Today’s video: Annual Unus Annus Roast gave me an idea.
Reblog this and include a screenshot of your Unus Annus “birthday” video. (The video that was uploaded on your birthday) I wanna see other people’s, mine is hilarious!
January 11th, this video was uploaded. Very fitting for a capricorn I think lol
Thanks to everyone who reblogged and shared their bday videos! I had a really good laugh seeing all your replies! I tried my best to share my reactions to you guys’ posts. Sorry if i missed some of you guys.
We have about 4 days left so make the most of it guys! <3
Playlist Prompt: All Shook Up - Elvis Presley / “Who do you thank when you have such luck?”
Warnings: Soft!dark vibes, implied stalking, Steve Rogers (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 20 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Luck had been on your side lately.
When you got a flat tire and had your car taken into the shop, the mechanic said there was no charge and even threw in an oil change. When your rude coworker wouldn’t stop making passive-aggressive comments about your work, they were suddenly transferred to a different department and shift. And when your bank account looked a bit low after some bills, you got an unexpected and sizable bonus from your boss.
“Okay, seriously,” your friend asked over a drink, which you somehow got for free. “How have you been so lucky lately?”
You shrugged a little. “I don’t know, but it feels too good to be true.”
You tried to have an optimistic outlook, but life let you down before. Your parents were taken away from you too soon. Your last boyfriend didn’t keep his promises. Having too much hope could lead to disappointment.
Maybe your streak of “luck” was a coincidence.
Who do you thank when you have such luck?
“Well, don’t look now,” she smirked and wiggled your eyebrows. “But a smoking hot man at the bar keeps looking your way.”
Naturally, you looked.
Smoking hot was an understatement. The blonde Adonis looked like he was carved from the gods and put on this planet just to drive people insane with his looks. His smile was gentle enough, but his striking blue eyes filled with heat that nearly had you squirming in your seat.
“Oh, he looks like he wants to eat you whole,” your friend sighed. “Lucky you.”
Yes, lucky you.
Because you caught his eye weeks ago and he decided you were his.
Bills? No problem. Rude coworkers? Gone. And you’d be in his bed by the end of the night.
Pairing: post-retirement!Steve Rogers x Reader
CW: None. It’s just fluff
Notes: This is just a small writing exercise of sorts cuz I’ve been struggling with writer's block for a while now. Hope you enjoy. This has nothing to do with the song, btw. 700 words.
The cabin is in the middle of nowhere, which is exactly where you and Steve wanted to be. It's not much— just a cozy fireplace, a loft bedroom and a porch that overlooks a frozen lake, miles and miles from any other people. No electricity, no running water, no cell service. Just you and the silence. Comes off as the perfect setting for a horror movie but it’s ridiculous to fear anything with Steve right there with you.
"You're supposed to be chopping wood," you call from the porch, watching him struggle to use an axe with his thick gloves
"I am chopping wood!" He swings again, and the axe buries itself in the log off center with a resounding crack. The log splits unevenly, and a piece flies off into the snow. Steve yanks the axe free and glares at it. "I should have just used my hands." he mutters, his words carrying well in the still air.
“You’re the one who said you wanted an ordinary life where you do things like ordinary people.” you remind him.
Steve stops glaring at the axe and looks at you. His expression softens.
The memory of the day you met Steve is still fresh in your mind, as if it happened only yesterday. You’d been hurrying into SHIELD HQ for your first day of work, already late and the sugary nightmare that you stood twenty minutes in line for at the nearby coffee shop already eating though it’s paper cup. You collided into Steve in the antrum and spilled your vanilla double shot caramel ribbon crunch with extra whipped cream all over his three hundred dollar shirt.
He'd introduced himself then— Captain America, though he'd only said "Steve" as if he was just Steve from accounting— and walked you to your new office, coffee stain spreading across his chest like a watercolor map. He'd asked about your background, your interests, whether you'd found the good vending machine yet (third floor, east wing). By the time you reached your door, you'd forgotten to be nervous.
It wasn't until later that you learned Steve's laugh is a rare thing. That he didn't usually walk new recruits to their offices, didn't usually ask about their lives unless there was a tactical reason. That he'd singled you out for some reason apparently. Of course, it all became clear when he asked you out to the movies about a month later.
You watch him for a moment longer from your place on the porch, then decide to go to him, the soft snow shifting beneath your boots. He's wearing a thick coat, gloves, and a lopsided wool hat Bucky sent him for Christmas (allegedly, Bucky knit it himself. He wouldn't admit to it but Sam insists he did). Steve looks so cozy and domestic that it makes you want to start kissing him and never stop.
So you do. You rise up on your toes, wrap your hands around his scarf, and pull his mouth down to yours. He tastes like coffee and his lips are chapped from the cold. It’s perfect.
"What was that for?" he asks when you pull back.
"Do I need a reason?"
"No." He grins, and it transforms his face, makes him look younger, lighter. "No, I guess you don't. But keep kissing me like that and I’ll chop all the wood you want."
You look back at his less-than-impressive pile. “You haven’t chopped any.”
Steve frowns. “I’m getting to it.”
“Maybe later.” You take the axe from his hand and set it aside. "Come inside. I'll make dinner."
"What are we having?"
"Stew. And bread, if I can get the oven going."
"Haven’t you used it like twenty times?" Steve asks.
"And I've almost burned the cabin down at least fifteen of those times." you point out.
Steve laughs, deep and warm, and pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap around you and you press your face into his coat and breathe him in— he smells of clean snow, wood smoke and home. This is what peace feels like, you realize.
summary: you have feelings for your neighbour, clark kent. too bad you hate superman after your car became collateral damage in a fight. or: 3½ times clark kent tries to convince you that superman is good (ft lois lane) and 1 time superman finds you to apologise. (wc: 9.0k)
pairing: clark kent / f!reader
content: neighbour!au. fluff/humour/angst. idiots in love. reader despises superman. #supershit mentioned. mean!reader at times. mentions of an ex-boyfriend. descriptions of injuries, blood and tbh clark is giving wet towel throughout all of this. he’s desperate for reader to like his true identity. 18+ suggestive themes at the end! not proofread, i ain’t reading allat.
i. WORD OF MOUTH
The city of Metropolis had barely roused from its sleepy state, the skyscrapers painted in colours of pink and orange as the sun lazily peered from its slumber beneath the horizon.
Clark Kent shared a similar sentiment as the giant ball of gas, his hair mussed and tie not sitting quite right against the crisp white button shirt that took an embarrassing amount of time to iron the creases out of. There was little requirement for him to sleep, aside from maintaining a side of humanity he’d like to keep, but the mental fatigue from the tensions between the US Government and his actions in Jarhanpur had contributed to his flat energy.
His feet felt like concrete against the stone stairs, one hand on the railing that the paint was peeling off of, his steps echo all the way to the ground floor; where he had every intention to muster the courage to open up his mailbox on the communal postal area for the apartment complex.
There was never anything bad in there, but when your standard 9 til’ 5 job consists of fact-checking, pitching article ideas and fighting for the hot spot on the front page of the company you worked for…well, the last thing he wanted to do was read.
Either way, the mailman waits for nobody and it was evident in the papers crammed into mailbox painted with Clark’s door number on it.
Clark sighs. He got up earlier than usual to do this—and he was sure he’d still be late to work with an extra twenty minutes under his belt. He persists past the procrastination, and slots his mailbox key into the lock; a few envelopes topple out and he bends at the waist to retrieve them from the floor riddled with chewing gum pressed into the material.
“Oh hey, Clark,” Clark shoots up, the back of his head catching the corner of the small metal door at the abrupt sound of the secondary voice. You—the owner of the groggy voice—wince, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Clark feels his face go pink. You were one of the many residents within the mid-rise apartment complex on Clinton Street in midtown Metropolis. Quick-witted, with a generous amount of extrovert which made the perfect concoction in befriending your neighbour Clark Kent upon his first week in his new pad.
You had believed the dark-haired and bad postured journalist to be a little lacking in the social skills forefront when you had first met him. His skin maintaining a healthy flush whenever you stopped by his door with house-warming plants—that he took incredibly seriously in keeping alive—or whenever you bumped into him around the building.
(Worst time was in the laundry room, where Clark had missed a pair of boxers with hearts printed on them in the dryer. You were the one to find them and return them to their rightful owner that had written his name in sharpie on the tag.)
Eventually, you just accepted that was who he was. A six foot something pink man.
It also didn’t help that Clark found you incredibly gorgeous amongst all the other feelings that bubbled in his stomach when he caught some small talk with you.
You weren’t as much as the girl-next-door, as you were the girl-one-floor-above.
Unbeknownst to him; you also felt the same way.
Clark clears his throat, “Don’t apologise. I should have my wits about me.” he says as he rubs the back of his head.
“I’ll announce myself by a bell, or something next time.” you joke as you step up to the communal mailboxes and find your one with ease. Your mailbox has the correct amount of letters for someone who checks it daily—unlike Clark—and you begin to siphon through them whilst you speak, “Aside from the headache…how are you?”
Embarrassed! Publicly humiliated!
“Swell.” Clark settles for, “And you?”
You sigh, which can’t be good. “I got let go from my job. I say that term loosely—I got fired.”
“No kidding?”
“Turns out you shouldn’t shit where you eat.” you grumble, flipping a pamphlet over in your hand, “Power imbalance prevails, I suppose.” you shrug at the thought.
Clark pulls his lips into a thin line, the pinky flush slowly dissipating from his face from the distracting subject of your workplace drama. It had been common knowledge between three floors in the building that you and your seedy boyfriend who, also, happened to be the manager at the establishment you had been employed in; had since gone your separate ways after you found several of his accounts on a plethora of dating apps—one app, he had a passport for in order to speak to women across the globe.
Because his cheating needed to be international.
Things went sour, like really sour. It wasn’t your finest moment, but Clark reassured you through breathing exercises and a firm rub up and down your back that it was completely acceptable to hold an illegal street bonfire with your ex’s belongings as the kindlings to ignite it.
(He didn’t mention the part where he was lying about it being okay. Or, the amount of bail he paid to get you out of the local police station.)
Turns out the retaliation from your ex was firing you. The irony.
Jackass.
“I’m sorry about that.” Clark stares at your side-profile with empathy in his blue eyes, “Have you found anything?”
“Nope.” you emphasis the ‘p’ with a pop, finger peeling a brown envelope open, “So, if you hear anything—literally anything—send it my way. I’m down to scrape the barrel to keep up with my rent payment each month.”
“You have my word.” Clark promises and then you both fall comfortably silent. Which just means, he was going to admire you for a minute.
After Clark had heard through the grapevine of your split, he had every intentions to build up the courage to ask you out on a date in the near distant future. It had been nine, torturous months of watching you from afar with a man that Clark Kent knew was not up to par with being able to be with a woman like you. That guy dimmed you down in every single way possible, and Clark had to stop attending neighbour-hangouts as he couldn’t bear to watch your radiance shrouded.
Plus, your ex took a real disliking to Clark after he watched your compatibility with him flourish.
So, when the news broke via—as you graciously called her—Old Woman Jenkins who lived in Apartment 3-B with her seven cats and two budgies; it was safe to say Clark was ecstatic for two reasons.
1.) You were free from the toxicity, and 2.) This gave Clark the opportunity to show you how a real man should love you.
Only downside was…Clark wasn’t sure when to approach it. He wasn’t emotionally stinted, so he knew that asking you out within a day, or even a week after your split would’ve just been grounds for a restraining order. On the flip side, he didn’t want to catch a rebound case because his feelings ran a lot deeper than a fleeting, emotional distraction.
Therefore, Clark just never asked. You don’t ask, you don’t get your heartbroken or something like that.
He just couldn’t ruin a good thing.
You eventually speak again when you close your mailbox, eyes trailing down to the newspaper clutched in your neighbour’s hand, “You a front pager again?” you ask with a smile.
“Oh—Ah, yes,” Clark flips the folded newspaper open to reveal the front page regarding his recent fight with the Hammer of Boravia. He points to the article, “That’s all me.”
You peer at the print, “Congratulations again, Clark! That’s a huge deal in journalism world.”
“Oh…I—Thank you.” Clark stumbles through his profound gratitude for your praise. The tips of his ears start to turn pink again.
You nod and adjust the tote bag on your shoulder, “Seriously, it takes balls.”
“Yes, that’s why I enjoy the job—” he says at the same time as you speak.
“I mean, making that guy look good? I didn’t think that could be possible.” you add earnestly.
Clark blinks.
“…” he breathes a laugh, “I—I don’t follow.”
“Superman? I mean, come on. He is an egotistical white knight that faces zero ramifications from his actions. He only gets away with things because he’s handsome.” you wave off the tail-end of your statement in a flippant manner paired with a roll of your eyes, “I can’t stand the guy.”
You think he’s handsome? Clark has to shake the compliment off like water off a duck’s back. Low priority in comparison to the other things you had just off-handedly stated in your brief rant on the man in red and blue.
There is part of Clark that almost leaps at the opportunity to get a little bad tempered over it, toss his toys out of the pram from the unwarranted criticism. Superman was good! He was good!
Instead, Clark compartmentalises his hurt feelings and puts his Pulitzer prize-winning star reporter title to good use.
“What—What makes you say that?” Clark tucks his chin to conceal the pout on his face, masking it as deep interest to the letters in his hands, “He’s got a glowing track record of keeping the streets of Metropolis safe.”
He was really hoping that he didn’t unearth a Boravian supporter out of you.
Or, that you agreed with the statement that had begun to grow arms and legs about his so-called ‘alien entitlement’ to house himself within Earth’s atmosphere.
You answer in an unwavering tone of resentment. “It’s a personal grudge that’s grown ever since that fight on Clinton Street broke out—before you got here. I had just paid my car off, and whaddya know? Superman and his body made of steel, totals it alongside his own defeat with whatever shithead guy he was fighting against.” you blurt sarcastically, “He owes me a car.”
“Oh. That isn’t so bad.” is how Clark responds, without a thought behind it.
To him, it wasn’t so bad. He felt guilty, obviously collateral damage was something he wasn’t so favourable over.
However, this was fixable.
Clark’s answer threw you for such a loop, that you almost forgot to answer. “Isn’t so bad?” you repeat, “Under what circumstances does that fall under the category of: isn’t so bad?”
“No—I, I didn’t mean it wasn’t bad. It’s quite terrible actually,” Clark swallows, the heat capturing beneath his collar as he speaks. “In the grand scheme of possibilities that could have happened, at least you weren’t in your car. And—And, on top of that, he saved multiple citizens from becoming a casualty statistic.”
“My car became a casualty statistic. Superman fucking sucks.” you state sternly. “Nothing can change my mind about that.”
Clark frowns, “Nothing?”
“Nothing.” you affirm, “Anyway, I’ve got a job interview in thirty. I’ll see you around?”
“Yes. See you.” Clark offers a strained smile as you wave him goodbye and disappear round the corner to exit the building.
He lets out a breath he had been holding since you confessed your acquired distaste for Superman.
Clark’s gaze drops to the newspaper, his fingers curl tightly into the pages as he decided on the spot; he was going to convince you otherwise regarding the personal vendetta against, well…him.
ii. WEEKLY PAPER
The art of apologies seemed pretty simple, right?
A heartfelt card, or a bouquet of flowers could go a long way in the tumultuous events that led up to an apology being a necessity to mending a friendship, relationship or family bond. However, the situation with you was a little different to a petty squabble, despite Clark believing it to be petty to hold such a grudge—he saved lives that day!
For one, you weren’t aware that there was any mending to be done. Your hatred toward Superman had been cemented the day you returned from work, having decided to walk that particular sunny day, only to find your beloved vehicle crumpled. To you, there was no putting bandaids over wounds, and you certainly had zero forgiveness in your heart for the man that patrolled the skies of Metropolis.
The whole crux of the matter was, Clark Kent was raised on the rule that honesty was the best policy. Honestly, no, he doesn’t recall crushing your car after being tossed across Clinton Street like a rag-doll. He’s sure he’s crushed a few cars in his time in the city, and he knows he would have felt guilty at the time; but it was better to forgive and forget rather than bottle up all your resentful feelings toward someone who was just trying to help.
Further to this, Clark wanted to take the chance and ask you out on a date. He really did. Time was a healer, and it had been three months—give or take—since your split from the egotistical cheater, meaning it felt like ample enough time to be justified in his intentions. However, if you despised Superman, you unknowingly despised Clark Kent…and that wouldn’t be something that would sit right on his chest.
That would take away part of his honesty. If he had to continue concealing his identity behind the glasses to appease your objectifications on Superman.
(At least it was more a personal issue than a shared thought with the less friendly bunch that lived in Metropolis.)
So, in conclusion, Clark came up with the bright idea to slowly introduce you to the good side of Superman. You know, the one that saves Metropolis and much further, fetches kittens down from trees, gives back to the community.
He was basically trying to fill your head with Superman shaped stars.
The best option came to him whilst he sat at his desk in the bullpen of Daily Planet. Knees touching the underside of his desk, his mind had been elsewhere for the better part of the day; as Clark was more or less sulking over the revelation you shared with him that morning.
How could he change your mind? Clark had learnt that you were strong-minded to an extent from a personal experience with a fellow neighbour, who had a terrible habit of pausing Clark’s laundry in the dryer and dumping his half damp clothes into a hamper just so they could use that one particular machine. (There were ten in total.)
When Clark expressed his frustrations to you, he hadn’t expected you to begin a psychological warfare against the neighbour in Apartment 1-D. It was safe to say, you won out of sheer resilience.
He dared not to share the same fate as Apartment 1-D.
Then, it sort of went off like a lightbulb in his head. Clark Kent created articles in which he interviewed himself, in order to shed a positive light on his actions. Why not bring those interviews to your doorstep under the Daily Planet subscription service?
It meant you’d receive weekly newspapers from the Planet, delivered to your home with no extra cost aside from the cheap subscription fee to keep journalism alive and kicking.
Clark would pay for it out of his own pocket, of course.
Not only were you strong-minded, but you were curiouser than a cat and that meant your interest would pique to flip through the pages of the newspaper and, eventually, read all about the good deeds of Superman.
Not to mention how charming and handsome he was…but you already knew that.
It was the perfect idea, with the perfect execution!
That was, until, you had received the third instalment of your new $3.99 subscription to the newspaper company Clark worked for.
“Morning, Clark.” you chirp as you reach your mailbox, sparing the male a glance with a pretty smile that had his heart thump a little harder. “This is the most I’ve seen you in the communal mailbox area.”
(There was a reason for that.)
Clark hums, “Best to keep on top of my mail, I think.”
“You’d be right. The shredders are hungry for junk mail.” you had a tendency to laugh at your own jokes with a cute snort. Something that was cut short when you open your mailbox. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What’s wrong?” Clark asks with his brows pinched.
“I think my ex is tormenting me,” you grouse, “As if I was the one sharing my favourite position on six different dating apps—ugh. He’s signed me up for the Daily Planet subscription when he knows how much I don’t want to read about the brown-nosing of Superman.” you pause, eyes flitting to Clark’s face, “No offence.”
“None taken.” (A lot taken. All at once.)
You continue, “I mean—I guess it is a retaliation because I signed his phone number up to receive regular calls for recruitment within Scientology. But, this almost feels worse.” you whine as you toss the newspaper in your tote bag for later shredding.
“You signed him up to Scientology?” Clark asks and you spare him a shameful glance. He redirects the topic, for your sake. “Is it really so bad, reading about all the things Superman is doing to keep Metropolis afloat?”
“It’s hard not to hear about it, let alone be subjected to reading it too.” you seethe, “It’s a constant reminder that he wrecked my car, and never had to face the consequences—unlike me. You know, I hate riding the subway? I swear I’m one sticky seat away from contracting a new strain of the plague. He caused that.”
Clark wants to call you dramatic.
He goes for, “I hear you.” instead.
“Do you think you could get this cancelled for me?” you ask as you shut your mailbox, “I want to support you, but, this is like rubbing salt in an open wound.”
How could Clark say no? He had a firm grasp on boundaries, and part of him felt remorseful over the fact that you believed that his own doings were that of your ex-boyfriend—someone you really didn’t need reminding of. Plus, you were staring at him all glittery-eyed which was part of his weakness when it came to you.
And your means to be overtly theatrical.
Not only that, but Clark led himself to believe he had crossed a big company no-no by inputting your details into the Daily Planet subscription system and, has since spent every day since unlawfully signing you up to the weekly newspapers, convincing himself he was border-lining on identity theft.
Clark likes you. He likes the idea of keeping his job just a little bit more.
He exhales. “Yeah. I will sort that for you. No problem.”
“You’re a life saver. I owe you one, Clark.” (He owes you a car.) “I’ve got to go. I need to get to Hob’s Bay for an interview with Metro Souvenir.”
“Good luck. They’d be lucky to have you.” Clark enthuses sweetly.
You blink at his compliment, a smile growing slowly on your face, “Thanks, Clark.”
“Anytime.” Clark gives you a lopsided smile, forgetting he’s already ten minutes late to work, being so wrapped up in your addictive presence and all—he’s already forgotten the pit in his stomach over you loathing his true identity. “I’ll catch you later.”
iii. SUPERSHIT
Similar to the rest of the population on Earth, Clark Kent had a number of things that got under his skin. The obvious, being that of his own fabrication of an alter-ego in an ill-fitting suit that he hid behind in order to keep those around him safe. It was the finest quality of deception, and Clark found it vexing to upkeep. Then there were other issues, such as: the US Government’s reluctance to side with his good intentions in Boravia, Steve Lombard at times, and the smear campaign against him that had recently gained traction online.
One specific insult within the smear campaign that tested Clark Kent’s abundance of patience; was Supershit. It was juvenile. Completely undermined his efforts in guiding humanity into a better tomorrow. It was…bothersome to a man like Clark Kent.
His agitation toward the name had only furthered when Steve Lombard had mentioned it in passing toward the end of the day, leading Clark to trudge home under his own personal grey cloud of discontent.
The mental fatigue of it all weighed his shoulders down and he took to the three flights of stairs in the apartment like a kicked dog.
“Whew. Bad day?”
The grey cloud breaks overhead at the sound of your melodic tone.
Clark looks over his shoulder to see you with a plastic bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “Oh, no. Just a rather long one.” he says in partial dishonestly.
“I hear you.” you take a couple of steps up, “Want to come to mine and wallow over some Thai?”
When Clark hesitates, you answer for him.
“It’s free,” you lift the warm bag to wiggle it, “Plus, the cashier asked if I was eating for two…so.”
Clark’s brows raise at your reiteration of an inconsiderate presumption. “Looks like we both were insulted today.” he murmurs, allowing you to pass him on the stairwell to lead him up to the fourth floor.
You both greet Old Woman Jenkins and her three-legged cat with a taste for ankles on the third floor—she was the eyes and ears of the complex—and then you dip into explaining how the Metro Souvenir interview was a complete bust after you openly belittled the small Superman collection in the corner of the store that was made up of 90% Superman bobble-heads.
Turns out it was the owner’s daughter’s hobby in her past time.
Keys jingle in your hands as you pull them from the abyss that was your unorganised tote bag and as you open the door to your apartment, Clark stands behind you with a pout; fiddling with the strap of his work briefcase.
He was putting it down to mental fatigue or lack of direct sunlight which had instilled the glass half empty mentality into him. Clark couldn’t quite shake off the impending doom of a sharp rejection of, not only a possible blossoming of a relationship, but the friendship you two had made along the way when he eventually takes off the glasses and you’re exposed to the man who wrecked your car.
(For good reason!)
The thought stays chewing the back of his mind as he sits on the new sofa—a piece of furniture you decided to invest in after your ex’s body warped a dent in his shape on your old couch—in your apartment, and whilst you spread out the lukewarm Thai food in plastic tupperware boxes; across your rickety coffee table.
The two of you sit closer than necessary for a four-seater sofa with cushions that felt like the equivalent to clouds from cartoons, Clark had forgone his suit jacket and rolled his ironed sleeves of his white button-up shirt up to rest at his elbows. It wasn’t hard to miss that his suit pants were almost bursting at the seams from being taut against his muscular thighs.
It was hard not to look at him.
The friendly neighbourhood heathen. Dwarfing doorframes and, sometimes, having to walk sideways into a room due to the broadness of his shoulders; was sitting flush with your own shoulders and occasionally making eyes with you.
That’s what you translated it as, anyway—even if he had entered a little broodier than usual.
Clark eventually strikes up a conversation in between eating, “I actually wanted to tell you about a job going at Daily Planet,” he swallows the chewed up food in his mouth, “Sort of a support role.”
You perk, “Really?”
“Yeah. You’d be working under Lois Lane. She’s a good friend and great journalist.” Clark informs, mirroring the excitement that lights up on your face. “I can put in a good word, if you’d like?”
“I mean…I know nothing about journalism, but it’s a learning curve.” you state.
Clark bites into a spring roll, the aromatic kaffir lime takes over his senses as he nods into the bite, “You can only try.”
“Thank you, Clark. I seriously owe you double now.” you pluck a spring roll from the tupperware, “You’ll have to think of something.”
The idea that crosses Clark’s mind is like a balloon being popped with a sharp needle. His blue eyes shoot to your side-profile, happily dissecting your own spring roll to inspect the food inside. He’s suddenly swamped in those warm fuzzy feelings Ma Kent had told him about during his bedtime stories at a young age.
Clark didn’t want to detract from the slow process of your own heartbreak over your ex-boyfriend.
Yes, the guy had shattered the innocence on the idea of love, and how to be loved—he used to turn the TV up to drown out your cries. He robbed nine months of your life with poor judgement that his online escapades with other women wouldn’t see the light of day, he had purposely used his position of power to terminate your employment; leaving you without a job, and zero income to pay for the bills that were on a steep incline from inflation.
Even with all of this taken into consideration, you were taking your time in experiencing your own version of heartbreak. Because, deep down, you had been naively and so incredibly blindly in love.
That was something Clark didn’t want to overstep on until the time was right.
But, on the contrary, when was the timing ever right? It had been three months since you split from your boyfriend, and honestly? Clark wanted you. Heart broken, or not.
He just hoped those feelings would be reciprocated. (Nobody sits that close to you without it being intentional, right?)
It comes out of him with all the confidence he can muster. “You…you could let me take you on a date.” it almost sounds rhetorical in the way he chose to ask.
It makes you turn your head, eyes wider as if you were a deer that had just been caught in the headlights. Your cheek swollen with pocketed food, the room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop.
It makes Clark suddenly regret his decision.
“I’m sorry—” Clark shakes his head, pink from head to toe, “I don’t, I don’t know why I thought that was acceptable. You’re still going through the process of a breakup. That was all rather silly of me—”
“Clark.”
Clark hums, “Hm?”
“Relax, dude.” you lilt, “I’d like that.”
“You would?”
You breathe out a laugh, “Yes. That sounds like the perfect I.O.U.” you bump your shoulder shyly with Clark’s and then mumble, “I knew you weren’t a constant shade of pink around me for no reason.”
“Yes, well. It was for a good reason.” Clark mumbles and tugs at the collar of his shirt to release some heat that had been trapped beneath it. “A pretty reason.” he says with a smile.
The night shared in Apartment 4-A would’ve ended perfectly there. Clark had found his voice, and in turn, became more openly flirtatious with you as the pair of you cleaned up the leftovers of the takeaway. The touches became more tactile and it made both of your heads a little fuzzy with excitement.
His dampened mood from Steve Lombard had shifted, Clark quickly finding that you were a version of sunlight that he could metabolise and recharge on.
The night should’ve ended there—on a high.
Then the topic of conversation rolls back around to, well, Clark.
You take a sip from your water bottle before you speak, “So…I hear your buddy is in some type of hot waters with the government.” you spare Clark a glance.
“You could say that.” Clark pinches his brows at the thought, “He was just trying to save people—”
“From a tyrannical president?” you interject, “It’s the one time I’ll give it to him.”
Clark is surprised, and he struggles to hide that on his expression; so you quirk a brow. He clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you to side with him. Seems like you may be one of the very few people who do.”
You end up shrugging, “His actions to save Jarhanpur override my personal issues with Supershit.”
Supershit. You just had to use Supershit.
(Sunlight status revoked.)
The atmosphere shifts and you’re blissfully unaware of the nerve you had hit as Clark shifts beside you. All of the impulsive reactions surge forward in Clark, entangling themselves in the warmth he had felt by being within close proximity with you, making his mood sour like milk left in the sun.
His nostrils flare from frustration. The tips of his ears are an angry shade of red.
Clark bores a hole into your coffee table. “I think that’s a little unfair to call him that.” he says lowly.
“You think that because you’re a good person who sees past all the bad stuff, Clark.” you reason without much deliberation over his defence, “Me, on the other hand—”
“Should give him a chance, perhaps?” Clark retorts bluntly, leaving you to blink in surprise, “He’s misunderstood. He’s doing what he thinks is right, what is good for the citizens of Metropolis.”
“I’m not questioning if he’s good or not.” you argue back, “It’s just a personal gripe.”
Clark stands, “Oh, come on,” he gravels, “Superman is not your enemy. Supershit is not a fair nickname!”
“Why do you care so much if I like him or not?” your eyes narrow, “You’ve been selling him to me this whole month. What is that all about?”
OK, maybe your career in journalism would be a steer in the right direction.
You sigh when Clark fights for an explanation. “He wrecked my car, Clark. I’m allowed to dislike someone that you favour. That’s just life.”
Clark doesn’t look at you when he speaks, “Yeah.”
He backs down after that. Not because he wants to, or that your stare has him pinned to the spot. It was down to the reason that, if he projected anymore resistance against your grievances with Superman; he may be on a slippery slope of a bad-tempered confessional in the middle of your living room.
Clark grabs his suit jacket from the back of your sofa, fiddling with it as he sulks, “I think I should leave. Thank you for the food. I’ll…um, I’ll talk to Perry and Lois about the job.”
“Okay. Thank you.” you look up at him from your seated position, a little confused by the whiplash from the energy shift in the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow.”
iiii. LOIS LANES’ DIVINE INTERVENTION
So…you don’t hear from Clark for three days—aside from a short text giving you the thumbs up for an interview at Daily Planet.
After the blip of Supershit, Clark took the mental load of keeping his distance from you. His patience was stretched thin from outside opinions and he feared with the hard-to-budge bad taste that Superman left in your mouth; that you would be a target of hot-headed retaliation if you utter the word Supershit in Clark’s presence again.
The safest assumption was that he was busy—he was a Pulitzer prize-winner at the end of the day. It definitely hadn’t been in relation to the immediate debate that came after you used the trending, cancel culture-esque nickname, Supershit, on his nearest and dearest interviewee.
Even with your feelings now left up in the air with a date being strung over your head with zero confirmation of a date or time, you weren’t one to sit and dwell over a man’s fragile ego—for whatever reason Clark’s ego was made of glass, you were unsure but close to figuring out—and put all your energy and abundance of spare time into perfecting your knowledge about Daily Planet prior to your interview.
The interview process for the support role beneath Lois Lanes’ expertise as a front-runner journalist for Daily Planet had gone smoother than you could have anticipated. To be quite frank, you had little experience in the journalist field, let alone a degree, but you came prepared with a good amount of charm and some background knowledge on the company.
Founded in 1775, globally renowned for its pursuit of justice, home to some brown-nosing of Superman and the Justice League, and the employer of the curly-haired neighbour you had been crushing on for quite some time. (The last two weren’t verbalised as such. Edited version: enthralling interviews that capture the true essence of the city’s extraterrestrial and meta-humans, and the employer of Clark Kent. Your neighbour. Nothing else.)
Lois likes you. Perry White isn’t easily convinced. She spends the rest of her shift arguing your case—the Editor-in-Chief calls it favouritism for the only woman who applied for the role.
Before you leave, you are tail-ending a conversation with Lois. She’s the epitome of a thriving journalist in a trim waistcoat and white tee beneath, a mug of hot coffee with at least, fifteen lumps of sugar stirred into the mix.
“You have to make sure you’re not in favour of one particular person that we write about. You know, like Superman is a good guy, but you can’t show bias. Even if Daily Planet have been hit with some accusations of preference.” Lois says in a monotonous tone.
You nod along, not wanting to ruin your chances by shit-talking one person that brings the money in for the company. “I mean, everyone seems to like him, right? Clark has been fawning over him for sometime.” you prod at her brain intentionally for an underlying curiosity of your own.
“Clark sees a lot of himself in Superman,” Lois choice of words make your brow quirk—she’s being careful. “He does a lot of questionable things—Superman, I mean, but he saves a lot of lives. They both live their lives to be good, I guess that’s why Clark is drawn to him.”
“I guess so.” you pause, “You know he totalled my car in a fight?”
“Clark?” (No, but you were starting to think otherwise.)
“Superman.” you correct and Lois looks at you as if it isn’t that big of a deal. A major inconvenience at best. “Yeah, he got into a fight on Clinton Street and was thrown into my car that I had just paid off. I was pretty torn up about it…still sort of am.”
Lois wracks her wonderful brain, “Clinton Street?” you nod, “Yeah—We covered that story. The meta-human he had been fighting was headed for a nursery a few blocks down, for whatever sick reason. Superman diverted him to Clinton Street and saved about fifty kids. He took some punches over that. Anything to keep the guy away from those kids.”
You blink, “I didn’t think about it like that.”
“You have to look at the bigger picture, if you’re going to be apart of this world.” Lois smiles, “Although, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your car got ruined. Did you get another one?”
“Uh…no.” your mind is elsewhere—you kind of feel like an asshole. You shake it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. I like the commute.”
“Clark mentioned that you had said that you were one sticky seat away from catching a new strain of the plague.” Lois quips and you shrink with embarrassment, the elevator is so close you could just…make a break for it.
It makes you laugh nervously, “Yeah. Well, that’s the fun part. The risks. Gets my adrenaline pumping.”
Lois really likes you. She decides.
“We’re all about adrenaline and risks.”
“Yeah—Well, thank you for giving me an interview. I’ve gotta head, sort of overstayed my welcome.” you express, thumb gesturing over your shoulder to the elevator, “It was nice meeting you!”
Lois bids you a goodbye, her eyes trained on your frame as you press the golden button umpteen times out of impatience to take your leave. She smiles to herself, turning on her heel as the elevator doors peel open.
Your eyes are cast downward, brain on autopilot over the realisation that struck the back of your neck like the side of a hand. The visit to Daily Planet for the interview had not only been relatively exciting—because you felt like you gelled well with Lois Lane—but it had been incredibly insightful to the incident relating to your deeply rooted dislike for Superman.
He was saving kids. How could you resent that?
Perhaps there was an aspect of selfishness on your behalf. Most times you had broken into a rant about the car tragedy of 2024, people have asked you if you knew the reasoning as to why Superman happened to be on Clinton Street, fighting a meta-human. More times than not, you’d shrug. You didn’t care, it was your car that suffered!
But, now? Lois Lane had smothered that year-long grudge with the missing pieces of the story.
“Holy shit. Am I an asshole?” you say out loud to yourself. The elevator slides shut and you stare wide-eyed at the golden doors.
“Pardon me?”
You turn your head to see Clark Kent clutching into his briefcase as if you were going to bite. You don’t even bat an eyelid as you say, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Unavailable.”
“Well, now, I—I can explain my absence—”
“Can we just bury our last interaction?” you interject with a sharp tone, “I’m feeling a little forgiving today.”
“Right. Yes, I was going to apologise for how I left—” Clark’s voice trails off as you deadpan at him. He shakes his head, “—All is said and done. Can I ask why you called yourself an asshole?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
You peer up at him, “Weren’t you meant to get off on that floor?”
“Yes. I suppose I should have.”
It makes you look him up and down. “…Alright, well, I mean I just had this super insightful conversation with your friend Lois about Superman—” Clark visibly winces, “—And the fight on Clinton Street, that ultimately lost me my car. This whole time, I just…I just didn’t care about the details, just knew I was pissed about my car. Then—Then Lois tells me it was collateral damage over Superman saving a nursery from a rampant meta-human. That sort of makes me the asshole in this story, Clark.”
“You are upset about it, that doesn’t make you an asshole.”
“No, but it does!” you exasperate, “Sure, it’s been a huge inconvenience to me, and a lot of money lost. But he was putting himself in harms way to save innocent lives. My car doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.”
Clark wants to argue the fact that Superman has been saving lives even before the incident on Clinton Street. However, the revelation that you’ve been put on track for is at the precipice of a complete 180 in your opinion of Superman; why stunt that growth?
He makes a note to thank Lois—who is well aware of his secret—for feeding you the breadcrumbs that led to this.
You know…once he takes elevator back up.
Clark waits for you to breathe. “So, no hard feelings over Superman?” he asks hopefully.
“He’s still an asshole for wrecking my car.” you retort, arms crossing over your chest, “But, I suppose that’s sort of the closure I needed. I can’t stay mad at a guy for forfeiting his own life to save fifty little ones.”
“I can work with that.” Clark says without thinking. The colour pink creeps up his neck when you cock your head to the side inquisitively—because, what did that mean? He gulps some air, “I—Can I still take you on a date?”
“I don’t know, can you get Superman to apologise to me?” you lilt in an unserious tone, essentially throwing a hook with a fat piece of bait impaled on the end.
The elevator reaches the ground floor.
“I can try.” Clark absolutely would. Without a shadow of a doubt.
(Hook, line and sinker.)
“Then yes.”
+1 APARTMENT APOLOGIES
You had got the job at Daily Planet. It took all of two days, and the persistence of the tenacious Lois Lane for Perry White to accept somebody without even a scrap of journalistic experience onto the team; for you to get the call to start in a weeks time.
And how you celebrated your elation was by grabbing a greasy pizza en route to your apartment, and watching reruns of Golden Girls on your sofa.
It was pure, unadulterated bliss.
That was, until the hairs on your arms unexpectedly stood on end on the last bite of the cheese-filled crust.
Immediate from this, there’s a silhouette that captures your attention from your periphery on the fire escape outside your living room window. Heart chasing its own beat, you drop the pizza crust into the cardboard box, your hand slowly reaching to curl round the steel bat you kept beside the sofa; the other one was located in your bedroom.
You didn’t want to engage, or even look. There’s been enough viewings of horror movies to know that the person that is curious, is the person that gets killed. You even think about sprinting out the front door and banging on Clark’s front door on the floor below.
When your bare foot touches the wooden floorboards, that’s when you hear a groan from just outside your window.
Your brows pinch from the familiarity. “Clark?”
It sounded like him.
Instinctively, you lift your bat as you stand. This was Metropolis after all. You wouldn’t put it past some extraterrestrial visiting the city to mimic the sounds of your neighbour. But honestly, where would they have gotten the sound of Clark in somewhat pain?
The large silhouette moves when you speak Clark’s name, and you make it to the window in two swift steps; forcing the window up to let in the billowing winds of the city air and noise pollution into your apartment.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Good evening ma’am.”
You raise your bat, “Superman?” you waver in your impulsivity to strike him across his head, “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape? You’re—ugh—you’re bleeding!”
He peels the palm of his hand away from his torso to reveal a much bigger wound, “Just a scratch. I’ll be alright. May I come in?”
“No! Crazy!” you argue back, “You’ll get your blood all over my new rug.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
You scoff, “Oh yeah? Like the car you wrecked—?” you pause to stare at him, the cogs turning in your mind, “Did Clark Kent put you up to this? Are you—Are you two in cahoots or some shit?”
“He may—” Superman groans when he shifts from one foot to the other, “—Have mentioned something about a disgruntled neighbour.”
Oh. He took your joke seriously.
Your fingers shift around the metal bat. “Yeah, that would be me.” you watch as a loose curl flops down onto his forehead, familiarity spreads across your chest, “Look. You can just let me hit you over the head with my bat. Once. Then, all is forgiven.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
You sigh, “Worth a shot.”
Superman’s lips quirk into an amused smile, “Please? It will only be for a moment.”
“…Fine.” you drop the bat down to your side and step back, “Only step on the wooden flooring, and just head to the bathroom. I’ll get you a wet flannel.”
A red boot swings over the threshold and suddenly, Superman is standing in the middle of your apartment at full stature, bleeding from the wound on his torso. He’s handsome, you’d give him that. In an omnipresent superhero type of way. He gives you a strained friendly smile, his dimples deep whilst his forehead creases from the sharp pain that elicits from the wound site.
Without further instruction as to where your bathroom was located, Superman makes a beeline down the hallway, breadcrumbs of blood leading you to him after you wet a spare flannel beneath the kitchen sink tap. His familiarity with your apartment only worsens your suspicions.
You find him dwarfing your toilet with the lid down. He has a handful of toilet paper stuffed against the bleeding gash, lips parting momentarily to exhale intermittently as he applies pressure with the worst gauze replacement to soak up the excess blood.
Pieces of tissue paper break apart from the saturation of blood and Superman—without thinking—gives you a clumsy smile. Lopsided and without confidence to fuel the curve of his lip. It is sort of vexing for you, coming from a place with purposefully minimal knowledge, these so-called ‘Protectors of Metropolis’ exuded self-righteousness because they needed to have a strong backbone to be a public figure. The man who sat on the lid of your toilet, in a vibrant red and blue suit that clung to his muscular physique presents nothing of the sort.
You wish you could approach it differently. This rare moment captured in time, where you come face to face with the destructor of your beloved vehicle and you had asked for permission to strike him across the head, rather than just doing it; as you had practiced multiple times in your head.
He wouldn’t even flinch, you suppose.
Further to this, if Lois Lane hadn’t intervened with her sharp memory of the Clinton Street incident, then Superman wouldn’t have been able to step foot into your apartment. Then again, you were stood at the threshold of the bathroom questioning his identity altogether.
“I don’t bite.” The male informs on borderline playful.
You don’t budge—a prisoner in your own home.
“I’d rather not take any chances.” you quip, tossing him the wet flannel because watching the pieces of tissue paper fuse to his wound was near painful. You observe him for a moment, “Clark sent you here?”
He hums lowly.
You continue, “When…did you see him? Usually he catches you at the scene of the crime, so to speak.” you tilt your head when Superman lifts his gaze to look at you, “I didn’t see any fights break out on the news today.”
“He called in a favour.” Superman responds with faux-innocence, “By phone.”
“Right, right.” you fall silent to watch him dab at his injury with care. There’s a deep inhale before you speak again, “You guys are close?”
“You could say that.” he mumbles, “Is there a problem?”
Your eyes narrow, “Is there a problem to be addressed? Other than the wreckage of my car, but, y’know, you already knew about that coming here. Did he give you my address?”
“No.” Superman jumps to Clark’s defence because giving a stranger—let alone a so-called enemy—your address without consent was a downright breach of your privacy and safety; let alone dangerous. He then adds, “He wouldn’t do that.”
“So you just happened to know where I live in a mid-rise apartment complex with eleven floors?” you take a step into the bathroom to goad him, “Is that part of your superpowers? Being a creep?”
“What—?” he flaps, “No! Nothing like that.”
“A woman alone in her apartment at night and you’re watching her from her fire escape. That’s pretty creepy, Supe.” you point a finger in his direction, essentially pinning him to the spot.
“I just came to apologise. Okay?” Superman takes a deep inhale in mild panic, “I never intended to destroy your car. But, if you ask me, I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant I saved those kids that day.”
“Why does it matter if you apologise to me or not? You must have damaged thousands of cars by now.” (Try hundreds of thousands.)
Superman huffs, “It matters to Clark. He—uh—Forgive me if this isn’t common knowledge, but he likes you. Truly likes you. He sees a future with you, and then you had mentioned that if he were able to have me apologise to you…then perhaps you’d proceed with the date.”
Oh, boy.
“I was joking when I said that.” you state, “Can you not tell the difference between a joke and a serious request, Clark?”
“Clark?” the tips of Superman’s ears go pink. Dead giveaway.
You throw a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on, Clark. It’s obviously you. You’re Superman. You think I’m dumb enough not to catch on when you’ve been fighting his corner for the past couple of weeks?”
Superman—or, Clark to you—gawks, “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying here.”
“What I’m stating is, that you are Superman. You just so happen to be able to interview him every single time and shed a positive light on his actions, you were unbelievably mad after Supershit—” Clark’s eye twitches, “And, what, Superman just so happens to know what apartment I’m staying in without any information handed out? Don’t even get me started on the glasses.”
“The glasses?”
“Well, you mentioned once that the glasses were for short-distance reading. You never took them off after reading the letters in your mailbox.” you shrug as you explain your theory, “Plus, you’re not wearing them now so you obviously don’t need them. You just wear them for a whole identity thing.”
Clark is struck silent. You were good. Like, incredibly observant.
“Did you get the job at Daily Planet?” when you nod, he proceeds to talk, “Good. We’ll need someone like you.” he pauses, “Are you mad?”
“No, I’m not mad.” you deflate a little, “I would have been if my theory was wrong and you did happen to hand out my address to some random man without my knowledge.”
Clark gives a feeble nod, “I’m a little shellshocked that you figured it out.”
“I’ve never seen you two in the same room, I guess.” your joke makes both Clark and you smile widely at each other. The break of tension allows you to move closer to him as you bend at the waist to look at his injury. You hiss at the sight of it, “That looks sore.”
“Oh, it isn’t so bad.” Clark gives you a dopey sort of smile when he catches your eye. “I didn’t intend to get hurt on the way here.”
You nod, taking the sodden flannel from his grasp in order to dab at his torso, “Superman sells me a sob story and bleeds out on my fire escape to get me to like him. That would have been dramatic.”
“You’re not mad?” Clark asks again for reassurance—his confidence since shaken from the rise of resistance in the Metropolis community in regard to his presence within the city.
With a shake of your head, you meet his blue eyes again, “No. I mean, we have a lot to talk about. But that’s what first dates are for, right? Getting to know each other?”
“So, the date is still going ahead?” (Gosh. He sounded so insecure.)
“Oh, I’m not sure. Clark Kent might have an issue with it.” you joke, “He called first dibs.” your playful tone ebbs along with your smug smile when Clark’s brows pinch and he swallows deeply. His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Are you about to kiss me?”
“Is that okay?”
“Again, Clark Kent—”
Your repetitive joke is smothered when Clark captures your lips with his own. He cradles the back of your head to keep you in position, his head tilting in one direction to refrain from your noses being pressed together. Your stomach is splattered with a heavy warmth as your fingers curl around the bluish fabric of the suit he wears. The room falls into a blissful silence aside from the occasional smacking of lips when Clark deepens the kiss with a sense of heated desire—the innocent kiss soon turning open-mouthed and desperate.
The signals of it allow you to climb onto his lap, wet flannel disregarded behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer into his arms that begin to circle your frame. Your hips tilt and press downward and Clark responds with a faint whimper that makes you smile against his lips.
There’s that sensible part of your brain that screams for this to come to a screeching halt. No first date and you’re practically dry-humping Superman? Of all people? But the way he pathetically whined beneath you; that was all Clark Kent. Your neighbour that you had been crushing on for the better part of a year, even when you had been dating your ex-boyfriend, the poorly-postured, socially inept male had always been in your peripheral. (Turns out he had just been biding his time.)
You feel him shift beneath you and the memory of an open-wound that your all of a sudden flush against is thrown to the forefront of your mind. It makes you pull back promptly, Clark’s face written with concern—his lips all puffy and wet.
“Is something wrong?”
“Your wound, Clark.” You lean back and Clark’s hands hold your weight for you. “It’ll probably need stitches.”
He frowns, “No, it won’t.” he leans in to press another kiss to your lips with less eagerness than before, “I can heal easily without human intervention.”
“Are you serious? You just wanted some attention?” you tug at the grown out curls at the nape of his neck and laugh. “You have so much explaining to do.”
“Of course.” Clark smiles against your lips, quickly making you forget your train of thought as he stands with a grunt with you bundled up in his arms. He speaks between hungry kisses, “But first, I have a destroyed car and a year of apologies to make up for.”
You giddily laugh as he carries you to your bedroom.
Warning: stealing, vagrancy, food sparcity, and some other elements to come.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Geralt of Rivia, short reader
Summary: you lie to get some food, but get more than you bargain as the Witcher comes to collect his debt.
Note: I hate being this way but couldn’t get this one out of my head.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
"Your dad?" Geralt growls as his boots crunch over twigs.
You reach to slap his stomach and stop him. You bend to move a snail out of his path and whisper an apology. The Witcher sighs.
"Yep. Thought I mentioned before he isn't the nicest fella," you shrug. "But he's family."
Your father marches ahead of you on his hooves, chittering and listening to the response. He's calling to the rest of the settlement; to the watchers in the brush and the archers on the trees. You recognise the broken branch where you fell as a child and the rock where you etched your initials. You knew this was the place but you hoped to just pass through.
"What's a fawn adopting a little girl for?" Geralt harrumphs.
"She's mine own blood." Your dad calls over his fuzzy shoulder. "Half me, half her ma... Unfortunately."
Geralt grumbles. Your dad snorts.
"You should know we fawns have keen ears," your dad drawls.
"Know lots about fawns." Geralt retorts. "I know they can be as pestilent as fleas."
"I'm sure ye know about fleas too, witcher." Your dad chirps back.
Your reluctant companion sighs. You suppress a grin. Your dad's with isn't too bad when it isn't aimed at you.
"Can't say I'm surprised at ye, girl. You always was good at finding trouble." He growls as he leads the way along the path. "Send ya off on her earth voyage and you get lost, come back with this thing."
"Thing..." Geralt snarls under his breath.
You snort and shake it off.
"Well, I saw all sorts. A thing called a drowner. Some sort of tree monster. Met a ghoul named Gareth." You say.
"Sure you saw all sorts."
"You sure you're blood related..." Geralt whispers. "You don't have hooves, though you can be a donkey."
"Oi, quiet," you rebuffs.
"Look, we're just on our way past, y'know? Travelling. Protecting people from those who ain't so nice as us." You explain.
"Mm. So you think you can be one of them?" Your dad signals with his hand.
"No, I'm... Being me. You sent me off to figure out who that is."
"I thought you might find some sense." He rasps.
Farlan approaches, the tawny fawn you recognise by the tattoo above his left brow. Your father assures him there's no danger and you wave to him. The familiar figure jolts and smiles as he sputters your name.
"Your daughter's come back, Griffey."
"So she has," your father waves him off. "Give em soup and a place to sleep for the night. They're gone in the morn."
"Da, wait," you call after him. "I wanted to ask you something."
"You were s'posed to find your own answers, girl." He clomps away on his hooves.
You huff and cross your arms. You roll your eyes. Farlan says your name.
"Eh! So long, eh?" You grin at him. "Didn't think I'd see ya again."
"Was starting to think the same," Farlan says. "It's nice. And..." He glanced at Geralt who grits and rubs his shoulder. "You married?"
You laugh. Loudly. Geralt sneers.
"Business partners. Sorta." You say. "Whatsa matter with da?"
"Ah, you know Griff. He's always like that."
"I saw the emblems. They're far out." You say.
Farlan frowns. He peers around. "Come, you should eat." He gestures. "You remember Jenetha?"
"Sure do. She was the best."
"She's still got some sanity about her." Farlan leads you through the campsite.
You see some familiar faces. Trudy, who used to call you ten toes, is bulging with pregnancy. She squints at you as several other fawns you hunted with twist to watch you. Geralt tramps heavily beside you.
"She can fix up your business partner too." Farlan promises.
You pass a fence of reeds and the little fairy house with butterflies fluttering and chimes made of broken shells. You catch a glimpse of one of the residents before the window snaps shut.
Farlan takes you to the clay door of Jenetha's hut and he whistles. He waits. Geralt leaves roach outside the fence before he follows.
He does it several more times then a squawk comes from within. He enters and beckons you after him.
Jenetha's braided hair is woven with willow strips and dandelions. She hunches in her chair, the socket of her missing right eye behind a patch of cobra skin. Her head wobbles as she sniffs the air.
She says your name. Then she turns to look at Geralt as he brushes against her loom. She cackles.
"Witcher." She flips up her eye patch and sits up straight. "I see you."
He grunts and crosses his arms before flinching. He rubs his shoulder and the old fawn woman clucks.
"Prodigy of Vesemir." She declares. "Ah yes, the one who took my eye."
Geralt exhales. "I know him..."
"Yes, all you white devils do." She tuts.
"I've not come to hurt anyone."
"Yes, I know. Griff heard ye near the brook. That man's paranoid." She sits back, still hunching. "Though not without reason."
"Jenetha," you step forward. "Why are the emblems so far out?"
She hums. She shakes her head. "There's black rot. South of here. It creeps into the soil. We have searched for the source but alas... Ah, well, the emblems keep it from our woods."
"Rot?" You ask. "What kind?"
"Unnatural." She says. "Your witcher would know more than I."
Geralt sniffs. "I suppose you don't have any nearby?"
"Do you think me mad?" She trills. "Go south, along the Ford, past the old arch." She says. "You will see it. As black as the pits of your witcher heart."
He snarls.
"Do not fret, dear slayer. If you were not welcome, you would not have crossed the threshold. I saw you coming too." She signals to Farlan. "Boy," she calls the middle aged fawn. "Fetch me my herb box." She points at Geralt. "And you, witcher, come, let me see that shoulder."
He hesitates but goes to her. He removes his leather armour and exposes his shoulder from beneath his torn tunic. Jenetha points to a stool nearby and he pulls it up to sit.
Farlan comes with a chest and opens it for the old woman. She pulls out a vial of sludgy tonic and swirls it. Geralt grimaces.
"No magic, witcher. Just natural remedies." She assures.
She uncorks it and smears the paste on his shoulder. It smokes as he watches. He hums.
"It doesn't hurt?"
"It wouldn't, witcher." She chides. "It's healing. I used the same on that other white haired thing before he took my eye. He called it poison." She shakes her head. "You witchers are all the same. You assume all are as you... Dangerous."
He clears his throat. "Mm..." He rolls his shoulder. "Thank you... Jenetha?"
"Call me Jenny." She pats his thick arm. "Though you witchers are right on one thing. Not all is as it seems."
Her eye glints at you and your brows tweak. She looks at Geralt and snaps her fingers. "There's stew on the stove. Eat, sleep if you can."
Summary: Your unlucky steak with men may change tonight.
Word Count: 300
Playlist Prompt: Bad Habits - Ed Sheeran / “I got nothin' left to lose, or use, or do”
Warnings: Referenced bad past relationships (cheating, ghosting), chemistry, Ari Levinson (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 15 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You had the worst luck in men.
Your recent prick of a boyfriend cheated on you with his neighbor. The asshole before that ghosted you after a couple of months of dating. And the bastard before that dumped you for his on-again, off-again toxic girlfriend.
They were off again, from what you heard.
“Men suck,” you muttered, digging your toes in the warm sand while your friends enjoyed the ocean.
“We’re not all bad.”
You glanced up when a large shadow fell over you, your breath catching.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
You thought you had seen men before until you took a good look at the gorgeous, shirtless specimen in front of you. The beast, because he was fucking huge, stood with his hands on his hips. His sculpted arms and abs reminded you of a statue. And you now understood the appeal of a beard because of him, which matched his dark hair perfectly.
“I’m sorry. Were you created in a sexy lab somewhere?” you blurted out.
The man’s ocean eyes crinkled when he laughed, which sounded sexy as hell. “Not that I’m aware of,” he replied, holding out a large hand. “But I was wondering if I can buy you a drink.”
Were you dreaming?
Should you drink with a stranger?
You took his hand anyway and let him help you up, which he made look effortless. “I shouldn’t ditch my friends.”
“We won’t be far.” He nodded to the beach bar just feet away. “So? Wanna join me?”
“Why not? I got nothin’ left to lose, or use, or do.” Your face scrunched up. “Forget I said that, um…”
“Ari,” he offered with a smile.
It was possible that he was too good to be true.
But it was also possible that he’d blow your back out tonight.
Unlucky streak is over now, right? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️
Pairing: Unnamed OC x fem!Reader, Andy Barber x fem!Reader
Warnings: awful blind date, dating, sweet Andy, implied gray Andy
Another blind date, another wasted night. You only agreed to meet up with the man to stop your friends from calling you a loner.
You knew the moment you arrived at the table that the guy waiting for you wasn’t Mr. Right. He barely looked up from the menu when the waiter offered to pull your chair.
You softly declined but thanked the waiter.
“You’re late.” The man commented as you sat down. “I hate waiting.”
“Well, then you shouldn’t have changed locations at the last minute. I was standing in front of the restaurant when you messaged me. I can’t fly, you know,” you snapped back. If not for your friends, you would’ve gladly left him there and then.
He finally put the menu aside to look you up and down. The man sighed deeply, as if you had offended him with your presence.
“What is it?” You asked, still debating whether to sit down or just walk out of the restaurant. “I haven’t even introduced myself, and you look like I ruined the date.”
“Nothing,” he replied, and grabbed the menu. “Please sit down. I don’t want people to start staring at us. I don’t know why I agreed to meet you.”
You huffed but sat down. Your stomach was empty, and you didn’t want to go hungry.
“Blind dates can be…” You tried to start a conversation, but he cut you off with a huff. “What is it now?”
“Nothing,” he said again, while you browsed the menu. “Just order food. I don’t want to wait any longer. I’m starving.”
You bit your tongue. It was no use to argue with a man like this. For your friends, you’d try to be polite and turn him down gently at the end of the night. If he were getting lucky, you’d pay for his meal too.
The waiter took your order while your date was busy scrolling on his phone. He checked on e-mails, ignoring your existence. You asked yourself once again—why are you even dating nowadays?
“Where’s my food?” He snapped at the waiter without taking his eyes off his phone. “I ordered twenty minutes ago.”
You couldn’t believe he changed the restaurant at the last minute and didn’t even wait for you to arrive.
Ordering your food, you tried to ignore the man’s stare. He was looking you up and down before he huffed. “I only agreed to meet up with you because my friend told me you are fit. You are far from being fit.”
His comment didn’t hurt your pride. You were by no means a fitness expert, but you did yoga, loved to jog, and hit the gym every few weeks or months. Whenever you find the time.
You wanted to tell him to get fucked, but the waiter arrived with your date’s food. Making a scene in front of the waiter who only tried to do their job was out of the question.
Before you could bring a word out, he continued. “I like slim and fit girls. Lazy couch potatoes are not my type.”
That did it. You slowly rose from your seat to look down at the arrogant piece of shit sitting across from you. “That’s great to know. I like a man with manners and depth, so we’re clearly not a match. I hope you soon find someone matching your awful character.”
He watched you walk away, grumbling under his breath. You could hear people near your table chuckle, and one of the waitresses even gave a thumbs-up.
“What a waste of time,” you said. “I should’ve stayed home.”
“Hey there, neighbor,” your new neighbor from next door said. He held the door open for you, offering a warm smile. “How was your evening?”
“A disaster,” you answered honestly.
“Work?” Andy offered.
“Bad blind date. My friends told me he’s a nice and smart guy,” you replied. Andy made a face when you told him about the man’s attitude.
“Did you at least eat?” He asked, looking at you with worried eyes. Andy watched you struggle to come up with a lie. “You didn’t eat.” He concluded, “How about you join me for dinner? I made more than enough.”
“I don’t want to ruin your night, too. You surely had better plans,” you tried, but Andy wouldn’t let you off the hook.
“Better plans than spending them with my lovely neighbor?” Andy whispered lowly. “Please don’t make me eat alone. After my divorce, I have been eating alone all the time. I’d love to have some company.”
You reluctantly agreed, offering to bring wine. Andy smiled, his hand gently brushing yours. “Take your time. Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Okay,” you breathed out. Andy was a handsome and sweet man. You heard through the grapevine that he went through a nasty divorce. His wife took the house, the son, and the car. “I’ll bring the wine.”
“Come as you are, that’ll be enough,” he replied, still with that stupidly sweet smile on his face.
You followed Andy inside the building and toward your apartment. He was walking next to you, casually chatting about your day until you reached your apartment.
“I’ll be there in an hour. Is that alright with you, Andy?” You asked. “I’d like to change into something more comfortable.”
“I’ll be waiting for you, Y/N.”
While you changed clothing and looked for the wine, Andy made a few calls. He hated nothing more than men treating a woman badly.
“Barber, what can I do for you?” The man on the other side of the line asked. He chuckled darkly and ran his index finger and thumb over his mustache. “I thought your wild days were over.”
“I need information about some dipshit messing with my woman,” Andy casually said, leaning back in his swivel chair. “They were dining at the new steakhouse in town. I already pulled the footage. I want everything. Every. Single. Detail.”
“Oh, we are playing dirty again?” Lloyd laughed into the phone. “Consider it done, Barber. After that, any request will cost you.”
“Of course…” Andy said. He hung up, looking at the monitors in his office. Rewatching the scene when you got up and knocked your date down a few pegs, he smirked. “A perfect match for me…”
Warnings: BDSM elements, Implied smut, Insecure reader. Please let me know if I missed any!
A/N: Reader is female, smaller than Lloyd. No other physical descriptors used.
Word Count: 1.3k
Previous--Next
Series Masterlist; Tech Tuesdays Masterlist
Ever since you moved in together, you've also been taking the same car into work. You barely have to drive anymore! Except when Lloyd knows he's going to be working late. Sometimes you'll take the option of joining him in his office after he's clocked out. Other times you'll take your car into work so you can just go home when you're done for the day.
He won't say it, but he really enjoys when you take the option to stay with him. If someone does try calling him out on it, he'll say he focuses better when you're keeping his cock warm. In truth, he really does enjoy your company. It's often quiet, but it's never the tense, annoying quiet that makes him feel like he has to say something. The two of you have your own communication style that works for you, doesn't feel forced, and lets him relax, knowing you will talk when you're ready.
And that's why, when he sees the spread of chocolates on the coffee table, he knows you need to talk about something difficult.
"Maestro," he barks out.
You quickly come out of the bedroom, wearing one of his favorite negligees. Communication was rough for the two of you so making it feel like a scene, a realm where the instant you said "stop" everything would stop, made it feel much safer. Made it easier to talk.
"Sir," you acknowledge, keeping your face tilted down.
"Sit," he gestures to the couch.
Immediately you run to your spot on the couch and sit. Even though you set this up, even though Lloyd is following your cues, it's a scene. He's the one who makes the demands and you wait for him to speak before you do anything.
As eager as he is to get you talking about what's bothering you, Lloyd knows he has a part to play. It's a part he's played many times now. A part he takes pride in playing to perfection. Instead of immediately moving to his side of the couch, he freshens up. Regardless of if this ends up in sex or not, he wants to be ready and look and smell good for you.
Stepping into the living room, Lloyd lets himself smile a little at seeing you sitting perfectly still, being a good girl for him.
When he sits next to you, he gently caresses your cheek and you lean into his touch ever so slightly.
"There's my good girl," he purrs, pouring himself some brandy. "You remember how this works?"
"Yes, Sir," you reply clearly, keeping your gaze directed at the table. You're nervous, but you know this needs to happen. You need to tell Lloyd about your hesitations. This was the safest way you could think to do so.
Lloyd picks up one of the chocolates and gently presses it against your lips. You breathe in and your senses are full of the mocha caramel goodness. But you don't open your mouth to taste it.
"Good girl, Maestro," Lloyd smirks. "Always behaving for me. Now, if you want this chocolate, you gotta tell me what's on your mind."
"I...I owe you an explanation, Sir," you confess, cheeks heating from how vulnerable you feel already.
"An explanation about...?"
"Why I kept turning down your proposal."
"Good girl. Open your mouth so you can get a sweet treat."
Opening your mouth, Lloyd sets the chocolate on your tongue and you let out a soft moan at the flavor. Lloyd really does get only the best things. But that's why you need to talk to him.
"You keep moaning like that you're gonna end up with a salty treat pretty quick," Lloyd teases. You know he's smirking, but you keep your gaze aimed at the table.
Looking over the spread, Lloyd picks up another chocolate and takes a sniff.
"Mmmm. This smells so damn sweet, but I know your pussy is even sweeter."
"Thank you, Sir."
Lloyd places the second chocolate against your lips. This time you breathe in a raspberry chocolate combination that has you salivating.
"So what's this explanation?" he coos.
For the first time you hesitate, needing to work yourself up to it. You set this up to help you feel safe even when at your most vulnerable. You can do this for Lloyd.
"You're too good for me," you whisper, tears forming in your eyes.
Lloyd tenses. He's been called a lot of things in life but never "too good" for someone. He wants to ask what you mean but he has to wait. He has to keep up the act, remind you that you're safe.
"That's something I never thought I'd hear," he admits with a smirk, pushing the chocolate into your mouth.
The flavors explode in your mouth and provide a welcome distraction from how frayed your nerves are feeling. One of the things you love about Lloyd is that, so often, neither of you has to say anything for the other to understand. But this isn't something that he can intuit. This is something you need to say out loud.
He grabs another chocolate, without bothering to look them over, and gently places it against your lips. Chocolate with hints of coffee fill your senses.
"So how the hell am I too good for an angel like you?" Lloyd's voice is firm but you can pick up the hint of desperation. He wants to understand but he can't until you tell him.
"I...you...I'm...Suzanne was right, Sir," you whimper. "I barely graduated high school. Only went to community college. You're a Harvard grad making big money as the head of legal for a big company. I...I'm just..."
Lloyd removes the chocolate from your lips as the tears start pouring. Carefully clamping his hand on the back of your neck your shoulders slacken a little at the familiar touch.
"Breathe, Maestro," he gently orders. "Deep breath in through your nose...Now out through your mouth."
He talks you through the breathing until you're feeling steady again.
"I think my good girl deserves two chocolates for that one," Lloyd smiles, gently patting your hair. "Though, after all of this, there will be a few spanks because Suzanne is never right."
"Yes, Sir," you sniffle, your heart growing at the care Lloyd is giving you. At how he's keeping up the act, treating this like a scene. Just like you need.
As you're eating the two chocolates Lloyd gives you, he keeps his hand rubbing up and down your back. He's thinking about how to proceed. He knows he's not "too good" for you, but you seem to think differently. How is going to convince you? Will you let him build you up or will you retreat into yourself at the compliments? He knows how weak you get for praise in a scene, but this is something more important. More intimate.
When you've finished the chocolates, Lloyd gently grips your chin and makes you look at him.
"You've gotten to know me pretty well these past two years or so, Maestro. So I know you know that I am not a man who 'settles'. I do not cut corners. I do not skimp. I do not just accept what I'm given if I think I deserve more." Lloyd leans in close, "so when I say I want you, you better believe it's because I think you're the best of the best. And, on the off chance you still can't bring yourself to believe it, I will happily start doing some positive reinforcement training. Because no one talks bad about my good girl, my Maestro. Not even you."
"Thank you, Lloyd," you whisper as the tears keep spilling.
