You were finally settling in with the team. Not to say that all of your worries about fitting in were assuaged; when you sat down the conversation still died down, and the interactions were still sometimes stilted, or they seemed avoidant about touching you, but you didn’t feel as uncomfortable with your semi-isolation as you used to.
Today you were flying to meet up with the ULF and someone named Farah Karim to collaborate on some threat. You hadn’t met her or her team before, but you were told by the 141 that she did good work, and so did her right hand man, ex-CIA Alex Keller.
When you arrived, a woman with a headscarf greeted you all brightly. Besides her, a man with a mustache. Both were…easy on the eyes to say the least.
“Price! It’s good to see you again.” They grasped each other’s forearms in greeting before she turned to you. She sized you up briefly, “and a new face…who is this?”
“Farah, meet the newest member of the 141.”
You smiled politely and shook her hand, “pleasure.”
“Hope they’re not treating you too terribly, and if they are, I can knock them around for you.” She shared a teasing glance with Price.
“Yeah, I’d take her word for it. Been at the receiving end of that myself one too many times.” The man besides her piped up. “I’m Alex, ‘s good to see a new face. Especially one as nice as yours.” His tone turned a different color at the last part.
Before you could think to respond to that, Farah jabbed her elbow into his side.
“What Alex means to say, is that we are glad you a here. Please follow me.”
You tried to push the interaction from your mind and keep a strictly professional demeanor. But…it had been a while since someone had talked to you like that. Since you felt wanted.
You got to talk to Alex a bit more as you all shuffled around settling in and discussing strategy, and he was nice. Really nice. And attractive. And he smelled good which was honestly impressive if you considered how sweat—
“Sergeant!” You snapped out of your train of thought. “You with us?”
“Yes, Captain. Sorry.”
Price was not happy. Farah was eyeing you up and Alex was blatantly flirting and you were staring back. He liked to think he was a man in control of his emotions, and he owed a lot to Farah and Alex, but if they didn’t stop making a move on you right now…
He could tell the rest of his boys were bothered too. Kyle didn’t have his normally pleasant expression on, Simon was doing his death stare, and Johnny was clenching his jaw so hard he thought it might crack.
It really was their fault they hadn’t made a move sooner. But they weren’t sure how you would feel about the whole thing, and John had insisted they wait longer to not compromise the team dynamic.
But every day they fell harder for you. John just didn’t realize there could possibly be competition.
The op went well enough. As a group you were able to stop the threat. The real treat was getting to know Farah and Alex. They were both incredibly fun and interesting to talk to, and they treated you so well. Farah showed you around their compound and they ate with you every day. You almost felt…courted.
The other positive was throughout this mission, your own team seemed to warm up to you more. Gone were the stilted conversations and the touch avoidance. Rather, it’s like they started to overcorrect. Price’s hand found your waist to guide you, Soap was tossing his arm over your shoulder regularly, Kyle was patting your head at every turn, and Simon…didn’t look like he wanted to kill you anymore (baby steps). You don’t know if it was the change of scenery or if the presence of their other friends made them more open, but you weren’t complaining.
When it finally came time to leave and head back to your own base, Farah pulled Price to the side one last time to ask,
“So…is that one yours? Because Alex and I—“
“Ours,” Price cut her off with finality, “just doesn’t know it yet.”
𖤓 when a mercedes engineering intern is assigned to george russell’s side of the garage, she’s too busy trying not to mess anything up to notice the attention she’s getting, especially from a certain rookie who keeps finding excuses to be around.
𖤓 kimi antonelli x fem!reader, mercedes intern au, paddock au, oblivious!reader, soft + humour, smau + written (multi-part), face claim: Haerin from newjeans
𖤓 note: this is my first time writing so please be nice 😭 also i’m not an engineering student, so if anything is inaccurate or doesn’t fully make sense… just go with it.
𖤓 Listen to “you belong with me” when reading this!
Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part Five
Subject: Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team – Summer Internship Offer
Dear Y/N L/N,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been successful in your application for the Summer Engineering Internship with the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team.
During your placement, you will be working closely with members of our race engineering team, supporting various aspects of data analysis, performance evaluation, and garage operations. You will be primarily assigned to the car crew on George Russell’s side of the garage.
We look forward to welcoming you to the team.
Kind regards,
Early Careers Team
Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team
The paddock at Silverstone was a living thing.
You felt it the second you ducked under the barriers, your lanyard swinging against your ribs like a second heartbeat. The air was thick with everything at once: burning rubber, race fuel, frying onions from the food trucks, and something sweeter underneath, like freshly cut grass baked in July sun. Overhead, helicopters chopped the sky into pieces, ferrying people who probably had never waited in a security line in their lives. You were not one of those people. You were, in fact, power-walking so fast that your tote bag kept sliding off your shoulder, narrowly missing a man carrying what looked like a very expensive camera lens. "Sorry! So sorry — thank you — sorry —" you say before he was already gone.
The garages stretched out in a long row, each one a kingdom of its own. Ferrari red. McLaren papaya. Aston Martin green. And there, three doors down, the silver arrow of Mercedes, sleek and cold as a scalpel. Your chest squeezed just by the sight of it.
Don't mess up. Don't mess up. Don't mess up.
You ducked into the Mercedes garage and immediately felt the temperature drop — air conditioning cranked to combat the British summer, mixing with the smell of hot brakes and nervous sweat. The floor was spotless grey concrete, marked with coloured tape to keep people where they belonged. Mechanics in white or black shirts moved with surgical precision, speaking into headsets, tapping tablets, adjusting things you couldn't even name. A woman with sharp eyes and a laminated badge spotted you first. “You're the intern. George's side," she says as she walks without looking back to check on you. "Yes. I'm Y/N. Hi" you say as you follow her.
"Don't touch anything."
Don't touch anything. Good. That was easy. You could do that.
You spent the next four hours doing exactly that — standing two steps behind George Russell's senior engineer, absorbing information like a sponge that was desperately trying not to drown. You handed the tools when asked. You took notes on a tablet until your thumbs ached. You learned where the coffee machine was (critical) and which mechanics didn't like being spoken to before 10 AM (most of them). By the time you were sent to grab a data printout from the engineering room at the far end of the garage row, your brain felt like static. You were walking fast. Too fast. Eyes on the concrete floor, replaying torque specs in your head, mentally rearranging the wiring diagram you'd been shown an hour ago: Sixty-two newton meters. Sixty-two. Not sixty-three. Sixty-two —
You turned the corner and walked directly into someone hard. Your tablet clattered to the ground. A water bottle went rolling. You stumbled back, arms flailing, and would have landed on your ass if two hands hadn't shot out to catch you by the elbows.
"Whoa — sorry — I wasn't —" you say, looking up.
Dark curls. Brown eyes wide with surprise. A Mercedes polo shirt with the sleeves pushed up. A jaw that looked like it had been carved by someone with a very specific aesthetic vision. You knew this face. You'd seen it on screens, on posters, on the paddock entry list you'd memorised last night at 2 AM.
Andrea Kimi Antonelli. The rookie who was leading the championship. The one everyone was watching.
He was holding you like you weighed nothing, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of your sleeves. His mouth was slightly open, like he'd been about to say something and forgotten how words worked.
"You're —" he started. "I'm so sorry," you interrupted, already pulling away, already bending down to grab your tablet, already moving. "That was completely my fault. I wasn't looking. Are you okay? Sorry — I have to — I have to get this to —" You were already backing away, clutching the tablet to your chest like a shield. Kimi blinked; his hand was still half-extended from catching you. "It's fine. Don't worry. Are you —"
"Fine! Totally fine. Thank you. Sorry again," you say as you rush out without looking back.
Kimi stood there for a long three seconds. His water bottle was still rolling slowly across the floor. No one had picked it up. He was still staring at the spot where you'd disappeared around the corner. "Who was that?" he asked aloud, to no one. A passing mechanic shrugged as they said, "New intern. George's side." Kimi nodded slowly before bending down, picking up his water bottle, and walking back to his side of the garage. He didn't say another word for the rest of the walk. But he was smiling.
— tags: yandere, stalking, obsessed behaviour, obsessive tamsy caines, manga spoilers (ifykyk), oblivious! reader, slight breaking and entering lol
— word count: 1,922
— lowkey a writing exercise too (wink wink)
— came across this audio on tiktok and immediately clocked it to this beautiful man
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
TAMSY NOTICED YOU the moment you first stepped into the Cleaners' headquarters. He was being briefed by Semiu on his next mission, which coincidentally was the perfect opportunity to test a potential new Cleaner.
Of course, at first, he didn't care that much about you—hell, he even toyed with the idea of letting you take the heavy blows of the trash beasts just for funsies. It would've been amusing to watch you scramble about, or maybe even break a little from the pressure of the trial mission.
So imagine his surprise when you not only defeated the trash beasts with ease, but even managed to protect him from a surprise attack.
He stood still for a second, blinking slowly as he casually hid Tokushin back into the sleeves of his coat.
You were breathing rather heavily, adrenaline still rushing through your veins, eyes bright as you shot him a worried look. Rushing to his side, you inspected his figure, hands fluttering just an inch over him, eyes searching every part of his body as though expecting him to have been bleeding.
"Are you okay, Tamsy?" you asked, voice breathy but steady as you finished examining him.
For a moment, he just watched you, memorising the crease in your forehead, the tightness in your jaw, and the way your hands twitched at your sides, like it wanted to hover over him again. He then nodded, smiling as he guided you back with the others. "I'm fine," he said with an easy smile, brushing dust off his uniform. "Thanks to you, apparently."
You exhaled a shaky breath, relief immediately brightening your features. And then—you laughed. A small, breathless sound, but it rang like chapel bells in his ears.
Huh, how odd.
That... was nice.
You stuck close to him on the way back, practically glued to his side as rambled excitedly about the fight. "I can't believe I got there fast enough! I mean, I totally thought I would freeze, but I didn't! And you were so cool back there, Tamsy! You didn't even flinch when that trash beast jumped at you!"
Then, you paused, as if you remembered a crucial detail before flashing a big smile toward his direction. "Oh! And if I'm accepted by the boss, I might actually join your team. I mean, that's crazy, right?"
He hummed, nodding absently as he guided you up into the jeep, occupying the seat directly next to yours. He didn't mind being in the middle, just seeing how you were caged by him—how it only allowed you to talk to him—pleases him in a way he couldn't believe.
Outwardly, he looked calm. Relaxed and poised, not to mention, mildly entertained.
But inside?
He was replaying every moment that had led up to this.
It wasn't unusual for other Cleaners to cover each other's open spots—nobody really wanted to watch their teammates die, unfortunately. So, really, he shouldn't even be thinking about you and the way you saved his ass out there. It was the natural thing to do, especially since he was the one supervising your trial mission.
So why was he drawn to you?
There was only one way to find out.
His expression remained gentle, conversing with you while his thoughts sharpened with a quiet, eerie clarity.
If you joined his team, you'd be around him constantly. Training with him, going on missions with him, and most importantly, relying on him.
You would be close to him. Very, very close.
You kept talking, smiling brightly, oblivious to the way his eyes lingered on you a bit too long—not very Tamsy-like behaviour, if others were to see.
"You're really something," he said lightly, tone airy. "Most new recruits wouldn't be able to handle themselves that well."
You grinned proudly, leaning your shoulders to his. "Really? You mean that?"
He nodded, smile widening with deceptive warmth. "You're impressive. You'll fit in perfectly in my team."
And in his mind, he was already turning over possibilities. How useful you could be in his plans and how much fun he could have with messing with you.
────୨ৎ────
He studied you after that.
His eyes always lingered on you, watching with cold precision every movement, every word, every action, and every detail that you expressed in the headquarters.
Every detail mattered for Tamsy.
The way your shoulders relaxed whenever he smiled at you.
The way you leaned a little closer whenever you talked excitedly, head tilting forty-five degrees to your left.
The way you opened doors with your right hand and closed them by tapping the heel of your foot.
The way you always hum an ancient lullaby after you showered, wet hair wrapped in your favourite towel.
The way you read books about the Sphere, always searching and asking for answers related to it.
The way you do a little dance after beating other Cleaners during training.
The way you meticulously clean your jinki, leaving it on your bedside table before going to sleep.
The way you have a skip on your steps when you spotted him by the corner of your room.
The way you always picked the spot beside him when you two eat, walk, or sit in the jeep.
The way you were always by his side after fighting trash beasts, eyes searching for possible injuries.
And the way you scanned his expression after every mission, as if subconsciously seeking his approval.
Ahhh...
So, you were that type, huh? The kind who wanted to be useful; to be praised; and who always respond beautifully to his small cues.
His favourite toy to play with.
He'd set up moments where you'd coincidentally past him on your way down the hall, eyes immediately latching on his form as you halted to a full stop. And every time, without fail, you'd brighten up.
"Oh, Tamsy! I didn't realise you were here!"
He'd just smile gently before responding, "I was on my way to the garden. Want to walk with me?"
You'd always say yes.
Of course, you would.
You never noticed how his gaze lingered longer and longer each time, soft on the surface but heavy underneath.
You didn't notice the tiny curl of amusement at the corner of his lips whenever you got flustered.
You didn't notice how he always made sure he was always present in your mission, but not the other way around.
You didn't notice how the lock on your door loosened when someone jabbed it at the right angle.
You didn't notice the way he always seemed to know things you'd never told him. Where you'd been, who you'd talked to, what you'd been reading, and how late you'd stayed up.
You didn't notice how his fingers twitched whenever someone else made you laugh.
My, oh my. Weren't you just an oblivious teammate? Too trusting, too open, and just too easy to pull in.
He was having too much fun watching you wander so innocently, so blindly into his hands. And, well, he really didn't want to put a stop on this little adventure he was having with you.
────୨ৎ────
"What're your hobbies, Tamsy?" you asked him randomly while eating lunch with him and Delmon.
Tamsy pretended to think about it, relishing the way you inched closer in curiosity, almost too eager to hear his answer.
It was laughable how easy this all was considering you naturally gravitated toward him.
"I like listening to music," he said flatly, taking a bite of his food.
Delmon nodded aggressively. "Yes! He sometimes play it too loud in the morning, causing a ruckus!" he agreed, voice loud enough to shake the table.
Tamsy didn't look at him, but he felt a vein pulse in his forehead.
You snorted, covering your mouth as you swallowed a bite. "I like singing and dancing, though I'm not that good at it," you chuckled embarrassed, a tint of redness spreading on the nape of your neck.
I know, Tamsy nearly said. He could still picture you tripping in the west wing hallway yesterday, arms flailing as you tried to waltz with an imaginary partner, before looking around and sighing in relief because you thought no one saw it.
Instead, he smiled, lips tugging a bit too high.
"There's no need to be embarrassed," he reassured, tilting his head in the way you trusted him more. "You're not obliged to be good at your hobbies; as long as you like them, that's good enough."
Delmon nodded firmly, arms crossed over his chest. "Tamsy is right! Passion and effort matter most!"
You shrunk under their gazes, fingers tugging at the seams of your pants. "Yeah!" you mumbled, lips quirking to a small grin before you continued. "Oh! And I also like studying about the Sphere—"
Tamsy nearly snorted. That's too obvious, dear, he thought, mentally rolling his eyes. Everyone in the Cleaners knew you were curious about the Sphere and Ground. The archives were practically your second bedroom already—with a table set up just for you.
But then, you continued, "Did you guys know they have this thing called a 'God'? I just read about it the other day..."
Tamsy's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he dulled it back to a neutral expression. Huh, now wasn't this interesting? This was new, even for him! He didn't know you'd wandered this deep into (forbidden) Sphereite knowledge.
Where did you learn that word?
How much did you know about the concept?
Were you aware of it's importance to the Ground?
Ah, weren't you just full of surprises today.
Tamsy's attention tunneled entirely onto you.
The tiny flick of your eyes. The nervous way you twirled your spoon. The way you kept stealing a glance at his direction.
You were clever, he knew that. But perhaps, there was something even you were hiding from him
Those types of people always ended up interesting.
"How'd you learn that?" he asked gently, carefully neutral on the outside, yet he was brimming with too much curiosity beneath it.
"Oh, uh..." you trailed off, teeth tugging at your lower lip as if debating whether to share the truth. Then, you leaned forward and crooked a finger, beckoning him closer. He didn't hesitate. Warm breath brushed against the tip of his ear the moment you spoke, sending a faint, involuntary shiver down his spine. "Don't tell anyone about this," you whispered, voice low and husky. "But I accidentally stumbled on old files in the west archive." Strands of your hair brushed against his shoulder.
Ah, that was interesting.
His smile widened, sweet and sickly, as he put a finger on his lips, promising to keep your secret. You lit up, face bright with pure trust, and immediately turned toward Delmon to ramble about something else entirely, leaving Tamsy sitting there with his hand on his lap, eyes following you with careful precision.
You were learning things you shouldn't, and seeing things you weren't meant to see. This might be troublesome in the future, especially with everything he had been planning. Especially with what he intended to do once he finally dragged Rudo down into the role he belonged.
Yes... troublesome indeed.
He needed to pay closer attention to you now, making sure that you weren't putting your nose where it shouldn't belong. You might become a problem for him... or an opportunity.
Either way, it made him inwardly grin. A quiet thrill curled in his chest, fluttering with delight at all the possibilities you were unknowingly giving him.
So trying to get your attention when you’re unbelievably oblivious is his favorite, most frustrating pastime.
It’s even worse that you’re such a hopeless romantic. You read stories and play games involving the delights of romance that make you blush, bite your lip, and squirm in barely self-contained delight. Yet, when Sylus presents you with flowers or takes you on a one-on-one outing watching the sunset drift into starlight, your adorably oblivious self sees it as nothing more than kind gestures of a friend.
A bestie.
Sylus regularly gets into his own room after such outings, frustrated in a way that has his ears red and an incredulous laugh squeezing its way out of him. He has to take cold showers regularly after seeing you.
You touch him without so much as a thought, but shy away when he wants to also engage in such casual closeness. You were far more an expert of playing hot and cold with him, and you weren’t even trying.
It all changes when you suggest a silly little drinking game while you show him yet another one of your favorite shows. It’s not enough that you were both knocking back constant shots, but it was enough that Sylus stared at you more than usual.
And when you finally ask why he was staring?
He’s grabbing your jaw, rubbing a thumb on your bottom lip.
“I’ve been trying to get your attention for weeks.” He murmurs low. “Yet you still somehow don’t get it.”
He’s crowding your space now. The heat on your face isn’t just the alcohol. You know you could push him away and he’d listen, but-
“I want you.” He breathes against your lips, nose brushing yours. “I need you.”
Your lungs only fuel the faintest whimper when his hips naturally settle between your thighs. You didn’t even realize you were gripping him closer with clawed fingers in his upper arms.
“Tell me… tell me you want me too.” He’s growling against your lips until you finally close that last little bit of space between you.
"we can't be friends anymore."
you stood in something resembling disbelief while iwaizumi, your best friend and closest confidant, said something so blunt that you were stunned into silence.
you watched his hands, always the teller of his emotions, fidget uselessly for a second before stilling, almost as if he knew he was being watched. his eyes, usually warm, were filled with a conviction so strong you genuinely felt fear.
the summer air embraced the two of you, the wind sweeping over your cheeks in comfort. iwaizumi dropped his gaze to the floor before finally speaking again.
"it's not your fault," he sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "in fact, i don't want you blaming yourself at all. i know you would. you're so sweet. you'd never understand. but i can't do this anymore."
"what did i do?" you asked, voice trembling ever so slightly, "i thought we were alright hajime."
upon hearing his first name he winced.
"look." he said, "i know you obviously don't feel the same way as i do, and i tried for months. and i know that you're too nice to tell me that you don't feel the same, and god i want your time. i want all of it. but i cannot force you to loan your heart out when you don't feel the way i do."
your mouth fell open, brows contorting in shock. "what do you mean?" you whispered, hardly able to believe what you were hearing. "i don't feel the same? feel the same about what?"
iwaizumi blinked in confusion. "what?"
"i'm serious!" you explained, waving your hands around pathetically. "to me, it sounds like you're breaking off our friendship. and i don't want that, and i want to know what i did."
iwaizumi's eyes widened before he hid his laugh behind his hand. you continued to wait for his explanation, but all you received was the beautiful chimes of his laugh filling the air between you.
"do i need to spell it out?" he chuckled, looking towards the heavens like it would give him answers. "i thought i was obvious."
"obvious?" you shot back. "hajime, be direct."
"i like you so much it's driving me insane. i cannot pretend to be friends anymore because what i want is to take you out. and spend all my time with you. romantically. so i am asking you to have mercy on my heart and reject me."
"WHAT!" you yelled, more at him than anyone else. "what makes you think i'd reject you?"
"you didn't seem to like me so..."
"i've been after you for months," you groaned, "why else would i search up that tofu recipe you like. and come to your volleyball games, and help you study anatomy with that dumb skeleton in your room. i like you. a lot. i just wanted your company more than anything else. i thought you didn't like me."
with that, iwaizumi grinned, shaking his head in disbelief. "disgusting. if tooru was watching this, he'd never let us live that down."
you giggled, reaching over to grab one of his hands.
"let's go on a date." you smile. "you can tell me all about this little crush of yours."
he sighed, lacing his fingers between your own and heading off towards the nearest ice cream shop. the evening sun set behind you, the watercolor sky painting the end of a miscommunication and the first of many dates.
au: hi loves happy day 4 of kinkmas. this one absolutely ran away from me in the best possible way. thank you for all the love on this series so far! you’re the sweetest little holiday gift ever and i hope this one makes you kick your feet a little.
happy reading & happy kinkmas
now playing: christmas (baby please come home) by michael bublé
the daily planet’s holiday party looks like someone threw christmas into a blender and hit purée. tinsel lie everywhere and blinking lights that look like they’re sending distress signals. someone in advertising is wearing a full elf suit with bells on it and shockingly perry white is already on his third glass of the “editorial-strength punch,” which means perry white is effectively down for the count.
you exhale and tuck yourself into a corner of the bullpen, balancing a paper plate of gingerbread cookies and mentally preparing for battle. you like christmas, you truly do but crowds make your shoulders inch up toward your ears. you just wanted cookies, a quiet wall, and maybe to watch clark kent exist from a safe distance like the walking emotional comfort blanket he is. also: he promised he’d meet you here tonight.
but you don’t see him yet, mentally cursing yourself for being so into him. it’s fine! totally fine! you think as your brain immediately shoots back to the tray of cookies in your hands. before you can even take a bite of your sugar cookie, letting the vanilla and cinnamon hit your tongue someone steps directly into your line of vision. "wow!" the guy says, smiling like he’s been waiting his whole life to be annoying. "you must be new! i would’ve remembered someone like you."
he beams as he looks you once over, you want to frown but you fake it til you make it. 'great, a pick-up line wrapped in cologne that arrived three seconds before he did.' you think as you come up with a reply on the spot. "uh." you say politely, "i work in features." you even smile a little friendly, approachable eve because you’re not rude. he steps closer. way too close. "features."
he repeats, like the word owes him money. "guess i should read that more often." and you take a tiny step back but he takes a even bigger step forward. 'annoying, the nerve of this guy.' your brain screams. not dangerous, but annoying enough to spark a brilliant, terrible idea in your head. use him as clark-bait.
you school your face into a perfect 'oh no i’m trapped' expression, widening your eyes just enough to look helpless. you tilt your chin up at the guy, like you’re cornered. but in your head, you’re chanting: 'okay clark, please. now would be a great time to look over here. come on. come save me, pretty boy!'
you glance around subtly, pretending to scan for an exit. what you don’t see: someone across the room freezing mid-conversation. what you don’t feel: the shift in air. but clark sees you. and clark sees him leaning over you and that’s when clark kent ever the farmboy, sweetheart, softest human alive completely stops pretending he’s unaffected and goes very, very still.
lois elbows him in the ribs. "kent? your glasses are fogging...breathe." he inhales through his nose. it doesn’t help, not when you smell like vanilla again that warm, sweet scent he memorized without meaning to. "should i go over there?" he asks, voice too tight. lois raises a brow. "do you want to?" he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to. because the guy leans one hand against the wall beside your head, and clark is already moving.
a quiet, determined glide through the crowd, all six feet of him locked onto you like you’re the only thing keeping the earth on its axis. "so," the man says, leaning closer, "you busy after this? we could—" he's cut off swiftly by clark's charming, "hey." his warm voice cuts in, deep and honey-sweet. you exhale in dramatic relief, partly real, partly the performance of the century.
as clark steps beside you, sleeves rolled, tie crooked, flannel peeking under his coat. "i’ve been looking for you." he says, like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. you blink up at him, playing innocent. "oh, you have?" clark nods. well... yeah. i saved you a mug of the good hot chocolate before jimmy added… whatever he added." he blinked baffled, the guy clears his throat. "we were talking."
clark doesn’t look threatening. he never does, he kind of just smiles kindly. with absolutely nothing behind it except a silent promise of: walk away. "oh, sorry were you?" clark asks softly. the guy stutters something that might have been yes, or sorry, or goodbye, and nearly trips over a decorative candy cane on his way out.
you wait three beats, just long enough for the guy to fully retreat — then let your shoulders slump in exaggerated exhaustion. "thank you." you whisper. "i thought he’d never leave." clark frowns, not angryily or concerned but focused. protective in that way that melts your bones a little. "was he bothering you?" clark asks, guiding you away from the crowd with a gentle hand on your back. "you looked… uncomfortable."
you bite your lip, eyes big, playing up the helpless act. "yeah..." you say softly. "i didn’t know how to get out of it." clark’s eyes darken behind his glasses. "well, you can always call me." he murmurs. "you don’t have to handle that alone." and your chest flips, it feels warm. "i know." you say, voice small and with a smile, "that’s why i kept looking around. i just… hoped you’d see."
clark stops walking. "you were looking for me?" he nearly chokes, you simply nod, your heart thundering under your chest at the admitance. "i always do." and if clark wasn't already jealous, protective and tense. boy, he sure is now. his voice drops low, "sweetheart, if ever someone makes you uncomfortable. i'm not going to let that slide. never." your breath catches at this new side of him.
'sweetheart.' he didn't even notice he had said that. "i just... didn't think he was flirting." your lie rolls off smoothly, because the bit isn't over yet for you. "i thought he was just being nice." you shrugged but clark just stares at you like the sky suddenly turned green.
"you... you didn't notice?" his exhale is harsh, he looks away and looks back. "notice what?" your soft playing coy and unattentive. "that he was flirting with you." he flatly says "hard." your eyebrows shoot up. "oh, really??"clark looks personally offended by your confusion. "yes." he huffs out shaking his head.
“but… why?” the expression he makes is somewhere between heartbroken and absolutely in love with you. "sweetheart..." he murmurs his voice softening. "have you seen yourself?" you swallow as you try to calm your reply, "i… didn’t know you noticed." he smiles, it's small, shy, devastating. "i notice everything you do." your knees nearly give out.
clark’s confession is quiet, unassuming, earth-shaking and just hangs between you like a pulled thread. you’re afraid to breathe in case it snaps. "you… notice everything?" you echo, voice tinier than intended to come out. clark swallows, adam’s apple bobbing. "i mean..." he rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed to his bones. "i try not to stare. but you, um… make that difficult." he says shyly as your brain immediately begins to overheat and reboot like a computer system.
"me!?" your voice squeaks out, clark huffs out a soft laugh. he glances down at you through his dark lases with that impossible combination of gentleness and desperation he doesn't even know he leaks. "yes, you." voice gentle and soft like those early city mornings. the words wrap around you like the big red scarf still draped over his arm.
the one he wore here but hasn’t had the heart to put back on since he gave it to you the second you stepped into the cold hallway. you tug the edge of the scarf around your shoulders. "clark, i… i didn’t mean to worry you." he stops walking again, his breath fogging in the air. snow drifting in lazy spirals outside the glass windows.
"you didn’t." he says instantly. "you couldn’t." you raise an eyebrow at his confession. "i couldn’t?" clark looks shy suddenly. "i mean—i always want to be there, for you! even if you aren't uncomfortable. even if you’re just… bored. or lost. or pretending someone is bothering you so i’ll come over.”
your stomach drops. how— how did he know? "wh—what makes you think i was pretending?" you ask, trying not to crack. clark tilts his head, gives you that reporter stare he usually reserves for corrupt billionaires and suspiciously cheap apartment landlords. "you’re a terrible actress." he says softly and you open your mouth. then close it. open it again.
"i—excuse me??" you sputter. "i just gave the performance of a lifetime! oscar worthy!" clark’s lip twitches, a smile that threatens to actually break through the fluster. "sweetheart… you looked like a cartoon character holding up a sign that said ‘please save me clark!" your hands fly to your face, mortified and somehow warm all over. "i hate you." you huff feigning annoyance.
he laughs under his breath. "no, you don’t." you glare up at him through mascara coated lashes. "i might!" you huff out. "no..." he repeats, smiling now, eyes soft as winter light. "no, you don’t." the worst part is he’s right. you don’t... not even a little. you both step into the elevator, the doors gliding shut, trapping the warmth between you. clark presses the button for the lobby and then leans just slightly against the wall, sleeves rolled up enough to show his forearms, tie crooked, hair perfect in that 'just shoved his hands through it' way.
you try not to stare but you fail miserably. of course clark notices the exact moment your eyes drop to his mouth and immediately clears his throat, flustered down to the marrow. "so..." he says, voice an octave lower than normal, "why’d you do it?" you blink, confused "do what?" he gives you the look, the one that undresses you in kindness, not heat. "pretend you needed me." your heartbeat stutters. "i didn’t pretend that..." you say quietly. "i did need you." that stops him cold.
"oh?" clark breathes. "i, i thought—" you softly sigh, "no." you shake your head. "i mean, yeah, the guy wasn’t that bad but i wanted you. not because i needed rescuing, but because…" you bite your lip, letting the truth hover just out of reach. "…because i like being around you." clark’s breath catches and his hand resting by his side, curls slightly. like he’s fighting every instinct in him not to reach for you. "i like being around you too." he says softly, before adding onto his actual confession. "a lot."
the elevator dings breaking the tension a bit. you walk out into the lobby, warm city lights reflecting off the marble floor. snow dusts the windows, settling against the glass like a soft knock. clark adjusts the scarf around your shoulders again. gentle, careful, like you’re made of something fragile and precious. "hold still." he murmurs, his tongue sweeps over his lips. you look up at him, "you always fuss over me." you chuckle and he lies, "i do not fuss."
you raise your brows signalling a warning look. he sighs, "okay, i fuss a little." you shake your head "a little?" he smiles sheepishly. okay then, a lot." when you step outside, the cold hits immediately and the kind that settles on your skin like a clingy ghost. clark steps closer, one hand hovering at the small of your back.
"are you warm enough?" he asks, his hand still there. "i am wearing half your scarf." you admit with a giggle. clarks words hit you like a train. "you can have all of it if you want." you shake your head laughing loudly.
"you’ll freeze." he shrugs a bit "i run warm." oh, you do not need that information especially not right now. not with the image that immediately flashes in your mind. you shove it away and continue walking, snow crunching under your boots. clark keeps pace with you easily and then, slowly, tentatively, the back of his hand brushes yours.
you hold your breath. clark hesitates and then hesitates again and then like it costs him everything, he threads his fingers through yours. your heart does a full somersault. "is this okay?" he asks softly. you squeeze his hand. "yeah. yeah, it is." clark exhales like someone let him breathe for the first time all night.
you walk the next block in silence, hand-in-hand, snowflakes catching in your hair. clark keeps looking over at you like he’s memorizing every second. finally, he says, "can i ask you something?" you nod, smiling softly. "why me?" your breath fogs in front of you. "what do you mean?" clark looks down at your joined hands, then back at you — shy, earnest, unsure. "if someone flirts with you… why do you look for me? why do you want me to come over?"
you laugh gently. "clark. who else would i want?" his eyebrows lift, like he wasn’t expecting that answer at all. you continue, stepping closer as the snow falls heavier. "i like you. i feel safe with you. i trust you, and." you swallow, cheeks warm. "—i like how you look when you get… protective."
you don’t look at him when you say it but you feel the change. clark stops. completely. your joined hands stay connected, but he pulls you gently to a halt, turning toward you. snow flakes catch in his lashes. his breath fogs between you. his eyes soft blue, crackling with something he’s been holding back for months. his eyes search your face like he’s trying to read every secret you’ve ever had. "sweetheart." clark murmurs, voice low and warm enough to melt ice, "you can’t just say something like that."
your breath quickens. "why not?" he steps closer barely but enough that you feel the heat rolling off him. "because." he says, almost a whisper. "i don’t know how to pretend around you anymore."
your heart stops, completely. "clark…" you whisper. he shakes his head gently, looking at you like you hung the stars. "i get jealous and i try not to but when someone leans close to you, when someone who isn’t me tries to get your attention…" he swallows hard. "…it makes me want to step in. every time."
"clark…" you mumble but his voice cuts you short, "and not because i think you need rescuing." he adds, softer. "but because i want you to look at me the way you looked at me tonight." you blink, stunned. "how did i look at you?" you quip as clark smiles, small and heartbreakingly tender. "like i was the only one you wanted."
you open your mouth trying to deny it, to admit it, to say everything at once but before you can, clark lifts your joined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles. it's gentle and reverent. he's claiming without claiming. then suddenly the world goes quiet, it's just the soft snow and fogs of breath and him, clark.
@bibooby Thank you so much for a Bowser request, I forgot how much I loved this big scaly brute. I hope this will suffice to scratch your Bowser itch. :]
Request: Anything with bowser/reader PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE okay more seriously maybe some situation where bowser gets in trouble/injured/sick and a reader had to deal with the aftermath of it... (bowser really really likes the reader who is somehow oblivious to it
--------------------------------------
For all of a second, the world outside your kitchen window brightens as a blinding flash of lightening streaks across the ebony sky, casting its portentous glow over your garden and the rain-slicked cobblestones that wind their way up to your front door.
It’s the briefest snippet of time, where everything is lit up in an instance of monochrome, all black and white and grey like an old photograph, a vivid disparity to the glow that keeps you wrapped up inside your home, golden and warm and safe.
The dish you’ve been scrubbing slips from your fingers and lands in the sink with a cacophonous din, splashing warm, sudsy water all over the front of your apron, though you hardly pay any mind to the noise, or the water, too preoccupied with gaping out through the storm that rages beyond the window’s glass.
Because slumping up the stony path, towering over shrubs and dead-headed roses, is a monstrous figure, a silhouette of grey standing tall against the inky darkness of a tempest.
It moves like it’s hurt - slowly, drunkenly, stumbling forwards a pace or two before it manages to bring itself to a clumsy halt, then teeters sideways and starts the whole process over again on its sluggish journey towards your house.
In the next second, the shock leaks from your chest and you’re on the move, scrambling away from the sink and tossing the sponge aside as you go, hearing a wet thwap as it lands somewhere nearby. You make a mad dash for the hallway adjoining your kitchen, slippered feet skidding across the tiles as you charge around the corner and beeline straight for the front door.
Because you recognise that figure, even if only by the size alone.
You don’t know a great many people who are quite as large as him after all. Though what he’d be doing out in a squall like this at quarter to eleven at night is far beyond the scope of your imagination.
Already, you’re planning a lecture. One that’ll have to come after you’ve discovered why your impromptu visitor is moving like a lame dog.
Red flag number one.
Hardly pausing long enough to get a proper grip on the doorhandle, you twist it clumsily aside and shove.
It’s hardly opened wider than a hairline crack before the howling wind sneaks in behind the wood and nearly yanks the door from your grasp, and you have little choice but to go with it, letting the weather snatch it open and tug you out onto the porch step beyond.
All at once, you’re being pelted by ice-cold lashes of rain that sting at your cheeks and whip into your eyes before you can raise an arm, attempting to shield your face as you holler above the howling maelstrom, “Bowser!?”
The eerie mirror-shine of eyes appear in the darkness, catching the light that spills from your hallway and reflecting it back at you.
Then, your visitor takes another step forwards, bringing himself just within reach of the dim glow.
Suspicions confirmed, you release a sharp huff of air, and without considering your slippers or the puddles pooling steadily along your path, you hop right off the porch step and march towards the gargantuan koopa, driven more by worry than anything even close to irritation.
At the approach of your splashing footfalls, a massive, horned head lifts away from where he’d tucked it against his chest, and you don’t miss how that small movement looks to have taken far more effort than it should have.
In the middle of a stride, you flick your gaze rapidly up and down, cataloguing everything from the way his meaty hands clutch at his elbows with a fervour, to how the tail poking out from beneath his shell curls inwards around his leg.
Then the rain is taking over your lashes again, and you have to shake your head to clear them as you reach your friend’s side and let out a shout that blasts droplets of water off your lips. “What the Hell are you doing here!?”
In hindsight, you suppose you could have worded it more gently.
Bowser’s almighty chest wheezes out a thin, rattling breath as he instinctively pushes his nose towards you, eyelids thick and heavy. Yet even still, his muzzle manages to lift into a weary smile just at the sight of you.
“S’rry,” he wobbles out in a voice like churning gravel, blinking unevenly at the ground when you duck beneath one of his arms and hoist it across your shoulders, buckling under a metric ton of muscle, “Di’n’t… know wh’re else t’go….”
Red flag number two.
Far from the scaley power-house you’ve known for half a decade, now he’s trembling like a sapling in a hurricane.
It frightens you.
What happened to him?
Grunting with effort, you hold your tongue until you’ve cajoled him over the threshold and into the warmth of your home, stretching your leg backwards to kick the door shut behind you, at once muffling the noise of the storm that still rages on outside.
Then, and only then, do you finally offer your exasperated response. “Home!” you wheeze, manoeuvring the Koopa under the cramped doorframe into your living room and trying not to wince as chips of wood are scraped off by the spikes protruding from his shell, “You could have gone home. To your castle! To Kamek!? Instead of traipsing your sorry hide all the way here in the middle of the night, in a thunderstorm, no less!”
If you knew how little attention he’s paying to your apparent anger, and how much attention he’s paying to the softness of your body pressing up against his solid, leathery side, you’d probably be even more miffed. And rightly so.
Still, he at least catches the gist of what you’d said. He’d be a fool not to listen to your voice when you speak, even with a fever running rampant beneath his shell. It would be like plugging his ears to a beautiful aria.
“Can’t,” he mumbles through rubbery lips, vaguely aware of the fireplace you’ve stopped at, “S’con-… contay-jus…”
And there’s red flag number three.
Well, less of a red flag and more a blaring claxon.
“Contagious?” you parrot, extracting yourself from under Bowser’s arm and moving to stand below his chin, earning a reedy whine of protest from the King, “You’re sick?” And without waiting for permission, you reach up and press the back of your hand first to his leathery cheek, then to his forehead, pursing your lips at the heat radiating off his scales and missing the flutter of his eyelids as he nudges forwards into the touch.
“Stars…” you hiss, “You’re hot.”
When his drooping features struggle to lift into a very self-satisfied grin, you cluck your tongue and amend, “You’re running a fever, Shell-for-brains… And you say it’s infectious?”
Even in his addled state, he must have caught the frown that troubles your brows because he’s suddenly dipping his snout down to you and trying to whuff softly through fluttering nostrils.
“Koopas,” he croaks raggedly, halfway drunk on the bliss of your skin easing the heat out of his blistering face, “Only f’r Koopas… Wouldn’t… do that… t’you…”
As if you give half a damn about that, but his voice seems to wane with the last of his strength, and you barely have time to dart forwards, splaying your hands against the soft underside of his chest and giving him a solid shove until he sways upright again.
He blinks, flaming eyebrows crawling apart in something like surprise when he drops his nose and peers blearily down at the spot where your palms connect with his sternum, as if he’s mystified by the simple, steadying touch.
You, in the meantime, are a little distracted by the rainwater dripping steadily off his scutes, hair, and chin to form a slowly-growing puddle on your hearth.
“For goodness’ sake, you’re soaked right through…” Biting on your lip, you frown up at the very damp koopa shivering in front of you, and begin cobbling together the vaguest structure of a plan.
Right. You have a friend who’s… undeniably ill in your home. With something that only affects koopas, apparently. He’s quaking from the horns on his head to the tip of his tail. He’s far hotter to the touch than is typical for him, this in spite of being outside in the icy rain for an indeterminable amount of time… You don’t know all the ins and outs of koopa biology. But having one for a best friend has given you at least a little insight into the species.
And you don’t need to be an expert to recognise the signs of a fever when you see them.
“Okay, stay put. I’ll be back in a second,” you tell him urgently, giving him another once-over to make sure he’s adequately stable before you draw your hands away and turn to make a dash for the staircase at the opposite end of the room, leaving Bowser to peer after you in a daze.
Wait… His expression crumples as you disappear around the corner.
Where are you going?
Of its own accord, one of the King’s legs carries him forwards, and he stumbles heavily onto it, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut until the room around him stabilises once more. When he wrests his eyelids apart again, he’s standing at the foot of the staircase, his clawed hand crushing a finial that cracks and splinters under his grasp as he tries using it to haul his entire bodyweight up onto the first step, intent on following you.
Beneath the sluggish muddle of thoughts clomping around inside his skull, there’s a tiny inkling of coherency that’s berating him for showing weakness, for getting sick in the first place, for coming here – to your home – and letting you see him vulnerable and clumsy and as far from dignified as a king could possibly get. But that inkling is small, and lost easily under the tides of instinct and impulse, both of which were what led him here in the first place, seeking comfort in a familiar space with familiar smells and his most treasured friend who he knew would always open the door to let him in.
And now, you’re gone again, taking the majority of that comforting scent with you, and Bowser’s body is desperately attempting to track you down once more.
He slumps in palpable relief when you suddenly reappear at the top of the stairs like a vision descending from the heavens, with your arms engulfing a tower of blankets and towels that are stacked high to your chin.
“Thought I told you to stay put,” you say without a lick of heat behind your words as you navigate the steps, peering around your stack at the Koopa gazing up at you from below.
He simply rumbles a hum in the affirmative, giving you an adoring look that you easily chalk up to the fever running its course and leaving his head in a daze.
As you meet him at the foot of the stairs, you spare the briefest grimace at your ruined finial before squeezing past Bowser’s immense bulk and bumping your shoulder against his elbow, guiding him to turn with you, back towards the inviting hearth.
It’s easy enough to coax him after you, and you almost wish he was this biddable when he’s not running a fever. He seems inclined to follow you, at least, hovering a little too close as you dump your armful of blankets onto the floor and begin spreading them around, bunching some up and smoothing others out until you’ve made a decent enough little bed for him in front of the hearth.
Evidently, he finds it more than suitable, trying to step into it with an approving thrum from deep in his chest.
“Hold on, hold on!” you admonish him lightly, grabbing a towel from the mess and pushing yourself back to your feet, “Let’s dry you off a bit first. Then you can lay down.”
The Koopa’s shoulders sink as he snorts out a petulant huff, but all the same, he wavers obediently in place for you to start towelling him off, starting with what you can reach.
Your hands, comparatively tiny in just one of his own, scoop his palm up as you begin to gently glide the towel up and down the length of his hefty arm.
Something solid thuds on the ground behind him, a sound that you simply ignore… until it happens for a second time. And then a third.
You bring your ministrations to a brief pause, leaning sideways and glancing at the floor near Bowser’s feet, only for your brows to gradually creep back up your forehead when you make an… unexpected discovery.
In slow, sleepy motions, the Koopa’s yellow tail is lifting itself from the ground before slumping back down again, repetitively thumping at the carpet beneath him.
It seems you’ve found the source of the strange noise.
“Wow,” you observe, hesitantly returning to your task and sweeping the already-damp towel up the inside of his forearm, careful to brush lightly over his spiked wrist band, “You really must be out of it.”
You don’t think it needs to be said that he’s usually very controlled about wagging his tail.
Bowser just hums a distracted note in response and exhales hot air over the top of your head.
Worriedly, your chest bobs with a sigh as you hurry on to his next arm, stretching the towel up towards his shoulder before drawing it back down to his wrist and gathering water from the too-pale scales.
There’s a sudden, soft pressure on the crown of your head, and you flick your eyes up to find Bowser has pushed his snout into your hair, snuffling gently through his nose.
“Feel’s’nice,” he slurs, as if that’s explanation enough.
With a well-meaning roll of your eyes, you flip the towel over to its drier side and step back, stifling a tiny smile at how his head suddenly dips at the unexpected loss of his chin-rest.
“All right, plop yourself down here,” you tell him, gesturing at the pile of blankets that are slowly gathering warmth by the fireside, “And I’ll dry your-“
A heavy ‘whumph!’ shakes the paintings hung on your walls as the King drops like a two-ton boulder onto his front, shoving a colossal lungful of air through his parted lips.
“… - hair,” you finish flatly.
Dull, doleful eyes turn up to peer at you, and one of Bowser’s hands untucks from his chest, creeping towards you and delicately curling around the back of your ankle, giving it a light tug.
It’s a silent, entirely unsubtle request. One you oblige without much hesitation.
“Okay, okay,” you tell the impatient Koopa when he begins to paw at you in earnest, lowering yourself down in front of him on crossed legs and bending forwards to take one of his horns in each hand, “C’mon. Up here.”
Churring out a lazy rumble, Bowser allows you to guide his head into your lap with only a little effort on his part. He settles contentedly, his nose pressed to the soft roll of your belly, and his eyes slipping shut as he exhales a warm breath over the hem of your shirt.
Placing the towel between his horns, you begin to gently rub at his sopping-wet mane.
“So,” you huff by way of conversation, “Can I ask you something?”
Bowser’s voice is low and rich, buzzing through you when he responds with a blissful, “Anythin’…”
For just a moment, the word gives you pause, but you eventually purse your lips and dismiss his excess sappiness as a symptom of his affliction. “Want to tell me why you thought it was a good idea – if you’re already sick – to walk all the way through a storm to get here? You’ll give yourself pneumonia if you aren’t careful…”
As soon as you voice the possibility into existence, you bite down on the inside of your cheek and try to envision the contents of your medical cabinet…
Bowser only grumbles a noise into your stomach whilst you card your fingers through his tousled strands, working water to their tips so they can be soaked up by the towel.
“Honestly,” you admonish after a minute of oppressive silence, unaccustomed to your larger-than-life friend being so still and quiet, “Why you didn’t just hole up in your room ‘til the infection passes… or y'know, go to an actual healer, is beyond me.” Distractedly, you use your free hand to thumb at the furrow between his brows until the line softens. “Not that it isn’t great to see you. And you know you're always welcome here-"
The Koopa’s mouth tilts up into a wan smile at that, at least until you add, “-but this wasn’t one of your better ideas.” Not to mention that seeing him in this state has effectively frightened the life out of you…
But saying as much out loud might be a little too familiar, even among friends, so you keep the admission tucked away behind your tongue, in safer waters.
Heaving out a very unapologetic grunt, Bowser burrows his snout even more firmly into your stomach and mutters, “W’s missin’ you…”
Ah, well... So much for too familiar.
You resist the urge to blurt out a fond laugh, privately flattered that the great King of Koopas would admit to something so sentimental, feverish or not.
“It’s only been a few weeks since karaoke night,” you point out.
“Long enough,” he grumbles, rolling his weight forwards slightly and purring out, “N’you’re safe…”
You blink. It takes you a moment to realise he’s offering another excuse for his being here.
“Safe?” you echo, leaning over to reach down the back of his thick, muscular neck and drying the scales just beneath the lip of his cumbersome shell, “Of course I’m safe. This isn’t exactly a dangerous place to live.”
Due in no small part to Bowser making sure of the fact before he even allowed you to step foot on the island, let alone build yourself a home out here. It took you months to reassure the nearby village of Toads that, no, Bowser would not be burning their homes to ash if they so much as looked at you the wrong way. Took even longer to get the Koopa himself to promise you he wouldn’t.
Did he really drag himself out here in a thunderstorm to check that you’re safe? When a simple letter would have sufficed?
Idiot…
An idiot who’s loyal to his friends though, you’ll give him that.
But in your lap, Bowser is quick to roll his head gingerly from side to side and lets out a contradicting huff in response.
Apparently, you’ve misunderstood something.
“…Trust ya,” he presses insistently, peeling apart his crust-coated eyelids to gaze up at your downturned face, “Yer safe…. Kamek knows… J’nr knows…. Y’r safe… One of’us…”
One of-….
And suddenly, it clicks.
The hand you’d been smoothing over the top of his skull goes very still.
… Oh.
Swallowing thickly, you meet his eye, and though the fire is dimmed by fever, his typical sincerity is still there, blazing away behind a glassy sheen.
It makes… sense? You suppose.
He’s sick. And although he’d rather die than admit it, he’s vulnerable. He left the fortress to protect his fellow koopas, and came to the only place he could think of where he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d be safe…
He came to you…
You're safe...
It’s a humbling thing to realise.
Absently, you sweep a thumb up and down his temple, pulled from your thoughts when you register the heat pulsing there.
Right… Not out of the woods just yet.
Heaving a sigh, you drop the towel and scoot backwards, sliding Bowser’s chin from your legs, much to his chagrin.
“All right, stay here,” you tell him, rising to your feet and stepping deftly over the paw that tries to recapture your ankle, “I’ll be in kitchen. If I have it my way, you’ll be sweating this fever out tonight. And you’re gonna need to keep your fluids up when you do… And try to stay put this time!”
Bowser tries to say something, but his eyelids fall shut, and when he finds the strength to pry them open again, you’re sliding down in front of him once more, setting a glass of water on the floor behind you and pressing something under his nose that immediately overwhelms his nostrils with the potent scent of boiled ginger.
Tea… he registers dimly, inhaling an enormous swathe of gingery steam into his train-carriage chest. You’ve made him tea…
Not for the first time, he wonders if now would be the right moment to finally ask for your hand in marriage…. Oh, but he left the ring in his bedroom… Damn.
“Hhh. Love you,” he urgently rasps instead, the words getting lost around the rim of the cup as you tip it forwards, letting him take a tiny sip that immediately tingles in his throat, “Love you… s’much…”
“Yeah, I love you too, Big guy,” you tell him innocently, drawing the cup away and laying a cold, damp cloth across his forehead to draw the fever out. He shudders at its presence, but then he settles, blinking with a scrunch of his eyes for a few seconds before drowsily gaping up at you, his pupils blown wide in apparent wonder.
“Y’mean it?” he whispers hoarsely.
Quirking your lips at him, you hedge, “Of course?”
You don’t expect the vast Koopa to so suddenly peel his head from the blankets, shove himself forwards and drop his chin heavily into your lap once more, grunting like it had taken all of his remaining strength to do so. His eyes are squeezed shut, and the blankets behind him rustle as his tail swishes from side to side across the fabric. “Oh, tha’s… good,” he gushes reverently through an exhale, like you’ve just told him the greatest news of his life, a trembling smile pushing at his pallid cheeks, “Been so worried… ‘bout tellin’ ya…”
Bemused - and confused - you angle your head to one side and squint down at him, a small, awkward smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’m… sorry?”
“Not’ch’yer fault,” comes his weary reply. He sounds seconds away from falling into a dead sleep. “Di’n’t wanna scare ya…”
“Bowser? I think you’re delirious, you’re not making any-“
“Y’re best thing’s’ever happun’d t’me…”
“… Now I’m sure that’s not true,” you try to dismiss, reapplying the cold cloth and daubing gently at his temples.
“Love you,” he repeats stubbornly, with startling resolve. And as if it wasn’t getting hard enough to refute his conviction… “Loved you s’nce th’day I saw ya…”
… Ah…
“Is… is that right?” you swallow a little breathlessly, staring into the flames dancing and twisting behind his shell as if you’re trapped in a mystified daze.
You feel him give a pathetic nod, then the resonance of his hum pitches through your stomach like a roll of thunder. “Mhm…”
Oh, Bowser…
He starts to say something else, but you hush him softly, pressing the cloth over each of his eyes and wiping the crust away with gentle motions. "You need to sleep," you whisper through a tight throat, "You'll feel more like yourself in the morning..."
You're curious to know if he'll remember what he's just said to you... If he'll think it bears repeating....
In your heart of hearts, you really hope he does.
"I... c'n stay?"
Like he even needs to ask...
Heart wedged uncomfortably in your neck, you lean down, and after settling the flutter of nerves that pulses against your sternum, you finally lay the ghost of a kiss to the very tip of his snout.
At the feather-light touch, his entire body jolts from the force of a sudden rumbling purr that’s kicked out of his chest.
You’re… not so certain that this is all just the fever talking anymore.
@fish-18 hopefully this fits what you asked for :)
Middle school was an awkward time for everyone, growing up usually is, but it was especially awkward for you because you had a major crush on your classmate. A wonderful boy named Oliver, but everyone called him Ollie. He was friendly, respectful and helpful. The teaches loved him, his classmates loved him and you loved him. You loved him so much it was almost embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as every single interaction you have ever had with him. You were always floundering about, you never knew quite what to say.
Ollie would stop by your table at lunch, try to strike up a conversation with you before his friends rustled him away or he would show up after your class was over and ask about your day. Sadly, you did not know what to say and always made an absolute fool of your self. "Uhm, it was, good, yes, you?" Gesturing to him with a shaky wave of your hand, almost knocking into his shoulder. "It was alright," He shrugged, his backpack rustling with the motion.
"I-" "That's good! I mean, what-what were you saying? Sorry." You had interrupted, accidentally of course, but you were mortified. Ollie's was talking about his day and you interrupted him, his face had fallen into mild confusion then amusement and you died even more. Your face turned red as you tried to shrink in on yourself. He laughs, assures you it was alright and finishes talking about his day. But it was too late, he hates you, you just knew it. So you avoided him for the rest of the week. That was how most of your interactions with him went, you did something embarrassing, he brushed it off but you kept dwelling on it and as a result it prevented any relationship from forming.
Later on, in highschool, once the both of you had matured somewhat, you're interactions were less cringe inducing. You actually held a conversation with him, despite the flame that constantly engulfed your face, and could bond somewhat with him. Though you were slightly less invested in pursuing him, viewing him as more of a friend than a partner at this point. Brushing off the teasing comments your friends made whenever you talked about him and constantly stating you simple thought of him as a friend. "Come on, guys, it's not like that. Ollie and I, we're just friends." Shelby rolled her eyes. "Suurree, whatever you say, bestie." Then she stopped her drink through an obnoxiously loud straw and started complaining about her day.
You did not move on so quickly, lingering on the idea a bit more as you walked home. Pausing at some point as you began to feel a strange churning in your stomach, your brain sending off an unexplained feeling of paranoia as you looked around. Your eyes dart quickly across the sidewalk, over the alleys and houses, shoulder song drawing up as you hold your backpack tight to your body. That anxious feeling increases, your heart racing and squeezing as you began to feel short of breath. You couldn't explain this feeling and you didn't want to dwell on it, so you turned forward and ran home as fast as you could.
Sadly, this wasn't the only time you felt that way It occured again when you were out with your friends, fortunately it didn't feel as bad because you weren't alone. But every passing day that paranoia seemed to increase, you became distracted in class and conversations as you started dwelling on the discomfort. "Are you alright?" A soft voice has Interrupted your thoughts, Ollie, you felt instant relief once he talked to you. "Yeah, just, I don't know, nervous, I guess?" You looked away, off to the side, then back to him.
"About the test or.." His observant eyes ran over your face, he turned to face you." "Something else?" He tilted his head and for some reason you felt mild concern, you didn't know what it was, his gaze, his body language or just the whole situation, but you were uncomfortable. So, you nodded and laughed off the feeling. "Just the test, haha, nothing else." His shoulders dropped and he placed a hand under his chin, a lazy grin replacing the concerns look from earlier. "Me too, we can study together, if you want." Ollie's gentle hand reached out, lightly touching yours. Your eyes fell to his hand, the touch sending small flutters through your stomach, flutters you had almost forgot. "Uhm, heh, okay." A stupid grin creeped onto your face, only further illuminated by your flustered cheeks. "Great! The same route home as always, right?" His hands clapped together and he straightens up, disappointing you somewhat. "To my house, you mean? I mean, yeah, same route home." You had temporarily questioned how he knew your route, but brushed it off as he seemed so harmless at the time.
You wish you hadn't, you wish you had told him no, had said you weren't interested. You wish that all those years ago you had never talked to him, you didn't know he was obsessed with you that he had dreamed of being with you, possessing you. After he came over to study, he has become more insistent on spending time with you and so did that paranoia you felt when walking alone. Everyday to was worse, until he had invited you over and you had accepted. At this point the two of you were close, you had even considered dating him.
Then you went up to his room, you remember the creaking steps, the ominous way the door slowly swung open and the horrifying, sinking feeling you felt when you saw your face plastered across the walls, on his ceilings and the pictures. There were so many pictures. You held your hands over your face, shocked and disgusted. He had violated your privacy for some sick obsession of his "Sorry, I forgot to clean my room." You whipped around, facing him, angry and upset. "What?" You started. "Why?" You gasped, forcing the words out. He shrugged, so casually, almost amused. In that moment any affection you felt for him disappeared, draining from your mind. "Why?" He moved towards you and you backed away, almost frozen as he shut the door. "Because, I love you." You shook your head, telling him no, he didn't. But all he did was laugh and wave off your rejection. "I've loved you since middle school, the day you first talked to me."
As he continued advancing towards you, forcing you into a corner, he smiled and opened his arms. "Now I've finally got you." You bumped into his end table, knocking over a pencil container, then managed to swerve when he lunged for you. "We can be together, no one can keep us apart." You were confused, who was he talking about. Stumbling away, you tried to go for the door, but he was faster and he tackled you, slamming your body to the floor and avoiding the swinging of your hands. "Don't fight me, just let it happen. Let us be together, please" He pleased, but you weren't swayed. You don't know what was wrong with him, why he was acting like this or how no one had gone in his room and been concerned. But you didn't stop fighting, scratching at his flawless face and kicking as best you could. It was somewhat helpful, but he won and you were stuck in his arms, in his house. Did this mean you would stop fighting? No. You would get out and if you didn't get out you knew someone would find you, you just knew it or rather you hoped someone would come for you.
