything you say. Maybe you hate that you’ve started doing it too.
You hate that he looks at you like he sees you.
There’s a kind of look people give you when they think they know who you are.
Back in Gotham, it was always the same—calculating, wary, sometimes impressed. You were the youngest on the crime desk, the loudest in the pitch room, the one with the sharpest elbows and the thinnest armor. People look at you like a problem to solve or a rival to beat.
But that’s not how Clark looks at you. He looks at you like you’re someone. Not a headline. Not a byline. Not the girl from Gotham with a chip on her shoulder and a pen like a scalpel.
Just you.
And it drives you batshit crazy.
Because it’s not just in meetings, when you sneak up and catch his gaze across the table—it’s in the little moments. When you’re half-asleep at your desk and he walks by with a fresh coffee. When you’re biting your tongue in an argument and he gives you a look like he already knows what you want to say. When you laugh—really laugh—and you see him watching like it’s a rare event he doesn’t want to interrupt.
It’s too much. Too soft. Too honest. You don’t want to be known like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.
But he keeps doing it. Like it’s effortless. Like seeing you, the real you, the messy and angry and guarded parts is just what happens when he looks at someone.
And you hate that you notice it. And you hate that some small, quiet part of you never wants him to stop.
You hate how nervous he makes you.
You’re not nervous around people.
You’ve been yelled at by corrupt mayors. Cornered by gang members for writing the wrong names in the right story. You’ve told a Gotham crime boss to spell his name correctly if he wants to be quoted. You know how to stand your ground, spine straight, heart steady.
But Clark makes you so nervous that you might shit your pants.
Not in the usual nervous way—not in the way bad people do. He doesn’t threaten or belittle or hover too close. No, Clark stands a respectful distance away and still somehow manages to get under your skin. He fidgets when you talk. He laughs at your sarcasm. He listens like he’s memorizing you on purpose.
And lately… you’ve been messing things up.
You dropped your pen the other day. Three times. In one meeting.
You forgot what you were saying mid-sentence when he looked at you—just looked at you—like the whole room had gone quiet except for you.
You called him Clark and it came out soft, almost breathless, and it startled you. Like your mouth knew something your brain just hadn’t caught up with yet.
When you brushed against him near the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, your pulse stuttered. Not fear. Not irritation. Something else. Then it hit you.
You like him.
God, you like him.
You like his stupid glasses and his kind eyes and the way he always holds the door for people even when they don't say thank you. You like the way he scribbles notes in the margins of his reporter’s notebook and the way he lights up when someone says the words human interest. You like that he takes his job seriously without ever acting like he’s the smartest man in the room.
You like that he’s good. You trust him. And that might scare you more than anything else on this planet.
You hate that he makes you nervous, because it means your guard is down. And you never let your guard down. Especially not for someone like him. Especially not when he might possibly, slightly, maybe, feel the same way.
Because if he does.. if he does… you’re not sure what happens now.
You hate how he’s Superman.
You almost died today.
Not in the dramatic, flashing-lights-before-your-eyes kind of way. More like sudden and sharp. One second, you were walking past LexCorp Tower with a coffee in hand. The next, the sky cracked open with a sound like the earth tearing apart, and something enormous. A ship? A drone? It spiraled out of control and straight into the street.
You didn’t scream. Not at first. Your body froze instead, the kind of instinct that Gotham should’ve removed. Get big, get loud. Scare the monster away from you.
But flight or fight invited a friend to the party. Fawn. And she told you not to move a muscle. To get small. Get still. And pray to Jesus of Nazareth that the monster passes.
It didn’t.
It was coming right for you.
And then, just like every headline you’d ever written about him, Superman was there.
He was a blur at first. Then red. Then blue. Then everything stopped. The drone crumpled against the pavement thirty feet away, a crater the size of a bus sinking into the asphalt. Wind whipped around you, debris in your hair, your coffee exploded on the ground. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly fine like the chaos had bent around him on purpose—
Him.
Superman.
He turned to you, eyes impossibly soft for someone who could tear steel apart with his bare hands. “Are you hurt?”
You nodded dumbly. Maybe you shook your head. You don’t remember. Your voice wasn’t working.
He gave you a smile, the kind that should’ve made you feel safe. It did. But it also unsettled something deep in your chest. Almost like recognition.
He took off again in a gust of air and cape and godlike power, and you stood there shaking, your hands empty.
That night, you sat cross-legged on your couch with the local news running in the background, half-heartedly typing notes for tomorrow’s article. You watched grainy footage of Superman returning a flaming car to the street like it was a paper toy. You watched people cheering, waving, chanting his name.
You knew he was a hero. You knew he’d saved countless lives. But seeing him up close? Feeling the air shift around him, the sheer weight of him?
It rattled you.
And yet, what kept circling in your brain wasn’t just the blur of the cape or the force of the landing. It was his eyes.
The way he looked at you.
Like he knew you. Like he saw you.
And then your fingers stopped moving.
Because you’d seen that look before.
Early this week. At the Daily Planet. In the elevator, when you’d complained about the vending machine eating your dollar.
Clark had looked at you like that.
You stared at the paused frame on your screen. Superman mid-turn, mid-expression.
You grabbed your phone, opened the gallery. A photo Jimmy had taken at Lois’s birthday last month. Clark, standing beside you with that same crooked smile. Same jawline. Same posture.
Your heart sank.
No.
You looked again.
You zoomed in.
And all at once, every thing—every late arrival, every exclusive quote, every ‘You okay?’ after a tremor, every ‘How did he know?’—every moment fell into place like puzzle pieces you’d been too close to see.
Clark Kent is Superman.
You sat there frozen, blinking at the screen as a sick kind of heat spread through your chest. You hate that he’s Superman.
Not because he’s dangerous. Not because he lied—though God, he did.
You hate it because you were just starting to fall for Clark. Sweet, awkward, late-to-everything Clark. Now you’re not sure where Clark ends and Superman begins.
And worst of all? You’re not sure which one of them you’re in love with.
You hate how he touches you.
You told yourself it was for the story.
That inviting Clark over to your apartment — late, after deadline, with a six-pack in the fridge and the lights dimmed just enough to feel casual — was journalistic strategy. You even made a notepad with scribbled questions, highlighted sources in your phone, and pulled up three articles from the Planet’s archive as “references.”
But deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.
Clark knocked once. Polite. Timid. He always knocked like he didn’t want to disturb you, even when he had to enter the bullpen three minutes before a press conference with ink on his tie. You opened the door and didn’t let yourself look too long at the way his glasses slid down his nose or how the sleeves of his white button-down were rolled to his forearms.
He stepped in, soft-voiced as ever. “You said you needed help with something?”
“An article,” you said, breezy. “About Superman.”
And God, you said his name like a test.
Clark blinked. Just once. Just barely. But you caught it.
You offered him a beer. You talked. You took notes on nothing. And he sat there — not relaxed, exactly, but trying to act like he was. He always had this charming nervousness to him. But now that you knew — knew — it wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. It was a man constantly folding himself into something smaller to pass unnoticed.
You kept waiting for him to lie.
He didn’t.
So you forced his hand.
You said it like it didn’t cost you anything: “You’re Superman.”
Silence. Stillness. The longest pause you’d ever heard.
He didn’t deny it.
He didn’t laugh it off.
He just looked at you.
And it was like the air in the room shifted. Something cracked open between you. Not hostile. Not afraid. Just honest.
“You’ve known?” he asked quietly.
“I figured it out after the LexCorp thing. The way you looked at me.”
He closed his eyes. Like he was trying to protect you from something — or maybe protect himself from what he already knew was coming next.
“I never meant to lie,” he said. “Not to you.”
“But you did,” you replied. “Every day.”
And you should’ve been furious. You should’ve thrown him out. Written the article. Exposed everything. But you didn’t.
Because all you could think about was the way he looked at you in the cratered street. The way he always hovered a second longer when your hands brushed. The way he saw you — really saw you — even before you ever knew who he was.
And the way he touched you now, when he reached across the table to cover your hand with his own — gentle, grounding, warm.
You hated it.
You hated the way the contact burned up your arm and across your chest like he’d set your blood alight. You hated how steady it felt, how calm, how wanted. You hated the way it made you lean in, just slightly, like gravity was tugging you toward him.
“You’re mad,” he said.
“I should be.”
He swallowed. “Are you?”
You looked at him — really looked — and saw all of it. The weight of two lives. The softness behind the cape. The man who brought you coffee when you were hungover. The man who pulled a collapsing building off a school bus.
Clark Kent. Superman. Both. All.
And you hated that he made you feel like this. Hated the way his fingers curled around yours like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Hated that your heart was pounding so loud you were afraid he could hear it.
You stood.
He stood too.
You should’ve said something. Pulled back. Cut it off.
But when he stepped forward, eyes locked on yours — when he hesitated, like he needed your permission — and when you didn’t stop him—
His mouth met yours, and the world dropped out.
You hated the way it made you forget every single reason you were supposed to hate him. Hated the way his hands were patient, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Hated the way you melted into him like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.
You hated the sound you made when he pressed you gently against the wall. Hated the tremble in your breath when his lips found the spot just beneath your jaw. Hated how badly you wanted him — and not just the cape. Not just the secret.
Him.
Clark.
You pulled him closer.
And in that moment, you didn’t hate anything at all.
You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You meant to confront him. To unearth the truth. To hold him accountable.
But now his hands are at your waist—warm, grounding, familiar—and he’s kissing you like he’s spent decades thinking about it. Like he’s imagined it in quiet mornings between bylines and burning buildings. Like it’s the one indulgence he never allowed himself to have.
Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes against your skin. You don’t. Because you’ve wanted this. Hated how much you’ve wanted this.
Not just tonight. Not just since he walked through your apartment door with that bashful smile and that stupid, careful politeness like he didn’t have a goddamn clue you were about to wreck both of your lives.
No, you’ve wanted this since the second week at the Planet. And you’ve finally got it.
You fist his shirt and push him back against the wall, chest heaving, and when he looks at you with wide eyes and his lips parted, looking so vulnerable in a way that makes your throat ache, something inside of you snaps.
“You’re such a fucking liar.”
His breath stutters. “I didn’t want to—”
You cut him off with your mouth.
And that’s all it takes.
The kiss is desperate. Messy. Teeth knocking, breath uneven. His hands roam over you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dreaming about this for years. One palm slides up your back, the other fists in your hair, and you moan against his lips before biting down, just enough to make him groan.
You push him toward the bedroom.
He lets you.
You straddle him the second he hits the bed, pressing your helps down until you feel him twitching beneath his slacks, already hard, already straining. You grind slowly, deliberately, and his head drops back with a strangled sound.
You kiss him again, slower this time. Meaner. Like a punishment. Like retribution for every late arrival, every Superman scoop, every time he looked at you like you hung the fucking moon.
When you break away, you lean down, your mouth brushing his ear. “I hate you.”
His breath catches. His grip on your hips tightens.
“I hate how soft you pretend to be. I had that stupid fucking ‘golly gee’ act like you’re not hiding the most dangerous secret in the world. I hate that you touched me like I mattered, like you meant it.”
“God,” he breathes, almost broken. “Say it again.”
“I hate you, Kent.”
And then his hands are everywhere.
He rolls you over, yanking your shirt off so fast the fabric nearly rips. His mouth crashed to your neck, trailing heat down your collarbone, between your breasts, across your ribs. When he pulls back to look at you, there’s something primal in his gaze. Starved. Worshipful.
“Tell me where you want me,” he rasps.
You lean up on your elbows. “You’re Superman. Figure it out.”
His growl vibrates through your chest before he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your pants down your thighs. He doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t play coy.
His mouth is on you in seconds.
Hot. Wet. Perfect.
You cry out, hips jerking, but his hands grip your thighs and hold you down, unmovable. His tongue flicks in tight, devastating circles, and then he flattens it. Slow and deliberate, until your eyes roll back in your head.
“Fuck—Clark—”
He moans against you, like the sound of his name falling from your lips is the only thing he’s ever wanted.
Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I hate this. I hate how good you are at this.”
He groans again, deeper, louder. You feel him rutting slightly against the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you.
The thought makes you whine.
It’s almost unfair how good he is at this. Like he’s memorized you.
He finds your clit again, circles it with obscene precision, and you arch off the mattress with a sharp gasp.
“You’re close,” he whispers against you. “I can feel it.”
“I’m going to kill you,” you pant.
“I’ll die happy.”
Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you, hot and heavy and blinding, You cry out, sharp and breathless, thighs trembling around his head. Clark doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, soft and reverent. Like he wants to savor every second.
You look down at him, wrecked and panting. “I still hate you,” you manage.
He grins, a real one this time, crooked and infuriatingly gorgeous. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll hate this even more.”
And just like that, he’s crawling back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, the head of his clothes cock nudging against your soaked entrance.
And he’s still hard. Rock fucking hard.
You blink. “Jesus Christ.”
He pulls his pants and boxers down as his smile widens. “Not quite.”
You punch his arm. He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when he lines himself up and pushes in, slow and smooth, inch by inch.
You both groan. You clench around him instinctively, and his jaw locks.
“You feel—fuck. Better than I dreamed.”
“You dreamed about this?”
He leans in, kisses you hard. “Every night.”
You’re still trembling from the first wave when Clark pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide like he;s been holding back an entire storm.
You arch up into his hands, desperate and aching. His lips descend again. This time with hungry insistence, sucking bruises into your skin—neck, collarbone, chest—a map of possession in deep, dark purples. You try to catch your breath but he pins your arms above your head with one hand, the other trailing fire down your ribs, across your stomach.
“Don’t move,” he commands, voice trembling like it’s torture holding himself back.
You whimper, and the sound sends a shudder right through him. He nips at your inner thigh, then drags his tongue over your clit again, slower, more torturous. You didn’t even notice that he pulled out. Your legs shake uncontrollably, and he groans. A ragged, desperate sound, a whimper escaping past his lips.
“Please,” you breathe, and he smiles like you just handed him the universe.
But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down.
His fingers slide inside you, circling, pressing that one perfect spot that makes your back arch and your breath catch in your throat. “God,” he pants, his mouth pressing wet kisses along your hipbone.
You’re drowning in pleasure, desperate for release. But Clark pulls back suddenly, his eyes dark and gleaming. “Not yet.”
You glare at him, frustrated and needy.
“You’re going to remember this,” he promises, voice low and intense. “Every damn moment.”
His mouth covers yours again, hot and insistent, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his fingers move faster inside you. He kisses and sucks at your neck, marking you like he’s carving your name into his skin.
Another wave crashes through you, your body shaking with the force of it. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, he keeps licking, sucking, teasing until your hips buck wildly and you're crying out his name, desperate and undone.
He hums—a deep, satisfied sound—as he pulls you into a long, slow kiss, tongue swirling around yours, possessive and needy.
“Round three,” he whispers against your lips, voice shaky but still full of hunger. “I’m not done with you.”
You shiver, heart pounding as he slides his hands under your shirt again, fingertips tracing fire trails across your ribs. He’s relentless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re gasping, trembling under the weight of his touch. Your body still singing from the last orgasm Clark coaxed out of you. But he’s not done. Not even close.
His hands tremble as he touches you. The way he looks at you now—wide eyes, desperate, like he’s about to break—makes something wild flare inside you.
He’s not the untouchable hero tonight. He’s yours. And you own every inch of him.
His fingers shake as they ghost over your hips, then he trails a slow and reverent path back up his own body, touching himself briefly. You watch, breath hitching, as his hands work, fingertips teasing, tentative.
He looks up, eyes pleading.
You reach for him, your hands bold now, fingers wrapping around the hard length. He whimpers, a soft and needy sound, and his hips jerk forward, pressing into your grip.
You kiss him hard, biting his lower lip as you tug his jeans down just enough to free him. His skin is impossibly warm under your touch, slick with heat and desire.
Clark’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. He presses himself against you, hands tangled in your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go.
You take control, guiding him down until he’s lying back, breathless and vulnerable. You straddle him, sliding your heat against his ache. His hands cup your hips, trembling, and he whimpers softly as you begin to move.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with need. “So good… God, you’re so good…”
His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, exposing raw, desperate pleasure. He’s never been like this, the strong and invincible Superman, not when it comes to you.
He whines when you shift, when you grind, when you tease that sensitive spot that makes him arch into you, hips jerking uncontrollably. Then you sink down onto him.
“Please, don’t stop,” he begs, voice breathy and broken.
Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart beneath your palms. He’s lost, undone, and it’s yours to keep. You ride him slowly, building, driving him higher, feeling every shiver and gasp as his pleasure months.
He whimpers your name over and over, voice cracked and raw. “More.” He begs, fingers clutching your hips tighter. You give it to him.
Faster now. Harder. The room fills with the sound of skin sliding, ragged breaths, and his desperate, needy whimpers. When he comes, it’s shuddering and loud—hips bucking wildly, mouth open in a ragged cry.
You collapse against him, breathless, hearts pounding together in a thunderous rhythm. He pulls you close, lips brushing your hair, whispering your name like a prayer. And you hate that you don’t want this to end.
You hate that you love him.
You told yourself it wasn’t possible.
Not with Clark Kent—Mr. Always-Late, Mr. Aw‑Shucks, Mr. Exclusive‑Scoop Superman. The man who made you roll your eyes before you even opened his email. The man who kept secrets that could’ve rewritten your career. The man you once swore you'd never let in.
And now you’re waking up tangled in his arms, back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against your neck. He’s asleep—still shirtless, still soft beneath the weighted duvet like he’s the one who needs comfort, not the other way around. Your mind whips through all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this calm. This safe. This full.
You hate him.
You hate how he made you laugh at that stupid coffee joke you said while complaining about the crime desk. You hate how he trails kisses along your eyelids when you’re half-awake just to check if you're really real. You hate that he’s Superman—because knowing he could see the world in one blink, yet he chooses to stay here, beside you… it almost hurts.
You roll over carefully and catch his gaze.
He blinks. “Morning.” His voice is rough, like he’s just been dragged out of a dream you wish you were in too.
You raise an eyebrow. “Morning? You know you’re not even supposed to exist before 8, right?”
He grins softly, stretching, then wraps an arm around you again. “I got a day off,” he says. “Superman’s on vacation.”
Your lips twitch. “Vacation. That’s rich.”
He chuckles into your shoulder. “So you don’t mind.”
You scoot back enough to face him. “I mind that you’re gorgeous at 7 a.m. and I can't even hate you for it.”
He quirks his mouth. “Sorry.”
“Oh no, it’s fine.” You tap the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Let the world survive without Superman for one day. Let me hate you slightly less.”
He laughs, and it’s the softest thing in the room. Your chest tightens. You’ve hated him for a lot of things—his lateness, his lies, his speed-of-light heroism—but none of it compares to the strange ache of joy when he smiles at you this way.
“We should get breakfast,” he says, voice low like he’s testing gravity. “I know this place downtown that has killer cinnamon rolls.”
You sit up. Hair messy, pajamas rumpled. You cross your arms. “I hate cinnamon rolls.”
He scowls in mock horror. “Not real humans dislike cinnamon rolls.” Then softer: “Fine. We’ll go anywhere you like.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’ve lived decades off burnt coffee and reuse foam. I don’t crave anything sweet.”
He’s thoughtful for just a beat. “Okay. Black coffee and stale bagels it is.”
A grin tugs at your lips. It’s so utterly him to tease. So… effortless. You're flooded with old habits—cynicism, sarcasm—and they feel braver than you thought.
But then his thumb brushes gently over your hand. And underneath the banter you suddenly realize how loud your heart is.
You clear your throat. “But seriously—I hate that I love you.”
He stills beside you. Heartbeat thunders under his palm.
“You know,” he says quietly, voice cracking just a little, “I hate how worried I get when you pull investigative duty alone.”
Your gut clenches. “You’ll fly here if anything happens.”
He nods. “In five seconds.”
You stare at him. Really stare. This is not Superman breathing next to you—this is Clark. Vulnerable. Human. Loving.
In that moment, all the hate evaporates.
“We’re a mess,” you laugh softly, looking away.
He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Best mess I’ve ever been in.”
He kisses your temple lightly. Tender. Long. Enough that you’ve lost count of everything you should hate about him.
And you hate that this moment isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.
Morning coffee runs with your boyfriend after exam week seemed to be the best cure for exhaustion.
ℳorning dew always smelled best when you had a coffee in hand. The mixture of aromas had been something you’d adored since you were a kid. Even more so as you got older and went to college.
Sometimes it reminded you of home. Running around your backyard and chasing your dog, only stopping when your mother called you back inside to eat.
College was hard, but you loved it nonetheless. You were a hard worker and you enjoyed the challenge.
What made it easier were days like today, when it was you, your boyfriend, and the early morning coffee runs on campus.
Sitting beside you on the bench as you both watched various people on morning runs, you snuggled closer into his side. Armin always seemed to be warm, even on days like today where the wind bit at every piece of exposed flesh.
“Cold?” He murmurs, wrapping a gloved hand tighter around your shoulder.
Nodding, you glance up to look at him. Armin had a type of beauty people only dreamt of having. With his soft golden hair and gorgeous blue eyes, He practically radiated sunshine even on overcast days. He was picture perfect.
Or, maybe it was just you, considering he is your boyfriend.
Plus, he did look adorable with a red tipped nose and rosy cheeks.
“Just a little, but the coffee is warming me up.” You finally voice, taking a slow, needed sip. “Do you have Mr. Brewer today?”
Armin exhaled slowly, a cumulation of smoke gathering and dispersing in the air. “Yep, unfortunately.”
Chuckling, you press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Oh, how will you survive!”
“I don’t think I will.” He grins, dipping his head to capture your lips in a kiss. He smiled through it, so did you.
Exam week had been hell, but today was your last day before break. Armin said he had a surprise for you, though it wasn’t much of a surprise considering you accidentally stumbled upon tickets to your favorite band laying in his drawer while you looked for a pencil.
He’d laughed about it, blaming his laziness with concealing things. He’d always been horrible with secrets.
“We could always skip..?” Armin trails off, causing your eyebrows to shoot up.
Not failing to hide your surprise, you shift to get a clearer view of him. “Did I just hear Armin Arlert suggest skipping classes? I mean, I might have to call my doctor for a hearing check—“
Cutting you off with a short fake laugh, the blonde rolls his eyes dramatically. “Very funny. I’m just saying… We could always spend the day together. Do something fun. One day won’t hurt.”
The thought made a smile spread across your lips. “That sounds fantastic. I’d love that.”
Pulling you back into his arms, Armin planted a kiss to your forehead. The chilly air suddenly feeling a whole lot warmer.
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joey lynch didn’t want to love. Not until you, not until you weaseled your way into his heart.
𝒥oey’s heart pounded in his chest as the girl he’d been trying so desperately to forget moved around him. Your arms were held high in the air, your laughter swept up into the booming music, but he heard it. He heard your laughter like it was a drug, not the kind he’d pumped into his body on so many occasions. Your laughter was a drug he didn’t want to swallow, but his body physically sucked it in without permission.
When your hair whipped around your face as you danced circles around him, he felt light headed. Your smile was becoming infectious, the effects instantaneous. His lips twitched when he noticed you pause your dancing to wobble slightly when your brain caught up with the motions you were making.
Dizzy and grinning like a fool, you reached out for his arms and he took them into his embrace without a second thought. Your arms wrapped around his neck loosely as your body sagged against his sturdy chest.
“I’m so happy, right now.” You informed, slurring slightly. “Happy with you, Lynchy.”
His eyes scanned your face for any deceit, but he knew you. Knew you were telling the truth. “I’m happy here, too.” He murmured back as you reached up to pinch his cheek.
And it was true, for once in his seventeen years of living, Joey Lynch felt something nearing peace. You had brought out a side of him nobody else seemed to be able to touch. And the same went for you, Joey Lynch had utterly and irrevocably damaged your psyche, because after him you were certain you would never love anyone else.
Picking you up, the tips of his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, Joey buried his face in your neck and relished in the sound of your squeal of delight. “Put me down, Joe!”
“Use your proper words.” The blonde grinned, pulling back to look at you.
Scowling, you huff out a breath of air, watching as the cloud dissipated before looking back at the boy whom held your whole heart in his bruised hands. “Please put me down, Joseph Lynch.”
Trying to remain serious, your eyebrows furrowed even deeper as he did no such thing. Walking a great distance of ten feet, he set you down on the hood of your small grey car.
Joey examined you for a quiet moment before leaning down and placing a kiss to your lips. “I think I love you.” He murmured, pulling back only when your mouth formed into a smile. “What?”
“Really? ‘I think?’” Rolling your eyes, you lifted one hand to flick his nose. “So comforting.”
Joey shrugged, stepping back and setting his hands on his hips. He looked awfully good in the dim light coming from the parking lot street lamps. His golden blonde hair blowing slightly in the breeze, his lips turned upward in the infuriatingly cute grin. . .
“Well, I am certain that I love you, Joseph Lynch!” You quipped, hopping off the car and back onto the ground.
Sauntering toward him, you reached out for his hand, pulling him to your chest. “Always..”
“Always.” He mumbles, pressing a simple kiss to your forehead.
likes, comments, & reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any future posts.
Pau cubarsi x reader fluff!! Anything would be fine! Just something cute and heart warming!
Under the influence (Pau Cubarsi !)
synopsis. a little bit drunk and a lot in love with each other despite being best friends, you and pau accidentally let confessions slur from your lips.
𝓕loral scented everything-cleaner filled your senses as you sprayed the contents of the bottle onto the kitchen island. You’d been cleaning all day and you finally made it into the kitchen, which by far was the worst.
Last night you’d had friends over for a birthday pool party and Pau had spilled a full cup of Vodka Cranberry all over the table. He’d apologized a dozen or so times, but the stain stayed.
You weren’t upset, in fact, it was the last thing on your mind. What was on your mind, was the loose, slurred words the two of you had shared.
You had a half dozen shots to thank for that.
“Mi Estrella?” Pau slurred, his lips tipping to the side along with his head as he swayed on the hammock beside you. [my star]
You loved that nickname. You were his star, his light. He’d called you it since you two were kids.
Lulling your head toward him, you smiled back. “Yes?”
There was only a foot of space between your hammocks, so it came as no surprise when his hand reached out and grazed yours. “You look beautiful, y’know that?” You nearly laughed at his almost unintelligible words. Your cheeks heated up and you found your fingers working before brain could process them.
Slipping your cold fingers through his, you squeezed firmly. “Is that so?”
Pau hummed, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “Do you ever…” He trailed off, whether it was a result of the alcohol lacing his veins or a lack of words, you couldn’t tell.
“Do you ever feel something more between us? Something deeper, something—“
Your heart rate increased to incredible levels, but you somehow found it in yourself to nod. “Something non-platonic?”
Pau shot up, and for a second you thought you said the wrong thing. That was until you saw his eyes had lit up. “Yes! You—“ he cleared his throat, tossing his legs over the edge of the hammock but never dropping your hand. “You feel it, too? I’m not crazy?”
“Pau, I’ve felt so deeply for you for so long, it’s hard not to feel it.” Sitting up, you took in the calming, deep scent of pine needles and dew grass.
The brunette looking back at you was grinning so hard it was all-consuming. You’d loved his smile since the first time you saw it when you were six and that love only grew.
“I think I love you, Estrella.”
Sucking in a deep breath, you tried to flush the memory from your mind. It was drunken words. He probably didn’t mean it.
“Estrella?” The nickname had your head snapping up. Pau stood in the kitchen door, half naked and rubbing his eyes.
He looked painfully hungover, but painfully gorgeous.
His messy hair was being brushed down with his fingers now, but Pau’s eyes were finally one you. Who was staring.
You were staring. You were being very weird.
Clearing your throat, you blinked and looked back to the table. Using your cleaning towel, you began wiping off the cleaner. “Uh, ‘morning.”
A moment of silence passed before Pau spoke your name softly. He was by your side in minutes, repeating your name once more.
Swallowing thickly, you set the rag on the table and glanced up, sucking in a sharp breath at his proximity. “Hey, sorry. What?”
A worried creased formed between Pau’s eyebrows as his eyes flickered across your face. “You okay?”
“Mhm.” You nod, lips pursed into a thin line.
Very believable. Wow.
Pau was just as unconvinced.
“Was it what we said last night?” He sighed, his fingers trailing up your right arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His hand came to a stop once it rested against your burning cheek.
“Because I meant it. Even if you didn’t, but I am sorry I only had the balls to say it drunk.” He continued, the pad of his thumb brushing against your heated cheekbone.
Lips parting, you found it awfully hard to speak. He meant it. You weren’t crazy. You—he—oh God.
Pau’s lip pulled to the side in a slight up tilt. “Why are you making that face?”
“What face.” You huffed, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m being very normal. Actually, all things considered, I’m actually reacting to this very well—“
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
“You’re the one that’s being — wait, what?” Your eyebrows shot up, but you didn’t have a chance to ask what exactly he meant by that.
Pau’s index finger and thumb tipped your chin upward right before his mouth slotted over yours. The breath in your lungs caught as your mouth automatically moved in sync with his.
Setting the bottle down, your hands found a home on his neck, pressing yourself as close as possible. The kiss was everything and anything you could have ever imagined. Full of passion, heat, love.
But, unfortunately all good things must end. You needed air. Pulling back, your eyes snapped open and your lips parted as you gulped in air.
“Okay..” You exhaled, “woah…”
“Yeah.” Pau nodded, blinking just as astonished as you were. “Woah is right.”
“So…”
“So…”
“This is weird.” You nodded, hands still planted on his neck before you dropped them to his shoulders. “What—uhm, what now?”
Pau shrugged, a sly grin sliding onto his lips. “We could do that again, just to.. make sure I remember what we did correctly.”
Rolling your eyes, you heave a heavy sigh. “Oh, lord give me strength.” But, you were certainly not opposed to the idea. “We talk after this, though. Okay?” Nodding, Pau cupped your cheeks and you lifted yourself onto your tip-toes so your lips could meet another time.
likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any of my fics.
Could you write a fic where reader is a physio at Barca and gets along well with everyone but notices Pedri is a bit distant? And they interact a bunch and there’s a crap ton of tension eventually he caves and confesses he’s distant because he has feelings for her and he doesn’t wanna jeopardize her job.
Touch and go ✴︎/ Pedri Gonzalez !
Synopsis. Six months of working for FC Barcelona as their new physio had you creating small friendships with the team. All except for one. Pedri. He couldn’t seem to talk to you about anything that wasn’t strictly professional. And it sucked, because a part of you had wanted his friendship more than anything. If only you knew Pedri wanted all that and more.
Word count. 910+
Disclaimer/s. Miscommunication to fluff !
Notes. Haii 🥹 I am sooo back. Sorry if this isn’t exactly how you wanted!
𝓨ou’d been with Barça for four months before you noticed it. Pedri didn’t seem to look let alone speak to you unless he had to.
It wasn’t rude. It wasn’t even standoffish… just neutral. Like he’d drawn an invisible line in front of you the day you joined the physio team and that line wouldn’t budge an inch.
The others weren’t like that. Gavi pulled childish jokes out during stretches. Lewandowski always asked about your family. Even Hansi Flick went out of his way to personally thank you for all you did. Hell, he brought you coffee one morning!
But Pedri? Always polite. Always distant. And always tensing when your hands touched him.
For months you tried not to take it personally. Maybe he was just shy, he always seemed shy in the press, or maybe he just didn’t like being touched. Nonetheless, the tension never eased. Not when you worked on his shoulder after a minor muscle got pulled, not when you wrapped his ankles after matches. Never. If anything, it seemed to be getting worse,
“Something on your mind?” It was late, a Thursday after a match. The rest of the team was departing already, but Pedri’s leg had taken a been worn thin and was starting to get sore.
So, he stayed late for a post match recovery session — tight hamstring, nothing too serious. You were kneeling in front of him, thumb pressing into the back of his thigh, when you’d finally gotten the nerve to ask.
Brown eyes snapped up from the floor to meet yours. “No. . . why?”
“You’re stiff as a board.. And not just today,” you add lightly, eyes flickering up to find the flicker of guilt that passed across his face. Ah, so you were right. “You tense up whenever I work on you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you hate me.”
Your lips quirked slightly, trying to make light of how very much this was effecting you. It didn’t get past Pedri, though. He just watched as you adjusted his leg, your fingers skimming down the line of muscle with practiced care.
“You’re… good at your job,” he finally said. “Too good.”
You would’ve laughed if that statement hadn’t been so confusing. “That’s a compliment, right?” You question, raising an eyebrow.
Pedri’s jaw flexed. “I mean it makes it hard to stay away.”
The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was charged, making your throat tighten. You pause then, hand still resting on his thigh. “Uhm, why would you want to stay away?”
Then, for the first time, his eyes met yours, and didn’t look away. “I didn’t want to make things complicated.”
“Because…?”
“Because I like you,” he stated simply. “Too much. From the start. In a way I’m not supposed to like a co-worker. And I just don’t know how to act around you normally.”
For the longest time, you just stared at him, breath caught in your throat while he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes finally dropping before he explained.
“Listen, I didn’t want to cross a line and make things weird. You’re here to do your job and if something happened between us, or if I made you uncomfortable… I didn’t want to mess things up for you.”
Oookay. Out of all the things you’d expected to happen today, this was not on that list.
Rolling back on your heels and planting your butt on the nasty locker room floor, you tried to steady your heart rate through long breaths.
“So, let me get this straight. Instead of just.. y’know what! Never mind. Instead, you just acted like I didn’t exist?”
Pedri flinched slightly, lifting a hand to run it through his damp hair. And fuck if he didn’t look good doing it. “I was just trying to protect you and your job.” He pauses then, “and myself.”
You looked at him, really looked—at the crease between his brows, the flush in his neck, the quiet vulnerability in his voice.
Smiling weakly, you give his knee a light squeeze. “You’re not the only one who’s trying to act normal.”
The males head shot up and this time the silence was almost comfortable. Soft. Something you didn’t dare to break because you found you liked this sort of silence with him. It was new and didn’t make you want to run for the hills unlike it had with any of your past relationships.
Standing, you wiped your hands off on your shorts and smiled gently. “There is no need to protect me from something I want, too.”
Mouth parting like he might argue, or say something he might regret, you didn’t give him the chance. Sticking out your hand, you offered him help up.
Taking it hesitantly, Pedri stood to his full height, meaning you had to crane your neck a few inches back to meet his gaze. He was close. So close.
Sucking in a deep breath, you stand on your tip toes and plant a soft kiss to his cheek. When you eventually pull back, you’re met with a face so goofy, you couldn’t help the breathy laugh that escaped you.
“Wha—“ Pedri choked before clearing his throat and straightening his back. “What was that for?”
Grinning, you take one step back. “That means you owe me.” Shrugging you add, “I like Thai food.”
It only took him two days to find a free spot in his schedule to fulfill that debt.
likes, comments, & reposts are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any of my future fics.
synopsis. being around your boyfriend was like having a constant state of sun shining directly on your face, especially when his not-so-puppy ‘puppy’ was involved.
disclaimer/s: fluff fluff and more fluff
notes. missing nilo action rn + close to 1k even after a long hiatus, guyss tysm i love you ALL <3
𝓨ou weren’t quite sure how you got into this situation. Your chest held the heavy weight of your boyfriend while he smothered your face with kisses, peppering them along your hairline, your cheeks, your jaw, and your lips. You were wriggling, trying to get out of his grasp, but he was holding your hips firmly in place.
“Pedro!” You let out a breathless laugh, squirming in a way you knew was probably giving your skirt a grass stain.
Ignoring your pleads, the tanned brunette simply planted a kiss to your lips. “I missed you.” He murmurs, letting his head drop to the crook of your neck.
Smiling endearingly, you lift a hand to his chest, running it over his shoulder. “I was only gone for a week.”
“Week too long.” Pedri muttered right back, pulling his face from your neck to get a better look at you. “Did you get a sunburn on your nose?”
You’d been gone to Madrid to visit your sister in Uni, and the two of you may have forgotten to put sunscreen on before you left the house one unfortunately hot day, so…
“Perhaps?”
Rolling his eyes dramatically, Pedri let go of you and pushed off the ground. “I’ll go get you the Aloe.” And with that, he was gone.
You finally stood up from the ground only to be knocked right back down by a whoosh of black fur. Air escaped your lungs and pain shot through your butt as you landed hard on the grass, though the pain went away the second you came face to face with the culprit who was trying to lick at your face.
“Nilo!” You gasp, instantly moving to scratch his ears. The big black dog was probably the best investment your boyfriend ever made.
After another three minutes of jumping all over you along with continuous assaults to the face, you finally managed to calm the dog down. He had grown since you last saw him, a lot.
Smiling wide, you smooch his forehead. “Did you miss me too, baby boy?” You were promptly met with a tongue to the cheek.
Yes!
Pedri, now watching from the door, couldn’t hide the adoration in his face even after your eyes met. Aloe in hand, he walked toward you two chuckling to himself before easing down onto the ground beside you.
“You’re cute.” He whispers, leaning over to press his lips to your cheek. “And now, you can apply this yourself.”
The matter-of-fact tone of his voice caused your eyes to roll but you snatched the bottle anyways. “Nilo, why does your father hate me?” The tease earned a gasp from Pedri, and an enthusiastic jump from the energetic dog that was weaseling his way closer to you.
“Nilo, why does your mother lie so often?” Pedri’s tone grew lower as he snatched Nilo and pulled the giant onto his lap.
For the remainder of the day, you lounged about, mostly lying in bed with Pedri’s arms wrapped securely around your waist and Nilo at the foot of the bed. The TV was on, but neither of you two were paying much attention.
The night consisted of catching up, gossip, plans for the following week, and laughter. Everything was so much better now that you were home. So much brighter, too. And not a single time during those hours, did your smile falter for longer than a second.
likes, comments, & reblogs are all appreciated! lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any future posts.
Hi girrrrl! Just stepping by to say that I love u, I've been following you for a while now and I wanted to congrat you and thank you for all of the request and beautiful thing that you write, you're amazing in what you do, you really know how to put emotions in every paragraph and thank you so much for taking your time to write all this art, my first language it's not english, so I'm very sorry if there are any grammatical errors. Love u!
Hey so why did my eyes just well up oh my god? THANK YOU SO MUCH ☹️☹️☹️ you have no idea what this just did to me and I absolutely love when I see your user and profile picture pop up (BTS. Hi.) You’re actually amazing and I love you
