im as human as anyone

18 | she/her | dilf connoisseur

[manicandobsessive]

MASTERLIST

Series:

Icarian

One shots:

I’ll be watching you

Baby I’m Yours

You’re my lady, I’m your fool

[frommywindow27]

my body needs a HEEEROOOO come and SAVE MEEEEE

[manicandobsessive]

DIHHHHHHHHH 😛😛😛

[nocturnellee]

dami

summary: winning dick graysons heart was easy, his little demon of a brother? not so much. ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ includes: dick grayson x GN!reader, damian wayne, mentions of injuries related to violence, general violence, allusions to poor mental health, the wayne family needs therapy, more WFA centered, angst, fluff, cuddles, dick and reader shower together but nothing explicit, dick is damians father figure *insert trisha paytas crying meme*, he's just a baby your honor, no beta we die like jaybin, 3.7k+ words. ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ A/N: hi! this is probably the fastest i'll upload because i have a few complete fics just waiting to go,, i want to again thank you all for all the love i've recieved with this new blog i am overwhelmed truly... more vamp!dick grayson coming soon but for now enjoy this cute lil self indulgent piece ♣

Dick’s large, callused hands trace the length of your spine. You’re sprawled across him, molded to every line of his body, nose tucked under his jaw, and legs tangled with his at the end of the couch.

It had been a long, bitterly cold night on patrol. By the time you’d dragged yourselves back to the cave and survived what felt like the world’s longest debrief, neither of you had the energy to trek home to your apartment. The manor would do for the night… or what was left of the morning.

Dick had tugged you upstairs by the hand, easing you out of your suit with a gentleness that always left your chest aching. He shed his own far less ceremoniously, tossing it aside before heading straight for the shower. You followed, letting your head lull against his chest as steam curled around you. By the time his fingers threaded through your hair, massaging shampoo into your scalp, you were half-asleep on your feet.

You only stirred when he was finished, shifting just enough to return the favor. Your fingers slid into his damp hair, working slow circles against his scalp. It didn’t take long before his weight sagged into you, his body slack with exhaustion. At nearly 190 pounds of solid muscle, he was far too heavy for you to keep upright after a long night on patrol. You nearly lost your footing on the wet tile, slipping under his weight before he startled awake and caught you at the last second. The two of you broke into quiet laughter, warm against each other’s soaked skin.

When the last of the suds slid away, you rose on your toes to press a soft kiss to his nose, reaching behind him to shut off the water.

You tugged on one of his old shirts and a pair of sweats that you had to roll twice to keep from falling from your hips. You were already eyeing the bed, muscles aching for the mattress, when your stomach betrayed you with a low growl. Dick’s eyes snapped to yours, narrowed with quiet amusement.

“I just want to go to bed,” you groaned, throwing him a look you knew was useless.

“I’m hungry too. Let’s go,” he said simply, and that was that. You let yourself be herded down the hall, his warm hand brushing the small of your back as though you might drift off even before reaching the kitchen.

You inhaled your cereal in half-lidded silence, the sound of spoons clinking against the bowls the only thing keeping you awake. Across from you, Dick made quick work of two bowls in the time it took you to scrape through one, like the bottomless pit he’d always been. By the time you both shuffled back toward the his room, your full stomach and the weight in your bones made the thought of stairs unbearable.

Which is how you ended up here: collapsed on the nearest couch, Dick tugging you down on top of him. Your cheek found his chest, and your eyes slipped shut before you could form the thought of protest. His heartbeat drummed steady beneath your ear, his hands drawing lazy lines down your back. Sometimes they stilled as he drifted close to sleep, only to start again, soothing, coaxing you toward slumber.

You were nearly gone when a sharp, deliberate *tt* snapped you back to consciousness . Peeking one eye open, you found Damian standing over you—pajamas perfectly pressed, arms folded tight across his chest, glare sharp enough to cut glass.

You couldn’t help the small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips. An expression that only darkened his scowl.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, voice laced with his usual brand of irritation.

“Sleepin’,” you mumbled, nuzzling your nose back under Dick’s jaw, eyes falling shut again.

“Obviously.” He clipped. “I meant—what are you doing here. On the couch. Instead of at your apartment. Or at the very least in Grayson’s room, where we don’t have to endure this uncouth display.”

To most people, Damian Wayne was a brat—plain and simple. He carried himself like someone who had never once in his life been wrong, and if you happened to be wrong in his presence, he’d make sure you knew it. Loudly. His disdain for authority figures was honestly impressive, especially since he somehow always managed to position himself as the authority in every room. Most people kept their distance, which suited him perfectly. He preferred the company of animals anyway.

But even Damian had his exceptions. Two of them, in fact. Jon Kent—his unlikely best friend—and Dick Grayson, his brother, partner, and reluctant father figure. Not that Damian would ever admit the last part. He’d sooner cut off his own tongue.

Still, the truth was unavoidable: Dick practically raised him. When Bruce had “died,” it was Dick who put on the cowl, and Dick who chose Damian to carry the Robin mantle. It ruffled feathers (Tim’s in particular), but in the end, the choice was right. The two of them just fit. On patrol, they were seamless—Dick’s steady, affable warmth balancing Damian’s sharp edges. And outside of combat… well, the balance held just as strong.

Dick had always seen through Damian’s bristling exterior, and instead of pushing back, he’d softened the boy’s corners with patience and persistence. He understood Damian in a way no one else did. And though Damian would scoff and sneer at the thought, he trusted and looked up to Dick in a way he didn’t allow himself with anyone else. Not even Bruce. Though Damian was trying—and so was Bruce. (With no small amount of assistance from Dick, who was effectively holding the rope for both of them.)

When you came into the picture… well, technically, you had always been there. Just not like this. You and Dick had been best friends since the early days of the Team. There had been a spark back then—crushes carefully tucked away beneath layers of responsibility and the looming weight of your vigilante lives. But ultimately, you’d chosen friendship, and for years, that was enough. Years filled with victories and heartbreaks, with loss and growth, until, inevitably, you found your way back to one another.

Before that, Damian had felt mostly indifferent toward you. Which, honestly, was more than you could ever ask for. In your book, the fact that he’d never thrown knives at your back during training was practically a declaration of fondness. But when you and Dick finally started dating, that changed. Suddenly, you were not just tolerated, you were targeted. Damian’s coldness turned cutting, not just toward you but toward Dick as well.

It wore on him more than he ever let Damian see. And for a time, you wondered if maybe you should walk away—that things would be easier if you ended your relationship with Dick, giving Damian what he so clearly wanted. You never voiced those thoughts, but you didn’t have to. Dick saw straight through you, as he always did. He would meet your doubts with steady, tender eyes, reassuring you with quiet certainty. Again and again, he reminded you that he loved you more than anything—that you were his north star, the one constant he relied so heavily on. And no amount of Damian’s disapproval could ever change that.

Eventually, though, things reached a breaking point. Damian made a reckless, selfish call on a mission. One that jeopardized not just the mission, but your life. The cost was steep: several broken ribs, a collapsed lung, more bruises and scrapes than you could count, and a large, thick scar from the surgery that you would carry with you permanently.

When you finally woke, the family was in shambles. Bruce was capital-P Pissed, benching Damian indefinitely. The kid had more than a bruised ego to contend with; Tim had broken his nose with one clean punch the second they got back to the cave.

But Damian wasn’t in the worst shape. And despite your extensive injuries, neither were you. The one who had taken the hardest hit was Dick.

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t moved from your side. For days he lived at the edge of your bed, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes, his fingers laced through yours as if he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. He’d shut the rest of the family out entirely, his patience stretched to nothing. Only Alfred and Leslie were allowed through the med bay doors, and even then he barely tolerated their presence.

When you woke, it took days of your gentle pleading before he finally gave in, stepping down from his self-appointed guard post and allowing his family in to see you.

Well, everyone but Damian.

Still the love poured in. Flowers at your bedside from Jason, your freshly painted nails and toes courtesy of Steph and Cass, and a plush bat Duke tucked into the bed with you. Surrounded by all their care and affection, your recovery seemed to quicken. By the end of the week, you were back home, where the small gifts and rotating visits from your unofficial family continued to trickle in.

Dick’s new authoritarian streak, however, didn’t ease in the slightest. If anything, it worsened outside the med bay. He shadowed you everywhere—following you from the bed to the kitchen, hovering like you might collapse at any second. He carried things you didn’t need help with, insisted on cooking every meal, and gave you a look that could wither stone if you so much as stood too quickly. When you stretched, he fussed. When you tried to shower alone, he would throw a fit. The man had practically memorized the sound of your breathing, and any variation had him snapping his head toward you as if you were flatlining.

Damian hadn’t even tried to reach out, likely warned off by his siblings—who themselves were walking on eggshells around Dick, despite your gentle reminders that none of this was their fault. You didn’t push Dick too hard, though. You knew the guilt was eating him alive, gnawing at him in every sleepless glance and every overprotective hand. Not only that, you knew in his mind, he felt as though he’d not only almost lost you but he had also lost a brother. So if coddling you was his wat of coping, you wouldn’t take that away from him.

The first time you had asked if you could see Damian, Dick about had an aneurysm. You tried explaining that you’d already forgiven the boy, that he was just a child who lashed out the only way he knew how and he hadn’t meant to hurt you so badly.

“But he did mean to hurt you,” Dick said, flat and final. And that was that. God, this family and their stubborn, unorthodox ways would be the death of you… almost literally.

But he couldn’t keep you locked away in the apartment forever. You had the patience of a saint, but even saints had their limits. Despite his endless protests, you eased back into training, and eventually into patrols again. Dick grumbled the entire way, practically giving himself ulcers every time you left his sight, but he still laced up beside you—because if you were going out there, then so was he.

Still, your requests to see the littlest Bat were consistently shut down. And though you could have easily made your way over to the manor without asking anyone’s permission, you didn’t. Out of respect for your poor boyfriend and the well-being of his stomach, you waited.

For almost two months.

Until one night, enough was enough. You sat Dick down before patrol and told him you were going to see Damian. When he started to protest, you cut him off, laying out two options: you’d see Damian without him, or he could come along—but only if he promised to behave.

The look on his face was theatrical even by Dick Grayson standards. He huffed, pouted through your conditions, then finally slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck like a little boy hiding in his mother’s skirts. “Fine,” he muttered against your skin.

That same weekend, the two of you showed up at the manor. Alfred greeted you warmly, informing you that Damian was upstairs working on his homework. You’d planned on having Dick by your side—for his sake more than yours—but now that you were standing there, something in you had shifted. You needed to do this alone.

When you told him, you braced for a fight. But something in your face must have softened him. Because instead of the argument you expected, Dick only nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, and let you go.

You made your way up the stairs, nerves prickling beneath your skin as you rapped lightly on Damian’s door. It opened a moment later. He stood framed in the doorway, eyes widening just enough to register surprise—an expression that, in Damian-speak, was the equivalent of seeing a ghost.

You offered him a small smile, noting the faint swelling still lingering at the bridge of his nose. Without a word, he stepped aside, allowing you in.

The room was meticulously neat, save for the books strewn across his desk. You perched on the edge of his bed, immediately greeted by Titus, who lumbered forward to drop his massive head into your lap. A soft laugh escaped you as you cooed at him, fingers scratching behind his ears, marveling at the sheer size of his head.

Damian sat back down at his desk, posture straight, eyes sharp and unreadable as he watched the interaction. The silence stretched, and you shifted, fumbling for the right words.

“Damian, I…” You trailed off when his bright green eyes snapped to yours, pinning you in place. “I wanted to start with an apology.”

His mouth twisted into a sneer, and your heart sank. You opened your mouth to backtrack—to apologize for apologizing—but he cut you off before you could get the words out.

“Why would you need to apologize?” he spat. “You almost died because of me.”

You exhaled slowly, realizing his anger wasn’t aimed at you at all.

“Yes… but I still feel like I owe you an apology,” you said gently. “For not fixing things sooner. I knew you’d been…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Struggling. With me and your brother. And we should have been more open with you from the start—so it wouldn’t have gotten to the point where you felt… the way you did.”

Your gaze fell to Titus, who whined softly and pressed his paw into your hand like he could feel the tension. You avoided Damian’s eyes, afraid of what you might find there.

A long silence stretched between you. Then *tt* Damian tutted, the sound sharp but quieter than usual.

“You still shouldn’t have to apologize for that,” he said, voice smaller than you’d ever heard it, almost sounding his age for once. Your chest tightened when you saw him staring at his feet, the hard edges of him softened into something unbearably young.

“I do, Damian,” you said gently. “Your feelings—and your approval—they’re important to us. Important to me.”

His gaze flicked up, those sharp green eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.

“And moving forward,” you continued, keeping your tone careful, steady, “I want to make things right. But for that to happen, I think it would be better if we spoke through our words instead of our actions. And I understand if you don’t want to talk to me about these things. You know Dick will always be there for you. Even now. But I want you to know… if you ever decide you do want to open up to me, I’ll be there. I won’t judge you. And whatever you tell me it’ll stay between us.”

He sat silently, processing, before finally giving you a curt nod. It wasn’t much, but it was everything.

You smiled, content with the fragile truce, and rose from his bed. Titus huffed as you gave him one last affectionate pat before turning toward the door.

Just as you turn Damian calls your name softly. Your first name. Not your last. You freeze, breathing for a moment, schooling you face into a calm expression before turning back to him.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, fingers worrying the hem of his shirt, eyes deliberately avoiding yours.

You clamp your jaw shut so it doesn’t drop. You briefly wonder if this is the first time he’s ever said those words outloud. You want to cross the room, scoop him up, cradle him, tell him how brave he is, how loved—everything he probably rarely hears.

Instead you stand like an idiot in the middle of the room, hands fidgeting with the edge of your sweater to keep from reaching for him. His signature scowl slides back into place as he watches you, calculating.

“You want a hug.” he deadpanned, reading your body language like a book. Of course he did—he’d grown up watching you and his brother cling to each other like barnacles. The two of you were among the most tactile people on the planet: handing out hugs, holding hands, dropping casual kisses on cheeks as if touch were as natural as breathing. And when it came to each other? God, it was constant—Damian shuddered at the thought, the very idea of it offensive to his sensibilities.

“I—only if you want,” you squeak, voice shooting up about 8 octaves.

He sighs, heavy and theatrical (greatly reminding you of someone else you know), then pushes himself out of the chair.

“Fine. But if you tell anyone, I won’t hesitate to actually kill you.”

You snort a little giggle and lean down, looping your arms around the littlest Bat. He answers stiff and awkward at first, like he’s following a set of instructions on how to hug someone properly. Then, for a beat, he lets himself relax, the breath against your sweater sounding almost like surrender.

He jolts back as if burned, face folding into a scowl that doesn’t reach his eyes. You just beam at him.

“I’ll see you around, Damian,” you say, slipping out the door.

*tt* is his only reply before the door clicks shut behind you.

And immediately—you’re greeted by the entire Wayne family clustered in the hall like kids outside a candy shop. For a split second, they all scramble to pretend they weren’t blatantly eavesdropping, but the wide eyes and guilty stares give them away.

You can’t help but laugh. “No stab wounds,” you announce, mock-checking yourself for hidden injuries.

A collective sigh ripples through the group. Bruce drags a hand over his face, shaking his head, while Tim pats him consolingly on the shoulder. Across the hall, Jason smirks, extending a palm toward Stephanie, who groans and slaps a twenty into it.

You roll your eyes at the theatrics, but when your gaze meets Dick’s, the chaos fades. “It actually went really well,” you say softly.

In an instant, he’s pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The others groan at the display, grumbling as they disperse, but you only sink into him, smiling against his chest.

After that, things improved significantly. You and Damian grew closer than you’d ever been—you’d always had a soft spot for the little demon, but now that it was finally reciprocated, in his own bristly way, everything felt… right.

Dick took longer to thaw toward his brother, but eventually they settled back into something familiar. Better, even—because now it wasn’t just the two of them, but the three of you.

Of course, Damian still had a long road ahead of him, especially when it came to his other siblings. Or, frankly, people in general. Communication wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

Case in point: he was standing in front of you now, arms crossed, glaring down at you as if you’d committed some unspeakable atrocity. Which, knowing Damian, translated to: he wanted to join you and Dick on the couch.

Instead of just asking, though, he was drilling you with the kind of look most people reserved for their mortal enemies.

You could have corrected him, telling him all he had to do was use his words. But instead you let him keep up his little act, because—God help you—you found it kind of adorable.

“But aren’t you glad we’re here, Dami?” you tease, voice heavy with sleep, words slurring together. He scoffs, and you don’t even have to open your eyes to see the look on his face. He just stands there, stubborn and solid, confirming what you already know.

“C’mere,” you murmur, shifting off Dick and into the crevice of the couch, opening your arms to the boy.

“No, I don’t—” Damian sputters, but he’s cut off when Dick shoots an arm backward without so much as opening his eyes, catching his brother by the wrist and yanking him onto the couch. In an instant, Damian is pinned squarely between your bodies. He hisses and squirms, trying desperately to keep his facade intact, but he never makes a move to actually pry himself up.

Dick isn’t fazed by the resistance. His long arms curve easily over Damian’s smaller frame, pulling you close until your foreheads almost touch. Even with his brother wedged between, Dick manages to fold himself around you like a warm, protective shield. You nestle against the solid line of his arm, using it like a pillow, looping your own around Damian. The boy elbows you once in protest, muttering under his breath, but your hold doesn’t ease.

Damian shuffles, grumbles some more, and then finally sighs—though it isn’t until a soft snore rumbles from Dick’s chest that he truly relaxes, his rigid spine slackening by degrees. Gradually, you feel him go loose in your arms, his breathing evening out to match his eldest brother’s.

Just as your own eyes begin to drift shut, Damian leans closer, pressing his head against your chest. One small hand finds your arm and clings there unconsciously. A soft smile settles across your face, heart full, you let sleep finally drag you under with the comforting weight of both boys at your side.

[manicandobsessive]

AWEEE I LOVEEEEE

[manicandobsessive]

Do you me still love?!

Back on my bullshit. In love with Dick Grayson. Who’s shocked? Enjoy! NOT PROOF READ IM TIRED.

Buzz.

Buzz. Buzz.

You dreaded the sound. You knew it was coming and it still made your heart drop when it did.

Buzz.

He broke up with you. Why is he now deciding he regrets it.

Buzz.

Granted, he was a night-stalking vigilante. Not the safest option for a significant other.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

But still, he’s the one who gave it all up!

Buzz.

“Oh my god.” You groan to yourself. He’s relentless.

Buzz.

You toss your phone across the room, throwing your forearm over your face as you lay sprawled on the couch.

The sound continued for well over five minutes until you caved.

Buzz.

“Oh fuck it.” You murmur, sliding right on the screen.

“What?” You spit out, hoping that having some kind of conviction in your voice will subtly tell him to fuck off.

Silence, on the other end.

Save for the rustle of what you assumed to be clothes and steady breaths that are most definitely his.

You open your mouth to speak again, and- as if he can sense it- he cuts you off.

“Heyyyyyy, babyyy.” He says with a slur of his words.

Oh he’s wasted beyond belief.

“Jus’ thinkin’ about ya, hows you’ve been?” He says with the same stupidly frustrating Dick Grayson charm. Coupled with a hint of intoxication.

“Dick, where are you?” You give a clipped reply, trying to mask your concern for your overzealous ex boyfriend.

“Worried ‘bout me, baby?” You can practically hear his shit eating grin.

“Be serious. Where are you?” You ask again, hearing a low chuckle on the other end.

Dumb asshole. Can never take anything serious.

“Mm, can’t answer till you tell me somethin’, pretty girl.” He retorts, resulting in a frustrated groan on your end.

“What?” You hope this’ll be quick. You can find him and get him back home before-

“You still love me?” He drags out, making your breath hitch.

You roll your eyes. He laughs like he’s in the room with you.

“Yes or no, baby.” He hums.

“……yes.” You murmur, defeated. Because no matter how many times you deny it. How many hours you spend pretending not to think about how. No matter the way you tell your friends he meant nothing. You knew, deep down, he lingered. If Dick Grayson was anything, it was unforgettable.

“Now where the hell are you?” You bite back, more concerned for his safety than winning the battle right now.

“Open your door, hun.”

[the-rest-is-confettii]

time to open up the morning newspaper

[robsdiary]

OOOOOH IM HYPE FOR THIS SHIT‼️ kinktobers almost here HOLD ON YALL.

the clark kent fics will feed FAMILIES.

[manicandobsessive]

somebody make a one shot about clark x reader inspired by sunlight by hozier please please i’ll kiss u on the mouth

clark is the sunlight… obvi

[satellite-evans]

the invisible string theory

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: Isn’t it beautiful how fate can tie two people together, even before they realize it?

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: fluff, mention of death, kissing

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Whoever came up with breathing exercises certainly didn’t try them, because in your opinion, they didn’t work at all. Your lungs were doing their best impression of an accordion in a hurricane, your heart hammering like it wanted to sprint out of your chest and leave you behind. Fainting felt inevitable, like your body was on a countdown you hadn’t agreed to, but you fought against it. You had to. You couldn’t afford to make a fool of yourself. Not today. Especially not today—your first day at the Daily Planet.

Getting a job here in Metropolis was something you once would have laughed at. You were a rising reporter back home, fresh off the biggest story of your career—a highlight that should have been followed by celebration, opportunities, and champagne toasts.

But then your best friend died.

And not the kind of death you ever really prepare for, where she was sick for a very long time, not it was the kind that rips the floor out from under you, that hollows out the world and leaves you stumbling through the pieces. The kind that makes even the brightest days look gray, makes air feel heavier in your lungs, makes laughter sound like something that belongs to another life entirely.

A car crash.

Suddenly, your hometown became unlivable. Every street corner, every café, every bus stop whispered memories of her laugh, her hand brushing your arm, her voice telling you to keep going. The diner where you used to split fries after class. The bookstore where you once spent an entire Saturday arguing about which novel ending was better. The bench at the park where you swore you’d still be sitting together when you were eighty.

They weren’t just places anymore. They were ghosts. And you couldn’t breathe with them haunting you.

You tried, for months, to fight it. To wake up and pretend you didn’t see her shadow walking beside you. To sit at your desk and ignore the empty chair where she should have been teasing you for typing too loud. But grief wasn’t something you could outwork, outwrite, or outrun. It seeped into everything, into the edges of your ambition, into the marrow of your bones.

And one night, staring at the half-packed boxes in your apartment, you realized staying meant drowning. So you left.

Not because you stopped loving her, but because loving her so much made it impossible to stay in the same place where she no longer existed.

Metropolis wasn’t supposed to be home—it was supposed to be escape.

Yet the voice inside you, soft and persistent, had whispered otherwise.

So you moved. And moving meant starting over. New city. New job. New life, whether you were ready for it or not.

You could have gone anywhere—New York, where the salary was even better, the newsroom bigger, brighter, more prestigious. But something inside you, a quiet, insistent voice you didn’t understand, had pushed you toward Metropolis instead. You didn’t know why. You didn’t question it. Somehow, you felt ready to find out.

Which was how you found yourself standing in front of the Daily Planet’s towering building, the iconic globe spinning overhead like it was mocking your nerves.

“It’s okay. You’ve got this. You’ve done harder things than walking through some doors,” you whispered to yourself, a pep talk that sounded paper-thin compared to the storm of anxiety thrumming through your chest.

You had done harder things. Fought bigger battles. Broken through walls that should have stopped you. But right now… right now, it didn’t feel like it.

You glanced at your reflection in the glass doors, double-checking everything. Waking at 5 a.m. had given you time to perfect the image you wanted: hair neatly pinned, makeup light but meticulous, perfume just noticeable enough. Your soft grey sweater paired with a black skirt and high-heeled boots made you look more confident than you felt. A breath mint dissolved slowly on your tongue, your last line of defense against first-impression disasters.

The problem wasn’t your work. As a reporter, you could stare down a politician until they cracked, unravel a corporate scandal before lunch, make a man twice your size sweat under one sharp question. But socially? Making friends? Small talk? Forget it. You were always two people—the fearless reporter and the awkward human who never knew what to say in a room full of strangers.

And this building? It was full of strangers.

You pulled open the heavy glass door before you could talk yourself out of it. The lobby of the Daily Planet opened up in a dizzying rush of marble, brass, and bustling energy. Reporters scurried with papers clutched in hand, phones pressed to their ears, voices overlapping in a symphony of deadlines. The elevator dinged constantly, people sliding in and out as though the whole place ran on caffeine and adrenaline alone.

You clutched your bag a little tighter and forced your legs forward.

That was when you collided—hard—into someone.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—” Your words tumbled out, your voice too high, too fast. You staggered back, ready to apologize again, but froze when you looked up.

The man you’d bumped into was tall. Ridiculously tall. At least 6’4, maybe 6’5, the kind of tall that made you tilt your chin up instinctively just to meet his face. His broad shoulders filled the space between you like he carried half the sky on them. The tie at his throat was slightly crooked, as though it had been thrown on in a rush, and the faint wrinkle in his shirt collar betrayed a morning that hadn’t gone perfectly. His glasses caught the lobby light, a sharp flash that almost distracted you from the face behind them.

Almost.

Because when you finally looked into his eyes—really looked—you froze.

Blue. Not just blue. Oceans. Wide and endless, their depths lapping with a familiarity you couldn’t explain. They reminded you of shorelines you’d swear you’d stood on, salt air you’d breathed before, even if you couldn’t remember when. They tugged at something in your chest—an ache, a memory just out of reach. Those weren’t the eyes of a stranger, and yet you couldn’t place where you’d seen them. Couldn’t name why they made you feel so… safe.

Your lips parted, but no words came.

He steadied you gently with a hand at your elbow, large and warm, grounding you in a way that only deepened the strange familiarity. But his expression—though kind—wasn’t as effortless as his voice tried to be.

“No harm done,” he said softly, though the faint crack at the end of his sentence betrayed him.

And then he blinked—too quickly, nervously—like he hadn’t expected to find himself staring into your eyes either. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his grip loosening almost abruptly as he pulled his hand back, almost as though it burned him to hold on too long.

His voice dipped lower, tentative. “First day?”

You blinked yourself back into reality, shaking your head to clear the fog of recognition you couldn’t name. “That obvious?”

His laugh was short, nervous, almost self-deprecating, the sound tugging the corner of your mouth into a smile. “Trust me, I remember mine. I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, sheepish in a way that seemed at odds with his size. “Tripped getting out of the elevator. Dropped my coffee. Right in front of Perry White.”

The image of this impossibly tall, handsome man fumbling coffee in front of the editor-in-chief made a laugh slip from your throat. The sound surprised you—light, unguarded, almost like it hadn’t been there for months.

“That… actually makes me feel slightly better,” you admitted.

His smile widened then, softening his entire face, and for a brief, dizzying moment the bustling lobby blurred away. Reporters, ringing phones, the sharp ding of elevators—all of it faded, leaving just him and that smile, steadying you more than his hand had.

“Good.” He adjusted his glasses again, too quickly, as though they were suddenly a shield instead of a tool. “I’m Clark. Clark Kent.”

The name struck something in you, ringing like a bell muffled under layers of memory. You couldn’t quite grab it, but it lingered, insistent as déjà vu. You took the hand he offered, larger than yours, warm, his palm calloused in a way that didn’t quite match his buttoned-up appearance.

“Y/N,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt. “Y/N L/N.”

For a moment too long, he just held your hand, gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth like he was trying to memorize the way your name fit there. His thumb brushed the side of your knuckles before he seemed to catch himself, withdrawing his hand with a small, nervous clear of his throat.

“Well, uh—welcome to the Planet.” His smile quirked a little crooked then, not polished or practiced, but real. Vulnerable, even. “Can I… show you to Perry’s office? He’ll want to meet you right away.”

Grateful and a little dazed, you nodded. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

“Great,” he echoed, voice dipping like he hadn’t expected you to agree so easily. He pushed his glasses up again, though they hadn’t slipped an inch. As he gestured toward the elevators, you caught it—the faintest blush coloring the tops of his ears, creeping down to his neck.

Something inside you twisted, not in nerves this time, but in quiet wonder.

And just like that, fainting was the last thing on your mind.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, but you barely noticed. You were too aware of Clark’s presence beside you—how his broad frame nearly filled the space, how his cologne was subtle but grounding, how the silence between you felt charged rather than awkward. You clutched your bag tighter, willing your heartbeat to calm down.

“So…” you started, searching for something, anything to say. “How long have you been here?”

He glanced at you, then quickly away, his hand adjusting his glasses again in that nervous habit you were already beginning to recognize. “Couple of years. Still feels like I’m finding my footing, though.”

You arched a brow. “You? Finding your footing? You look like you belong here.”

The corner of his mouth twitched like you’d caught him off guard. “Looks can be deceiving.” His voice was soft, but there was something under it—something heavier, like he meant more than he was letting on.

Before you could ask, the elevator dinged again and opened into the chaos of the bullpen. It was louder, faster, more alive than the lobby below. Phones rang in staccato bursts. Typing rattled like machine-gun fire. Papers rustled and voices overlapped in a hundred different conversations.

You froze.

Clark must have noticed, because his hand brushed your elbow again—light, tentative, almost like a question. The simple contact steadied you more than any pep talk could.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “First day feels like stepping onto another planet. It gets better.”

You looked up at him, at the earnest sincerity in his eyes, and something in you eased. For the first time since stepping into the building, the knot in your chest loosened just a little.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

His answering smile was small, shy, but it did dangerous things to your heart.

And then someone shouted across the room.

“Kent!”

A woman with sharp eyes and sharper heels strode over, thrusting a folder into Clark’s hands without missing a beat. “Luthor’s holding a press conference in thirty. Get down there before the vultures pick the bones clean.”

Clark nodded, already flipping the folder open, but before he turned away, he glanced back at you.

“Don’t let Perry scare you. He barks, but… well, mostly just barks.”

You softly smiled at that. “Thank you, by the way.”

Clark’s face flushed slightly as he ran a hand through his hair, then stepped closer, voice fumbling, words tumbling over themselves.

“Hey—don’t mention it. See you around. I mean—hopefully. You know, since we’ll be coworkers. I meant it like that, not in a… creepy way. Not that I ever mean things in creepy ways, I just—” He stopped himself, shoulders hunching slightly as his ears turned pink. “Never mind. Just… hope you have a good day.”

And with that, he left, disappearing into the fray of the bullpen, leaving you standing there with a small, incredulous smile. Maybe small talk wasn’t your strong suit, but at least you weren’t alone in that.

You hovered outside the frosted glass door, Clark’s words echoing in your mind: He barks, but mostly just barks.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you knocked.

“Come in!”

The voice was gravelly, commanding, the kind of voice that could silence a room without needing to raise volume. You slipped inside, easing the door shut.

Perry White looked up from behind a fortress of paper stacks and half-empty coffee mugs. His glasses were perched at the tip of his nose, and his shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His tie was askew, but his gaze was razor-sharp, the kind that saw everything in an instant.

“You must be L/N,” he said, already reaching for a folder on his desk. “Sit.”

You sat carefully, hands folded, back straight. Perry flipped open the folder, scanning your resume like he was speed-reading secrets. His brow furrowed, then arched.

“Graduated top of your class. Local hero after that City Hall takedown.” His eyes cut up to yours, piercing. “That was you?”

“Yes, sir,” you managed, throat suddenly dry.

A pause, then—miracle of miracles—his mouth tugged into a fleeting smile. “Good work. Clean. Relentless. You held them to the fire and didn’t blink.” He leaned back in his chair, studying you over the rim of his glasses. “That’s the kind of spine we like here.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Praise always made you squirm, but especially coming from him.

“Tell me something,” Perry went on. “You could’ve had your pick—New York, Gotham, hell, even Coast City’s got papers biting for blood. Why here? Why the Planet?”

You hesitated, but only for a second. “Because it’s the Planet. The stories that come out of here… they matter. They change things. And I want to be part of that.”

The answer wasn’t polished; it was raw, straight from the place in you that had kept pushing after everything else had fallen apart. Perry seemed to see that, because he gave a single, satisfied nod and snapped the folder shut.

“Alright then.” He stood abruptly, and you scrambled to follow. “Let’s get you to the wolves.”

He pulled open the door, his stride purposeful, and you hurried to keep pace. The moment he hit the bullpen, the energy shifted. Conversations dipped, phones lowered, eyes flicked up. Perry White didn’t need to bark to command a room—his presence did the work.

“This,” Perry announced, sweeping a hand across the chaos, “is the heart of the Planet. Ink and sweat built this place, and deadlines keep it alive. You’ll either learn to swim, or you’ll drown. Simple as that.”

You nodded quickly, trying to look more confident than you felt.

Perry stopped at a cluster of desks. “Kent! Lane! Olsen!”

At once, three heads turned. Clark rose from his chair, folder in hand; Lois Lane leaned against her desk with casual defiance, sharp eyes narrowing with interest; Jimmy Olsen swiveled in his chair, his ever-present camera bouncing against his chest.

“This is our new hire,” Perry said, clapping a hand onto your shoulder with enough weight to steady you—or pin you down. “Y/N L/N. Gutsy reporter. Bright. Already made liars sweat in the hot seat. Try not to scare her off her first week.” His gaze landed squarely on Lois.

Lois smirked. “Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep, Chief.”

Clark’s gaze found yours, and there it was again—the flicker of recognition, the faint pink climbing the tops of his ears. He cleared his throat, fumbling for composure. “Uh—yeah, we… already met. In the lobby.”

Jimmy perked up immediately, eyebrows lifting. “Already met? What, like—bumped into each other?”

Clark’s laugh came out awkward and short, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Y-yeah, something like that. Nothing dramatic. Just me, being… uh, in the way, mostly.”

Lois smirked knowingly, and that only made Clark flush harder. In a rush, he stuck his hand out again, his palm warm and a little too careful. “Clark Kent. Not that, um—my name’s changed in the last ten minutes or anything, I just—uh—I don’t know why I did that.” His laugh cracked halfway through. “I’m, uh, really making this sound weirder than it is, aren’t I?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing outright, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a smile. Shaking his hand just to feel his warmth again, you said lightly, “A little.”

Clark’s blush deepened as he nodded, a self-deprecating grin tugging at his lips. “Right. Yeah. Good first impression, Kent.” He muttered the last part mostly to himself, though Jimmy heard and snickered.

Lois, still watching carefully, arched a brow at the two of you. “Huh.”

Jimmy was next, leaning forward with an eager grin and a handshake that was all enthusiasm. “Jimmy Olsen. Photographer, occasional magician, and full-time caffeine addict.”

The line pulled a laugh from you, light and unguarded.

Finally, Lois pushed off her desk and extended her hand. Her grip was firm, her gaze sharper. “Lois Lane. If you’re smart, you’ll stick close. If you’re not…” She let the sentence hang, smirking. “Well, it’ll be entertaining for the rest of us.”

You smiled nervously, unsure if she was joking.

Perry, apparently satisfied, gestured to the empty desk wedged between Clark’s and Jimmy’s. “This is yours. Don’t clutter it with junk. Don’t miss a deadline. Don’t make me regret giving it to you.”

Then, with a snap of his fingers and a bark into his phone, he was gone, the bullpen resuming its frenzied rhythm behind him.

You slid into your chair, fingertips brushing over the smooth wood, grounding yourself.

Clark leaned slightly closer, voice gentle. “See? Just barks.”

The smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it.

Jimmy, already leaning on the edge of his desk, noticed immediately. “So, new kid,” he started, grinning like he’d just been handed a fresh scoop, “what’s your deal? Any big bylines we’d know? Or are you more the ‘mystery writer swooping in from out of town’ type?”

You blinked, caught off guard, but his tone was friendly, curious rather than interrogative. Still, every eye at the little cluster was on you now. Even Clark—pretending to shuffle papers—kept glancing sideways, glasses slipping down his nose.

“I, uh…” You straightened in your chair. “Did an exposé back home. On City Hall. It… got some traction.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows shot up. “Some traction? I remember that story—it was all over the wire. That was you?”

Heat crept up your neck. “Guilty.”

“Not bad,” Lois cut in, folding her arms. Her gaze swept you up and down like she was measuring how much of a threat—or ally—you might be. “Takes guts to take on city officials. But Metropolis isn’t your hometown. Stakes are higher. People play dirtier.” She leaned in, her smirk sharp. “You think you can handle that?”

The challenge in her voice sparked something stubborn in you. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Lois’s smirk widened, a flicker of approval in her eyes before she leaned back again. “Not bad. You’ve got a spine. Might even survive here.”

Jimmy whistled low. “Alright, so we’ve got ourselves a prodigy.” He fished his camera up, snapping a candid before you could react. “For the archives,” he said with a wink.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Do you do that to everyone?”

“Only the ones I like,” Jimmy replied.

Clark, quiet until now, finally spoke, his voice softer, like he didn’t want to interrupt. “I… read that piece, actually. About City Hall.” His fingers adjusted his glasses, though they didn’t need adjusting. “It was… good. Really good.”

The sincerity in his tone startled you more than the words. Your chest tightened, something warm blooming there. “Thanks,” you said quietly.

His lips curved into the smallest smile, ears turning pink again.

Lois arched a brow, glancing between you two like she was watching a chessboard line up before her eyes. “Well,” she drawled, “looks like you’ll fit in just fine.”

And just like that, you weren’t the awkward stranger in the bullpen anymore. You were part of the Daily Planet’s rhythm—fast, loud, unpredictable. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe you belonged.

The first few weeks were, unsurprisingly, awkward. You stumbled over the rhythm of the bullpen, misjudged the timing of phone calls, and more than once spilled coffee near someone else’s desk—but slowly, the edges began to soften. Not just for you, but for them, too.

Lois was the first to test you, firing questions sharp enough to cut through steel: “What made you decide to go after the story in the first place?” or “Do you even know what you’re walking into here, or is this all a big experiment?” At first, you bristled at her challenge, but gradually, you found yourself leaning into it, trading barbs and earning grudging respect.

Jimmy, on the other hand, was relentless in a completely different way. Every day, some new joke, a prank, a photo he’d taken when you weren’t looking, laughter spilling over your desk. Even when the newsrooms’ chaos pressed in, Jimmy could make it lighter, easier to breathe.

And then there was Perry. He scared you, plain and simple. His barks, his intensity, the way he could zero in on a mistake from across the room—intimidating didn’t begin to cover it. But even that fear carried an odd kind of reassurance: the knowledge that someone of his caliber believed you belonged here.

And Clark… Clark was a different kind of challenge entirely. He became part of the background of your day first, quiet and dependable: a folder slid across the desk with a soft word of encouragement, an easy laugh when something in the office went absurdly wrong, the smallest gestures—glancing at you in the bullpen, lingering just a second too long in the doorway.

You’d started to notice him everywhere—how often your paths seemed to cross, sometimes by sheer coincidence, sometimes like deliberate choreography. The elevator, crowded, emptied the second you both walked in. The coffee machine, where your hands met as you reached for the same cup. The quietness of the newsroom, where he’d appear to share a brief smile over some shared observation before disappearing back into his corner of chaos.

Each encounter was small, fleeting, but it added up. You couldn’t deny it: your mind, your heart, filled with him in a way that was both familiar and mysterious. That same feeling you’d had the first time you’d looked into his ocean-blue eyes—like you’d known him longer than possible—still lingered in the back of your mind. You couldn’t place it. You couldn’t name it. But it pushed, subtly, inexorably, towards him.

The weeks passed, and the bond between you and Clark grew, quietly but unmistakably. Only friends, of course—everyone at the Planet would assume just that—but the chemistry was undeniable. Conversations that began with work turned into shared jokes, shared observations, small confidences. You learned to read the subtle shift in his expression, the way his nervous energy softened when he thought no one was watching, the way his hand sometimes lingered on the edge of your desk longer than necessary.

One late afternoon, Clark leaned against the corner of your desk with that shy little smile he wore like it was a secret. “Hey,” he said, adjusting his glasses like he always did when he was working up the courage to say something. “Want to hear a really bad joke?”

You looked up from your notepad, smirking. “Always.”

“Okay.” He cleared his throat, mock-serious. “Why did the scarecrow win an award?”

You tilted your head, playing along. “I don’t know, why?”

“Because he was outstanding in his field.”

It was ridiculous—so ridiculous—but you burst into laughter, the sound spilling out of you uncontrollably. You even covered your mouth with your hand, trying to stop, but that only made you laugh harder. Clark’s face went red instantly, and he ducked his head with a bashful grin, but his heart soared at the sound of you. That laugh, bright and unguarded, felt like sunlight breaking through clouds, and he’d do anything to hear it again.

“Clark,” you said, still chuckling, “that’s terrible.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, grinning, “but it worked.”

Another week, however, was harder. You’d missed a deadline—your first big stumble since starting at the Planet. Perry’s voice had been sharp, his glare heavy, and though he’d moved on as quickly as he’d flared up, you couldn’t shake the sting. You sat at your desk afterward, shoulders tight, fighting back the hot prickle of frustrated tears.

Clark noticed. He always noticed.

He slid into the chair beside your desk, voice soft but firm. “Hey.”

You blinked up at him, trying to smile, but he shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not.” His eyes softened behind his glasses. “If you’ve got too much on your plate… ask me. I’ll help. I don’t like it when you’re sad. Or when Perry yells at you.”

Your throat tightened at the earnestness in his tone. “Clark, that’s sweet, but it was my mistake—”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he interrupted gently. “But you don’t have to carry it all alone. You don’t… you don’t have to carry anything alone, not when I’m here.”

The knot in your chest loosened, the weight lightened—not because the mistake was fixed, but because Clark cared enough to say it.

And somehow, through all the chaos, the deadlines, the laughter, the challenges, you began to feel more and more at home. The Planet was no longer just a building; it was a rhythm you could move with, a place that made sense even when the world outside felt uncertain. And at the center of that rhythm—unexpected, inexplicable, magnetic—was Clark.

Even if you didn’t yet understand why, even if the universe’s logic remained hidden in some quiet fold of time, you felt yourself being pulled toward him. And every time he was near, every time your paths collided in that impossible way, it was as though the universe was gently nudging, quietly insisting, that you pay attention.

You were buried in notes and scribbled edits, the warmth of the bullpen surrounding you like a familiar cocoon. Your fingers tapped against the keyboard, eyes scanning over quotes and deadlines, when a faint rustle at your desk pulled you from your work.

At first, you thought it was Jimmy sliding another ridiculous doodle into your notebook. But then you noticed the smell—warm, sweet, unmistakable smell of blueberries.

You looked up. Clark was there, standing awkwardly at the edge of your desk, a paper bag in his hand, carefully folded at the top.

“Uh… hey,” he said, voice pitched just above the background buzz. His smile was shy, like he wasn’t sure if he should even be here. “Thought you might… you know… need a little morale boost?”

Your eyebrows rose. “Morale boost?”

He lifted the bag slightly, as if it were some sacred offering. “Blueberry muffin. You mentioned it a few weeks ago, it’s your favorite. I… remembered.”

For a beat, you couldn’t speak. He remembered. Not just a passing comment, not just small talk. You. Your heart swelled, dizzy and unsteady in your chest.

“I—wow,” you said finally, trying for casual but failing spectacularly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Clark’s shoulders hunched slightly, as if embarrassed by his own thoughtfulness. He shrugged, adjusting his glasses with one big hand. “I wanted to. Besides, I’ll always remember things about you. I mean, uh—not everything, not like a creepy memory bank, just—” He broke off, ears turning pink. “The important stuff. Like muffins.”

Your laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, easing his nerves just a little. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, stepping closer, voice dropping so only you could hear. “But… hopefully in a good way?”

Your smile softened, your fingers brushing over the warm bag as if it carried more weight than baked goods should. “Very good way.”

Clark lingered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking between your face and the muffin like he wasn’t sure which deserved more attention. His hands fidgeted—adjusting his tie, then his glasses, then finding their way awkwardly into his pockets.

“Well, uh… I should probably…” he gestured vaguely at his desk, “get back to work. Deadlines. Headlines. Lots of… lines.”

You bit back another laugh, tilting your head. “You know, if you keep leaving muffins on my desk, I might start expecting them.”

His laugh was low and nervous, but his eyes glinted with something playful. “Then I guess I’ll just have to surprise you. Keep you guessing. Wouldn’t want you getting bored.”

Your heart swooned again, right there at your desk in the middle of the bullpen. Not from fireworks or grand gestures—but from this: the way Clark Kent looked at you like remembering your favorite muffin was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re trouble,” you said softly, picking up the muffin like it was both a gift and a dare.

“Only the best kind,” he replied, that shy crooked smile tugging at his lips—before retreating, almost too quickly, back toward his desk.

You watched him go, warmth spreading through your chest, until Jimmy’s voice cut through the hum.

“Alright, Kent,” Jimmy said, leaning back in his chair, smirk firmly in place. “Gonna tell me why you’re sneaking baked goods to the new hire? Or should I just assume you’ve got a muffin-related crush?”

Clark nearly choked on his own breath. “What? N-no, Jimmy, it’s just—she mentioned it once and I thought—I mean, it’s polite to—” He cut himself off, sighing, clearly aware he was only making it worse. “It was just… nice.”

Jimmy grinned, unconvinced. “Sure, sure. Next you’ll be saying you ‘accidentally’ remember her coffee order, too.”

Clark ducked his head, shoving papers around on his desk like they suddenly needed urgent attention. But Jimmy didn’t miss the way Clark’s ears glowed pink, or the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And neither did you.

The bullpen had long since emptied, the usual symphony of ringing phones, clattering keyboards, and the soft whir of computers left in sleep mode. You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and rubbed your eyes, which stung from staring at the screen too long. The words in front of you were starting to blur together, but you were determined to finish.

You didn’t even notice Clark approaching until his shadow stretched across your desk.

“You’re still here?”

Your head lifted, blinking through the exhaustion. Clark stood a few feet away, jacket slung over his arm, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. Even rumpled from a long day, he somehow managed to look unfairly put-together.

“Deadline,” you said, trying to sound casual even as your voice came out rough around the edges. “One more section and I’m done.”

Clark’s brows drew together, a crease forming in the middle of his forehead. “You’ve been here since this morning. That’s… what, twelve hours?”

You smirked faintly. “Says the guy also still here at—” you glanced at the clock, “—ten-thirty at night.”

His mouth twitched, like you’d caught him. But instead of arguing, he stepped closer, resting his jacket on the back of the empty chair beside you. “Yeah, but… I don’t like seeing you burn yourself out.” His voice softened, almost tender. “Can I help?”

Normally, you would’ve refused. You hated the idea of being a burden, of dragging someone else into your mess. But the way he asked—gentle, sincere, like he wanted to be here—made something inside you cave in.

“Actually…” you said slowly, surprising even yourself, “yes. That’d be nice.”

The smile he gave you was small, but it lit his whole face. He slid into the chair beside you, his large frame making the seat look almost comically small. As he leaned in to glance at the screen, his shoulder brushed yours, sending a little spark down your arm. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—clean and warm, threaded with something you couldn’t name but wanted to breathe in forever.

For a while, you worked in companionable silence, trading the keyboard back and forth, pointing out edits and jotting down notes. Every now and then, you’d catch him stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking. And maybe, just maybe, you did the same.

After a while, his voice broke through the stillness.

“So…” He hesitated, fiddling with his pen. “Do you only wear glasses when you work?”

The question caught you off guard. You looked up, finding his blue eyes wide and curious, his expression utterly sincere.

“What do you mean?”

He shifted in his chair, suddenly looking sheepish. “I just noticed. Sometimes you wear them, sometimes you don’t. I wasn’t sure if they were, you know, ‘work-only glasses.’”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. “No, Clark. They’re real. My eyes just… get tired faster when I’m staring at a screen all day.”

His lips curved into a grin, a little boyish, a little bashful. “Good to know.” His voice dropped lower. “I like them.”

Your stomach did a slow flip, and you ducked your head quickly, hoping he didn’t notice the heat rushing to your cheeks.

Eventually, the article was finished. You leaned back in your chair with a sigh, relief washing through you. “Done.”

Clark stretched, his arm brushing yours again, then checked the time. His expression shifted into one of quiet resolve.

Clark leaned back in his chair, stretching until his joints popped, then glanced at the clock. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“It’s late. Too late for you to be walking home alone.”

You blinked at him, startled by the firmness in his tone. “Clark, I’m fine—”

“I insist,” he cut in, the words rushing out more forcefully than he meant. His expression softened almost immediately, his voice lowering to something tender, almost careful. “Please. Just… let me walk you home. I’ll feel better.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but the way he looked at you—eyebrows drawn slightly together, eyes filled with a hope that bordered on pleading—made the protest collapse before it could form. He wanted to be the one who looked out for you.

So you nodded. “Okay.”

The relief in his smile nearly undid you.

The night air wrapped around you both as you stepped onto the quiet street, cool enough to make you hug your arms close. The city hummed in the distance, car horns muffled, the occasional rush of tires on asphalt echoing down the block. Clark fell into step beside you easily, his stride slowing to match yours.

At first, the conversation was light—funny stories about Lois’s cutting sarcasm, Jimmy’s habit of accidentally snapping candids at the worst possible times, Perry’s bark that could still make Clark jump if it came out of nowhere.

“He once threw a stapler at me,” Clark admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a laugh.

You gasped, wide-eyed. “He what?”

“Okay—he didn’t throw it at me exactly,” Clark amended quickly. “It was more of a… lob. A warning shot. I, uh, may have spilled coffee on the first draft of a front page.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter, your voice spilling into the quiet street and echoing faintly. Clark looked at you like the sound itself was something rare and precious.

Then the conversation shifted, turning smaller, softer.

“Favorite book?” Clark asked, glancing sideways at you as your shoes clicked in unison against the pavement.

You tilted your head, considering. “That’s impossible. You can’t just ask a reporter to pick one book. It’s like asking someone to pick their favorite heartbeat.”

His laugh rumbled low in his chest, warm enough to curl into your ribs. “Okay, fine. Top three?”

You hummed, lips pursing. “Alright. Jane Eyre, All the President’s Men, and… probably The Secret Garden.”

Clark smiled faintly. “That tracks.”

Your brow arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just—” he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish, “you’re brave and stubborn enough for Brontë, sharp enough for Woodward and Bernstein, and…” His gaze softened as it flicked to you, then away again. “And you’ve got that way of bringing things back to life, like in The Secret Garden.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you quickly redirected. “Alright, then. Worst subject in school?”

“Math,” Clark admitted instantly, without hesitation.

That made you laugh, light and easy. “Really? You seem like the type who’d get perfect grades.”

He grinned, a little bashful. “Not in math. Numbers and I… don’t get along. I used to sit there just praying the teacher wouldn’t call on me.”

You shook your head, smiling. “I hated gym. I could handle running, but dodgeball? Forget it. I was basically a moving target.”

Clark chuckled, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “I would’ve taken the hits for you.”

Your heart skipped. You tried to laugh it off. “That’s a very noble dodgeball strategy.”

“Maybe,” he said softly, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

The air between you grew quieter then, your footsteps slowing into an easy rhythm. You told him about the things you missed from home—your favorite diner, the way the town square lit up during the holidays.

Clark didn’t interrupt. He just listened, like every word you offered mattered, like he was storing them away with the same intensity he gave to headlines and interviews.

Every so often, your hands brushed when your steps aligned too closely. Sparks shot up your arm each time, and you wished you hadn’t shoved your hands into your pockets. Because maybe—just maybe—his hand would’ve been there waiting.

Clark was asking you about your favorite movies when you realized you’d already arrived at your door. The thought of the night ending made something tighten in your chest.

You turned to him, smiling despite the ache. “Thank you. For helping with the story. For walking me home. For… all of it.”

“Always,” he said, his voice low, sure. The word lingered between you, heavier than it should’ve been.

Silence stretched. Not awkward. Not empty. Charged. His eyes flicked down to your mouth for just a heartbeat, and you felt your breath hitch. You mirrored him without meaning to, your gaze catching on his lips before darting back to those impossibly blue eyes.

Neither of you moved for a long second. And then, slowly, like he was giving you every chance to step back, Clark lifted a hand. His palm was warm as it brushed against your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with such reverence it made your knees weaken.

You leaned into his touch without hesitation.

Clark drew in a sharp breath—then he bent down, and his lips met yours.

The kiss was feather-light, almost a question. Just a brush, then another. A few soft, tentative pecks, like he was testing the waters, terrified of rushing it, terrified of losing what was already between you.

When you both pulled back, you were smiling—almost laughing at the sweetness of it, at the relief that it had finally happened.

“Clark…” you whispered, breathless, and he looked at you with such raw tenderness it made your chest ache.

And then your eyes locked again, and something braver sparked.

You closed the space this time, your hand curling into his shirt, and the kiss that followed was nothing like the first. It wasn’t tentative. It was hungry, unguarded, weeks of unspoken tension finally cracking open. Your hands slid up into his hair, tugging him closer. He let out a low, muffled sound against your lips, and one of his hands cupped your cheek, holding you like you might slip away, while the other splayed firmly at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

The world fell away. No deadlines, no newsroom, no noise. Just you, him, and the impossible rightness of being in his arms.

When you finally parted, both of you breathless, his forehead dropped against yours, your noses brushing. His lips lingered near yours, still grazing like he couldn’t quite let go. His eyes stayed shut, his smile soft and unguarded, as if this moment alone was enough to undo him.

“Wow,” he whispered, voice rough, vulnerable.

You let out a shaky laugh, your heart thundering. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved to step back. Instead, you stayed tangled there, his thumb brushing over your cheek, your fingers still threaded through his hair.

You looked at each other then—really looked. And the truth of it, the inevitability of it, sank in: whatever this was, it wasn’t fleeting.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, both caught in the glow of what just happened. Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, the words tumbled out of your mouth, shy and unsteady:

“Um… do you want to come in? Just for a bit? I could make tea. Or coffee. Or, I don’t know, water if that’s all you want.”

You winced at how awkward it sounded, your nerves bubbling over. But Clark’s smile only softened, his eyes lighting like you’d just offered him the world.

“I’d like that,” he said simply.

You didn’t-couldn’t say a word, just turned your back to him to get your keys and open the door, with shaky hands.

Inside, the apartment glowed with warm lamplight. It wasn’t big—just a little one-bedroom you’d barely settled into—but it was soft, lived-in in the ways that mattered. Throw blankets folded neatly on the couch, candles scattered on shelves, books stacked not only on the bookcase but in uneven towers on the coffee table and floor. Framed pictures dotted the walls and tables, little fragments of your life you couldn’t leave behind when you moved.

Clark stood in the middle of it, taking it all in with that quiet, thoughtful way of his. He didn’t say anything right away, but you could tell by the faint curve of his lips that it was exactly the kind of space he’d imagined for you. Gentle. Safe. Yours.

“What would you like?” you asked from the kitchen, peeking over the counter with a nervous smile.

Clark turned, his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets. “Tea sounds perfect.”

You busied yourself with the kettle, grateful for the distraction. The sound of water running, the click of the stove—it all gave you a chance to breathe, to steady yourself.

Clark wandered toward the couch, lowering himself into the cushions with a little sigh. His eyes roamed again, landing on a small frame perched on the side table. He leaned closer. The picture was of a little girl, maybe six or seven, with a wide, mischievous grin and a bow in her hair. She wasn’t you—he could tell that much. But the photo was well-loved, the frame just a little worn. He found himself wondering.

Before he could ask, you padded back into the living room, two mugs in hand. “One tea, one coffee,” you announced softly, handing him his.

“Thanks,” he murmured, fingers brushing yours briefly. But instead of sipping, he set it gently down on the table.

You frowned. “Something wrong?”

He shook his head, that shy smile tugging at his lips again. Then, without a word, he reached for your mug and placed it next to his.

You blinked. “Clark, what—”

But the question never finished, because his hand was already cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His lips found yours again, surer this time, his kiss deepening with the kind of urgency that came from holding back too long.

You melted instantly, hands pressing against his chest before sliding up to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. He tasted faintly of mint, and you couldn’t help the small, breathless laugh that slipped against his mouth when he finally pulled back.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I kissed you,” he confessed, voice rough with honesty.

You arched a brow, trying to hide your smile. “Clark… that was five minutes ago.”

He let out a short, sheepish laugh, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, burning with something that wasn’t a joke. “Yeah. The longest five minutes of my life. Pure torture.”

Your heart swooped in your chest, the raw sincerity of it making you dizzy. You kissed him again, softer this time, lingering in the quiet sweetness of it before finally, reluctantly, pulling back to pick up your tea.

The warmth of the mug was grounding as you both settled back on the couch. For a few minutes, you sat in companionable silence, sipping and breathing in the strange new comfort of being so close.

Clark’s gaze flicked back to the photo on the side table. He hesitated, then asked gently, “Can I… ask who she is? The little girl?”

The question made you still, your fingers tightening faintly around your mug. You followed his gaze, your chest aching at the sight of the familiar grin in the frame.

“That’s… my best friend,” you said finally, your voice softer, heavier. “We grew up together. She—” You swallowed, the words catching. “She died. Car accident.”

Clark’s face softened instantly, the light in his eyes dimming into something heavier, more reverent. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, low and sincere.

You managed a small, sad smile, setting your mug down. "She was the kind of person you don’t forget. Even when everything else changes.”

For a moment, silence fell again, but this time it was gentle, weighted with empathy rather than discomfort.

Clark reached out, his fingers brushing over yours on the couch cushion. Just a touch. Warm, steady, wordless comfort. His eyes met yours, and you felt it again—that inexplicable familiarity, like he’d been waiting his whole life to know this part of you.

“Her name was Lily,” you said softly. Just saying it aloud made something in your chest ache. “She wasn’t just my best friend. She was… she was like my sister. We did everything together—sleepovers every weekend, passing notes in class, sneaking out to see midnight movies even when we were way too young.”

The corner of your mouth lifted as a laugh slipped out, fragile, almost apologetic. “She was loud. Bossy. Always had an opinion about everything. And her laugh—God, her laugh. She’d throw her whole body into it, head back, hands clapping, this ridiculous cackle that could make me crack up no matter what. No matter how bad my day was, she could tear it open and make it brighter.”

Clark didn’t speak. He didn’t nod or hum or rush you along. He just… watched you. Patient, steady, his expression soft and open. There. That was all he had to be.

Your eyes blurred. You blinked hard, but the words kept spilling. “She—she died two years ago. Car accident. Just… gone.” The last word broke, trembling.

You tried to smile through it, you really did, but the memories were too vivid, too alive. “She… she could never resist funnel cake at the fair,” you said softly, voice trembling but warm. “We’d spend hours in the sun, arguing over who got the biggest bite, who got the last one. And I’d braid her hair while we talked… about everything and nothing. It didn’t matter what we said—it was just… us.”

You laughed through the tears that slid down your cheeks. “And that summer,” you continued, voice catching, “we pretended to be secret agents. Sunglasses, notebooks full of classified information, codes we made up ourselves… We were unstoppable. Or at least we thought we were.”

Your chest tightened, and the smile faltered for a moment. “I miss her, Clark,” you whispered, almost too quiet to hear. “She… she was my best friend. My sister in every way that mattered. And now… she’s gone.”

“Honey,” Clark breathed. Just that one syllable, but the regret in it carried weight. His brow furrowed, his lips pressed tight like he wished he could take some of the pain away. Then, without hesitation, he leaned forward and pulled you into his arms.

His embrace was warm, solid, grounding. Your face pressed into the fabric of his shirt, the faint scent of laundry soap and something deeper—something him—settling around you. His chest was broad and steady, and under your ear you could hear his heartbeat, slow and sure. You let out a shaky breath, sinking into him, and for a second it felt like maybe the world couldn’t swallow you whole. Not when he was holding you like this.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair, his voice low and careful, like he didn’t want to startle you. His large hand rubbed slow circles against your back, soothing. “She sounds like someone I wish I’d known.”

You clutched at his shirt for just a second longer before pulling back, wiping quickly at your cheeks, embarrassed. But his eyes never judged—only softened more.

“You kind of can,” you whispered, forcing a small smile. “Wait here.”

You disappeared into your bedroom, returning with a thick photo album, the corners frayed from years of flipping. Settling beside him again, you opened it across both your laps.

The pages told your life in snapshots. First grade talent shows where you both wore glittery costumes. Halloween photos—witch and vampire one year, peanut butter and jelly the next. A baking attempt that ended in flour everywhere, your smiles sheepish and wild in the blurry picture someone had managed to take before cleaning up.

Clark leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours, and you felt the warmth of him there, his breath occasionally tickling your cheek. He smiled softly at each photo, his eyes lighting up. “Who picked the costumes?” he asked gently.

“I think… Lily chose most of them,” you said, flipping the page. “She always had very strong opinions.” You laughed lightly, shaking your head at the memory.

Clark’s eyes twinkled. “She picked them for both of you?”

You nodded. “Oh yeah. She was bossy, but fair—mostly. She made sure I got the fun costumes too.”

“And the cookies,” Clark said, pointing at a particularly flour-covered mess, “did they taste as bad as they look?”

“Oh, worse,” you admitted, laughing. “We were six. What did we expect?”

Clark chuckled, leaning closer over the pages. “And that one,” he said, pointing at a Halloween picture with both of you holding tiny pumpkins, “were you carving those yourselves?”

“Yes! And my mom nearly lost her mind. Pumpkin guts everywhere. Lily was in charge of the seeds—she thought it was fun to throw them at me.” You giggled, wiping a tear from laughing too hard.

Clark shook his head, grinning. “You two were unstoppable. I love how… joyful you look in every picture. Even when things were messy.”

You blushed, heart swelling at the quiet admiration in his voice. “It was all Lily. She made everything feel… bigger, brighter. And I… I was just along for the ride.”

Clark’s expression softened, and he studied your face for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “You… your face feels so familiar,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “I feel like I would recognize you anywhere.”

Your chest tightened, a shiver of something unspoken passing through you. “Really?” you asked softly, your fingers pausing on the page.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, voice gentle. “There’s just… something about you. I can’t explain it. Like I’ve known you before. Somehow.”

Your heart did a flip right there, feeling too many emotions all at once. “I… I think I know what you mean,” you whispered. “Sometimes, people feel like they’re in your life long before you actually meet them.”

Clark smiled, brushing his fingers across yours for a fleeting second. “Exactly. Like… a thread pulling you toward someone. And I don’t know why, but… I feel it with you.”

You swallowed, blinking rapidly, smiling through the sudden warmth in your chest. “That’s… kind of amazing. And a little scary.”

He chuckled softly, leaning closer over the album. “And this one?” he asked, pointing at a blurry picture of you and Lily at a science fair, holding a messy volcano project. “You made that?”

You laughed. “We tried! Lily was the genius behind it, obviously. I just… helped stir the lava.”

Clark’s grin widened. “And you both look so… alive. So small and big at the same time. Like everything mattered and nothing mattered all at once.”

You bit your lip, heart fluttering, and nodded. “Yeah… it did. Everything felt important because we were together.

Then you turned a page.

A school trip to the zoo.

There you and Lily were, in matching pink visors, arms slung around each other, ice cream dripping down your hands. Behind you, a crowd of kids clustered at the elephant enclosure.

Clark went still.

His eyes narrowed, his whole body shifting, muscles tensing like he’d just caught something no one else would.

“Wait a second,” he muttered, leaning closer. His fingers brushed the glossy paper reverently before he carefully slid the photo from its sleeve, tilting it toward the lamplight.

You blinked, confused. “Clark?”

He pointed, his fingertip hovering over the corner of the photo. A boy. Small, messy dark hair, striped T-shirt. Wide blue eyes staring curiously past the camera.

“That’s me,” Clark said, his voice low, almost disbelieving. “I remember this. My dad—he took me to the zoo that day. That’s me, right there in the back.”

Your brow furrowed as you leaned in closer. “Huh?”

Clark turned the picture so you could see better, excitement bubbling under his calm voice. “Look—see the little boy? That’s me. I swear. I remember that exact shirt. And… oh my god. That was the day I—”

He stopped, blinking rapidly, his expression flickering like he was piecing something together.

You stared at him, stunned. And then, like a thread snapping taut, a memory unspooled inside you—clear, vivid, alive.

You were seven years old, tugging on Lily’s hand as you pressed yourself against the railing, eyes wide at the tall giraffe bending its long neck to reach the leaves overhead.

“Look how big it is!” you gasped, bouncing on your toes.

“Bet I could climb it,” Lily bragged, her hands confidently on her hips.

You scrunched your nose and laughed. “Bet you’d fall right off. And then Mrs. Hannigan would tell your mom and we’d never be allowed to go anywhere again.”

Lily rolled her eyes, grinning, “You’re no fun. I could totally climb it. I’d just hold onto its spots!”

You giggled so loudly you didn’t notice the sound of sneakers slapping against the pavement behind you until it was too late.

A boy barreled past, running too fast for the uneven path, and before you could call out, his foot caught on the edge of the walkway. He went down hard, palms and knees scraping against the concrete.

“Ow—” he whimpered, trying to hold it in, blinking fast, his face flushed with the effort not to cry.

You gasped, letting go of Lily’s hand immediately. “Hey!” You rushed over and crouched down, your little dress bunching at the knees. “Are you okay?”

The boy looked up at you, and you froze. His eyes—bluer than anything you’d ever seen. Like sky, like water, like the glass beads in your grandmother’s jar.

“Wow,” you blurted, forgetting yourself entirely. “Your eyes are so blue.”

The boy blinked, startled, his cheeks pinking as he looked down quickly. You offered your small hand without hesitation. “Here.”

He hesitated, then slipped his scraped, slightly trembling hand into yours. His palm was warm and a little clammy, but you didn’t mind. You tugged until he was back on his feet, brushing at his shirt like it was your job to fix him.

“What’s your name?” you asked earnestly.

“C-Clark,” he stammered, clearly embarrassed.

“Clark,” you repeated, testing it on your tongue. You smiled, wide and sure. “You’ll be okay, Clark. Promise.”

He gave a tiny, uncertain nod, still avoiding your eyes like looking at you was too much.

Then you remembered the lollipop you’d been saving all morning—purple-wrapped and safely tucked in your pocket. Without a second thought, you pulled it out and pressed it into his hand.

“Here,” you said with all the authority a seven-year-old could muster. “Makes everything better.”

His lips parted. “Really? For me?”

You grinned, rocking back on your heels. “Really. Don’t cry, okay?”

He looked down at the candy like it was treasure, holding it carefully in both hands, like it might break if he wasn’t gentle. “Thank you,” he whispered, so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

Before you could say anything else, your teacher’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Come on, girls, group photo! Let’s go!”

You turned your head, torn. Lily was already waving at you, impatient and dramatic, shouting, “Come on! They’re waiting!”

You looked back at the boy—at Clark—still standing there, candy clutched to his chest, those blue eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing in the busy zoo.

“Bye, Clark!” you called brightly, giving him one last smile, the kind that lit your whole face. Then you ran off, your ponytail bouncing behind you, sneakers squeaking against the pavement.

Clark stood frozen in place, the lollipop gripped tight in his small hand, staring after you like he’d just been struck by lightning.

The memory slammed back into you, knocking the air from your lungs. You stared at him on your couch, the same impossibly blue eyes looking at you with wonder.

“That’s… why,” you whispered, realization dawning, your chest tight with something between disbelief and joy. “That’s why you looked so familiar the first day. Clark… it was you.”

His voice was soft, almost reverent. “All this time. I didn’t even realize until now.”

For a moment, neither of you breathed. Then it broke—laughter tumbling out of you in shaky waves, Clark’s own joining yours, rich and stunned and almost boyish. Not because it was funny, but because it was impossible and perfect and the only thing you could do was laugh.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, clutching your stomach as you bent over. “I can’t—Clark, I can’t believe this. That was you? The little boy who tripped at the zoo?”

Clark’s hand flew to the back of his neck, sheepish, though his grin was unstoppable. “Yeah. That was me. Smooth entrance into your life, huh? Falling on my face.”

You swatted at his arm, still laughing. “I knew your eyes looked familiar. They were the bluest thing I’d ever seen in my life. I went home and told Lily all about you.”

That made him freeze mid-laugh. “You did?”

You nodded quickly, warmth rushing to your cheeks at the memory. “Oh, constantly. She never let me live it down. Every time I said the word blue, she’d go, ‘Like that boy at the zoo?’ and then just cackle until I threw a pillow at her. She said I was obsessed.”

Clark let out a breathless laugh, but his eyes softened at the mention of Lily, at the way you were smiling through the ache. “What did you say back?”

You bit your lip, embarrassed. “That I wasn’t obsessed. That I just thought you had the kind of eyes you don’t forget. Which, apparently, was true.”

Clark laughed again, leaning back against your couch cushions, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is insane. I—I remember tripping. I remember this girl kneeling down and helping me up, like it was the most natural thing in the world. I came home, scraped and embarrassed, and I couldn’t stop telling my mom about this little girl who helped me up, gave me candy, and… just seemed so kind and bright. I told her… I told her how nice and pretty you were. I don’t think I stopped talking about you for hours. It stuck with me.”

Your chest tightened, the weight of it sinking in. “I remember thinking how sweet you looked, even when you were hurt. You said your name was Clark, and then my teacher dragged me away before I could even say mine. For years, I thought about that. Like—like I’d missed a step, you know? I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”

Clark turned his head to look at you, his blue eyes bright, almost glowing in the lamplight of your living room. His voice was low, filled with something tender and raw. “And here we are. After all this time, here we are.”

Your laugh cracked, part disbelieving, part overwhelmed. “This feels like the plot of a movie. The kind no one believes because it’s too perfect.”

He chuckled softly, leaning just a little closer, his knee brushing yours. “Maybe it’s not a movie. Maybe it’s just… us. Finally finding our way back.”

You couldn’t stop smiling, even as tears blurred your vision again. Every detail of that long-ago day was rushing back now—the giraffe’s long neck, Lily’s chatter.

Sitting there, watching him laugh softly, the edges of memory still warm around the photo album, you couldn’t help but feel as though the universe had been quietly conspiring all along. For years, you had heard people talk about the invisible string theory—the idea that we are all connected to certain people by threads we can’t see, threads that stretch across time and space, bending and twisting but never breaking.

And now… you believed it.

It was as if you had both been tethered to each other by a delicate, golden thread, woven silently through childhood moments, small kindnesses, and unspoken glances. That thread had carried you across years, across heartbreak and distance, across new cities and new lives, always tugging you closer, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal itself.

You thought back to the little boy at the zoo—the blue eyes wide with wonder, the tentative smile, the candy pressed into his hands. You thought of the little girl who dashed off at the teacher’s call, never imagining that the string tying you together had already begun to twist and loop in ways you could not yet see.

And now he was here. In your apartment, sitting next to you, brushing your fingers with his, laughing like the years between you had been nothing at all. And you felt the thread—warm, golden, unbreakable—pull taut in your chest. It was beautiful, impossible, and entirely real.

For the first time in a long while, you believed that some connections are meant to be, that some people are destined to find each other, no matter the distance, no matter the years. You closed your eyes briefly, breathing in the soft warmth of the moment, and allowed yourself to marvel at the exquisite absurdity of it all: that life could be so cruel, so kind, and so astonishingly precise, all at once.

Somewhere deep inside, you knew the thread wasn’t done with you yet.

It was only the beginning.

[manicandobsessive]

bitch i was genuinely brought to tears

[marvel-hiddles-stark]

R U KIDDING

WHY WOULD THEY DELETE THIS OH MY GODDDDD

MY SHAYLAS

[manicandobsessive]

i’m gonna vomit

[drwstarkeys]

HELLO…? How is he real

[manicandobsessive]

just woke up from a nap

good morning to me

[inbred-eater]

KISSES

pairing .ᐟ scott miller x fem!reader

warnings .ᐟ 18+ mdni. sharing gum. mentions of sex. established relationship. makeout sessions.

summary .ᐟ big meanie scott miller sharing his gum with his sweetheart of a girlfriend :0 (+ the 1 time you share your gum with him).

acknowledgements .ᐟ gif creds: @/corensweat

the first time scott does what you’d previously thought of as disgusting and revolting, was during one of your regular storm chasing afternoons.

back then you were just fuck buddies, keeping each other’s beds warm without the commitment, something scott was open about to you when it first started—at first it broke your heart but you learnt to live with it and accept it.

the day wasn’t going as expected, your hair sticking to your skin with rain, the data you were supposed to be collecting coming out all wrong, the storm seemingly disappearing right before your eyes—everyone was on edge.

your chest huffed as you looked down at your reports, the numbers not adding up to the measure you needed them to, only furthering you into an overthinking mess.you’d been chewing chunks out of the inside of your cheek, the the dried skin on your bottom lip not any better as your teeth scraped them off with with each nibble, the stress of the day urging you to nervously gnaw on something.

scott noticed; of course he did, he noticed every little thing about you— from the way you’d nervously tick when anxious, to the meticulous morning routine you had after each and every single one of your rendezvous.

he smacked his gum, scratching at the stubble growing on his jaw as he eyed you, the clipboard with data in his hands at the back of his mind now, too proud to admit with his full chest that he worried about you when you’d get like this, “you good?” he finally spoke up, voice gravelly, his nose twitching as he sniffled, the edge of the clipboard digging into his abdomen.

you looked up from the tablet in your hands, eyes wide as saucers; “what?” you asked, the assault from your teeth onto your already bleeding bottom lip, halted for a moment.

“i asked if you’re good, you’re uh, you’re doing that thing,” he paused, gesturing to your lips, his blue eyes pierced as he studied you, his eyes raking over your almost trembling with anxiety, figure.

you could taste the metallic twang from your bleeding bottom lip, lifting the pad of your fingers to touch it, looking down at your blood stained fingers as you swallowed, his voice echoing in the background as he called out your name.

you cleared your throat, your tongue darting out to wet your lips before humming, “yeah yeah—i’m fine, just really frustrated i guess—i uh-you got any more gum?” you finally blurted out, hoping to stop the assault on your bruised and bleeding bottom lip by chewing some gum.

scott looked at you, passing off the clipboard to someone walking by before checking his pockets, patting himself down. he realised slowly that the one he was currently smacking on was the last one he had, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as his gaze zeroed in again on that anxious tick of yours, looking around to check if the rest of the team were looking before stepping forward, his face stoic, not at all giving away what he was about to do.

his large hand reached your jaw first, calloused palm tender against your skin before he bent down to accommodate your height, your brain catching up with your body slower than what you’d want it to, lips parted as his other hand moved to the belt loops on your jeans, hooking his index finger into one of them to pull your closer to him.

in a flurry his lips were pressed to yours, your breath catching in your throat as you kissed him back almost instantly, your lips moulding to the shape of one another’s, your body responding to his all too familiar touch as you melted into his embrace, your legs like jelly, the only thing keeping you grounded being his hand on your belt loop.

your skin prickled with goosebumps as your colleagues began staring, but you couldn’t find it in you to care, not with how his tongue prodded into your mouth with urgency, your head spinning as you angled your head so he could have his way, the kiss growing a tad desperate, completely oblivious to how he was manoeuvring the piece of minty fresh gum from his mouth into yours, his hand that had been on your jaw having slid down to the base of your throat, sitting loosely around the delicate skin there.

your eyes shot open as you felt the piece of gum in your mouth, your first instinct being to spit it out immediately, brows furrowed at the soft material on your tongue, until your eyes caught his, the emotions he couldn’t convey with his words shouting out to you from the windows to his soul, blinking as his stare willed you to keep your mouth closed and keep the piece of gum, his gum between your chapped lips.

without even realising you’d begun chewing it, the taste of the gum paired with that distinct taste that was scott miller, making your breathing falter, your cheeks warm as you kept chewing, blowing a bubble before looking over to your colleague’s, some of them mortified from the public display of affection, especially from someone like scott; others who’s motel rooms were right next to yours, having heard every little moan and breathy whimper you made when scott’s cock was buried deep inside, not surprised at all, and javi? poor javi was as confused as ever.

you swallowed, your eyes never leaving scott’s as you chewed on the gum, the anxiety you’d been experiencing seemingly leaving your body. wordlessly he straightened up, lifting his signature blue peak cap from his head, smoothing down his hair as he placed it atop your head, another public claim on you, unconsciously letting everyone know you were his; his eyes speaking to you again, reassuring you.

a classic “mean to everyone but you” scott miller move you guessed.

with a pat to your shoulder he left, busying himself with work as he usually did, leaving your mind (and cotton panties) a mess, smiling to yourself at his display of affection, the gum between your teeth a sweet reminder to it.

the second time he does it is roughly a month later, your relationship public and solidified, the office at stormpar’s headquarters coming to know you now as scott miller’s too sweet girlfriend, often wondering how your dynamic worked seeing as scott constantly looked a grumpy mess.

“god damn it i asked for it to be done today! why can’t anyone get this shit right?!” you heard him yell from down the hall, some intern scrambling back to their desk, scared as a mouse, scott’s presentation for his uncle and a couple of investors in about thirty minutes.

you stood from your desk, downing the rest of your water as you met him outside the boardroom. “you okay? can see the steam blasting from your ears from a mile away,” you attempted to joke, smiling up at him as your hand reached for his, his jaw working as he chewed his usual minty gum.

“fuck—nothings going how i wanted it to go, and those god awful intern hire’s are useless-“ he huffed, running his hand that wasn’t holding yours down his face.

your brows furrowed, picking up on his frustration, “breathe, you’ll be okay - seen you give mean presentations a thousand times before, with a damn good poker face too; this is nothin’ scott,” you hummed, letting his hand fall for a moment to smooth down his collar.

he nodded, about to respond when the intern from earlier scrambled back toward him, apologising profusely as they handed him the correct material, that hard, quite frankly nerve wracking stare of his piercing their skin, the terrified look on their face making you snort, trying your hardest not to laugh as they scurried away.

you shook your head, looking down at your shoes before sighing, “you’re too scary sometimes y’know? gotta be nicer baby,” you giggled, his nervousness disappearing for a moment.

he shook his head, dimples announcing themselves to the world as he smacked his gum, “only person i need to be cordial to is you, fuck the rest of em” he huffed, looking down at his digital watch, that grumpy look you’ve come to know and love back on his face.

you rolled your eyes at his words, looking down at your own watch to see that it was time for him to go; “you’ll do amazing i know it—fore’ you go in there munching away, gum—“ you paused, holding your hand out, palm to the sky as you waited for him to spit out his gum into your palm, so you could dispose of it.

he simply shook his head, smirking briefly before pressing his lips to yours, his kiss hasty but chaste, his tongue prodding into your warm mouth as he passed his gum to you again, already becoming all whoozy at the action.

he pulled away hastily, clearing his throat as he smiled at his handy work, the sight of you chewing his gum always working wonders for his ego—becoming his second favourite thing in the world (first place was loving you of course).

with a soft slap to your ass he entered the board room, the door closing softly with a click. you smiled to yourself as you hovered outside, bowing a bubble as a throat clearing from behind you, disturbed your moment of tranquility, your head snapping to find javi with a disgusted look on his face, only giggling in response.

“you two are disgusting, truly,” javi remarked, grimacing at the idea of you chewing someone else’s gum, his words however, holding no real malice to them.

“don’t knock it till you try it javi,” you giggled, running after him to piss him off further as you held your fingers crossed that scott’s proposal would go well.

the first time you pull his signature move on him is as you’re getting back from the grocery store, his strong arms carrying the multiple bags into the kitchen of your shared apartment, closing the door behind him before locking it as he set the bags down onto the counter.

he went through them, the bubble you’d blown with the last piece of gum you had, popping, masking the sound of his grumble as he sorted through the bag.

“ah fuck,” he mouthed, looking over his shoulder as he watched you pack everything that needed to be chilled, into the fridge.

“we forget somethin?” you hummed, placing the punnets of blueberries and strawberries into the crisper. “yeah—forgot my gum, can you believe it?” he huffed, muttering another “fuck” under his breath as he crossed his arms over his chest, the man not able to function without his preferred brand of gum, only realising then that you’d been smacking on some gum the whole time.

“you got any left sweetie?” he hummed, walking across the kitchen to where you stood, his large hands smoothing around your waist from behind, turning you around in his arms as he smoothly closed the fridge door behind you, softly pressing your back to it.

this was all normal for you, him manhandling you whenever and wherever, your body pliant under his grasp. “mhm? got any left of what?” you furrowed your brows, doing a mental checklist of what you could’ve forgotten.

his hands smooth down from your waist to your ass, squeezing and massaging the flesh as he gestured to the bubble you’d just blown with a nod, effortlessly lifting you up into his arms.

you mentally “ohhhh’d”, prepared to watch disappointment overcome his handsome features as you readied yourself to shake your head, the word “nope” on the tip of your tongue before you remembered you’d been chewing on a piece of gum yourself.

with a smile on your plush lips you pressed them to his, smiling into the kiss as you felt him move you over to one of the counters, the marble countertop cool against your skin, your lips moving languidly against his as you tried to control the pace of the kiss, your body’s urge to let him do whatever he pleased, fighting against the idea you had.

as your arms moved around his neck, deepening the kiss as your tongue danced with his, moving the gum into his mouth, your saliva mixing oh so erotically with his, the gesture making his jeans tighten, your panties no doubt flushed with wetness as he seemed to only grow hungrier now with your gum in his mouth.

he pulled back after a moment, a string of saliva connecting your swollen, kiss bitten lips, his dimples showing cockily as he chewed the shit out of (your) his gum.

“using my own tricks on me now are you? thank you baby,” he guffawed, smirking as his hands moved to the hem of your shirt, goosebumps prickling your skin as he moved his calloused hands over the soft skin of your belly.

you only shrugged, satisfied with yourself as you surged forward to press quick little kisses to his lips, smiling as he continued smacking the gum regardless.

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꩜ .ᐟ david corenswet + characters m.list

[manicandobsessive]

this was so hot and i need that bad

[rosenclaws]

I Won't Say (I'm In Love) || Logan x Reader

summary: Everyone tells you that Logan is in love with you but you just don't see it.

warnings: angst and fluff, Logan gets kidnapped, mentions of violence and blood, reader kills a few people but it's not graphic.

wc: 4.3k

a/n: This was a request from @manicandobsessive hehe. I really hope it's what you wanted I tried my best to make the reader badass and shit it's been a second since I did a request and I do love this song so I really really hope u like it <33

It was an obnoxiously hot day today. Seriously it felt like your body was going to melt into the floor at this point. The AC was chugging as it attempts to cool the whole mansion down. You're taking refuge in the kitchen with the rest of the team. Jean and Scott were at the dining table while Rogue and Storm were leaning against the counter. Rogue begging Storm to make it rain but she says her powers only bring thunder and lighting with the rain. Plus it wouldn't change the temperature.

You're nursing a root beer by the open window. Hoping to catch a breeze. Finally a familiar figure appears in the door. He's drenched in sweat from his morning workout. Why Logan insists on working out even in this heat you'll never know. He opens the fridge and pushes around a few of the things before sighing and closing the door. He glances over at you and his eyes zero in on the bottle in your hand.

"Oops." You say with a small smile as you take another sip of your nice cold drink. You may have taken the last one but in your defense, Logan had eating the last cupcake that you were looking forward too after training last week. So consider this payback. He walks over to you, everyone's eyes now focused on the two of you as he stands in front of you with his arms crossed. "Stealing my shit again huh sweetheart?" He nods towards the bottle and you just shrug.

"Call it even Logan. You ate my cupcake last week." He stares at you for a moment before smirking.

"And it was delicious."

"You're such a dick." You huff. You see his eyes dart towards your bottle but you grab it before he can.

"Not a chance." "Aw come on sweetheart, just one sip." He purrs and you roll your eyes.

"That's not gonna work on me Logan. You ate my food and I'll never forgive you."

"That's a little dramatic don't you think?" He says with a small laugh.

"Alright fine." He puts his hands up in defeat and walks out of the kitchen with one last wink. You happily take another sip from your drink as you notice everyone staring at you.

"What? I'm not letting him get away with that."

"It's nothing sugar, just Logan seemed mighty friendly." Rogue says with a smirk.

"Yeah, he took you taking his last drink pretty well." Jean adds, sharing a look with Storm who's just observing.

"What are you guys talking about? Logan wouldn't start a fight over a drink."

"Maybe not with you but if I had taken it, he wouldn't have been so nice." Scott adds. You narrow your eyes at them. The playfulness in their voices makes it feel like they're all in on some joke.

"He just knows better than to mess with me." You say.

The first time you had met Logan you threw him flat on his ass. Which wasn't easy because the man was like 300lbs but you had enhanced strength and he snuck up on you. Since then you and Logan would spar from time to time but that was it. He respected you as an opponent and a teammate. Your abilities sort of similar to his. Animal like instincts that led to you being the perfect combat spy. You were unmatched in hand to hand and built in night vision certainly helped. Logan had recognized your skills and the two of you managed to make each other stronger.

"Uhh huh, I'm sure the Wolverine calls everyone sweetheart." Jean teases and you feel yourself shift in your seat.

"You're all crazy, I think the heat is getting to you." You stand up and finish off the root beer.

"I'm going to the library." You mumble as you leave the kitchen.

"It's so obvious." Jean says with a sigh. "They're practically made for each other." Scott says with a grin.

"You think they'll ever see it?" Rogue asks and Storm just shrugs.

"I hope so, I think they'd be quite the pair."

You take a long detour to the library. Their comments getting into your head more than you'd like. It's almost like they were implying you were different. Special to Logan. But you aren't. He's just your friend and teammate. The two of you fight like friends, even siblings right? It always seems that he likes to rile you up and you don't take any of his bullshit. Fighting right back.

There's never any real heat between your petty arguments either. Like it's natural and fun. He makes you feel relaxed, never looking down on you but as an equal. It was nice. But Logan was just a friend. He didn't see you as anything more and neither did you.

"Hey sweetheart, you lost or something?" You look up to see Logan leaning against the wall, ugh you've accidentally wandered into the bedroom hallway. His bedroom hallway.

"No, I'm just walking around is all."

"You wanna get out of here?" He asks and you freeze. Why you? Why not Rogue or Jubilee? Well you're the one in front of him maybe that's why.

"Where?" You ask.

"Town. It's too hot and too boring here." You hesitate to answer and he just heads towards the garage.

"Come or don't sweetheart I don't care." After a moment you run after him. Fuck it, this should prove that you're just friends. Friends hanging out and going to town. The ride is pretty quiet other than the radio. Neither you or Logan were big talkers. After about 20 minutes he pulls into the parking lot of the bakery you loved. You look at him and he just shrugs.

"Your cupcakes were so good I wanted to try them again." He mumbles. He holds the door open as you walk into the bakery.

"Oh! It's so lovely to see you again dear." Martha, the owner, says happily as she sees you.

"Hi Martha, what do you have today?" You ask as she leads you to the case full of yummy cupcakes. She points out a few she thinks you'd like as Logan stands behind you. He picks out a few and pays for the box.

"Let's eat here, they've got AC." Logan nudges your shoulder and points towards a small table in the corner.

"Sounds good, I'll be right there." He walks over leaving you and Martha alone.

"Your boyfriend is so cute." She says with a smile.

"Oh no he's not my boyfriend. We're just friends." You correct her.

"Oh my apologizes, he just seems so in love with you. You should have seen the way he was watching you earlier. So sweet." She walks off like it was nothing. God what was with people today? You sit next to Logan who's already shoved half a cupcake in his mouth.

"Gross." You saw as you grab one for yourself. He scarfs it down and shrugs.

"You took too long." You roll your eyes and bite into your own cupcake. Damn it's good.

You two eat in silence for a while, just enjoying the food and the AC of the place. You see Martha send you a wink as Logan places his arm around your chair. You tell yourself it's nothing and wave her off. But you can't ignore the feeling of domesticity with Logan. I mean, going for a drive and getting your favorite sweets could be seen as a date…maybe. He paid too. But that was just because he had eaten your last one. He doesn't like you like that and you totally don't like him either. On the way home the idea won't leave your head.

"Martha thought we were a couple." You blurt out as Logan drives down the back road. He stays quiet as he turns the radio down, glancing over at you as he waits for you to continue.

"I mean how ridiculous does that sound? Me and you a couple? Pfft" You laugh though it doesn't sound as natural as you wanted it to. Instead of laughing along he's quiet, the grip on the steering wheel getting tighter as he finally lets out a laugh less chuckle.

"Yeah, that would be crazy." He replies. You look at him, studying his face. Logan has always been good at hiding his true feelings but something tells you that you might have crossed a line here.

"Logan?" You ask and he just looks at you. Flashing that pretty smile of yours. Whatever is going on in his head gets pushed down as he turns the radio back up.

"We're almost home." He says as he turns his attention back to the road.

You sit forward and let your brain start to think. That wasn't the reaction you were expecting. Not at all. Did he…no. No he couldn't. You glance out the window and the air shifts to something much less inviting. Something colder that made your skin crawl. Did you fuck it all up?

It's been two weeks since that cupcake run and things had changed. Logan wasn't ignoring you per say. He still said hi to you and would crack a joke to see you smile but you could tell that something between you had changed. You brain replays that conversation over and over in your head. Your own feelings becoming muddled as you question just how you really feel.

Even if Logan liked you that meant nothing right? He was the Wolverine, he had his fair share of lovers and hook ups. You're just friends. Love had always been a complicated feeling for you. Sure you loved your friends, your family. But romantic love was something different. You didn't want to be stuffed in a box of the damsel in distress. You made sure that you could always handle yourself, a crush doesn't make you weak but it also is brand new territory.

Logan was well, Logan. He was a safe space for you. He understood you on a level that the others just couldn't. He was funny and being around him gave you a sense of peace. It felt like he could see you. Not just your mutation or anything else, just you.

But now just being here in the mansion was starting to mess with your head. You just needed to be alone for a bit to clear your head. So you asked Charles for a small solo mission.A simple, easy one that let you disappear for a week without anyone getting worried.

"There's an abandoned base hidden in the mountains of Colorado." Charles hands you a file and you flip through it.

"It should be easy for you but…" He trails off. His eyes filled with worry. He doesn't read your mind without your consent but he's an observant man.

"I'm not running Charles, I'm just. Taking a breath." You tell him and he nods, not completely convinced. "You can leave tomorrow morning. Good luck and keep contact with Scott." It doesn't take you long to pack and prepare. A few people stopped by to wish you luck and offering their wishes of safety but they knew you could handle it just fine.

"Hey," You look up from your book to see Logan standing at your door.

"Hi Logan, here to wish me luck?" You ask softly.

"Nah, you don't need it." He looks at you and smiles, his head ducking slightly and you swear you see a blush creep up his neck.

"Here," He hands you a key on a chain.

"I know a guy in Cattle Creek. It's not much but its a room with some supplies." You take the key from his hand, your fingers brushing against each other. His fingers are so calloused it makes you shiver.

"Just be careful aright?" For me but that part is said silently.

"Always." With that he offers you a small nod and leaves.

The next day you jetted off to Colorado, clutching the key against the palm of your hand the whole ride there. A train ride into a bus ride led you to your destination. You slotted the key into the door of the small cabin away from town. It was pretty bare but it had blankets, some canned food, and water. In the dusty closet was a few weapons and more blankets, but also a very familiar looking flannel. It must be Logan's. He probably left it here a long time ago. You take it and shake some of the dust off, rubbing your thumb along the fabric. This really isn't helping clear your mind, but you put the flannel in your backpack just in case.

The mission is completed with ease minus a few complications. For one your communicator broke day one. You could imagine the scolding you'd get from Scott once you get home for losing X-Men tech. The other thing was half way through the week someone had broken into your room looking for something. It put you on guard for the rest of the week. You made zero attempts at connecting back to your team in case someone had been watching you. The base itself was basically empty minus a few lowly guards who you disposed of quite quickly. Getting the information you needed and getting out just as quick. By the time you were on your way home you could feel yourself relax. Though, one thing still lingered in the back of your mind.

Logan. His flannel was still packed in your bag, you decided to bring it back to him. Getting the alone time was nice but your heart always seemed to wander back to Logan in the quiet moments. You missed him. You turn the key around in your palm. He asked you to be safe, he gave you a safe house, he trusts you and respects you.

The joy you get being close to him was different. It wasn't the same as when you're with Jean or Ororo. Ah shit. Maybe…just maybe. You did like him. You decide to talk to him once you get back. Figure out all this shit in your head so you can finally stop the butterflies and the confusion. Though when you finally arrive home you don't get the welcome you expected.

"Oh my god." Jean drops the files in her hand. Running up to you and pulling you into a hug.

"You're okay." "Of course I'm okay." You say slightly confused.

"We couldn't contact you for a week." She looks so worried and you don't understand why.

"I know the stupid communicator broke and I couldn't contact you guys. But the mission wasn't even that dangerous." You explain but the fear on her face doesn't disappear.

"Jean, did something happen?" "You need to come with me now."

Charles' office is filled with your team. All of them looking like they haven't slept in days. The moment you walk in you're greeted with tight hugs and warm words.

"What's going on?" You ask as you place your bag on the ground. Charles gestures for you to sit as he begins to explain.

"Three days after your departure we received a call saying that you had been compromised. They had all the details of your mission, the location of your safe house, and your flight schedule." You start to feel a twisting horrible feeling in your stomach.

"We thought they took you and…" Ororo trails off, all of them sharing a look that makes your stomach drop. It's then you realize someone very important is missing.

"Where's Logan?"

That big idiot. That massive big dumb stupid idiot. Logan is smart most of the time. At least when it comes to battle strategy. Or you thought. Sometimes his method is just run in and kill on sight but he would never just do something as stupid as walk into a clear trap and be captured. God you can't believe it.

You pace around the jet as you near your destination. Your suit feeling far too constricting as every second feels like it stretches to a minute. Logan had gone on a rogue solo mission to save you. It was a trap. They want him, it's always him.

He was valuable and his mind could be tampered with while yours couldn't. They knew that and they used your safety against him. It took Charles days to finally trace where they took him and just like he had done you were on the jet before anyone could stop you.

You feel like your world has been shattered, you can't breathe or even think. Worry completely consuming you. You find a small corner of the ship, sitting down as you hug your legs to your chest. Jean walks over to you and offers you a kind smile. It doesn't help as much as you hoped it would "Logan is strong, we'll find him."

"I just, he's smarter than to just run in head first and get himself captured." You tell her and she just smiles.

"He is, but when someone he loves is in danger Logan doesn't exactly wait for a plan." She puts her hand on top of yours and you smile weakly.

"And you're quite worried for a man who's got regenerative abilities." She says, a hint of teasing in her voice. You give her a look and she shrugs. "I don't need to read your mind to see it."

You sigh and let your knees drop, opening yourself up just a little bit more.

"Are you going to say I told you so?" You ask, the closest you'll get to admitting that maybe they were right.

"We're landing, everyone get in your seats." Scott's voice echoes through the jet.

She holds her hand out and helps you up. A rescue mission for the man you might finally actually admit you could be in love with. You close your eyes as the plane descends. You won't be leaving without Logan and if that means burning this damn lab to the ground you'll do it.

Guard after guard fell at your hand. Normally no one could stand against your hand to hand combat but tonight your skills were exceptionally sharp.

"There's a lot of heat signatures coming from underground." Scott says into the comms.

"On it." You scour the floor for a door to the basement but find nothing. You let out a grown of frustration as you walk into yet another closet filled with nothing.

"Where are you Logan?" You whisper as you scan the room. Your eyes darting around looking for anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly you see it, scuff marks on the ground near a file cabinet. You push the cabinet out of the way to reveal a trap door.

"I found the entrance. I'm going in."

"Wait for-" The comm cuts out as you descend down the ladder.

You land harshly on the ground, leaning against the cold walls as you listen for any sounds. Far down the hall you could hear muffled voices. You started slow, walking quietly and waiting in case someone came by. But the closer you got the noisier you became.

"Is this really Weapon X?" You could hear someone say.

"I thought he was supposed to be a rage filled killing machine." You peak into the room and see two guards watching Logan.

He was slumped to the ground. His hands in cased in something to stop him from moving. Whatever the hell they used to sedate him was strong because his healing could counteract most attempts. You feel your heart lurch as you watch one of the guards kick him in the stomach.

"Pathetic." He scoffs as he leans down and grabs Logan's face. His nails digging into his skin.

"Omega level mutant my ass." Logan's eyes are alert even if his body isn't. He makes eye contact with you instantly. He silently begs you to wait but you can't.

Not after seeing what they've done to him. No. They were going to pay. You launch into action. Jumping one guard and slamming him into the ground. You quickly grab his gun and throw it across the room. The other guard jumps up and aims. Missing a few shots as alarms start to scream through the halls. You incapacitate the guard on the floor and duck for cover.

"Well well, another mutant." The guard taunts as he shoots through the cover. The bullets whizzing by your face.

"Here to play hero?" He says with a laugh. Suddenly the lights shut off. You could see perfectly. A flashing red light was the only help this poor sucker had against you. Too bad it would never be enough.

"Aww, someone's scared." You taunt. Quickly leaping away as the guard shot blindly at the panels on the wall.

"Where's all the confidence now?" You ask again. It's almost amusing to watch him panic. As quiet as a mouse you find yourself behind him.

"Boo." He screeches as you take care of him. His scream cut short as he falls to the ground. The lights turn back on making you squint.

"Fuck." You mumble as you notice blood on your suit.

"Hey sweetheart…" A tired voice says behind you. The power outage had released Logan from his restraints. He had ripped out the IV that was feeding him the sedative and his body was working overtime to heal himself.

"You're a fucking idiot you know that?" You scold as you run to his side, jumping into his arms. You hold him tightly. He smells just like his old flannel.

"What were you thinking walking into a trap like that?" You ask as you sit back up. Your hands are still on his shoulders as he moves to pull you in his lap. His breathing was steadying as he started to wake up.

"Did you come here alone?" He asks, dodging your question.

"No. Well the team is somewhere but I did come down here alone but that doesn't matter." You say quickly. "You shouldn't have done that. It's dangerous." He says worriedly.

"You don't get to lecture me about danger Logan. Why would you just up and leave without the team?" You push. He sighs, chuckling as he leans against the wall. He reaches his hand up to cup your face.

"Because it was you." He says.

"What?" You ask quietly. Your heart knows it, deep down your heart has always know it. But your brain still has to play catch up.

"God you're cute when you're clueless." He teases as his thumb brushes over your lips. His eyes admiring your beauty despite being covered in blood.

"I love you. I have for a while now." He admits.

"You do?" You place your hand on top of his. Grasping his rough hand tightly.

"Love have never been easy for me but I know it when I feel it. I heard you had been taken and I just…I lost it."

"But-"

"No buts sweetheart. I knew it could have been a trap but I didn't care. My life to guarantee yours is worth it every time." Your lip quivers as Logan's words hit harder than you ever thought they could.

All this time he had been in love with you. All this time wasted. Love was never a weakness but the fear of losing yourself had always been there but Logan loved you for who you were. Every time you beat him in sparing or stole his beer or saved the day. He loved you for it this whole time. You want to curse yourself for wasting so much time but that wouldn't do anything now.

"I love you too Logan." You grab the back of his head and pull him into a fierce kiss. He grunts in surprise but quickly melts into it. You're done wasting time. He groans as you bite his lip, his hands snaking around your waist to pull you closer. Your lips move together so perfectly it's almost like a dream.

"Fuck, been wanting to do that for a long time." He gasps as you pull away. You lean your forehead against his. He's pretty much fully recovered at this point, that sparkle in his eye is already back and so is that stupidly hot cocky smirk.

"My hero." He purrs as he presses a wet kiss to your cheek.

"Does that make you my damsel in distress?" You tease back. He raises an eyebrow but laughs anyways. You both stand up, ready to get the hell out of here.

"Hello? Hello? We managed to shut the power off to disable their communication scrambler. If you can hear us report back." Your come buzzes to life making you wince at how loud Scott was in your ear.

"I found him. Coming back to the surface now." You say and you hear a chorus of relieved voices. You turn it off to quiet the noise. You'll go back in a second. You just need to hold Logan a little longer. Logan grunts at your tight grip.

"Hey I'm okay, you saved me sweetheart." He whispers as he rubs your back softly. His heart beats loudly in your ear and its the sweetest sound you've ever heard. "Come on, let's go home." He laces his fingers with yours as he pulls you to the door. You weave through the lab halls, a sudden realization hitting you.

"You know, they're never going to let me live this down." You mumble.

"Neither will I." You glare at him and he just smirks.

"Come on, let me have a little fun. I've been in love with you for years."

You roll your eyes as you reach the ladder. Logan lets you go first. You pop the trap door open and are greeted with the smiling faces of your team. Jean holds out her hand to help you up and you take it. Just as she's about to let go she leans in and whispers in your ear.

"I believe this is the part where I tell you, I told you so."

[manicandobsessive]

YESSS i love this

thank u thank u thank u!!! incredible as always ❤️❤️

[manicandobsessive]

lois lane x wayne! reader??!!!

THAT is an overwhelmingly hot two women in a relationship i think i need to write

[manicandobsessive]

Completely off topic but that specific pic of him in your header I'm-

HAHAHAHAH GIRL I KNOWWWW

It’s my background on my phone too i fear

[manicandobsessive]

checking in. are we all okay??? i sure am not

[peggyofoz]

dating lois lane

[mjskeetz]

how you find me at 2am reading superman x reader fanfics

[manicandobsessive]

really truly this isn’t a joke