i didn’t even know, but im prone to be too much :/
‘tis i, @iwasonceabookworm! not gonna get into the backstory of this blog bc. it’s kinda embarrassing, BUT the basic gist of it is that it’s now my nonfandom blog :D
…slash my blog for fandoms that don’t fit the vibe of main. to be cringe is to be free, but as you can tell by my blog title i’ve achieved only one of these things.
im also going to be using this as a vent blog (should i ever need to), so that im not a downer on main lmao
tags!
#chrissy’s dumb doodles shall remain my art tag; #the professional yapper & #exclamation point shall remain my yap tags; #writing shenanigans shall remain my writing tag; #diaryposting will be for venting; #animals <3 will be for animals; and i’ll have a basic art tag for art that isn’t mine :D
IMPORTANT: this is the blog where im going to get my freak on, so if you (understandably) don’t want to see that, block the tag #bookworm gets freaky for both of our sakes <33
i’ll try to tag all fandoms and triggers appropriately! speaking of-
fandoms!
while this is theoretically a nonfandom blog, it has quickly become apparent to me that this is not the case. so! some of the things i post about are…
the x files, caesar the musical/shakespeare’s julius caesar, yellowjackets, lord of the flies, ginny & georgia, stranger things (**i do NOT support noah schnapp) & the pitt! this is also where i post all my music (non-musical) shtick (maybe…), as well as some darker and/or more sexual stuff from my main fandoms :D
summary: you were clark kent’s childhood best friend. you two lost contact after your high school graduation. she was busy with saving the world and her new life in the big city, while you visited europe. she was surprised to see you again seven years later, mid-air fighting ultrawoman, on a billboard promoting your world tour.
word count: 6.1k (i lost count, sorry)
content warnings: 18+ only!! the beginning is kinda sad, i’m sorry 😭 clark is a tad of an idiot in this. she also kinda gets parasocial and desperate. talks about celebrity life and paparazzi. there’s allusions to the reader’s family being religious and homophobic. oral sex (r!reader) and scissoring. some nipple play. love confessions because i’m addicted to writing those now!!! not proofread at all!!
tag list: @punksnotdeadbutiam, @unabashedlyinlovewithyou, @whotfisthatsblog, @wildernessmuse, @starwarsbian, @lilacsandlavenderhaze, @florayli, @cerezzzita & @gingerfemme22 wanna be added?
a/n: I FINALLY FUCKING FINISHED THIS FIC. this has been sitting in my drafts since late april. pretty sure it finished me before i even got close to finishing it. this fic truly broke my brain, so if there’s any glaring errors—let me know!! happy pride month everyone!! reblogs are greatly appreciated <3
listen to the song for the full experience!
“I’ll miss you.”
That was the last time Clark heard your sweet, saccharine voice—the kind that belonged to a preacher’s daughter.
You were leaning against your dark-green pickup truck, ready to head to the airport. Even in a baggy Mighty Crabjoys top and black ripped shorts, you were still the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
You were trying to fight the tears that were daring to fall. Your hand was resting on her right cheek as she sobbed, leaning into your warmth. There’s a slight crack in your voice.
“It’s not like I’m not saying goodbye forever.”
She hiccups, “Then why does it feel like it?”
You bite down on your lip, leaning your head against her shoulder. A part of you already doesn’t want to leave. And her soft cries are not helping you.
Despite school not officially starting until mid-October, you wanted to get there a few months early and have a comfortable life before the chaos started.
And you wanted to enjoy parts of the city—maybe take a day trip to London or Swindon, just in case your upcoming schooling experience tried to ruin England for you completely.
You had offered to take Clark with you, secretly taking on an extra shift at your job to make more money for an extra ticket, which is ironic considering that she could fly there in under forty minutes.
When you eventually told her, you didn’t get the overly excited reaction you had dreamed of for months. Instead, your gleeful expression was met with hesitation—an almost crestfallen, forced smile.
You lifted your head off her shoulder and wiped away a tear from her cheek. You huffed a smile that didn’t really reach your eyes. “You can always come visit me, y’know. It’ll only take you a few minutes to get there.”
She stays quiet for only a second, but it feels like a lifetime. Her gaze is directed toward the ground. You want her to look at you, but you understand why she doesn’t.
Clark mumbles, “That doesn’t make it easier.”
You went still. Your failed attempt to lighten the situation quickly faded into something more solemn.
You have a theory that if you say anything more, you’ll only push the double-edged sword further into both of your hearts. Plus, there isn’t much else to say.
You’ve already said your goodbyes, and you’ve been saying your I love yous all night long. You even gave her your new phone number.
You slip a finger underneath Clark’s chin to finally get her to look at you before cupping her face. You let her gaze into your eyes. You stand on tiptoes to press a soft kiss to her forehead, then each of her cheeks, and finally her lips.
This wasn’t something new to either of you. You’ve been doing this since you were seven years old, after you saw your parents do it on a rough morning.
Later, when you asked your mother why she did that with your father, she told you, “Because that’s how people who love each other say it without words.”
So when you repeated your mother’s words to Clark, and she let you show it to her, it became a childhood tradition that bled into your teenage years.
You could have sworn that when you pressed your lips to hers, a muffled, whimpering sob escaped her. And as you pulled away, you felt her chase after your lips.
Reluctantly, your hands slowly dropped from her face, and you turned away. Clark watched you turn to your truck and never let you go again.
She watched you get into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and start the car after fastening your seatbelt.
Against her will, she watched you drive away, waving to her as you did, until your figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance.
After a few minutes of staring out in the distance, Clark walked back into her house, where Ma Kent was standing in the living room, watching you two from the window. She moved closer, holding out her arms to her heartbroken daughter.
Clark immediately fell into her, wrapping herself around her mother, sobbing into her shoulder.
Ma cradled the back of her head, gently rocking her in place while shushing her. “I know, my sweet girl… I know.”
Shy of a decade later, you continued to haunt Clark. She remembers all of it, every moment with you, but she can only clearly see your dejected expression before you left.
She regretted not going with you to England as soon as your parents called Ma and Pa Kent to inform them that you had finally landed, particularly when she overheard your mother saying that you were already asking how she was doing.
At first, staying in touch had been easy.
Every Friday afternoon, or late evening for you, you’d call her from your cottage. Other times, while walking through the crowded Oxford streets, Clark could barely picture herself on your way to a pub with friends from your new life.
She listened to you excitedly babble about your professors, laughing at how they pronounced certain words. You told her about all the novels you read and the way England’s rain somehow felt different—much more magical compared to the rain in Kansas. Possibly you were just romanticizing it.
And Clark would hide her melancholy behind a mask of pride for you. She was happy for you, there was no doubt about that. But God, she ached for you to someday return home.
When you marveled at how gigantic your new city felt, she’d relate—telling you she was still adjusting to Metropolis herself and worried about the world’s reaction to Superwoman. She’d send updates on Ma and Pa Kent, including pictures of the suit Martha was making for her.
For a while, it was working for both of you. Maybe Clark’s fear of losing you was just overthinking.
But life started to move too quickly.
Once your coursework intensified and you got a job at a little bookstore, you’d come home too drained of energy to shower, let alone call Clark.
And her life turned hectic as well, too fast even for the soon-to-be Superwoman to keep up with. Between studying for her journalism degree and her internship at the Daily Planet, she was battling the same exhaustion you had.
Sometimes when she’d miss your calls by mere minutes and reach your voicemail, she’d picture you fast asleep in your bed. Weeks started slipping by, but you both still tried. Voicemails soon turned into rushed one-sentence text messages.
“Miss you.”
“Sorry, busy week.”
“Call you soon.”
Even those became too difficult to keep up with regularly. After nearly half a year apart, your messages slowly stopped coming.
Clark convinced herself it made sense—that you two had just gotten so busy, become adults with too many responsibilities. But it didn’t hurt her any less.
She checked her voicemail box almost daily, because maybe your name would reappear, along with your eager and warm voice that always sounded so happy to talk with her.
Yet nothing ever came.
She learned to live without you, vowing to never let the memories of you slip through her fingers. But in the midst of becoming a journalist—something she would have enjoyed celebrating with you, even from an ocean away—and her duties as Superwoman, she discovered it was too easy to.
When she miraculously found the time, she tried to date, which, unfortunately for her, was the only time she thought of you.
The women she went out with were lovely, of course. They were kind. Patient. Understanding.
As she allowed herself to kiss them, and hold them while she spent the night, she wished against all hope that something inside her would finally settle into place.
But nothing ever made her feel as alive as those innocent and chaste kisses from your childhood.
During nights like that when you haunted her the most, she wondered whether somewhere in your busy life in Oxford, you still thought about her. Or if you had managed to do what she never could.
Move on.
Early one afternoon, a quick lunch break spiraled into a full-blown rampage against Metropolis.
Sirens and fleeing civilians wailed beneath her as she spun against the wind, trying to avoid Ultrawoman’s violent heat vision.
Floating chaos pressed in from all sides as Hawkgirl screeched past, mace raised, ready to pounce on the creatures Luthor had brought along.
Green Lantern hovered nearby, forming a construct of an emerald hammer before slamming it into the side of the chimera’s skull, sending it crashing through several cars and food trucks along the sidewalk.
Clark slowed in her flight as Terrific’s T-Spheres zipped past her head.
“Hey! Take it easy on the—”
Ultrawoman grabbed her cape and hurled herself across the sky. The city melted into streaks of steel and neon, glinting off billboards and windows.
Right as Clark neared an enormous digital billboard, she planted her boots forward. The force rattled through her bones. As she stabilized herself, she instinctively glanced up at the billboard she was about to crash into.
At ten stories tall, divinely illuminated against the bustling city below, was you.
It was you standing in the center of a runway stage. Soft pink spotlights reflected off your theatrical corseted bodysuit, with what could only be your face across the front. Around your waist was a halo of ivory ruffles, shaped like flower petals.
Black fishnets blended perfectly with your lace-up boots with turquoise ribbons. To accentuate the look, you paired it with a light, luminous, full-coverage base and glittering blue eyeshadow.
Beneath the stage, women sat in matching suits, cigars hanging from their mouths, watching you in pure disbelief and awe—almost like she was.
Massive white letters flashed above your head:
“SHE’LL GET YOUR GIRLFRIEND TO COME…”
Next to your feet in smaller letters: “to her show in Metropolis!”
She blinked again. There was no way this was you.
The last time she had seen you, you were leaving her behind in your pickup truck.
Now you looked like—
As the city noise dissolved into static around her, people below had already begun noticing. Reporters, cameramen, and civilians alike tilted their phones upward, filming Superwoman gazing at your billboard like she’d witnessed God herself descend onto Earth.
Just like all those countless times throughout her childhood, Clark couldn’t help but become transfixed by you, completely forgetting where she was.
Another explosion erupted somewhere downtown.
“Superwoman, we need you over here!”
Green Lantern was hovering a fraction below her, head craned up, screaming at her.
Clark’s face burned red as she struggled to pull herself back into the fight.
By the time she returned to the Daily Planet, your billboard still hadn’t left her mind.
Not when she landed and greeted the children waiting for her, or when she went back to the Justice Gang’s headquarters to debrief.
Not even while she was changing back into her clothes, fumbling with her tie.
Clark wasn’t sure what surprised her more—your coming to Metropolis like she had wanted all those years ago, or the fact that you were now apparently a famous singer.
When she stepped off the elevator, the newsroom was crowded as usual. The newscaster’s voice from the television cut through the chatter as she headed for her desk.
“The Justice Gang handled most of today’s attack, especially after Superwoman was briefly distracted by a billboard featuring the pop sensation—”
Clark nearly tripped over her chair, eyes snapping to the television. There, it displayed her gawking at your billboard like an idiot.
The headline read:
“Woman of Steel Caught Starstruck.”
Jimmy laughed near the coffee machine while Lois shook her head, smiling. Clark ignored them and opened her computer.
Her fingers hovered before she began typing. The search results cascaded onto the screen seconds later.
Underneath your name were endless pictures of you sprawled across the stage, dressed in grandiose outfits, holding hairbrush-style microphones.
Fashion magazine covers showed you smoking in a trashy wedding dress, posed in a staged handcuffed moment with an older woman, the feature declaring you the future of pop as your album “Naked in Metropolis” broke streaming records.
Exclusive interviews detailed your growing up queer in a religious household, along with announcements of your upcoming world tour dates.
She clicked on your official website, and your album appeared for purchase on CD.
The cover alone made her short-circuit.
You were poised atop the roof of a yellow taxi in the middle of a busy intersection, wearing a sheer nude dress. Your childhood Miss Smallville pageant crown sat crookedly on your head as you held a sequined bouquet while neon advertisements glowed behind you.
“Kent?”
Lois’ voice barely registered.
Her eyes remained on the screen.
“Earth to Smallville.”
“Hm?” Clark replied on autopilot.
Lois leaned against her desk, eyeing her monitor suspiciously.
“Thinking about buying something?”
She swallowed hard. “Maybe.”
A week had passed when your album came into the mail.
Clark had bought the collector’s edition, with a glossy Polaroid for each song and a lyric scribbled by you.
The first photo in the stack showed you in a grassy field wearing her old Smallville High Crows football shirt, paired with a white ruffle skirt. She always wondered where that went.
Her taste leaned toward punk rock, but she had a soft spot for pop music—or maybe just for you.
She refused to tell anyone she knew you—actually, that she’d grown up with you. Not Lois. Not Jimmy.
She had an inkling that even with the most convincing explanation, they’d think she’d gone a little crazy.
How was she supposed to explain that she used to climb through a celebrity’s bedroom window whenever a thunderstorm got too loud without sounding stalker-ish?
Clark found herself watching your performances and rereading interviews for reasons she didn’t want to psychoanalyze.
Eventually, she hit her breaking point and called home.
Pa sounded amused. “Don’t ya remember the voice on that girl?”
Meanwhile, Ma was pleased, telling Clark she’d seen the now-viral clip of her floating in front of your billboard but hadn’t realized it was you.
She suggested Clark message you on one of those “computer pages,” like you didn’t have a social media manager who’d probably ignore her like just another fan.
Clark didn’t correct her. Just said, “Sure, Ma. I’ll try that.”
In the days that followed, she arrived at work late—hair windswept, shirt askew.
She felt nervous anticipation riding up the elevator, when Lois texted:
“Hey, Smallville. Perry wants you in his office whenever you get here. Good luck.”
Standing in Perry’s office was awkward—especially when you’re six feet four in a room with low ceilings.
“Close the door,” he ordered politely, gesturing with his cigar. “I’ve got something for you.”
Clark obeyed, sinking into the chair across from him.
“Cat called out sick today—something about a cold. She’s fine, just mostly disappointed she’s gonna miss her big interview this afternoon.”
He set the cigar back between his lips.
“Which brings me to you, Kent.”
Clark’s stomach dropped. “It does?”
“I know your focus is Superwoman and city politics, but everybody else is booked… and you wrapped your piece early.”
“I can take notes, sir—”
“No. You’re doing it.”
“Excuse me?”
Perry slid a folder across the desk. “Got nobody else, kid. Good chance to push your comfort zone.”
She opened it carefully. “Who will I be interviewing?”
Perry said your name like it meant nothing. “You know that pop star Superwoman was staring at last week.”
Clark froze, staring at your photo between Cat’s handwriting and press notes.
“The interview’s at a hotel suite—name’s in there somewhere. Press is set. Stick to Cat’s—”
She was going to interview you.
By the time it was over, Jimmy noticed her leaving—clutching the file like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
“Hey, Kent. You okay?”
Clark didn’t answer.
About an hour before the interview, she called Ma and Pa from the bus, hoping they would calm her nerves. Ma was overly excited, as if fate was telling her the two of you were meant to find your way back.
As Clark reached to hang up, Pa encouraged her to buy you flowers.
“Kinda like you did on her first day of kindergarten—you picked a daisy from the school garden for her?”
Clark stopped at a shop on the way.
Now she stood outside the suite door, the bouquet held a little too tightly.
Your publicist greeted her and guided her through a side room.
“Just wait here,” she said, reaching for the flowers.
But Clark held onto them. “I’d rather give them to her myself, if that’s okay.”
She nodded with a faint smirk. “Of course, ma’am.”
The door closed.
The white, minimalist aesthetic of the room, which smelled of sterile air and citrus, made her hyper-aware of everything—her breathing, her hands, how her lanky frame was too big for the chair, and the utter silence she was swallowed by.
She rehearsed nothing. Thought of nothing. It was completely unprofessional of her. That was worse.
When the door finally opened and you stepped in wearing a dark pink suit with a mini sequin skirt, Clark stood up and forgot how to breathe. Again.
You hadn’t looked at her yet, thanking your publicist as she closed the door behind you, sealing the room back into that uncomfortable silence.
Then you faced her, your hands clasped in front of you. You were already smiling. Your eyes stayed on hers as you lowered yourself onto the couch across from her.
Your tone curved into something knowing. “Are those for me?”
“Yes—yes, I—” she mumbled, offering them, watching your reaction so intensely she almost forgot to sit down.
Your eyes lit up, and you lifted them to your face. “Daisies, my favorite.”
She bobbed her head, fidgeting with her hands, not knowing where to put them.
You glanced up at her. “You remembered.”
Clark shrugged, finding herself smiling too. “How could I not?”
A beat passed before you cleared your throat.
“My publicist told me somebody was replacing Cat for this interview earlier today,” you explained, setting the flowers beside you.
Clark blinked. “You were?”
“Yeah… she gave me your name and said you were mostly known for your coverage of Superwoman.”
She winced.
“To be fair, even with those glasses, you wouldn’t be able to fool me.”
Clark straightened, opening her notebook to Cat’s questions, copied into neat bullet points. She had never felt so unsteady for an interview.
“Okay,” Clark coughed lightly, clicking her pen. “First question.”
You nodded. “Go ahead.”
“What made you decide to come to Metropolis for your world tour?”
You exhaled. “Well, it seemed fitting since my album is named after it…”
“It’s broken many streaming records globally.” Her eyes flicked up. “How do you feel about that? Are you… happy?”
“Uh, yeah, of course. But shocked is probably a better word. I never thought my album would get this big. It was a small project made with a friend after a night of karaoke.”
Clark glanced up. “Really?”
You replied. “Yes… I attended Oxford University. I originally wanted to become a literature professor…you know that.”
“Is that why your performances are so theatrical? Because of your education and love of literature?”
You beamed. “Yes, actually. I enjoy putting those references into my work. It’s a homage to my favorite novels…”
“I know you’ve mentioned this in other interviews—”
You tilted your head. “I have? Reading up on me now?”
She fumbled. “I read a bit this morning… wanted to do some research on you.”
“Uh-huh, sure.”
“B-but your song Kryptonite Lover is number one on the charts. What was the inspiration behind it?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
“It’s about someone from my childhood who made me feel completely off balance. Every time I was around her, my body would go haywire. Like she had some sort of power over me.”
“But the title came from a segment I saw about Superwoman on the news. I thought it fit.”
It was a lie. Both of you knew that.
“Speaking of Superwoman… What was your response to her reaction to your billboard?”
A sense of amusement flickered over your face.
“You’re not the first person to ask me that. I guess kryptonite isn’t her only weakness.”
Clark’s grip tightened on her pen.
“I hope the sexual innuendo didn’t distract her too much. Especially with how she stared at it…”
“Last question,” she murmured. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
“Still performing. Still writing. Hopefully still surprising people.”
“And not being something a person watches from far away.”
Clark nodded.
She closed the notebook and stood too fast.
“I should go,” she declared.
You stood as well. “You don’t have to rush, Clark.”
“I, uh, have to go. Perry… My boss is strict on time.”
You pouted. “Oh, okay.”
Clark had nearly made it to the door when you asked her something.
“Actually… would you want to do something sometime? Outside of an interview?”
Clark blinked. “Oh.”
You were glowing.
“Oh,” she repeated, before adding, “Yes. I mean—yes. Yeah. Definitely.”
“How about tonight?”
“Tonight?”
Clark regretted opening her mouth. “Yes—no—I mean it doesn’t have to be tonight.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m just busy for the next week or so. I’ve got interviews, appearances, rehearsals… My publicist has me scheduled down to the minute. But I’m staying in Metropolis for a while. What about… two Saturdays from now?”
“Sure.”
Then Clark remembered: Jimmy’s birthday party.
Her joy ebbed. “Well…”
“I have a birthday party to attend…”
“People still do those?”
“Yeah, apparently.”
You snorted. “I can do a birthday party.”
She choked.
“Are you sure?”
“I want to meet your friends.”
“My friends?”
“Is that not what they are?”
She closed her eyes.
“Right,” she said weakly.
Clark looked at you, the flowers, the door, and back. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay… do you want my number? A more updated one?”
“Oh uh, yes please.”
“So she’s bringing a girl?” Steve asked as he stirred the sauce in the pot on the stove, glancing over his shoulder at Lois.
She shrugged, leaning against his kitchen island, sipping from her wine glass. “Miracles do happen.”
Steve scoffed. “To the woman who always drops everything? Does the date even have a name?”
Lois looked at him, though she was suspicious too. “No, she wouldn’t say… but be nice.”
He pointed the wooden spoon at her. “I’m sorry, Lo, but I bet you a hundred bucks that this mysterious girl isn’t real.”
Lois rolled her eyes. “Fine, but I bet you that whatever you’re making is burning.”
Steve swore, yanking the oven door open. “For fuck’s sake, what is going on in there?”
As if the night couldn’t get worse for him, his doorbell rang. He headed for the door, still cussing under his breath.
He opened the door without properly looking at you or Clark.
“Come on in. Vague food crisis.”
And he was gone.
The past week with you had been constant. Despite your frenetic schedule, you had both been sending text messages at all hours.
You’d send her pictures of cafés you stopped at, studio theaters before interviews, snapshots from hotel rooms, outfits your stylist picked out—but you wanted another opinion on. Even sneak in photos of yourself in a skimpy sundress or bikini, things your stylist didn’t pick.
And sometimes at night, you’d call her as you lay in bed, exhausted. She’d tell you to sleep.
You’d protest with a yawn. “But I miss you… I wanted to hear your voice.”
Clark never quite knew what to do with that.
Somewhere between rehearsals and fieldwork, you’d ask what Jimmy’s interests were, framing it as what he’d want for his birthday.
After joking that his main interest was women, Clark told you he was into video games and photography. Now you were standing next to her holding a gift bag with a vintage camera and a multiplayer video game.
You glanced at Clark, silently questioning her choice in friends from behind your sunglasses and blonde wig.
She snorted.
“Still think this is necessary?” she asked.
“Don’t think so… nobody seemed to recognize me… but I’ll keep the wig on.”
“Why?”
You shrugged, taking off the sunglasses and placing them in your purse. “Because I spent too much money on it.”
Clark followed you inside, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
You followed the sound of Steve’s panicked cooking into the living room, Clark right behind you.
When you entered the kitchen, Lois looked up and set her wine glass down.
“Hey… sorry. Steve’s dinner is proving more complicated than expected.”
Clark glanced toward the kitchen. “He’s cooking?”
“Don’t ask.”
Lois turned her attention to you as Clark settled beside you, resting a hand on the small of your back. She held out her hand, furrowing her brow.
“Sorry… has anyone ever told you you’re the spitting image of—”
“Lois,” Clark interrupted.
“This is…”
Lois cleared her throat.
“Right.”
Steve emerged momentarily, a dish towel over his shoulder.
“Okay. Crisis over.”
Clark guided you forward.
“Steve.”
The man grinned, finally getting a good look at you.
“Hello—”
Realizing who was in front of him, his brain short-circuited.
“Have some wine.”
You quirked a lip. “Thank you.”
The doorbell rang again, and Steve excused himself.
You turned to Clark, unsure what to do.
She looked smug, setting your gift bags down. “Need me to pour you a glass?”
Jimmy’s voice echoed as he entered. “I hope that’s not the food you’re planning to feed us, Steve.”
He stepped in, not with a date, but with Cat instead. Steve was right behind them.
Jimmy noticed you first and waved.
“Hi there!”
“Now where’s my promised Tiki drink?”
You cracked up, burying your face into Clark’s shoulder. Cat recognized you immediately, extending her hand.
“Wasn’t I supposed to interview you?”
You answered. “Yeah, you were… Clark told me you had a cold. Are you feeling better?”
Cat remarked, “Yeah, I am. Thanks… I guess Clark did a better job than I.”
Dinner, in some way, happened.
Steve’s steak au poivre was overcooked and terrible, but no one seemed to care.
You sat next to Clark, mostly quiet, watching her with her coworkers.
At one point, you took off your wig, feeling more comfortable. Clark studied you, adoring how easily you fit back into her life.
Seeing how smitten she was, Cat and Lois asked how she’d “charmed” you, unaware of your history.
You and Clark exchanged a look before you started telling stories about little Clark.
Everyone was floored.
Jimmy hit her shoulder. “Dude! You grew up with a celebrity and didn’t tell us?”
Clark scoffed, face red. “I thought you’d think I was crazy.”
Lois added, “Yeah… but you still should’ve told us!”
After dinner, you tried to help with the dishes, but Steve stopped you.
“No, you go sit. I can do this.”
“I want to help… please, Stevie…”
He didn’t budge. “I gave you a shitty dinner and you want to help me?”
You huffed, grinning.
Steve shook his head. “Y’know, Clark does the same thing. What is it with you two?”
“We’re from the Midwest.”
When it was time to open the gifts, Jimmy hugged you tightly after opening yours.
“I hope you like them.”
“Like them? I love them!”
Clark watched from a few feet away, something soft in her expression.
You shrugged. “Happy birthday.”
Jimmy lit up. “Clark, your date’s awesome!”
She wore a self-satisfied look, making eye contact with you. “Yeah. She is.”
After you two left and stood in front of the nearby elevator, a collective scream erupted from inside. You both paused before you nudged her.
“They always do that when you leave?”
Clark rolled her eyes playfully.
“I forgot how mean you were.”
“No, you didn’t.”
The cool Metropolis breeze felt as comforting as having your arm loosely around Clark’s while you walked aimlessly through the streets.
She kept a steady pace, enjoying the silence between you two, until she suddenly slowed down.
Curious, you looked up and saw a park on the corner under dim lighting. You smiled to yourself.
“You like this place, don’t you?”
Clark nodded, resembling her five-year-old self.
“Yeah… it was one of my favorite places when I moved. I even made friends with an old man who played chess.”
You chuckled, moving to the locked gate and shaking it lightly. “Of course you did.”
She hesitated, already worrying about what you were about to do. “What are you doing?”
You placed your right foot on the gate and pulled yourself up. Clark’s eyes widened as she figured it out, rushing after you and whisper-yelling like she was scolding a child.
“Hey, no! Get back here! This is illegal!”
You were already halfway up the fence. “Why? I wanna see this favorite park of yours.”
She groaned, “How about tomorrow? First thing in the morning… I’ll take you back here.”
You leaned with a shit-eating grin. “Why? I’m already here… inside.”
Clark stared at you through the iron fencing, before climbing. You laughed as you stepped into the hidden park.
“Come on, Superwoman.”
She huffed, not-so-gracefully landing on the grass.
She stood, glaring at the fence—realized you were gone and panic set in. Clark called your name, looking around.
Moments later, she found you on a bench under a tree. The same maroon bench she used to sit on when she first came to Metropolis. The same bench where she used to eat ice cream with the old man and watch mothers play with their children.
Now you were sitting there, head tilted up at the night sky.
She walked up to you. “I spent one night with you and turned into a criminal… again.”
You were watching the stars as she sat beside you, feeling proud of yourself.
“Nobody forced you to follow me here.”
Clark huffed. “Last time you said that, you stole a pumpkin from your church’s garden.”
You looked at her, scoffing. “Please, that was not a pumpkin. Don’t you remember how tiny it was? I was doing them a favor.”
“And you didn’t do anything besides watch me. I’m the one who took it home. At best, you were an accessory to theft.”
She smirked. “Mhm, yeah… what did you name it again?”
You grinned. “Bartholomew.”
After a few seconds of silence, you blurted, “Do you remember that kissing thing we used to do?”
A faint blush rose to her neck.
“Yeah.”
Your eyes lingered on the way her shoulders hunched slightly—something she always did when she was embarrassed. You bit your bottom lip, hesitating for half a second before giving in.
You leaned in. Your lips landed on her forehead, her right cheek, then the other—and before she could process it, you kissed her.
Clark didn’t move. But when she did, years of restraint unraveled all at once. It was seeing you at your pageants and on senior prom night and losing you for seven years.
She cupped your face urgently, fingertips pressing into your cheeks. For all her usual gentleness, the kiss was anything but—urgent, all breath and teeth.
You gasped, trying to keep up, overwhelmed by how desperate she was for you.
Clark’s grip didn’t loosen. Each second pulled the kiss deeper, harder—like neither of you wanted to stop.
When you finally broke away for air, she followed slightly before stopping, resting her forehead against yours, hand still at your neck, thumb moving slowly.
You blinked, breathless, a little dizzy.
“I’ve wanted to do that since we were kids,” she admitted softly.
Your breath was uneven. “That’s a long time to build up poor decision-making choices.”
Clark, without hesitation, gave you a quick peck.
“You’re impossible.”
Your assistant would’ve killed you if she knew you were standing in the middle of Clark’s apartment as she flicked the light on.
You were supposed to have your driver drop you off four or six blocks away to potentially avoid any lingering paparazzi outside your hotel building before texting her that you made it there safely.
But how could you when the woman you’ve been pining after for years just kissed you as the world might end? You hoped she’d understand.
As you took off your sunglasses, your gaze drifted around Clark’s living room and kitchen area, still carrying the aftertaste of the white wine she barely had, and the minty gum she chewed to fix the poor aftermath of Steve’s dinner.
The space was a modern minimalist setup with only one lounge chair and a television set, very different from her childhood bedroom, which you remember.
Even though you had your oversized blazer on, you were still cold. The lack of clutter makes you want to step in and decorate it with all of your fanciful furnishings—maybe even paint those awful blue kitchen cabinets and make it somewhere she would like to stay longer.
What catches you first is the view of the Metropolis skyline from the massive windows. Your heels click against the slightly worn hardwood floors, the sound swallowed by the quiet.
Standing in front of it, you glance down to the street instinctively for any sign of cameras. One thing you’ve learned in your rapid rise to fame is that you are never quite invisible enough.
Clark comes up behind you, looking out the window as well.
“Don’t worry, nobody followed us,” she reassures you.
You shake your head, breaking yourself out of it. “Sorry, force of habit…”
Clark speaks without any bite—just warmth, like she’s not shocked by anything you do anymore. “Yeah. I know.”
You glance around again, this time letting yourself actually take it in.
“It’s very barren here, by the way. I’m kind of surprised…”
“It’s practical,” she defends herself.
“It’s lackluster.”
She lets out a dry chuckle.
A pause before you speak, your tone softening into genuine observation.
“You could bring someone… to brighten it up. Get you an actual couch instead of whatever that thing is.”
You gesture to the couch, earning a look.
“You wouldn’t want to move in here,” she states after a beat, a little more serious now. “I’m barely here.”
You laugh, shrugging as you continue. “Yeah, ‘cause it looks like this.”
Clark exhales through her nose, barely masking her snort.
“Don’t you have a house… or three somewhere? What about that Oxford cottage?”
You force a laugh, exhaling as you look back out the window.
“I don’t… In between the concerts, and filming, and everything else… I’ve been living out of hotels.”
A pause.
“My parents sold the cottage anyway. After they found out about Naked in Metropolis.”
That gets a flustered reaction out of Clark, her expression shifting. It wasn’t that surprising to her, considering how little Ma and Pa had to tell her about you after talking to your parents.
You add, “It’d be nice to actually have somewhere that feels like it’s mine again. Once everything dies down… adopt a pet or something…”
She leans in closer, nodding along, her breath near your neck, focused on you.
“That’d be nice.”
You nod, almost shy. “Yeah…”
Neither of you says anything for a moment, letting the space between you gradually shrink. Clark’s eyes drop to your mouth again before she leans in.
This kiss isn’t like the one in the park. It’s slower and deeper, like you’ve been doing it for decades—in a way you have.
She turns you around and presses you against the window, mouth tracing the contours of yours. As your hands cup her face, hers slip around your waist, pulling you in.
You break away just to gasp, tilting your head to get a better angle. Clark follows you, acting like you might disappear again, earning a small whimper from you.
To ensure you won’t, she slips one arm under your thighs, the other steady at your back, lifting you with an ease that feels almost unfair.
You squeal softly, arms looping around her shoulders.
“Clark—”
“Bedroom,” she says simply, already moving with you, like it was the most natural decision in the world.
Clark laid you on her bed, stripping you from your clothes while covering your neck with kisses. Your blazer and heels were flung somewhere across her room. Her calloused hands trailed down your bare spine as your blouse followed suit.
You exhaled shakily when her thumb ring pressed against your flesh.
“F-fuck, Clark..”
She inclined her head, teeth nipping at the skin above your lacy bra. “You taste better than I imagined.”
Her ragged confession shouldn’t startle you, considering what she’s done and said in the past few hours, but the thought of Clark—the woman you once grew up with—having dreamed of something like this is incredibly intoxicating.
A sharp breath escaped you as she began mouthing at your nipple through the fabric. When you tried to buck your hips, her palms roughly pinning them down.
“You fantasize about that?”
She mumbled, “Ever since I saw you in that yellow sundress in senior year.”
Your face felt hot, almost burning, yet you still let out a teasing comment. “Seriously? God…you’re such a little freak..”
Clark bit your nipple fleetingly while she moved her left hand to your thigh before slapping lightly.
“Says the woman who sent me pictures of herself in scanty clothes while I was working.”
Your lower body jolted, grazing her clothed crotch—making her whimper. You shuddered, glaring in jest.
“Shut up, you liked it.”
She whimpered, her mind betraying her as she thought about the pictures. In between kisses along your midriff, her low voice reverberates across your skin.
“Almost came in my boxers on the spot..”
You longed to act arrogant, maybe taunt her, but the way her long fingers traveled to the buttons of your colorful trousers, effortlessly undoing them, left you winded. Clark peeled them down slowly, continuing to kiss any exposed skin she could find.
Once they were off and settled in between her thighs, the scent of your heady scent overwhelmed her greatly. It filled her nostrils. She’s been breathing it in since dinner, when she noticed your heartbeat spiking after she put her hand on your back.
Her hands tightened on your flesh as she spread you wider, placing your legs over her shoulders. You started gulping air when she pressed a kiss to the inner part of your thigh.
Clark inched closer to your soaked panties, proceeding to kiss your skin. Before you could register it, her teeth grazed them, then pulled them down. You were stunned into silence, totally spellbound.
You were wrong. She wasn’t a freak, she was an enigma.
As if your body had a mind of its own, your hips lifted. This time, she let you. The cascade down your legs was painful in the most pleasant way possible.
When she slid back up to the apex of your thighs, she moaned out loudly. The panoramic view of your folds already glistening with desire was ethereal to her.
You almost smirked with superiority, “Like what you see baby?”
Clark released a hushed groan, replying with a long lick to your cunt. She dragged her tongue over your slick entrance to your throbbing clit. Even if she wasn’t trying to, she was using it to etch her name into you.
Her moans dissolved into you, as if you were rich crème brûlée and were the one actually being pleasured. Your back bowed off her bed, grinding your clit against her nose.
She picked up on the movement, shifting her focus before circling it with her tongue. A deep, guttural sound broke from you, delving your hand into her curls.
“Shit, Clark…. So good..”
She mumbled against your cunt, sending vibrations through your body. “I know, baby… how do you think I feel? She tastes so sweet..”
You cried out when she commenced sucking on your clit like it was rock candy. She even coaxed two of her fingers into your tight hole, thrusting them in and out.
You threw your head as your vision was starting to go white. Your physique was seizing, but she didn't stop. Her mouth kept sucking on your clit as her fingers remained pumping.
“Oh, God… I’m gonna.. Baby, I’m gonna—”
Your orgasm was torn from you violently. Your hips jerked, your thighs clamping around his head like a vise. Incoherent whispers of begs and curses muffled into her pillow.
After a few minutes of slowing down, drinking up the last drops of your cum, Clark eventually pulled away. She wiped her mouth, licking her fingers, smirking at you.
But as she leaned back on her knees, you couldn’t help but notice a certain damp patch on her jeans. Upon realizing what it was, you giggled.
Her smarminess faltered as she glanced down at it.
“Did you come while eating me out?”
She nodded bashfully, unable to defend herself.
You cooed at her, “Aw, poor baby. Come here…”
Clark leaned in as you cupped her face, kissing you softly. You sighed into her mouth at the residual flavor of your cum. You eased her out of all her clothes, letting you straddle her frame.
She swallows her soft groans, transfixed at how your cunt feels against hers. Clark fails to think straight. All she can focus on is you on top of her, wearing nothing but that lacy bra.
You move your hips in small circles, running your hands down her muscled chest. She shivers, gasping out. You hum gently while squeezing her breasts.
“Oh, my strong girl… You can take it… I know you can.”
Her clit hooks onto yours, making her whimper under her breath. “Good golly…”
You chuckle softly, being right there with her.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?”
She nods as you quicken the pace, needing to see what she looks like when she comes undone properly. Her hands spasmed against your waist, breathing heavily.
Similar to how she dragged her tongue against your cunt, you rubbed your folds together—creating the perfect friction. Soon, both of your orgasms crash over you like a tidal wave.
Clark never knew sex could feel so heavenly. She looks up at the ceiling, calling out in delight as if receiving divine absolution.
You eventually collapsed next to her, cum dripping down your inner thighs. You groggily turned your head toward her and booped her nose, feeling far too drunk off her. She scoffs, catching your finger in her hand before kissing it.
Further into the night, while Clark was helping you put on an old shirt of hers and taking care of you, you were just staring up at her with a toothy grin.
summary: you have a never ending situationship with your coworker and america’s beloved superhero, superwoman.
word count: 1029
content warnings: 18+ only!!! this is really sad, I’M SORRY!! so much self hating and angst. reader and clark obviously have no self respect. veryyyyy toxic relationship. situationship final boss fr!! mentions of oral sex and clark breaking into the reader’s house. switch!clark AND reader. strap on sex (CLARK RIDES YOU!!) you talk her through it kinda. depressing sex. this was barely proofread like always!
tag list: @punksnotdeadbutiam, @unabashedlyinlovewithyou, @whotfisthatsblog, @polkadotprint444, @starwarsbian & @lilacsandlavenderhaze! wanna be added?
a/n: hi everybody!! it’s two in the morning and i’m posting this 😭. i can’t wait to write for this series!! i think i’m gonna have so much fun with it. if you guys want, you can send requests for this series. i would love to see what you come up with. check out the series masterlist if you wanna learn more!
listen to the song for the full experience
The cold night air swept across the rooftop you stood on, tugging at your scarf—the one meant to be more decorative than practical. You looked out over the horizon of Metropolis, pretending you didn’t know why you were out there.
It was one in the morning, and you were still at work at the Daily Planet like some maniac. You would have gone home when your colleagues did, but your apartment is still tainted by last night’s rendezvous that was supposed to end that in-between thing with a certain blue-eyed farm girl.
Instead, it ended with her and your clothes scattered all over your living room floor—too impatient and risky to even ruin each other somewhere intimate after trying to cleanse yourselves of one another.
And when you came into work the morning after she left you in the chains of your own despair and she saw you—she didn’t run or look away, but she went still. It made you ache for the days when she woke you up with a chaste kiss to your lips and promises of bad coffee to come.
You feel the wind shift against your cheek. It’s colder this time, almost like a punishment from Mother Nature for not respecting yourself or your peace enough.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You want to ignore it. But if you wanted to, you would have taken out your earbuds and paused the late-night news segment.
The reporter’s urgent voice echoes throughout your skull as your gaze remains on the blinding lights below you: “The Justice League has been deployed. Superwoman was seen engaging with an unidentified threat over the eastern skyline.”
Suddenly, above you, you heard, through the man’s voice, a rush overhead, a flash of red and blue. Your head jerks up in an instant, noticing a stutter in her trajectory.
You don’t lose your breath like you once did before; rather, you close your eyes, wondering where she’s going first—the robots or the empty place you sometimes call home.
Either way, she’ll arrive there cold.
But when you swing your bag over your shoulder and head into the soulless elevator, you switch it over to a song you haven’t let her destroy yet for you.
As you pass strangers on the street who look similar to her, you wonder what you’ll be dealing with when you walk through your apartment door.
You know you’ll probably find her on your floor, bloody and bruised, mumbling that she didn’t have enough energy to fly to the Fortress of Solitude.
You wonder if you’re going to cave in, justifying it to yourself as you’re bending down to her, cupping the side of her face—knowing you already have.
Trying not to remember how she made you come undone by the curl of her fingers last night or how she referred to you as a friend after unintentionally bumping into her mother at church, despite being with her for a year.
You try not to really dwell on how you’re going to guide her body to your bed—half of her weight leaning against your shoulder. Or as she hits the comforter and you go to move, she grabs your wrist and pulls you back into her.
You know you’re going to hate yourself moments after this is over as her hand slips up to the back of your head, lightly brushing the corner of your mouth, whispering “I want you” despite your protests against it.
You’re already cursing at yourself when you allow her to slowly remove your clothes along with her suit while you get under her.
You especially despise it when she laboriously reaches over to your nightstand and pulls out the leather harness, the navy blue silicone already buckled into place.
You bite down on her tongue as she gets you to arch your hips and slip it on you before she straddles you—her knees resting against your bare thighs.
You watch her when she begins dragging the tip through her slick folds. She grabs your hands to put them on her waist, needing that extra guidance.
She groans, throwing her head back as she sinks downward and swivels her hips. You help her slightly, fingernails digging into her skin. You eye how her cunt swallows the dildo whole, moaning at the sight. Damn her.
Through your half-lidded gaze, you tell her breathlessly, “That’s it, honey… take what you need.”
She nods, letting out a shaky exhale as her pace quickens. You swear you can almost feel her pussy flutter around the base of it. Her desperation even smells so fucking sweet.
She becomes restless as the coil within her keeps tightening. On nights like these, it doesn’t take much for her—especially given how sensitive and weak she was before breaking into your apartment.
You smile bitterly to yourself, sliding one of your hands off her waist and pressing it down against her stomach, where you can see the outline of the silicone in her.
Her body twitches, almost glaring down at you as she holds back a scream. The friction of her attempted roughness sends a small wave through the harness to your core. You mewl, bucking your hips into her.
You two continue grinding together in a rhythmic harmony, swallowing each other’s moans. She gasps against your lips, “Sweetheart, I’m close… You’re gonna make me—”
Her body convulses. Those soft thighs that surround you shudder as she comes messily on the strap, while making sure you follow suit.
You do a minute later, forcing her to stay put on you as you did—making eye contact with her that screamed Stevie Nicks during the ‘97 performance of “Silver Springs.”
When you finally let her ease off you and she flops her tired body next to you, she glances over at you and goes quiet.
Neither of you moves yet.
You stare up at the ceiling, noticing a small spider that seems to be caught in its own web. You chew on your bottom lip, refusing to make the first move, or anything.
Then, against your will, you hear her gentle voice ask you something so harsh: “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”
thinking about trinity giving samira cute curtain bangs after she has a hard day. thinking about how they have another bad shift but this time it's samira that she picks out to hang with. trinity totally knows how to cut hair, whitaker's hair looks pretty good. she'd give samira some layers and curtain bangs and they would be so cute when she has her hair up at work <3
okay, this is sort of related to a post i was sent yesterday in relation to samira's teaching styles. i don't want to pick apart the post, but i think when it comes to how samira teaches people in season 1, especially dennis in relation to joyce, we have to take into account what case she's talking about, and who she's talking to.
because with the sickle cell patient, joyce, dennis tells her 'not to go crazy' with the pain medication, and doesn't take her pain seriously. a black woman with a serious disease who just experienced police brutality and mistreated for 'drug seeking' was not taken seriously by him at all. if you know anything about medical racism, you'd know that people like joyce get treated awfully on the regular and even die because people think they are drug seeking when they are in need of serious medical care.
samira, as someone mentioned to be researching these kinds of cases, is clearly aware of this and recognises dennis' biases when he minimises joyce's pain. we see her visibly get upset and tells him that she needs to confer with him to address this.
she teaches him by first asking him why he was surprised by the amount of pain meds she was getting, and then when he tells her he thinks it's too high, she tells him the truth. she describes how severe the situation is, that he wasn't taking her pain and sickle cell crisis seriously, reassures him that he'll learn to spot the fakers, but that he needs to be more empathetic for those who clearly are suffering, even if they are drug seeking.
for such a serious thing like medical racism, which samira has a lot of experience with as a doctor, as south asian woman, and with her dad dying from it; her way of teaching dennis was completely appropriate. calling it overdramatic just feels like we're not taking the severity of ignoring a black women's pain as seriously as we should.
did she give him tools on how to improve this? no, she didn't. she could have, but i think in this instance telling him that he will learn to spot the fakers was enough; especially considering this was his first instance of expressing bias in front of her and considering he was still a med student at the time. if it were to occur more often, i'm sure she would be more serious about it or take more time to actually change this behavior by sitting down with him. it's his first day, samira is not an agressive or uncaring person like some think.
she's giving him space to grow and learn from his mistakes instead harrassing or mocking or belittling him for it; something several other characters still struggle with. that's all i have to say
ignoring all of the ethical concerns, lazy writing, and patterns of behaviour it spotlights, writing samira off the pitt is still the worst they could have possibly fumbled because they had a better option right there. samira should have been made an attending.
this is something i've been thinking about since before season two even came out, truly i am so set that this is the correct option that i genuinely did not even consider the writers going in a different direction from samira being made an attending. i believed all the way up until her exit was announced that season two was going to be the beginning of this arc.
langdon has always been the heir apparent golden boy of the er (i believe they might have actually called him the heir apparent in the 7am script? i could be wrong). robby wrote him a letter of recommendation for an emergency education fellowship without langdon even asking him - presumably so langdon could take over the teaching hospital's ER. obviously by season two this idea has been shattered, now robby has no one to pass onto.
he's projecting all of his mentorship and advice and attention towards whitaker, and is now floating the idea that he will take over the ER. meanwhile, gloria has offered samira a position once her residency is over, as per a recommendation from jack. this would be something samira is hiding from robby, but he would find out mid-season and be furious that decisions like this are being made without his input. this time, samira puts her foot down and asserts herself, she tells robby she was planning on telling him when he returned from his sabbatical but obviously didn't get the chance to. they end the season at odds still.
season three takes place after robby returns. he has found that samira is thriving under baran's mentorship, and when she eventually replaces baran as the er attending for season four (i love baran and hope she stays forever, but i never believed she would be a permanent character because i genuinely assumed that samira would replace her as attending) for the first time her and robby are on even playing field. he no longer has the power over her he always has, she doesn't need his respect anymore and frankly she doesn't care to have it. she's confident in her abilities as a doctor and as a teacher. eventually they do find common ground, robby learns from her, maybe she learns some stuff from him as well.
this concludes her "slow" arc from season one, it fulfils all the character growth that season one started. she is no longer insecure about her abilities as a doctor, she has managed to find her special sauce and has managed to prove to everybody else that it works. but it also provides so much enrichment for all the other characters as well!!
it provides meaningful growth and change in her relationship with robby. robby would finally be able to leave the er in good hands, it would be an excellent conclusion to the mental heatlh storyline they showed in season two. everybody spent all of season two saying "mental health isn't always pretty, sometimes you lash out and hurt people" and this provides a conclusion that actually creates mutual respect and understanding rather than just "sure i've been yelling at you all day but im mentally ill and your boss so i'm right" like the show ended up doing.
it provides tension in langdon's story - what will he do now? he's always assumed he'd take over the er. he needs some pushback, too, all of his pushback has been related to santos or robby's own personal conflicts. it would be nice to see him being challenged externally by something he can't just write off as being caused by someone who hates him.
it provides an excellent outlet for whitaker - if robby is trying to force him into this er role at the ptmc, this leaves room for him to discover on screen that he might like to go into rural medicine instead. samira is also the only person (on the day shift) that we have ever seen get through to trinity. samira becoming an attending gives trinity a woman in a position of authority who is on her side, it could help her relinquish her control issues and finally show her what a healthy relationship with authority figures looks like. also, if samira is an attending and langdon feels like samira "stole the job" from him, and she's shown to work closely with trinity that's another reason for tension between the two of them!! or a million other things they could have played with.
season three could have been samira realising that she's put off living until she finished her residency and now it's done and she still doesn't feel ready. you know who else put her life on hold for something else that now doesn't need her to wait anymore?? mel. something for them to bond over. literally every single character benefits from samira entering a teaching role. (also, and this doesn't really matter to me personally, but i am aware mohabbot was intended to be a canon slowburn, jack getting her a job at ptmc behind robby's back??? i know you guys would've eaten that up).
they had an arc that quite literally wrote itself, and somehow they chose to get rid of a fan favourite character - the show's beating heart - instead.
I got an ask about unconscious bias and Robby's sexism that I won't post because it's way long, but I hear you, Anon, and I did have some thoughts. re: Taylor Dearden's point* about unintentional sexism and my point about the show unintentionally revealing the male EPs' unconscious bias, the question is, how is that possible when the writers' room is full of women? To which I would say: TV shows are not a democracy. They're not a commune. They are a dictatorship. Hopefully, a benevolent dictatorship, but the reality is that every woman in that room could object and it doesn't matter because Scott Gemmill can do whatever he wants. Even if the writers disagree, none of them will say so publicly because that is simply not done. It's the showrunner's show, period. (If anyone wants to learn more about how writers' rooms work, check out the Children of Tendu podcast. They talk a lot about the hierarchy.) But I'd also point out, well, women hold sexist views, too. We live under patriarchy, man. Sexism is so baked in that many people simply don't recognize it. It's 'obviously women are more nurturing' or 'of course men are better engineers.' A lot of people hold sexist beliefs and have simply never thought twice about them, women included. That's why it's called unconscious bias.
When I talk about the EPs' unconscious bias, I'm not talking about characters being sexist on screen. I'm mostly talking about bias in the storytelling framework of the show. I've said it before, but I find it telling that almost all of the women have stories related to their gender or their families and none of the men do. It's the choice of the stories themselves that reveals the problem. The male EPs in charge can choose to tell any story they want. The fact that they picked the ones they did, and that it fits a pattern, reveals a way of thinking about women and their stories. To be clear, I don't think the show or Robby are misogynistic; they don't fundamentally hate women. I think we're seeing good old-fashioned Gen X benevolent sexism. I'm gonna go into detail on the storytelling, which is long, so now I shall cut.
I want to start with a couple definitions for clarity's sake here. When I talk about plot, I mean the incidents that happen in the show. Story is how a character changes. So "Mr. Green's unknown AAA bursts and he dies" is plot. "After missing Mr. Green's AAA, Ogilvie doubts he's cut out for the ED" is story. One of the odd things about S2 is it failed to give all of its regulars season-long story arcs, which is considered poor TV writing. I think it might be a symptom of S2's shaky writing, but we'll have to see how S3 goes to make a full judgment on it.
If you look at S2, the men's stories are thus: after struggling with suicidal ideation, Robby realizes he still has things to see and people to love. After falling from grace, Langdon realizes he still has what it takes to be an ED doc. Whitaker doesn't really have a story, but if I were BSing it, I'd say it's that he comes into his own and realizes the ED is the place for him. (If you squint it's maybe that he learns to set a boundary with Langdon? But again, it's kinda BS. He doesn't have an emotional change over the season.) Abbot's not a regular, but hey, let's include him: when he realizes how much Robby is struggling, Abbot reveals his own vulnerability to save his friend's life.
What about the women's stories? After her mom's engagement, Mohan abandons her previous life plan and struggles to find a place she belongs, realizing it might not be the ED. Under relentless pressure from her parents, Javadi realizes emergency psychiatry is her passion. Mel learns that her sister is building a life that doesn't always involve her and realizes she must do the same. (Note that Mel's plot is overwhelmingly about the deposition that meant nothing, but her actual story is with her sister.) The catalysts or impediments to their stories are all family members. Quite different from the guys.
Santos is the real exception. Her story is that she confronts the superior who made her question herself and finds a new equilibrium. I would've liked the story where she struggles with self-harm only to find refuge in building a new friendship, but we can't actually say that from what we saw on screen. (All they had to do was show her putting the scalpel back! Sigh.)
I'd argue that our other returning regulars don't really have stories. Broadly, I'd say that McKay's plots deal with her acknowledging how the ED is negatively affecting her life (needs to get laid, can't cry), but she doesn't have an emotional change over the season, so it's not actually a story. Through the course of the season, she's sexually harassed in a way the show treats as cute and then is there to empathize with a dying mother and her children. Most of her material relates to female-coded things - sexual object, mothering, crying, etc. What's frustrating is it would've been so easy to give her an arc. Just show us one shot of her crying at the fireworks at the end. It would still be about a woman being all emotional, which is of course sexist in its own right, but it would've been something.
And then there's Dana. I said a while back that it felt like a final Dana scene in the finale was cut - because her story doesn't have an end, it just kind of stops; her last scene is giving the cops the rape kit, but it's not about an emotional change for her - so I was glad to have Noah confirm that at the terrible FYC panel. Whatever that scene was, I think it was a mistake to cut it because its absence left Dana without a story end. Broadly, her plotline was about taking a trainee under her wing and protecting her, which she does, but it doesn't change her emotionally. She struggled with her own mental health through the season, but that doesn't really have an end, either. I wish they had landed the mentorship story - Dana finds new purpose in being a nurse by seeing it through the eyes of a trainee - but even if they had, it's not treated as a professional mentorship story. It's the story of a mother nurturing and protecting a child. Abbot makes that explicit when he says, "You are the mama bear glue that holds this place together."
Mothers. Daughters. Sisters. Even objects of desire. That's how the show views women, broadly-speaking. Sure, men have relationships (flings, wives, Amys), but they're incidental, whereas the women's relationships are the lens through which the show sees them and the catalysts for their stories. That's what I mean when I say the male EPs' unconscious bias seeps in. I think the three old, privileged men in charge see women as relational, not as ends in themselves like men are.
Again, I wouldn't call this misogyny. It's not hatred of women. Hell, Noah made this explicit when talking about how Robby believes the women are better, so he's harder on them because he expects more. That is benevolent sexism right there.
Just to be clear, I don't think any of these stories are "wrong" or even that they shouldn't do any of them individually. I think most were written poorly, or didn't quite work, but I rather liked Javadi's. The problem is the totality. When all of your stories approach women a certain way, that shows a very limited view of what women are and can be. And it can unintentionally tap into harmful stereotypes of women, as I think it did in S2.
The big example of that is Mohan's story, which I think was bad on pretty much every axis and sexist in a harmful way. As I'm sure many know, there is an age-old stereotype that women are too emotional to hold important jobs. We see this every time a woman runs for president in the US, which is how it plays out on the grandest scale, but it's a still widely-held, harmful belief in everyday life. Historically, it's been an excuse to exclude women from certain jobs, the echoes of which still affect women today. So why The Pitt would choose to deploy this negative stereotype of women is utterly baffling to me.
To recap, Mohan's mom gets engaged and plans to go on a year-long cruise, which (inexplicably) upends Mohan's life, destabilizing her so much that she literally has a panic attack at work, the distraction of which makes her miss a diagnosis, causing a patient's entirely preventable death. To which I say...seriously? In 2026, they thought it was a good idea to show a woman panicking and getting a patient killed because of it...seriously??? Whatever the intention was, they have a responsibility as storytellers not to reinforce harmful negative stereotypes, so what the actual fuck, guys? Why was this story so important to tell that it trumps the reinforcement of what generations of professional women have fought to achieve? Yes, they gave Robby a panic attack in S1, but men don't have the same history of exclusion based on being too emotional; as soon as you give that story to a woman, it becomes a sexist stereotype because of the context. People can say it's just a story, but stories are how we understand the world, and these EPs have talked about the importance of their storytelling.
The sad thing is, if I had to guess, I'd bet it just...never occurred to them. Or if someone brought it up, they didn't think it was a big deal. And that is how unconscious bias and benevolent sexism lead to the reinforcement of harmful stereotypes that can have real effects on people's views. It's a shame and why I do think it matters.
To sum up, there are different ways to analyze sexism in a show. A lot of attention has been paid to X character treating Y character in Z way. That's certainly valid, but I think it's also important to look at it from a wider view of what stories the writers choose to tell and how those stories are approached. That's what I'm talking about when I talk about the EPs' unconscious bias creeping in.
*Just a note on the critique that Taylor has (apparently?) said she doesn't watch the show: I don't think that's relevant. She reads all the scripts, given that she has to act out the scenes, and then she's there when the show is filmed. She knows the show and her opinion is worthy of consideration.
yeah I'm sorry I do think trinity unintentionally hurts baran a lot in the beginning.
baran extends vulnerability in hopes that it'll be matched, but trinity's not equipped for that. she closes herself off, snaps like a cornered dog. and baran is soft. she's sensitive. she likes to pretend nothing gets to her, but it does, and it hurts. it hurts when she knows trinity is hurting, but all her girl does is shove her away. making her feel unneeded, unwanted. realistically, baran knows trinity wants her, but trinity doesn't make it easy to feel.
baran likes words. likes verbal affirmations that she's loved. trinity can hardly choke them out on her better days, preferring actions instead. and it's hard, at first, when baran is murmuring I love you into trinity's mouth, and trinity kisses her again to avoid saying it back. it's hard for trinity, when she conjures up a bouquet of flowers that she knows are baran's favorite, and baran smiles so big but trinity can tell she's a little disappointed that there's no note nestled in-between the petals.
gradually, though, they learn each other's languages. baran starts quietly taking care of trinity in other ways, having her favorite energy drink in hand when she comes to work, pointedly not scolding her for drinking them (yet.) her girl feeling safe and accepted where she's at is what's important, they'll work out health later. and in that safety, that trinity doesn't have to be perfect to be loved, her guard lowers.
and it's so fucking wonderful. trinity gets these moments where she's all clingy and needy, now, seeking her out, collapsing into her. baran feels needed, wanted, finally. best of all is when trinity kisses at her jaw, her neck, whispering I love you I love you I love you between each gentle peck. maybe it hurt, to get here, for a while. but it is so, so worth it. baran kisses her head, hums I love you too. so much, trinity. so much.
meltos definitely do the three taps for I love you. it's easy, comforting, convenient. sometimes trinity's not so good at coughing up vulnerability like that. sometimes mel gets overwhelmed, goes nonverbal. so they learn to communicate that they still care, even silently, giving each other that reassurance.
trinity giving three soft taps to mel's thigh while her legs are thrown over trinity's lap, lazing on the couch. I love you. mel purposefully clicking her pen three times when trinity passes her at work. I love you. trinity tugging at mel's braid three times, a little teasing, grinning. I love you. mel pressing three kisses to the back of trinity's neck as they lay in bed. I love you.
