Reblogo os trabalhos de fãs que chamam minha atenção, com a maioria deles possuindo uma leitora mulher perissexo. Desculpo-me de antemão pela desorganização (não, eu não me desculparei pelo tesão).
|| I reblog the fans' works that catch my eye, with the majority of them having a reader who identify as a woman and is perisex. I apologize in advance for the disorganization (no, I won't apologize for the horniness).
You make your way down the familiar hallway. The building feels quieter than usual tonight. Your steps echo softly against the polished floors. You know exactly where to find him. Satoru always ends up in his office when the weight of everything presses down too hard. He waits for you there now. Like he always does.
The door stands slightly ajar as you reach for the handle, pushing it open gently, and there he sits. Satoru's face is tilted toward the ceiling. That signature blindfold still covers his eyes. At first glance, he looks relaxed. Shoulders loose. Body settled deep into the chair. But you know Satoru better than anyone. You know the tiny tells that give him away.
You step closer, quietly. Careful not to disturb whatever moment he has carved out for himself, but the closer you get, the clearer it becomes. His breathing comes uneven, and his jaw tightens just a fraction. Something heavy lingers in the air around him, and you pause a few feet away. Heart already aching for the man you love.
"Satoru," you call out softly. His name leaves your lips like a gentle caress.
He shifts just ever so slightly. One hand rises. He tugs the blindfold up with a slow motion. Those pretty blue eyes meet yours. Glassy and puffy around the edges. Tear tracks glisten on his flushed cheeks. He's been crying. The sight of him like this hits you square in the chest. Your strong, pretty boy with his perfect white hair and those endless blue eyes. Reduced to quiet tears in the dim office light.
You don't hesitate, crossing the remaining distance with quick steps and you slip into his lap. Comfortable and familiar. He lets you settle there without resistance. His body welcomes yours even if his hands stay still at first. He doesn't hide his face. Doesn't turn away. That alone tells you how much he needs this.
You cup his face with both hands. Thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones. His eyes flutter close. He leans into your touch. Savours it like it is the only thing anchoring him to the present. You lean in and press soft kisses across his forehead. Down his temples. Along the damp paths where tears have fallen. Your thumb swipes gently over the tracks. Wiping them away with care.
"It is okay," you tell him softly, voice staying low and steady, full of all the love you carry for him.
Your fingers move slowly, stroking along his hairline. Combing those soft white strands back from his face. You touch the shell of his ear lightly. Trace the curve with tenderness, and it makes him shudder under your hands. A full body reaction that makes your heart swell. Your touch always makes him feel loved. Cared for, seen in ways no one else ever manages.
Time settles gently between you. The office fades into the background. Just the two of you wrapped in this quiet moment. You keep stroking his hair. Keep pressing those gentle kisses to his skin. His breathing evens out bit by bit, till the tension in his shoulders melts away under your attention.
Slowly, both his hands settle on your waist. Fingers spreading wide. Gripping with a need that speaks louder than words. He pulls you closer into his chest. You hug him back without hesitation. Arms wrapping around his neck. Face tucked into the crook of his shoulder. His warmth surrounds you. That familiar scent of him fills your senses. Clean and sweet. With a hint of something uniquely Satoru.
You stay like that for a long while. Minutes blend together. His heartbeat thuds steady against you. Your fingers keep moving through his hair in soothing patterns. Tracing small circles at the nape of his neck. He holds you tighter. Like letting go might make the world crash back in too soon.
Eventually he shifts. Just enough to bury his face deeper into your neck. His breath ghosts warm across your skin. He breathes you in. Deep and slow. Like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Thank you," he mutters quietly into your neck. The words vibrate against you. Raw. Honest. Full of everything he can't say out loud right now.
You squeeze him a little harder. Press one more kiss to his temple. No need to ask why the tears came. No need to push for explanations. He'll tell you when he's ready as he always does. You're the only person he trusts with his vulnerability. For now, this is enough. You in his lap. Him in your arms. The office quiet around you both. His pretty blue eyes dry now. Hidden once more against your skin.
The world outside can wait. The missions. The burdens. The endless expectations placed on the strongest. Here in this moment he is just Satoru. Your Satoru. White hair mussed from your fingers. Face soft and open in a way only you get to see. You keep holding him. Keep whispering soft reassurances against his ear. Your touch never falters.
Relaxing further into you. Legs shifting to pull you even closer if possible. A quiet sigh escapes him. Content and grateful. The tears have stopped, but the need for closeness lingers. You give it freely. Running your nails lightly over his scalp. Eliciting another small shudder that makes you smile against his hair.
Outside the window, the city lights twinkle. Inside this office, it's like only the two of you exist. You stroke his back now. Slow steady passes of your palm. Feeling the muscles loosen under your care. He nuzzles closer. Lips brushing your collarbone in a wordless thank you. You hum softly. A little melody you know he likes. The sound shared sweet between you.
This is where you belong. In his lap. In his arms. Offering comfort when the weight of his world grows too heavy. He knows it too.
His hands roam a little now. Not demanding. Just tracing the curve of your waist. Up your spine. Anchoring himself in the reality of you. Solid. Warm. His. You tilt your head and kiss his jaw. Then his cheek. Then, the corner of his mouth. He turns just enough to catch your lips in a soft lingering press. No heat. Just pure connection. A silent promise that he feels better already.
You pull back enough to rest your forehead against his. Eyes locked. Those beautiful blues still a little red rimmed but clearer now. You smile at him. Small and full of love. He returns it. Weak at first, then stronger. That signature Satoru grin peeking through the vulnerability.
You comb his hair back once more. Fingers lingering at his ears. He shudders again. This time, with a soft laugh that rumbles in his chest. The sound makes everything lighter. You kiss him again. Deeper this time. Pouring all your affection into it. He responds in kind. Hands tightening on your waist.
The hug resumes. Closer now. More settled. His face returns to your neck. Breathing you in like oxygen. You hold him through it all. Minutes turning into longer stretches of quiet comfort. The office feels warmer. Safer, because he has you.
Eventually his voice breaks the silence once more. Still quiet. Still tucked against your skin.
"Thank you," he repeats. Simpler this time. But no less meaningful.
You whisper back that he never has to thank you. That you will always find him. Always come to him. Always hold him like this. Your fingers never stop their gentle movements. Hair. Neck. Back. Shoulders. Every touch reinforcing the love between you.
He stays in your lap. You stay wrapped around him. The night deepens and, this moment, is a beautifully kept secret. Lively in its tenderness. Full of all the unspoken things that make your bond unbreakable. Your pretty boy with the white hair and those pretty blue eyes. Safe. Loved. Cherished in your arms. Exactly where he belongs.
MCU!Peter Parker x Viltrumite!Reader x Mark Grayson
Synopsis: you’re sent to go hunt down mark grayson after the events of season four. Things don’t go to plan.
wc 3.3k+
tags: eventual romance, enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, love triangle
ch. 1
masterlist
The air is quiet as you linger in the back of what is now the last standing ship of the Viltrumite empire. In all honesty, it’s probably the last remaining pieces of Viltrum itself. You stare out into the vast darkness from the window, contemplating what the future of your life is supposed to look like now.
It had been just hours after the fight with Nolan and his army ended. Hours after you watched your entire legacy, home, and existence just…end. Nothing left to solidify the history of your race other than what’s contained within the walls of this ship.
You had grown up with the core belief that Viltrum was going to be the last standing planet and race of all species. Once every other insignificant life force in the galaxy had wiped itself extinct from lack of capability. The empire was once a force to be reckoned with, an energy so fierce you wouldn’t have doubted it if the planet itself was indestructible.
But, like all organic matter, where there’s a boiling point, there’s a way to destroy it. And three of your own - no, what were once your own but are no longer, sought that ending today.
Thragg calls your name, breaking your trance from the window. You turn around with robotic precision, back rigid in its upright posture.
“I need for you to set out to earth.” He explains, eyes calculated as they watch your expressionless face, “consider this your new mission.”
Something boils deep within your core, a writhing ball of fire sinking deeper and filling your bones. A wretched thing it is - to have a semblance of what humans call emotions. It’s never served you well in the past, and it’s been beaten into you from childhood that there is no place for them in the empire.
“Grand Regent,” you start, “I will do whatever you ask of me. What will you have me do?”
He turns to face away from you, peering into the window like you once were.
“Find Mark Grayson. Bring him back to me, alive.”
Your eyes snap up to meet his, but he’s not watching you.
“I know you out of all of us have the most experience on earth. You also have the most knowledge of the human nature. This will make it easier for you to blend in while you search for him. You are not to make a disturbance while there. Extract him as efficiently and quietly as you can.”
He dismisses you without a second thought. Intending not to stay for a chance of more dialogue. You’ve seen the way that the destruction of his planet has taken a toll on him, the whole group notices it. You’re smart enough not to question it, a volatile viltrumite is a violent one.
You consider his demand, thinking back on his statement.
He’s not wrong about your experience, the other Viltrumites are unaware of your time spent on earth.
Before Nolan Grayson was ever chosen to go to earth, the empire had already taken an interest in the planet.
To the empire, earth was insignificant, weak, and lacking in every advancement comparable to Viltrum. It’s people were in no way an asset to the empire’s army, yet one thing continued to puzzle the Grand Regant. Humans repeatedly produced individuals capable of extraordinary resilience.
They fought wars they couldn’t win, rebuilt after devastation, and formed emotional bonds strong enough to override instinct and self-preservation. It was inefficient and illogical, but it worked.
You, a young but exceptionally disciplined viltrumite, were dispatched with the task of observing the human race.
You were to become human without allowing yourself to actually do so.
Unlike Nolan who lived his life in the public eye, you were required to blend into the background of humanity. Simply coexisting alongside while learning its ways.
Every few years you would change professions, moving from city to city. Attending multiple universities to study their academia.
But your time was cut short when it came to light that Mark Grayson had developed his own powers, operating under the guise of his hero status to help protect earth.
You frown inwardly, after the events that had just recently taken place between the empire and the coalition of planets there’s been a silent shift in the energy surrounding what the potential future holds for Viltrum.
Something that a human could akin to hopelessness crept in the back of your throat.
Later that evening you walk through the near empty corridors of the last standing Viltrum vessel. There are no other remaining artifacts or historic evidence of the reign of the empire other than the previous planets they conquered. No one will ever again see the streets you trained on, or the buildings you learned in as a young Viltrumite. You won’t ever see them again, they exist merely as a vague vision lingering in the depths of your memory. A ghost who can no longer roam freely with you.
A few strays stop and salute you as you pass by, you pay them no mind.
The launch bay is quiet when you enter, void of anyone else.
Your eyes graze over the vacuumed sealed door that separates you from the rest of the galaxy. There is no turning back after this. Either you will bring Mark Grayson to Thragg or you will die by his disappointment.
The launch bay doors parted without ceremony.
Beyond them, the universe stretched endlessly in every direction, vast enough to swallow entire civilizations without ever acknowledging they had existed. Stars burned with indifferent brilliance, scattered across the darkness like fractures in black glass. Somewhere beyond them lay Earth, a pale, insignificant planet suspended on the edge of an unremarkable solar system. A planet you had once been ordered to study. And now you were ordered to betray it.
You stepped forward. There was no hesitation in your muscles as you moved out of the ship.
The artificial gravity beneath your boots vanished the moment you crossed the threshold, surrendering to the familiar weightlessness of open space. Cold wrapped itself around you, though you scarcely noticed it. Viltrumites were born for the vacuum. Space had never felt hostile. If anything, it was the only place that had ever been honest.
No air or sound. Nothing to distract from the thoughts you had spent decades learning to bury.
Behind you, the last vessel of the Viltrum Empire drifted through the endless dark. You looked back only once.
Its battered figure carried the wounds of a war no one had believed possible to lose. Entire sections had been reinforced with mismatched plating while others remained charred from weapons fire, untouched and unforgiving. It no longer resembled the proud armadas that once cast their shadows over conquered worlds. The ship looked… weary. Weaker than anyone would ever admit aloud.
The realization of your home settled somewhere deep inside your chest, so quietly that, had you been anyone else, you might have mistaken it for nothing at all.
With a single motion, you propelled yourself forward. Stars lurching behind you.
Within moments, the ship had disappeared behind you, swallowed by distance until it became another insignificant point of light among countless others. There was no rush of wind against your skin. No sensation of acceleration. Only the subtle distortion of starlight as the impossible speed bent the darkness around you.
You had crossed galaxies before watching stars collapse into themselves. Nothing had ever made you feel small. It was not coded within your Viltrumite DNA. However, as the stars burned impatiently behind you, a fact settled sternly within your mind.
You did not agree with the Grand Regant’s wishes. Perhaps it was because, for the first time in your life, you weren’t flying toward a mission you believed in.
Thragg’s command lingered with unnerving clarity. Find Mark, and bring him back alive. Not dead. The distinction refused to leave your thoughts. Thragg did not waste words.
If Mark Grayson was to be returned alive, then he still possessed value. A value you were unsure of, but had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with the future of your race.
Whatever awaited him upon his return would likely prove far crueler than death. Your jaw tightened at that thought.
The feeling was almost imperceptible. Something scratched and clawed at your insides like a hungry prisoner. Emotion. A nuisance and an unnecessary flaw.
Humans had names for feelings that Viltrumites were taught to crush before they ever learned to wield them. Grief, doubt, fear, hope. Words that had no place within an empire built upon certainty. Earth had a peculiar way of making certainty feel fragile.
Fragments of your memory surfaced uncalled for. Like sidewalks illuminated beneath flickering neon signs. Or the scent of rain lingering on warm pavement after a summer storm. Laughter spilling from restaurants long after night had settled over the city. People who loved one another despite knowing, with painful certainty, that they would one day lose each other.
You had filed away every observation.
For years, you convinced yourself that your observation was not participation. Because understanding humanity did not require becoming part of it.
One of the things that makes your race terrifying to those lesser than you in battle is the way your mental perception keeps pace with your physical speed. It’s a big reason why Viltrumites are so powerful in a fight, you can move just as quickly as you can think.
The first spark was so small you could have rendered it as passing star.
Embers appeared faster than you could possibly comprehend them, even with the account of your needle accurate perception. You were confused. Fire could not appear here logically in the void, it goes against all known laws of the universe.
But thousands of those embers erupted across the area around you, engulfing you in a flaming circle and carving their way through space itself.
Before a thought could even form, a ring of molten light ignited and closed just as quickly as it had came.
You didn’t even have the chance as instinct seized control, every muscle of your body contracting in preparation to alter your course. You were just a heartbeat away from the vastness of galaxy, and now you’re tumbling down into the streets of an unfamiliar city.
A Viltrumite’s mind perceived danger within the subconscious far faster than the physical sensation could react. You had dodged projectiles in battle at incomprehensible speeds yet you could not detect the quickness of whatever had just previously consumed you.
Your body became struck with the harshness of sudden change, air slamming into you with crushing force. It ripped past your ears violently enough to drown out any coherent thought until a sudden resistance from your body pulled your mind back into action.
Sunlight bursts across your vision, blinding for a moment before your eyes adjusted to the world around you. You’re falling through the sky like a meteorite from space itself. It takes you a few tries before you can right yourself, twisting and thrashing through the harsh velocity of the wind, until you’re able to take better control of your landing.
The ground meets your body with a thunderous shockwave. Concrete erupted beneath the force of the impact, sending fractured asphalt and dust billowing into the air. The street buckled outward in jagged waves, parked cars rocking violently as alarms shrieked.
Windows rattled for half a block in every direction, the sound echoing between towering buildings like distant thunder.
Pedestrians stumbled backward, shielding their faces from the cloud of pulverized concrete that swallowed the intersection. Drivers slammed on their brakes and panic started to spread.
People turned and ran, you could hear some of them screaming about a gas line explosion, while others sounded convince that, “the incident is happening again.”
You look down at your feet, realizing you’re huddled around some of the debris. So you stand up without falter, scanning the area for any immediate threats.
Movement caught your attention.
A streak of red and blue swung between the surrounding buildings, propelled by thin white strands that anchored themselves to structures far beyond your line of sight. The figure released one line only to cast another in the same fluid motion, carrying himself through the city with precision before landing several yards from the crater’s edge.
A mask concealed every trace of his identity. Only two large white lenses stared back at you, expressive but revealing nothing of real substance.
He had arrived almost immediately after your impact, which signaled to you a local response time. Your brain raked through endless memories of Earth’s defenders during your time spent there. And although unfamiliar, you came to the conclusion he must be from Earth’s Global Defense Agency. They had employed costumed operatives before, although their standard now seemed a little…considerably more relaxed than you recalled.
There were no soldiers or fellow masked operatives trailing behind him, he is isolated to the surrounding area as far as you could tell.
You watch the lenses covering his eyes narrow in your direction, your muscles tense under his gaze.
“…okay,” you hear him mutter to himself, unsure if he’s unaware of your heightened senses, “No, nope. We are not doing this again.”
He tilts his head up from the direction you came, peering for any sign of a trail you may have left behind. But it was blank, just the vast open blue.
He nodded to himself, “good, stay closed. Please for the love of god stay closed.”
His attention snapped back to you, and for a moment you noticed the way he shifted on the spot. Honing in on you, it’s as if you could feel the way he locked all focus onto the present.
“Hi,” his voice carried a careful optimism, similar to the way humans tried very hard to seem like they weren’t panicking, “I’m just gonna ask, and I’d really appreciate an honest answer please.”
You stood a little straighter and crossed your arms, allowing him the opportunity to speak further. It would only be in your benefit to carry out as if you were still under the guise of Thragg’s mission, despite whatever circumstances you have gotten yourself into.
A nervous laugh escaped him, and it became one of those moments where you questioned again how the emotions of these humans could be so variable.
He gestures towards the empty patch in the sky where you had fallen from, “you didn’t happen to come through…uhm, one of those glowing magic circle things?”
You gave him silence in response, opting to wait for his brain to process the situation a little better. If he’s working for the GDA then he may have a sense of who you are, and thus you’d like to gauge exactly when you will need to eliminate the threat of him exposing your presence on Earth.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, “right.”
He dipped his head for a moment before looking back at you, “because the last time that happened it was kind of a whole thing.” He gestured between you as if you might understand what he’s referencing.
He studies you for another second before straightening himself upward into a standing position.
“You don’t also happen to be, I don’t know…” He lifted one shoulder in an awkward shrug. “…a supervillain?”
You unfolded yourself away from the crater, rolling one shoulder before the other as your muscles worked through the lingering strain of your collision with the planet. Crumbled concrete fell from your suit, disappearing into the dust at your feet.
“Your question is irrelevant.”
The stranger let out a breath that almost sounded disappointed.
“Oh… that’s not-"
One gloved hand dragged slowly down the side of his mask before falling back to his hip.
“Okay, Sure. Cool.”
You ignored whatever purpose the gesture served.
“Identify yourself,” you said, your voice steady. “State your purpose.”
Silence lingered between you. Then the masked man pointed toward himself with an uncertain finger.
“…Me?”
“Correct.”
He blinked.
“…Right.” He shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… Spider-Man.”
The name meant nothing to you, no memories surfaced from your time on earth of any sort of man-adjacent spider heroes. You waited for a better answer.
“That’s…” He gestured vaguely around himself. “…that’s kind of the identifying part.”
“You have failed to answer the second question.”
‘Spider-Man’ stared at you for a long moment before letting out a quiet, strained laugh. “My purpose?”
“Yes.”
“…Currently?” He pointed toward the crater surrounding you. “Figuring out whether or not the person who just fell out of what looked like an interdimensional portal is about to destroy Queens.”
You mostly ignore his gibberish about the interdimensional portal. Finally revealed to have some useful information to work off of.
If memory serves you correctly, and it does, Mark Grayson did not live in this city. You would have to travel elsewhere.
With your calculations, the Grayson residence lay only minutes away by how fast you could reasonably fly within Earth’s atmosphere.
Without another word, you bent your knees.
Spider-Man’s posture changed immediately.
“Whoa, hey!”
The pavement shattered beneath your feet. A deafening crack split the street as your body launched skyward, disappearing between the surrounding buildings before his sentence had the chance to finish.
“-or don’t.”
The city unraveled beneath you in streaks of color. Glass and steel blurred into one. The roadways intersected and merged with the land beneath you, and the water shimmered underneath the glaring sun.
You adjusted your course by fractions as you searched, Chicago quickly coming into view.
The stretch of landscape should have started just beyond-
Your brow furrowed. You know you did not make a mistake in direction. However, the city details are not aligning as they should in accordance with where Mark Grayson’s neighborhood is.
The highway was wrong, commercial properties stood where there should be residential. Even the land itself seemed skewed to what you remembered.
Momentum dissolved behind you as you slowed to a hover.
You descended onto the roof of a convenience store sitting exactly where the Grayson residence was located. Nothing around you recognizable.
You know you did not misremember.
You looked toward the horizon, searching instinctively for the skyline you had departed only moments earlier.
You made your decision.
When you returned to Queens, the crater remained. The streets surrounding the intersection had emptied, abandoned vehicles sitting where their owners had left them in their hurry to leave. A city bus remained crooked across two lanes of traffic, its doors hanging open.
Only one person remained. The masked stranger, ‘Spider-Man’ as he says, sat on the edge of the crater, elbows resting on his knees.
He looked up the instant the air shifted. “You came back.”
You landed several yards away, far more gently this time. Broken concrete crunched beneath your boots.
“You were correct.” You greeted.
His shoulders sank at your words as if he already knew what you were referencing.
“I traveled through an interdimensional portal.” You stated, crossing your arms against your chest.
He closed his eyes for the briefest moment, body tense. “Oh?”
You stilled, watching for any adverse signs to keep guard from.
“This world does not correspond with my records of earth.”
He shook his head, confused. “What do you mean records? And you don’t…live on earth?”
“The residence I sought does not exist.”
“What residence?”
“The home of Invincible.”
Whatever state of motion he was in stopped, his entire body freezing at your words. You can’t tell what he’s feeling, but you could only assume he must be piecing together what little information you’ve been offering him about yourself.
“Wait, Invincible?” He exclaims, now the whites of his mask widen as far as you’ve seen them go, “Like the comics?”
“The what?”
“The comics.” His voice rose another octave. “Invincible. Blue and yellow suit? Flies? Son of Omni-Man?”
Your attention sharpened, “You know of him.”
“No-“
He stopped himself. “Yes? My best friend, Ned, and I-“
There’s a brief moment of silence. He rubs the back of his neck.
“I mean… I don’t know know him.” He let out a frustrated groan, one hand dragging down the front of his mask.
“This is probably gonna sound completely insane.”
You waited without responding.
“In my universe…” He pointed a thumb toward his chest. “Invincible isn’t a real person.”
Your eyes widen by a fraction until you wipe any semblance of emotion from your face.
“He’s a comic book character.”
The words settled and you studied him for any indication of deception.
His breathing was elevated and his posture remained tense, however none of the subtle human tells you learnt suggested he was lying.
Your gaze drifted toward the skyline as you render what exactly it was his words meant. Another universe, one where Mark Grayson had never existed.
And as far as you could tell, there was no current way back.
warnings 𝄒 mdni ╱ sexual content. religious trauma.
racism. power imbalance. addiction. exploitation. age
gap. fluff. slow burn. angst. & more !! era: 90s—00s
𓏲.ೃ࿔❀˙˖ 🥥 ｡ being the daughter of the nation's first black president means your life isn't really yours. though you’ve learned to become an expert at smiling for the cameras, surviving washington's vicious politics, and suffocating quietly inside the white house… you’re permanently trapped behind the silver spoon. then you meet him. the one man who actually understands the price of luxury at the cost of ones own sanity… who knows the isolation of being put on such a ridiculous yet grandeur pedestal. michael jackson, the king of pop, is at an all time high in his career. for you, falling for the world's biggest pop star means trading one unforgiving spotlight for another, because nothing private ever stays buried long enough. with the nasty tabloids continuously scraping for the president’s ruin, they might have just found their biggest story yet. you wonder if the freedom you’ve found in the dark is truly worth the scandal that will eventually burn in the light.
trigger warnings: suicide, canon dc violence, murder, etc.
al ghul!batsis who was born right after the events of batman: son of the demon, and was raised by the league of assassins — thus by the al ghuls — for her whole childhood, and some years after that. as ra's al ghul's chosen heir, ever since she was able to walk her life has consisted of training, lessons, and more training.
al ghul!batsis who, at seven years old, meets damian — her little brother, made by their honestly troubled mother in a lab vial after extracting their father's — bruce wayne's — DNA. at that time, damian is but a little, whining small demon, who in her eyes is not much more than a flea; but over time, she finds herself amazed to discover that he's growing on her.
al ghul!batsis who slowly finds herself attached to the ugly mug who calls himself her little brother, and soon starts spending every free moment she has with him. it's actually no surprise that his first steps are towards her, or that his first word sounds suspiciously like the first syllable of her name.
al ghul!batsis who is still, inevitably, bound by the ugly chains of duty — and finds herself constantly pressed between her grandfather's expectations and the league's needs. just as ra's has no remorse in showing favouritism towards his granddaughter, talia surely has no problems in demonstrating that damian is her favored child, who she's sure is meant for something more than simply being his sister's protector.
al ghul!batsis and damian, who as children find themselves divided between their duty as al ghuls — or whatever ra's and talia respectively tell them that is — and their affection for one another. slowly, their mentors' words creep into their minds like poison, and it shows — damian first tries to kill his sister when he's four and barely able to hold the knife their mother has given him in his hands, while she finds herself being more ruthless and ruthless during shared lessons in his regards.
al ghul!batsis, who starts training for her year of blood at eleven years old, under the guidance of lady shiva — hired just for the occasion. the prospect of the year of blood excites her — it'll be finally time to demonstrate how much she's learned to grandfather, to show mother that she, too, is worthy of a glance. but as the lessons with shiva go on, she can't help but notice how talia's gaze remains firm on damian — on the image of their father. damian looks like bruce, and that can't be denied; his sister, however, looks far too much like talia for her own mother to look at her and not see into a mirror of what look like her mistakes.
al ghul!batsis who at twelve finally enters her year of blood. what promised to be an entry into the world of greatness and everything that was promised to her sums up to 365 days of pure violence — and she soon finds out that it is not made only to kill enemies, but far worse. innocents, species, entire villages — torn down by the will of ra's al ghul, the demon's head, who holds his granddaughter in the palm of his hand.
al ghul!batsis who finds herself horrified by her own actions, and the fact that she is doing them simply because she is being told to. she discovers herself to be a simple marionette, and as time goes on and the trials continue, she slowly starts wondering about the possibility of never killing again.
al ghul!batsis who makes her decision long before she actually executes it. the last mission of the year of blood is a long one — excruciatingly so. once it's over, and she's finally alone with nobody around but the corpses of her own doing, she takes the matters into her own hands and ends it once and for all.
...but when does it ever actually end?
al ghul!batsis who wakes up in her chambers back at nanda parbat after more than two weeks of madness following being submerged into the lazarus' pit — something she had hoped she'd never be subjected to. the servants are quieter, damian is kinder, grandfather stares at her like she's about to break, and talia does the same but with pity.
al ghul!batsis who soon can't take it anymore of nanda parbat. the breaking point comes when she's thirteen, when she decides to abandon the league in favor of her father — surely, the detective would be happy to help his long-lost daughter, no?
al ghul!batsis, who escapes to gotham to reunite with bruce wayne, her father, who has been looking for her ever since he found out about her existence.
fics (best if read in order):
conner kent, superboy:
that girl is corrupt | could you raise her to love me, maybe? (34.6k, two-parter) — Conner Kent knows you're poison — the thing is, he can't just bring himself to stay away from you. (Or: your mother never bothered to teach you how to love someone, so Superboy takes the matters into his own hands.)
mark grayson, invincible:
fighting the hating the boyfriend final boss(es) (14.8k) — Meeting the parents is always stressing. It especially is so when your dad's Batman, and your mom is what many would consider a terrorist cult leader, while his dad is an alien come to conquer Earth and his mom is... weirdly normal. (Or: four times you meet each other's parents individually, and the one time they all meet.)
↳ batsis!reader in the variants' universes (hcs) — How's Batsis!Reader holding up in the other Invincible universes?
peter b. parker, spiderman:
the cure (tbd) — Why can't you come stitch me up? Why can't it ever be enough? It's not enough — all because my head is full of poison and my heart is full of doubt. (Or: five times you encounter friendly neighborhood Spiderman and your actual neighbour, Peter Parker, and the one time you encounter them as both.)
benjamin "ben" tennyson, ben 10:
us against the world — just me and you! (tbd) — Everybody's saying that you're no good for me, your friends all swear that you've changed but I still keep it OG! (Or: Damian is the first one to guess that something's going on with you — but it's only with the help of the others that he finds out what, or better, who, you're hiding from them.)
al ghul!batsis tag
a/n: i guess this was due! i've got a lot of stories in mind, so in order for them to be more understandable i made this character sheet summing up reader's backstory :) an unrelated jon kent fic coming your ways very soon hehehe
Being reborn as the daughter of a psychotic, murderous alien from a comic book you kinda remember reading leads you to having to grit your teeth and play ‘loving daughter’ to avoid having your skull caved in. With daddy issues like that, is it really surprising that you go on to sexually torment the protagonist of said comic book? Not that he seems to mind.
(Mark Grayson x Reader)
Maybe you liked reincarnation and transmigration stories so much because it seemed so inconceivable of it being even close to plausible. Maybe if you knew the sheer fright you would feel in such a story, you wouldn’t have entertained the notion in the first place.
Well, being reborn into what you thought was a fictional world wouldn’t be too bad if you woke up in Pokemon. Now, that sounds like a good time. Getting to leave home as a minor and not having to worry about money when you can just beat the shit out of your fellow trainers seems pretty good, actually. Way better than your actual situation, cruelly so. In fact, you think God or whatever entity-concept-bitch that threw you into a new life should recompense you. Maybe if you monologued hard enough you’d be given what you’re owed—
Are you being dramatic? No. No, you’re not. And if you are, then maybe you’re allowed to be a little obnoxious when you have a bloodied behemoth of a man with a scarred face and metal arm staring down at you, expression not dissimilar to a feral animal with rabies.
Judging by how the screams and sound of buildings collapsing has long gone silent, you suspect that the alien world you were born into was now distinctly lacking its lifeforms. It’s almost a shame. Your new species looked like pretty space elves, like something out of a shut-in nerd’s erotic sci-fi fanfic.
You’re almost disappointed that you have to die as a toddler, you’re pretty sure you were going to grow up to be quite the beauty based on how your new mother looks—
Oh, she’s probably dead too.
You feel like you should be crying right now, but you remain motionless, pinned under the gaze of an apex predator that seeks to maul you, without the right to even grieve.
In the depths of your fractured mind, you realize that this doesn’t seem to be in character for the man, if you can even call him that, before you. You should already be dead, like an ant carelessly crushed by the heel of an uncaring giant. But you’re still alive.
He speaks, and your heart nearly stops.
“So, you are the one that your…mother sought to protect. Once, she was a fine warrior, ravenous and uncaring, but you made her…weak. Pathetic, even. It was almost a mercy to put her down, free her from the sad morsel of flesh she has degraded into.” He leans down now, fully looming above you, your wooden cradle acting less like protection and more like a trap, leaving you unable to escape.
“And for what? To nurture you beyond what her teat can offer—“
Does he have something against breastfeeding?
“—Viltrum had no tolerance, even when it came to weeping babes—“
Oh. You know who’s standing above you now, Negan voice be damned to the worst layer of hell.
“Yet, here you lie, a new generation of our dying empire; weak and disappointing. The only spawn I have sired, the only being in the universe that shares any blood with me—“
Anything else he says is drowned out by your own internal screaming. Your father is Conquest and he's a deadbeat. The unhinged psycho from yet another superhero comic that delights off suffering and broken bones.
But, this information, while horrifying, brings a clarity that washes over you like cold water. You’re currently a toddler, a Viltrumite one, sure, but a toddler, nonetheless, with a pathetic grip and too small limbs, reliant on your now dead mother to care for you. But you’re Conquest’s child. His family, even if the term is a foreign concept to him, and that makes you special. That gives you a chance to survive. You know his isolation, his loneliness. You know how easily Viltrumite pride crumbles when its few survivors found love on Earth, folding like a house of cards. Nolan was the outlier and then the rule.
The way of survival was clear to you, another remanent from your past life; play the fool, stupid and oblivious.
So, you embrace your new body and abandon shame, and throw your hands into the air, making grabby hands at the murderer, asking for ‘uppies’.
(You’d cry later.)
He ends his traumatizing soliloquy, going frighteningly silent.
Yeah. He looks like he’s going to kill you. So, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.
“Da!” You cry out, giving him a gummy smile.
Maybe you should have just let him kill you.
His face remains as impassive as stone but after another painfully long pause, he reaches down with bloodstained hands and picks you up, holding you from under your arms, large fingers completely covering your ribs.
“You are Viltrumite in blood only, your weakness would have had you purged—“
You let out a childish laugh, innocent and pure, desperate not to get ‘purged’ as he put it, “Silly da!”
That gets him to shut up. You ignore the way he flexes his fingers, the way they dig into your skin, more than capable of crushing your bones—
Your stupid, tiny hands grip his, as if willing—pleading him to not end your second life.
“You are so new to life, so sheltered, you cannot even comprehend who holds you, what I am even capable of doing. Your own mother has been slain by my hand,” he muses. “You truly…perplex me. Do you know who I am by sheer instinct? Does our blood tie us together so intrinsically?”
You kind of want to laugh at how much his words piss you off. What an annoying way to speak. Without even realizing it, your little fingers start to squeeze and you hear his surprised intake of breath. Your hand pulls away, to reveal the beginning of a bruise on his finger.
Oh, fuck.
“So young, and your powers are already appearing? This feeling, is it…” He lets out something similar to a laugh, ugly and unnatural, “There is value to you yet, child.”
He abruptly lets you go, and you fall back into your crib, too shocked to even yelp. Who drops a child!? The only thing you do is stare up at him in shock. He smiles down at you, and you almost piss yourself.
“You…are different. I will not take you with me. Do not fret, for I will be watching.” He promises, expression odd, “The being you will become, so unlike what we should be…I look forward to it. After all, you are mine.”
And as sudden as he appears, he’s gone. And you’re left, feeling slightly bruised, alone in your crib on a now dead planet.
How were you supposed to survive, exactly!?
*
You did survive. It seems like your planet had ties to the Coalition, who only arrived after everyone died. Pretty cowardly, really. But, you can’t really complain since they did retrieve you from your broken home , taking you with them. To fight for their cause, but beggars can’t be choosers in a brutal subversion of superhero media. Why couldn’t you have ended up in Venture Bros?
The cherry on top of this train wreck of a situation is that they immediately clocked you for being a half-Viltrumite, presenting you to their leader, Thaedus. Tad, as you sometimes called him, when you wanted to annoy him.
He trained you, along with many others, who drilled it into you to survive, to be stronger than the Viltrumites that threatened the safety of all life and freedom as you know it. You were their ace in the hole, their hunting dog, the hope of the Coalition. Mongrel and messiah in one. They made sure you were educated, well versed in their code of ethics. That your loyalty would always be to them. Questionable of them to do, frankly speaking, but they kept you clothed and fed, so you had no reason to protest.
The company wasn’t so bad at least. Under the Coalition, you’ve had the opportunity to meet a lot of people, from all ends of the universe, some kind, others absolutely terrified of your mere existence.
Allen fell into the former category, always seeking you out, sharing anecdotes from his missions and asking for you to share your own. And with Allen, came Telia, a higher ranking member than you both that you trusted to not spit on you for being ‘Viltrumite scum’ or whatever it was that some practically scornful cadets called you. Little did they know who their leader truly is.
*
You’d figure you wouldn’t see your ‘father’ after he killed your mom, but fate was unkind and Conquest is bat-shit insane. But at least he didn’t rat you out. You still wonder why he annihilated your home planet when you were clearly proof of compatible breeding. Honestly, genocide was a mercy compared to what you know they wanted to do to Earth, what they would probably do to you, if they caught wind. It was for the better they died, unfortunately. Even if their only survivor carried their legacy as recessive genes.
Not that you would ever ask him, even if you did often have the opportunity. Whenever you least expected it, when you were too concentrated on your mission, whether it was peacemaking or inspecting a new planet to add to the Coalition, he would appear, killing whatever adversary you were facing gleefully, expecting your gratitude and admiration for it, so you’d grit your teeth and call him ‘father’, despite the humiliation. You were still too weak, too scared to act how you wanted to. Which was to cave his skull in.
Other times, he would just follow you. Silent, like a spectre. Or a fucked up looking dog.
It was worse when he tried to copy the acts of physical affection you shared with others. His hugs usually broke one or two ribs and his head pats left you with a bump. You’re not even sure how he learned about them in the first place. Other times, they weren’t…too painful, at least.
*
“Child,” he calls after slaughtering the fleet you were leading on a recon mission. “You grow stronger, yet you still lack the true strength of an Viltrumite.”
“Is that so?” You laugh, good natured, noting Shez’s head by your feet. He was your pilot. A good man and father from what little you knew about him.
“Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken you with me, if I still should,” Conquest admits.
“That’s an interesting thought,” you smile stupidly, trying to keep the murder off your face.
“But you are…more interesting like this.” He concludes. And you wonder why someone like him was committing probably the highest level of treason. For some daddy-daughter time? The Empire obviously didn’t do family, bonds were meaningless to them, but apparently not to Conquest anymore. Did the isolation from his race finally get to him? Was he really that simple? That…lonely?
Another long moment of silence passes before he leaves you with your broken ship and dead crew.
“Okay?” You whisper, making eye contact with Shez.
*
You were on your way back to base after surveying a planet of bug people, they had no warriors or weaponry to speak of and their technology was nothing to write home about. Unfortunately, they had nothing to offer to the Coalition. At least that meant Viltrumites would have no interest in them either. No, that sounds wrong——
Your thoughts are cut off when you’re suddenly tackled mid-flight, and before you know it, you find yourself in a stone cube your father apparently dragged around as shelter. A house? Just without a bed. And everything else. It was sad and barren, only having some supplies and what looks like a…cake? On the ground before you, messily frosted a deep red colour. You hope that isn’t blood, actually.
“You told me once how some species choose to celebrate their day of birth. A foolish sentiment,” he rumbles, sitting before you.
You can kind of remember rambling about birthdays. You usually just say whatever pops up in your mind so his thoughts don’t swerve into killing you. The most terrifying thing about him was how we could go from looking like the psycho killer he is to giving you big, sad eyes. It almost humanized him.
“Oh, it’s not my birthday,” you start to say before noticing his expression, “It’s— it’s your birthday?”
“I do not recall when I was born.”
Neither of you say anything for a moment.
“You said there would be singing,” he scowls.
“Oh, well, only sometimes, like rarely, actually—“ you notice his glare, and duck your head. “Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…”
*
While you didn’t have to worry about debt or making something of yourself like in your past life, your current life was uniquely difficult.
You were growing wary (and scared) of having to placate your ‘father’. You don’t believe he would snitch to the Empire about your existence, that would be mutually assured destruction, so you were finding little reason to continue your ‘hangouts’ with him and you were beginning to worry if you were impacting the plot too much, god forbid your existence becomes the reason he survives.
So, you’re going to Earth, to hide yourself being the bigger, flashing target that was Mark Grayson. Let him deal with Conquest when the time came.
…and maybe you missed having a home. And the PlayStation, you definitely missed that.
And after years of having Conquest rough you up (break your bones and rupture your organs) to test your might, you weren’t looking forward to him trying to give you some type of sick ‘becoming an adult’ beating.
So, you told Thaedus you were going on leave, a vacation, really. You needed a break from the continued mess that was your life. What better than reliving the mess that was your past life instead? When your biggest worries were meeting the disappointment of your parents rather than having to placate your colonizer father.
“You want to go to Earth…? The planet that inhabits the only other half-Viltrumite we know of, that is currently the Empire’s main focus?” Thaedus blinks at you. "For fun?"
“What, I’m not allowed to sightsee? Take a load off? I see, so I don’t even have the right to take time off! I mean, I’m already a child soldier so I might as well be under Thragg’s rule—“
“And that’s the only reason?” Your fellow Viltrumite interrupts.
“What? Worried I’m going there to revive our dying civilization with Nolan’s son?” you tilt your head, smiling blandly.
And the conversation ended pretty quickly, after that. Not before he tried to once again ask you to bring your sperm doner over to your side. Which was another hard no. You were not going to mess with canon.
At least Allen seemed a little more thrilled.
“They really do grow up so fast,” Allen wipes a tear from his eye. “But, look at you, finally putting yourself out there, getting some work-life balance! Earth will love you! Well, some of them are pretty paranoid after the whole ‘Viltrumite killing thousands’ thing, but you’ll be fine! Just be yourself! Well, maybe not ‘yourself’—“
“Worried?” You tease.
“No, not at all!” He laughs nervously, “It’s just that sometimes you can be just a teensy bit…mean? Which I love! Great banter between us! It’s our thing! But, maybe, the Earthlings will see it as psychological warfare…?”
“Me? Mean? I wouldn’t say that, in fact, others would describe me as nothing but pleasant!” You chortle, disregarding everything he said, and Allen awkwardly joins you, muttering something under his breath that suspiciously sounded like a prayer.
*
Allen told you to just hang around the moon and someone would pop up to greet you. You hope it isn’t the Immortal.
You internally curse when the Immortal appears, rage clear on his face as he shoot’s up, ready to attack. How embarrassing of him, really.
You tackle him back into Earth’s stratosphere in a sudden burst of speed, breathing in sweet, probably polluted air.
“Take me to your leader?” You ask, arms stilled wrapped around his shoulders. “Or better yet, have him head over to me. A welcoming committee would be nice.”
He only lets out another shout, throwing a punch towards your face, so you grab his arm, throwing him over your shoulder before deigning to fly away then waste any more of your time trying to talk to a knockoff…Vandal Savage?
You instead head to New York City, normally known as a magnet for trouble, in any other reality than this one. You definitely stand out in your Coalition uniform, but people barely spare you a second glance from the park bench you’ve currently claimed as yours.
You watch a group of nearby pigeons fight over a hot dog bun before a presence blinks next to you. Honestly, Cecil’s teleportation was comparatively primitive to other civilizations you’ve come across. A lot more wasteful too.
A moment of silence passes and you can at least commend him for taking a seat next to you. You’re sure that he has a bunch of weapons and satellites honed in on you, but it’s brave of him regardless. Maybe you should thank Allen for opening a bridge in the first place. You doubt he’d be as chill if you weren’t wearing your uniform.
“So, I hear you have a Viltrumite problem,” you start, smiling.
“And I should assume you’re not here to add on to that?” He asks wryly. “Not here to spread word of the Viltrum Empire?”
You laughed as if he actually said something funny, “You know that not all of us were raised like that. No, there are outliers that weren’t indoctrinated from birth. Not of pure blood. Me…and Nolan’s kid. Is he too busy to say hi?”
“Extremely.” He narrows his eyes at you, and you can tell you’ve unsettled him. Oh, Mark wasn’t here was he? Looks like little Oliver would be arriving soon.
He meets your gaze, “I’m going to be blunt. I already figured you weren’t a hostile force because of your ‘friend’ already popping by, but I thought your little group was too busy to grant us any aid. So tell me this. What the hell are you doing here? You’ve already gave everyone a heart attack, to do what? Watch birds fight?”
“I’m on vacation,” you reply brightly.
He stares at you. “You’re here…on vacation.”
“Yeah, Allen mentioned Earth was an interesting place, if not a bit…behind. My old planet wasn’t too different actually! I mean before we started stripping it for resources. Don’t worry, everyone was already dead,” you continue. “Honestly, it feels nostalgic being here. In more ways than one.”
“For some reason, I don’t believe you and believe you at the same.” The man rubs his face tiredly, but you don’t take it as him letting his guard down. It’s probably a signal for something, you’re guessing.
“I’m being pretty polite, you know. I could have just came here undetected. I’m fast enough and I have the tech for it, but I wanted to meet you,” you admit, still smiling, though you doubted it was comforting. “You’re in a pretty tough position here, friend. Viltrum believes you can help replenish what they lost and the only reason they haven’t is because Earth is continuously racked with…internal issues. And they trusted Nolan, too much, a mistake you guys made too. Your strongest fighter would die to any Viltrumite, including me. Honestly, feels like you guys just have horrible luck. And it’s not going to get any better.”
“So what? The Coalition is going to back us up now? From what I’ve heard you guys haven’t had much luck against the Viltrumites either,” he retorts and you laugh again, throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him against your side. You can feel his tension despite his expression not changing. You doubt he’s ever been manhandled like this. “…awfully friendly, aren’t you?”
You’re being mean. But you have a lot of frustration that you aren’t able to take out against the one that wronged you. So, yes, you’re being a bully right now, making his weak, little heart almost go out, but you’ll make up for it. Someday.
You wonder if Donald is shitting himself right now. “I’ve killed two of them before. Viltrumites, that is.”
“Two?” He sounds unimpressed, but you can tell you only raised your danger level.
“Believe it or not, it was a major loss for them. Painted a target on my head the first time, the second time, they started getting a bit nervous,” you share, “The only way to kill one of us is to be stronger. Plain and simple.”
You’re lying a bit there, but you’re not about to share your weaknesses with him of all people.
“Roundabout way to sell yourself, I thought you were here to…relax,” he says, shifting in your grasp.
“I am, but even off duty, I took an oath to protect, especially when Viltrumites are involved. Don’t think of me as an enemy or something you need to worry about. If they come, I’ll help. And if I’m not fighting whoever they send, and they will send someone, I’ll just be enjoying the sights.” You pat his shoulder before pulling away. “I think we’ll become great friends…sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Cecil.” He’s playing nice, at least. “You can stay, we’ll even fund your…activities. But, the only way you involve yourself in any altercation, you wait for my call. Trust that you’ll be met with immediate consequences if you act out.”
With those final words, he’s gone. You’re amused that he only threatened you after you let go of him. He was definitely placating you the same way you did for your father.
“Some clothes and currency would be nice?” You call out to the sky, aware you’d be monitored during your stay. Voyeurs.
You were definitely going to take advantage of the taxpayers. Sorry, Americans.
*
You let out a sigh of contentment as you emerged from the ocean, heading back to where you left your towel. You’ve seen a lot of beaches over the years, but you never had the chance to actually enjoy any of them. So you figured you’d make sure of a private beach in Australia, uncaring of the actual owners.
Right as you bent down to pick up your towel, you had to dodge an incoming punch from the protagonist himself. Wow, he just got back on Earth and he came to visit you. You’re honoured.
“This isn’t your planet—“ you know he was about to make a speech about how colonization is bad, but he pauses, mouth agape as he takes in your form.
You meet his gaze, tilting your head. Ah, you understand now. In your last life, you weren’t a big fan of revealing outfits, but after interacting with a variety of cultures and species, you were comfortable in your skin, meaning sometimes you liked to wear sexy bikinis that didn’t leave much to the imagination.
“Yes?” You smile.
“Uh, you, uh, I’m not—you’re a Viltrumite!” He barely gets out, obviously going red under his mask.
“You definitely didn’t let Cecil finish before hunting me down, did you? And did he really give you my location before at least saying I’m a friendly Viltrumite like you?” You pout, crossing your arms, already sure Cecil is shouting into his earpiece.
“You—yeah, he’s bringing me up to speed now,” he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re friends with Allen? He didn’t mention you…like at all.”
“Viltrumites aren’t something you can freely talk about,” you reply, “I’m sure you can guess why.”
“Heh, yeah, for sure,” he says awkwardly.
When you don’t say anything, he speaks up again, “You, uh, don’t seem that different from a human. My mom said even my dad took a while to get used to Earth. But you look great— like you’re doing great!”
“Well, compared to the Empire, the Coalition is all about diversity. They made sure I wasn’t an emotionally constipated killer.” You take pity on him and ignore his slip up. A part of you wants to mess with him a bit more, mostly out of envy for him having a human mom and an actual childhood, but that’s twisted even for you. “Did you want to join me?”
Okay, maybe you did have it in you.
“Oh, me? Wow, that’s, wait, no, I have a girlfriend! Oh my god, Amber,” he starts to mumble to himself guiltily. Did he come see you before his girlfriend? You’re flattered, even thought those two are on the brink of a breakup.
“You should get comfortable having me around, Mark.” You mention casually, “Cecil wants me to help whip you into shape. Allen mentioned you were a late bloomer.”
His cheeks flush again much to your glee. “You? But you’re—“
“Doubting me, are you?” In an instant, you’re behind him, kicking his knee in, so he stumbles before whipping around to face you.
Oddly enough rather than offence, he’s giving you the same stupid look as earlier. You look done and let out an ‘ah’. You turn around, arm covering your now bare chest. You weren’t that secure.
“Can you pass me my top?”
In a flash, he’s holding up the piece of fabric, his other hand covering his goggles. For that act of kindness, you pretend not to notice how affected he is by the sight of your tits. Honestly, he’s acting like he’s a virgin, which you know he is not!
*
You’re having the most fun you’ve had in a while, or maybe even the most fun you’ve had in this life.
You get to laze around, eat good food, beat the shit out of Mark for ‘training purposes’. Going on vacation really was the best, especially since you were basically waiting to get drafted to fight in a war. Right now, the best thing to do is nothing.
“You don’t pull punches, do you?” Mark hovers above where you’re perched on a cliffside, watching the sunset after hours of tossing him around.
“That’s what makes me so good at my job,” you grin up at him. Surprisingly, he smiles back at you. You guess being associated with Allen is like a ‘get-out-of-jail’ card here. Well, for now.
“You sure about that? You just smack me around and yell ‘dodge this’,” he teases. “By the way, you’re supposed to warn me before you hit me, not after!”
“I’m Pavlov-ing you. In a good way,” you clarify.
“I don’t thinking saying it’s the ‘good way’ actually makes it good.”
“Hmm, yeah, I guess you’re—dodge this!”
*
“He smells like grape juice,” you breathe, hugging the purple toddler to your chest.
“He doesn’t smell like grape juice just because he’s purple,” Mark retorts, crossing his arms as he watches you nuzzle your face into Oliver’s hair. “I don’t get why you wanted to see him.”
“He’s another halfie, we’re like a super minority right now,” you explain, “And I didn’t really see too many kids growing up.”
“How old are you?” Mark asks suddenly before backtracking, “Oh, wait is that rude to ask? I don’t mean it in a bad way, just curious if, uh, I’ll shut up now.”
“Worried I’m as old as your mom?” You ask. “No, I only recently entered adulthood like you.”
“Cool, cool, cool.” Mark nods, attempting to appear casual. “So, uh, me and Amber broke up.”
That’s earlier than you thought it would happen.
“Why?”
“I’m going to drop out of Upstate, I barely have enough time with the super hero gig and training, as is, forget about actually being able to be there for her. It wasn’t fair to her,” Mark admits. “It felt like we were holding onto something that doesn’t exist anymore.”
“You did sound like a bad partner,” you hum and he shoots you a betrayed look. “But, life isn’t so simple for you. You’ll find your peace eventually, Mark.”
You’ve seen it, after all.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” He rubs his neck sheepishly. It’s a cute habit, you hope it’s one he keeps even if it seems unlikely.
*
“—are you okay?” Mark appears in your vision, bloodied and bruised. “You…scared her off? Uh, asserted your dominance?”
“I’m not a dog,” you grumble, lifting yourself from the sand, as he collapses to sit beside you. “But, yeah, Anissa, was it? Older than us, way older. Any further confrontation between us would have led to more serious injury, so she cut her losses and left. Wish I could have bashed her head in permanently, but there’s always next time. If she was just a little slower…”
“You guys were faster than I thought was possible,” he shakes his head ruefully.
“Experience does count for something. At least, you’re good at taking a beating,” you console.
“Yeah, that definitely makes me feel better.”
“That’s what I’m here for; pina coladas and emotional support,” you grin mockingly before your face falls back into neutral dissatisfaction.
Mark pats your arm, “You’ll get her next time.”
*
“Wow, you really suck at this,” Oliver remarks, watching your character die for the nth time, the two of you sitting on the floor, engaged in the most broken game of all time. You'd rather play a RPG.
“Why do you even like playing shooters? Bullets are literally the most useless thing in space,” you mumble, tossing your controller away.
“Why do you keep playing with my brother when I’m the one that invited you over?” Mark wonders, slumped on the couch behind you.
“She just likes me better,” Oliver brags. “How long are you here for anyway? You said you were just on leave.”
“I’ve literally never taken any day offs, so like ten years, I guess. Or whenever they’re planning to take out the remaining Viltrumites,” you shrug, prompting Oliver to starting ranting about how he’s going to get the most takedowns.
“What are you going to do when it’s over? When there’s no threat?” Mark asks suddenly.
“What? Like, universal peace? I guess the same thing I’m doing right now,” you answer, unsure why he looks so pleased. Dork.
“Then I guess I’ll have to get to work,” he says as if he could just achieve it like that. Well, he would, but doesn’t know that.
“Maybe win a fight first.”
“Ohhhh!”
“Shut up, Oliver.”
*
Shit was going down. It was the average Ao3 user’s wet dream. Dozens of morally dubious Marks fucking everything up.
And, you were having your (Y/N) moment. And letting out some steam through violence. You can only blame your genetics.
“I’m gonna be real with you, babe, this is the most fun I’ve ever had,” a variant wearing a mask without lenses, revealing stupid Bambi eyes, admits, nose bleeding, staining his teeth red when he smiles.
“Aw, you’re going to make me blush,” you giggle after bringing a knee to his face.
“No, really! I thought the only kinda cool thing I could do was kill the Guardians again, but that was a bust! When you tackled me into a mountain, I think I got, like, a gratitude boner or something!” He exclaims, what a manic sweetheart he is. And he should be grateful, you saved him from having to survive the horrors alongside Darkwing Jr.
“Wow, you’re actually being serious about the boner thing,” you comment, doing your best to look into his eyes, and not at his—
“What can I say? You just do it for me, baby, maybe it’s your penchant for punching the shit out of me. Or maybe it’s those pretty legs of yours,” he admits shamelessly, “Actually, do you own any fishnet—“
You punch him into the ground and watch him bounce, but he only lifts his head to look at you like a lovesick puppy. “Marry me?
Okay, that’s enough. The sadomasochism thing was mostly a joke. He can get cannibalized. You’re pretty sure Rex is about to sacrifice himself and take that as an excuse to dip.
*
The day you’ve been dreading. Conquest’s arrival, and you do not want to stand ready for it.
People (and dogs) are going to die. Mark and Eve are going to get mutilated. And you don’t think you can live with that happening on your watch.
So when Cecil calls you for backup, you don’t ignore him. You cry a little, but you go.
When you see him about to tear Oliver in half, you dive down from the sky, landing a kick against his back, forcing him to drop Oliver, you’re barely able to catch him, watching Conquest land a couple feet away.
“That’s enough,” you declare, gently setting the boy down for retrieval, trusting Cecil to take care of him, and approach your father.
“It looks like you’ve improved at hide and seek, it’s been months since I’ve seen you, and you’re here? Your softness…I can only take responsibility for it,” he tells you, quiet compared to the devastation around you. His hand cradles your cheek when you’re close enough, gentler than he’s ever been with you. You raise an eyebrow at the absurdity. Did he miss you that much?
“That’s right, it’s your fault. You could have taken me in at any time, let me be molded into a ‘true Viltrumite’, but you didn’t. Why? All that loyalty to them but you falter now? I don’t understand,” you admit. “Families don’t exist for our people. You want me to be strong, but not enough that I be trained like the rest of you.”
“You were the only one to ever smile at me,” he states simply.
You really hated when you felt bad for him.
Your little moment is interrupted when you hear Mark shout.
“Get away from her!” You raise a hand, stopping his charge as he stares at you in confusion.
“Father, what are you doing? I thought maybe you wanted me to be the one to kill you, but it’s that not that,” you exhale steadily before continuing, “The day you didn’t kill me or take me, you became a traitor. You don’t care about the Empire, clearly, and based on the way you keep following me around like a sad, old dog, there’s more to you than just wanting to fight. What do you want?”
“I want you to live as you always have, without the influence of anyone but myself,” he says. “That way, you can still bear to look at me. That matters more than anything else. Treachery or even destroying this planet, it doesn't matter what I do, so you must remain as yourself.”
That’s almost sweet.
“I came here to drench myself in blood, but now, I will crush this planet against my heel, even if it’s against the Empire’s wishes, for attaching itself to you like a parasite, wasting away your potential and time,” he vows. “I will liberate you from this weakness.”
What?
“What!?” Mark, who was previously stuck in a shellshocked state, shouts.
Your father turns back to Mark, glee gone from his face, replaced with a look of loathing. Before he can move, you wrap your arms around him, feeling him stiffen in shock, as he stares down at you.
“Father! Dad! Dad, you’re right, I’ve gotten attached to this place, for better or worse. Maybe that makes me weak. But, I’m okay with that,” you nervously ramble, clutching onto the man like a lifeline, even thought you have to resist the urge to start shaking. You need to come up with something quick. “The truth is…that I want to start a life here. On a planet where blood and bonds ties us together, where families are forged. Because I’m…”
You silently apologize to Mark.
“I’m with child. Nolan’s son is the father,” you lie, looking your father in the eye. “Here, parents raise their child. They spend every day with them. And…and grandparents are very involved! They just pop up and spoil their grandkids…and that’s totally something I want.”
“A child?” Your father brokenly gasps, looking back at Oliver’s battered form.
“No, that’s not—obviously not! I meant, in my womb, dad!” You yell, pulling away.
He stares at your stomach like you have a bomb strapped to you. He stumbles back before flying away, concrete breaking under the impact. You wonder if canon even matters anymore.
You’ve saved thousands, but at what cost?
Mark finally regains the ability to speak, “We’re pregnant!?”
“I lie when I'm scared, Mark! You should know that!”
*
When you exit the washroom after a very long shower, you’re not surprised to find Mark in your hotel suite, awkward lounging on your bed, staring a bit too long at your fluffy bathrobe for it to be an admiring gaze.
“How was Rex’s going away party?” You ask, sitting next to him, crossing your bare legs.
“Great, I’m happy for him. They missed you, actually. Rex wanted to thank you for taking down that variant,” he smiles, and you take note that most of his injuries have already healed. You stopped the worst of it. “Rae too, looks like they’re a thing now. Didn’t see that coming.”
You hum, an urge to bully him hitting you. You turn to face him, “Do you want to have sex?”
“S-shouldn’t I buy you dinner or take you to a movie first?” He blurts out.
“You wanna take me out?” You ask.
“Yes, of course, I think we’re doing things a little…out of order?” He says. “I mean, sex is also, hmn, good. Really good.
“I was just thinking you should put a baby in me before Conquest comes back,” you explain casually. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. I figured we might as well go along with it.”
He chokes, and you bite back a smile.
He’s too easy.
“You don’t have to. It’s a better alternative than fighting him, but we can figure it out,” you continue, “Maybe we could—“
You’re cut off when he presses his lips against yours, hands cradling the back of your head. Any noise you make is swallowed by him. He pulls away, nose brushing against yours.
“Let’s do it,” he declares.
“Uh, I think your line is supposed to be ‘that’s crazy’ or ‘how can we have a baby’,” you reply, face feeling hot at his sudden boldness.
“I mean, it’s like you said, it’s the best alternative. I’d rather have Grandpa Conquest showing up than the bloodthirsty version,” he says, hand already moving to untie your robe.
“Dude, no way do you want a baby,” you blanch. Is this a game of chicken? Are you losing said game of chicken?
“We can at least try,” he says dragging you further up the bed. “And we can figure out the money thing. I wouldn't let the mother of my child go hungry."
“Well, uh, I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to try,” you bite your lip before he pushes you down by the shoulders, climbing atop you, pressing his mouth against your neck.
“We’re doing this for Earth,” he mumbles in between his sucking and biting.
“For peace,” you agree, a little breathless.
This was either going to cause Cecil a stroke or be some good wank material.
*
“I think I might be a little obsessed with you,” he admits from in between your thighs, face drenched.
Join the club, you think delirious.
Mc’s mom looking up from hell to see Conquest doing the same thing he shamed her for; loving their daughter: I’m going to rip his dick off
*
Mc:
Thaedus: what have you done
*
Cecil, after meeting mc: mass suicide?
*
Mc, bullying Cecil because she can’t kill her dad: damn I need therapy
Mc: I’m going to physically intimidate that old man again.
*
Mc, sobbing after hearing someone sing ‘happy birthday’:
Mark, the ‘someone’: I’m…sorry??
*
Mark: so you’re not pregnant 😔
Oliver, lying a couple feet away, bleeding out: can you do this shit somewhere else
*
Mark: why is that variant still here…and why is he holding roses
Mc: should we keep him as a dog or something
Mark: no??
*
GDA admins, after basically creating a sex tape: delete…or save🤭
*
Conquest: where is the womb??? Where is my grandchild being held!?
I feel like whenever I come up with a title before I actually write a fic, I end up changing everything and doing a rewrite, which is what happened here…I decided to make mc apart of the coalition rather than the empire, creating a more estranged relationship, the only way love could form since it would impossible if mc was raised the Viltrumite way…anyone still around from when I made the original poll? I prefer this version more since there’s more freedom to write the mcs personality when they’re not part of a regime
Anyway even the style of the fic changed from being manwha adjacent to becoming a mix of Gintama/adult swin humour lol
But yay over 6.6k words ughh lemme know about any errors, I’m so bad at editing
YOU AND CLARK AREN'T DATING; you're just superbly close friends and co-workers. but actions speak louder than whatever excuse either of you make up, and theorizing about your supposed more-than-platonic feelings has caught like wildfire in the bullpen. god forbid work spouses exist...
aka the five love languages through the eyes of the daily planet staff.
pairing. clark kent x fem reader
content. mundane happiness and hopeless romanticism. implied closet sex and jimmy tweaks out. colleaguebffs2luvs. in a world of boys he's a gentleman... 6.3k
WORDS OF AFFIRMATION with perry white
"I second that," Clark Kent chirps, tucking his chin down as if trying to make himself less obvious.
Perry resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course Kent seconds your pitch—he's practically your yes-man-slash-work-wife at this point. You exchange furtive grins, and Perry's sure that if he peeked beneath the conference table, your adjacent feet would be kicking each other.
Ridiculous, this is. And a little endearing, but admitting it out loud would be the equivalent of self-immolation.
"Well, I don't," Perry snips, tapping the ashes off his cigar into the little souvenir tray Lois got him from Nebraska. To this day, he still doesn't know what she was doing there, other than partaking in the general mischief that comes with embodying her brand of investigative journalism.
He decides that he quite likes simpering as you and Kent eye each other with begrudging disappointment diffusing across your faces. "Now, let's move on to the op-ed."
The pages pass by without much interjection from you or Kent. A new fusion bakery opening in Queensland Park is elected for the main feature article, and the room is unanimously for Lois' new expose being sent to print.
Then comes the topic of the front page.
A nervous energy almost vibrates in the air as everyone grips the edges of their laptops (and legal pads, but that's only Kent being old-fashioned) a little tighter.
At his core, Perry is a journalist. And what is a journalist without a little drama?
Which is to say: he loves to bring up page one during the morning conference. If Cat knew, she would call him a closet chismoso, but Perry knows himself well enough that he doesn't need to be told.
"Well," Perry waves his hand with an expectant look, "what's the main story?"
Arms shoot into the air, fingers twitching to get his attention. He almost chortles to himself in the same way he does every day. Really, he can't get enough.
It's his update on who hates who and which icy relationships have thawed over night. It's when Cat and Steve butt heads over the top spot in the paper despite being thicker than thieves last week. It's when Jimmy and Ron debate over which photographer is best for the cover photo.
Plus, it's ultimately beneficial to the staff. To establish a healthy workplace, people need to be honest with each other. It's communication without fear of judgement, because everyone is being judged.
So, the layout editors air their grievances in the chaos, snapping about lonely lines and uneven margins. So, the two representatives from the copy department get heated with the journalists over cleaning up their grammatical errors.
And when tomorrow comes, those things will be fixed up and the entire paper's work ethic will be uplifted. At least, that's sixty percent the reason why the front page pitch is so important.
The other forty percent is him genuinely enjoying the spectacle of a roomful of trained journalists savagely tripping each other for the sacred print space.
Lois wads up a wrapper, sticks a cotton-candy lollipop in her mouth, and throws the crumpled ball of wax paper at a ground reporter whose ears are practically expelling steam, much to Perry's delight. Then she jumps out of her chair and struts out the door, posture all smug with her article having a guaranteed print space.
She's turning out to be a wonderful journalist to work with, Perry thinks.
"Wayne Tech winging on flying cars—Clark Kent exclusive, six hundred words!"
The din is snuffed out by your pitch. Kent's breath seizes in a squeak, shoulders bunching up under his ears and eyes trained on the suddenly fascinating table.
Good lord, these two.
Perry really needs to set limits on you sitting next to each other during conferences. One way or another, either one of you never fails to cut short his daily dose of healthy drama.
"It's good," you say, keeping your hand high in the air. "Intriguing. Clark took the picture himself and it's wonderful. I think a second printing is very possible."
Kent sinks a little more into his chair, so deep that his secondhand suit looks like a bag and Perry's sharp eyes almost don't catch the blush creeping up to his curly bangs.
"Thinking is not certainty," Perry says, putting great care into gruffly talking around the cigar in his mouth. "Second prints are for the Meteors winning the Series. Or Batman revealing his identity. If people want to read about Wayne, they'll flip to the business page."
You twist your mouth and mutter to Kent, miffed, "Don't listen to the chief, you're better than the business page."
"What was that?"
"Nothing, Mr. White," you blurt, snapping back to the head of the table. A couple giggles float up from the other journalists.
Kent tentatively raises his hand. Great Caesar's ghost, they're trying again. "I'm giving away an interview opportunity with Superman."
The room explodes. Phones are wagged in Kent's face, people are crowding around the very tight corner where you sit. Kent presses closer to you, and Perry tries not to blow his own gasket at eleven in the morning.
He shouts, "Quiet!" just as Kent says, linking your elbows together, "To her. Superman said there's no other journalist with integrity and wit he'd rather have write about him."
Perry glares down the length of the conference table, working the end of his cigar between his molars with a vengeance. He would be dishonest if he said he wasn't interested. It's rare for Superman to accept interviews with anyone that isn't Kent, and Perry is all about the hero's true story.
You turn to Kent with wide eyes, hissing, "Since when?"
"...S'posed to be a surprise," he mumbles, scratching out something on his legal pad with faux sullenness. "But I agree..."
A grin blooms on your face, all fond and totally worth talking to HR about—but Perry isn't that strict of a boss. You look like you're about to jump onto Kent for an embrace before Steve, two chairs down, whisper-shouts: "Get a room."
Perry guesses that he'll have to chalk this up to Superman's will, and not you and Kent's exhausting—and frankly, charming, but nobody will hear that—tag-team of compliments. "Superman, top of the page."
Everybody groans, and twenty laptops snap shut in defeat.
"But chief" —protests an intern whose ambition far outpaces his mediocre talent.
"Now, get out, and don't call me chief!"
QUALITY TIME with lois lane
"No, Lois, you're seeing things."
"I'm seeing things? Says the one who can't even see that Clark is practically her boyfriend," Lois needles, squinting at you. She props her palm on her kitchen counter—well, to her best ability, because she...forgot to tidy up before the New Year's Eve party. She's a busy woman, okay?
"Yes!" you exclaim, shucking off the bottlecap on the apple cider. The pop of trapped gas sounds more like a mini firecracker with how much unnecessary force you use.
Someone calls—sounds like Jimmy—over the din of the countdown broadcast playing from her radio and everyone else's voices, "Uh, you guys okay?"
"It's nothing," you respond, then turn back to Lois with your knuckles lightening around the neck of the bottle. Hissed, "I mean—yes, you're seeing things, and no, we're just friends."
You punctuate your denial with a grouchy 'seriously' and a frown.
The derisive chuckle that leaves her mouth is nearly automatic. Really good friends, she thinks. My fuckin' ass.
For god's sake, she's Lois fucking Lane. She's damn right about every hunch, unless the Earth has suddenly flattened and turned upside down. Even then, she would get to the bottom of it and find the culprit to be Mxyzpltk.
"Oh, okay," she says, setting the trap for you to fall for her prying. "So I suppose that defending each other's pitches is nothing?"
"It's what good coworkers do."
"And what about the coffee incident? You basically kissed."
Well. That's an exaggeration.
A few weeks ago, Lois had been tapping her foot and tugging at the strap of her watch as she waited for Clark to dash into the bullpen with her order. She was getting antsy—you, she, Clark, and Jimmy typically take turns going on morning coffee runs, and since it wasn't her turn, she couldn't get her necessary dose of sugar early enough.
"He's not usually this late," you said, eyeing Lois' unnerved twitching with concern. Of course you know when he's on time, she thought. "I'm gonna look for him."
Of course you're going to look for him. It was fairly obvious that you knew him, were tuned to him a little too well to be just friends. You just...had a connection that was unlike any other.
Lois watched with irritation itching at her neck as you scurried toward the elevators. Just as you turned the corner, Clark rushed out with his specs askew, and she's pretty sure that he was the one who shrieked in shock.
You ended up with coffee and caramel whipped cream—Lois lamented the loss of her frappe—sticking the front of your blouse to his button-up shirt. It was pretty compromising, considering your faces kind of smashed into each other as you slipped on the floor.
Clark had broken your fall, an act so predictable that Lois' first instinct was to roll her eyes, and she did upon seeing how his face was two seconds away from whistling like a kettle.
But anyways. You definitely touched your lips to somewhere on his face, even if it wasn't intentional.
Your brows stretch upward with your heavy sigh, reluctant to dredge up the embarrassing memory. "It was an accident. Besides, we didn't basically kiss, it was more of an almost kiss..."
Lois almost leaps off the counter at that bone of a suggestion, but she schools herself so you don't catch on. "So did you kiss after?"
"No!" Your voice is pitched. You unstack six plastic cups and march to the freezer, yanking the door open and briskly shoveling ice into each cup. "Remember? We were in the office the whole time, we couldn't have kissed without everyone seeing."
You tack on with quick blinks, which does nothing to save face, "Hypothetically. Because we're not like that."
"Mhm." It's impossible to hide the fact that she's not convinced. At all. "But you were wiping each other down with Jitters napkins..."
"Shut up," you grumble, kicking the freezer shut.
"And tapping your shoes together during pitch meetings...and sharing sources...and watching shows when you have nothing to write. With less than six inches of space between you," Lois mulls, tapping her chin as she airs out your laundry list of couple activities.
You groan dramatically, tipping your face to the weathered ceiling as you divvy up the bottle of cider. Like everything, you have an excuse locked and loaded. "Clark has a small desk."
She blinks at you innocuously, like she just remembered you're here with her. Teasing, "Oh, I know. Your desk is so much bigger, but you never use it."
Clearly, you aren't buying her act.
"Fine." Lois throws her hands up and pushes off the edge of the counter. She scoops up two cups in each hand, holding them by the rims, as she struts out of the kitchen.
Then, two steps from the doorway and mutters loud enough for only you to hear, product-disclosure-in-commercials style, "But still, that's screaming attachment—"
You snatch up a battered dish towel and hurl it at her, but Lois has already sauntered out of range by the time the towel slaps against the wall.
Steve has dragged one of the armchairs closer to the coffee table, where the board game has been set up; his dilute torbie Persephone curls in his lap with her paws tucked under her fluffy belly. Clark is opposite of the couch, on the carpet, and Cat and Jimmy are making space between each other on the cushions.
She passes a cup to everyone but Clark, who says nothing. He's (probably) automatically assumed that you've got it, to which Lois mentally files into 'actions they can't deny without Freudian slips' for later.
She settles between Cat and Jimmy, whose questioning looks burn into the sides of her head. They have a conversation in microexpressions; Cat's meticulously maintained brows twitch in various areas; Jimmy tips his mouth here, then tilts it there, dips it down, and points his lips; and Lois rolls her eyes so much that Steve gives her a weird look.
She shakes her head at the sports editor, and he shrugs, apparently dropping it. Poor Steve, he's never deciphered their silent language of pointed looks and weird faces.
You pad out of the kitchen with annoyance still etched between your brows, but it softens when Clark pats the space to his left on the carpet. Really softens, to the point of being unrecognizable.
You stride over with all the light in the world. You sit with your legs criss-crossed and your knee bumps against his thigh, and a small, fond smile blooms on Clark's face.
Which obviously means nothing. But it surely has to mean something when you keep giving each other fucking tips during gameplay.
It’s throwing Lois off, honestly. She’s not even mad that you’ve practically turned a longstanding tradition in this little group into a cute quality-time moment with your not-boyfriend—she’s pissed about the not-boyfriend part.
Everyone would be so much happier and at peace if you just admitted your feelings.
Clark ends up winning, which—of course he does. Regardless of collusion, he’s fucking ruthless when it comes to board games.
(Notably, he doesn’t betray you. Lois nearly flips the board over.)
Later, after the countdown reaches zero and you and Clark keep each other at a bashful arm’s distance, Jimmy comes up with the brilliant idea of assigning you both to dish duty while everyone else cleans up the rest of her apartment.
As she’s passing by to throw something in the trash, Lois catches the two of you making quiet conversation by the sink.
It’s all soft laughs and sincere glances that stay, shoulder bumps and inside jokes with suds up to your elbows. Clark’s washing, and you’re drying, and the smoothness of how he passes the dishes to your hands with lingering fingers makes Lois unironically imagine your wedding invitations.
‘Mr. & Mrs. We’re-Just-Friends-Until-We-Weren’t — RSVP & Save the Date!’ Ugh, she can feel the texture of the goddamn cardstock and the silver embossing of the words already.
Next time, she’ll hurl a sprig of mistletoe at you and hope for the best.
GIFTS with cat grant
Cat is, like, a hundred—no, a hundred and twenty—percent sure that Clark is heads over heels in love with you.
Okay, literally everyone at the Daily Planet thinks so, except for you and Clark, because you're both either just clueless as hell or hiding it. If you are, you’re very good actors.
The latter as a concept stirred in her mind in the middle of a conversation she had with Clark last week, which went along the lines of: what kind of gift would a woman love for a very special fifth anniversary…of friendship?
Clark went over the fact that for your past four anniversaries, he’d scrounged up the money for some very thoughtful displays of affection, but Cat had already latched her claws into solving his plight faster than she could say ‘go Meteors.’
After all, she’s always had a few ideas on beating:
dinner at a nice Italian restaurant (year one)
the really nice sweater you wear to work on Fridays, your favorite day (year two)
three-day tickets to a coveted Meteors v. Griffins series—and the Meteors swept those Gothamite assholes (year three)
a perfume that spent nine months as a tab on your laptop, and he’d somehow discovered it even though you let no one else near your workstation (year four)
But now Clark wants to outdo himself this year. As Steve would say, he needs to knock it out of the ballpark, because your not-relationship has been going on for five years.
That’s literally half a decade, so she gets why Clark is so hung up on getting you a gift for the ages. She can’t imagine how he’ll fare when the years hit double digits, though.
But now they’re here, strolling through Metropolis’ famed luxury department store on a Saturday afternoon, and their hands are painfully empty.
Cat has dragged him through a real wringer from nine to twelve. They’ve been through Prada, Dolce, YSL, Dior, Chanel, Bottega, Hermès, McQueen, Miu Miu—it would probably take ten whole minutes to list all the stores they’ve hit.
Whatever. The point is, Cat’s jasmine matcha latte from a small business is in dire need of a refill, Clark’s hair is literally straightening out with misery, and they haven’t got a whiff of your perfect gift.
“I just” —Clark tongues the pocket of his cheek, brows scrunching as he considers the sleek tile floor, and fishes for the right words— “none of this stuff really works, you know? I feel like I’m buying friendship instead of celebrating it.”
Oh, yeah. Celebrating friendship for sure, Cat thinks. God, she should pitch this true story to a movie studio and start building her own media empire.
“Well, there’s still a few stores we haven’t seen,” she says, breezy. There has to be something sparkly enough for you—maybe a necklace, or a neat purse. “Gucci’s at the end of the mall, but we should take a little break, don’t you think?”
He’s beyond overjoyed, instantly melting at the prospect of some rest. “Please.”
They end up where they started: a quaint Japanese café on the outskirts of the food court, which is more like a pact of beige, higher-end establishments and Instagrammable shops.
Cat’s sipping on her fresh jasmine matcha latte with regular ice and less sugar and trying to post a picture of it to her story; Clark is glancing around the shop, likely feeling out of place with how he’s working his thumbs over his knuckles. He’s ignoring the black sesame milk tea with agar boba sweating rings onto the table space before him.
A pop song drifts from the sound system, and layered over it is the chaotic din of the blenders and whisks being firmly tapped against bowls, and there’s the faint sound of video game music coming from the cute, aesthetic claw machines in the corner, and—
He’s staring. He keeps staring, practically boring holes into games that are customized to fit the beige-green, zen color scheme of the café.
“Is…there something wrong?”
Cat half expects him to say something along the lines of a lamp looking weird. She doesn’t expect him to murmur: “Togepi.”
“Sorry?”
He snaps his attention back to her, suddenly lighter with a realization he hasn’t voiced. “We’ve…been watching Pokémon.”
Oh. Yeah. Another thing to add to her list of totally not weird or suspicious activities: you’ve been blatantly watching shows together at work. Lois complains about it incessantly.
“And that claw machine…” Clark trails off, almost in a trance as he shoots up while fumbling for his wallet.
“What about it?” Cat asks, dogging on his long strides to the little corner stuffed with machines. A glass box full of colorful plushies innocently sits before them.
Clark taps his finger against the pane, and she follows the invisible line to a small, cream-colored foot sticking out of the tangle of other Pokémon. “She loves Togepi.”
And before Cat can stop him, he feeds a five-dollar bill into the claw machine.
She has never seen him possessed like this.
“How do you even know that’s a—Topi? Togipi? There’s only a foot!”
“I just know,” comes the patient answer. Must be the journalist’s instinct. He wastes a turn trying to move one of the plushies out of the way. “Shucks…”
“Clark, it’s impossible,” she laments, shaking her drink to stir up any particles that have settled. “Even if you do manage to clear everything on top, it’s still rigged to make you lose.”
“Nothing’s impossible, Cat.” He says it in that same tone Superman would take if someone doubted his ability to save an entire country. But that’s a strange thought, because there’s no way Clark could be Superman.
To punctuate it, the plushie atop the supposed Togepi—it’s yellow, so it could be Pikachu, but Cat’s knowledge is ultimately limited—topples into the chute. Clark pumps his fist in celebration and mutters about psychic ducks and two more turns remaining.
That’s just about the only lucky occurrence they stumble upon. Half an hour later, he’s fed at least twenty dollars into the reader, Cat’s accompanied by what Clark calls Psyduck, Oddish, and Riolu—all of which you supposedly find adorable—and the Togepi is too round for the claw.
“Last one,” he swears, cheeks ruddy and blue eyes all earnest as the machine eats up a one-dollar bill. She made him stop using fivers a couple turns ago in an attempt to wean him off. “I know she’ll adore it.”
Indeed you would. Cat can’t wait to see the astonished look on your face once you find out how much effort he put into starting a collection of your favorite Pokémon plushies for you, and out of a claw machine too.
He twitches the joystick with the utmost care, positioning the claw over the Togepi that has revealed itself after a harrowing hundred-something attempts. Clark goes a little to the right, inspects, then a little backward, and just a jolt to the left.
He runs out of time in his adjustments. Of course he does. Another shucks almost falls off his lips, but he bites it off at the sh-uhhhh because the tines of the claw stick. They fucking stick and like a miracle, Togepi tumbles into the chute.
Cat nearly screams. Clark lets out a little squeak of satisfaction and squeezes that damn egg-looking thing so hard that he might as well be pretending it was you.
“You’re the best, Cat,” he grins, all lopsided and grateful and heart-eyed at the success of his endeavors to please you.
She loads the other plushies into his arms with an equally big smile, albeit a little exhausted. “It’s all you, genius.”
“Still, you helped me out a lot,” he breathes, shoulders slumping with relief. “If you need anything, I’ll do my best to help you too.”
Cat considers it and thinks of all the secret cataloguing she’d been doing as they searched for a luxury gift you didn’t need in the end.
“Well…I might need help with carrying a few shopping bags.”
ACTS OF SERVICE with steve lombard
“Woah,” Steve awes, gaze fixed on the rash of red-pen edits marking up the proof copy on your desk. He leans against the desk divider. “Who’s bitching ‘bout your article? Is it Marcus? I’ll beat his ass for you.”
You laugh a little, no doubt imagining Steve whaling on that pesky intern whose ego far outsizes his ability to actually write. For god’s sake, Marcus is one ‘snarky comment using the wrong context of a word’ away from being thrown off the top of the big bronze planet on the roof.
And he does that often. Steve’ll be the first to tow his ass up the staircase.
“It’s actually Clark’s,” you clarify, turning your head to reveal the red pen tucked behind your ear. You're petting a cream-colored pillow in your lap—never mind, that's Clark's nerd plushie. “And I’m helping him edit.”
Steve blinks. “Shit, really?”
“Yeah, really.” You flash him a weird look, like you think he’s lying to you about something. “Steve, we do this all the time.”
“We?” he presses, smoothing his fingers over his mustache—a nervous habit when he’s in disbelief.
“Yes, Clark and I edit each other’s articles,” you say, slowly. “Did—did you not know that?”
“N-ope.” Extra emphasis on the front of the word. Before, Steve didn't really notice things that aren't sports-related; he knows that you and Clark definitely have something going on, but it's exclusively informed by word-of-mouth from his other co-workers.
But now, courtesy of Lois' advice, he's treating this like a baseball game. Right now, you're at bat and Clark's on a base, and you're trying to advance him toward making a run; aka, you are performing an act of service to make your not-boyfriend's life a little easier.
See, he's pretty observant once he frames his surroundings in an athletic context.
Last month, the Daily Planet was shorthanded because you were out sick. Though they were facing a penalty kill (the Metropolis Herald had poached an exclusive scoop you were supposed to get, and the chief was not happy), Clark still clocked out of work a little earlier so he could bring you soup like any good teammate would.
And two weeks ago, you did the equivalent of a jersey swap for your five-year friendship anniversary. He'd given you the egg-looking plush you're squeezing right now—you'd gasped and squeezed it flush to your chest—and you'd surprised him with a double-sided cassette mixtape you spent days learning to make.
It's really sweet and romantic. He also wishes Lois hadn't given him that tip, because watching the two of you dance around your true feelings has been exceptionally excruciating.
"Anyways," you're saying, and Steve blinks back to the present, "he has mine on his desk right now—no, don't peek, I don't want to see how much work I have to get done."
Too late. He's already teetering on his tiptoes to catch a glance of your article proof on Clark's desk, which is noticeably missing its usual occupant. It is...on the side Steve knows is meant for the 'done' work, complete with a smiley face scribbled on a blue sticky note.
"He's done with it."
Your groan sounds tortured, especially when you tack on a hand dragging down your face. "Great."
Eyes heavy with resignation, you click through your computer to navigate back to your document, grousing under your breath about needing to use up your PTO, even though it's only April. Then, like a switch has been flipped, your frown breaks into a smile.
"What?"
"Nothing," you say quickly, still letting the grin linger. "Just—he didn't have to."
Steve cranes his neck around to stare at your screen. "Huh."
The document is already marked up with a hundred suggestions, all of which you only need to resolve with a tap of the mousepad. Editing made easier. Clark just went ahead and transferred the proofs, knowing you'd be reluctant to go through all the changes manually.
He even left little encouraging comments on what he really loved about your article. Awww.
"Fuck, he really didn't have to," you breathe again, settling into a pensive mood as you cover your mouth with a hand. You turn to Steve with your eyes shining brighter than they have the entire week. With plaintive admiration, "He's already got so much on his plate and he's doing this shit."
"Is...that bad?" Steve asks, smoothing the ends of his mustache.
"No, no." Shaking your head, you begin to double-check all the suggestions before you resolve them. "It's just—Clark's always helping me out and I wish I did more to help him."
He decides to take the leap—reservations against meddling be damned. "Well, maybe that's just how he loves you."
You flash him a dubious look, brows all cocked at skeptical angles and mouth flattened into a line.
"I mean, maybe he likes doing this for you, just like how you always speak up for him during pitch meetings." Steve speaks quickly, almost afraid that you're going to wave him off if he stops. It's only been a month since he started picking up on your attraction to each other, which is ironically unsubtle to everyone but you and Clark.
The torture is enough to make him break his pact against interfering with the game, for god's sake.
"Jeez, you got each other gifts for your friendship anniversaries. You—you're really close and spend your free time together watching shows. He looks at you like you're the reason the sun exists, kid. If Clark Kent does not love you, well," Steve pauses to thumb at the crease between his eyebrows with a sigh, "I'll have to drag him up to the roof and hold him over the edge until he realizes it."
Tucking your lips in, the heads of your brows tilt up to a fretful angle. Your gaze darts all around your desk, from the ridiculously round Pokémon egg sitting in your lap (you've taken to idly patting its head while you puzzle over your word choice), to the pile of Styrofoam cups Clark brings you tea and coffee in, which sit in the trash can under your desk.
You blow out a steady stream of air as you mull it over. "Wow, that's...a lot to process, but—"
"Hey." Clark cuts in like a ball driving into deep left field, practically croaking out the last vowel when he sees the worry lingering in your expression. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," you chirp, flashing a quick smile at him. "Just, I didn't expect you to finish so quickly."
He stumbles over his breath and returns the smile, albeit like some shy bastard and not a guy who's going after your heart. Scratch that, he already has your heart. "No, no—seriously, it's okay. I needed, uh, to get another cup of coffee so I got you one too."
Another Styrofoam cup is set next to your monitor, so gently that the steaming liquid inside doesn't make a single ripple. Very fancy schmancy of Clark Kent, Steve thinks to himself.
You beam at him with some bashful glow lighting up your eyes. "With sugar?"
"Half a packet, just the way you like it."
"Thanks," you whisper, and your eyes loiter on him even after he gives you two dorky thumbs up and walks back to his desk; he nearly gets leveled by a stray chair, and you chuckle softly when he rights himself and pretends nothing happened.
Steve gestures furiously at the cup and whisper-shouts, "I'm tellin' you!"
You let out a dreamy sigh and rub your knuckles against your face so hard that wrinkles form on your forehead. In half-disbelieving breathlessness, "Holy fuck."
PHYSICAL TOUCH with jimmy olsen
"Oh my god, I can't look," Jimmy squeaks, shoving his face in any direction that doesn't involve looking at you or Clark.
Rather, you and Clark, standing near the back wall and speaking to each other very seriously with your arms crossed and bottom lips practically fraying with how often the two of you are worrying them.
"Jesus Christ, Steve, why would you do that?" he says in a pitched voice. Steve rolls his eyes and continues yanking the lace into his Rawlings baseball glove, which is fresh out of the sporting goods store and probably won't see even a second of use.
"He set things in motion, Jimmy," chides Lois, voice low. She works her jaw back and forth, trying to get a feel for your far-off conversation. "Good man, Steve...wait, I think Clark's blushing."
Cat squeals in excitement, heels clicking lightly on the floor with the little shimmy that accompanies it.
Jimmy tries to make a point by staying turned around, but he hesitates for a second before really committing to the bit. After all, he's had to endure just as much anticipation as the rest of them.
"They're on the other side of the floor, Lois."
"Nonsense, they're definitely getting together today."
Cat blows an airy raspberry and inspects her fresh gel manicure. "Well, it's a good thing I got these babies done yesterday. This is an occasion that calls for a photoshoot."
Then, she slams her ridiculously strong hands onto his chair and wrests him around to watch with the others. "Turn around, Bartholomew Olsen, you're gonna miss everything!"
"Never should've told you my government name," he mumbles, dropping his cheek against his hand.
You tilt your head and nod slightly in understanding as Clark palms his nape—his skin is almost sunburnt with how red he's turning—and explains something to you. Hopefully his feelings, because who knows what Lois would do if you proved her wrong and didn't 'get together' by the end of the workday.
(Probably plan a party and lock the two of you in a supply closet.)
Jimmy groans and reaches back, fumbling for the pair of binoculars he keeps in his desk drawer for emergency purposes. You never know if you need to spot Superman in the midst of a battle with interdimensional beings of destruction.
"Good idea," Steve appreciates, and he darts away to get his own.
The corners of your lips tip up quietly, affectionately, the longer Clark speaks (he better be confessing, dear god), and soon enough, you're inching toward him with a knowing twinkle in your eyes. Clark leans closer to hear what you're saying, and with a cheeky smile, you whisper something that flushes him scarlet.
He buries a short laugh into his broad palm before taking the last step and squeezing you into his arms. You rock and sway slightly, to the rhythm of your own tune; your hands smooth over the back of his suit comfortingly.
Clark presses a sweet, fond kiss to the crown of your head and lays his cheek over it to seal the deal. One of his hands is splayed over the back of your shoulder, and his thumb rubs circles over the blade. It's tender enough to be a bruise, and he looks like he knows it with the stupid, uncontrollable, lovesick chuckling that's shaking his wide shoulders.
Cat gasps, perhaps a little too loud.
Enough to be incriminating, for sure, because you break apart with matching frowns. Steve, who's just come running back with his own binoculars, turns tail and skitters back to his desk.
Based on his poor skills at lip-reading, you might be saying something like, "Are those fucking binoculars?"
Clark is probably correcting you: "Fudging, and yeah, what the hay?"
You shake your head with a derisive snort before Lois roughly shoves the binoculars down and forces him to duck down.
"The fuck are you doing, this is a covert operation," she hisses.
"They spotted us—there's no point."
Lois pokes her head up and scowls. With a hint of grousing in her remark, "Shit, they ducked into the archive closet."
She turns to him with narrowed eyes and a quicksilver glint of revenge in her smirk.
"No, no, nononono—"
Ten tense seconds later, Jimmy presses his ear against the wooden door of the archive closet with great care. Lois forced him to toe off his shoes because they squeak on the floor, so now his socked toes are wriggling in an attempt to adjust to the unforgivingly cold tile.
Christ, this is a humiliation ritual in itself.
"Please, Clark," you're sighing. You giggle in time with Clark's low chuckle, and is that...?
He thinks you might be kissing passionately among other suspicious sounds that aren't muffled by the door, and Jimmy turns back to Lois with a pained, begging expression. Please, please, please give the signal to extricate himself. He's very sorry for not being discreet about spying on you.
He also did not know Clark Kent had that dog in him, but that's a conversation for another time.
With a frantic sort of enthusiasm, Lois flaps her hands in an effort to signal him back. He almost slips like a Looney Tunes character, complete with cartoonish sound effects, as he scurries across the marble floor in his socks.
(Fuck-ass athletic socks and their 70% polyester blend. Mark his words, he's switching to wool next winter.)
"Holy shit," he puffs, heart thundering in his chest from the near-death experience of running at work without shoes. Blood rushes to his face, making him feel gross and sweaty, "Oh my god, Lois, they're up to diabolical shit in there!"
"Keep it down!" she scoffs, fisting the back of his neckline and pulling him behind the desk.
They crouch there for a few minutes, peeking over the edge to watch the door; Jimmy mutters under his breath, recapping the (supposed) illicit consummation of your new romantic relationship in the archive closet.
When the coast is somewhat clear, the panel of wood cracks from the frame by an inch. It pauses for a moment, but soon enough, the hinges squeak and...
You and Clark emerge, hardly managing your not-so-secret glances without bursting into fits of giggles. The stupid thing is, you're both neat.
As in, probably-weren't-having-sex, fooling-the-whole-office, no-stray-hairs-or-wrinkled clothes neat.
Fingers interlocked—so tightly that Jimmy's half-afraid one of you would float away if you so much as loosened up—you tug Clark to his desk with a soft, contented smile. The man is blushing, an honest-to-god deep pink that disappears beneath his collar.
"Huh." Lois squints as Clark pulls a chair up next to you and logs into his computer. The familiar tune of the Pokémon intro wafts through the air quietly. With a tinge of disappointment, "Yeah, I think they were just pretending—you practically sauntered up like fe-fi-fo-fum."
"Shut up!" Jimmy presses his fingers against his eyelids and takes five seconds to breathe. "I did not saunter."
"Whatever, choir boy," she mutters wryly. Then she bites her lip, cheeks twitching in the way that tells him she's trying to strangle a smile before it blooms. "'Sides, I think they figured themselves out."
Jimmy snaps his gaze back to Clark's desk.
The corners of your mouth are quirked up with all the warm fondness in the world as he presses a sweet, reverent kiss to your knuckles, right over where your hands are still joined.
"Idiots," Lois grouses with a small but amused shake of her head.
Jimmy grunts in agreement. "Took them fuckin' long enough."
notes: been a minute since my last clark fic im on my 9th life LMAO
++ please lmk if u enjoyed, comments & rbs are greatly appreciated <33
summary: You take a stranger to couples therapy to see how long it takes the therapist to realize that you don't know each other at all.
word count: 4.2k
contains: crack, based on this tweet
It started as a joke.
On a Tuesday night, after too much scrolling and too little dignity, you opened Tinder and changed your bio to read:
Looking for someone to take to couples therapy and see how long it takes the therapist to notice we don’t know each other.
It was one of those chaotic thoughts you weren’t supposed to act on, the kind that belonged in a group chat, not a dating profile. But the wine glass was half empty, and you were feeling reckless, so there it went. You expected maybe a handful of half-hearted reactions. A lazy “lol.” A pity match or two. Definitely not everyone is taking it seriously.
You didn’t expect Alex.
His opening message wasn’t a “hey” or a smarmy pick-up line. It was:
This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen on Tinder. Are you serious?
You blinked at the screen. And then, before you could think better of it, you typed back:
One hundred percent serious. Imagine the chaos.
That was the start of the worst and best idea of your life. Because instead of running in the opposite direction like any sane person, Alex dove headfirst into it with you. Within half an hour, you had the skeleton of a fake relationship plotted out—how you’d met in a coffee shop, how you’d argued over oat milk, how he’d once lent you an umbrella, how your anniversary was in May. By midnight, you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, trading increasingly ridiculous “issues” to fight about. You claimed he chewed like a cow. He claimed you had a debilitating obsession with reality TV.
By the end of the night, you had an actual appointment booked.
It was only when you woke up the next morning, groggy and hungover on adrenaline, that it hit you. You were really about to walk into a licensed professional’s office with a stranger you met on Tinder less than twenty-four hours ago and pretend to be in a relationship on the rocks.
You should have canceled. You should have deleted Tinder altogether. Instead, you put on your favorite jeans, downed a coffee, and headed out to meet him.
You hadn’t thought this far ahead.
It was one thing to type out chaotic backstories over Tinder with a stranger named Alex, who, judging by his emojis and weirdly specific insults, was probably harmless. It was another thing entirely to stand outside a beige office building with a sign that read “Dr. Martin Grey, Licensed Couples Therapist” and realize you were about to commit a federal-level crime against psychology.
Well. Maybe not federal. But at least unethical.
“Y/N?”
You looked up, startled, and immediately regretted it because the man approaching was unfairly tall, unfairly attractive, and unfairly holding two iced coffees like he hadn’t just agreed to become your fake boyfriend in front of a licensed professional.
“Alex?”
He grinned, and you hated how boyish it was. “One oat milk latte, for my favorite hater.” He held it out, as if this were a normal first meeting and not an audition for who could commit to the bit harder.
You took the cup, squinting at him. “You actually got oat milk.”
“Obviously. It’s canon now. That’s how we met, remember? You called me the human embodiment of oat milk. I had to method act.”
You sipped. Damn him. It was good. “Okay, fine. Points for consistency.”
“Thank you. I take this role very seriously.” He straightened up, mock-solemn. “So, should we rehearse? We’ve got, what, five minutes before we’re due in there?”
You both looked at the sliding glass doors like they might swallow you whole.
“Right,” you said, tugging your phone out to skim the notes app where you’d written your “lore.” “Okay, so. Coffee shop, eight months ago, umbrella in March, anniversary in May—”
“—and our main conflict is that you hate how loudly I chew,” Alex finished, pointing at you.
You pointed back. “And that you think I’m addicted to reality TV.”
“Which is true.”
“Shut up.”
“See? Perfect,” he said, like this wasn’t absolutely deranged. “We’re already fighting.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “We are so going to get caught.”
Alex leaned against the wall, casual in ripped jeans and a hoodie, like this wasn’t the weirdest Wednesday of his life. “Nah. Think about it. Therapists probably see couples way messier than us every day. Like—‘my boyfriend of twelve years won’t do the dishes’ messy. We’re gonna look normal by comparison.”
“I don’t think normal couples plot their relationship lore on Tinder.”
He tilted his head, considering. “Normal’s boring.”
You shouldn’t have laughed. You really shouldn’t have. But you did.
The laugh turned into a nervous little spiral of giggles, and Alex was watching you with that infuriating grin, and suddenly the absurdity of the whole thing cracked something open in your chest. “Oh my god,” you wheezed. “We’re actually insane.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, sipping his coffee like this was all routine. “But at least we’re insane together.”
You looked at him then, really looked. He had a sharp jaw softened by an easy smile, hair that clearly resisted being tamed, and brown eyes that flickered between amusement and—something else. Something you weren’t about to acknowledge, not when you were about to fake a relationship in front of a stranger with a psychology degree.
Instead, you forced a grin. “Okay, partner in crime. You ready?”
He exhaled dramatically. “Born ready.” Then, lowering his voice: “So, just to clarify, if they ask how we met, I don’t say ‘on Tinder.’”
“God, no. Stick to the coffee shop.”
“And if they ask about our first fight?”
“You chewed too loudly during our second date.”
He nodded, serious. “Right. And if they ask why we’re here—”
“—because we’re working on communication. And because I watch too much Love Island.”
He cracked a smile. “Solid.”
For a moment, you just stood there, staring at each other with matching smirks, two idiots about to gaslight a therapist.
Then Alex pushed the door open and held it for you. “After you, fake girlfriend.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late,” he whispered.
The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender and judgment.
You both sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, awkwardly scrolling your phones like two strangers in a doctor’s office—which, technically, you were. Then Alex leaned over, nudging your knee with his.
“We should probably sit closer,” he muttered. “Couples don’t sit like this.”
You froze. He was right. Normal couples didn’t sit with a three-foot buffer zone of pure “stranger danger” between them. Slowly, carefully, you slid closer until your thighs brushed, and holy hell, when had it gotten so warm in here?
Alex chuckled under his breath. “Relax. We’re not actually dating.”
“Right,” you said, pretending the heat in your face was from the coffee. “Totally.”
Before you could overthink further, the office door opened and a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a clipboard stepped out.
“Alex and Y/N?” he asked.
Alex shot you a look that screamed, "Showtime."
You both stood, and for a brief, ridiculous second, Alex reached for your hand. His palm was warm, his grip firm, and you knew it was for show, but your heart didn’t get the memo.
“Yes,” Alex said smoothly. “That’s us.”
And just like that, you walked into the lion’s den, hand in hand with your fake boyfriend, trying very hard not to laugh — or maybe scream.
The office looked like it had been decorated by someone who thought IKEA catalogs counted as personality. Neutral beige walls, two armchairs angled just enough to look conversational, and a box of tissues on the coffee table like an ominous warning.
You and Alex sank into the loveseat together, stiff as mannequins. His arm brushed yours, his knee bumped your leg, and every nerve in your body screamed, do not laugh.
The therapist, Dr. Grey, according to the little brass plaque on his desk, sat down across from you, crossing one leg over the other. He had the practiced smile of a man who’d seen every kind of marital crisis known to humankind.
“So,” he began, pen poised over his notepad. “Tell me what brings you two in today.”
Showtime.
Alex cleared his throat, shooting you a side glance. “Uh, well… we’ve been together for about… eight months now?”
You nodded too eagerly. “Yes. Eight months. Exactly.”
Dr. Grey’s eyebrows lifted, already scribbling. “That’s a very precise answer.”
“Anniversary in May,” Alex added quickly, as if that explained anything.
“May 13th,” you blurted.
The therapist’s pen paused. “Impressive memory.”
You forced a sweet smile, gripping Alex’s knee under the table like do not blow this, oat milk man. “We’re very… detail-oriented.”
Alex winced slightly at your grip but leaned into the role. “Right. But lately, um… we’ve been having some disagreements.”
“Mm-hm.” Dr. Grey tilted his head, waiting.
You jumped in before Alex could waffle. “He chews like a cow.”
Alex gasped, full betrayal. “I do not!”
“Yes, you do! It’s like sitting next to a lawnmower when you eat cereal.”
“That’s so specific—”
“Because it’s true!”
Dr. Grey held up a hand, his voice calm, soothing. “Okay. So one concern is… eating noises?”
“Yes,” you said firmly, while Alex muttered, “She exaggerates.”
“And,” Alex countered, “she’s addicted to reality TV. Like, she’ll watch four hours of Love Island in one sitting.”
You sat up straighter, indignant. “That’s called commitment to character arcs!”
“It’s called brain rot!” Alex shot back.
The therapist’s pen scratched furiously. You half-expected him to underline brain rot.
For a moment, silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner. Then Dr. Grey steepled his fingers.
“It sounds like you two care about each other,” he said. “But small irritations are becoming amplified.”
“Exactly,” Alex said, nodding seriously. “Like, it’s not a dealbreaker that she knows the names of every contestant on Too Hot to Handle, but it’s… concerning.”
“And it’s not a dealbreaker that he slurps noodles like he’s auditioning for a sound effects job,” you added sweetly.
Alex whipped his head toward you. “That’s a low blow.”
“You deserve it.”
The therapist cleared his throat. “Let’s talk about how you two met. Often, remembering the foundation of the relationship helps put current issues in perspective.”
Crap. Here it was. The lore test.
You jumped in first. “We met at a coffee shop.”
Alex nodded rapidly. “Yeah. I was in line. She insulted me.”
Dr. Grey blinked. “…She insulted you?”
“She called me— uh— what was it again?” Alex glanced at you desperately.
“The human embodiment of oat milk,” you supplied.
The therapist blinked again, pen hovering. “…Interesting.”
“Yeah,” Alex said, as if this were the most normal meet-cute in history. “Romance blossomed after that.”
“Instantly,” you said, trying not to crack.
“Instantly,” Alex echoed, his lips twitching.
Dr. Grey scribbled something that you were certain was just ?? in all caps.
“Okay,” the therapist said slowly, “and your first date?”
“Umbrella,” Alex said too quickly.
You nodded like a bobblehead. “Yes. It rained, and he… lent me his umbrella.”
“In March,” Alex added, smugly.
“Right,” you said, glaring at him like don’t get cocky.
“And when did you become official?”
“May,” you chorused in unison.
Silence.
Dr. Grey’s eyes flicked between you, suspicion glinting. You could feel sweat prickling your back.
Alex reached for your hand again, squeezing, and for one absurd second, it steadied you. Like, yeah, maybe you were lying through your teeth, but at least you were lying together.
“Well,” Dr. Grey said finally, “it’s clear you two share a playful dynamic. But let’s dig into what happens when conflicts arise. Can you give me an example of a recent fight?”
Your brain blanked. Your carefully written notes hadn’t covered this.
Alex, bless his chaotic soul, said, “She got mad because I ate the last cookie.”
Your head whipped around. “That’s not a fake example, that actually would make me mad.”
“You didn’t even bake them!”
“Cookies are communal!”
“You can’t claim dibs on the whole pack!”
Dr. Grey pinched the bridge of his nose like he was already reconsidering his career choices.
The silence stretched again, thick with awkwardness. You stared at Alex, and he stared back, and somewhere between your glare and his smirk, you both started to break.
First, it was a twitch of your lips. Then a stifled snort. Then Alex’s shoulders shook, and before you knew it, the two of you were half-laughing, half-choking on the loveseat, desperately trying to hold it together in front of a man who thought he was saving your relationship.
The therapist looked done.
“Do you often laugh during conflict?” he asked dryly.
“Yes,” Alex gasped, wiping his eyes. “It’s our coping mechanism.”
“Very unhealthy,” you added, still giggling.
The look Dr. Grey gave you could’ve rivaled the power of God himself.
Dr. Grey tapped his pen against his notepad. “So. The last cookie fight aside… when disagreements arise, how do you typically resolve them?”
You and Alex froze.
Because you hadn’t gotten that far in your fake backstory.
“Uh,” you started, wringing your hands in your lap. “We… talk it out.”
Alex nodded too quickly. “Yeah, lots of communication.”
“Mm-hm,” Dr. Grey said, unconvinced. “And what does that communication look like?”
Alex hesitated for half a beat too long before blurting, “Um… I usually make her tea.”
You whipped your head toward him. “Tea?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning into it. “Tea calms you down. Chamomile, specifically.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t even know what chamomile looks like.”
“Of course I do!”
“What color is it, then?”
“…greenish?”
“That’s all tea, Alex!”
Dr. Grey’s eyes flicked between you both like he was watching a tennis match. His pen was working overtime.
“Okay,” the therapist said slowly, “so perhaps the tea ritual isn’t as consistent as it could be. What about physical affection? Do you use touch as a form of reassurance?”
The question hit like a stun gun.
You and Alex glanced at each other, and then away, like two teenagers caught passing notes in class.
Finally, Alex coughed. “Uh, yeah. We… hug.”
“Hugging,” Dr. Grey repeated, deadpan.
“Yes. Hugging,” you echoed, your voice an octave too high.
“Do you want to demonstrate?” the therapist asked.
Your soul left your body.
Alex’s eyes went wide. “Demonstrate?”
“Sometimes it helps,” Dr. Grey said calmly, “to show how you connect physically in moments of tension.”
You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.
But Alex, ever the method actor, opened his arms in slow motion like he was about to embrace a feral cat.
“Come here, chamomile girl,” he said under his breath.
You glared at him. “If you call me that again, I will actually leave.”
But you leaned in anyway, because what else could you do? His arms wrapped around you awkwardly at first, one around your shoulders, one hesitating at your waist. You stiffened, then slowly — too slowly — let yourself sink into it.
And god help you, he was warm. Steady. Comfortable in a way that made your brain short-circuit.
“Mm,” Alex said loudly, patting your back with exaggerated force. “See? Hugging fixes everything.”
You elbowed him in the ribs on principle.
Dr. Grey’s face was unreadable.
“Thank you for that demonstration,” he said finally. “It seems like you two do rely on humor and physical touch… but I’m sensing there may be some deeper communication issues.”
“Oh, definitely,” Alex said solemnly, still holding his side where you’d jabbed him. “She doesn’t respect cookies as individual entities.”
You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “And he doesn’t understand basic tea taxonomy.”
The therapist inhaled deeply, clearly regretting his career path.
“Let’s try something different,” Dr. Grey said, flipping a page on his notepad. “I want you both to list three qualities you appreciate about each other. Start with Y/N.”
Your stomach dropped. Crap. Compliments.
You blinked at Alex. He was watching you expectantly, and you had the distinct impression he was enjoying this.
“Um…” You fidgeted. “He… makes good jokes?”
Alex raised his brows. “Good jokes?”
“Fine, passable jokes.”
“Better.”
You exhaled through your nose. “And… he’s reliable. He showed up today with coffee, so that’s something.”
His expression softened for a blink before he smirked again. “That’s two. One more.”
You hesitated, then muttered, “He’s… nice to look at.”
Alex’s grin spread slowly, lazily, and he was far too pleased with himself.
Dr. Grey scribbled something furiously.
“Interesting,” the therapist said. “Alex, your turn.”
Alex didn’t hesitate. “She’s funny. Like, the kind of funny that sneaks up on you and makes you laugh when you shouldn’t.”
You blinked. That was… weirdly specific.
“She’s also stubborn,” he continued, tilting his head at you, “which is… frustrating, but kind of admirable.”
Your chest did a weird, fluttery thing.
“And…” He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. “She’s got great taste in reality TV. Even if it’s brain rot.”
“Wow,” you muttered, looking away before he could see the stupid smile tugging at your own lips. “Backhanded compliment much?”
Dr. Grey set his pen down slowly, watching the two of you like a scientist who’d just discovered a new species.
“I see,” he said carefully. “So despite your disagreements, there’s clearly… affection here.”
Both you and Alex opened your mouths to protest at the same time—
“Affection?” you squeaked.
“Definitely not,” Alex said too fast.
But your hands were still suspiciously close on the couch cushion, pinkies nearly brushing, and the way Alex’s knee pressed against yours told a very different story.
Dr. Grey leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching just slightly, like he was onto something.
And for the first time all session, you were genuinely terrified.
For the first thirty minutes of the session, you had been proud — no, smug — about how well you and Alex were pulling this off. Sure, there were some hiccups: the cookie debacle, the chamomile lie, the oat milk meet-cute that sounded less romantic and more like a dietary restriction. But overall? You thought you were killing it.
Until Dr. Grey leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and hit you with the calm, measured tone of a man about to end your entire career.
“Y/N. Alex.”
You both froze like students caught passing notes.
“Yes?” you said, your voice doing that embarrassing crackle thing.
“I want to be honest with you,” Dr. Grey continued. His eyes narrowed slightly, sharp despite the kind smile he’d been wearing all session. “I don’t believe you’ve told me the truth about your relationship.”
Silence.
You could hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above you, the way Alex sucked in a sharp breath beside you, the sound of your own soul trying to yeet itself into another dimension.
“Excuse me?” Alex said, finally, a nervous laugh slipping through.
Dr. Grey didn’t flinch. “You’re not a couple. Are you?”
You and Alex spoke at the exact same time.
“Yes, we are—” Says you.
“No, we’re not—” Says Alex.
Your heads snapped toward each other, eyes wide.
“You traitor,” you hissed.
“I panicked!” he hissed back.
Dr. Grey sat back, steepling his fingers again like some kind of judgmental Batman. “Well. That clears things up.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”
“Okay, okay, hear me out,” Alex said, holding his hands up like he was negotiating a hostage situation. “Technically, we’re not a couple. But! We’re auditioning for the role of one.”
You kicked his shin. “Don’t make it sound like community theatre.”
“What else do you want me to say? ‘Hi, Dr. Grey, we’re two psychos from Tinder who thought it would be funny to prank a licensed professional?’ That sounds worse!”
Dr. Grey’s mouth twitched like he was fighting the urge to laugh. “That’s… exactly what you’ve just admitted, though.”
You groaned, sliding down in your seat until your head hit the back cushion. “We’re going to hell.”
“Correction,” Alex said, pointing a finger at you. “You’re dragging me to hell. This was your bio idea.”
“Like you didn’t swipe right!”
“Because it was hilarious!”
The therapist cleared his throat, and both of you snapped back to attention like guilty schoolchildren. “So let me get this straight,” Dr. Grey said. “You matched on Tinder… devised a fake backstory… and booked a therapy session. For fun.”
“…Yes,” you muttered.
Alex, apparently deciding to lean into the bit until the bitter end, added, “It’s kind of a social experiment, if you think about it.”
Dr. Grey stared at him for a long, withering moment. “I’m not sure that makes it better.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your whole body buzzing with embarrassment. Beside you, Alex shifted like he couldn’t decide whether to bolt for the door or keep digging his grave.
And then, you laughed.
A small, stupid giggle bubbled out before you could stop it. Alex turned to you, wide-eyed, like you’d just lost your mind. Which, maybe you had.
Because soon the giggle snowballed into full-blown hysterics, your shoulders shaking, tears stinging your eyes.
Alex lasted all of five seconds before he cracked, too. His laugh was loud, unrestrained, contagious. Within moments, you were both doubled over on the loveseat, wheezing like hyenas, while Dr. Grey sat across from you, looking like he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this profession.
“This is— this is the worst idea we’ve ever had,” you gasped, clutching your stomach.
“The best idea,” Alex corrected, wiping at his eyes. “We actually made it thirty whole minutes before getting caught. That’s a record.”
“Are you keeping score of fake couples?”
“I am now!”
Dr. Grey pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to say, in my twenty years of practice, this is a first.”
“Happy to make history,” Alex said, still grinning.
You were still laughing when you finally sat up, cheeks aching, chest heaving. Alex was watching you with that stupid boyish smile again, eyes crinkled at the corners. And you hated it.
Well, you didn’t hate it. That was the problem.
The session ended mercifully soon after. Dr. Grey, to his credit, didn’t kick you out on the spot. Instead, he sighed, scribbled something in his notebook, and said, “For future reference, couples therapy works best when… You are, in fact, a couple.”
You and Alex nodded solemnly like kids being scolded.
“Understood,” Alex said.
“Totally,” you added.
“Please don’t book another session under false pretenses,” Dr. Grey finished, his voice flat.
“Got it,” you both said in unison.
And with that, you were free.
The second the office door clicked shut behind you, you and Alex collapsed against the hallway wall, laughter exploding out of you again like you couldn’t hold it in.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed, doubling over. “We actually did that. We actually wasted a professional’s time.”
“We’re criminals,” Alex agreed, tears in his eyes from laughing. “We’re going to be blacklisted from every therapist in the city.”
“Do therapists even have a blacklist?”
“They do now. We’re probably at the top.”
You leaned your head back against the wall, still catching your breath. Alex was standing close, too close, his shoulder brushing yours. When you turned to look at him, he was already looking at you.
The laughter died down, leaving a charged silence in its wake. His smile lingered, softer now, almost hesitant.
And before you could talk yourself out of it, before your brain could scream bad idea bad idea bad idea, you leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn’t a long kiss. Just a quick, impulsive press of your lips to his, tasting faintly of oat milk latte and bad decisions. But when you pulled back, his eyes were wide, his mouth curved into a stunned half-smile.
“…What was that?” he asked, voice low.
You shrugged, trying to look casual despite the way your heart was sprinting in your chest. “A thank you. For committing to the bit.”
“A thank you,” he repeated, still grinning.
“Yes.”
He tilted his head, studying you, and damn it, why did he have to look at you like that? “You know,” he said slowly, “we could… actually do this again.”
“What, lie to another therapist?”
“No,” he said, laughing. “I meant… a second date. Like, a real one. No fake backstory, no chamomile lies.”
You blinked at him, surprised. “A real date?”
“Yeah. Dinner, maybe. Or—” he smirked—“we could go to a coffee shop. Make it canon.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he said, bumping your shoulder lightly, “you kissed me.”
You shoved him playfully, but your cheeks were still warm. “Fine. One real date. But only because I want to prove to you that cookies are communal.”
“Deal.”
“Deal,” you echoed, shaking his hand like you were signing a legally binding contract.
And as you walked out of the building together, still laughing, still buzzing from the chaos of the afternoon, you couldn’t help thinking: maybe the joke had gotten away from you.
features : tooth rotting fluff, best friends ( yeah..how long yall been together ), oblivious!reader, jealous!michael, friends to lovers, romance, flirty friendships, kissing ( finally ), playful teasing, including jermaine, confessions, emotional intimacy, slow burn, partially unresolved feelings, no use of y/n iss. 016 just a friend?
p.s. more reqs, puhhhlease people. i love it so bad. anyways, that one song thats like you say hes just a friend was echoing in my mind and i need to know if anyone knows what that song is and who sings it.
The Encino house is buzzing with its usual chaotic energy, a symphony of slamming doors, blaring televisions, and the overlapping shouts of at least five Jacksons at any given moment. You’ve learned to tune it out, to find the quiet center of the storm. Today, that center is the den, where you and Michael are curled up on opposite ends of the same oversized couch, your legs tangled together in the middle.
A half-eaten bag of cheese puffs sits between you, along with two open cans of Pepsi. Michael is sketching in a worn leather-bound notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration, the occasional smudge of charcoal on his cheek. You’re flipping through a copy of Rolling Stone, not really reading, just enjoying the comfortable silence that you two can always find, even in the middle of the madness.
“Hey, look at this,” you say, holding up the magazine. “This band says you’re their biggest inspiration.”
He glances up, a small, shy smile playing on his lips. “That’s very kind of them.”
“They also say your fashion sense is ‘boldly avant-garde’,” you add, a teasing glint in your eye. “Is that a nice way of saying you look like a sci-fi pirate?”
He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, a sound that’s as familiar to you as your own heartbeat. “Maybe,” he says, going back to his sketchbook. “But at least I’m not th’ one wearing high-waisted, stonewashed jeans.”
You gasp in mock offense, throwing a cheese puff at him. It bounces off his shoulder, leaving a dusting of orange powder. He retaliates by flicking a piece of charcoal at you, which lands squarely on the thigh of your jeans.
“Missed me,” you taunted, brushing at the black mark.
“Y’know I didn’t,” Michael says, not looking up from his drawing. He’s quiet for a moment, then says, without looking at you, “You’re coming t’th’ studio with me tomorrow, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you reply. “Someone has t’make sure you eat actual food instead of jus’ junk.”
“I eat food,” he protests weakly.
“You eat what I bring you,” you correct him. “Otherwise, you’d forget.”
This is your rhythm. This is your life. A seamless, unspoken partnership built over years of shared secrets, late-night phone calls, and an unshakeable, unwavering loyalty. To the outside world, you’re a package deal. The Jacksons treat you like a sister-in-law. At parties, people assume you’re the famous, reclusive girlfriend. The question is never if you’re together, but why you’re so secretive about it. No one ever asks you out. No one ever dares.
The next day, you’re at the studio, a sanctuary of sound and creativity. Michael is in the recording booth, working on a new bassline, his body swaying to a rhythm only he can fully hear. You’re in the control room with Quincy and Bruce, a cup of coffee in your hand, a small, proud smile on your face.
You’re so absorbed in watching him work, so lost in the magic of seeing the genius in action, that you don’t notice the man who has entered the room until he clears his throat right next to you.
You turn. He’s tall, with kind eyes and a friendly, easy smile. He’s holding a guitar case.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m David. I’m th’ session guitarist for today.”
He chuckles. “Well, it’s nice t’meet ‘jus’ here’,” he says. “Listen, this is going t’sound really forward, but I’ve seen you here a few times, and I was wonderin’… I was wonderin’ if you’d let me take you to dinner sometime. On Friday.”
You blink, genuinely taken aback. It’s been so long since anyone has asked you out that you’d forgotten what it felt like. A hot, embarrassed blush creeps up your neck. You glance through the glass at Michael, who’s completely lost in the music, oblivious.
You turn back to David, who is waiting patiently, his hopeful smile not wavering. “Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.”
His smile widens. “Great! I’ll get your number from th’ receptionist. I’ll call you.”
He gives you a little wave and disappears to set up his gear. You stand there for a moment, a strange, fluttery feeling in your stomach. You have a date. You have an actual, bona fide date with a nice, normal, non-superstar guitarist.
Michael finally emerges from the booth, a triumphant grin on his face. “Got it,” he says, grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler. “‘S perfect.”
“That’s amazing, Mike,” you say, trying to sound normal.
He stops drinking, looking at you closely. “Y’okay? Y’look… weird.”
“No, M’ fine! M’ great,” you say, maybe a little too brightly. “In fact, I have some news.”
He leans against the console, giving you his full attention. “Yeah?”
“I have a date on Friday,” you announce, a little puff of pride in your chest. “His name is David. He’s th’ new guitarist.”
The smile on Michael’s face freezes. It doesn’t disappear, but it solidifies, becoming a brittle, unmoving thing. “Oh,” he says. A single, flat syllable. “That’s… nice.”
“He’s seens nice,” you add, feeling the need to defend your sudden good news. “And listen, this is like, my first real date in forever. So you have t’come over n’ help me get ready. You have t’see me off. You’re my best friend, it’s your job.”
“Right,” he says, the word sounding like it’s being forced out of him. “My job.”
His eyes look strange, darker than usual. A muscle is twitching in his jaw. He looks away from you, back towards the mixing board, suddenly absorbed in a row of knobs. “I should, uh… I should get back t’it. Quincy wants t’lay down th’ vocals.”
“Oh. Okay,” you say, a prickle of unease starting to bloom in your chest. “I’ll see you later, then?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, not looking at you. “Later.”
You leave the studio feeling confused, the happy bubble from your invitation thoroughly popped. You chalk it up to him just being surprised, or maybe tired. It doesn’t occur to you, not for a second, that he might be hurting.
Back at the Encino house a few hours later, Michael is pacing in the living room like a caged animal. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. His chest feels tight, there’s a sour taste in his mouth, and every time he closes his eyes, he sees your smiling face telling him you had a date. A date. With a guy named David. He was supposed to be happy for you. He wanted to be happy for you. But instead, he felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.
Jackie is the first one to find him. “Whoa, slow down there, turbo. You’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet. What’s got you s’worked up?”
Michael stops, running a hand through his hair. “She has a date,” he says, the words tasting like ash.
“Who does?” Jackie asks, picking lint off his shirt.
“Her!” Michael says, gesturing wildly towards the door, as if you were standing right there. “She has a date on Friday. With some… some guitar player.”
Jackie just stares at him for a long moment, then a slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. “Oh,” he says. “Ohhh.”
“What ‘oh’?” Michael demands. “There is no ‘oh’. It’s jus’… wrong. Who is this guy? Does he even know her favorite movie? Does he know she hates cilantro? Does he know she can’t sleep unless the window is cracked open, even in the middle of winter? I bet he doesn’t.”
Jermaine wanders in, hearing the commotion. “What are you yellin’ about now? And why do you look like someone just ran over your puppy?”
“His “puppy” has a date!” Jackie announces gleefully, dropping onto the sofa.
“She’s not my puppy,” Michael snaps. “And she has a date. That’s th’ problem.”
Marlon and Tito trail in after Jermaine, drawn by the drama like moths to a flame.
“A date?” Marlon says, his eyes wide with genuine shock. “Our lil’ girl? With who?”
“Some dude named David,” Jermaine says, grabbing a handful of chips from a bowl on the coffee table. “So what? She’s a grown woman. She can date.”
“That’s not the point!” Michael explodes, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Th’ point is… th’ point is…”
He trails off, unable to articulate the tangled, painful mess of emotions inside him.
“Th’ point is,” Jackie says, stepping in and putting a comforting arm around Michael’s shoulders, “is that you thought you had forever t’figure out that you’re stupid in love with her, and now some yahoo with a six-string is cutting in line.”
The room goes silent. All four of his brothers are staring at him, their expressions ranging from amusement to profound understanding.
Michael’s head whips around to face Jackie. “What? No. That’s… that’s ridiculous. She’s my best friend. We’re jus’… us. We’re not… like that.”
“Are you kidding me, man?” Tito says, shaking his head. “You two are more married than me n’ Delores. You finish each other’s sentences. You know her order at every restaurant in town. You get that dopey look on your face whenever she walks in a room. We’ve all been waiting for this. We were starting to think you were both just celibate.”
“You share clothes!” Marlon adds, as if it’s the final, damning piece of evidence.
“I share my clothes with all of you,” Michael protests weakly.
“Yeah, but you don’t look at us like we hung the moon, man,” Jermaine says, his tone softening. “Think about it, Mike. Really think about it. How do y’feel right now? Forget ‘best friend’. How do y’feel?”
The question hits him like a physical blow. How does he feel? He feels sick. He feels like the ground has shifted beneath his feet and he’s about to fall. He feels like someone is trying to take away the most important part of his life, the one thing that makes sense in the crazy, upside-down world he lives in. He feels… jealous. The word is so sudden and sharp in his mind it makes him flinch. He’s never felt it before, not like this. Not this ugly, possessive, gut-wrenching feeling that makes him want to punch a wall and then find you and never let you out of his sight again.
“Oh,” he whispers, the sound barely audible. “Oh, god.”
“Yeah, ‘oh, god’,” Jackie says, giving him a little shake. “So what’re you gonna do about it? You gonna let some David with a guitar come in n’ steal your girl?”
“She’s not my girl,” Michael says automatically, but the words have no conviction left in them. They’re hollow, empty.
“Not yet, she ain’t,” Tito points out. “But that clock ‘s ticking, Mikey. Friday ‘s coming.”
The image flashes in his mind again: you, smiling, telling him about David. You, asking him to see you off. The thought of it now is unbearable. The thought of you leaving this house, looking beautiful for another man… the thought of you coming home and telling him all about it… no. He can’t. He won’t.
A clarity, sharp and sudden, cuts through the fog of confusion and pain. He knows what he has to do.
Without another word, he turns and bolts from the room, grabbing his car keys from the hook by the door. He doesn’t even hear his brothers shouting good luck behind him. His heart is pounding a frantic, wild rhythm against his ribs. He has to get to you. He has to get to you before this goes any further.
He drives like a man possessed, weaving through traffic, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The fifteen-minute drive to your apartment feels like an eternity. He parks haphazardly, leaving the car running, and takes the stairs two at a time, not even bothering with the elevator.
He’s standing in front of your door, panting, his chest heaving, when he realizes he has no idea what he’s going to say. He just knows he has to say something. He raises his hand to knock, then lowers it, then raises it again. His confidence, which had been so absolute just moments ago, is suddenly gone, replaced by a paralyzing fear.
He’s about to turn around, to run back to the car and hide, when the door swings open.
You’re standing there, holding a half-empty carton of takeout lo mein. You’re wearing an old, faded t-shirt of his—the one with the weird stain on the sleeve that you refuse to let him throw away—and a pair of gray sweatpants. Your hair is pulled up in a messy puff. You’ve never looked more beautiful.
“Michael?” you say, your eyes wide with surprise. “What’re you doin’ here? Are you okay? Y’look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He just stands there, staring at you like an idiot, the speech he’d rehearsed in his head completely gone.
You step aside, gesturing for him to come in. “C’mon, get in here before you give my neighbors a heart attack.”
He walks in, the familiar, comforting scent of your apartment—the lavender diffuser, the old books, the faint hint of your perfume—washing over him. You set the carton of noodles down on the coffee table and turn to him, your hands on your hips, your expression a mixture of concern and amusement.
“Okay, spill,” you say. “What’s th’ emergency? Did Jermaine break somethin’ expensive again?”
He shakes his head, still unable to speak. He takes a deep breath, trying to force the words out. “The date,” he finally manages to say, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar. “The date with David. You can’t go.”
Your friendly expression falters, replaced by confusion. “What? Why? What’re you talking about?”
“Just… you can’t,” he says, taking a step closer. “You can’t go on Friday.”
“Michael, we’ve been over this,” you say, your tone gentle but firm. “You’re my best friend. I want you there t’see me off. It’s important t’me.”
“No, you don’t understand,” he says, his voice rising with desperation. “I don’t want you to go. At all.”
The hurt is clear on your face now, a flash of pain in your eyes that hits him like a physical blow. “Why?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t you want me t’be happy?”
“Of course I want you t’be happy!” he explodes, the words tearing out of him. “But not with him! Not with some… some guitar player who doesn’t know anything about you! He doesn’t know you hum when you’re nervous. He doesn’t know you have a scar on your knee from falling off a swing when you were seven. He doesn’t know that you cried for an hour when E.T. went home. He doesn’t know you!”
Tears are welling in your eyes now, shimmering in the dim light of your apartment. “Then why, Michael? Why’re you doing this? You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to be happy f’me.”
“Because I love you!”
The words hang in the air between you, raw and ragged and utterly true. The confession rips out of him, tearing down years of carefully constructed walls in a single, desperate breath.
He stands there, breathing heavily, his heart pounding, completely exposed. He’s terrified. He’s just thrown away the most important friendship in his life, all because of a selfish, ugly, possessive feeling he didn’t even understand until a few hours ago.
You just stare at him, your mouth slightly open, the tears now tracking silently down your cheeks. The silence that follows is the most terrifying sound he’s ever heard. He braces himself for the rejection, for the anger, for the inevitable end of everything.
Finally, you speak, your voice trembling. “What?”
He takes another step closer, closing the distance between you until he’s standing right in front of you. He reaches out, his hand trembling as he gently cups your cheek, his thumb stroking away a tear.
“I love you,” he says again, softer this time, the words filled with a lifetime of unspoken emotion. “Not like a friend. Not like a sister. I’m in love with you. I have been for years. I jus’… I was too stupid t’realize it. I thought this was how it was supposed t’be. Us. This. I thought it was enough.”
He looks into your eyes, pleading. “But then you said you had a date, and it felt like my whole world was ending. I was s’jealous, and it was ugly, and it scared me, and it made me realize… it made me realize that I can’t lose you. Not to him. Not to anyone. You’re my best friend, but you’re also… you’re everything.”
A sob escapes your lips, and you throw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. He holds you tight, burying his face in your hair, breathing in your scent, a profound, soul-shaking relief washing over him.
You pull back just enough to look at him, your faces inches apart. Your eyes are red and puffy from crying, but they’re shining with a light he’s never seen before.
“I’m canceling th’ date,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.
He nods, a watery smile on his face. “Okay.”
“I’m goin’ to call David right now and tell him I can’t go.”
“Okay,” he says again, his smile widening.
“And then,” you say, your hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, “you’re going to stay here. And we’re goin’ t’finish that lo mein. And you’re goin’ t’tell me everything.”
“Everything,” he promises.
“But first,” you whisper, leaning in, your lips brushing against his, a feather-light, tentative touch, “you’re going t’kiss me. For real.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He closes the remaining distance, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s years in the making. It’s not like the kisses they’ve shared before—quick, friendly pecks on the cheek or forehead. This is different. This is deep and slow and full of all the words they never said. It tastes of salt and relief and a future that’s suddenly, beautifully, theirs.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting together. The half-eaten carton of noodles is still on the coffee table, but it’s forgotten. The world outside, the date, the guitarist, the years of misunderstanding—it all melts away, leaving only this. Only him. Only you. Only now.
themes: fluff, established relationship, domestic bliss, protective michael, clingy michael
synopsis: michael’s been paying closer attention to your body than you have, and he already knows the truth before you do.
warnings: suggestive banter/pillow talk, brief mention of morgue work/autopsies (no explicit detail)
word count: 1.8k
a/n: no specific era, could be bad to mature. reckon this is a part 1... hope you enjoy! let me know what you think of it :)
the morning alarm cut through the quiet bedroom at 5:45 am, a sharp incessant beeping that had michael reaching out blindly to swat the top of the nightstand.
next to him, you shuffled under the heavy duvet, groaning quietly into the pillow with the deadened exhaustion of someone who had spent twelve hours over an autopsy table.
seeing you stir, michael dragged himself closer. he didn’t pull away to start his day. instead, he maneuvered until his chest was pressed flush against your back, slinging a heavy arm over your waist and burying his nose into the crook of your neck.
he inhaled deeply, expecting the sharp, powdery bite of the french designer perfume you had worn since the day he met you. instead, his senses were hit with a soft scent of vanilla and almond oil.
"mmm," he hummed, his voice thick with sleep against your skin. "you changed it."
you stirred again, blinking against the faint morning light. "changed what?"
"your perfume, my love," he murmured, his fingers absently tracing small circles over the fabric of your shirt, right above your hip. "it’s different. sweet."
"the old one started smelling like floor cleaner," you muttered, eyes still half-closed. "made my nose itch."
michael didn't reply, but his hand didn't move either. it stayed anchored there, resting heavy against your midsection.
"angel," you whispered, a slight laugh tugging at your lips despite your bone-deep tiredness. "i have to get up in fifteen minutes. dr. etomi wants the preliminary report on the westside case by eight."
"five minutes.".
he tightened his grip even more, impossibly so, pulling you so close there wasn't an inch of air between you.
it was happening more and more lately. almost six months into the marriage, and while you expected a honeymoon phase like what your married friends had told you, michael had completely morphed into a persistent shadow.
if you were sitting on the couch reading something, he was leaning against your shoulder, resting his chin on your head.
if you were in the kitchen making tea, he’d wander in, wrap his arms around your waist from behind, and rest his forehead against your shoulder while the kettle boiled.
it was sweet, if maybe just a tiny bit suffocating (but honestly it's not like you really minded). you assumed he was just enjoying the rare lull in his schedule—no stadiums to fill, no press conferences, just quiet days at home while he casually worked on music demos.
an hour later, you were fully dressed in your blouse and slacks, rushing through the kitchen to grab your coffee thermos. michael was standing near the counter, wearing an oversized shirt, watching you with that strangely intense focus he’d had all week.
"eat something," he said softly, sliding a plate across the island.
you paused, just staring at it. there was a thick slice of brioche toast topped with a ridiculous layer of raspberry jam and a dusting of powdered sugar.
"michael, i don't eat sweet stuff in the morning. you know it gives me a headache."
"you ate three cinnamon rolls on tuesday," he pointed out, leaning his elbows on the counter. "and you stole my ice cream last night."
“’cos i was running on four hours of sleep and my brain needed sugar," you shot back, though your stomach gave a traitorous rumble. you picked up the toast anyway and took a bite. it tasted ridiculously good. "my cycle is probably just acting up again. you know how irregular it gets when i'm stressed."
"right. stress," he repeated.
his tone may have been neutral, but his eyes tracked the way you swallowed, dropping briefly to the front of your blouse before rising back to meet yours.
he walked around the island, stepping right into your personal space. he didn't even say anything, just reached out and wiped some crumbs on the corner of your mouth. his thumb lingered there, pressing gently, as if testing the warmth of your skin.
"what?"
"nothing," he murmured, softly smiling. "just... stay safe today. don't push yourself too hard."
"i cut open dead people for a living, mike. it's not exactly high-risk."
"still."
he leaned down and kissed you—not a quick goodbye peck, but a deep, lingering press of his lips that left you slightly breathless. when he pulled back, his hands rested firmly on your hips, holding you in place for a second longer than necessary. "call me when you get there.”
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
by early afternoon, the morgue felt suffocatingly cold, yet somehow sweat was prickling at the back of your neck.
you pulled off your gloves, leaning heavy against the edge of the metal sink. your head was swimming. the chemical smell of the formaldehyde—a scent you hadn't noticed in years—was suddenly so overpowering it made your throat constrict.
it’s probably just exhaustion, you told yourself. just the double shifts and maybe too much sugar.
you took a slow breath, stepping out of the lab and down the long hallway toward your office. as you rounded the corner, you froze.
your husband was sitting on the wooden bench outside your door.
he was wearing a black fedora pulled low and a dark jacket, his long legs stretched out in front of him. he held a small insulated lunch bag resting on his lap.
"michael? what are you doing here? is everything okay?"
he stood up immediately, stepping toward you. "you forgot your lunch. and you didn't call."
"i was in the middle of an autopsy," you said, incredulous, a fond smile cracking through your fatigue. you almost never forgot your lunch—as you were usually hyper-organized—so seeing him standing there with your lunch bag made the whole day feel a little surreal. "you came all the way here just for that?”
"i wanted to see you.”
he didn't wait for permission. he reached out, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you against his chest right there in the middle of the hospital corridor. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, taking a long sniff of that new vanilla scent.
"mike, people are walking by," you whispered, though you wrapped your arms around his waist anyway, letting yourself lean into his warmth.
"let them walk," he muttered into your hair. his hand glided down your spine, resting flat against the small of your back, applying a gentle pressure that seemed to instantly ease the dull ache in your lower muscles.
you pulled back slightly to look at him, searching his eyes. "you're being weird today. you've been weird for weeks."
"i'm fine," he said, offering an enigmatic smile that didn't quite reveal his thoughts. he unzipped the bag, pulling out your usual container alongside a small, chilled bottle of ginger ale. "eat.”
you looked at the ginger ale, then up at his face. a sudden, strange realization flickered at the back of your mind—a thought that cut straight through the fog of your fatigue.
ginger. for nausea.
vanilla. for sensitivity.
sweets. for fatigue.
wait.
"michael," you said softly, your heart suddenly taking a hard thud against your ribs. "how long has my period been late?"
he didn't answer right away. he just held your gaze, his eyes brimming with tenderness, a tiny, triumphant tilt touching the corner of his lips.
"about three weeks.”
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
the drive back home was silent.
michael understood you needed the quiet to think and by the time you pulled into the driveway, you had a pharmacy bag clutched tightly in your lap, containing two identical white boxes.
in the master bathroom, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense. you sat on the edge of the closed toilet lid, holding the plastic stick in your hand while the small timer on the counter ticked down.
michael, on the other hand, was pacing the tile floor like a caged cat.
he couldn't keep still—his hands went into his pockets, then out, then he was crouching right in front of you, resting his chin on your knees and looking up into your face.
"is the time up?" he whispered. or tried to whisper with his voice pitching high as he struggled to contain his excitement.
"mike, it's been ninety seconds. it takes three minutes."
"it feels like an hour," he muttered, resting his hands on your thighs, his fingers digging in lightly. he was practically vibrating. "i'm telling you. i already know. i just want to see the little lines."
"you don't know anything yet," you countered softly, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. "you're just overly observant and incredibly clingy.”
"i knew," he insisted, a bright, boyish grin breaking across his face. "you stopped letting me lay my head on your chest because you said your bra was too tight. and you smelled like vanilla. and you were cranky."
the timer suddenly went off with a sharp beep before you could answer.
your breath hitched. you looked down at the test in your hand.
two solid, undeniably pink lines.
michael didn't even wait for you to speak. he read the look on your face, let out a gasp, and immediately leaned in, burying his face into your stomach as his arms wrapped tight around your waist. he was laughing, a bubbling sound against your shirt.
“i knew it.”
"you're impossible," you breathed, tears unexpectedly stinging the corners of your eyes as you ran your fingers through his soft curls.
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
later that evening, the test sat forgotten on the nightstand, and the two of you were tangled together under the sheets. true to form, michael hadn't put an inch of distance between you since you left the bathroom; he was lying on his side, one leg hooked over yours, his palm resting flat and warm over your lower stomach.
"so," you murmured, tracing the line of his jawline with your index finger. "when exactly do you think this happened, mr. detective?"
michael’s eyes fluttered open, a wicked little smirk slowly spreading across his lips.
"well," he drawled softly, his thumb lazily stroke your hip, sliding under the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin. "you had that three-day break at the end of april. the studio was closed for renovations.”
"when you insisted on staying in bed until two in the afternoon every day?”
"the very same," he hummed, leaning down to press a warm kiss right below your ear, making you shiver. "remember the second night? when you said you were too tired, and then..."
"okay, alright," you cut him off, laughing as your cheeks flushed hot, burying your face in his chest. "i remember."
"i think it was that night," he whispered into your hair, his voice dropping into that gentle tone that always made your knees weak. "you were extra pretty and extra sweet to me then."
"you're ridiculous," you teased softly, looking up at him. "and you're going to be insufferable for the next eight months, aren't you?"
"absolutely," he smiled, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders and kissing the tip of your nose. "you're stuck with me hovering 24/7 now. no escaping.”
SUMMARY: You bump into Michael at a party and find yourself slow dancing with him on the balcony, sharing a special moment.
WARNING: None, just two cuties
WC: ~1k
A/N: enjoy this little one-shot pookies <33
———————————————————————————————————
There were parties, and then there were celebrity parties.
These kind of parties are where everyone laughs a little too loudly, they were sunglasses indoors to draw the paparazzi away and pretend they aren't trying to spot big stars the second they walk in.
You're at this particular party because your cousin works with the event organizers. Free catering, good music, and one strict instruction:
"Don't bother the guests."
You figure that's easy enough, even though you've already spotted Madonna and Prince. But you know that even celebrities need their space. You spend most of the evening hiding near the balcony with a glass of sparkling cider, enjoying the cool night air more than the crowded ballroom behind you.
"You escaped too?"
The voice was soft and shy, but you recognized it anywhere.
You turn around.
Michael Jackson stands beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his black jacket and his curls framing his face. His smile is small, almost apologetic, like he's worried he's startled you.
For a full five seconds, your brain completely shuts down. Michael Jackson is in front of you.
"…Yeah," you finally manage to say.
He laughs. "I don't blame you."
He slowly approaches you, standing next to you on the balcony as you both overlook the city lights. "You aren't staring," he says after a moment.
"Well, I figured you've probably had enough of that."
His eyebrows lift. "Most people ask me to moonwalk for 'em."
"I mean," You shrug casually. "I wasn't gonna ask ya that on the first meeting."
That earns you another laugh: much louder this time. "You're funny."
"I've been told I'm tolerable."
"I think you're underselling yourself."
You look at him and smile. After that, you both lean against the balcony, your drinks in hand and just talk. You talk about music, books, childhood memories, your favourite cartoons and ridiculous rumours magazines invented about him and other celebrities.
At some point, you forget you're talking to Michael Jackson. In the moment, he's just Michael. A soft-spoken man who gets excited talking about old movies and who smiles with his whole face whenever something genuinely amuses him.
"You know," he admits quietly, leaning against the balcony railing, "it's nice."
"What is?"
"This." He gestures between the two of you. "Just talking, with no cameras or someone asking me for somethin'."
His voice becomes softer. "I get lonely sometimes."
You understand what he means: because everyone knows Michael Jackson, but almost nobody knows Michael.
"I think," you say carefully, "people forget famous doesn't mean invincible."
He looks at you. "You understand."
"I try." You reply with a smile.
A silence passes, and the music from inside drifts onto the balcony as a slow love song from the speakers.
Michael tilts his head and meets your gaze. "Would you dance with me?"
You give him a confused look. "Out here?"
He nods. "There's no audience here, so it'll be as if we're in our own little bubble."
"So if I step on your shoes?"
"I'll survive."
You laugh. "Bold assumption."
He offers you his gloved hand, and you slip your hand into his. He leads you gently as the music plays, almost cautiously, as though asking permission with every movement.
His hand rests carefully at your waist. "I've had louder nights," he whispers. "But I don't think I've had better ones."
You look up at him. "You say that to everyone?"
His eyes widen. "I've never said it before."
"Oh." You say, blushing.
"Oh." He smiles. "You blush."
"I do."
"It's cute."
"Don't use your Michael Jackson powers against me."
"My what?"
"Y'know...your smile, your eyes, your voice."
He laughs so hard he nearly misses the beat. "I don't have powers."
"You absolutely do."
"I'll have to disagree."
"You can disagree."
"I will."
"You'll just be wrong."
"You sure do have high confidence in yourself." He says, grinning, and you can't help but smile back.
When the song ends, neither of you move. "I should probably go," he murmurs.
"They've probably noticed you're missing." You note.
"I'm sure they have, but I'd rather be out here with you." He says, his expression softening.
You feel your cheeks warm again at his words as he reaches into his jacket pocket and hands you a small folded piece of paper. "My number."
You stare at it and then at him. "You sure?"
"I wouldn't have written it otherwise."
You smile. "I'll call."
"I hope you do."
Before walking back inside, he pauses, turns around and points playfully at you. "And no asking me to moonwalk."
You can't help but laugh. "No promises."
His smile lingers long after he disappears into the lights.
As you smile and look down at the piece of paper, you realize that the moment you spent with Michael was pure magic.
Aren’t friends supposed to help each other out? You don’t want some fairytale romance or to be swept off your feet. You just want sex. The same way you want him to kill spiders or carry your heavy grocery bags when the elevator’s out of order. As far as Dex is concerned, this is just another thing he can do for you.
tags: 18+ MDNI, second person POV but switches between dex and you, pre-Fisk FBI era, guy best friend!dex, fwb talk, dex’s weird view of intimacy and friendship and relationships and sex, male masturbation (dex touches his peepee and thinks about you 🩷)
word count: 5.7k
a/n: this was supposed to be a single long-shot that absolutely got away from me so i’m splitting it up heeheehaha. big shoutout to tumblr users killshotx and roxxmo, was extremely inspired by their writing/characterizations of dex!!!
No matter what else happens during the week, Dex spends every Sunday evening at your place. Without fail.
Which is funny, when he thinks about it. He remembers the way he tried to avoid you at first, all those months ago, after you spilled your freshly brewed hot coffee down his shirt before work trying to make your train on time.
But then you were there at the station again the next morning. And the morning after that, and so on. After a few days of awkward small talk — conversations you always started and he only reluctantly participated in — he learned that you had just moved and this was your new subway line to work.
You refused to take the hint. After weeks of plopping yourself down in the seat beside him and yapping his ear off until his stop, you weaseled his number out of him. It took no time before you were texting him any and everything that crossed your mind.
Then you started inviting yourself on his weekly grocery trip. You almost always caught the morning train together, rarely did he end up seeing you on the afternoon one too. The first time he did, he remembers getting on after work and catching your eye, waiting for the discomfort to knot itself tight in his stomach at the smallest change of routine. Instead, impossibly, he felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth at the sight of you waving excitedly at him. The two of you talked about your after work plans, and then you gasped and told him oh, shit, you needed milk and hey, Dex, why don’t you just go with him?
You started coming up with increasingly flimsy excuses to include him in your own plans after that. “You want me to come with you to buy new shampoo?” he asked one day.
“…Yeah?” you had said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. More fun that way?”
He still doesn’t understand how or why it happened. He just knows somewhere along the way you became his best friend.
And, somehow, he became yours.
Now he shows up around 5:30 every Sunday, carrying a plastic bag of whatever drink and snacks you texted him to pick up from the bodega. He doesn’t need to knock anymore, ever since you got a spare key to your place cut for him months ago. By the time he lets himself into your apartment, you’re already scrolling through DoorDash, because Sundays with you always means ordering dinner and watching a movie together.
Tonight it’s Chinese food and Ghostbusters, because you inform him that yes, Dex, Halloween starts promptly on October first and that no, Dex, he doesn’t get a say this time.
He knows how the rest of the evening will go, because it’s how all Sunday evenings go. He’ll come up with a fake complaint about the upcoming work week — something minor and insignificant that lets you tease him and call him a drama queen — and then you’ll tell him something ridiculous one of your other friends is up to, or ask his opinion on a problem you’ve already decided the answer to. He likes that you share the small, insignificant details of your life with him, and he likes that you want to hear his too.
Tonight you’re telling him about your friend who’s balancing a roster of three different men who just caught wind of each other.
“I really don’t know how she does it,” you tell him around a mouthful of noodles. “I can barely handle one guy. I do not miss dating.”
He wipes the residual egg roll grease off his fingers. “No?” he asks.
He’s spent years listening to conversations in the bullpen, more than just a few about terrible first dates or exes who kept coming back. Coworkers getting ghosted or lovebombed or trying to decipher mixed signals. Everyone always has some complaint about the person they’re seeing. He’d never understood how something so commonplace could be so complicated.
“Fuck no,” you snort. “It sucks.”
He nods. That tracks. He wouldn’t know much from experience, of course, because relationships have always seemed like some complicated social ritual everyone else learned without him. There are rules he doesn’t understand and expectations nobody says out loud, and then adding feelings into the mix on top of that sounds exhausting.
Dex has gotten better at pretending. It’s what he does when something doesn’t come naturally — which is far more often than he’d like. He watches and he studies and he tries to follow along the best he can. Dating, however, just has never seemed worth the effort regardless.
“But,” you rasp, downing the last sip of your wine. “I do miss sex.”
He blinks then. Sex. It’s not like he’s never thought about it. Of course he has. He just never fully understood the appeal.
You don’t notice his silence. “I just— I don’t want to redownload Tinder.” You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t want some guy texting me all day. I don’t want him hanging around in my apartment. I don’t want him disrupting my routine.”
Dex texts you all day. Dex hangs around in your apartment. Dex is a big part of your routine. Before he can open his mouth to point that out, you cut him off.
“I mean, I don’t want someone else doing all that.” You push yourself up off the couch with a grunt and head towards the fridge for another glass. You smooth a hand over his hair on the way by. “You’re good.”
Is that a compliment? “Thanks…?”
You call out from the kitchen. “I just need some guy I can call to, I don’t know…” You pause, then giggle at your own joke before you even say it. “Fix the pipes. And then promptly leave me alone.”
He recoils. Whether it’s at the expression or the thought, he’s not sure.
Some guy would mean losing his Sundays here. Some guy would mean less time Dex would spend with you and more time he would spend alone with his thoughts.
He already knows you. He already knows your routine and what makes you laugh and what annoys you. He knows your go-to order when you’re too tired to cook. He already spends almost every evening he can with you, and it still isn’t as many as he’d like. The thought of having to split you with someone else beyond that makes something tight and unwelcome settle in his chest.
He’s not… jealous, per se. He isn’t actually sure what he should call it. But he doesn’t like it.
Your friendship just works. It’s stable. It’s good. And most importantly, it’s predictable. Dex likes predictable. Predictable means he knows where he stands. He knows that sometimes he gets things wrong. He knows there are things about him that other people find difficult, that he can be too much or not enough depending on the day or who you ask. He knows things don’t come to him instinctively. When to speak, when to apologize, when someone’s being sarcastic, when they want honesty or when they want comfort.
But with you, it’s easy. He knows what to expect.
Why bring someone else into your life? Aren’t friends supposed to help each other out?
You don’t want some fairytale romance or to be swept off your feet. You just want sex. The same way you want him to kill spiders or carry your heavy grocery bags when the elevator’s out. As far as Dex is concerned, it’s just another thing he can do for you.
There’s really no reason he can’t provide it. If it keeps things the same, and keeps someone else from changing what the two of you have, then he wants to provide it.
There is one tiny complication: he hasn’t actually had sex. He has tried before. Unsuccessfully. Twice.
The first time was supposed to prove that he could be normal. He took a girl on a couple awkward dates in his 20s, and when things progressed and he got invited back to her place he said yes. He tried and he waited for the part where it was all supposed to click into place and it never did.
The second time was to prove he’d gotten it wrong the first time. The first time had been nerves, he told himself, on a bad night with the wrong girl. So he tried again, convinced that now he was prepared and that if he just approached it differently, if he stopped overthinking, it would work.
It didn’t.
He stopped trying after that. Sex became just another bullet point on a long list of things that didn’t come naturally to Benjamin Poindexter. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t take care of you. Maybe he couldn’t give you everything, but he could give you enough.
He waits until you’re back on the couch, nestled into the cushions and resting your wine on the side table.
“…I could,” he says.
You look over at him. “Huh?”
“I could do that.”
Your brow furrows. You grab your plate again and he watches you pick at a weird piece of chicken. “Do what?”
“Have sex with you.”
Your fork clatters out of your grip. You look at him like he just confessed to a crime, then scoff and shake your head. “Ha ha. Very funny.”
“I’m serious,” he tells you, sitting forward. His elbows rest on his knees. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yeah, of course, but it’s not—” You put your food back down on the coffee table and turn to face him properly, tucking one leg under you. He can’t really read the expression on your face. “It’s not just about trust, Dex.”
“You said you don’t want someone new taking up your time. You already know me, right? So I don’t count?”
“Right…” you agree carefully.
“So nothing has to change.”
It makes perfect sense to him. No awkward first dates you’d have to suffer through, no potentially dangerous strangers in your apartment he’d have to worry about, and your friendship stays exactly as it is.
“You’d… want that?” you ask him quietly. “With me?”
He’d never spent too much time thinking about sex as something he wanted. It had always seemed to him like something meant for other people to enjoy — like camping. It was just never something he’d felt drawn to for its own sake.
There isn’t much of himself left that you haven’t already seen, anyway. Or much of you that he hasn’t. You’ve watched him panic and cry and lose his temper with you. You’ve seen him come crawling back to fall over himself and try to make things right again. You know your jokes fly over his head sometimes and he doesn’t realize until you beam up at him with that bright, cheesy smile, waiting for him to catch on and never making fun of him.
He’s held your hair while you were sick, let you fall asleep against him on your couch and drool on his shoulder, listened to you cry and watched you laugh until you couldn’t breathe. He’s seen every awkward, and sometimes inconvenient, very human part of you. So why would this be any different?
This isn’t really about sex. This is about you and preserving your friendship, something he knows he can’t afford to lose. The act itself seems incidental. How bad could it be? He trusts you, and you trust him. That’s what really matters, right?
So if it means you aren’t going to start making room for someone else, then yes, sex seems like an easy decision. He’d want that.
He nods, even though he doesn’t understand the way you’re looking at him. “I think it would work,” he says simply, and turns back to the movie.
He can still see you watching him out of the corner of his eye, like you’re waiting for the punchline. It never comes, because with him it never will, so you reluctantly turn back too. “Okay.”
The movie ends 43 minutes later. You’re not sure you actually watched the rest of it after Dex offered to fuck you as casually as he’d offer to help rearrange the furniture in your living room.
That’s the part you can’t wrap your mind around. Not really the fact that he offered, but the way he did it like it was nothing at all. Very Dex-like of him, in retrospect.
You hate how much it’s affecting you. You couldn’t even bring yourself to point at Slimer or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and tell Dex “that’s you by the way” when they showed up on-screen.
You glance over and he’s watching the credits roll like they actually matter, completely relaxed, one hand resting just underneath his ribcage and the other holding his water bottle.
You’re almost jealous of how unaffected he seems.
He turns his head and catches you staring. “What?
“We need some rules,” you tell him abruptly.
“Rules?”
“Yes. Rules. If we’re gonna do… this, we need rules.”
“Okay,” he says simply, and oh, god, he is actually serious about this.
“Okay. This can’t make things weird.”
“What do you mean ‘weird’?” he asks.
“Like—” Your hand plays nervously with your hair. “We’re best friends, I really don’t want to lose that. So if… sleeping together… makes it awkward, we can’t do it again.”
“I don’t want that either,” he says immediately.
Sometimes he’s impossible to read, and other times he’s so painfully earnest it almost hurts. You can tell he means it, really means it, that this isn’t some reckless decision just to get in your pants or him trying to complicate things.
“If you want to sleep with someone else, that’s fine. But you have to tell me and this has to end if you do.”
His lip curls ever so slightly, almost like he’s grossed out by the thought, but he nods anyway. “Okay.”
The words tumble out before you can stop them. “And if one of us starts catching feelings—”
Dex waits expectantly for you to continue, like a good dog waiting for his next command. Your breath hitches against your will.
You’ve always known Dex was attractive, objectively. You’re not blind. Women looked at him when you were out together, your coworkers had gushed about how hot he was after seeing him through the window once while he waited for your shift to end. Even you had noticed it when you first bumped into him.
But he never flirted, or made a move, or even hinted that sex was something that had ever crossed his mind. At some point, you just started seeing him as a Ken doll. Genital-less. A six-foot-tall Ken doll with big, stupid doe eyes and a strong, stupid jawline, with a stupid dimple in his stupid chin.
Oh, you are so screwed.
You swallow. “We’ll just talk about it,” you finish lamely.
“We’ll talk about it,” he repeats, like he’s committing instructions to memory.
You think you’d have an easier time navigating this with literally anyone else. He must have no idea how insane this actually is. He’s just sitting there, waiting for you to tell him how this works like you’ve got a board game set up in front of him.
You’re the one who had to open your big mouth and say you missed sex. You’re the one who made the joke. So why does it feel like you’re on your back foot right now?
You clear your throat, because someone has to steer you two through the rest of this and you don’t think you trust him to. “So.”
“So?” he echoes.
You chew the inside of your lip. Dex blinks at you a couple times, confusion slowly settling over his face. His fingers start tapping on his stomach.
You just have to rip the fuck-buddy shaped bandaid off.
“Um, when do you actually… want to…” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “Y’know?”
“…Have sex?” he asks.
You cringe against the onslaught of unwelcome images the phrase makes flash through your mind. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about your fingers in his hair. Don’t think about his mouth on your neck. “Don’t say it like that.”
He raises his eyebrows at you. “How else am I supposed to say it? I’m not calling it ‘fixing the pipes’ like you did.”
“Ugh.” Somehow it’s only funny when you say it. “Fine, you’re right. Just never say… that again.”
“Alright.” He pauses for a moment. “When do you want to have sex?” he asks instead.
You tilt your head back and groan, dragging your hands down your face. You can’t believe you’re actually having this mortifying conversation right now. “I don’t know.”
You’re scheduling a dick appointment with your best friend. With Dex. You really are. The man who has seen you burst into tears at the sight of a fat raccoon two days before your period. The man who has seen you in your ugliest pajamas. The man who has seen your apartment when it’s a total disaster and never commented on it.
And now you’re just supposed to fuck him? This is pigs-flying, Hell-freezing-over, completely uncharted territory.
You stare at him and he stares back, genuinely, patiently waiting for an answer. He doesn’t seem embarrassed or flustered at all and it’s somehow making your own nerves even worse.
“Not tonight,” you say quickly.
“Okay.”
“I need…” You sigh and start gathering the plethora of takeout containers spanning your coffee table, desperate for anything to channel your suddenly antsy energy into. “I need time to mentally prepare.”
Dex stands and follows you to the kitchen, grabbing the plates, your mostly empty glass, and his half-full water bottle on his way. “Prepare for what?”
For what? For seeing him naked. For him seeing you naked. For whatever’s going to happen later this week that might change your friendship forever.
“It’s just been a while,” you cop out with a shrug. The takeout containers hit the counter a little harder than you intend. It’s not technically a lie. It’s just also not technically the truth.
“I understand,” he says, which you know is his go-to when he doesn’t but he’s trying to sound respectful. He moves past you to the sink to rinse the last few drops of wine out of your cup. “How long do you need?”
You think for a second and come up with nothing. “I don’t really know,” you tell him honestly.
He grabs the tea towel from your oven handle. Have his forearms always looked like that? “A week?”
“Maybe?”
“Friday?” he asks harmlessly, drying off your glass. You don’t like the way you’re hyper-focused on his hands right now, either.
Friday would give you five days.
Five days until you see if Dex kisses you softly and cautiously, the way he does everything, like he’s afraid of getting it wrong, or if there’s some other side of him you’ve never seen before.
Oh.
Five days until you find out what Dex is like when he stops holding himself back.
Wait.
Five days until Dex sees your boobs. Five days until you touch his penis.
Oh, shit.
It’s a struggle to keep your voice even. “Sure.”
Dex smiles to himself and nods once, satisfied that this matter has been settled. Appointment scheduled.
You finish cleaning up together in silence. He sorts the leftovers into your fridge in his very particular way, and you let him like you always do. You clean your plates and he wipes down your counter, the coffee table, and the side table before folding the throw blankets you’d left in a heap on your couch earlier.
You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to double back and tell you sorry, he didn’t know what he was thinking, maybe he shouldn’t come over on Friday and have sex with you after all.
It never happens. You can’t even tell if you’re relieved or not. It feels like someone took 5 different emotions and mashed them together like a toddler with play-doh, then opened your ribcage and tossed it in.
Eventually, he checks the time.
“I should go,” he says, double-checking his pockets for his wallet, phone, and keys before heading to the door. You're only a few steps behind him.
“Yeah,” you agree too quickly. “You have work tomorrow, so…”
Dex pauses and looks over his shoulder at you, eyes narrowing as they search yours. “…I know?”
Yes. Of course. Of course he knows. You idiot.
“Yeah, obviously. I just meant—” You don’t know what you meant. He stares at you for a couple seconds longer, clearly trying to figure out what he’s missing.
“You have work tomorrow, too,” he points out.
“Yeah, I know.”
He blinks at you. “…Right.”
This is the part where you normally hug him goodbye. It's what you do every time he leaves. He’ll put on his jacket and shoes and you’ll call him an old man for leaving before 10 p.m. and then you’ll hug him before he goes.
You’ve done it dozens and dozens of times without thinking, but now your brain insists on reminding you that hugs involve touching. A lot of touching, which has apparently become an incredibly loaded activity in the wake of tonight’s conversation.
He tilts his head slightly at you. “Are you okay?”
“Yep,” you say, too fast to be believable.
His eyebrows pull together and he says your name like a question.
You try to smile but you think it probably looks more like a grimace. “I’m fine.”
You can tell by the way his jaw works that your behaviour’s starting to fluster him. “Are we not hugging?” he asks bluntly, his tone taking on that slight tell-tale edge of agitation creeping in. If you don’t hug him, he’s going to think he did something wrong, and that’s the last thing you want right now.
You’re making this weird. You just told him not to make it weird and now you’re being a big, dumb hypocrite.
“Sorry. Yes.” You shake your head like it’ll quiet your thoughts. “Obviously.”
You step forward and slide your arms around his waist like you always do. You try to steady your breathing and not think about your chest squished against his, or his hips pressed tight to your lower stomach. You try not to think about the comforting weight of his arms around you, the warmth of him seeping into you, or how good he smells—
Stop.
This is not supposed to feel different, but it does, because now you know you’re going to find out how these same hands on your back are going to feel on the rest of your body. Without the protective barrier of your clothes. By the end of this week.
You think maybe Friday can come too soon.
When Dex finally gets home, his apartment is quiet. Like always.
Usually he likes it. Now it’s almost… bothering him.
The first thing he does is text you that he got back safely. Then he hangs his jacket on the hook next to the door, toes his shoes off and lines them up square against the wall, and drops his keys and wallet in their dish on the kitchen counter.
He takes his nightly shower and he takes his nightly medication. He double checks that his front door is locked and he climbs into bed and closes his eyes.
Sleep rarely comes easily to him. Tonight it doesn’t come at all.
Usually when Dex can’t sleep, he thinks of you. He thinks about you a lot, actually, because thinking of you is easier than thinking of everything else.
He thinks about the way you grab his arm when you get excited. The incomprehensible memes you send him when he can’t answer you at work. The way you force him to sit through bad reality television and somehow make it enjoyable with your presence.
Those thoughts have always been familiar and safe. Grounding.
But tonight, he thinks about that unreadable look in your eyes after you pulled away from each other. Almost like you were waiting for something. He doesn’t know what you would be waiting for, or what he was supposed to do. It’s still bugging him.
Were you thinking about Friday? Were you already regretting it? Did he cross a line? Did he get it wrong?
You didn’t look upset.
So, what if you weren’t? What if you were thinking about Friday because you wanted him? What if you were looking at him like that because you were imagining it, too?
No. You are his friend. His friend who makes him huff out reluctant laughs, who checks on him when he’s being too quiet, who makes his life feel less empty. He doesn’t want his brain to take all of that and corrupt it, to look back at every kind thing you’ve ever done and convince him there was something else there all along.
He just can't stop thinking about what you really meant when you said you trusted him. Trusted him to see you, bare and exposed? Trusted him to touch you? Trusted him to make you feel good?
He grabs his phone off his nightstand, sees he has to be awake in six hours, and opens Google.
can sex ruin a friendship
He finds an article titled No Strings Attached: Navigating Friends With Benefits Relationships.
“Each person is different, and it can be hard to find someone who is on the same page as you,” it says.
He sighs through his nose. That doesn’t help. He’s known that for as long as he can remember. Maybe there’s no straight answer there, loathe as he is to admit it. Maybe whether Friday changes anything depends on what actually happens on Friday.
If you’re trusting him with this, the least he can do is make sure he doesn’t get it wrong and disappoint you.
He spends the next thirty minutes clicking through article after article, and Reddit thread after Reddit thread, hoping someone somewhere will finally explain what he needs to do step-by-step. All they do is regurgitate the same advice with different wording.
Communicate. Take your time. Pay attention. Someone says confidence is attractive, someone else says confidence doesn’t matter if you’re attentive. One says to ask questions, another says that’s a mood killer.
None of them tell him what he actually wants to know: how to make sure you’re happy with him.
If you’re happy, if you want to do it again, then it worked. Then nothing has to change.
Now he’s less worried about Friday being a good idea, and more concerned about if he can actually do this without ruining everything.
He locks his phone and puts it back on the nightstand, then lies on his back and stares at the ceiling.
Friday.
If he’s lucky, he’ll get to leave work on time. He’ll shower and change and get to your apartment before seven, if the subway cooperates.
Should he bring dinner? Your favourite bottle of wine?
No. That makes it feel like a date. He’ll just show up, like he always does. That seems safest.
He’ll unlock your door with that spare key he still can’t believe you gave him. You’ll stand up from the couch or walk over from the kitchen and smile at him like you always do, probably make some joke because you’ll know he’s nervous before he even says a word.
Should he kiss you then? Probably not. Probably too soon.
Maybe after you’ve both sat down for a while. Would waiting make it seem like he wasn’t interested? Would kissing you immediately make it seem like that was all he wanted?
He doesn’t want to rush you. He’ll sit through the newest episode of whatever reality show you’ve been watching, and you’ll make pancakes because Friday means breakfast for dinner. Maybe you’ll burn some again, because you always get distracted talking to him. And then maybe instead of walking him to the door at the end of the night, you’ll walk him to your bedroom.
What if you get nervous? What if you stop at the threshold of your room and change your mind? He’ll tell you it’s okay. Obviously it’s okay. He imagines taking your hand, telling you that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. He imagines your eyes searching his, finding whatever you’re looking for there, and pulling him towards your bed.
Should he kiss you? Should he let you kiss him? He thinks about your mouth either way, about letting his hands find your jaw and keeping you there and the way he wants to feel you sigh into the kiss. He wants your tongue sliding against his and your teeth sinking into his bottom lip, your fingers finding purchase in his shirt before you start to lift it up, up, up over his head and—
Something warm and unfamiliar throbs low between his thighs.
Is he…?
He trails a hand down the hard plane of his torso apprehensively, pausing as his fingertips graze the fabric of his briefs. He knows what he’s going to find, he’s not stupid, but he doesn’t know if he’s ready to confront what it means.
If Dex, who has only gotten hard a handful of times in his entire life, reaches down and feels that his cock is swelling at the thought of just kissing you…
For once, to his astonishment, there’s no puzzle to solve. There’s nothing waiting to click into place.
He is still just a man, underneath it all.
His hips twitch as he palms himself, hissing a sharp breath through his teeth.
He just wants Friday to go well. He wants you to feel comfortable. He wants to make you feel good.
His thumbs hook into the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down just enough to let his length slap lightly across his lower stomach. He stares down at it like it belongs to someone else. The tip is already flushed darker than the rest, a small bead of wetness gathered at the slit.
Making you feel good is the entire point, after all. You won’t need to deal with anyone else.
He wraps a tentative hand around himself, lips parting open at the sensation. His skin is hotter than he expected, almost feverish, the weight of his cock heavy and foreign in his palm. He tightens his grip experimentally and feels it pulse hard under his fingers, an insistent throb that makes his stomach clench.
He needs you to choose him next Friday, too. And then the one after that. Ad nauseam.
He strokes himself, slow and unsure. The dry drag of his palm over the sensitive head sends a sharp, electric jolt low through his gut. His precum smears under his thumb, turning the slide of his hand slick. The change in sensation makes him gasp.
You don’t have to look for anyone else. You can just have him, however and whenever you want him.
His hips start snapping faster into his grip without permission, rutting into his own touch. The wet sound of it feels obscenely loud and in the quiet of his room. He can feel the flush crawling up his chest and throat, turning his cheeks hot. A soft, startled moan rips out of him before he can choke it back.
He keeps wondering what you’ll sound like, if you’ll catch his gaze or close your eyes when he finally touches you, if you’ll tug his hair until his scalp stings or dig your nails into his biceps hard enough to leave bruises in the shapes of your fingertips. The thought turns him rougher, chasing that strange, rising pressure threatening to break open inside him, thighs tensing.
His fist tightens hard and unrelenting, and for one dangerous moment he’s lost in the thought of you being his first and him being your last, of nobody else but him getting to see the look on your face when you fall apart around him and realize you made the right choice.
His first.
His.
His.
Dex rips his hand away with a snarl, so fast it almost hurts, leaving himself glistening against his stomach and twitching in the cool air. He feels crazed, panting into the silence of his bedroom.
What the fuck is he doing? He doesn’t get to think about you like this, to want you like this.
He glares at the ceiling, jaw clenching tight, fingers twisting the bedsheet. His heart hammers rampant in his chest. This is you he’s thinking of. His best friend. The whole point of Friday is that nothing’s supposed to change. He’s supposed to be the safe option.
He pulls his briefs back up — carefully — and rolls onto his side, forcing his breathing to slow through his nose. His body does get the message, still aching, still demanding attention between his thighs that he refuses to give.
No.
Friday is five days away. He will show up to your apartment like he always does, and he will be careful. He won’t let himself get carried away, not again.
'Sometimes I think of the nights when the sirens howled and I'd imagine Tom whispering that we’d grow wings someday. He never did whisper, and we never did grow wings, of course. But I suppose we learned how to fly in other ways.'
Summary
In the shadow of a war-torn Britain, childhood and love become threads of the same fragile weaving.
The fic starts in the late 1930s and mainly follows the reader's perspective of life in Wool's Orphanage and the undoing of a boy who would never have loved otherwise.
Key Info
The reader is described as being femaleThe reader was born in JuneThe reader is a MuggleFic is not canon-compliant, so OOC TomTom speaks with a cockney accent during childhood, slips out when he's older
Parts:
OO&AR
1. Introduction / Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Christmas 2025 Special Chapter
Playlists
Of Orphans & Air-Raids Playlist via Spotify
Of Orphans & Air-Raids Playlist via YouTube Music
summary: Much to Tom Riddle's surprise, he's not the only one that loves you dearly.
Tom Riddle found the Riddle Manor to be comforting at times like this, where he would be at his desk writing down his plans for the future, with you in the same room doing whatever interested you. You would come up to him, asking him the most random questions, yet Tom never minded. Over and over, he would indulge you with whatever you wanted.
He would find himself staring at you occasionally, his eyes moving away from his parchment to find you and a comforting feeling would wash over him every time.
Tom had always wondered how much he loved you.
He loved you, undoubtedly, but did he love you enough to stay with you forever? Did he love you enough to keep you?
You were intelligent and powerful, and he liked those about you. Those were what drew him to you, after all. Even after both of you left Hogwarts together, you were still the brilliant person he knew. Fortunately, due to that, it would seem like he would be keeping you for a long time.
It was also due to love, that he would be keeping you for a long time as well.
How long? How he wished he knew.
As he continued to stare at you, his mind drifted back to his main question—How much did he love you?
Much to his suprise, he found the answer in his own soul.
When Tom found you admiring his first ever Horcrux, he didn't give much thought into it. If anything, he felt quite proud at how you were still amazed by the idea of a Horcrux. He even considered helping you to make one.
The next following days, he noticed you spending more time with the Diary.
He kept a close eye on you. After all, Horcrux was considered to be the most terrible of all Dark Magic. You were no stranger to Dark Magic, yet a part of him was worried about how it might affect you, how his soul would affect yours.
He had seen you writing in the Diary quite a lot, even chuckling to yourself at times.
For safety precautions, he decided one day, to confiscate the Diary, despite that it was clearly, his.
As expected, you had approached him regarding the Diary.
"You've been obsessed with it, darling," he said smoothly, paying full attention to your reactions as always.
He watched how you frowned slightly. "I'm not obsessed."
Then, you tilted your head. "Well, I am obsessed with bullying the teenage you."
He raised an eyebrow. "You have been bullying my Horcrux?"
"Not exactly," you said, sighing. "I enjoy talking to him—you. Plus, you're busy most of the time."
"You can still come to me," he said softly. "You know I wouldn't mind."
"I do mind," you remarked. "Just give me the Diary."
"No."
"He'll get lonely."
Tom raised both his eyebrows incredulously.
"Whatever!" you huffed. "Ask him, he'll say I'm right."
He watched as you walked away and left the room, no doubt finding new obsession to occupy yourself with.
He contemplated for a moment. It sounded ridiculous, asking the Diary about you. Yet his curiosity got the better of him and he found himself writing in the Diary.
He started with a simple greeting, and almost immediately, a response came.
It's you.
Tom wanted to scoff, because he could feel the disappointment coming from his younger self. He was just writing his response, when a writing came up at the same time. The moment he saw "Where is..." he knew very well what the question was going to be. He had just greeted the Diary, and he could already tell that you were right.
The Diary is with me now, Tom wrote.
Why?
Give it back.
Tom felt a bit offended at that. The Diary was his, not yours. Out of pettiness, he refused to respond anymore and immediately left the room with the Diary in his hand.
You were about to drop the "I told you so!" when you saw him approaching with the Horcrux, but he just wordlessly gave it to you before leaving while muttering something about ungratefulness.
Tom had been deep in his thoughts, as he stared at you from his desk once again. You were on the floor, wearing Slytherin's Locket, which was his latest Horcrux, while being surrounded by books. Of course, one of the books was his Diary.
You were oddly close with his Horcruxes, he noticed. Sometimes, being near him, you would even take his ring off of him just so you could wear it.
Perhaps, he thought, if he should keep you by his side, then he would let you protect and keep his Horcruxes. You definitely would love that.
That was if he should keep you by his side.
He almost sighed at the thought. He did plan this, he really did. He had thought far into the future back in Hogwarts, and he had already envisioned what his future would be like with you. He loved you, and he would gladly keep you by his side.
But were you his strength or his weakness?
Would you be the one to keep him going, or the one that would pull him down?
As he watched you take off the Locket and place it down in front of you, he fell deeper into his own mind.
It seemed that the choice was already made, considering you were here with him, at his home, your home.
Love was never something he was an expert at, and in life, you were the only thing he loved. He wondered if it was genuine, he wondered if it was useful and he wondered if it was—
"Op...en"
—real.
"O...pen."
He blinked. Was that Parseltongue?
"What are you doing?" he questioned immediately, now realising why you had taken off the Locket and placed it carefully in front of you earlier.
"Open."
His eyes widened. The perfection pronunciation.
"Don't—!"
He was too late—the Locket had opened.
A burst of black smoke emerged from the Locket, reaching the ceiling. His papers had flown everywhere but he didn't care. He didn't care that his work became a mess and was flying around the room because he had to get to you.
"I have seen your heart, and it is mine."
That was his own voice, he recognised and it was oddly...
Loving.
The smoke was gradually dissipating, becoming less violent and he noticed a blurry and misty figure coming into view from the smoke. It was him.
The Locket was walking slowly towards you, who were now standing and Tom noticed how you were a bit far from your previous spot on the floor. He wondered briefly if you got hurt somehow when the Locket had opened.
Tom should be getting to you, he should be closing the Horcrux and check up on you but curiousity got the better of him again, because the Locket had his eyes on you with a look that was far from malice.
"I have seen your dreams," continued the Locket. "And I have seen your desires."
He then said your name, so softly that Tom almost couldn't believe that this was a form of Dark Magic.
"My sweet, little love," the Locket purred, as his hand came up to caress your cheek, or at least, he tried to. The Locket didn't seem to mind at all as his blurry hand still hovered near your face.
"My intelligent darling," praise the Locket, giving into your desires. Tom noticed this immediately. You loved validation, you craved for it, and this Locket was giving you exactly that.
His Horcrux was indulging you with your desires.
Why?
His answer came immediately.
"My love," said the Horcrux softly. "My love with a brilliant mind, and a beautiful heart."
He watched as how you were smiling and looking back at his Horcrux so lovingly that he almost felt jealous.
"Close," Tom ordered in Parseltongue, approaching you quickly.
The Locket turned around to gave Tom a cold stare before it was sucked back into the Locket. You had somehow made his own Horcruxes dislike him.
Tom picked up the Horcrux from the floor and looked at you with a raised eyebrow, demanding an explanation — several explanations.
"If this is about the Parseltongue," you started. "The Diary taught me."
"The Diary taught you," he repeated slowly.
"Yes! I was absorbed into the book several times and I asked him to teach me to say that one specific word," you explained, almost sounding proud. "Also, the last time I opened the Locket—"
"You've opened it before," Tom repeated dryly.
"It was outside!" you defended yourself quickly. "I forgot about the smoke!"
Tom inhaled slowly. "Just why were you opening it just now?"
"Well," you started shyly. "You saw how he treated me."
Tom looked at the Locket in his hand, contemplating. "The first time you opened it, it didn't attack you?"
"No," you replied. "He was very sweet."
"Sweet," he chuckled. This was a Horcrux, for Salazar's sake.
"Please don't take it away," you begged sincerely, causing him to look at you again. "I really like this one."
He sighed, before stepping closer and hanging the necklace around your neck. Right where it belongs, he thought.
"I won't," he said softly, while pressing his hand on your chest, where the Locket was. Warm. "It seems that... even my soul is fond of you."
"Even?" you whispered.
"Yes," he said, without missing a beat. "I am fond of you."
"Thank you," you murmured. "You haven't been... I feel like you..."
He frowned at your words. "You were under the impression that I don't love you anymore," he stated.
"Don't say it like that," you said shamefully. "It didn't feel like that, I thought maybe... just not as much as you used to."
"So you resort to my Horcruxes."
"Kind of," you admitted.
"I will let you know now, then," he said firmly, holding your shoulders. "I love you, and I don't plan on letting you go anytime soon. You will stay by my side for eternity."
Yes, he had made up his mind. If his Horcruxes loved you too, then it must meant something. What he felt for you was genuine and he did love you enough, and more. He loved you dearly to keep you with him in his forever.
You beamed up at him for his words. "I love you too."
He inhaled sharply at your response.
How much did he love you?
He loved you enough along with his soul. He loved you enough that his soul was intertwined with you.
"Considering you're so fond of my Horcruxes, how do you feel about becoming one?"
Two professional grifters. One Netflix reality show. Five million dollars on the line. And a fake-dating backstory entirely plagiarized from Kaichou wa Maid-Sama!. You and Gojo Satoru have been best friends running cons together for nine years without catching feelings. But surviving The Soulmate Sprint requires military-grade resolve, gaslighting the entire world, and surviving a literal dead-lock target on your backs. The hardest challenge won't be convincing the public you're in love, it'll be accepting the fact that the con kinda stopped being a con somewhere along the way.
pairing: gojo x reader
warnings: explicit sexual content, 18+ (mdni!!), afab!reader, smut, fluff, crack treated seriously, best friends to lovers, fake dating, reality tv au, idiots in love, con artist!gojo and con artist!reader, questionable morals (affectionate), they are delusional, slow burn (derogatory), maid-sama references, unreliable narrator, mutual pining, sexual tension but it only being unresolved feelings?, jealousy and possessiveness, sex on camera, semi-public sex, weaponized kissing, they are absolutely shameless, gaslight gatekeep girlboss, it’s super cringe, happy ending
additional tags to be added!
word count: 29k+ (so far)
masterlist | fic taglist
crossposted on ao3!
Chapter 1 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ The Maid-sama! pitch?!
Chapter 2 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ First and Last (RIP)
Chapter 3 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Kiss Kiss Fall in Poach!
Chapter 4 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧
Chapter 5 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧
Chapter 6 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧
Chapter 7 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧
Chapter 8 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧
Chapter 9 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧
Chapter 10 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧
── Dividers from robinavitchslut, puppizai and s-silk!
summary: 1979. seeing the same sweet stranger on the bus each morning in an all-white town, his smile is usually the highlight of your day. and clueless as you are, you have no idea who he is.
parts:
that damned blue hat. ⇒ to be uploaded
what ducks think about. ⇒to be uploaded
where has my love gone? ⇒to be uploaded
i'm right here, mama. | ghost!husband!mature!michael × fem!wife!reader
i'm right here, mama. pt. 2 ⇒to be uploaded
brief disclaimer: i tried to keep the reader as neutral as possible and i hope it worked, but if i failed at any point, please let me know! i've read a lot around this whole black reader/white reader issue and i really want the character to resonate with every reader!
the series itself takes place in an universe where reader and michael meet as young adults, in an almost-all-white town and therefore addresses racism even from reader's own family. but i'll still try to keep even those first chapters as neutral as possible! so no appearance descriptions, nothing. i wrote the story (and have been thinking about it since like 2011) with a white reader in mind but that's just because i myself am white (eventhough i'm not "white white" and have faced racism during my life) and because i don't have any illusions about being able to write black!reader when i myself am not black.
so, if i messed up at any point, please let me know! aside from that, enjoy. 💌
-rosie
p.s. find my masterlist here: ✨️rosie's neverland✨️
