secret ex!enjin who acts as if the two of you never happened—never dated
secret ex!enjin who still acts like you two are in good terms, goofing and joking around with you and the rest of the team, forcing you to go along with the charade
secret ex!enjin who stares at your eyes with no hint of longing or intimate warmth—gone was the eyes of your passionate lover who caress the deepest part of your soul
secret ex!enjin whose mannerism stayed the same when he was still your boyfriend
secret ex!enjin whose arm finds itself around your waist, idly rubbing his thumb against the skin of your stomach before pulling away as if nothing had happened
secret ex!enjin who denies having been in a serious relationship, when the scent of cigarettes continues to linger in the four corners of your room
secret ex!enjin who once drunkenly called you one night, babbling about missing you and wanting you back—only to ignore your presence the following day
secret ex!enjin who acts like you're someone he had never met when a woman hit on him at the bar
secret ex!enjin who always find his way back into the comfort of your sheets, whispering sweet nothings and empty promises of getting back together—even when both of you know he's lying
Gaz finally runs from Price, escaping from the toxic cycle of an old man trapped in his own closet,
He had been too afraid to confront his sexuality, so he pushed gaz away until he couldn't bare the longing. When he did let gaz in, bringing him into his office late at night. He treated him too soft, too fragile. Like a woman who couldn't lift a hand. Not like the soldier he was.
Gaz finds himself at some shitty pub, drinking at the high stool,
That's where OldMan!Reader walks in.
Blunt with your words, buying him a drink and making it clear what you want.
It only takes about 10 minutes for you two to make it in the dirty, single bathroom.
You fuck him bent over the sink, calling him all sorts of harsh names.
It stings a bit, sure, but it's better than the gently praises Price would use, making him feel like he was something weak..
Price had spent all night searching for his boy, every pub in the city.
He walks into the one on the very edge of a bad neighborhood, watching as Gaz stumbles on unsteady feet out of the bathroom with your hand on his ass.
Seeing Gaz with another man is bad enough. But you? The man who broke Price back when he was just as fresh-faced and curious? How is he going to save him before he ends up with a crushed heart, if Gaz won't even look at him :(((
Had an idea from a prompt I remember reading where Danny goes “Oh shit, that’s my ex” and it was Danny Phantom x Ra’s al Ghul ship, then I was like “It’s stuck in my head so I guess I have to write something about it now.”
“Umm… Would you repeat that”, Red Robin- otherwise known as Tim asks, utterly perplexed.
He had been put on monitoring duty at the Batcave due to his injured leg. He was prepared for a mind-numbingly boring night if it weren’t for the glowing man floating in front of him. A glowing stranger to be precise; a stranger who has managed to get inside one of the most well protected hideouts without tripping any alarms. He’s was seriously debating if this was a hallucination created by his sleep deprived brain.
The white haired man growls- like actually growls in frustration.
“Urgh! I want you guys to help me file a restraining order against one Ra’s Al Ghul. My very much obsessive crazy ex. I mean, I already have one sanctioned by the Council but that doesn’t seem to deter the man one bit and since you guys are suppose to be heroes or whatever, so I thought that you would be filling to help me out with this. Didn’t you guys have beef with him? Perfect time for some payback.”
Tim blinks, then rubs his eyes and looks again. Nope, the man is still here. He nods slowly and taps his communication device.
“B, you might want to come and see at this.”
The man or Phantom as he had introduced himself as earlier and Tim stare at each other for a bit before he can’t contain his curiosity.
“Soo… You and Ra’s”, he asks like this is all normal.
“One of many flings of my youth unfortunately”, Phantom admits with a cringe.
Warnings: Targarcest (uncle/niece), Arranged Marriage, court politics and obligations, mentions of polyandry, daddy issues, past relationships, slightly toxic behaviour, spanking, fingering, double p, oral (m receiving), p in v, breeding kink (I mean, it's Maekar), overstimulation, brat taming? Marriage kink? biting, creampie, dub con at the end if you squint.
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Hellooooo. I'm back with one of the promised parts. It took me less this time since it was half written, but I got distracted halfway (ahem... Benjen).
But here we are. I hope you like it, and like always, constructive feedback is appreciated.
Feel free to ask for any idea that comes to mind. The ones in process are written in the masterlist.
Have fun!!!!
The Moon.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰⊱༺༒︎༻⊰⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
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The breeze dances around the tree branches, flowers and grass as the sun begins to reach the highest point. It is not fresh anymore since as moons pass, and summer approaches, the snow from the mountains begins to enlarge the rivers.
Cousin Valarr and I stroll through the rose garden with soft steps and a few servants and knights following behind at a prudent distance.
None of us have been able to change our way of calling one another. There is no mother or aunt falling from his mouth, since I have no desire at all to call him anything else than cousin or Valarr.
“Have you heard?” He asks. I turn my head slightly.
“What about?”
“They say uncle Maekar is arriving today from the inspection around the Stormlands.” He now turns more serious, as if awaiting for my reaction. He knows how tense is the relationship between the crown and the stormlanders at the moment, and the trouble that could have happened with Maekar being there if Lyonel had been there too. Luckily or not, the Laughing storm had been too occupied attending the previous celebration to be able to attend the inspection that instead had been supervised by his uncle, who had a much less tense relationship with the Valyrian dragon.
I release a breath. Baelor's promise still rings in my mind, and while I love the idea of the fourth prince coming back home, a part of my self preservation is alertness and anticipation of the consequences of the dance shared with the stag.
“I heard. one of Lord Baratheon’s servants informed me of a crow coming from his uncle as soon as ours departed the castle.” Valarr just stares at me for a moment before ceasing his walk. I stop by him, turning to face him completely. “What is it?”
“Do you think it is prudent… to keep in touch with him after my father's reaction yesterday?” It is not. I know that well enough.
“Valarr, I've been with him for years thinking I was bound to marry him. I cannot just…” My voice and line of thought is interrupted by the drums and trumpets announcing the royal arrival. A shiver runs through my back as I turn towards where the entrance to the city would be. “We should…” Valarr just nods and we walk into the castle to greet the arriving party. Chambermaids and squires stroll around preparing chambers and rushing to the stables giving us little bows when they recall our presence.
Heavy footsteps come from a hallway on the right. I barely have time to react as my world turns suddenly around and I am facing the floor from a study tired shoulder. The scent of sweat and nature takes my nostrils captive.
How did he get here this fast?!
“Wait, Maekar!?” My uncle ignores my squeal and looks at my cousin. I turn to the young man searching for help.
“Nephew.”
“Uncle.” Valarr answers, watching me with amusement.
Seeing that there is nothing else to say, Markar turns around and walks to our room without another word.
Even turned upside down I can observe the curious glances of the servants as they contemplate the scene in front of them while working.
One would have thought them already used to their antics.
I try to grab my hands in his robes so his shoulder is not digging tortuously in my stomach.
“Stop moving.” The harshness of his tone gives away his bad mood and tiredness. How he is already aware of the happenings of the previous night is unknown to me. Deep inside me I hope that his sources are the current rumours in court and not his brother's detailed and probably a bit exaggerated version, but his tight hand on my waist, with fingers probably leaving marks under my dress, leaves a very little possibility of the first option. Then again, he has always been a man moved by rage. And passion.
“You stop, rowdy brute. I would not be moving if your bloody old bones were not digging in my belly at every step.” I hear him grunt, but he actually takes shorter steps.
You could also let go of me for once.
We finally get to my chambers. Well, our chambers since not a single night since the wedding have I had peace without one of them sleeping, or not so much, in them.
A yawn gets out as I think about my lack of much needed sleep.
Maekar's strong voice wakes me from my thoughts.
“You two. Fuck off.” He spats at the guards at the door, who scurry down the hallway as soon as they can.
Cowards.
“What is wrong with you, Kēpus!?” I yell after I bounce on the bed, messing the soft satin red sheets previously arranged. His face turns to me, incredulous and frowning. I am so fucked.
“Oh, fuck me. What is wrong with me!?” He spats getting closer to my face. “You know perfectly well what is wrong with me!”
“I do not…” My eyes travel to a nearby wall, but his rough hand finds my jaw and moves it so his face is just in front of mine.
I pout, trying to appeal to his mercy.
Uselessly.
“Save it. Baelor told me everything. He was too fucking soft on you. I will not.” I believe he is going to fuck me right there and then, but his anger seems to fuel the earful. “Even when we showed you every damn time your place by our side, you keep feeding his bloody delusions.”
“But Uncle…”
“Don’t uncle me. We’ve given you enough time to erase those fucking feelings for that… Baratheon brat.” He spats, his lips nearly grazing mine. His eyes do not leave mine for even a second. “Seeing that every word we say comes and goes without getting into that fucking little head of yours, I will teach you a lesson until you get it.” He pushes me and my back falls on the bed and stares at me from above. “Tits on the bed, ass up.” I gulp hesitant and go to complain, but my words are not fast enough. “Do not make me repeat myself again or I swear for the old gods and the new I will not be as nice. These are the consequences of what you’ve done.”
I scramble to the position he orders, my nose close to the mattress taking Baelor's and my scent in, still lingering from all these previous nights of passion and jealousy. Some remnants of arousal travel to my core.
I feel Maekar's hand touch my clothed back down to my ass, running his nail on the fabric. He clicks his tongue contemplating the laces that keep me covered.
The man walks away and quickly comes back.
The next second the sound of my dress being cut retumbles in my ears and the pressure of my ribs drops.
!...This bastard! I liked this dress!
“Maekar!”
“Quiet.” He orders, taking away the broken clothes and my undergarments and throwing them away somewhere.
Somehow I believe he did it on purpose. After all, it had been a gift from my former betrothed.
“But…”
“I said quiet.” He reprimands. “If I have to buy you another or ten more dresses, I will. Now close your pretty little mouth before I do it myself.”
I weigh if my shame and fear are heavier than my desire. I choose to keep my thoughts to myself. No need to anger further a fuming dragon.
He makes me wait, as he also undresses. I feel him closening while he does.
“You want to behave like a child? You’ll get punished as one.” I hear something behind me. Some piece of metal is heard behind me as he takes off his pants, and later his breaches. “I hoped my time of punishing brats was gone, but here we are.” Nothing happens for a few moments.
I do not move.
His mood, already fuming, is not something that should be stirred any further, gods forbid I end up bedriden from the fucking.
He strikes with something hard. Harder than his hand. His belt.
“You couldn’t stay away, could you?” His speech lacks every formality that happens outside these doors. Again, the leather hits my flesh. My breath stutters. “You had to bloody push it. Like an ill-mannered little girl.” Another strike gets delivered. My tears begin to appear in my eyes. “And that fucking Baratheon.” Another. “He knows you’re ours, and yet…” Again. I repress a moan I know I should not release. “...he insists on trying to take you back.” The material collides again with my backside. “You won’t get away from us again. Not on banquets, not on torney, nor anywhere else. Understood?”
I nod weakly.
My pride is gone, erased by the anticipation and the sting on my skin.
The cold metal caresses my ass, slowly, contrasting with the heat of the red spots there, and at the same time, threatening with further pain. He would not, right?
“Understood…”
“Good wife.” The belt falls to the floor and I feel his heat when he comes closer. “Now apologise.”
I obey his demand. Little more I can do.
“I’m sorry…” His hand travels down the raw skin. My body tries to get away from him, overwhelmed, but his hands pin me down in front of him.
“For what?” He whispers in my ear. His chest covers my back, and I feel his hardness on my backside, wanting to part my cheeks.
“...What?” I try to turn my head to him but he takes my hair and pushes my face to the soft surface. I once more breathe the scent of sex on the soft fabrics.
“You heard me.” A slap hits my butt. My already strained meat hurts and I can’t avoid whining.
“I… danced with him.” Again he strikes before caressing.
“What else.” Does he want me to list everything?
“I talked with him.” Another. Sturdier. He does not say anything. He keeps waiting. I feel my insides close around the nothingness. “I…I smiled at him.” Once more, even harsher. “I-I…” I stutter. My mind is empty, and I feel myself dripping.
“What else, wife.” His fingers dig on the already bruised area.
“I don’t know. Please, Uncle…” He spanks me for what seems to be the last time, and I feel his hand and his breath around my neck.
“You let him touch you, girl. That's what.” The lavender eyed man bites my neck, and his teeth stay on me until he is satisfied. He retreats and his hands turn me on my back. I hiss when my ass touches the mattress, pained. I search for his eyes, already on mine. “You’re ours, wife. And we love you. Hells, more than anything. But stop testing our patience.” I see in his face all those emotions that cannot be expressed in words.
“I’m sorry.” I apologise this time without coercion.
“I know.” Maekar stares and sighs. “Fuck me. Come here.” He says suddenly, getting on top of me and kissing my lips deeply for the first time today. The strength pushes the back of my head into the mattress.
His dick grazes my wet core as I try to pull him with my legs for further closeness.
“You’re damp.” Before I can make another move to caress him, his fingers wrap themselves on my wrists, and with one hand, he holds them above my head.
“Please, Maekar.” I complain. “I want to touch you.”
He thrusts in in just one go. I release a strained moan, and bite my lip.
“No.” He answered before biting my nipple again. “You don't deserve it. Not today.”
His mouth comes to my trembling skin under my chin, and keeps nipping.
He wastes no time before moving his hips against mine. I feel his girth stretching me, pushing my walls around before they submit to his shape.
He keeps going.
In and out.
In.
Out.
Again and again.
“Husband…” My meowls and whines rumble on the walls around us with his guttural growls and the rhythm skin against skin.
I hear him groan and his cock grows tighter inside me, my inside wanting to escape the strong presence.
“Fuck sake, wife. You’ve done it. I’m breeding you right now.” His movements grow frantic and move his digits to press on my little bud.
An electrifying sensation runs to my brain. My fists tense, and I try to shake his hand off to anchor myself wherever I can. But it is useless. Every circle drawn on my clit calls for a moan, a whine or a gasp.
The rhythm accelerates and at some point, the pressure goes from my wrists to my scalp, and my arms move to take his hair despite his previous words. The pain from my pull seems to entice him, because in a few seconds, he floods inside, and I roll my hips until I fall too.
Only the air inside my lungs circulating is what I hear as my body stays in the state of bliss.
No more than a minute later, he moves again.
The silver-haired dragon takes his manhood out of my cunt, and I spasm.
He manhandles me once again until I am with my but in the air, and my face meets the bed. His fingers move to my clit, and he strokes, again and again. I gasp.
“Wait Maekar.” I beg tiredly. “I just came. Please.”
“And you’ll keep coming until I say so.” He says. I feel his hardness rise again against my red skin.
Even when I still have to completely come from my high, he thrusts inside again.
The soreness consumes me, and the overstimulation punishes as he desires. Pushing and pulling, I feel my walls wanting to follow his cock in its movements.
“No. Please. Stop.” I plead. “Too much.”
I do not know if it is because of how recent my last climax has been, but I feel this one coming much faster.
“You can take it. You will. Just one more.” His hand comes to the front of my neck and he pulls until my back is touching his hairy chest once again.
“Daor… ah.” No. My erratic breath does not allow me to close my mouth or keep the sound of my pleasure to myself despite my negative. He presses with his hand further.
His moves with my lack of airflow makes my mind dizzy.
In the distance I hear a door opening.
Baelor.
Maekar is fast to stuff his fingers inside my mouth and keep my tongue under them. With a last snap into me, my walls shiver and my release cascades down my thighs, coating him also. The hand of the man stops the rest of the hallway from listening to my sounds before the door closes. The one behind me detaches his arms from my body, and I fall flush to the bed, with Maekar following me down to my side, avoiding to crush me.
I feel in a type of limbo, my own little universe full of stars inside my mind.
I hear the older dragon chuckle with the rustle of his clothes as he undresses himself.
The albino just huffs by me, his breath slowing once more.
The heir walks to me without a word and, with his hand on my jaw, he kisses me sweetly.
A treat on a sea of punishment.
But short lived.
After a beautiful and loving smile, his eyes go to his brother with a mischievous smile.
Oh no. No no no no. I don’t like this.
“Wait. Please.” I beg, desperate for some rest, already seeing their intentions.
“Be good for us, gevie.” Beautiful. Baelor’s voice is like a relief, but with cruel demand underneath, even if he does not realise or chooses to ignore it.
Tyrants.
He sits in front of me.
The bed shifts behind me, and I try to crawl away. But two arms appear to take mine and they pull. His cock is close to follow, as he penetrates my raw entrance. Maybe with a little more care than before. Briefly.
“Pirta.” I whine looking at Maekar, who scoffs but releases a breathless ‘Fair’ between pushes. Baelor gives me two little taps on the chin and I open my mouth reluctantly, tasting the tears that again roll down. He slides his manhood down my tongue, releasing a content sigh when he feels me gag. One of his hands moves to caress my hair as much as he can since Maekar keeps thrusting without stopping. I whine against the hardness, feeling myself sore, tired and building my pleasure again. The heir smirks at my sleepy crying face, looking delighted and somehow proud, and turns to his brother.
“What did you say for her to call you a liar?”
“That I would stop after the last one.” They both chuckle, the older one caressing my jaw with his thumb sweetly.
“Our poor little gorgeous wife.” He smiles at me, looking at me from above. “Taking care of our moods so well.” My conscience begins to slip, until Baelor moves my head for me to look at him despite his length being still on my tongue. “Just this once and you can sleep, darling. Come on. Be good for us, yes?” I do not answer. I cannot.
The pale-haired, seeing that my body is about to give up, thrusts faster. “Take it, wife.”
Baelor is close to losing any composure he had since he entered the room as I hollow my cheeks, and my throat moves in complaint.
“That's it, Darling. Good girl.”
Our climax approaches fast and heavy, and their hips begin to stutter.
I have to…
After the great extenuation and overstimulation, I reach my peak once again.
“Fucking... You're clutching at my dick, girl.” He stutters at the sensation, digging his fingers on my hips. The two of them thrust in tandem trying to get themselves off with my closing walls.
Now is Baelor too who thrusts with impatience, the noble patient brother, gone. Both, first the heir and later his brother, come inside me, again.
“Fuck! Yes... Milk it, ābrazȳrys. Take my fucking seed!” Keeps cursing Maekar while words in high Valyrian slip into his speech after his own overstimulation. The older one releases a breathless laugh seeing his brother talk the language after so long. The brunette helps me clean my mouth with a cloth while my fluids and Maekar’s run down my thighs to the bed, staining the red.
My eyes close.
My body relaxes.
I... can't... anymore.
“Yes, that's it. That's our darling wife. Rest, Gaerys.” I hear Baelor whisper as my mind finally rests.
Summary: You knew Clark had a past. Everyone does. But sometimes, in the quiet of your shared bed, the ghost of a woman you’ve never met lingers in your thoughts, Lois. You’re not jealous of her now. You’re jealous of the version of Clark she got to love before you. The one unscarred by loss. As your quiet insecurities rise to the surface, Clark holds you through your fears… while quietly wrestling with his own.
A/N: This was inspired by a post I read on an app called Medium, Called “did you like her in the morning?”.
My masterlist
You didn’t expect to feel this way. Not really. You knew he had a past, everyone does. You’d told yourself you were okay with it. Grown up enough to understand that love leaves a trail behind it, a history of people who once meant everything. But the lie caught up to you in quiet moments like this when the night was still, when he was asleep beside you, arm heavy across your waist like he always did, as if anchoring himself to the present without realizing the past still curled itself into the corners of your mind.
You weren’t jealous of her, exactly. Not the person. Not Lois Lane. She wasn’t around anymore. She wasn’t even a threat. What haunted you wasn’t her smile or her name or the lingering stories that slipped out of Clark’s mouth every so often, as if she were still threaded into the seams of his life. What haunted you was the version of him she got to know. The man before the weight of the world changed his spine, before the heartbreak softened his voice. The man who still believed love was permanent and not just something you hold onto until the next disaster.
He was different with you, and you didn’t know if that was a good thing. Sometimes he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you stayed. Like he was waiting for the fall. Sometimes he hesitated before saying I love you, not because he didn’t mean it but because he meant it too much. There were cracks in him now. Hairline fractures that no one warned you about. And while you’d never trade him for anyone else, a small part of you, the soft, insecure, human part ached to know what he was like before the storm.
You didn’t ask questions when he mentioned her. You smiled. Nodded. Tried to look unbothered when her name came up in stories that always sounded like a life that happened before you. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You were the one here now. You were the one he kissed goodnight. The one he whispered things to in the dark. But sometimes, when he laughed just a little too quietly or zoned out while stirring sugar into your coffee, you wondered if he was remembering her. If she made him coffee like you do. If he ever pressed his lips to her forehead before she left for work. If he ever looked at her like she was the only thing grounding him to this planet.
You hated yourself for wondering. You hated yourself for caring. But you did. And it hurt. Quietly. Consistently. Like a low-grade fever that never quite broke.
You didn’t mean to bring it up. You weren’t even sure what you were trying to say when the words slipped out that night, while he was brushing his teeth and you were pretending to be fine. You were both standing in the bathroom, soft yellow light overhead, everything warm and domestic and ordinary, and yet your chest felt like it was caving in.
“Do you ever miss her?” you asked.
He stopped mid-brush. Spit. Washed his mouth out before turning slowly toward you. “Who?”
“Lois” You said, eyes fixed on the tiled floor.
He was quiet for a moment, and that silence twisted in your ribs like a knife. You felt ridiculous. Pathetic. Too emotional for your own good. But you didn’t take it back.
“Sometimes,” he said honestly. “But not the way you think.”
That should’ve been enough. But it wasn’t. Not when your chest was already splitting open.
You swallowed hard. “I think I’m jealous of the version of you she got. The version before the pain. Before the guards. Before the world made you tired.”
Clark’s expression didn’t change, but you saw it in his eyes, the way his shoulders shifted, the way he took a slow breath through his nose.
“I know I have you now,” you continued, trying to make your voice sound normal, but it cracked around the edges. “I know that. You tell me you love me and you show me every day, and I believe you. I really do. But sometimes… I still think of her. I wonder if she ever got the version of you I try so hard to reach.”
You didn’t mean to say so much. You hadn’t rehearsed this. But now that it was out, you couldn’t stop. “She’s not here anymore, I know that. But I’m not jealous of her now. I’m jealous of the version of you that loved her before me. The you I’ll never get to meet.”
He stepped toward you slowly, eyes never leaving yours. You couldn’t read him. He was so good at gentleness, so careful with your heart that sometimes you forgot he carried wounds of his own. His hands came up to hold your arms, thumbs brushing lightly against your skin.
“She didn’t get the best of me,” he said, softly but firmly.
You blinked, caught off guard.
“She got the beginning,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “The naive, hopeful part of me. The part that thought love was simple. But you…” He exhaled slowly. “You have the version of me that’s real. The one who’s been broken, who’s been afraid, who’s learned how much it hurts to lose someone you love and still chooses to love anyway.”
Your throat tightened.
“I won’t pretend the past didn’t happen. It did. And yeah, sometimes I remember things. That’s just… how memory works. But I don’t compare you. I don’t weigh what I had with her against what I have with you. Because what I have with you—” he reached up, brushing your hair back behind your ear, “—is deeper. It’s messier. It’s more fragile and more terrifying. But it’s real. And it’s mine. You’re mine.”
Your eyes burned. You didn’t even realize you were crying until he caught the tear with his thumb.
“I know it’s not easy, loving someone who’s loved before,” he said. “But I’m not holding on to her. I’m not looking back. I’m here. With you. Entirely.”
And for the first time, you believed him without hesitation.
You let him pull you in. Let him hold you the way he always does, like you’re the thing keeping him grounded. Like you’re not just the present, but the future. Like you’re the choice he makes over and over again.
You buried your face in his shirt and let the ache in your chest slowly quiet. It didn’t vanish completely. Maybe it never would. But it softened. Because he meant every word. Because he was here, with you, and not just physically. Not just in the way his hand traced patterns on your back or the way he whispered “I’ve got you” against your temple.
He was yours. Not perfect. Not unscarred. But yours.
And in the quiet of that moment, wrapped up in his warmth, forehead pressed to his collarbone, you finally let go of the past. Not completely. But just enough.
Because he wasn’t with her anymore. He was with you.
And that mattered more than anything.
He didn’t say it last night. He couldn’t. You’d already said too much, already laid your heart out in trembling pieces, and the last thing he wanted was to add weight to your already-heavy chest. But he hadn’t stopped thinking about it. About what you said. About the version of him you’d never know. The one before the loss, before the grief, before the city leaned on his back like a god it didn’t quite believe in. The one who loved without hesitation. Without fear.
But what you didn’t know, what he didn’t say was that he thought the same thing about you.
There were versions of you he’d never get to meet. He didn’t know what you were like at nineteen, or who made you cry for the first time, or who first taught you to be afraid of your own softness. He didn’t know who you used to text late at night, whose hoodie you might’ve worn once, or who first told you they loved you and meant it a little too late. He didn’t ask. Not because he didn’t want to know, but because some part of him was afraid of what he’d hear. He didn’t want to picture you in someone else’s passenger seat. He didn’t want to wonder if there was someone who held your face the way he does now.
It was stupid. He knew that. He was a grown man. Superman, even, on paper. But jealousy doesn’t care about titles. It doesn’t care about what you’re supposed to feel. It just slips in when the room is quiet and the lights are off and the person you love most is curled beside you, saying someone else’s name like it still lives in the walls of your home.
He held you tighter last night, not just for your sake, but for his own. Because while you were confessing your ache for the version of him you’d never meet, he was grieving the past you he’d never get to hold.
He wondered if you ever told someone else your secrets the way you told them to him now. If you ever fell asleep on someone else’s shoulder. If anyone else knew the way your voice sounded when you were trying not to cry.
Maybe that was the worst part, not knowing, and not wanting to ask.
Because the truth was, Clark didn’t want to hear about the person who held your hand before he did. He didn’t want to know if someone ever saw the best version of you first. The unscarred one. The one who loved without hesitation. The one who didn’t yet know what it meant to be hurt.
He knew how to carry the world. He’d done it a thousand times. But the idea of someone else being the first to make you laugh that way. God, that was the one thing that made his chest tighten.
He couldn’t tell you all that. Not yet. You were still hurting. Still fragile from last night. And he didn’t want to add to your weight. So instead, he held it close. Quietly. Carefully. The same way he held you.
When he wakes, the first thing he notices is the softness of you pressed against him.
You’d turned in your sleep, arms wrapped around his torso like you’d been afraid he might vanish. Your cheek rests against his chest, your breath slow and warm, and your fingers are curled into the fabric of his shirt like you’d needed something to hold onto.
He stays still for a long time. Watching. Memorizing.
The city is still quiet outside. Early morning sun filters through the curtains in soft streaks of gold. You shift a little in your sleep and exhale softly. Your eyelashes flutter. Your brow smooths. You look peaceful now, nothing like the version of you from last night, eyes full of too many thoughts, voice trembling with questions you were scared to ask.
He lifts one hand, careful not to wake you, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Lets his fingers rest there. Light. Barely-there.
He presses a kiss to your forehead.
It’s not just comfort. It’s apology. It’s I’m here. It’s You have me. All of me. Even the parts that ache quietly in the dark.
You stir a little at the touch, and your hand tightens in his shirt.
“Mm… Clark?” your voice is groggy, small.
“I’m here baby,” he whispers. His lips graze your temple. “Just me.”
You sigh. Sink back into him. He can feel it, the way your whole body relaxes like you believe it now.
He doesn’t move for a long time. Just holds you. His hand rubs gentle circles on your back through the oversized shirt you’d stolen from his drawer last night. Your skin is warm beneath the fabric. Familiar. Real.
The past is still there. The ghosts haven’t vanished. But for the first time, he feels like they’re quiet enough to live with.
You shift again and glance up at him through sleep-heavy eyes. “Did I say too much last night?” you murmur.
“No,” he answers, immediately. “You said what needed to be said.”
You swallow, nod slightly. But your eyes still search his face, like you’re afraid there’s something he hasn’t told you. Something he’s hiding beneath the quiet.
He hesitates. Then lifts his hand to your face, thumb brushing your cheek gently.
“Can I tell you something too?”
You nod.
He hesitates. Breathes. Then says it:
“I think about it, too. The version of you I’ll never know.”
Your eyes flicker.
“I don’t talk about it, because… well, I don’t want to make you feel like I doubt what we have. Because I don’t. I never have. But sometimes… I wonder who got to see you before all the cracks.”
He watches your expression soften. You blink slowly, like you hadn’t expected that.
“I wonder if someone else got to hear your laugh first. If someone else ever made you morning coffee. If they knew the way you curl into yourself when you’re upset, or how your voice gets really quiet when you’re trying not to cry.”
You bite your lip, eyes welling slightly.
“I wonder if they got to hold the version of you that didn’t flinch when love showed up,” he says, softer now. “Because I can feel it, sometimes. That fear. And I get it. But I wish I could’ve gotten to you first, so maybe you wouldn’t be afraid now.”
You’re silent for a long time.
Then you shift, move forward slowly, and press your forehead to his. Your fingers thread into his hair.
“I wish I met you first too,” you whisper. “But maybe if we did… we wouldn’t have loved like this.”
He closes his eyes. Breathes you in.
“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But I’d still choose you. Every time.”
Your lips meet his, slow and aching. It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s just you, and him, and all the versions of yourselves you never got to be, finding each other anyway.
And when you pull back, eyes glassy, he wipes the tear from your cheek and smiles like it doesn’t scare him anymore. Like he knows you’re still here. And he is too.
Later that morning, it’s quiet in the kitchen. The kind of quiet that feels warm. Like the sun has finally landed somewhere soft.
You’re wearing his shirt, sleeves too long, hair still messy from sleep. You’re standing barefoot at the counter, pouring two cups of coffee. He watches you from the doorway, one shoulder leaned against the frame, arms crossed as he tries not to smile too obviously.
You catch him staring.
“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugs. “You just… look very domestic.”
You snort. “That’s code for ‘a mess,’ isn’t it?”
“No,” he says, walking toward you. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. “It’s code for ‘this is my favorite version of you.’”
You flush, smile despite yourself, and hand him his cup. He presses a kiss to your shoulder in thanks.
It’s easy, this part. Light. The air isn’t heavy anymore. There are still cracks in both of you, sure. But maybe that’s why it works.
My self-indulgent AU thoughts are about to become your problem, because I want someone else to brainrot with: modern AU where Usopp lives in the South Blue as an engineer and he has... a problem. Luffy's birthday is coming up and Nami keeps asking if he'll be there considering his less than stellar breakup with Zoro looming over their heads (initiated by Usopp over the phone, they couldn't handle the long distance. More so, Usopp couldn't and his insecurities led to self sabotage of their relationship) and panicking, Usopp says 'yeah it's fine, it's cool. Actually, I have a boyfriend and he's coming with me tee hee'
The largest pain in this whole debacle? He doesn't actually have a boyfriend. So he decides to suck it up and ask his scary coworker Eustass Kid if he can be his fake boyfriend because he's kinda already ranted to Nami over the phone a few times about him being scary that if they were to suddenly 'breakup' after the visit, it would be believable
Kid only ends up agreeing because Killer and Heat were like "dude, you need a vacation. You're a total workaholic"
But things take a hilarious twist when Kid finds out that to Usopp's friends, that he's "this scary redheaded dude who probably ate babies as a witch in the 1700s" and goes "you know what? Actually, I'm going to be the BEST boyfriend. That way, when you tell your friends we breakup, they'll know YOU fumbled ME"
So there kid is being the world's best boyfriend, Usopp is trying to NOT talk to Zoro about their breakup and worst of all, Franky really likes Kid because they're both engineers and they both know their stuff
Side pairing is Lusan and Luffy is very aware of what's going on with his emotional intelligence but Usopp keeps avoiding any conversation about his love life because he just knows that Luffy knows he's full of shit. Which he does. And so does Nami who is dating Vivi or Reiju or something but Usopp keeps trying to avoid the conversation with her too fjdnkfjsdnf
Poetic cinema
I've been gatekeeping this masterpiece too much time in my inbox
Hiiii, so sorry for the delay, I swear next time I will answer right away it's just that the idea was so much fun that I wanted to think about the scenario more~
I'm a little obsessed with this one, you're giving ex zosopp and fake relationship kidsopp in the same timeline? Amazing!
CLICK FOR BETTER QUALITY, THANK YOU
He really thought it was a great idea, the one thing I agree with him it's that at least they know each other to some degree 🤭 (I have so many ideas for when the strawhats ask questions and Usopp is surprised that Kid knows the answers (and sometimes vice-versa, he hasn't realized that until now) Especially about the burn scars and the prosthetic arm
Can you blame Luffy? He was rooting for the other pair back then. But after he hears the story of the burn marks his impression of Kid changes for the better
It is a little awkward but as the night continues, the tension starts to decrease...
Except for someone, maybe not the only one 😜
My hands itch for either more drawings or to write some dialogue, would love to hear more from you @thatnikaluffy (I hope you like my Sanji version for this one, Luffy likes to play with that ponytail 😊)
