lover's lane

24 • she/her • haz • empty age-less blogs will be blocked • requests open!

[calamitous-luv]

Introduction

hi! can call me haz/none. im currently 24, just here to write and vibe.

this blog is 18+ MDNI. that being said, you are responsible for your own consumption.

navigation: masterlist - my AO3 (on process!)

currently writing for: dcu - criminal minds - dc (comics)

currenly reading fics from: dcu - criminal minds - mcu - dc (comics) - stranger things (exclusively steve harrington)

requests are always open but not guaranteed.

featured arts:

Acis and Galatea by Abraham Bloemaert, 1590

The Circle of the Lustful: Paolo and Francesca by William Blake, 1827

The Japanese Footbridge by Claude Monet, 1899

disclaimer and stance below the cut

this blog is also anti zionists, anti imperialism, and anti fascism. anyone who is misogynistic, racist, transphobic, homophobic, islamophobic, xeniphobic, and generally oppressive should not interact.

i block anyone who: uses AI in any capacity (incl. generative AI and character AI), have no indicator of age in their description, empty blogs, and those whose views i don't align with.

i don't consent for my work to be translated, reposted, fed into machine learning, monetized, and reformatted to be posted in other platforms. all rights to characters i write for are reserved to their respective owner, though what i do falls under fair use in the U.S. copyright law.

[calamitous-luv]

Origin, Buttercup

Pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x gen-z!reader

Warnings: fem-coded!reader, bi-coded!reader, ADHD-coded!reader, multilingual!reader, crack, fluff, ANGST, canon typical violence, drug (adderall) and alcohol consumption, get your bearings because this is HEAVY BACKSTORY u guys

Summary: You tell the team a TLDR of how you met Spencer; Emily gets the whole story.

main masterlist / misadventures masterlist

It's a slow day at the BAU, the first one you've had since you started as an intern. 

A slow day, though, doesn't mean that you can scroll through Twitter or read through AO3, because it's paperwork day. All reports, forms, transcripts are thoroughly submitted and checked by you and Penelope. You, especially, have to go transcript and translate all interviews done in Spanish or the occasional Cantonese. 

You're also in charge of organizing the team's OneDrive folder, so messed up that even Penelope gave up a while ago. Emily gives you this task since you're already cataloging the team's cases anyway, when you were still looking for ones that are most relevant to your thesis.

JJ buys you lunch that day, shaking her head at the (yet again) grilled cheese and yogurt you brought almost everyday because hey, groceries are expensive and you can't be bothered to cook, okay?

Spencer comes in minutes after you, JJ, Tara, Penelope, and Luke have gathered at the table near the pantry. Emily is stuck in her office with someone with the door and the blinds closed.

“Doctor Gallagher said she finally gave you less teaching hours,” he says, in lieu of greeting. 

Ever since you started the internship, it feels like you're in a joint custody agreement between Spencer and Dr. Gallagher, your doctoral advisor. You know they talk about you when you’re not there, and you aren’t sure it’s all professional either. You’d bet Clarissa Gallagher and Spencer Reid pass gossip in the faculty lounge when nobody is there.

It’s a new semester, and you have another fellow grad student under Doctor Gallagher who can share the workload. Since it is the spring semester, there’s less courses anyway. 

“Yep,” you answer, chewing on your JJ-sponsored chicken katsu.

Spencer rolls his eyes. “If you want to work in academia, you have to have sufficient teaching experience.”

“My hours are sufficient.” You shrug, then add, “I will only do it if I can be your TA.”

Spencer pauses, dropping his bag of sandwich and an apple on the table. “I'm sorry?”

“What?” You point to his lunch. “JJ, why did I get shit for my sandwich and he doesn't?”

JJ snorts. “Because I'm not buying him lunch in his big boy age.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, then pulls at your baggy sleeve.

“You'd only take on more hours if you're my TA?” He clarifies, you hum in confirmation. “You recited your reason for a change in PhD supervisor as Doctor Spencer Reid is a jackass.”

“You are.”

“So?”

You sigh, setting your disposable bowl down.

“Look, Doctor Reid, you are a shit supervisor but you're a great teacher,” you explain. “I spend 80% of my time under Dr. Gallagher, just trying to figure out if an assignment was written with AI or not. On the other hand, you, Mr. Medieval, banned technologies that are more advanced than an abacus in your classroom.”

Luke leans across towards Penelope, “What's an abacus?”

“Something your parents make you learn if they hate you,” she answers. 

Tara whispers, “Like Cello.”

Penelope snickers, “Exactly like Cello.”

Spencer is still blinking at you, and you're just thoroughly enjoying the bento Mama JJ paid for. 

Spencer swallows, “You think I'm—”

“Dude, don't make this weird,” you shake your head. “And don't discredit me, either. There's a reason why you were my first choice for supervisor.”

Penelope clicks her tongue. “You know, I've been wondering about that. How did—” she wiggles her finger between you and Spencer. “—this happen?”

Spencer ducks his head. “Buttercup was my grad student, and then requested a switch.”

“We want details!” Tara specifies, then glances at you, then at Penelope. “We want the tea!”

You exchange a look with Spencer, he sighs in defeat right after.

“I saw his public lecture at the university and walked in,” you start. “Doctor Reid was presenting the Keating case as a case study.”

“The family annihilator that we didn't manage to catch until years later?” Penelope asks.

Spencer nods. “Yeah, we were spread thin back then with Barnes breathing down our neck, Emily was struggling with her new role, and I was—”

He trails off, and you wait for him to finish. But when his gaze drops to his sandwich, JJ clears her throat and urges you to continue, you let it go.

“I tried to go back to it but we didn't have enough,” Tara adds.

You continue, “Well, the case info was like, there at the study guide so I took a look and I went to his office—”

“—dressed as Buttercup—”

“Carlos had a Powerpuff Girls themed drag show! My other roommate was Bubbles.” You defend. “Anyway—I told Doctor Reid I'll only give my analysis if he'll agree to be my PhD supervisor.”

“I disagreed because I wasn't a good fit—which I was right about—”

“My thesis proposal was on female serial killers—” you don't notice how JJ drops her chopsticks on her own bowl, or how Penelope's mouth falls open. “And while I usually don't want to work with feds, I figured his BAU connections can help.”

Tara chews her food slowly. “Right. And you changed your mind about that?”

This time, you're the one who looks away. “Yes. I–uh, pivoted, to the rehabilitation and reintegration of female inmates, as you know, Doctor Lewis.”

Tara has been the one accompanying, giving you access, and, if they consented, sometimes supervising your interviews with your research subjects. 

“Right,” Spencer presses his lips together, then pivots. “So what's the twenty percent?”

“Hm?”

“You said you spent eighty percent detecting AI. What about the other twenty percent?”

“Actually teaching, of course.” You send him a sardonic smile. Then, you turn to Penelope, who's now watching with a careful eye. “How does the FBI feel about utilizing pirated software for official bureau business?”

Penelope nods slowly, taken aback. “Illegal and not okay.”

“And how does the Bureau feel about paying for an Adobe suite or Canva premium subscription?”

She winces. “Also not okay, but I will see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” you sigh. “I can’t believe public relations wants me to create propo for them. Me. And I can’t say no because they’re holding what happened to Wendy over my head like it’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Spencer says.

“Sure.”

“It’s really important that you know it’s not your fault.”

“I know, Doctor Reid.”

Tara tilts her head. “Aren’t you supposed to do mandatory counseling for that?”

You nod. “Yeah, some time after lunch.”

“That sucks,” Luke whistles. “Are you ready?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, we understand it can feel invasive and vulnerable to talk to someone about your feelings,” JJ explains. “Trust me, we never liked this whole mandatory evaluation, either.”

“Doctor Lewis said it’s counseling, not evaluation.”

Luke waves his hand dismissively. “Same thing. They see you have normal human emotions and they think you’re unstable and put you on mandatory leave.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “Isn’t that a good thing?” Spencer grimaces. You raise an eyebrow. “Not a good thing?”

JJ shrugs. “Doesn’t feel good.”

“I think you guys are just riddled with control issues, masochism, and workaholism.” You lean back on your chair. “I’m actually pretty excited.”

“That’s a new one,” Penelope says, whistling in amusement. 

“I mean, I think it shouldn’t be done by any of you guys, including Emily. There’s a sense of safety and security opening up to a stranger you don’t know compared to those you know, and also not a cop,” you start to explain. “Other than that? Free therapy and counseling every week for two months until my internship ends? On the FBI’s dime? Are you kidding? I don’t have insurance! So slap on patient-doctor confidentiality and sign me the fuck up!”

This time, it’s Spencer who balks. “You don’t have insurance?”

“The only form of insurance I have is Kat and her fully stocked medicine cabinet.”

He blinks, hard, like he’s trying to keep his thoughts at bay. “We are never taking you to the field ever again.”

You shrug in indifference. After what happened to Wendy, you don’t think you ever wanted to be in the field again, anyway.

The blinds of Emily’s office stay drawn as you sit  on the leather sofa. You’ve brought along a can of Arizona iced tea, one that you found in the pantry’s cupboard nearing its expiration date. Emily’s dark eyes follow your movement as you pour the liquid over some ice. 

“Are you aware of the charges against you by Agent Graham?” She asks, leaning forward on her knees across from you. 

You take a sip through a straw. “Domestic terrorism, yes.”

“The full extent of it?”

“Probably some bullshit about conspiracy too, right?”

“Buttercup,” she held back a sigh, exasperated. “Tara said you’re excited about the counseling sessions.”

You lean back on the sofa. “Yeah, when it’s done by a psychologist, not a cop.”

“Buttercup–”

“If I tell you I killed someone, in this session, would you arrest me for it?”

“I’d have to.”

“Exactly.”

“We blackmailed a fellow FBI agent to get those charges dropped, Buttercup,” she says. “We are way past going through with them. I just want to know how you feel.”

You think. You think carefully. If there’s anything you’re good at, it's thinking. They blackmailed Graham, putting their careers on the line for you. If they want you arrested, they wouldn’t have gone through with it. You concede. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Emily sighs. “Graham thought that you conspired with Marlene Watsons to kill Wendy Orwell and Terry Hoffman. The essay you wrote for Marlene, the fact that you have access to sensitive information through the BAU, and your prior arrests for assaulting an officer, battery of a fellow student, and inciting violence brought suspicions.”

“One, I admit to the academic dishonesty for Marlene,” you start. “Then, I defended myself against a handsy cop, which was expunged because I was thirteen. Second, a guy was harassing Kat and I at a frat party, and the last one was for simply attending a protest.” You tilt your head at her. “You knew this before you hired me. And you did anyway. Why?”

“Because Spencer trusts you,” Emily says without hesitation. “He told me about you, when you first came to him about the Keating case.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She nods. “Said you found connections we haven’t, saved a lot of lives in the process, gave a lot of people closure. You did good work and he was proud.” She paused, watching your reaction. “So I don’t understand the animosity, the tension. He trusts you, but you don’t trust him.”

“I looked up to him.”

“Not anymore?”

With a shake of your head, you say, “No.”

“Why not?”

You take a deep breath, eyes on the ceiling as you brace yourself to let it out. Let it all out. 

You were, for lack of a better word, stuck. You have two offers for medical school, but only one offer of a partial scholarship. Theoretically, you can take out loans, but there’s just something that’s gnawing on your chest. An insistent feeling of you’re doing something wrong.

You thought back to the last semester—the last four years, really, counting the times you’ve felt like you were something right. You were smart—smarter than the average kid. Pre-med was the smart choice, the practical choice. Sure, you’d be buried in student loan debt but the path to a career was clear. You would’ve paid it all using the first two months of your salary as an attending.

Or maybe you could go for pathology. 

But the thought of it—the additional four years of med school, the residency with shitty bosses and scut work and unpredictable schedule.  

It had been a no-brainer for Kat, applying for the loans just like that, even with the unpaid ones from her undergraduate. Kat loved helping people that way, one by one, healing them of their pain. But you—you know you don’t have the patience. She had always been clear about what she wanted, even back when you met her as a lab assistant in your sophomore year of university. 

Carlos, on the other hand, you met at the holding cell of Metro PD. The rest is history.

“Apparently the guy was an FBI agent, and he’s been to prison,” Carlos explained, trying to get you out of your spiral about your future. “I think you’d like him.”

“I wrote a paper about medical assistance in state prison once and you think I know everyone who’s been to prison.”

“All I’m saying is that you might find his lectures interesting,” Carlos said with a grin on his face. “It helps that he’s got a pretty face, too.”

You scoff. “You think I can be bribed by pretty boys?”

“And girls,” he smirks. “Look, just drop by after your interview. It’s a public lecture, nobody will kick you out. I’ll even save you a seat!”

And pretty he was. 

It felt like electricity, zapping life and fire inside your chest that’s been snubbed out. Doctor Spencer Reid was dressed in a patterned tie and a sports coat, an unruly mess of curls on his head, like he rolled out of bed looking like Einstein incarnate. 

There are some lecturers who command the room because they are a natural; magnetic. Spencer was that, and so much more. 

“Linda is 31 years old, single, outspoken, and very bright,” he was saying as you took the seat next to Carlos in the middle rows. “She majored in philosophy. As a student, she was deeply concerned with issues of discrimination and social justice, and also participated in anti-nuclear demonstrations—”

“What are you doing here?” Kat, who was sitting next to you on the aisle, whispered as you squeezed past her to get to the empty seat between her and Carlos. “Don’t you have the scholarship interview?”

“They pulled out my records and I had to bail.”

“Shit,” Kat balked. “Are they even allowed to do that?”

“Apparently the head of the department is married to Virginia's ADA.”

“Damn,” Carlos whistled. “That blows.”

“Yeah no kidding,” you leaned back on the chair, “And they are science people, you know, doctors—no offense Kat—” she waved her hand in dismissal. “So they don’t care about nuance, y’know? I was sitting there when they just—”

“Excuse me,” a voice called. Carlos nudged your elbow to get you to stop talking. You looked up and it was him, staring at you and Kat and Carlos expectantly. “Would you care to give us your input?”

You weren’t listening. The chalkboard behind wrote “PROBABILITY” and “THE LINDA PROBLEM” in the most intelligible hand writing you had ever had the displeasure of reading. Underneath was a tally, one side was for “BANK TELLER” and “BANK TELLER + FEMINIST”. The latter had a lot more tally underneath. 

“Bank teller,” you answered. 

Doctor Spencer Reid tilted his head, “Care to elaborate?”

“To be honest with you, Doctor Reid, I wasn’t really listening,” you sighed. “But if it’s probability then Linda is a bank teller is more probable than Linda being a bank teller and a feminist, regardless of her past activism.”

“But if discrimination and social justice is Linda’s concern, wouldn’t feminism—a movement about dismantling discrimination against women and social justice for women—also be one of her concerns?” Carlos pointed out. 

“Yeah, dude, but we are talking about probability,” you continued, just talking to Carlos now. “The probability of two events occurring in conjunction is always less than or equal to the probability of either one occurring alone. Linda is a bank teller who may or may not be active in feminist movements. With the first option, that option is kept open, unlike the second option where it is definitive.”

Carlos nodded. “I think I get it now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Herrera and—”

“His friend,” you supplied, because he was in the FBI and you didn’t need more authority figures on your back.

“Of course,” he regarded you for another stretch of a second, then turned his attention back to the lecture hall. “Like the Linda Problem, profiling is about probability. My colleagues in the Behavioral Analysis Unit might disagree, but my approach to profiling relies on behavioral science as much as mathematics. Now, let’s take a look at an old cold case—”

And you were caught. Hook, line, and sinker.

His lecture that day sparked the inquisitive part of your brain that had been shut down and suffocated by the generally incurious professors over at the STEM buildings—exact sciences that left no room for deeper exploration if it wasn’t in numbers, looking for precedent while ignoring why the precedent might not exist in the first place.

That’s why it hurt so much when he quite literally rejected you. 

There was a serial killer once, in your hometown. She lived next door to you. She'd feed you and bathe you and let you read her books when your parents would forget you existed. She never shut you down. She was kind and smart and—

She was arrested. You were fourteen, first year of high school. The police and the news said she killed 5 men over the course of six months. A year later they'll let you graduate. 

So really, when you sent Doctor Spencer Reid an email with a research proposal regarding that case, it was for selfish reasons. 

“You are a part of the university's violent crime research programe,” You told him once. You had ambushed him after a lecture. “You worked with the FBI. I want to know why and how.”

“I can get you her interview transcripts,” He said. “You don't need to get a doctorate just to find out why.”

“It's not about her, Doctor Reid.”

“Look,” He took a deep breath. You saw just then how seemingly tired he was, with unruly curls and eyes sunken and red. He regarded you like he didn't quite see you fully in front of him. “I truly appreciate your interest, but I'm not fit to supervise anyone. Find someone else, something else if this is important to you.”

But you had made up your mind. You wanted him and no one else. 

The rejection haunted you, stayed with you because your brain is nothing if not torturous. His words played in the back of your mind over and over like a broken record. 

“So, are you just going to give up?” Kat asked in a dimly lit club. She had a blonde wig on, tied in pigtails with sparkly blue glitter eye shadows on her eyelids. Her dress sparkled under the mirrorball reflective lights. 

“I don't want to,” You confess, tugging on the black bob wig you had on. “Kat, you saw it. It's like he breathed my academic soul back to life in that classroom. I don't want to give that up.”

Kat was your upperclassman in undergrad. Meaning she got a good three years ahead of you, a fact that neither she nor you will let each other forget. 

“Then you just have to impress him,” She said, like it answered anything. 

It answered everything. 

You took her laptop and opened the link attached on the study guide for his classes through Carlo's student account, then downloaded the Keating case files. You didn't know jackshit about profiling, but you were fueled by a vodka Red Bull and spite and drag queens who cheered you on once they: 1) learned what you were trying to do; 2) gave you a dose of Adderall; and 3) saw a picture of Doctor Reid courtesy of Carlos. 

So yeah, Kat and Carlos drove you back to the University, taking off in the middle of the drag show, still dressed fully like Powerpuff Girls, because there was a faculty mixer that night. 

Spencer was standing near the refreshment table, with no glass of his own, in a sports coat and purple scarf, talking to another woman. That woman was Clarissa Gallagher, (future, two years after this interaction) associate professor in the criminology department. Technically Spencer's senior. Technically older than him. 

Technically he should do what she asked if he wanted to be on the tenure track. Technically he was just a little scared of her. 

And she was telling him why on Earth would he turn away a perfectly good, albeit unconventional application (you) because goddamnit we need more people, Reid! 

And he was telling her that he was still dealing with FBI stuff and absolutely under no circumstances was capable of handling a grad student, thank you very much. 

But that night, you marched up to him dressed like Buttercup from the Powerpuff Girls, swaying just enough for him to tell that you had at least two drinks. 

“I solved it,” You said. 

Spencer exchanged a glance with Clarissa. “Solved what?”

“The Keating case.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You have identified the unsub?”

“No, but I have a profile.”

“Right,” He dragged out, disbelieving. 

You crossed your arms in front of your chest, hip popping out. “I swear on Britney.”

Doctor Clarissa Gallagher furrowed her eyebrows. “Spears?”

“Exactly.”

Spencer leaned back in his heels, one hand in his pocket just to hide both his nerves and panic. A confrontation with a potential student dressed in sparkly green and black dress with a bad wig would not end well with anyone. 

He said, “You are not a trained profiler.”

You waved your hand in dismissal. “Pattern recognition on behavior and probability. That's what you said.”

That was what he said, back in that lecture he gave a few weeks ago, where you managed to impress him and irritate him at the same time. He bit his tongue from rattling off about some behavioral theory; some belief Gideon had drilled into his head about being a profiler. But he remembered how Maeve helped him during that amputation case, how Seaver held herself against a team of seasoned profilers while still being in the academy, how Alex and Kate carried themselves during their time with the team.

A lot of brilliant people. All he needed was to give them a chance. Like Gideon did with him. 

“Alright,” He sighed. “What do you have?”

“Not so fast.” You clicked your tongue. “I'll give you my notes, my profile, everything. If the information I provided lead to the arrest of the man responsible for ten victims in the span of two years, you will be my supervisor.”

Something flashed in his eyes, and he rubbed it away with his palm. “Let's go talk in my office—”

“No, I want Doctor Gallagher to be a witness in this deal when you accept it.”

“I'm not accepting—”

“You will,” You said, confidently. “Because you are Spencer Reid.” you paused, then added. “Because you and your team would want to get closure for the victims’ families and get a serial killer off the street but it was cooler to say that, y’know.”

All Spencer did was sigh, rubbed his eyes with his two fingers, and looked at Clarissa Gallagher for help. She gave him two thumbs up. 

What made it hard and heartbreaking was that Spencer actually was a good teacher.

He was passionate, and smart, and caring—when he was around. 

You understood, really—or tried to, anyway—because he was still spending half his time in Quantico if he wasn’t in class. You really had to fight for his time and attention if you wanted to progress on your dissertation, but two months in, and you had gotten nowhere. 

It wasn’t for lack of trying. Once you told him to leave the grading with you, like a normal grad student doing scut work for their professors, but he told you that you “don’t have the qualifications” and he “doesn’t trust you with them”. 

You took pre-med, so what? One time you had to write a fifteen page essay for some girl for her intro to gender studies course because she was sobbing in the library. And you (she) got an A, thank you very much. 

The beauty of your brain (and his) was that you could retain information once you understood them. Not necessarily an eidetic memory, no, but you were smart and your brain needed constant stimulation. You proved your worth by speeding through his reading material requirement for the entire undergrad program in the department in a week. 

Still, all you got was a twenty minute window when he was having dinner after office hours. But that was fine because he was Spencer Reid, a genius, all-around lovable member of the faculty. 

Three months in, you met your breaking point.

“You wanted me to analyze cases for different female serial killer archetypes for the background and introduction section of my dissertation,” you pointed out one day, frustrated. “I did, and now you want me to re-do them?”

“One,” he huffed. “Re-do one.”

“Their analyses are integrated with one another, Doctor Reid,” you said. “None of their cases can be separated from their own victimization of gender-based violence. I made a chart,” you flipped your laptop around so he’d see the screen. “You’d notice if you actually read my work instead of vibing through them.”

“I did read them,” he said with gritted teeth, impatience lacing his tone. He pushed the laptop screen down. “I disagree with choosing Cat Adams as an example of the Black Widow archetype. Black Widow killers present as a skilled emotional manipulator targeting men around their immediate—”

“—relationship, blah, blah, so?”

“Cat Adams was a part of a hitman network.”

“Again, Doctor Reid, if you actually read my analysis, it solely focuses on Adams’ kills prior to her participation in the Silk Road.”

“Buttercup,” he sighed, exasperatedly. “I am sure you are more than capable of finding another case. I can have someone give you access to the ViCAP database, if you need it. But with this one, you have no idea what you are talking about.”

“And you do?” was what came out of your mouth as the result of weeks and months of hitting wall after wall with him. Spencer paused, blinking at you. “Your academic credentials are in mathematics, chemistry, and engineering—you only have a BA in psychology. The only reason you’re in the criminology department is because you just so happen to have worked for the FBI as a profiler. Have you ever conducted qualitative criminology research before?”

Academic burn out was a bitch, and it was making you a bitch.

“Then what are you doing here?” he asked, leaning back on his ergonomic chair, studying you, profiling you, you were sure. “You chose this.”

Chose me, was unsaid but heard loud and clear still.

“Well, I should’ve listened to you the first time.” 

When you walked out that door, you didn’t imagine that was going to be the last you’d see of him for at least six months. 

You didn’t know it, of course, but an old friend of his, Ethan, was found dead at a motel in Los Angeles and he spent four months hunting the killer down and another two to grieve. All you knew was that he abandoned you.

It didn’t take long for Doctor Gallagher to tell you to take over his classes. And shortly after paying one visit to the Fairview Halfway House to invite a former inmate for a guest lecture, you pivoted your dissertation topic, starting from scratch, this time under Doctor Gallagher’s wing.

When he came back, you made it your personal mission to snub the last bit of your need for Spencer’s respect and validation. 

“He abandoned me,” you reiterate to  Emily. “You know what he said to me, when he finally came back from his impromptu sabbatical and I told him Doctor Gallagher is my supervisor?”

Emily leans back in her chair. “What?”

“He said, ‘I’m glad’.” you smile sardonically, remembering his sunken eyes, the drop of his voice when he said it. “Sure, at first it was to antagonize him, to make him feel how upset I was, but now? Now it’s just fun and it just is.”

[calamitous-luv]

guys im sorry for not being actively engaging rn while slowly churning out fics well it's because im a little depressed

[calamitous-luv]

fitness test

Pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x gen-z!reader

Warnings: basically crack fic, dialogue heavy, so unserious, not beta-d, canon typical violence, no gendered pronouns but fem!coded and bi!coded, age gap (spencer in his 40s, reader in mid 20s), physical activities, reader is somewhat in good shape except for running, Carlos-the-roommate made an appearance

Summary: Emily wants to keep you in the field, Internal Affairs disagreed. This is a compromise.

main masterlist / misadventures masterlist

“Are you sure you should be back at the snake’s den this soon?” Carlos asks, looking up at you through a bowl of Cheerios you keep stocked just for him. 

You don’t blame him for being concerned. You would be concerned too if one of your roommates-slash-best friends called you at an ungodly hour to tell you they’ve been arrested on a domestic terrorism charge by the freaking FBI. On top of that, it’s you. Carlos has had to put up with a lot of crap from you and your antics. 

“I appreciate the concern, darling, but even you know I cannot bake yet another batch of cookies in the middle of the night,” you say. “We can’t afford the butter and the gas bill.”

His dark eyes track your movement as you move from one spot to another, gathering your miscellaneous belongings that are scattered all over the apartment. “Kat just got her annual raise, and we both know she enjoys your latest invention of brown butter black sesame cookies with—”

“—white chocolate chunks, I know, ha-ha.” It’s a running joke between the three of you, three inhabitants of apartment unit 3A, where Carlos and Kat and your other friends would ask what you were baking and you happened to be baking some weird combination of flavors that didn’t have any name yet, so you just tell them what’s in it and they repeat that over and over until someone stumble. 

“She’d appreciate another batch,” he shrugs. “Especially after yesterday’s 24 hour shift.”

Kat is a—second year now—ER resident who barely eats anything other than whatever’s out on the counter that day. Carlos works at a legal aid and a drag queen. That’s why you are all depending on each other’s survival to survive, splitting a four-bedroom apartment three ways that you can only afford because the previous renter did a murder suicide on Halloween. 

You take a deep breath, looking at the guy who had pulled you—and you him—out of worse situations before. “Carlos, I love you, but you know I need to keep moving or else, I will—I’ll—”

He sighs, “Yeah, I get it.” Then he sends you off with a small smile. “For the love of all things good in this world, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Swear to God!”

Luke meets you at the training ground, which is a football stadium just West of the academy building. He’s dressed in what you call a “gym bro” aesthetic, with a compression shirt and sweats, grinning ear to ear, protein shake in hand.

The sun shines down on your face, and it should be a crime that Luke is this happy to workout this early in the morning. 

“Ready for your assessment, Buttercup?”

“I still don’t understand why Emily wants my fitness evaluation,” you complain, sipping on your Penelope-sponsored oat matcha latte. “I’m literally just an intern! My contract ends real soon!”

“Beats me,” Penelope shrugs. “If you completed the triathlon, Emily would’ve waived the requirements off.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault IA banned me and Alvez from competing!” you huff. Wendy’s death internal investigation had put the unit into a standstill for a couple of weeks, including banning their participation in the annual FBI triathlon. You nod towards Luke. “I would’ve smoked you.”

Luke scoffs, offended, even just for a little. “Girlie, I was a ranger in Iraq and ran a fugitive task force before the BAU. There’s no way that would’ve happened.”

“And I rode a bike all two years of high school, so what?”

Spencer ignores the pointed look Penelope sends him, and the elbow nudges a second later due to his lack of response. He leans back on the bleachers, sunglasses perched on his nose, eyes narrowed at her. “Morgan waived our fitness requirement every year.”

You look at him, then at Luke. “Can’t you do the same?”

“And miss this whole thing?” Luke grins. “Not a chance.”

“Fine, let’s get this over with.” You set the plastic cup between you and Spencer, with him eyeing the drink like he’s planning to steal it from you. “If you finish it you owe me a new one.”

“You’re not going to finish it,” he retorts, already bringing the straw to his lips. “By the time you’re done, it’ll be lukewarm and there’s nothing you hate more than diluted matcha.”

You deadpan, “I hate you more than that.”

Spencer grins, teeth biting into the oh-so-eco-friendly cassava straw. “And here I thought we are just starting to get along.”

“Shut up, old man.” You scowl to cover up the smile threatening to break out. Spencer sees it though, he always does, lately, and his lips pull wider. You turn to Luke instead. “Where do you want me, coach?”

Luke claps his hands, “Let’s start with warm ups!”

Penelope moves one bleacher down, sitting next to Spencer. Her skirt, full and polka-dot, grazes his hand. He moves it just a fraction. 

“Okay, spill,” she says, eyes boring into the side of his face.

“Spill what?”

Spencer can practically see the way she rolls her eyes. “Why is a graduate intern doing a fitness test required only for special agents?”

“Beats me,” he shrugs, fully intending to play coy until Penelope hits his arm. Spencer laughs. “Alright.” He sighs, eyes tracking you doing jumping jacks while Luke claps his hands in encouragement. “After IA investigated Wendy’s death, they reiterated that technically Buttercup does not have clearance to be on the field. Emily and JJ argued that they are an asset to the team, and one of the stipulations of Buttercup’s clearance is to pass the fitness test.”

Penelope lets a second pass. “And?”

“They can only do field work for local cases.”

“Have you told them that?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to?”

“No,” Spencer brings the matcha latte up to his lips again, slurping obnoxiously before sending a grin towards Penelope. “Emily will.”

She narrows her eyes at him, holding back a grin on her face. “You are an evil, evil man, Spencer Reid.”

Penelope touches her own iced coffee with Spencer’s stolen matcha latte in a mock toast. 

You and Luke come back around the bleachers half an hour later. You drop on the ground in front of Spencer and Penelope, laying on your back, sweat decorating your hairline and neck. Spencer pretends not to notice the way your shorts ride up your thighs as you bend your legs up. 

“Twenty five push-ups, that’s three points, thirty seven sit-ups, that’s two points,” Luke recites from his clipboard. “That’s better than I expected.”

“Carlos and Kat had a bit of a fitness fad during lockdown,” you say, letting a little smugness seep along your words. 

“But twenty minutes on the one and a half mile run, Buttercup, really?” Luke chides. “That’s minutes two points.”

“Ugh.”

“Sixty seconds for the sprint would be fine if you can hit at least twelve and a half minute for the run.”

You groan louder. “Ughhh.”

Spencer peers down at you from his perch. “I thought you outran MPD after you threw an egg at an anti-pride protester last summer.”

“And don’t forget the Halloween fiasco,” Penelope adds solemnly.

“Well, being chased by a cop to evade arrest is a pretty good motivator, don’t you think?”

Luke raises an eyebrow. “Ignoring the stuff about evading arrest, all I’m hearing is you need someone to chase you down.”

“I said, a good motivator.”

“Right, sure,” Luke’s eyes catch Spencer’s, then Penelope, before giving them his clipboard and stopwatch. ‘Come on, get up.”

“What?” you sit up, surprised. 

“Get up, stand on the starting line for the sprint,” He puts his hands under your shoulder blades, pushing you up. You comply, moving towards the starting line, tired and confused. 

“I can’t get five more minutes?” you yell, getting into position anyway.

Luke jogs towards you, before stopping a good meter behind your position. “No.”

“But—”

“I’ll give you a three second head start then I’m going to chase you.”

Your shock is palpable, visible, even, judging by Penelope’s giggling and Spencer’s delight. “What?”

“Ready, set—go!”

Your feet take off before you can comprehend what’s going on. “FUCK! Fuck you, Alvez!”

Luke will never catch you for real, of course, he’s there as a psychological mind fuck to fuck with your brain, triggering fight or flight response. It’s unorthodox, and definitely borderline illegal, but it gets your sprint time down to fifty-two seconds, which is worth seven points on its own. 

After three hundred meters, Luke shows mercy and lets Penelope toss you a bottle of blue Gatorade. 

“Your only defense against an unsub in the field is to run,” Spencer points out when you complain for the umpteenth time. “Good to know your flight response is still functioning.”

“Or someone can start teaching me how to fight,” you pout. “Or how to shoot—”

“No,” All three say in unison, solid and final. You scowl in disappointment. 

“Alright,” Luke turns back to you. “Let’s do the mile half run.”

“But I’m literally dying here.”

“No, you’re not,” Luke stands, before walking back to the tracks. “Come on!”

You reluctantly get up and follow him. Before you run off, you look back towards Penelope and Spencer on the bleachers. “If I die out there, spread my ashes at a Florence and the Machine concert—or any concert with pyro! Let me go up in flames!”

Penelope turns to Spencer. “I’ll have ten on fourteen minutes.”

Spencer hums in thought. “Thirteen and a half.”

“You’re on, Doctor Reid.”

When you come back thirteen minutes and fifteen seconds later, screaming and groaning before dropping on the ground again, Spencer accepts the crumpled bill from Penelope with glee. 

You wheeze. “Somebody call me an ambulance. I think I’m gonna throw up. Or pass out. Or both. In that order.”

Spencer stands next to you, bending down to look at your face. You squint your eyes to look up at him, the sun hitting his curls just in the right places where—”Best we can do is a stretcher, Buttercup.”

“I’ll take that.”

“Sure,” he smiles oh-so-pretty. “Straight to the seventh floor because we got a case.”

“We what?”

Penelope grins. “It’s a local one, too, so you’re up.”

“No!”

“You’re an asset to the team, we have to use you somehow.”

“Nooooo!!”

[calamitous-luv]

fitness test

Pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x gen-z!reader

Warnings: basically crack fic, dialogue heavy, so unserious, not beta-d, canon typical violence, no gendered pronouns but fem!coded and bi!coded, age gap (spencer in his 40s, reader in mid 20s), physical activities, reader is somewhat in good shape except for running, Carlos-the-roommate made an appearance

Summary: Emily wants to keep you in the field, Internal Affairs disagreed. This is a compromise.

main masterlist / misadventures masterlist

“Are you sure you should be back at the snake’s den this soon?” Carlos asks, looking up at you through a bowl of Cheerios you keep stocked just for him. 

You don’t blame him for being concerned. You would be concerned too if one of your roommates-slash-best friends called you at an ungodly hour to tell you they’ve been arrested on a domestic terrorism charge by the freaking FBI. On top of that, it’s you. Carlos has had to put up with a lot of crap from you and your antics. 

“I appreciate the concern, darling, but even you know I cannot bake yet another batch of cookies in the middle of the night,” you say. “We can’t afford the butter and the gas bill.”

His dark eyes track your movement as you move from one spot to another, gathering your miscellaneous belongings that are scattered all over the apartment. “Kat just got her annual raise, and we both know she enjoys your latest invention of brown butter black sesame cookies with—”

“—white chocolate chunks, I know, ha-ha.” It’s a running joke between the three of you, three inhabitants of apartment unit 3A, where Carlos and Kat and your other friends would ask what you were baking and you happened to be baking some weird combination of flavors that didn’t have any name yet, so you just tell them what’s in it and they repeat that over and over until someone stumble. 

“She’d appreciate another batch,” he shrugs. “Especially after yesterday’s 24 hour shift.”

Kat is a—second year now—ER resident who barely eats anything other than whatever’s out on the counter that day. Carlos works at a legal aid and a drag queen. That’s why you are all depending on each other’s survival to survive, splitting a four-bedroom apartment three ways that you can only afford because the previous renter did a murder suicide on Halloween. 

You take a deep breath, looking at the guy who had pulled you—and you him—out of worse situations before. “Carlos, I love you, but you know I need to keep moving or else, I will—I’ll—”

He sighs, “Yeah, I get it.” Then he sends you off with a small smile. “For the love of all things good in this world, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Swear to God!”

Luke meets you at the training ground, which is a football stadium just West of the academy building. He’s dressed in what you call a “gym bro” aesthetic, with a compression shirt and sweats, grinning ear to ear, protein shake in hand.

The sun shines down on your face, and it should be a crime that Luke is this happy to workout this early in the morning. 

“Ready for your assessment, Buttercup?”

“I still don’t understand why Emily wants my fitness evaluation,” you complain, sipping on your Penelope-sponsored oat matcha latte. “I’m literally just an intern! My contract ends real soon!”

“Beats me,” Penelope shrugs. “If you completed the triathlon, Emily would’ve waived the requirements off.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault IA banned me and Alvez from competing!” you huff. Wendy’s death internal investigation had put the unit into a standstill for a couple of weeks, including banning their participation in the annual FBI triathlon. You nod towards Luke. “I would’ve smoked you.”

Luke scoffs, offended, even just for a little. “Girlie, I was a ranger in Iraq and ran a fugitive task force before the BAU. There’s no way that would’ve happened.”

“And I rode a bike all two years of high school, so what?”

Spencer ignores the pointed look Penelope sends him, and the elbow nudges a second later due to his lack of response. He leans back on the bleachers, sunglasses perched on his nose, eyes narrowed at her. “Morgan waived our fitness requirement every year.”

You look at him, then at Luke. “Can’t you do the same?”

“And miss this whole thing?” Luke grins. “Not a chance.”

“Fine, let’s get this over with.” You set the plastic cup between you and Spencer, with him eyeing the drink like he’s planning to steal it from you. “If you finish it you owe me a new one.”

“You’re not going to finish it,” he retorts, already bringing the straw to his lips. “By the time you’re done, it’ll be lukewarm and there’s nothing you hate more than diluted matcha.”

You deadpan, “I hate you more than that.”

Spencer grins, teeth biting into the oh-so-eco-friendly cassava straw. “And here I thought we are just starting to get along.”

“Shut up, old man.” You scowl to cover up the smile threatening to break out. Spencer sees it though, he always does, lately, and his lips pull wider. You turn to Luke instead. “Where do you want me, coach?”

Luke claps his hands, “Let’s start with warm ups!”

Penelope moves one bleacher down, sitting next to Spencer. Her skirt, full and polka-dot, grazes his hand. He moves it just a fraction. 

“Okay, spill,” she says, eyes boring into the side of his face.

“Spill what?”

Spencer can practically see the way she rolls her eyes. “Why is a graduate intern doing a fitness test required only for special agents?”

“Beats me,” he shrugs, fully intending to play coy until Penelope hits his arm. Spencer laughs. “Alright.” He sighs, eyes tracking you doing jumping jacks while Luke claps his hands in encouragement. “After IA investigated Wendy’s death, they reiterated that technically Buttercup does not have clearance to be on the field. Emily and JJ argued that they are an asset to the team, and one of the stipulations of Buttercup’s clearance is to pass the fitness test.”

Penelope lets a second pass. “And?”

“They can only do field work for local cases.”

“Have you told them that?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to?”

“No,” Spencer brings the matcha latte up to his lips again, slurping obnoxiously before sending a grin towards Penelope. “Emily will.”

She narrows her eyes at him, holding back a grin on her face. “You are an evil, evil man, Spencer Reid.”

Penelope touches her own iced coffee with Spencer’s stolen matcha latte in a mock toast. 

You and Luke come back around the bleachers half an hour later. You drop on the ground in front of Spencer and Penelope, laying on your back, sweat decorating your hairline and neck. Spencer pretends not to notice the way your shorts ride up your thighs as you bend your legs up. 

“Twenty five push-ups, that’s three points, thirty seven sit-ups, that’s two points,” Luke recites from his clipboard. “That’s better than I expected.”

“Carlos and Kat had a bit of a fitness fad during lockdown,” you say, letting a little smugness seep along your words. 

“But twenty minutes on the one and a half mile run, Buttercup, really?” Luke chides. “That’s minutes two points.”

“Ugh.”

“Sixty seconds for the sprint would be fine if you can hit at least twelve and a half minute for the run.”

You groan louder. “Ughhh.”

Spencer peers down at you from his perch. “I thought you outran MPD after you threw an egg at an anti-pride protester last summer.”

“And don’t forget the Halloween fiasco,” Penelope adds solemnly.

“Well, being chased by a cop to evade arrest is a pretty good motivator, don’t you think?”

Luke raises an eyebrow. “Ignoring the stuff about evading arrest, all I’m hearing is you need someone to chase you down.”

“I said, a good motivator.”

“Right, sure,” Luke’s eyes catch Spencer’s, then Penelope, before giving them his clipboard and stopwatch. ‘Come on, get up.”

“What?” you sit up, surprised. 

“Get up, stand on the starting line for the sprint,” He puts his hands under your shoulder blades, pushing you up. You comply, moving towards the starting line, tired and confused. 

“I can’t get five more minutes?” you yell, getting into position anyway.

Luke jogs towards you, before stopping a good meter behind your position. “No.”

“But—”

“I’ll give you a three second head start then I’m going to chase you.”

Your shock is palpable, visible, even, judging by Penelope’s giggling and Spencer’s delight. “What?”

“Ready, set—go!”

Your feet take off before you can comprehend what’s going on. “FUCK! Fuck you, Alvez!”

Luke will never catch you for real, of course, he’s there as a psychological mind fuck to fuck with your brain, triggering fight or flight response. It’s unorthodox, and definitely borderline illegal, but it gets your sprint time down to fifty-two seconds, which is worth seven points on its own. 

After three hundred meters, Luke shows mercy and lets Penelope toss you a bottle of blue Gatorade. 

“Your only defense against an unsub in the field is to run,” Spencer points out when you complain for the umpteenth time. “Good to know your flight response is still functioning.”

“Or someone can start teaching me how to fight,” you pout. “Or how to shoot—”

“No,” All three say in unison, solid and final. You scowl in disappointment. 

“Alright,” Luke turns back to you. “Let’s do the mile half run.”

“But I’m literally dying here.”

“No, you’re not,” Luke stands, before walking back to the tracks. “Come on!”

You reluctantly get up and follow him. Before you run off, you look back towards Penelope and Spencer on the bleachers. “If I die out there, spread my ashes at a Florence and the Machine concert—or any concert with pyro! Let me go up in flames!”

Penelope turns to Spencer. “I’ll have ten on fourteen minutes.”

Spencer hums in thought. “Thirteen and a half.”

“You’re on, Doctor Reid.”

When you come back thirteen minutes and fifteen seconds later, screaming and groaning before dropping on the ground again, Spencer accepts the crumpled bill from Penelope with glee. 

You wheeze. “Somebody call me an ambulance. I think I’m gonna throw up. Or pass out. Or both. In that order.”

Spencer stands next to you, bending down to look at your face. You squint your eyes to look up at him, the sun hitting his curls just in the right places where—”Best we can do is a stretcher, Buttercup.”

“I’ll take that.”

“Sure,” he smiles oh-so-pretty. “Straight to the seventh floor because we got a case.”

“We what?”

Penelope grins. “It’s a local one, too, so you’re up.”

“No!”

“You’re an asset to the team, we have to use you somehow.”

“Nooooo!!”

[calamitous-luv]

new misadventures coming in approximately 5.5 hr omg who said that

[calamitous-luv]

ARE YOU 🫵 DOWN FOR REQUESTS OF THE JIMMY OLSEN AND SUPERGIRL READER VARIETY ⁉️

BABY I'M ALWAYS UP FOR JIMMY AND SUPERGIRL REQUESTS

[tw1sters]

Right to Love (Part Two)

Your secret, annual summer fling with your best friend’s brother was never meant to last — but when his mother catches you in his bed, everything changes. Cornered, he does the only thing he can think of: he tells her the two of you are engaged.

▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, secret fwb to lovers, best friend's brother (kara is clark's sibling), fake engagement, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-public sex (three smut scenes), thigh riding, so much miscommunication (guilty pleasure), insecurities on reader's part, jealousy, clark dirty talks, inaccurate portrayal of smallville (picturing super small town), reader has a shit ex ▸ WORD COUNT: 14K ▸ A/N: second and final part to my submission to @elixirfromthestars' arcade! thank you so much for the incredible response to the first. i hope this one lives up to your expectations sweats. thank you to every single person who sent me a message about the fic, i adore seeing your thoughts and it means the world to me that you took the time to talk to me about it!!!! <3 this one goes out to all of you

↤ main masterlist | part one

Once you’ve washed off all the grime, you plant yourself on Kara’s bed with a deep sigh.

“You know, you’ve been spending more time with Clark than me,” Kara points out. “I’m almost hurt.”

You turn to face her, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think I’d have to do that any longer.”

That has her squinting at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

It means Clark probably already has feelings for someone else. His time of finding distraction in you is coming to an end, which means that whatever you and Clark have — this strange, unlabeled, annual thing — will also conclude.

The thought has your stomach twisting.

“Nothing. What should we do today? What’s fun around here?”

Kara gives you a look. “My idea of fun is getting drunk and it’s impossible to do on Earth. How about we take you somewhere else? A planet with a red sun?”

That doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe then she can leave you there so you don’t have to ever face Clark ever again. Or your stupid feelings. This stupid crush.

Yes, in the time that it took you to bathe and reflect on your quote-unquote relationship with Clark, you’ve established that you may have formed some feelings for him. An unhealthy, unreasonable attachment. You see now that it’s impossible not to fall for Clark Kent; you’re just like all those other girls in college who threw themselves at his feet for even a chance.

Clark is perfect. Tall, smart, sweet. Thoughtful. He’s everything everyone could ever ask for wrapped up in a perfect little bow. The invisible cherry on top of him being Superman is a nice little addition that you feel territorial over.

No one else knows him like you do.

Except Lois — and how could you ever compete with Lois?

“When can we go?” You blurt out.

“Okay, you’re freaking me out. What’s going on with you? I’ve joked about that before and you always tell me that you’d rather go skydiving without a parachute than go to outer space.”

“Maybe it’s time for a change,” you mutter.

As if summoned by your own despair, Lois appears at the door. Her eyes look brighter, her smile wider. Your heart squeezes, wondering what’s brought about that expression.

You hate yourself for feeling this way — you should be happy for them; your two good friends finally finding each other after years of pining. Instead, that ugly green monster has reared its head and is now driving the ship of your emotions.

“What’re you two talking about?”

“She wants to go with me to a planet with a red sun,” Kara gasps. “We have to go before she changes her mind.”

Lois would absolutely love that. She’s an adventurer. A risk taker. A bold soul. Perfect for Clark.

She is also incredibly perceptive.

“You said you’d rather swallow hot coal before you ever let Kara do that. You doing okay?”

Why does everyone have such a good memory?

“I’m fine! Let’s not fret over a perfectly normal character development. I am still at an age where I want to experience new things.”

Kara looks at you incredulously. “I wouldn’t worry if you didn’t sound like you got lobotomized in the past few days. Did all that farmwork finally get to your head?”

“Or Clark’s dick,” Lois adds with a laugh.

“Gross!”

“Look at the three of you ladies.” The new voice has the three of you whipping your gazes to the door. Ma Kent stands at the door, hand on her chest as she stares at you all in awe. “I’m so happy my dear Kara has found such great friends.”

“Ma,” Kara groans.

“You should’ve seen her growing up. She was always getting into fights, would come home bleedin’ and all scratched up.” She shakes her head, which earns another protest from Kara. “Now, Pa and Clark are fixing up the roof, why don’t all four of us go into town for a little bit of shopping? I could use help picking out things for the house.”

“Just because we’re women doesn’t mean we want to go shop—”

“We’d love to, Mrs. Kent,” Lois intercepts with a smile.

She glows at Lois. “Please call me Martha.”

As the group of women fills the car, Clark is waving at all of you from the front porch. His eyes move towards you, then stay. It’s like he’s reading you and you feel as if all of that bitter jealousy is written all over your face. So you look away, missing the way his gaze cracks with your dismissal.

You’re keeping yourself sidetracked from all these stupid feelings by exploring the town. Ma Kent takes you on a full tour of the tiny village, which all of you cover in basically an hour. It doesn’t have much, but it’s cute. Homey. Everyone seems to know the Kents around here, much to Kara’s dismay as she gets her cheek pinched one too many times by people noting how she grew up so pretty.

Luckily, before Kara can direct her laser eyes at the latest woman to do just that, Ma Kent’s exclamation has all of you turning.

“Well, I’ll be darned.”

You look up to find that she’s stopped in front of a shop. That marvel in her eyes should be signal enough for you to run for the hills. She’s then grabbing your hand and pulling you in.

White. White is all you see.

Racks on racks of wedding dresses and all sorts of bridal wear. If you didn’t know any better, you were blinking away the glare of the sun in this shop. Kara snorts next to you. “Better get ready. Ma loves weddings.”

“Sweetheart, have you thought about what wedding dress you want? Are you and Clark going to do something small? Big? Should we go for something simpler? No matter, we should try on everything until you find the right one.”

You don’t have time to argue because then Ma Kent is now speaking to the shop owner.

The lie is quickly spreading with her now telling the shop owner that her dear son Clark is getting married. Gossip undoubtedly spreads quickly in a place like this and you’re already dreading the day Clark has to tell her and them that none of this is real — that this wedding will never happen.

“It’s fine, you should go try some on,” Lois says, nudging your shoulder with a reassuring smile.

“I can’t do this. I’m lying to that poor woman who’s gonna get her heart broken when Clark and I eventually break it off,” you add with air quotes and a wince.

Lois mumbles something that ends with not happening, but you don’t catch her actual words. Then you’re getting whisked into the dressing room, handed one dress after another. You squeeze into one with the help of the owner — Mrs. Mills as you now know — and step out.

It’s a more old-fashioned number taken probably from the Cold War. Puffy sleeves, extra heavy-duty lace, and a neckline that’s choking you. You look like an antique.

Ma Kent is immediately on her feet. “Oh, look at how wonderful you look. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful. How do you feel, sweetheart?”

“Um,” you pause, gaze flying over to Kara and Lois for help.

Kara is too busy snickering but thankfully Lois has some sense. “She looks gorgeous but I don’t think this dress is her.”

So then you’re in and out of dresses until your limbs are aching from the weight of some of these gowns. You nearly give up hope — maybe you really aren’t meant to be a bride — until you find this next one.

They say that when you find the dress of your dreams, you just know. It’s like everything just clicks. You don’t need to look at another dress.

This is it.

This dress knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You’ve never once thought of yourself as a bride, but this one makes you feel like you could actually be one. You could picture yourself walking down the aisle, surrounded by family and friends. Bouquet in hand, big smiles all around.

At the end of that aisle — Clark.

You don’t even register the curtains being parted until you hear the gasps behind you. Then you turn and you swear you see Ma Kent shed a tear. She’s got a hand over her mouth, a tear rolling down her cheek.

“Honey, oh, sweetheart. You look beautiful. You look positively perfect. The most beautiful bride-to-be.”

There’s thickness in your throat that you can’t seem to swallow down. Because you agree. You don’t think you’ve ever looked — or felt — prettier in your life.

Ma Kent puts her hands on your shoulders as she smiles at you. “You know, before you, I’ve never seen my boy with anyone like this. Sure, he’s had his crushes growing up, but the way he looks at you — like you carry the moon and the stars in your hands — it’s how pa looks at me too. I’m glad he met you. I’m glad that he brought you to us.”

The guilt hits you in full force, like a truck running over you. It’s a fresh wave of new emotions that tides over you, mixing in with the heartful words that strike you to your core. You can’t even find the right words to say as tears well up in your eyes.

“Gosh…”

You briskly wipe away your tears, clearing your throat as your eyes go to the door. The door where Clark stands.

He’s just… standing there. His blue eyes drag from the tip of your toes, up the curve of the dress, the bodice, and then your face. You watch as his throat moves when he swallows. For a moment, you think you also see his eyes glisten.

Then it’s as if it’s just you and him. The air sucked out of the room. You and Clark in a bubble shielded from the outside world. This distance makes it feel like you’re both standing on each end of the aisle. Suddenly, you can see all too clearly Clark in a custom fitted tux. You in this dress, your hair done up, face painted.

Just you and him, minutes away from forever.

Clark opens his mouth, but the words don’t come.

Instead, the illusion is shattered when Ma Kent shouts at him. “Clark! This is bad luck. You can’t see the dress — let alone the bride in the dress — before the day!”

He burns red to the tip of his ears as he flounders, focus bouncing between his mother and you. Mostly you. He can’t seem to stop staring at you, gaping at you. The more he looks at you, the redder he gets. “Sorry, sorry!” He flusters, “Mr. Morris told me you were here, I didn’t realize—” Ma Kent whacks him on the shoulder but he still can’t seem to decide whether to look away or keep staring at you. “You look—”

Jimmy beats him to it. “Whoa, you look good. You know for a prete—”

Clark interrupts him this time, slapping a hand over his mouth before he can finish the sentence. Then he looks at you again — awe and wonder and what you may mistake as adoration. “You look…” he swallows, “really good. Beautiful. Just so—”

This group seems to make a habit out of interrupting each other. Ma Kent takes her turn. “Out! Both of you!” She’s using all her might to push the two boys out of the store.

Still, the last thing Clark sees before he gets shoved out is you.

A night out is exactly what you need. One night of drinking and dancing to get your mind off the fact that you’re slowly falling in love — or maybe have been in love — with your best friend’s brother — your annual situationship. With Clark Kent.

A night of drinking yourself into oblivion in the one place you never thought you’d come to and the one place you least expected to fall in love.

Kara is flicking through her closet when she notes, “I don’t know what’s going on between you and my brother, but if he’s got you down, we’re going to change that tonight. He either needs to get his shit together or we’ll find you someone new.”

But then she pauses and she turns to you, an uncharacteristically soft look on her face. One that is both sympathetic towards you but also firm.

“But I also know my brother and he’s soft at heart — and I know you and the walls you’ve put up around yours — so I need you to also be sure before the rest of us are left here to pick up the pieces.”

You don’t know what that means. If anyone’s getting their heart broken, it would be you when Clark eventually turns you down for the girl of his dreams. You’re a blip in the grander scheme of his life, perhaps it’s time for you to learn your place.

You haven’t had a moment alone with him since this morning. Not that you want it. You haven’t been able to look him in the eye after the wedding dress incident.

The look in his eyes, the lines carved onto his face, when he saw you, is engraved in the back of your mind. It’s an expression that constantly flashes every time you close your eyes. Some silly part of you mistakes it as love. That foolish part of you thinks that there might be hope with Clark. Maybe he could feel the same way.

But that hope is dashed when your mind also reminds you of how he shifted away from you that morning, how he looked embarrassed next to you with Lois before him.

So perhaps Kara is right — either you find a middle ground with Clark or — you hate the thought — you find a rebound.

Kara puts you in a pair of cowboy boots and a sundress, topping it off with a Stetson to match. You look cute — a far cry from your usual corporate getup. A light touch of makeup, enough to make you look somewhat alive, and you’re good to go.

The plan is to go bar hopping tonight. One drink (or two) at each bar before you go to the next. You do that until you run out of bars to go to which is apparently a big fear out here when there are not too many around.

As you’re putting on the finishing touches, the engagement ring — the fake one — that Clark bought for you seems to taunt you from your dresser. You don’t have to put it on. Not tonight when his parents aren’t around. Not when you think you’re out to find someone to mend your Clark-shaped broken heart.

But you can’t resist and slide it onto your ring finger. It still glimmers just as bright.

When you finally step out of the room, your eyes first land on Clark. His focus previously on Jimmy immediately moves towards you, towards the sound of your thundering heartbeat. There’s a flicker in his eyes — a flame that lights as he assesses you from head to toe. The following movement in his throat is oddly reassuring.

He’s making his way towards you, long legs moving fast to make sure you can’t escape again — not like the last few times. Then you’re tilting your face up to look at him.

“You look… wow,” Clark breathes out, “uhm, it looks good on you.”

“Thanks,” you cough awkwardly.

Unfortunately for you, Clark has also gone full cowboy with his double denim look and a hat that pairs well with yours. Broad shoulders stretching out the light-wash blue of his shirt, the color that makes his eyes pop even more. You can practically see a button straining to keep his shirt together across his chest.

God truly isn’t fair, but you suppose you’re not sure what god created a specimen like Clark Kent.

“You look good too,” you murmur quietly.

Clark’s eyes shine with the compliment, his charming smile stretching an inch wider. “Thank you. Listen, about today, you—” he stops himself, teeth catching his bottom lip. “I’m sorry ma made you do that.”

That’s not the reaction you were hoping for. Your smile wobbles as you wait for him to continue.

“I’ll have a chat with her not to rush you into this. I know this is all… pretend,” he enunciates slowly, eyes gauging your response, but you don’t move an inch.

“Right, it’s all pretend,” you echo numbly.

You don’t know what you were expecting—

This is a lie. You knew exactly what you wanted to hear from Clark.

You wanted to hear a repeat of this afternoon. A confirmation.

You look beautiful. Perfect. I’m actually in love with you. Will you marry me for real?

Your rational brain slams onto the brakes of your imagination. You shouldn’t let your fantasies run amok, lest they get lost in bouts of insanity.

“I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Clark says softly, “so if things get too far and you want to stop this, I completely understand. I put you in this situation and that’s unfair to you.”

“It’s okay. I get it. We’ll… figure it out,” you mutter.

“I—” he starts again but stops himself. You could see his eyes swirling with a thought, a conflicting one by the look on his face. Apparently, he decides against it and shakes his head, instead offering his arm. “Shall we?”

You nod and loop your arm through his.

The problem with Clark is that he can’t seem to say no — and that he doesn’t get drunk. So when others ask to drink with him, he tries to deny them politely, but then they only insist harder. It gets to a point where Clark just has to drink with them to get them to leave him alone. But once one succeeds, that means every girl in the damn bar is trying to get with him too.

All of this to say is that he is constantly being dragged away from you.

First bar, one girl approaches him as he’s getting drinks for the rest of the group. She keeps him preoccupied as he throws awkward glances seeking help in the group’s direction. Every attempt to save him is foiled by said girl who keeps him trapped there. So you throw back your first shot of the night.

Second bar, it’s one girl after another once Clark caves to the first drink. You didn’t know that the number of attractive bachelors in Smallville added up to one Clark Kent, so he seems to be the only desirable man in the entire place. For some reason, the women here are immune to Jimmy’s charms, much to his relief. You down two additional shots here, followed by a cocktail with double tequila. Then you dance with Lois and Kara.

Third bar, you’re the one getting approached. Kara gives you two thumbs up while Lois stares at him skeptically. Clark is being cornered by yet another woman. So you take that man’s hand and dance with him. When you chance a glance at Clark, he looks a little ticked off but he doesn’t do anything. He just sits there and glares. So you keep dancing. But then Clark gets up and offers his hand to Lois and that is when you choose to turn your back on him and accept this stranger’s offer for another drink.

Fourth bar, you’re sufficiently sloshed.

On the bright side, you’re definitely enjoying yourself and you’re definitely not paying attention to Clark getting flirted with for the thousandth time that night. He barely looks at you too, too busy trying to be nice and reject this onslaught of advances. Sometimes, you wish he could be more assertive, put his foot down when he has no interest.

Sometimes, you wish you had put a stupid label on your thing with Clark so you could freely stake your claim on him. But as it stands today, you have no right to be jealous. You have no right to deny him the pleasures of other people’s company.

Your irritation boils over into pettiness, which is a terrible shift when you hear an all too familiar voice calling your name in the crowd.

It’s a voice you haven’t heard in years but one that still sends chills down your spine. Not the good kind.

You’ve managed to avoid this man for most of your adult life; how is it that you managed to bump into your douchebag of an ex, who had you swearing off relationships forever, in this bumfuck town of all places?

“You look incredible,” Patrick beams, pearly white gleaming underneath the bar’s dim fluorescent lights.

“You look like you don’t belong here,” you deadpan, whirling around in search of your friends.

Patrick catches you by the elbow. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Aw, why are you being so cold to me? We haven’t seen each other in a while.”

You don’t care about him, you haven’t thought about him in years, but the audacity of this man to act like this when he was the one who dumped you through text with two words. “Seriously, piss off, Patrick.”

“One dance, then you can tell me to go to hell. Just one.”

“Patrick—”

He’s already taking your hand. You blanch and end up trapped in the crowd on the floor, Patrick’s palms on your waist as he begins to move his body. You feel your dinner coming back up at the touch of this man. You can’t believe this loser really had that much of an impact on you, enough for you to forsake any romantic relationships.

Every time you try to leave, Patrick’s twirling you around and bringing you back to him. At some point, he’s got his front pressed up against your back, arms wound tight around your body. His breath is warm on the back of your neck and you feel repugnance crawl up your throat.

Just as you’re about to try and make your fourth escape attempt, you’re wrenched out of his hold and into the hands of another. You tip your face up to see Clark.

He’s looking at you warily but you know better; there’s a hint of a flame in his gaze — anger. It’s not directed at you but you have a pretty good idea who it’s for.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” you clear your throat, drawing yourself away from him too.

Despite being irrationally annoyed with him — somewhat reasonably considering he’s been practically ignoring you all night, you are thankful to see him. You slacken against him and he softens a tad as he wraps his arm around you.

“Clark, buddy! I haven’t seen you in a while too. You two a thing now?” Patrick taunts, words slurring together into a jumbled mess as he trips forward. Clark is quick to shove him away from you, hauling you closer towards him. “Oh, come on. We can share. She’d like that too.”

Your blood runs cold as you seethe at him. “Go to hell, Patrick.”

Clark doesn’t say a word but you can sense the rage roll off him in waves. He proceeds to use his massive frame to split the crowd and drag you off the dance floor and out of the bar. You’re about to stomp your way back inside when Clark catches your wrist and pulls you off to the side.

“Clark, let me go.”

“You’re drunk.”

Your irritation spikes. “So what?”

He grits his teeth and inhales deeply. “Why’d you let him touch you like that?”

“I didn’t let him do anything,” you snap, “I got stuck in there.”

“Because you weren’t being careful,” he snips.

You cross your arms over your chest. You roll your eyes. “Since when do you care?”

He narrows his. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you have other women to entertain?”

Clark’s jaw shifts. “Are we really talking about this again? I thought I made it very clear to you that I only want you.”

“Sure didn’t seem like it,” you mutter, “whatever. You can do whatever you want. We’re not dating.”

A look flits across his eyes, too fast for you to decipher, but then his gaze hardens again. “So what do you want from me?”

One thing. There’s only one thing you can ask from him. One thing you have any right asking of him. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Really?” He laughs, “Out here?”

“Never stopped you before.”

Countless nights fucking outside beach houses and bars, or that bistro in New York, or the boardwalk in LA. You’ve ticked off a lot of places in your list of the most risky locations to have sex, so this shouldn’t be any different.

For some reason, it feels like it is.

Clark lets out one final grunt before he pounces on you. His mouth slants over yours, tasting of liquor and something syrupy in whatever cocktail girl number ten probably bought for him. The thought irritates you and you end up nipping on his bottom lip particularly hard. He yelps and jolts back.

“What was that?”

“Felt like it.”

He blinks at you, confused, annoyed for a moment, before he breaks into a chuckle. “You look cute in green.”

“I’m not wearing—” you stop yourself when the realization dawns on you. “Funny.”

“I try to be,” he grins, dimples carving onto his cheeks.

Clark doesn’t give you a chance to bite back another stupid retort before he’s kissing you again, deeper, harder. He presses you against the wooden walls as his mouth wanders south along the column of your neck, leaving wet welts in his path. His teeth nibble tiny constellations on your skin, like he’s mapping out the sky above you. The stars begin to blur when he tugs your sundress down to free your tits, nipples practically aching for attention.

“Missed me?” Clark teases.

“No,” you answer tersely, shoving his head back down to your chest. He doesn’t need to be asked twice before he’s giving you all the attention you need. His mouth is warm as it latches onto one nipple, hand overpowering as it palms your other breast. His knee nudges between your legs until his thigh is pressed up against your barely-covered pussy.

“No panties?”

“Thong.”

He curses under his breath. You smile to yourself. A rare occurrence. You always give yourself a mental pat on the back when he does.

“Remind me to kill Kara,” he grumbles into your chest.

“Can you not talk about your sister when you’re sucking my tits?”

“Fair point.” Clark pushes his thigh higher until he’s grinding his muscle between your legs.

A moan pours out of your lips at the friction — the firmness of his leg combined with the scrape of the denim against your pussy. Your underwear is practically buried in your cunt as his hand wanders to grab a handful of your ass.

“Perfect,” he mumbles, “you’re too perfect.”

Your heart melts with his words. How could he be so soft with you when he doesn’t even want more? You urge those selfish thoughts of your mind, instead focusing on the delicious heat building between your legs.

“Does my thigh feel good on her, honey?”

With your eyes closed, you nod. Your teeth catch your bottom lip to stop another moan from spilling out but you feel Clark’s hand on your cheek, his thumb on your chin to free it.

“I wanna hear you.”

“C-can’t be too loud,” you stutter when he bounces his thigh.

“No one’s going to hear. Everyone’s too busy inside,” he insists as he positions you atop his thigh. “Use my leg. Can you get yourself off for me?”

You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes at how intense the feeling is in the pit of your stomach. You’re already always so aroused with Clark around, but it’s amplified tenfold when you’ve got alcohol in your system, your inhibitions and guard completely lowered.

“Yes, you can,” he coos, squeezing your hips. “I know you can, honey. Just gotta grind on my thigh. Just like that. That’s a good girl.”

He doesn’t need to ask you twice. When Clark uses that voice on you, you know you’re a goner. You’ve started rutting yourself on his thigh, feeling pathetic and ashamed, at the same time completely empowered by how much this is affecting Clark. He’s watching you with those dark eyes, drinking in every inch of you as you grind your cunt down on his leg. You tug the gusset of your panties to the side so you have more of your skin rubbing directly on him, leaving a dark pool of your juices on his leg.

“‘M making a mess,” you whine quietly.

“It’s okay,” he soothes you, “keep going. I want you to make a mess on me, want you to mark me. Need you to know that I only want you, need everyone to know that I only want you.”

And it’s definitely the liquor that’s making you vulnerable because you’re then looking up at him, doe eyes pleading, when you ask him, “Promise?”

Clark’s eyes flutter at the expression on your face. “Promise, honey. I’m all yours.”

With that in mind, you begin to mindlessly grind your hips down on him. Every shift of your hips chases a friction that fuels the fire burning inside you. When you tilt your hips in a particular direction, his thigh bumps up against your sensitive clit. You end up leaning forward to get more and more of that feeling, adjusting yourself until Clark doesn’t try to smother your moans, instead he drinks in every little noise that leaves your lips.

He continues to bury his face in your neck, breathing in your scent and lapping at those marks he’s left behind. All the while you’re humping him pitifully, hips stuttering when you get a little too close. Clark’s hand buries in your hair, yanks your head back until you let out a cry.

“Let them hear you. Come on. Let yourself go for me. She likes my leg, doesn’t she? It feels good for her. Keep rubbing her on me.”

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you cum all over his leg. You nearly slide off his thigh but Clark moves faster to hoist you up against him, letting you ride out your orgasm scraping yourself against his thigh.

“Good girl,” he mutters, “my turn now. Can you take me?”

Your nod is weary but it’s enough for Clark to slowly ease you off his leg and turn you around, forcing you to plant your hands against the wall.

“Going to need you to hold yourself up. I’ll be here to catch you okay,” he reassures you, lips gentle against the back of your shoulder, before you hear the clink of his belt and the hiss of breath past his kissed teeth as he buries himself inside you. The stretch is mind-numbingly delicious, particularly as he grabs onto your hips and pushes your leg closed together.

His grip is bruising as he begins to piston in and out of you, blissfully ignorant of the muffled thumping music behind those walls. He doesn’t falter when the front door to the bar opens and chatter spills out with drunk guests exiting. The two of you are cloaked in the shadows as Clark continues to drive his cock deep inside your pulsing cunt.

However, the harder he fucks, the louder you get. At some point, one of the patrons does turn and your heart stops, thinking you’ve finally been caught.

But Clark slaps a hand over your mouth while the other grabs your breast as he fucks up into you in earnest. Every stroke feels intentional, every stroke feels like it’s designed specifically for you. He knows how to angle his hips just right to hit all those sensitive, electrifying spots inside of you.

“Perfect puffy pussy,” Clark groans. “You’re too good to me. I never want to be inside anyone else. I never want anyone else to be inside you. Will you promise me that?”

You blather your agreement, words barely coherent with the force of his thrusts and the hand covering your lips. Your fingers slip against the wall, you’re pretty sure the wall itself is rattling with how hard he’s jerking his hips forward.

“You’re perfect. Perfect for me. Pussy’s shaped to my cock now,” Clark moans. “Need to teach her who she belongs to. Whose cock she can take. I’m gonna make sure this pretty pussy knows every inch of me.”

His balls slap up against the back of your thighs as his length sinks over and over again inside you. Clark’s always had both length and girth, but this position has you feeling more of him. He treats you like a ragdoll, a fleshlight, for him to fuck and use. He gropes you all over, exploring every curve and dip on your body like he’s committing it to memory.

You bump your hips back as you grow impatient, that second flame scorching every one of your nerves as you try to stop your knees from buckling. Clark holds onto you tighter, presses you against him as he whispers promises into your ear.

I’m always going to catch you.

I’ve got you, you can let go.

I’m going to keep you full.

Clark’s body tenses and you know the telltale signs by now. You arch your back a bit more, enough for him to grab your hips again, thumbs digging into the swell of your ass as he plunges into you a few more times before he spills inside you.

Warmth coats your insides as Clark’s forehead presses against your shoulder blades, his hands trembling with the weight of his climax. It’s as if he’s been holding back, his cum filling you up and beginning to leak from where the two of you are connected. It’s thick and sticky and you feel it cling to your walls. Your breathing is labored as you try to regain your bearings, as you remember where you are.

“Shit,” you huff in a laugh.

“Got that right,” Clark chuckles behind you. “Are you okay?”

Always so careful.

“I’m fine, Clark. I’m not fragile.” You bump your ass backwards against him.

Clark grunts when he feels him push deeper inside you again, spurring his cum back in you. “I know, I just want to be sure.”

When he finally pulls out, the cum leaks down your legs and thankfully Clark has a few napkins handy. He drops to his knees and cleans you up, just enough to make you presentable. You slide the straps of your dress back onto your shoulders as you lean up against the wall.

“He didn’t tell you anything, did he?” Clark asks warily.

You cock an eyebrow. “Who? Patrick? What would he tell me?”

He searches your eyes for a second, swallowing thickly. “Nothing. I was hoping he wouldn’t say anything stupid to you.”

“Aside from forcing me to dance with him, I don’t think he can do anything dumber than that. For now,” you add casually.

Clark’s lips pinch together. “Stay close to me. I don’t want him catching you off guard again.”

“Okay, guard dog.”

His mouth finally quirks up into a smile, his hand reaching out to pinch your hip. “Should I bark for you?”

And you laugh.

When you return to the group, clearly much less presentable than you were earlier, Jimmy is the only one who points out the dark stain on Clark’s jeans.

“Must’ve spilled on myself.” Clark shrugs.

None of them looks like they believe it. 

“So,” Kara begins. Her eyes are avoiding you, which is never a good sign. “You and my brother.”

Flames lick up your neck again and you hide your embarrassment behind your cup of tea. Your head is still pounding with the aftermath of your mistakes last night. Everyone else is fast asleep, hoping the liquor wears off eventually. Clark is already up and running, nodding his head at you with a smile before he disappears into the barn. 

Kara is sulking because she still can’t feel the alcohol on this planet. So now, she’s taking that out on you. 

“Are you guys a thing now?”

The words you shared last night are a blur, your inebriated state amplified by you being absolutely cockdrunk, but your best friend doesn’t need to know that. 

“I don’t know,” you mutter honestly.

“Really? That stain on his jeans wasn’t you marking your territory?”

“Kara!” You snap, cheeks warm.

“Hey, there are things I wish I could unsee. If I had to see that, you have to have the tough conversations.”

Pursing your lips, you look down at your mug again. The tea ripples with your sigh. “I honestly don’t know, it’s a weird situation.”

“You’re both adults. You can talk.”

She’s not wrong, but you’ve never been good at dealing with emotions. Exhibit A: Clark. Exhibit B: the nearly permanent toll you took from your very minor breakup with Patrick. 

“I don’t know how to start. Also,” you pause, that familiar sinking feeling returning. 

You hate to call it insecurity, because the last thing you want to be worried about is a man. But you can’t help yourself when it comes to Clark — it’s easier to pretend you don’t care than face the possibility of him rejecting your feelings. Unless you’re a hundred percent certain he feels the same way, not even a shred of doubt, you can’t seem to muster up the courage to say the words out loud. 

Because if he’s in love with someone else, if he chooses someone else, then you don’t have to think of the alternative — that you are simply not good enough to love even after all this time. 

Kara peeks at you, eyebrow raising. 

“Nothing, never mind,” you clear your throat.

The corners of her lips tighten. “I’m your best friend, you know this, right? I’m your best friend first regardless of whatever you have going on with my brother. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you should be able to trust me with it.”

Your face softens as you slide an arm around her shoulder. “I know and I’m thankful for that.”

“Don’t get all sappy on me now, I’m just here to make sure you’ll be my sister-in-law someday. For real. Not some fake story Clark made up so ma still thinks he’s her golden boy.” 

Her name rolls off your tongue again in a scold. 

As if summoned, the front door creaks open and out pops her mother. “Just the person I’m looking for. Kara, I’m out of milk, can you run into town and grab some?” 

“What’s the point of having cows if we still have to buy milk?” Kara grumbles under her breath.

“You know you can’t drink raw milk,” she chides. 

“We can do that, Mrs. Kent,” you smile, elbowing your best friend. “Anything else you need?”

The older woman’s face practically melts and that guilt sucker punches you in the gut again, especially when she says — “You can call me Ma, we’re going to be family soon.”

Thankfully, before your conscience has you confessing the god-honest truth, Kara jumps in. “We’ll go now. See ya later, Ma.”

You shoot her an appreciative look. 

The two of you make a pit stop for a treat-yourself coffee in town. While you enjoy the Kents’ instant coffee, nothing beats a fresh cup doused in all sorts of syrups and creams (at least that’s what you tell yourself when you swipe your credit card for the overpriced beverage). 

Kara is telling you about her latest research project at the university where she’s completing her PhD. Neither of you expected her to go down this route, but she enjoys experimenting and torturing professors, so the two vices combined make for an interesting educational experience.

That’s when you hear your name again — and it’s not the barista.

Your blood runs cold the moment you register the voice. Twice in less than twenty-four hours after years of absence has to be some cosmic joke. 

Patrick sidles up to you, a little too close for comfort. Apparently, Clark’s warning does nothing to deter him from bothering you. 

“Fancy seeing you again,” he grins. 

You feel that expensive coffee coming back up. Kara immediately slides between the two of you, a glare set in the firmness of her eyes. “Didn’t know this place let dogs in.”

“You’re still funny, Kent,” Patrick muses, unfazed as he redirects his attention to you. “You disappeared last night.”

Clark’s face in the darkness flashes before your eyes, the press of his fingers in your hips. 

“What’re you even doing here?” You snap.

He seems to think about it for a moment. “Visiting a… friend,” he notes. Kara stiffens next to him. 

“Why don’t you go back to them then? I don’t think we need to see each other.”

“That’s cold,” he juts his bottom lip out.

You can’t believe you once found this man attractive. You can’t believe you banned all romantic relationships because of him. 

“You’ve got some fucking nerve acting like this when you’re the one who dumped me.”

His eyes spark with surprise. “Hey, that wasn’t my choice.”

Your glare only deepens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This guy is insane,” Kara mutters, latching onto your elbow. “Let’s just go.”

“Oh, come on, Kara, you were there too.”

Your confusion shifts to your best friend, who bares her teeth at Patrick. “What?”

“Kent told me to break up with you.”

Your heart stops. 

“Clark. Remember the guy who pulled you away from me last night? It makes sense now why he told me to end things with you. He wanted you for himself. Didn’t think he had it in him but I have to give him credit for that,” he whistles low with a chuckle.

You’re not laughing. You’re not even thinking. 

Your mind is reeling with a million thoughts, a million memories. Your young, stupid self crying for hours about Patrick ending things, your first relationship. Months you spent blaming yourself for unanswered questions. You cried with Kara — hell, you’ve cried in front of Clark. 

All this time— 

“You knew?” You whip around to face your best friend who now has guilt written all over her face.

“Look, he did it for a reason.”

“A reason you didn’t bother to tell me.”

“You should talk to him,” she winces.

“Hey, if you’re still interested, I wouldn’t mind reconnecting. We can pick up where we left off,” Patrick offers you that grimy smile.

You’re too nauseous to even process the ridiculous request. 

“Patrick!” 

The three of you look up and all color drains from his face when he sees the woman approaching him. She seems sweet. Her eyes glitter when she sees the two of you. 

“Hi! Are you Patrick’s friends? It’s so nice to meet you.”

It dawns on you then that this isn’t just a friend, not with the way she wraps her arms around Patrick’s bicep. Not with the way she leans in to peck him on the cheek.

You’re about to hurl.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” you spit at him and turn to her with a sympathetic look. “You deserve better than him, trust me.”

Before any of them could respond, you’re already hightailing out of there.

Kara doesn’t breathe a word the entire ride home, but neither do you. You’re too busy fuming.

To think that your very first heartbreak was caused by Clark. It doesn’t even seem plausible. He would never do that; he’s not the type to. But you need to hear the words directly from his mouth. 

You’re on a path of rage when you stomp through the house looking for him. You call out his name over and over until he sticks his head out of the bathroom, hair wet sticking to his forehead and a befuddled expression.

He smiles only for a second before he sees the look on your face. His eyes dart to Kara behind you before flicking back to you.

“Uh, hi?”

“You told Patrick to break up with me sophomore year. Yes or no?”

Clark pales. His lips part and close.

“Clark,” you grit out.

“Yes.”

The disappointment hits you like a bullet train. You didn’t want to believe it but deep down, you knew the truth; Kara’s face said it all, you were just hoping that Clark would at least provide some sort of explanation. Rationalize why he did what he did. It isn’t the fact that he told Patrick to break up with you that upsets you, it’s the fact that he watched you despair over this man for months and never said a word — and to then start this with you, albeit unintentionally, and agree to your no-strings-attached conditions knowing full well where that condition is rooted — is what devastates you.

“That’s it?” You whisper, “You’re not going to tell me why you did it?”

Clark’s gaze merely shifts away. An abandonment of accountability.

“Clark, you’re not that type of guy. I just need to understand why you would do something like that.”

“He wasn’t good enough for you,” he quickly breathes out.

“That’s not your call,” you grit out.

“I was trying to protect you.”

That’s where he gets you. This supposed moral high ground. Clark has always been the good guy, the one who’s polite and sweet, the favorite. But saying this when he barely knew you? Saying this now? You can’t help the frustration that explodes in your chest.

“I don’t need you to protect me. I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“So you’ve said,” he mutters under his breath.

“Jesus, Clark, we weren’t even doing anything back then and you felt it appropriate to intervene? Were you going to intervene with any guy you also deemed not good enough for me now too?” The words that come out of your mouth are hurtful; they have the intention to hurt. You see the impact you intend flicker across his eyes.

Your brain is telling you to stop but you’re no longer listening to that part of you. Instead, you cave into the demands of your fragile, wounded heart.

“You’re not my boyfriend. You don’t get to do these things if you’re not even in a relationship with me. At this point, I’m not even sure if you’re my friend.”

His blue eyes snap towards you — cold, faltering with the sting. “That’s not fair. I’ve always been your friend first — before all this.”

“A friend wouldn’t have done that without reason. Without telling me.”

He takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I should’ve told you. But it isn’t fair that you’re making all these assumptions about me based on what he said. You know me. You should know better.”

“Well, maybe I don’t.” Your voice fractures, betraying the sorrow simmering under all the anger. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

The moment you say it, you regret it.

Clark has never been a mistake, not to you. He’s one of the best decisions you’ve ever made — becoming his friend, starting this thing with him, falling in love with him. You don’t regret a single moment; if not for the memories you now hold close to your chest, then at least it reminds you that you are capable of love. That it is still possible for you.

But you know that you’ve crossed a line now with the expression etched onto his face. You look away.

“Ma’s just come in, we shouldn’t do this out here,” Kara coaxes gently, “come on.” She guides you to her room, where she proceeds to let you cry into her sheets.

It seems rather silly when you think about it — you started this with no commitments with Clark to avoid crying over a man, and yet here you are today, doing exactly that. Part of it is you mourning what you’ve just lost, this conversation has changed everything between the two of you. Part of it is remorse after the fact — words you can’t take back, words you don’t mean.

“I’m an idiot,” you rasp, rubbing your eyes furiously. “I shouldn’t have said all that. I was just upset.”

“He knows that,” Kara murmurs as she tugs you into a hug, your head instinctively fitting into the curve of her shoulder. “Clark understands. The two of you just need room to breathe and process all this.”

You draw away from her. “You’re really not going to tell me?”

She sighs your name in a way that does not reassure you. “It’s not my place.”

“You were there.”

“Clark made me swear and, as much as I love you, I also love my brother and I keep my word.”

Your eyes narrow at her and you can see her resolve crumbling in real time. It’s not visible to the naked eye but you’ve known Kara for far too long to see her giving in. “Kara…”

“Stop. Don’t give me that face.”

“Kara, I need to apologize to Clark. I need to have a reason to apologize to him.”

She groans, “You’re the worst. You know you’re the only one who can bully me into doing anything. Not even Lois can do it. I’ll bite her before she tries.”

“She would wear tactical gear before she does anything like that.”

“Right,” she grunts, “I hate you.”

“You absolutely love me.”

“I do,” she relents, “which is the only reason I’m telling you this.” 

You cock an eyebrow, waiting. 

“Alright, so, this was probably a month into the two of you dating. I never liked him by the way, but you were all starry-eyed because it was your first relationship and I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Please don’t remind me of my poor decisions, I have enough of them keeping me up at night.”

“Right, so I was hanging out with Clark in the library—” you give her an incredulous look, “—okay so Clark was in the library and I went to find him to figure out vacation plans. We were walking and that’s when we saw Patrick with that blonde girl from statistics making out against one of the shelves.”

Fucker. You should’ve known, especially after today. All those times you brushed off his constant need to hide his phone when you come into the room, or leaving you at night because he has to meet his friends, or constant excuses to go to the library when he barely passed any of his classes. The signs were there and you chose to put on blinders.

“Clark saw red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him move that fast. One second Patrick was there and the next he was up against a wall. Mind you, Clark wasn’t even into you back then — not like he is today. He’s always been protective of you, you know.”

It’s not surprising. With Kara practically adopting you as a sister, Clark always was thoughtful with you. When he thought of something for Kara, he would always consider you as well. It’s nice, particularly as you’ve never had a big brother protecting you.

But you suppose your attraction towards Clark was never a surprise either. You never considered him a real brother, not when he looked like that.

“Anyways, long story short, he basically told Patrick to break up with you, told him not to give any stupid excuses. Made me swear that I wouldn’t tell you either.”

“But why wouldn’t he tell me? It was Patrick’s own mistake!”

“You should’ve seen yourself back then. You acted like Patrick was the be-all end-all. You called that sleaze perfect once and I nearly gagged.”

“That’s all the more reason to tell me!”

Kara sighs and shrugs. “In Clark’s mind, he probably thought he was protecting you. He didn’t want you to think it was your fault. You have a way of taking responsibility for things that aren’t yours to stress over. He likely thought you were going to blame yourself.”

“Jokes on him, I did that anyway,” you mumble.

“Well, we thought that asshole would at least do it nicely. Didn’t think he would do it over text with two words.”

We’re done.

And then he didn’t pick up your calls or answer your devastated texts. You cringe thinking about how embarrassingly desperate you were back then to get answers. What a waste.

Knowing all this, you feel even worse. Clark was only trying to protect you; you had a feeling it was something along those lines. It’s Clark after all, he wouldn’t do such things for selfish reasons. He was thinking of you. He’s always thinking of you.

“I need to suck up my pride and apologize, don’t I?”

Kara’s lips twitch. “I think he would appreciate it. Though, I suppose he also does owe you an apology — knowing him, he’s probably already preparing a speech on what to say to you too.”

Clark disappears for the remainder of the day. In fact, he really only comes in for dinner. He looks worse for wear with the shadows under his eyes and the exhaustion that hangs heavy in his gaze. When he sees you, there is a brief moment when light enters his eyes, brightening his baby blues, but then they quickly dim again as he throws his face away.

Fuck. Have you really screwed this up beyond repair?

The meal is only awkward for those who know. Lois and Jimmy sense trouble in the air but, aside from some confused looks, they don’t voice their concerns — not publicly at least. Clark is quieter than usual and Lois, who sits next to him after you sat down next to Kara, nudges him subtly.

He softens for her.

The interaction across from you has your heart aching. After what you said to him, you have no right to be jealous. Clark deserves better than an emotionally unstable person like you who can’t even tell right from wrong, who can’t even apologize. He deserves someone good, someone strong. Someone he doesn’t need to constantly protect.

The realization sinks into your bones, integrating itself into your very being. That little voice inside your head that tells you to worry only grows louder. It tells you that there’s probably a reason why Patrick cheated on you, why Clark would prefer Lois or that girl from the carnival over you, and why love isn’t meant for you.

It’s irrational. It’s stupid but you can’t help it when your heart is already breaking.

After dinner, you offer to help with the dishes but Ma Kent tells you not to worry and to go wash up for bed. You do as you’re told, but, after you’re dressed in your pajamas, you go looking for Clark. You have to tell him now — apologize, beg for his forgiveness, and maybe, maybe tell him how you really feel. Rip off the band-aid now.

Unfortunately, by the time you find him, he’s chuckling with Lois next to him. They’re washing the dishes, making conversation over suds between their fingers. You don’t mean to eavesdrop; you just happened to be there when they were talking.

“Well, that’s because you’re the idiot who waited this long!” Lois laughs, the sound is affectionate. Delighted.

Your stomach twists.

“I can’t help it,” Clark grumbles, “I was too scared to ruin it.”

“Let’s be honest. You had nothing to worry about, Clark.”

The puzzle pieces slot together in your mind. They click into place. The conversation, their interactions, the smiles they share. You’ve always known that Clark admired Lois, it appears as if he’s finally made his feelings known.

And Lois feels the same way.

You had nothing to worry about.

I was too scared to ruin it.

Waited this long.

God, how could you be so silly? To think Clark Kent would love you. To think you had a chance with him.

You turn on your heel, ready to escape the scene before you can break, only to run headfirst into another solid, soft body. You look up to find Clark’s dad looking at you.

“Will you spare me a minute?”

This can’t come at a worse time.

But you nod and you follow him into the living room. His fingers run over the picture frames — family photos of the four of them, Clark and Kara, some individual photos. There are some photos of Clark you haven’t seen before, boyish smile at his elementary school graduation, pearly whites at his college graduation, sun-kissed skin of him in that field out back. Pa Kent smiles almost sorrowfully at the memories before he turns to you.

“I just want to say — I think you’re a good thing for Clark. He clearly loves you very much. I can see it in his eyes. He’s never been like this with anyone else.” Your throat tightens as you bite your lip to stop the tears from falling. “He’s always been a good kid, tried to do right by everyone. Definitely tried to be so good to us. Keeps threatening to come home,” he chuckles, “but I want to know that he’s in good hands. That you’ll take care of him.”

He chokes on his words, tears welling up in his eyes. You flail, unsure of what to do, searching the room for a napkin for him even as you feel the wetness on your cheeks.

“Oh, you silly, soft man,” another voice interrupts gently, and a tissue appears before him. Ma Kent pats her husband on the back as he sobs quietly into the cloth. “Don’t scare her away before she’s officially part of our family.” She smiles in teasing apology when she turns to you. “He’s all mush when it comes to Clark. The same thing will happen when Kara finds someone too. Clark may seem strong, but he’s also all heart like his dad here. It seems Earth has given him another weakness beyond Kryptonite.”

The knowing look she gives you nearly shatters you. The truth hangs on the tip of your tongue. You could tell them right now. Save them the suffering from the secret, but you can’t do that to them — and not to Clark. This is something he has to tell his parents. When he eventually breaks the news to them that this engagement has fallen apart, maybe he has his new, real relationship to show.

And they’ve met Lois, so naturally they would fall in love with her. They already adore her. It’s hard not to love someone as wonderful and smart as her, so you can’t blame them.

For now, all you can do is nod and smile. “He’s my weakness too.”

Your week with the Kents comes to an end much too soon. Kara’s preparing to jet off back to her city while you’re on the first flight out that day. You had switched to an earlier flight, save yourself the pain and the heartache of having to face Clark and his parents for a second longer.

When you come down that morning with your suitcase packed, everyone’s at the breakfast table. Your eyes land on Kara first who you informed of your flight change. She doesn’t look surprised, but the rest of them do.

“I thought you were going to fly back with us,” Lois frowns.

“I have, um, a work thing, so I booked an earlier flight. Don’t mind me though, you all enjoy your breakfast. I’m going to call a cab.”

Clark is quick on his feet to approach you. You haven’t really seen him the last couple of days. You spent most of it avoiding him after all. He doesn’t fight it; instead, he seems to be maintaining a respectable distance too. Probably out of consideration for his new, actual relationship.

You’ve moved back to your original plan to crash with Kara as Jimmy joins Clark and Lois takes the extra guest room. All of this you do after their parents are asleep to avoid suspicion.

The lines on his face deepen as he comes up to you. “Don’t be silly, I can drive you.”

“It’s a far drive, you really don’t have to. I don’t mind. I’ll take—”

“I want to,” he interrupts softly.

“Let him take you, sweetheart,” Ma Kent insists as she comes up to you, pulling you into a tight hug. “It’s been so nice to meet you. I’m happy I finally got the chance to see the woman who stole Clark’s heart.” Your smile wanes for a moment. “I’m sure Clark would want to take you to the airport and spend some quality time in the car.”

Crap, you didn’t even think about the extremely long drive to the airport. Whereas before you had plenty to distract you, this time, you’re left in the tense aftermath of your conversation — and your lack of apology.

You haven’t even agreed when Clark’s already throwing on a cap with the car keys jingling in his hands. He once again takes control of your suitcase. “I’ll put this in the truck while you say goodbye to everyone.”

Again, no room to protest.

Jimmy sends you off with a big smile and another teasing remark about you and Clark. “Maybe we’ll see you around Metropolis more often now.”

You doubt that.

Lois is the only one who flags your red-rimmed eyes. “Are you sure you want to leave so quickly? I’m sure work can wait. We’ll miss you around here.”

Again, you doubt that.

“It’s okay, I have to catch up, otherwise it’ll be a rough week for me. I’ll miss you guys too.”

“Clark and I are going to do a piece on elections in your city so maybe we’ll come visit you at some point?”

We. You didn’t think it would sting despite what you’ve already heard, and yet here you are kicking yourself once again. All you can do is nod and murmur an of course.

Pa Kent is next and he’s practically pouting at you. “I hope I didn’t scare you off last night. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, please,” you smile, “I thought it was very sweet. Thank you. I would stay if I could. I promise.”

“Well, you’re welcome here anytime, alright? With or without Clark.”

“Seconding that.” Ma Kent holds you at arm’s length again. “It’s been such a joy having you here, sweetheart. We can’t wait to see you again soon.”

You bite your tongue and nod just as Kara wrangles you into a headlock and ruffles your hair. A laugh bubbles up your throat. “You better come visit me before our annual pilgrimage next year. I expect lots of gifts.”

“You fly for free, mine involves torturing myself through TSA and paying for tiny seats. I think you should be visiting me.”

“Touché, I’ll see you in a month or so,” she grins, “also, I can come with you, so you know, it’s not awkward with Clark.”

You shake your head, giving her arm a squeeze. “Thanks, but it’ll be fine. I need to talk to him anyway.”

She doesn’t look appeased but nods.

By the time you step outside, Clark is leaning against the truck. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps stretching that t-shirt, strong brows puckered in a deep frown. Any other day, you’d ask him for a quick pit stop on the way to the airport, promising you have more than enough time to get through security. However, things are different now.

“Ready?” You ask, drawing him out of his thoughts.

He seems caught off guard that you’re already in front of him. That’s surprising, he usually hears you coming. Guess he’s stopped tuning in to the sound of your steps.

Clark clears his throat and swings open the passenger door for you, holding out a hand.

You slide your palm over his, a peace offering, before hopping into the seat.

The air is thick with tension you couldn’t cut through with a band saw. You have to roll down the windows to let some air in to cool your stiff shoulders and the heat up your neck. Time passes by quickly and slowly all at once. The world outside blurs before your eyes as Clark peels down the highway.

This is your chance. You can apologize now, keep things polite and concise. This can be an amicable end to this arrangement you have, so he can have a clean slate to start with Lois.

But the words are stuck in the caverns of your chest and it’s beginning to irritate you how cowardly you’re being. Perhaps there’s a piece of you that’s also dreading this conversation, knowing that this would finally end this years-long adventure you two have had. Even with the gaps in between, Clark has been a steady presence in your life.

“It’ll be a real awkward drive if you’re this quiet the entire way,” Clark breaks through the silence first. His smile is light, almost in jest.

You offer him a wry smile in return. “You’re right. We don’t have to make this weird.” With a deep breath, you begin. “I’m sorry. For all the things I said. That was unfair to you and you’re right, I do know you. I don’t think you’d do anything without reason. I was just hurt that you and Kara kept this from me all this time, you both knew how horrible that breakup was for me. Still, it’s no excuse for my words. You’re my friend and I love you immensely. I know you had my best interest in mind.”

Clark reaches over and squeezes your leg. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture but you can’t help the way your core pulses on instinct, years of trained response. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I should’ve told you — I assume Kara did…” You nod. “I thought I was doing what was best, I didn’t want you to get hurt. It’s not your fault that he’s an absolutely terrible person. You deserve better than that. You always have.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, “for protecting me then and protecting me now.”

“You’ll always have me, I promise you that.”

A laugh of disbelief slips past your lips. “I was pretty stupid, falling for his charm like that. I should’ve known that he was too good to be true. He was always showing up with flowers and gifts and would say all these little lines that seemed so sweet at the time. So stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Clark corrects you, “you just… believed in love. You believed in a love that you deserve, because you do deserve all those good things. You deserve someone who means it when he tells you that you’re beautiful and wonderful and smart. You deserve someone who makes you a fresh cup of coffee every morning with an abysmal amount of additives and remembers your favorite treats and gets them for you just because. You deserve… good. A good, grand kind of love.”

Curse your silly little heart. Just when you think you’ve reached the bottom, you find new depths of your heart for you to fall into with your love for him.

Many say that if you love something, then you let it go. You should know when to let it go — and you love Clark and this is one of those moments. Despite what Clark said to you in the throes of passion — I only want you, his conversation with Lois that night has made it clear where you stand.

You were always meant to be a temporary distraction. Not someone’s forever. Not Clark’s.

While you make small talk the rest of the ride, you settle on a decision that both weighs heavily in your gut but frees your heart.

Clark guides you to the very last point before he has to leave you. He’s silent for a while and you can tell he’s deep in thought. However, before you can let yourself chicken out again, you finally muster up the courage to tell him.

“Hey, listen,” you swallow, “I don’t want things to be awkward. We have a great group of mutual friends, we have this trip we do every year. We had a good thing.”

His eyes squint, noting the use of past tense. He’s always been observant.

“But I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you blurt out, “like you said, we deserve love. Maybe it’s time for us to finally pursue it, right? We’re not getting any younger.” Your attempt at an awkward laugh is drowned out by the quiet hustle and bustle of the tiny airport.

Clark still isn’t saying anything. So you continue to ramble.

“And you know, same goes for you, you should be able to be with someone you love—” Lois’ face flashes in your mind, “—and you deserve someone who treats you right, who loves you, who understands you. And I just don’t think either of us can get there if we keep this up.”

“Is that really what you want?” Clark asks quietly.

It’s not, because all you want is him. But when you look at him, all you can see is the love he is capable of, the love he deserves — and you aren’t on the receiving end of it.

“Yes,” you simply say.

He searches your eyes for a moment then gives in. “Alright. If that’s what you want.” His arms draw you into a hug and you hide your quiet tears in his chest. You don’t know if he feels it dampening his t-shirt, but he doesn’t say a word. You never liked it when someone comforted your tears. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Safe flight. Let us know when you land.”

You nod and pull away from him, swiping away at your eyes before he can notice. “Thanks, Clark. For everything.”

With that, you turn and make your way further inside. You don’t look back once. 

Rain hasn’t stopped pouring since you came back from Smallville. Fall comes early. Everyday you look out the window from your tiny cubicle and watch the drops roll down the glass. Everyday you pop open an umbrella to grey skies and make your slow walk home. It’s like whoever is up there is mocking you for the very position you’ve put yourself in. Sad and alone.

You’re officially back to your humdrum life.

As promised, you text the group the moment you land safely. You get quick miss you’s from everyone and Clark reacts to your message with a thumbs up. You don’t know what to make of that. The group has been relatively quiet as everyone settles back into their daily routines. There are occasional pictures from Jimmy of the Daily Planet office and these are the only times you get glimpses of Clark.

There are, of course, photos of Clark and Lois — she did mention that they’re working together on a new piece, so that shouldn’t be surprising, but you put away your phone and instead turn on the television to the most depressing romance movie you know (if you didn’t think of Me Before You, then you’re wrong). You cry and cry and cry. At least you can blame it on something other than your fragile heart.

Your auto-generated playlists on the way to work reflect your mood — yearning, miserable, heartbroken. It doesn’t help so you’re quick to switch to AC/DC before your feet reach the office lobby. 

Your coworkers pepper you with questions about your vacation.

“Didn’t you say your best friend had that cute brother? How was he?” One of them teases.

You can’t bring yourself to answer, simply laughing and waving it off. He’s in love with someone else, you want to say.

After work, you join your colleagues for the occasional happy hour. It distracts your mind for a few hours until the buzz is the only company you have in the quiet of your apartment, then it only makes you spiral further. You close your eyes to sleep and you see Clark. You have wet dreams like a pubescent teenager, except they aren’t fantasies, they’re memories.

You wake up drenched in sweat before you splash your face with cold water and a good dose of reality.

All in all, life is the same — slightly worse, but, as they say, it’s always the darkest before the dawn.

You make the mistake of signing up for dating apps. Men with terrible pick-up lines, men with terrible mustaches, and terrible men in general are the only ones in your messages. It doesn’t help when you compare each one to Clark and none of them come close.

You agree to one date and, while he was pleasant, you can’t help but be preoccupied with your own self-pity.

The two of you thankfully part ways at the restaurant and you make your way home with your feet aching in your heels and your back sore from slouching in your own misery. You’re rummaging through your purse for your keys when you hear the sharp intake of breath.

A familiar breath.

Your head whips up to find Clark standing there. His eyes rake over you and something you mistake as awe descends on his face. He looks adorable, positively edible in a trench coat and a bright yellow umbrella next to him. He’s still in his suit which means he probably came straight from work; you wonder if he flew here.

“Clark, what are you doing here?”

“That’s a nice welcome,” he drawls sarcastically.

You give him a look but smile anyway. “You know what I mean.”

“Lois and I are in town for work. I, uh, came to give you this,” he pulls out a shirt from his satchel. It’s one you had left in Clark’s room in your hurry to leave one of those nights. “You left it at my parents’ place.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to bring it back. I would’ve seen Kara eventually.”

“It’s no big deal.” He shrugs. Squirms.

“Well, thank you,” you breathe out, accepting the shirt from him.

Your fingers brush. Electricity zings through you like a warning.

You’re not sure what to say now. He’s not leaving but he’s also not saying anything more. He seems conflicted for a second, looking at you, at the floor, then at the elevator. He’s probably itching to leave to avoid how awkward this is.

“I should, uh, I should go,” Clark coughs.

You pause, hesitating. “Did you want to come in for coffee or something? It’s still pouring out.”

His tongue presses against his teeth, lips stretching out a bit wider on the brink of a yes, but then he stops. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding, I’m inviting,” you smirk. He’s shuffling his feet like he’s nervous.

“Is this an invite for—” he stops himself, biting his bottom lip. “I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

It wasn’t. However, now that he’s mentioned it, you can’t get the idea out of your head. One last time. One last night to relive the memories. One last night to act upon the dreams that have plagued you these past couple of weeks.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” Clark croaks, hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck.

You look down at your dress and your heels, splashes of rain dotting your stockings and shoes. “Oh, thank you.”

“Anyway, I shouldn’t bother you any longer, you must be busy.”

He turns. Your hand darts out, fingers catching his sleeve.

Clark turns back, eyes wide.

“Stay,” you find yourself saying.

His eyes look torn, blue flickering into something darker. Sadder. “You said you couldn’t do this anymore.”

“It’s still summer,” you try to reason — both with him and yourself, “maybe one last time for old time’s sake?”

Clark’s chest rises with the hitch of his breath.

The two of you are at a standstill.

With every passing second, embarrassment sinks deeper into your skin. It’s as if he’s prolonging the rejection, dragging out this moment to find a way to politely turn you down when—

“I can’t do this. Not anymore.”

Your hand drops, heart plummeting. You should’ve known better. Stupid, stupid.

“O-oh,” you stutter silently, wringing your fingers together on your purse handle. Perhaps he and Lois acted on their feelings already. More than the confession you overheard weeks ago. You can’t help yourself, you’re a glutton for punishment. “Is— is it because you’re in love?”

His eyes widen, surprise coloring his face. “How, wait, how’d you know?”

“It’s pretty obvious,” you force out a smile.

Be happy for him. Be happy for them. This is a good thing.

Clark groans, hand reaching up to run over his face furiously. He goes underneath his glasses before he looks sheepish, cheeks flushing a deep scarlet. “Am I really that transparent? Gosh, I’m sorry. I really wanted to tell you a different way.”

“No, god, no, it’s fine,” you cut him off, “I mean, it’s a good thing, right?”

He perks up, ears pinking. “Is it?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m happy to hear it.”

Are you? Liar, liar. You will be eventually. You can’t wait for him to leave so then you can burrow yourself in bed in the pity party you’re throwing for yourself.

“Are you really?” Clark looks shy, his face alight.

Clearly, you’re not a very good liar because the smile wipes off his face quickly. You realize then that you don’t look like you mean what you’re saying. Your lips are pressed together in a thin line to stop your tears, your throat is dry like sandpaper.

“Wait, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” You busy yourself with zipping up your purse, anything to stop him from looking into your eyes. You may actually burst into tears on the spot.

“You look upset. Did you… not want it?”

“No, I just—” you gasp and you can’t stop it now. The dam has broken and you can feel the saltiness on your tongue. Clark looks very concerned, hands moving around like he’s trying to help but doesn’t know how. “I’m fine. I’m just fucking selfish, I guess, I’m glad you and Lois are together now and—”

Clark blanches. “What? Me and Lois? What are you talking about?”

Your cheeks are still wet when you tilt your head in puzzlement. “Aren’t you two… together now?”

He looks positively aghast, nearly gagging. “No, why would you think that?”

“Back at the farm, you two seemed really close.”

“We’re friends!”

“But I heard you talking,” you start and his face twists further, perplexed. “She said something about you waiting too long and that you shouldn’t have worried. You said you were scared to ruin it.”

Genuine confusion is all over his face before it melts into understanding. “Oh. Oh gosh. No, that wasn’t about— no, that wasn’t her. Lois is like the older sister I never had. That— the idea of it would be… gross. Not that there’s anything wrong with her! I just don’t see her that way.”

“Wait, so who were you talking about?”

Clark moans, doing a full turn in a pace. “Do I really have to spell it out for you?” 

Your brows pinch. 

“I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

The gears in your brain stop turning. Your lungs stop working entirely. Your entire circulation is cut off. You’re trying hard to process this but you can’t seem to connect the dots.

He takes a step forward, hands reaching up to cup your cheeks. His umbrella falls with a thud somewhere in the back but you don’t even hear it. All you can hear is the thundering in your ears. “Thought you said it was pretty obvious,” he gives you a wry smile, “I’ve been in love with you for years.”

“That’s not—” you choke, “that’s not possible. We’ve been fucking for years, sure, but you weren’t in love with me.”

“No, you weren’t in love with me,” Clark huffs out a laugh, “I wouldn’t have agreed if I wasn’t completely head over heels for you.”

You balk when you look up at him, eyes shining. “So you let me sleep with you all these years because you were in love with me? And I just — what — used you for your body?”

He laughs again, brighter and louder this time. “Yes, that’s exactly what I did, because I’ll take you any way that I can get you. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it,” he grins, cheeks dimpling with that mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I did. Thoroughly. Each time.”

“You’re insane.”

“Is that what you really want to say to me?”

You shake your head, face aching and you realize you’ve been smiling so wide this entire time. “I love you. I love you so much. Love you so much that it hurts. I missed you.”

Clark groans and crashes his lips down on yours, tightening his grip around your face. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”

“You never said anything,” you whimper when he begins kissing along your jaw and down your neck.

“I didn’t want to scare you. I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

“Lois knew,” you mutter in realization.

“Lois has always known,” he makes his way back up to you, kissing your lips then your cheek then your eyes. “She knew the moment I met you, I was a goner. I couldn’t think of anyone else but you.”

“We met like five years ago, Clark.”

He grins unapologetically. “Then I’ve been in love with you for five years.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, embarrassed.

“No, I just love you. Now, will you let me in? I want to take care of you. Missed you too much. You left too fast.”

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. Your key is in your door and then it’s open and Clark’s toeing off his shoes quickly, messily, so unlike him in his rush to pin you up against the door. He intertwines your fingers together and presses them into the wall.

Then he pulls back, staring at your left hand. His lips pinch. “You’re not wearing it.”

You look at your bare hand. “Oh. I didn’t think I’d need it. I was— I need to also tell you I was on a date before this.”

Clark’s face sours before he settles on bitter understanding. “We weren’t… together, so it’s not like I have any right. I should’ve told you at the airport, should’ve stopped you the moment you told me you wanted to end this.”

“I was thinking of you the entire time, if that helps,” you add sheepishly. “I was trying to get over you. I’ve been moping for weeks, crying to myself.”

His expression thaws as he kisses you again, gentler this time. “I never want to be the reason you cry ever again. Only happy tears.”

“We were both silly.”

“Yes, yes, we were,” he murmurs against your lips. “Where’s the ring?”

“Um, that drawer.”

You’ve started keeping it in your kitchen because your desperate self, the one with zero self-control, tried it on every night before you go to sleep, tormenting yourself with what could’ve been until you finally shoved it under your extra kitchen towels.

Clark separates from you only briefly to dig through the pile and pull out the silver band. He practically flies back to you, taking your hand and slipping it on your finger. Right where it belongs. His lips twitch into a smile as he lifts your eyes to meet his.

“So everyone knows you’re mine,” Clark whispers, “until I can make it real.” 

Your lips tug into a smile. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

+ sam: aaaaah it's done!!!! thank you so much for tuning in. i really hope you've enjoyed this little journey with these two. i've grown so fond of them <3 if you liked it, i really do appreciate any reblogs / comments / likes!! and ofc my inbox is always open if you wanna come yap about them hehe

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602 @garfieldhollander @my-drvidess @deeninadream @lillilam @fruitypebsworld @vivshome @ella-rowen @reenielane @smorgasbrods @jbennsquared @royaljewellerycurator @ruptureedspleen @yelanare @take-it-on-the-run @ghostgirlwrites @oidloid

+ add yourself to my taglists!

[calamitous-luv]

impeccable idea impeccable execution impeccable everything 10/10 for every line every word

[tw1sters]

Right to Love (Part One)

Your secret, annual summer fling with your best friend’s brother was never meant to last — but when his mother catches you in his bed, everything changes. Cornered, he does the only thing he can think of: he tells her the two of you are engaged.

▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, secret fwb to lovers, best friend's brother (kara is clark's sibling), fake engagement, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-public sex (three smut scenes), thigh riding, so much miscommunication (guilty pleasure), insecurities on reader's part, jealousy, clark dirty talks, inaccurate portrayal of smallville (picturing super small town), reader has a shit ex ▸ WORD COUNT: 12.9K ▸ A/N: this fic was truly self-indulgent, all of my fave tropes in one place. this is part of @elixirfromthestars' arcade! i played elixir's hold 'em and ended up with a four of a kind (best friend's sibling, summer fling, sworn off relationships, and fake engagement). thanks for such a fun event mel <3 this is my longest work to date so splitting it into two parts - final one coming next week!! i love seeing your responses so any reblogs/comments/likes are always greatly appreciated mwah!!!

↤ main masterlist | part two ↦

Whoever thought it would be a good idea to spend a week of your precious and extremely limited paid time off in Smallville, of all places, should be pulverized. You could’ve been sipping margaritas in the Bahamas or traipsing around Miami Beach with a scrumptious cubano in hand. You could’ve been sitting at home in your perfectly comfortable couch with your perfectly comfortable air conditioning.

But no, you love your best friend Kara dearly, and she managed to convince you and a few of your friends to do the group’s annual trip in her hometown in Kansas. Oh, how you wish you could be Dorothy in that moment and find yourself on a yellow brick road rather than this sweltering airport.

Smallville in the summer is a far cry from your ideal vacation. The closest airport is two hours away and you’re greeted by the sight of a building that looks like it barely functions and hasn’t been upgraded since the Middle Ages. You had been cramped into a small airplane that you’re convinced does not have all of its nuts and bolts considering how much it rattled (you don’t want to think about the strange tilt of the wings). It takes you a full hour to get your suitcase from baggage claim that has no air conditioning; mind you, it’s because there is no overhead compartment, so they forced you to check your carry-on into cargo (an equally cramped space).

To make matters worse, Kara’s work forced her to delay her trip by one day which means you’re already locked in to arriving a full day earlier than everyone else, thinking that you’d get to spend some quality time with her after being separated for nearly an entire year (it’s been a rough year for both of you).

“How am I supposed to get to your house?” You had asked — more like whined after she told you the bad news.

She sounded even more upset than you. “Don’t worry, Clark will be there!”

Your heart had leapt to your throat at the thought.

Now, you’re faced with this incredibly difficult, exceedingly troubling situation. Said situation is basically being stuck in a car for two hours with Clark Kent.

Clark Kent stands at over six feet tall, sticking out like a sore — but stupidly delicious — thumb outside the airport. He’s in a pair of denim jeans and a t-shirt that appears to be fighting to keep its threads intact around his bicep. His long frame is leaning against a rusty red pickup truck.

The moment you push the doors open to step outside, his eyes spot you. Brilliant, bejeweled blue even from this distance. He covers that distance in no time with his ridiculously long legs, barely breathless as your name falls from his lips.

“It’s been a while,” he beams softly. His hand immediately commandeers your suitcase like the caveman-gentleman that he is. “How was your flight?”

You shudder at the sound of the tumbling cogs still echoing in your ear. “Terrifying,” you mutter, “how do you even fit in those tiny planes?”

The question sounds foolish now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Forget I asked.”

His smile is shy and sheepish as he blinks down at you. “Perks of the job, I guess.”

“I hardly think being an unpaid superhero should count as a job. Otherwise, I’d be reporting… someone to the Department of Labor for withheld wages.”

Then he laughs and the sound is buoyant and clear in this empty parking lot. You feel it spark warmth, tingling to your fingertips.

Girl, get a grip.

You fan yourself a little under the pretense of the disgusting heat. At least the air is cooler out here than inside that sauna. Your bare legs that stretch out from under your shorts certainly appreciate the kiss of the wind. You’re able to breathe a little easier despite the humidity.

An act that is short-lived when you notice how his gaze flickers to your exposed skin.

Clearing his throat, Clark stops when he reaches his truck. He carefully lifts your bag to the bed of his truck and straps it down. You eye it suspiciously.

His lips twitch with the threat of amusement. “It’s not going to fly out. Promise. Flat roads from here on out.”

“Don’t mean to be rude but might be faster if you just flew both of us back to your home,” you suggest with a raised eyebrow.

It would make it easier for you too to avoid being trapped with him for a full hundred and twenty minutes in a car with nowhere to go.

Clark chuckles as he swings open the passenger seat for you, even going as far as to offer you a hand to help you climb the height of the vehicle. You almost imagine the ghost of his hand pushing you up by your ass, but that’s just distasteful dreaming.

“I’d rather keep our mayor in the dark about how Superman had landed and was raised in Smallville. I don’t think that’s the kind of marketing the other guy would be interested in.”

“The other guy is really only popular in Metropolis so maybe he could use a bit of a boost from a bumfuck small town.”

He laughs again and you have to stomp on those ridiculous little flutters.

The drive is peaceful. With both hands on the wheel, Clark taps his finger against the leather to the rhythm of some pop song crackling through the speakers. He makes small talk to fill the silence. He asks you about life, about your job, about the tiny apartment you’ve been trying to furnish for the last few months. Cordial. Polite. Safe. All conversational topics that are reasonable for two friends.

That is, until he asks whether you’re seeing anyone.

It should be a normal question to ask a friend. Hell, even a stranger. But you know Clark better than that and you know the underlying curiosity underneath.

Heat creeps up your neck again. You feel as if you’re back in that cursed airport as you find your voice to respond to him. “No, not seeing anyone right now.”

He doesn’t even look at you when the corners of his lips tip up into a pleased smile. You knew what he was asking — and you basically gave him the green light. He takes your confirmation as permission.

His right hand slides off the wheel and lands on your thigh. His very large palm stretching across your leg.

You swallow thickly.

“This okay?” His voice is soft. Genuine worry laced into his question.

Instead of verbalizing your response, you only manage a nod as you prop an elbow on the door. Your face turns towards the deserted road outside to hide your embarrassment. To hide the racing of your heart. The anticipation bubbling beneath your veins.

It doesn’t take him long for his hand to slide higher and higher until you feel his fingers toying with the button on your pants. Deft fingers that pop it open easily. It’s terribly sexy how good he is at that.

He reaches down your pants, fingers skimming over the thin fabric of your panties until he finds your clothed slit. A delighted hum slips past the seam of his lips when he finds you already damp. His fingers trace along your sensitive lips, featherlight, but you’re eager enough that you find your hips jerking upwards in search of his touch.

Your chest rises and falls with the breath that hitches in your throat. “Are we really doing this already?” You rasp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to prevent the moan from escaping.

You hate how responsive you are to him. How your body’s been trained to respond to him. That familiar touch eliciting those familiar sparks of electricity. No matter how many times he’s done this, how many times you’ve fallen apart in his hands, you’re no less receptive than the first time.

Clark chances a glance your way and simply murmurs, “Missed touching you.”

A whimper actually does crawl its way out of your throat this time. How are you supposed to say no to that? You let your legs fall open, hips lifting off the seat just enough so he can tug your pants a little lower, sneak his fingers in even deeper. He applies a little bit more pressure on your slit, you can feel your panties soaking up your juices.

“So wet already, honey,” he whispers.

Honey. The first time Clark used that pet name on you, you’d told him absolutely not. However, like everything else he’s done, you’ve grown used to it. Your insides turn gooey when he uses that sweet little nickname. Something so syrupy when he’s doing something oh so filthy.

“It’s been a while,” you mutter under your breath.

“Were you waiting for me?”

At that, you can’t help the defensive scoff that spits out of your mouth. “No.”

Maybe.

“When was the last time someone touched you?”

You don’t want to answer that. It’s an embarrassing answer — one that you fear will inflate his ego too much.

Unfortunately, your non-answer is answer enough.

“Been a while,” he echoes your earlier sentiment.

“Don’t get too full of yourself.”

“Why? Didn’t find anyone you liked these past few months?”

You press your lips together. The day that you admit you can’t seem to finish with anyone else, not when you’ve already had a taste — or ten — of Clark, is the day this world comes to an end. Not even Superman can pry this information out of you.

“No,” you answer easily.

Clark’s thumb presses down on your clit and you immediately jolt forward with a groan. His fingers tug the gusset of your panties to the side as he slides his fingers easily along your slick folds. He moans when he finds how quickly you coat his fingers.

“Me too,” Clark admits. “Haven’t been — gosh, you’re dripping — haven’t been with anyone since, you know, last time.” Whether it’s to save you from your own confession or Clark is just being his honest self, you don’t know. Still, you appreciate the thought.

Your face warms again with his words and maybe any other time, you would have the self-control or decency to stop him. However, in that moment, when you’re pent up from your frustrating flight and months of reaching your orgasm only by your fingers alone, you can’t help but appreciate his fingers on you.

You slide down a little further on your seat, granting him access to finally push his fingers inside you. Thick, long fingers that curl that delicious flash of friction in your pulsing cunt.

It’s criminal how good he is at this. At sex in general, really. You know that it’s partly attributed to his superpowers. Clark knows the rhythm of your heartbeat like it’s his own. It’s how he knows exactly when whatever he’s doing is working on you. How he’s learned what your body loves, what makes it burn. He can hear how your heart rate skyrockets when he slides his fingers deeper, when he does a slow drag out to pull a moan from your chest. He knows when he’s doing a good job, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t enjoy hearing you admit how much you want him out loud anyway.

He takes some sick satisfaction in making you ask for it.

“What do you want? Tell me.”

“You know what.”

“I need you to use your words, honey.”

Curse whoever ever said Clark is the good boy next door, the one who buys you flowers and opens your door. He does all that and can be so sweetly condescending in the sexiest way possible. While you’re usually irritated by any form of male patronization, there’s something about the way Clark does it.

Like he’s doing it for you because he knows you like it.

“Fuck me with your fingers, Clark,” you gasp as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you.

Your vision of the road is a blurry mess, greens and browns melting together as your eyes roll to the back. Your head slams against the chair as your hands curl around his wrist. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, keeps stroking you with his fingers like it’s his purpose.

His eyes dart between the road and you, conflicted now that he’s started this game that he has to finish. He drinks you in, the sight of your neck stretching out as you tip your head back, as your hips lift to chase his fingers.

“I can’t— I’ll finish you when we get back. I need to drive—”

“Pull over.”

“What?” He balks.

“Pull over somewhere,” you pant, tightening your grip around his wrist to keep him there. You roll your hips to rut against his hand. The ball of his palm pressing against your clit as he finger fucks you until your brain is turned to mush. “Clark, please.”

You swear you hear him curse before he takes a turn down an abandoned dirt path. He uses his hand covered in your slick to put the car into park and, before he can utter anything, you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and climbing over to his seat, straddling his thick thighs.

Clark’s eyes widen, pupils blowing up as he looks at you. He groans almost painfully. “I’m so hard. I’ve been thinking about this all night.”

“All night?”

He eagerly nods as he helps you shimmy out of your shorts, leaving you in your drenched panties on top of him. “Knew Kara and the others were coming later. I couldn’t stop thinking about having you like this. Or at home. Wherever you’ll let me have you. Missed this pussy of yours.”

Your heart slams against your chest as your cunt traitorously throbs with the kind of desperation that would be concerning to feminism. “Yeah? Did you jerk yourself off thinking about me, Clark? Hope you kept your voice down so your parents wouldn’t hear you stroking this fat cock of yours to the thought of my cunt.”

“You—” he growls, “Sometimes I wish I could just slide myself down your throat to stop you from saying such filthy things.”

A smirk curls on your lips. “You like me filthy. You like me dripping all over you.”

Your fingers fumble with his pants this time, hurriedly yanking the fabric down to free his cock for your access. You’re quick to position yourself on top of him, tip hot red and angry dipping into your entrance. Your slick is already rolling down his length when Clark’s hand squeezes your hip.

“C-condom?” He asks. The reluctance in his voice is obvious. It’s not that he won’t fuck you without one. It’s that he doesn’t want to.

“I’m clean, are you?”

Clark nods and his expression morphs into parted lips and blue eyes blown wide as you sink on him. With your hands planted on his broad shoulders, you begin to ride him — slowly at first as you adjust to his size again.

He’s big. Too big sometimes. You’re lucky with how wet you are right now that the slide eases the burn of the stretch. His thick cock has your pussy tightening in resistance, but you keep going, all the way until he’s buried deep inside you.

“Feels so good,” he moans, “you’re always so tight, but you always make it fit, don’t you? You take my cock so well.”

Your pussy clamps down around him, your pace faltering with his words.

“Look at her. She’s swallowing me right up. She’s greedy, always taking me all the way in,” Clark coos as he watches his cock disappear into you over again, each time you burrow him deeper and deeper inside you. “My favorite pussy. She’s so pretty taking me in like this.”

You lean back and place your hands on his thighs as you roll your hips to drive him in deeper. “Fuck, Clark. Every time I see you, feels like you've gotten bigger.”

“No, honey, it’s just because your pussy tightens up,” he chuckles, fingers brushing your hips. “She just has to get used to me again. I’ll stretch you out, don’t worry. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.”

“Play with my tits,” you rasp. “Want your hands on my tits.”

You know what you’re doing. This is both for you and him. You’ve always loved seeing how big his hands are, how they cover your breasts entirely. How he can be both delicate and rough when he toys with your nipples.

His fingers unbutton your shirt slowly and, the more he does, the wider his eyes go.

Clark lets out a moan when he sees your nipples in the open air. “No bra?” He squeaks. “You went through TSA like this?”

Your lips tip up into a smirk. “Don’t worry, nobody gave me a pat down.”

“Better not have,” he growls low, “these are mine.”

Your pussy and heart flutter with his possessive declaration. You nearly bite out a snappy retort, asking him since when am I yours but the words fizzle out behind your ribs when Clark grabs your hips and begins to earnestly fuck up into you. He’s careful not to hurt you, but tests your limits with how hard he’s gripping you. You’re sure to bruise but these kinds of marks, he knows you don’t mind. You like when he stakes his claim.

His head dips to take one nipple into his mouth, one of his hands rising along your torso, thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he lifts it slightly. His tongue circles the peaked bud, hot and wet until you’re throwing your head back in ecstasy. He nibbles lightly on the sensitive skin, enough to draw out another whine from your throat.

“So pretty. You’re always so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Pussy feels like heaven. So tight around my cock, honey. All mine. Tell me your pussy is all mine.”

You gasp when Clark thrusts up particularly hard, keen eyes searching yours. Swallowing, you hold on to the last thread of your pride as you resist the urge to cave into him.

“Come on, tell me. I won’t let you cum if you don’t say it.”

“Clark,” you whimper, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean,” he murmurs, “just want you to tell me that this pussy is mine. That nobody else has touched it. That nobody else will ever touch it.”

It’s a terrifying admission, even in the heat of the moment. Deep in your gut, you know that no one else will ever feel as good as Clark. No one else will ever get you to finish the same way he does. Fireworks and heat streaking across your skin.

But you give in to him so he will give in to you.

“My pussy’s yours,” you cry out.

“Say it again.”

“My pussy’s yours. Only yours.”

“No one else can touch it. You’re always saving this pretty, tight pussy for me.”

“Fuck, it’s yours, Clark. Please, please, fuck— hnng, need to— I want to cum, please.”

Clark groans as he angles his hips just right so that he’s fucking into that delicious spot inside of you over and over again until you can’t find it in you to think or even breathe. The gasp is wrangled from your throat as he rips the orgasm straight from under you, your back arching as your fingers dig into his shoulders, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your body shudders against him as you feel him spill inside you, warmth painting your walls as he jerks a few more times.

You slump forward, forehead against his shoulder as he continues to cum inside you. You can feel the cum leaking from where you’re joined, too much for you to keep inside yourself. It trickles down your thighs, dripping onto Clark’s jeans as evidence of your little tryst.

A giggle slips past your lips as you sigh against him.

His clean hand (he knows you have a thing against it otherwise) reaches up to stroke your head as he turns to press his lips on your temple. “What’re you laughing about?” He mumbles against your skin.

“Just— this. We really couldn’t wait to find a bed to fuck.”

His chest rumbles with his laugh. “Well, my ma and pa are home too so we wouldn’t have had a chance until tonight.” He pauses, then says, “And we both know you can’t keep your voice down.”

You launch yourself back with a glare, hand weakly swatting his chest. “Hey, speak for yourself. If I sucked your dick, you’d be crying and begging for me to stop because you can’t handle it.”

“That’s just because I want to cum inside you instead of your mouth.”

Your cunt pulses around him, squeezing. Traitor.

“You like that, don’t you?” He grins easily.

“Whatever,” you mutter. Wincing, you extract yourself from him and feel more of his cum leaking from between your puffy pussy.

Before you can move back to the passenger seat, Clark sits you down on his lap. His hand settles on your inner thigh, thumb pressing against your swollen pussy lips to open you up to him. He watches as his cum dribbles out of your cunt, before he uses his fingers to fuck them back into you.

“Don’t want to waste it,” he smiles boyishly.

This fucker.

“You’re the worst.”

“You won’t be saying that when I tell you I’ve figured out the many other stops we can have along the way — you know, if you wanted a second or third round.”

You’re warm to the tips of your ears. “You’re insatiable.”

“It’s been a while,” he chuckles.

Clark’s parents greet you with a good dose of midwestern charm, followed by a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and Earl Grey tea. He regards you with mild amusement as you glance at him in alarm when his mother wraps you in a massive hug, telling you that she feels as if you’re one of her own.

“Oh, I’ve heard so much about you from Kara and Clark! It’s such a joy to finally meet you, honey. Come on in. Are you hungry? Did you want to clean up first? I’ve got some extra towels in Kara’s room for you. Clark, be a dear and show her around, will you? I just need to pull out the cinnamon loaf from the oven.”

It’s like a tornado, a whirlwind of movement all at once. A very pleasant tornado. Clark ends up giving you the comprehensive tour of the farmhouse. The Kent house looks fully lived in — well-worn vintage furniture with stitched florals, family photos dotting the walls and shelves to show any guest how loved the two Kent kids are, and touches of an old-fashioned home with typical cliché quotes hanging in frames or sewn onto throw pillows.

Clark blushes when you stare a little too long at the live, laugh, love painted onto a piece of wood above the toilet. “Ma loves that kind of thing. She buys a new one almost every time she goes into town.”

“Wish I had known, I could’ve gotten her another one for her collection,” you grin. “It’s sweet, Clark. Very charming.”

His smile softens slightly as he guides you to Kara’s room. “I’ll let you get settled in then. I have to help pa out with a few things, but let me know if you need anything. You have my number.”

Kara’s room is similar to the one she had in college. Posters of her favorite rock bands, pink wallpaper painted over with abstract murals that you find all too familiar. There’s a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room with frilly pink sheets that you doubt she picked herself. For the next hour, you unpack all your belongings, finding yourself dreading stepping outside and facing the music.

You had met Kara in college, freshman year, and the two of you were bonded for life. It started with a snooty remark from another student, and you and Kara had intervened at the same time, finding your sister-in-arms on day one. Two of you were similar in that you were both bull-headed, a little bit temperamental, but fiercely loyal. You loved her the moment you met her.

Sophomore year found the two of you unsurprisingly rooming together. The two of you were truly inseparable then. You thought you knew everything about her. That was until she said—

“My brother needs to come by,” she groans.

“You have a brother?”

That was when you were introduced to Clark Kent. Before you even met him, you had a strong inkling that you wouldn’t be a big fan of the guy. He was a year older than Kara but he was in a frat. Not that there’s anything wrong with participating in social activities on campus, but Greek life? Yes, you had formed your own preconceived notions about him.

So when Clark finally “swung by” to pick up one of his jackets while Kara was gone, you were caught off guard by the sight of this bumbling six-foot-four-mess who kept fidgeting with his thick-rimmed glasses. Clark, with his nervous smile and constant shifting, was a complete antithesis to Kara who had a permanent scowl and a sharp tongue.

Then you started seeing him everywhere on campus. You’ve seen him around before but now you can’t stop noticing him. He’s the mop of curls trying to shrink himself at the front of your English literature classroom, he’s the light laughter ringing across the dining hall, he’s the designated driver who physically gathered up the drunkards and piled them into the group’s car to send them home at the end of the night.

But he’s also the guy who’s always surrounded by some of the frattiest guys on campus and the guy who’s constantly swarmed by women grabbing at his biceps and running their hands down his chest.

“Your brother’s a bit of a player, huh?” You pointed out once to Kara, your eagle eyes focused across the room on Clark, who was humoring Bonnie from psychology as she yapped his ear off.

He didn’t seem to mind, laughing at whatever she was saying, which had her beaming.

Kara turned around, eyes following yours as you witnessed the atrocity that was Bonnie straight up flattening her manicured palm on his left tit. “Who? Clark?” She snorted, “The furthest. You can’t see it but that man is plotting the most polite escape route. Give it a second.”

Sure enough, the moment his eyes landed on you, they burned a brighter blue. He said something to Bonnie that had her pouting, turning to look at your table, before he made a beeline in your direction, sliding into the empty seat next to you.

“What happened with Bonnie?” You cocked an eyebrow.

“You know her?” Clark raised one right back. “She was, uh, talking about the frat’s winter gala thing.” His face distorted in a wince. “Asked me if I had a date.”

“Oh, while groping you?” Kara snickered.

Clark threw her a look. “Be nice. She meant well.”

“She meant she wanted your dick,” Kara noted then winced, “I don’t know why I just said that. I take it back. I don’t want to know about your sex life.”

His neck flushed a deep red as his eyes darted toward you for a brief second before he whipped his gaze away with a cough. “Anyways, I didn’t want to lead her on. So I told her I was already going with someone else.”

“Well, now you have to show up with a date,” Kara noted.

“Yeah.” Clark scratched the back of his ear then flicked his gaze towards you again. “Funny story.”

Dread sank into your gut. “Clark, no.”

“I’m sorry,” he flinched, “but she wanted to know who and I saw you and obviously I couldn’t say Kara so… here we are.”

“I have to go to your frat’s winter gala? Over my dead body.”

“It’ll be fun! Drinks and food. I’ll cover your ticket, obviously,” Clark pleaded. His blue eyes were shining in a way that made you melt. It was hard to say no to Clark Kent.

That was how you ended up as Clark’s date. That was how you ended up meeting your first ex in college. A fratboy of all people but he won you over with his sense of humor and charming smile. That was how you ended up with the most devastating heartbreak with a breakup that lasted all of one second over a text.

That was how you ended up swearing off relationships forever.

That was how you ended up in Clark Kent’s bed the summer you graduated college. One time turned to two turned to fucking on the kitchen counter while the others were asleep upstairs on your group’s annual trip. This “summer fling” became a recurring, annual rendezvous. As long as the two of you were single, you somehow always ended up in each other’s beds — or any other viable surfaces.

However, what was made very clear from the very beginning was that you were not looking for a serious relationship whatsoever. The last thing you needed was to get your heart broken again when you promised to focus on your career.

So this arrangement works.

You’re brought out of your reverie when a knock sounds on your door. Clark pops his head in, curls damp and glasses sliding down his nose again. He’s a little pink when he catches you midway through changing into a comfy t-shirt. A smirk curls on your lips. Even after seeing you naked all this time and talking like a fucking porn star during sex, Clark still blushes whenever he unintentionally catches you in a… compromising position.

“Um, ma wanted me to tell you to come down whenever you’re ready. We usually eat dinner as a family. If that’s okay with you.”

You finish shoving your arms through your shirt before bending down to reach for a pair of shorts. You hear the hitch of his breath behind you. Smirking, you slowly roll yourself back up. “Like what you see, Kent?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbles under his breath. Your eyes fall to his sweats where he’s currently adjusting his not-so-little problem. “I can be quick. And quiet. If you want to.”

A laugh rises from your chest. “Keep it in your pants. I don’t want to be late for my first dinner with your parents.”

With a slightly disappointed sigh, he nods and guides you downstairs.

Dinner is as you expected — delicious food with a side of chaos. While Clark’s dad keeps mostly to himself, nodding along to whatever his wife is saying or whispering with Clark, his mother peppers you with endless questions about your life, your job, and your relationship with her children. “I’m so sorry we’re only meeting now! I hear so much about you from both of them. It’s such a shame.”

“I hope Kara only has good things to say,” you tease.

“Oh, Kara adores you but Clark also won’t stop talking about you.”

That catches you by surprise and you shift your attention to Clark with a curious look. “Is that so?”

There’s that pink again. Endearingly embarrassed. “Oh, yes,” his mom gushes, “tells me all the time what a sweetheart you are and how smart you are, how he enjoys watch—”

“Ma, how about some more mashed potatoes, hm?” Clark distracts her, offering a massive dollop of her potatoes. “How about you tell me what’s going on with the kitchen sink? Thought you wanted me to take a look.”

His mother is successfully distracted when she instead begins to fuss over everything wrong with the farmhouse. His father tries to reassure Clark that he’s got it under control and that he should just enjoy his vacation. Clark only nods along, partially listening. You know the look he has when part of his mind is far away from the conversation.

You can’t help but wonder what his mom was going to say.

After dinner, you insist that his parents get some rest while you and Clark do the dishes. It’s a back and forth for a bit, debating on whether guests should be doing chores, debating on whether you’re guests at all. Thankfully, you win when Clark manages to urge them out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, Clark is the actual winner when he also pushes you out of there for you to get cleaned up

You do a full scrubdown, washing away all the grease from the flight. The water is warm on your skin, much needed after a long day. You almost slide yourself into Kara’s mattress to sleep when you realize Clark missed one part of his tour.

So you tiptoe down the hall, careful not to wake the Kents with the creaking beneath your footsteps as you sneak into Clark’s room, closing the door behind you.

He has a towel wrapped around his waist, chiseled, bare chest on full display, as he frowns at his phone. He looks up, fumbling with the device when he sees you. His arms quickly go to cover his stomach and his legs, as if he’s at risk of exposing an ankle to a Victorian lady.

You roll your eyes. He clears his throat. “What’re you doing here?”

“You never showed me your room, I wanted to see if you had anything embarrassing in here. Like Superman plushies or something. Or your old porn collection. Maybe a Playboy or two.”

“I don’t… have any of those,” Clark says, pink to his ears.

“Sure, you’re telling me if I look in that drawer over there that I won’t find a couple of risque magazines?” You begin drifting in that direction and Clark is immediately in your path. You’re face-to-face with his pecs.

“Take my word for it.”

Sighing, you cave and instead wander around the rest of the room. It’s a quaint room. Small bed that you’re not even sure would fit him. Two small bookshelves with some reference volumes and novels you’ve heard him talk about before. Giant poster of the Mighty Crabjoys who Clark insists is very punk rock. Then there are a few trophies for a spelling bee, debate club, and a science fair — none for his athleticism, because you know for sure Clark would never use his gifted powers for selfish purposes. His desk has an ancient monitor that looks like a stack of brick and more books — comic books, more novels, and CDs (no doubt of the Mighty Crabjoys).

It’s simple and sweet. Kind of like him.

While you’re busy absorbing every inch of his bedroom, Clark has crept up behind you. His arms wind around your waist, lips pasting on your neck. You instinctively tilt your head, a moan bubbling up your throat. “Clark, your parents are down the hall,” you murmur.

“I can be quiet. I’ll make sure you are too,” he whispers as his hands begin to wander. One to cover your mouth and the other going between your legs. “I’ll make you feel good, honey.”

And that he does.

Your second day in Smallville starts off early. And warm. Incredibly, horribly warm. Your eyes flutter open to the wide expanse of creamy skin. Creamy skin on a very, very wide chest. Grunting, you try to push against him, to get his hefty arm off you, but he doesn’t even budge.

Clark grumbles quietly, tucking you deeper into his chest. “Sleep.”

“Clark,” you whisper-yell, “come on. I gotta get back to the room.”

“You’re already in a room,” he mumbles.

You peek up only to find him still with his eyes closed. “Your parents—”

As if on cue, your worst nightmare plays out in real time. You hear the creak first. You try not to panic, praying that it’s someone walking away from the door rather than towards it. But then you hear the knob twist. You feel Clark stiffen in real time, his entire body going taut like a board as his eyes slam open. The two of you don’t move fast enough; in fact, your legs are still tangled together when the door swings inwards.

“Clark, honey—” his mom’s words die out, undoubtedly when her eyes land on not one but two bodies in the very tiny bed that barely fits her son. Clark holds you in closer, tugging the blanket higher to cover your bare back. Your shirt is abandoned somewhere in the room — along with your underwear that hopefully isn’t visible to his poor mother’s eyes. Thankfully, you’re not facing the door, so you don’t have to subject yourself to whatever disappointed face she’s making. “What in the—”

“Ma! Why didn’t you knock first?” Clark coughs, sliding up only to bury you deeper under the blanket.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to have company at this hour, Clark.” There’s a sternness to her words that sends shivers snaking up your spine.

Not even a full twenty-four hours and you’ve managed to ruin your entire reputation with his mom. But if you could just explain this, then maybe—

“We’re engaged, Ma. Alright. We’re engaged!”

What the ever-loving fuck—

“Engaged?” Her tone has shifted significantly, delight clinging to every letter. “Oh my, oh goodness, what wonderful news! I want to say I didn’t see it coming but I did! My boy did talk about you all the time so it’s not much of a surprise.”

“I do not, Ma,” Clark retorts quickly.

She barely pays him any mind. “I have to tell your pa. This is exciting news! My first son! Engaged!” Then she’s scampering out of the room and Clark can only call out, “I’m your only son, Ma!”

The moment she’s out of earshot, your hands immediately fly.

“Ow! Ow! Stop that! Come on, stop it!” Clark flinches as you continue to barrage him with smacks from all angles. Not that it actually hurts. His hands immediately whip out to pin you down, his body hovering over yours. Your chest rises with every heaving breath while Clark just frowns at you, probably concerned that you’ve hurt yourself in your fruitless attempt to hurt him. “Are you done?”

Even in this situation, you can feel that familiar heat stirring between your legs. Clark’s handsome face above you, his one hand pinning you down, the other one on your hip, his stupid, big, beefy chest in front of your face. You hate it.

Unfortunately, this means Clark picks up on your heartbeat, the way your blood rushes beneath your skin at the sight of him.

His lips tip up. “Good?”

“Why in the hell would you tell your mom that we’re engaged?”

“I love my ma. Wonderful woman. Loves everyone dearly. Love is love, she believes in. She’s all about love.”

“So you tell her we’re engaged?"

Clark sighs, “Even with all that, she is very much still an old-fashioned woman from the Midwest. She would not approve of me… bedding a woman outside of wedlock. She would never forgive me if she knew what I’ve been doing.”

Or who he’s been doing — you.

“Oh my god, Clark.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Because you don’t want your mom to know that you stick our dick inside girls before marriage, you drag me into this and act like we’re getting married?”

Clark frowns, lips pinching together disapprovingly. “Girl. One girl. You. And yes, I panicked, I’m sorry. It’ll just be for this trip, alright. We’ll… explain it all away after.”

Another protest sits on the tip of your tongue, but the look on his face reduces you into a puddle. A puddle that molds according to whatever container Clark pours you into. 

“Fine, okay, but what are we going to tell Kara? Or Lois and Jimmy when they arrive?”

He opens his mouth then promptly closes it. Thought so.

“We should think fast because I know for a fact Kara’s supposed to come in anytime now—”

Then you hear the screech, followed by the hurried footsteps, followed by the door once again banging open against the wall with the brute force of her strength. You’re surprised it’s still on its hinges.

And there she is.

“What the hell, dude? You’re engaged to him?”

Clark gives the two of you some space; that is, after he kicks Kara out long enough for the two of you to be decent.

This is the first time the two of you have ever woken up together.

In the years you’ve slept together, the countless nights you’ve spent in a pile of messy limbs, this is the first time.

The awkwardness that follows hangs heavy in the air.

“I’ll, um, I’ll give you time with Kara. I’m going to calm my parents down first, tell them not to overwhelm you. I’ll see you later?”

He says it like a question, like he isn’t sure if you would even see him again after this incident. And you know that it’s mainly his fault but you should’ve also been more careful. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you snuck in, you knew what you were looking for when you went to find him last night.

“Yes, Clark, I’ll see you later.”

Mild relief sinks into his features as he nods and exits the room.

It takes a bit of time to get Kara to stop hyperventilating or talking for even a second for you to get a word in. She’s still reeling at the fact that she saw her best friend and her brother in bed. Together. Naked. She may have also attempted to rinse her eyes with bleach.

After talking her off the ledge, you finally give her the basic answers.

“Yes, I’ve been fucking your brother.”

“No, we’re not dating.”

“No, Kara, how would we be actually engaged if we weren’t dating?”

Lois and Jimmy arrive shortly after and you thankfully get some reprieve from Clark when he goes to pick them up. Fortunately, Clark gives them the quick SparkNotes version of what transpired this morning. Unfortunately, you have to do the full run-down to once again emphasize that you are not actually engaged to Clark Kent. 

Dinner is only an awkward affair for the people in the know. Clark’s parents remain blissfully ignorant, instead focusing on gushing about how thrilled they are that Clark has found somebody.

“You’re the first girl he’s ever brought home. It’s only right that you’re his fiancée! Now, I want to hear it from both of you — when did this all start? How did you know you were in love?”

Kara chokes on her chicken. Lois and Jimmy share wary looks. You shoot her a dirty look. Clark coughs, eyes sliding over to you for a nanosecond before returning to his mom. “Love at first sight when I saw her that first time.” Clark should be an actor, he sounds terribly convincing.

All you can say is “same.”

Clark kicks you under the table and you have to swallow your yelp. A dirty glare his way does nothing to deter him when he gives you a look that insists you give his mom an “actual” answer. 

You wrack your brain. Beyond the good sex, Clark has mostly existed in your periphery. He’s Kara’s brother. Lois’ best friend. Jimmy’s partner in crime.

But he’s always been just Clark to you.

You just happened to be smart enough to put two and two together on him and Big Blue and, for some reason, that brought you closer. 

But if you were to pick a point in which you could were to fall for Clark Kent, it would be that.

“I think it was around the same time. A first year was struggling through orientation week. First week jitters. Clark was an orientation leader at the time. He didn’t have to but he stuck with that kid almost that entire week. Saw him invite the kid to join for lunches with his friends, encourage him to make friends. It was sweet.”

Mrs. Kent looks absolutely awed. She whispers about how endearing that is.

However, all you can feel is the weight of Clark’s gaze on you. Steady, heavy. You risk a glance up. 

His eyes are soft, a little misty if you squint. Lips with a slight up curve. 

“I don’t know if I remember you back then.”

Heat kisses your cheeks. “That was before we were introduced.”

“You knew me?”

“Hard for you to not stand out as a six-foot non-football player.” 

Clark chuckles.

“That’s so very romantic, dear. I’m so glad to hear,” his mom coos, “now all of you off to bed. It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it? So much good news! And you two should stay together — future newlyweds!”

You choke the same time Kara protests. “But she’s rooming with me!”

Needless to say, Kara doesn’t win this fight and, while Lois gives you a sympathetic look as she enters Kara’s room, you’re suddenly being shoved back into Clark’s room. The same room that got you into this mess to begin with. 

“Clark, we need to get our stories straight if we want to be convincing.” 

“Hmm, sure.”

“We need to talk about when we started dating and when you proposed — not to mention how you proposed! And the details matter, you know, so we should— are you even listening?”

Clark hums again, clearly not listening. “Sure, yeah. We should talk about it.”

He’s taking one step towards you then another and another until the back of your knees hit the bed. “Clark,” you warn, “talk.”

He ducks his head, brushing his lips against yours. His proximity is intoxicating. What were you saying again? Something about talking.

“Fell in love with me before you even knew me, huh? That’s cute,” he murmurs in a breath that you sharply inhale. 

You bite back your embarrassment. “It’s just a story.”

“But you—” kiss “—noticed—” kiss “—me.” 

“It was just, um, I was only, mmm, answering…” Your words trail off as Clark navigates his mouth south along your neck, laying you down on his bed, as he drops to his knees, hands parting your legs. “Clark, we need— ah.”

“Did so good today, honey,” Clark mutters, pressing wet kisses up your bare inner thigh. His teeth nip at your skin. “Now, let me take good care of you tonight.”

Your body is still sore and tingling when you wake up the next morning. When you stretch your hand over, you find the other side of the bed cool. 

You pad out through the creaky front door to find three of your friends enjoying the crisp, unpolluted air of Smallville with cups of coffee, ones that Lois doesn’t have to douse with a whole can of sugar. Clark is still nowhere to be seen. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Kara yawns. 

“Morning,” you mumble quietly. “Has anyone seen Clark?”

“He’s helping out at the barn,” Lois answers first, eyeing you with a strange twinkle in her eye. “Better yet, how about you tell us how long you and Clark plan on being engaged? Are we invited to the wedding?”

You give her a look. “If I ever get married, please know I’ve been kidnapped and cloned.”

“Is it really so bad?”

Cocking an eyebrow at her, you ask, “You of all people are saying that? Miss Independent?”

“Hey, I am voluntarily a solitary creature.”

“That’s because she bites the head off anyone who tries to approach her,” Jimmy chimes in, then turns back to you, “Clark’s not a bad pick. You know, if you were to get married.”

“No, he’s not,” you mutter — and it’s a truth that just slips out. 

When you look up, Kara’s got her eyes narrowed at you but Lois — she’s got a curious yet strangely warm look in her gaze. It’s not an expression that you expect to see from her. 

And Jimmy, well, he’s still half dizzy over the fact that you and Clark are fucking. 

“I need to talk to him, we need to get our stories straight,” you clear your throat, glance wandering over to the barn some distance away. 

“You guys still haven’t discussed that?”

“No, I tried talking to him last night but we got—” The ghost of Clark’s curls between your legs, soft strands tickling your inner thighs. The hot, wet drag of his tongue between your folds. His muffled moans, nose glistening.

“You taste like nectar from the gods.”

“I don’t wanna know!” Kara yelps, slapping her hands over her ears. “I see your face and I don’t wanna hear it. While I enjoy hearing about your sexual encounters, I don’t want to hear about my brother’s.”

You cough again, ignoring the warmth that’s flooded your cheeks. “Right, anyway, I’ll go look for him.” 

While you’ve never experienced country living, you imagine this is close to what it’s like. The unappetizing aroma of manure, the constant croaking of nature, and the sight of Clark Kent in overalls.

Nothing but overalls. 

Shining golden skin. Not a single drop of sweat. Curls mussed up only from the heat, but his breathing is stable even as he lifts bags of soil on his shoulder. Hundreds of pounds. Biceps flexing, veins taut. 

Fuck.

“You’re awake,” he brightens when he sees you, dropping the bags off to the side. “How’d you sleep?”

Your brain short-circuits when he dusts his hands off. Now that there are no bags in the way, you can see everything. Broad, round shoulders. The curves of his arms. Lines running down the length of his forearm, you can practically taste the texture on your tongue. When his overalls shift just right, you get a glimpse of his dusky nipple that you’re desperately needing to wrap your lips around. 

All you can picture is how good it would be to put your hands on his shoulders, bolstering you up while he presses up against you. 

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking.” 

Clark’s in front of you. His fingers curving around the back of your neck, thumb on your jaw to tilt your face up. His usually bright blue eyes are dark, pupils swallowing his irises. 

“We should—” your breath hitches as his thumb goes down, pressing down on your pulse point on your neck. It jumps. You know he feels it.

“I can hear your heart racing,” Clark murmurs. “I like hearing it. I like knowing what you like — and you like my hand on you.”

“Clark, please,” you rasp. 

“What do you need?” 

“You.”

“How do you want me?”

You swallow, the image so vivid in your mind, like it’s a memory. “Holding me up.” You barely get the words out when Clark wrangles your legs around him, holding you up firmly with one arm as his other hand touches your cheek. 

“What now?”

“I want you. Inside.”

“I can do that,” he smiles, leaning down to suckle lightly on your neck. “Anything else?”

“Must I tell you everything?” You grunt.

“I know what you want. I just like hearing you ask for it.”

With your lips pursed in defiance, you cross your arms over your chest. “If you ask me one more time—” 

A yelp is wrenched from your throat when he finally (finally) brushes his thumb over your sensitive nipple peaking through the thin cotton of your shirt.

He gropes you gently, somehow manhandling you in a way that makes you feel desirable rather than disgusting. His blue eyes are shadowed, drinking in the way you shiver with every tug, every pinch.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs to the wind. 

Clark tugs the shirt over your head, leaving you completely topless. Your arms immediately wind around your body in embarrassment, but he moves faster to extract them and deliver you a chiding look.

You’re sheepish when you tell him, “Someone might see us.”

“Mhmm, let them. I’m taking care of my fiancée.” His lips tug into an amused smirk when you roll your eyes. “Don’t be a brat.”

“Please, you like brats.”

“You know me so well.”

He dives forward and takes your tits into your mouth, showering them with cautious but delicious attention. His tongue is hot on your skin. You throw your head back as he drags his lips across your neck. 

With swift hands, your shorts join your shirt in the pile of hay and Clark has unbuttoned his overalls to fall at his hips. His mouth stays on you the entire time — sweet and spicy at the same time. 

Greedy hands lift you slightly higher, only to position you right above his straining cock. The vein in his neck jumps as he grits his teeth.

Clark eases you onto his cock, moving you up and down along his length like a toy, like you’re his personal fleshlight. Your pussy stretches around him, soaking his cock until you’re a whining mess. 

“‘M gonna need you to keep it down,” he grunts quietly, neck flushed red as he bites down his own moan. 

On cue, and as if to prove a point, a moan crawls up your throat. Clark’s hand flies up to slap over your face. Large palm over your mouth, your eyes wide at him. A whimper slides up your throat at the stern, scolding expression on his face. 

“Honey, what did I just say?”

Your pussy clenches around him. His words are almost demeaning, but the gentleness with which they are delivered has you shivering and melting into his touch. “S-sorry,” you stutter pathetically, “I‘m sorry.”

“I know,” he whispers, “I know, but I need you to be quiet, okay. I don’t need my parents coming out and seeing us like this. They might make us marry on the spot.”

Heat spreads throughout every nerve in your body at his comment. It’s a joke, you know it is, but the idea of Clark claiming you as his with his cock buried inside you, painting you in bridal white inside out, has you tightening around him. 

“Is that what you want?” Clark murmurs softly, his blue eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that has your fingers tingling. 

“No,” you scoff a little too quickly.

“Could put you in a dress. Marry you in this barn right now. Afterwards, I’ll take you outside against the walls while my family’s in here celebrating us. We’ll consummate our marriage.”

The image is painted so vividly in the back of your mind. You in a simple dress, hiked up, Clark fucking you into oblivion against the walls outside. Good god. 

“I can feel her tightening around me, honey,” Clark chuckles. “She likes the idea.”

“Stop being silly,” you clear your throat, “you gonna fuck me properly or what?”

He mutters something about your mouth before fucking you in earnest once more. His thrusts are sloppy but no less powerful, his desire leaks through his stuttered hips, the uneven staccato of his breaths. 

Pleasure builds and twists, coiling tight inside your stomach as Clark’s grip remains firm on you. Moans continue to pour from your lips like prayers to the god before you. He slides his hand up your throat again, squeezing gently, before bypassing it and covering your mouth once more. 

“Gonna need you to keep quiet, okay. I love hearing your pretty moans but I can’t share that with anyone else. Can’t have my parents coming out here and seeing you like this. I can’t have them thinking you’re a filthy little minx, spreading your legs for me anytime, anywhere.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as another groan chases your tongue. His name is muffled behind his hand and you gasp for breath when Clark gives you some room to inhale.

“She feels so good around me. So tight. She’s been waiting for me all morning. Greedy thing, isn’t she? Fed her so much last night and she still wants more.”

“C-Clark, please. Shit. Oh fuck.”

“So good to me. I have so much to give her, she knows that, doesn’t she? That’s why you came looking for me. Wanted one more time even after last night. Maybe I’ll taste myself on you later.”

Jesus Christ. This man has a way of making you picture the most deliciously repulsive images in your mind. Him cumming inside you, his face between your legs, licking you clean until there’s no trace of him left. Maybe even coming back up and kissing you. The taste of him tangled in your tongues.

Clark’s hands tighten. His grunts shorten. His pleas desperate.

Before long, you’re coming apart in his hands, Clark tightens his hold around your jaw to muffle the sound of your cries as he spills inside you. He buries his own moans into your neck as he presses you deeper against the wooden beam. With how hard he fucked you, you’re surprised this barn is still standing. You had felt the pillar rattling behind you.

He huffs a breath before leaning backwards. His hand reaches up to brush away the sweat-dampened strands of your hair from your face. “Are you okay? Did I go too hard?”

Even after years of this arrangement, Clark is always so careful. You know he holds back his strength when he’s screwing your brains out. He could go a lot harder and sometimes you wonder what it would feel like for his patience to snap, for him to fuck you with no abandon. 

You don’t think you’ll survive that.

But you also think you would deliriously enjoy that. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Clark murmurs, “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you swiftly say, “just— nothing.” Warmth floods your cheeks again. You’ve only just finished getting your brains turned to mush and here you are thinking about how much harder he could go. 

“You’re thinking about something.”

“I’m thinking how we should really get our stories straight.”

Clark regards you thoughtfully, a contemplative expression carved into the creases on his forehead. Then he presses into you more, cock pushing back in. You can hear the squish of his cum inside you, an indecent little sound in the quiet of the morning. 

“Okay, do you wanna talk now?”

“Clark,” you deadpan.

“What?”

Your cheeks are hot again. “Obviously not like this.” 

“Alright, later then.”

Clark doesn’t look the least bit remorseful, lips stretched into a wide grin. He’s much too gleeful for a man who’s foiled your plans to be responsible again — with his dick. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Instead of spending the day puttering around the farm and watching Clark do manual labor in nothing but overalls (which isn’t necessarily the worst way to kill time), the Kents propose going to the fair that’s in town.

Clark insists that his parents could use his help while he’s around.

They insist that he should spend time with his fiancée.

The five of you pile into Clark’s truck; to avoid suspicion, you ride up front with him, throwing his parents a tight smile as you wave at them as the car treks down the dirt path. The three of them are bickering about something related to agriculture in the backseat while you — you find yourself once again distracted by Clark who looks far too good driving.

Sometimes, you think you need to get your brain rewired for being too easily stimulated by the sight of him. It’s like your brain is wired to tune into him, to every little detail from the way his eyes crinkle, how his lips pucker when he whistles, or that one vein along his arm that jumps every time he turns the wheel.

Your plan backfires when you stare at him a little too long, trying to think of how you could get the two of you to talk to get your stories aligned, and Clark ends up noticing how your eyes never stray too far from him. The corners of his lips tip up, pleased, then his free hand slides over your thigh once more.

It doesn’t do anything. It just stays there. A grounding presence.

The back of your neck warms and you blame it on the mid-morning sun.

The fair is nothing too crazy, you didn’t expect anything grand from a small town near Smallville. It’s more like a community event, with faces familiar to the Kents dotting the crowd. A small market lines the entry area, selling all sorts of trinkets and knick-knacks. Clark bumps your shoulder with his arm as you walk down the path.

“Don’t you like those things? You wanna take a look?”

You cock an eyebrow. “I do like them, how do you know that?”

“I see them all over your apartment,” he shrugs, “especially the flowery-looking ones.” You’ve started collecting miniature toys and figurines with flowers on them. Since you can’t seem to keep plants alive, your little addiction to buying the most useless pieces of paperweight is fulfilled by the replacement of real live decor.

“Oh. Yes, well, I have too many now so I don’t think I should even look at them. Otherwise, I’ll be tempted to buy.”

Beyond that, the fair opens up to game booths — your classic ring toss, darts, and shooting a water ducky — and attractions like pony riding, a petting zoo, and so on and so forth. It’s cute. It’s quaint. Nothing like what you see in the big cities. In fact, big cities have no carnivals like these. So maybe you’re a teensy bit excited. 

“Wanna play?” Clark smiles at the obvious enthusiasm on your face. 

Before you can answer, a shrill voice calls out to Clark. Well, it’s not really shrill, it actually sounds rather sweet — like the tinkling of bells — but you see the source of that sound and you feel an irritating itch in your chest.

“Willow! I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Oh, so he knows her. That ugly part inside of you wonders if he also has the same arrangement with her. But no, she seems nice. Like the girl next door. The kind of girl you marry — and not with a fake engagement. 

They chat for a little bit and you’re on the sidelines watching them. Kara nudges you by your side. “We’re going to try the dunk tank. Jimmy has agreed to be dunked as long as we can aim. Wanna come?”

Your gaze flicks over to Clark for a second but find that he’s still eagerly chatting with this girl, so you put on your biggest smile and turn back to your best friend. 

“Let’s do it.”

The four of you busy yourselves with the various games. Lois manages to dunk Jimmy four times. Jimmy then proceeds to win a free t-shirt to change into from the ring toss. Kara absolutely destroys Lois at basketball and you absolutely annihilate all of them at darts (pub nights are coming in handy after all). 

You’re having a great time — a wonderful time — until you realize that Clark still hasn’t caught up. Every time you look over in search of him, he’s there helping a new person. First, it’s the old lady with her bags of groceries. Then it’s the little boy with his cat in the tree. Next, it’s the farmer who needs to unload his van of dozens of boxes. 

And then it’s that girl — Willow, was it? — who is apparently a florist and is setting up the most beautiful little booth in the market. 

It’s thoughtful, it’s kind. That’s who Clark is. But then you see him laughing and smiling and just being Clark and all you can feel is pissed. He’s here for you — all of you — so why is he busying himself with others? It’s incredibly selfish and guilt gnaws at your chest. 

So you bite down that terrible feeling and instead focus on the others. You’re fine with this. It’s not as if you have anything with Clark, really. You’re friends who happen to fuck every summer. That’s all. 

Maybe Clark is simply looking for something more long-term.

Your eyes wander to Lois. You’ve always thought that they would be a thing. Two incredibly smart people who work together, who have great chemistry. You know that Clark respects and adores her deeply, as evidenced by how much he talks about her. It seemed to be a matter of time.

Your anger doesn’t ease. Instead, you channel that rage into this shooting game. Clark has only just shown up, standing next to Kara with his gaze on you, a dopey smile in place. 

You hit the target dead center again and again and again. 

“That’s the first time today! You’ve got quite the skills, miss.” The guy at the booth says, both impressed and terrified. “You can pick any prize you want from the top.”

Clark whistles with his fingers and grins. “Good job, that was incredible.”

You hate yourself for immediately blooming with excitement at the compliment, especially when he’s left this group to tend to other people. How pathetic can you be?

The next words out of your mouth are not your best moment. 

“Well, seeing as my fiancé is too busy to get me anything.”

You can see the moment your jab lands and the smile wipes off his face, replaced by a look of sheer surprise. You turn on your heel and make your way to the next game, teddy bear tucked safely in your arms.

It’s not that you’re immature. You’re not. You’re an adult. But it doesn’t mean that you can’t be a teensy bit petty.

Every time Clark tries to come close to you, you’re linking arms with Kara and traipsing off. When he calls your name, you pretend not to hear by cheering for Lois as she slams a hammer down on a strength-based game. 

It’s an exhausting endeavor and you’re this close to giving up. Plus, the heat isn’t exactly letting up and you’re starting to feel a little woozy. 

So when Clark approaches you again, you almost cave and lean on his broad frame for support.

“Hungry?” He asks carefully as his long legs finally catch up to you alone.

Your stubbornness nearly denies him once more but your stomach wins out when it growls. Loud. 

Clark doesn’t tease you; he simply takes your hand and whisks you away to the little makeshift food court. He sits you down and begins going from stall to stall, collecting one dish after another until you’ve got a spread in front of you.

It’s all your favorite things — or similar ones that he thinks you’ll enjoy; he would be right.

You’re too busy stuffing your face to notice Clark wringing his fingers in front of you, fidgeting as he tries to get your attention. 

“What?” You finally ask when you peer up after his nth time repositioning himself, shrinking so he would be in your line of sight. 

“Can you tell me why you’re sulking?”

“I’m not sulking.”

He gives you a look. 

“I’m not! I don’t care who you spend your time with.”

“Who?” Clark perks up, irises bright with curiosity.

Shit. You and your big mouth. Now you’ve gone ahead and given away too much, so you clamp your lips shut and shake your head. You shut down his every attempt to pry by focusing on eating instead.

He only seems to relent when he thinks he’s pushed hard enough, but, knowing Clark, he isn’t going to let the matter slide so easily. 

You continue your day unscathed for the most part. You cling close to Kara who doesn’t seem to mind that you’re sticking to her instead of her brother. Of course, she shoots you questioning looks but the shake of your head prevents her from pushing. 

You’re in the middle of cheering for Lois and Kara when a cloud of pink appears before you. You blink at it before you trace back the source of the dessert. Unsurprisingly, Clark stands at the other end of the cotton candy.

“You like this, don’t you?”

You mentioned once that you’ve always liked cotton candies. It’s all sugar, but that childish part in you relishes the way the fluffy treat melts on your tongue. 

“I do, thank you,” you confirm, ripping apart a piece before popping it in your mouth. The strands dissolve into syrup on your tongue.

Clark looks at you expectantly, a tinge of anxiety in the slight fold of his brows. “Good?”

“Good,” you smile at him.

Perhaps you’ve been too hard on him today. He’s being a good neighbor and you’re giving him shit for talking to someone else.

The two of you aren’t exclusive. That’s the whole point of this arrangement. If he happened to find someone that he wants to actually date seriously, then you’d let him go. 

Somehow, the thought makes your stomach churn. 

“I got you something else.”

You look up at him and he digs around in his shirt pocket and pulls out a thin silver band. A crystal sits in the middle of it, sparkling no less brightly than a diamond. It’s simple, it’s sweet. It’s characteristically you. 

“It’s nothing extravagant but you wear silver jewelry, right? I think this should fit.” Then Clark is taking your left hand and sliding the promise over your ring finger. The band sits perfectly snug. The crystal catches light and twinkles like it’s winking at you. 

For all your pouting, Clark seems to know the perfect remedy. 

“Just, you know, until the trip is over,” he adds nervously. “If that’s okay with you.”

You bring your hand up, watching as the ring glimmers underneath the afternoon sun. Your lips tip up in a small smile. 

“Yeah, that’s okay with me.”

“And, if it’s any reassurance,” Clark adds, quieter, low enough that the others can’t hear — eyes trained solely on you, sharp and honest, “I only have eyes for you.”

Your heart beats against your ribs. Heat frames your face at the same time he smiles softly at you. 

You don’t respond, but that’s answer enough.

The chill beneath your fingertips rouses you from sleep. When your eyes flutter open, Clark’s big, warm body is nowhere to be found. You remember falling asleep cuddled up to a living, breathing heater and now you’re shivering as you tug on an extra sweater. Your footsteps are quiet as you pad out into the hallway in search of him, navigating through the darkness until your eyes land on him, bathed in the moonlight on the bench outside.

Clark turns before the door even swings open. He must’ve heard you.

“You’re up early — or late,” he notes.

“So are you, what’re you doing awake?”

“Couldn’t really sleep, you?”

“Must’ve been all the cotton candy,” you say as you slide into the seat next to him.

The midnight air in Smallville is brisk, you’re beginning to regret not throwing on an extra layer. Clark senses your shivers and immediately scooches closer towards you, draping his flannel over your shoulders and tucking you in close. The draw of his warmth is too tempting to resist and you end up nuzzling into his shoulder.

“Could’ve stayed inside,” you flag quietly.

“The fresh air helps me think. Plus, it’s nice to take advantage of this away from Metropolis. Breathing in fumes doesn’t seem conducive to my health.”

“Good thing your only weakness is extinct,” you tease, bumping shoulders gently.

Clark smiles at you, soft and knowing. “It’s not my only weakness.”

You raise an eyebrow but he doesn’t elaborate, so you don’t press. Instead, you ask him what’s plaguing his mind.

“My parents,” he begins, “I worry about them. They’re getting older, things with the farm aren’t easy and we’re not in a position to hire any extra hands.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking if I should move back.”

Your heart plummets, all amusement evaporating. You don’t know why you’re so disappointed by the thought. Although you don’t live in Metropolis, although you don’t see Clark very often, you’re only a city away, and even then, he still feels light-years away. “Move back?”

“Here to Smallville. I’m not sure yet.”

Your throat is tight when you attempt a joke, “What? And leave your fiancée behind?”

Clark’s lips curl. “Never. I’ll take you with me.”

Oh. Your chest warms. “What makes you think I’d go with you?”

“I’d just have to convince you,” he whispers, tilting his head to press his forehead against yours. His next words are soft, but they have your heart pressing against your ribcage. “And I can be very persuasive.”

A giggle falls from your lips. Clark shrinks himself, bending himself at a slightly odd angle to accommodate your height as you lean your head on his shoulder. The quiet moon is company you don’t want to humor tonight and Clark seems to agree when he rises to his feet and offers his hand.

The two of you drift back into his bedroom. Light still spills across his hardwood floors that whine below his heavy footfalls. But Clark shields you from the stark brightness, engulfing you in a comfortable night against his chest.

When you tip your face up, he’s already looking down at you. For a moment, he only searches your eyes. Looking for something you’re not sure you can provide.

However, he seems to find whatever it is he wanted when he leans down and slides his mouth over yours.

The kiss is soft. Slow. None of the usual heat and messiness that leads to hours of tangled legs and sweaty limbs. This one is patient, it’s kind. Clark tastes like tea and sugar, the kind of concoction that lulls you slowly back to sleep.

Before your consciousness slips away again, Clark murmurs a promise of sweet dreams.

You think you may already have that.

This farmlife experience is much more taxing than you expect. Hours of Harvest Moon on your old game consoles do nothing to prepare you for the ache between your fingers and the soreness of your shoulders. However, you suck it up and keep going because there’s no greater sight than Clark who delights in showing you the ropes.

You’ve fought off chickens all morning to feed them and take their eggs for breakfast. You’ve milked cows, delicate fingers wrapped around the hefty udders until you fill a whole pail. You’re grooming the horses and trying not to get your hair chewed out.

Again, it’s all worth it when you see Clark beam at you like the morning sun.

His eyes also keep wandering to your finger where he has already pointed out — “You’re wearing the ring.”

You blame the fever on your neck on the sun that’s barely risen. “I thought it would be best to wear it so your parents don’t get suspicious.”

The two of you do end up talking, agreeing on points in time that align for your supposed romantic development. It isn’t a hard task, not when you actually do remember those moments when you felt your strongest attraction towards Clark. The first time you slept together was redesigned as your first date. The arrangement of your… arrangement was reconfigured into a conversation about official labels.

Clark is close to your side, arms brushing as the two of you make your way back to the house. The basket of eggs hangs from Clark’s hand as his other one shifts to the small of your back — it hovers, present, but doesn’t touch.

He’s telling you a story from his days of youth and you’re throwing your head back in laughter. The emotions come easy here — honest in the early hours of dawn when it’s only you and him.

When you arrive at the house, you two spot Lois already nursing a steaming coffee mug in her hands. Her eyes dart between the two of you carefully, curious — almost calculating. Her lips quirk upwards at the sight and you’re almost shy by her response.

Unfortunately, Clark’s reaction has you stiffening. He clears his throat and takes a step out to the side. Away from you. Distance. You try not to let your hurt show but it feels as if there’s a giant stone sitting in the pit of your stomach that’s weighing you down, slowing your steps.

“What’s going on?” Clark asks, brows puckered.

It’s your turn to regard the two of them. Clark has always been comfortable with Lois. Kara’s teased him before for having a crush on her; perhaps that feeling still lingers. Worse yet, perhaps those feelings have only strengthened.

Once again, you reckon with the fact that Clark Kent is not yours. You have no right to be jealous, to feel possessive over a man who doesn’t belong to you. You were the one who put your foot down and swore off any actual romantic relationships, and Clark was never an exception.

If Clark wanted Lois — and if, by some luck, Lois wanted Clark back, who were you to stand in the way of true love?

So you force a smile and shake your head. “Nothing. I’m going to get cleaned up. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait—”

But you’re already turning on your heel and heading back inside the house.

+ sam: tumblr hit me with the block limit for the full fic so i figured this is a good separation point while i edit the second half!! happy ending i promise <33

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602

+ add yourself to my taglists!

[calamitous-luv]

Let me call my good friend Bruce Wayne Batman for some spare kryptonite real quick

[houseofhyde]

let's clear something up.

after months of dealing with hate being targeted towards me and my friends, i can no longer bite my tongue and just hope that, through remaining silent on a specific topic, it will go away and fade to dust.

i and many others were hesitant post about this on tumblr, out of a genuine desire to not bring unnecessary issues onto the platform. but, at this point, it seems everyone has something to say about us, despite knowing quite literally 5% of the story and not seeing a single ounce of proof of the claims being made against us. so, since everyone else is allowed to speak, now it's our turn.

back in november, when my friends and i began to receive hate, two writers took it upon themselves to create a groupchat with a few other people, in which they discussed agreeing with the hateful asks we were receiving. this agreement quickly turned into them drafting possible hate to send to us. as though drafting hate to send was not enough, these writers even had the audacity to comfort some of us in our DMS about the hate we were receiving.

(context for the screenshots: 1 of the members of the hate groupchat confirming it's existence to me)

(context for the screenshots: 1) the creator of the groupchat sending me comfort for the hate i had received only hours before creating the hate groupchat. 2) a portion of me confronting them about the groupchat. 3) them admiting to the existence of that groupchat. there are many more messages to this conversation, these are only brief sections.)

(context for the screenshot: and exchange between me and the member of the hate groupchat who leaked and screenshared the groupchat to someone else in bwa)

so no, bwa did not create a groupchat to send hate to anyone, someone created a groupchat to send hate to us. and no, bwa did not send death threats to other writers, death threats were sent to us. we have shared countless screenshots in the past depicting the disgusting things that were being sent to our inboxes, and were then mocked by people for “playing the victim”. it is downright evil that the things people have done to us has somehow been spun into this lie where we are now the perpetrators.

i understand that to most of you this doesn't matter, that this is not important. and i agree, i really do. but this whole ordeal has reached a point well beyond us being slandered by people who simply don't like us. since november, i have watched my friends be put through incredibly distressing situations. death threats, rape threats, homophobia and racism are just a few of the things that have been sent into our inboxes and/or directed towards us through anonymous blogs. some people have deactivated, some people have received hate for simply daring to interact with us, some people have abandoned tumblr as a whole, and now we have been made aware that lies are being spread... and all of this is happening over fanfiction.

i'm aware that, in posting this, it's not going to change much. those who believe the vile, baseless, receiptless claims that have been made against myself and others will continue to do so. if anything, they will feel an even stronger sense of hatred. i don't expect people to care about this matter, because it's ultimately a lot more fun to be outraged at a group of strangers than it is to feel an ounce of sympathy for them.

i am not posting this for drama. if i wanted drama, i would have posted about this and tagged those involved the moment this all began back in november. i am posting this because 5 months of constant harassment is now bordering on stalker behaviour and, quite frankly, i no longer feel it's my job to "keep the peace" for the sake of not upsetting anyone.

being quiet has done nothing: we have continued to receive hate, and other writers are comfortably twisting the truth and accusing us of doing the vile things they did to us. this situation has extended beyond just "bwa", the entire community is now riddled with other tumblr users being spoken about horrifically.

everyone needs to lock in and remember that we are all here for the same reason: fanfiction. fanfiction is not a competition, it's not a race we all need to win. it's literally just a hobby. why are we treating it like it is a matter of life and death?

i don’t really know how to end this post. i have so much more to say and share, yet i do not want to bring more harm to people, even if they themselves have carelessly hurt so many others. so, i’ll end it by saying this: names have been kept hidden in the screenshots out of the scarcely remaining respect i have for the people who made that groupchat and out of hope everyone can just move on, once and for all.

tw!! death/suicide threats. if you've read this and are unaware of the extent of the hate myself and others have received (and are now wrongfully being accused of doing), this is a post i made addressing it back in november. this is nothing new.

[tw1sters]

i've stayed pretty quiet about the hate i've received here — partly because i didn't want to bring negativity to my space, mainly because i refuse to give assholes a platform.

while i hate bringing "drama" to my timeline/blog, i'm exhausted seeing the lies that keep spreading with no proof behind me and my friends' backs — and yes, genuinely, that is what we are, as hard as it is to believe. these are people i talk to everyday, that i've shared parts of my life with, and i've even met in person!

the fact that this just keeps going and keeps getting worse is where i now draw the line. if you want to see some of the incredibly shitty messages i've gotten in my inbox for over three months, click below.

this doesn't even come close to what other people have gotten so you can imagine the fucking horrors we've been put through.

if you've ever spoken to me personally, you'd goddamn know who i am as a person. i don't tolerate bullshit, i don't enjoy seeing my friends being fucked with. it must be hard for this person/these people to understand but i have a life outside tumblr; i work a full-time job, i'm planning a goddamn wedding to my first and only husband, and i maintain a decent fucking social life. i have a life.

you have to be on a whole other level of insane to be spending time sending hate to people you don't know. you have no idea what someone is going through outside of the shit you see online, what you see here is a fraction of how i spend my time. you have no idea if the messages you send could be someone's last straw. be goddamn kind. it's not that fucking hard.

one last note is that even if you come back into my inbox, i will keep ignoring you <3

[calamitous-luv]

im so sorry for all the writers on the receiving end of this...

but fr why are the HATE still happening for MONTHS??? girl people are literally DYING the world as we know it is ENDING the economy is COLLAPSING people are trying to find comfort in fan fiction and these people sending hate have lost their minds i swear

if only they spare a fraction of their energy on something Consequential instead... go outside ffs

[calamitous-luv]

watched the Supergirl trailer and I want to beat Clark Kent w a hammer

[calamitous-luv]

Also like this???? Clark mentions himself 3x in ONE paragraph of an article thats supposed to be about Supergirl Clark I will find u!!!!

[calamitous-luv]

watched the Supergirl trailer and I want to beat Clark Kent w a hammer

[esote-rika]

I DON'T EVEN DARE TO WISH IT

summary: A concerned Spencer Reid shows up at your doorstep when you miss two days of classes, bearing take out and gentle reassurance. Somehow he ends up in your bed. contents: 5.2k words, hurt/comfort + fluff! (Don't let that bed thing fool you it's clickbait) prof!reader monumental crash out/breakdown (SO much crying, forgetting to eat, cancels her classes), fake relationship (OR IS IT), no use of y/n, reader wears glasses, and is described to be kind of broke, insecurities, possibly inaccurate depiction of post grad education, reader doesn't like talking about her dissertation (mecore), domestic fluff. a/n: Sorry it took so long lol real life was actually kicking my ass and I'm convinced I forgot how to write like idk how I feel about majority of the writing on this EUGH pls let me know what you think bc I had half a mind to delete the whole thing. It's so disgustingly self-indulgent, but very soft and sweet, I wish he was real 💔gif by the GOAT @reidgif

You can count on your two hands the amount of times you've cancelled your classes.

Often, the reason is you'd caught something so contagious it would be downright irresponsible to subject other people to your presence. Once, because you'd gotten into an accident (not your fault, though it totaled your car and you didn't have the money for a replacement. You are still using public transport to this day.)

But you do not cancel classes if you could help it. Fevers? Paracetamol. Too much on your plate? Sleep isn't that important.

Teaching higher education does have a tendency to be slightly more lenient on these things. You know professors who do it. Higher than you in the hierarchy. Figures of authority, respected people, not just the slacker newbies or the lazy hotshots.

But you love being in class. You love physically standing in a room and coaxing ideas and participation from your students. You wouldn't be in this field, barely making money doing this if you didn't.

And most days, that love and passion is enough to push you forward, even when you're swamped. Even when it's socially acceptable to take the time off to catch up on research or grading, the same way some students will skip one class to prepare for another.

Today is not one of those days.

Last night, you'd received two emails back to back, both of which contain bad news. You'd lost several minutes just staring before gathering enough courage to read, and even then, you're convinced the universe is conspiring against your academic career.

Rejected for a scholarship grant from a few months ago—the one you had been hoping would allow you to teach a lower course load for the next semester.

As if that isn't enough, your PhD. advisor returned your initial data findings with a very succinct note on top of the document: Insufficient. Stop skipping over steps and go back to close reading the material before applying theory. And then, beneath it, a long list of suggested books to add for your related literature.

You thought you'd gotten over it last night—already spent an embarrassing two hours just sobbing over the amount of work you'd have to do. Woken up to disgusting, puffy eyelids in the morning, the color of an angry rash.

But no, this morning, somewhere between your coffee and brushing your hair, the tears inevitably started to fall again. Creasing the impeccably applied makeup that was meant to hide the evidence of your tears last night.

Despite your notes being in perfect order, and your discussion outlines ready to go, you do not feel like you're in any state to be seen in public, much less teach, so you do something you've never done before in your four years of teaching: you cancel your classes. For attendance, you place a discussion board up and ask them to submit a 200 word discussion about the poetry reading assignment you had previously assigned.

It's early enough in the morning that none of your students would have been in class yet, though some early risers reply with thoughtful platitudes. You'll deal with the rest of the paperwork later.

With that taken care of, you take the biggest, most grounding inhale before dealing with the brunt of your work: your dissertation.

Insufficient data. It blinks up at you like a curse, and you almost want to throw your laptop out of rage. Right, because reading through six books isn't enough. Like your advisor hadn't looked through your proposal, and fucking accepted it before you started in earnest.

The rest of the day is a haze. Truthfully, you don't get anything done, simply staring at the words before you as if they've somehow transformed into an incomprehensible language. You try searching for the reference recommendations, intending to make some headway through the readings, but only find half in the local libraries. Some bookstores carry the titles, but between the shipping and the prices of each book, there's no way you could afford all of them. You're too tired to try searching through the annals of the internet.

By the time night arrives, your vision has started swimming. No amount of blinking makes the stinging in your eyes go away. Possibly a mixture of strain and the excessive crying you've done all day. There's a dull throb by your temples and the space between your brows feel like something's trying to push from inside out. You haven't had anything to eat.

Still in this frustrating, zombie-like haze, you sent and email the classes you have tomorrow and cancel them too.

Two canceled classes in a row. That's a new record.

With a sigh, you force yourself to eat a couple of crackers until the pain in your stomach subsides and your apartment stops swimming whenever your gaze lifts from your laptop. Sleep tugs at you, sweet and insistent, just as the last of your laptop's battery drains.

You wake up to knocking. Sunlight drenches your apartment in brilliant gold, harsh in its brightness, which tells you it's late in the morning. Possibly noon. The screen of your laptop remains blank when you press the power button, indicating it's dead, so you reach for your phone to check the time.

1:26 pm.

Well shit.

The knocking persists, and you're forced to ignore the 40-something notifications on the screen in favor of whoever is on the other side of your door.

"Hold on, I'm coming." you push your glasses up your nose, blinking as the world sharpens and comes into focus, and tug a robe over yourself. There's an incessant throbbing at your temples and your legs feel wobbly. Fuck's sake.

You crack your door open with a grumpy frown.

Spencer Reid stands right outside, properly dressed and bouncing on the balls of his feet nervously. His face is filled with an innocent concern that morphs to confusion, then slight amusement, before settling back to concern.

Your frown deepens. "What're you doing here?"

"It's the second day you've missed work," he says, voice low and soothing, like he's afraid you'd slam the door in his face. "Didn't return any of my texts, or Carrie Myers'. We both agreed it wasn't like you, so I came to check."

"Don't you have classes?"

"It's my lunch break." he lifts a paper bag, smiling. "I brought ramen. I figured you'd want something with a broth, in case you're sick… are you sick?"

"No," you admit, opening the door wider to let him in. "I'm not sick, it's—wait, how'd you even get my address?"

"Carrie gave it to me." He sets the food on the kitchenette in the corner. He sweeps his gaze around, studying the state of your studio, and you wince at what he might find. What he might think.

"Are you sure you're not sick? Your eyes and nose are all red, there's tissue everywhere. I was debating buying some medicine too. People tend to get some form of cold as the weather gets lower due to the—"

"I'm not sick, Spencer, but thank you for your concern." You wave him off.

"Oh… then why?"

"It's my dissertation." you force a laugh, self deprecating.

He looks at you blankly.

You stare back at him. When it becomes clear he expects more explanation, you add:

"I got my advisor's feedback for my initial findings."

Spencer blinks, like he's trying to decipher a puzzle from your words. "You skipped classes because you got feedback?"

You cheeks burn, though you're not sure if it's from indignation or embarrassment. Most post-grad students understand that 'feedback' is code for I spent the next several hours sobbing and contemplating my life choices.

"Have you never had a draft return to you with so many corrections you want to, I don't know, just throw up?" you ask instead.

It's not his fault, you tell yourself, it isn't a universal experience to have crippling anxiety over feedback, after all.

He shakes his head. "Well, no. Feedback is part of the academic process. I find it to be very stimulating."

"Must be nice." you mutter, "Really, you've never cried over a shitty draft? Or a failed test?"

"I've never failed a test." He winces as he says it, like he realizes his words would just make you feel worse right after they're out of his mouth.

And he's right. Tears spring to your eyes at the unfairness of it all. Right. Of course. At some point, you must have forgotten he's a genius. How silly of you to think you're somewhat equals, just because you're friends. No, he outclasses you in experience, education, and intellect. He doesn't struggle over this the same way you do.

"Well, fuck, good for you." you try to say it as a joke, but the words fracture around a sob.

"I meant–" he isn't able to tell you what he meant as your embarrassingly loud sobs interrupt his words, and then he's right there, crossing the space and gathering you into his arms as fresh tears streak hot down your cheeks.

The world turns to slurry when he takes your glasses off and places it on the counter. Then, ever so gently, his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you into his chest.

You don't fight it. It's inexcusable, how many times you'd cried the past two days, but there doesn't seem to be an end to your tears. Especially now, when Spencer's got you wrapped up and pressed against him like you're sacred and fragile, something he wants to protect.

Something splinters inside you, and it erupts through your tears, free flowing and spurned on by his warmth. By his comfort. No one's held you like this in ages, you realize. You shudder in his arms, suddenly cold.

"Shhh," you feel his chin pressing against your hair, his free hand rubbing circles over your back. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just let it out."

You sob, half convinced you're ruining his blazer, and too exhausted to care. Beneath your cheek, the fabric grows damp from your tears, and sob even more, guilty now for dumping this on him when he was probably expecting someone delirious from fever. Instead, he's saddled with a weepy, mess feeling ashamed for being so vulnerable, and god you don't even want to imagine how you look right now.

Even more, it all feels so right, being held like this. Cocooned in his warmth and the clean, perfect smell of him, and the pressure of his arms around your body like a grounding force when you've been sick with anxiety and self doubt and stress.

"Sorry," you mumble voice thin and watery with tears.

"Don't apologize for having feelings and caring about your work." he whispers, the circles on your back continuing despite your tears subsiding. "I may not have the exact same experience, but I do understand the… the feelings of inadequacy and frustration and how overwhelming it can all get."

"No, like, I'm sorry for ruining your clothes. And making you worry."

"Don't be," you feel a deep sigh heave out of his body, the air tickling your ear. "If you're at a point where you've missed two days of work because of this, then you clearly needed a good cry, darling."

"I thought we agreed to only use that in public."

He laughs, slowly unwinds himself from you. His big hands cup your face, tilting your head up to look at him. Big, earnest eyes stare at you, the light making them glint amber. "I think we can make an exception right now."

You feel the swell of his thumbs smoothing over your skin, catching the lingering tears with a gentleness that makes you want to start crying all over again. And you must look like you're about to, possibly from a swift glassiness covering your eyes, or a quiver of your lips, because his whole face softens with even more concern.

He says your name and you watch his lips wrap around the syllables, languid and sure, like he likes the taste of them on his tongue.

Before you know it, he's pressing those same lips on your forehead, quick and chaste, leaving the patch of skin burning. His thumbs keep swiping over your cheekbone, back and forth, like it's instinct. And maybe it is. It's the same motion he does over your knuckles when he holds your hand.

You barely manage to keep yourself upright from the realization.

"I have to go back," he says, sounding apologetic, "I have a lecture at 2 that I can't miss, but I'll come here as soon as everything's dismissed, okay?"

"You don't have to." Your insistence is beginning to sound ridiculous, but he doesn't make fun, or get frustrated.

"I know." he presses his lips to your forehead again, a brief, almost noncommittal thing you're worried will occupy your mind for the rest of the day. "I know. But I want to, really."

And it's stupid, the way your chest tightens at that softness, the way you just want to sink into it and let him envelop you.

"Eat. Please." his head jerks back to the counter, at the takeout ramen he thoughtfully brought.

You nod, numbed by surprise and anxiety and an inexplicable, vague ache beneath your sternum.

You wish you could pinpoint where it is, file it as something fixable through medication or surgery, but you know deep in your gut that it isn't that type of affliction. If only it is; if only you could be rid of it through some magic pill.

Spencer looks like he wants to say more, but he lets his hands drop to your shoulders instead, squeezing there firmly, and then he's walking out the door, leaving you reeling in the middle of your messy apartment.

It takes a while before you're able to unroot your feet from the spot, blinking dumbly at the food he's set for you. Finally, you slump into your little dining set to eat, fully braced to have some cold noodles, but to your surprise, the whole thing is still warm.

Funnily enough, you don't think it's the cause of the warmth spreading through your whole body.

You apartment is a mess. Not in a quirky, lived in way either, but reaching slob levels, someone-might-suspect-you-of-hoarding kind of mess. Clothes strewn about, mixed with books and pens, stacks of papers from your students everywhere, like your small studio is a weird stew of everything that makes up who you are.

You're a little embarrassed that Spencer had to see it in this state—it isn't normally this bad, but the past few days have been so busy and then you hadn't had time to tidy up any of it. If you'd known he's coming, you would have at least hidden the worst of it. Shoved them under your bed or the closet, kept up the impression that you've got everything under perfect control.

But, having something in your stomach has given you some clarity. You move, albeit mechanically, to tidy your space, stacking back the books you don't even remember grabbing from the shelves, making your bed, clearing the takeout and other trash that might still be around.

Once your studio resembles something respectably habitable, you finally trudge to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror stares back at you, puffy-eyed and familiar, with skin that's somehow both dry and disgustingly oily. You wince.

A small part of you twists when you realize Spencer saw you like this. Unadorned, raw, not very pretty. But it prompts annoyance from a bigger, more rational part, because why the hell do you care that Spencer Reid saw you in such a state?

It's the vulnerability, you think, it's not fun to be taken by surprise when you're in such a state, especially by someone who has never seen you this way before. After all, you've always prided yourself in appearing competent and professional, so as to avoid the judgment.

The small part tells you it's also embarrassment—he just saw you without make up, held you when you hadn't even made an effort to smell nice. Tells you that, as much as you'd like to pretend you're above it—the vanity of perception, this projection of confidence—you aren't immune to it.

What the actual fuck.

You strip off your pajamas and hop beneath the spray, welcoming the cold.

It will, hopefully, jolt these stupid thoughts right out of your system. It's a quick shower, almost clinical in the order—shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Lotion when you've dried off, then you leave your hair alone, knowing you'll probably regret it later.

Dressed and feeling slightly better, you curl up with your plugged laptop, this time not bothering with the dissertation. Not yet.

Instead, you file the necessary paperwork for your sudden absence, and read through the discussion boards you've assigned for your classes. Still doing work, still being productive, but avoiding what's been causing the bulk of your stress. You'll figure it out when you're in a better state of mind.

Around six, your phone rings. Dr Four Eyes. Spencer. Calling, which he rarely does. Usually, he'll text, but seeing as you'd accidentally ignored sixteen texts from him (and even more from Carrie), he seems to have taken the more direct approach.

"Hello?"

"Hey," his voice is soft, "Did I wake you?"

"No, do I sound that bad?"

He chuckles. "You don't, sorry. I just assumed you'd be sleeping or something. Getting rest."

"I told you, I'm not sick." Besides, you've done nothing but sleep and cry for the past day, you're getting a little sick of it.

He hums like he's not entirely convinced, and you hear faint chatter in the background. Sounds of life. You wonder where he is. You wonder if you can ask. Is that something the two of you can do? If he can come over unannounced, then you're allowed to ask where he is, right?

Yes. That's how friends work. And the two of you are friends.

"Where are you?"

"At a Chinese restaurant," he says.

Oh. You thought he's coming over. But before you could dwell on the dull sting of disappointment that shoots through you, he continues.

"That's why I called. Wasn't sure what you wanted."

Oh.

"Or if you even liked Chinese food. I should've asked first. I'm still in line, it's not too late to find another place, if you want something else."

"Spencer," you laugh, interrupting him before he begins to monologue, "It's fine. I'll have some lo mein, please."

"Got it," he replies, and you could almost see him nodding in earnest. "I'll be there within the hour, hopefully."

"Okay. I'll, uh, see you."

"See you."

"And Spencer?" your voice has lowered, suddenly a little shy.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

For a moment, all you can hear are the sounds of the restaurant, conversations and footsteps and music and clanging utensils all muffled through the phone. And then, "It's my pleasure."

—

He comes as promised, looking like some sort of messy haired angel bearing more takeout and a satchel. You let him in without suspicion or confusion this time, but feeling slightly exposed.

"Have you talked to Carrie? She's been worried sick, and I didn't have a chance to talk to her after my classes."

"Yeah, I did." You'd sent your friend a very apologetic text, and then another one that simply said comments about my dissertation. Carrie had sent a throwing up emoji and said I believe in you honey, let me know if you need any help.

Spencer makes a beeline for your counter again, unpacking takeout boxes like this is totally normal.

You clear your throat, feeling awkward in your own home, and begin laying out glasses and a pitcher of cool water, "I'm sorry you're stuck with me on a Friday night."

"Please, stop apologizing for something I volunteered to do." he replies gently, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice now. "Besides, where else do you think I should be?"

You shrug. "Out. I dunno, maybe with your–"

"My girlfriend?" he looks up, grins as if to say it's supposed to be you remember, and you want to simultaneously punch those dimples off his face and press your lips on each indent.

"Your friends." you glare, accepting your takeout box of lo mein with a huff.

Spencer laughs. "I think I'm exactly where I should be—taking care of my 'girlfriend' who missed two days of work."

And you really do try not to let that affect you because you know he's kidding, this relationship is fake, but there's warmth spreading just beneath your skin until the tips of your fingers tingle.

"Do you want to talk about it? The dissertation." Spencer asks. He's sitting on the armchair across from your bed and eating the rest of the wontons with a fork.

You'd both abandoned your sorry excuse of a dining table and found more comfortable spots. You're sitting cross legged on your bed facing him, napkins laid in front of you to catch any bits of food.

"Not really." you groan, setting aside your empty carton of food. "It's nothing bad, I promise. But I didn't get the scholarship grant I applied for either and I got saw the emails at the same time, so it was like… a lot."

"Oh, I'm sorry… I didn't even know you applied for a grant."

You shrug. "I passed it before I even met you. I guess it never came up. That's just how it goes, though—too many applicants, too little funding. Honestly, I'm used to the rejection, it just so happened to be one right after the other, you know?"

"It can be overwhelming." he's watching you without judgment, eyes the color of oak in the artificial light of your apartment. "If I could be of any help, you know how to reach me."

"Uh, if you happened to have eight grand lying around, I'd really appreciate it."

"I believe I'm your fake boyfriend, not your sugar daddy."

"Ew, that sounds weird coming from your mouth." you wrinkle your nose, exaggerating your disgust, just to watch him smile. "Besides, you asked how you can help."

He laughs. "I guess I could sell my first editions, if you need the money that badly."

"Oh my god, please don't. Don't think I can live with that baggage." you lay down, still on your side so you can look at him, smiling. "But now that you've mentioned it, maybe you can help me find books. For my RRL."

He nods, the food pausing in mid-air. "Yes. Definitely, send me the titles."

"Tomorrow. I don't want to deal with it right now anymore." you squeeze your eyes shut and will the world to fall away. "I've kind of had enough of the pity party I gave myself."

"I don't think that's what you were doing."

"Wallowing in my pain isn't a pity party? Feeling sorry for myself and second guessing how I even earned my way into my candidacy isn't a pity party?"

"No." his voice gentles, which doesn't match the intensity in his eyes, "Self doubt is a human emotion, and you shouldn't flagellate yourself for needing a break once in a while."

You're quiet for a moment, but then whisper. "It feels undeserved."

"What does?"

"All this… cancelling my classes, not doing anything."

"You mean taking a break?" his brows furrow, and you're not quite sure what to make of the expression on his face. It's more intense than you're used to, like he's ready to begin arguing.

"This—I don't need a break. Nothing about what I do warrants something as dramatic as this."

"You're a Phd. candidate, doing research for your dissertation, writing and publishing shorter articles, all on top of teaching—what is it, three? Undergrad courses." Spencer points out.

You look down pointedly, lips pulled in a tight line. It's not really something you like discussing out loud, precisely because most people always sound so horrified.

You get nice things when you've accomplished something.

A break has to be earned. So does respect, and your position at the university, and your dissertation.

Which makes this impromptu vacation so much more guilt consuming. You hadn't done a good job. You'd been rejected. Rebuked, on two different instances. And yet you'd spent the last two days at home, crying like an idiot.

"Hey," Spencer says again, gentling his voice, "I'm sorry. You said you didn't want to talk about it. We can… I'll drop it for now."

For now. Hopefully, his eidetic memory fails him and it never comes up again (unlikely, but a girl can dream). You smile, eyes flicking up to meet his tentatively. "Thanks."

You watch him, sitting in your armchair. He seems so painfully right, limbs arranged in that haphazard way you've come to learn means he's relaxed, and you have to fight the urge to reach over and poke him, just to make sure he's real.

"What?" his brows have met in the middle again, but this time out of self consciousness, "Sorry, did you want more?" he angles the carton to you.

"No, it's okay. Don't feel like getting up."

"Oh. Well, here," he spears a wonton with the fork and stands, the food held aloft like an offering.

There's too little time to do anything but blink and accept, mouth parting for the food, eyes fixed at his ankle, which you judiciously decide are the most interesting thing in the room. And you thank the heavens that they are. Interesting, that is.

Otherwise, your mind would have done something unreliable and silly, like linger on how long his fingers are, and wonder what it would feel to trace the veins that crisscross over the backs of his hands and crawl up beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt.

But you are rightfully distracted by what peeks from his very professional dress pants—some very fun, very mismatched socks.

You reach out, hand curling around his forearm, both to stop him from going back to the armchair and to hoist yourself up for a better look. Black with robots on one foot, blue and gray stripes on the other.

"You do know socks typically come as a pair, right?" you say around the mouthful of food.

He shakes his head, settling on the edge of your bed, tentative as if he's afraid of imposing. "I'm aware. This is a deliberate choice."

Like a fool, you scoot to give him more room. More encouragement. Spencer takes the hint and fully situates himself by your legs.

"I didn't realize the great genius doctor Spencer Reid had such strong fashion choices." you grin when he laughs.

"It's a… thing. A luck thing."

"A luck thing?"

"Bad things tend to happen when I wear matching socks."

"That's oddly superstitious for a man of science."

"It's not superstition if it's backed by statistics."

You fully sit up now, grinning, eager to prod at his hypothesis. "Do you mean to say you've conducted enough research to reach this conclusion?"

"Indeed. I'm 81% more likely to stumble when my socks match."

"You don't think you've just conditioned yourself into being more clumsy on those days, just to subconsciously prove a point?"

Spencer shakes his head defensively. "The clumsiness isn't the only manifestation. A bad exam result–"

"I thought you'd never failed a test."

"A bad result doesn't always mean a failed one," he counters, smirking.

Your eyes roll at his smug expression, but the smile twitching at your own lips makes the action comes across fond. "How long ago is this data? I doubt you've taken any recent exams."

"Old… it started when I was young."

"How young?"

"Six." He says, laughs at the look of incredulity on your face. "Maybe it's outdated data, but the socks stuck."

"Mhm, FBI agent, professor and a fashion icon. What can't you do?"

Spencer laughs, and you have half a mind to record him, just so you can replay it over and over again. He offers another bite to you, and you've relaxed enough to accept it, though your gaze is still fixed on his silly socks.

He's quiet for a moment, wiggling his ankles to make you chuckle.

"You know, while it may be true that I've never failed an academic test, I have also failed others." he murmurs.

"Like?" you sit up, knees tucked to your chest, arms banded around them. You're on one end of your bed, and he's sat on the other. Casual, intimate.

Platonic, you tell yourself.

"Gun qualifications. I was really bad at those. Physical exams–oh, I had to be in remedial for those." he smiles, gaze dropping to the patterns on your bedspread. "Honestly, in my first few years with the FBI, my mentors had to write multiple letters vouching for me before I could be allowed on the field."

"So what I'm learning is you're a teacher's pet."

He laughs. "I'm just saying. I've… Earlier, when I said I've never failed one. I misspoke. I'm sorry I upset you."

"No, don't," you sigh, resting your chin on your knees. "It's okay, I was already upset. Anything would have set me off."

"Even so. I don't want you to think I'm unfeeling, or insensitive. I—it's hard for me to read the room, sometimes." he reaches out, gently takes one of your hands.

You have the urge to pull away, only because it feels good and you want him to keep doing it. Doing this, even when the two of you are alone and there's no need to act like a couple.

You squeeze his hand instead. "I don't think that about you at all."

He smiles, soft and warm and not the first time, you feel utterly doomed.

"Maybe not, but I'm still sorry. And… well, yes, I do know how it feels to be so anxious over something it makes me physically ill." he squeezes your hand back and doesn't let go. "And if that's how you've been feeling since yesterday, then you shouldn't feel guilty for missing a couple of days to sort yourself out."

"You said we wouldn't talk about it anymore." you remind him with a pout.

Spencer chuckles. Squeezes your hand again, thumbs moving in slow, absentminded circles like it's second nature, "All right, I'll stop. What do you want to talk about instead?"

"I dunno. Maybe nothing." you admit, feeling scraped raw. He honors it, staying quiet and holding your hand, until you add, "I don't want to keep you."

He shakes his head. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

"Even if you're just sitting with me, doing nothing?"

"I'm holding your hand." he says, tightening his palm around yours with a soft smile, "That's not nothing."

And maybe you've done nothing to deserve his kindness, or his company, but you smile and let yourself enjoy it all the same.

Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed! more prof spencer x prof!reader fics here!

[calamitous-luv]

"I've never failed a test." He winces as he says it, like he realizes his words would just make you feel worse right after they're out of his mouth.

I want to beat him up with a stick omg

[calamitous-luv]

i have a misadventures and a fml shot drafted but i haven't been able to touch them because!!! i have a million things to do!!! with an unmedicated ADHD!!! i am going insane

[atlabeth]

wishbones and clovers

masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem!gideon reader

summary: forced to sequester in spencer's apartment, the two of you finally make some progress in the right direction.

a/n: so this was gonna go a completely different way and then i had my brilliant writer epiphany and i know how the whole rest of this series is gonna go lol. i think ill be able to wrap it all up in 11 chapters but dont kill me if it ends up being more lol. anyways enjoy sorry it's been forever!! this is a bit of a slower chapter but it has a lot of sweet moments between r and spence, and you get to see more of r’s softer side :))) title from eleven eleven by conan gray

wc: 5.9k

warning(s): hurt/comfort, spence and r are cute and talk a lot, surprisingly fluffy!

You’re in Spencer’s living room. 

The thought hasn’t really left your mind since you got here three hours ago—spine ramrod straight as you stood in the kitchen, duffle straps wrapped around your hands tight enough to cut off your circulation as Spencer checked every nook and cranny of his apartment one last time with a gun you’re not sure you trust him to use. 

Since the moment you stepped foot into this building, you’ve spent most of your brainpower just trying to keep your breathing calm, steady, even, but it isn’t really working—even now, when you’re sitting inches away from an FBI agent meant to protect you from anything and everything. 

But that’s the problem. It’s not the fact that you’re playing Scrabble with an FBI agent because you’re using his apartment as a safehouse while his team tries to catch your stalker ex-boyfriend who might want to kill you. 

It’s the fact that Spencer Reid stuck his neck out for you for absolutely no reason—again—and now you can’t seem to think straight. 

It’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. 

There are much bigger things at stake here—namely your life. You’ve been looking over your shoulder every minute since you were forced into hiding. There is absolutely no reason for that to not be your primary focus. Instead, you’re playing Scrabble with Spencer and thinking about what it would feel like to kiss him. 

His lips are soft. His skin, too. His hazel eyes dart back and forth across the tile rack, likely putting together a whole dictionary of words he can make from his letters. He hasn’t taken the usual care to straighten his hair for the past few days of isolation, so his natural curls are starting to show more. 

You like it this way, you realize—the curls and the glasses over the straight hair and contacts. He still wears button-ups and trousers and dress shoes, dressed like he’s still on the job because he is still on the job, but it feels like you’re starting to get a different side of him than everyone else.

These feelings are even more dangerous here. You and Spencer were on equal ground back in the safe house, but now you’re in his apartment—his home base. Your only image of Spencer Reid for most of your life has been the golden child with the perfect life who has more of your father’s love than you do. 

Since this case started, he’s proven you wrong time and time again. And now you have the chance to learn just what makes him tick. You even promised yourself to be as nice as possible because he was doing you such a huge favor. That was a step in the right direction. Right?

But honestly, you’re surprised your dad even allowed it. On such short notice, though, it’s probably the best option. Spencer guarded Lila Archer in her own house, so this can’t be too different. 

You bite the inside of your cheek as you try to push that name out of your head. You don’t even know why she keeps popping up. You blame Elle for telling you about it in the first place—you could’ve happily lived the rest of your life without knowing Spencer Reid made out with a famous actress. 

Ugh. Why does it bother you this much? Why does it bother you at all? 

“You’ve gotta be coming up with a really good word,” Spencer says. 

You blink a few times as those thoughts dissipate like smoke, then look over at him. 

“What?” 

“You’ve been quiet for a long time,” he says, gesturing at the board with his head. “I either stumped you or you’re coming up with a really good word.” 

You sigh. More like you’ve been mentally torturing yourself over the most confusing feelings you’ve had since high school. Instead of ruining everything and saying it, though, you just push your tiles together on your holder and purse your lips. You’ve barely glanced at them since Spencer took his turn. 

“I wouldn’t blame you,” Spencer continues. “Not to brag, but I’ve won every Scrabble game I’ve ever played.”

“I bet it’s pretty easy when you’ve literally memorized the dictionary,” you say absently. 

“There’s actually only 472,814 words in the unabridged version of the Merriam Webster International Dictionary,” he says. “I know far more words than that.”

You raise an eyebrow as you look back up at him. “You know the exact number?”

“Of course.”

“What, did you count while you were reading it?”

He shrugs. “It happens automatically. I can tell you the word count of every book I’ve ever read.”

“War and Peace?” 

“587,287.”

“Les Mis?” 

“512,887.”

“Anna Karenina.” 

“349,736.”

He gives you every number without faltering, without even blinking. You just shake your head. 

“You’re insane. Has anyone ever told you that?” 

You see Spencer’s eyes gleam out of your peripherals. “You have.”

You huff and look back at your tiles. “There’s no way I’m gonna win.” 

“You don’t know that.”

You huff again and finally place down your letters, turning END into TENDER. You finally look up at him fully. “Is there any chance for me to win?”

Spencer bites back a smile. “No.”

He’s right, obviously. He beats you without even trying and demands another round. You accept on the condition that he makes you popcorn. 

“Okay,” Spencer says as he stands, “but you can’t look at my tiles.”

“Even if I did, you would still beat me,” you say.

“It’s about the principle,” Spencer insists on his way to the kitchen. “You don’t cheat at Scrabble.”

You hum. “Elle said you cheat at cards on the plane all the time.”

The cabinet shuts a little too abruptly, making you flinch. He tears the plastic off and crumples it up in his hand before he speaks again. 

“It sounds like you and Elle have gotten pretty close.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” You resist the urge to look at his tiles as you divide them up. “She was just… really nice to me. At the time I needed it the most.”

Spencer goes silent again. Your throat feels too dry. 

“You helped too. In— in a different way.” You pick at your cuticles, desperately in need of a trim. “I appreciate both of you more than you know.”

“I think I have some idea,” Spencer says. The microwave beeps then starts up. He comes back over a few seconds later and looks at you. “Did you look at my letters?” 

“You’re the FBI profiler,” you say. “You tell me.” 

He looks you up and down—narrows his eyes just slightly—then nods, apparently satisfied. 

“You didn’t,” he says, and he starts setting his tiles on the rack. 

“You got that just from looking at me?” you ask. 

“Of course not,” he says. “You’re so loud handling the tiles that you couldn’t hide cheating even if you wanted to. I got it the second I walked away.” 

You huff yet again. He really seems to bring it out of you. “Why does the rest of the team ever play cards with you if you’re like this?” 

Spencer shrugs. “We take so many flights. Losing to me is more interesting than doing nothing.” He smiles inwardly, and you unconsciously do the same. “Besides, they should expect me to count cards. I’m from Vegas.” 

You shake your head. “You’re impossible.” 

“At least we’re making progress from insane,” he says. 

You lose again. And again. The popcorn makes up for it, at least—you don’t admit that it is, in fact, better than the safehouse popcorn. 

After the fourth round of Spencer Reid Scrabble domination, you call it quits. You’ve been losing for six hours straight and you can’t take it anymore. You think you’ve exhausted your whole vocabulary, honestly. 

“What should we play instead?” he asks. “I’ve got a beautiful chess board here.”

“I am absolutely not playing chess against you,” you say affirmatively. 

“Could that have anything to do with you not knowing how to play?”

You scoff. “Of course not.”

“I can teach you,” Spencer says, his eyes lighting up. “I’d love to teach you!”

“Oh, no,” you shake your head. “I couldn’t ask you to waste your time like that.”

“How could I possibly be wasting my time?” he marvels. “We literally have nothing else to do.” 

There’s a part of you resistant to any kind of change, even something as small as learning a new game like chess. If you try something new and you’re not immediately good at it, you usually end up dropping it—it saves you from the shame of naivety, of asking for help or admitting you don’t know something or being painfully human. 

With Spencer, it turns into a whole new type of vulnerability. He forces anyone around him to either humble themselves before his endless amounts of knowledge, or admonish him for his intelligence in the hopes it boosts their own. It’s pretty obvious what most people choose. 

You’re trying to be better than everyone else around Spencer, though. The realization you had this morning, that you’d never deserve someone like him no matter what kind of person you tried to be, shook you more than you care to admit. 

It’s easy to hate Spencer. It’s harder to realize you like him. It’s terrifying to admit you want him to like you back. 

“...Fine,” you eventually say. “But you’re not allowed to make fun of me for how bad I am.” 

He’s already shaking his head. “Of course not. I’d never make fun of someone for wanting to learn something new.” 

Your lips quirk despite yourself. “You’d make a good teacher.”

Spencer smiles at that too. It’s a sweet, boyish thing—the sort of look that makes you forget he’s an FBI agent, that he’s seen horrors you could never imagine. How anyone stays as kind as him after all he’s been through, you don’t know. 

“You think?” 

“Definitely,” you nod. “Having everything you’ve ever read on call definitely helps, but you’ve got a curious spirit. You’d do well with high schoolers.” 

“I’ve never done well with high schoolers,” Spencer says wryly. “I graduated at 12. Part of the reason I buried myself in books was because I got bullied every waking moment.” 

You bite your lip. Case in point on how he ended up so kind. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

He shrugs and he starts off to find his chess set. 

“It’s just how life is.” His apartment is so small that you can still hear him talking as he rummages through his things. “I have two doctorate degrees with a third in progress, and I make the world a better place every day. I don’t think a single person who bullied me can say that.” 

“And that just means you can forget it all?” 

“Never,” he admits. “But it helps.” 

Spencer finds his chess board a few seconds later. He’s a very messy genius that somehow knows the exact position of everything. You haven’t dared to touch most anything since you’ve gotten here out of fear of ruining his orderly disorder. 

You stay silent as he sets the board up, explaining each piece’s name and function to you. You at least know the names, but not much else. It doesn’t bode well for a potential victory, but you’ve already given up on that possibility. 

He assigns you the white pieces and your first game goes at snail speed as Spencer explains practically every single move to you. You didn’t really plan to listen, honestly, but you can’t help it. 

Over your weeks of joint isolation, you’ve learned you adore his voice. He has a specific lilt when he’s explaining something—it’s the perfect teacher voice. 

Besides, there’s something so intimate about someone who knows practically everything taking the time to teach you about something, and being so gentle the entire time. 

Spencer never makes you feel stupid or slow when you ask him to clarify something—in fact, his eyes light up when you ask questions. He commends you every time you make a smart move without his help. You like it a little more than you should. 

You sigh, pushing that thought out of your head as you move your rook. You glance up at Spencer when you do, expecting him to tell you how bad of a move it was, but he nods instead. 

“Good move.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re already getting better, already learning how to read the board.” 

“I don’t think there’s much reading going on,” you say. “You’re going easy on me.” 

“I would never go easy on you.” 

“You’re totally going easy on me.” Spencer smiles the slightest bit as he breaks, and you grin at the sight. “I knew it.” 

“It’s just to help you learn,” he insists. “I wouldn’t be a very good teacher if I was just showing off the whole time.” His eyes flick up to you. “You don’t spend every class telling your students how much smarter you are than them, do you?” 

You chuckle. “No. I think some of those kids are smarter than me, though. I’ve written a couple of rec letters for some of them, and I won’t be surprised if they get into some Ivys.” 

“I hope you don’t take it lightly,” he says. “I asked my favorite teachers for letters of recommendation. I bet those kids are too.” 

Your smile grows more sentimental. Your students are what’s gotten you through the last couple of years—past the reminders of some of your worst mistakes, past your slip into alcoholism that nearly got you kicked out of your student teaching program, past your idle insistence on ruining your life in the name of hating your father and everything he stands for. 

Your science teachers are the ones that saved you in high school, after all. If you’re able to pay it forward and save even one kid like you, then it all will have been worth it. 

“Thank you,” you say softly. “That’s been one of the hardest parts about all this, honestly. Being away from my students.” You glance away with a sigh. “I keep worrying about them—about the whole school. That somehow I’ll drag them into this mess.” 

“You don’t need to,” Spencer promises. “The whole BAU is on this. They won’t let anything happen to you, and they certainly won’t let anything happen to your school.” 

“...Thank you,” you repeat. “I know you’re probably tired of reassuring me.” 

“Why do you think of me like that?” he asks. You weren’t expecting the question, and you look up to see his wholly earnest gaze, his creased brows. He’s hurt. 

For a moment, you don’t know what to say. You manage to stammer out a, “what do you mean?” 

“Every time I do something nice for you, or say something nice, you’re always surprised by it,” he says. “You always say that I probably hate doing it, or I wish I didn’t have to. You think of me as someone who just barely tolerates you, when that couldn’t be further from the truth.” 

Spencer’s rambling by now. You let him. 

“You— you’re incredible, and you don’t even realize it. You’re smart and passionate and witty and caring, but you never see it because you think everyone must hate you as much as you hate yourself.” He shakes his head. “Or you try to make them hate you once they start seeing the real you, because you think it’s only a matter of time until you disappoint them.” 

“That might work with other people, but it’s not gonna work with me.” Spencer meets your eyes and you feel like he can see right through you. You fight the urge to shift beneath his gaze. “You can’t make me stop caring about you. You can try, but it’s not going to work. Understand?” 

You’re reminded with big, neon flashing lights that Spencer is an FBI profiler who could probably write the book on the daddy issues you both share. It’s pretty hard to fool someone who’s been through it all before. 

“Who gave you all this nerve?” you mumble instead, because you’re not used to someone laying your whole playbook out in front of you. Why’d you have to catch feelings for the smartest guy on the planet? 

“Your dad,” he says. “And the hundreds of books I’ve read on human psychology.” 

That gets a faint laugh out of you. You suddenly feel very warm, your throat impossibly dry. 

“I’m going to get some water,” you say as you stand up. “Do you want any?” 

“Please,” he nods. At least you didn’t make anything awkward between you and Spencer—he just spouts what anyone else would consider a declaration of love on the daily. 

Love in relation to Spencer. Now that’s an unwelcome thought. The cold fridge air hits your face when you open it and helps it disappear a bit. 

“Where are your cups?” you call. 

“The cabinet next to the fridge.” 

“Thanks.” You glance back as you start filling them. “You’re not cheating, are you?” 

“How could I possibly cheat at chess?” 

“You can’t say that when I know you know all the possible ways to do it,” you say. 

“Of course I do,” Spencer agrees, “but there’s no point in cheating if I’m not trying to win. I’m just trying to teach you.” 

“Just wanted to make sure,” you chuckle. A red light blinks back at you as you start filling the water container up again. “Your Brita filter needs to be replaced.”

Spencer huffs. “I’ve been meaning to get a new one. I’ll put it on our grocery list if we’re in here long enough to need another delivery.”

“Do you think we will be?” you ask casually. You don’t want him to know your exact thoughts on being stuck here with him for longer than the safehouse. At least that place was twice the size of Spencer’s apartment. 

“...I don’t know,” he admits. 

“C’mon,” you say. You put the Brita back in the fridge and start walking back to the living room. Spencer accepts his glass with a quiet thank you as you sit back down across from him. “You’ve already been on one stalking case— I bet you’ve read about a whole lot more. What are my odds?” 

“Well, we have a suspect,” he says. “That already puts us in better territory than most stalking cases.” 

You take a sip of water, hydrating your dry throat. “Do you think it’s Mike?” 

Spencer looks at you, obviously taking immense care with his word selection. He probably can’t share every intimate detail of the investigation, but it’s more than that—he doesn’t want to upset you.

“I think he’s our best shot right now,” he says. “And I think he’s a coward of a man going up against the brightest, bravest people I know. If he is the one doing this to you, he doesn’t stand a chance.”  

Your throat is dry again. It feels like cottonmouth. You move your pawn without thinking too much about the move—you just have to do something. It’s too easy to forget about your true circumstances when you’re with Spencer. 

Spencer watches you for another few seconds, fully aware of what you’re doing. (He’s too good to forget his assignment over any sort of feelings for you, but a sick part of you wonders.) Mercifully, he doesn’t comment on it, just moves his own piece to capture the pawn you just used.  

“You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs. “You said you didn’t want me going easy on you.”

“So that means you were going easy?”

“I was helping you learn,” he says. “I think you’ve learned enough now.” 

“Fatal mistake,” you say wryly. “You never stop learning.” 

Spencer chuckles, and the air settles back into something mostly comfortable. You play the rest of the game in silence. 

-

Night comes quicker than you imagine.

You break for lunch after a few games of chess, and the conversation slowly gets back to normal. Spencer insists he can cook for you, but you decide you want to avoid the fire alarm going off on the first day. Instead, he claims a barstool and talks nonstop about everything and everything. 

He tells you who invented various kitchen utensils and devices. He explains everything you could possibly want to know about a refrigerator. He lets you know all the dangers of undercooking chicken, and you let him know you are not going to overcook it into rubber to make him happy. 

Eventually, when you’re both sitting at his kitchen bar eating, Spencer’s phone rings. He flips open his phone and presses it to his ear. 

“Spencer Reid.” His eyes flit over to you. “Hey, Gideon.” 

Your breath lodges in your throat. Every time your dad calls, it’s been an update in the case. Could it already be over? 

“Yes, she’s sitting next to me.” Spencer nods and looks at you. “I’m putting it on speaker.” 

You nod and he holds the phone in between the two of you. “You’re on speaker now, Gideon.” 

He says your name and you edge closer, practically hanging off your seat. 

“I’m here, Dad,” you say. “Do you have good news for us?” 

“I have news,” he clarifies, and your heart sinks. You didn’t realize how high your hopes had risen in such little time. “Hotch and Morgan didn’t get anything from Terrence Stevens. He claims his son hasn’t spoken to him in a decade, and Garcia’s dug up some records that corroborate it.” 

“What about Mike?” you ask. “I know Age— Elle and JJ were going to find him.” 

“They’re working on it,” your dad says. “That’s all I can tell you.” 

Your fork clatters against your plate as you haphazardly drop it and wrap your arms around your midsection. All of a sudden, it’s very cold in Spencer’s apartment. 

“So things don’t look good,” you translate. You try to keep your voice from shaking. 

“We’re making progress on everything,” he corrects. “Garcia is tracking him on all fronts, and from what we can tell, he’s nowhere near the two of you. You’re perfectly safe.” 

Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel any better. You’re too comfortable here with Spencer, to be able to forget the threat on your life constantly looming over you. You don’t know whether that says more about him or you. 

“I’m gonna shower,” you say to Spencer. “Let me know if there are any other crazy updates.”

“Yeah,” he says faintly. He hits another button on the phone and holds it back up to his ear. “It’s just me again, Gideon.” 

You scrape your leftovers into a tupperware container and put it in the fridge—and think about the newfound knowledge that the first electric refrigerator for domestic use was invented in 1913 by Fred Wolf, but ancient Iranians used what was called a yakhchāl centuries before that. Another side effect of your joint isolation is that your repertoire of fun facts has grown significantly bigger, courtesy of Spencer. 

You hear him talking on the phone distantly in the background—when you look up, you see he’s watching you. He takes the phone away from his ear for a moment. 

“There are towels in the linen closet,” he says. “Use whichever ones you like.”

You nod with a slight smile. “Thank you.” 

He mirrors the motion and goes back to talking with your father. When you walk past him, though, he catches your hand. You stop in your tracks to stare at him with slightly wide eyes, but he just squeezes your hand. It’s surprisingly comforting. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” Spencer says. It sounds like a vow coming from him. 

You nod shakily and squeeze back. 

“Thank you,” you repeat, words little more than a whisper. You let go and hurry off, your face burning. You can’t bring yourself to say it, but you hope he knows you believe him.  

You take a much colder shower than necessary. 

-

“Are you still there, Spencer?” 

He blinks a few times as he watches you walk off, then nods to no one in particular. 

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s going to take a shower.” 

“How is she doing?”

“Good,” Spencer says. “A-as good as she can be, in the circumstances.” 

He’s painfully aware of what Gideon’s probably thinking. Their last conversation about you didn’t go too well, and Spencer was very careful to not admit to anything—but knowing Gideon, it doesn’t matter. There’s very little you can hide from a profiler like him. 

“Good,” he echoes. “Nothing else matters if we can’t keep her safe.”

“I agree,” Spencer says. That much, at least, he doesn’t have to hide. He can’t even if he wants to—it’s far too obvious. “How are things on your end?”

“Elle and JJ went to Stevens’ address, and no one was home except for his very confused girlfriend. They searched the house and brought her in for questioning, but got nowhere.”

He has a girlfriend and he’s still tormenting you like this. Spencer is not a violent person, but he’s found himself wishing all kinds of awful things on Michael Stevens since he first heard his name. 

“They need to talk to more people,” Spencer says. “Any relatives around the area, or— or any friends or coworkers or acquaintances. This is our biggest lead, they should—”

“Stay the night?” Gideon guesses. “They’re checking into a hotel right now.”

“…Good,” he says. The sooner you get your life back, the better. 

“How are you doing?” Spencer asks after a beat of silence. “I know it can’t be easy leading this case.”

“I’m fine,” Gideon says, but Spencer isn’t sure how true it is. “It’s a weight off my shoulders knowing she’s safe with you.”

Just another reminder of the huge responsibility Spencer’s undertaken, and how much of a mess it’s become—there was probably some poorly-written romance novel out there with the exact same plot as Spencer’s life right now. 

He shakes his head to get rid of those thoughts. Now’s not the time. It’s never the time, actually—he needs to get that through his head. Just because you’re becoming friends doesn’t mean you see him like that. 

“Anything I can do to help,” Spencer says. He’s been going back and forth on Gideon since all this started, torn between his feelings for you and his loyalty to your father. He doesn’t know how he got himself caught up in something so complicated. 

“Everything is still quiet on your end?” he asks. 

Spencer nods, then remembers he’s on the phone. 

“Yes,” he says. “We haven’t even argued once.”

“Just don’t get too friendly.”

His face flushes, and he is very glad he’s on the phone. 

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ll call you back the second I know more,” Gideon says. He almost sounds pleased—apparently even a seasoned agent like Jason Gideon isn’t immune to thinly veiled, fatherly threats. “Have an uneventful night.”

“You too,” Spencer says, and then he hangs up. He takes a deep breath as he looks over at his bathroom door, the shower still running. He hopes you’re doing okay. 

Honestly, you’re handling this pretty well considering everything you’re going through. The unflinching veneer you’ve insisted on has been slowly chipped away at since the first day of this case, and Spencer’s doing all he can to help you replace it with something softer. 

He’s not just doing it because he likes you, even though that’s playing a factor in most of his erratic decisions of late. He genuinely cares about you, and he sees far too much of himself in you to ignore it—the parts that he’s been working on for years. He didn’t have to go through it alone, and he won’t let you go through it alone either. 

Spencer didn’t lie to your dad—everything doesn’t feel like a fight anymore. If anything, your numerous games of Scrabble were a peace offering. It’s all progress. 

He hears the shower turn off and he clears his throat as he stands up from the barstool. He decides to busy himself with cleaning up the kitchen—he’s read that it’s common in successful relationships to divide chores up like this. 

Any kind of relationship, he tells himself, including friendship—including bodyguard and protectee. It’s all perfectly normal. 

Spencer frowns. The thought of him as a bodyguard is still a little absurd. He still doesn’t really know why he got trusted with Lila, but it all did work out in the end. He just hopes it doesn’t come to that. 

Spencer doesn’t really want to think about what he would do if he ends up face to face with the man who’s been terrorizing you for months. 

-

“Spencer?” 

He starts, blinking a few times as he looks up from his array of DVDs at the sound of your voice. You’re leaning against the wall, clad in sweatpants and your usual GMU hoodie, and you give him the slightest smile. Even still, butterflies erupt in his chest. 

“There you are,” you say. “You were completely zoned out. Not really what you want from your FBI bodyguard.” 

He feels himself flush. “I was fully aware of my surroundings.” 

“Sure,” you say, but there’s a playful lilt to it. You wander over and sit down on the couch beside him. Spencer hopes you don’t sense the way his breath hitches for the barest second. “What are we watching?” 

“One of Garcia’s movies,” he sighs. “We did promise her to go through them. I just don’t know where to start. They’re all so… her.”

You laugh and pick up one of the DVDs—Legally Blonde—leaning over him to reach it. It’s almost comical how he has to make a conscious effort not to react any time you do literally anything around him these days. At least you’re not a profiler who can pick up on every miniscule action—it only makes him wonder if he was this obvious about Elle and JJ. 

“I watched Legally Blonde every night for a month my first year of college,” you muse. “I considered a pre-law track because of Elle Woods.” 

“Do you regret not going down that path?” he asks. 

“God, no,” you chuckle. “I would be the worst lawyer in the world. Teaching is one of the only things in my life that has felt right.”

“I don’t know,” Spencer says. “I think you’d make a decent lawyer. You’re pretty good at arguing.” 

 “I’m good at arguing when it doesn’t matter,” you say wryly. “All I’ve done these past few weeks is make your job harder. It’s why I’m so surprised you’re letting me stay here.” 

“It was the best choice for your safety,” he says.

“But I’m sure they could’ve found other places,” you say. “I wasn’t lying when I said I would sleep in a conference room. That’s preferable to going back to my apartment.” 

He shrugs. “We started this case together. We might as well end it together too.” 

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since I met you,” you say with a smile. 

You smile again, and Spencer is reminded of the day Gideon assigned him to guard you. That was really the beginning of the end. 

Spencer fell for you the moment you smiled at him. He’s a fool to think anything different. 

You get through Legally Blonde with no problems. Spencer can’t help himself from spewing legal facts or going on about the accuracy of the court scenes, but surprisingly, you don’t seem to mind. It’s night and day compared to your first movie night. 

You make it through a few more movies on Garcia’s list before Spencer starts yawning. 

“Wow,” you say with a laugh. “All that info dumping tire you out?”

“It’s 1 in the morning,” Spencer defends. “We shouldn’t be up this late anyway. It’s going to mess with your circadian rhythm.”

You stare at him, and then you laugh. 

“There’s nothing funny about disrupting your sleep schedule,” Spencer says. 

“It’s not that,” you say wryly. “You just said the exact same thing when I was drinking my sorrows away in the safe house.”

Spencer remembers. He brought you down from the edge of a panic attack, you shared a bed, you buried the hatchet. Mostly. 

Of course Spencer remembers. He remembers everything. He’s more shocked that you do. 

“It was true then, and it’s true now.” 

“I had bigger problems then, and I have bigger problems now,” you say wryly, but you still stand up. “How are we getting through the night, then?”

Spencer frowns. “By sleeping?”

“I mean where.” You cross your arms, shifting in place. “I’m fine with taking the couch, as long as—”

“You’re not taking the couch,” he says almost immediately. The thought is absurd to him, especially when it’s already worked once. “We’ve already shared a bed once and it went perfectly fine.”

“I— I know.” You sigh as you scratch the back of your neck. “It’s just— you’re already doing me a huge favor by letting me stay here. I don’t want to impose more.”

“You’re not imposing,” Spencer promises. “Honestly, it’s safer for you. If anything does happen, I’ll be there to protect you.”

You stare at him for a second, then you nod a few times. 

“Okay,” you say. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”

Of course it does, he wants to say. I always make sense. Somehow, he manages to bite his tongue. 

Spencer triple checks the locks on the door and windows while you go through your nightly routine. He would never forgive himself if something happened to you in general, but especially in his own apartment. He’s done enough geographical profiles to know he’s got the advantage on his home turf. 

He’s smoothing out the window drapes in his room when he hears your footsteps, and he turns around to see you standing there, spine just as rigid as when you first stepped into his apartment.

“You don’t have to feel uncomfortable here,” Spencer says. “I’m not lying about anything. You’re not imposing in any way, and I am genuinely okay with sharing a bed.”

Your lips twitch momentarily. “How do you always know exactly what I’m thinking?”

“I’m a profiler,” he says. “It’s my job.”

“Right,” you say. You graciously don’t state the more obvious reason. 

There’s another beat of silence before you both get in bed, careful to leave a significant amount of space between you. Spencer is more thankful than ever that he upgraded from a twin last year. 

He removes his glasses and turns the lamp off, leaving him keenly aware of your presence. You have the usual pillow barrier, but it might as well not be there with how crazy Spencer drives himself every time he’s this close to you. He would tell anyone else acting like this to get it together, but he’s apparently his own exception. 

“Good night,” Spencer says. He doesn’t speak louder than a whisper, worried of ruining the unspoken sanctity of darkness. 

“Good night,” you echo, so softly that Spencer aches. "And thank you. For everything."

"...Don't mention it," he murmurs.

There are so many things he wants to say to you, so many parts of his soul he thinks he could bare to you—but he can’t. He’s still not even fully sure you like him, not sure if you’re just tired of arguing and placating him. 

Spencer pushes all of that out of his mind with a long, shaky exhale. None of it matters, not when their unsub is still active. 

Turns out logic doesn’t always win out in his mind, though, because Spencer falls asleep to the soft sounds of your steady breathing—wondering if you think about him the same way he thinks about you. 

[calamitous-luv]

MY SHAYLAAAAAAAAA great as always i been missing them

[calamitous-luv]

I am so excited to see how you’re gonna reveal that y/n is supergirl! Like will it be a silly accident or like some big dramatic reveal. There’s so many ways to go and each have me knawing at the bars if my enclosure!

I wonder if y/n will take jimmy out of a date, and how would she navigate a real romantic relationship. Has she had much serious relationship experience? Would she study for it?

that’s my Ted talk, drink water🫡

i can sob reading this!!! your excitement is contagious and appreciated!!

ngl the next installment of the series is the reveal. im still working out the actual plot for it that's why it's taking so long!!

as for the relationship part, supergirl!reader has been seeing Clark and Lois, Ma and Pa Kent, her parents, etc and her teen relationships in Krypton. it's tricky timeline wise to pick and choose the canon (movie and/or comic books) because i based Jimmy on the movie and Clark canonically has only spent 3 years as Superman, but Kara arrived on Earth older than she did in the comics (at least in her 20s, she's at least 21 in the movie).

so yeah, I think it'll be really fun to figure out how she deals w long term attachment, their love languages, and the dynamic as Supergirl. I'm so excited to write it!!

[calamitous-luv]

psa

im slowly (SLOWLY) starting to post my works on ao3 so this is my acc

im still trying to figure it out tho so bear w me and if y'all have any tips lmk thankies

also my work is only available if ur logged in babes