Well, here it is â my masterlist. I was kinda tired of having everything scattered all over the place. Hopefully this makes things easier to find. Thanks so much for all the love and support đ
White blank page -đđđŻđ± 2-ăThe Creature, Frankenstein x reader ă
the creature x femreader
Sumary: You are a poor governess, left in charge of an insufferable little girl who seems intent on driving you mad. One day she runs away and falls into the river. What would have become of you both, had the creature that dwells in the woods not been watching the whole time?
A/N: Well, I didnât plan on splitting this into so many parts, but the story has completely taken over my head and I need to give it a bit more depth. Iâve also found myself returning to elements from the original book, weaving them back into this version as the story grows. Iâve decided itâs going to be a slow burn, and Iâm very happy about that (my poor Adam deserves a little peace and a little love). Iâm already outlining the next part. Iâll put together a tag list in case anyone would like to join.
Thank you for reading, really. Every like, comment, or message makes my day and keeps me writing âĄ
đđđŻđ± 1
Lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life
The house had dissolved into absolute pandemonium. When you appeared upon the threshold, the unconscious girl cradled in your arms, every soul present held their breath; they knew not if Oliviaâs stillness signaled a tragic end.
When you demanded help, your voice a mere thread, and asked for hot water, the household released their collective breath and rushed to your aid. A swarm of people surrounded you, a discordant choir demanding answers. You had been gone all day: it was unheard of, a scandal that would not soon be forgotten. You could not answer. Your mind was still at the forestâs edge, lingering on what you had left behind. You felt Olivia being wrenched from your grasp, and your arms fell uselessly to your sides. You remained there in the doorway, half-clothed, the winter chill beginning to seep back into your very marrow.
You could not help but look back at the blackness of the woods. With teeth chattering, you searched for a sign that he was still there, that what you had witnessed was not a trick of the adrenaline or the sheer terror of seeing the child dragged away by that uncontrollable force. You thought you saw a fleeting glimmer, like a star, or like the eye of the creature that had saved you.
Almost in a trance, you turned back toward the open door, as if your promise weighed more than your exhaustion. But you stopped dead when you heard the heavy thud of boots behind you and a forced, dry cough demanding your attention.
The hair on the nape of your neck prickled. You turned slowly to find Davies, the gardener who had watched you closely since the day you arrived. He did not look you in the eye, instead, his gaze raked over you from head to toe. He offered no word of concern, no sigh of relief. Under that predatory scrutiny, a wave of nausea rose in your throat.
You stood trembling in the threshold, caught between the freezing night you had fled and the suffocating air of the house. Your mind drifted back to the riverbank: to the moment those heavy, mismatched hands had pulled the child from the current. You remembered the initial jolt of terror you felt at his sight, the way you had flinched from his shadow. Yet, as you looked at the man standing before you now, a bitter clarity began to take hold.
The Being in the woods had looked upon you with a somber, almost reverent distance. In his presence, your state of dress had not existed, he had seen only a life to be preserved, a child to be returned. His eyes had searched yours for a spark of consciousness, not for the curve of a shoulder or the line of a throat. To him, you were a soul in need of mercy.
But Davies offered no mercy.
He did not rush to fetch a blanket for your shivering frame, nor did he call for the doctor. He simply stood there, blocking your path, his stillness far more predatory than anything you had encountered beneath the trees. As he began to circle you, his boots heavy against the floorboards, You realized his gaze was not fixed on your face, lightened by the cold, nor on your blue-tinged lips. It was a slow, calculating inventory. He was mapping the skin revealed by your wet chemise with a clinical, shameless hunger.
The contrast was a physical weight in your chest. The one you had feared for his monstrous form had treated your dignity as something sacred. This man, who wore the face of a neighbor, was looking at you as if you were something he had found abandoned on the road, something he now felt entitled to claim.
"Well, well," he murmured, the sound thick and oily, "look what the river washed in."
He stepped closer, invading the space that even the Creature had dared not touch. When his hand rose, it wasn't to steady you or offer warmth. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering with a sickening familiarity. You felt a wave of revulsion that had nothing to do with the river's silt.
In that moment, without a word being spoken, the truth settled into your bones: the âmonstrosityâ you had left behind possessed a humanity this man would never know.
His thumb traced the line of your jaw, dropping deliberately toward your collarbone. "Youâre frozen through, aren't you?" he whispered.
The spark of satisfaction in his eyes told you everything. He wasn't looking for a way to help you, he was looking for a way to use the fact that you could no longer help yourself.
The revulsion hit you like a physical blow, sharper and more piercing than the cold. As his fingers began to slide lower, the silence of the hallway felt heavy with his unspoken intent. You realized that while the woods held dangers of tooth and claw, this houseâthis supposed sanctuaryâheld a malice that was calculated and cruel.
You didn't think, you simply reacted. With a sudden, desperate jerk, you struck his hand away. The sound of your palm hitting his skin cracked through the quiet air.
Davies blinked, the arrogant smirk faltering for a fraction of a second as he recoiled from the unexpected blow. You didn't wait for him to recover. You pivoted on your heels, your bare feet nearly slipping on the polished floor, and darted past him.
"Now, wait just a momentâ" his voice rose behind you, no longer a whisper but a sharp, jagged command.
You heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots as he turned to follow. The sound sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through your veins. You weren't just running from a man, you were running from the suffocating weight of his gaze. You reached the grand staircase, your breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. Your hand gripped the banister, pulling your exhausted body upward, stair by stair, as you heard him reach the base of the flight below.
"Iâm not finished with you, Governess!" he hissed, though he kept his volume low enough to avoid alerting the entire house.
You didn't look back. You scrambled up the final steps, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You burst into the upper corridor, the dim light of the wall sconces blurring as you sprinted toward the only door that promised safety: Oliviaâs room.
You threw yourself against the heavy oak door, bursting inside and slamming it shut behind you. You stood there, leaning your back against the wood, gasping for air that tasted of lavender and medicinal herbs.
The room was full, but the warmth you expected was nowhere to be found. The suddenness of your entry drew every eye, but there were no gasps of sympathy, no rush to wrap you in a shawl. The maids and the senior housekeeper all froze, their hands hovering over basins and blankets. They didn't look at you with concern, they looked at you with a cold, weary judgment.
To them, you were the "eccentric" governess, the woman who took the child too close to the trees, the outsider who didn't know her place. You saw it in the way they exchanged glances: a silent, collective rolling of the eyes. They didn't see a victim or a survivor, they saw a nuisance who had caused a scene, a woman whose wild hair and ruined clothes were just more proof of your instability.
A wave of profound isolation washed over you. You felt exposed, not because of your state of dress, but because you realized you were utterly alone in this house. You didn't belong here, you were a stranger to the people under this roof. You were a spectacle, a performance they were tired of watching.
Shame burned in your chest, hot and bitter, until a small, fragile sound broke the heavy silence.
"Miss...?"
The voice was a ghost of a whisper. You turned your head toward the bed, where Olivia lay buried beneath a mountain of wool. Her eyes were open, just a sliver, but they were focused on you.
The judgment of the servants and the memory of Daviesâ touch faded. You crossed the room in a blur, falling to your knees beside the bed. As she reached out a tiny, trembling hand to touch your mud-streaked cheek, you finally let the tears fall. In that moment, you didn't care that the women behind you were whispering about your "unbecoming" state. You only cared that the child saw youânot as a freak, or an object, or an outsiderâbut as the person who had brought her home.
You stroked the girlâs damp hair, your fingers still trembling, and leaned in close to her ear. "I am here, Olivia," you whispered, the words a jagged vow. "I am here, and I will not leave you again."
As the childâs breathing eventually slowed, drifting back into a shallow, exhausted sleep, you finally turned to face the room. The silence was suffocating. The maids stood like statues of salt, their arms folded, their faces etched with a weary incredulity. To them, you were an exhausting puzzle they had no interest in solving. You were the woman who spent her hours buried in ink and parchment, the one with "modern" ideas that only served to fill a young girlâs head with nonsense and "birds." You weren't the mistress of the house, yet you weren't one of them, you existed in a lonely, literate limbo, despised for your education and mocked for your eccentricities.
You hesitated, debating with yourself. If you spoke with too much kindness, they would trample over you with their silent disdain. If you spoke with the coldness of a lady, they would brand you a pretender.
"Please," you said, your voice cracking but steady. "Leave us. I will take over from here. I will see to her through the night."
One of the senior maids stepped forward, her mouth thinning into a line of practiced protest. "The master will expect a proper report, Miss, and the girl needsâ"
"Please," you interrupted, cutting through her voice with a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion that seemed to weigh more than your wet clothes. You didn't snap, you simply sounded hollowed out. "Just... please. Leave the water and go."
The sheer heaviness of your gaze must have done what your status could not. With a collective, muttered sigh and a final, judgmental sweep of their eyes over your disheveled state, they filed out. The click of the door felt like a reprieve from a firing squad.
Left alone, you moved toward the basin of hot water they had prepared. You stripped away the ruined, mud-caked remnants of your chemise, the steam rising to meet your chilled skin. As you washed the river silt from your limbs, the warmth felt like an apology for the night's horrors.
"Miss?" Oliviaâs voice was a tiny thread from the bed. "Stay. Please."
You couldn't refuse her. Clad in a borrowed nightgown, you climbed into the vast bed, pulling the layers of wool over both of you. You felt her small, cold hand find yours under the covers.
"The spirit in the woods," she murmured, her voice already heavy with sleep. "He was real, wasn't he? He didn't hurt us."
You closed your eyes, the image of the Creatureâs somber, intelligent eyes flashing behind your lids. "Yes," you whispered, your heart aching at the memory of your promise. "He was real. He saved us."
A wave of guilt washed over you. You had promised to return, to acknowledge him, but the thought of the hallway downstairsâof Davies lurking in the shadows like a different kind of monsterâparalyzed you. You were a prisoner of your own fear, trapped by a man while a "demon" waited for a sign of gratitude in the cold.
"We have to thank him," Olivia breathed, her head sinking into the pillow.
"We will," you promised, though the words felt heavy. "We will go to the edge of the lawn before the sun rises. We'll find a way."
Pinned between the terror of the man downstairs and the debt you owed the Being in the dark, you finally succumbed to a fitful sleep, lulled by the rhythm of the childâs heartbeat.
As if a nameless force demanded you settle your debt with the Being in the woods, your mind tore through the heavy silken fog of exhaustion. Your eyes snapped open before the sun could even begin to bleach the horizon. Beside you, the room was a cavern of grey shadows. You felt the rhythmic, shallow pulse of Oliviaâs breathing against your side. Her small hand was still clamped around yours, a desperate anchor as if she were still fighting the riverâs current in the depths of her dreams.
For a long moment, you simply watched the steady rise and fall of her chest. You felt a profound ache of gratitude that the dark events of the previous day hadn't silenced that fragile thrum of life. You thought of waking her, remembering the whispered vow you had shared in the candlelight, but the sanctuary of the bed was a powerful siren. It beckoned you to pull the quilts higher, to let the world wait, and to drown the memory of the forest in the comfort of sleep.
But then, the image of the Creatureâs eyes returned to youâhaunted, intelligent, and hollowed out by a loneliness so vast it made your own isolation feel like a pittance.
The memory was quickly soured by the thought of Davies. The image of his predatory sneer made fear crawl up your throat like a cold hand, threatening to choke the breath from you. You dreaded the thought of crossing the hallway, of seeing that despicable man lurking in the dim light of the morning. Yet, you recalled the gunshot wound the Creature had shown you; despite the agony humans had inflicted upon his body, he had not hesitated to shield you. His quiet, selfless courage became the steel in your spine.
You began to slip away, moving with the silence of a ghost, but the small grip on your hand tightened. Oliviaâs eyes opened, hazy and heavy with sleep.
"Where are you going?" she whispered, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves.
You considered a lieâa gentle deception about preparing lessons or checking the hearthâbut you knew the girl was too perceptive for such trifles. If you didn't offer her the truth, she would surely hunt for it herself in the labyrinth of the house.
"I must see our spirit of the woods," you murmured, leaning close. "I promised I would return."
The transformation was instantaneous. The lethargy of her illness vanished, replaced by a spark of pure, unadulterated resolve. "I want to go with you. I have to thank him."
A firm refusal sat ready on your tongue, but the light in her gaze stayed you. You remembered the reverence with which the "monster" had carried her, and you realized that her simple, honest gratitude might be the only balm for a soul so neglected. You sighed, a heavy sound of resignation, and nodded. As she moved to throw back the heavy wool blankets, you caught her shoulder, your voice dropping to a sharp, urgent hush.
"We must be silent as shadows, Olivia. No one else can know he exists. Not a soul."
"Why?" she asked, her innocence striking you with the force of a blow. "He saved me. They should be happy."
Your heart constricted at the crushing logic of a child. "You are right," you said, smoothing her hair. "But the world is not always ready for such things. We must keep it a secret to ensure the magic doesn't vanish."
She nodded solemnly, as if swearing a blood oath. You quickly devised a desperate, clandestine plan: while Olivia crept into her fatherâs chambers to scavenge the heaviest garments she could find, you would descend to the kitchen to gather whatever sustenance you could carry. You would meet at the side door, the one that bled out toward the dark line of the forest.
The journey down the stairs was a lesson in terror. You moved with agonizing slowness, testing each floorboard, avoiding the spots you knew would groan under your weight. You used the deep, velvet shadows of the hallway as a shroud, praying that Davies was still lost in his own dark dreams. Once in the kitchen, your hands shook as you gathered bread, hard cheese, and winter fruit, wrapping them tightly in a coarse linen cloth.
Returning to the meeting point, you found Olivia waiting in a narrow alcove, nearly buried under a mountain of wool and leather. She had stripped her fatherâs wardrobe of its most practical treasures. A sharp pang of anxiety hit youâif you were caught, there would be no explanation for this theftâbut the master was months away, and the house was still draped in the silence of the dead.
Resting atop the pile was the heavy fur coat the Creature had lent you. It was a crude, singular thing that had been your only shield against the frost. Olivia followed your gaze.
"The maids didn't touch it," she whispered. "I think they were afraid of it. They thought it belonged to you, and they didn't want to get close. I thought... I thought he might need it back."
Together, you pushed open the side door. The cold air of the pre-dawn bit at your cheeks, tasting of pine and ancient earth. The sun was just beginning to bleed a pale, bruised violet over the horizon, but the lingering night still offered a narrow, silvered path of safety. You stepped out onto the frosted grass, two small figures fleeing the "civilized" world to find the only creature who had shown you true mercy.
The transition from the manicured lawn to the tangled wild felt like crossing a border between two different realities. You reached the edge of the forest, the very spot where the creature had watched you depart the night before, but the space between the ancient oaks was empty. There was no towering shadow, no glint of glistening eyes. Only the damp mist clinging to the ferns and the distant, lonely call of a waking bird greeted you.
You stood there, the weight of the stolen clothes and food pulling at your arms. A sudden, hollow sadness flooded your chest. You realized with a pang of desperation that you had no way to call him. You didn't know his name. You wondered if he had grown tired of waiting in the biting frost, or if he had interpreted your long absence as the typical ingratitude of your kind.
"Is he not coming?" Olivia whispered, her breath hitching in the cold air.
"We must wait a little longer," you replied, though your voice lacked conviction.
The minutes stretched out, agonizingly slow. Behind you, the sun was gaining ground, its pale light beginning to strip away the protective shadows of the house. Soon, the windows would catch the glare, and your position would be revealed to any wandering eyeâto the cook, the maids, or worse, to Davies.
Olivia tugged at your sleeve, her curiosity sparking through her fatigue. "Where does he live? Is it a cave? Does he have a family?"
You looked at her, unable to answer. You realized how little you knew of the being who held your life in his hands. You knew the texture of his strength and the depth of his sorrow, but of his world, you were as ignorant as a child.
Just as you were about to turn back, convinced that the opportunity had vanished with the night, a sharp crack of a branch echoed through the silence.
The Creature emerged from the dense thicket, moving with a tentative, almost fragile grace that seemed at odds with his immense frame. He didn't approach with the confidence of a savior; he edged forward timidly, his shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow. It was clear he was bracing himself for a change of heart, fearing that now that you were safe and back within your stone walls, you would look upon his scars with the same loathing as the rest of the world.
Olivia, startled by the sheer scale of him, instinctively ducked behind your skirts, her small hands clutching your dress for refuge. You felt the Creature flinch. A flicker of profound hurt crossed his distorted features, a flash of guilt for the sin of simply existing and causing fear in a child. He began to step back, his head bowing, ready to retreat into the lonely oblivion of the trees.
"Wait!" your voice rang out, soft but commanding. He froze. "Thank you. I... I could not come last night. I am sorry. But we are here now."
At the sound of your voice, devoid of horror, filled only with a weary sincerity, he paused. Olivia, sensing the shift in your posture and the gentleness in the air, slowly peered out from behind you. She looked at his mismatched features, then at the way he stood so still, so vulnerable. She remembered the warmth of the fur and the steady arms that had carried her through the dark.
With hesitant, stumbling steps, she moved toward him. You reached out as if to stop her, but her resolve was absolute. She walked right up to the towering figure and looked up, her head tilted.
"What is your name?" she asked, her voice clear and bright. "Where is your house? Do you get cold out here?"
The Creature stared down at her, his breath hitching in a ragged gasp of pure shock. No one had ever asked him such things. You stepped forward to bridge the gap, placing a hand on Oliviaâs shoulder. "Easy, Olivia. Don't overwhelm him." You looked up into his eyes, offering a small, sad smile. "We aren't just here to say thank you. We are going to take you somewhere safe. Somewhere the others cannot find you."
His eyes widened, a look of utter bewilderment crossing his face. He didn't move, as if he suspected this was a beautiful dream that would dissolve if he breathed too deeply.
Then, Olivia reached out. Her small, warm hand disappeared inside his massive, scarred palm. She didn't pull away. She didn't flinch. She simply squeezed his fingers and began to tug him toward the hidden path you had scouted.
"Come on," she insisted. "It's much warmer this way."
To your amazement, the great Being allowed himself to be led. He looked down at the childâs hand as if it were a fallen star, something too bright and holy to be touched, yet he held it with a terrifyingly gentle grip. As he moved, his joints gave a low, heavy creak, and he spoke. It was not a roar or a grunt, but a broken, hesitant rasp that seemed to tear itself from his chest.
"You... you return," he murmured, the words clumsy and weighted with a lifetime of disbelief.
"I promised," you replied, your voice catching. "We don't break our promises here."
The three of you moved through the grey, predawn mist like a procession of ghosts, leaving the manicured gardens behind for the tangled, forgotten paths that led toward the old hunting lodge. It was a modest timber structure, long abandoned by the men of the estate, which you had reclaimed and transformed into a sanctuary for Oliviaâs education. No one came here. The servants found the walk too long, and the master found the building too primitive. For you, it was the only place where the air felt clean.
As you pushed open the heavy wooden door, the scent of dried herbs, old paper, and the lingering ghost of a wood fire greeted you. It was a space born of your own hands, a room where the walls were lined with the books you had painstakingly collected, and the center was dominated by a sturdy oak table covered in maps and inkwells.
The Creature stopped dead at the threshold. His breath hitched: a low, shuddering sound that rattled in his throat as he took in the scene. To him, the room was a revelation. It wasn't just the physical heat of the hearth you quickly began to stoke, it was the "warmth" of the atmosphere, the deliberate, peaceful order of a world that invited him in rather than casting him out. He looked at the rows of leather-bound volumes as if they were holy relics, stunned to find himself included in such a sanctum.
"A... house?" he whispered, his eyes tracing the spine of a book as if it might burn him.
"Our house," Olivia corrected, her voice full of a child's absolute certainty. "Our school!"
She began a frantic, joyful tour, her voice a constant, cheerful babble. She led him by the hand, showing him the fireplace, the maps of distant lands, and the small porcelain cups. You stood back, leaning against the doorframe, watching them with a mixture of profound curiosity and a quiet, aching amusement. The sight was surreal: the small girl leading the towering, scarred giant through her little kingdom, explaining the world to him as if he were simply a new friend from a far-off place.
When the tour finally concluded, Olivia pointed to one of the oversized wooden chairs. "Sit. You must be tired."
The Creature obeyed, lowering his massive frame into the chair with a wary grace, his eyes darting toward you as if asking if this were truly allowed. Olivia began to pile her world in front of him: botanical sketches, a globe, a collection of smooth river stones. She shared her treasures without a trace of the judgment he had known all his life.
Then, she paused, looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes. "Do you know how to read?"
He lowered his head. A shadow of shame, a deep-seated longing for the things that made men whole, crossed his distorted features. Olivia noticed immediately and patted his hand. "It doesnât matter if you don't. My Governess is the very best in the world. Sheâs taught me everything, and she can teach you, too."
You felt a jolt of shock, a realization of what this would mean: the days spent in secret, the danger, the profound intimacy of teaching a soul to speak its own truth. Yet, as he turned his gaze toward you (his eyes wide with a silent, desperate question) you found yourself nodding before you could even think to hesitate.
"She is right," you said, stepping into the circle of firelight. "You can stay here as long as you need. This can be your refuge during the nights, and during the days... well, we shall all learn together. I will teach both of you."
The silence that followed was thick with emotion, the kind that changes the very atoms of a room. The Creature looked from the books to the child, and finally back to you. His hands, which had known only the cold of the forest and the violence of men, trembled on the table. For the first time, he spoke clearly, a resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards.
"I have... no words for this," he rasped, the gratitude so intense it was almost a physical weight. âThank you... for the light."
You looked at him, and then at the child, and you knew that the doors of the manor were no longer the only ones that defined your world. In this forgotten cabin, among the dust and the ink, a new story was beginning to be written, one that the world outside was not yet ready to hear.
white blank page ăThe Creature, Frankenstein x reader ă
the creature x femreader
Sumary: You are a poor governess, left in charge of an insufferable little girl who seems intent on driving you mad. One day she runs away and falls into the river. What would have become of you both, had the creature that dwells in the woods not been watching the whole time?
A/N: Well, here it is. The story of Guillermo del Toroâs creature. I have been thinking about him far too much, to a probably unhealthy degree, and I am already deep into writing the continuation. I needed to share this part first. I couldnât help myself and borrowed this scene from Mary Shelleyâs novel, bending it until it fit this world. I am not immune to this man, clearly. Tell me if you enjoyed it, or if you want to know what happens next between the governess and the creature.
Thank you for reading, really. Every like, comment, or message makes my day and keeps me writing âĄ
đđđŻđ± 2
Lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life
That odious little girl had got her way. You curse yourself for agreeing to such an absurd game, but you needed her attention, needing to pull her back to her lesson. She had made it her mission to drive you mad, and now she would secure her own death if you did not find her quickly.
You could not comprehend how she had covered such distance so swiftly. It felt as though hours had passed since you left the house, yet you had only been running frantically for a couple of minutes. Fear consumed discretion, you had not bothered to clear the branches, and you felt the fresh scrapes upon your frozen cheeks. That mattered nothing now. The only imperative was to locate the disrespectful child and reprimand her for abusing your confidence.
You still recalled the sharp, malicious laughter receding from the garden, and how you only reacted upon seeing the yellow flash of her dress disappear among the trees.
Your thighs burned and your breath hitched in your throat. You did not cease running, quickening your pace as you heard the river's dangerously close murmur. You cried her name again, but received no response. Nausea gripped you, a combination of fear, adrenaline, and exhaustion.
A scream halted you completelyâa high, piercing cry filled with raw terror. Your blood ran cold, and you sprinted toward the jarring sound, dreading the worst outcome. It felt like being trapped in a nightmare, where your strides only carried you farther from sanctuary and closer to a truth you wished to avoid.
As your feet sank into the mud, your eyes caught the furious silver gleam of water colliding violently with the rocks. You searched the current frantically, shouting the girl's name once more. A muffled sob was swallowed by the roar, and your eyes discerned a hand emerging from the water, desperately clinging to a branch. Then, a mass of black hair, and finally, a face gasping for air.
You rushed forward, lifting the heavy skirt of your dress, and instantly realized the perilous weight of the fabric. To enter the river clad in the gown would ensure the drowning of both. Without a moment's thought, and disregarding the brutal chill of December, you quickly began to strip off your garments. Your body shook violently from the cold, which bit your skin, making your movements clumsy and slow.
When you had shed everything that might guarantee death, you moved toward the water. Just as you prepared to step into the wild current, a powerful grip seized your arms. The ground vanished, and the world became a confusing, formless blend of elements. The motion ceased, and you stumbled as you were placed back onto solid earth. Disoriented, you lost your balance and fell backward, feeling a sharp ache.
You dragged yourself forward desperately, unable to escape the cold that held you to the ground. You were about to scream the girl's name again, terrified by her diminishing visibility, but a vast figure filled your view. A man of immense stature, clad in thick furs, stepped into the river, clearly intent on reaching the child. Before submerging, he removed his outer layer, as if sharing your panicked logic. You watched in astonishment as the current struck his impossible body without dragging him, allowing him to cut through the water. You knew this river, it had claimed strong men before. Yet, this person reached the girl with unnerving ease. He secured her hand just as she lost her final grip.
Your breath hitched watching him pull the small body against the current, battling the river's force. He held her tightly, pulling her to his chest, shielding her with his back. When they reached the shore, you remained transfixed, unable to move. You watched him set her down on the ground with a gentleness that seemed wholly incompatible with his size. He awkwardly knelt, bringing his ear level with hers, and a rough, guttural sound emerged from the immense figure.
You still could not see his face nor ascertain your savior's identity, as his profile remained turned away. When he moved his shaking hands toward the girl's chest, long, matted hair still concealed him. You watched him press rhythmically on her sternum, attempting to restore life. When he finally turned to assess the effect of his efforts, his hair parted, revealing a countenance that instantly expelled the breath from your lungs.
You had never witnessed such a thing. That face did not appear to have been shaped by time, but rather meticulously constructed, section by section. Your tentative eyes traversed the disparate tones. Deep scars divided his face; it was like observing a map, with lines delineating where one territory began and another distinct one ended. You noted how the line of the jaw failed to follow the expected contour where it met the cheek. You could not look away, simultaneously fascinated and profoundly terrified by the sight.
You then realized that the hands working to revive the girl also appeared fabricated, composed of distinct fragments that, in a bizarre way, connected perfectly like puzzle pieces to construct that instrument. You did not comprehend how they could coordinate to function in such a complex manner.
You were jolted from your thoughts when the girl's body arched, and a raspy cough escaped her. You crawled through the mud toward them, and the creature moved away to give you space, as if anticipating that his presence would instill fear.
You took her into your arms and held her in your lap, sobbing and whispering simple thanks that were directed at no one in particular. From the corner of your eye, you saw the huge figure stand up, watching you carefully. Your eyes met, and despite his disconcerting appearance, you discerned immense concern. You wondered if this worry was for your own distressed state. One of his eyes shone unnaturally, compelling you to look away.
An alarm sounded in your mind: an illogical, instinctive fear of the unknown. Your brain could not process the sight before you, but another voice fought your basic instincts, affirming that everything was well, that this creature had just saved the girl's life and labored to restore air to her lungs.
You looked at him again, and something within you connected when you saw that wounded look in his eyes, yet what truly struck you was the certainty that he had anticipated this. There was an element in his posture, in the contained way he breathed, that suggested a being accustomed to eliciting fear.
You attempted to swallow the panic, hiding it behind the assurance that he intended no harm, as evidenced by his withdrawal the moment you approached. It was as if he expected a horrified response. You strove to relax your face, controlling your expression and softening your features. You thought of the gesture you always offered Olivia when comforting her after an emotional injury.
âThank⊠thank youâŠâ The stammer was caused not by terror, but by the cold. Your teeth chattered, and you instinctively pulled the girl's unconscious body closer to conserve the little heat remaining to you both.
The creature watched you closely, and the shine in his eyes suggested comprehension. He offered no reply. He turned, and just as you thought he would abandon you to the cold and the descending darkness, he bent to retrieve his furs. He approached you with a hesitant step, holding them out between you, as if in offering. He did not move toward you until he was certain you would not faint from terror. When you nodded to reassure him, he approached carefully and, with extreme gentleness, placed the garment over your shoulders, adjusting it to cover both you and the child.
Although the garment had been lying on the ground, it still retained a measure of warmth. The scent of the forest enveloped you, and you quietly murmured thanks. You slowly regained control of your stiff muscles under the careful watch of the creature, who maintained a safe distance. While focused on you, he appeared to be simultaneously observing the forest, aware of his surroundings. Moving your limbs slowly, you continued to watch him. He was immense, nearly as tall as the closest trees. All exposed skin appeared uniform with his faceâstitched together. He, too, inspected you patiently.
After a period, you knew you had to start the journey home before the night consumed you and the wild animals emerged. A warm certainty spread through your chest at the thought that perhaps you would not be alone when that occurred. You tried to stand, but your body failed. You tried twice more, failing each time. When he saw you collapse on your last attempt, he reached out, holding your shoulder. Instead of pulling away from his touch, exhaustion made you want to lean upon him.
âLet me help,â he said. His words sounded rough, as if his voice had been unused for a long time. It was a deep, rough voice, yet you found it comforting. You nodded again and yielded to his assistance.
He knelt beside you, and the closeness allowed you to see the true nature of his face. Although patched together, it looked as if someone had strived to assemble it with the greatest possible care. He allowed your inspection, as if giving your common sense time to react and compel you to run.
Instead of running, you gently directed the girl's unconscious body toward him. He slid his hands beneath her, attempting to lift her with profound caution. Your heart swelled at the tenderness he displayed.
He lifted her, holding her against his vast chest in the same manner he had done in the river: with absolute protection. The girl's small body, now wrapped in the furs you had adjusted, looked even smaller.
You watched the ease, the impossible delicacy, of his hold. He was a walking contradiction: a monumental being made of patches and sutures, yet moving with the caution of a father cradling his newborn. Your panic had utterly evaporated, replaced by a burning, almost academic curiosity. It was not primal terror you felt now, but sheer, profound awe. The fairy tales you told Olivia, the ones that populated the woods with kind giants and protective spirits, were mere shadows compared to this real presence.
How could he be so real and yet so impossible? You perceived his face as a map of pain and a work of brutal art, an imperfect assembly that functioned flawlessly. The patches of skin weren't ugly, you saw them as proof of an atrocious survival. You felt fascinated by the texture, the disparity of tones, the broken line of his jaw. It was as if a powerful will had decided that it didn't matter if the pieces fit 'correctly,' only that they were there, serving a noble purpose. He was not a man, he was something more, a magical creature perhaps, cursed by some spell, but with an intact heart. And the bright eye? A star embedded in the night of his face. You looked at him, and instead of fleeing, you desperately wanted to draw your fingers across the topography of his scars. Fear was a discordant note you could no longer sustain.
Seeing that he had secured Olivia, you dragged yourself towards the edge of the furs covering the girl and you, and carefully pulled at them, trying to cover his immense back, now exposed to the icy air, too.
The Creature became instantly alarmed. His body tensed like a spring, and the bright eye fixed on you with a renewed intensity, almost panic. He turned, the girl in one arm, and with the other, he quickly moved your hand away from the furs, surprisingly fast but without a hint of roughness. Then, he slid the heavy furs back over your bare shoulders and Olivia's body, ensuring the thick pelt covered you completely. He remained outside, exposed to the frost.
âYou⊠you are cold,â he murmured, his deep, guttural voice expressing genuine distress for your well-being, not his own.
The scene was so simple and so powerful that your heart skipped a beat. He, as vulnerable to the cold as any man, had given you his only protection without hesitation
âI am not afraid of you,â you said softly, looking up into his face. It was a statement, not a question. He looked at you with that melancholic certainty in his eyes, the look of a being who knows they are feared, and who can only receive this gesture as a miracle.
You began the difficult walk, guiding the way through the uneven, darkening terrain. You felt an astonishing sense of security beside him, his immense presence was a constant, formidable shield against the wildness of the December night. He walked silently, the girl a feather-light weight held carefully to his massive chest. You were keenly aware of the rough fur cloakâs warmth, a stark contrast to your exposed skin beneath, yet the shame was utterly absent, supplanted by a growing, profound fascination with the silent, damaged creature beside you.
After several minutes, the thick woods began to thin. The dense gloom of the pines and oaks yielded, and through the winter-stripped trunks, you discerned a faint, familiar glow: the moonlight reflecting on the windows of the house, tantalizingly close.
âWe are almost there,â you murmured, relief momentarily overriding caution. He did not move. His vast body halted abruptly, as if striking an invisible wall of fire. You noticed the immediate, awful return of tension to his shoulders. The bright eye, which had momentarily softened, now burned with raw, contained dread.
You reached out, hand wrapped in the thick furs, and gently tugged on the sleeve of his vest, a quiet encouragement to take the final step toward safety.
âNo.â
The word was a broken sound, a low, guttural utterance that conveyed more suffering than simple refusal. He did not look at you; his patched face remained fixed on the distant lights of the house. You felt a sharp pang of confusion.
He sensed your bewilderment. With the girl secured in one arm, he used the other to grasp the leather garment. He pulled it aside from his shoulder, near his collarbone, revealing the skin beneath. There, you saw the pale, sunken, perfectly round scar of an old bullet wound, distinct from the others.
âNo,â he repeated, his voice barely a breath of anguish. His head was bowed, unable to meet your gaze, as if his very survival was a monstrous offense.
The sight broke something inside you. You realized with chilling clarity that you had initially judged him, recoiling from his appearance. Now, seeing this proof of cruelty, you felt a searing conviction of his goodness. He had known the depths of human maliceâthe threat of the shot, the pain of being tracked and woundedâyet he had risked that same cruelty again to plunge into the frigid river and save Olivia. He had walked this far, exposing himself to the very edge of danger, simply because you needed help.
A wave of profound, desperate gratitude washed over you, followed immediately by a stinging question: How could you possibly repay this debt? How could a small act of kindness ever match the self-sacrifice of walking into the shadow of a gun? You couldn't. You couldn't take him to the house and risk delivering him to the people who did this.
The pain in your chest was physical, a consequence of this sudden, profound reversal of judgment. You had to comfort him. You took a step closer. You reached out a hand, allowing it to slip free of the furs, and gently brought it to rest upon his shoulder, deliberately avoiding the scar, choosing instead the solid, patched skin surrounding it.
âThey hurt you, didnât they?â you whispered, a plea for truth wrapped in sorrow.
He looked down, and you saw the immense, isolating pain in his eyes.
A sudden, sharp idea formed, cutting through the emotional fog. You couldn't offer him your house, but you could offer him protection, a hidden sanctuary. You could protect him the way he had protected Olivia.
âI cannot bring you closer,â you said, the words heavy with apology. âBut Olivia needs to be warm, and I need a moment to think. I will come back. I promise. I know a place, away from the house. A safe place. You saved us,now let me help you.â
You shifted closer, reaching up to wrap your arms around his thick middle, holding him in a brief, fierce embrace that communicated your gratitude, your awe, and your promise.
He hesitated, his immense body trembling slightly under your touch. He had tasted kindness and felt seen, a terrifying discovery for a creature built to be feared and alone. The thought of letting you walk away, perhaps never to return, was a deeper dread than the bullet wounds. But the gentle pressure of your body, the sheer conviction in your eyes, demanded trust. He slowly nodded
He gently transferred Oliviaâs body from his arms into yours. You found that carrying her was no longer impossible; the thick fur cloak had done its work, and the warmth he had shared had revitalized your chilled muscles. You pulled the furs securely around the girlâs body.
âThank you,â you murmured once more, this time for the warmth, for the safety, for the miracle.
You turned and, holding the precious bundle, walked out of the protection of the forest and toward the moonlit house. You did not look back, but you felt his presence, immense and watchful, until the trees obscured him entirely.
The Creature stood fixed to the spot, watching you disappear. For the first time in his existence, he felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with fire or physical exertion. The life he had restored, the life he had protected, was safe. And the person who had shown him fearlessness had promised to return. For the first time, the world and he were at peace.
your last Nate fanfic was SO GOOD in the MOST TERRIBLE WAY I AM OBSESSEDDDâŒïžâŒïž the way you show the thoughts behind Nate's behavior and his FEELINGS??? got me HOOKED i adore when the internal dialogues of morally uhhh evil? characters show that they know to an extent that their actions aren't exactly good, and even more when they are aware but simply don't care because they are justified LORD you did it so masterfully!!!!!!! ngl in fiction the obsessive dynamic truly gets to me, thank you for sharing this with us!!!đđ
and mmm any possible other Nate works coming?đ maybe?đ that was so good so i can't help but askđ
ohhhh my GOD thank you??? genuinely sitting here kicking my feet because this absolutely made my day đđ«¶đ»
iâm so, so grateful....like âsmiling at my screen like a foolâ grateful.
writing Nate does something weirdly magnetic to me. heâs got that energy where Iâm basically a moth hovering around a candle (fully aware I might get burned if I get any closer), but somehow I keep drifting back anyway. heâs irresistible in the most dangerous way.
iâm not sure if Iâll do more Nate soon, because every time I write him it feels like Iâve run an emotional marathon, but⊠I also know myself, and I wouldnât put it past me to end up doing it again đ
right now Iâm leaning towards playing with something involving Frankensteinâs creature, but if Nate decides to wiggle his way back into my brain⊠well. you know how it goes.
thank you again, truly, your message made me so, so happy đđ
Sumary: He systematically dismantles your world, because Nate Jacobs knows the chaos you hide and he's the first person who hasn't run from you.
Warnings: Strong language, suggestive content (nothing explicit), extremely toxic dynamics (If youâre in anything remotely similar, please, Iâm begging, get out of there), angst, Nate Jacobs (Yes, he deserves his own warning).
A/N: This honestly wasnât supposed to happen. Iâve got a dozen half-finished things sitting in my drafts, staring at me like little abandoned children, and yet this is the one my brain refused to shut up about.
Blame it on Guillermo del Toroâs Frankenstein, because falling in love with the Creature apparently rewired something in me. And, honestly, Frankenstein has been my favorite book since I was old enough to underline sentences and pretend I understood them. I canât help dreaming about some storyâany storyâwhere the Creature walks in and ruins me in the most poetic way possible. Donât tempt me (should I?). Then I rewatched Euphoria and, yeah. I fell right back into Jacob Elordi and the Nate Jacobs hellhole. I know heâs a walking red flag. I know heâs a disaster wrapped in a trauma bow. But here I am, writing him anyway like I havenât learned a single thing.
So⊠sorry? Youâre welcome? I donât know. All I know is that this scene wouldnât leave me alone until I wrote it down.
Thank you for reading, really. Every like, comment, or message makes my day and keeps me writing âĄ
âSo? What do you say?â
Your heart is beating so loudly you can barely hear Chrisâs voice. It thunders against your ribs, drowning out everything else, leaving you light-headed, almost dizzy. Heat creeps up your neck and settles in your cheeks, blooming into a blush you know you canât hide.Â
Itâs absurd, youâve imagined this exact moment for months. Before the closed doors and the whispered demands in the dark. Back when Chris McKayâs smile actually made something warm unfurl in your stomach, signaling a simple, straightforward kind of happiness.
Now that itâs finally happening, your mind refuses to cooperate.
You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a broken little sound, a stutter swallowed before it even forms. You want to say yes. God, you want to tell him youâd love to grab a coffee, to be the kind of girl who chooses the light. But something hard and invisible has lodged itself in your throat. Itâs pressure. Squeezing. Twisting. Like a hand closing around your neck.
Your brain betrays you, offering up image after image of the real reason you canât say yes. The pressure isn't metaphorical. Youâve felt it before. Those fingers, long and deliberate, pressing into your skin until you forgot where your own breath began.
The lack of air is so vivid your hand flies to your neck, half expecting to find him there.
The touch is instantly associated with the furious, consuming heat you share. You remember the last time his hand was there, not to hurt, but to demand. The feel of his thumb, rough against the sensitive skin near your carotid, just enough pressure to make your vision swim slightly, to pull you deeper under his control. He used to watch your eyes when he did that, knowing the slight sensation of being suffocated sharpened your focus only on him, and that the thrill of the danger made you crave it more. It was a silent, dangerous way of asking for permission, and you always gave it with a helpless, consuming shudder. You craved the edge of his control.
You can almost feel those fingers again, curling possessively around your throat. Nateâs fingers. Nateâs voice. Nateâs shadow stretching over every decision youâre supposed to be able to make on your own.
You are suddenly filled with a wave of self-disgust. You, who always vowed to avoid the arrogant, cruel men like him, the boys who treated desire like ownership. You had despised Nate Jacobs for his existence. And now, you hadnât just fallen for him, you were completely hooked, addicted to the intense, forbidden energy that came from being wanted by the most dangerous person in the room. You were falling in love with a dream, yes, but also falling into a dark, thrilling addiction that felt more real than any daylight truth.
The seconds drag themselves thin. His eyes appear again in your mind, the way they look in the dark, hungry, consuming. You remember how his thumb brushed your pulse the last time you told him to slow down. How he murmured, the words hot against your ear, âNo one else gets this. No one else touches you like this,â right before his mouth dragged down your jawline, making your body seize with immediate, desperate pleasure. He wasn't just claiming you, he was giving you the kind of desperate, all-or-nothing intensity your secret self couldn't live without.
The invisible grip tightens.
You canât breathe, but you feel the familiar pull of wanting him to tighten it just a little more.
You remind yourself, harshly, that it isnât real.Â
The only thing real right now is Chris. Chris, whoâs looking at you the way boys look at girls they arenât afraid to want in public. Chris, who stepped closer, warm and patient.
You glance over your shoulder, convinced for one panicked moment that Nate might be there, listening, reminding you that your voice isnât entirely your own anymore. But the hallway is empty. The only reality is the soft frown forming on McKayâs face, his usual ease clouded by concern.
âI⊠I canât.â
The words felt borrowed, hollow. They sounded defeated. You watched the light die in Chrisâs eyes, the beautiful, simple hope fading into confusion. You had just chosen the dark over the light. You had chosen the painful, consuming drug of Nate over the easy, real potential of Chris.
âOh. Right. Okay,â Chris murmured, the embarrassment sharp on his features. He collected himself quickly, forcing a slight smile. âIs it⊠too much with school? Totally get it. Let me know if you change your mind.â
You shook your head slightly, unable to manage a full denial. You didn't deserve his kindness, or his understanding. But as Chris starts to turn away, the magnitude of what you just chose collapses in on you. The sight of him leaving, of the daylight happiness walking away, is a sudden, sharp shock of panic.
And then, before you can stop yourself , before you even understand why your mouth is moving, you hear the words slip out of you.
ââWaitâwait, no. I meanâŠIâd love to.â
You didn't recognize your own tone. It sounds like a plea. You have no idea where that agreement came from; your conscious mind was yelling no. But Chris stops, and the relief that flickers on his face is dazzling. You mimic his smile even as a distant alarm ricochets through your skull, screaming that something is terribly, dangerously wrong, wrong, wrong.
âGreat, great,â he says, clapping his hands once, excitement rolling off him in warm waves. You nod, telling yourself itâs fine. itâs just coffee, itâs harmless, itâs normal. And youâll have time to finish your assignments first. Time to breathe. Time to quiet the guilt already unfurling in your stomach like smoke.
You didn't hear a word of what happened in the locker room, just moments before practice. You were safely oblivious.
The damp, metallic air of the locker room thrummed with background noise. Nate Jacobs remained coiled on the bench, his focus on his gear, while Chris McKay, the oblivious fuse, dropped a bomb beside him.
âI finally did it.â Chris was practically vibrating with a raw, honest happiness he couldn't stand.
Nate didnât flinch, refusing to acknowledge the excitement. He meticulously adjusted the straps of his shoulder pads, pretending his immediate world consisted only of perfectly placed plastic.
âDude, are you even listening to me?â Chris poked his shoulder, a casual touch that Nate endured with chilling stillness. He looked up, his expression cold enough to freeze water, but it did nothing to dim Chrisâs confidence. âI asked her out. I asked her out, and she didnât hesitate for a second.â
Nateâs mind frantically shuffled through the revolving cast of girls Chris had been talking about, girls who meant nothing to him.
âGlad for you, man. Which one was it? The short girl from the party the other night? Didnât seem like it was going to take you much effort, not sure why youâre so proud.â
Chris shook his head, the wide, unshakeable grin reaching his ears.
âNah, man. Iâm talking about the girl. I finally grew the balls to ask her. I would have bet my starting spot that she was going to say no.â
Jacobs slowly reviewed the last few conversations he'd had with his teammate, his brow furrowed in feigned concentration. Several faces flashed through his memory, and then his entire face seemed to dropâa sudden, sick plungeâwhen he recalled a specific conversation about a smile that was too wide and hid an incredibly sharp tongue. He could feel the blood drain completely from his face. The only outward sign was an imperceptible twitch, a clench of his jaw so strong his teeth grated together.
His muscles seized. He disguised the reaction by fiddling with his perfectly placed shoulder pad. His stomach twisted sharply, and he had to breathe hard through his nose to keep from throwing up on the tiled floor.
â...itâs just coffee, but I think sheâs interested. I hope she doesnât pull a Carrie on me or something, you know, just to laugh at me.â
Nateâs head was spinning. He latched onto his friend's monologue with detached disinterest, not wanting to know anything Chris thought about you. He thought bitterly that it would be your style. You had laughed at him plenty of times, and he had no doubt that if he hadn't managed to get under your skin, you would have publicly humiliated him without a second thought.
âDidnât know she was your type,â He cursed himself for the words, but he was rapidly losing control. The carefully constructed ropes holding his inner chaos were slipping through his hands, and he wasn't sure he wanted to contain them anymore. He felt his blood boiling and his skin reaching feverish temperatures..
âGorgeous, smart, and hot as hell? Yeah, sure, nobodyâs type.â
Nate swallowed hard, fighting down the burning memory.Â
Gorgeous, smart, and hot as hell.
The words hammered in his mind. As if Chris knew anything about you. He felt like he was losing his grip on reality, his mind drowning in the intimate, secret moments. The suffocating darkness of his room,kiss that had tried to shut down a conversation that drove him crazy. A bite on his lip in protest that had only drawn a satisfied groan from him.
She didnât hesitate for a second.
The nausea was all-consuming, he felt sick. His head was pounding, the ambient noise fading entirely, replaced by the frantic rush of his own blood. The heat in his ears brought the immediate, cruel memory of your humid breath that you could barely contain when he found your exact spot.
He squeezed his fists, fighting the tremor that ran through him. The heat was unbearable, and the mere rub of his clothes against his skin felt like sandpaper.
He was aware of the lockers, the light, the smell of sweat, and yet completely detached. The friction of his t-shirt against his chest brought the memory of your soft fingers exploring his skin curiously. He never pushed them away because, despite his usual aversion to that intimacy, he found a perverse comfort in it. He craved those smooth strokes, the way his skin rose in gooseflesh with every graze. He could feel your ghostly presence on his back, your hands moving in an ephemeral touch, climbing his chest, stopping at the length of his neck, and finally reaching his hair, where they would linger. He almost let out a guttural sound recalling your nails on his scalp, waiting for the slight, intimate tug that always preceded a deeper moment.
All of it, the raw, secret intimacy, was slipping away.
For the first time since Chris dropped the bomb, Nate looked at him. He observed the genuine smile Chris allowed to form while talking about you, the same genuine smile Nate only allowed himself in the safety of his dark room.
âIâm not gonna lie, Iâm a little worried about the whole genius thing. I have a feeling she could get bored.â
A crushing retort was on the tip of Nate's tongue, something to sink Chris and seize back what he had possessed in secret for so long. But the words died. It would be a lie. He could almost evoke the image of you sitting on his bed, wearing only one of his t-shirts, talking nonstop about some topic that had pursued you that week. He always tried to look annoyed, overwhelmed. He thought you should be exhausted, but you seemed tireless. And in all those convoluted theories that baffled him, you never once embarrassed him when he tried to answer and failed.
He realized he didn't care about being wrong with you, unlike every other situation in his life. Instead of mocking him, you would slide onto his lap and stroke his arm while patiently explaining why his conclusions didn't make sense. And he could only listen, watching you in silence.
âAnd you know what the best part is?â Chris said, leaning closer, oblivious. âSheâs not the drama type. No games. Iâm tired of all that stuff. Just chill, easy.â
Nateâs vision blurred. Chill. Easy. Chris was describing the complete opposite of what you were with him. What you both craved.
He remembered the way you looked at him in the aftermath: not sweet, but raw, exhausted, almost hating him for making you feel that much. That was the addiction. The fight. The razor-thin line between hate and want that he knew Chris McKay was too simple, too easy, to ever cross.
And he was going to lose you too easily.
The fury was no longer contained; it was pure, electric panic, the terror of a man realizing his secret treasure is about to be claimed in public. He couldn't lose the one place where he felt truly exposed and yet strangely safe.
He felt something twist in his chest. A radiating heat in his lungs, seizing his breath.
âDude, are you okay?â Chrisâs voice finally cut through the memory.
Nate blinked, shedding the heat of the past.
âYeah, fine.â
âDoesnât look it. Youâve been messed up since you and Maddy broke up.â
Since I started keeping a secret I couldn't reveal. But Nate didn't say it. He stayed lost in the memory of your wicked tongue and the way it moved across his skin in deep, felt kisses.
âYou know what? If it goes well, and it will, Iâll tell her to bring one of her friends. Get you back in the game, what do you say?â
Nateâs eyes snapped away from Chris immediately, as if he had been physically assaulted by the suggestion.
A double date. He wouldn't even have the right to look at you. A VIP pass to watch someone else touch you in public. To hear you ramble about a thousand topics and make you laugh.
He barely had the strength to hold the chaos inside him, he had almost let it go completely. And the culprit wasn't McKay, or even you. The only one responsible was himself, maintaining the secret just to avoid stares and comments.
What would people think if they knew Nate Jacobs fell to his knees in front of that girl? The one who seemed to despise him in every public interaction? The one who made an effort to show that boys like him deserved nothing but contempt?
The truth was, at this point, he would be satisfied if you just gave him a single glance, even if he couldn't hold it. He had been a coward, and the result was that he had pushed you into the arms of someone less afraid.
He wanted to scream in frustration, to slam his helmet into Chris for taking away something he had assumed belonged to him.
Instead, he grabbed the helmet and stood up, without even looking at Chris.
âDonât worry about me. You shouldnât worry too much about that coffee, either. Focus on the field.â
Nate walked toward the tunnel. He was breathing hard, every breath a suppressed roar. He wasn't thinking about the coach, or the game plan. He was thinking about you, laughing with Chris, forgetting the way your breath used to catch only for him.
The field feels wrong the moment Nate steps onto it, too bright, too loud, too open, like the world decided to stretch itself out just to make him feel small inside it. The sunlight glints off helmets and shoulder pads, too sharp to look at directly, and it needles into the growing pressure behind his eyes. He tries to shake it off. He tries to shove his thoughts back into a corner where they canât claw at him. But Chrisâs voice keeps looping in his head, bright and stupidly hopeful, like a broken tape he canât eject. I asked her out. She didnât even hesitate. Sheâs interested. Each word has weight, dragging across the inside of Nateâs skull like metal scraping concrete. He canât breathe around it.
When the whistle blows, he launches forward with the rest of the team, but his body moves on autopilot. Every hit lands too hard, every shove borders on violent, every breath feels like heâs inhaling heat instead of air. His teammates yell at him to chill, but their voices come through warped, distant, like theyâre shouting at him from underwater. He tries to focus, to anchor himself to the play, but his mind keeps snapping back to you.
The sound of your breathing when youâre close enough that he can feel your chest rise against his. The way youâd tugged his shirt one night, irritated at something stupid heâd said, and how your irritation had melted into something hungrier before either of you admitted to it. He remembers your fingers sliding up his jaw like you were testing the heat of him, the way youâd whispered you drive me insane against his throat, not like a confession but like a threat. His body reacts instantly to the memory, his pulse spikes so hard it rattles him.
He lines up for the next play. His cleats dig into the grass. He tries to shake you off.
He fails.
Because now heâs remembering last week, your voice low and sharp in the copilot seat of his car, telling him to watch the road while your hand was on his thigh, dragging deliberate patterns into his skin. Heâd pretended he didnât care, pretended he wasnât shaking, pretended you didnât have him wrapped around your fucking finger. And then youâd leaned in closer, brushing your mouth against the corner of his jaw, murmuring something he canât repeat without feeling like his chest might cave in.
The whistle blows. He snaps back to the field, but the damage is done. His head feels full of heat, his lungs too tight, his vision narrowing with every heartbeat. He canât stop picturing your mouth: smart, cutting, always getting him in trouble. He canât stop picturing the way youâd looked at him in the dark that one night, like you hated yourself for wanting him and hated him even more for wanting you back.
His chest tightens painfully. Something inside him buckles.
Then someone bumps himâjust a normal, harmless part of the drillâbut it hits the last, frayed thread holding him together. The world tilts. His vision sharpens to a pinpoint. And suddenly heâs sprinting, not at the ball, not at the line. Straight at Mckay.
The tackle isnât a tackle. Itâs an attack. He slams into him with a brutal, unrestrained force that draws a collective, horrified sound from everyone around them. Chris hits the turf hard, a sickening thud echoing as his helmet cracked sideways against Nateâs, the plastic shell jolting violently, and the world seemed to distort with the sound. Jacobs felt something tear open across his eyebrow, a hot sting followed by warmth trickling down. Not a clean cutâmore like the skin had split where his brow met the hard inner padding of his helmet.
For a moment he stands over him, chest heaving, fists clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms. The coach yells his name. Hands grab at him. He canât process any of it.
Heâs too busy staring at Mckay curled on the ground, clutching his ribs.
Some awful, ugly part of him feels satisfied.
Teammates curse. Someone grabs Nate but he shrugs them off like they weigh nothing. A heavy, cold, ringing blow. Pain blooms, bright and metallic. Warmth follows, sliding slow and sticky down his temple. He touches it. Blood coats his fingertips.
And the world goes red.Â
His vision shifts, smears, pulses. Red like anger. Red like humiliation. Red like the marks you once left on his neck when youâd kissed him too hard and heâd pretended it didnât affect him. Red like the flush that climbed your chest when he pressed you against the hood of his car and whispered things he shouldâve never said out loud. Red like your mouth when you pulled away from him and said his name like it hurt.
The coach is shouting again, distant, muffled. Someone asks if heâs okay. Someone else says heâs bleeding like hell. He barely hears them over the pounding in his earsâviolent, rhythmic, drowning out every rational thought.
Heâs breathing too fast. His hands shake. The taste of copper fills his mouth even though heâs not bleeding there.
Heâs thinking of you again.your grip on his collar the night you kissed him first, your body leaning into his like you were daring him to step back, your voice saying his name like you hated it and needed it at the same time.
The whistle blows again, but it doesnât matter. Heâs already gone.
The coach grabs him, shouting, âJacobs! Off the fieldânow!â
Nate pulls away, blood dripping in slow, hot lines down his face.
He walks off the field like a bomb that hasnât detonated yet.
You donât even think twice when you hear what happened on the field. The whispers, Nate lost it, Nate blindsided him, Mckay can barely breathe, Jacobs has blood all over his face, travel faster than sound, but you move on cold certainty. Someone tells you in the hallway, and you go straight to the physio room. Because of course you do. Because youâre not cruel. Because Mckay didnât deserve it. Because someone has to clean up the mess Nate never stops making, and maybe, deep down, you need to confirm the sickening truth of why.
The room smells like disinfectant, sweat, and the sharp tang of pain. Mckay is sitting on the table, his shirt off, ribs already mottled with what will be deep bruising by morning. His shoulder is tightly wrapped. He tries to smile at you when you step in, but it wavers at the edges, pain cutting through it.
âHey,â he breathes out, trying to sit a little straighter despite the physiotherapistâs warning. âDidnât think youâd come.â The genuine relief in his eyes makes the cold knot of guilt tighten in your stomach. You realize he sees this visit as a confirmation of your interest, utterly oblivious to the real reason you are there.
âAre you okay?â Your voice is tighter than you mean for it to be. A little sharper. A little too full of heat that isnât for him but bleeds out anyway. âWhat the hell happened?â You want to scream the question, but you settle for a strained whisper, desperate to know if Nate, in his blind rage, had revealed anything.
âJust a stupid play. Nate hit me harder than he shouldâve,â Mckay admits, wincing as the physiotherapist carefully adjusts his sling. He shrugs his good shoulder, the movement painful to watch. âHe was probably just in his own head. I mean, heâs been off lately, right? Since Maddy.â Chris offers you a simple, trusting explanation, one that doesn't include secrets, lies, or jealous violence. And in that moment, the weight of Nateâs explosion falls squarely on your conscience. He didn't even use the date as an excuse; he just exploded.
You nod, but your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. You didn't want anyone to get hurt. You didn't want this. You didn't want him to do this, not for you, not in this ugly, public way that screamed possession while maintaining his pathetic silence. And underneath all of that, buried so deep you barely acknowledge it, thereâs a flicker of something ugly: the knowledge of why, and the sickening feeling that this is the inevitable cost of that intense, secret pleasure you share with Nate.
Chris clears his throat, his eyes earnest and slightly apologetic. âLook, I know this probably doesnât look great right now, what with the, you know, shoulder.â He gestures weakly to his arm. âBut is the coffee still on? If I canât move this thing, at least I can still talk. We can push it back a couple of days, maybe?â
Your heart drops, hitting your ribs with a painful thud. The sheer, decent normalcy of his question is devastating. You look at his bruised ribs, his strained smile, and the total lack of suspicion in his eyes, and the ironyâthat your simple yes caused thisâis crushing. You are furious with Nate, exhausted by the secrecy, and yet, saying no now feels like letting Nate win twice. You are tired of being kept in the dark, but the thought of stepping into the light with Chris, after this, feels like a betrayal you can't manage.
You want to tell Chris that yes, itâs still on. You want to embrace the simplicity, the normalcy, the promise that your life doesnât have to be this complex. But the words are lodged behind that invisible pressure point in your throat, that place Nate's touch always claimed. You hate him for putting you in this position, forcing you to choose between his hidden, electric chaos and Chris's open, damaged kindness.
âYeah,â you whisper, the word sounding borrowed, thin. Itâs an act of defiance against Nate, a painful step toward freedom, even though you know your agreement is the reason Chris is strapped to this table. âYeah, Chris. When youâre ready. Just call me.â
You stand up, unable to meet his eyes any longer. You make sure he can stand. You make sure he can breathe. And then you turn to leave.Â
You stood with your back to the hallway, your hand still on the nursing room doorknob. The muscles in your back fought against the urge to arch, desperate to shrug off that invisible pressure closing in on you. You closed your eyes for a second and let out the air youâd been holding, trying to shake off a feeling you couldn't quite describe.
Despite not looking up, a cold shiver ran down your spine. The weight of certain eyes upon you instantly cut off your breath. You didn't need to turn your head to know who the pressure belonged to. And while on other occasions the hairs on your arms would stand up in anticipation of inevitable yearning, this time the sensation bordered on the deeply unpleasant.
When you finally turned, his eyes were already there, holding your gaze. He was leaning against the opposite wall, looking utterly depleted, exhausted to an extreme you didn't understand. It wasn't physical fatigue; you had seen that side of Nate. This was entirely different. And the perspective of not knowing what you were about to face made your heart pound so violently you feared it might escape your ribs.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out, although you realized you didn't want it to, either. You glanced down the hall and noticed a couple of people talking distractedly, but their attention was subtly fixed on Nateâs silhouette.
You held his stare for a moment longer, trying to convey that this had crossed every conceivable line, that you were furious with him. But you met the familiar, impenetrable wall you always crashed into when trying to extract any type of emotion from him.
You shook your head in his direction and started walking, not even looking back to ensure he was following. You didn't need to, as you instantly perceived the shift of his body, detaching from the wall. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his imposing frame moving alongside yours. If you moved your hand just a few centimeters, it would brush his, and the heat of his skin would cloud your judgment. Thatâs why you crossed your arms and tried to increase your pace, leaving him a few meters behind.
You heard your name, and the shock brought you to an immediate halt. He had stopped, too. You looked around and confirmed that despite the presence of people, no one seemed to be paying real attention to the drama, which only reinforced your shame, the sickening feeling that maintaining this ridiculous secret had been an absurd move. The anger stained your cheeks scarlet.
You turned once again and could only stare at him. The imposing figure that seemed to swallow all the light in the room. The body you had sought refuge in for months. It seemed impossible that this serious, distant countenance was the same one you knewâthe relaxed, open expression you craved on nights of need.
He took a step forward, and you instinctively took one back, forcing him to stop, as if that rejection shouted everything that was running through your head.
âLet me just explain whatââ
âNo, Nate. Thereâs nothing to explain.â You shrugged, a gesture of deep surrender, and looked anywhere but at him, blinking rapidly to relieve the burning itch that threatened to make you weep.
He took another step, and you backed away again. You watched his jaw tighten, his nostrils flare from the sheer amount of air he was taking in, trying to regulate himself.
âThis is ridiculous.â You let out a short, incredulous laugh accompanied by a faint sob that anyone else might have missed, but not him. âYour friend is in there with a dislocated shoulder. And the worst part is that it was so absurd, he thinks it was an accident. Itâs so ridiculous, he thinks youâre just out of it because you and Maddie are done.â
You saw his knuckles turn completely white, and you didn't know if you were pushing the buttons of his self-control too hard, but you no longer cared.
âTell me, Nate, what was the point of dragging your teammate across the turf when he doesnât even know why you did it?â
âI wasnât thinking about that when it happened.â
You let out another sharp, disbelieving laugh, and it hit Nate like a physical blow. There was no trace of the certainty he always felt with youânot in this open space, not seeing your eyes reflect nothing but contempt.
âThen what the hell were you thinking about? That no one should poke their nose into your business, but you didnât even have the balls to name what they were trying to take from you? Which, for your information, thereâs nothing to take because nothing exists between us.â
He didn't give you time to react. Between one blink and the next, Nate had moved like a storm, his strides so long that he was inches away in under two seconds. His breathing was ragged, labored. His chest rose and fell violently, and his gaze raked over your face frantically.
âI was thinking about you. All I could think about was you, damn it. And I couldnât stop seeing you, or remembering you. And it drove me completely insane.â
For a moment, your field of vision blurred at the edges. You could only clearly see Nate, furious, perceptible only by a rigid line creasing his brow; otherwise, he maintained his mask of brutal indifference. But those eyes reflected a contained rage, one that mirrored your own chaotic feelings.
âWhat the hell am I supposed to do with that?â You finally spoke, a veiled whisper, as if you didn't believe your own words. âIs that supposed to justify anything? Youâre an asshole, Nate. A total fucking asshole who only knows how to hide behind his rage. Youâre terrified, and you think if you scream louder than everyone else, no one will notice.â
His expression shifted completely. The fury you had been seeking materialized in an instant, letting loose the torrent he usually kept buried. His gaze hardened further, and you recognized that look, the exact change that came right before he lost hold of the ropes binding the mess inside him.
The word was a bullet to the chest, delivered by the one person whose eyes had seen him flinch in the dark. It wasn't just rage he felt; it was a white-hot, suffocating pain. He had let you see the wires, let you touch the exposed circuits, and now you were using that intimate knowledge to carve him open in the sterile light of the hallway. You don't get to use that against me. You don't get to name the fear I shared with you. The betrayal was immediate and searing. He couldn't speak the pain, he couldn't admit, even to himself, how much it hurt to hear his greatest weakness spoken out loud by the one person he let close. The only possible response was absolute destruction, delivered with the same clinical precision you had just used on him.
âThe amateur shrink. And what about you? Donât you go around yelling just to see if anyone cares? Donât you break things just to remind yourself youâre still alive? Youâre fucking nuts, and you think youâre better than the rest because you wonât let anyone close enough to confirm thereâs something seriously wrong with you.â
The hit landed exactly where it hurt. He always knew where. Always. A terrifying realization suddenly flooded your head: you had opened up to the wrong person. Nate had the power to destroy you if he wanted, and in that moment, he seemed to be pursuing that goal like a hunting dog that had scented prey and wouldn't let go. You couldn't comprehend that this menacing body was the same one that had so many times held you when the world seemed to be closing in. You felt stupid for ever having believed there was someone who understood you.
âI hate you,â you said, feeling something deep in your chest shatter. âBut I hate myself more for still being here. For staying in this bullshit with you.â
He advanced another step, his pupils burning, his shoulders impossibly tense. He wasn't furious because of you; he was furious because of himself. Because he felt the weight of your words and didn't know how to handle the painful truth you represented.
The hatred was a mirror, and you were turning it on him. You were walking away, and that simple act was the ultimate surrender of his control. You couldn't leave, because if you left, you'd take the only fragile piece of reality he had. He had to burn the bridge behind you. You have to know that your chaos fits his chaos, and that connection is the only damn thing holding either of you together. If I can't keep her, I will ruin her so completely she has nowhere left to go but back to me.
âYou are unbalanced,â he said. He spoke slowly, savoring the syllables as if to inflict maximum damage. âThere is nobody who is going to put up with that. Nobody. You think I don't know why you keep coming back to my room? Because youâre fucked up. You say Iâm crazy, but youâre worse. And the reason you canât end this is because Iâm the first goddamn person who hasnât run.â
You wanted to scream, to push him, to tell him to go to hell, but you were completely paralyzed. You had been running from this truth for so long that you almost didn't recognize it when it stood right in front of you. Thatâs why it hurt so much, because he had seen past the thousands of layers you had woven around those testimonies. And far from leaving you behind after reaching such depths, he had seized that entire throng of destructive thoughts and carved out a space for himself among them, as if he felt comfortable with the chaos you provided. And all because, underneath it all, he fit perfectly with his own.
The sheer exhaustion of the fight finally overtook the rage. You looked at him, at the ruthless certainty in his eyes, at the way he consumed all the air and light, and saw not your lover, but your perfect, devastating mirror.
âGo to hell, Nate. You and all your bullshit behavior. Donât talk to me again.â You turned on your heel, the finality of the statement hollow and brittle. You didn't wait for his reply. You knew you wouldn't get far. You just walked, carrying the crushing weight of the truth he had forced you to confront.
But as you took your first step away, his voice sliced through the air, low, sharp, and confident enough to be heard but not understood by others.
âYouâll text me by midnight,â Nate drawled, his tone utterly devoid of doubt, laced with a cold, triumphant certainty. âYou always do. Donât waste your time fighting it.â
You walked faster, refusing to acknowledge the prophecy. You kept your head high, every step away from him feeling like an immense effort, pulling against the invisible, impossibly strong cord tied to your core. I am leaving. I am choosing freedom.
You didnât hear his footsteps. You didn't hear him call your name. But you felt him. You felt the space behind you expand, knowing he hadn't moved. He didn't need to chase you. He had delivered his verdict, and he knew you were carrying it away with you.
You reached the end of the hallway, pushing through the heavy exit door that led to the senior parking lot. The late afternoon light was weak, washing the concrete in a pale, indifferent gray. You leaned against the exterior brick wall, letting your shoulders fall, the physical rigidity giving way to a sudden, wrenching tremor.
Heâs right. Iâm unhinged. Iâm broken.
You focused on the parking lot, mentally calculating the quickest route home, forcing yourself to concentrate on the mundane. But your gaze snagged on his black SUV, parked with arrogant entitlement near the entrance.
The engine was already running. Nate wasn't running; he was waiting for the perfect moment to leave.
You didn't want to look, but you couldn't resist. You scanned the tinted windows of the Escalade, and then you saw him.
Nate was already seated behind the wheel, his hand resting casually on the steering wheel, his seat reclined just enough to watch the exit. He hadn't bothered to look away. He was watching you leave.
Your eyes locked. Across the distance, through the windshield, his gaze was clinical, heavy, and utterly victorious. He gave you no smile, no wave, only a cold, silent confirmation: You tried. It didn't work.
You held the stare for a beat too long, and in his eyes, you saw the blueprint for the next time, the time you'd crawl back into his darkness.
You broke the contact first, forcing your body to move toward your own car. You didn't dare look back as the powerful, expensive engine of the SUV revved, pulling out of the parking lot with the slow, deliberate confidence of a predator who knows its prey is already tagged.
You knew exactly where he would be tonight. You knew the exact time your phone would buzz. And the terrible, sickening truth was, Nate Jacobs had never been wrong about you.
ohhh you awakened something with that ask. like. I did not plan to go feral about ancient-enemy-turned-beloved vampire and his wolf girl but here we are. so picture this: she hears he has been captured. she should let him rot, right? clan orders, centuries of blood feud, all that glorious righteous duty. except her chest goes tight and suddenly loyalty feels a lot smaller than love that should never have existed in the first place. so she sneaks out in the dead of night, fighting the magic that is literally dragging her to her knees for disobeying her people, because she would rather crawl through pain and humiliation than risk him dying alone. very underworld vibes, but more tragic, more fever-devotion, more âI hate that I love you but I will burn the world before I lose you.â anyway. if this turns into something, just know it is entirely your fault and I thank you for the chaos:
"Let it rot. Saves us the trouble."
If those had been the words of your clan leader, then why were you disobeying? Why slip out beneath the shroud of night like a coward or a traitor? Your beloved moon seemed displeased too, hiding behind a thick wall of stormâheavy clouds. It felt like she had turned her back on you, withholding her silver blessing. Though perhaps, in her own way, she was helping you, cloaking your escape in shadow.
Sickness gnawed through you, the kind that came not from flesh but from spirit. Fever clawed at your veins. Every step along the rugged path dragged you deeper into exhaustion. Your head swam, dulling senses that were usually sharp enough to split a heartbeat in two. Muscles trembled. Placing one foot before the other became a trial, as though the earth itself resisted you.
You knew exactly what it was. Willpower slipping from your grasp like a child losing a balloon to the sky. The price of defiance. The consequence for disobeying a superior.
One hundred meters from where your beloved hid, your knee buckled. You crashed to the ground, pain spiking up your spine, sharp as a whip's crack across a punished back.
Your claws tore into the soil, erupting from your fingers in response to agony. Your body was no longer yours. A voice, cold and ancient, pressed inside your skull, commanding you to turn back, to obey, to bow. You nearly did. Truly, you almost surrendered.
Then your heart remembered who it belonged to.
It thundered like a war drum battered by furious hands, and with each beat it flooded your body with memory, sensation, hunger so fierce it burned away weakness.
A flash of fangs beneath moonlight. A forbidden laugh echoing in your mind, smoothing pain like silk over a wound. The terror of imagining those hands gone forever, the ones that held you as if the moon herself had descended to worship every longing inside you.
Then another voice, one you would know in any lifetime.
"Rise, wolf. We still have centuries ahead."
Hands replaced claws. Human again, soft again. Your heart roared defiance, answering no hierarchy but its own, and you pushed to your feet. Your steps steadied, sure as destiny.
You had learned only hours ago: the vampire clan your people had warred with for millennia had fallen to humans. A handful survived, broken in alleyways, breathing by miracle alone.
Dread had sunk its teeth into you at the news. The possibility that your greatest enemy had been slaughtered sparked not triumph but terror. Your secret teetered on the edge of discovery. You hid your panic behind calm and volunteered to hunt the survivors, to end the threat. Your clan dismissed you.
Fools.
You would find him. You would rebuild him. You would not allow centuries of false hatred and secret meetings to end here.
You belonged to each other long before loyalty ever meant anything at all.
Everyone Prays in the end ăRemmick, sinners x reader ă
Remmick x femreader
Summary: He killed your lover. Stole his face. Drinks your pain like wine. And when you whisper his name⊠youâre reborn in his arms.
A/N: This draftâs been gathering dust for a while. I wasnât planning on touching it again, but a few anonymous messages in my inbox made me go back to it. (Who knows â maybe it shouldâve stayed buried in the drafts. Too late now.)
Itâs heavily inspired by Constantine â not just the aesthetic of that hell-sequence, but also the kind of character âyouâ are in this: tired, haunted, hard-edged. Someone who hunts monsters without ever really escaping them.
Hope it resonates. likes & comments mean a lot and keep me writing âĄ
Is this how it ends?
You wouldâve laughedâmaybe even snorted at the poetry of itâif the mere thought didnât send a shockwave of pain through your chest, from the festering claw marks down to the last living cell in your broken body. You wish you could say the pain was gone. That the adrenaline had numbed you, or that your nerves had finally given out. But no. The agony was pure. Unrelenting. So sharp your vision danced with black dots that pulsed and multiplied, threatening to swallow the world whole.
You heard it, somewhere behind youâthe wet, dragging scrape of the creature pulling itself toward you. Youâd hoped to be dead before it reached you. Or unconscious, at least. But fate, as always, was cruel.
Terror layered itself on top of your exhaustion. It skittered cold across your skin, needling your arms, tightening your throat. No, you werenât afraid of that thing slithering your way, gargling on its own blood. That kind of fear was simple. Primitive. What haunted the back of your neck was something older. Deeper. It clung to the very bones of your existence.
Youâd spent your life hunting monstersâdriving them back into the shadows, dragging them screaming from their dens, tearing the nightmares out of mortal lives. But that didnât mean you had a place saved by the Creator. You werenât holy. You werenât clean.
The laugh that tried to rise in your chest gurgled and collapsed into something wet and awful. It hurt to even try. You remembered the demon who once snarled in your face as you forced it back to hellâyour soul is already spoken for. That you were beyond saving. That hell was your final destination, no matter how many monsters you fed into the fire.
So, you made it a game. A tally. Maybe if you collected enough damned souls, theyâd count for something. Maybe it could be a trade. How many souls equal yours? Youâd never found the answer. Only that it still didnât feel like enough.
You imagined Hell with its gates already cracked open, your name etched in brimstone, and all the monsters youâd sent down waiting just beyond the thresholdâclaws raised, grinning. Ready to tear you apart the moment you stepped through.
Your vision blurred again, and you blinked furiously, like you could fight off the dark by sheer will. You drew tiny, fluttering breaths, hoarding them like you knew they were numbered. And they were.
Your brainârotting, panicked, desperateâbegan feeding you scraps of memory. Flashes of a life poorly lived. You wondered, distantly, if this was how humans described it. The so-called âlife flashing before your eyesâ bit. A cheap, low-budget highlight reel. But no. This wasnât the best of you. These werenât triumphs. It was loss. Ache. Failure.
Fear crawled into your throat again, sharp as glass. You didnât want this. You didnât want to remember. You didnât want to relive the things you couldnât change. And yetâ
You saw it.
That smile.
Broad, warm. Framed by dimples. Eyes too bright to belong in your world, full of life you couldnât keep safe.
You saw him fall. Again. Heard the wet snap of teeth meeting flesh. The scream. The gunshot that came too late, trembling and misfired.
One bullet.
One second slower.
And it had cost you everything.
Just like the laugh, the sob never made it out. But the burn behind your eyes ached like it had. Tears stung, even if they never fell. Your heart clenched violentlyâso tight you werenât sure if it was grief or a final spasm. Didnât matter. You couldnât breathe either way.
That was what had brought you here. You thought you had him. Finally. That after months of chasing shadows, of drowning yourself in rage and vengeance, you were close enough to tear the beast apart. To end the thing that ended him.
But hatred makes you reckless. And reckless made you blind. The shadow you followed into the alley hadnât been him. And the claws that tore your chest open? Not his.Thereâd been no satisfaction in gutting the thing that now clawed its way toward you. Only pain. Only failure.
You heard it whimperâa pitiful, broken sound, like an animal that didnât know it was dying. It was crawling toward you, still, desperate to kill you before it died. You shut your eyes, feeling its shredded body inch closer.
So you did the only thing left. You summoned the face of the man you loved.The one you didnât save. The one you couldnât avenge. The one that monster stole from you with a grin and a moan of satisfaction.
A hot breath hit your throat, foul and wet. You inhaled deeplyâbracing yourself for the feel of teeth splitting your neck. The creature grunted. Clawed the stones.
You waited.
But instead of a bite, there was wind. A gustâfast, strong, sudden. Like the rush of something being ripped from the earth and hurled through the air. The gurgling stopped. The alley fell silent.
And then
thud.
Far away.
You blinked.
The alley swam. Your eyelids cracked open enough to catch the silhouette of a man standing over you. The light behind him made it hard to see his face. But you knew that shape. Youâd been chasing it. Youâd dreamed of driving wood through it for months.
He tilted his head, curious. Not triumphant. Not mocking. Just... curious. Like you were a painting he was trying to understand.
When the figure leaned down to your level, you instinctively tried to move, reaching for your weapon, though you knew it had fallen too far during the earlier struggle. Your body refused to obey you nowâlimp, slow, heavy with pain and blood loss.
Thatâs when you heard it. A laugh.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just low enough to crawl under your skin and remind you that you werenât alone.
Your gaze dragged itself up toward the looming threat, your vision swimming in and out of focus. You hadnât really seen him before. Not up close. Not like this. The last clear memory you had of his face was with it buried in the throat of the person youâd loved more than anything. When he had finally looked up from the lifeless body, his face had been soaked in a thick, gleaming red that clung to him like war paint. That was all youâd needed to remember him by.
But now⊠now he was here. So close. Towering over you.
And he looked at you like a god watching something sacred break.
You felt like a moth pinned beneath the light that would devour it. His crimson eyes caught the dim alley light and reflected it back with a glint that struck you somewhere deep in your animal brainâsomething in between hunger and amusement, and something worse than both.
It didnât fit his face. Not at all.
There was nothing monstrous about his features. On the contraryâhe was beautiful. Soft in places where predators usually werenât. His expression was almost gentle. Delighted. And when his lips parted, they did so in a slow, knowing smile, just wide enough to show you what lived inside.
Fangs.
Brilliant under the moonlight too sharp to be anything but real. They caught the light like glass and gleamed like a warning.
If youâd had strength left, you mightâve shivered. Instead, you found yourself studying him, searching for some sign of rot, of decay, some physical marker of the inhuman thing he wasâbut all you saw was beauty. Timeless, preserved, a sculpture crafted in youth and sealed there forever, regardless of the soul rotting beneath the surface.
Then you saw it. The necklace.
And a new pain bloomed beneath your ribsâdifferent from the wounds, deeper.
You knew that chain. Youâd toyed with it so many times, distracted fingers looping it during quiet nights. It had brushed your skin in moments youâd buried deep, hoarded close to the heart.
Now it was around his neck.
Your stomach turned. You didnât know if it was the blood loss or the horrorâbut the nausea hit hard. That monster hadnât just taken a life. Heâd kept a piece of it. You had lost him, and you were now forced to watch the ghost of him worn like an accessory. The bastard tilted his head, as if following the exact thread of your thoughts. As if he knew youâdeeply, intimately, with a familiarity that went far beyond observation.
âYou always make such a mess of your hunts, sweetheart,â he murmured, playfully cruel. âYou never did know how to work without getting your hands dirty.â
His hand, resting lazily on one knee, lifted to gesture toward the puddle of blood seeping out from beneath you. You saw the dilation in his pupils, the subtle flare of his nostrils as he inhaled the scent of your bleeding body. The hunger was there, simmering under his skin, coiled tight like a spring. And yetâhe hadnât pounced.
You almost wondered what was holding him back. What little shred of humanity was left in him to keep him still?
âFuck you,â you spat, or tried to. The words came wet, broken. The effort sent a violent cough ripping through your chest, and blood filled your mouth, metallic and warm. You felt it spill past your lips.
He moved instantly. His hand darted toward your face, too fast to stop, too fast to brace for. Your body tensed, weak and useless. You felt his cold thumb brush over your mouth, tracing its shape, catching the blood as it dripped.
You froze.
Something inside you said this was different. There would be no escaping this. No lucky break. No clever trick. You werenât walking away this time. And just like that, fear had a clear path to your bones.
With nothing left to hold it back, grief surged up from the pit where youâd buried it. Your eyes burned. Vision blurred. The monster in front of you went soft around the edges as tears spilled over your lashes.
Even through the haze, you saw him bring his blood-slicked finger to his lips.
He sucked it in.
Slowly.
Reverently.
A sound escaped himâsomething between a groan and a purrâand it echoed between your bodies like something obscene. Your sorrow paused, frozen by sheer shock. He looked enraptured, consumed, utterly undone.
His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, like gravel soaked in blood, thick and low. âEven better than I imagined,â he murmured, and for a moment you thought you were hallucinatingâbecause beneath that spectral tone, you couldâve sworn you heard the echo of a voice that was starting to slip from memory.
âI thought Iâd be prepared for it, you know. Thought I'd tasted every inch of it in his mind. But nothing inside that hunterâs head couldâve readied me for the real thing.â
Your eyes flew open, surprise jolting through you like a final jolt of lightning trying to resurrect a dying storm. It took everything you had left just to hold them open. Your lips parted, then closed againâsearching for words youâd never find.
Youâd dedicated your entire life to hunting creatures like him. But the truth was, youâd never really understood them. You studied habits. Patterns. Weaknesses. Enough to make the kill clean. That was all that mattered.
His hand reached out again, slow and deliberate. Not to strike, but to touch. It found a strand of your hair, soaked in sweat and blood. He twirled it around one finger, and your breath hitched painfully. The gesture⊠it was so intimate, so achingly familiar, it carved a hole in your chest. Youâd felt that before. That exact motion, idle and fond, performed by a different man. A different hand.
When he finished playing with the strand, he tucked it behind your ear and cupped the side of your face. And your bodyâtoo broken to know betterâleaned into the contact. Just for a second. Too tired to hold your head up, too far gone to remember why you shouldnât.
Your eyes fluttered shut when his thumb grazed your cheek, the same one heâd smeared your blood across earlier.
But the warmth you remembered never came.
Only cold.
The kind of cold that seeps into your bones. The kind of cold that belongs to the dead.
âYou miss him,â he whispered, with mock pity curling around the words. âHow sweet. Poor little dove, left all alone.â
That nameâdoveâcut through the fog in your mind like a blade. You forced yourself upright, just barely, fury burning through the horror. Your gaze locked on his, sharp and defiant despite the tears still blurring your vision.
He smiled wider.
âOh, surprised?â he asked, as if he didnât already know the answer. âYeah, I didnât just keep the necklace as a souvenir, sweetheart. Iâve got all of him now. All his memories. He lives in me.â
He leaned in. The distance between you vanished, and what little air you managed to breathe was filled with him. That scent againâcloying, intoxicatingâlike lilacs dying in a field too far gone to save. Sweet, but rotting underneath. A smell that made you dizzy. A smell you could get addicted to, if you werenât careful.
âEverything he was belongs to me now,â he whispered, his nose brushing yours. You couldnât tell if it was affection or if he was simply inhaling the scent of his next meal. âAnd that boy of yours⊠he was drowning in you, dove. Your scent. Your laugh. Your voice in the dark, warming him like fire in a snowstorm. He craved it all. Now I do.â
His lips hovered over yours. Just barely. Just enough to feel the echo of what once was. For a second, you almost let yourself fall into the memory. Let yourself feel what it was like to be loved again.
But something inside youâsome last shard of sanityâresisted.
You pulled away as much as your broken body allowed. Then spat what blood you had left straight into his face.
He didnât flinch. The smile never left.
The blood dripped slowly down his lips, and he licked it up in one slow motion. His eyes fluttered closed with the sound of pleasure rumbling low in his throat. A sound too alive for something so dead.
âMmm,â he hummed. âStarting to crave that strength of yours too, little dove.â
âStop,â you choked out. Your voice was barely more than a whisper, scraped raw from the inside. âYou have no right to keep him.â
He cocked his head like a curious animal, the smile softening into something even more sinister.
ââCourse I do,â he said. âHeâs mine now. Just like the ones before him. Just like the ones whoâll come after.â
You wanted to kill him. Needed to. Every atom in your body screamed for the strength to drive something sharp through that beautiful, twisted face. But your body was empty. Hollow. Nothing left to give.
The fact that you were still breathing was just another cruel joke.
And thisâthis moment, this monster with your loverâs memories stitched into his bones like a parody of something sacredâthis was just the beginning.
You didnât need a devil to drag you to hell. He was already here. And he wore your grief like a crown.
He leaned back just slightly, eyes still on you, burning, devouring, aching in ways that felt too human for what he was.
"You think I havenât tried?" he murmured, almost as if the confession surprised even him. "To forget. To rip the feeling out. Iâve tasted hundreds, thousands, drank âem down to the bone and moved on like I always do." He tilted his head, studying you with a hunger that went deeper than blood. "But not this. Not you."
His hand returned to your face, colder now, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth where fresh blood had already dried. "You linger, dove. You're like a damn splinter under my skin. The more I claw at it, the deeper you sink in."
You tried to look away. You couldnât.
He didnât smile this time. He looked almost⊠wrecked. Starved, not for flesh, but for whatever tethered you to that man.
"I didn't know it could feel like that," he whispered. "I didnât even know I was missing anything. Iâve walked this world for centuries, dove. Taken everything I wanted, tasted every kind of fear, every kind of lust. And then I took him."
He paused, and you saw it: a flicker in his eyes, something almost like shame, swallowed quickly by obsession.
"And suddenly, I knew what it meant to ache. Because what he had for you? That love? It fucking branded me."
He leaned closer again, and this time it wasnât a taunt. It was reverence. Worship.
"Youâve been living in my head like a fever. Every time I close my eyes, you're there. And not just you, not just your faceâno, I feel it. The weight of you in my arms. The sound of your breathing against his neck. Your warmth." He said the last word like it hurt.
You flinched. You close your eyes. You canât take it. Canât look at that face.
But he doesnât stop. He never does.
âI wake up drenched in dreams that arenât mine. I want things I never wanted â sun on your face, your fuckinâ laugh in the morning. And when I touch myselfââ
âDonât,â you growl, voice shredded.
He stops. Smiles.
 âYou think I saved you for fun? You think I slit that thingâs throat just to look heroic?â
He leans in, so close your noses almost touch.
âI saved you âcause I canât fuckinâ stand the thought of you dyinâ before Iâve had you proper. Before you scream my name like you screamed his.â
You shake your head.
He exhales, like heâs in pain. âYou think I like this? You think I want to crave you like this? You think I want to wake up hard and furious and soaked in his memories of your skin?â
He pulls back just enough to look at you fully.
âYouâre sick,â you whisper.
âIâm yours,â he says.
And for a second, itâs so quiet, you canât hear your own heartbeat.
Then his hand hovers over your torn side, palm trembling.
âI can fix it,â he murmurs.Â
His finger found the deepest of your woundsâthe jagged gash tearing across your abdomen. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought as he let the pad of his index finger trace along the broken edges of flesh. His eyes never left the mess. He didnât flinch. Didnât blink. Then, as if to underline his words, he pressed, and the scream ripped from your throat without warning, instinctive, raw.
That finally got his attention.
His gaze flicked up to your face. Your breathing had gone ragged, fluttering like a dying bird, and your eyelids squeezed shut so tightly you mustâve been seeing bursts of light behind them.
"I'd rather rot in Hell," you spat, or tried to.
The words came out wet and weak. Still, his brows lifted. Surprised. Amused.
âWould you now?â he murmured. âFunny. Given how scared you are of the place, I donât believe that for a second.â
And he would know.
It didnât even shock you anymore that he did. That he knew all the dark, broken pieces of you so intimately. Of course he did, he had devoured them. Eaten the one person who had known you better than anyone else. Worn his soul like a cloak. Lived inside his thoughts.
Your lover had known. Known about the ache that chewed at your bones when the sun rose and you still hadnât found redemption. Heâd seen the quiet, cold terror that lived in your gut every time you wondered what waited for you below. Wondered if the gates would open and every creature youâd banished would be standing there, grinning, claws out.
"He didnât beg for his soul," Remmick said, voice dipped in something almost like reverence. "When I tore into him. No, little dove. That boy used his last breath to beg for your forgiveness."
And somehow, that cut deeper than the fingers inside your ruined stomach.
The pain surgedâphysical and otherwiseâand heat spilled down your temples. You couldnât tell if it was blood or tears anymore. Both burned the same. You didnât even realize you were whispering until you heard your own voice break apart.
You were praying.
Not just crying out in fear, but praying. Whispering the name of a God who had never answered you. Who had ignored every plea, every offering, every lost hour of devotion. You asked Him to help you, to end this, to take youâto spare you from the final humiliation of dying in this monsterâs hands.
You didnât stop even when you heard the chuckle.
Didnât stop when you felt his cold breath against your face again.
âDonât pray to him,â he said softly. âDonât waste your last breath on someone whoâs never listened to you.â
His touch was almost gentle as he wiped the tears from your cheeks.
âPray to me.â His voice curled around you like smoke. âSay my name, dove. Ask me for help. Let me be the one who saves you from what you fear most.â
Something inside your chest thrashed. The panic wrapped around your thoughts like vines, twisting, choking. It became harder to tell where your will ended and your survival instinct began. Maybe this was what happened when you teetered on the edge, when your body knew it wanted to live, even if your soul didnât.
But if you said yes, if you accepted his offer⊠you would never live again.
You would belong to him.
âIf you think death will bring you back to him, it wonât,â he said, voice firm now, urgent. âThat hope youâre clutching? Let it go. Let me help you. Heâll live in you. And Iâeverything I amâwill belong to you. And everything you are⊠will be mine.â
You opened your eyes.
Slowly. Painfully. Like peeling apart something ruined.
You turned your head just enough that your noses touched again, and stared into the ruined beauty of his eyesâeyes the color of blood and bruises and all the things you swore youâd never fear. You raised your hand, trembling, until your fingers brushed the chain around his neck.
That chain had once been warm. A resting place for your mouth in quiet moments. Something youâd idly tug while lying close, while safe. Now, it was just⊠cold metal. Nothing more than a shadow of the man who once wore it.
He caught your hand in his, and for the first time, his touch was soft. Measured. Like he knew he was trying to coax you into a fall you couldnât undo.
And behind the infinite hunger in his gazeâbehind the violence and cravingâyou saw something that broke you a little more.
Recognition.
Not from him.
From what lived inside him.
Something that had once loved you.
You didnât resist when he brought your hand to his mouth, not this time.
You didnât flinch when he pressed featherlight kisses to your fingers like he was memorizing themâlike he was coming home.
The sigh that left his lips wasnât theatrical. It was hollow. Devastated. Like someone who had searched too long and too far and finally found what they thought theyâd never touch again.
You didnât know when the question left your lips. Maybe it had always been sitting there, buried deep beneath the pain and bile and fury. But now, with your body broken and your breath running out, it came up like a prayerâhollow and aching and laced with something too desperate to name.
Your voice shook as you whispered it.
âWill he be mine again?â
Remmick stilled.
The kisses heâd been tracing over your fingers faltered. His hand tightened around yours. His mouth didnât move, but something shifted in the air, a sudden drop in pressure, like the earth itself had exhaled.
You didnât dare repeat the question.
You didnât need to.
His silence was enough. So was the way his eyes darkened with something ancient and helpless.
He nodded, once. Not a lie. Not a promise. A curse. A surrender.
Still, he kissed your knuckles like they were relics of a chapel heâd burned down and regretted ever since.
And you, too tired to cry again, let him.
Your voice barely held when you asked next:
âAnd those creatures?â
You didnât say their names. You didnât need to. âThe ones waiting for me... down there. They wonât reach me?â
He looked up at you slowly, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist.
The change was subtleâalmost tender. But you could feel it: the shift from monster to something else entirely. Something possessive. Something that had nothing to do with hunger or blood.
You saw the flicker of fang behind his lips as he answered, not with malice, but with something closer to devotionâin that twisted way only he could mean it.
âNot while I still standâ
You said yes.
Maybe not in words. Not in the shape of something brave or willing. But it left your mouth nonetheless, torn from your throat like a final breath. You asked him to help you. You whispered his nameânot your loverâs, not the man you had lost, but the thing that devoured him.
And Remmick heard it.
The second it escaped your lips, the world tilted. He froze, like the moment had cracked something open in him. As if for all his hunger, for all the dreams heâd drowned in trying to recreate you in his mind, he hadnât truly expected you to yield.
But now you had.
And it shattered him.
A slow laugh curled out of himâsoft, disbelieving, broken in its own way. His fingers framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was afraid you'd vanish if he didnât anchor you there. He kissed your forehead, and the reverence in it was terrifying.
âGood girl,â he whispered, voice thick with something far older than lust. âYouâll never bleed for anyone else again.â
âIâll be gentle,â he lied.
He didnât wait. His mouth dropped to your throat, warm lips brushing your pulse like a prayer, and for a moment you felt almost calm. Almost safe. Until the fangs sank in.
The pain was immediate, precise. Not like a bite, not like anything your mortal body had ever known. It was separation. Unmaking. Like he was peeling your soul from your bones one heartbeat at a time.
You arched weakly under him, breath caught in your lungs, and all you could hear was his moanâlow, raw, guttural. He drank you in like you were holy water and heâd been dying of thirst for centuries. The world dulled. Faded. Your fingers twitched, but the blood was leaving too fast. You were floating, slipping out of your skin.
And thenâthere was nothing.
No heartbeat. No air.
Just silence.
Until you fell.
Not metaphorically.
You fell.
The sky cracked open above you, red and endless, and the earth below wasnât earth at allâit moved, pulsed, bled. You werenât standing on it. You were part of it. Dragged. Pulled. Your wounds were still open, but here they didnât hurtâthey sang. Screamed.
The air burned like acid in your lungs.
And they were waiting for you.
Shapes without shape. Shadows with teeth. They didnât lunge all at once. They circled, grinning, slavering. Familiar faces flickered in the darkâthings you had hunted, cursed, banished, sent to rot in places like this. They remembered.
And now they wanted you.
They were going to make you pay. Piece by piece. Forever.
A voice screamed in your headâyour voiceâand it wasnât crying for mercy, it wasnât cursing the damned. It was praying, with a desperation you hadnât known you still had. Not to a God. But to him.
To Remmick.
He didnât answer.
Not with words.
But just as the darkness lunged, just as the heat began to eat through you, you felt it.
His blood.
Hot and furious, crashing through your mouth like a tide that swallowed the fire whole. Your throat burned as it filled you, foreign and sacred and wrong. You didnât drink. You drowned.
The demons screamed.
The ground shrieked.
And thenâyou rose.
Your body came back in fragments. Cold. Then pain. Then heat. Then hunger. And when your eyes opened, the world was wrong.
Sharper. Louder. Redder.
And there he was.
Remmick.
Still cradling your body like it was something priceless. His wrist bled against your lips. His eyes watched your return like a man witnessing a resurrection he didnât dare believe in.
You gasped, lungs re-learning air. The hunger slammed into you so hard you clawed at him. He held you, murmuring nothing, everything.
You trembled. Not from weaknessâthere was no weakness left in you. But from the echo of what had almost been.
He pulled you closer. You could feel the beat of his thoughts now. The only sound you trusted now.
âI told you,â he whispered against your skin, lips brushing the edge of your jaw, âtheyâd never touch you while you were mine.â
Waited 6 months for these vinyl babies and it was worth every second. I collect vinyls, and as soon as I heard the Sinners soundtrack, I knew I needed it on wax. Been praying for special editions by madebymutant, and these turned out even more gorgeous than I imagined.
They're so beautiful I could cry (and maybe I did).
if you donât mind me asking, are you still writing for any of jackâs characters??
yep, i still am! iâve got a few ideas floating around, but nothingâs felt quite right to actually post yet. thank u for asking tho, it honestly means a lot đ€ iâve been toying with this one story about remmick + a vampire hunter reader who ends up having to let him turn her just to survive⊠not sure if anyone would even read it anymore (where did the remmick fandom vanish to??). but hey, your ask kinda brought the spark back, so thanks again âš
Well, here it is â my masterlist. I was kinda tired of having everything scattered all over the place. Hopefully this makes things easier to find. Thanks so much for all the love and support đ
(I just) Died in your arms ăVigilante (Adrian Chase), peacemaker x readeră
Vigilante (Adrian Chase), Peacemaker x femreader
Warnings: Slight angst (nothing heavy), touch-starved reader, fluff, Adrian being Adrian, a little bit of drunk reader, suggestive content (nothing explicit).
A/N: Once again, here I am being annoying lol. Honestly, writing makes me a little happy, even if itâs just for a handful of people. I canât stop thinking about Adrian Chase and how cute his look is in the new season. Thank you so much for the supportâlikes, reblogs, and comments mean the world to me. Remember that my requests are open, thanks <3
âDo you guys usually hang out a lot?â
Economos let the words fall with obvious difficulty.
âNo⊠not all of us. More like two at a time.â Leota cast a quick glance at the group chatting in the distance. âI hang out with Chris, of course.â
âOf course.â
âI hang out with Harcourt. Chris with Adrian.â Suddenly there was a pause, and as if it was the most normal thing in the world: âAdrian and y/n.â
Economos leaned closer to Leota, whispering as if she hadnât said it loud enough for half of Evergreen to hear.
âAdrian and y/n?â
Leota let out a little sound somewhere between laughter and excitement, mixed with a shh to quiet him down.
âWhat the hell did I miss all this time?â
They both laughed as if it was all insane while clinking their bottles together. Suddenly, Economos grew serious.
âI canât believe that guy calls me at midnight to tell me random facts about owls but not about this.â
He shook his head as he drank, and Adebayo couldnât stop laughing, a tear running from the corner of her right eye.
-
âDo you think if I manifest it enough, I could fly like Eagly?â
Not only did your words make no sense, but they were dragged out so much it was hard to tell if you were even speaking the same language as everyone else.
Adrian looked at you with an expression hovering between uncertainty and annoyance. If it had been anyone else, he wouldâve insulted them for saying nonsense like that. But you werenât just anyone. His features softened when you stumbled closer to him. It made no sense that this unstable figure swaying side to side was the same person who happened to be one of the best killers he knew.
You tripped over your own feet and crashed into his chest, laughing softly, the warmth of your breath seeping through his shirt. He held your waist firmly to keep both of you from collapsing to the ground. He didnât like physical contact in excess, but yours didnât bother him. It had become a habitâone that was annoying at first, but one he had learned to enjoy over time.
You climbed clumsily up his chest until you found a steady spot in the hollow of his neck. You stayed there with your eyes closed, breathing in his scent. You murmured something happily, but he couldnât quite catch the words. He lifted one of his hands and set it on your upper back, giving you a few pats, as if consoling you. He was learningâyou had been the most persistent teacher, and he the worst student imaginable. But in that moment of weakness, it felt like the most genuine show of affection youâd ever received.
You brushed the base of his neck with the tip of your nose, smiling when goosebumps rose on his skin and you felt his throat swallow with difficulty. You made your way to his ear and planted a small kiss on his earlobe. He let out a sharp exhale and glanced around, checking if anyone was paying attention. But he stopped looking when he heard you speak so close.
âI think I know what we could dress up as for Halloween. You could go as Chris, and Iâll go as Eagly.â
What the hell was it with you and Eagly lately?
His train of thought was cut short when a pleasant warmth settled in his abdomen. You were stroking him absentmindedly, no clear intention behind the gesture, but he always had trouble understanding certain signs of affection. It felt good, so he didnât stop you. He was in some kind of bubble. Normally his head was a swarm of ideas, concepts clashing for his attention. In those moments when he had your warmth near him, your scent, his brain seemed to short-circuit and go into standby.
White noise, and a little sign that said: We apologize for the inconvenience. Weâll be right back.
Heat rose to his cheeks when you began planting scattered kisses on the exposed skin closest to your lips. Your caresses slid lower until he felt them dangerously close to the waistband of his pants. He gently moved you back, careful not to make any sudden movement that could send you tumbling with your terrible coordination.
âNo. No exhibitionism. Youâre not making me commit any infraction, especially not in front of our friends.â
He said it very seriously, but something in your brain wasnât registering the words properly. You laughed, eyes half closed, body loose and trusting completely that he would hold you up if you couldnât stand on your own. And you were rightâhe would.
He shifted his grip to hold you by the upper arms and spoke slowly, as if the problem were a neural failure rather than the effect of several beers in your bloodstream.
âWeâre going to say goodbye and Iâm going to take you home.â
âHome? The two of us together?â
It irritated him a little that he couldnât just be bluntly honest with you, to tell you that you were only saying obvious nonsense. But then he remembered the pout youâd made the last time, when he told you your aim was crap while you were crying. His heart ached a little at the memory, and for a split second he wanted to pinch you so youâd share the pain. It wasnât fair that it only hurt him.
âThatâs what taking you home impliesâthat we both have to go together.â
He had underestimated your strength because, within seconds, you launched yourself forward with everything you had. You landed with your chin against his sternum, grinning from ear to ear. The rest of your body stayed where it was; only your top half had gone forward. He hissed at the impact and looked down at you, his chin pressed to his chest.
âI like that idea.â
You closed your eyes and puckered your lips, waiting for a kiss. Instead of giving in, Adrian separated you and half-dragged you back toward the rest of the group, who were still chatting casually.
âI think Iâm gonna take her home before she decides itâs a good idea to test if she can fly like Eagly.â
Everyone looked at you both with a strange expression. Adrian searched his mental notesâwhat had you told him those expressions meant? Ah, expectation. Wait, what? They were going to figure it out.
He straightened you up as you clung to him like a life jacket in the middle of a storm at sea. He moved his hand from your waist to your shoulders, much friendlier.
âDonât think that⊠Iâm not going into her house. I wonât even step over the threshold. Iâm just gonna drop her off and wait until she goes upstairs. Why would I go into her house? Pfft, thatâs ridiculous.â He let out this weird fake laugh, way too loud and way too forced.
Nobody laughed with him. Not even a pity chuckle. The group just kind of⊠froze. A couple of them exchanged these sideways glances, others took these very deliberate, too-long sips of their drinks. The silence stretched until it was so thick you could choke on it, and Chrisâpoor Chrisâlooked like heâd just swallowed a whole ball of guilt he didnât know what to do with.
âYeah, buddy. Sure. Youâre just gonna drop her off,â Chris said finally, shrugging in a way that screamed please, everyone, letâs just move on before this gets more awkward.
Adrian nodded rapidly, like three, four times in a row, convinced that heâd just completely smoothed over the whole situation. You waved this wobbly little goodbye, your hand flapping lazily in the air, muttering âthanksâ several times. Nobody knew exactly what you were thanking them for, but they all assured you it was nothing.
By the time you reached the fire escape, you slipped one hand into the back pocket of Adrianâs jeans with this little mischievous giggle. He still had an arm locked firmly around your shoulders and gave your arm a quick squeeze.
âYouâre touchier than ever,â he muttered, trying to sound unimpressed.
But he couldnât stop staring at the ridiculous grin plastered across your face. It was⊠absurd. And yet, it got under his skin in the best possible way. He liked it. He liked that grin, how it softened you, made you look younger, lighter. He loved your sharp edges tooâmaybe more, honestlyâbut seeing you like this, so open, it tugged at something deep inside him. He hadnât seen much of this version of you lately, not since the butterflies were gone and the missions had stopped. And he missed it more than he wanted to admit.
âJust because you look cuter than ever,â you blurted out, words tumbling out too fast.
You kissed his cheek, and he smiled despite himself. Compliments still hit him like bulletsâunexpected, disorientingâbut he craved them too, impatient for the next one. He lived for you pointing out that his hair looked good, or that his aim was deadly, or that you thought he was adorable in his glasses. âYouâre a kinky boy, arenât you?â you teased.
And he couldnât deny it. Not really.
The climb up to your apartment took twice as long as it should have. It wasnât just keeping you uprightâthough that was a whole mission in itselfâbut also fending off your increasingly bold attempts to peel his clothes off in the middle of the damn street. You pulled out every trick: complimenting him as Vigilante, whispering he was the âbest boy,â rattling off random new facts about owls. He suspected most of them were made up, but it still punched something warm into his chest to realize youâd actually gone out of your way to look up owl triviaâjust because it mattered to him.
At the door, he plucked the keys out of your hand, trying to juggle unlocking the lock while you pressed yourself against his back, arms limp at your sides, your cheek smushed against his shoulder blade. You mumbled something incoherent about how good he smelled, and it nearly made him drop the keys.
Spinning carefully so you wouldnât collapse, he frowned down at you.
âWhatâs up with you tonight? Did Chris give you some of that stuff he smokes in his pipe?â
You shook your head, shoved him through the door, and laughed way too loudly. Adrian clamped a hand over your mouth, whispering sharp sshh sounds over and over that did absolutely nothing. You mumbled against his palm, words dissolving into nonsense, then suddenly went quiet. And thenâyour tongue. Flat against his palm. Slow.
He didnât even flinch. His face stayed perfectly deadpan.
âIf you think thatâs gonna gross me out, you clearly forgot that Iâve had your saliva literally all over my body.â
You whined when he finally pulled his hand away. Your eyelids were heavy, drooping like lead weights, and he wasnât sure youâd last much longer before passing out completely. Still, he wasnât convinced the neighbors wouldnât call the cops if you laughed like that again.
You stared at him for a beat too long before blurting:
âAbbyâs not here. Sheâs with her girlfriendâs family for the weekend.â
Relief slammed into him so hard he actually exhaled.
âWeâre alone.â You arched your brows up and down in this ridiculous, suggestive rhythm.
âWhy are you doing that? Do you need me to take you to the hospital?â
âWhat?â
âYour eyebrows are moving independently of your face. Thatâs weird. Looks like some kind of neurological malfunction. Iâm worried.â
You groaned, gave up on explaining, and tugged him down the hallway by his shirt sleeve until you reached your bedroom. Then you flopped face-first onto the bed with a dull thud, limbs splayed out like a starfish. Lifting your head just enough to pout at him, you demanded:
âLie down with me.â
âWith these clothes? Street clothes? Uh, no. Absolutely not.â
âThen take them off me.â You said it with clear suggestiveness, but his sharp nod told you heâd interpreted it as nothing more than a practical task.
He bent to start tugging at your sneakers, but your whole expression crumpled. Your lip trembled, your eyes glossed over, tears pricking before you could stop them.
âAdrian⊠do you even like me?â
He froze mid-motion, sneaker halfway off, his hand still gripping your leg to keep it propped up. He blinked down at you like youâd just pulled a gun on him.
âWhat?â
âI think⊠I think you feel obligated to be with me.â
Your lip wobbled harder, and then tears spilled, hot and fast, down your cheeks. He finished pulling off the shoe, gave your thigh two awkward pats, desperate to redirect you. These situations always made his stomach knotâbecause he didnât know how to fix you when you broke like this, and that made him feel like a failure.
âI donât hate you, if thatâs what youâre asking,â he blurted finally.
The words landed like a grenade. Your tears doubled, morphing into an unstoppable flood as you dropped your head into the mattress. You wanted to curl into a ball, vanish into the sheets, but even that felt impossible.
âHey, hey, donât cry. Please?â
The answer was a louder, messier sob.
He gave your other thigh a couple of awkward pats, like that was going to magically fix anything. You couldnât bring yourself to look at him. You knew Adrian wasnât like everyone elseâit took effort for him to show any kind of emotion. But in the past few months, youâd thought youâd broken through, that maybe youâd carved out a space where his affection lived. Never in a million years would you have expected him to say: âI donât hate you.â
âWhat I meant was⊠I guess I like you. Like, actually like you. God, Iâve done things with you I never wouldâve imagined.â
The crying stopped almost instantly. After a couple shaky breaths, you lifted your gaze. Adrian looked like his brain was doing cartwheels, like he was digging around for words he didnât usually keep in stock.
âIâm notââ he scratched the back of his neck, glancing away, âIâm not good at this. Feelings. Or, like⊠saying things that donât involve knives or bowel movements. So maybe I donât show stuff like normal people. Not the way youâd expect. But, uhâIâm here, right? That counts for something.â
You blinked hard, drunk brain clinging to every word. Normally you wouldâve stopped him, told him that was enough. But you needed more. Since the Butterflies, you hadnât known who you were, or what you were good for. You werenât needed. Adrian had tried in his own awkward way to pull you out of it, dragging you along on patrols, but that wasnât your path. You still longed to belong to something bigger.
Your insecurities slipped out raw and loud, more than you wanted. And you needed him to tell youâyou were worth something. At least to him.
âIf I didnât like you, I wouldnât be here. Iâd be with the others, orâhell, Iâd have let you jump off that stupid fire escape to test your flying theory. I wouldnât give a crap how you got home. I couldâve just stayed home sharpening knives, which, by the way, is very satisfying. But I didnât. I walked you home.â He lifted a hand as he listed off his alternatives, then let it smack against his leg with a thunk. His eyes tracked your face, and when he caught your lip trembling again, he made an exaggerated tsk. âIâm here. With you. Holding you up so you donât faceplant on the sidewalk. Stopping you from stripping me naked on Main Street, which, by the way, is illegal in several states. I Googled it. Itâs a felony in Utah. Just saying.â
You bit your lip, holding back a laugh at his very specific worry about laws. You didnât remind him that he was the one whoâd once ended up in his underwear, drenched in beer, in front of the whole team.
Adrianâs words started tumbling out faster, like a faucet he couldnât turn off.
âAnd I donât like you in the boring way. Like tacosâI love tacos, Iâd marry tacos. Itâs different. Itâs likeâŠyou make my brain shut up. Normally itâs all noise in there. Like a hundred radio stations playing at the same time, and half of them are talking about murder techniques. But when youâre around? Itâs like static. Quiet static. And thatâs⊠actually really nice. I didnât even know I wanted that until it happened. So yeah. Youâre basically like my human white noise machine. But better, because sometimes you kiss me.â
He scratched his neck again, eyes darting up like maybe heâd find a trapdoor in the ceiling.
âAnd alsoâyou touch me. Which is insane, because usually I hate people touching me. Like, donât touch me. Ever. Handshakes? Gross. Sweat, germs, hand oilâblegh. But with you, itâs fine. Itâs⊠more than fine. Itâs⊠I donât know, itâs good. Like I want it. Which means, scientifically speaking, that I definitely like you. Because otherwise Iâd have pepper-sprayed you and sprinted home. Fast. Iâm very fast.â
He shrugged, like heâd just presented a flawless math equation.
âSo yeah. Thatâs it. You make me want to stay. You make my brain stop screaming. Youâre the only person alive Iâll let touch me without stabbing. If thatâs not âliking,â then the dictionary is a liar.â
You just stared at him, chest pulling tight, while he rambled. Then, suddenly, the tears returnedâhot, fast, unstoppable. But this time they were different. Your lip wobbled, and you started crying again, only now you were smiling too.
Adrianâs face twisted in horror.
âOh no. Ohhh no, no, no, no, no. Not again. Why are you leaking? I literally said nice stuff this time! Do you have, like, a tear duct malfunction? Should I Google it? I can Google it. Waitâno, my phoneâs dead. Donât move, Iâllââ
âAdrian.â You laughed through your tears, catching his wrist before he could bolt. Your voice cracked, but you got the words out. âIâm not sad. I promise. Iâm just⊠happy. You donât usually say things like that and⊠itâs a lot. In a good way.â
He froze. Rigid. Deer-in-headlights.
ââŠWait. Youâre crying because youâre happy? Thatâs not real. Crying is for funerals. Or when your burrito falls on the ground tortilla-side-down. Not for happy.â
You sniffled, wiping your face clumsily. âFor me, it is. My brain just⊠reacts like that. Too many feelings at once, and this is what comes out. And what you said⊠it made me feel safe. And wanted.â
He blinked. Hard. Mouth opening like he wanted to argueâbut shutting again. Then he leaned closer, squinting like he was trying to read the fine print of your soul.
âSo⊠you done crying now? Happy crying, sad cryingâwhat category are we in? Because I wanna lie down with you. I like when you pet my hair while I fall asleep.â
Something warm spread through your chest, drowning out the last of your doubts. You almost laughed at how he suddenly couldnât stop listing things he liked about you. You nodded, smiling, opening your arms in invitation.
But he shook his head, leaned over, and started undressing you again.
You couldnât stop laughing as he fought with your jeans, cursing under his breath. He froze only when he caught sight of your underwear. You cupped his face, making him meet your eyes, biting your lip in what you thought was a sexy smirk. In reality, your eyelids were so heavy you looked like you were seconds away from passing out.
Adrian stifled a frustrated noise, kissed your forehead, and tugged your shirt off gently. When you were settled, he tucked the blanket over you, then clumsily stripped out of his own clothes. He slid into bed, hopeful you might still be awakeâbut your eyes were already closed.
He lay facing you, studying your flushed cheeks, puffy eyes, steady breathing. Something strange bloomed in his chestâhabitual now, even if it wasnât natural. Without overthinking, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you tight against him until your warmth quieted the buzz in his skull.
Half-asleep, you stretched out a hand, playing lazily with his curls, mumbling something dangerously close to I love you.
He had no idea what to do with that. No idea if he could say it back. So instead, he pressed another kiss to your forehead and began rattling off every owl fact heâd memorized that week, while you answered with soft, nonsensical murmurs.
Be my baby: You Can't Hurry Love (3) ăClark Kent, superman x readeră
Clark Kent (Superman) x superhero tailor fem!reader (Edna Mode vibes but make it romantic)
Summary: Well, the best superhero tailor in the city just met one of the biggest around. How much fabric would it take to wrap him in something decent? Guess weâll find out.
part 1., part 2
A/N: Big thanks for the support! 𫶠Comments, likes, and reblogs are always super appreciatedđ
Drop your thoughts and requests! Iâm watching đ Thanks again!
Clark was back again.
You had him standing in front of the mirror, testing the latest design. This time the fabric promised to be sturdier, at least sturdier than the last version heâd accidentally torn through. He did the same thing he always did: that tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his mouth, followed by a quick adjustment at the collar. Every single fitting, it was the same ritual. A fleeting grimace, quickly smoothed into a polite smile, and then the tug at the sleeve as though he were distracted.
Clark thought no one noticed. He probably thought he was subtle. But you noticed everything.
He stood there, broad shoulders filling the suit as he checked his reflection, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. You bit down on your lip to stop yourself from blurting out what you were really thinking. Such a slut. The words hovered on your tongue, sharp and teasing. You could already imagine the way heâd flush at the ears, stammer something clumsy, and still smile at you like he had no idea what to do with himself. The mental image was delicious enough to make you grin.
But then, there it was again. His expression twisted for half a second, irritation breaking through before he smoothed it over. Another quick adjustment at the collar.
You narrowed your eyes.
He hadnât said a single word of complaint. Of course he hadnât. That wasnât Clark. Heâd never admit something bothered him if it meant criticizing you. Instead, heâd keep turning with that warm, dimpled smileâthe one that made your chest tighten and your mouth water in ways you refused to admit aloud. Dimples youâd thought about biting, more than once. God help you, you were hopeless.
And every time, he said the same thing. Perfect.
Itâs not perfect if something bothers you, idiot.
But you didnât call him on it. Just like he didnât admit it. That was the ridiculous part. You two had known each other long enough to call yourselves⊠friends, maybe? Acquaintances felt too cold for what this had become. And yet you didnât know his favorite color, but you could recite from memory the whole story of how being taller than all the other kids too young had carved a permanent ache into him. My poor giant boy.
But when it came to thisâthe collar, the pinch, the smallest discomfortâhe kept it to himself.
Clark had always been careful about the way he spoke to you. He was careful with everyone, but with you it was different, more restrained, more hesitant. When it came to your work, to the suits you made for him, he never once voiced a complaint. Even now, with the collar tugging faintly against his neck, he swallowed the discomfort. Heâd rather endure it than risk the possibility of discouraging you.
You knew it. Youâd seen it before, that quiet reluctance. The way he asked for things softly, like he was worried his words might bruise. As if telling you the fabric caught at the waist or pressed too tight against his ribs would make you feel small, or worse, inadequate. It twisted something sharp and tender in your chest, and for one unguarded second you were overcome by the ridiculous urge to hug him. To squeeze him so hard heâd creak. Like one of those squishy toys you kept on your desk.
You told yourself it wasnât affection, no, it was annoyance. Pure, homicidal annoyance at how stupidly endearing he was.
âTake the suit off, big guy,â you said at last, keeping your tone brisk, professional. âI need to get your measurements on file.â
It was a small lie. You didnât need them again; you already knew his measurements better than you knew your own phone number. But you wanted to keep the suit another day, just long enough to adjust the collar without him noticing.
Clarkâs brows furrowed, suspicion flickering there in the mirror. Heâd spent enough time in your workshop by now to know how you worked, and youâd never asked for something like that before. He hesitated, lips parting like he might ask why. But then, of course, he only nodded, obedient as always, his massive hands already reaching for the zipper at the back.
A few days later, you returned it.
He felt it the moment the fabric brushed his skin.
There was no itch. No irritation. His fingers went to his collar by instinct, ready to rub at the familiar spot, but the discomfort never came. His hand just hovered there, pressed against the smooth line of fabric, and his mind stalled.
You hadnât said a word. You were across the room, bent over your work table, scissors in hand, humming to yourself while you trimmed fabric. But he could almost hear your voice in his head anyway, dry and teasing, that little bite that never failed to make his ears burn: For someone with a super-brain, you sure took your time figuring it out, farmboy.
The cape swished against his legs as he turned sharply, unable to stop himself from looking at you. You didnât notice. Or maybe you did and pretended not toâhe could never quite tell with you. Your brow was furrowed, lips pursed in concentration as you held a piece of fabric up to the light. He felt a dangerous tug low in his chest, the urge to reach out, to smooth that crease between your brows with his thumb.
âDid you⊠do something different with the suit?â His voice came out careful, too careful, like he was tiptoeing across ice.
You straightened from your work, shoulders rolling back. He froze. He wasnât used to the way his body betrayed him around you, the way every muscle in his back went taut with expectation when you moved, as if waiting for a verdict that only you could deliver. He needed your eyes on him like he needed air, and when they werenât, it was unbearable.
But you didnât look at him. You only tilted the fabric toward the light and said, too casually, âShould I have?â
The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Cold ran down his spine. What if you hadnât changed anything? What if he was just imagining it, desperate for signs where there were none? His mouth opened, but all that came out was a faint, helpless, âNoâŠâ
He sank into the big armchair in the cornerâthe one youâd gotten a few months ago, after heâd nearly snapped your old wooden chair in half with his weight. His hands gripped the armrests, fiddling with a loose thread as he sat there in silence, the suit still clinging to him, too heavy with the thought that maybe heâd misunderstood everything.
The workshop was quiet but comforting, the air always warm with fabric and faint tea. He realized, sitting there, that he loved being in this space. It wrapped around him in a way that felt almost⊠intentional. As though the room itself had been made to hold him. The thought startled him. He frowned, trying to remember when that chair had first appeared. It had been after he started coming here regularly. One day, he walked in and it was just there. Heâd laughed, said it was dangerously comfortable, and you had snorted, rolling your eyes.
âEasy there, farmboy. Half my clients are built like you. I was sick of the complaints about the old chair creaking. Had to adapt, thatâs all.â
Something in your tone had suggested otherwise, but he hadnât pushed. He never pushed with you.
Now, sitting there with the suit hugging his shoulders just right for the first time, he wasnât so sure. Maybe you had changed something. Maybe youâd changed a lot.
His gaze wandered over the space, taking in details he hadnât thought much about before. The tin of tea on your shelf, tucked beside your endless rows of fabric rolls. He wasnât a coffee drinker, never had beenâtoo bitter, no kick for someone like him. He knew heâd told you that once, in passing, not thinking it mattered. Yet not long after, there it was: his favorite tea, waiting for him in your workshop like it had always belonged.
And the chair. And now, the collar. Little things, quiet things. Things you never admitted, and heâd been too shyâor too scaredâto ask about.
His chest felt too tight as the realization crept in: maybe you noticed him the same way he noticed you.
His heart stumbled when he saw the neat row of vinyls stacked along your shelf. They were always organized to perfection, each record carefully ordered, but now he saw itâtucked between your usual favorites were a few of his. Bands youâd teased him about once, laughing at the idea of Superman listening to punk. âDoesnât fit the brand, big blue.â Youâd smirked at him like it was a joke. And yet⊠there they were. Waiting, familiar, his.
Something warm and liquid twisted through his chest, spreading through his whole body until he felt almost unsteady on his feet. The realization made him straighten, breath caught. Youâd let pieces of him seep into this placeâthe most important place to you. No fanfare. No words. Just small threads of him stitched into the fabric of your world, woven seamlessly with your own.
It was you, in every corner. But now, it was also him.
Clark bit down on the noise trying to escape his chest, something embarrassingly close to a sigh of contentment. Gratitude crawled up his spine, rooted itself in his head until it made him dizzy.
Heâd been lost from the first moment you smirked at him, mocking his posture while your tape measure snapped against his shoulders. From the first teasing tsk that curved your mouth into something wicked and feline. He had been helpless then, absurdly in love with his tailor, and too terrified to confess it. Too scared of breaking the strange, delicate rhythm you had built together.
But thisâthis was hope.
His heart fluttered wildly, so loud he was sure youâd hear it.
âEarth to big blue. You copy?â
Your voice snapped him back. He blinked, dragging himself out of the daze. You were by the cupboard where you kept mugs, a kettle in hand, eyebrows arched in expectant challenge.
ââŠSorry, what?â
âI asked if you wanted tea, dummy.â
A grin tugged at his lips before he could stop it. He almost nodded, the safe answer, but something in him rebelled. Noâheâd just put the pieces together, and he wanted to test them. To see if he was right.
He rose slowly from the chair, deliberately unhurried, his footsteps soft against the floor as he crossed the room. You tilted your chin up when he stopped near you, eyes flicking over his face. And when he smiled, you smiled backâreluctantly, without even meaning to.
âIâd love a cup of my tea,â he said, voice low.
Your mouth opened as if to fire off some witty retort, but your raised brows betrayed you first. It was the look of someone caught red-handed. Someone surprised. Someone exposed.
The noise heâd been holding in rumbled free this time, a satisfied hum vibrating through his chest.
And then everything sharpened. His senses locked on you, greedy. The thrum of your heart filled his ears, erratic and uneven, skipping beats. He shouldnât have listened, but he couldnât stop. He followed the rush of blood as it flushed into your cheeks, staining them with color.
You smelled like fabric and ink and tea, and when he leaned a little closerâjust a fractionâhe thought maybe he could drown in it. His head went light. His lips parted without permission, the anticipation almost painful.
You swayed closer. Just slightly, but enough. He could feel your breath against his mouth. His own lips grazed the edge of a smile, heat burning under his skin.
God, he wanted it. He wanted you.
But he also wanted to hear it. To know it. To be chosen, not just assumed.
So, at the very last second, Clark tilted just off course and brushed his lips against the corner of your mouth instead. A kiss soft as a touch, barely there, a promise that left him reeling anyway.
When he drew back, you were breathless. Lips parted, eyes heavy, a faint crease of frustration tugging at your expression. He ached to erase it. But he stayed still, clinging to restraint.
âThank you,â he said softly, the words trembling at the edges. âFor fixing the suit.â
Air seemed to vanish from the workshop. You opened your mouth, inhaled sharply, but it was like there wasnât enough oxygen left to fill your lungs.
ââŠYouâre welcome,â you whispered. So quiet that if he didnât have super-hearing, he might have missed it.
Nothing had moved forward, and it was driving him out of his skin. Every day the closeness pushed him just a little further, edging him toward the brink of losing his mind completely.
The worst part? He wasnât the one making the first move, because somewhere in that stubborn, beautiful mess of a head of his, heâd decided he wanted you to be the one. He wanted to be chosen. Which meant the two of you were locked in some ridiculous, dangerous little game now. You hadnât said it aloud, but it was as if you were both shouting across the room: letâs see who breaks first.
And Clark? Heâd started cheating. âAccidentallyâ tearing suits just to come by, showing up with your favorite food, even dragging poor Krypto into the shop more often than was strictly necessary. Heâd seen you almost cave more than onceâyour lips parting like you were on the verge of saying something that would shatter the silence. Almost.
You, for your part, had brought out the heavy artillery. Touch had always been naturalâit came with the job, fitting seams and smoothing fabricâbut now your hands lingered. When you ran your palm down his shoulder, you didnât pull away right away. When he stood still while you checked a seam, your fingers ghosted along the back of his neck, idly toying with the short hair at his nape as though petting some oversized, overgrown cat. And when he looked around your workshop and found little fragments of himselfâlike the plate of pancakes you insisted on having for dinner, because of course you didâit made his chest ache in a way that was both unbearable and irresistible.
The whole thing was absurd. You were absurd. He was absurd. The two of you together? Hopeless.
Which was why Clark decided he needed one last push. A little trick, a little nudge, something that would make you slip first. He convinced poor Mr. Douglas to let him take the strawberries a bit earlier than usualâjust as heâd done with the peaches last month. He was sure this would be the moment. The act that tipped you over the edge.
Roy barely glanced up from his work when the alien bounded past, tossing a distracted greeting over his shoulder as Clark made a straight line for the workshop that had become far too much like home. His grin stretched ear to ear, nearly cocky. In one hand he carried a paper bag filled with strawberries. In his chest, his heart thumped with ridiculous, dangerous hope.
âIâll have to make it up to Mr. Douglas somehowâŠâ he muttered under his breath.
But his voice trailed off when the sound reached himâyour laughter. A real laugh, deep and unguarded. His pulse skipped, caught between the thrill of hearing it and the sharp sting that came with the fact it wasnât just yours. Another laugh joined in, lower, rougher, not his.
Clarkâs smile faltered.
He stepped inside and froze at the sight of you. You were standing so close to another man, measuring his arm with practiced precision, and laughingâopen, easy, bright. His stomach twisted in something uncomfortably close to jealousy.
Both of you looked up when he entered, though you didnât step away. You smiled like a cat caught in a patch of sunlight, mischievous and utterly unbothered. His traitorous heart did a flip, ignoring the warning bells in his head.
âOh, hey, big guy. Youâre actually on time. Thatâs rare.â
âKent.â
âHolt.â
The two men exchanged a curt nod. Michael Holt was all seriousness now, while Clark forced a polite smile even as something bitter climbed his throat. He swallowed it down the way he always did, with the kind of self-control that left a faint ache behind.
âI told Michael he could stop by now, since you usually run a little late.â
You said it casually, like it meant nothing, while your hands kept working, noting measurements in your book.
âTheyâve put a team together, you know,â you added without looking up. âThe name is awful, but they asked me to design their suits. Figured Iâd better start now.â
âThatâs⊠thatâs great.â His voice came out too stiff, too formal, and you squinted at him briefly before turning back to your work.
âSo what were you saying about my dear Mr. Douglas?â
Suddenly the bag in his hand felt impossibly heavy. Foolish. Like a child caught sneaking something he shouldnât, Clark shifted it behind his back, muttering a quiet, embarrassed, âNothing.â
You didnât press. Instead, you excused yourself with a breezy little wave of your hand, slipping out of the room and tossing your parting shot over your shoulder: âNeed more fabricâsomething thatâll make people forget that ridiculous team name.â
And just like that, you were gone.
Clark stood frozen in the middle of your workshop, a paper bag of strawberries tucked awkwardly behind his back like contraband. His pulse thrummed against his throat, loud enough he was half-convinced Michael Holt could hear it.
Get it together, Kent. Sheâs just getting fabric. You are Superman. Youâve faced alien invasions. You once caught an entire collapsing bridge. You do notâ he glanced down at the bag, his ears warming âyou do not hide behind fruit like a lovesick teenager outside a sock hop.
Still, there he was. Six-foot-four, Kryptonâs last son, hiding behind a brown grocery bag like it was a riot shield.
It was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
You were a tailor. This was your work. Measuring arms, scolding over torn seams, brushing your hands over shoulders and waistsâit was all part of the job. You laughed, you teased, you kept your clients at ease, because that was who you were. Clark knew that. Rationally, he knew that.
But the traitorous corner of his heartâthe corner that had been in trouble from the first moment youâd tugged a tape measure around his chest and muttered, âBig Blue, hold still or Iâll stab you with this pinââkept whispering that you werenât like that with everyone. That your edges softened around him. That the way your laughter burst out when he fumbled a joke, the way your eyes lingered when you pinned a seamâthose things were just for him.
And now, thanks to your casual little Terrific stunt, he was standing here wondering if maybe heâd been wrong.
âYou good?â
Clark nearly dropped the strawberries. He blinked, jolting back to earth, and found Michael watching him with the kind of expression reserved for malfunctioning robots.
âYeah. Fine,â Clark said too quickly, his voice hitting a register usually reserved for panicked teenagers.
Michael raised a single eyebrow. A devastating eyebrow. âThatâs exactly what people say right before they pass out or commit tax fraud.â
Clark tried a smile. The kind he used on reporters when they asked about zoning laws in Metropolis. Polite. Harmless. Transparent as glass. âReally. Iâmââ
âYou look like a man about to swallow his own tongue,â Michael cut in, folding his arms. âAnd considering youâre youâthe guy who cracks dad jokes while asteroids are literally on fire behind himâthatâs saying something.â
Clark winced. Adjusted his glasses. Shifted his weight from one massive boot to the other. Donât say strawberries. Donât say strawberries.
âItâs just⊠nothing. Really.â
Michaelâs unimpressed stare said otherwise. âUh-huh. You always get this face when youâre lying. Like a golden retriever trying to pass itself off as a wolf.â
Clark opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. He had flown through hurricanes with less turbulence. Finally, with a sigh that could have powered a windmill, he slumped.
âLetâs say⊠hypothetically,â he started, fumbling with the word like it weighed fifty pounds, âthat a friend of mine thought a girl was⊠different with him. That maybe she showed him something softer, something more. But then he saw her acting the same way with somebody else and thought, well, maybe he was wrong. Maybe he wasnât special after all.â
The silence that followed was brutal. Michael studied him for a long moment, expression caught somewhere between pity and amusement. His lips twitched.
Clark braced himself.
âTell your friend,â Michael said finally, making air quotes so exaggerated they could have qualified for their own orbit, âthat Iâve known her for years. And I have neverâneverâseen her look at anyone the way she looks at you. Not even close.â
Clark blinked. Once. Twice. His ears turned a shade of red that could rival his cape.
âOh, no, I wasnâtâheâs notâI meanââ Clarkâs voice cracked, and he gestured wildly with his free hand, nearly smacking himself in the face with the strawberries. âThatâs notâI wasnâtââ
Michael leaned back against your workbench, smirk firmly in place. âRelax, Kent. Iâm a genius. I can spot obvious when it walks in wearing a cape.â
Clark made a noise. Not quite a laugh, not quite a groanâsomething in between that sounded like a dying tractor.
And of course, that was the exact moment you breezed back into the room. Empty-handed. A little triumphant.
âTurns out Iâll have to order the fabric,â you said lightly. âSorry, Holt. Swing by another day.â
Clark, still pink and still clutching the strawberries like a life preserver, nearly choked on his own tongue.
Michael caught your eye as he passed you on his way out, and if Clark didnât know better, he couldâve sworn he saw Holt give you the smallest, most infuriating little wink.
And then it was just the two of you.
Clark kept his eyes fixed on the floor, lips pressed in a thin line, unusually quiet for once. The weight of the strawberries behind his back grew unbearable.
You tilted your head, stepping closer, that sly little spark in your eyes.
âAll right, big guy,â you said, voice light, teasing. âAre you going to tell me what youâre hiding back there⊠or am I going to have to wrestle it out of you?â
Clarkâs shoulders stiffened immediately. âItâs nothing,â he murmured, voice pitched a little too soft, a little too careful.
That only encouraged you. You narrowed your eyes, lips curving in mock suspicion as you stalked closer, circling him like a cat ready to pounce. âWhatâs in the bag, Kent?â you drawled, parodying the infamous movie line. âWhatâs in the bag?â
He actually laughedânervous, awkward, trying to defuse you. âReally, itâsâ itâs not importantââ
You stepped into his space, toe to toe with him, tilting your chin up so you could glare straight at him. His body reacted instantly: a subtle step back, his spine pressing against the edge of your worktable as though retreat was the only option. But his retreat wasnât fast enough to hide the warmth in his cheeks, the way his pulse jumped visibly at his throat.
âClark,â you scolded, voice wickedly low, âare you seriously going to keep secrets from the woman who literally patches your cape back together?â
He swallowed, the sound thick. âIâI donât think this isââ
You didnât let him finish. With a quick dart of your hand, you snatched the bag from behind his back. He didnât resist. He could have, easily, but instead he stood frozen, letting you win.
The teasing grin on your lips faded the instant you peeked inside. Strawberries. Perfectly ripe, still dewy.
Your chest tightened.
They were your favorite. You hadnât meant to admit it, hadnât meant to let the words slip past your guard. But they didâfalling from your lips in a whisper so soft you barely recognized your own voice.
âTheyâre my favorite.â
For a heartbeat, silence hung between you. And then Clarkâs replyâquiet, breaking just a little on the edges, tender in a way that made your chest ache.
âI know.â
That was it. The moment everything shifted.
The teasing, the banter, the little tug-of-war youâd been playing with him for monthsâit evaporated like smoke. Because the truth, unspoken but undeniable, was suddenly sitting there between you. Weighty. Luminous. Impossible to look away from.
Youâd always known, at least in some half-conscious way, that you and Clark were orbiting each other. Skirting the line, testing, daring the other to push a little closer. And you had thoughtâfoolishlyâthat you were in control. That you were the clever one. Youâd been so sure the jokes, the scolding, the late-night fittings and the âaccidentalâ brushes of your hand against his arm were all just part of a game you were winning.
But now⊠now, standing here with a paper bag of strawberries trembling in your hands, you saw it differently. All your sharp little tricks, all your playful provocations, paled against the truth of him. Because Clark wasnât trying to outmaneuver you. He wasnât strategizing or baiting you. He was simply doing what he always didâbringing you something kind, something thoughtful, something heartbreakingly simple.
And suddenly you felt like the fool.
You drew in a breath, steadying yourself, letting the mask fall for once. No sarcasm. No deflection. Just you. Just him.
âWhyâd you bring me strawberries, Big Blue?â you asked, voice low and steady, your eyes fixed on his. Searching. Needing.
He blinked down at you, startled, his head dipping instinctively until his forehead hovered just above yours. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips. His voice came out rough, almost confused. âWhat?â
You tightened your grip on the bag, then set it aside with trembling fingers. Both hands lifted to his face, sliding over the line of his jaw until your palms cradled him there, holding him still. Your thumbs pressed gently into the faint stubble along his cheeks. You forced him to see you. To hear you.
âWhy,â you said again, firmer this time, the words almost a demand, âdid you bring me strawberries, Clark?â
For a long, breathless moment, he didnât answer. His chest rose and fell unevenly beneath your touch. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back to your eyes, then down againâas if he couldnât help himself. His next breath stuttered, and when the words finally came, they were clumsy, fumbling, but utterly sincere.
âFor the same reason you couldnât let my suit keep bothering me?."
Your lips parted, a shaky little exhale slipping free as you tilted your head just slightly. Just enough that your mouth brushed the air above his. âNot sure about that, are you, big guy?â
He gave a sound thenâa helpless, broken laugh. The kind that comes from the chest, low and raw, tinged with nerves and hope all at once.
âWith you,â he whispered, as if it were the truest thing he had ever said, âIâm never sure of anything.â
And then you kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed you. Maybe it didnât matter, because the moment stretched and snapped, and suddenly his mouth was on yoursâsoft, desperate, tasting faintly of strawberries he hadnât even eaten yet. His hands found your waist like theyâd been waiting their whole lives to rest there, and you pressed closer, heart hammering, because finally, finally, there was no denying it.
The first brush of his lips was almost clumsy. Sweet, but unpracticed, like neither of you could quite believe you were actually doing it. His nose bumped yours, your teeth grazed awkwardly, and you both broke into startled little laughs against each otherâs mouths.
It should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. You were still holding the stupid bag of strawberries between you, crinkling with every shift, and Clarkâs hand had landed halfway on your hip, halfway on a spool of fabric, like he couldnât decide if he was allowed to touch you at all.
But God, it was perfect.
Because when you pulled back half an inch, laughing breathlessly, his eyes were wide and bright, soft with disbelief. He looked at you like youâd just hung the moon and handed it to him. And the sight of itâthis impossible man undone by youâknocked the air straight from your lungs.
And then he made a low sound in his chestâhalf a hum, half a sighâas he leaned in again, unable to stop himself. The vibration rolled through you, deeper than the kiss itself. You gasped, needing air, tilting back with a laugh as you tried to catch your breath. But he followed, lips brushing yours, then the corner of your mouth, then back again, chasing you in featherâlight kisses that made your lungs burn for an entirely different reason.
âClarkââ you giggled, pressing your palms to his chest, firm but not pushing him away, just enough to hold him there for a second. He was warm under your hands, solid in a way that made your heart stutter.
âToo far,â he murmured against your skin, though his mouth still hovered, still tempted.
âNot everyoneâs like you,â you managed between breaths, tilting your head so heâd stop teasing your lips. âHumans actually need to breathe once in a while.â
That earned you the smallest, sheepish smile, his forehead resting against yours. âSorry,â he murmured, almost boyish in his guilt.âYou have no idea,â he whispered, voice rough with honesty, âhow hard it is to stop.â
The confession hit you harder than the kisses, knocking your balance clean out from under you. And suddenly, it wasnât just your breath heâd stolenâit was every thought you might have had of keeping this light, easy, safe.
tag list: @animegamerfox mentallyilldarling dreamlesssleepsaga
okay so i just stumbled on your latest Clark + Edna Mode reader fic (adorable btw) and you said youâre open for requests and⊠what about Vigilante x Reader where sheâs on the team against the butterflies and they absolutely cannot stand each other?? but then they get paired up for a mission and end up stuck together overnight on a stakeout, watching suspects. sooo much sniping at each other, awkward silences, maybe even some accidental teamwork?? i feel like youâd make it hilarious and tense at the same time đ
You spin me round ăVigilante (Adrian Chase), peacemaker x readeră
Vigilante (Adrian Chase), Peacemaker x femreader
A/N: YES, YES, YES. THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU because I had no idea what to write for him. Okayâdeep breathâsorry. But seriously, thank you for your request, I actually felt something in my chest where my heart is supposed to be. I never get requests, so stumbling on yours was a full serotonin shot. Hope you like it.
I also struggle to find fics for this character, so if you know any, please, Iâm begging you, send them my way in any possible form. Iâm so ready for season two to drop. As alwaysâthank you for the support. Comments and likes mean the world. â€ïž
Are requests open?? I suppose so
Nothing about this was remotely funny.
Getting the mud off your boots was going to take longer than youâd likeâlonger than it took to get blood stains out. Which, of course, made you think you really needed to buy that powder that nice old lady at the laundromat had recommended, back when youâd had to lie and say you were a veterinarian who got dirty a lot.
Maybe baking soda would get the brown stuff out. You also needed to grab one of those scraper brushes they kept advertising on TV. The ones that claimed to get into all the impossible little spots. Although maybe it was a waste of moneyâmaybe you should just save it and blast them with the shower head. But then again, the hose had split along the side, so all the water pressure escaped through that stupid gap. What if you used the brush money to buy a new shower head? Yeah, thatâd be betterâone with a brand-new hose andâ
âWhy were you and Leota playing rock, paper, scissors before we left?â
You nearly forgot where you were, so far inside your own head youâd tuned out everything else. Vigilante had picked up his pace until he was walking right beside you. You caught, from the corner of your eye, the way his helmet bobbed with each forceful step.
Suddenly, you were hyperaware of him, of how loud his footsteps were in the forest, of the number of branches and leaves he stomped on, like he was actively trying to destroy every single one. If the butterflies hadnât heard you yet, his walking style had practically shouted your location to every living thing in range.
âWhat?â You didnât look at him, didnât even slow down.
âI saw you and Adebayo playing rock, paper, scissors. You got really mad when she won.â
The words climbed up your throat, but you bit your lip, unsure what you were supposed to say. Tell the truth? You didnât know how heâd take itâyou barely knew him. All you knew was that he was some kind of psychopath who seemed to enjoy all of this. In the short time youâd interacted, youâd learned that reading people was not his strong suit. Would honesty hurt him? Would lying be worse?
âWe were deciding who had to go with you.â
You said it fast, like minimizing the importance would make it sound less awful.
He went quiet, and from the corner of your eye you saw his attention drop to the ground, helmet visor pointing straight at his boots. Then he stopped walking entirely.
âWait. You meanâŠâ
âYes. Thatâs it. Nobody wanted to.â You kept walking, trying to brush it off.
There was a pause. You could feel his gaze on your back.
âWow. Thatâs⊠pretty mean.â
The indignation in his voice caught you off guard, you honestly didnât think that was possible from him. That alone made you turn to look at him. He stood still, hands open at his sides like he was searching for words.
âJust me? It was Leotaâs idea.â
âYeah. For your information, I actually thought you were my friend. Wellânot my best friend, because obviously thatâs Peacemaker. But maybe⊠okay, after him itâd be Eagly. Then maybe after Eagly, Economos. But after all those people, itâd be you. Which makes you, like, fourth placeâwhich is actually pretty good, consideringââ
You stared at him, jaw slack, as he explained in the same tone a scolded child might use. You couldnât begin to understand how heâd ever gotten the idea you were anything more than coworkers. God, you couldâve sworn he didnât even like you. Which was exactly why you spoke bluntly:
âWeâre not friends.â
You crossed your arms like that would make it official, cementing it into some kind of unbreakable truth.
âYes, we are.â
You blinked, stunned, racking your brain for anything that could have given him that impression. You thought back on every interactionâhe was careless about what he said and how he said it, threw out biting, misplaced comments. You always ended up bickering over stupid things. Like right now.
âNo, weâre not.â
âYes, weââ
âNo, weâre not. Friends donât feel obligated to spend time together. They hang out outside of work and actually like each other.â
An awkward silence. You couldnât see his face through the mask, but you knew he was searching for the right words to argue back. Instead, he just shrugged.
âYouâre being mean.â
âDo you even have feelings?â The question was genuineâyou honestly hadnât thought so. The way his head tilted reminded you of someone genuinely surprised. You couldnât read his face, but Vigilanteâs body language was⊠weirdly expressive.
âRemember that time you yanked the Glock out of my hands just because you wanted it?â
âYes.â
âWell, a friend wouldâve let me have it. Or at least asked before snatching it and then rattling off a list of every mistake youâd ever seen me make to justify why I shouldnât carry it.â
âI thought I was helping. Friends tell each other the truth. Youâre a really bad shot with that gun.â
You pressed your palm to your forehead, summoning all your self-control not to murder him right then and there.
âAnd what about the time you took the last ice cream out of the freezer at HQ?â
âIt was my favorite flavor.â
âItâs mine too.â
âSee? We have stuff in common.â
âIt had my fucking name on itâin capital lettersâright on top.â
âI thought you wouldnât care because: friends share.â
Now you were both yelling, faces close before youâd even realized youâd closed the distance.
âWE. ARE. NOT. FRIENDS.â
Your breathing was uneven, arms flung wide. His visor was fogging slightly from his own sharp breaths. You hated that you didnât even know what his stupid face looked like. Youâd never heard his voice clearly eitherâit was always muffled by that damn mask. You clenched your fists to stop yourself from ripping it off right there.
You exhaled hard and turned away, resuming your pace. You always ended up like thisâhim incapable of grasping basic social dynamics, and you frustrated he wouldnât even try. It also unsettled you not being able to see his face. You werenât great at reading people without visual cuesâraised eyebrows meant surprise, furrowed brows meant anger. Thatâs how youâd learned social codes. Every time you looked at Vigilante, you got nothingâjust that blank mask.
You donât say a word for the next couple hours. The two of you just make your way to the rendezvous, set up your rifles, and wait for orders. You stretch out flat on your stomach, cheek resting on your forearm, your rifle propped in front of you. Heâs lying beside you, close enough that every so often you catch little waves of his body heat through the damp air.
Youâre not big on physical contact, but his doesnât bother you. Not exactly.
Your brain drifts to other things, because youâd rather think about anything else than your current company. You make a mental list of what you need to buy. Definitely not worth going to the store for just a couple itemsâyou should wait until you need more. That candle you like to light when you read at nightâitâs almost gone. Barely lights anymore. What scent was it? Caramel? No. Sweeter, richer. Toffee? Probably toffee. Which reminds you youâre almost out of syrup at home. Maybe just enough left for the last slice of apple pie in the fridge, but then you wouldnât have enough for pancakes. Do you still have powdered oats?
â...So, weâre not friends?â
You drop your head forward, dragging your eyes off the rifle scope. You close them like maybeâjust maybeâif you donât look at him, heâll vanish.
âYouâre still on that?â you mutter, finally glancing his way. Heâs flipped his visor up so he can aim properly, braced on his elbows, staring right at you.
You freeze for a heartbeat when your gaze meets his. Green eyes. Something in your memory stirsâslow and lazy, like itâs been hibernating. Before you can pin it down, he lifts a hand and snaps the visor back down.
âOf course Iâm still on it,â he says, like youâre the unreasonable one. âI thought we were friends, and now youâre saying weâre not. Iâm confused.â
You stare at him, your mouth falling open in disbelief. Youâd assumedâhopedâheâd just take the jab and move on.
âWhy exactly would you think weâre friends?â
He shrugs, not looking at you, helmet catching a faint slice of moonlight. âI dunno. We like the same stuff.â
That stops you cold. âWhat?â
A pause. A long one. You sift through your memories. Youâve never spoken outside of work. Not once. Every conversation has been mission-related. You donât recall ever telling him âI likeâ anything. Closest thing was when he asked what weapon you preferred, and you shrugged and said, âAnything thatâll save my life.â
âWeâve never talked about anything except work. Or killing people. Thatâs it.â
You can almost feel him realizing the hole heâs dug for himself. His eyes lock back on his scope like if he pretends to be laser-focused, youâll just let it go.
You donât.
You scoot closer, elbows scraping through moss, until your shoulder brushes his. âExplain,â you hiss.
He doesnât flinch.
âExplain how you know what I like.â
Another shrug. âI⊠might have read your file.â
Your jaw drops. âMy confidential file?â
âI mean, yeah, but itâs not like it was locked upââ
âItâs classified.â
âUh-huh,â he says.
Silence again. Heâs looking through the rifle scope now. But something in the set of his shoulders tells you thatâs not all.
You inch forward across the ground, reach out, and pinch him on the inside of the arm. He hisses, jerks his head to look at you.
âYeah, likeâcasually. Not in a creepy way. Just⊠you know, picking up details. I wanted to know who I was working with. Cover my bases, in case you were a serial killer or whatever.â
Your brows shoot up. âOh, Iâm the serial killer in this scenario?â
He just shrugs again, skipping your question entirely.
âVig, weâre assassins. Both of us. Literally.â You nod toward the rifle. He almost makes this tiny snortâlike heâs just realized how dumb that sounded.
âWell, I wanted to make sure you werenât one of the bad bad guys,â he says, whispering like itâs a secret.
âAnd?â
You realize your forearms are pressed together. You donât actually mind the closenessâbut your focus is pinned on this strange teammate whoâs suddenly got your curiosity on a leash.
âWhat?â he says.
âWhat else have you noticed?â
Now itâs pure curiosityâyou want to know what heâs been paying attention to so much that he thinks you âlike the same things.â
He hesitates for half a breath, then dives in:
âYou hum when you reload. Not loudâjust a little under your breath, but only when youâre using the 9mm, not the rifle. You always adjust your gloves twice before you pull a trigger. You hate the coffee Murn keeps in the van, but you drink it anyway if youâre tired enough.â
âWow. Thatâs⊠Thatâs really weird. Even I didnât notice those things.â
âWell, thatâs not all.â
Your brows lift, waiting.
âYou like spending a lot of time alone. Like, a lot. Like what you do on Thursday nights⊠you⊠uh⊠you go to that burger place every Thursday night.â
Your brain catches on the last part like a hook. âHow do you know that?â
âItâs notâ I mean, Iâve just⊠seen you there.â
You turn toward him, pulse starting to quicken. âSeen me there?â
He shifts slightly, like the ground just got less comfortable. âYeah. You order the same thing every time. Double cheeseburger, no pickles, curly fries, extra packet of mayoââ
Itâs not the words.
Itâs the voice.
That faintly muffled but unmistakable cadenceâthe way he tilts certain syllables up like a question even when heâs stating a fact.
Youâve heard it before.
Not here. Not with a rifle in your hands. Under bright fluorescent lights, with the hum of a soda machine in the background.
Suddenly youâre not in the forest anymoreâyouâre at that grimy little counter on Jefferson Street, leaning over the register while the cashier in gloves rings up your order.
The tall, wiry guy who always watched you a second too long. Who spoke like he was trying on ânormalâ one word at a time. Who smiled like heâd learned it from a diagram. Who always slipped you more ketchup packets than youâd asked for.
Those green eyes.
You dig for the name.
Austin? No. Aaron? Jesus, no.
It started with an A, youâre sure. You know becauseâthough youâd never admit it outrightâyouâd developed this strange attraction to that worker.
At first, heâd just been kind of cute. Nice. Then you couldnât get him out of your head. Youâd figured out he always worked Thursdays, and that tiny detail got so rooted in your mind you only ever went that night of the week. Sometimes to chat. Though you never had the guts to say much beyond that your favorite movie was Shrek 2. You almost smile remembering the argument about which Shrek was the best.
Adrian.
You suck in a sharp breath, the syllables slipping out before you can stop them.
âADRIAN.â
His helmet whips toward you. âWhat?â
âItâs you.â Your voice is climbing without permission. âItâs you, you creepy son of aââ
Now itâs making sense why he thought you were friends. You went to see him every Thursdayâeven if he didnât know that was the reason. He always took his break exactly ten minutes after you arrived. Youâd even caught him arguing with another coworker about how late he always took it.
âNo, itâs notâshut upââ
He lunges, trying to clap a hand over your mouth, but you twist, shoving him back.
âOh my god, I knew. I recognized your voice!â You push against his chestplate, momentum carrying you half over him.
âYouâre wrong, youâre completely wrongâstop trying to unmask meââ
âYouâve been watching me. You freak!â
âNot in a creepy way!â
You swing at himânot bone-breaking, but hard enough to make your point. He catches your wrist, and in the tangle you end up straddling him, knees planted in the moss on either side of his ribs. Heâs half fending you off, half shielding his visor like you might rip it right off.
âSAY IT.â Your grip on his wrists is iron-tight.
âWHAT!?â
ââWould you like medium or large fries for a dollar more?ââ you say, perfectly imitating the monotone voice he used at work.
He freezes. ââŠWould you shut upââ
Murnâs voice explodes through the comm, sharp enough to make you both freeze mid-swing.
âWhat the hell is going on over there?â
You both go still, breathing hard. Your knee digs into his armor. His glove still has your wrist.
âNothing,â you say at the exact same time Vigilante says, âShe attacked me.â
âKnock it off,â Murn growls. âNow. You have a mission to complete and youâre yelling like itâs recess.â
You slowly climb off him, roll back into position. But your pulse is still buzzing. And now you canât unhear itâAdrianâringing in your head like a damn neon sign.
Heâs still on his back, catching his breath. You settle into the scope again. All the months of absurd chatter and ridiculous fights start mixing in your mind with the cashierâs dry banter and lopsided smiles.
The two images merge, corrupting that harmless little crush youâd had on the weird guy with glasses who never charged you for the bigger drink.
You thump your fists into the ground like a frustrated kid.
âAre you ââ
âDonât you dare ask that crap, Adrian. Donât think for a second you have the right to know how Iâm feeling.â
Silence. Neither of you moves.
âI thought I was keeping you safe. Peacemaker doesnât know either, and heâs my best friend.â
You glance over. His helmet is tilted toward you, full attention locked in your direction.
âNow I get why you thought we were friends. Jesus Christ.â
You close your eyes with resignation. When you open them, you reach a hand toward himâand he catches your wrist before you get to his mask. The grip isnât forceful; itâs almost gentle, like he just wants to hold it.
âYouâve been a dick about this. You owe me.â
He lets go with a wounded little sigh.
You take the edge of the helmet and slide it off carefully. And there he isâAdrian. The smiley burger guy with the faint dimples. His hair is a mess. No glasses.
You tap the tip of his noseânot tender, exactly. More like a âbump.â He closes his eyes at the touch
âSo, is the glasses thing, like, a Superman thing?â
His eyes pop open instantly. âSuperman wears glasses?â
You shake your head quickly, realizing the mistake.
âForget it, I didnât say anything.â
You keep staring at his faceâhis stupid, attractive face. Out of the mess of feelings crashing around in your chest, anger and frustration claw their way to the top. Suddenly, your touch on him is sharper, almost like you want to scratch him. You almost hear him hiss.
âSo let me get this straightâyou keep your identity secret so the bad guys canât get to people you care about⊠but youâve had full conversations with me while you were in your secret identity, and we literally do the same job.â
âItâs not the same,â he says immediately, with that tone like you just suggested the moonâs made of cheese. âI mean, sure, you take down bad guys too, but⊠Iâm special.â
You almost choke on your own laugh. âSpecial?â
âYeah, special. LikeâIâm wanted for federal crimes. What if they tried to get to me through you?â
You blink a few times, trying to keep up with the chaotic pinball machine that is his brain.
âAdrianââ
âIâm notââ
âShut up. SHUT. UP.â
The sharp sound of your palm smacking his cheek echoes in the airânot hard enough to hurt him, more like⊠a claim. Louder than it was painful. When he makes a move to keep talking, you grab his cheeks and squish them until his mouthâs stuck at a weird angle. He looks like a fish.
âI work for Amanda Waller. Does that mean anything to you?â
He tries to mumble, but canât.
âI donât want you to answer, Iâm just stating a fact so the cymbal-banging monkey that runs your brain starts clanging hard enough to reach a conclusion. Although I can see itâs probably not going to work. Adrian, I work for Waller because it reduces my sentence. Because if I donât do this job, I go to prison for⊠what did you call it? Committing federal crimes.â
You slowly let go of his face, wary of whatever nonsense is about to come out next.
âI didnât⊠I just⊠didnât want you to get mixed up in my mess.â
You lean forward. âWe work together. Weâve literally been shot at in the same room.â
Your voice comes out hot, sharpâlike you canât stand that he doesnât get it.
âThatâs different!â he protests.
âItâs not.â
âIt is!â
And it spirals from thereâpointless, circular, exhausting. Somewhere in the middle, the fight stops being about masks or flawed moral logic and starts being about something else. Something softer. Something you donât want to name.
Another awkward silence settles between you. Of course, heâs the one to break it.
âSo⊠we are friends?â
The frustration bubbles in you againârepetitive, exhausting, and impossible to scream out of your system. You want to slap him until your hands ache, but instead, you stop staring up at the black sky and look back into those green eyes that steal your breath every Thursday night.
Friends. Between the clash of your personalities, you realize maybe you are something close to that word. You think back to your quick conversations during his tiny breaks, before heâd go back to your dull work. Then other memories come, ones youâd brushed off.
Like the time you caught Vigilante cleaning your weapons when youâd been too lazy to do it yourself. âIf you want them to be efficient, you have to take care of them.â At first, youâd taken it as a lecture, but⊠maybe it meant he cared about how your weapons performed. Or how he always took point when you entered dangerous spaces, only signaling you forward when it was clear. Youâd chalked it up to pride, control issues, or just his murder-happy nature.
Maybe you were friends. A weird, dysfunctional kind of friends.
Then your chest does that weird flip when you realize⊠you donât want to just be his friend. Youâve developed a strange pull toward him. Maybe you want to go to that burger place when heâs not workingâsomething like a date, where you can listen to him list his favorite movie kill scenes without a timer ticking down your time together.
âI mean⊠maybe I donât want to be your friend.â
âWhat?â You jerk your head up, sitting up straighter.
âI mean⊠maybe we should be something more.â
Wait...can he read your mind when heâs not wearing the helmet? Thatâs got to be his secret ability. You should ask Peacemaker for one of his just to block it. Maybe thatâs why Chris wears that monstrosityâwhat other reason could there be?
âAre you reading my mind?â You clap your hands over your ears like thatâll somehow stop him.
He tilts his head, confused, and sits up too, facing you.
Â
âWhat? No, why would you say that? I donât need mind reading to think that. I mean, you come in on the days I work and always pick my register. I saw you pretend to read the menu once just so my coworker wouldnât take your order. Waitâwhy are you making that face? Did I read that wrong?â
The truth isâhe didnât read it wrong. Not even a little. Your face is twisted in absolute horror and infinite embarrassment. You wish the ground would swallow you whole.
âOh. No. Youâre just embarrassed âcause I caught you. Got it.â
For someone so bad at catching sarcasm, heâs suddenly very good at reading your every twitch. You bury your face in your hands, wishing you could disappear, but he grabs your wrists and pulls them down. Heâs smiling.
âSee? I was right. Youâre a stalker and kinda weird. Weâre basically the same.â
âOh my godâŠâ
âThis is what I call compatibility.â
Heâs leaned in close now, so close you can feel his breath, grin stretching way too wide for the meaning of his words. You lower your head to escape, but he follows.
âWill you two just kiss already and stop torturing the rest of us?â
Peacemakerâs voice cracks through the comms in both your ears, making you both jump apart.
Sugar, Sugar: You Can't Hurry Love (2) ăClark Kent, superman x readeră
Clark Kent (Superman) x superhero tailor fem!reader (Edna Mode vibes but make it romantic)
Summary: Well, the best superhero tailor in the city just met one of the biggest around. How much fabric would it take to wrap him in something decent? Guess weâll find out.
part 1.
A/N: Thank you so much for all the support! đ
Here are a few more little moments between Clark and Edna-Mode-reader style. I think theyâre just so cute together . Even though I barely have time to write anything lately, it makes me happy to jot down moments between these two.
P.S. I snuck in a Peacemaker easter egg because I just rewatched it (Iâm screaming about season 2 being so close!!). I have such a weakness for Vigilante and Adrian Chaseâs personality (I cannot not fall for him).
(Should I write something about him? Iâm dying to, but I have no idea what yet.)
Drop your thoughts and requests! Iâm watching đ Thanks again!
"We're closed."
You didnât even bother to look up. The words came out dry, automatic, sharp enough to cut. Whoever had just walked in hadnât earned the privilege of eye contact. Your hands were cramped, your eyes raw, and your patience was a long-dead casualty on the battlefield of your workbench.
You heard a polite little cough. Fabric shifted, the soft swish of someone adjusting their stanceâhesitant, like they knew they shouldnât be here. That alone almost made you look. Almost.
But then they stepped closer.
You finally lifted your head. Just enough to shoot a glare sharp enough to maim.
A man stood in your doorway. Tall. Broad. Unmistakably so. A messenger bag half-slung over one shoulder, a paper coffee bag dangling from the other. He looked halfway between put-together and hit-by-a-truck: dress shirt, slacks, a tie in some kind of existential crisis around his neck. His dark hair was a mess of curlsâlike someone had run their hands through it one too many timesâand those black-rimmed glassesâŠ
There was something⊠off about the face. But youâd know that frame anywhere.
Please.
It was a good attempt. Really. But you'd taken his measurements. Memorized his proportions. Youâd traced every angle and line of that body in your sketches, adjusted seams to account for how his muscles flexed when he moved, where the fabric bunched when he landed. You knew him too well for this charade to work.
A spark lit in your brain.
Game on.
âSorry, I thought you saidââ he started, voice soft and apologetic.
You cut him off with a look and stood. âWho are you, and how do you know where my workshop is?â
Both palms hit the worktable. Sharp. Loud. A threat made of posture and posture alone.
âIâum, IâmâŠMy name isââ
âNo, no, wait.â You walked around the table slowly, circling like a shark with a grin. âIâve got it. Youâre a government guy. A secret agent. Amanda sent you, didnât she? Well, you can tell her Iâm not interested in making suits for that jerk Pacemaker or for that psycho friend he has- that Vigilante.â
His eyes widened, one hand coming up like he could pacify you with his palm alone. Poor thing. He looked like heâd just walked into a haunted house.
âI donât know who Amanda is, ÂżVigilante?, I swearâwait, listen. Thereâs been some kind of misunderstandingâjust let me explain.â
You were inches from him now. He smelled like roasted beans and rain. Your hand shot up, finger pointed directly at his chest.
âFBI? Internal Affairs? Let me guessâthis is about me helping that alien. For the record, I didnât know he was a criminal. Seemed like a nice guy.â
âIâm not a criminal,â he said, sounding genuinely wounded.
âOf course not. Youâre the spy. Iâm talking about the big guy in tights. Between you and me?â You leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. âAbsolutely no fashion sense.â
He looked like his brain had short-circuited, caught somewhere between confusion and embarrassment. His mouth openedâclosedâopened again.
God, you were enjoying this.
âThe color scheme wasnât even my idea,â he muttered, exasperated. âFor the love ofââ
You raised your eyebrows, waiting. Say it, you dared him. Say something blasphemous. You wanted to see what happened when Superman cursed. Would his brain implode? Would it break some universal law?
And just like that, he froze.
Recognition dawned in his expression like a slow sunrise.
âYouâre messing with me,â he said.
You grinned, teeth and trouble. His thoughts hiccuped behind those glasses.
âHow long have you known?â
You tilted your head, smug. âSince the second I looked at you. You really think the glasses would fool me?â
You raised both hands and slid them off, staring at the frames like they were supposed to do magic. Then you wiped them clean with your own t-shir, and the simple gesture made his chest tighten a little.Â
âThey usually work.â
A faint smile tugged at your lips as you eased the glasses up the bridge of his nose, your fingertips brushing over the soft curve of his cheekbones, a spark flaring and coursing thought you form your hands to your very toes.
âSweetheart,â you said, circling him now, arms folding loosely over your chest, âthe average person doesnât know exactly how wide your shoulders are or the precise point where your neck meets your trapezius.â
That made him flinch. Just slightly. But enough.
Now you had him on the ropes.
His voice, when it came again, was quiet. âYou make it sound like youâve memorized me.â
You stopped. Smiled.
âI have to,â you said simply. âItâs my job.â
But you didnât miss the way your pulse spiked. Or the way he blinked at you like youâd just revealed the secrets of the universe.
He shifted, awkward again, holding the coffee bag between you like a peace offering.
âI, um⊠brought you something. From that place you like. I saw the empty cups in your bin and figuredâŠâ
You stared at him. Then at the bag. Then back at him.
âStalker behavior,â you said flatly.
His whole body sagged like youâd just crushed him under an emotional anvil.
âI didnât mean it likeââ
âI like it,â you interrupted, snatching the bag from his hand. You took a long, smug sip. âYouâre a little weird. I like that youâre not Mister Handsome all the time.â
ââŠI donât think anyone has ever called me weird.â
âGood. You need someone to keep you humble.â
He smiled again. The dumb, soft kind, the one that made your stomach flip.
You still couldnât quite understand how easily youâd gotten used to this.
By nature, you were a lone wolf. Youâd turned down more offers than youâd like to admit simply for the peace of working alone, without anyone sharing your space, turning down your music, or keeping you from putting a record on loop until you were thoroughly sick of it.
And yet⊠your brain still short-circuited over the habits youâd picked up in just a couple of months. It was like one of those old appliances that had always worked perfectly fine, but the moment you plugged it in again, something had shifted, and now it caused a surge that knocked out all the other devices around it.
One of those habits was currently radiating warmth against your left thigh as you worked over your sketchbook, pencil scratching against the page. You glanced down only when you felt the cool, damp touch of a nose nudge against your elbow, a silent request for attention from a very hairy problem.
You didnât meet his eyes right away, if you did, thereâd be no turning backâbut the exaggerated sigh that puffed from him made you smile despite yourself. And when a small, pitiful whine vibrated straight into your ribcage, you caved, reaching out with your free hand to scratch behind Kryptoâs ear. The pleased rumble that followed was immediate, and, annoyingly, adorable.
You still rememberedâclear as yesterdayâthe first time the hurricane had burst into your workshop. A flash of white fur, boundless energy, knocking over mannequins, sending fabric swatches into the air with the wag of his tail.
SupermanâClark (though you preferred to address him with a rotating arsenal of nicknames designed solely to make him blush) had warned you about the chaos that would come from bringing the super-dog into your workspace. Youâd seen it in his eyes: the expectation of a reprimand, a withering look, maybe even an instant declaration of war between you and the dog.
What he hadnât expected was you dropping to your knees with your arms wide open. And Krypto launching himself into them without a second thought about the fact that you lacked super strength.
It had been love at first sight. And somehow, the dog was calmer with you around. Not that youâd ever admit the possible role the bacon-flavored treats had played in that bond.
âAm I doing this right?â
His voice pulled you out of your thoughts. You blinked several times, focusing on the scrap of fabric Clark held up, presenting it the way a kid might show their mom a drawing theyâd just finished.
Somewhere along the way, between all his visits and the long hours spent together, youâd started teaching him a few basics of your trade. Not because he needed to know how to darn socks, but because⊠well, maybe you liked the way he looked so concentrated when he was learning from you.
And there it was again, that dizzying, free-fall sensation. When had it started to feel normal, having the big alien standing there asking if he should take two stitches in a row?
At first, heâd linger just a little longer than most clients would. Ask a few more questions than necessary, about the durability of a particular seam, or about your upcoming designs. Youâd answered them all without thinking, telling yourself they were purely professional exchanges.
Weeks later, the conversations stretched longer. It became second nature to offer him coffee when you poured your own. Youâd noticed he didnât particularly like it, that he always took longer than any reasonable adult would to finish such a small cup. Youâd wonderedâquietlyâif he was dragging it out on purpose, just to spend more time with you.
But⊠no. That would be ridiculous. Right?
Eventually, the days blurred into full evenings together. Heâd come by after work at the Daily Planet, knowing heâd find you bent over a design. And somewhere along the way, heâd taken it upon himself to make sure you actually ate, starting with takeout, which quickly turned into homemade meals in battered Tupperware.
âItâs nothing,â heâd said once, sheepish. âI just⊠I always make too much. Pasta for twenty people or just oneâI can never tell.â
You hadnât bought the excuse. Not entirely. Thereâd been something in his eyes, a spark you couldnât quite name.
It had become a ritual: the two of you sharing small pieces of your lives under the warm pool of your desk lamp, with the hum and clatter of your sewing machine filling the silences.
âWas it⊠that bad?â
His brows furrowed in concentration, but the small, crooked smile lingered. You tightened your grip on your pencil, resisting the urge to smooth away the crease in his forehead with your thumb. Where had that impulse come from?
âItâs not bad, big guy.â
The pleased little huff he gave in response sent a quick, unwelcome warmth through your chest. You didnât like how comfortable it feltâhow dangerous. So you bit your lip, but the next words slipped out before you could stop them.
âTurns out youâre pretty good with those huge hands of yours, Big blue.â
The blush hits him instantly, crawling up his neck and blooming across his cheeks until heâs almost the same shade as his cape. He shakes his head, ducking his gaze, unable to meet your eyes, and that just makes it worse. For you.
Because teasing him like this? Watching this impossibly strong, impossibly good man fold in on himself like a bashful farm boy? You might be in trouble.
You think you hear him murmur something under his breath, too soft for you to be sure.
But you catch just enough to make your own pulse skip.
âYouâre unbelievable.â
âMy brain is not processing this, Clark.â
He didnât breathe for a moment when he heard it.
His name. From your lips. Not âbig guy,â not âBig blue,â not âsunshineâ or âsweetheart.â
Clark.
You never called him that. Not once. And now that you had, the sound of it pulled something low and unsteady out of his chest. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without his permission, like the wind nudging a paper boat toward shore. His chest filled; heat climbed up his neck and into his cheeks, and he could feel his heartbeat press against the inside of his ribs.
You were still looking into the paper bag heâd brought you that morning, almost suspicious of it. Your hand slipped inside, fingers brushing over soft fuzz before pulling out one of the fruits. You brought it to your nose and closed your eyes, inhaling deeply.
And thenâGodâhe thought he heard you hum. A small, indulgent, utterly unguarded sound of satisfaction that shot through him like sunlight through glass. His first instinct was ridiculous and primal, he wanted to answer it. To make that sound back at you, low and pleased, like some part of him had just been given a reward.
âPeaches,â you breathed, opening your eyes again and pinning him with a look that made his throat tighten. It wasnât a statement. It was astonishment. The kind that felt halfway to disbelief. âYou flew homeâŠâ
âWasnât that long a trip,â he said, trying, badly, to make it sound casual.
You werenât finished. âNo, I'm not finish. You flew to Kansas⊠and picked peaches. For me.â
He shrugged, but his mouth tugged up at the corner.
âYou eat more sugar than any human being your height and age should be able to survive. These are sweet, but theyâre⊠real. Thought you might like something that didnât come out of a factory.â
You stared at him, lips parting slightly, and he had to physically stop himself from leaning in and closing that distance just to see if youâd let him kiss you for saying something so simple.
âLet me just say this again.â Your voice had that incredulous edge he secretly loved. âYou flew to Kansas. And picked peaches.â
âHonestly,â he said, scratching the back of his neck, âthe flight was nothing compared to convincing old Mr. Douglas to let me take them before the season. That man guards his orchard like Fort Knox.â
You blinked slowly, processing that, then bit into the peach. The sound you made when the juice hit your tongue nearly undid him. He stepped forward without thinking, chasing that look on your face. That feeling of having done something right.
He grinned, wide and helpless, while you wiped your fingers on the back of your hand, still watching him like you were trying to solve some impossible riddle. Then, without warning, you closed the space between you, eyebrows still slightly drawn, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
It was over in less than a second. But the spot where your lips had touched burned. And worse, the scent of peach clung there now, sweet and warm and dizzying.
âThatâs the strangest thing anyoneâs ever done for me,â you announced, like it was a serious verdict. You still had that slight frown, the one that made you look like you were mad at him when really you were just thinking too hard. âI might⊠consider your idea of making Krypto a cape.â
And then you turned away, biting into the peach again like you hadnât just knocked the air out of him and sent his steady Kryptonian heart hammering all the way up into his throat.
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