Tags: jacksons!/ off the wall era michael, established relationship, fluff, making out, guys its just really sweet and a bit cringe, marlon is being an annoying big brother, pool party
Authors Note: hope y'all enjoy this lil fluffy drabble, its always fun to characterise and have silly interactions between the brothers. y'all know how much i love marlon and i will try include him whenever the hell i can
also, the nickname michael's brothers call him "giblets" is so funny... like wtf? link to that vid here. michael's speaking voice in it is so cutie
╰── You were looking at him in awe. The last of the sun melted over the hills of Encino, staining the sky in tangerine and lavender, and Michael was sitting beside you on a white pool lounger, his damp curls clinging to his forehead, his eyes wide and earnest and fixed on you....
The pool party had been a riot of the Jackson brothers splashing and being idiotic; Randy doing cannonballs and hitting the water so hard that his mother, Katherine started yelling at him that he was getting water on the patio windows, Janet and Latoya peering out from behind her to see what all the racket was.
Tito had been grilling burgers for the whole family, that Jermaine insisted on seasoning with something he called “soul paprika.” When he pulled it out everyone started making disgruntled noises and tutting.
"'Maine, why you gotta be so pretentious?" Tito had asked, shaking his head. "My burgers are damn good without that nonsense"
You’d been pulled into the chaos of the pool as well, laughing as Jackie kept lifting you up in your floatie and throwing you. This made Michael laugh - his big, head back high cackle he did when he was really tickled, and swim to come save you.
It truly felt like summer. The blue skies, the vintage lawn furniture, the bassy speakers playing It Only Takes A Minute by the Tavares. It felt fitting. You were absolutely smitten with Michael and his crazy family.
At some point you ditched the floatie and Marlon challenged you to a breath-holding contest, and much to your dismay, you kept losing. Michael had joined in, whining that he didn’t want to be left out, and won every consecutive round, popping up from the crystal clear water with a massive smirk on his face. This would not last long because Jackie and Tito would then tag team trying to playfully drown him for being smug. You’d laughed so much your ribs hurt.
Michael had been a little sunbeam; smiling at you like you were his world all day. You had been dating for about 8 weeks at this point, and it still was incredibly tender. This was both of your first experiences in a relationship.
There was an element of frustration on your part as not much had… happened yet. Other girls would tell you of their boyfriends holding their hands and kissing you, touching you whenever they could. Tigerbeat magazine described boys as more wanting, impatient and crude. Michael wasn’t really like that. He was awfully shy, and wanted to be very gentle with everything in his life, including you. Michael's sister Janet told you not to worry, and if judging by their other brothers antics, Michael just needed to come out of his shell.
He shifted on the lounger, the plastic creaking under his weight. His fingers, delicate and long, tapped a nervous rhythm on his knee.
You could see the decision hardening in his expression.
“I want to kiss you, properly” he said, the words rushing out like a secret he’d been holding underwater.
“Not like before. Not just a… a peck.”
Your heart did a silly little flip. “Okay,” you breathed, because what else could you say?
He leaned in, eyes fluttering shut. You met him halfway, your lips parting expectantly. What followed was so far removed from the soft, cinematic meeting of mouths you’d imagined. What you’d seen in the movies.
It was a sudden, earnest mash; his front teeth clacked directly against yours with a dry, ceramic tock. You jerked back, eyes flying open.
Michael’s eyes were wide with alarm. “Oh! Did I—?”
“It’s okay,” you said quickly, though your gums tingled with pain. “Just… go a little to the left.”
“Right. The left.” He nodded, steeled himself, and dove in again. This time he aimed lower, but his enthusiasm overcorrected; his bottom lip smushed against your chin, his nose bumped yours, and in the adjustment, his teeth grazed your upper lip. It felt less like a kiss and more like a slightly aggressive greeting from a very beautiful bunny rabbit.
He pulled back, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s just… I’ve thought about this. A lot. In my head it’s smooth. Jackie told me ‘it just happens’.”
“Well, we can go slow,” you offered, your voice gentle.
“Slow. Yes.” He took a deep, theatrical breath, as if preparing for a high note.
He cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones—a gesture so tender it made your chest ache.
He tilted your head, leaned in with meticulous care, and—
You got 2 seconds in and his teeth were there again.
Smacking against yours. A distinct, dull crunch that made you both wince in unison.
You couldn’t help it, a snort of laughter escaped you, which you instantly tried to swallow into a cough.
Michael’s face fell into a look of such profound, comical dismay it was all you could do not to burst out laughing.
“Why is this happening?” he asked the universe plaintively. “The angles are all wrong!”
“Maybe we just need practice,” you suggested, biting your own lip to keep a straight face.
“Practice. Right. Okay. From the top.” He was treating it like a choreography session. “On three. One… two…”
Before he could reach “three,” the sliding glass door from the house slid open. Marlon strode out, a fresh can of soda in hand, his swim trunks on from earlier. They had little yellow rubber ducks on them.
He took in the scene: you and Michael, faces inches apart, Michael’s hands still framing your face preciously.
A huge, wicked grin split Marlon’s face. “Well, well. Look at Mikey, tryin’ to get his smooch on!” he crowed, his voice echoing in the quiet yard. “Sounded like two billiard balls kissin’!" He then started to laugh even more.
"Y’all are so sweet. Looks like a whole new interpretive style!”
Michael dropped his hands as if burned, shrinking into himself. “Marlon, don’t,” he said, but it came out more like a thin whine.
“Nah, come on—is this the new move? The lip-lock moonwalk?” Marlon demonstrated, launching into a ridiculous, stiff-legged shuffle toward you both, his arms swinging while he made exaggerated, silent kissing faces. “Pucker up, baby! Ooh-whee!”
“Marlon, please, be cool” Michael hissed, his embarrassment turning into something hotter. You saw his jaw tighten, a rare flash of frustration in his usually gentle eyes.
“Aw, I’m just playin’!” Marlon laughed, taking a swig of his soda. “Don’t let me stop y’all. Though from the looks of it Mike, you’re more likely to chip a tooth than steal a kiss.”
That was the last straw. Michael stood up abruptly, the lounger scraping against the patio stones.
He didn’t look at Marlon. He looked at you, his eyes blazing with a resolve that was both desperate and utterly serious. Without a word, he grabbed your hand, his grip surprisingly firm, and pulled you to your feet.
“Hey, where you goin’ all of a sudden?” Marlon called after them. “I was joking, giblets!!”
Michael didn’t answer. He was on a mission. He pulled you past the chuckling Marlon, through the sliding door into the cool, dim interior of Hayvenhurst.
The house was quite quiet now, soft melodic sounds coming from the TV in the den. He didn’t pause in the plush living room with its gold records on the wall, didn’t even glance at the grand piano where you both spent a lot of time.
He marched you down a hallway, past a confused-looking housekeeper, and straight into the large, spotless kitchen.
The overhead fluorescents were off, only the ambient glow from a digital clock on the oven and the moonlight through a window lit the space. He beelined for a heavy, polished wooden door near where the fridge sat; the pantry.
He yanked it open, revealing a deep walk-in cupboard lined with shelves of canned goods, pasta boxes, and industrial-sized sacks of flour. It smelled of dried herbs and clean wood.
He tugged you inside, into the cozy, dark space, then turned and closed the door firmly behind you both.
Click.
Darkness, total and velvety, swallowed you whole. You could hear his breathing, a little quick and shallow, and your own heartbeat in your ears. You could barely make out the silhouette of his slender frame.
Then his voice came, low and close, tinged with that unique Michael-esque blend of vulnerability and absolute conviction.
“Everyone’s watching,” he said, the words rushing out in the dark. “Out there… everyone’s eyes on me. God, even the animals. They were all watching me. I could feel them. And when I feel watched, my… well, I overthink when it comes to girls.”
You could hear him shift, his shoulder brushing against a shelf. “But in here,” he continued, and his voice gained a soft, triumphant confidence. “In the dark… it’s just my other senses. I can hear you breathing. I can smell your perfume; it’s like… gardenias and pool water. I can feel the heat of you from right here where I am standing. Just… me. And you.”
A hand found your waist in the darkness, his touch sure now. The other gently cradled the back of your head. His breath fanned your lips, warm and sweet, smelling faintly of the orange juice from the pool party.
“Its gonna work out this time” he whispered, and in the utter privacy of the pantry, with the world shut out, Michael finally, finally bridged the gap.
His lips found yours—it wasn’t a clack of teeth, nor a mash, but a real, soft, searching kiss. It was a little clumsy still, over-eager, his nose nudging yours again, but it was right. It was warm and sincere, and when he tentatively moved his lips against yours, it sent a shiver straight down your spine.
He pulled back an inch, a soft, wondering sound escaping him. “Oh,” he breathed. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. I got butterflies”
Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand moving to your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin as if memorizing its texture in the dark. You pushed him back to tease him a little;
“Practice makes perfect though, right?” you breathlessly laughed.
“Sure it does.” Michael agreed, his lips finding yours again in the dark of the pantry.
warnings: invasive interview questions, suggestive comments, media harassment, sexual implications, fluff
The bright studio lights were hot against your skin.
Not unbearable, just annoying enough to make you shift slightly in your seat beside Michael while the host continued talking.
The interview had been fine at first.
Questions about the tour.
The music.
The charity work.
Normal things.
Then, somewhere along the way, the interviewer got comfortable.
Too comfortable.
“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that immediately annoyed you, “the public is fascinated by this relationship.”
Beside you, Michael smiled politely.
You already knew that smile.
The media smile.
The please don’t make this difficult smile.
“That’s understandable,” Michael answered softly.
“But people are especially curious,” the interviewer continued, “because Michael has always been considered… private.”
Your eyes squinted slightly.
“And now suddenly there’s this beautiful young woman attached to his hip everywhere he goes.”
Attached to his hip?
You blinked slowly.
“But what people really wanna know is...”
Oh brother.
“...what exactly is it about Michael that keeps you so attached to him?”
Your face flattened instantly.
Michael noticed immediately.
You didn’t even have to look at him to know he did.
The interviewer kept talking.
“He’s one of the busiest men in the world, constantly traveling, constantly surrounded by fans
“So tell me,” he said, turning toward you now, “what exactly happens behind closed doors that has this man so obsessed with you?”
Your eyes slowly lifted toward the ceiling.
Your face went completely blank.
Absolutely blank.
You looked back at the interviewer with the exact same expression people give toddlers after they said something ridiculous in public.
Michael let out a tiny laugh beside you.
Small.
Barely there.
Encouraged, the interviewer continued.
“I mean, people talk,” he shrugged dramatically. “You’re young, attractive… Michael’s clearly very taken with you…”
Your eyebrows lifted higher and higher the longer he spoke.
Michael’s shoulders started shaking beside you.
“You spend all this time together,” the interviewer continued. “Surely the chemistry isn’t just emotional.”
“Michael?” the interviewer asked. “Would you say the relationship is passionate sexually?”
Your jaw physically dropped.
Not dramatically.
Just in pure disbelief.
Michael folded immediately.
A loud laugh burst out of him before he covered his mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking hard enough to make the microphone pick it up.
The audience exploded into laughter and applause.
“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath, staring at the interviewer like he had personally murdered your cat.
Michael leaned forward in his chair, laughing harder now.
Actually laughing.
Not the polite little giggles he gave reporters sometimes.
Real laughter.
The kind that made his eyes squeeze shut.
The interviewer looked mildly flustered. “I’m just asking what everyone wants to know.”
You turned toward Michael slowly.
Your expression somehow got worse.
Complete horror.
Michael made the mistake of looking at you again.
That was it.
He bent over laughing again, one hand gripping your arm while the other covered his face.
“You are terrible,” he whispered toward you, voice shaking.
“I haven’t even said anything,” you whispered back.
That only made him laugh harder.
Even the cameraman was shaking.
The interviewer cleared his throat.
“So who made the first move?”
You stared at him.
“Seriously?” you asked flatly.
“What?” he defended. “People are curious.”
“About our tax bracket, too, or just our business?”
A loud laugh burst out of him as he bent forward completely, one hand gripping your arm while the other covered his face.
The interview didn’t feel invasive anymore.
It didn’t feel uncomfortable.
Everyone in the room was witnessing a version of Michael they rarely got to see.
The interviewer cleared his throat awkwardly.
“So I’m assuming we’re not getting details about the bedroom anytime soon?”
Before Michael can even stop you, you shrug casually
“I mean… he’s good, really good.”
"Michael, is that true?"
“No comment,” he said immediately through a grin.
This clip was definitely gonna follow him for the rest of his life.
ship: clark kent x f! reader (established relationship)
content warnings: (sfw) fluff & protective behavior, light possessiveness (consensual & affectionate) work-place tension with raised voices, christmas setting, lois, jimmy, cat, perry and steve cameos
word count: 2k
author's note: kinkmas day 20 🎄
five days until christmas... and five days until kinkmas final. which feels insane to say out loud. this one was written with bitten lips, and full anthony mackie meme energy because protective clark in a newsroom around christmas time? yeah. i folded immediately.
as always, thank you for being part of my little strawberry patch 🍓 i hope this one makes you feel safe, soft and a little feral in the best way.
xo, lae ᯓᡣ𐭩
now playing: baby please come home by darlene love ⋆˙⟡
the daily planet bullpen was alive with it's usual charm and hustle and bussle. phones ringing, typing on keyboards, the ocasional laughter rising above the noise. yet, despite the usual chaos, there was a quiet charm in the air. christmas decor adorned desks and bulletin boards, among their usual clutter. tiny trees blinked with white and multi coloured lights from a small corner, garlands were drapped hapazardly across shelves with candy canes hung from string like festive ornaments. snow fell gently outside, frosting the windows, and coating the outside of the planet's walk way.
the offices' local radio came through scratchy croon of bing cosby singing a holiday tune, giving the room an oddly cozy, old-fashioned atmosphere. you leaned against the edge fo your desk, speaking animatedly to cat, lois, and even jimmy. "i mean... really he's been everywhere these past few days. toy drives, shelters, the fire station this morning... and even stopped by leo's diner before the city woke up, made sure the tip jar was full. it's like he's everywhere, spreading cheer!" jimmy grinned, leaning forward. "sounds like superman's trying to earn extra brownie points for the holidays. i mean, the guy's basically a saint." his own big ear to eat smile brushing across his freckled face.
cat smirked, adjusting her glasses and giving you a pointed look. "oh, so you like him that much, huh?" her voice was playful, teasing but sharp enough to make your cheeks warm. lois, perched on the edge of her own desk, leaned back with her arms crossed and a mischievous glint in her eyes. "careful, clark might get jealous if he hears you gushing like that." you laughed softly, brushing the comment off, though a subtle fluster of warmth spread through you. "i'm just... noticing the good he's done, that's all. i appreciate it." from across the room, steve's plaful voice chimed in with a teasing drawl. "oh yeah, if you like that sort of thing, miss princess."
your smile faltered for just a moment, and you felt the faintest twinge of fluster rise in you chest. clark, who had been standing nearby pretemding to sort through a stack of papers, froze mid-motion. his glasses perched just so on the bridge of his nose, he adjusted them with the tip of his finger, though his eyes never left you. the office around you became background noise—the chatter, the clacking of keyboards, ringing of phones, it all seemed to blur into a soft hum as clark's gaze sharpened, observing every tiny inflection in your expression. you swallowed, suddenly very aware of him and his presence.
three months in, you still felt the little jolt that came whenever clark's attention was fully on you. and today, there was something more. something careful, watchful, protective. "clark." you whispered softly, almost to yourself. "i'm fine." he stepped slightly closer, the air between you contracting in the smallest, unspoken way. "i know." he said, voice low, calm and measured. "i just-i noticed." his jaw tightened ever so slightly, a subtle flash of possesiveness crossing his expression, though he quickly masked it behind the familiar, mild-mannered calm of clark kent. you glanced back at your co-workers, trying to laugh it off.
even cat's knowing smirk couldn't distract you from the tension humming quietly between you and clark. "i think she's fine." jimmy said, his obliviousness to to the silent battle of attention and sublte energy happening right next to him. "she's more than fine." clark murmured under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. his shoulder brushed yours slightly, a movement so sublte it could have been accidental, but you knew better. your hand brushed briefly against his as you shifted your papers. clark's thumb moved instinctively to trcae a light circle on your wrist,possesive protective, but impossibly gentle.
your stomach fluttered at the touch, warmth spreading through you like the first sip of hot cocoa on a cold day. "clark..." your voice softlu murmured, trying to tease, trying to keep your voice casual. "you don't have to hover." he smiled softly, not enough to reach his eyes. "i'm not hovering." he said softly, a corner of his mouth twitched ina ghost of a smile. "i'm making sure you're comfortable, safe." a blush crept over your cheeks, and you leaned just a little closer, letting your shoulder brush against his. he didn't move away, in fact, he adjusted slightly, draping his arms over the back of your chair in a protective cocoon. it was sublte but deliberate.
the office seemed to melt around you, leaving only the two of you in a quiet bubble amid the christmas office bustle. cat, not missing a beat, tilted her head and quipped. "careful, clark. you're giving off serious santa-with-the-cookies vibes, and it's boderline threatening in the best way." lois, stifled a laugh behind her hand, eyes flickering between you and clark with an unmistakable curiosity. "i get it now." she murmured, just loud enough to be annoying. "you talk about superman like that, and suddenly kent's hovering like a guard dog." steve, completely oblivious, leaned against your desk with a grin. "yeah, it's kinda adorable.
big superhero crush, huh?" before you could even form a response, clark's chair scraped back, loud, sudden. "that's enough." the bullpen quited in an instant. steve blinked, caught off guard. lois' brows lifted, surprise flickering across her face. clark stood there, broad shoulders squared, jaw tight in a way you'd only seen a handful of times, the way it got when someone crossed a line. "you don't get to comment to her like that." clark said, voice firm, no stutter, no awkward kent softness like usual. "not as a joke, not ever." lois opened her mouth, jimmy's comment trying to ease the tension here.
"clark buddy, relax." his eyes snapped up to jimmy. "no!" he snapped himself, sharper now, eyes flashing. "you relax, olsen." a beat of stunned silence followed. jimmy's grin falters, as cat watches with open interest, lips pursed like she was filing this away for later. steve muttered something under his breath and backed-off, auddenly very interested in his monitor. perry's office door cracked open enough for his voice to carry. "kent." he warned, "bullpen." clark exhaled slowly, visibly reigning himself in. "sorry, cheif." the words were polite, the edge beneath them not so much. he sat back down, the chair creaking underneath his weight, but he didn't dare move away from you.
if anything, clark shifted closer to you. your pulse was loud in your ears as you leaned toward him, voice low. "clark..." you murmured, "you didn't have to-" his voice in a low murmur alike yours cuts you off gently, "yes, i did." his hand finds yours under the desk, fingers warm, steady and possessive. his thumb brushed your knuckles once, in a slow grounding way. "it's... complicated." you said quietly, more to fill the space than anything else. clark's gaze softened immediately when he looked at you. the tension drained from his shoulders, replaces by something private. something only you ever got to see. "it's not complicated..." his said under his breath "just mine."
and your breath hitched then, ever so quietly so no one lese could hear his voice, it came. "you know." he murmured, lips barley moving, "i could hear his heartbeat spike from acorss the room." your eyes widened, a mix of shock and heat flooding to your chest. "clark." you warned. "i could hear yours too." he added softly, a dangerous hintog a smile tugging at his mouth. "son't pretend you weren't affected." you swallow, your cheeks pinked. "your using thst agaisnt me." you stated squeezing his fingers. "only a little." he said his thumb pressing more firmly into your hand. "and only because you're safe with me."
outside, the snow had came to a gentle still, snowflakes drifiting lazily past the windows, blanketing into the snow on metropolis' streets in a quiet white field. the office lights had glowed warm and golden, but the heat curling through you had nothing to do with them. "you know..." you whispered, leaning into him just enough for your hair to brush his shoulder, "you're doing a very good job. even without your cape, superman." clark's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "careful." he warned, teasingly. "you know i don't always leave it at home." you laughed softly, your cheek brushing his chest as you leaned closer.
he was solid, steady and unmistakably there. his arm shifted behind you, still protective without being obvious, his own version of restraint. cat smirked from her desk. "wow! someone's taking wprkplace loyalty very seriously." lois rolled her eyes, though there was a small smile tugging her lips there too. "she's glowing, kent. try not to scare the newsroom into thinking you've grown a backbone overnight." jimmy lifted a candy cane like a mircophone. "for the record, i', scared- but i'm also impressed." clark ignored them all, as his hand rose and brushed a strand of hair from your face. tucking it sweetly, behind your ear with deliberate care.
his breath was warm against your temple when he whispered, "i've got you." your fingers intertwined with his, natural as breathing. "for everything." he added quietly. "always, sweetheart." the bullpen noise faded once again, dissolving into a cozy background hum. foreheads brushed, with shared smiles passed between you two like secrects. snow silent as you looked into each other's eyes for the millionth time. bing crosby's voice crooned faintly still on the radio. clark adjusted your scarf once. his touch lingering just enough to make your heart stumble. "i've got you, sweetheart." he repeated, softer still. "and no one else needs to." you pressed into him closer, laughting warmly as a quiet glow formed inside your chest.
"i know." you whispered, "i wouldn't have it any other way, clark." and there, beneath twinking white and mutli coloured lights, surrounded by the smell of ink and stale coffee, with the printer wiring to life and cooling down. surrounded by the snow and frosty ice, with christmas warmth, you knew it was true. the world could be loud and dangerous but also unpredictable. but with your beau, clark kent. you were, protected, chosen, and most importantly his.
author's note cont.
thank you so much for reading this little cozy moment with clark. i had the softest time writing this, snow-outside-the-window energy and all, and i hope it felt like a gentle exhale for you too. thank you for being here, for supporting my writing, and for making this space feel so safe and special.
thank you to my mutuals and readers and passer-byers who've been here, hyping me up, and making this whole kinkmas experience feel so warm and special. writing this felt like wrapping myself in a cpzy sweater and letting clark do what he does best: protect quietly but completely.
all the love,
lae 🍓
Summary: Before war and murder and vengeance, Frank existed as… well, Frank. Young, wary of the world, but determined to make an impact. And then…? Then came you. Ah… to be 18 again.
Warnings: Huge non-canon timeline, set around the 90’s for funsies! Frank and reader are both 18 years old, consenting adults, in their senior year of high school. Reader has family trauma, mentally unstable dad but not abusive. Hints of reader enduring poverty/experiencing hunger. 1 hinted joke about an ED but not really a joke. Pulled pieces from comic canon Frank. Misunderstanding. Light bullying. Micro is there. Makin’ out. Cute shit. First love type shit. Fluff. Good vibes. Frank is such a good boyfriend. Might make this a series? Lemme know. 18+ only, MDNI.
W/C: ~5400
There you are again.
Advanced Biology. First row. Table by yourself.
Fuckin’ beautiful, Frank thinks. Ain’t sure why no one’s sittin’ with you.
Goggles too big on your face. Gloves too big on your hands when Frank’s got on double-XL’s special ordered f’him. Leaned over the frog like the smell of death don’t bother ya, ain’t no problem gettin’ in it.
Frank forgets all about how it fuckin’ reeks of formaldehyde, the dead frog crucified on a cutting board in front of him, scalpel and tweezers hoverin’ the poor guy’s insides.
“You ever gonna talk to her,” David Lieberman prompts, muffled by the hand he squeezes over his mouth to keep the gagging quiet. “or just keep starting in that totally not creepy I-look-like-I’m-going-to-murder-you-but-it’s-actually-sexual-yearning kinda way?”
“Fuck off, Lieberman,” Frank gruffs, mop of dark hair falling over his forehead to disguise the blatancy of his stare. “You gonna help me cut out this guy’s lungs’r just stand there’n bitch, huh?”
“Nuh-huh. Nope. All you, big guy. I’ll write the paper, you choppy-choppy the amphibian sacrifice.”
Frank grunts, head bent to play the part. Focus on the dissection. Big hands clumsy with small fuckin’ tools, a swell of anger in his veins ‘cause… what? They just farm these slick little fuckers? Kill ‘em so a bunch’a fuck ass kids can play around in their guts and pretend it means somethin’?
David’s comically small next to Frank. Wiry facial hair more like weedy sprigs, hair unruly with curls. Puny. Dweeby. Easy target for bullies. S’how he and Frank got to be here. Someone shoved Lieberman’s head in the toilet? Frank saw. Clogged it with theirs instead ‘til the water ran red.
“Ooooh, this is so fucking gross,” David whines, writhing where he stands. “Oh, god. Oh, Jesus. Gross, the fucking smell—”
“Smelt worse. Don’t be a pussy.”
“Where?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
“Jesus, Frank,” David gives him a skeptical once-over. “Just keep your ominous extra curriculars to yourself instead of the vaguely threatening secrecy, okay? Okay.”
“So…” A line creases Frank’s brows. Uses the forceps to gently peel apart the frog’s skin, pink muscle exposed. “Can’t figure somethin’ out.”
Lieberman steps a slow circle to angle towards Frank, hand still clamped over his nose and mouth. “…What?”
“She ain’t got any friends. Can’t figure out what that’s about.”
Lieberman glances around for whatever the fuck he just missed, apparently? “…Who?”
“New girl.”
You.
David blinks at Frank, who ignores the look. Blinks at you. Then Frank. Then you. Then laughs. “You. Asking about friends. You. The person who has exactly two friends and I’m here by survival instinct.”
Heat rushes up Frank’s thick neck. “You’re the class creep,” he bites back. “Figured you know somethin’, huh, smartass? Why that is?”
Lieberman shrugs a smug shoulder, lips taut with arrogance as his nose takes to the air. “Perrrrrhaps…”
“So spill.”
With a grunt, David leaps onto the stool. White New Balances propped on the spindles, he twists back and forth, back and forth, grating Frank’s patience. “Wellllll,” he drawls out and Frank’s gotta tighten his grip on the scalpel so he doesn’t punch him in the head instead. “She’s doesn’t stay anywhere long—not like that’s her fault, y’know—dad served in the marines…”
David hints at Frank’s future aspiration. Somethin’ he shared months ago, once. Frank doesn’t acknowledge.
“Alright, he served, so what?” Frank scoffs like he doesn’t care, though he keeps askin’. “Why all the movin’ around?”
“If you’d let me finished… he served, and was dishonorably discharged about a year ago. I’m shocked you didn’t hear about it, Francis. It was a huuuuge debacle, I mean, huge.” Lieberman’s laughin’, hands spread wide to show how huge. “Claimed he found out the United States Military was shipping nuclear weapons to hostile nations for oneeee pretty penny.”
Frank stills. Forceps pinchin’ what he guesses is some kinda… fuck, he doesn’t know, doesn’t matter. “Government lies,” he argues. “He woulda been dead if there’s any truth to it, though.”
“Alright, but again, Frankie-boy, you didn’t let me finish.”
“Lieberman?”
“What’s up?”
“Get to the fuckin’ point before I stab you in the throat.”
“Jeez, okay, yeah, stab the guy you get your intel from. Sheesh. See? My point exactly. That is why you don’t have any friends.”
“God damn you talk too much.”
“So!” David continues, plopping to his feet with flourish. “The little apple of your eye over there has an insane dad. He thinks radio tower sites emit mind-altering transmission frequencies—”
The room starts to quiet as David spews his research.
Frank tenses, eyes darting under his goggles as attention builds. Murmurs hush. Blades clink down. Heads turn.
“Lieberman—” Frank hisses.
Isn’t heard.
“Claims they’re Satanic, too, by the way,” David laughs, gettin’ louder. “Say the shape resembles some worshipped occult figure. Not to mention he thinks there’s a fucking island, dude, where they’re cloning pop stars. Pop stars! Can you believe that? Like, why? Ohhhh, good stuff. Yeah. Either way, whatever happened to him overseas got him booted back with a laundry list of mental disabilities. Kinda sad, really.”
“Lieberman. Shut-the-fuck-up.”
It’s dead silent. Every fuckin’ breath coulda been heard if David wasn’t preachin’. No stoppin’ David when he’s showin’ his fuckin’ ass. Frank tries, though. Gives him a swift kick in the ankle.
“Fuck! Ow! You big bitch,” Lieberman scoffs, jumpin’ around on a foot. “You’re the one that asked about her! So, that answer your questions about the new girl, Frank?……………… What?…………. Why do you look like you’re gonna barfffooooh my god she heard all of that. Ohhhh my god everyone heard all of that.”
Everyone—includin’ you—‘s lookin’ at the two fuckin’ asshole outcasts in the back of the room.
Frank’s heart drops straight to his stomach the moment he sees your face. Through the sweat-fog of his goggles, he meets your stare. Mortification dyes you red. Hurt screws your damn mouth shut, and he ain’t sure if you’re holdin’ back tears or a good old fashioned ass chewin’.
His mouth dries. Shame’s palpable rot on his tongue. Gloved fingers peel his goggles from his face, leavin’ indents behind. His lips part, but fuck— what’s he gonna say? That it wasn’t like that? All just a big misunderstanding?
All forty-somethin’ students put the spotlight on you, eyes movin’ from Frank to you. Christ, he wishes he could change that. Get them off, away. Fuckin’ gossip vultures. Uptight assholes, like they don’t got their shit to stir.
You look like you wanna say somethin’. To him. Frank. Your silence’s worse. Cuss me out, he thinks. C’mon. I deserve it. Give it here.
The flare of rage wilts from your face. Frank watches it, real time. A slow, painful drop of emotion off you. Your eyes find the ground. You look… Jesus, so small… So small, alone, at the front ‘a the room with no one there with you. Your feet shuffle in. Your arms slink around yourself in an empty hug.
No. No no, Franks thinks. Don’t do that. Don’t let ‘em make you small. They’ll eat you alive. Don’t let me make you small.
Guilt shrivels his insides. A hey gets lodged in his throat. Nothin’ comes out.
David presses his fingers to his mouth and turns to face the wall muttering an, “ooooh my god, we’ve ruined any chance she ever had…”
“Oh my god,” someone cries, “the new girl’s a fucking freak!”
And the room splits into laughter.
You?
Fuck.
You run.
☠︎
Been a few days since the incident in bio.
Thank Christ.
Nothin’ more said, or done, but you lost some’a your… light.
Frank’s noticed in every class you got together. Which… is a lot.
Biology (C). Pre-calc (don’t wanna talk ‘bout that grade. Stupid ass class anyway). Sociology (D). US History (B+). Gym (B, for bein’ too physical, what the fuck ever).
Gym smells like dirty balls and dirtier pinnies.
End of the lesson meant end of the bullshit scooter hockey Frank physically couldn’t play. Too fuckin’ big, scooter’s too fuckin’ small. So the educators had the bright idea ‘a sittin’ him in the goalie box to use his body as a fuckin’ blockade. It worked. Always won. Frank didn’t move. Just sighed. Let the plastic pucks thunk into his chest. Goddamn embarrassing since he’s the fourth line winger on the varsity team. Brute force, wild aggression— whatever. Besides the point.
Frank stands at the three-point line, basket at the back of the gymnasium. Dribbles lazily. Shoots lazier. The net swishes. No talent, all height.
“Fuck ass sport,” he grumbles.
The ball pings away. Lieberman strolls along after it, lookin’ like a skeleton wearin’ a blue pinnie.
Frank wipes a hand over his red one. Grimaces when it’s crunchy. “Fuck ass uniform.”
David bounces the ball back to Frank, one touch to the ground. ‘Bout as athletic as David gets.
Frank spins the basketball in his palms. Rough ball on rougher calluses. Readies his hand, then—
“Dude,” David elbows Frank, gawking in the opposite direction. “She’s staring again. New girl.”
He freezes, ball in his hands. Ain’t no way he’s lookin’ back.
“No she ain’t,” Frank scoffs. “Pro’lly lookin’ at you. Heard about that horse dick you sling ‘round.”
“Mmm, nope,” David shakes his head, mouth tight and set in his observation. “She’s definitely looking at you, big guy. And she’s so new she probably doesn’t even know about it Frankenstein Francis. That, my friend—” David stuffs a strawberry poptart in his face hole he got from somewhere. “—is in your favor. Oh, wait— ohhhh, noooope. Nope nope nope. She looks pissed, dude. I totally forgot we told half the class about her head case dad.”
Frank cringes. “Knew I shoulda stabbed you in the fuckin’ throat.”
“Oh, shit… shit, shit, shit.” David repeatedly slaps a hand against Frank’s arm, eyes ‘boutta pop outta his head.
“Jesus. What?” Frank turns, looking for the source.
“…Oh, shit,” Frank agrees.
It’s you. And yeah—you’re pissed.
☠︎
Of course he’s an asshole, you think. Just look at him! No one like that is a nice guy.
Heavy calves under his white socks. And god, heavier thighs, mesh short seams hugging the middle of those trunks. He’s a fucking tank. And he’s standing there, shirt rumbled and untucked, basketball palmed in one hand, looking so pathetically, mockingly scared he looks stupid. Like a big, dumb, stupid puppy.
Beside him? That green-bean pole tattle-tale—David Lieberman, his shirt tucked into his shorts like a dork, but he’s not your target.
Frank’s the one that asked.
He’s gonna be the one you corner first.
Your size doesn’t matter compared to his. Words wound, fists still hurt.
After so many years of staving off bullies in new schools, you’ve learned how to end them quick… even if it results in you crying after. You do what you need to do, especially since no one else will.
You storm across the polished wood, tennis shoes squeaking your indignation.
Neither of them move as you carry the heat of hell and its wrath with you.
David looks like he’s going to piss his pants.
Frank looks- well- he looks- UGH. This stupid, kicked puppy stupid, those dark eyes big and brows raised.
As you close in, zero relent, David ducks out of the way. Good riddance, smart boy, move.
“You,” fiery accusation just in one word, you stab your finger into Frank’s chest. “You keep my name out of your mouth!”
Frank jolts taller somehow, wide eyes blinking down at the finger you keep drilling into his dense pec. “Easy—”
“Easy!? You and your no-nuts friend just aired my dirty laundry out to a bunch of flesh-eating assholes!” You snarl, stalking forward to force Frank back.
“Wasn’t like that—” Frank fires back, tone sharp and defensive.
You slap the basketball out of his hand. It goes flying, hits David straight in his actual nuts with a gasped sob.
Frank jars again, staring down at you with wild eyes like no one’s ever stood up to him before. Maybe no one ever dared. It’s not fear, exactly, an infuriating amount of intrigue as he lets you push him around.
The wall acts as his secondary spine, holding him up as you slap your palm against his chest. “Wasn’t like that!? Oh, really!? Because it sounded a lot like shit you don’t understand, using biology as your soapbox to scream it to the masses! You asked. You asked, your friend even said so. I heard him. So explain that, Francis Castle.”
Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap slap slap. Little thunks on meat that do nothing.
“Yeah, whatever,” Frank grits, chest flexing to eat the weak blows. “Keep slappin’. That make you feel better, huh!? Make you feel biiiig? Strong? Do it,” he jerks his chin at you. “Just fuckin’ do it. Do what you got to. Here, how ‘bout I bend down, huh, short-stack? Here, lemme give you a fair shot—”
Frank starts to lean down.
You start to rear a fist back.
Both of you bare teeth, fire in your bellies, fighting for different reasons.
You, your dignity.
Him, your justice.
“Uhhhh, guys, hello?” David stammers, unable to wedge himself between you two, but his hands hover out like that’ll do something. “Still here, hey, hi, let’s not kill each other in gym class?”
“SHUT UP, LIEBERMAN!” You and Frank both shout.
David scoffs, hand slapped over his chest. “You know what? Okay, fine. Kill yourselves. See if I care! You’re both just too stubborn. Frank you’re a pussy. You, new girl, you’re just- just aggressive— he likes you, dingbat. But yeah, hey, fuck me, right? He didn’t ask to be a dick for once. He asked because he’s too much of a sissy-boy to talk to you himself.”
“Je-zuz, Lieberman,” Frank rolls his head with the pain of the confession.
“I… what?” you squeak, hostility swallowed by another round of shame.
“Jesus Christ you guys suck,” David keeps on his tangent. “Y’know what? I’M OUT.” With the dramatic swirl of his hands, David dips.
Leaves you and Frank in the aftermath of heated confrontation, tension loaded and taut in the precise one inch of space between your bodies.
Your finger weakens on his chest, noticing now, in your clarity, how warm he is. Sweat-hot shirt, stinky gym pinnie, nowhere feels safe to look and the only thing in front of you is the broad definition of his chest, rising and falling with aggravated breath.
“Is that…” you gulp down air. “Is that… true?”
Frank shrinks into his shoulders, eyes on the ceiling with a tight jaw. “Wasn’t tryna be an ass f’once,” he dodges, ears beet-red.
“Oh… so, um…” you recollect your accusatory finger with your other hand, cradling it to your chest. You shift one step away, opening the space so you smell something other the heat of exertion rolling off him. “So… okay. We’re… good then?”
“Yeah.” Comes out scratchy. Frank clears his throat. “Yeah. We’re good.”
“Well, I guess I’ll…” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, face hot, staying tucked into yourself. “See you around?”
Neither of you look anywhere remotely close.
Frank’s still plastered to the wall, nodding fervidly to usher his escape along. “Yeah, short-stack. Somethin’ like that.”
And Frank realizes somethin’.
He’s so fucked.
☠︎
Frank’s got half a sandwich crammed in his mouth and mustard on his bottom lip when you plop down beside him on the lunch room bench.
Soemthin’ weird happens. Sucks when he shoulda swallowed, wad of meat’n cheese shootin’ down his windpipe all wrong. He busts out coughing, turning his mouth into his shoulder to muffle the sound.
Doesn’t work.
You lean over, brows over your head. “Um… are you… okay?”
He flashes an unconvincing thumbs up and you paw his water bottle to him.
Nodding a thanks, Frank takes it. Gulps it down ‘til the bottle’s drained and plastic’s collapsed.
“Jesus,” he grumbles, wiping a dribble of water from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Do you… usually do that?” you prod, eyeing him, the insanity of his lunch, the empty bottle.
Frank finally looks over, clocking every empty seat at his table besides yours. Spaces that’ve stayed empty all four years ‘til now, gotta double check he ain’t fantasizin’ again. But you’re missin’ somethin’.
Missin’ your lunch.
“…You already eat?” Frank gestures his half-eaten sandwich at empty space in front’a you.
“What? Oh, that, no. I mean, I’m not hungry, no, that’s—” then your stomach rats you out. Growls a deep, alarmin’ rumble. You clutch it to quiet it, cheeks full’a color again.
“…Sound hungry,” Frank side-eyes you. “Why didn’t you get a lunch? Got one’a those eatin’ things?”
“No, I don’t have an eating disorder, my god.” You roll your eyes and almost wish it was the case. “Forgot my lunch money. They’re real assholes about it.”
“Yeah,” Frank agrees, rootin’ a hand in his brown paper bag. “They are.” He drags out four more sandwiches. Bag’a chips. Half a sleeve’a Chips Ahoy. Nudges it all between you two without dramatics, nothin’ really, no problem.
“Holy shit,” you gawk at the food. “What are you, Scooby Doo?”
He meets your stare. Your floored eyes. He just shrugs.
“Heh, uh… My ma’s got a heavy hand, huh?”
“That’s an understatement.” Your fingertips test the edge’a the table. Test your pride.
“Eat,” Frank says. Simple command. High efficacy. “Got plenty, yeah? I won’t waste away. Ain’t sure ‘bout you, though.”
You huff, take a sandwich. Peel open the baggie.
The look when you see it, though… Just a sandwich. Nice sandwich, but still. Just a sandwich. Your brows mess up. Somethin’ hurts you. Face pales while you file through the contents. Salami. Ham. Turkey. Cheese. Mustard. Mayo. Lettuce. Fat stacks of fresh bread from the Italian market in Queens.
“Ma’s a pusher,” Frank says, smoothin’ over the look you wear. Looks like lack. Won’t let you feel bad about that. “Always overdoin’ it. She’s, uh, too much, y’know? Damn good cook, though. Miracle I ain’t obese. Guess there’s still time f’that.”
That sandwich’s still got your attention. S’alright. Frank’s just… tryin’. Your lips part, wobble once, both hands holdin’ it closer.
Frank’s seen hunger. Pops never let it happen in the Castiglione household, though, even if they didn’t have much money.
Frank has to look away when you take the first bite. Feels like you need privacy to enjoy it. Probably been awhile, he guesses, and that’s alright. Won’t be the case if you stick with him, though. Can’t let that happen to someone that can’t help themselves.
“You weren’t kidding,” you… light up a little. Just a tad. But your eyes find his, bright with appreciation, cheek puffed with food. “This is- this is… really wonderful. And… really nice of you to offer. So… thank you.”
“Yeah,” he licks a glob of mayo from his thumb. “No problem, doll. Eat up.”
You do. Both of you.
Comfortable silences. Smart-ass jabs. An argument for the last cookie that ends with him givin’ in, ‘cause… shit, how can he say no?
☠︎
Frank kicks the front door shut behind him, hockey duffel slung over a shoulder, hair a wet clump fallin’ over his forehead. Sweat funnels down the front’a his shirt, carryin’ stink on him from hours of practice.
House smells hearty. Thick with authentic Italian herbs, homemade pasta Ma rolled herself. Nothin’ outta the ordinary for seven o’clock on a weeknight.
“Hey, Ma!” Frank yells out through the house as he makes for the stairs instead of the kitchen. “Can you do somethin’ f’me, Ma? Need more food in my lunch!”
“What!?” Louisa snaps back, muttering a sling of Italian over the clamor of the kitchen. “More lunch? Francis, you eat for three men, where is the food going?”
“Where it should go, Ma!” he calls back, a foot on the first stair. “Please?”
She gives a noncommittal huff, whacks a wooden spoon on a pot, and Frank’ll take that as a yes. “Go get cleaned up for dinner. It’s almost ready. Your father will be home soon.”
Frank’s already halfway up the stairs, only thing on his mind?
You.
☠︎
Frank led prayer. Ma patted his back after he, unprompted, asked that the hungry find food and the poor find means to survive. Pops grunted and dug in, hands still dirty from work. Little conversation followed. Frank ate fast. Washed his plate. Stamped a kiss to his mom’s head and bolted back upstairs.
Slumped back on his bed in sweats, hoodie pulled over his head, Frank reads by lamplight. Book with a cracked spine only his hands made. 1984. George Orwell. Classic.
“Francis!” Ma yells from the bottom of the stairs. “C'è una chiamata per te!”
His brows knit. Looks up from the page. He’s got a call…?
…Who?
“Who is it, Ma?” he yells back, their voices screeching through the house.
Sicilian tones. Totally normal, yeah?
“She says she’s a girl from school, Francis!”
Whoa, Ma ain’t about that.
Frank shoots up. Throws the book. The lamp crashes over. A cat in the alley yowls.
He barrels out his room, only touchin’ two stairs in the flight as he whisks the phone outta his mom’s hand.
“Thanks, Ma, all good. Just, uhhh… school stuff. You know. That stuff you tell me t’take more seriously, yeah?” Layin’ it on thick, Frank kisses her temple to shoo her out. Away. Get.
Phone cord stretched to the max around the corner, Frank flattens himself against the wall and brings the receiver to his mouth.
“…Yeah?” he answers, eyes darting as his pulse ramps.
“Frank?” you ask.
Jesus— It’s- it is you. This’s gotta be a fuckin’ dream.
A stunned breath answers first. A lopsided smile tips his face. “I—? Hey. Hey, how’d you get my number? I, uh… Ma’s a little strict on the whole… girls.”
“Crap, am I gonna get you in trouble?”
“Psht, nah, just gotta kiss a little more ass. What, uh… You… you all good?”
You’re whisperin’ now. Frank matches the secrecy, back to the hall Ma’s definitely listenin’ from.
“Oh, yeah, I’m good. I’m fine. Yeah,” you ramble.
“Alright. Yeah. Good.”
“Yeah. Good.”
“So, uh… how…?” Frank trails off. Ain’t much of a talker. Girls don’t call him, let alone wanna have conversation.
“Listen, I wanna ask you something, Frank. Before I lose my nerve.”
Frank rubs the back of his neck, pacing a relentless circle as the cord wraps around him. “Sure. Alright. Shoot.”
“Would you… Well, there’s the drive-in. Did you know that?”
“Yeah. Course. And?”
“Well they’re playing a movie there on Saturday. Two, actually! Two per ticket. So, you know, you get two back-to-back movies with your ticket.”
“…Alright. Sure. Math ain’t my strong suit, but it’s addin’ up. Sounds like a good deal.”
But he doesn’t get it.
You click your tongue.
Frank barely hears it over his heartbeat.
“Would you… want to?” you whisper.
“…Wanna what?”
“Frank. The drive-in. Do you wanna go to drive-in with me this Saturday to see the movies? They’re playing Child’s Play and The Lost Boys.”
“Damn, you like those shitty scary movies, huh?” His grin’s toothy, stupid.
“I mean, not really, I like The Lost Boys, the killer doll’s a little freaky, but— wait, we’re getting off track. Frank. Do you wanna go with me or no?”
“Hells yeah,” he nods profusely into the phone.
“FRANCIS! Language!” Ma scolds from the next room over.
Frank cringes. Doesn’t touch the giddy jump in his veins.
“Really!?” you say. “Oh-okay! Great! Great, that’s perfect. Pick me up a little before so we can get a good parking spot?”
“Count on it, doll.”
“Awesome,” your words soften. “I’ll see you then?”
“You got it.”
“Okay, yeah! I’ll talk to you later, Frank. And I’ll… see you Saturday. It’s… a date.”
He hears your smile.
You hear his too.
And Saturday’s just a few days away.
When the call ends, Frank celebrates. Dumb grin, teeth diggin’ his bottom lip, fists shaking the air.
Frank Castle’s got a goddamn date with the same goddamn girl that wanted to punch him.
☠︎
You hold his attention more than the damn movie. Back of Pop’s rusted pickup, hard bed layered in the blankets’n pillows you supplied, cool breeze burrowin’ you both down at the drive-in. Tub of popcorn between your hips, the same blanket over your legs.
Spent half his paycheck to look at you under the stars and blue flickered glow of the projection, gawk at the popcorn butter lining your lips. You, though… you watch, engrossed in the cheesy-ass killer doll’s bloodbath. So fuckin’ dumb, Frank thinks, then looks at you and does a one-eighty. So fuckin’ perfect.
Halfway through the movie, you’re cowerin’, and he means cowerin’. Limbs tucked in a ball, spine curlin’ as your body instinctually seeks a fetal position, your head just one goddamn inch from his neck where you’re both propped up on pillows. If you turn your head quick enough, you’ll find him, meet the sensitive, delicate skin over his pulse. And Frank doesn’t know what the fuck he’d do if you touched him there, doesn’t know what innate reaction he’d learn.
But he wants to. Wants to know how it’d feel. How you’d make him feel, find out how his body responds to your touch. Ain’t supposed to think those things. Not ‘til marriage, Ma’d say, and swat him with a rolled paper.
Thought tightens his musculature beside you, this undeniable tension radiating from his body. So close. So damn close his warmth rolls off of him in an invitation, and your heart hammers at the question: what does he feel like? Body big and built, twice the size of any grown man you know— how would he feel? Crisp, clean cologne wafts when he shifts. Doesn’t really move closer, just… squirms. You aren’t sure if it’s the tachycardia or the delectability of his scent dizzying you, but you taste your heartbeat.
Keeping your eyes on the safety of the screen, you tip your mouth in his direction to whisper a half-truth. “I’m scared, Frank.”
Sights on the popcorn bowl, whisper loud because of the depth, Frank clears his throat. “You, uh… wanna leave’r somethin’? ‘F it’s too much, we can—”
“Can I just…?” You scoot closer and Frank blacks out. “Can I just… put my head on you? If… that’s okay? I think I’ll be less scared that way.”
Mouth dry, heart doing something dangerously berserk, Frank sits stone-still for five long seconds. Plays your question over in his head. Can I just put my head on you? I think I’ll be less scared that way.
I think I’ll be less scared that way.
I think I’ll be less scared that way.
“Frank…? Is it… not ok—?”
“Nah, sunshine. S’alright.” He props his elbow up on a pillow. Offers you safety in an extension of himself. Pretends he isn’t lightheaded at the idea you find comfort in him.
Frank counts down the seconds to detonation.
Three…
Your shoulders shimmy down, relieved.
Two…
You nestle in, jacket you wear—his jacket—rasps his shoulder.
One…
A contented hum, oblivious to the rig of his body, you rest your temple on the round of his shoulder. Light, testing at first.
Boom.
Frank explodes silently.
Warmth blooms in his chest, bottoms out his stomach.
Is he sweating? Jesus Christ— he shifts his other arm to check. Yup. That’s sweat. He’s… sweating. Fuckin’ great.
Your scent— fuck. Drives him crazy. Sweet, buttered, you. You’re warm tucked into him. Your hair tickles his stubbled jaw.
“Better?” he asks, head tipped down to check.
A second snack on his breath, popcorn salt and black coffee, the only person you know who can ingest lethal amounts of caffeine and still sleep at night, beckons you without that being the intention. Hum sleepy and content, you raise your head. And god… there he is. Soft dark eyes. Big, hunched nose. And his mouth… soft lips, parted a bit like he forgot what he was gonna say. When you drag your eyes up, meet his, you get why.
He’s looking at your mouth, too.
Your breath hitches. Your hand fists into the sleeve of the jacket, nails biting your palm. Swallowing the nerves bouncing in your throat, you raise a tentative, shaking hand. The very tip of your finger—same finger you tried to stab him with—skates the knobbed bridge of his nose. “I really like your nose,” you whisper.
His lashes flutter, willpower keeping them open. A crease between his brows. “That fucked up thing?” he whispers back, sinking into your gravity.
“Yeah, that,” your finger slips from the tip of it, eyes sliding back down, down, down… his mouth, so you can watch how it forms words. “How’d… it happen?”
“Hockey puck,” softer, rougher, rushed, leaning in.
“Perfect shot,” you tease, jacket sleeve over your hand as you reach for his face.
He leans into your touch with a stuttered breath. “Thought you were gonna break it again few weeks ago.”
“I thought I was too,” you admit.
That pulls a noise from him, something you’ve never heard before. Quiet, guttural, straight from the depths of him. Free hand goes to you, fingers heavy and careful as he pushes hair back from your face. “Still scared?”
“Yeah,” your whisper thin, pulse strangling. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, “me too.”
“Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me ask this time.”
The smallest tilt of his head nudges that perfect nose against yours. You inhale, sharp, expectant.
Someone’s getting murdered on the big screen. Screams erupt. Wet squelches of stabbing. You’re both immune to it, lost in each other.
“Yes, ma’am.” Obedient from the start, loyal to the bone, Frank listens. Surrenders. To you, your mouth.
His lips find a gentle slot against yours. Experimental at first, featherlight, a graze instead of a full lock, and it sends a violent rush of excitement through you. He tastes salty from the popcorn, his mouth warm where you’re freezing, and it’s delicious. He’s delicious.
You separate in a soft click of mouths, one last shared breath. You pull back, but don’t go far. Your forehead rests against his, eyes shut to preserve the moment, memorize the weight of him on your lips.
“That, uh… alright?” he whispers with a huffed breath like a chuckle, lips quirked.
“Maybe, uh, just maybe… another? For good measure?”
“Mm. Mhm. Yeah. ‘M thinkin’ so, sweetheart.”
“Uh-huh, yeah, me too— Mmph!”
Anything past the first is easier.
Firmer, eager to learn, your mouths fit with a flush confidence. Languid, four hours worth of movies, Frank guides your lips in unhurried grabs. Gentle, slow smooches. Longer, deeper embraces. Your hair fans the pillow. You lay back in his jacket, cheeks hot, lips swollen red. Frank props on an elbow above you and never ventures lower than your mouth. Never gouges you with his tongue, just slips the tip of it in as a little introduction to yours. Still sweet, still claiming without the heat and speed of desperation. Because that’s not what this is, you and Frank. It’s patience. Fully seeing the other, learning from organic means instead of David fucking Lieberman. By the time The Lost Boys is on, you’re kiss-drunk. Absolutely giddy. Your smile interrupts the make-out session, and Frank smiles against your teeth. A little sheepish, a lot… happy.
“We should only ever see two movies in one night,” you tease.
“Ain’t even watchin’ the movie,” Frank grumbles, coming up for air, opening his eyes for the first time in an hour.
Cool air blankets your skin where he once was, grin so big you bite your bottom lip to calm it. It’s no use.
“Sure your dad don’t mind you bein’ out so late? Ain’t tryna’ get on his shit list before I meet ‘im.”
Below Frank, your smile falters, an incomprehensible flicker. “He doesn’t mind,” you assure, your arms slinking around his neck to pull him back in. “We’ve got all night, Frank Castle.”
“Hell yeah. Goin’ f’ice cream after this, hm?”
“We’ve gotta get the swelling down somehow.”
“Want me t’stop?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
Laughter melts between your mouths as he kisses you again.
And again.
And again.
‘Cause you’ve got all night and he’s gonna make the most of it.
content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine.
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hii this was requested by @lily-ann22 and I really hope that I hit the marks with it happy reading x
It began with silence.
Not the peaceful kind that settles at the end of a long day but the kind that fills the corners of a room like fog.
The kind that seeps into your thoughts and makes everything heavy.
Oscar had always been good at quiet. It was his armor.
But lately, it had stopped protecting him and started pressing against him instead.
The long hours, the scrutiny, the way the smallest mistake turned into a headline it all built until his smile began to fade into something polite and distant.
He stopped laughing so much in the motorhome.
Stopped staying to chat after debriefs.
Stopped looking up when people said his name.
And then one morning, something small changed.
There was a note.
Folded carefully and placed just where he’d find it by his helmet, tucked under the strap.
Plain paper. Black ink.
No name.
No explanation.
You don’t have to be perfect today. Just be you. That’s enough.
—🧡
He froze.
Read it once, twice, again.
The handwriting was small, slanted gentle somehow, as if whoever wrote it was afraid of being too loud.
He didn’t tell anyone.
He just kept it.
Folded it and slipped it into his pocket, like a secret he didn’t want to let go.
By the next day, there was another.
Breathe between the laps.
You drive better when you remember to be human first.
—🧡
He smiled at that one actually smiled.
For no reason other than the way it felt like someone had seen through all the noise and found him.
And every few days after that, another note appeared.
Always simple.
Always kind.
Sometimes tucked near his seat.
Sometimes on the wall of his driver’s room, taped where only he would notice.
Proud of you, even when the results don’t say it.
Eat something before FP2.
You get grumpy when you don’t.
You’re allowed to take up space in the world.
You belong here.
—🧡
He didn’t realize how much he’d needed those words until they became part of his routine until he started looking for them like a small piece of light.
He began noticing little things after that.
The way the paddock smelled faintly of rain on asphalt before sunrise.
The way the air in the garage felt softer when he was reading the notes.
The way his chest didn’t ache quite as much when he pulled on his gloves.
The others thought he was just finding his rhythm again.
No one knew about the letters the tiny world that existed quietly between him and a stranger with soft handwriting.
Sometimes, in the middle of a long debrief, his mind would drift.
Who were they?
A mechanic?
A fan who somehow got access?
Another driver?
The idea made him blush before he could even stop himself.
Ridiculous.
But somehow, he couldn’t shake it.
You watched from across the paddock, careful and unseen.
You didn’t mean for it to start this way.
The first note had been a small impulse, written on hotel stationery late one night when you’d seen how tired he looked on the broadcast replay.
You’d recognized that look the one that crept into every driver’s eyes when the noise outside got too loud.
You didn’t sign your name.
It wasn’t about you.
It was about giving him something soft to hold onto.
Something no telemetry data or media briefing could provide.
And when you saw him smiling more just the faintest, hesitant smile you couldn’t stop.
Every race, you found a new hiding spot. Sometimes near his drinks bottle.
Once on the back of his chair.
It became a secret rhythm:
practice, notes, race, repeat.
And maybe, in some quiet corner of your chest, you liked the idea of being a mystery.
Of being a whisper instead of a name.
But then, something new happened.
The next note you left a simple
Good luck today.
You’ve got more heart than you think.
came back with something tucked beneath it.
A scrap of paper.
Folded neatly.
His handwriting this time.
Thank you. For the words.
They help more than you know.
—🖋️
You stared at it for a long time.
Your pulse stumbled a little.
He’d written back.
After that, the notes became a conversation slow, careful, wordless in their passing.
You’d leave one.
He’d answer.
You’re doing better than you think. —🧡
→ I hope one day I believe that. —🖋️
Remember to breathe. —🧡
→ Trying to. Especially when I see your notes. —🖋️
You belong here. —🧡
→ It feels more true when you say it. —🖋️
Neither of you ever mentioned names or hints.
He never asked who you were.
You never told.
The mystery stayed sacred suspended between trust and distance.
But the notes couldn’t fix everything.
There were days the weight still found him.
Days when he sat alone in his driver’s room, staring at the floor, wondering if he’d already hit his ceiling.
On one of those days, after a rough qualifying session, he found another note waiting by the door.
Even stars get tired of shining.
Rest.
You’re still light, even when you’re dim.
—🧡
Something about that one made his throat close up.
He didn’t know why.
Maybe because it was the first one that didn’t tell him to keep going it just told him to be.
He pressed the paper flat in his palm, feeling the imprint of each letter.
Later, he left a reply on the same spot.
Thank you for seeing me, even when I don’t feel like much to see.
—🖋️
The next weekend, there was no note.
He checked his locker twice, then again.
Nothing.
The emptiness of that small absence felt ridiculous but it hit him harder than he expected.
He drove fine that day, maybe even well.
But when he stepped out of the car, it wasn’t satisfaction he felt.
It was something like longing.
Had they stopped?
Had they realized he didn’t deserve the kindness anymore?
The next morning, when he returned to the garage, there it was.
Folded on the steering wheel.
Sorry I missed a day.
You did great.
I saw the way you fought for that lap
I hope you’re proud of that too.
—🧡
And beneath it — his reply.
You came back.
That’s all I needed.
—🖋️
He laughed a quiet, shaky kind of laugh before tucking both notes into his pocket.
And for the rest of the day, he drove like someone who’d remembered how to breathe.
He never found out who it was.
Maybe he wasn’t meant to.
Maybe some people were only meant to exist in the spaces between words and wonder.
Maybe kindness didn’t need a name to matter.
But every time he walked into a new weekend now, he looked for the note.
And every time he found it, he smiled a real, gentle smile that reached his eyes.
Because somewhere out there in the noise and chaos, someone had cared enough to remind him that he was still human.
Summary: The team discovers that all it takes for Spencer to shut up is a specific someone to fall asleep on him.
Warnings: Mentioning of admiring someone while they sleep? Fluff!!
Note: AHHH I LIVE FOR FLUFFY SPENCER FICS
It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, for his mouth always seemed to be moving, yet the she wasn’t one to complain.
She liked watching the excitement dance in his eyes as he spoke about science and fun facts that she for sure didn’t know about.
Sometimes, she was going to be honest, she would go to the library and get some fancy book just to rant some facts to him to make her seem smart. Or maybe it was the look on his face when he recognized a reference she made, or how his eyes crinkle when he laughed at her nerdy jokes.
It wasn’t much, just a laugh, but to her they meant everything.
But today, today she was too tied to listen to Spencer, for the words he was saying we’re going right out the other ear once they entered one, yet his voice was something she was always happy to hear.
He was sitting on the jet seat, his bag next to him and his sleeves rolled up, the purple doing wonders to the sight of him. His wrist held a watch, the hands ticking as each second went by, each one occupied with his facts and stories. She was laying beside him, resting her head in her bended elbow, eyes dropping every once in a while before they would flutter open again.
She wanted to stay awake and listen, she really did, but the soothing sound of his voice and the draining case they recently solved prevented her from resisting the urge to sleep.
The only thing truly preventing her from falling into slumber was the fact that her elbow wasn’t the best pillow. She decided to wear a sweater that day, and, as one should know, the texture of the yarn wasn’t too pleasant on one’s cheek, therefore not providing comfort.
She turned her head to and fro, wishing she’d eventually get a sleeping position, therefore getting sleep during the flight that way she’d have at least a little energy to make her way home.
Yet, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the right angle.
So, she turned to Spencer. A practical living teddy bear.
And who was Spencer to know that at that moment that he got into the theories of how people started celebrating birthdays she decided to lay her head on his leg?
And, for the first time in years that the time the team has known him, his lips stopped mid-pronunciation of a word, the sound dying on his tongue as he grew absolutely speechless.
He swallowed thickly at the sight of her sleeping on his lap, murmuring little sweet nothings to herself as she slept.
He couldn’t help but admire, staring at her sleeping face (not in a creepy way of course) and eventually built up the courage to play with her hair strands, running the soft material between his finger tips.
Garcia noticed first, for she was one of the few actually listening, therefore causing her to look up. When she did, and what she saw something that she hadn’t expected, and that something was the sweetest thing ever.
Her friend was laying on Spencer’s leg, sleeping soundly as if nothing could bother her. Her arm was draped over his leg as well, hand carelessly on the jet seat between his legs.
The absolute expression of peace had taken over her face, eyelashes fluttering once in a while.
And what surprised her the most was that Spencer didn’t seem bothered at the physical contact. He instead seemed to encourage it, for his fingers were in her hair.
The rest of the team soon noticed, yet they didn’t dare to tease Pretty Boy, for the contentment radiating off them seemed to prevent them from doing so.
pairing: tree farmer! clark kent x baker!afab!reader
summary: you and clark dated, but broke up in the middle of college. when you bump into him in town after years separated, you gain a bruise and a chance to rekindle your relationship with him
contents: exes to lovers, small town romance, yearning, slight angst, happily ever after, mentions of clark and lois, never explicitly said but implied dead ma kent, car accident, hospital visit,
wc: 6.1k
winter romance masterlist | buy me a coffee
You were once sure you’d found the love of your life. In your teenage mind, the future had already been sketched out in glowing colors, and at every turn you could see Clark Kent smiling beside you. He’d been your playmate since childhood: you rode your bikes together down Main Street, built forts in your backyards, and every December the two of you helped your mothers transform the town square into Smallville’s most dazzling Christmas scene—evergreens wreathing lamp posts, garlands draped along windowsills, and spiced cider simmering in giant copper pots.
When high school arrived, you both grew taller, your voices cracked in chorus, and beneath casual hugs, the air seemed to hum with something more profound. You’d brush past his shoulder in the hallway and feel heat bloom across your collarbone.
He’d lean in to help you with a locker jam and the soft press of his hand against your wrist lingered much longer than necessary. Neither of you protested the heightened awareness of each other’s nearness—if anything, you welcomed it.
Then came that unhurried summer, stretched out like golden honey. You spent afternoons poolside where the water’s chlorine tang clung to your skin, then drifted home to chase lightning bugs through cottony grass until dusk. One late night, you lie together on an old quilt in a neighbor’s field, the sky a riveted canopy of stars. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of hay and honeysuckle. You watched constellations unfold as he traced shapes with his finger, and somewhere between the Perseids and the distant hoot of an owl, you felt your breath catch.
He turned to you, moonlight pooling in his dark lashes. You saw each tiny flicker of warmth in his eyes and the curve of his smile. In the hush, you traded dreams—his plans to study journalism, your desire to travel the world—and every word was a thread weaving you closer. Then he reached up, fingertips ghosting across your cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. A spark flared inside your chest, electric and undeniable.
“Have you ever thought about what it would be like if we were more than friends?” he whispered, voice low.
Your pulse thundered. “All the time,” you admitted, voice trembling.
In that exhale of a moment, the world tilted. Lips met in a kiss that felt like coming home, grounding and inevitable. From then on, you were inseparable—sharing milkshakes, sneaking into the homecoming dance, navigating the dizzying swing of first love with hearts racing in tandem.
But by your junior year of college, something shifted in him. You don’t remember exactly when his certainty cracked, only the hollow ache when he said he needed space, a pause you were powerless to argue away. He spoke with a calm conviction that startled you into agreement—because you’d always known you deserved someone who fought to stay.
After that, there were weeks of awkward silence, half-formed emails you never sent, and finally, a quiet unraveling. You walked away heartbroken, certain you’d never heal from the loss of Clark Kent.
Small towns are built on gossip, though, and you heard everything. You learned that he was dating Lois Lane, an up-and-coming reporter whose keen smile and quick wit seemed to brighten his eyes in the local paper. Each photo of them together; from awards ceremonies, charity drives, to triumphant case reveals, both comforted and tore at you. You were glad he was happy, and stunned by how swiftly he’d moved on.
Years passed. You caught wind of his breakup with Lois, then heard whispers that he’d returned to Smallville after nearly a decade in Metropolis. You heard tales of him helping neighbors fix roofs after storms, rescuing kittens from towering oaks, and offering a steady hand and friendly grin to anyone in need. Still, you balanced between relief and a naive hope you’d never have to see him again—hoping your memory of him might remain as pure as that star-strewn summer night.
Now you’re rooted in town, running your family’s cozy bakery with your mother since your father’s death. The smell of toasted almonds and melting butter is your new normal. It’s the week of the Christmas festival, and mother is juggling orders for ginger snaps, yule logs, peppermint brownies and everything needed for the festival—so she sends you on a last-minute errand for supplies.
You step out into a world dusted with frost. Streetlamps throw golden halos over slick patches of ice. You tug at one glove, teeth gritted, reciting the list in your mind: vanilla extract, sweetened condensed milk, almond flour, sugar.
Your gaze is fixed on the branch of a holly tree above you, red berries glinting, when your foot catches an invisible lip of ice. You lurch forward, glove half on, list tumbling away, and you collide with something solid, careening backwards. The world spins, the too-bright streetlights smear into streaks. Your palms slash the pavement, and your backside slams down hard, the air whooshing from your lungs in a burst of shock. Pain blossoms across your hands—raw, stinging—and you lie there for a second, your heart hammering.
Lifting your head, you blink through a haze of ringing in your ears and see a broad-shouldered man glaring down at you, with three other men behind him.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you idiot?” And then to the people he was with, “Women don’t know how to do anything without a man.” Making his little entourage laugh.
“Well, that’s not in the holiday spirit, is it?” A familiar voice—warm and lightly amused—floats up from behind you.
You look up, and there he stands: Clark Kent, framed by garlands of holly and the gentle swirl of falling snow. His dark overcoat is dusted with flakes, and his sweater peeks from beneath his wool scarf. He offers a tense but polite smile to the three men who loiter before you, something protective lingering in his eyes. Then those clear blue eyes sweep back to yours, softening in a way that makes your heart flutter.
Before you can speak, he reaches out a steady hand. You gratefully accept it, letting him pull you to your feet. His fingers find the small of your back, resting just above your hip, grounding you.
Time seems to pause between you: the faint jingle of distant sleigh bells, the luminescent glow of lanterns dancing across his face, even the breathless whisper of falling snowflakes. A hushed “Hi,” passes between you, so tender it catches you off guard. His hand gives a gentle squeeze at your waist, and then, steeling himself, he pivots both of you toward the offenders, his eyes now steely with quiet authority.
“I believe you owe her an apology,” he says, voice calm but carrying across the square. “You were very rude, and she didn’t deserve that.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered townsfolk, their curiosity piqued by the unexpected confrontation. Your pulse quickens, not from fear but from the reassuring certainty that Clark won’t let those men harm you again.
You feel the townspeople’s gazes on your bundled shoulders—some indignant, some eagerly gossiping about what scandal might unfold beneath the holiday lights.
Sensing your tension, Clark gives your hip a reassuring squeeze. The tallest of the three men opens his mouth, bristles of defiance on his chin, but finds himself stalled by Clark’s unwavering stare. Finally he huffs, “Um, yeah, all right. Sorry, lady. Shouldn’t have said that.” He shoots Clark a sideways glance, seeking approval.
Clark shifts his weight, eyes flicking back to you, silently asking if that suffices. You nod almost imperceptibly. The three men hastily shuffle off the sidewalk, crossing the street to disappear into the dim glow of shop windows. With them go most of the onlookers, though a cluster of busybodies, primarily middle-aged women clutching shopping bags, lingers.
Clark’s arm drifts from your back. “Sorry about that. Are you all right?” he asks, concern softening his features. He notices your hands, cupped together against your coat, and swiftly lifts one to examine it. You see the tiny glints of gravel embedded in your palm.
“That looks painful,” he murmurs, thumb brushing away a stray pebble. “Here, let me—”
You pull your hand back and shake your head, cheeks feeling warm beneath your scarf. “Oh, no, it’s fine, Clark. Really.”
You clap your palms together, sending the rest of the grit clattering to the ground. “I’ll wash them when I get home, put on some ointment. Promise I’m okay.”
He nods, though a trace of worry still lingers in his gaze. An awkward hush falls, broken only by the distant clatter of a horse-drawn carriage and the soft crunch of snow underfoot.
“Thank you for stepping in,” you say, breath still uneven from the confrontation. You offer him a small, grateful smile. “I would’ve handled it, but… I appreciate your help.”
Clark exhales, a puff of warm air curling into the cold night. There’s a faint grin tugging at one corner of his mouth, the same half-smile you used to love. “I know you could’ve handled it,” he says gently. “But I couldn’t just stand there—especially once I realized it was you.”
Your pulse jumps, an involuntary rush of heat beneath the winter chill.
He rubs the back of his neck, a little sheepish now. “I was actually helping a couple figure out what size tree would fit their living room. They looked about ready to strap a ten-footer onto their Mini Cooper.” A soft laugh escapes him. “I was headed to grab a new measuring tape when I saw those guys bump into you. And… well.” His eyes slide to yours, softer now. “I wasn’t about to let that go.”
For a heartbeat, you can’t quite breathe. Something in the way he said you—quiet, intentional, like he’d felt the shock of seeing you just as deeply as you did seeing him—makes the snow seem to still around you.
You shake your head lightly, trying to ground yourself, fingers tightening around your shopping bags. “I’ve got errands to run,” you manage, though your voice wavers with something you hope he doesn’t hear. “But really… thank you again, Clark.”
He steps back just enough to let you pass, but not so far that you don’t feel the ghost of his warmth as you move by him. The lanterns cast golden halos on the snow around you, fading behind you with each step as you walk away.
Still, you can feel his gaze on your back—warm, familiar, almost hesitant.
And his words linger in the crisp evening air, echoing in your mind long after you’ve gone: Especially once I realized it was you.
The next morning, you were once again in town, this time at Perks & Pies, the trendy new coffee shop with exposed brick walls and the scent of cinnamon hanging in the air. Emily, your best friend, sat across from you, her auburn hair swept into a messy bun, fingers tapping against her steaming mug as you both finalized details for the activities booth.
"Alright, that's enough for today," Emily declared, closing her leather-bound planner with a satisfying snap. "We were plenty productive. Now tell me about you and Clark." Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
You hesitated, the warm latte suddenly bitter on your tongue. "What do you mean?"
Emily rolled her eyes dramatically, leaning forward until her chunky knit sweater nearly dipped into her coffee. "The entire town is buzzing about your 'romantic recoupling' with Clark. Mrs. Henderson at the post office practically cornered me for details."
Your cheeks burned hot as you opened your mouth to protest, but the words died in your throat as a horrific sound cut through the air. Tires screeching against ice, panicked shouts, followed by the sickening crunch of metal and wood splintering.
You and Emily locked eyes for a heartbeat before bolting outside into the biting December air. The town square, which had been transformed into a winter wonderland of twinkling lights and red ribbons, was now a scene of chaos. A blue sedan had skidded across the ice, plowing directly into the row of half-assembled stalls—including your family's booth, now reduced to a pile of broken planks and scattered decorations.
Your stomach dropped like a stone. Mom had mentioned going early to organize. You sprinted forward, boots slipping on patches of ice, the cold air burning your lungs as panic clawed up your throat and tears pricked hot behind your eyes.
"Over here!" The familiar deep voice cut through the commotion. You whipped around to see Clark waving frantically, his broad shoulders hunched protectively over your mother. She sat on an overturned crate, looking small and pale, a makeshift compress of snow wrapped in Clark's plaid scarf pressed against her arm as she waited for the paramedics, their sirens wailing in the distance.
You sprint across the distance towards your mother, heart hammering in your ears. You drop to your knees, hands trembling as you brush stray tufts of hair from her face. “Mom, are you all right? What happened? Are you hurt badly?” Your voice cracks with panic.
Next to you, Clark’s gaze follows every movement. You feel the weight of his concern before he shifts beside you. His hand settles on your shoulder, firm and reassuring. “I was helping set up the stalls,” he explains quietly, voice steady against the chaos. “I saw the car skid, managed to pull her clear just in time.”
Your mother grimaces but can’t resist a teasing jab at Clark’s expense: “Always playing hero,” she scolds through a weak smile. Clark arches an amused brow; the two of them exchange banter as if drawn back to years of friendly rivalry.
You share a quick laugh, even as flashing red lights and the sharp smell of antiseptic draw closer. Paramedics arrive, their uniforms crisp and efficient, and gently lift your mother onto a stretcher.
Before they wheel her away, you turn to Clark, gratitude shining in your eyes.
It’s like being twenty again—those days when you thought you knew him inside out, back when every glance held promise.
Clark presses your shoulder with a soft comfort, then snugly wraps your scarf around your neck as a committee member, Jeffery, bursts onto the scene, frantic.
“What are we going to do about the festival?” he wails, “It’s only days away, and now the stalls are ruined!” Jeffery stops to look at you, as if remembering the accident could have hurt people.
“Your mom, is she okay?”
You give him a slight smile, “I’m about to head to the hospital to find out. I’m sorry about the festival. I can help when I get back?”
Clark jumps in, shaking his head, calm but firm. “Don’t worry—this is my problem. You’ve got bigger things to handle right now.” You nod, relief and exhaustion mingling in your chest, unaware of the storm the committee plans to unleash.
Later that afternoon, the hospital corridor is hushed, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Your mother lies asleep, her wrist encased in a snug plaster cast, a small fracture the only serious damage from the crash. You sit beside her, fingers wrapped around her cool hand, when a soft knock stirs you.
Clark stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway’s pale glow, cradling a bouquet of daisies and lavender. He steps forward, leaning close so you can hear his gentle whisper: “How is she?” He sets the flowers on the bedside table—vibrant petals against the stark white sheets.
“She has a small fracture,” you tell him, voice hushed. “No baking for six to eight weeks.”
He nods thoughtfully. A pause. “Well, I could help you bake the treats,” he offers, and his lips quirk into a hopeful grin. “I’m no master baker, but your mom always thought I did alright.”
“Oh, Clark—it’s really okay. I know you have the farm,” you begin, cheeks warming with gratitude and fond memories.
“It’s okay, I’ve hired some people who can take over it for the night. Let me help.”
Before you can refuse, your mother’s soft but firm voice cuts in: “Oh, what are you talking about? You can’t take on all that baking alone—Clark knows more than he lets on.” She lifts her arm to gesture, careful not to jostle her cast.
“We even planned to have Emily help just with packaging. You need every hand you can get.”
Her other hand finds yours on the bed, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I should’ve been more careful. I’m sorry for all this trouble.” Tears glint in her eyelashes.
You shake your head, brushing away a stray lock of hair. “Don’t apologize, Mom. Accidents happen—we just got lucky, everyone’s okay.”
She looks to you, hopeful. “So… Emily and Clark. Are they helping?”
You glance at Clark, whose eager smile lights up the room, then back at your mother and nod. Relief softens her features.
You settle back against the pillows, squeezing your mom’s hand once more.
In your mind, you can’t help but smile: Emily is never going to believe this.
You tie on your flour-speckled apron and set to work in your mother’s kitchen. The counters are piled high with mixing bowls—one heavy with butter and sugar, another with sifted flour dust drifting into the air like winter mist. Egg yolks glisten yellow in their glass bowl, vanilla beans perfume the room, and the hum of the oven feels almost like a lullaby. You whisk, you fold, you roll; the scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and chocolate wafts up, and you hope it’ll all come together before the festival’s opening bell.
Emily slips in before sunset, carrying a steaming mug of coffee. She claims she’s “helping,” but until the cookie dough is shaped and waiting for its first bake, there’s little for her to do. She perches on a stool at the island, her hair loose around her shoulders. The mist from her breath curls in the chilly air drifting through the cracked-open window, as she listens to you tell her about the hospital and your mom.
“Wow,” she teases, stirring her own cocoa, “flowers for his mother-in-law? He’s really trying to charm the jury.”
You force a laugh as you level a rolling pin into your dough. “Shut up,” you mutter, though a warmth spreads in your chest. “He was just being kind. You know they’ve always adored each other—she practically treats him like her own.”
Emily’s eyes narrow playfully. “And you?” She sips her cocoa, then raises an eyebrow. “Word around town? You two looked mighty comfortable together.”
Your heart stutters, and you press a fingertip into a sugar mound, smoothing it. “Em, come on. It’s not— We broke up.” You pause, stirring your words like a stiff batter. “He asked for it.”
Her gaze sharpens, curiosity flickering in her green eyes. She leans forward, head tilted, studying your face as if reading tea leaves. Then she claps her hands, startling you. “So— you still love him, don’t you?”
Your spatula hovers mid-air. The kitchen seems to hold its breath. Before you can summon any denial, there’s a knock at the front door.
Relief blooms in your chest. You turn to Emily, dropping your guard. “I never stopped,” you confess softly, voice catching on an unspoken question. “But I’ve got questions, and I’m still hurt. Promise not to tell or act weird?”
Emily’s teasing smile softens into something sisterly. She rises and enfolds you in a hug, the cocoa fragrance clinging to her. “Of course. You’re my favorite person. And wanting someone is fine—just make sure this time it’s different. You deserve only the best.”
She releases you as another knock sounds. You squeeze her hand, then hurry to the door.
Clark stands there, cheeks pink with cold, his breath puffing in little clouds. In his hands is a grocery bag spilling with jars of homemade jam, extra chocolate chips, and a proud bundle of cranberries.
He ducks inside, shrugging off his coat to reveal the sweater fully. You can’t help but trace the memory of those late-night study sessions when he first slipped it on, cheeks lighting up.
“Hope it’s not weird, I still love this thing,” he says, untying his scarf. “It’s comfortable.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Weird? No. Honestly, I’m shocked it’s survived this long.”
He glances down at the frayed cuffs, then back up at you with a softness that makes your breath stutter. “Well… things last when you take care of them.” His smile shifts, warmer.
“Some things are worth holding onto.”
The words land between you with surprising weight, drawing your eyes to his—and for a moment, everything stills. The cold outside, the bustle in the kitchen, the years since college… all of it blurs. It’s just him, looking at you like he means it.
A sharp beep-beep-beep from the kitchen shatters the moment. You blink, clearing your throat. “That’ll be Emily,” you say, stepping back and motioning for him to follow.
You lead Clark down the hall, and as soon as you push open the kitchen door, he spots Emily pulling trays of golden cookies out of the oven. She glances up, eyes bright.
“Oh! Hey, Clark!” she chirps.
“Hey, Em,” he replies, already rolling up his sleeves as if he’s been drafted into service before he even arrived. “How’s your grandma?”
It doesn’t take long for him to be swept into the rhythm of the room. You hand him a cooling rack, and he’s instantly sliding in beside you, moving with a quiet attentiveness that syncs effortlessly with your motions. Emily folds boxes, you pipe icing, and Clark dusts powdered sugar like he’s been part of this assembly line for years. The kitchen becomes its own little universe—warm, crowded, alive.
A few minutes in, while tying off a bag of gingerbread men, Emily declares, “You know what this needs? Christmas music. The holiday spirit has to infuse the cookies. It’s science. Don’t argue with me.”
You arch a skeptical eyebrow. “Emily, no part of that sentence was scientific.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Clark nodding enthusiastically.
“Seriously?” you ask, turning toward him.
He gives you a sage, almost solemn nod. “It’s only proper,” he says, deadpan but with amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Emily claps once, triumphant. “See? Overruled!” She’s already halfway across the kitchen, phone in hand, cueing up the first carol.
You groan, but Clark just laughs under his breath—and somehow, the kitchen feels even warmer.
Working next to Clark feels like slipping back into a favorite chair—comfortable, familiar, shaped perfectly to you. His arm brushes yours now and then, casual but warm. The kitchen smells like butter and cinnamon, and with every accidental-touch-that’s-not-really-accidental, you remember nights in college when you’d end up in his apartment baking at midnight, stealing bites of dough and swapping stories until sunrise.
“Okay,” Emily says, sliding over another tray, “I need someone strong to break apart this peppermint bark.”
Clark reaches for it at the same time you do. His hand lands over yours. Warm, large, and steady.
“Looks like you’ve got two volunteers,” he says with a grin.
You try not to stare at the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
“Please,” you scoff lightly. “Last time you tried to break bark, you shattered half the tray.”
He gasps dramatically. “Slander. You wound me. Also, I was 10, give me a pass.”
Emily snorts. “I was there, it was pretty bad.”
Clark’s eyes show his incredulity at the situation. “Unbelievable. Betrayed in my moment of generosity.”
“You’ll live,” you tell him, nudging him with your shoulder.
He nudges back, a little closer than necessary. “Only because you’re here to supervise.”
Emily groans, loud and theatrical. “Oh my god, just break the peppermint before I age a decade.”
You both laugh, but Clark keeps his gaze on you a second too long before finally turning to the bark—where he proceeds to break it perfectly clean down the middle.
You blink. “That was… shockingly competent.”
“Told you.” He smirks. “I’ve matured.”
“Debatable,” Emily mutters, but she’s hiding a grin.
Minutes blur into an hour, then two, then more—time slipping away as easily as flour dusting the counters. The three of you move in a rhythm that feels choreographed: Emily tying ribbons with flourish, you piping clean, practiced swirls of icing, Clark sneaking in to swipe finished cookies to the cooling rack. He hums along to the Christmas playlist Emily put on, and every so often, he leans in conspiratorially to comment on a song.
At one point he murmurs, “Remember when we tried to make peppermint mocha cookies freshman year and accidentally used salt instead of sugar?”
You groan. “Clark, I thought we swore never to speak of that.”
Emily pauses mid-wrap. “Hang on. You poisoned each other?”
“We didn’t poison—”
“It was one time—”
You speak in unison, then burst out laughing. Clark bumps his shoulder into yours, softer this time. “Still one of my favorite disasters.”
Your cheeks warm, looking away from his to focus on your task. “Only because you weren’t the one who ate a full cookie.”
“I would’ve, if you hadn’t beat me to it.”
His voice is low, teasing, but underneath is something tender, something familiar, something dangerous.
Emily watches the two of you with a knowing little smirk but doesn’t comment—just ties the next ribbon a little tighter.
The clock nudges towards nighttime when Emily finally dusts off her hands. “Okay,” she sighs, “I should go check on Grandma. She’ll try to climb a ladder to hang more decorations if I don’t watch her.”
She gathers her things, then turns to hug you first, squeezing tight. “You guys are a good team,” she says lightly, almost sing-song.
Clark steps in for his hug, and Emily pats his back twice. “Try not to burn the place down,” she warns.
“No promises,” he replies, and you elbow him.
Emily grins. “I can come back in a bit if you need more hands!”
“We’ll manage,” you assure her.
Clark nods. “We’ve got it covered.”
Emily’s eyes flick between the two of you—amused, a little knowing—before she heads out the door. It swings closed behind her with a soft thump, leaving you and Clark alone in the warm, flour-dusted kitchen.
The room suddenly feels quieter.
And warmer.
With Emily gone, the kitchen seems to inhale and go still, like even the walls know the atmosphere has changed. It’s suddenly quiet enough that you can hear the soft scrape of Clark’s breathing, the gentle click of the oven, the low hum of carols still looping from Emily’s phone.
Clark stands beside you at the counter, close—too close. Close enough that the warmth of him brushes the edge of your sweater, close enough to feel the ghost of what you used to be.
You’re both pretending to focus on the final batch of batter, but your hands keep reaching for the same spoon, the same bowl, the same scattering of cinnamon. Each accidental touch feels anything but accidental.
“You remember when we tried this recipe?” Clark asks quietly, his voice lower than before.
You glance up. He’s already looking at you.
You force a smile. “You mean when you doubled the nutmeg and we nearly died?”
He huffs a soft laugh, one that warms your ribs. “You said it tasted ‘chaotic.’”
“It did.” Your throat feels tight. “But it was… fun.”
The word hangs there, weighted.
Slowly, he nods. “Yeah. It was.”
There’s something unspoken beneath it—something that smells of regret and want and the years between now and then.
You scoop the last of the dough onto the sheet, your hand trembling just a bit, and slide the tray into the oven. When you straighten, Clark is right there. His fingers brush your waist to steady the tray. The touch lingers too long, his breath catching like he didn’t mean for it to.
You swallow. “Thanks.”
He murmurs, “Anytime,” but the word sounds like a confession.
You start cleaning to distract yourself, but it only pulls you closer. The sink splashes; your arms graze; his shoulder nudges yours. He hands you a dripping dish, and your fingers close around his. Warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that hurts.
He doesn’t pull away.
You don’t either.
“Feels like old times,” he says softly, almost as if confessing.
“It does,” you whisper—because denying it feels impossible.
Clark turns toward you fully. His hand hesitates near your cheek, close enough for you to feel the heat of it. His eyes flick to your mouth, as if he’s remembering exactly how it felt to kiss you.
Then—slowly, inexorably—he leans in.
Your breath stutters. You lean, too, drawn by gravity or memory or something you still haven’t shaken loose.
He’s only inches away when—
The lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then the room plunges into darkness.
You both jerk back, the spell shattering as completely as the light.
For a beat, all you can hear is your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
“Perfect timing,” Clark mutters under his breath.
Your stomach twists—not with annoyance, but with the sting of something you were so close to having again.
You turn to the oven with your phone flashlight. When you open the door, the cookies stare back at you: pale, collapsing, very much not cookies.
“Oh come on,” you groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I cannot fail at this today.”
“Hey—”
“No,” you cut in, pacing. “I have seventy-two cookies to finish. I have people counting on me. I can’t—this can’t—”
“Hey.” His voice sharpens—gentle but firm. “Breathe.”
You try. It barely works.
Clark steps closer, the outline of him steady in the dim glow. “We’re not out of options. The kitchen at the tree farm is fully wired and equipped.”
You blink. “Equipped? Like… commercial?”
He nods. “I’ve been setting it up so I can start selling food next season. It has everything you need. We can finish the baking there.”
You hesitate, old wounds tugging at your ribs. “Are you sure?”
He meets your eyes, steady. “Yeah. I want to help.”
There’s sincerity in his voice—dangerously soft, dangerously familiar.
You exhale shakily. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Clark smiles faintly, a smile you feel in your chest more than you see.
And just like that, the two of you gather the dough, trays, and supplies, stepping into the cold night toward a farm full of history—and complications neither of you is done with.
The drive to Clark’s farm felt tight with unspoken things, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty at all but crowded—thick with the ghost of almost-kisses and years-old wounds neither of you ever really cleaned out. The truck’s heater hummed under the quiet, blowing warm air over your frozen fingers as you fidgeted with the zipper of your coat.
Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily through the headlights, each one tumbling like a tiny parachute before dissolving on the glass. You swallowed, throat tight.
“About what happened back there—” you began, voice uncertain.
Clark’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles paled. He didn’t look at you when he said, low and ashamed, “It… probably shouldn’t have happened.”
A raw, involuntary scoff tore out of you—sharp, bitter, unmistakable.
Clark’s head whipped toward you, hurt flashing across his features before he turned back to the snowy road. “What was that for?” he asked as he turned into the long, snow-dusted driveway of the farm. Gravel crunched under the tires. He pulled the truck into park, the engine rumbling into stillness.
You stared at the dashboard because looking at him felt like peeling open an old wound.
“Just—” Your voice shook. “Just that you always seem to know what’s best for two people. As if you’re some omnipresent force who can see the future, so you get to decide everything. You did it when you said breaking up was ‘for my own good,’ and you’re doing it now.”
Your words hung between you like frost, forming on the cold air before either of you could breathe them away.
Clark blinked, stunned. “That’s not—”
But you didn’t let him finish. The air in the cab felt suffocating. You inhaled deeply, the sharp pine of his air freshener filling your lungs, grounding you just enough to move. You shoved open the truck door, and winter slapped your cheeks immediately—cold, biting, cleansing.
“I’ll stand by the tree farm entrance and call Em to pick me up,” you muttered, climbing out and grabbing your tote. Then, softer, cracking, “This was a bad idea.”
You slammed the door and trudged into the ankle-deep snow. Each footstep left a clean imprint behind you, the kind that would vanish with the next gust of wind—just like the future you’d once imagined with him.
The metallic clunk of Clark’s truck door echoed across the stillness. Snowflakes clung to your eyelashes as you kept walking, vision blurring with cold—or maybe not just cold.
“You think I wanted to let you go?” Clark called, voice carrying easily through the quiet, slicing straight into your spine. “You think any part of me wanted that?”
You stopped.
But you didn’t turn.
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever been certain about,” he said, each word cracking open something he had clearly tried to bury. “But I couldn’t live with myself if I held you back from the life you deserved.”
The world went silent. Even the snow seemed to fall more slowly.
Finally, you turned.
Moonlight spilled silver across the field, catching on the flakes tangled in his dark hair. His chest rose and fell hard, visible clouds of breath forming between you.
“Too late,” you said quietly, even though your heart thundered. “The life I wanted always had you in it. And you decided to take that away.”
The words landed like a blow.
Clark’s face crumpled—eyes shining, jaw tightening as though he was holding himself together by a thread. His shoulders sagged, all that stubborn self-control slipping for the first time tonight.
Snow gathered on his lashes as he whispered, voice breaking, “I thought I was doing the right thing.”
You took a slow step toward him, then another, the crisp snow crunching beneath your boots. Each step felt like crossing a distance far greater than the few feet between you—like closing the space carved by years of silence, heartbreak, and things left unsaid.
Clark stayed exactly where he was, not moving, not breathing, watching you with eyes that looked like they were bracing for impact.
A breath shuddered out of you, the cold burning your lungs as the truth rose unsteadily up your throat. “You know what I thought?” you whispered, stopping just in front of him. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore.” His eyes flickered, pained, but you pressed on. “You said it was for my own good, that letting me go was the right thing, and I… I believed you. I thought you’d already made peace with a future without me in it.”
Your voice trembled despite your best effort to steady it. “And I wasn’t going to be the woman who begged a man to stay. I wasn’t going to fight for someone who’d decided I wasn’t worth choosing.” The confession left you feeling stripped open, the winter air biting at the rawness between you.
For a heartbeat, Clark didn’t speak—didn’t move—just stood there looking wrecked, as if every word you’d said had carved itself straight into him. The silence between you was thick and fragile, and you suddenly realized you didn’t want it to be distance anymore. Not tonight. Not after everything you’d finally dared to say.
So you closed the space.
When you finally reached him, you lifted a gloved hand to his face. Snowflakes had gathered along his temple, tiny crystals catching the moonlight. You brushed them away, letting your fingers slide through the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead.
The warmth of his skin seeped through the fabric, startling you with how familiar it felt.
“Why can’t you see how incredible you are?” you breathed, voice soft but trembling. “Why is that the one thing you’ve never understood?”
A shaky exhale escaped him—half laugh, half sob.
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against yours. The touch was feather-light, almost reverent. His breath mingled with yours in the frigid night air, warm and unsteady. For a moment, the world narrowed to the two of you inside a fragile snow globe, flakes swirling around your bodies like the universe giving you one last quiet chance.
“I regretted it,” Clark whispered, voice cracking open like thin ice. “Every day. Every hour. I thought I was doing the right thing, letting you go. You talked about traveling the world, about going places I couldn’t follow.” His hands clenched and unclenched uselessly at his sides, aching for something he didn’t dare reach for. “I just… I loved you too much to let you resent me someday. To feel like I trapped you. To watch you look at me and see everything you didn’t get to do.”
His forehead pressed harder against yours, as if he were fighting himself, fighting the memory of every moment he’d told himself he had to let you go.
“I was terrified,” he confessed, voice breaking. “Terrified of holding you back.”
Your chest tightened, not with anger this time, but with something deep and bruised and aching. You lifted both hands to his face, cupping his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath your palms. His lashes fluttered, breath stuttering, as though he couldn’t believe he was allowed to be this close again.
“Clark,” you whispered, throat thick, “you don’t get to decide what would’ve held me back. You don’t get to choose what my life should look like.” Your thumbs brushed along his cheekbones, gentle, grounding. “How about you let me decide what makes me happy?”
His eyes opened at that; blue, desperate, hopeful, wrecked.
Before he could speak, before fear or guilt or doubt could steal the moment again, you closed the remaining sliver of distance.
You pressed your lips to his.
It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t careful. It was a kiss full of years lost and years longed for, full of everything you’d both swallowed down since the day everything fell apart. He tasted like cold air and the warmth of old memories, like vanilla from the cookies you’d baked earlier, like every possibility you thought you’d never get back.
Clark let out a sound—quiet, broken—and his hands rose finally, finally, to your waist, pulling you in as though he’d been holding himself back for far too long.
And for a moment, the world stopped.
Just snow falling softly, breath mingling.
Just two people finding each other where they’d left off.
a/n: and we’ve started winter romance series!! i actually have another one written, i just need to edit it.
again, struggling with not holding onto them until i’m 100% happy, but these are suppose to be light and fluffy and romancey.
as always, likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. here’s a kiss from me to you for being so lovely 💋
gojo x bridgerton au, fluff - you see a man with blue eyes and swoon
It was his blue orbs that locked onto your brown first. Behind the intricate, beaded and embroidered navy mask, lay clear blue windows - clear with intent. Above them floated a halo of white, swept back.
You clutch the stem of your glass suddenly, hearing someone ask how your season's been so far. "Wonderful, I truly..." you hear yourself start, gaze unfocused. Your lips press and widen, reopening and closing, sounds vibrating between you and your mini audience. Waving a hand, you bring the glass to your lips, before tilting your head.
Nothing. From the refreshments table, to the snack bar, to the refreshments again, to the entrance, your eyes dart. Mouth agape, the drink suddenly feels loose in your hand. The world tilts as you decide to look to a different refreshment table, before you see the scene sliding upwards. Your dress suddenly pulls tight at your front, and your heels fall away...
Suddenly, a weight presses horizontally behind your arched spine, knocking the breath out of you. You feel your heart hammering for air, as you scrunch your eyes against the impact. Vision darkened, you suddenly feel someone else's breath against your forehead, a palm outstretched around your side. Another comes to cup your right hand, as your bent arms extend slightly from your chest, holding your fist. Legs feeling light, your body reflexively relaxes against whatever was holding you - the structure standing boldy as you brave whoever is panting above you.
Bright blue pools behind navy satin shine at you. The tight lipped stare softens to reveal bright teeth and you hear soft hums reach your ears. You feel heat flush your chest and neck, ears stinging hot. Sweat begins to build in your bra as you fixate on the white halo-ed being above you. His white lashes flutter, pink lips parting to say, "Are you alright, my lady?"
"Yes... thank you" you muster, throat tightening as his gaze continues unflinching. Your fist unfurls into the gentleman's soft hand, breath hitching as he shifts to hold it - fingers brushing your knuckles' underside, thumb on top.
He exhales suddenly, the white halo coming down to brush your forehead as a chuckle reverberates from his chest - only inches away from yours.
"Thank goodness- I worried I had hurt you"
His head shifts back, blue eyes meeting yours, like that first time. The air feels small in the space between you two, and he steals some more before saying, "Would you- Will you have this dance with me?"
String instruments jolt awake, striking a chord in you that involuntarily lets out a yes. The gentleman's eyes blink closed, grin widening. He lifts the back of your hands to his lips, plush warmth flooding you. Your world tilts again, left breathless you find yourself pressed against the blue-eyed beauty, feet on solid ground, his hand covering the dip in your back.
He smiles softly, winking before the strings belt, and you melt into his embrace and the music.
a/n: tried practicing showing not telling, hope u enjoyed!
