diluc ragnvindr x fem. reader — sfw. ♡ hurt/comfort + some fluff ノ pre-relationship but diluc is in love!! ノ birthday blues ノ reader likes baking ノ very self indulgent;; wc: 5.7k
Your movements are mechanical as you take the cake out of the pan after letting it cool, setting it on the counter to level and frost.
You’ve done this countless times before—so often that your hands know the motions better than your mind does. It almost feels less like baking and more like muscle memory, a routine you slip into when you don’t want to think too hard about anything at all.
You’re not entirely sure why you’re making a cake. Especially today of all days.
Your birthday.
The one date on the calendar you dread more than any other.
You hate it—hate what it represents, hate how it makes the air feel heavier, how it presses down on you until you feel smaller than you already do.
Maybe it’s an attempt at normalcy, a flimsy illusion that today is just another day like any other. Or maybe you’re hoping that if your hands stay busy long enough, the weight of the day won’t have time to settle in your chest. Or at least it’ll keep you distracted long enough for the day to pass.
You don’t celebrate your birthday. You never have, not really. Even the thought of it leaves a bitter taste at the back of your tongue, an ache behind your ribs.
To you, it isn’t a celebration. It’s a reminder. Of everything you lack, of how alone you are, of how little space you seem to occupy in anyone else’s life.
Today feels like proof of what you’ve always suspected: that you are forgettable, replaceable, unimportant. That if you disappeared, the world would continue on without so much as a ripple.
You don’t deserve to be celebrated. The thought feels almost offensive. You weren’t even supposed to be here—that’s what your mind whispers when the date looms closer on the calendar each year, when that familiar dread coils tight around your heart.
Wasn’t that what you told yourself years ago, when the days felt endless and empty, when you tried to escape this lifetime because there was nothing ahead of you worth staying for? It was a slap in the face, just another reminder of your failures.
Being celebrated for simply existing feels absurd to you. Unjustified. What is there to celebrate, really, when you’ve contributed nothing to the world?
A knock at the door tears you from your thoughts.
You flinch, startled, and the piping bag slips from your fingers, falling onto the counter.
You frown at the sound. You hadn’t ordered anything. Visitors? You never had visitors. Not on any day, and certainly not today. For a moment, you wonder if someone has the wrong address.
With a quiet sigh, you wipe your hands on a towel, deliberately not looking at the half-finished cake behind you. You make your way to the door, bracing yourself for disappointment.
When you open it, your breath catches. Then confusion settles in, your brows knitting together as you take in the man standing in front of you.
“Diluc?” you ask, genuinely taken aback. “What brings you here?”
The soft, polite smile he wears falters, just for a split second. There’s something in his eyes then, a flicker of something wounded, as if your confusion confirms what he’d half-feared: that you truly hadn’t expected anyone. That the idea of being visited today hadn’t even crossed your mind.
He clears his throat, straightening slightly, as if gathering himself.
“I thought I’d drop by… It is your birthday, after all.”
Your body stiffens instinctively at the word.
You had mentioned the date only once in passing and hoped that it would be forgotten. It wasn’t important. You weren’t important.
But he remembered. Of course he did.
“May I come in?”
You hesitated only for a moment before stepping aside, not having the heart to turn him away when he had already made the journey here.
Diluc inclined his head in thanks, a small, gentlemanly gesture, before crossing the threshold. He pauses just inside the doorway, as though unwilling to intrude further without permission despite the countless times he’d visited.
His gaze drifts through your home—familiar, modest, quietly lived-in. He’s been here many times before, sat at your table, shared conversations over tea and pastries. Yet today, something feels conspicuously absent.
There are no decorations. No flowers, no ribbons, no sign that today is meant to be any different from the days that came before it.
It made something tighten in his chest, and unbidden, memories from his childhood surfaced.
The winery bathed in warm light, banners draped along the walls, tables laden with food and carefully wrapped gifts, the tiered cake the maids spent the whole day preparing. His father’s laughter echoing through the halls, servants bustling about with smiles, Adelinde fussing over every last detail.
His own birthdays had long since lost their meaning, turned into a reminder of loss rather than joy. An anniversary of death instead of a celebration of life. He understood, all too well, the instinct to turn away from a day that only served to reopen old wounds.
It’s another similarity between you, he thinks to himself.
Then his attention drifts to the kitchen, drawn to something just beyond you. His takes in the discarded piping bags, the bowl streaked with remnants of frosting. His eyes linger on the cake that sits at the center of it all.
There, atop the uneven layer of icing, were letters painstakingly piped by hand. He had to squint, stepping a little closer before he could make out what they spelled. The words piped across the top were uneven, tentative, as if you had hesitated even while writing them.
Happy bir—
“Are you…” His voice was gentle, but there was something careful in it now, as though he were afraid of startling you. “Are you making your own birthday cake?”
Heat rushed up the back of your neck, sharp and humiliating. You moved quickly, stepping in front of him in a clumsy attempt to shield the cake from view, shame blooming fast and merciless.
“N-no!”
You felt like you’d been caught red-handed, indulging in something you hadn’t earned. Something selfish.
Diluc shook his head slowly—not in judgment, but in disappointment at the fact that you always seemed to carry these things alone, as though you’d learned long ago not to expect anyone else to step in. At how naturally you denied yourself even the smallest kindness, even on a day meant to be yours.
As he looked at you standing there, something in him refused to accept it. He doesn’t want to push you. The last thing he wants is to make you uncomfortable. And yet… it feels wrong.
Wrong to let this day slip by as though you are insignificant. Wrong to leave you alone with the belief that you don’t deserve to be seen, to be cared for, to be celebrated in even the smallest way.
“This won’t do.”
Before you could ask what he meant, before you could protest or apologize, he turned away. You watched, bewildered, as he opened the closet at the entrance and reached inside to take out your coat.
Turning back to you, he held it open, a determined look on his face.
“Come,” he beckoned gently. “Put this on.”
“Why..?”
“I know you’re not fond of your birthday,” he said, voice low and deliberate, as if choosing each word with care. “But archons… You shouldn’t be standing here, putting your own cake together like this.”
He sounded almost offended, as though he had been personally wronged here.
“We’re going out,” he continued, tone steady, resolute. “And we’re getting you a proper cake.”
You froze, then shook your head quickly, almost frantically. The idea of him going through all that effort—for you—made your stomach twist with guilt. You couldn’t let him do that.
“What? No—no, it’s okay, Diluc,” you rushed out. “You don’t have to do anything for me. Really.”
“I want to do this for you.”
The way he said it—without hesitation, without obligation—made it harder to breathe.
“Why?”
Your voice wavered despite yourself. You couldn't understand. Why was he going out of his way for you, for something so unnecessary? You watched him with wide eyes, unable to understand what could compel him to care this much.
“I promise I’m fine with—”
“Because you’re special to me.” His voice softened, but it didn’t falter. “And that makes today special, too.”
Special.
The word struck something deep and fragile inside you, echoing cruelly in your mind.
You had learned long ago not to believe in it—not for yourself. Experience had taught you otherwise, again and again, until it felt safer to accept that you were forgettable, replaceable. That you were never meant to matter quite enough to be chosen. Being special was something that others were allowed to be. Not you.
Your gaze fell to the floor, shoulders drawing in as if you could make yourself smaller. You couldn’t afford to hope, not today—especially not today, when everything already felt so raw. Surely he was only being kind out of obligation, offering polite words because it was your birthday. Nothing more.
Closing the distance between you, Diluc lifts your coat and drapes it over your shoulders instead of waiting for you to take it. The gesture was careful, intimate in its gentleness. His hands linger on your arms, thumbs brushing warm circles there, grounding and reassuring all at once.
“Let’s go.” His voice was firm, but there was a gentleness beneath it that left no space for argument.
Before you could summon another protest, his hand found yours. His grip was steady, sure—an anchor you hadn’t realized you were reaching for. And just like that, he guided you toward the door, leading you out of your home and into the day, determined that you would not face it alone.
Diluc leads you through the winding streets of Mondstadt, taking care to avoid any big crowds, knowing you disliked them. The sounds of the city—laughter drifting from taverns, merchants calling out to people passing by—all blur together into a quiet hum you hardly notice. You were too aware of the steady pace of his steps beside yours, of the way he never walked too fast or too far ahead.
Eventually, you end up in front of a bakery, and Diluc holds the door open with a subtle dip of his head as he gestures for you to step inside first. You offer a quiet, almost sheepish ‘thank you’ before crossing the threshold.
The moment you stepped foot inside, your body stiffened.
A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals scattering golden light across polished marble floors. Intricately carved painting frames lined the walls, and the air smelled faintly of sugar and roses. Glass display cases stretched across the room, lined with pristine cakes, delicate pastries, and sweets that looked more like art than food.
It was breathtaking, opulent, and utterly out of your range.
Your awe quickly twisted into unease. The place was beautiful, but so utterly out of reach for someone like you.
You must have given yourself away, because before you could sink too far into your own discomfort, you felt Diluc at your side.
With a gentleness that almost startled you, his hand brushes against the small of your back, and he guides you toward the gleaming display case.
“Hey,” Diluc’s voice broke through the hum of chatter around you. When you glanced up at him, his eyes were on you alone.
“Are you alright?”
You swallowed, realizing you had been staring too long at the chandelier overhead.
“Y-yes,” you answered quickly, though your voice betrayed the nerves you wanted to hide. “This place is just… very fancy. Isn’t this the most expensive bakery in town?”
“Perhaps,” he admitted, the corners of his mouth tilting up in a sheepish smile. “But you deserve the best. And it is your birthday, after all. I thought it fitting that you be treated to something special.”
Your lips parted, the protest already forming on your tongue. You wanted to say he shouldn’t have gone through the trouble, that this was far too much for someone like you, that you’d be perfectly fine with a simpler bakery. But before you could speak, he cut you off.
“Take your pick,” he urged softly, nodding toward the display. “I thought you might like the things they have here. And don’t worry about the price.”
The sincerity in his tone left little room for argument. You lingered there, caught between the urge to refuse and the ache of not wanting to disappoint him.
You let your gaze drift over the display, each pastry more exquisite than the last. The cakes gleamed beneath the warm golden light, their polished surfaces decorated with fruits that looked like jewels, their icing sculpted into patterns too elegant to disturb. Some even shimmered with flecks of gold leaf, as though they belonged more to a museum than a bakery.
But then your eyes caught on one in particular. A red velvet cake, its colour deep and decadent, crowned with strawberries gleaming like rubies and delicate curls of chocolate. The icing was piped so finely, so perfectly, it resembled delicate lacework spun by hand. It was the most beautiful cake you’d ever seen.
For a moment, you allowed yourself the indulgence of imagining what it might taste like, how soft the sponge would be, how the richness of the chocolate might melt with the strawberries.
But just as quickly, you shut the thought away, tearing your eyes from it with a sharp flicker of guilt. Something like that wasn’t meant for you. Not when you’d grown used to quiet birthdays, to making do with the simplest of things. Not when the idea of asking for something extravagant filled you with shame.
Your eyes hurriedly search for something smaller, something simpler, something safer.
They land on the smallest pastry in the entire display: a single cupcake, tucked to the side as though it had been forgotten. Compared to the towering cakes beside it, it seemed pitifully plain, but it was cheap, and that was what mattered. It was what you deserved.
It would be enough. It’s technically still a cake, you thought. You could even put a candle on it if you wanted. You’d done so before, more than once, and there was nothing wrong with it. At least, that’s what you told yourself as your chest ached with a longing you wouldn’t admit.
With an effort that felt heavier than it should’ve, you lift your hand, your finger wavering before settling on the cupcake.
“That one, please…?”
The words came out soft, almost hesitant, as though you were apologizing simply for asking at all.
Diluc looked at you incredulously.
“That one?”
He studied you for a long moment before speaking again, his tone softer now.
“Just the cupcake? Are you certain? You can choose anything you want, you know.”
Of course you knew. He had told you as much when he brought you here. But knowing and believing were two very different things. You couldn’t bring yourself to ask for more, not when the cake you’d taken a liking to seemed far too much, far too beautiful for someone like you.
“I’m sure.”
“Alright then,” he murmured, though something in his tone suggested he didn’t quite believe you. “I’ll place the order.”
You sighed in relief at the thought that the ordeal was over—that you wouldn’t have to stumble through speaking to the worker yourself, that you’d managed to keep your desires hidden neatly away. But that fragile relief shattered the moment you heard his voice again.
“I’ll take the red velvet cake, please. Yes, the one with strawberries.”
Your head snapped up so quickly it almost hurt. He was already turned toward the worker behind the counter, his expression smooth and polite, as though nothing were amiss. But his finger was pointing directly at the cake—the very cake your gaze had lingered on for far too long just moments ago.
Panic surged through you, and without thinking, you reached for his sleeve and tugged, your voice rushing out in a frantic whisper.
“Diluc, what are you doing?! That’s not what I asked for—”
“Maybe not out loud,” he said softly. “But I saw the way you were eyeing it. You don’t have to be afraid to ask for what you want.”
Your throat tightened. Words rose, ready to protest, but they crumbled before they could escape as a wave of guilt swept over you.
Before you could drown in it, his hand moved to cover yours, still holding onto his sleeve.
“It’s alright,” he assured, giving your fingers a small squeeze. “I think it’s a good choice.”
A voice calls out from behind the counter, informing Diluc that the cake was packed and ready. He turned, reaching for his wallet with a smooth, unhurried motion to pay.
When the elderly woman hands the box to him, her gaze lingers, drifting from Diluc to you and back again. A knowing smile slowly curved her lips, the kind worn by someone who had lived long enough to recognize tenderness when they saw it.
“Ah, so it’s her birthday.” She chuckled softly, clearly pleased. “What a lovely couple you make. You remind me of my husband and I when we were young.”
She leaned a little closer toward Diluc, voice dropping to a whisper. “Be good to your girl, young man. Treat her well.”
Heat rushed to your face, cheeks burning as the implication settled in. Your mouth opened on instinct, words tumbling over themselves in a rush to clear the misunderstanding.
“O-oh, we’re not—”
“I will,” Diluc said smoothly, cutting in without hesitation. “Thank you.”
Before you could gather yourself to correct the assumption, Diluc gently guides you away, his free hand settling to rest at the small of your back as he ushered you out of the bakery.
The bell above the door chimed softly as the two of you stepped back out into the street, the scent of sugar and vanilla fading behind you. As you walk back home, the woman’s words replayed in your mind, over and over, each time leaving your heart a little more unsteady.
A lovely couple.
You steal a glance at Diluc, wondering if he was thinking about it too. He walks beside you with the same composed ease as always, gaze forward, expression unreadable.
He hadn’t corrected her. Hadn’t laughed it off. Hadn’t denied it.
Why?
You shake your head slightly, as if the motion alone could scatter the thoughts crowding your mind. It was nothing, you told yourself. People assume things all the time. It’s easier to let the moment pass than to stop and correct it, easier to pretend it held no meaning at all.
Surely, it didn’t. Right?
Your gaze drifts down to the box cradled carefully in Diluc’s arm. A soft sigh slips from your lips, the guilt still lingering along with a more practical worry that had been tugging at you since you had entered the bakery.
“Diluc…”
“Hm?”
“What are we supposed to do with two cakes?”
He lets out a soft chuckle at that. Amused, because you were focused on the practicality of having too much cake for two people, but also sheepish, because that wasn’t something he considered.
Diluc, a strategic and thoughtful man who always considered all possibilities in his plans, was too caught up in wanting to get you something nice to think about the aftermath.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, looking down at the box before his eyes met yours, “this one is for you.”
“If you’re worried about the other cake going to waste…” He paused, considering. “Perhaps I could take it back to the winery. With your permission, of course. You know how fond the maids are of your baking, I’m certain they’d be delighted. I doubt a single crumb would be left.”
That was true.
There had been many times when you’d baked too much—out of habit, out of restlessness, out of a need to keep your hands busy—and passed the extras along to Diluc. He always accepted them graciously, taking the boxes back to the winery. And without fail, he would always return with praise, relaying how the staff had spoken of your pastries with bright smiles and grateful words.
It wasn’t an unreasonable suggestion. Sensible, even. And yet, the moment your thoughts returned to the cake you’d left behind on your counter, you couldn’t stop yourself from grimacing.
It had been meant only for you, and because of that, you’d treated it with far less care than you would have afforded anyone else.
The frosting had been slapped on in a hurry, uneven and careless, barely deserving to be called a crumb coat at all. The letters you’d piped—those awkward, unfinished words—made your stomach twist with embarrassment. There were no borders, no delicate flourishes, none of the thoughtful details you always added when baking for others. It was messy. Personal. A manifestation of how little you thought effort mattered when it was for yourself.
“I couldn’t possibly give something like that to the maids, Diluc! I didn’t even decorate it properly—it’s such a mess! I mean, I could fix it up, I suppose, but it would take time, and you’d have to wait, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to stay that long, and—”
A soft huff escaped him as you rambled frantically, not annoyed, but fond.
“I haven’t ever had the chance to see your process,” he said, eyes warm with genuine interest. “You always hand me the finished product. I think it would be… interesting to watch how you decorate, if you’d let me.”
Your head snapped up, disbelief written plainly across your face.
“Really…?”
“Really.” His answer came without hesitation. “I could even help—”
“No!”
The response leaves you before you could temper it. You straighten immediately, slightly mortified.
“I mean— no, I’ll do everything. I don’t want you— I just— I’ll handle it.”
He smiled, finding your stubbornness endearing. He didn’t like that you shouldered everything on your own, but if it meant you’d let him stay by your side a little longer, he’d accept.
“Alright.”
When you finally return home, Diluc closes the door behind you and, without a word, helps you out of your coat.
You head to the kitchen with reluctant steps, your hands feeling clumsy as you gather plates and utensils, while Diluc sets the boxed cake down on your coffee table.
By the time you returned to the living room, he had already settled onto the couch, posture relaxed but attentive. He patted the empty space beside him, a silent invitation.
You sit, stiff at first, and he immediately reaches for the dishes in your hands, relieving you of them before you could do anything. He arranged everything neatly in front of the two of you, then gestured toward the box.
“Go on,” he said softly. “Open it.”
There was no impatience in his voice, only reassurance. You’re allowed to have this.
Your eyes linger on the ribbon tied around the box, satin smooth and carefully knotted. It looks almost too perfect, too pretty to undo. You don’t want to ruin something so beautiful with your touch, but feeling Diluc’s gaze on you pushes you to reach out and pull on one end of the ribbon, untying it.
When you lift the lid, your breath catches in your throat.
Up close, the cake was even more stunning than you remembered it being back at the bakery. But your eyes were caught on something new, something that wasn’t there before.
Where the center of the cake had once been bare, elegant lettering now filled the space.
Happy Birthday.
Your chest tightened painfully.
He must have asked the baker in secret, slipping the request in while you were lost in your thoughts, while you weren’t looking.
“You know,” Diluc said quietly, watching your expression, “you have good taste. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
You should agree. You should look up at him and thank him. At the very least, you should smile.
Instead, you turn your head away, blinking hard as tears gather in your eyes despite your efforts to stop them. Your hands retreat to your lap as guilt floods in, heavy and suffocating.
He had gone through so much trouble. He had thought of you, remembered you, chosen this for you, surprised you. And here you were, unable to express to him the gratitude he deserved.
The silence did not go unnoticed.
Concern filled Diluc the moment he saw the way you turned away, shoulders drawing inward. He watched your hands twist together in your lap, the subtle tremor in your fingers betraying your careful stillness.
“Hey…” he murmured.
You didn’t look at him.
He hesitated, as though weighing his next words. Slowly, he reaches out, resting his hand over yours, where they fidgeted in your lap. The touch was warm, careful.
“Did I… overstep? If this is too much,” he continued after a moment, lowering his voice even further, “you can tell me. I won’t be upset. I just want to understand.”
You wanted to understand too.
Wanted to understand why he was so kind to you, why he remembered the smallest details you mentioned in passing, why he showed up on a day you tried so hard to pretend didn’t matter, why he treated you as though you were something worth tending to.
You turn to him, your vision blurry from the tears you tried so desperately to hold back.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you said, your voice trembling despite your effort to steady it. “I just… there’s no reason to celebrate. You shouldn’t do all of this. It’s wasted on me. Your time, your energy, your money—”
He takes a deep breath, his hold on your hand tightening just slightly.
“Don’t say that,” he stops you firmly, though his tone remained gentle. “I told you, I’m doing this because I want to. You may not think you’re worth celebrating, but I do.”
His gaze held yours, unwavering.
“We don’t have to do anything grand,” he added carefully. “If all you can manage is this…” he glanced briefly at the cake between you, then back at you, “then that’s enough.”
A pause. His thumb brushes over your knuckles.
“I’d like to treat you to something. Just this. Just for a moment. We can sit here, share some cake, and that can be all there is.”
“Will you accept that?” he asked gently. “For me.”
Your throat closes around every word you might have offered in reply. They crowded there, heavy and tangled, refusing to take shape. Still, you nod.
The motion was small, barely there, but it was enough.
Diluc’s expression softens instantly, the tension easing from his brow as something like relief flickered in his eyes.
He lifts his hand slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wish. When you don’t, his thumb brushes gently against your cheek to wipe away the tear that had escaped with a tenderness that almost undoes you all over again, lingering only a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Thank you,” he murmured, voice low and warm. For trusting him.
As your breathing slowly steadies and the sting behind your eyes fades, Diluc’s gaze drifts back to the cake resting quietly on the table.
A flicker of realization crosses his features, and he exhales through his nose, clenching his jaw as he internally berates himself. In all his insistence, in all his careful planning, he’d overlooked something small, yet so important.
He looks back at you. “You don’t happen to have any candles, do you?”
You shake your head, a sheepish little motion. Of course you didn’t. It wasn’t as if you’d ever planned to celebrate. You hadn’t even let yourself imagine the possibility.
A familiar pang of guilt settles in your chest once again. Even now, you feel like you’re coming up short by not being able to provide what he asks for. Like you’re failing him in some way.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, the word instinctive, reflexive.
Diluc frowns slightly at that. He lets out a quiet sigh and glances down at his hands, contemplating something for a moment before tugging his gloves off. The leather slides away, and you watch, puzzled, as he observes his hands.
Before you can ask what he’s doing, he snaps his fingers.
A flame ignites instantly at the tip of his finger. It’s small, controlled, but warm and bright.
A makeshift candle.
“I suppose this will do, hm?”
You gasp softly, the sadness that had weighed down on you just moments ago instantly replaced by a rush of worry. You reach out without thinking, fingers wrapping around his wrist.
“D-doesn’t it burn?”
The words tumble out, fear lacing your voice. The thought of him hurting himself for your sake makes your heart drop. You’d never forgive yourself if he did—not ever.
Diluc looks at you, surprised for just a heartbeat, before his expression softens into something almost amused. He lets out a gentle huff of laughter, warm and reassuring.
“Not at all,” he says calmly. “You don’t need to worry. I’ve spent years honing my Pyro abilities. My flames don’t harm me, especially not something this small.”
He moved his hand in front of your face, his index finger pointed towards the ceiling as the small flame danced atop it.
“Now,” he said softly. “Make a wish.”
Your brows knit together. A wish? Was he really going to take it that far? The idea feels almost foolish to you—wishes are for people who believe they’re allowed to want things, for people who trust that the world won’t snatch them away the moment they do.
You hesitate, lips parting, then pressing together again. Wishes are dangerous things. They invite disappointment. You know better than to believe they’ll come true.
Diluc notices your hesitation and his expression eases into something encouraging.
“Go on.”
You let out a slow breath and, despite yourself, close your eyes. You feel ridiculous, and yet, you let yourself wish.
I wish to stay by Diluc’s side for as long as he’ll have me.
(Not as something he owes, not as a burden he has to carry, but as a choice he continues to make. Because his presence has become a quiet constant in your life, a place where your shoulders can finally lower. Because the thought of losing that steadiness terrifies you more than you’d ever admit aloud.)
I wish him happiness.
(The kind that finds him even on days he doesn’t think he deserves it. The kind that eases the grief he carries so carefully, that softens the sharp edges of duty and responsibility. The kind that stays.)
I wish him peace when the world weighs too heavily on his shoulders.
(For his burdens to lighten, for the weight he carries so quietly to ease, even if only a little. For his nights to be peaceful, for his days to feel less lonely, for his heart to find rest.)
I wish I could do more for him.
(That you could be stronger, more useful, more capable of giving back even a fraction of what he offers so effortlessly. To protect him the way he protects others, to be a source of comfort he can rely on.)
And selfishly, silently,
You hope he won’t replace you.
(That you won’t be forgotten as his life moves forward, that you won’t be temporary. That even if everything else changes, he never looks at you and decides you are something to leave behind.)
When you finally open your eyes again, Diluc is watching you, his expression softened by something unmistakably fond.
You shift under his attention, a shy heat blooming across your cheeks. Unable to hold his gaze for long, you lean forward and gently blow out the small flame hovering above his fingertip.
Diluc smiles, satisfied, and reaches for the knife. He holds it out towards you, and you curl your fingers around the handle, but you don’t pull it free from his grasp just yet.
You look at him through your lashes, your voice coming out as a tentative whisper.
“Together?”
“Together,” he agrees, just as quietly.
His hand closes over yours, warm and steady, guiding your grip as the blade sinks into the cake. The frosting yields easily, the knife gliding through rich layers of red velvet. He subtly angles your hands, applying just a bit more pressure, ensuring your slice is larger than his.
You don’t comment on it. Neither does he.
Once the cake is plated, the two of you lift your forks at the same time and take your first bites together.
A soft hum of delight escapes you before you can stop it as the rich cake practically melts on your tongue.
Diluc watches you closely then.
Your shoulders have loosened. Your lips are curved into a smile that is unforced, genuine, soft in a way he hasn’t seen since he first knocked on your door. For a moment, he forgets about the cake entirely.
For a moment, he allows himself to hope.
He hopes that maybe, just maybe, he can be the reason you smile like this again—next year, and the year after that—on days that feel heavy and unkind. That one day you’ll trust him enough to let him see the parts of you you keep buried, to tell him why this day hurts so much. That he can help you learn to reclaim this day, help you see it as something soft instead of sharp.
And, quietly, he hopes that when he finally finds the courage to tell you how deeply, how hopelessly he loves you, you won’t turn away.
But for now, this is enough.
For now, he is content simply sitting beside you, sharing cake in the quiet glow of your living room, memorizing the sound of your laughter and the way joy looks on you when you forget to hide it.
The small box he brought for you—his gift—remains hidden in the pocket of his coat, untouched and unmentioned.
your drabble about durin with wanderer's lover is one of my favourite wanderer pieces i've ever read, i love how you characterise durin so much. it's so sweet...
if you're interested and have the time, i would love to see how you write the same concept with albedo's lover!
Ahhh I'm so glad someone liked my writing!
You know how little ducklings imprint on the first living being that they see and end up seeing that person/creature as its mother instinctually? That's how I think Durin would likely be with Albedo's lover.
Of course, logically Andersdotter "M" is his true mother, no one could replace that. Rhinedottir is technically his second mother since she was the one who created Dragonspine Durin. But, becoming human was more like a "rebirth" of all things, the Dragonspine Durin in his heart and Mini Durin both coexisting together to perform their heartfelt wish, to mingle with humans. And, in such instinctual fashion, when you, brother Albedo's lover and assistant alchemist entered the room, his instincts came to a bit of mush regards his feelings towards you.
You washed him off the chemicals and grime he was covered with, careful to not tug on his scales or horrifically matted hair and dressed him like that of a prince in Mondstadt, the corset, coat and everything because to you he really was your prince. Your original chalk prince, your Albedo and then your Dragon prince. You taught him all there was about the mundane aspects of life, like fashion of all things.
"What's this (Name)?"
"That would be cufflinks, they're there to fasten your sleeves."
Like instinct goes, I find him to ask you whenever he's about to do anything or about learning something new. Of course, Lisa taught him to read and write, Albedo teaches him alchemy, but you teach him regular day stuff. Socializing, cooking, cleaning, personal hygiene and so on. If he's ever going on errands, you're the one he's going to ask about mundane things, like the better detergent or hair cleaning agent.
"Should I get this?..."
"Ah, this shampoo one is very harsh, and considering your hair type I don't think it'll suit you."
"Okay." He doesn't even protest because again, instinct tells him to listen to you. He probably doesn't even notice until Albedo points it out during an examination.
You're his anchor in socializing. You've taught him the general things, cutlery skills, straight posture and respectfully keeping to his space, how to make small talk and so on. You don't teach him everything, telling him that finding out the intricacies and nuance of human interaction for himself would be much better than just copying like a robot, because then it would feel more natural than that of something he only heard and yet never experienced. And yet, whenever socializing between people gets a tad bit too difficult, where he's overwhelmed with conversation and doesn't know how to respond, he (politely) bolts.
"I just remembered that (Name) needs me for something!"
Or
"I'm sorry, it's getting quite late and (Name) would worry."
He feels obscenely guilty after, hugging you from behind, sometimes eerily quiet and sometimes sobbing into your white coat.
"I'm sorry I'm sorry I shouldn't have used your name like that!" You have to pry him off of you to reassure him that it's okay to escape situations that he didn't fancy. His crying stops around half an hour later and convincing him takes about 2.
Somehow everytime he reads a book about anything, companionship, romance, quite literally anything, he compares that with your relationships. Something along the lines of:
"Huh, Albedo would do that for (Name) and more, are other people's standard so below average?"
"Their relationship is quite similar to mine and (Name)'s, I quite like it."
"This character reminds me of (Name)..."
He can't help but reference you in majority of conversation that doesn't relate to serious topics. When someone mentions their favorite food, he'll talk about your opinion on it, whether you like it or not. If someone prefers one thing over another, he'd give them a brief description of how you either do or don't agree with them. It's completely unintentional really, since if others are willing to converse to him about what they like, and the person he admires most (other than Albedo and Hat Guy, to which they are a bit of an enigma), is you, wouldn't it make sense that he's referencing you all the time?
Albedo finds it amusing, and even if you blush in embarrassment sometimes, he could tell that you didn't really mind that much, and that causes his eyes to literally glow with excitement. The last thing he'd like is to disappoint you, and seeing you happy makes him happy too. If you smile at something he also smiles, regardless of knowing the topic you're giddy over.
He sort of panics in Nod Krai because you aren't present and are taking care of Albedo's duties back at the knights. Sure, he has Traveler, Paimon, Hat Guy and Albedo, but none of them give that comfort, the same sense of safety, that you'd always be there to talk, give him advice, listen to him rant and so on. You wrote him a letter wherein you wish him luck in Nod Krai, and he feels as if he read that about a hundred times by now. He's certain that with the time he spent analyzing his letter, he could now copy your handwriting down to the notch.
All in all, he would tell Albedo that he had chosen a wonderful lover (and beg him to not tell you, because now that he's "growing up" he finds telling all this to your face quite embarrassing, with how clammy and sweaty his palms become and how the tips of his ears turn to red whenever he's complimenting you again). The two of them probably have weekly discussions on how great of a person you are and you'd be none the wiser, already asleep on Albedo's shoulder from the shivers of Dragonspine's night.
wc: 17k || art creds: @/winterrbluess @/su2kuna || 18+
frat!sukuna x shy!nerd!reader
A/N lowk this fic is much more toned down compared to what i usually post but fuck it we ball it's cute
summary ! sukuna doesn't give a shit about chemistry, that is until the big red 8% on his last test threatens to get him kicked out of his frat. desperate, he turns to the only person who can save him: you, the adorable, shy girl who aces every quiz. you agree to help, but only if he helps you get the attention of your hallway crush, his best friend, toji. what starts as a deal between you slowly turns into a spiral of love and jealousy. (18+, fluff, slight toji x reader (?), no angst for once omg go me)
the big red number stares back at him from the top of the paper like a brand burned into his pride. 8%.
sukuna exhales through his nose, the sound rough, annoyed. the paper crumples in his hand before he tosses it onto the desk. he leans back in his chair, the metal legs creaking under his weight as his jaw works.
normally, he wouldn’t give a damn about a grade. it’s not like chemistry was ever something he cared about. but this time, it’s different. one more fail and he’s out. the frat has rules, grades too low and you’re done. and he knows exactly what’ll happen if that happens.
tojis smug laugh. satoru’s endless teasing. the guys calling him “brain-dead” for weeks. no more parties. no more sorority hoes. no more lazy afternoons drinking on the porch with his friends.
he runs a hand down his face, dragging his fingers over the faint scar under his eye and the sharp tatted lines on his cut face. he can’t let that happen.
at the front of the room, their professor is rambling about averages and assessment weightings, something about the next major project. sukuna tunes back in when he hears the words “sixty percent” and “partner work.” that catches his attention.
the next gruelling assessment is a two-month long research investigation worth sixty percent of their final grade.
he was on the verge of strangling himself to death or jumping out of the top story window when he realised.
that’s it.
that’s his way out. he just needs a smart partner who can carry his hopeless ass.
sukuna’s eyes sweep across the room, scanning for anyone who looks like they know what the hell they’re doing. most of the people he usually talks to in class are as useless as he is, too busy flirting or sleeping through lectures.
but then his gaze catches on someone sitting right up the front.
you.
the quiet girl with the tidy notes and the neat handwriting, the one who always answers when the professor asks a question no one else dares to.
you’re sitting there now, head slightly tilted as you jot something down, your pen gliding across the page with that easy confidence of someone who actually understands this shit.
you’ve always sat alone, tucked near the window. you never talk during lectures unless you have to, and even then your voice is small, hesitant. you wear oversized sweaters, keep your hair pinned up, and avoid eye contact with anyone who looks remotely like they belong to his world.
still, he’s noticed you before. everyone has. it’s hard not to. you’re the kind of girl that seems untouchable, not because you’re trying to be, but because you’re so far removed from everything he knows. soft, focused, real sweet.
and right now, you look like salvation.
he pushes up from his seat, ignoring the curious glances from a few classmates as he moves down the aisle. his tall frame blocks the light for a second when he stops beside your desk. you glance up, startled, your pen pausing mid-sentence.
"yo, my names sukuna. and you?"
"uh, hi? it's y/n." he smirks at your shy response, but continues.
“you’re like, a chem genius, right?” his tone is low, rough with disinterest, though his eyes linger on you a little too long.
you blink up at him, hesitant. “oh, um… i guess? why?”
“i need a partner, like, real bad,” he says, dropping the failed exam onto your desk with a dull slap. the red ink almost glows. “i'm gonna be honest, i completely fucked myself with this last exam. i can’t afford to fail again.”
you stare at the paper, then at him. up close, he’s intimidating. messy pink hair, dark eyes sharp and unreadable, tattoos trailing up his arms, his face, and peeking out from under his shirt collar.
he looks nothing like someone who’d ever ask for help, especially from you, and the fact that he’s doing it now makes your mind reel.
“i—look, don't take this the wrong way, but... theres a lot of people in this class,” you manage softly. “why pick me?”
he shrugs, leaning one hand on the desk beside your notes. “because you actually know what you’re doing. and i’m not looking to get stuck with some idiot who’ll drag me down, i'm already so fucking cooked."
you hesitate, glancing away. you’ve never really talked to him before. actually, you’ve barely even noticed him beyond the times you’ve seen him walking across campus with toji. that’s usually when your stomach does that stupid fluttering thing. watching toji laugh, his arm slung lazily around sukuna’s shoulders, both of them looking like they own the place.
it’s strange seeing one of them standing here now, asking you for help.
you fidget with your pen. “that's fine, sure. but… if we’re partners, wed have to split the workload.”
"yeah,” he says. “i can pull my weight, don't stress it, sweetheart. mostly just need someone to keep me from bombing it.”
it’s almost funny. he’s trying to sound casual, but something about the way he’s watching you feels uncharacteristically careful. like he’s actually waiting for your answer rather than being the overbearing dick he usually is.
maybe it’s because you’re cute. or maybe it’s because he knows you hold his fate in your small, nervous hands.
you chew your lip for a moment, then nod. “yeah, okay. i’ll help you out.”
his mouth tilts in a grin that’s half smug, half genuine relief. “good. 'preciate it, babe.”
you look down instantly, pretending to organize your papers so he doesn’t see the way your face warms. you weren't used to such casual name calling.
he drags a chair over from the next row and drops into it beside you, leaning back like he’s been sitting there all semester.
the professor’s voice fades into the background again as you stare straight ahead, trying to focus on anything but the fact that sukuna ryomen, the most notorious guy in beta tau, is now your project partner.
a few minutes pass in silence. the lecture drags on, your notes filling another page. but your mind’s racing the whole time. sukuna, meanwhile, can’t stop sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye.
he hadn’t expected you to actually agree. and he definitely hadn’t expected to find himself curious about you. you’re so… different. not the kind of girl who shows up to parties. not someone who flirts back when he smirks at her. just quiet and sweet, head buried in your work, the type that shouldn’t even be in his orbit.
and yet here you are.
when the professor dismisses the class, people start packing up. you hesitate, fingers tightening around your pen. then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to him.
“hey… sukuna?”
he hums, eyes flicking toward you lazily. “yeah?”
you look nervous, the words almost tripping over themselves before they leave your mouth. cute. “i’ll help you pass. but… can you help me out with something too?”
his brow arches. “hmm. depends what it is.”
you take a quiet breath. “it’s about your friend. uh— toji.”
that gets his attention. his posture stiffens a little. “what about him?”
you look down at your notebook, like it’s safer than looking at him. “i just… i think he’s really attractive. and he looks nice. i know it’s kind of stupid but i was wondering if maybe... you could help me get him to notice me.”
for a second, sukuna just stares at you.
out of all the things he expected you to say, that wasn’t it.
you, the shy little thing sitting up front, blushing and tripping over her own words, want toji fushiguro. one of the biggest assholes on campus. his best friend, sure, but a guy who barely remembers girls’ names after he sleeps with them.
he leans back slowly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “you’re serious?”
you nod, eyes still fixed on your notebook.
he studies you for a long moment. you’re fidgeting again, twisting your pen between your fingers, your voice so soft he almost misses it. “you don’t have to if it’s weird, i just thought… you two are close, so maybe…”
sukuna exhales through his nose. part of him wants to tell you it’s a bad idea. that toji doesn’t deserve someone like you. that you’d get hurt trying to chase a guy like that.
but he doesn’t.
instead, he tilts his head and says, “yeah, fine. i’ll help you out.”
your head snaps up, eyes wide. “huh— really?”
“yeah. but only because you’re saving my ass with this project,” he says, smirking a little. “guess we’ll call it even.”
you smile—small, bright, genuine—and something tightens in his chest. you're so cute.
“thank you,” you say quietly.
he grins again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “don’t mention it, honey.”
and as you pack up your notes, he watches you go, already trying to ignore the strange feeling crawling up the back of his neck.
he tells himself it’s just a deal. a trade. nothing more.
but as you disappear out the door, he can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s gotten himself into more trouble than he realizes.
~
music blasts through the frat, heavy bass shaking the walls, bodies moving in rhythm across the living room floor. someone’s yelling over the noise, someone else is laughing too loud.
the air smells like bad beer, smoke, and sweat, the classic friday night cocktail that means beta tau is alive and wild again.
sukuna leans against the kitchen counter, red solo cup in hand, watching a game of beer pong play out in front of him. the noise is deafening, but it’s a familiar kind of chaos. toji’s across the table, grin sharp as he sinks another ping-pong ball into the last cup.
“hell yeah,” toji shouts, hands raised. “that’s another win for me, baby!”
someone hands him another drink, and he downs it in one go, slamming the cup down as the room cheers. toji fushiguro lives for this kind of night—beer, bets, and easy company. sukuna’s used to it, the routine almost comforting.
he joins the next round, barely losing after a stupid bounce, then lets himself collapse onto the sagging couch beside toji. the music’s pounding through the walls, but the corner they’re in feels quieter, almost like the noise fades around them.
toji stretches out, arm slung over the back of the couch, shirt sticking to his skin. “you’re slipping, man,” he says, smirking at sukuna. “used to be able to hold your own in beer pong.”
“fuck up,” sukuna mutters, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. “that last shot was rigged.”
“rigged?” toji laughs, deep and unrestrained. “you’re just rusty.”
sukuna grunts, tossing his empty cup onto the coffee table. his head’s buzzing—not from the alcohol, just from thoughts he can’t quite shake.
the image of you, the way you looked earlier in class, keeps floating up uninvited. you sitting at the front of the room, your careful handwriting, the little way you’d fidget with your pen when you were nervous.
he doesn’t even realize he’s been quiet until toji elbows him. “yo, what’s got you zoning out?”
sukuna runs his tongue over his teeth, deciding. screw it. “you ever heard of someone named y/n?”
toji raises a brow, blinking like he didn’t catch that over the noise. “who?”
“y/n,” sukuna repeats.
toji shakes his head, lips quirking. “nah. that some new chick you’re banging?”
sukuna sputters, choking on air. “what? no. i’m not—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. great. smooth start.
toji’s smirk widens. “come on, man. don’t get shy on me. you’re stuttering like some freshman.”
“shut up,” sukuna mutters, glaring at him. “it’s not like that.”
“then what’s it like?”
he hesitates, watching the light flicker off the beer bottles on the table. there’s no way to explain it without sounding weird. he’s not even sure why he’s bringing you up at all, except that he made a promise, and now he’s gotta start somewhere.
“she’s just… in my chem class,” he finally says. “smart as hell. the kind that actually knows what she’s doing, y’know?”
toji snorts. “so, a nerd.”
“yeah,” sukuna says, ignoring the way toji says it like it’s an insult. “but, like… cute. shy, quiet, nice, i guess.”
toji’s grin widens. “bro. you’re seriously telling me about a crush right now? what the hell happened to you?”
“it’s not a crush,” sukuna says quickly, though his voice comes out sharper than he means. “she’s just—” he stops, running a hand through his hair. “she’s helping me with chem, okay? and i told her i’d help her with something too.”
“what, she want free alcs?” toji laughs.
“no.” sukuna exhales through his nose. “she wants you.”
that earns him a pause. toji tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to decide if he misheard. “me?”
“yeah.”
“as in… she wants to, what, date me?”
“basically.”
toji’s silent for a moment, then he breaks into a bark of laughter so loud it turns a few heads. “you’re kidding, right? some shy nerdy girl wants me?” he grins, tapping his chest. “guess she’s got good taste.”
sukuna grits his teeth. “don’t be an ass about it.”
“what? i’m not being an ass,” toji says, still smirking. “just saying, that’s not really my type, man. i like girls who can actually keep up, y’know?”
“yeah, i know,” sukuna mutters. “that’s kinda the problem.”
“problem?”
sukuna leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. “look, she’s… she’s sweet. like, actually sweet. the kind of girl that probably still says ‘sorry’ even when someone bumps into her first. you’d break her in half.”
toji shrugs, unbothered. “then maybe she shouldn’t be into me.”
“she doesn’t even know you,” sukuna says, frustration creeping into his tone. “she just saw you around. thinks you’re… i don’t know. hot and nice.”
“ha,” toji barks out a laugh, finishing his drink. “then she’s definitely got the wrong idea.”
sukuna sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. this was going nowhere.
he tries again, his tone careful. “i just figured maybe you could give her a chance. she’s not like the other girls you mess with. she’s…” he hesitates, searching for the right word. “different. the kind you’d actually like if you gave her five minutes.”
toji side-eyes him, clearly amused. “you trying to sell me a girlfriend or something? what’s in it for you?”
sukuna’s jaw tightens. “nothing. i told her i’d help her out, that’s all.”
toji grins, eyes glinting. “you sure about that? you sound kinda like you wanna keep her for yourself.”
sukuna’s silent for a beat, his pulse ticking faster than it should. “i don’t.”
“right. and i’m the pope.” toji laughs, leaning back. “are you high? tellin’ me about how cute and shy she is… just fuck her and move on, bro. no need for all this emotional shit.”
sukuna drags a hand down his face, groaning. “i wish i was fucking high. jesus, you’re impossible.”
the music gets louder again, another chant rising from the kitchen as someone calls for shots. toji stands, stretching, grinning down at him. “come on, man. stop thinking so hard. let’s go get wasted.”
sukuna waves him off. “nah, i’m good. go ahead.”
toji shrugs and disappears into the crowd. sukuna sinks further into the couch, head tipping back, letting the noise drown out the frustration burning in his chest.
this was going to be a nightmare.
.
the next morning, the fluorescent lights of the lecture hall feel like punishment. the air smells like stale coffee and paper, and the chatter around the room grates on his nerves. sukuna slouches into his seat, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion clinging to him.
you’re already there, of course. neat stack of papers beside your laptop, pen in hand, posture perfect. you glance up as he approaches, offering a small smile.
“morning,” you say softly.
“hey,” he mutters, sliding into the seat next to you.
the teacher doesn’t waste time, telling everyone to start working on their projects. pairs scatter across the room, some staying behind, others leaving for the library. you glance at sukuna, uncertain.
“should we…?”
“yeah, library,” he says before you can finish. “less noise.”
you nod quickly, tucking your notes under your arm as you follow him out.
the walk’s quiet. you keep close but not too close, fingers gripping the strap of your bag. sukuna glances at you once or twice as you walk, the sunlight catching the edge of your hair. there’s something weirdly calming about you, like your presence forces the chaos in his head to settle for a bit.
when you reach the campus library, you pick a small table near the back, away from the groups of whispering students. the morning light filters through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air. it’s quiet enough that every turn of a page feels loud.
you sit across from him, pulling your laptop from your bag. “um, before we start, maybe we should exchange contact info?”
he nods, pulling out his phone. “yeah. what's ya' number?”
you rattle it off, and he types it in. his phone pings a second later when you text him, and he adds your contact with a lazy swipe. then you both exchange social media.
you open your instagram to show him, but he’s already found it. your account’s small—cozy, soft colors, pictures of coffee cups, notes, and the occasional selfie that looks like you were trying not to take one.
then you look at his. thousands of followers, stories from parties, shirtless gym photos, snapshots of him and toji grinning like idiots with red cups in hand.
you blink, then smile politely. “ours are… really different.”
he huffs out a quiet laugh. “yeah. just a little.”
he doesn’t tell you that he finds it kind of adorable, how small and peaceful your corner of the internet looks compared to his chaos.
you both settle in to start discussing the project, papers spread between you. you talk about ideas, your voice growing steadier as you get into the topic. you explain concepts easily, your hands moving as you describe how you could structure the research, how to divide the work.
he listens. or tries to. mostly, he’s just watching the way you light up when you talk about something you love.
after a while, you pause, glancing at him with a small, hopeful look. “did you… talk to toji?”
he freezes for a fraction of a second, mind flashing back to last night—the laughter, the teasing, the absolute disaster of that conversation.
“yeah,” he says after a moment, forcing a smile. “i did.”
your eyes widen, curious. “what’d he say?”
he hesitates. you’re looking at him so earnestly, waiting for an answer, and he can’t bring himself to tell you that toji laughed it off, that he’d said something crude about just sleeping with you and moving on.
so he lies.
“he seemed interested,” sukuna says smoothly. “asked who you were. said you sounded cute.”
you go still for a moment, then your cheeks flush, and you duck your head. “really?”
“yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “told him you were smart, nice. he said that’s rare.”
your shy smile makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t understand.
“that’s… really nice of you, sukuna,” you say softly. “thanks.”
he shrugs, forcing a grin. “told you i’d help.”
but as you turn back to your notes, still smiling faintly to yourself, he can’t look away. he doesn’t know what’s worse—the way lying to you actually hurts his heart, or the way part of him’s starting to wish that toji never finds out who you are.
because the thought of you smiling like that at anyone else makes his stomach twist.
~
the frat house is quieter than usual when sukuna pushes the door open.
no bass pounding through the walls, no laughter echoing down the hallway, no beer pong table clattering in the kitchen. just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant muffled sound of someone’s tv from another room.
it’s strange. unsettling, almost. he’s gotten used to the constant noise, the never-ending buzz of people that filled the house from dusk till dawn.
he kicks off his shoes at the door, shoulders rolling back as he heads for the stairs. his head still feels heavy from the long day, the faint scent of your shampoo stuck in his memory.
it’s weird—he’s been around a thousand girls, maybe more. girls who practically threw themselves at him, who laughed too loud at his jokes and leaned in too close.
but somehow, you—sitting across from him with that shy smile and your soft voice explaining inter molecular relationship—manage to stick in his head longer than any of them ever have.
his room’s dark when he steps inside, save for the light bleeding in from the street through the blinds. he tosses his keys onto the desk and falls back onto his bed, exhaling. the ceiling stares back blankly.
he doesn’t even mean to grab his phone, but his hand moves before he can think. he unlocks it, thumb hovering over instagram.
just checking something, he tells himself.
his fingers type your username into the search bar without hesitation.
your profile opens instantly.
the same cozy layout he remembered. a few new story highlights. your bio—something simple, maybe a quote or a flower emoji. his thumb scrolls down slowly, eyes following the grid of neatly arranged photos. you, a few landscapes, coffee cups, snippets of sunlight through your window, a cat that might not even be yours.
he stops when he sees a picture from about a month ago.
you’re holding a tiny puppy in your arms, your face caught mid-laugh, like someone had said something funny right before snapping the picture. the puppy’s paw rests against your chest, nose tucked near your chin. in your other hand, you’re holding a paper cup of coffee, a little swirl of foam peeking through the lid.
he stares at it for longer than he should.
it’s just a photo, nothing special, but something about it hits him hard . the little details—the way your fingers curl gently under the puppy’s paw, the sunlight catching on the curve of your cheek, the way your smile looks completely unposed.
he catches himself wondering stupid things.
was that your dog? probably not. maybe a friend’s. or some random one you met at a cafe.
was the coffee yours? it looks like something you’d order, something simple. maybe vanilla, maybe something with caramel.
where was that taken? some small corner cafe? a weekend morning somewhere quiet?
he doesn’t know. and that bothers him more than it should.
his thumb hovers over the photo for a second before he double-taps it. the little red heart fills in on the corner of the screen.
great. now you’re going to see that he liked a post from a month ago. real smooth.
he tosses his phone onto the bed beside him, covering his face with his hands.
“what the fuck am i doing,” he mutters.
he’s never been that guy. the one who scrolls through a girl’s profile like he’s studying for an exam. the one who cares enough to wonder what her favorite coffee order is, or if she likes dogs or cats more. he doesn’t ask those questions. he doesn’t want to ask those questions.
but he can’t stop himself.
he scrolls again, back up to your most recent post—another candid shot, you’re wearing one of those oversized sweaters you always seem to wear to class, sleeves pulled over your wrists.
you look peaceful. and sweet. and so painfully far from the world he lives in.
his throat tightens unexpectedly, he looks deeper, really looks at you.
you’re really fucking pretty.
he’d always known that. he’d noticed, sure—he’s not blind. the first day you’d agreed to work with him, he’d thought you were cute. adorable, even. but now, staring at your pictures, seeing the small glimpses of your life beyond those chemistry notes and shy smiles, he realizes it’s more than that.
you’re beautiful.
and that realization sits heavy in his chest, thick and uncomfortable.
because he knows exactly where this is supposed to go.
he still owes you. he still promised you something.
toji.
the thought of his friend’s name makes him exhale hard through his nose.
he can already picture it—if he brings you up again, toji will laugh the same way he always does. say something crude. maybe shrug and agree to meet you, just for the hell of it. and maybe you’d smile that soft, nervous smile at him, and maybe you’d fall for him harder than you already have.
and that image—that thought—makes sukuna’s jaw clench.
he shakes his head, forcing the phone screen off.
“get a grip,” he mutters, rolling onto his side.
but it’s no use. even as he closes his eyes, the image of you laughing with that puppy burns into the back of his mind.
~
two weeks pass withf lectures and late-night text exchanges about project deadlines.
you’ve met up three times since that first day at the library. each time, sukuna’s noticed small things—how you seem to relax around him more, how you’ve started teasing him lightly when he messes up an equation, how your laugh sounds quiet but genuine when he actually manages to make you smile.
and now, on the fourth meeting, he finds himself heading to the library again, trying to ignore the way his stomach feels weirdly tight.
you’re already there when he walks in.
same table. same corner near the back.
but this time, something’s different.
you’re standing by your seat, waving slightly when you see him. and in your hands, you’re holding two cups of coffee.
“hey,” you say, your voice bright and clear in a way that makes him pause.
he blinks, momentarily thrown off by how cheerful you sound. “hey,” he replies, trying to sound as casual as usual.
you hold out one of the cups toward him. “i, um, got this for you. black coffee, right?”
for a second, he just stares.
it’s stupid. it’s a coffee cup. but his mind stutters anyway.
“yeah,” he says, voice quieter than he means it to be. “yeah, that’s right.”
“i wasn’t sure how you take it,” you admit with a small laugh. “you seem like the kind of person who drinks it straight. no sugar, no milk.”
he huffs out a small laugh, taking the cup from you. “you got that right.”
“lucky guess.”
you sit down, cheeks faintly pink. he watches you for a second longer than necessary before clearing his throat and dropping into the chair across from you.
“thanks,” he says finally, lifting the cup slightly. “for the coffee.”
you smile, soft and genuine. “you’ve been helping me a lot with this, so i thought it was the least i could do.”
he wants to tell you that you’ve got it backwards—that you’re the one keeping him afloat, not the other way around—but he bites his tongue.
instead, he takes a sip, the bitter taste grounding him.
“you didn’t have to, y'know.”
“i wanted to,” you say, eyes flicking down to your notes.
and for a brief second, he feels his pulse skip.
you wanted to.
he tries to shake the feeling, pulling out his own notes. “alright, so. what’s the plan for today?”
you talk about the experiment data, what needs to be written up, the references you still have to gather. he listens, but part of him’s distracted.
it’s the way you’re talking now—louder, lighter. you’re not tripping over your words anymore. you’re not afraid to meet his eyes. the shy girl who could barely look at him two weeks ago is now smiling at him between sentences.
and fuck if that doesn’t make something twist in his chest.
as the minutes pass, the project talk starts to blur into something else. he’s the one who changes the subject first.
“so,” he says, leaning back slightly. “what’s with you and coffee? every time i see you, you’ve got one.”
you look up from your laptop, blinking. “i just like it, i guess. i go to this little place near campus almost every morning before class.”
“the one with the green sign?”
“yeah, that one.”
“figured.”
you laugh quietly. “you go there too?”
“sometimes,” he says. “after workouts. they’ve got good espresso.”
you tilt your head. “you work out every morning?”
“almost,” he says, smirking faintly. “gotta keep my sexy frat guy aura in tact.”
“oh, right,” you tease, eyes glinting a little. “wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”
he blinks, caught off guard. “fans?”
“your instagram,” you say, trying not to laugh. “you’ve got, like, a thousand girls following you. i saw.”
he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “don’t remind me.”
“why?”
“because half of them don’t even go to this school,” he says, grinning a little. “they just… show up.”
you laugh, the sound soft but real, and he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.
after that, the conversation drifts. you talk about random things—your classes, your favorite kind of music, the dog from your photo (“that’s my friend’s puppy,” you explain. “he’s named mochi.”).
sukuna finds himself asking questions, more than he’s ever asked anyone before. not just because he wants to fill the silence, but because he genuinely wants to know.
you tell him about your hobbies, your part-time job at the campus bookstore, how you’re saving up for a trip after graduation.
he listens. really listens.
and for every small thing you share, he feels himself drawn in deeper.
when the session finally ends, the clock showing that two hours have slipped by without either of you noticing, you start packing up your things.
“same time next week?” you ask, glancing up.
“yeah,” he says. “same spot.”
you smile again, that soft, shy one that makes his chest ache.
and as you wave goodbye and walk out of the library, sukuna stays seated for a moment, staring at the empty chair across from him.
he should be thinking about the project. about grades. about keeping his promise to you.
but all he can think about is how the smell of coffee still lingers faintly on his fingers—and how, somehow, that’s become his favorite part of the day.
~
the frat house always feels heavy on monday mornings. air thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne, half-empty red cups scattered on tables like small grave markers from the weekend before. sukuna drags himself through the hallway, towel hanging around his neck, hair still damp from a quick shower.
toji’s already waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other. he looks up when sukuna walks in, flashing that familiar cocky grin.
“yo, you down to hit the gym?”
sukuna doesn’t even hesitate. “for sure.”
mondays are brutal, but skipping a session isn’t an option. not when you’ve got someone like toji keeping score. they finish off their drinks, grab their bags, and head out.
the campus is still quiet. early morning sun stretches across the pavement, birds chirping somewhere above. their sneakers hit the concrete in sync.
“bro, did you see the game last night?” toji asks, tossing a smirk his way.
“yeah,” sukuna mutters. “you owe me twenty.”
toji groans. “bullshit. that last call was garbage.”
“still counts.”
they go back and forth for a while—typical talk. girls, workouts, who pulled who at the last party. toji’s loud, animated, the kind of guy who fills silence with his own voice. sukuna listens, laughs when he should, but half his mind’s somewhere else.
they’re cutting across the main quad when he spots you.
you’re walking toward one of the lecture halls, tote bag slung over your shoulder, hair catching the light in a way that makes his breath hitch.
you’re wearing something simple—a cute shirt and nice jeans, your hands wrapped around a coffee cup—but somehow it makes you stand out more than anyone else on the path.
you don’t see him, too focused on your phone, but his chest tightens anyway.
for a second, it’s like the rest of the campus fades away.
then he remembers who’s walking beside him.
toji’s still talking about some girl he hooked up with over the weekend, words fading into the background as sukuna’s jaw tightens. he forces his eyes away, tells himself to stop being weird. this is stupid. you’re just his lab partner.
except he’s not supposed to be thinking about how good you look in the morning light. he’s supposed to be thinking about the deal.
the one with toji.
his throat feels dry as he forces himself to speak.
“hey,” he says suddenly. “you remember that girl i was talking about the other night?”
toji glances over, raising a brow. “the chem one?”
“yeah. that’s her.”
he nods toward you before he can second-guess it.
toji slows immediately, his attention shifting in your direction. you’re still walking across the path, the sunlight brushing over your face as you look up for a moment, squinting.
sukuna watches as toji literally stops in his tracks.
“no way,” toji says, eyes widening. “that’s her?”
“yeah,” sukuna mutters.
“holy shit.” toji’s grin spreads, sharp and impressed. “you didn’t tell me she was that cute.”
sukuna doesn’t respond. he just keeps walking, pretending to be unfazed, but every word toji says feels like it’s digging deeper under his skin.
“seriously, bro,” toji continues, still staring after you even as you disappear into the building. “you made her sound like some dorky little nerd. i was picturing ugly glasses, messy bun, the whole thing. but she’s—damn. she’s adorable.”
sukuna’s stomach twists. he forces a smirk, because that’s what’s expected. “yeah, she’s not bad.”
“not bad?” toji laughs, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me, man?”
“nah,” sukuna says quickly. “just didn’t think you’d be into that type.”
“what type?”
“the smart, quiet type,” he says, voice flat. “thought you liked girls who could ‘keep up,’ remember?”
toji scoffs. “yeah, well, she’s too cute to pass up. shit, you should let me tag along next time you’re studying with her. see what she’s like up close.”
sukuna forces a laugh, but it comes out strained. “yeah, sure. whatever.”
inside, he’s cringing so hard he feels sick.
they head into the gym, the sound of clanging weights filling the space. he tries to focus—on the burn in his muscles, the rhythm of his breathing—but his thoughts won’t shut up. toji’s words keep echoing. she’s adorable. she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me?
this was what he was supposed to do. this was the plan. introduce you to toji, let things fall into place, make good on his end of the deal.
so why does it feel so wrong?
~
the next study session comes faster than he expects.
the day’s overcast, the library quiet except for the soft hush of the air conditioning. you’re already there when he walks in, sitting in your usual spot by the window, books neatly stacked, pen tapping absently against your notebook.
you look up when you hear his voice.
“hey,” he says, slipping through the aisles toward you.
your face brightens instantly, that small, warm smile tugging at your lips.
“hi,” you say, already starting to greet him—
then your voice falters.
because right behind him, towering and broad-shouldered, is toji.
your words die halfway out of your throat, eyes going wide. he’s impossible to ignore—dark hair, sharp grin, that easy confidence that radiates from him like static.
sukuna can see the exact moment you freeze. your fingers grip your pen a little too tightly, your posture going stiff.
“this is toji,” sukuna says, trying to sound casual. “he wanted to tag along today.”
“hey,” toji says smoothly, pulling up a chair without asking. “nice to meet you, y/n.”
you nod, cheeks pink. “h-hi.”
it’s awkward from the start. painfully so.
sukuna tries to start things off, opening his notebook and asking about the data you collected last week, but toji’s already jumping in with his own questions—none of them relevant.
“so,” toji leans forward, elbows on the table. “you’re really good at this chem stuff, huh? always been a little nerd?”
you laugh nervously, eyes flicking between the two of them. “i… guess so?”
“yeah, i could never,” he says, shaking his head. “i barely passed last year. too many parties, you know how it is.”
you nod politely, but the look on your face says it all—you have no idea what to say.
sukuna clenches his jaw.
toji keeps going, oblivious. he talks about the last frat party, about the time he benched two hundred in front of half the football team, about some girl who texted him last night. you just sit there, smiling faintly, giving small nods and quiet hums of agreement.
it’s brutal.
every word toji says feels like a slow car crash sukuna can’t stop. he knows he should’ve expected this—this was always how toji was—but now that it’s happening in front of you, he can’t stand it.
you’re sitting there, trying so hard to be polite, cheeks flushed, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve. and for the first time, sukuna hates how loud the other guy is. hates how he’s filling the space that’s always felt quiet and easy with you.
after what feels like forever, toji’s phone buzzes. he glances down, reads the message, and stands up.
“gotta head out,” he says, smirking. “good luck with your project, sweetheart. maybe i’ll swing by next time, yeah?”
before you can respond, he gives you a wink.
you freeze again, murmuring something that barely sounds like a goodbye.
he leaves, whistling under his breath, completely unaware of how painfully awkward that was.
the second he’s out of sight, sukuna exhales hard and runs a hand through his hair.
“fuck,” he mutters. “sorry about that.”
your eyes widen a little. “oh, um, it’s fine.”
“no, seriously,” he says, glancing at you. “i should’ve told you i was bringing him.”
you hesitate, then smile, shy but real. “it’s okay. i was just… nervous, i guess.”
he tilts his head. “why?”
you look down at your notes. “he’s just… kind of intense. i didn’t expect that.”
“yeah,” he says quietly. “he’s like that.”
the silence that follows isn’t awkward, though. it’s calm. steady.
you’re visibly more relaxed now, shoulders no longer so tight, your voice softer when you start talking again. sukuna listens, his chest loosening with every word.
you don’t mention toji again.
and he doesn’t either.
for the rest of the session, it’s just the two of you again—back to the easy rhythm he didn’t realize he’d missed until it was gone. you explain a reaction mechanism, he teases you about your handwriting, you roll your eyes and laugh.
when it’s time to leave, you pack up your things slowly, almost like you don’t want the moment to end.
“see you next week?” you ask.
“yeah,” he says, smiling faintly. “next week.”
you give a small wave, and as you walk out, sukuna watches you disappear between the shelves, that same quiet warmth settling in his chest.
he should feel relieved—he did what he was supposed to. he introduced you to toji. he followed through.
but instead, he just feels like he’s made a mistake.
because the whole walk back to the frat, the only thing running through his head isn’t how toji couldn’t shut up or how awkward the whole thing was.
it’s how your voice had softened when you told him it was fine. how your eyes met his, even for a second, and he felt that stupid little spark again.
he doesn’t know what to call it. doesn’t want to.
but deep down, he knows one thing for sure.
the next time you two meet, he’s showing up alone, keeping you to himself.
~
music pounds through sukuna's chest, pulsing out of the open doors of the sorority like a heartbeat on overdrive. laughter spills down the steps, mixed with the sharp scent of alcohol and perfume and that sticky-sweet haze that always clings to these kinds of parties.
banners hang crooked above the door, fairy lights tangled like spiderwebs. the sorority girls really went all out.
it’s a mixer. one of those invite-only things, where every girl in greek row tries to get noticed by the “right” house. and sukuna’s frat—their house—was always the right one. full of grade A hotties like sukuna and toji and successful athletes like gojo and geto.
he spots toji near the entrance, already in his element. white t-shirt, chain glinting at his throat, grin carved sharp enough to cut through the noise. every few seconds, someone calls his name. girls from different sororities, guys from the rugby team, even one of the organizers waving him over.
toji was built for this. sukuna knew it. hell, everyone did.
“about time, man,” toji says when sukuna steps up beside him. “thought you’d bailed.”
“nah,” sukuna mutters. “just took my time.”
“yeah, well, tonight’s supposed to be wild. let’s make the most of it.”
they shoulder their way through the crowd, music pounding overhead, the smell of beer and sweat and too much perfume thick in the air. sticking together like usual.
a few girls call out sukuna’s name as they pass, and he just flashes that lazy grin he’s perfected—the one that says he’s not interested, but he might be later.
it’s all automatic now. the smirk, the eye contact, the way his shoulders roll when he laughs. it’s all muscle memory.
but tonight, something feels off.
maybe it’s the way every laugh sounds fake. maybe it’s the way the lights flash too bright, painting everyone in the same plastic color.
maybe it’s because all he can think about is you.
they end up in the kitchen, where the music’s still loud but not deafening. beer pong’s already set up on the long dining table, cups half-filled, ping-pong balls scattered across the sticky surface.
toji grabs a ball and grins. “let’s go. loser does a shot.”
sukuna smirks, rolling up his sleeves. “you’re on.”
they start playing, drawing a small crowd of girls who cheer and giggle at every throw. toji’s competitive as always, talking shit between shots, while sukuna plays quiet and steady. the rhythm feels familiar—the weight of the ball, the sound of it hitting the cup, the way everyone leans in to watch.
after two rounds, they’re tied. toji wins one, sukuna the other. the girls watching don’t seem to care who’s winning—they’re too focused on the way the two of them look, the easy confidence that comes with knowing the room revolves around them.
and then they descend.
a blonde slides up beside toji, pressing herself against his arm. another girl, brunette this time, drapes herself over sukuna, laughter dripping from her lips like honey.
“you guys are, like, scary good at this,” she says, voice high and flirty.
“practice,” sukuna says automatically. his smirk looks real enough. it always does.
her nails trace the edge of his sleeve, and she leans closer. “bet you’re real good at other things too.”
normally, this is the part where he’d lean in, let the moment pull him under. he knows how this goes—shots, dancing, slipping upstairs when the music gets too loud. normally he'd do anything for a quick fuck.
but tonight, it doesn’t land.
he looks down at her, at the perfect makeup and glitter around her eyes, and all he can think is how different she is from you.
how you’d never lean on someone like this. how you’d never grab at someone you just met. how when you talked, you actually meant what you said.
his jaw tightens.
toji’s already got two girls around him, laughing loudly, drink in one hand, the other at someone’s waist. he looks like he’s having the time of his life. and for the first time, sukuna feels nothing but exhaustion watching it.
the brunette keeps talking—something about the psych department, something about a pool party next weekend—but her words fade into static.
god, he can’t stop thinking about you.
he pictures your small smile, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. the way your voice lifts just slightly when you talk about something you love. the way your eyes meet his only for a second before darting away again.
then he thinks about how you’d react if you saw this.
if you saw toji right now—grinning, drunk, hands everywhere.
you’d look crushed. maybe not outwardly, but he knows you’d feel it. he can see that tiny flicker of hurt in his head, your lips pressing together, pretending not to care.
and for some reason, that thought hits him like a punch.
you’d be heartbroken over a guy like toji. and he hates that. hates it enough that his fake smirk starts to slip.
because toji’s the one you wanted. and toji’s right there, laughing with some random girl like you never even existed.
it makes his stomach twist.
the brunette leans in closer, her perfume cloying and too strong. she presses her lips against his neck, and something cold floods through him instead of the usual heat.
he stiffens.
she pulls back, confused, maybe even offended, but he just steps away, shaking his head.
“you good?” she asks, pouting a little.
“yeah,” he mutters. “just—need a smoke.”
he grabs a beer from the counter and makes his way outside.
the air’s cooler out here, cleaner. it hits his lungs in a way that almost feels like relief. he digs into his pocket, finds his pack, and lights up. the first drag burns his throat, grounding him a little. he thinks back to the time you'd seen a flash of the packet in his pocket, the look of concern plastering your cute face.
"you smoke cigarettes? y'know that pretty bad for you, sukuna..."
he sighs and takes another drag, he knew you were right, hell, he even cut down after that little statement.
inside, the party’s still raging. someone shouts, laughter echoing off the walls. he hears toji’s voice above the rest, loud and easy and so damn sure of himself.
sukuna exhales a long stream of smoke and stares out at the street.
why’s he even thinking about you like this?
you're just a girl. just a project partner. you needed his help, he needed yours. that’s all it was supposed to be.
but then he remembers how you'd smiled when he showed up on time for once, how you’d brought him that stupid cup of coffee just because you thought he’d like it. how careful you’d been, shy but trying.
and now he’s here, surrounded by everything he used to want, feeling nothing but restless.
he thinks about the library tomorrow morning.
you’d be there early. you always are. waiting at the same table, your notebook open, your pen tapping as you concentrate. you’d look up when he walks in, offer that small, quiet smile like you’re genuinely happy to see him.
the thought of showing up hungover makes his stomach knot.
he can’t let you see him like that. not reeking of beer, not bleary-eyed and half-dead from a night he didn’t even enjoy.
he flicks the ash off his cigarette, curses under his breath.
“what the fuck am i doing?”
he looks back toward the house. the windows are glowing with golden light, silhouettes moving inside. laughter spills out again, shrill and wild.
that used to feel like home.
now it just feels loud.
he takes another drag, the ember lighting up in the dark.
this isn’t him. at least, it’s not the version of him you’ve seen. the one who actually listens, who tries, who stays sober enough to remember what you said about catalysts and reactions. the one you’ve somehow turned him into without even knowing.
he huffs out a quiet laugh, bitter and low.
you’d probably never believe it if someone told you sukuna ryomen left a mixer early because of a girl.
but here he is.
he stubs out the cigarette, tosses the butt into the gutter, and pulls his jacket tighter around him.
he steps back inside just long enough to find toji at the beer pong table, a girl perched on his lap now, and rolls his eyes.
“yo,” toji calls over. “where the hell’d you go?”
“m' heading out,” sukuna says. “got shit to do tomorrow.”
toji raises a brow. “it’s friday, man.”
“yeah. i know.”
“whatever,” toji laughs. “your loss.”
sukuna just shrugs, already turning toward the door.
the music fades behind him as he walks out again. the night air hits him, cool against his skin. campus is mostly empty now, streetlights flickering.
he lights another cigarette as he walks, the smoke curling up into the cold.
his mind won’t stop racing.
he thinks about you again, about how small you look sitting behind your laptop, about the way you focus so hard you don’t notice him staring sometimes. about how quiet the world feels when it’s just the two of you in that corner of the library.
you’d laugh if you saw him now. the guy everyone calls a monster, walking home early from a party just because he wants to look sober in front of some shy chemistry nerd.
but it’s not just that anymore.
he doesn’t want to look sober. he wants to look good for you.
he wants you to think he’s better than this. better than what everyone thinks he's like.
he blows out smoke and watches it fade into the dark.
when he gets back to the frat, the house is nearly empty—most of the guys are still at the mixer. it’s quiet for once. he climbs the stairs, every step heavy, and stops at his door.
he stares at the handle for a second before going in.
the room smells like cologne and laundry detergent. his desk’s still a mess, papers and dumbbells scattered everywhere. he drops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, cigarette burning low between his fingers.
he should sleep. he should forget tonight.
but all he can see is you.
your smile. your voice. your eyes when they meet his and flick away just a second too fast.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
he ashes the cigarette in the tray, lets his head fall back, and closes his eyes.
the thought of you lingers like smoke in his lungs. intoxicating, slow, impossible to shake.
and for the first time in a long time, the idea of tomorrow doesn’t feel like just another day. it feels like something he’s waiting for.
~
the sun crawls through the blinds too early for a saturday.
pale light drags itself across the room, landing on the mess of clothes and empty bottles scattered over the frat floor. everyone’s still passed out.
bodies everywhere. some sprawled across couches, others snoring in corners, heads tipped back with half-empty beer cans slipping from their hands.
but not sukuna.
he’s awake.
he’s the only one who doesn’t feel like he got hit by a truck. no pounding head, no sour stomach. just the faint trace of smoke on his tongue and the quiet buzz in his chest that’s been there since last night.
he sits up, rakes a hand through his hair, and exhales. the air smells like sweat and cheap vodka. he looks around at the disaster that was his frat house—sticky floors, someone’s shoe on the counter, a guy in nothing but boxers drooling into the carpet—and shakes his head.
he’s not sticking around for the aftermath.
there’s something about this morning, something clean, light, strange. he grabs his hoodie, slings his bag over his shoulder, and checks his phone. too early for most people. not too early for you.
he smiles a little at that.
when he walks into the hallway, a few guys groan from the couch.
“yo,” one of them croaks. “where the hell are you going? it’s like… eight?”
“got plans,” sukuna says, slipping on his sneakers.
“plans?” another mumbles, half-asleep. “with who?”
“no one,” sukuna says quickly. “don’t worry about it.”
he’s already halfway out the door before they can start asking more questions. the last thing he needs is toji—or anyone, really—catching wind of this and deciding to tag along like last time.
the air outside hits him cold and fresh. campus is quiet, only the occasional sound of birds or a bike rolling past. everything’s washed in soft gold light, the kind that makes the world look cleaner than it really is.
he starts walking.
there’s a bounce in his step that he tries to ignore. it feels stupid to feel this way. giddy. like he’s got something worth looking forward to. he tells himself it’s just because he didn’t drink last night. he’s clear-headed. alert. that’s all.
but he knows it’s a lie.
the café comes into view just down the block. it’s the one you always go to—the one with the green sign. he remembers the first time he saw you there, hunched over your laptop with a coffee that had already gone cold, scribbling in your notebook like the world might end if you looked up.
the memory makes his chest feel weird.
he pushes open the door, the little bell chiming. the barista greets him with a sleepy smile. he glances over the glass case, scanning the pastries. croissants, muffins, a few danishes. then he spots the one he remembers you ordering once—flaky and soft, sugar dusted over the top.
“one of those,” he says, pointing.
the barista wraps it up neatly in paper. sukuna hands over the cash, then hesitates when she asks if he wants a drink.
he almost says yes. almost orders a sweet coffee for you.
but then he remembers.
you’ll already have one right now, you always do.
“nah,” he says, shaking his head. “js' the pastry.”
he walks out with the small paper bag in hand, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
he feels ridiculous. it’s a fucking pastry. but somehow it feels like more than that. like he’s carrying a confession.
when the library comes into view, he spots you right away.
you’re there, in your usual spot. that back table near the window, the one you’ve claimed without ever really saying so. your coffee’s beside your laptop, steam curling up faintly. you’re biting your lip, eyes narrowed in concentration as you read through something.
and god, you’re cute.
it slaps him all over again.
the way your hair falls forward, the soft sweater you’re wearing, the tiny crease between your brows. you’re not trying to be anything. you’re just there, focused, quiet, real.
he stands there for a second, just watching.
then he remembers himself and walks over.
“g'morning,” he says.
you look up, startled, then your whole face softens when you see him. “oh—hi! you’re early.”
“yeah,” he says, dropping his bag into the chair across from you. “didn't wanna sleep in today.”
you laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “fair.”
he pulls the paper bag from his hoodie pocket and slides it across the table.
he holds it out to you. “for you. figured you might want breakfast.”
you blink, startled. “wait, really?”
“yeah. it’s from that cafe you like.”
your mouth falls open slightly, and your cheeks go pink in that way he’s starting to adore. “you... remembered that?”
“guess so.”
you take the bag from him carefully, like it’s something fragile. when you peek inside and see what it is, your expression softens even more.
“oh my god,” you whisper, smiling so hard your eyes crinkle at the corners. “this is my favorite one.”
he watches, almost helpless, as you keep talking, thanking him over and over. your voice stumbles with embarrassment, your fingers fidget with the bag, and the more flustered you get, the more something warm spreads through his chest.
“you didn’t have to—really, that’s so sweet of you.”
“it’s nothing,” he says, but his voice is rougher than he means it to be. “just figured you might be hungry.”
you look down, still smiling. “thank you.”
and it hits him, how long it’s been since a girl said that to him and meant it.
you break the silence first, switching to the assignment, pulling up your notes and explaining something about the next section. he nods along, but he’s not really listening. he’s watching the way you push your hair behind your ear, the way your brows furrow when you focus.
he forces himself to pay attention. still, the moment feels easy.
you talk for a while about the project, comparing notes, trading small jokes. he feels himself relax into the rhythm of it, like it’s become a routine.
and then, without warning, you bring up toji.
you clear your throat first, eyes flicking down to your notes. “so, um... toji.”
he stills, one brow lifting, you were finally gonna talk about him since that awful run in last time. “hmm?”
“he’s… very…” you trail off, searching for the word. “loud.”
he snorts. “that’s one way to put it.”
“and, um, big. like—physically. and personality-wise. very… confident.”
he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah. sorry about that. he’s… a lot. again, i didn’t mean to unleash him on you like that.” he was apologising again, so out of character for him but he couldn't help it. not with you.
“no, no,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “he’s just… different than i expected.”
“different how?”
you hesitate, chewing your lip. “i guess i thought he’d be more like you.”
the words hang between you for a second. his pulse stutters.
“like me, huh?” he says, teasing, leaning back in his chair, spread wide as he looks you up and down. “what’s that supposed to mean, hm?”
you go red instantly, trying to drag your eyes away from his man spread legs. “i just meant—you’re, um, thoughtful. more focused. not overbearing, you're nice...”
he grins. "nice, huh?"
you hide your mouth behind your hand and look off to the side. "nicer than toji, yeah."
he laughs, "that's not a very high bar to clear."
you giggled in response, letting him continue.
“so you like my type better?”
“that’s not what i said,” you mumble, covering your face with your hand again.
“didn’t have to.”
you peek at him through your fingers, and he has to bite back a laugh. your cheeks are so pink it hurts to look at you.
“you’re bullying me,” you say, your voice small.
“maybe.”
you shake your head, still smiling, and reach for your coffee. he watches the way you hold it, the delicate tilt of your wrist, the little sigh you make after a sip.
then, quieter, he asks, “so… you still interested in him? toji, i mean.”
you freeze.
“i—uh.” your voice falters. “i guess so? i... i don’t know.”
“you don’t sound sure.”
“he’s just—not what i thought he’d be. i thought he’d be a little calmer.”
“he’s not really the type to surprise you in a good way,” sukuna says.
you smile faintly, eyes on your cup. “yeah. maybe not.”
the way you say it, soft, thoughtful, uncertain, it makes his chest ache.
you’re too sweet for this. too genuine. you deserve someone who actually listens, who doesn’t treat you like background noise. and for some reason, he hates that the person you’re hung up on is his best friend.
he sighs, rubbing his jaw.
you look up, curious. “what’s wrong?”
“nothing,” he says, forcing a smile. “just tired.”
you nod, and the two of you fall back into quiet work. it’s peaceful again, the only sounds the soft click of your keyboard and the scratching of his pen. time blurs.
when you finally close your laptop, stretching your arms, he realizes two hours have passed.
“we got a lot done,” you say, smiling.
“yeah,” he says, though he can’t remember a thing you just studied.
you start packing your things, tucking the empty pastry bag into your bag. before you can leave, you hesitate. then, shyly, you step closer and wrap one arm around him in a little side hug.
“thank you,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “for breakfast. and for helping me.”
for a second, he forgets how to breathe.
you smell like coffee and sugar and something faintly floral. your hand rests briefly against his side, and he swears every nerve in his body lights up.
then you pull away, smiling up at him, oblivious to the chaos you’ve just caused.
“see you tomorrow?”
“yeah!” he says quickly, way too excited. “d-definitely.”
you wave and head out, the door swinging shut behind you.
he stands there for a full minute, still staring at the spot you’d been standing, until he realizes his hands are clenched and his pulse is hammering.
he grabs his bag, mutters something under his breath, and heads outside.
the moment he’s in the open air again, he takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
the breeze does nothing to cool the heat crawling under his skin.
he walks fast, head down, eyes on the pavement.
every step feels heavy with restraint.
because all he can think about is how soft you felt, how small your hand was against him, how much he wanted to pull you in, bury his face in your neck, keep you there for hours.
he curses under his breath, tugging his hoodie lower, hoping it hides the problem growing in his jeans.
“get it together,” he mutters.
he tries to think about anything else—the assignment, the game tomorrow, the half-finished paper on his desk—but his mind keeps circling back to you. your laugh. your blush. your hug.
by the time he reaches the frat, his heartbeat’s finally starting to slow, but the feeling stays. that dizzy mix of guilt and want.
he steps inside quietly, the house still a mess of half-dead hangovers, and slips upstairs to his room.
the first thing he does is sit on his bed, elbows on his knees, and let out a long, shaky exhale.
he’s in trouble.
he knows it.
because he can’t stop smiling.
~
the gym in the frat house isn’t much. it’s a dim room tucked behind the kitchen, with cracked mirrors and rusted weights, the air always heavy with the stale scent of sweat and cheap deodorant.
the guys call it a “home gym,” but it’s really just a collection of mismatched dumbbells, an old bench press, and a speaker that always buzzes when the bass hits too hard. its nothing like the fancy campus one him and toji visit, still, it works for sukuna.
he’s halfway through a set, sweat sliding down the back of his neck, when his thoughts start slipping away from the burn in his muscles and land right where they always seem to go lately.
he tries to ignore it, focusing on the motion, the rhythm, the push and pull of the bar in his hands.
but the harder he tries not to think about you, the more vivid you become. your voice, soft but steady, your shy little smiles whenever he cracks a joke, the way you always tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to blush.
it’s infuriating, how easily you creep into his head.
he exhales sharply, finishing the set with a grunt, letting the bar clang down harder than he means to. it rattles against the frame, echoing in the small room.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, sitting up and grabbing the towel draped over his shoulders.
he wipes his face, breathing hard, his reflection in the mirror smudged with fingerprints and dust. he looks exhausted, not just from the workout but from everything sitting in his head.
you and toji.
you and that stupid, innocent crush you’d confessed to him like it was nothing.
he leans forward, elbows on his knees, towel hanging loosely around his neck. he can’t keep fucking around pretending like this is going to work anymore.
he can’t sit through another study session with you knowing that toji knows you're into him.
toji doesn’t even remember half the girls he flirts with, so why should he get to occupy that sweet spot in your brain.
that thought alone makes his blood boil.
you’re too good for that. too damn good.
he picks up the dumbbell again, trying to lift through the frustration, but his mind keeps racing. toji’s face flashes in his mind—the obnoxiousness, his interest in you only after finding out what you looked like.
the memory makes his jaw clench.
toji doesn’t deserve to know you exist, let alone be someone you lose sleep over.
his grip tightens around the handle. he lifts again, but it feels pointless now, his muscles burning for a different reason entirely.
finally, he slams the weight down and stands up, chest heaving.
he’s done.
done thinking he can stomach this, done keeping that deal, done lying to himself.
without even thinking about it, he walks out of the gym, towel still slung over his shoulder. his feet move on instinct, carrying him through the hall, up the grand stairs, straight to toji’s room.
the door’s half-shut, light spilling from the gap, and he doesn’t bother knocking. he pushes it open, the wood hitting the wall with a dull thud.
toji’s sprawled across his bed, shirtless, scrolling through his phone. there’s a protein shake on the desk, a game controller tangled in the sheets. he looks up lazily when sukuna appears.
“yo,” he says, grinning. “you look pissed. what, satoru stealing your shirts n' shit again?”
sukuna doesn’t answer. he stands there for half a second, jaw tight, and then the words just fall out before he can stop them.
“y/n has a boyfriend,” he blurts. “so you can forget the whole crush on you thing.”
toji blinks, confused. “uhm?”
“what,” sukuna says, crossing his arms. “shes got a guy.”
toji sits up slightly, eyebrows furrowing. “who’s y/n again?”
the silence that follows is deafening.
sukuna stares at him, the vein in his temple twitching.
“are you actually deadass right now?”
toji shrugs. “bro, i talk to a lot of girls, you gotta be more specific.”
that’s it.
sukuna drags a hand down his face, muttering something that sounds halfway between a growl and a groan. he doesn’t even bother explaining. it’s not worth it.
“don't worry, man,” he snaps, spinning on his heel.
he slams the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
by the time he gets back to his room, his chest is tight, the frustration boiling over into something heavier. he paces once, twice, then finally drops onto his bed, letting his head fall back against the wall.
“who’s y/n again?”
the words echo in his mind like a bad joke.
he can’t believe it. he can’t believe he ever thought this was a good idea, trying to set you up with that idiot.
it’s not even about the deal anymore. it’s about you.
because now he knows what it feels like to be around you, to hear you laugh, to see the way your eyes light up when he remembers the smallest things. he knows what it feels like to walk beside you through campus at night, the air cool and soft, your voice quiet but steady.
he likes you.
really, really likes you.
and it’s not just because you’re pretty, though god, you are. it’s because you’re kind. because you make him feel human again, in a way that nothing else ever does. because you talk to him like he’s worth something more than the reputation that follows him.
he doesn’t know when it happened, but it’s there now, and it’s not going away.
.
the weeks that follow move in a blur. the two of you keep meeting for study sessions, but they’ve shifted. so subtly that neither of you seems to notice.
you’re more relaxed now. you smile more, laugh easier. you’ve started showing up with little things for him too. chocolates, protein bars, a can of cold brew. every time, he teases you about it, but inside, he’s having a spaz out.
and every time he brings you something in return, you light up like he’s handed you the world.
you’ve started talking about more than the project. now, it’s everything. random things. favorite youtuber, weird scandals, "uhm, no way you think d4vd is innocent, they had matching tattoos!", childhood fuck ups, "yeah, i used to be one of those devious lick kids in middle school, me and gojo stole an entire sink".
sometimes, you talk so much you forget the assignment altogether, and he never stops you.
he lives for these moments.
sometimes, when you’re sitting side by side at the library, your knees brush under the table. it’s barely a touch, accidental every time, but it makes his pulse stutter.
you’ve started giving him hugs too, real ones. not just quick, polite ones, actual, full-bodied hugs that make him want to forget how to breathe. all he wants to do is bundle you up and take you back home, lock you away where no one could possibly taint that beautiful smile.
he pretends to be chill and nonchalant, but inside, he’s crashing out so hard.
one afternoon, it’s raining outside, and you show up in a damp tank top, hair slightly damp. he nearly forgets how to speak. you hand him a hot chocolate and giggle when he stares at it like he’s never seen one before.
“it’s not that weird,” you say, smiling. “i thought you might want something warm and sweet for this type of weather.”
he looks at you for a long moment trying not to stare at your see through chest, then takes the cup. “thanks,” he murmurs, and it sounds like something heavier than gratitude.
you shrug, shy but pleased, then sit down beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
when the session ends that day, he walks you home like he always does. it’s become a quiet habit between you. no one suggested it, but neither of you questions it either. you live just off campus, in a small apartment with ivy creeping up the walls, and every time you reach your door, you both hesitate.
he wants to ask if he can come inside, just once.
you always look like you might invite him, too.
but neither of you ever says it.
instead, you smile, soft and warm, and tell him goodnight. he always watches until you disappear inside, until the light flicks on and frank ocean starts softly pouring from the window.
and every time, he walks back to the frat with that same ache in his chest, the one that’s half longing and half fear.
he knows he’s in wayyy too deep.
but he can't stop.
you’ve started coming out of your shell in little bursts. you tease him now, gently. you call him out when he’s being lazy, roll your eyes when he tries to act too chill. and he eats it the fuck up. every second of it.
you’re different with him now. freer. you trust him.
and that makes everything both better and worse.
because every time you look at him with that open, honest expression, he has to remind himself of the lie he built this on—the deal, the fake promise to get you closer to toji.
it barely comes up anymore. sometimes you mention toji in passing, usually as a joke, and you both laugh it off. it’s like neither of you really care about it anymore.
and maybe that’s the truth. maybe it stopped mattering the moment you started looking at him like that.
one evening, when the sun’s setting, you’re sitting across from him at the library, talking about nothing in particular. you’re smiling, head tilted, your voice soft. and he catches himself staring, not hearing a single word.
you stop mid-sentence, blinking. “what?”
he shakes his head quickly. “nothing.”
“you’re staring,” you say, cheeks pink.
“you’re imagining things, honey."
you laugh, hiding your face in your hands.
he smiles too, but there’s something behind it—something he doesn’t let you see.
because in that moment, it hits him all over again, stronger than before.
he’s seriously can't do this shit any longer.
he doesn’t want to help you get to toji anymore.
he doesn’t want to stand by while you talk about someone else, even in passing.
he wants you. all of you.
the quiet smiles, the shy blushes, the little quirks he’s learned by heart.
he wants to be the one who gets to see every part of you—every version of that soft, sweet girl who’s been slowly unraveling in front of him.
and he knows, deep down, that if he ever let himself say it out loud, he’d never be able to take it back.
so he keeps it buried, just for now, as he walks you home again that night. the streetlights stretch long shadows across the pavement, and your arm brushes his once, twice, and each time, he swears of he doesn't concentrate he'll trip over his jordans.
when you reach your door, you turn to him with that same bright smile, the one that always knocks the air from his lungs.
“thanks again,” you say softly.
he nods. “anytime.”
you linger for a second, like you want to say something more, then wave goodnight and disappear inside.
he stands there for a long moment, staring at the door, listening to the faint hum of music from your apartment.
then, finally, he exhales, a small, helpless laugh slipping out.
he’s ruined. completely.
and for once in his life, he doesn’t even mind.
~
the classroom is thick with the sound of quiet chatter, chairs scraping against tile, pens clicking as people jot down reminders before leaving. the fluorescent lights flicker slightly, casting everything in a washed-out glow that makes it feel like time’s been stretched too thin. the chemistry teacher’s voice cuts through it all, cheerful but distant.
“alright, everyone—just a quick reminder that your paired assignment is due at the end of this week. make sure you’ve got everything finalized. i’ll be checking submissions on friday.”
the words hang in the air like a quiet ending bell.
you look up from your notes at the same time sukuna does, and for a moment, your eyes meet across the shared lab table. he’s already watching you, elbows resting on the counter, twirling his pen between his fingers.
he gives you this crooked half-smile—something between fond and nervous—and you return it, though yours falters just a little at the edges.
it hits both of you at once. this thing between you, this rhythm you’ve fallen into, the study sessions, the walks home, the quiet coffees before class? it’s been built around this assignment. and when the assignment ends, what happens then?
he taps his pen against his notebook, looking away first. “guess we’re almost done, huh?”
you try to sound light. “yeah… crazy how fast it went.”
but it doesn’t feel fast. it feels full. it feels like a lifetime compressed into a few short weeks, every minute threaded with something unspoken.
he hums in agreement, glancing at you again. “we should probably go over everything one more time. make sure it’s perfect.”
you nod, pretending to check the notes in front of you. “mhm, library after class?”
“yeah,” he says. “one last session.”
one last. the words make your stomach twist.
.
sukuna drops his bag on the chair across from you, stretching his arms as he sits down. his hair’s a little messy from the wind, and he smells faintly of the sexy cologne he always wears, something clean and manly that clings to his skin.
you open your laptop, trying to focus on the document in front of you. it’s almost done—just small edits, formatting, double-checking citations—but the words keep blurring. you can feel his presence across the table, solid and steady, and it’s impossible to think about chemistry when he’s right there.
he’s quieter than usual too. his knee bounces under the table, a restless rhythm, and every now and then you catch him glancing up, like he’s about to say something but decides against it.
the silence stretches between you, thick and loaded. you can’t stand it anymore.
“so…” you start, voice softer than you mean it to be.
he looks up instantly, like he’s been waiting for you to speak. “yeah?”
you open your mouth, close it again, glance at your hands. “never mind. it’s nothing.”
he frowns slightly. “come on. what is it?”
you shake your head, forcing a small smile. “seriously, it’s nothing. just focus.”
he watches you for a second longer, then sighs and leans back, crossing his arms. “fine. but you’re acting weird.”
you let out a soft laugh that sounds too nervous. “i could say the same about you.”
that gets a real smile out of him, crooked and teasing, but it fades quickly.
you both go quiet again, typing half-heartedly, neither of you really working. the tension builds, unspoken and unbearable.
you can feel the words sitting on your tongue, begging to be let out. you want to tell him everything. how the crush on toji fizzled out weeks ago, how stupid it feels now, how you can’t stop thinking about him instead. how every time he looks at you, your whole chest feels like it’s about to give out.
you glance up. he’s staring at his screen, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. and somehow, you can tell he’s holding something back too.
finally, you both move at the same time.
“i have to tell you something,” you say, right as he says, “there’s something i should tell you.”
you both stop, eyes locking.
you laugh softly. “you first.”
he shakes his head. “nuh uh, you first.”
“no way,” you say, smiling now despite the nerves. “you looked like you were about to explode. go ahead.”
“ladies first,” he shoots back, that teasing lilt returning to his voice, though his eyes are still serious.
you roll your eyes, but your heart’s hammering. “fine,” you breathe.
he leans forward, forearms on the table, watching you carefully.
you swallow, your fingers twisting the edge of your sleeve. “okay. so, um… this is kind of embarrassing, but—”
you stop, take a breath, try again. “it's about toji.”
his expression flickers for a second, something unreadable crossing his face. “yeah,” he says slowly. “what about him?”
you toy with a pen to keep your hands busy. “i don’t really… feel that way anymore. about him.”
his brow lifts just slightly, his voice careful. “ts' that so?”
you nod, cheeks warm. “yeah. i mean, it was kind of silly, wasn’t it? i barely knew him. i think i just liked the idea of him. and then when you brought him to that one session, i realised he’s… kinda clapped, nothing like what i imagined.”
he lets out a small sound, something close to a laugh, but it’s quiet, almost nervous. “yeah, that sounds like him.”
you smile faintly, tracing a finger along the edge of your notebook. “the truth is, i think i was just projecting. when we started hanging out, i didn’t know you that well, and i guess i thought maybe toji was like you. you know? confident, funny, easy to talk to.” you pause, your gaze flicking up to his. “but he’s not you. not even remotely close.”
his breath catches slightly, and for a moment, he forgets how to speak.
“i don’t know,” you go on, voice softer now, almost trembling. “i kept thinking i wanted someone like toji, but… the whole time, i was really just wishing he’d be more like you, sukuna.”
you meet his eyes fully now, and the world seems to narrow around you both. “and then i realised maybe i don’t want someone like you. maybe i just, you know, want you.”
the silence that follows feels endless.
he’s staring at you, completely still. you can see the realization hit him. the tension in his shoulders easing, his expression softening in disbelief and relief all at once.
you bite your lip, instantly flustered. “that sounded so stupid, didn’t it?”
he shakes his head quickly. “no. no, not at all.”
he leans back in his chair, letting out a long, shaky exhale. it’s the biggest breath of relief you’ve ever seen someone take. he runs a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath, a sound that’s half disbelieving, half overwhelmed.
“holy shit,” he murmurs, still smiling. “you have no idea how good it is to hear that.”
you blink. “uhm, what?”
he laughs again, softer this time, his hand still pressed to the back of his neck. “that’s what i was gonna tell you. i’ve been losing my fucking mind these past few weeks because i’ve been trying so hard not to say it.”
you stare at him, your heart pounding. “say what?”
he meets your gaze again, eyes warm and honest. “that i like you. like, really like you. i’ve had this massive crush on you for a while now, and it’s been killing me trying to act normal.”
you can’t help the little laugh that escapes you, part disbelief, part giddy joy. “you’re deadass?”
he nods. “one hundred percent.”
“but… the deal,” you say quietly. “you were supposed to help me with toji.”
“yeah, about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “i kinda… just didn’t.”
you tilt your head. “uhhm, what?”
he laughs again, nervously this time. “i told him you had a boyfriend.”
your eyes widen. “you did?"
he winces. “yeah. i told him that weeks ago. i just... i couldn’t do it anymore. couldn’t keep pretending i was helping you get with him when all i wanted was to keep you all to myself.”
you blink once, twice, then cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “you told him i had a boyfriend?”
“yep.” he grins now, a little cocky, a little embarrassed. “guess that’s me sabotaging the deal.”
you drop your hand, still smiling. “that’s so stupid.”
“i know.”
“but…” you pause, your smile turning softer. “it’s kind of sweet.”
he leans forward again, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “you’re not mad?”
“mad?” you repeat, shaking your head. “no. that’s… exactly what i wanted, actually.”
he blinks. “really?”
you nod, heart in your throat. “yeah. i didn’t want you helping me with toji. not anymore. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”
he stares at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “so what now?”
you smile. “i don’t know. maybe we just… stop pretending.”
he exhales, leaning back with a grin that could light up the whole room. “i can do that.”
for a moment, neither of you says anything. you just sit there, the quiet hum of the library around you, the sun slipping lower through the windows, painting his skin in gold.
finally, he breaks the silence, voice low. “for the record, i was terrified you were about to tell me you had a new man for real.”
you laugh softly. “no chance.”
“good,” he says, and the way he looks at you—soft, sure, a little possessive—makes your pulse race.
you don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re both leaning across the table, closer than you’ve ever been. the distance between you shrinks until you can feel his breath on your lips, his hand brushing lightly against yours.
neither of you say anything. you don’t need to.
the moment stretches, slow and sweet, full of everything you’ve both been holding back.
~
the second you get back to your apartment, your face ignites with the kind of fire only a really nice fireplace could match, the ones in those fancy houses you see on the block.
the guy you'd been crushing on for a total of four weeks now had just told you he felt the same. and ever more, he'd been so obsessed he'd told your ex-crush you'd had a boyfriend in hopes of bagging you himself.
for a girl not used to being in the spotlight, having such a loud, well known frat guy like ryomen sukuna become vulnerable, just for you? it was like the world came crashing and burning down at your feet. he made your stomach swim with love and passion, a feeling you'd only ever gotten from receiving higher grades than everyone else, a feeling so much better than finding a new delicious pastry you couldn't help but order again.
ryomen sukuna was it. he was the kinda guy you'd been dreaming of ever since you'd started college. he was the perfect man, and he was as into you as you were him.
you settled into your living room with an adorably large smile painted on your lips, the sensation of fulfilment taking over your ever thought as you dreamt of what was to happen next.
~
the week after the submission crawls by. you think about both sukuna and the possible grade you'll both get every day. every time you pass the lab, every time you open your laptop, every time you catch sight of sukuna across the courtyard, leaning against the wall with his friends.
you can tell he’s thinking about it too. the way he catches your eye during class and offers a small, crooked smile says everything. neither of you can really stop wondering what the final mark will be, as well as what life has in store for the both of you.
friday finally rolls around, the classroom feels weird. students trickle in with tired faces and restless energy, everyone buzzing quietly with the same anticipation. the teacher walks in, holding a stack of papers in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other.
she sets everything down at the front desk, claps her hands together, and gives a small, approving smile.
“alright, everyone,” she says, her tone almost teasing. “i’ve marked your projects. you’ll get the official grades through the online portal, but since i know you’re all impatient—” her gaze sweeps the room, landing briefly on you and sukuna, “—i’ll let you know this much: some of you really impressed me.”
a ripple of chatter runs through the class. sukuna shoots you a look from across the room, eyebrows raised. you smile nervously and shrug.
after class, the two of you linger by the doorway, waiting for the crowd to clear out. you’re clutching your phone, refreshing the student portal again and again even though the grades still aren’t visible. sukuna leans close, peering at your screen.
“nothing yet?” he asks.
“no,” you sigh. “probably another hour.”
he tilts his head, thinking for a moment. “want to check it together later? at that little cafe with the green sign?”
you blink. “awe, my favourite. sure!”
“of course,” he says, smirking lightly. “how good am i remembering your favourite things n' shit.”
you laugh, cheeks warming. “what a man. how about we meet there at five?”
“five it is.” he gives a small wave as he heads down the hall. “see you then, partner.”
the cafe smells like roasted coffee beans and sugar, the air humming with quiet conversation and the clinking of ceramic cups. it’s early evening, and the place is wrapped in that warm, lazy glow that makes everything feel softer. the green sign outside flickers faintly through the window, the letters worn from years of weather and sunlight.
you spot him immediately—sitting near the counter, wearing a black hoodie and tapping his thumb against his phone screen. his hair’s pulled back, a few loose strands falling into his eyes. he looks up the moment the door chimes, and that grin spreads across his face like it’s second nature.
“hey,” he says as you approach.
“hey,” you echo, sliding into the seat across from him.
he gestures toward the counter. “i already ordered for us. black coffee for me, that thing you like for you, and—” he grins, “—a pastry, because apparently you can’t sit in this place without one.”
you laugh softly, trying to ignore the way your heart flutters. “you know me too well, we needa' hang out less.”
“noo,” he says, leaning back. “i'm just an observer.”
the drinks come quickly, steam curling from the cups. you take yours with both hands, staring at the little swirl of foam, trying to calm your nerves. sukuna pulls out his phone again, refreshes the student portal, and freezes.
his eyes widen. “holy shit,” he mutters.
you look up sharply. “what?”
he turns the screen toward you. there it is—your names side by side, and next to them, the number that makes your breath catch.
98%.
you stare at it for a second, then look at him, and the two of you just burst out laughing.
“oh my-” you say, grinning from ear to ear. “ninety-eight?”
he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “holy shit- holy shit can’t believe it,” he says, half-laughing, half-sighing in disbelief. “i actually passed. i can stay in the frat. holy shit.”
you laugh again, the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably. “i told you you’d do fine!”
he stands up suddenly, still laughing, and before you can react he pulls you into his arms. it’s a full, tight hug—so warm, so big. his chest rumbles with laughter, and you can feel how much this means to him, how much the stress and pressure have finally melted away.
“thank you,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice low, almost breathless. “thank you so much for helping me. i would’ve completely fucking tanked without you.”
you laugh against his shoulder, feeling your own face heat up. “you’re welcome,” you mumble, your words muffled by his hoodie. “you did so good, really.”
when he finally lets go, you can still feel the warmth lingering where he’d held you. he looks just as flustered, rubbing the back of his neck as he sits back down.
“sorry,” he says, half-smiling. “got a little carried away.”
“it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “it was… nice.”
his grin widens at that.
you both take a moment to calm down, sipping your drinks in the cozy corner. the sound of the coffee machine hums faintly in the background, and sunlight filters through the leaves outside, dappled across the table. it feels like the whole world’s slowed down just for the two of you.
“so,” he says eventually, voice softer now, “ninety-eight percent. that's so peak."
“yeah, we did that,” you reply, smiling. “you’ll probably get a compliment from the teacher next class.”
“you too,” he says. “you carried me, you're actually so clutch.”
“you helped too,” you insist. “you actually tried, sukuna. that’s what mattered.”
he chuckles, shaking his head. “yeah, but even if i hadn’t passed…” he pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “i don’t think i’d be too upset.”
you tilt your head, smiling faintly. “no?”
“nah.” he leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “because i got to spend all that time with you. and honestly? that made it worth it.”
your chest tightens, a flutter rising under your ribs. you look down quickly, pretending to focus on your coffee. “you’re just saying that.”
“i’m not,” he says firmly. “you made studying actually fun. no one’s ever done that shit before.”
you look up again, and his expression is so genuine, so open, that you forget how to breathe for a second.
“well,” you say softly, “i liked spending time with you too.”
your cups sit forgotten on the table, the croissant half-eaten, and all you can hear is the chatter of other uni kids and the soft clatter of dishes.
you stare into his eyes, and there’s a question there—unspoken but clear.
he smiles, almost shyly, a rare thing for him. “so… what now?”
you shrug lightly, but your smile mirrors his. “i don’t know. i guess we don’t have to stop hanging out just because the project’s done.”
his grin grows wider, and you can see the faintest pink dusting his ears. “good,” he says. “because i was kinda hoping you’d say that.”
he hesitates for a moment, then sits up a little straighter, as if gathering courage.
“actually,” he says, rubbing his thumb against the edge of his cup, “there’s something i wanted to ask.”
you tilt your head. “hmm? and what’s that?”
he exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “i know this is probably cheesy as hell, but… i’d really like to take you out. like, properly. dinner, movie, whatever you want. an actual date.”
the words sink in, soft and certain. you blink, surprised but instantly smiling, your cheeks growing hot.
“you mean… like, a date date?” you ask, teasing just a little.
he laughs under his breath. “yeah. a date date.”
you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. “i’d love that.”
his expression softens into something that almost makes your heart ache. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
for a moment, you just sit there, both grinning like idiots. it feels unreal, like something out of a quiet, sunlit dream.
he leans back in his chair, relief washing over him in waves. “good,” he says. “i was worried you’d say no.”
you shake your head, still smiling. “never.”
the light outside shifts slowly, spilling gold through the window, painting his skin in soft warmth. he looks at you like he’s memorizing the moment—the coffee, the laughter, the way you keep tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
and as he sits across from you, grinning like he can’t quite believe his luck, you know that whatever comes next, it’s going to be something worth waiting for.
~
months slide by, slow but certain. what once was a study partnership built on awkward exchanges and quiet glances has become something sooo much more. somewhere between library stops, coffee stops, and tight hugs, it shifted. you shifted. sukuna shifted. the line between school and romance blurred until it disappeared completely.
now, you’re his. officially, undeniably, completely his. and he’s yours.
the first time sukuna brings you to the frat house as his girlfriend, it feels like stepping into a completely different world. the place is loud, music spilling from bluetooth speakers, guys shouting from the kitchen about who’s out of beer, the smell of cheap cologne and pizza hanging in the air.
you pause in the doorway, clutching sukuna’s hand like it’s an anchor. he glances down at you with that little smirk that never fails to make your heart stutter.
“don’t stress it baby,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath grazes your ear. “they’ll love you.”
and they do.
weather or not that's because he threatened to beat them unconscious if they made you feel uncomfortable before you came over is irrelevant.
satoru’s the first to notice you, perched on the couch with a controller in hand. he looks up mid-game, grins wide, and immediately calls out, “holy shit, sukuna actually brought a girl here voluntarily?”
“shut up,” sukuna grumbles, tightening his grip on your hand. “this one’s permanent.”
that earns a chorus of oohs and whistles from the guys nearby. your face burns, but when you glance up at sukuna, he’s smiling—not his usual cocky grin, but something softer. proud.
“hey,” you mumble under your breath, “it smells so bad in here, ryo.”
he chuckles quietly. “you’ll get used to it.”
before you can even respond, toji appears from the kitchen, a beer in hand and a knowing grin on his face. “well, if it isn’t the little chem genius.”
you blink. “you… remember me?”
“of course,” toji laughs, setting his drink down and stretching out a hand. “heard you saved this idiot’s academic career.”
“hey,” sukuna cuts in, rolling his eyes. “i wasn’t that bad.”
“you had an eight percent, bro.”
the whole room bursts into laughter. sukuna just grumbles and flips toji off while you try not to giggle too loudly. it’s strange, seeing them all like this. so loud, so chaotic, so different from the quiet rhythm you’re used to, but somehow, it feels okay. you feel okay.
by the end of the night, you’re sitting between sukuna’s legs on the couch, his arms draped loosely around your waist, your back against his chest. someone puts on an old movie in the background, and the chatter slowly fades into easy quiet. for the first time, the frat doesn’t feel intimidating. it feels warm. welcoming.
satoru catches your eye from across the room, giving a thumbs up before mouthing, she’s a keeper. sukuna just smirks.
later that night, when everyone else has gone to bed and the house has fallen quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards, sukuna presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“told you they’d love you,” he whispers.
“yeah, you were right,” you murmur, smiling softly. “they’re so nice.”
“you’re even nicer,” he says, his voice barely audible. “that’s why they love ya'.”
and you can hear the truth in his tone. you know he means it.
after that, everything starts to fall into blissful routine. you help him study, drilling formulas and reactions into his head late into the night. he’s surprisingly good at it now, his grades climbing steadily—proof that maybe he was capable all along, he just needed someone to push him in the right direction.
and in return, he helps you come out of your shell.
he brings you to tiny cafes you’ve never been to before, teaches you how to play pool (terribly, but he doesn’t care), and pulls you into spontaneous late-night walks through campus when the air is cool and the stars are bright.
sometimes, you end up sitting on the hood of his car, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders, your fingers tangled with his as he talks about everything and nothing.
he tells you things he’s never told anyone else—about his parents, about the pressure to be someone bigger, stronger, louder. about how he never really cared about anything before he met you.
“you made me start giving a shit,” he says one night, his voice low as he traces lazy circles against your palm. “about school, about the future. about being a better guy.”
you glance up at him, smiling faintly. “you're the bestest guy, kuna.”
he looks at you for a long time, his chest squeezing with the urge to squish you until you pop. then, with a soft exhale, he leans down and kisses you. gentle, slow, like the world could end and he’d still be happy just holding you against his muscular chest.
word gets around campus fast. whispers follow you sometimes. half disbelief, half awe. people don’t really understand how you ended up with him. the shy, quiet girl who sits at the front of every lecture, always polite, always prepared… dating one of the loudest, most notorious frat boys on campus.
but the thing is, neither of you care.
you’ve seen the way people look at you two when you walk hand in hand across campus, his tall frame towering beside yours. you’ve heard the murmurs—'how long do you think it’ll last, she’s too good for him, he’ll get bored'. but then he catches your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and all of it melts away.
"don't listen to those clowns."
because you know him now. the real him.
the boy who wakes up early to get your favorite pastry from the cafe before class. the one who drapes his hoodie over your shoulders when it’s too crisp. the one who never forgets to text you goodnight, even when he’s exhausted.
the one who stopped showing up to most frat partys because, as he put it, “none of it’s fun without you anyway.”
you see it in the way he’s changed. not because you asked him to, but because he wants to.
he doesn’t flirt with girls anymore. he doesn’t even seem to notice when they do. his focus is all on you. your laughter, your voice, your little quirks that no one else ever bothered to notice.
and it’s not just the big things that show it. it’s the way he always walks on the side of the road closest to the cars. the way he remembers all your orders without ever asking. the way he’ll pull you closer when you’re out together, even if it’s just to rest his big hand on your hip.
he doesn’t talk about feelings much, not directly. but in every gesture, every glance, it’s there.
you’re his world now, and everyone can see it.
his room at the frat house has changed, too. gone are the stacks of solo cups and random gym gear scattered across the floor. in their place are little pieces of you—a throw blanket you brought one day, a mug you left on his desk, your notebook tucked on the shelf next to his textbooks.
he keeps a photo of the two of you pinned on his bulletin board. it’s a candid, one of those moments you didn’t even know he was taking. a shot of you sitting cross-legged on the couch, wearing his hoodie, laughing with a half-eaten cookie in your hand. he swears it’s his favorite picture in the world.
“you look so fucking cute, and happy,” he tells you when you catch him staring at it one night.
“i am happy,” you reply softly.
“better be,” he says. “that’s all i ever want for you, y/n.”
some nights, he stays over at your apartment instead of the frat. he always claims it’s because it’s quieter, easier to focus on studying. but you both know it’s just because he sleeps better when you’re beside him.
you cook together sometimes, though “cook” might be a really shitty out of touch excuse for the disaster you two create. he burns half the things he touches, laughs through every fuck up, and still insists on taste-testing everything like he’s on master chef. you can’t stay mad when he grins at you with flour on his cheek, his dimples showing as he holds up a misshapen cookie.
“hey, we’re improvin',” he says.
“barely,” you reply, giggling.
he just leans down, presses a quick kiss to your nose, and murmurs, “yeah, but you’re still here, so i must be doing somethin' right.”
there are still parties, of course—he’s still in the frat, and sometimes showing up is expected. but it’s much different. when he does go, he stays by your side the whole night, a protective hand on your back or wrapped around your waist.
he barely drinks anymore, claiming he doesn’t need to. when people flirt or make comments, he just laughs them off and pulls you a little closer.
and when it gets late, when the music’s too loud and the air too heavy with alcohol and perfume, he’ll lean down and whisper, “wanna get out of here?”
you always nod. and the two of you slip away, walking through quiet streets until you reach your place, where everything feels calm again.
people still whisper, still wonder how it works. how a shy, soft-spoken girl could tame someone like ryomen sukuna. but you know the truth.
you didn’t tame him, you just saw him. really saw him. beneath the tattoos, the reputation, the arrogance. you saw the boy who just needed someone to care, and he saw the girl who needed someone to make her feel brave.
and together, you found something that feels a lot like forever.
months pass, the seasons shifting from late autumn to the first chill of winter. the air turns crisp, the sky pale and bright. the two of you walk through campus hand in hand, your breath forming little clouds in the cold.
“remember when we first started that project?” you ask one day, laughing softly. “you barely knew what a periodic table was.”
“hey,” he says, pretending to be offended. “i knew what it was. i just didn’t give a shit.”
“hmm, and now you’re pulling straight a’s.”
he grins. “guess i had a real good tutor. she's real sexy, too..”
you bump his shoulder lightly. “awe i bet she'd be real flattered to hear that.”
he stops walking for a moment, looking down at you with that same warm, unguarded look that still makes your stomach flip.
“you know something?” he says quietly.
“hmm?”
“i still think that fuckass project was the best thing that's ever happened to lil' ol' me.”
you smile, reaching up to fix the collar of his jacket. “yeah?”
“hell yeah,” he murmurs, leaning down until his forehead rests against yours. “because it led me to you.”
the world fades for a moment, the cold, the noise, the people around you, and it’s just him. just you.
when he kisses you, it’s slow, steady, full of all the fuzzy romantic fire that’s been culminating between you since the day he walked up to your desk with a failed test and a hidden nervous smile.
you remember that moment so clearly now, and you can’t help but think how far you’ve both come. from shy glances and awkward silences to this. a love that feels like home.
and as his hand tightens around yours, you realize something simple, something certain.
you’ve both found exactly where you’re meant to be, with each other.
soft sukuna is my fav icl
anyways tysm for 6k im gonna cry im gonna miss you all on your mouths 🥹💞
"Hiding your devil fruit from everyone is the only rule. Unless it's your crush."
Fem!reader
Characters: Monkey D. Luffy
Tags: fluff, angst, the timeline starts at Thriller Bark and contains spoilers up to Egghead, mention of Ace's death
Words count: 13k
Notes: Hi! English is not my first language, so let me know if you see any mistake, I would be very grateful <3
The sea obeyed your voice.
Its waters danced and whispered just for you, caressing your feet and soothing your pains, thrilling your soul with its gentle mirages that carried you back home. Pleased to embrace you in its waves once more. Pleased with your return.
The sea waited for you for centuries. Patient. Longing. Tearful.
No soul had been born who could tame its ferocity. The times were divine, rushing to shore without coinciding with him could be a catastrophe. So it forced itself to endure. To tolerate the pain. To tolerate the desire to see him again.
It remained hidden under the wing of a specific family, protected by them on a remote island in Grand Line, for centuries without being disturbed. They passed the word down from parents to children, grandparents to grandchildren. That devil fruit, kept in a locked chest, with its peculiar conch shell shape that glowed in shades of blue and light blue, was not to be consumed.
The fruit would choose its bearer. Like no other, it would sing to attract whoever it desired, until it made them carry an unknown destiny. Anyone who coveted it wrongly would be punished.
And everyone learned to respect it.
You had always been curious. Why was your family the only one who knew about its existence and could take care of it, when there were so many others on the island? Why couldn't anyone else even get close enough to appreciate it? What was known about that devil fruit was passed on by word of mouth. Your aunt had told you about its appearance during a festival in the village, while dancing with laughter, one jump after another, to the rhythm of "don, don, don, don", but she didn't know if it was real either. Someone else had told her about it.
Your grandmother wouldn't let anyone near the old temple on the highest hill on the island. The task of caring for it was relegated to a few women in the family, those who had the gift of hearing. Hearing what? You thought it was nonsense. How could anyone hear a fruit? As a child, you couldn't make sense of it.
But curiosity kept you awake.
And you understood everything at the age of seven.
A festival to an ancient god was being celebrated in the village. Sitting on a bench —a tree trunk cut down by your father—, you admired those present. There it was again. That rhythm. That dance. It was fun, it was playful, it was free. The huge smiles on their faces were something that only that dance could give.
The dance of Nika.
They did it once a month, as if trying to call him, intending him to join in the fun if he saw them, and something inside you told you that this god would do just that. He would join them with a huge laugh. And the party would never end.
But what was happening here was more than just a party. It was a plea. The people of your village and your family believed that he would return to save them. And someone important would come with him.
You shook your head from side to side, playing with the fabric of your white dress when you heard it.
A melancholic voice sang melodies that pressed on your heart. You were too young to understand the longing behind that song, the pain of loss. Its slowness differed from the joy in Nika's rhythm.
You covered your ears, not wanting to hear any more. But it was calling you. It was making you get up from your seat against your will.
Under the watchful gaze of your grandmother, whom you could not see through the sea of people, you made your way towards the forest. The old woman heard the crying in that song, more intense than ever. It was different from what it always whispered to her. Now it was crying out for you.
You followed the path with a grimace. It was lit by small golden lanterns shaped like flowers. Despite your fear of being scolded for entering the forbidden area, you couldn't help but follow that voice. Its broken song gradually changed, becoming a little more cheerful. Enough so as not to break your heart. You wondered if this is what the song of the sirens sounded like, the ones you read about in your book, the ones who lived on gyojin island.
You stopped in front of the temple. How many minutes had it taken you to climb the hill? You had lost track of time while enveloped in those melodies.
Seeing it up close took your breath away. Tall marble pillars surrounded by ivy stood before you. A glass dome revealed the interior of the place, making your blood run cold.
A golden statue of a woman stood in the middle, surrounded by water. Would you sink if you approached it? Or would it be shallow, free to walk towards it? That woman looked up at the sky with her back to you, her arms outstretched, her fingers curved as if touching something.
Was she singing? Could a statue sing? Or was it...? You searched with your eyes until you found it. A chest rested at her feet, surrounded by vines. As if it had never been touched before.
But something in that voice asked you to. Something in that woman's position begged you for something.
You dipped your tiny feet into the water and a sigh of relief escaped from within you when the water only reached your hips. For an adult, it would reach their knees or lower.
You walked across the slimy ground covered in seaweed, pouting in disgust. Your grandmother protected this place, but it seemed she didn't clean it, given its condition.
The singing grew softer as you got closer. The moonlight made the statue look more beautiful, but its golden colour would shine brighter in the sun.
When you reached its feet, which were in front of your face, you raised your hands to the vines, pulling them off one by one. The chest, once freed, looked old. Conveniently, a key lay beside it. You shook your head in confusion. No one had stolen it in centuries, and you had made it there without anyone stopping you. What were they afraid of? It was silly to fear a fruit. Surely it had some foolish power, like the men on the reward posters that arrived every week. There were a few incredible powers, but there were also fruits that seemed bad to you.
You inserted the key into the lock, opening the chest carefully so as not to break it. You widened your eyes in amazement when you saw it. It shone in shades of blue and light blue, shaped like a seashell. So this was what the devil's fruit looked like. You took it in your hands, not knowing that you were being allowed to do so. Not knowing that your destiny was being forged.
Standing by the island's beach, with the celebration behind her, your grandmother smiled softly. The clock was ticking again.
He had already been born and consumed his fruit, and he had chosen you at the same time to accompany him.
With the sudden violence of the sea that night, the people dancing merrily and a little girl spitting in a temple alone, the old woman welcomed the goddess of the sea.
The "Hito Hito no Mi, model: Naia" had chosen its bearer.
Your growth since that night had been quite an adventure. Your grandmother had told you things, like the name of the fruit and where it came from. The reason why your family had protected it for generations and generations finally had an answer. You were direct descendants of Naia, but the goddess was jealous and refused to choose a woman before the time. You didn't know who she was waiting for, and the old woman didn't have a concrete answer. Only old beliefs that had been instilled in her, which she couldn't vouch for as being true.
But if you were there, in front of her, surrounded by fish that seemed to be talking to you, then there was a chance that he was also in another sea.
The longer you lived in the village, the more miracles happened. The famine ceased with the increasing abundance of fish. Your unconscious attracted large fish and beasts from the Grand Line, which were hunted to feed the villagers. They ate through tears, thanking the sun god for his help, without knowing who was really responsible.
Ships began to stop there. After four years, your voice began to attract sailors, bounty hunters, and pirates. With their visits, the families around you were able to support themselves. The imminent improvement in the standard of living among these villagers caught the attention of the world government. An island was rising and should not remain outside their hands, living according to their laws. Abiding by the rules was the best they could do.
However, no one could accept it. The hatred in their hearts consumed them alive. These people were not the kind who wanted to be protected by the marine or receive the light of the world government by paying tribute. No. These people had their beliefs, beliefs that those above despised. Beliefs for which they would seek to silence them.
Your grandmother knew that your devil fruit would bring trouble. If the legends were true, the search for your existence would be relentless.
A woman with the ability to control the sea was an aberration to everyone who admired her. A forbidden existence hidden like a myth.
But myths had an origin and, in turn, someone who tried to destroy them.
As a very young girl, you had no control over the sea. The strong emotions he was unaccustomed to sent him into a frenzy. Your cries stirred up hurricanes, impossible to stop until your heart was calm again. Your anger violently shook the waves, your sudden outbursts calling forth tsunamis.
Their frequency was not something that the world government —who kept their eyes on the island that was suddenly making a name for itself— could ignore. Marines disguised as sailors or ordinary tourists came and went, reporting what they saw. Was that island changing its magnetic field? After centuries of maintaining the same one? Or was something beyond their control happening?
It was after a huge earthquake and a subsequent tsunami, one that was out of the ordinary, with waves so big that they flooded the coast and left the island without a port, that your grandmother made the decision to expel you. CP0 began prowling the area when you were seventeen. They walked around looking at all the women, with instructions to pay special attention to the youngest ones.
Any who showed abnormalities. Any who seemed to interact unnaturally with the sea. Any who talked to fish.
The one who could be the woman the five elders wanted desperately.
Your grandmother, your aunt, and your mother did everything in their power. Sooner or later, those government agents would find the temple to the goddess Naia, confirming the suspicions of the celestial dragons. That temple, that golden statue facing the sun, was the only one in the world.
Those who knew her believed she had died, leaving no trace of her passage through life, a woman who would never set foot in such a rotten place again. But there she was, laughing in their faces, always hidden, always waiting for the right moment to return.
The three women in your family knew that news of such magnitude would not sit well. Everyone was in danger, not just you. And they were willing to face them as long as they could be reunited.
Your mother pulled you by the hand, all of them covering their mouths to stifle their tired gasps. The forest was the village's domain, illuminated in every corner, trees marked to indicate the paths back home. Your aunt carried a bag of clothes and your grandmother led the way.
They came upon a flooded coastline. Four villagers were holding onto tree trunks, pulling on ropes tied to the boat to keep it steady. They had placed two barrels of provisions inside. You looked at everyone in alarm, not knowing what to say, not wanting to leave.
This island was your home. Everyone had watched you grow up. Why did you have to leave everything behind? Just because of an ancient legend that no one knew was real?
The old woman placed her hands on your cheeks after your aunt had wrapped the bag around your body.
"You must flee, child." She whispered.
You shook your head, frightened. Yes, your devil fruit seemed to control the sea, but you had never sailed. You had never gone out into the world. And you would not be going out onto a calm sea. You lived in Grand Line, and out there were fearsome pirates, the yonko sailed those waters.
"It's for your own good. And for the good of the world." She tucked your hair behind your ear with trembling hands. "One day you'll understand."
"I don't want to go." You whispered, looking at your mother pleadingly.
"It is Naia's will." Your grandmother called your attention again. "You, Y/N, must continue living."
Naia, that mythical goddess again. What did it matter if you were her chosen one for something you couldn't understand?
"Lie. Don't talk about your devil fruit. Don't reveal it to anyone. That way you can survive." Your mother's words squeezed your heart.
"Don't worry about us, we'll be fine." Your aunt said with a smile.
"Destiny will bring the two of you together." Murmured the older woman.
Her kisses on your forehead, the calm sea as the villagers lifted you onto the boat, their hands waving in the distance, your uncontrollable crying.
You didn't know how long you had cried as the small boat sailed on its own course. The sea remained calm around you as it carried you as far away as possible from your native island. An island where government agents searched relentlessly for a young woman who fit the description, interrogating and silently murdering those who refused to cooperate.
At some point, your eyes closed after crying for so long, each tear altering the sea around your island, unknowingly embracing the lifeless bodies of many girls you called your friends, as well as those of adults and elderly women. Among them, your family.
All protecting a goddess who would help a new dawn arrive.
Usopp prepared his bait, ready to catch something. They hadn't put anything in the aquarium for days. Luffy had put another shark in, and it had eaten all the fish, leaving them without provisions, without meat. Their captain was more unbearable than ever, and he had only gone a day and a half without eating meat.
He cast his line, humming his song as he tapped his feet. The sun burned his skin, and the sea seemed particularly calm that day. Would he catch anything if no fish came near the worms he had stolen from Robin's garden?
Zoro left his weight on the ground, opening the window of the crow's nest.
"Oi, there's something shining in the water." He announced.
Usopp raised his fishing rod, looking for his binoculars. Nami and Robin put down their magazines and books and stood up.
"Something shiny? Treasure?" Nami asked, smiling.
"I want to see!" Luffy shouted, opening the kitchen door. His rubber arms stretched out to the deck railing, throwing himself towards it to get there faster.
Robin smiled as she watched him jump up and down excitedly. Soon the others arrived, crowding around the railing. Chopper was lifted up by Zoro, who sat him on his shoulder so he could see better. Sanji stood next to them, smoking.
"We have to catch it!" Said Luffy.
"Oi, Luffy, wait." Usopp murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder. "First we need to see what it is from a distance."
"We can always throw it back into the sea." Added Robin.
"You're so scary!" Shouted Usopp.
"Luffy, bring that shiny thing over here." Ordered Nami to the rubber boy, looking excitedly at the glint in the distance.
The captain's arms stretched out as far as they could, pulling the small boat towards the Sunny Go at a speed that the sea offered no resistance to. Refusing to protect her from him.
"I see barrels!" Chopper shouted.
"Super!" Franky celebrated.
"Will they have food? I hope it's in good condition." Said Sanji.
"I hope it's treasure..." Nami said dreamily, clasping her hands together with a huge smile.
"I hope it doesn't kill us." Usopp lamented, thinking it was a trap.
"We can always throw it back into the sea." Robin repeated.
Luffy blinked, tilting his head to one side. Inside the boat was a girl, sleeping as if she weren't in the Grand Line. He pressed his lips together when he noticed the trail of tears on her cheeks. Her eyelashes were still wet, as if she had never stopped crying, even in her dreams.
"Chopper, we have to help her."
The seriousness in his tone alerted the crew. They looked closely, the sun no longer dazzling their eyes, revealing the figure trembling as she hugged a bag.
"We have to get her on board!" The crew's doctor ran to Franky after Zoro brought him down.
They all worked together without asking any questions yet.
There was a girl in their infirmary. A girl who had suddenly appeared amid those treacherous waters, sleeping as if she didn't care about the danger of her actions. A girl who was burning with fever while the little reindeer placed damp cloths on her forehead.
Sanji made tea for everyone while they waited for news from the doctor, curious about her identity.
"I checked her belongings. There was nothing with her name on it. Just clothes and food." Robin commented.
Nami tucked a strand of her short hair behind her ear and sighed.
"All we can do is wait for her to wake up."
"How did she survive?" Murmured Zoro, leaning against the kitchen wall with his arms crossed.
"It's a mystery. Falling asleep in Grand Line with all the pirates around who could have killed her..." Robin shook her head.
"Lucky we found her." Nami acknowledged.
Sanji was holding back, but the soft smile on his face and the multiple turns he made while serving tea told everyone how happy he was with the presence of another woman in the crew. The swordsman insulted him under his breath, earning himself a kick, and then starting a fight.
Everyone ignored them, accustomed to their behaviour. As the hours passed, uncertainty grew among those present. They continued with their activities while you were being treated. All that remained was to wait for you to wake up and tell them about yourself.
You opened your eyes slightly, looking around in confusion. It wasn't your boat. There was no captivating sky above you. There were no waves rocking your body to calm your crying.
You sat up a little on the examination table, leaning on one elbow. The two lamps that illuminated the area provided good lighting. On your left were two small shelves with bottles, their labels showing you the names of their contents. Medicines. Looking to your right, a single desk stood with more medical instruments. Laboratory tubes with different coloured caps, a stone mortar, many books and posters with drawings, from lungs to bones.
But what caught your attention most was the creature sitting in the chair. It looked like a stuffed animal. You had never seen anything like it on your home island.
"Oh! You're awake!" A shrill voice startled you.
Did that stuffed animal talk?
"What are you?" You asked, raising your eyebrows. "Can you talk? Where am I?"
"I'm the doctor for this crew." He climbed onto a stool next to you to examine you.
You seemed to be feeling better. Sanji could prepare something to boost your strength.
"A pirate crew?" You whispered fearfully.
The worst-case scenario was being captured by pirates. You mentally berated yourself for not being more careful. For falling asleep. For not begging harder to stay at home.
"Wait here." Said the little one, adjusting his tiny doctor’s coat as he left what looked like the infirmary.
You found him cute, but you weren’t going to admit it. You had to escape, not succumb to this creature. You found your sandals next to the examination table and put them on. You climbed down, making as little noise as possible, and opened the door again. You found yourself on the deck, its grass making you gasp, but you covered your mouth so as not to be discovered.
You had to survive. You had to hide. That's what your grandmother would have wanted. Your mother. Your aunt. They had all given you the chance to live. You just hoped they were all right.
You ran towards the deck in search of your boat, but growled when you didn't see it.
"Wait! Don't jump!" A female voice shouted behind you.
You turned around fearfully. A beautiful woman with short orange hair was approaching you slowly, careful not to scare you any more.
"I'm Nami. The navigator of this crew." She introduced herself with a sweet smile.
"Am I on a pirate ship?"
"We're not like other pirates." The woman assured you.
"We're good!" Shouted the doctor behind her. "And you shouldn't be out of bed. You could get sick again."
"My angel, allow this cook to be your slave and treat you like the princess you are." Said a man crouching in front of you with a bowl of soup. It smelled good. Did he say slave?
You blinked in confusion.
"Why don't you become my slave and, as your first order, jump off the ship?" Said a man with green hair and two katanas at his waist.
The blond's eyebrow twitched and he turned towards the swordsman, kicking him.
"You're going to scare her." Said a melodious voice. A woman with black hair and bangs looked at you with a sweet gaze.
"You're not going to kill us, are you?" Asked a man with a long nose hiding behind the black-haired girl.
"I thought you were going to kill me."
"Usopp is afraid of cockroaches. You could kill him with that before he tries anything." Teased the orange-haired girl.
"Oi, Nami, why are you telling her that!?"
You watched them interact for a few minutes. They were... funny. Like a little family. They didn't look like the pirates you read about in your books or in the newspaper. The dreaded Rocks D. Xebec, the mighty Whitebeard, the youngest yonko Shanks. They were all intimidating, with powerful crews, but these pirates were strange.
You smiled softly, unaware of the gaze of a certain rubber boy sitting on the lion's head.
His eyes, curious about the girl in front of him, tried to find something he had seen before. Some trace of those tears that soaked your cheeks, as if the pain you carried was greater than you wanted to show. What you hid inside you would one day explode, but until then, until you let him see it, he only wanted one thing from you.
"Join my crew!" He shouted from above. "That way you won't have to go on that little boat."
You looked up, and the air around you seemed unreachable, forbidding you to have it as you lost yourself in that smile, so bright as it melted into the setting sun.
It wasn't like you to trust so quickly. It wasn't like you to wander around with your eyes closed, without trying to figure out other people's intentions. But nothing in his gaze, in their gazes, showed you any hostility or malice. That young man who stood above everyone else as their captain had a calming aura. As if everyone would be fine by his side. As if even the greatest dangers could not disturb them with him by their side.
You knew you could have refused that day. Sailed alone until you found another island. But wherever you went, you would carry the danger with you.
And along with them, you discovered that the danger was represented by their captain.
On your first day after agreeing to join, everyone introduced themselves to you. The doctor was called Chopper, a cute blue-nosed reindeer who loved telling you medical facts, eating cotton candy, and hated the heat. He knew a lot about medicinal herbs and had an incredible dream.
The beautiful black-haired woman was Nico Robin, wanted by the World Government for being the only survivor of Ohara. She was an archaeologist and her knowledge of everything dazzled you. They told you that they had defied the World Government to save her life, and your heart beat faster.
If they knew that CP0 was after you, would they fight for you? Could you be that important to them?
The navigator, Nami, had been part of the crew from the beginning. She liked to buy pretty clothes and treasures. But what fascinated you most was her knowledge of the weather, her ability to anticipate the sea. You didn't need to announce the whispers of those waters if she could interpret them.
The long-nosed guy, Usopp, served as a sniper. His weapon confused you, forcing you to shut your mouth when you saw him use it. He never missed a single shot, always hitting the target. Nami and Robin would bet, and the short-haired girl always won because she trusted him.
The green-haired man was Roronoa Zoro, who had earned a reputation as a pirate hunter. He was serious and slept a lot, but when he laughed, he laughed heartily. He also had a strange obsession with annoying the blond man. The cook with the weird phrases and compliments, Sanji. His meals were a delicacy, and he had taken the time to ask you what your favourite was so he could make it and make you smile.
The man who only wore swimming trunks was the ship's carpenter, Franky. He had built the Sunny Go, and you considered it a work of art. You complimented the aquarium, and the area would possibly become your favourite.
And the captain, Monkey D. Luffy. That boy with his silly rubber devil fruit that made you smile. He was cheerful, playful, and funny. If everyone was here, he must be someone trustworthy.
Everything about him caught your attention.
As the days passed, you allowed yourself to feel comfortable around them. Perhaps this wasn't what your grandmother would have preferred, but if these people were enemies of the world government, then there was no safer place for you and your true identity.
No one could find a faceless girl with forbidden abilities, let alone imagine that she was now a pirate.
You told them what you could about yourself. Saying your name or talking about where you were born was not a challenge. These people did not judge you or pry into your past, not if it did not directly affect them. You discovered that they tolerated being mocked, but they did not tolerate anyone talking to or touching their friends. It was a silent respect for one another, a fondness that went beyond understanding. They were friends, they were where they needed to be. Where they belonged.
And just as everyone had their role in the crew, you couldn't really find yours.
They didn't force you to learn how to fight like an expert, but they wanted to teach you the basics so you could defend yourself.
You couldn't reveal the truth about your devil fruit. You had only mentioned that you had one, but you didn't know its powers. You had never used it to attack, as you had never been forced or needed to do so. You had never seen what it limited you to and what it promised you. With the "Hito Hito no Mi, model: Naia", you could only hear fish and sea creatures. And there was something else. Something you had discovered that embraced you in your darkest moments.
The addition of Brook —a skeleton who played various instruments and sang, which almost gave you a heart attack when you saw him— helped a lot to maintain a façade. His devil fruit had worked after he died. Everyone assumed that yours would awaken when the time was right.
Living day to day, joke after joke, disaster after disaster, was relaxing you.
You played with water pistols with everyone, shared clothes with Nami and Robin (and at night you spoiled each other with face masks and massages), you laughed at Sanji and Zoro's fights, rejected the cook's attempts to take you on a date, played guessing games about what was inside Chopper's laboratory tubes to make him smile, gave Brook ideas for songs while you drank tea together, joined in Franky and Usopp's shooting competitions, betting on who would hit the target. Always trusting the sniper, winning berries that you shared with Nami.
Luffy taught you your little training sessions to learn how to defend yourself. More than once he found you staring at him blankly, thinking you didn't understand how to throw a good punch, when in reality you were just mesmerised. Enchanted by his joy. By his smile. By his disposition. By his beauty.
"You have to bring one arm back and then push with the other! Like this!" He said, frowning in concentration.
Nami and Robin watched them, both leaning against the railing on the upper floor, outside the room the three of you shared.
"Luffy always gets like this when he decides to take on a pupil..." Sighed the navigator. "Luffy, Y/N isn't a kung fu dugong!"
The rubber boy looked at you.
"You're not going to make it?" He lamented, lowering his arms. "Zoro! Lend her one of your katanas!"
"No way." Muttered the swordsman without opening his eyes, trying to sleep.
Preparing your mind and body to improve your defence, those weak blows you used to deliver, was something you never imagined you would have to do when you lived in your village. Keeping up with your captain and the crew's cook was torture. Kicks to the head, hips, legs. Punches to the chin, stomach, nose. They were trying to teach you something you could use in a complex situation, if you didn't have time to hide. Which seemed silly to you.
Luffy's dream was to become the pirate king.
A noble dream. A dream for the brave.
He talked to you about freedom, about how the freest man in the world would be the one who became the pirate king, and you listened to him. He would sit next to you after training, when Sanji left them alone to prepare a snack at sunset. The rubber boy talked about everything and nothing. The words flowed from him as if from an inexhaustible source.
In a short time, you got to know his older brother, Ace, who, impressively, was the commander of Whitebeard's second division. A certain Dadan who raised them both alongside some mountain bandits. A young woman named Makino who always brought them clothes and taught them manners. His grandfather Garp, who served as a vice admiral in the marine and always wanted to force him to join. The yonko Shanks, who was the original owner of his straw hat, with whom he had a mission to return it when he surpassed him. And his brother Sabo, who died as a child and whom he missed madly.
Luffy talked and talked, filling your silences, smiling at you when you said something. Patiently waiting for you to talk about yourself. Eagerly waiting for you to open up. For your freedom by his side. Because that was what he wanted most for his friends. For them to be free.
But what chance of freedom could he give them if he was suffering so much?
His reality hit him like cold water. He was there, and yet he wasn't.
His world was falling apart.
He had lost them all in Sabaody. He believed he was strong, he believed he could overcome anything with enough courage, with enough confidence. If he had them by his side, he could overcome anything that came his way. He would fight for his dream, for the dreams of his friends, for the dreams of the people he met along the way.
He would do everything possible to put a smile on their faces.
So why were they determined to take his smile away? Why did they make them disappear before his eyes? Why did they let him smile broadly when he saved his brother, only to force him to hold him in his arms as he whispered his last words? Why did they have to kill Ace? Why?
Luffy was devastated. Those who were present when he awoke heard his cries of agony in the jungle. His pleas for Ace. His questions about his whereabouts.
He banged his body against the trees. His head against the rocks. He cried uncontrollably, asking, begging, pleading. A soft "thank you for loving me" repeated over and over in his mind, breaking him as he hugged himself.
It was Jinbe who pulled him out of the constant spiral his thoughts were caught up in. The doubts that gnawed at him were stagnating. Luffy wanted to be strong. He wanted to be strong enough not to lose anyone else. He wanted to be strong enough to carry his brother's will with him so that one day he could look up at the sky and smile at him, showing him that he had succeeded. He had become the king of pirates.
The news of Whitebeard's and his commander's deaths spread around the world. It received positive reactions from those who feared them and had been harmed by them. Fear spread throughout the territories that had been protected by this powerful crew. But those who suffered the most were the small family who had raised and watched these brothers grow up in Foosha.
Holding the newspaper in your hands, you read and reread the news. Just like everyone else in the crew, you wanted to be by his side. You could feel where he was. The sea whispered it to you, and you were impulsive. You never measured your actions. You never said enough to yourself. So you stole a small boat on that desolate island where you had ended up after their separation in Sabaody.
You let the sea guide you without a log pose, leading you to your captain. After a few days, you ignored the new newspaper announcing that Luffy had returned to the scene of the tragedy. Two years. You would all be reunited in two years. But you couldn't not go to his side.
You wanted to give him something to hold on to. Something that would give him calm and strength while everyone waited for their reunion.
The sea beasts cleared your path and escorted you somewhere. It took you three days to reach a jungle island. You got off your boat, nervously smoothing your white shirt. You trusted the sea. It wouldn't be wrong. But if Luffy was in this place, how would you get to him without being killed by one of those beasts growling in the distance? Sanji had taught you a few kicks, and your captain a few punches, but you were still weak.
This island was covered in vegetation. The trees stood proudly, as tall as if they were competing with each other to be the first to reach the sunlight. The plants with strange leaves were striking, to the point that something in your mind told you not to touch them. And in the distance, threatening to erupt, you could see three volcanoes.
You entered the jungle, startled by the sound of quick, heavy footsteps running towards you. You looked to your side and your scream echoed through the trees.
A larger-than-normal tiger was approaching you, baring fangs as long as your arm. You froze in fear, falling to the grass as you closed your eyes when it lunged to bite.
"Young lady? I don't know how you got here, but this is no place for beautiful girls."
You opened your eyes when death did not come, and instead there was an elderly man adjusting his glasses in front of you, smiling sideways. The tiger lay between you both, unconscious.
"Old man Rayleigh! Where are you?"
The speed with which you stood up impressed the man in front of you, whose name was Rayleigh. Rayleigh? You looked at him again. He closed his eyes, a gentle smile on his face, crossing his arms. You had read about him. You had read everything about the pirate king and his crew.
"Huh? Y/N?" You looked behind the dark king and there he was. Your captain, completely bandaged, looking at you in surprise. "Y/N!"
His movements were, all in all, normal. He didn't use his powers as he ran towards you and wrapped you in his arms. He seemed to be careful with his body, and he certainly needed to be.
"What are you doing here? How did you get here? How are the others? We were supposed to meet in two years!" His excited voice as he pulled your body close to his using what little strength he had devastated you.
You hugged him back, careful not to disturb any areas where the injury was more severe. You felt a slight tremor in his body as he asked a thousand questions, not giving you time to answer.
Rayleigh watched the two of you thoughtfully, Jinbe joining him at his side, having felt a sudden calling.
"I came by boat." You whispered.
"The little boat? That's dangerous." Said Luffy.
"Young lady, you crossed the Calm Belt and overcame all those sea beasts in a simple boat? You must be very strong." Rayleigh inquired.
"It's not that." Jinbe wanted to say, but the words reached no one but you in your mind.
Your eyes quickly found him, and he smiled at you.
"Oi, Y/N, Y/N, are you going to stay?" Luffy asked with a huge smile, capturing your full attention.
"No. I'd be interrupting whatever is going on here."
"You need to train, you're still weak." He teased.
"I'm not!" You complained.
But you were. The right-hand man of the Pirate King and the first son of the sea smiled amusedly. One, knowing the whole story. And the other, having grown up with a legend.
The sun and the sea belonged to each other. And the sun and the sea were unknowingly facing each other.
"If you don't mind, I have a proposal for you, miss Y/N." Said the gyojin.
Luffy and you stopped arguing and looked at him.
"I would like to train you in gyojin karate."
"Gyojin karate? I'm bad with my fists." You muttered, embarrassed.
"That would be great, Jinbe!" Said Luffy, picking his nose. "But doesn't it only work with gyojin? Will she turn into a mermaid?"
"She'll make it work better than anyone else." Said Rayleigh, walking towards a campfire. "I'll give you a month to talk and for Luffy to recover. Then you'll leave with Jinbe. Is that alright with both of you?"
Luffy nodded, dragging you by the hand towards the campfire.
In a month, he and you grew closer. You discovered all kinds of beetles, a hobby of his that you loved. You made them fight, betting on which one would win, groaning in frustration when you lost. You could never beat him when he had the advantage of knowledge over you.
You fought over the food Rayleigh hunted, receiving teasing from the adult who quickly grew fond of you. In his eyes, you were a sweet girl who needed to bring out that hidden strength. Jinbe only scolded Luffy when he bit your hand before you could take some meat.
It caught your attention how in the mornings your captain was a cheerful boy, giving a huge smile to anyone, but at night he would break down. You slept separately. Rayleigh used to cover him with his cape, and Jinbe covered you with his. But when no one was looking, when they went to the island's shore to talk in private, Luffy would move.
He sought refuge in your arms. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't ask questions. He didn't speak. All you felt were his bandaged arms wrapped around your waist and his face against your chest. If tears wet your shirt and silent sobs shook his body, you said nothing. You stroked his hair silently until he fell asleep, and only after making sure he was, did you sleep yourself.
It was the morning after a nightmare woke him up that you made your decision.
You had done this three or four times in your life. You weren't sure you could do it, but that was the only reason you had visited Rusukaina.
On the shore, you took off your sandals and put your feet in the water. The weakness of seawater, which must bother all users of the devil's fruit, never bothered you. When they said it was an anomaly, this was why.
You stretched your hand out over the water and it rose just ten centimetres. You clenched it into a fist and opened it again. Fifteen centimetres. You closed it again and the water fell, splashing as it formed a puddle. A puddle in the sea. The water was mirrored, confirming your success.
"How can you be there if you ate a devil fruit?"
You looked up, frightened.
Luffy looked at you confused, his head tilted to one side and his lips pursed.
"You didn't eat one then?"
"Luffy..."
"I saw you lift the water."
"It must have been your imagination." You said, smiling nervously.
"No. Earlier on the Sunny Go, I saw you attract the fish. I thought it was Camie, but Camie doesn't eat her friends."
You remained silent.
"It must be great to be able to swim with a devil fruit!" He laughed as he approached you. "What were you doing with the water? Something like fium and splash!"
You scratched the back of your neck while the bandaged boy moved his hands in exaggerated movements. That was just how he was. And you were becoming more attached to him than usual. The way he explained things with the sounds they made made you smile.
"If I tell you, it will be a secret between us."
"Are you going to show me your treasure?" He asked, his eyes sparkling.
"Something like that."
You took his hand, pulling him close to you. You both looked out at the puddle in the sea, so much like a mirror.
With the end of the month and the promise to meet again in two years, you parted ways. The truth about your devil fruit was kept by your captain, who smiled happily at learning more about you. Happy at how little by little you were opening up to them. To him.
He begged you for different tricks with water, bursting into laughter when the sea water weakened him. He understood why Jinbe had to be the one to train you, eager to know how strong you would be in two years. He was saddened when, at night, he no longer had your warmth by his side and your caresses on his hair to soothe his pain and trauma.
But he took refuge in your gift.
That puddle you had created in the sea was trapped in a seashell. You had taught him how to take the enchanted water out and put it back in, with no limit on its use.
He believed it was the best thing in the world after his hat, his brothers, and his crew.
His lonely nights were filled with laughter by the sea. Laughter that had previously only existed in his memories, but which he could now hear and see. The puddle formed mirages, reflecting his memories.
He saw Ace. He saw Sabo. He saw the three of them running through Mount Colubo. Hunting, playing, fighting. He cried at everything he witnessed. Just hearing his brothers being happy, Sabo counting the points in their training sessions, Ace teasing him for being weak, his taunts at seeing his older brother embarrassed when receiving compliments from Makino. It all made his heart ache.
The two years passed more quickly than the crew had expected. The strength they had all gained, their new skills and their new appearances were something to be appreciated.
Your training with Jinbe on a remote island in order to hide your identity had been laborious. You were good at gyojin karate. Your devil fruit responded to you with ease now. You could defend yourself and attack without relying on others, but the adult had told you that you still had a long way to go. The Hito Hito no Mi would not stop there. You still had to awaken it. You still had to learn more with it, without limiting yourself. You could do anything you could imagine with enough determination.
You smiled amusedly when you saw Nami sitting at the bar, drinking alone. You approached her from behind, hugging her and whispering in her ear.
"Are you free tonight?"
The woman, now with long hair, shuddered when she recognised the voice and turned around with a smile.
"Y/N!" Her arms wrapped around you in a big hug. "It's been so long! You look amazing!"
"You look beautiful, Nami." You said, sitting down next to her with a smile.
"Ladies, would you like me to buy you a drink?"
You both turned towards the voice with disinterest, your expressions instantly changing when you recognised it. Usopp was smiling, looking more confident than ever. Nami and you rushed to hug him, starting to talk about everything the three of you had done in those two years. You talked a little about your training, saying that you were now good at karate, proud of your attacks.
As the minutes passed, you met up with the others again.
The Sunny Go was still in the same place you left it, without a single scratch. Seeing most of the crew filled your heart with joy. Those people who had welcomed you with open arms two years ago were finally in front of you again.
Franky whistled and complimented the beautiful women in front of him. His appearance had changed a lot since the past, but he was approached by Usopp, who looked at him excitedly and asked all sorts of questions. Chopper, wearing a new hat and looking cuter than ever, jumped around and hugged Robin excitedly. He had missed everyone dearly. Robin, more beautiful than ever with her long hair, talked about her days with the Revolutionary Army.
Everyone looked healthy, but above all, they looked happy. Happy to be back where they belonged.
But someone was missing.
And just thinking about seeing him again made your heart race wildly inside your chest, wanting to escape.
"I can't wait to see how much Luffy has changed since last time!" Usopp exclaimed with a smile from ear to ear. "I'm so excited to see him!"
"Me too." Said Robin.
You nodded silently, smiling fondly. When the assumption was made that he might have gotten himself into trouble, Chopper offered to go find the three remaining members. The moment the little one left, an irreplaceable presence fell from above.
Brook had left behind his life as a world-renowned musician to return to his beloved friends. They all welcomed him with smiles.
"And I thought you couldn't get any more beautiful…" Commented the skeleton, looking at the three women. "Well… Two years have passed."
He sat down on a barrel and a few strings of his guitar resonated in the air.
"Would you all be so kind and show me your panties?"
"No way!"
Nami kicked him away, while Robin and you laughed.
"Oi! Guys!"
You looked up just as his voice reached your ears. Your big smile matched those of the others, but the sparkle in your eyes hid the longing in your heart, those feelings that had blossomed when you spent a month together, completely alone, sleeping in each other's arms every night. Those feelings you tried to fight, repeating in your mind like a mantra that they would pass if you didn't see him, breaking down when you dreamed of his smile or when you thought of his reaction to seeing you again.
You stayed behind the others with a sudden blush on your cheeks.
You had never seen him without his multiple bandages. And now there he was, stepping onto the deck of the Sunny Go while greeting everyone, wearing an open red shirt that revealed that huge scar.
Luffy had gained muscle. He looked stronger. More confident. And yet, you could see that he was the same as always, that his strength and confidence were centred on the people around him.
The rubber boy looked for you, smiling when he saw you.
Neither of you spoke, at least not out loud, pretending that nothing had happened between you.
The journey to Fishman Island had been quite an adventure. Seeing the underwater world left you speechless. Holding onto the railing, you admired the different schools of fish that surrounded the ship from time to time, circling twice before swimming away. You wanted to reach out and feel them against your skin, but that would have exposed you. The sea water did not weaken you, and the crew knew you had an “unused” devil fruit.
"I think they're greeting you." You looked to your side, to that warm presence.
Luffy was looking at a school of pink fish that had come up to your face to look at you from the other side of the bubble.
"Yes?" You said, amused.
"We could eat them."
"Don't even think about it." You scolded him.
"But you're not a mermaid!"
"But they talk to me. They're friends."
"Friends aren't for eating." He muttered, pressing his lips together.
You giggled admiringly at the little pout he made as his stomach growled. That soft sound from you disturbed the sea animals around the Sunny Go, who were happily swirling around.
"Are there always so many fish? How cool!" Said Usopp, standing next to you.
You snuggled up to Luffy a little, pretending not to know anything. Luffy moved his mouth into a pout to one side, also pretending not to know.
"You're bad at lying." You whispered.
"I'm not." He whispered back.
You laughed, leaving him with Usopp.
Fishman Island was a dreamlike place. Your devil fruit seemed comfortable there, and the mermaids and gyojin looked at you excitedly.
The powerful goddess of the sea, Naia, stood before them.
The legend told for generations spoke of how she was always accompanied by a man. A clingy man who never left her side. A playful man who always made her laugh. A selfish man who never refrained from looking at her with love and wanting her for himself.
That man was the sun god.
They said that when they separated, the goddess cried so much that her tears disturbed the sea. The catastrophe caused by the forced breakup of their love made her sleep for centuries. And at some point, when the sun rose again, she would wake up.
Mothers and children never stopped talking about how they, the inhabitants of Fishman Island, would be the first to recognise her. After all, Naia was a kind of mother to that race.
Everyone wondered who the man accompanying you would be.
Nami and Robin watched amused as the little mermen, mermaids, and gyojin children clung to you shamelessly, asking you to play with them. You had no idea how to refuse. Throughout the banquet, you were here and there, performing water tricks hidden from your crew, entertaining the little ones who were excited by the slightest thing you did.
Jinbe, happy to see your progress and how you were doing in the water, smiled as he drank his sake.
Everyone was having a good time. Everyone except for a rubber boy who occasionally remembered that you weren't by his side and, capriciously, pouted. He calmed down again when they gave him meat, enjoying the party.
You sat down next to him, exhausted. You didn't know what other tricks to do for those children. You took a sip of sake, on the verge of spitting it out when another gyojin child came up in front of you.
"Oi, kids, she's mine for now." Said Luffy, frowning and taking a bite of meat.
You blushed, trying to drink the sake faster. Robin raised an eyebrow at his words, giving the orange-haired woman beside her an inquiring look. They both knew how possessive the rubber boy could be. His hat and his friends were equally important to him. But that phrase… That tone was different.
The impact his words could have on one's life or day was foreign to Luffy. Noticing that what he unconsciously said brought a revolution was not something he cared about.
He continued as if nothing had happened.
And so, his normal behaviour over the following days came as no surprise to anyone. The navigator and the archaeologist watched you both closely, knowing that there was something else going on between you.
Even though your captain sat next to you at breakfast, fighting with you over the portions you hadn't eaten yet (something he would do with anyone), there was something strange about it. The natural way you would slap his hand and growl at him. The way he would bite your hand hard, making you cry out. They did not remember the two of you being so close before Sabaody, two years ago.
You had not had time to develop such a friendship.
And it did not seem like a simple friendship.
One night, when you hadn't yet come to your room to sleep with them, they talked.
"Seriously, if those two are a couple and they didn't tell us..." Whispered Nami.
"I don't think they are. In fact, I think that's where they're headed." Robin refuted.
"If Luffy feels something for her, he won't notice." Growled the navigator, burying her face in her pillow.
The black-haired woman smiled as she sat on her own bed.
"We just have to give them time." She murmured.
"We have to keep an eye on them."
"Without interfering." Robin concluded.
Island after island you visited in the future, day after day that passed, both women decided to give you privacy, paying attention only during dinners. As if reviewing the day, looking for some sign of progress.
It was amid the heat of the flames and the volcanoes about to erupt in Punk Hazard that Robin noticed the first detail: Luffy talked to you like he didn't talk to anyone else.
The heat was unbearable, you could barely stand that kind of hell, ignoring that your captain now looked like a centaur and shouted excitedly that he liked having four legs. If you looked closer, you noticed that the ones at the back, which had just been attached, were barely working. They flew through the air because Luffy's legs did all the work.
You wiped the sweat from your forehead for the fourth time when the smiling boy approached you. He leaned over to you, whispering in your ear.
"Why don't you make something like a sphere of water and hydrate yourself?"
"I can't. There's no source of water nearby." You whispered.
"Your sweat."
You parted your lips, not believing what he had said. Use your sweat? And why was he looking at you like that? With his brow slightly furrowed, as if he had said the most serious, intelligent and obvious thing in the world. You smiled amusedly, patting his shoulder.
Robin noticed it again when all of you arrived on the other side of the lake, where the island became wintry. The small group was shivering from the cold, freezing after falling into the water. The archaeologist sighed as she felt her body warm up, turning to check that everyone was okay, raising her eyebrows briefly in surprise.
Her captain was wrapping a coat around your body, as if it were a practised movement. Neither of you knew that Luffy had actually watched others do this and wanted to try it himself.
Because that's what people who loved someone else did, right? Give them a coat so they would never be cold. Rayleigh had done it for him when they trained together. Hancock had lent him hers to get to Sabaody.
In his mind, if you cared about someone, you should give them a coat.
Although he knew very well why he only wanted to give it to you.
During the banquet, when you walked away to comfort Chopper, who was frightened by Trafalgar Law, the two women sat down to exchange information. Nami hadn't seen anything unusual, so she was surprised to hear about her captain's actions towards you.
The navigator became frustrated when she couldn't stay in Dressrosa, feeling like she was missing out on everything. Robin promised to keep her informed when they met again.
And so she did.
You had signed up with him for the coliseum tournament, wearing one of the many gladiator outfits. Luckily, you had been placed in a different block from Luffy, saving you from a difficult fate. It wasn't time for your competition yet when Zoro came looking for the two of you.
The urgency with which you began searching for the exit made you anxious. Outside, it would soon be chaos, but the thought of Luffy abandoning one of the few physical reminders he had of his brother made your heart ache. You wished you could get it for him, but he had forbidden you to do so. If he left, you would go with him.
You stopped in your tracks for a few seconds when you realised there was nowhere to escape. Encountering Bartolomeo and Bellamy only confirmed your suspicions. It was all a trap and you were trapped in the coliseum, only he knew the way out.
"Luffy senpai, what will happen to the Mera Mera no Mi?" Asked the green-haired man, staring at the wall.
"The lives of my comrades are more important."
You bit your lower lip. A physical reminder of Ace that he couldn't have. A physical reminder that would give him a glimpse of his time in the world, something that would show him that he was there. You could stay in the coliseum without any problems. Win it, take it away in its chest, keep it safe, and run away with it until you could give it to Luffy...
Luffy tugged on your little finger without looking at you to pull you out of your thoughts. Bartolomeo talked non-stop, still facing the wall, about how he had always planned to win it for him. Because he admired him. He admired the whole crew and would do anything for any of you, but especially for the young man next to you.
You turned to look back when approaching footsteps interrupted you. You frowned at the man. He was dressed like a noble would be. And he wore a custom hat.
"I won't let you keep the Mera Mera no Mi, Straw Hat Luffy."
"What are you talking about, idiot?" Bartolomeo growled, walking towards him. "I don't know who you think you are, but to you he is Luffy senpai. Respect him!"
The green-haired man continued talking, trying to intimidate him, but that man was not fazed. He was calm, not taking his eyes off the boy you loved. You began to frown.
"I've known all that for a long time." Said the man, pushing Bartolomeo away.
You stood in front of Luffy, trying to protect him when he started to approach. Your right hand took a familiar gyojin karate stance, and something in the blond's gaze seemed to sparkle in recognition. The rubber boy stood in front of you again, hating that you were protecting him.
But what happened next was something neither of you were prepared for. You stepped aside, your lower lip trembling, unable to interrupt them.
You could only watch your rubber boy crying as he hugged him. His sobs were loud, letting out more than he had allowed himself to do at your side. He apologised. He repeated to the blond that everything was fine and that he shouldn't apologise. The older one thanked him for staying alive.
And you were broken, thanking whoever for this joy in his life.
Living two years of his life believing that he had lost his two older brothers must have been the greatest torture.
In Zou, despite the situation they had to face in Big Mom's territory, Nami and Robin made a space for themselves.
"So, his brother is the second in command of the Revolutionary Army?" The navigator whispered.
Robin nodded. She had kept that secret for two years.
"Sabo noticed something too."
"What?"
"I don't know what happened between the three of them, but when Luffy and Y/N were sleeping after the battle..."
"Separately?" Whispered Nami.
"Yes and no. Luffy was in bed and Y/N was holding his hand, sitting on the floor."
The navigator nodded thoughtfully, waiting for her to continue.
"Sabo said he liked his little brother's girlfriend."
Nami's eyes widened in surprise.
As if Zoro and Franky hadn't heard the revolutionary's conversation too. Now you had two more pairs of eyes watching you from afar.
As night fell, you yawned relaxed in bed. You couldn't be at peace for long. Your stomach churned at the thought of Luffy going to the territory of a yonko without you. It calmed you to think that the friends he was going with were good and trustworthy. Bringing Sanji back was essential.
You couldn't imagine your days without him in the kitchen, occupying every corner and filling the room with his twists and compliments.
The blanket was lifted carefully and arms wrapped around your waist.
"Luffy?" You whispered.
"Mhm."
Your heart skipped a beat. Should you put one hand on his hair and the other on his back like you used to? Should you tell him to go back to his room? To his bed? And not feel his warmth. Not feel his heartbeat. Not comfort him in silence. Since you saw each other again, you hadn't slept together.
"Y/N?" He whispered, resting his chin on your chest. "You must stroke my hair."
His demanding tone, trapped in a pout, made you giggle. He relaxed under your touch. He hadn’t wanted to bother you when you saw each other again, but he had missed this. Your fingers in his hair, the gentle circles traced on his back, waking up without you leaving him.
You had stolen his heart in a month, and he wasn't doing anything about it.
"Sorry." He murmured, his cheek resting on your chest. His tone didn't seem to regret whatever he was regretting in the slightest.
"Why are you apologising?"
"I gave Sabo your gift. The seashell." He whispered without looking at you. "I thought he would need it more than I did."
You smiled, resisting the urge to kiss his forehead.
"It’s okay. I can make you another one if you want."
Luffy didn't say what he was thinking. He knew you would make those magical pools for him if he asked, without needing a seashell. Next time, he wanted to show you everything he had to show.
But that would have to wait.
Wano was unlike anything you had ever seen before.
The suffering of the people in this village made your blood boil. Poor people had nothing to eat, and their water was contaminated. Seeing them live dehydrated, with sick children and rumbling stomachs, pushed you to your limit.
Hiding your identity would be difficult in this country. They needed you, so you allowed yourself to do something in secret. The gentle touch of your hands began to purify the water of the river of Ebisu, the pollution seeping into your bones. You didn't mention it to anyone, it was an experiment. You wanted to know your limits.
The flowing water was clean, perfect for the children, elderly and adults in the area. It was the little you could do while enduring the pollution. You had to find a way to expel it from within you without causing havoc. Throwing it away and contaminating plants, the land for future crops or the sea itself disgusted you.
But maybe, enduring it was your mistake.
Perhaps if you had gone against your principles and stopped trusting Luffy's words, those that promised to save this country, you would not be suffering now. But it was impossible for you not to do so. It was impossible for you not to trust him. You knew he would succeed, because he never lied. He worked hard for what he set out to do.
He was like sunshine in the lives of those who knew him.
You tolerated the contamination in your bones during the battles in Onigashima, but weeks had passed since you received it and your body began to take its toll at the worst possible moment.
You could only hear Nami and Usopp's screams when you stood in front of them. The three of you had a little girl with you. Otama was Luffy's adoration, and putting her in danger was something you would never forgive yourself for. The powers of your devil fruit did not respond in time to counter the threatening attack of the yonko Big Mom, an attack that was aimed at your friends.
The "heavenly fire" struck your body, its impact propelling it and slamming it against the walls. That homie, Prometheus, pushed your body wall to wall, breaking them one by one as if he were on a mission. As if he wanted to kill someone from the straw hat crew.
You spat out a little blood when the fire became more intense. It was burning your torso and arms. If you moved your fingers slightly, you didn't have the strength to call on the sea water, nor to send Prometheus backwards.
A song reached your ears. You opened your eyes slightly, meeting the gaze of the homie, so threatening and sinister. You smiled slightly, knowing you would be safe.
That soft intonation, almost as if a mother were tucking her beloved child into bed, could not be heard by anyone else present on Onigashima. Naia's song was exclusively for you, only heard on special occasions. The first time you heard it, you consumed her fruit. And this time, everything was a mystery.
"Y/N!"
Was that cry from Usopp or Nami? You couldn't see them. You could only watch Prometheus rage at your smile.
A gasp escaped from within you as the force of his attack tripled. The other homies joined him, Hera and Napoleon, carrying you through the hard rock wall.
A beep stunned your ears.
Your body fell from a height impossible to calculate. The abyss drew you into its darkness, and you could do nothing but embrace it.
The severity of your injuries left you with no strength to scream. To call for help. To call out to anyone.
Luffy, your friends, the people of Wano who trusted you. Was this your end? Was this Naia's will, for which you had been expelled from your native island? Did you really have to die like this?
The water engulfed you as you hit hard, sinking you to the depths.
"Announcement to all of Onigashima!"
Bao Huang's shout echoed in every corner. The fighting didn't stop, but everyone was paying attention. Something had changed.
"A member of the straw hat crew has been defeated!"
Usopp growled, wiping away his tears in despair. He felt useless. He should have taken the attack, not let you cover him. He couldn't do anything because of the fear. He couldn't do anything to stop you from falling. Nami hugged Otama, sobbing hard, apologising to Luffy over and over again even though her captain wasn't in front of them. How could she explain to him that she let the woman he loved be killed right in front of his eyes? Everyone's friend? Another straw hat.
"Y/N has been killed by Big Mom-sama!"
At different points on Onigashima, the crew was moved. Different reactions crossed their faces. Anger, sadness, regret. Some, like Chopper and Brook, shouted through their tears that you couldn't have died. That Bao Huang was lying. Others, like Zoro and Sanji, silently continued to fight. You were just as stubborn as Luffy, whatever had happened to you, you wouldn't stop there. Jinbe stopped dead in his tracks as Robin hugged Chopper, looking for something to hold on to before her thoughts consumed her mind.
Luffy's heart scratched at his chest as he was forced to hold back.
He wanted to run to the edge of the terrace. He wanted to look down. He felt the need for his longing to become one with the sea despite his inability to swim. And he felt you. The soft beating of your heart, how weak your pulse was, and how calm the waves were. Could you drown if you were the sea itself? Could your wounds condemn your soul to an irreversible fate?
He clenched his fists, unflinching. One mistake, one moment of weakness, would end everyone's life.
For some strange reason, the news from Bao Huang did not affect him like it did the others, who were crying incessantly.
Luffy trusted you, even when his observation haki could no longer sense your heartbeat.
You had spent a month together. You had slept together. You had shared and fought over food. You had cared for his mind and his nightmares without him asking. You had listened to his whole story and his dreams, while opening up about yours only to him. You had been one of the reasons he was standing there today, fighting.
He trusted you. He trusted that you would be okay.
If your origin was the sea, then you would return to it. And the sea would do its thing to bring you back.
Because you belonged by his side, in a silent agreement that neither of you would break.
In the depths, hundreds of fish and sea creatures surrounded your lifeless body, giving you space, shy to be near their goddess. Your outstretched arms allowed them to see you. The burns on your torso and neck continued to bleed, despite the water's attempts to soothe them. The pollution tolerated for weeks drained away little by little, oozing from your body until it gathered into a sphere.
"Nika, you've got yours!"
"Oi, Luffy! That's my food!"
The voices, clearly reproachful, echoed among those present under the sea.
"Naia! Come jump!"
"Y/N, let's play something!"
A heartbeat.
"Nika, stop moving, you're annoying."
"Luffy, I can't sleep if you move around so much. Go to your bed."
Another heartbeat.
"Naia is mean."
"Y/N is mean, she wouldn't let me eat her food."
Fire ravaged Onigashima. Everyone began to gather in one place, desperately searching for a solution. The captain of the straw hat pirates continued to fight Kaido, filling the atmosphere with anxiety. No member of the alliance wanted to hear any more bad news.
"Even if Straw Hat-ya wins, we'll all die in the fire." Said the captain of the heart pirates. "We have to find a way to put it out."
Nami took a few steps towards the centre, standing next to Marco as some surfaces began to give way.
The sudden tremor in the floor frightened everyone. Several fell to the floor, breathing heavily amid the flames and two powerful presences fighting on the terrace. The navigator held Otama tightly in front of her.
"An earthquake? How is that possible up here?" She said, confused.
"This isn't normal. Something's happening." Robin drew some minks towards the centre with her powers.
"Is Straw Hat provoking it?" Kid growled.
"No..." Law said. "He's still fighting Kaido."
"I sense another presence-yoi."
"It’s not Luffy or Kaido? What’s going on? Robin!" Chopper hugged the archaeologist, crying.
"There’s something in the sea!"
The scream of one of the beast pirates alarmed their opponents, with Law being the first to look into the hole you had made in the wall before dying. His crew had been on the Polar Tang at the moment you fell, but according to their reports, it was impossible to reach your body. A blue sphere surrounded you and the sea beasts threatened to attack them. They could have killed his friends, but something was holding them back. The waves battered his submarine, sending it away every time it approached where you were supposed to be.
One by one, they took clumsy steps to look through the hole, at a considerable distance, afraid of falling. Most of the straw hats did not want to see what was left after your death. The pain in their hearts could not be revealed, and their tears could not be shed. Not until it was all over.
The waves crashed into each other with fury, their directions unnatural. Not even the weather in the New World could explain something like that. Nami left Otama next to a sleeping Zoro, holding onto the wall to get a closer look.
"The water is receding." She whispered. "Everyone, stay in the centre!"
"Oi, oi, Nami, the waves can't reach up here, why are you worried?" Asked Usopp.
"Because of that thing that's taking shape."
The metres receded by the sea rose up in a wave. A wave almost two thousand metres high, immovable. And in its centre, there was a figure. A woman created from water, rivalling a giant in size.
"We won't get out of here alive." Cried Usopp.
"Robin-chan, Nami-swan, I'll protect you."
"Sanji! Me too!" Chopper whimpered.
"She looks like..." Law whispered.
"That's Y/N!" Jinbe shouted.
The entire crew's eyes widened before they began screaming and crying.
"Monster!" Usopp exclaimed upon seeing the figure.
"What is that thing, it's scary!" Nami cried.
"Y/N-chan had that kind of power all along?" Sanji shouted, leaning further out of the hole.
"I'm glad she's alive, yohoho!"
"It's a super miracle!" Franky sobbed.
"What a peculiar shape..." Robin murmured thoughtfully. "Do you know anything about it, Jinbe-san?"
The gyojin smiled broadly.
Naia had returned.
"I would recommend everyone stand in the centre and hold each other. Y/N is going to do something."
You cupped the water in your hands. Just as you had practised for two years, you had no reason to be nervous. Your body felt healthy and light as you became the sea itself. The burns would still be there once you broke this form, but now it was enough. Jinbe had trained you relentlessly so that you could achieve his hikishio ipponzeoi.
You prepared your attack and, without hesitation, half the sea was thrown towards Onigashima.
The flood was unprecedented.
The fire was completely extinguished. The devil fruit users weakened. The few gyojin who were there saved everyone from being swept away by the waves. Nami carried Otama, Usopp saved Robin, Sanji held Zoro, Franky grabbed Brook, and Jinbe put Chopper on his shoulder. Everyone in the crew smiled as they looked out to sea, where your figure stood in all its grandeur and splendour. To say they were surprised would be an understatement. They had so much to ask you. Two wanted to apologise for everything you had been through. A certain swordsman would seek you out to train when he woke up and heard the news. The archaeologist wanted to know everything about your devil fruit and its rarity.
You were something that transcended the unnatural.
"Shishishi!"
You looked up at the island's roof. Luffy, in a strange white form, floated in the air, reclining with his arms behind his head. His beautiful pink eyes looked at you fondly. And amid all that radiant happiness, you could see tears threatening to escape.
"Thank you for coming back, Y/N."
The land of Wano made headlines worldwide. The bounty posters were updated. The crew now belonged to a yonko, straw hat Luffy.
It made you happy to see how he was getting closer and closer to fulfilling his dream. And, in turn, how you were now one of the members with the highest bounty.
You held the poster in front of your face, grimacing from time to time as you felt Chopper's hooves on your burns, applying an ointment that he claimed was excellent. You would be left with scars on your neck and chest, but you couldn't dream of leaving that country without a scratch. You didn't regret defending your friends.
Although Nami and Usopp never left your side, the sniper crying and hugging you every time you passed by him, and the navigator offering you berries (something she wouldn't normally do with anyone) and multiple strokes on your hair.
You paid attention to your photo on the poster. It was you, from head to toe, every little detail, every tiny imperfection, but all loved by the sea. The sea goddess you had awakened had been captured and everyone admired her. For some she was terrifying, for others magical.
You smiled dumbly. You couldn't always use such a powerful attack, but being immortalised like this was nice. You traced the numbers with your index finger, curious about the insane sum.
Why was your head suddenly worth 1,000,000,000 berries? You had only died, come back to life, and extinguished the fire on Onigashima. Perhaps you had also purified all the water in Wano, and Trafalgar Law had used his devil fruit to remove the pollution from inside you. But that was not something others could know.
You never got a straight answer to that.
Egghead was about to be a disaster. CP0 was on the island with clear instructions. Your boots echoed on the floor as you stepped aside to wait for Luffy. You were supposed to take him back to Labophase, but he was more interested in facing an old enemy he had encountered again.
You looked up, entranced. His Gear 5 was mind-blowing. Everything he could do with his devil fruit, the ease with which his brain came up with new ideas, it all made you laugh. Not to mention the floor, which now made you bounce.
Vegapunk hurried over to the monitors.
"Have the white and blue warriors appeared yet?" He asked, his eyes shining as he caught sight of Luffy laughing. "Tell me about those transformations. The white one from Straw Hat and the young girl on her wanted poster."
"We don't know, to be honest." Said Nami. "Luffy's is the Gomu Gomu no Mi, but Y/N's is unknown to us."
The scientist pressed his lips together, holding back a smile.
"There is no fruit with that name in the devil fruit encyclopaedia!"
The crew gasped, unable to comprehend.
"What? That's impossible!" Exclaimed the navigator.
"Luffy always says gomu gomu when he attacks." Added Usopp.
"Look how beautiful he is! I'm sure she is too!" Rambled Vegapunk, raising his hands. "It's fate! I didn't expect to meet them like this."
"If you know anything, tell us. Y/N-chan doesn't talk much about herself." Sanji requested.
"What happened to those two?" Franky asked, approaching the screen to look at the two of you.
Luffy was still floating there laughing, and you looked at him with a sparkle in your eyes.
"They look like gods."
The cook choked on his own words, unable to believe it.
"Luffy a god? He's an idiot!" He shouted. "Y/N-chan is a goddess, that's true."
Robin looked at Vegapunk in surprise.
"Are you saying that those appearances we saw are those of gods?"
"Yes." Said the scientist, his expression turning serious. "The warrior of liberation. He who plays the fool and brings smiles to all. The sun god, Nika!"
The few crew members present were surprised. The answers that no one else could give them were in the brain of this man who stared at the screen excitedly. Eager to talk. Eager to educate the world.
"And the goddess he loves, the one capable of punishing everyone for him. The goddess of the sea, Naia."
Nami shook her head, approaching Vegapunk.
"Nika and Naia? I've never heard those names."
"Of course not. Their names were erased from history." The scientist said abruptly. "Nika and Naia were inseparable."
The revealed legend left them speechless. In the end, the archaeologist was right.
It was best not to interfere.
The sun god felt a deep longing for the sea. Seeing it every day made him feel free, and he wanted to reach it more than anything else. Then, one day, he met its goddess. He thought she would help him help. If he could make people laugh, then she could give them freedom.
Naia was closed off, only willing to care for those she loved: the gyojin, the mermaids, the mermen. Opening the doors of her heart to let Nika in went against her principles. He knew how to make her laugh effortlessly with a joke or a silly expression. He fought with her over food, hitting him every time he wanted to eat a fish. He invited her to have fun jumping with his friends. He asked her to do water tricks for him.
Falling in love with each other was natural. Nika always admired her foolishly, his gaze never leaving her. He loved her loudly with his actions. He loved her silently with his words.
Naia always looked up, because he loved to float. He shone in a way that only he could. Her love was protective, ensuring that he never lost his smile. That he never shed a single tear.
For him, she was freedom. And for her, he was.
Someone feared their powers together, the ease with which people became attached to and trusted them, asking them for things they could give them. So, under false pretences, he murdered the sun god.
The two lovers agreed to meet again when destiny required it. When the time came. First, Nika would return, accompanied by a man who shared his ideals of freedom. Then, Naia would notice him. Her living love.
That devil fruit that had eluded the world government for centuries, and that devil fruit that was believed to be non-existent, would wait to be reincarnated.
Nika would choose who would bring a new dawn to the world, and Naia would take into her sweet arms the one who would support him on his journey. A mystical love, a destined love. Unconsciously, their successors would love each other just as they had.
Because their souls resonated. Their souls yearned for each other. Their souls waited.
And that statue that had been looking —alone, hidden from everyone with its arms outstretched— at the sun for centuries, would finally be able to feel his skin under her fingers once again.
𐙚 SUMMARY:In this lifetime, he is no hero. He is no god. He does not bear the weight of the world—only the quiet, ordinary weight of responsibility. A life too mundane, yet a life full of warm memories. Phainon learns how to raise his daughter while caring for you, the love of his life. Through six grounded steps, Phainon does not save the world. He learns to hold it gently, one bottle, one memory, and one bedstory at a time.
𐙚 A/N: im on fire im so obsessed with phainon I didn't go to school today to write two fics......... BUT IN MY DEFENSE I WAS ILL AND IT DIDNT STOP RAINING TIILL IT WAS 10 AM SO I HAVE AN ACTUAL EXCUSE TO NOT GO. butttttttttttttttttttttt..... didn't do assignments. idgaf atp sit back and enjoy
𐙚 W.C: 3.7k
How did Phainon become the best dad in the world? He only followed six steps—just six!
Step One: Learn how to hold her
1. Cradle gently. Always support the neck. Your daughter calla was born in late autumn, when the air outside was dry and restless and the light came in gold through the window blinds. Phainon’s hands trembled the first time he touched her—slow, careful, as if her bones might scatter like powdered glass. You watched him tuck her into the crook of his arm with the reverence of someone handling something sacred.
Calla curled her tiny fist around his pinky like it was already hers. He looked stunned. Breath hitched. He was a man not used to being speechless, learning how fast silence can mean love.
2. Get used to watching. Phainon didn’t sleep that first night. Your husband sat next to the bassinet and watched her chest rise and fall. Every few minutes, he leaned forward, fingers barely above her stomach, just to be sure. You woke to find him still sitting there, blanket draped over his shoulders, whispering her name under his breath like it was a spell he needed to learn by heart.
3. Write it down, even if it’s messy.
By day two, he had started keeping a tiny notebook in his pocket. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t poetic. It was mostly timestamps: 2:41 AM: hiccup. 3:27 AM: sneezed 3x. 6:00 AM: got trapped in the blanket. You teased him at first. But he didn’t stop. Later, you caught him drawing a tiny sketch of her face next to the word ‘miracle.’
You found him again the next morning, curled awkwardly in the rocking chair with Calla asleep on his chest. His hair was a mess. One sock was missing. The notebook was open on the floor, scrawled halfway through a sentence. But he looked... peaceful.
“She fell asleep on me,” he said, as if apologizing.
You smiled, leaning in to pick up the fallen notebook. “You drooled on page four.”
“I was exhausted,” he muttered.
“She still looks okay with you.”
“I’m getting better at it,” he said softly. His eyes dropped to her. “I think she knows.”
He brushed his thumb lightly over her cheek. You sat beside them, close enough to hear the slow breath shared between them.
It was new. It was exhausting. It was terrifying. But Phainon wasn’t flinching anymore.
She stirred. He adjusted. You leaned on his arm.
Step two: Keep the house running
1. Wake up first. Check her breathing. Reheat the milk. Phainon started setting alarms five minutes before the goblin usually stirred. So it didn’t matter that he hated mornings. It didn’t matter that his left arm still tingled from where she slept on it. He makes sure to roll out of bed quietly, check her chest for those soft, steady breaths, then shuffle into the kitchen. Warm bottle. And then two scoops, not three. Shake, test on wrist. He got it wrong the first week—too hot, too cold, too foamy. But he learned.
2. Take over what you forget. Don’t comment on it. He started checking the stove behind you. Rewriting the grocery list when you skipped ingredients. Moving your shoes from the hallway before you tripped again. It wasn’t a conversation. He didn’t tease, didn’t hover, didn’t ask are you okay?. He just did it. When you left a laundry basket outside for three days, it was suddenly folded on the couch, the onesies rolled up like tiny burritos. You didn’t even notice until you smelled the softener.
3. Keep the tone soft. Laugh when she laughs. Let the silence stretch.
Sometimes you forgot mid sentence what you were saying. Sometimes you’d trail off with a wooden spoon still in your hand, blinking at nothing. Phainon never rushed you. He’d pick up where you left off if you remembered, or shift the conversation gently away if you didn’t. He learned to fill the quiet with humming. Calla always giggled at that—especially when he hummed off key.
The kettle clicked. Phainon didn’t turn it off immediately. He waited in the hallway, listening.
Calla was shrieking—happy shrieking, the kind only infants made when they discovered their own voice. You were trying to distract her with a plushie, but she was more interested in your hair, which she’d somehow managed to grab in both fists.
“Ow,” you murmured, smiling despite yourself. “She’s stronger today.”
“Can't believe you're losing to a kid.” Phainon chuckled from the doorway.
You snorted. “Help me.”
He walked over, hands raised like he was approaching a crime scene. “Alright, Commander Calla. Hands off the hostage.”
She laughed. He untangled your strands with surprising gentleness.
You sat back against the crib wall. “I was going to do the laundry.”
“I already did.”
“The dishes?”
“Already drying.”
Your brows furrowed, “I swear I washed the dishes…”
Phainon sighed, “No, love. I did, just five minutes ago.”
“Huh?”
When your eyes darted to the sink, it was squeaky clean without a plate greasy with soy sauce.
“Huh,” You bit your lip as Calla grabbed your finger through the crib, “Weird.”
Step Three: Pay attention without taking control (important!)
1. Notice patterns, not incidents.
It’s good Phainon didn’t panic the first time it happened. Normally, people forget things. He’d forgotten Calla’s pediatrician’s name three times (the doc was an asshole anyways). So when you blinked down at the laptop on your lap and couldn’t name them for five seconds, he waited. Watched. Didn’t draw attention to it. But he made a note.
2. Don’t jump in, you wait until they ask. When you blanked on the bottle’s formula ratio, he didn’t correct you. He watched you count one scoop, hesitate, then say “Is it two?” and laugh. “I’m sleep-deprived,” you said. “Or getting old.” He nodded, smiled, and passed you the second scoop.
3. Learn the difference between being careful and being afraid. Phainon began building quiet systems. Tiny labels on things. He made color coded reminders on the fridge. There’s a highlighted bookmark with a sticky note saying, “You stopped on page 211.” He pretended calla needed them. Said it was for her when she got older. You played along.
The next day, you forgot the word for “scissors.”
You had them in your hand. You were trying to say something, something about trimming calla’s little pink paper crown—and the word just slipped out of your brain like water through a crack. You paused, staring at your fingers.
“It’s fine,” you muttered a moment later. “I meant scissors.”
Phainon glanced up from the floor, where he was helping Calla stick stars onto a paper sky. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Yeah. Just a brain fart.”
He didn’t push. Just handed you a new glue stick.
Later that evening, he watched you go quiet during a show—when a side character appeared and you squinted, confused. You said, “Wait, who’s she again?” then laughed. “Sleep deprived,” you said. “My brain’s pudding lately.”
He smiled. But he wrote it down in his notebook that night. Quietly. Just one word: Pudding.
The next day, he added new labels to the kitchen: milk, kettle, sugar, rice. Phainon drew tiny doodles next to each one so it wouldn’t look like pity. There’s even a crooked smiley face on the coffee jar.
When you saw it, you rolled your eyes. “You’re labeling the house like a preschool.”
“For Calla,” he said.
“Sure it’s not for me?”
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I just don’t want her to think sugar goes in soup.”
You stuck your tongue out at him, and he grinned like that was all the confirmation he needed.
But later that night, when he heard you whispering the formula ratio to yourself under your breath—twice, then three times—his chest ached.
You weren’t laughing that time.
Step Four: Stay gentle when it gets hard
1. Don’t correct, you guide. When you forgot the bottle in the microwave, Phainon didn’t scold you. He simply took it out before it overheated, swirled it twice, and handed it to you with a smile. “Still warm,” he said. “Just in time.”
2. Build backups. Not large fences.
He started preparing a second set of bottles every morning, “just in case.” He left sticky notes not just for you (they’re yellow this time), but from Calla, signed in crayon: 'Mommy, remember my blanket!' It made you laugh.
3. Laugh when it’s safe. Hold still when it’s not. When you called Calla “Clara” by mistake, then immediately corrected yourself with a forced grin, Phainon made a joke about time travel. “She’s been secretly switching dimensions,” he said, ruffling her hair. But when you didn’t laugh, just stared down at your hands… he didn’t say anything else. He just sat closer. Let the silence be soft.
It was late afternoon when you paused mid-sentence and blinked at the refrigerator like it had spoken.
Phainon looked up from the kitchen. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you mumbled, biting your cheek. “Just… trying to remember if I fed her lunch.”
“She had applesauce at twelve. And that weird beet thing.”
You breathed out. “Right.”
He didn’t say you forgot again. He just pulled out a tupperware and handed you the leftovers. “Want to try some? She spit it out dramatically, so obviously it’s gourmet.”
You chuckled. “Then that’s gourmet beet disaster.”
Calla, now big enough to sit up with a little wobble, banged her spoon on her tray and shrieked with laughter.
You smiled.
But that night, when you tried to read her a bedtime story and stumbled on the first line—Once upon a... and then nothing, your throat closed.
You stared at the page like it had betrayed you. Like the words were in a language you used to know.
Phainon sat beside you and turned the page for you.
“...dragon,” he murmured softly, like it was just part of the story. “There was a dragon who blew out pink fire, protecting the castle from evil thieves.”
Your fingers gripped the edges of the book.
He didn’t touch you, he just kept reading. Slowly. Softly. One line at a time.
By the third page, you joined in again.
You didn’t say thank you.
But you leaned your head on his shoulder and whispered, “You’d make a good narrator, a damn good one.”
And he whispered back, “Only because you taught me the stories.”
Step Five: Stay when the sun sets early
1. Learn the new rhythm, even when it doesn't make sense To him, calla was easier to soothe than you, these days. She was growing. Her legs are longer, her voice louder, and her questions sharper. You were slipping. Quietly. Slowly. At first, it was just phrases. Then it was faces. Then the rhythm of whole days. The world tilted when you spoke sometimes. A phrase misaligned. A sentence cut short. But Phainon never corrected you. He followed your tempo. He matched your stride. So when you asked the same question three times, he answered it three times, each time with the same tone, the same patience, like it was brand new.
2. Design a map for the days they forget where they are (another important one)
He rearranged the house without saying anything. Labels in your handwriting, carefully traced over by his. A laminated list on the fridge: Breakfast, pills, water. Calla’s bath. Lemon tea. More crooked doodles next to each (all in either pink, blue, yellow, or violet). Calla helped color them. She liked the part where the sun had a sleepy face beside “bedtime.”
You once sat on the kitchen floor staring at it, tears brimming, and whispered, “It’s a cheat sheet.”
Phainon knelt beside you and touched the corner of the list. “No. It’s a map. For when you get lost.”
You cried harder.
3. Let the silence say what words can’t There were days you didn’t speak at all. He’d see you just sit by the window, tracing invisible shapes on your thigh, eyes half-focused on the garden you used to care about. Phainon was the one taking care of the garden, you keep forgetting to. Calla would waddle over, hand you her scribbled pictures, then climb into your lap like nothing was wrong. Phainon watched from the hall. So sometimes he’d take a photo. Not to remember you fading, but to prove that, even on the worst days, love still gathered quietly around you like dust catching sunlight.
It was raining when it got bad.
Calla was crying in the next room. Not loud, she was just the confused, sleepy whimper of a child waking too soon. You had gone to get her.
You didn’t come back.
Phainon found you in the hallway, barefoot, clutching a pillow against your chest like a lifeline. Your eyes were wide. Not scared. Not teary. Just… blank.
“She was crying,” you whispered.
“She’s okay,” he said softly. “You already held her. You sang to her.”
You looked down at the pillow like it might transform and grow a pair of eyes. “Is this her?”
You just sagged into his chest, and the pillow slipped from your fingers.
Later, when you were asleep on the couch, wrapped in a blanket you didn’t remember owning, Calla clambered onto his lap and asked, “Is mama sick forever?”
Phainon didn’t answer right away. He held her close. Buried his nose in her hair.
Then, quietly he said, “She’s still here. That’s what matters.”
Phainon had decorated the house quietly. Streamers in yellow and pink. A paper crown. Her name on the wall.
She ran to you holding her little cake plate. “Mama, look! Six candles! I’m six!”
You blinked down at her, confused. “Is it…?”
Your voice faded.
Phainon stepped in before she noticed.
“Time for a dance party,” he said, scooping her up. “Go on, show us your best moves.”
You smiled, stiff. Shaky.
Later, in the quiet of the bathroom, you pressed your hand against the sink to steady yourself.
“I forgot.”
Phainon knelt down and rested his head against your hip, eyes closed.
“Only for a second.”
“A second’s enough.”
“No,” he whispered. “It’s not. Not when I still have you.”
You didn’t say anything.
You just turned off the lights, curled into his chest, and cried so quietly it barely echoed.
He started humming to you more after that.
Songs you’d made up for calla. The little nonsense melodies that just looped. He played them while he cooked, while he brushed your hair, while you napped beside the laundry basket.
He kept all your old voice recordings, the ones where you were giggling in the middle of telling a bedtime story or teasing him about his loud snoring. Sometimes he played them in the kitchen while he washed dishes, pretending not to be crying into the soap bubbles.
Sometimes, when you heard your own voice, you’d smile.
Sometimes, you didn’t recognize it.
One night, you asked him if the stars were always this bright.
Phainon looked up. “They haven’t changed.”
“Oh.” You paused. “Maybe it’s me.”
He didn’t correct you.
He just took your hand and held it like it was the only thing anchoring the sky.
Step Six: He lets you keep living, even if it’s different now
It didn’t get better in the way people hoped. There wasn’t some magic pill, no reversal, no dramatic recovery where you suddenly remembered the date or brewed tea with perfect timing. Obviously, the ttruth was quieter than that. It’s just that some memories never came back. Some sentences still trailed off. You forgot words in the middle of them. Once, you asked Phainon where your daughter was while she was holding your hand.
But the worst of it passed.
You still got bad days, yes. Mornings when the fog didn’t lift until noon. Evenings when you cried for no reason you could name. But you weren’t vanishing. You were still here. And Calla was growing.
So Phainon adjusted. Again.
1. Never wait for the old normal to return. Make new ones, every single day. Mornings became slower. Softer. Phainon would prep breakfast before either of you woke—toast sliced in neat triangles, a post-it beside your cup reminding you: Add honey, not salt. (You did that once.) He’d kiss your temple and ask how you slept. Most days, you smiled. Some days, you asked, “Did we already talk?” And he’d smile back and say, “Not yet. But we are now.”
Calla, now four, understood more than she let on.
She started calling them “loop days.” When you seemed quieter. Tired. When your words got looser.
“Papa, is it a loop day?”
“Maybe,” he’d say. “Let’s make it a good one anyway.”
2. Tell her the truth, even when it's hard (and especially when it's hard!!)
He didn’t lie to Calla. Not once. Not when she asked why her mom stared at walls sometimes. Not when she asked why you forgot that she liked pink and not purple.
“She’s still your mama,” he’d say, tucking her in. “Her brain just gets really sleepy sometimes. That doesn’t mean her heart forgets you.”
Calla would think for a bit, then nod. “She still loves me sleepy.”
“Exactly,” he’d say, brushing back her curls. “Exactly that.”
3. Let you help, let you love, and even if it’s not perfect. Calla started drawing more. Pictures of the three of you holding hands, but sometimes she made your face with a blue swirly cloud instead of a mouth. When Phainon asked why, she said, “That’s for when mama’s words are hiding!”
You cried a little when you saw it.
Not loudly. Just quietly. Hands to your mouth, staring at the paper like it had rewritten the world for you.
4. Keep telling her stories of who you were, and who you still are. Phainon started keeping a journal. It’s not just for himself. For you. For Calla. A collection of your favorite things: the recipes you used to recite by heart, the way you used to hum when watering plants, your childhood dream of becoming an astronaut. He read parts of it aloud sometimes. On the porch, while you napped. While Calla scribbled in her own tiny glitter notebook beside him.
“This is the story of the bravest girl I ever met,” he would say.
Sometimes your eyes fluttered open. And sometimes you said, “Tell me again.”
So he did.
Every time.
One winter morning, the heater broke.
You’d both forgotten to get it checked.
Calla came into the living room in double socks and her favorite dragon hoodie, rubbing her eyes. “Papa, it’s cold.”
“I know, bug. We’re working on it.”
You were curled up on the couch, staring at the window like it was made of stars. Your hair was tied unevenly, your slippers on the wrong feet (one is blue, the other is green), but you looked peaceful.
“Do you remember the name of that soup you made last winter?” Phainon asked gently, kneeling by the coffee table. “The one with garlic and those weird glass noodles?”
You blinked. “Hmm. The broth was light… I remember the steam, it made me sneeze.”
“That’s good. That’s something.”
“...And… I added lemon last, didn’t I?”
Phainon smiled. “You did.”
That night, you made it together. You forgot the salt. Calla added too much parsley. But it was warm. And everyone had second servings. And afterward, Calla dozed off with a noodle stuck to her cheek, and you laughed so hard you cried.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.
And then one spring evening arrived, Calla came home from school holding a glitter covered project.
It was a poster. Neon purple, slightly crooked, full of stickers. At the center: a drawing of your little house. Crayoned faces. Her wavy hair. Your loose sweater. Phainon’s brows.
At the top, big letters:
“The best dad in the world!”
He blinked at it. “This is for me?”
She nodded proudly. “We had to draw our hero.”
Phainon knelt down, folding her into a hug.
“But I didn’t do anything big,” he said, half joking. “I didn’t fight dragons. I didn’t build spaceships.”
“You helped mama not disappear,” she whispered into his chest.
That was the moment he finally cried. Not quiet tears this time. Full ones. His shoulders shook. You reached across the couch and gripped his hand.
You still forgot things. But not everything. You remembered Calla’s laugh. The way she tapped her fork twice before eating. You remembered Phainon’s hand, always steady on your back when you faltered. You remembered how you loved him. Still loved him.
Even when words were hard.
Even when days blurred.
That part never faded.
The next weekend, you three took a walk.
A short one. Just down the street. Calla skipped ahead with a stick she found, waving it like a wand. You held onto Phainon’s arm. The wind felt nice on your skin. You didn’t remember where the old bakery used to be, but you remembered the taste of lemon tea, and how he always ordered one for you without asking.
You leaned your head on his shoulder.
“Thanks,” you whispered.
He looked down. “For what?”
“For holding everything. When I couldn’t.”
He shook his head.
“You’re still here,” he said. “You’re still holding me.”
So, how did Phainon become the best dad in the world?
He only followed six steps, just six.
And none of them were ever grand. None of them fixed what couldn’t be fixed.
But they built something gentler. Something enduring, something warm and soft.
A home that reshaped itself around grief without breaking.
A daughter who never stopped feeling loved.
And a partner, who forgot more things with each passing season, but never once forgot what safety felt like when held in his arms.
In the end, Phainon never needed the world to call him a hero.
He just needed Calla to smile when he tucked her in at night.
And you—to reach for his hand, even if you forgot why.
Notes: This was easy, i alr started writing since 6 am. Fanfic writing has become a full time job atp. But idrgaf. I need to train my writing skills for a portfolio anddddddddddd yeah. I promised my friends
Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡
whatcha want
phainon, mydei, anaxa (headcanons+fic): they try to woo u, they fail
phainon intimate fanfic and him asking for consent all the time (longer)
does anyone know/remember this genshin smau fic series with haikaveh x reader being the pairing. i think the beginning premise is that the reader moved from sumeru? without telling alhaitham/kaveh, but now they're back for school. i'm think that kaveh was crushing on the reader first, then kaveh and alhaitham get together, and then all 3 of them. i remember that scara is like the best friend and that he even joined a theater group? i can't remember much more, but it's like 1 or 2 yrs old?
premise. sometimes, talking to yourself feels safer than facing the guy you can’t stop thinking about…until he walks in on you mid-spiral. from awkward blushes to unexpected confessions, here’s what happens when your most embarrassing moments become the genshin boys' favorite memories
You're crouched beside a broken cart wheel, half-hidden in tall grass, muttering furiously to yourself as you examine the splintered wood.
“Of course it had to break here, in the middle of nowhere. No signal flare left, and I let the boat crew leave without me. Brilliant. Great job, really stellar planning—”
“You’re being rather harsh on yourself.”
You startle so hard you nearly fall backward. Kazuha stands a few paces behind, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves, his eyes full of quiet amusement and concern.
“You were gone longer than expected,” he explains, seeing your confusion. “Beidou sent me to check if you’d lost your way—or started arguing with local wildlife.”
You flush. “No, I’m just…talking to myself. Thinking through how to fix it.”
He steps closer and knelt beside you, examining the wheel. “Hm. The axle’s intact. A proper wedge might hold long enough to get you back to the road.”
You blink. “Oh. You’re not going to tease me about earlier?”
“I speak to the wind as if it listens,” he says lightly. “Why would I judge you for speaking to yourself?”
You glance at him. “And does the wind ever answer?”
He smiles faintly. “Only when I’m quiet enough to hear it.”
And then, just like that, he gets to work, gathering branches, finding rope in your satchel, never once asking why you chose to be alone in the first place but just staying until the cart moves again. Maybe the wind hadn’t answered, but he had.
diluc
He walks into the tavern early in the morning, expecting silence. Instead, he hears your voice in a low, frantic whisper as you await his arrival: “Okay, you’ve got this. He’s just a man. A tall, brooding, red-haired, intimidatingly handsome man—Archons above, why am I like this?”
He freezes mid-step, but the tap of his boot on the tile is loud enough to betray him. You whirl around, mortified, and lock eyes with him like a deer caught in emotionally compromising headlights.
He blinks once. Slowly.
“…I assume that was about me,” he says, voice neutral, but his ears are visibly pink.
“I—No—I mean—kind of?” you squeak, visibly crumbling under the weight of your own existence.
He clears his throat and looks away, reaching for a mug that absolutely does not need his attention.
“Understood,” he mutters.
For the rest of the day, he’s overly polite, painfully formal, and avoids eye contact like it’s flammable. Later that evening, you find a cup of your favorite tea left out for you—steaming, perfectly steeped, and completely unsupervised. The mug has a folded note under it, consisting of just three words: “You’ve got this.”
childe
He’s passing by your room when he hears your voice, quiet but distinct, and increasingly unhinged: “Okay. Plan A: cry. Plan B: threaten to cry. Plan C: run away and never return.”
He pauses mid-step, then leans against the doorway with a lopsided grin. “Wow, those are some elite-level crisis strategies. You sure you’re not Fatui?”
You shriek in embarrassment. “How long have you been standing there?!”
“Long enough to know you’ve got potential,” he laughs, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside.
You groan and hide your face. “I was joking. mostly.”
“Nah, I kinda like it,” he teases. “Plan A’s got emotional flair. Plan B? Classic drama. However, Plan C?” his voice softens just a bit. “If you ran, I’d just find you. You know that, right?”
You look up and find his smile stripped of mischief. It’s quiet and gentle in a way that makes your heart trip over itself.
“But…if you do need tissues, I’ve got plenty.”
Somehow, this ends with him dragging you to sit on the couch, arms slung around you, both of you buried under a blanket neither of you remembers pulling over your laps.
“New plan,” he says, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Plan D: stay right here.”
wanderer
He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He'd simply been on his way when he found you pacing the courtyard, completely unaware of his presence.
“He probably doesn’t even notice when I smile at him. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just ignoring me. Ugh. I should just throw a rock at him.”
He replies instantly. “Try it. I’ll throw one back.”
You flinch so hard you nearly drop your bag. He’s already leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. His gaze flicks to you, sharp but dissolving into something strangely unguarded. You open your mouth, but he speaks first.
“I notice,” he tells you, quieter now. almost like it costs him something to admit. “More than you think.”
Then he’s gone, vanishing down the corridor before you can speak, like he never meant to say anything at all. But later, you find a small, perfectly smooth stone placed outside your windowsill. No note. No explanation. Just one rock, light enough to throw.
alhaitham
He’s walking past the study when he hears you, your voice sounding low, frantic, and clearly not meant for anyone else.
“Okay, if I just put the books back exactly the way he had them, maybe he won’t know I was here. Unless…he cataloged them by page wear. Oh archons—what if he did? Why does he have to be attractive and terrifying?”
His deadpan voice sounds right behind you. “For the record, I do catalog them by page wear.”
You jump, dropping the book you’re holding, but instead of hitting the floor, it lands effortlessly in his palm.
“Also, you’ve been muttering to yourself for three full minutes. You’re not exactly subtle.”
You open your mouth to explain, apologize, evaporate, anything, but he just walks past and plucks a book from your stack.
“You misaligned this one by 0.6 centimeters,” he remarks, tone neutral. “But I’ll let it slide.”
You’re still frozen, blinking at him.
Without looking at you, he adds almost offhandedly, “Next time you wish to come by, just ask. I’d rather see you here than not.”
And then he starts reorganizing beside you. He’s silent, efficient, and just close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.
xiao
You’re sitting alone on the quiet terrace just outside Wangshu Inn, knees pulled up to your chest as you mutter into the dusk. “Why did I say ‘sweet dreams’? Who says that to Xiao? He’s the vigilant yaksha, not some character from a bedtime story. He probably thinks I’m a sentimental weirdo—”
“I don’t.”
You whip around. He’s suddenly there, silent as ever, standing just behind you in the fading light.
“I don’t think you’re weird,” he repeats, voice soft and steady, though there’s the faintest crease in his brow like he’s wondering if he’s said too much.
You scramble to stand, completely flustered. “Wait, how long were you—?”
“I heard my name,” he says plainly, as if that explains everything.
The air feels charged with embarrassment. Yours. Maybe his, too. After a pause, he glances away toward the treetops. His voice is quieter now.
“No one’s said that to me before.”
You blink. “Said what?”
He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Sweet dreams.”
There’s something almost reverent in the way he says it, like the words feel too fragile in his mouth.
“I didn’t think those were something I could have.”
The breeze carries the scent of silk flowers, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything.
Then, without looking at you, he adds, “But I liked hearing it. From you.”
Your heart flips once, hard.
And before you can spiral all over again, he turns to go, but stops just long enough to murmur, “Goodnight. I hope…yours are sweet, too.”
ayato
He’s strolling through the estate gardens when he catches the faint tones of your voice, muffled but unmistakably dramatic. Curious, he peeks around a hedge and discovers you monologuing to a cluster of blue hydrangeas with passionate gestures.
“Lord Ayato, my dearest nemesis. Why must you smile like that? Why must your tea taste like heartbreak and fine politics?”
His brows lift in faint surprise.
“And why did I tell him it was ‘transcendent’? That’s not normal person behavior. That’s the kind of thing a swooning diplomat says before fainting into their fan.”
Ayato brings a hand to his mouth, stifling the laugh that bubbles up. He knows he should announce himself—knows it's indecent to linger—but curiosity roots him in place. It’s rare to see you so unguarded, and rarer still to be the subject of such poetic vitriol.
You pace a few steps, oblivious. “He probably thinks I was flirting. Which I wasn’t. I think. Ugh.”
He waits just a second longer, watching as you sigh and press your fingertips to your forehead like a tragic heroine from a stage play, before stepping forward, his fan snapping closed with a soft click.
“I didn’t realize I’d been cast as the villain in your private soliloquy.”
You freeze. There is no mistaking his voice, nor the silk-smooth amusement threading through it. Slowly, you turn.
“I must say, your critique was…vivid,” he continues. His expression is polite, but his eyes betray him, bright with barely contained laughter. “And rather unfair to the tea, which I assure you is not culpable for your emotional distress.”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He tilts his head, as if considering something seriously.
“Though I do wonder what heartbreak tastes like to you.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands.
He inclines his head slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Next time, speak your grievances aloud to me instead. I assure you, I respond far better than flowers.”
cyno
He walks in on you muttering and pacing in circles.
“Okay, okay. Don’t laugh if he tells another joke. But also don’t not laugh, because then he’ll think you hate him. Ugh, why is this so complicated?”
He appears behind you with a perfectly straight face and says, “What do you call a fake noodle? an impasta.”
You shriek and nearly trip over a chair. He waits. You groan.
“That was…better than usual,” you admit.
He pauses as he appraises you. His lips twitch. “So. You’ve been rehearsing responses to my jokes?”
You blink, caught. “No. Definitely not.”
He steps closer, arms folded, head tilting in mock-serious thought. “Interesting. That implies you anticipated more. Which means…you’re expecting me.”
“…to keep telling them?”
He nods solemnly. “Correct. And now that I know you’re preparing, I’ll have to escalate.”
You groan again, this time into your hands, and he finally cracks a smile. Later, he’ll tell you a compliment disguised as a riddle. You’ll pretend not to swoon. He’ll pretend not to notice. Neither of you is very convincing.
itto
You’re standing in front of a mirror, hyping yourself up. “You’re brave. You’re bold. You can flirt with Itto today. Probably. Maybe. Okay, no, don’t flirt, just survive eye contact.”
A voice behind you booms, “Well hey, I think you’re already killin’ it!”
You scream and spin around so fast you almost knock over a stool. Itto’s standing in the doorway, grinning like a kid who just found candy and a beetle.
“Also, flirting’s totally encouraged. Ten outta ten, would recommend.”
You clutch your chest. “How long have you been standing there?!”
“Since the part where you said you were bold and brave or whatever. Sounded super cool, so I figured I’d stay for the ending.”
You groan. He’s still grinning.
“But hey,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, “you don’t gotta overthink it. Just talk to me like normal! Or, y’know, you could flirt if that’s easier.”
You entertain the idea of feigning amnesia, knowing he’d probably fall for it. Instead, you mutter, “...I liked your hair today.”
He lights up like the sun. “See? You’re killin’ it!”
Somehow, this ends with him offering to coach you through flirting with him. The audacity.
kaeya
You were only meant to drop off a report. Nothing more. Just a quick visit to the Knights’ headquarters, a few signatures, and out. And yet here you are, lingering in an empty hallway, your forehead pressed lightly against a stone pillar as you mutter to yourself.
“Genius. Absolutely genius. ‘Nice weather, Kaeya.’ That’s what I went with. Might as well have added, ‘Hi, I’ve been harboring a wildly inconvenient crush on you since Stormterror was still a problem. Want to date and/or be the reason I start writing terrible poetry again?’”
A breath of laughter—not your own—cuts through the silence.
“I’d be open to both,” a familiar voice replies.
You freeze.
He’s there, lounging against the window alcove like he’s been there all along, elbow propped casually on the sill, head tilted with interest. His smile says he heard every word. His eyes say he enjoyed it.
Kaeya pushes off the ledge and strolls toward you, every step perfectly unhurried. “Next time you plan to deliver a monologue about me, perhaps wait until I’ve left the building. Unless,” he adds, voice dropping with playful weight, “you were hoping I’d hear it.”
You can feel the heat rise to your face like a sunrise.
“I was just thinking out loud,” you manage.
“So I gathered. And for the record”—he passes close enough that his cloak brushes your sleeve—“I find it flattering.”
You briefly consider flinging yourself out the nearest window.
At the end of the corridor, he glances back over his shoulder, smile curling just shy of sincere.
“If the weather stays this nice, do let me know if that wildly inconvenient crush turns into something more actionable.”
And then he’s gone.
A junior knight passing by gives you a puzzled look. “You, uh…look like you saw a ghost.”
You exhale, voice thin. “Worse.”
baizhu
You’re by yourself in the back room of Bubu Pharmacy, sorting herbs and muttering under your breath. It’s been a long day, and unfortunately, your brain has chosen to perseverate.
“If I faint in front of him again, I’m just going to say it was low blood sugar. Not the fact that he tucked my hair behind my ear like it was nothing.”
“Hmm. I’ll make a note to check your glucose levels...and perhaps develop a tincture for sudden-onset romantic distress?”
You whip around so fast that a handful of Qingxin spills onto the table. Baizhu stands in the doorway, serene as ever, holding a tray of tea like he didn’t just obliterate your self-esteem.
“It’s a surprisingly common condition,” he adds, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Often triggered by gentle gestures and poor coping mechanisms.”
Changsheng pokes her head out from behind his collar and lets out a tiny, delighted laugh. “Lovesick. Very contagious,” she stage-whispers.
You bury your face in your hands.
Baizhu sets the tea down beside you with quiet care. “I could prepare a cure, but I fear the malady is mutual—and, strangely, quite welcome.”
dainsleif
You think you’re alone, sitting quietly in a dim corner of the library and murmuring your frustrations to yourself. Dainsleif, combing the shelves for a particular volume, pauses when he hears the soft thread of your voice carry through the candlelight: “I bet he doesn’t even remember my name. I’m probably just a temporary footnote to him anyway. Someone who fades like shadows at dusk.”
His low voice answers from just beyond the glow of your lantern. “You are not a footnote.”
You nearly jump out of your skin as Dainsleif steps into view. The candlelight flickers across the lines of his face, which remains composed and unreadable but not unfeeling. He doesn’t speak gently, not exactly, but there’s a steadiness to his tone that seems to lessen the musty air.
“Names are more than words,” he says. “They are memory. History. Presence.”
He kneels slightly and locks eyes with you, his gaze piercing.
“I remember your name,” he continues. “Not only the shape of it. I remember the weight it carries when you speak it. I remember the careful way you said goodnight two nights ago, as if you weren’t sure I’d hear it, or hold it.”
You can’t breathe. You can’t look away.
“Don’t assume I forget the things that matter,” he says, rising to his full height again. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture softens. And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears into the stacks. For a long moment, all you can hear is the echo of his footsteps and the pulse of your own heart—louder now, and somehow less alone.
tighnari
You’re elbow-deep in soil, half-focused on coaxing the withered pardisah into a new pot, when your frustration finally boils over.
“Okay, next time, just say thank you and walk away. Easy. Normal. Not, ‘Wow, your ears are so expressive today,’ like some feral maniac.” You groan and press your forehead to your palm. “He probably thinks I’m studying him like a botanical specimen. What is wrong with me?”
“To be fair,” a dry voice answers behind you, “most people don’t notice ear movement unless they’re watching very closely.”
You nearly send the pot flying as you whip around. Tighnari is leaning beside your bag of soil, arms folded, one brow arched in faint incredulity.
“You were there…the whole time,” you croak.
“Roughly since the ‘feral maniac’ part,” he amends, tail flicking with suspicious amusement. “You were a bit harsh on yourself, but entertaining.”
You cover your face. “I swear I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t,” he says gently, and then—surprisingly—smiles. “I didn’t mind the compliment. It was…oddly specific, but sincere. And clearly the result of long observation.”
He steps past you, crouching to inspect the flower you nearly murdered in your panic.
“Next time,” he adds, not looking up, “less spiraling, more speaking.”
His tone is neutral, but his ears betray him with the smallest, involuntary flick.
And then he mutters to himself, “They’re only expressive when you’re around, anyway.”
You pretend not to hear. For now.
thoma
You’re alone in the kitchen—or so you believe—flipping gyozas with intense concentration and muttering under your breath. “Okay, Thoma likes them crispy. Not burnt. Crispy, like his smile. No, wait, what? Focus!”
“Crispy like my smile, huh?”
You flinch. The spatula slips from your fingers and clatters to the stovetop. Thoma is casually leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and grinning like he definitely heard more than he should have.
“I’m flattered,” he says, stepping closer. “But now I’ve got questions. What, exactly, does a crispy smile look like?”
“I—I meant the gyoza, not your— Wait, no, I meant both—I mean—”
The oil hisses sharply, like even the pan can’t take it anymore. Smoke streams upward.
“No, the gyozas!”
Thoma is already by your side, grabbing the pan with practiced ease and sliding it off the stove.
“You know,” he says, grinning as he surveys the damage, “you didn’t have to set them on fire just to impress me.”
“I didn’t—!”
“Hey, I’m not complaining. Means I get to help.” He tosses you a wink. “Teamwork, right?”
Somehow, you end up shoulder to shoulder, sleeves rolled up, hands floured, trying again as he gives teasing tips on “optimal gyoza symmetry.”
Later, as the final batch sizzles golden and perfect, he leans just close enough to murmur, “Still not sure what a crispy smile is, but if we’re talking about yours…I think I get it now.”
heizou
You march down the corridor, shoulders tense, voice pitched low but laced with despair.
“No, Heizou, I don’t need your help picking up the papers I dropped. I just need a convenient hole to bury the cadaver of my dignity in, thank you very much—”
A hand suddenly lands on your shoulder.
“AAHH—” you scream mid-sentence, spinning on instinct and swinging your bag in self-defense.
Heizou barely ducks in time, a laugh tumbling out as he stumbles back, half-shielding himself. “Whoa, violent thoughts and airborne satchels? I should’ve brought a warrant first.”
You freeze, mortified. He’s already dusting off his sleeves like it’s just another day at the precinct.
“Really now, that’s the welcome I get?” he continues, far too amused for someone who was nearly concussed.
“You snuck up on me mid-spiral,” you retort, torn between embarrassment and residual adrenaline. “That’s reckless behavior, even for you.”
He raises a brow, utterly unbothered. “I prefer to think of it as instinct. I happen to have an uncanny sense for when people are saying my name behind my back. Or in this case, aloud. To themselves.”
Your eyes widen just enough to give you away. Heizou smiles like he’s just cracked another case.
“You know,” he adds, stepping just close enough for his voice to drop a tone, “talking to oneself is a perfectly natural response to emotional distress. Especially when that distress has, say…a face and a name?”
You groan and press a hand to your forehead. “You’re insufferable.”
He tilts his head. “And yet, I’m the one you keep muttering about.”
You try to come up with a retort. You fail.
“Don’t worry,” he continues smoothly, already turning on his heel, “your secrets are safe with me.”
“You are the secret,” you call after him.
“And still,” he says without looking back, “you can’t seem to stop confessing to it.”
bennett
“Okay, just be normal. If I trip, I’ll just play dead. He won’t even notice. He’s used to disasters,” you tell yourself as you pace in tight little circles outside the Adventurers’ Guild.
“Wait, was that about me?”
You nearly leap into the decorative flower box beside the stairs.
Bennett stands behind you, blinking wide-eyed, equal parts confused and concerned.
“No—I mean—kind of?” you stammer.
He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. “I mean, yeah, stuff does kinda explode around me sometimes, but…hey, you’re not gonna trip.”
He pauses, then adds quickly, “But if you do, I’ll totally catch you! Probably! I mean, I’ve got decent reflexes! Usually!”
He’s turning red now, voice rising an octave as he tries to dig himself out.
“Not that you’ll fall, or need catching! It’s just—If you did fall, hypothetically, I’d be there. Probably. Hopefully. Unless something explodes first.”
You both stare at each other in silence for a beat and then burst out laughing.
“So,” you say, grinning, “wanna grab lunch before something does explode?”
“Yes! Wait, are you asking me out?”
You hesitate. “…Would it make you trip if I said yes?”
“Most likely.”
“Then, I’ll give you ‘probably’ as my answer.”
“Perfect.”
kaveh
He hears your muffled voice through the wall.
“If I see his ridiculously pretty face one more time, I’m going to cry. Or combust. Or both. There is no middle ground anymore.”
A suspicious creak of the floorboard makes your soul exit your body. The door swings open slowly. Kaveh stands there with a tea tray and the most theatrical expression known to man.
“Well,” he says, in full dramatic cadence, “had I known my face was wreaking such havoc on your emotional equilibrium, I would’ve brewed peppermint for the nerves.”
You groan and throw a pillow at him.
“Ah! betrayed by the very person moved to tears by my beauty. So you’ve chosen emotional combustion. Noted.”
You peek between your fingers. “Kaveh, please go.”
He places the tea tray down very deliberately. “I’ll leave,” he says, moving toward the door, “but only after I point out that I’m flattered, deeply and profoundly.”
He stops in the doorway, looks back with a grin just slightly too genuine.
“By the way,” he adds, not quite looking at you, “it’s mutual. The whole…emotional-overload-in-each-other’s-presence thing.”
And with that, he leaves. The tea cools quickly. You do not.
zhongli
You’re standing outside Wánmín Restaurant, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and muttered self-advice as you wait for a certain funeral consultant to join you for lunch.
“You can’t just stare at him every time he talks. He’s not poetry. He’s a man. A terrifyingly wise, elegant man made of tea and regret.”
You pause, frowning at the phrase.
“Tea and regret?”
You jolt and whirl around. Zhongli is standing just behind you, his expression unreadable, as if weighing your words with the patience of centuries.
After a moment’s pause, a faint smile graces his lips. “I believe that’s a new metaphor.”
Then, with a quiet elegance, he gestures in the space between you.
“You may continue your soliloquy. I find it…endearing.”
You feel your composure unravel, cheeks flushing crimson as you try to meet his calm, knowing gaze. For a moment, the world narrows to the soft sound of your breathing and the quiet dignity of a man who understands more than he lets on, and you silently wonder if maybe, just maybe, he is poetry after all.
synopsis: you and phainon are chrysos heirs of prophecy. he is chosen by the gods as the deliverer of the world. the day before phainon is to ascend to godhood, you kill the triplets of fate, steal the coreflame, and run. contains descriptions of imagined self harm
a/n: this fic actually hurt me so much writing it. tried out a new writing style and i think it might flop but. it made me so sad and devastated writing this im going to post it anyway. please listen to just pretend by bad omens for extra angst, which is the song this oneshot is based off.
They say that golden blood is a sign of blessings from the gods.
That is what your mother tells you, the first time you fall and scrape your knees playing in the forest behind your house. That is what the village chief tells you, eyes brimming with grateful tears as he clasps at the hem of your robes. That is what the acolytes tell you, when they take you with them and bring you with them to Okhema. You are seven years old when you leave your home for good.
It is an honour to be chosen by the divine.
That is why they call you — children of the prophecy — Chrysos Heirs. Mortals with blood of the divine, bearing the power to topple thrones and overturn the world. They find you as children, scattered across Amphoreus, and bring you to Kephale’s temple to be raised. In the Eternal Holy City, there exists a romantic legend: when the Twelve Coreflames are returned, a chosen Deliverer will ascend to bear the world.
Only then will Kephale open their eyes anew and lead mankind to overcome the Black Tide, and rebuild the world once more.
But for most of your life, the prophecy is far away. Kephale’s Temple is a city within a city, and as a child, it does not take long for it to become your entire world. Although you rarely see your parents after that, you find new companions in the temple courts. Aglaea, the Goldweaver, speaks kindly to you and weaves you new clothes every time you outgrow your old ones. It is good that you are growing fast and strong, she says fondly, patting you on the head. Then, you will be able to contribute to the Flame Chase.
Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon, the messengers of the prophecy that had brought you here, watch you with gentle smiles. Occasionally, they join you in your games of hide and seek, but you quickly grow weary of them — they always find you. When you accuse them of cheating, they only laugh and tap their eyes. “We can see more than you can, little one.”
But the first real friend you make is a boy called Phainon. He has white hair that’s always messy but never dirty and blue eyes clearer than the sky. He arrives at the temple a few weeks after you, still half a head shorter than you are. He sniffles a lot, something that makes you uncomfortable, and cries often at night. He must miss his family, Tribbie tells you, when you complain about being unable to rest. Be gentle with him.
One night, you hear him weeping in the cot beside you and reach out to take his hand in the dark. You meant only to soothe him so you could sleep — but when he grips yours tightly, clinging to it like a lifeline, that is the beginning of it all.
From that day on, you are his sun and he is your shadow. You run and laugh together in the sun-drenched temple courts, evading the acolytes’ lessons and chasing butterflies together. You show him the best hiding spots, the sweetest figs to steal from the orchards, and the trees with the coolest shades to nap beneath.
And as the years stretch both of you from children to youths, your bond only deepens. The playful games of children give way to shared readings of the sacred texts and sparring sessions in the temple courts. You memorise the rhythm of his movements, the way he plants his feet before a heavy swing. He learns to anticipate the lightning speed of your strikes, how you slip past his guard with your smaller frame. Though more are added steadily to your numbers, the connection between the two of you never falters.
The two of you are side by side the day the Flame Chase journey is set into motion. You watch as he receives his weapon — a greatsword forged by the Master Craftsman Chartonus, its weight and balance perfectly attuned to him. From that moment, you are paired for every mission: tracking, retrieving, pushing back the Black Tide as it encroaches. One by one, the Coreflames are recovered, each one a testament to the success of the Heirs’ labour.
This continues until there is only one left — the Coreflame of Worldbearing.
Now, all eyes return to the Triplets of Fate. Their gazes are heavy with expectation, awaiting the prophecy to declare who among the golden blooded will bear the World. A great celebration is held, then you and Phainon stand side by side to witness the prophets vanish into the Abyss to convene with the divine.
When they emerge again, their decision is clear: the gods have chosen Phainon.
You are not surprised to hear the news. He is every bit the Deliverer the prophecy has foretold. The sun-shaped birthmark at his neck catches the light, like a mark of what was always meant to be. In the years since you were children, he has grown strong and brave, but remains astonishingly kind. Yet, in your eyes, he is still the boy whose hair you once picked leaves from — the one who sneaked you the sweetest honeycakes from the temple offerings and got into trouble for dozing off during Priest Anaxagoras’ classes.
You find him after the celebrations exactly where you expect: beneath the third fig tree next to a fountain of Phagousa. The familiar curve of his shoulders, the way he sprawls in the grass — it is a sight you have seen countless times as children. He does not open his eyes when you settle beside him. For a moment, the two of you simply exist side by side, as if the world beyond the garden walls has paused in its breath.
“I am afraid,” Phainon admits after a long silence, eyes tracing the shadows of the fig tree as the sun moves overhead. “I do not know what the ascension will be like, if I even pass the trial. I fear it will burn every part of me away and leave me hollow. I do not know what it means… to become a god.”
You sit quietly for a moment, letting the breeze carry away the weight of his words. “Do you remember the legend of Achilles?” you ask softly.
He lifts an eyebrow, a faint trace of confusion in his gaze. “You mean Mydeimos’ ancestor,” he clarifies, referring to another Chrysos Heir the two of you had befriended later on. It’d taken a long time for Aglaea to convince his parents to bring him here, as the sole heir to the Kremnoan royal family. When you nod, he continues. “Legends say that he was dipped in the River of Souls as a child and gained an undying body.”
You twist a leaf between your fingers, studying its veins, much like the ones on your palms. “I’ve read other versions,” you tell him. “Some say he only emerged from the river with his humanity intact because he held onto what was most precious to him from his mortal life. Perhaps you should do the same.”
Phainon regards you for a long moment, before a soft smile tugs at his mouth. His eyes, the same brilliant blue they had been all those years ago, catch the sunlight filtering through the fig leaves.
“I will take your advice, then,” he says quietly. He glances away for a breath, before his lips quirk up in a slight smile. “It’s a pity we haven’t found the River of Souls in the legends — then Mydei could have an immortal body too.”
“Perhaps you’ll know where it is when you ascend to godhood. Let us know, so that we can fight with less worry of injury.”
He looks at you sincerely. For a second, you see the young man who’d shared with you stolen figs beneath the temple colonnades, muffling laughter into his hands as the priests searched for you. “When I become a god,” he says earnestly, “I hope that the new world I build will not require any of you to fight anymore.”
You shake your head. “You see? This is how I know you’ll be alright.” When he raises a brow at that, curiosity flickering across his face, you continue. “You are the kindest and strongest person I know. If anyone in this world could gain godhood without losing their humanity, it would be you.”
For a moment, silence lingers between you, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves overhead. Then, slowly, Phainon smiles.
“Thank you.”
When the Parting Hour draws near, you accompany him to the antechamber. There, in the hush of torchlight and incense, you unbuckle his armour and set aside the steel he has worn all his life. After that, you help him into the white and gold ceremonial robes, smoothing each fold into place carefully. Neither of you speak. When you step back, he stands before you transformed — radiant and unearthly — like the marble statues in the sanctum, untouchable by time or mortal hand.
At the heavy doors to the inner sanctum, you pause. The silence stretches, heavy with everything neither of you can bring yourselves to say. Phainon’s eyes find yours, and for a moment, it feels as though the two of you are the only souls left in the world.
When you finally speak, your voice is steady.
“You are the most selfless person I have had the privilege of knowing. Even if you ascend, you will not lose yourself.” He simply looks at you as if your words hold more weight than the prophecy itself. “Tomorrow, keep your eyes on me, and you will not be afraid.”
He inhales quietly. “I will.”
The doors to the inner sanctum close with a finality that echoes in the marrow of your bones. The last glimpse you catch of Phainon is his eyes — clear and unwavering — and the set of his shoulders, already bearing the weight of the prophecy. And then, nothing. You simply stand there, your own words ringing in your ears.
You are the kindest and strongest person I know.
You press your palm against the cool, carved stone of the door. Somewhere beyond, he is being prepared, stripped of his past, cleansed for his future. The last Chrysos Heir this broken world will ever need. And when he emerges from the trial tomorrow, he will no longer be your childhood friend, but the prophesied god who carries the world.
It’s just a shame that you have never believed in prophecies.
Phainon spends the night as the priests have instructed — ritual ablutions until his skin stings, reciting the prayers in meditation until his lips are numb to prepare a space within his soul for a god’s fire. His mind is a whirlwind of fear and duty, but he remembers your words, the story you had shared with him. An anchor. A tether.
Tomorrow, keep your eyes on me, and you will not be afraid.
He will hold on to that memory tomorrow, during the ascension trial. He believes you more than he believes in himself, the holy scriptures and prophecies recited to him since he was a child. If you say that his humanity will survive, then it must. When the fire razes through him, he will cling to the memory of figs split open in the summer heat, of laughter beneath the olive trees, of your hand clasping his in the dark.
So he kneels, still and waiting, until the bells signalling the Entry Hour sound. IThey never come.
Instead, in the early hours of morning, the silence is broken by the sound of the alarms. First then drums, then the horns. One of the attendant priests rises in alarm when it does not cease, moving towards the sanctum door, but before his hand can even touch the latch, it bursts inwards. Another priest stumbles through, chest heaving and the hem of his robes singed with ash.
“How dare you—” the attendant priest begins to scold, voice high and sharp with anger. “To breach the inner sanctum at such a time— you risk impurity upon the Deliverer himself—”
“It is gone!” the messenger cries. His voice is ragged. “The Coreflame— the three prophets have been slain! The Abyss is burning as we speak!”
Phainon is the first to run. He is the first to reach the Abyss, and the first to see the temple of Januspolis aflame. The people are crying and screaming, and the ancient trees that were once witness to eons of prophecy are now torches, silver bark splitting with heat. Their leaves curl to ash, swirling through the air like dead moths. The flames eat into carved stone as the worshippers and acolytes alike cry and weep.
And the triplets… gods. Phainon staggers to a halt when he sees them. Their child-like bodies have been laid out on the temple steps, draped in white shrouds that cannot quite hide the golden stains spreading at their throats. The sight cleaves him in two. He remembers their laughter, their guidance, their gentle teasing. The omniscient eyes that could see into the veins of past, future and present, yet still chose to play hide and seek with the children.
Phainon’s stomach turns. His vision swims. Who could have been so cruel? Who could have been so vicious to do such a wicked thing as this?
Aglaea arrives moments later, her silks drawn tight about her frame, her face pale in the firelight. She sees the three bodies on the steps and Phainon sees her lips tighten with near imperceptible grief and rage.
“Who?” she demands.
The head priest bows his head, hands shaking. His voice barely carries over the crackle of flames, but Phainon hears your name, clear as day. Everything goes still.
Tomorrow, keep your eyes on me, and you will not be afraid.
They are to retrieve the Coreflame.
Aglaea has not spoken your name since the incident, and she does not when she gives the order to hunt you down. She speaks only of necessity, of duty, the Black Tide, of the ascension trial — of what must be recovered. You are left unnamed, as though your name is an omen of death hanging over all of their heads.
You and Mydei will track them down. You will retrieve the Coreflame. Whatever happens to the traitor is of no consequence.
The words sink their claws into him. They do not loosen as he and Mydei set out, as they press on through Aidonia’s winter winds and Carmitis’ narrow streets. Every breath, every step, carrying them closer to you. And each second, Phainon turns over the last moment you had shared together over and over in his mind, until he finally makes sense of the smile you had given him, the steady reassurance you had offered.
Now he knows. Your reassurance had been neither faith nor conviction, but a distraction. A lie dressed up with a smile to keep him placid and foolish and unsuspecting while you…
Why?
The question gnaws at him. He wants to rage, to cry, to demand answers only you can give. But Mydei runs steady and relentless next to him, and when Phainon falters, the man snaps at him like a whip. Do not waste a single tear on a traitor. Save your strength for the chase.
They catch up with you at Lethe after days of relentless rain, the forest dripping and treacherous underfoot. You move through it like a shadow, fleet footed as a deer and agile as a monkey. Moss slick stone, roots that twist like snakes — none of it slows you down. You’d once told him, laughing, the forest betrayed my golden blood first, when I tripped as a child and cut myself on its roots. Now it seems to embrace you, carrying you forward, always just out of reach.
When Mydei lunges, you don’t even glance back. Instead, you toss something over your shoulder — a small brass device that cracks open in midair. It blossoms into a net of molten light, and Mydei goes crashing down in a tangle of limbs and copper wires.
“Go!” he shouts when Phainon falters. “I’ll catch up!”
And so Phainon runs. He pursues you to the edge of a gorge, a river raging below, canopy thinning above. There is nowhere left to flee. He barely has time to draw his sword before you’re coming at him with your own, twin blades cutting cruel arcs as you fight him with a ferocity that he’s never received from you.
“Come on, Deliverer,” you mock, eyes fever bright. “You can’t expect to take the Coreflame from me with this kind of half-assed swordplay!”
He is holding back. You are not. He knows this, and so do you. “Why?” The word rips from him, raw and ragged. The Coreflame, the ascension — this is what matters to him most. “Why did you do this?”
You straighten up, your twin blades catching the light. The laugh that escapes you is sharp and hollow and nothing like what you used to share under the fig trees.
“You really have to ask?” You begin circling him, slow and deliberate, predator and prey indistinguishable. “You aren’t the smartest. You aren’t the kindest. You’re not even the strongest, Phainon. Just because three children in a trance said your name, that means you get to be the saviour? The god-to-be? You get to inherit glory and godhood, while the rest of us become chaff, fodder for the prophecy’s fire?”
He cannot believe what you are saying. He has never heard you like this before. You are so spiteful. So vicious. “This was never about glory!” he shouts, the first real crack in his composure. “It was about saving the world!”
You scoff, raising your blades again. “If the only salvation is dictated by Fate that treats us as nothing but pieces on a board — then I will upturn Fate itself!”
There is no more talking. The space between you vanishes in a clash of steel. It is as brutal as it is intimate — you know the exact arc of his greatsword, the way he puts his whole body into each devastating swing. You flow around him like a whirlwind, twin blades a tandem blur — one deflecting the immense force of his blow while the other seeks the gaps in his defense like a compass needle.
But he knows you just as well. He anticipates each one of your feints, eyes tracking the subtle shift in your weight before you lunge. This is not just a fight between a hero and a traitor. It’s a fight between two halves of a whole trying to destroy each other. And each time his blade meets yours, it feels less like battle and more like mutilation — like he is carving out pieces of himself to bleed out.
But for all of your skill, he is the stronger and better fighter. Phainon drives you back to the edge of the cliff, every strike of his greatsword forcing you closer to the abyss. Your blades lock, sparks flying. And then without warning, the earth beneath your feet gives way from the rain. For a second, he sees fear flash across your eyes.
He reaches out on instinct.
And then both of you go tumbling down into the darkness.
Phainon wakes up first.
Every muscle screams as he pushes himself up, the world tilting dangerously before it rights itself. The air at the bottle of the gorge is cold and damp, thick with the smell of wet stone. Its walls loom high, and everything is silent except for the trickling of the stream.
The fall comes back to him in flashes. The terrifying lurch, the blur of rock and sky. The way you’d fought him even as the two of you plummeted, hands digging into his shoulders, shoving him away. You had struck a rock on the way down.
Justice, he whispers to himself. Tries to hollow out his chest, tries to make the pain more bearable. Divine judgment. Inevitable. This is what the gods have willed. All he must do is finish the task. Retrieve the Coreflame. Complete the mission.
His eyes find you.
You lie sprawled against dark rocks, half submerged in the icy stream. The vicious anger in your expression is gone, replaced by a stillness so absolute it terrifies him. Your hair is matted with gold, like sunbeams woven into your hair, a river of ichor tracing a path from your temple down your cheek, dripping onto the stone beneath. And your lips — gods, your lips are as pale as death.
Aglaea’s words echo in his head. Bring them back, dead or alive.
Phainon should remember the mercy you had shown the Triplets. He should remember the acolytes you’d cut down as you sacked Januspolis, their blood still drying when he arrived. The hollowed sanctums, the burning trees. He should steel himself, harden his heart, enact justice.
Your chest flutters, just barely with a breath.
His greatsword hits the river stones with a clatter, and his feet stumble forward instead.
He falls to his knees next to you in the shallow water. His hands are shaking violently. From the cold, from fading adrenaline, from the rage in his chest that has curdled into something sick and helpless.
He curses, fumbles with the hem of his tunic and tears a long strip from it. Presses it against the wound at your temple, his other hand cupping the back of your head to hold you steady. The white cloth turns gold almost instantly, the colour of sunlit wheat, your blood soaking through without hesitation. He rips another strip with a curse, swears again, and presses harder.
“Damn you,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse and choked. “Damn you for this.”
He isn’t sure if he’s cursing you or himself. His hands act of their own volition, betraying his duty just as you betrayed everything else.
He applies more pressure, jaw clenched so tight it aches. This is not mercy, he tells himself. This is pragmatism. Aglaea will want answers, and the temple will demand a trial. He deserves to hear the reason from your own lips before they execute you. He must know what could have been worth the Triplets’ lives, worth the future of the world… worth whatever you had.
“Just because three children in a trance said your name, that means you get to be the saviour?”
The words echo, mocking him. Were those words the fracture line? The moment it all changed? Had envy always been there, festering quietly behind your smile for years? Despair, twisted into raging defiance? Or something deeper still, something he never saw — never dared to see — because he was clinging too desperately to the promise of your hand holding his in the dark?
Did that change everything? Or did it simply reveal what was always there? He doesn’t know. He isn’t sure he wants to know.
And yet, as he kneels in the cold stream, whispering desperate prayers to every god he can name to sustain the breath in your lungs, the excuses ring hollow in his ears. He is not saving you for answers.
He is saving you because he cannot do anything else.
For three days, Phainon exists in a state of suspended agony. The cave he has dragged your limp body into is damp and dark, the only light coming from a small, smokeless fire he keeps alive at the mouth. Since then, this place has become his prison as much as your shelter.
You lie near the wall on his tattered cloak, and for three days you barely move. He tends to your wounds with a clinical focus, cleaning it with streamwater and applying poultices made from herbs he can scrounge up from memory. He counts the steady rise and fall of your chest, each breath a betrayal of the dead Triplets that had cared for him so, of the world, of his duty.
He uses the time you are unconscious to build a wall inside himself. He rehearses the questions, practises hardening his tone in his mind. Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it? He emulates the cold, detached demeanor of an inquisitor, one that he’s learned from watching Aglaea question criminals. He is not Phainon. He cannot be Phainon. He must be the Deliverer, the instrument of retribution.
Was everything between us a lie?
He must be the Deliverer. When he says it aloud, the sound cracks, echoing in the hollow cave.
He swipes at the tears streaking at his face, clears his throat, and tries again.
On the fourth day, you stir.
The sound is small — a soft, broken moan of pain — but it seizes Phainon’s heart like a fist closing around it. He freezes, every nerve set alight. He forces his features into the cold mask he has rehearsed, the one he promised himself he would wear when you woke, and turns to face you.
Your eyes flutter open. They are clouded with pain and hazy with confusion, but there is a fear in them that he has not seen since you were children. You struggle to sit up, hunching over with a low groan, but press on determinedly until your eyes fall on him.
The way your shoulders sag in relief twists like a knife between his ribs.
“Phainon?” your voice is a weak, thready thing. “Where… where are we? Are you hurt?” Your gaze darts around the cave, wide and anxious. He cannot bring himself to move, to act, to even speak. “Gods, that thing in the water... its claws... did it get you? I told you to watch your left side!”
He can only stare. The universe must be playing some sort of cruel joke, retribution for letting you live. Every carefully rehearsed question has turned to dust in his mouth. Coreflame of the Ocean—Styxia. The mission had happened just barely a year ago, but it feels like it’s been a lifetime since. A leviathan had nearly taken his arm while he’d retrieved the Coreflame, and you’d thrown yourself into its path to save him. He had awoken in a cave much like this one, days later, with you tending his wounds, and when he’d asked after yourself, you had laughed and told him to mind his own survival.
He’d only glimpsed the vicious marks raking your ribs months later, when you’d been in the baths. Even then, you’d shrugged it off and claimed it as your battle scars.
“Phainon?” you say his name again, tentative now. That flicker of fear is back, and it makes him want to vomit. Even half-conscious, bleeding from your temple, you are worried for him. Still you try to move toward him, as if his well-being matters more than your own. You’ve always been like this. Always more concerned for him than yourself.
The lie leaves him before he knows what he is saying, born of a panic he does not understand. “We’re… we’re near the coast. We got separated from the others after the fight, but we managed to secure the Coreflame. You took a bad hit to the head.” His voice is strange to him — too calm, too measured. “We need to get you to a proper healer. There’s one in the town nearby. We’ll go there.”
He presses his lips together, and waits for your questions.
They don’t come. You just nod, a sigh of relief brushing your pale lips. “Oh, that’s good. I thought we might have to go down to the bottom of the ocean again… thank you, for taking care of me.”
Phainon has never been more disgusted with himself. He hates lying, and has never once lied to you. The shame clings like a viscous oil to his skin. He is lying to you. He is manipulating you. He tells himself it is necessary — and that you have already lied to and manipulated him far more cruelly than he ever could. He will take you to town, find an apothecary and procure a healing draught. Then, you will regain your memories and he will get his answers, and he will drag you back to Aglaea for judgment.
And then the elders will execute you, and he will become a god.
The apothecary tells him that it will take a week to brew the draught. A week before your memory returns.
Phainon insists that the two of you share a room at a ramshackle inn overlooking Styxia’s harbour — in case someone tries to steal the Coreflame, is his excuse, delivered in a voice he hopes is flat and authoritative. The truth is that he cannot let you out of his sight, cannot let you flee. You don’t question it, just accept it with that same unthinking ease that eats him from the inside out. The only argument comes over the sleeping arrangements, when he insists on taking the floor while you take the bed. You are injured. You need to rest.
Every day is agony.
He tends to you with mechanical precision. He brings you broth from the inn’s kitchens, changes the bandage on your temple, steadies you when you falter from the lingering wound. The inn room is on the second floor, and he carries you up and down the stairs when you come and go. In the bustling, fish scented streets of Styxia, you walk close to him, and sometimes your hand brushes his, as though nothing has changed. The ghost of your touch lingers on his skin like a brand.
Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it?
He repeats the questions like a litany. Again and again in his mind, repeating them in silence as he sharpens his greatsword, when he sits across from you at the inn’s battered table, while you tease him about how stiffly he holds himself all the time. You’re so tense, Phainon. Did you swallow a ruler? Loosen up!
Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it?
But the questions dull each time you laugh. You smile at him with easy familiarity, steal the food right off his plate, and at night you hum him a soft goodnight before closing your eyes without a care in the world. Without a trace of doubt. You trust him completely.
He tells himself it’s only a week. That this is just a means to an end. Yet, when he looks at you — mouth slightly open and face slack in sleep — he finds himself whispering the questions aloud, as if reciting them will shield him from the chaos clawing at his chest. Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it?
The questions warp into a desperate, shameful plea instead. What if I don’t want you to remember?
On the fourth night, the pressure becomes too much. He slips out into the salt stung wind and calls down his hawk. His report is short. The traitor is alive but has lost their memory. Awaiting draught to restore it. I will bring them in once I have the truth.
Aglaea’s reply arrives even before dawn breaks. You are compromised. Mydei will join you. He will reach town by the end of the week. Do not let your resolve crumble.
He clutches at the letter so hard the paper crumples in his hand. You are compromised. She is right. Perhaps it is for the best. The draught will be finished, and your memories will be restored. Phainon cannot imagine enduring the remainder of the week, yet he dreads its end even more. He cannot look you in the eyes when he returns to the inn.
That night, when you stir in the narrow bed, you whisper his name. “Phainon? You awake?”
He answers with a grunt, throat too tight for more. Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it?
“I keep having these dreams,” you murmur, voice thick with drowsiness. Your lashes flutter unsteadily, and he does not know whether you are even fully conscious. “Strange ones.”
“What about?”
“It’s like there are hundreds of us. Or thousands, even. Spread across different skies.” Your eyes shine in the dark of the room, moonlight slanting over your cheek like the caress of a cold blade. “Like universes stacked on top of each other. And they all keep happening, over and over again.”
“Are they all the same?” You shake your head. He watches you from the blanket spread out on the floor, his chest a cavern of hollow ache. He cannot stop the question that escapes him, a whisper into the darkness between you.
“And in those dreams… are we still friends?”
You hesitate, and he hears the small hitch in your breath before you answer. “Not always,” you admit. “Sometimes we’re enemies. Sometimes, we’re… more.” Your lips curve into a faint smile. “But in every world, whatever we are — you’re always the most important person in my life, I think.”
Something in him cracks. The three questions that have been his anchor, his reason, dissolve into nothing. He drags a hand over his face, pressing the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, as if he could physically stop the sting of tears, the overwhelming surge of grief so profound it feels like dying.
Because he knows. At the end of this week, when your memory returns, you will look at him with hatred in your eyes again. Mydei will arrive with his grim purpose and unwavering duty, and the two of them will drag you before the council of elders to be tried. There, they will torture the whereabouts of the Coreflame from you, and then, finally, you will be sentenced to death. They will erase your name from the annals of history and blot out the stains of your existence. And then Phainon will ascend to become a god, and please, please, please, just let him forget—
You say that in your dreams, Phainon wears many faces: your friend, your enemy, even your lover.
But in this world, he is your executioner.
The next two days bleed together in a haze of salt spray and suffocating guilt. The apothecary tells him that the draught is almost done. Mydei is nearly here. The end is a specter on the horizon, and Phainon can feel himself unravelling at the seams.
It is your fault. You smile at him over breakfast, eyes clear and bright. You fret over the dark circles under his own, chiding him to rest. You laugh at a joke he doesn’t remember making, and the sound is like music in the small room, tucked away from the rest of the world, hidden from prophecy and fate. Each note is like a needle being driven deeper and deeper into his skin.
He is a live wire, humming with a frantic, barely contained energy. The three questions are no longer a prayer for salvation, they are a scream trapped inside his skull, echoing endlessly, shredding his mind to pieces.
Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it?
He can feel his control fraying, thread by thread. During the day, he is a statue, his responses to you short and clipped. At night, he lies rigid on the ground and desperately tries not to listen to the sounds of your breathing, the questions a ceaseless drumbeat against his temples.
Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it? Why did you kill them? What did you intend—
It falls apart on the sixth evening. You’re mending a tear in his cloak that you insisted on fixing, slow and careful as you hunch over the fabric. The domesticity of this scene makes him want to claw at his skin until it bleeds. You hum softly, a tune that Trianne had once taught both of you, and look up at him with a fondness that feels like a physical blow.
“You’ve been so quiet,” you say. Your voice is soft with concern. “Is everything alright? You can talk to me, you know? It’s just us, right?”
Just us. The words break Phainon apart.
A low broken sound escapes his lips, something between a sob and a gasp. He buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. The greatsword propped against the wall glints in the firelight, an empty promise of strength, useless against the collapse gnawing at his chest.
He wants — no, needs — nothing more than to punish himself. He needs to claw at his skin until it bleeds, until the raw pain drowns the unbearing weight pressing on his lungs. Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it? The questions repeat over and over, a litany of his failure and his helplessness. Why did you do it? What were you thinking?
Why? Why? Why?
You drop the cloak, your face paling with alarm and confusion. You’re next to him in an instant, hands hovering, unsure whether to touch him. He’s vaguely aware that he’s mumbling. “Phainon? Phainon, are you alright?”
“I can’t,” he chokes out. His voice is muffled and raw. He wants to scream, to hurl himself into the walls, to rend his own flesh just to feel anything other than the suffocating guilt and despair. “I can’t do this. I don’t know what to do. They’re coming and I… I don’t know…”
“Phainon, what’s wrong? What are you talking about?” Your voice is anxious. “You’re scaring me. Did something happen? Is the Coreflame of the Ocean in danger?”
The genuine, panicked concern in your voice is what yanks him back from the brink. The horror of what he’d almost revealed crashes down on him. He drags in a ragged, shuddering breath, forces his hands down from his face. When he looks at you, your eyes are wide with fear and utter bewilderment, and he swallows all of his words back into his throat.
“No,” he rasps. His voice sounds hoarse and fragmented. “No, it’s… it’s nothing. The mission… I’m just stressed. Forgive me.” The apology is real — the only thing that’s been real in the past week. He’s apologising for everything: for the lie, for the future, for the noose that he is leading you to with those wide, trusting eyes.
But your expression softens instantly. “Oh, Phai,” you whisper, and this time, you don’t hesitate. You move forward and wrap your arms around him, drawing his head down to your shoulder. The sudden warmth of your embrace nearly shatters him. He is being comforted for the grief that he is causing, the execution he is enabling. Every nerve in his body screams to push you away, but he is not strong enough.
Instead he buries his face in your neck, tasting the faint trace of salt in your hair, and the world threatens to dissolve into nothing more but the steady beat of your heart against his own.
“Shh, it’s alright,” you murmur. “You always carry too much. We’re in this together, remember? I’m always on your side.” He trembles in your arms, and when he closes his eyes, hot tears spill down his cheeks.
He cannot bring himself to hug you back.
The decision is like a blade to the gut, cold and final. He will give you the draught tomorrow. The week is up, and in a day, Mydei will be here. This is the last night you will look at him without hate in your eyes.
The festival in Styxia is a riot of noise and light, a celebration of the sea’s bounty. Lanterns shaped like leaping fish glow in the dark, and the air is thick with the smell of spiced wine and grilled seafood. It’s a cruel contrast to the shadow looming over the two of you.
“A drink,” Phainon says. His tone is too bright, too forced. “To remember our last night in town.”
To remember you, like this.
You smile at him, that easy, trusting grin that cuts him to the core, and agree.
He drinks. He drinks like he is trying to drown himself. He drinks the cheap, strong wine like it’s water, each cup a futile attempt to wash away the inevitability of tomorrow. Why did you do it? Where is the Coreflame? How can I undo this? He wants to drink until he is empty, until the world is gone, and the unbearable weight of your smile lessens even slightly. The festival dissolves around him into a smear of light and sound, the laughter of the crowd twisting into the mocking echo of his own conscience.
You try to keep up, your laughter light and careless as you sip your own drink slowly, but your eyes watch him with growing concern as he stumbles, as his words begin to slow.
“Phainon, maybe you should slow down,” you say, one hand on his arm. The gentle touch shatters him completely.
He sags against you there, in the middle of the joyous crowd, his forehead coming to rest against your shoulder. The dam breaks. The questions he’s held back for a week, the grief, the betrayal — everything pours out of him in ragged, broken sobs.
“Why?” he weeps into your hair, his voice a shattered thing. “Why did you do it? Why would you do it? How do I stop this? How do I fix this?”
He’s a mess of a man. The acolytes in the temple wouldn’t recognise him now — the mighty Deliverer, brought to his knees. He’s laughable. A joke. He expects you to pull away, confused and alarmed by the outburst of a drunkard.
But you don’t. Instead, you hold him up. Your arms wrap around him, steady amid the spinning chaos of the festival, his mind. And he thinks, through the alcohol-fueled haze, that he hears you whisper something into his hair. Three words, breaking with a sorrow that mirrors his own.
I’m sorry, Phainon.
The world is tilting. He’s not sure if he imagined it. The apology makes no sense. You do not remember the people you have killed, the Coreflame you have stolen, the Triplets that you have murdered. The you of now has nothing to apologise for.
You half-carry, half-lead him away from the festival, back through the quieting streets to the inn. He stumbles up the stairs, your body a warm, solid anchor against his side. When you get him onto the bed, his head is spinning.
He hears you rummage around, before you return. “Here,” you murmur, your voice soft. You’re pressing a cup of cool water to his lips. “Drink this. It will help.”
And because Phainon trusts you — ingrained, absolute, despite everything — he doesn’t hesitate. He drinks, gulping down the water, hoping that it will clear the fog of wine and misery. It’s only as the last drop goes down that a distant, warning bell rings at the back of his muddled mind. The water had a faint, bitter aftertaste. Herbs. Not from the wine.
His eyes flutter open, trying to focus on your face. Your expression is unreadable, a mixture of that gentle concern and something else… sad and final.
“What…?” he slurs, but the word is heavy and his tongue is thick. The drowsiness hits him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. It’s not the sluggishness of alcohol, but a chemical pull, dragging him down into unconsciousness. His last, fragmented thought is this:
You have betrayed him again.
The world goes dark.
He wakes to a pounding head and a silence that feels wrong. Sunlight streams in through the window, too bright, too late. He is in the bed, the blanket tucked neatly around him.
The room is empty.
The memory of last night crashes over him like a tidal wave: the festival, drinking desperately, his collapse, your arms around him, the cup pressed to his lips. The bitter aftertaste. The sleep he’d been dragged into, like a mercy that he didn’t deserve. The room is empty.
No.
He lurches to his feet, the movement sending a spike of pain through his skull as he stumbles. His eyes dart around the room, desperate for a sign, a clue, anything.
There, on the small table beneath the window, is a single piece of paper, folded neatly. His name is written on it in your familiar hand. With trembling fingers, he picks it up and unfolds it.
See you tomorrow, Phainon.
It stirs in him, vague and half-formed: a faint impression of your lips pressed to his hair as he slipped into drugged sleep. He cannot tell if it was real or a dream, a trick of his desperate mind.
The draught. Mydei. The trial and execution. The Coreflame. The week of feigned normalcy, the lies he had whispered — everything he had clung to, every thread of control, every shred of hope… it was all for nothing.
You were gone.
And you remembered everything.
The air in the Abyss of Fate is still and cold, thick with the scent of copper. The temple is silent now as you step into the inner sanctum. Your blade drips with the blood of two demigods. The third one sits before you.
She does not cower. She does not weep. She simply sits on her stool, small hands folded neatly in her lap. When she sees you, the blood of her sisters staining the weapons they’d once presented to you, a sad, faint smile touches her lips.
“We knew you would come.”
Part of you had guessed that already. But you still find yourself trying to buy time, trying to delay the inevitable. “Why didn’t you try to flee?”
"The moment one becomes aware of prophecy is also the moment one becomes a slave to it." Her voice, normally sounding so childlike, now ancient as she replies. “That is why you are here, aren’t you?”
You swallow, and raise your sword. “Then, I guess this is payback for all the times you cheated at hide and seek.” You force your hand to stop shaking. When you take a life, your blade, hand and heart must all be aligned. That is what Trinnon had taught you, the first time you had learned to wield a sword. “I will make it quick.”
You owe them that much.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, her voice soft, “I hope you succeed.” The unspoken forgiveness in her voice is more painful than any condemnation. You wish she would fight back. It would be easier that way. Instead, her eyes close in a picture of peaceful acceptance.
When you take a step forward, however, she speaks again.
“Janus has shown us how you will die. Do you want to know?”
You were a child when you first started dreaming.Long even before the acolytes took you from your home. In those dreams, he is a god, radiant and terrible, and he burns like a scorching blaze. There is a greatsword buried in your chest, and the god — Khaslana — cries, begs, screams like a wounded animal as he clutches you in his arms. His tears evaporate before they can make contact with your skin, dissolving in the heat of his divinity.
I don’t care about the world, he sobs, his voice ragged and breaking. Please. Please just give them back.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, you whisper comfort and lies against his trembling fingertips. I’ll see you tomorrow. Promise.
You had never understood the dream. But it had come back, again and again, just like how the sun returned with each dawn. And then you had seen Phainon lift his greatsword for the first time, the way the sun shaped birthmark at his throat caught the light, and in that moment, everything had become clear.
Now, you just smile softly.
“No,” you answer, and draw your blade across her throat.
in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?
wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.
there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment.
it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.
you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.
but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.
the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.
marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.
servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.
you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.
dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity.
“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.
“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.
“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.”
it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”
you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.
the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.
is he drinking... blood?
your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?”
flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”
you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself.
for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.
the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.
his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”
you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.
with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”
you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you.
“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.
“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”
that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination.
you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.
yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.
ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION
over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband.
you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him.
you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.
all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.
(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.
there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in.
it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.
as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest.
the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.
"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"
ah.
well at least he has jokes..?)
or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace.
(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.
so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?
you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.
"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”
well that didn’t exactly sound convincing.
“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”
and that certainly didn’t make it any better!
you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal.
you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)
either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!
today will be different.
failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.
so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.
you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.
but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.
perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.
pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—
a sudden force slams into your back.
the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.
it’s deeper than you thought.
icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down.
as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.
the next thing you feel is warmth.
your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees.
you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.
his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.
for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.
did he jump in after you..?
“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality.
your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve.
it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you.
he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"
the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."
his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.
“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."
mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.
your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent.
a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—
a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.
“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”
sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.
“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him.
his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”
there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.
he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”
and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.
somehow, it fits him too well.
ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR
once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.
held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.
and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena.
the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent.
within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.
mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.
the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side.
phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."
mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.
“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”
phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.
alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.
exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”
but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.
the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone.
“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.
mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.
“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”
“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”
“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit.
mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.
the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.
and yet, here you are.
as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.
“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.
“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.
he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.
something tugs at the edge of his mind.
you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.
so why do you still look at him like that?
his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.
“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.
you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.
you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.
“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.
but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters.
“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”
“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.
he freezes.
he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence.
but his darling wife doesn’t know that.
and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.
your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”
you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.
for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.
ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS
"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner.
the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."
you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts.
phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses.
you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."
phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."
you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"
to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.
—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."
the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.
you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.
“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—”
your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?
“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain.
beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.
but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”
“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing.
the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.”
she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”
“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—”
her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.
and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.
your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.
a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.
you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you.
mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.
with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry.
a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.
“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”
the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”
“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself. she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.
“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward, “take her away.”
“y-your highness, i only—”
mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”
the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.
then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction.
phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”
but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.
with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.
“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”
he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”
you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”
ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?
his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”
phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.
mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”
he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it.
the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly, as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.
it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.
the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.
at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—”
“mydei.”
…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?
(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)
you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.
“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”
he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips.
he looks good like this, you think.
with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”
a half-truth, at best.
your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.
a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.
could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.
but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”
mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.
"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."
mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.
warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.
you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”
mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.
"especially when they were a gift from you."
and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.
ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART
it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.
it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.
“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”
he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."
mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"
phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words.
“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"
the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.
“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”
ah. that does it.
mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.
phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth.
“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.
phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.
“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”
“i’m not mad i—”
“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”
mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters.
phainon smiles. “then tell her.”
mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”
the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development.
you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.
right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.
phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.
because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.
“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.
phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”
he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”
you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.
“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?”
he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.
you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”
phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”
narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”
“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”
there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.
still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—
only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.
just your luck.
mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.
and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.
did he just—?
heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.
“the prince has a sweet tooth.”
for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.
all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat.
mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—
your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.
you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.
phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.
the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall.
seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.
you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.
before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”
mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.
(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)
you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.
rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.
it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.
…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.
so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either.
still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.
as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.
you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”
you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”
phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”
you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble.
oh no.
“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”
you frown. “phainon—”
he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”
he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”
“huh?”
"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.
you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.
"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"
“that’s enough.”
both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.
phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”
the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.
“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?”
a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.
even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch.
his gaze is so unbearably soft.
after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.
you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.
(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)
ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION
the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.
all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.
from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena.
the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.
the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.
and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.
you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.
with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching.
nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.
so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—
only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.
without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.
you blink, momentarily startled.
warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.
it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince.
and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.
you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”
he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout.
“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.
you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?
“... and i wanted one today.”
“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”
as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”
his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident.
it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.
you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”
honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway.
“if it’s for you,”
his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“i’d do anything.”
ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS
from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it.
ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears.
your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip.
the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.
you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal.
the crowd cheers for violence.
warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.
and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought.
the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.
because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want…
is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.
the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.
the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.
the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back.
for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.
then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.
for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.
“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.
he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.
the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see.
a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.
and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.
in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips.
with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.
you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.
“you came back to me,” you murmur.
he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.
“i always will.”
you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.
at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.
EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER
the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.
mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it.
“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”
you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.
“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.
he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”
the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.
you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”
he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”
you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”
with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.
you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”
“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”
he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”
you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands.
“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.
the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.
his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.
"i love you, [name]."
and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.
thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3
clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent
word count: 18k
Summary: You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.
notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.
Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.
A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:
“You looked like you had a long night.”
No name. No heart. Just that.
You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you, phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices, but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.
And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.
Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.
“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.
You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”
He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”
Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”
“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.
“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.
You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.
You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie, striped, loud, and undeniably Clark, is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.
He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.
“Clark, careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.
He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.
“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry I’m late. Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”
You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk, specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.
Except… it’s not.
Then he clears his throat, loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel, and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”
You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”
He flashes you the smile again, crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.
And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.
You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is….He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.
You flinch. “You good?”
“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”
Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.
You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.
You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.
You don’t say it aloud, not even to yourself, but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.
It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.
He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.
…Could he?
You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.
You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.
Just in case.
-
You forget about the note by lunch.
Mostly.
The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts. Phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.
By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.
But this time, the note reads:
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand.
You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it. You thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.
And someone else had read it. Which means…
Your eyes flick up. Around.
The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.
And then Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.
You stare for a second too long.
He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.
Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.
You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all. So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it?
You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.
The loops. The slight leftward tilt.
Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.
You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.
You don’t say anything.
-
Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder. Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.
“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”
You open your mouth, just barely, ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.
“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”
The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”
Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”
Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.
You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.
Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.
Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.
You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.
-
The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.
Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.
You’re just as tired, though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.
Clark gets up to grab it before you can.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”
He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”
You pause. “Why?”
“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”
You snort before you can stop it.
It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.
“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage.
Clark looks up instantly.
You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”
You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.
“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.” The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.
You blink. “Clark…”
“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”
He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.
-
The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.
Tucked into the side pocket of your coat, the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.
It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words, quiet, certain, and meant for you.
You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard, but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.
You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.
Like armor.
-
By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder, one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.
This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked, unsurprisingly, by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.
“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.
You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.
“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”
“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”
“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.
Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate. Usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.
And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on, half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.
He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.
“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell. There was a fireball.”
The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”
“I just,” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”
He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.
“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.
“Sorry—sorry—hang on,” he lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.
The tension breaks, not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered.
You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.
Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”
You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”
She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight. Not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.
Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.
He’d meant it.
Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.
You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.
He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up, right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.
You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.
You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.
-
You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.
Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.
You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.
-
You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.
You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”
He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know, it stuck with me.”
He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”
“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”
“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean, it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”
You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.
And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.
You don’t call him on it.
Not yet.
-
Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day. He could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.
His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.
He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way. Shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.
You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.
And his hands.
God, his hands.
You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them, fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.
You wonder, just for a moment, what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.
He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.
It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them, like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.
His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air, fragile yet charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.
You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”
And he just smiles, soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.
-
You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again. Careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.
It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.
You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence, no flourish, no punctuation.
“Then tell me in person.”
You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.
So this time, you let him find something waiting.
And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.
-
The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.
You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.
So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.
“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”
You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.
You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes, unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
But you know he’ll see it.
You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour, just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.
Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.
You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is, elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.
Watching you.
His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.
Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.
And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.
-
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.
But still, you dress carefully.
You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.
You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.
The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.
It’s also empty.
You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something, like it sees something.
The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.
And then—nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.
Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.
Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.
You just go quiet.
-
The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing, ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.
You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture. Chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.
“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.
Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.
What you don’t see is the hallway, just twenty feet away, where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.
And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.
He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.
Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.
But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.
He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.
You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.
-
That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.
The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.
You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.
You unfold it slowly.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t—
But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”
The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur. You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?
You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.
-
What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way, coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.
He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.
And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp, not even from this universe, tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.
Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely.
He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.
-
It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.
First it’s the downed power lines sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.
You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges, someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.
Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.
And then he lands.
Superman.
Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.
Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.
You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.
And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.
It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.
Like Clark says it.
It stuns you more than the explosion did.
You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.
You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.
Sweetheart.
You’ve heard it before, dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.
Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.
And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.
But that’s not possible. Because Superman is, well, Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.
And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.
Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.
…Sort of.
-
You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it, frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
But it means something now.
You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.
Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand, one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.
“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.
You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”
He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”
“I said I’m fine, Clark.”
You hate the way his face flickers at that. Hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.
-
You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon, half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.
“He called me sweetheart.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”
“No. Superman.”
Her chewing slows.
You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”
Lois makes a sound, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”
You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”
“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.
You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.
But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality, latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.
Sweetheart.
It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one, sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.
The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.
You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer?
You might fall right through it.
-
Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.
The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.
His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.
Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.
“Got your quote. Sending now.”
“Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.”
“Hope your meeting went okay.”
You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say, but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.
You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.
And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning, just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.
“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”
You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?
But then Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.
“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”
Silence follows. Not because of the volume. He wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.
Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush, but crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over, but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.
The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”
Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.
You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment, those words, it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.
The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.
You think about the phrases he’s used before.
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
And now:
“Her work actually matters.”
All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.
You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing, always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.
It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it?
You can’t stop.
-
It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.
Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes, most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.
“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”
You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier. That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed, but written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.
At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.
“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.”
“I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”
You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.
The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note, the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.
You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.
It’s exact.
You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.
You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.
“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”
You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea, just the way you like it, no comment, and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.
He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.
You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard, low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.
He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.
You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.
“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”
You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you.
Then you go.
-
That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.
The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface.
There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.
Clark Kent.
And somehow, somehow, he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.
-
The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.
Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum, sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar, but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.
Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching.
You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Clark startles. Not dramatically, just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I-what?”
You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”
He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.
“I…” he tries again, softer now, “I didn’t think you knew.”
“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”
He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”
You cross your arms, not out of anger, but more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”
“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”
You watch him. Wait.
And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him, soft, clumsy, brilliant, real, would somehow undo the magic.
“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”
You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”
He blinks.
You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”
Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.
You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”
Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.
“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.
“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”
“But?” you press, gently.
He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches, not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.
You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him, really taking him in. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”
Clark’s eyes flicker, hope and heartbreak all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”
A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”
He freezes.
You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”
And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.
But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.
You both stay like that, close, but not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.
“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”
You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”
He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”
You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again, quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”
And your heart flutters all over again.
-
Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.
You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.
But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois? Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now.
“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.
You blink. “What?”
“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”
You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”
“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”
“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”
You roll your eyes. “Lois…”
“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”
Your stomach flips.
“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”
You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.
“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”
You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”
“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”
You snort. “So your type.”
“Exactly,” she lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”
You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.
-
The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.
But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.
When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift. To mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.
You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.
The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.
You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.
So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.
And he is.
The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess, fingers clearly run through it too many times.
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.
He looks like Superman.
No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.
And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there, still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook, you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”
He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”
You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.
Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”
You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”
Clark nods, but you’re not finished.
“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”
You meet his eyes, clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then, carefully, slowly, you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.
Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair, fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.
He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.
“Clark,” but you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up, one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head, and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.
You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap, into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.
“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”
You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat, you finally believe it.
You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.
His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him, all of him, underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”
You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.
His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.
“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to,” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone. “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”
A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”
You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.
“You’re so…” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander, curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.
“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”
“I kept every one,” you whisper.
His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now, he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.
Clark kisses you again, soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that, barely audible, but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.
“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.
-
The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.
Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.
When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.
You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”
He groans. “Don’t say that. I’ll lose sleep.”
You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping.
Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.
“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.
He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it and presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.
Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell, maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once, because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again, this time fuller, deeper, your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.
It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.
You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.
You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead, bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.
You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.
That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is, you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.
-
The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.
But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.
Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk, glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking, lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.
But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.
And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away, bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.
But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.
You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.
Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.
“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.
You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”
You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should, just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist, and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you, ready to jump too.
“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.
Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here, beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water, the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.
Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches, not your hands, but your face, as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.
You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.
You raise a brow. “What?”
He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”
But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.
His lips twitch. “Late night.”
“Editing from home?”
He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself, like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.
“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”
You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.
He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”
You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes, not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.
But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.
And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely, you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”
He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely, but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible, but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.
He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.
And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.
-
That night, after the city has quieted, after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens, the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.
You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.
You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind, just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.
You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.
No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.
You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time, less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.
“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.”
—C.K.
You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.
Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.
Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.
You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you, this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this, this steady climb into something real, than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.
So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.
-
You’re not official.
Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now, something solid and golden and real in the space between words.
It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours, just barely, and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.
And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.
Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.
You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.
-
You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.
He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.
You don’t ask.
You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.
-
The next kiss happens on your couch.
You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.
He kisses you once, soft and slow, and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.
Then his phone buzzes.
He stiffens.
You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.
Regret. Apology. Something deeper.
“I-I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to…. something came up. It’s—”
You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.
“But…”
“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”
And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.
He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.
-
It happens again. And again.
Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.
You never ask. You don’t need to.
Because he always comes back.
-
One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.
Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”
You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.
You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.
His eyes finally meet yours.
“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”
You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.
You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.
And he lets you.
-
The night starts quiet.
Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.
Just… there.
It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.
Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.
He hasn’t said much since dinner, just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.
You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.
He leans in.
The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.
He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this, aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.
His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway, pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.
You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.
And then something shifts.
Not emotional—physical.
Clark stands.
He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.
You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.
Your heart thunders.
“Clark?”
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.
His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them, not from fear. From restraint.
“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.
You nod, breath catching. “You?”
He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles, like he can will the oddness away, and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.
Like he doesn’t want to stop.
You don’t want him to either.
Not yet.
His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.
You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores like he’s memorizing, not taking.
“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.
You nod, breathless. “Yes.”
He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again, warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”
You shudder.
His hands move again, down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.
He looks up at you from the floor.
You nearly forget how to breathe.
“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”
And then he does.
He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.
You whimper.
He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.
By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.
Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.
His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.
“Clark…”
He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”
You do.
You let him wreck you.
He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.
“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”
You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.
You come like that, panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.
He rises slowly.
His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.
And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.
“Come here,” you whisper.
He kisses you then, deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.
But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.
“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”
You blink. “Clark, I—”
He kisses you again, soft, lingering.
“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”
Then he lifts you again, like you weigh nothing, and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile, but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.
He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.
“Clark!”
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His mouth finds you again, warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then, without warning, he slides two fingers back inside you.
You cry out, hips jolting.
He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth, curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.
You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.
“Clark! God, I-I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”
You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.
And he doesn’t stop.
He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”
By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless, dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.
But the way he looks at you then, like he needs to be closer, tells you this isn’t over.
His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”
Your hips answer for you, tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”
Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up, his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.
“God, Clark…”
“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”
He nudges in slow.
The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him, takes him like it was made to.
You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.
“You okay?”
“Y-yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel… Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”
You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.
The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again, and again, and again.
And then something shifts.
Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.
“Oh my god, sweetheart, don’t do that. I’m gonna—fuck—”
He thrusts harder.
Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.
“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night…every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps, hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.
“Clark’”
“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby. So fuckin’ tight…can’t stop. Don’t wanna stop.”
You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you, it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.
He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.
“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Clark, don’t stop!”
“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck.”
You can feel him getting close, the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.
And you’re almost there too.
You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again, pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.
His hips snap forward again, harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.
“Fuck…fuck. I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to. Baby I can’t—hold back.”
You moan so loud it makes him flinch.
And then he breaks.
One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before, flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.
Clark’s back arches.
His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.
“I can’t! I can’t… Clark!”
“You can,” he pants. “Please, please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you. I can feel it.”
Your body goes taut.
A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him, clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you. And he loses it.
Clark curses, actually curses, and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat, not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.
The lights flicker again.
The candle sputters once and steadies.
He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.
Not like it should be.
You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.
After, you lie there, chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.
Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.
“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.
You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.
“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”
You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”
He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
A moment passes.
Then another.
“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”
Clark freezes. “…Did I?”
You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”
His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”
You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”
He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.
You grin. File it away.
Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.
-
Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.
You shift just slightly and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.
Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.
-
In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.
Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.
Clark is flipping pancakes.
Barefoot.
Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.
“Morning,” he says without turning.
You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”
“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”
You hum.
Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.
-
You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.
You reach for a towel and notice it’s already been run under warm water.
You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”
“Figured?” you repeat.
He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”
You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.
Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.
-
That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.
You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes, like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.
You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.
Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.
-
The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.
You brace for impact.
But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.
You didn’t even see him move.
You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”
“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”
He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”
Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.
-
And still… you don’t say it.
You don’t ask.
Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.
He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.
You know.
You know.
And he knows you know.
Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.
When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly, you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.
He’s protecting something.
And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.
You haven’t said it yet, not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.
But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid, that’s where everything soft lives.
And you’re not ready to let it go.
-
The morning feels ordinary.
There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.
And then the screens change.
It’s subtle at first, just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.
You look up.
And everything shifts.
The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.
Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.
The camera jolts and then there he is.
Superman.
Thrown through a brick wall.
You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.
He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding, from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.
He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.
You stop breathing.
“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.
“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.
“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”
You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.
That’s your boyfriend.
That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.
He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.
He’s not getting up.
You freeze.
The bullpen keeps moving around you, half-aware, half-horrified, but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.
Your hands start to shake.
You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.
A part of you already has.
A hit lands on the feed, something massive slamming him into the pavement, and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.
You don’t know what the enemy is.
Alien, maybe. Or worse.
But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.
You want to run.
You want to be there.
But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.
Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.
Not like you do.
Your vision blurs.
You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.
But still, your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.
And you cry.
Quietly.
You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving. Like someone who knows what it means to lose him.
The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen: his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.
The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.
You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.
Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”
“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”
“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing…what even was that?”
Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.
You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.
He’s hurt.
And he’s still out there.
Fighting.
Alone.
You can’t just sit here.
You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”
Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”
“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”
Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”
“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”
Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”
Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”
You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.
-
Downtown is a war zone.
The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.
You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.
The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.
The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream, tattered and bloodied, but upright.
Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders, Hawkgirl, has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.
And then…
Him.
He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.
But not untouched.
He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.
He’s hurt.
He’s so clearly hurt.
And even through all of it, through the dirt and blood and pain, he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.
Just him.
And you.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.
And something deeper behind it.
You know know.
And he is letting you know.
But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.
Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”
His voice is steady, but you can hear it now. The strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”
Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.
You’re not writing.
You’re just watching.
Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.
He looks tired.
But more than that…he looks like Clark.
And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.
You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.
But you stay rooted.
When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.
You nod. “Are you?”
He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”
It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.
You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.
I know.
I’m not leaving.
You don’t have to say it.
When he flies away, slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs, it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.
Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”
Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”
You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.
-
You fake calm.
You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar, anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.
But the second you’re alone?
You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency, the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.
You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.
You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.
And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.
You pause halfway through the doorway.
He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.
He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.
“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”
He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”
You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes.
A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.
He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”
You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”
He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.
“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.
You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”
That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile, the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.
“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”
Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.
His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.
When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him softly. The dam finally giving way.
His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.
You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.
It builds like a slow swell, hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.
You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.
He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation, but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.
You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.
He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.
You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.
“Are you scared?” he whispers.
Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”
He kisses you again. Slow this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.
The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches yo, thorough, patient, hungry, it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.
Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.
And even when he falters, when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast, you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.
Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.
The city buzzes somewhere far away.
He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”
Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”
He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.
And finally, for the first time since this began, you both sleep without secrets between you.
-
You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.
Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended, his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.
You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.
It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.
He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin, belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.
You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”
Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”
“You’re bulletproof.”
“I get cold emotionally.”
You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”
“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”
You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast, like way too fast, and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.
You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”
“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”
“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.
You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”
He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”
You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.
Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced, just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.
“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”
“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”
“I’m saying you’re better.”
He blinks. And then, just like that, he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger, but the presence of someone who will always come back.
His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.
“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.
“Soon.”
“You’ll come back?”
He lifts his head. Meets your eyes. “Every time.”
You kiss him then, slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window. less streak of light, more quiet parting, you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.
You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.
“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.”
—C.K.
You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door, and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.
And now you know. Now you see him too.
All of him.
And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
-
tags: @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)
feat. albedo, childe, alhaitham, wriothesley, xiao. lighthearted mentions of drowning lol. you will probably never see these guys again unfortunately so enjoy it while you can
ALBEDO AS THE AIRPORT CRUSH
family vacations are fun! besides the inevitable stress of the airport, getting through security, finding the gate, and even getting there like 4 hours early (is that just me LOL).
but my god are you glad you got there early, if only just to stare at the BEAUTIFUL MAN sitting across from you
suddenly you sorely regret wearing your comfiest clothes and leaving your hair messy for this morning flight...
he's dressed extremely well in comparison, dark button up and slacks, glasses perched on his nose as he buries it in some thick-looking book. and his hair is GORGEOUS, shampoo commercials for days
honestly you can't help staring blatantly. who wouldn't? you're furiously texting your best friend about how hot this guy is, feels like you won the lottery just being able to see his face
he glances up once, meeting your eyes for a brief second. he looks like the serious type, so you're afraid he'll just frown and look away, but he SMILES so softly at you
oh you could cry right then and there
you lose sight of him after boarding the plane. your mom keeps asking why you look so distraught and you keep whipping your head around to search for him. you tell her you don't wanna talk about it.
CHILDE AS THE LIFEGUARD CRUSH
beach days are fun too! the sun is shining, sand is soft between your toes, and the water is pleasantly cool
and that's not even BEGINNING to mention the gorgeous lifeguard that's stationed right near where your umbrella is set up
he's tanned just enough to contrast with his red hair, smile so white you can see it from the water. body SCULPTED by the gods. you nearly choke on the juice you're sipping on when you catch sight of him
he seems pretty friendly too, he chats with everyone who comes up to him. just a super nice guy overall, wants everyone to have a good time. a lot of the locals seem to know him and get along with him too
but he's quick too, good at his job. a small boy starts to get caught in the tide, nearly swept out into deeper waters, and he's already sprinting across the sand and diving in to rescue him. lectures the parents for a bit afterwards about keeping an eye on their kids and how dangerous it can be. we love a responsible man.
he walks past you on his way back to the guard tower, bangs still soaking wet and hair dripping from the ends as he shakes it away from his eyes. it looks infuriatingly good on him though
catches your eye as he passes and WINKS
girl you might as well try drowning at this point
ALHAITHAM AS THE LECTURE CRUSH
even when lecture is a bore, you can count on seeing the one hot guy in your class sitting front row and passing the time just daydreaming about him!
you would never talk to him though. there isn't even an opportunity to, he sits about halfway across the classroom from you. and honestly, you don't even know what you would say to him anyway
because this guy is SMART. like, raises his hand and answers every question with ease smart. always chatting with the professor after class about new research. the professor is practically kissing his feet they love him so much.
he has a bit of rbf, doesn't really react to much. you don't think you've ever seen him have any expression except completely neutral in your few months of seeing him
but you can tell he's kind. he's pretty observant to the rest of the class despite how locked in he seems to get during the lecture. if he hears people whispering about not understanding something and he thinks they're too afraid to ask the question, he'll ask it himself. you're pretty sure he knows the answer already LOL, really it's just for everyone else's sake
the professor calls on you once. you hadn't been raising your hand, but they'd been looking to give alhaitham a break after he answered the last 80 questions in a row on his own. put on the spot in front of everyone, you give the best answer that you can
and when you look down to the front row, you see him nodding approvingly, the ABSOLUTE FAINTEST lines of a smile on his face
WRIOTHESLEY AS THE GYM CRUSH
everyone's got a gym crush. yours just happens to be the buffest, hottest guy alive. no big deal. honestly, you're pretty sure he's EVERYONE'S gym crush, including the guys
always wearing sleeveless tops. like he wants you to die or something. or compression shirts. you feel like you've already done an entire workout from the amount of sweating you do just looking at him
VERY polite though. always returns his weights, wipes down machines after he's done using them, like he is not leaving a mess behind. has great etiquette, he is very cognizant of the public space he is using (that's hot)
not a loud lifter either. sure, he grunts sometimes on heavy lifts but he's not a screamer or anything LOL. if anything, the grunting really adds to the vibe ya know HAHAHA
will spot you if you ask. sometimes even offers if he sees you looking around long enough. is this marriage? is this what it means to be married?
you feel an extra pressure to PR when he's spotting you though, just so he'll congratulate you and maybe talk to you for a SECOND longer LOL
says shit like "you're doing so well" and "i know you can do more" when he's spotting you. you think you've died and gone to heaven
one day you stop seeing him. you think maybe he moved away or something, but you have no way of knowing. the whole gym silently mourns the loss together LOL
XIAO AS THE CAMPUS CELEBRITY CRUSH
it's almost weird that everyone at your university knows xiao so well because of how QUIET he is. like you actually have no idea what this guy actually SOUNDS like at all
but he's the star of the soccer team, he's in a band, and he's just unbelievably handsome, so of course everyone is practically obsessed with him. the kind of guy that everyone has a LOWKEY crush on.
you pass him a lot on the way in between classes. specifically between your second and third class, at the crossroads in the middle of the quad. not that you're paying attention or anything. definitely not.
he always has headphones over his ears, hood up, some sort of coffee or energy drink in hand. he would look like an entirely normal college student if his face wasn't so insanely pretty
you would never talk to him though. he mostly only hangs out with the guys on the soccer team. you've actually never heard of him talking with a girl AT ALL, which is shocking considering how everyone throws themselves at him
the one day you DON'T notice him is when you're furiously reviewing for the exam you're about to have in your third class, reading over your notes as you make your way across campus. probably not the best idea, but you're desperate
you walk right into him, a short 'oof' leaving his lips as you collide with his chest. you want to die of embarrassment when you see who you walked into. you apologize about a thousand times but he merely shakes his head and says it's okay before glancing down at what you're reading
"oh, i'm in that class too. the exam isn't as bad as you would think. you'll do fine," he says gently before bidding you goodbye.
SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP. you will probably never forget this interaction for the rest of your life, even if you never talk to him again
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