Love Is A Funny Thing

What a thing, to be known |l 23

[ilyahugs]

an exclusive sort of casualness

word count: 4,657 ship: Garrett Graham x reader rating: NC-17 (for smut and a slight praise kink) summary: You and Garrett aren't officially together, though it doesn't stop either of you from acting like it. notes: i have a masterlist now bc i've lost control of my life. big fan of garrett calling the reader me 'baby', in this essay-- notes2: gifs are from this gifpack :)

When you started at Briar U, you didn’t think you’d be able to successfully balance classes, an unpaid internship and finding a job. You were lucky to stumble upon Malone’s—actually, lucky for a few reasons. For one, you were lucky that it was a popular spot for Briar U students because the burgers are incredible and the milkshakes are always thick and syrupy; not to mention there’s always cool events happening there. Everything from fundraisers to live music. You were lucky that Della was hiring and that she was willing to work with your complex schedule, basically giving you shifts any time you squeezed free time out of the universe. And most importantly, you were lucky because that’s where you met Garrett Graham your sophomore year. 

It’s just one of those things where you kinda clicked the moment you met. Shared classes and study sessions became seeking one another out at parties, and late night french fry runs and milkshakes. You went to his games as often as he came to check out art you’d make for on-campus exhibits. And one drunken game of flip-cup became soft kisses shared in the morning, delicate and tentative like the touch might disappear in the afternoon sun. 

But it didn’t. 

You are well aware of the rumors that Garrett Graham doesn’t do girlfriends; he’s got more ‘important’ things to focus on and can’t weather the distraction. You have a feeling it goes a little deeper than that and whatever, to each their own. You’re not exactly trying to hook yourself a boyfriend either. Not exactly. Though you’re not going to pretend you haven’t thought about it. Garrett would be a great boyfriend—he’s thoughtful and kind and loyal, he’s funny and does this thing with his tongue that makes your toes curl in your shoes just thinking about it. 

You’re having fun together, things are casual, but…at the same time, neither of you are seeking other people out either. An exclusive sort of casualness that you’re not sure makes any sense. Most of the time, you’re able to ignore that twinge in the back of your mind that wants to talk about it. To bring words to something unspoken. But it always seems like the wrong time. 

And above all that, you’re scared. Why ruin something that’s been working? Garrett is probably someone you can easily call your best friend. You not only get to depend on him, to laugh with him, to feel his support and how much he cares, but you also get to kiss him and share intimate moments that make your body ache long after they’re done. 

What if trying to talk fucks everything up? 

Garrett’s hand comes down on your knee, squeezing, “Bumble,” He tips his head down to catch your gaze, a soft smile pulling the corners of his mouth, “You okay?” 

You blink, glancing out the driver’s window to see that he’s pulled up to Malone’s. Shaking your thoughts loose, you let out a breath of a laugh, “I really think it’s time for a new nickname.” 

He purses his lips, tapping his fingers distractingly on the inside of your thigh, “I dunno, did you stop dropping trays of orders in there?” He motions towards the big windows of the diner and bar. 

Your cheeks heat, “I hate you.” 

Alright so bumble did sort of make sense. The first time you met Garrett at Malone’s you fumbled with a tray full of drinks. Luckily it was nothing hot, but they spilled everywhere. Garrett likes to tease that it was because you were distracted by his good looks…and you’re not about to tell him he’s partly right. You had been taken by surprise by your instant attraction when you saw him, but you’re also a klutz. Having a restaurant job is probably one of the worst things you could do in that sense. 

Garrett turns a little in his seat to face you, a laugh rumbling out of his throat, “I see. You want me to call you something cute, like baby?” 

Jesus Christ. 

Something heated crawls under your skin like liquid honey and you hate that you actually like the sound of his voice wrapping around those syllables. That you, embarrassingly enough, want him to call you that. Realization dawns slowly on Garrett’s face, his hazel eyes sharp with amusement and banked heat, 

“Oh,” He says slowly, voice low and dipping into places you do not have time to explore, “You do like that.” 

Garrett leans across the divide, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his hand moving from your knee to cup the side of your neck. His thumb drags over your quickening pulse point, “You’re gonna be late for work, baby.” 

You quickly squash down the urge to kiss him because that’s not going to help anything. Instead, you inch closer, dragging a hand down his chest before settling on his hip. His attention is sharp now, eyes darkening. 

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Graham.” You whisper, your fingers grazing the front of his jeans where he’s definitely getting hard. He draws in a slow breath, licking his lips. You smile prettily, bringing your hand back up and tapping his cheek. 

“Pick me up from work.” 

He smirks, shaking his head as you grab your bag and open the Jeep’s door to slide out, “So bossy.” 

“I think you like it.” You add pointedly, raising your eyebrows. You blow him a kiss before disappearing inside Malone’s, that conversation (again) lingering for another day. 

—

Malone’s is packed tonight, which you suppose shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. It happens every so often, especially when there’s an upcoming hockey game, like the one this weekend. Fans pour in, players find places to have decent food, and the drink menu has specials that are too good to pass up for a college budget. You feel like you’ve been moving around the restaurant with hardly any breaks in-between. Cleaning tables, grabbing refills, carrying food trays (without dropping anything, thanks very much), and when you manage to look at the time, you’ve got a half of an hour to your shift left. 

The little bell goes off to signal someone else coming through the door and you smile as you spot Logan and some other Briar U hockey players here for a late night meal. Logan connects eyes with you, offering a small smile as he heads to a booth, 

“He’s doing some extra drills with the rookies.” He supplies, even though you didn’t ask about Garrett. 

God, are you that obvious? 

“It’s okay,” You tell him, “I still got time on my shift, so.” You draw in a breath, settling whatever nerves that are for some reason sputtering in your stomach like dying butterflies, “I’ll grab you guys some menus.” 

Wandering back over to the bar, you reach over the counter to grab the menus, turning to head to the booth Logan and the other hockey players are hovering at. A glass drops, drawing your attention over your shoulder. 

This doesn’t happen often at Malone’s, but it is a bar…so the occasional drunken fight is bound to happen. You have no idea who it’s between or what even started it, but insults are being thrown and more glasses are dropped and a full out brawl starts between two guys at the bar counter. 

“Shit,” You mumble. 

A few others try to jump in and separate the people throwing punches and your gaze snaps to another waitress you work with, Marie, caught against the bar, trying to avoid flailing arms. You move before thinking otherwise, Logan saying your name in the background. You manage to get to her, closing your hand around her forearm, and right when you turn someone’s elbow snaps back—

And hits you right in the face. 

You don’t remember falling onto the floor, only Logan coming up beside you and helping you up. Your head is spinning, vision a little blurry, and the pain is ridiculous along your cheekbone and…did you bite your lip? You touch your mouth, your fingers coming away with bright spots of red. 

Fuck. 

—

A soft sigh leaves your nose from your spot sitting sideways in one of Malone’s booths. The fight got broken up and unfortunately the police had to be called to get it all situated but…at least the night was sort of salvaged? Della bought a round of free appetizers for all the tables that stayed after the mayhem and, you look at the time, your shift is over. So that’s something. 

Glancing up as the door to the diner opens, you can feel Garrett before you see him. He’s got this presence about him that always fills up a room, usually with teasing smiles, flirtatious energy and infectious laughter. Right now, however? When he turns the corner and you get a good look at him, Garrett’s resembling a raincloud that hasn’t spilled open yet. Crackling thunder and unstable lightning. 

“She wouldn’t let us call anyone,” Logan is saying, right beside him. He must have been waiting outside for Garrett to arrive, intercepting him before he burst into Malone’s with the energy of a hurricane. 

You narrow your eyes at Logan, adjusting the ice pack against your face. Your gaze says it all—traitor, “I’m fine.” You insist, voice muffled. You didn’t need an ambulance called. Nothing is broken and you got the bleeding at your lip to stop. 

Garrett’s jaw clenches, his nostrils flaring a little as he crouches in front of you; barely restrained anger. But the tone of his voice and his fingers are soft as he reaches to touch the uninjured side of your face, 

“Let me see, baby.”

Your stomach drops like a stone falling into the ocean. You’re pretty sure that the pet name was unintentional. He’s too distracted for it to be used to throw you off balance, to get your walls to drop and—and this is altogether too many thoughts to be spinning around in your brain right now. A headache pulses along the back of your eyes. 

“I promise I’m fine.” 

Garrett is patient, his hands gentle as his other one squeezes your knee, “Your stubbornness is noted, c’mon.” 

Rolling your eyes, you pull the ice pack from your face. Garrett goes very still, like some sort of statue carved out of marble. Suddenly you’re glad those idiots who got into the bar fight are gone because if looks could kill…

Garrett swallows, moving his hand to touch your bruised cheek. He carefully presses his thumb against your cheekbone and when you wince, a soft apology falls from his lips. Jesus, that fucking stings. Your eyes mist over when his thumb moves to touch alongside the split in your lip—yeah, that sucks, it’s going to make kissing difficult for sure. 

Garrett misreads your expression, leaning forward to kiss the spot above your eyebrow before standing, “Were those guys players or fans?” He asks Logan. 

You shake your head, reaching for Garrett’s hand. Logan shifts uneasily on his feet, glancing at you before looking back at his Captain. “Uh, players. I think.” 

You place the icepack on the table, standing from the booth, “Garrett.” 

Logan glances between you two, clearing his throat, “I’m going to go…over there.” He motions to the counter where Marie is, walking away before anyone says anything. 

Your other hand moves to force Garrett’s chin in your direction, waiting until his hazel eyes meet your own, “Don’t even think about it, okay? It was an accident.” The last thing you want him to do is to get into a stupid fight on the ice over something like this. 

“If you want to do something, you can take me home. I have the worst headache.” 

Garrett lets out a long sigh from his nose, taking your hand off his face so he can kiss your knuckles. But at least he nods, defending your honor (no matter how misguided), forgotten. 

—

It always sort of seems universally unfair that Garrett, for whatever his reasons, doesn’t ‘do girlfriends’ because he’s always proving in one way or another about how good of a boyfriend he’d be. 

Over the next week, not only does Garrett make sure that you’re healing properly but he goes out of his way to do other things too. Things that he’s done before and yet…you can’t stop thinking about him calling you baby, how you wanted to hear it again without telling him so. 

After he drops off dinner at your dorm before he heads to practice, with a gentle hand on your cheek brushing over the fading bruise underneath your eye and a kiss to your temple, you close the door with your heart in your throat. 

Your roommate on the couch raises her eyebrows at the interaction, pursing her lips, “If not boyfriend, why boyfriend shaped?” 

You let out a soft laugh, the back of your neck warm, “Shut up or I won’t share my mozz sticks with you.” 

She grins, pretends to zip her lips closed and heads to the kitchenette for plates. 

—

Another party thrown at Briar U like the day is ending in Y. You can’t even remember what frat house you’re at, only that Garrett is going to meet you here after his game. A game that he fucking killed by the way. You go to games when you’ve got the time off work; it’s fun seeing him in his element even though you wouldn’t consider yourself a hockey fan. Or any sports fan, really. But the energy of the crowd and camaraderie of school spirit and…the way Garrett sometimes looks to the stands and locks eyes with you, giving you that boyish grin…

Yeah, it’s definitely something to get used to. 

Grabbing a canned drink from a cooler, you pop it open and turn—and almost knock right into Pete. “Oh shit,” You laugh softly, “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s my bad.” Pete, who's tall and has goldish brown curls and blue eyes and handsome in that sort of textbook kind of way, “Oh I meant to tell you, I uh, I took notes for you. From ethics.” 

You raise your eyebrows as he turns, seemingly looking for something. He grabs a backpack from the floor and tugs out a notebook, ripping the notes right out of it to hand over. You smile a little because that’s…

“Hey.” 

You turn at the sound of Garrett’s voice, coming up behind where you’re standing. He’s freshly showered, you can smell the mint in his shampoo mixing with the cologne he usually wears. He’s got on black jeans, a black t-shirt and his oversized leather jacket, the familiar gold chain resting against his chest. It’s definitely not anything new and yet your heart leaps in your chest all the same. 

You smile up at him, “Hi,” You bump your shoulder against his arm, “Great game.” 

“Thank you.” He smiles, something warm and soft; just for you. Then he glances at—

Right. Pete. You clear your throat, “Oh this is Pete, he’s in my ethics class.” 

Pete nods, dropping his backpack down against the couch, “I was just giving her notes that she missed.” 

“Which was very sweet,” You add, folding the notes that he handed over to slip into your backpocket. You look back up at Garrett, “My opening shift at Malone’s took longer than I thought today and I missed half the lecture.” 

Garrett hums, “You take notes for all the girls in your class?” 

The comment lands like a rock in a pond and your mouth opens slightly even though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say. If Pete picks up on the possessiveness in Garrett’s reply, he doesn’t show it, he only smiles and adds, 

“Only the smart ones.” 

The muscle in Garrett’s jaw twitches and Pete kinda clears his throat, smile withering, “Right well. Uh,” He tips his beer in your direction with a light laugh before disappearing. 

You shake your head, turning to look up at Garrett before lightly smacking him in the chest, “What was that about?” 

“Nothing,” He replies but his voice is pitched and his nose is crinkling and he’s pissy. 

And—oh my god. Your mouth falls open. No fucking way. 

“Are you…” Garrett gaze meets yours, raising his eyebrows, “Oh my god, you are. You’re jealous.” 

He scoffs out a laugh but you swear you pick up on the slightest tint to his cheekbones, “You wish, bumble.” 

“I don’t have to wish, your face looks like it's sucking on a lemon.” You inch closer to him, tipping your chin up to lock eyes, your bodies pressing together like puzzle pieces. “So now I’m back to ‘bumble’?” You ask, “What happened to ‘baby’?”

Garrett runs his tongue over his teeth, picking his hand up to brush the back of his fingers along your cheek where that bruise from Malone’s has healed, “I think you like hearing ‘baby’ a little bit too much.” 

Your reply is instant— “Maybe I do.” His eyebrows tip up before that soft surprise melts into heated longing. 

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve kissed Garrett. How many times both of you have touched eachother, fingers and lips and tongue and teeth—but something about this feels different, charged at the edges. More real, somehow. Like balancing at the precipice of a cliff. 

Pressing yourself up on your toes, your lips graze his, “Say it again.” 

Garrett nips at your lower lip with his teeth, a small smile toying with the corners of his mouth. “Baby.” He whispers. 

The moment the word comes out of his mouth, you kiss him with a force that nearly knocks him back on his heels. You enjoy the way his arms automatically wrap around you, almost lifting you from the floor, you enjoy the way you can feel him smiling against your mouth, his hands tangling in your hair. There’s a desperation there, like neither of you want the other to stop. 

Distantly, you feel Garrett back up, dragging you somewhere. You could care less where you end up. 

A door opens and closes and part of you wonders how he even knew where he was taking you, a flutter of a laugh leaving your chest as you pull back, just a little to see—

“We’re in a storage closet.” 

Garrett’s hands slide down your body, gently cupping your ass by his fingers slipping into the pockets of your jeans, “Yeah, I saw it when I walked in on Pete trying to make a move.” 

“Oh shut up,” You laugh, making him smile. “You’re lucky being jealous kinda makes you hot.” 

“Kinda?” He asks, a mock offended scoff tumbling out of his mouth. His hand moves to caress your cheek, brushing along your jawline, “Guess I gotta work on that.” 

You press a kiss to his chin, peppering them down his neck. Your hands move to unbutton his jeans, tugging at them when you pull back, “Don’t worry—I know exactly how you can do that.” This is utterly ridiculous but the great thing about Garrett? He never disappoints in playing along. 

“Oh yeah? How’s that?” 

You slide your hands along his shoulders before slipping them into his leather jacket, helping him slide it off his body. It lands on the floor near some cans of tomatoes and you plant a kiss directly under his ear, “By enjoying what I’m about to do to you.” 

In your opinion? Male moaning is severely underrated—and Garrett’s got that going on in spades. There’s something about him being the prince of Briar U hockey, something about him being such a figure on campus, a legend, bold and strong and fucking so confident it’s almost cocky. 

Something about a man like Garrett melting under your touch, groaning when he enjoys something, moaning that he wants you to keep going, that you’re good at it. Heat gathers low in your stomach at the idea, sinking to your knees, drawing the zipper of his jeans down as you go. 

A sharp gasp leaves Garrett’s lips as you push his jeans aside, your lips pressing to the head of his cock through his briefs. He’s already hard, making you throb between your legs. Ignoring your own needs, you tug down Garrett’s briefs to free him. His cock points towards his stomach, head slightly red, leaking precum. You chance a look at him as you wrap a hand around the base, the flushed pleasure on his face almost enough to send you over your own edge. A tiny whimper leaves your throat, your other hand sliding behind his thigh to anchor yourself and you draw in a breath before wrapping your lips around the head of his cock. 

“Fuck,” He groans, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck, “That feels so good.” 

That’s exactly what you’d been after—the sounds emptying from deep in Garrett’s chest, the way his hand squeezes the back of your neck or threads through your hair, the swivel of his hips every so often, the way his thighs shake. Every single piece of it; his reactions are so genuine, so sexy. He’s not trying to perform for anyone, he’s not trying to play it cool. He’s just feeling. And you’re doing that for him. 

It doesn’t take long, building him up, and then suddenly he’s moaning your name. And the moment he says fuck, gonna come, baby—you lose it not long after he does. You pull off of him, reaching your hand down to slip it into your pants, finding your clit, rubbing once, twice and coming. His name is definitely on your lips. 

Over and over as those waves crash into you. 

Garrett reaches for your shirt at your shoulder, pulling you up. You can’t stop yourself from smiling as he cups your cheek to kiss you. You tuck him back into his briefs, fingers lingering at his waist and a soft moan leaves your lips as his tongue licks into your mouth—

Then the storage door swings open. 

Both you and Garrett turn your attention to the random guy who’s in the doorway, everyone blinking at eachother like the Spiderman meme brought to life. 

“Uh just…was looking for…chips.” He says. 

You look around on the floor, spotting some tucked into one of the shelves. You reach down and grab them, passing them off in his direction. 

“Thanks.” He replies…and slowly closes the door. 

A laugh breaks off in Garrett’s throat and you can’t help but look at him and grin, giggling too. He pulls you into another kiss, though both of you can barely stop laughing to do it properly. 

—

A few days pass in the normalcy that you’re used to. You and Garrett are exactly as you’ve always been and yet that same sticky sensation settles in the bottom of your ribcage. It’s always felt…unavoidable and suddenly it becomes exactly that. You want to talk to him about whatever it is that the two of you are doing. 

You don’t want to exist in half truths anymore, in both exclusivity and casualness. You can’t. 

It takes a minute to track him down. When you finish your shift at Malone’s and you don’t find him at his place, it takes one call going to voicemail for you to realize he must be at the rink. There’s not a scheduled practice, so at least you don’t have to worry about having this conversation in front of an audience. 

Rubbing your arms against the chill, you smile as wander through the bleachers and walk right up to the ice, watching Garrett’s lean and powerful body shoot pucks towards the goal. Most of them go right in, only one or two knocking just short. He really is something else. 

“If you wanted a private viewing, all you had to do was ask.” 

A small laugh slips through your lips as he notices you, skating over in your direction and bumping against the boards all too gracefully. He’s not in full gear, just a pair of dark jeans, a hoodie and the oversized leather jacket. 

“I wanted to talk to you.” 

Garrett licks his lips with a soft nod, giving you a onceover before backing up a bit on his skates, “Alright. If you come on the ice with me.” 

You raise your eyebrows, another laugh leaving your chest, though this time it sounds incredulous. “Uh, no. I’m not dressed for that and you know I can’t skate for shit.” 

“Aw c’mon,” He shrugs his jacket off, getting close enough to you that he can slip it over your shoulders, “You know I won’t let you fall.” 

You’re shaking your head even though you’re sliding your arms through the sleeves of the jacket. You can feel the residual heat left behind from his body and smell remnants of his cologne and…you hate how that’s pretty much all it takes to convince you to put skates on. 

You’re like Bambi, wobbly as fuck as you eventually make it onto the ice. Garrett reaches for you, holding onto your hand, a small laugh rumbling his chest. 

“Shut up,” Though you’re laughing too. A small squeak leaves your lips as you attempt to remain upright—how are you supposed to have a serious conversation when you’re swimming like this? “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” He skates by your side, squeezing your hand every so often, “Your legs are too far apart.” 

“Never heard that complaint from you before.” 

Garrett laughs, something warm and loud and it fills up your entire chest. You grin at him but lose your fucking footing and your entire life flashes before your eyes as you scramble for purchase. Garrett is quick to pick you up but it just throws you both completely off balance. 

And then he’s down on the ice with an oof!, you on top of him. 

You wince and lean up a little but…you’re pretty sure no one has broken anything, “What happened to ‘I won’t let you fall’?” 

“I didn’t,” He shakes his head, “I fell.” You giggle, covering your mouth with your hand. “I’m glad you think this is funny because I’m fully capable of getting up off the ice,” He tilts his chin forward to look at you, “Are you?” 

You tap his cheek, “While I have you here, I wanted to talk to you about… everything.” You draw in a confident breath, “About you and me.” 

Garrett raises his eyebrows, squeezing your hips so that you continue. Apparently he’s not moving until you finish what you started. 

“I don’t want to be casual anymore,” You breathe out, convincing yourself that you’re trembling because you’re cold and that it has nothing to do with nerves. “I want you all to myself. For real.” 

There’s a moment where silence fills the space between you and it dawns on you how awkward this is going to be if you need to leave this conversation and…you won’t be able to scramble up off the ice. But Garrett reaches to cup your cheek, a soft smile pulling at his mouth. 

He leans down, kissing you, slow and steady and suddenly you’re not very cold anymore, “You think I’m out here calling anyone else ‘baby’?” He teases against your lips, “You want me?” Garrett asks, brushing his thumb over your cheek, “You got me.” 

His one hand playfully squeezes your ass, sitting up a bit and getting up off the ice. He reaches his hand out to tug you up too, 

“C’mon—if we’re gonna be dating, you gotta learn how to remain upright on the ice. Embarrassing, really.” 

You laugh even though you know he’s poking fun at you. Once you’re up, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, your body molding against his own as his arms wind along your waist. You suppose if that’s the price you have to pay? That sounds worth it—and draw him closer for a kiss. 

[ilyahugs]

relationship coded

word count: 4,537 ship: Garrett Graham x reader rating: PG-13 summary: for someone who claimed to never have time for a girlfriend, garrett graham is pretty good at the whole 'boyfriend' thing notes: i have a masterlist now bc i've lost control of my life notes2: gifs are from this gifpack :)

There were rumors that spun around Briar U about your relationship with Garrett Graham and how you managed to tie down someone who notoriously ‘never did girlfriends’. Some ranged from the ridiculousness of blackmail to the ‘stream over rock’ concept, which is essentially just about wearing him down enough until he agreed. At the beginning, these ideas annoyed you—it wasn’t anyone’s business why you and Garrett decided to take a long-term friendship and turn it into something more. But then you realized that most people talking were just jealous or far too curious for their own good. The point in all this? For someone who insisted he’d never be someone’s boyfriend…he’s ridiculously good at it. 

That’s not to say that Garrett hasn’t always been thoughtful or kind or hadn’t gone out of his way to do something for someone else before dating you. It’s just that now, with that rose-colored lens of being exclusive, everything he does just tips you closer and closer into falling in love with him. 

As if you weren’t standing on that precipice already. 

—

You’re not sure whose grand idea it was to have a party in the woods, yet here you are. You suppose it’s aesthetically sort of pleasing, given that it’s October and the spooky vibes are slipping into everything your friend group wants to do. Don’t get it wrong—you love this time of year, you love Halloween and pumpkin carving and hay rides and decorating and dressing up. Woods, however? is kinda where you draw the line. 

Garrett’s arm slips around your waist as you sit in front of a small bonfire, tucking you back into his chest. You breathe out, turning your head to offer him a small smile. He smiles back, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You know he can feel how stiff you are, shifting every so often, your gaze caught to the woods just beyond where everyone is…

“You know the likelihood of us getting killed by a forest witch is like…low, right?” 

You huff at the teasing in his voice, “But never zero.” You mumble.

Garrett smirks, squeezing around your waist. “I think you need to lay off the horror movies for a while, babe.” 

“I think you should do more research,” You squirm, an uncomfortable feeling settling in your lower belly. “Literally these movies are available so people don’t make stupid decisions in the woods.” Your nose crinkles, “The minute Dean disappears, we’re leaving. Don’t even think about going to look for him either. Big fucking trap.” 

A laugh rumbles in Garrett’s chest and you know he’s looking around the bonfire for his friend because, yeah, if anyone disappears in a horror movie first you’re pretty sure it’d be Dean. 

“I think we all should probably leave the woods if Dean is our canary in the coal mine.” Garrett comments, taking a sip of his beer. 

You shift again, suddenly uncomfortable. Though after a moment of taking account that it’s not the woods giving you the creeps (it is, but this is something else), you hone in on that sharp ache that’s touching on your lower belly. It blooms suddenly across your abdomen and—

Oh no. 

It’s cramps. It’s cramps but—you tug your phone out of your pocket, checking your period tracking app and…three days early. You’re usually never early. If anything, you’re a one to two days late kind of girl. Shit. 

“I’ll be right back.” You say suddenly, getting up so fast you nearly elbow Garrett in the shoulder. 

His eyebrows draw together, his hand gliding down from your waist to rest on your outer thigh, “I’m pretty sure you told me that’s a death sentence in some of these movies.” 

A laugh strangles up your throat. Jesus Christ, he does listen to your horror genre rambles, “I’m just using the bathroom. If I’m not back in five minutes, send a search party,” You lean down and kiss his cheek, “Just kidding, but avenge my death.” 

“That’s not funny.” He calls after you as you begin walking towards the bathrooms but you can hear a twinge of humored warmth in his voice. 

You quickly make your way towards this stone-like structure in the woods which, at the very least, isn’t porta-potties. It reminds you of a park bathroom that doesn’t have a closing door but an open entryway that leads to three stalls and sinks. Running water, at least, which feels like a win. You shiver against the cold as you slip into one of the stalls, missing the warmth of Garrett’s body and the bonfire. It’s always so damp in these sorts of things. 

Tugging your jeans down, you groan as your suspicions are confirmed. You got your period early and there’s blood in your underwear and…staining the back of your jeans. Jesus. You pinch the bridge of your nose before rifling through your purse and—

“Seriously?” You mutter to yourself, realizing you brought a smaller bag tonight and not your usual purse which has all your period supplies. 

You bite down on your lower lip, frustration and annoyance pinpricking the back of your eyelids. You are not about to do something stupid like cry in the middle of the woods in a shady bathroom. You’ll just text one of your friends—odds are, they’ll have something for you to use. 

You use a wad of toilet paper in the meantime, tugging your jeans back up. Heading back out to the sink, you wash your hands and—

There’s the sound of someone coming. Large footsteps, shuffling leaves, branches breaking and—

You hear Garrett call your name just outside the doorway to the bathroom. You sigh out of your nose, your hand coming to rest on your hammering heart. Jesus. 

Moving around the corner, you see him standing near the entrance, “Hey, consider this the search party you wanted.” There’s a small smile at the corners of his lips until he gets a good look at your face, “What’s wrong?” 

God. This is so embarrassing. Look, you fully believe that if a man can’t talk about periods and blood and whatever comes with it shouldn’t be anywhere near fooling around with you on good days. But…you still feel heat kiss the back of your neck all the same. 

“I uh, I got my period.” 

Garrett shifts on his feet, his gaze brushing over you in what feels like a gentle caress. He opens his mouth to say something but you start rambling, 

“I’m early and I brought a stupid tiny bag tonight so I don’t have anything. And my jeans are ruined and uhm,” Emotion clogs the back of your throat, “And here I was worried about a vindictive forest witch when I should have been worried about my own body turning against me.” A strangled laugh escapes, “Like—how dumb is that?” 

He takes a step closer to you, brushing a hand over your cheek. It’s not until he pulls away that you realize a tear escaped from your eye. Fuck. 

Garrett slides his leather jacket off, handing it to you to hold for a moment as he tugs that purple hoodie he likes to wear over his head. Your eyebrows draw together in confusion, watching as he trades the sweatshirt into your hands to put the leather jacket back on. And then he’s…

He’s tying the purple hoodie around your waist, hiding the back of your jeans. The sentiment is so easy and so gentle that more tears slip down your cheeks. This is so—

You quickly wipe them away, sniffling. “Thank you.” 

He gives you a small smile, his hand resting on your shoulder. His thumb traces back and forth over your neck, “Okay, two options. One—we go back to the Jeep and I have some stuff in the trunk. I don’t actually…know if it’s what you need, but—” 

You blink, tipping your head back to look at him, “You have period supplies in your trunk?” 

Garrett rubs the back of his neck now, seeming uncertain, “Yeah. It’s just the pads, I think. I thought maybe you might need them at some point, like an emergency stash—” 

You press yourself up on your toes to kiss him. You can feel him smiling against your lips, wrapping your arms around your waist to press you in close. His hand trails up and down your spine before settling on the back of your neck, squeezing the tense muscles there. 

When the kiss ends, Garrett rests his forehead against yours, “Or option two, we can go home. You can get a shower and I’ll set up the couch with your favorites.” Meaning lots of blankets, a heating pad, a bowl of ice cream and salty snacks. “We can even watch something that’s going to give me nightmares.” 

You can’t help but smile at the reluctance in his voice, cupping his cheek to stroke your thumb over the bone, “My hero.” You tease.

He rolls his eyes but his smile is fond as his hand slips into yours, guiding your way back towards his Jeep. 

—

You’ve been dealing with migraines for as long as you can remember. They’re usually brought on by stress, which, it’s like you want to tell your body that there’s no other version of yourself that you can be at college. Regardless, this one lecture never fails to cause tension to pinch the back of your eyes. Usually you’re able to stave it off, take your meds, drink a lot of water and deal with a regular headache. 

Today though? It knocks into you like a cinderblock to the temple. 

A grateful noise leaves your lips as you make it back to your dorm room, toeing your shoes off and making a b-line for your bedroom. Your hip bumps into your desk and you curse whoever decided that was a good place for it to go. You can’t see out of your right eye and your head is pulsing along with the beat of your heart. You don’t even bother changing your clothes or reaching for the blinds because if you don’t sit soon gravity is going to take over and you’re going to fall. 

Lying face down on your bed, you bury your face under your pillows, hoping the cacophony of sounds and light and pounding stops soon. 

—

You’re not sure what time it is. You think you hear a door open and close and low voices in the living area of your dorm. Your roommate and…someone else. Maybe her boyfriend? Regardless, you don’t move. There’s an aching soreness to your temples and behind your eyes, a grating sort of pain that’ll get worse if your body shifts at all. It’s not…it’s not as bad as when you first got back to your room, but it’s teasing the edge of tipping into something that’s worse or getting better. There’s no way to tell other than just waiting it out. 

A soft sigh leaves your lips and more sounds gently fill the space. Your door opens, you think—blinds are being pulled down? Someone takes off your shoes and then slowly crawls into bed beside you. You draw in a breath, the smell of cologne mixing with laundry detergent and something purely Garrett. 

It’s like your entire body relaxes when you feel his hand gently trail up your back. 

You move just a fraction, your face peeking out from underneath the pillow. He offers you a small smile, “Hey,” He whispers, brushing some of your hair out of your face, “How you doing, champ?” 

“Bad,” You whisper back, the word crackly and tired. Your eyebrows draw together because you’re not sure how he figured out you were here—

“You missed your shift at Malone’s,” He fills in, his hand sneaking up and under your shirt to smooth his fingers against your skin. It feels really nice. 

“Fuck,” You clear your throat, shifting just enough to get yourself above the pillows. Garrett moves closer, his arm tucked around your waist, “I completely forgot—” 

“I told Della that the only reason you’d miss is because you were sick,” He assures, “She knows about your migraines, right?” 

You nod, your hand coming up to rest against your face. It’s quiet for a few moments, just the sounds of the dorm settling around you and your shared breathing. Garrett pulls a blanket free to drape over you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” He mumbles a moment later. 

You shake your head, “You didn’t.” You pull your hand from your face, your arm resting along Garrett’s side, tucking it underneath his hoodie. “I was kinda in and out.” 

Garrett is quiet for a few moments, his big hand rubbing along your shoulders, squeezing every so often. Despite sometimes feeling far too overstimulated and emotional, it feels good having him here, that unwavering silent support alongside you. 

“Do you need anything?” He asks. He doesn’t try to force you to eat or nag you about pills, he doesn’t try to assume he understands the inner workings of what your migraine might be doing to your emotions or your body. He’s just offering whatever might make you feel like you’re more in control. 

And he has no idea how much that means to you. 

Eventually shaking your head, you inch closer to him until your face is tucked against his chest, your leg sliding between both of his own. He breathes out, his lips and nose burying themselves in your hair. 

“I just need you.” Your soft reply comes a moment later and Garrett squeezes your body to his before relaxing against the mattress. 

—

One of the many things you love about Garrett is how willing he is to be completely ridiculous with you. He’s silly, which you don’t think many people realize. He’s very dedicated and determined and hyperfocused sometimes on his future, on hockey, on things that really matter. But when he allows himself to unwind, when he smiles freely, when he laughs hard and jokes with you just to get you to smile—it’s one of your favorite things. 

It’s late and the bar is packed. You’re a bit more tipsy than you usually allow yourself to get, but it’s your friend’s birthday and the shots have been steadily flowing since you got here. Garrett came late because he was finishing practice, so he’s a few drinks behind you, but that doesn’t stop him from dancing when you ask. 

His moves are wildly dorky, but in this charming kind of way that makes you bend a bit in full bellied laughter. Garrett is somehow awkward and boxy with some of his movements and yet it doesn’t stop him from being attractive, either. It’s not something a lot of people can pull off. You grin when he grabs your hand to twirl you and when the song gets to the chorus, you can’t stop yourself from bouncing along to the lyrics. Garrett doesn’t jump but he does hold onto your hand, a laugh slipping free every time you use his arm to push yourself up further. 

When you stumble over Garrett’s shoe after another spin, he wraps an arm around your waist and gently holds you to his chest, “Alright,” He chuckles, “C’mon, how about some water?” 

“How about a kiss?” You pout, your hand moving to touch his cheek. 

Garrett smirks, turning his head to press a kiss to your fingers before he leans down and captures your lips. It’s slow and easy and the way his tongue sneaks into your mouth makes your toes curl. You want to whine that it’s far too short but he peppers a few against your face when he pulls back and you suppose that’s good enough for now. 

Leaning against the bar once you get there, Garrett grabs a water from the bartender and sits it down in front of you. “Also paying for her tab.” He says over the music, motioning to you. 

You take a long sip of water, about to protest because you can pay for it, or at the very least half but two girls that you definitely recognize from other Briar U parties and hockey games come right up beside Garrett. Puck bunnies. 

They’re pretty, if not carbon copies of one another—blonde and tall and giggly when they talk to him. One of them is offering shots while the other is asking Garrett if he wants to dance and while he fixes both of them with a polite smile, he declines. You scoff softly as they nod, looking disappointed and pouty before disappearing. 

You chew on your straw as Garrett turns his attention back to you, raising his eyebrows, “You’re pouting.” 

You sip on your water, definitely sounding like a little gremlin when you voice, “I am not.” 

Garrett lets out a sudden laugh, “Okay.” Then, “You know there’s no reason for you to be jealous.” 

Oh my god. The back of your neck heats from the audacity of this man (and because he’s so right). And yet, “I am…I’m not jealous.” 

Your boyfriend hums like he doesn’t believe you and…you suppose he shouldn’t. You’re still looking at girls who approached him further down the bar. Before you can say anything else, Garrett hooks your chin between his fingers and kisses you again. 

Heat curls all the way down your body and you swear you can feel yourself melt directly into the floor. Your fingers curl into his shirt, holding onto him, and all other thoughts fade away. Especially the ones that don’t matter. 

—

In the morning, when you wake up in Garrett’s bed, tucked against pillows and too many blankets—there’s a bag of fast food on the nightstand along with some aspirin and water. The bag has a note written on it; 

—practice, see you later :) 

A small smile presses itself onto your face despite your hangover. 

—

Garrett is a boyfriend to keep, and as it turns out, you’re pretty good as a girlfriend too. 

—

It’s not often that Garrett gets into fights on the ice, but it does happen. You’re not sure what’s up with this player on the other team, but 32 won’t keep his mouth shut. You may not be close enough to hear what’s being said, but you have eyes. You tend to follow your boyfriend as he plays and 32 won’t let up. You can tell that Garrett is getting increasingly pissed off the longer the game goes on. You’re not sure whether the other player is trying to just…throw Garrett off his game so that he fucks up? Or get him in the penalty box? You can’t be sure. 

But the entire thing makes you nervous. 

The game is so close to being over—in fact, Briar U scores the last goal and the crowd goes wild, music playing and horns going off. 

You feel like there’s a moment in which you can exhale; both teams are lining up to congratulate one another on a good game played. Which would be fine, business as usual, except 32 opens his mouth for one last chirp. Whatever he says has Garrett seeing red, he launches himself across the line, gloves off, throwing a punch. Logan and Dean are quick to draw him back so it’s not as bad as it could have been? But fuck. 

You can’t sit in the stands anymore. You turn on your heel and rush through the crowds of people, trying to pass and get through. Your fingers play with the keys to Garrett’s Jeep, the cool weather a refreshing kiss to your flushed face once you get outside. You linger near the exit where the players come out and as time passes, a lot of them head out for the night. All but Garrett. 

When Logan opens the door next, he connects eyes with you, his gaze soft, “He’s still in the locker room.” 

You swallow, “Is he okay?” 

“I think he’s just trying to calm down.” 

Your legs move you forward and past Logan as he holds the door open. You don’t even realize he’s behind you, making sure you get past any lingering security so that they don’t escort you out. He disappears once you push the locker room door open, seeing Garrett sitting in front of his stall. His body is bowed, still in some of his gear, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging loosely between his legs. 

The door gently closes behind you and you walk forward, “Garrett.” Your voice is loud in such a quiet room. 

He glances up at you, swallowing over emotion thick in his throat. He straightens his shoulders, centering himself, “How did you get in here?” 

Chewing on your lower lip, you stand in front of him, not touching him. Not yet, “Logan.” A moment passes, “Actually, I ran past him when the door was open. He just made sure I wasn’t tackled by campus police.” 

A ghost of a smile pulls the corners of his mouth, gone as soon as it appears. Close up now, you can see how upset he is. Like a livewire, barely contained, his hands shaking and breathing slightly shallow. You don’t want to ask him what happened because you don’t want to wind him up more than he already is—and honestly? It doesn’t matter what set him off. The point is that he’s having a hard time coming down from it now. 

That’s your priority. 

You breathe out and step closer, nearly bumping his one knee. You drag your fingers through his damp curls, getting them out of the way of his face. His head tips back and the stark emotion in his expression, the slight mistiness to his eyes—it’s like a punch in the gut. 

“Are you hurt?” You ask softly. 

Garrett looks down at his hands, which are still trembling, but he shakes his head, “No, I just—can’t get out of my head.” 

You nod softly, knowing how much violence is a trigger for him. How he struggles with it. You really wish you could speak your peace to Phil Graham, because you have so much to fucking say. But Garrett has never had you meet him, has never allowed him within two feet of you, even when he’s here at his son’s games. And you know why, you can respect that. But it doesn’t take away the anger and frustration you feel on your boyfriend’s behalf.

Especially when he’s like this. 

32 must have said something to create this headspace, Garrett wouldn’t have allowed himself to dip this low otherwise. 

You shift, standing between Garrett’s legs, gently untying his shoulder pads and sliding them off and onto the floor. Once you have access to his body, your hands fall, massaging the stiff muscles above his collarbones. You work your thumbs into his upper neck and trail your fingers to his back and then all over again—in a calming circle that eventually has his body relaxing, his shoulders unhooking from his ears, his jaw unclenching. 

“I don’t know what 32 said,” You say after a moment, “And I don’t need to know. But whatever it was? He’s not worth it.” 

Garrett swallows, “I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Your voice is firm, reaching for his chin so that he’s looking at you when you add, “Don’t be sorry—I’m not upset. I was just worried about you. I care about you, so much. You know that, right?” 

Garrett lets out a slow breath, his face pinching a little. His hands suddenly grip your sides, pulling you closer, his face pressing into your abdomen. You can feel that soft hitching of him trying to control himself, maybe trying not to cry. Your heart aches in your chest as you step closer, allowing him to clutch onto you, your hand soothing through his hair and down his back in slow, even circles. 

After a few minutes, Garrett finally seems like he’s calmed down, or at the very least he’s not shaking anymore. When he pulls back, you run a hand through his curls, offering him a small smile. You lean down to kiss him but before your lips can map over his, 

“I love you,” He says, “You know that, right?” He mirrors what you said, making your heart flip-flop in your chest. 

You smile fully, nodding, before kissing him. It’s gentle and quick, but seemingly enough. 

“I love you too,” You add, taking a step back. “C’mon, grab a shower before we head out. You stink.” 

A laugh rumbles in his chest before he shakes his head, standing to his full height. “Yeah, yeah,” He mumbles, tugging off his long-sleeved thermal. He turns to make eye contact with you, pausing, as if—

“I’ll be here,” You promise, sitting down in front of his stall, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Garrett nods, leaning down to kiss you again, leaving you with a warm sensation that feels a lot like home as he heads off to the showers. 

—

“Are they supposed to be like that?” 

You purse your lips, turning your head as you take a long look at the muffins you made, cooling on the stovetop at Garrett’s place. You wouldn’t consider yourself a baker or…even a cook, at any rate, but literally how hard is it to follow directions and like, put something in the oven for a specific amount of time? 

Apparently difficult. 

“Uhm,” You poke one of them with a fork and…as suspected, they are rock solid. “Maybe?” Garrett chews on his lower lip and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh. You smack him in the chest. “Shut up.” 

“I’m sorry,” A laugh escapes, “I’m pretty sure you could injure someone with one of these.” 

You groan, your head tipping back as you set the fork down, “I don’t understand, I followed the recipe. Maybe they…taste better than they look?” 

“Do you wanna chip a tooth?” 

“Garrett.” 

He laughs again, “Fuck, sorry. I’m just saying—think it might be a lost cause, babe. I say we toss them and let Tucker bake something when he gets home.” 

There’s a pout on your lips, even as you untie your apron, “Maybe I could try one, just to see…” You slip the apron over your head, setting it aside. But the moment you reach for one of the muffins, Garrett crouches down and scoops you up into his arms, tossing you over his shoulder. 

“Put me down!” You squawk, reaching down his back in an attempt to smack his ass, “Caveman.” 

He carries you over to the couch, “Sorry,” He does not sound sorry at all. In one easy motion, he plops you onto the cushions. You land in a flourish, a soft oof leaving your lips. Garrett maps his body on top of yours, smiling against your lips, “Boyfriend code says I have to protect you from eating inedible muffins. Those are just the rules.” 

A soft laugh rumbles in your chest, mixed with fluttering butterflies and your heart flip-flopping—all at the sound of boyfriend. Yeah, that never gets old. 

“Oh,” You smile, “Well if those are the rules.” You wrap your fingers in his shirt, tugging him down into a kiss. 

You think you can live with that. 

[luveline]

hi jade <3 i miss hotch too :( i saw a tiktok earlier of a prank/trend where a couple was cuddling in bed at the guys place and suddenly the girl told his man that she wants to go home, and she sounded like kinda sad and quiet, and her man got SO worried and serious SO quick, and it was so sweet how he was so gentle and reassuring with her :( it really made me think of hotch (and clark ngl)

—Aaron’s soft-handed reaction to a prank makes you emotional. fem, 1k

It is not Aaron’s fault that he doesn’t use the internet, but it makes pulling pranks on him so easy it’s practically impossible to stop yourself. 

He’s resting his chin atop your head as you read with your e-reader resting on his bicep, face to collar, his smell in your nose. The romance novel you’re reading is good, but it isn’t half as romantic as the man that’s holding you. Nobody is as gentle as your Aaron. You’re honestly not sure anyone else ever could be, and it’s your dumb luck that landed you in his arms, in his bed, with his nose in your hair and not a care in the world between either of you. 

He takes a long, deep breath that is so obviously his way of smelling you, and his sigh after like he took a drag of a cigarette makes you melt. The words on your e-reader go blurry as your eyes flutter, content. And then you get your evil little idea and lay the reader flat on his arm. His arm is bigger than the reader is wide, which almost stops you from opening your mouth at all. 

If you ask nicely, he’ll squeeze you. 

But you really wanna mess with him, so you make yourself small. Let your spine go rigid, and let your profiler get the message. 

He peers down at you in concern. “What’s wrong, baby?” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it. 

“I want to go home,” you say, matching your tone to the very worst (which is to say, best) video, her voice sad and soft, like she was truly defeated. And it couldn’t break Aaron’s heart more to hear it, even if the scary FBI training means he doesn’t take your acting as entirely truthful. 

“What?” he asks, shifting you in his arms, down his chest some so he can your face. He takes your face in his hand, his thumb rubbing up the line of your cheek. “You want to go home?”

“Yeah, I wanna go home.”

“Why, honey?” His voice is like gossamer, thin and silken. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter, hm?” 

His eyebrows get that square pinch between them as he caresses your cheek. You falter in the face of his gentleness, which makes it all the more believable that there’s something wrong. 

“Have I done something? Please don’t leave, I’d worry myself to death if you left me now.” His voice is familiar and warm, slow, forever mellifluous. You’ll never get sick of the way he talks—it’s one of the reasons you fell in love with him, how he could make anything at all sound like a love note. “What’s making you feel unsure? Tell me what’s going on in there.”

You know that Aaron’s gentle, but he’s gone so sweet so suddenly it has emotion brewing in you that you haven’t earned. You swallow a silly lump and try to smile. “It’s nothing,” you say. 

Aaron slowly cards his hand behind your neck and encourages you into the curve of his neck, his second hand at the small of your back in a perfect fit. Warm and big, stretching over one of your most delicate parts. 

“I don’t know what to think about it, honey. I don’t ever want you to feel like you’d rather be at home than with me. If you need space, you can have it. Of course you can have it, but I’m getting the feeling that that’s not what this is about. Do you trust that you can talk to me?”

You want to cuss, but your throat burns, and all you can force out is a reprimanding, “Aaron.” 

“‘Cos I can fix anything.”

“I know that.”

“Yeah? So let me fix it for you, sweetheart.”

It is perhaps your greatest shame to be near tears in his arms as you plead with him to pretend you never said it. “I was just– I just wondered how you’d react, is all, there’s nothing wrong.” And Aaron doesn’t believe you, still soft as silk, so you tell him about the video you saw and he hums. You’re worried he’ll be rougher with you, then, because it’s not like you’ve earned his sympathy, but he rubs your back slowly and hums pensively, the smell of his skin under your nose. 

“Something still doesn’t feel right, does it?” he asks in a murmur, unaware of the molten heat in your throat and stomach simultaneously. You couldn’t explain it to him if he did notice it. “Did you– was it a surprise, that I wanted you to stay and work things out with me? I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear, that I’d fix anything for you.”

It’s just—it borders being too much, too kind. It’s the ache of biting into something sweet with a bad tooth, how he’s gone this tender, how he hasn’t once pushed you off of his chest. It hits you how willing he is to spend endless minutes reassuring you over nothing, a scenario that you created, and how easily he reads your smallest emotions. 

You’re downed by a video prank, and it’s all your fault. 

Luckily, Aaron doesn’t seem to mind at all. He tips your head back with your ear against his shoulder, looking up at him from his chest all wide-eyed and in love as he leans down for a slow kiss. “Do you want to go home?” he asks quietly. 

You shake your head, worried your voice will wobble and betray you if you speak, so Aaron leans down again to press another kiss to your mouth, this time very purposefully misaligned, so as to kiss right under your nose. 

“What can I do to make you feel better?” he asks, like you haven’t just deregulated yourself by accident. 

“I’m okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry.” He gives your back a good rub, like he’s waving his hand into your spine. “How’s that? Is that helping?”

“Little more,” you tell him. You don’t mention going home again. 

He brings the blankets over your and strokes shapes into the small of your back, eventually finding the humour in things when you're spent on his chest, murmuring a loving, “So sweet,” into your crown. 

[luveline]

Clark gets a photo from his girl. fem, 0.5k

Look at this. 

Clark peers down at the notification on his phone screen curiously. He’s a little too busy arranging a bouquet at the moment to open it—he likes to buy a couple from the florists and hodgepodge them into behemoth, beautiful arrangements for you. You deserve them. The first time he made you one you got teary-eyed, and spent the night sitting under his arm like some dearly loved creature too happy to move away from him. 

The phone pings again with an attachment, a photograph. He abandons the pink sprig of teeny flowers and picks his phone up, the screen covered in green trimmings and splashed water. 

Clark opens the notification. It immediately displays your photograph full screen: it’s a selfie, sort of, with the majority of your face and shoulders and the soft valley of your chest, and just behind you there’s a butterfly caught in motion. 

Clark smiles. So beautiful, he texts back. 

Isn’t it! Blue wings, that’s an emperor butterfly? you respond.

Not the butterfly, you. You are so beautiful. Where are you? 

There’s a couple of seconds, and then, to his delight, another selfie, sitting in the same place with the sunshine on your skin. The only difference is the park now shown behind you. You’re out with friends, and must’ve stopped in Metropolis Park to enjoy the spring-to-summer heat. 

At the park. Do you want to come and get me? They’re all going home, but it’s so nice. 

Clark stares at you. It must’ve taken you half a second to capture a photograph of yourself, and you’ve never looked so beautiful. Smiling, eyes tired from an early morning, your lashes in a crush at the corners of your eyes. 

You’re perfect. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, he texts.

So you’re not coming to the park? you ask. Then, quickly, you don’t have to say stuff like that.

Clark sends off a last message that says he is absolutely coming, scooping the arrangement out of the vase and wrapping it in a scrap of wax paper. You deserve flowers now, right now, his heart practically racing as he thinks of you waiting for him in the grass. So pretty. He wishes you could read his mind sometimes, to realise the extent of his appreciation, and to appreciate yourself with more tenacity, but he does not mind doing the reminding.

When he finds you, he almost melts. “Here you are,” he says, the bouquet as big as his chest, flowers tucked up under his chin and at the bottom of his view, framing you where you’re looking up at him with delight. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I looked everywhere, but I finally asked someone if they’d seen the prettiest girl in the world and they pointed me to you.”

You climb up on your knees with your arms out. Clark leans down to kiss you, the flowers reflecting gentle colour onto your neck.  

[luveline]

Hello my sweet Jade!! A. Jealous!Clark request if you’re feeling up to it? We know our kind boy would try to be as subtle as possible but he just can’t help it. Maybe it results in a heated confession/make out sesh? Jimmy ofc is giving Clark hell throughout his turmoil

ty for your request ❤︎⁠ 0.8k, fem

Clark has the loveliest hands. 

You’re leaning on the printer. It is the world’s most boring day. International is covering more in Jarahnpur, Sports are excited to report yesterday’s women’s soccer championship wins, but Cooking? You’re stuck writing another article about Gigi Hadid’s pasta because Perry hates you. 

And Clark is sitting at his desk typing with his lovely hands. It’s not accurate to say you’ve gone madly heartsick looking at him, but it’s probably not inaccurate to suggest that his hands are making you want to be touched. Even if he were to pet your head, that’d be enough. 

“Good morning.” 

You sigh. “Morning, Simon.”

“You’ll never guess what I’ve been told.”

Simon is like if they were to try and recreate Clark with somebody a bit shorter, less handsome. He’s kind like Clark, and he made a good attempt at being your friend when you first started working you’ll always appreciate. “What’s the hot gossip?” you ask, not quite able to tear your gaze from Clark’s lovely hands. 

You don’t notice Clark’s shoulders going rigid as Simon talks, because you don’t know that Clark can hear your conversation from his desk, halfway across the office floor with his side turned to you. It doesn’t help when Jimmy says, “Hey, guess who’s cozying up together?” 

“…so we’ll have a night off,” Simon’s saying.

You follow the line of Clark’s nose, sighing dreamily. “We will?”

“For sure. It could be a good time to get drinks, do you think? There’s a nice cocktail bar not far from the office, not– you know, you wouldn’t have to dress up much, you’re already perfect, but it’s a nice place. And it’d be on me.” 

Clark lays his hands on his desk and turns away from you completely. He murmurs something to Jimmy you can’t hear. 

He’s saying, “I can hear that, Jimmy.” 

“Then do something about it!” Jimmy whisper-shouts. 

“What do you say?” Simon asks. 

You blink back to attention. “Oh, uh. Oh, about the cocktail bar?” 

“Yeah, if you’re free, which you might be, and only if you want to.”

You cringe a little, but respect him for asking in person, and politely. It might’ve been nicer if he hadn’t done it at work, but Simon’s a good guy. He’ll take the rejection easily. “Thank you for asking me, Simon,” you say, quiet so as not to be overheard, “but I’m seeing someone. I really appreciate the offer.”

He nods, like he’d expected as much. “Thanks for letting me down gently, I guess.”

“Of course. No hard feelings?” 

“None at all. I’ll, uh, let you get back to your printing.”

You’re back to your desk in a bit of an awkward daze within the minute. You look around for Clark but can’t find him, gone from his seat at his desk. You wonder if he might’ve heard Simon asking, what he would’ve thought about it. 

You find out a minute later. A small plate is placed on your desk and a mug beside it. Coffee as you like it with a flaky pastry that looks fresher than it should be coming from the Planet’s cafeteria. 

“How’s your day going?” Clark asks. 

Your heart skips a beat in his company. He looks down at you, smiling softly, the thick frame of his glasses some darkness in the paleness of his skin and light eyes. “It’s okay,” you say. 

“Yeah? Anything I can do to make it better?” 

“Can you– actually, could you come with me to the dark room? I need your eye.”

Clark nods. Follows you out of the office and into the foyer, to the staircase. One floor down for the print room. Clark doesn’t even wait for the staircase door to shut before he’s pressing you up against the wall. It’s surprisingly gentle, but it still makes you gasp. 

“You’re seeing someone?” he asks. 

You pout at him. “I– I thought so?” 

Clark wants to make it certain. He brings his hand to your face, cradling your cheek in the curve of it, his thumb stretching over your plush bottom lip. He hadn’t known for sure—one kiss does not make a relationship, especially when he’s been too cowardly to ask for more, to take it.

If only he could read your mind. Your racing heart should be enough. 

“You’re not going anywhere with him,” Clark says. 

“No. I don’t want to. But… if you wanted, I heard we’re getting the day off soon.” 

Clark’s trembling as he leans in. It’s excitement and need, and jealousy, and it makes him rougher than he means to be as he kisses you, knocking your nose aside, your upper lip bending with the pressure of his mouth, the back of your head hitting the wall. He kisses you once, hard, then pulls away just as quickly. “Are you alright?” he asks, his gaze darting to the back of your head. 

You lift your chin needily. His hands feel bigger than they’d looked. “Kiss,” you say. 

Clark obliges.

[heaven4lostgirls]

❝𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞❞

when the heat gets too bad that you can’t even consider cuddling aaron to sleep—he has some thoughts about that or clingy!hotch

Hotch knew it was hot. He felt it in the way his clothes stuck to his skin with every step and how the air-conditioning and fan only seemed to dry the sweat on his skin, leaving him an uncomfortable sticky mess.

He also knew however, that despite all other circumstances, it was usually expected that when the both of you retired to bed; you did so in each other’s arms.

Which is why when he got under the covers and tried to wrap his arm around your waist, instead of being met with you snuggling further into his arms—he was met with you pushing him away from you.

“No.” you huff, budging further away from his outstretched arm.

Hotch stared at you in disbelief, “No?” he asked incredulously.

“Too hot.” You whine, tugging the sheets off next and throwing your leg over to your own side of the bed.

“It’s too hot to cuddle?” He scoffs distastefully, glaring at your bare legs as if they’ve personally offended him.

“Shh.” You mutter more to yourself, swatting your left arm back half-heartedly in annoyance.

“No!—no shh! You just pushed my hand away!” Aaron whispers harshly, and you know he’s pouting without even having to turn to look at him.

“Hotch, it’s hot—I’ll hug you tomorrow.” you’re honestly just saying it to appease him, if the temperature is anything like today’s—you’re not even willing to entertain the idea of Aaron’s furnace of a body holding you.

Imagining it right now is like your own personal form of torture.

“Oh, so I’m Hotch now too huh? Might as well just ask me to sleep in the guest room at this point.”

You turn over and Aaron perks up, thinking you’re about to surrender yourself to your rightful place in his arms.

Instead, you reach for the spare pillow between the two of you and chuck it at his head.

“Hey!” he yelps, grabbing the pillow and tugging it out of your hold and throwing it off the bed.

There’s silence for a few moments after the struggle and you begin to doze off, hoping that the sweet release of sleep will bring you refuge from this heat induced torture.

“We never sleep without you being in my arms” he huffs, dropping his arm finally and settling onto the bed.

He crosses his arms in annoyance, turning to look at you and scoffs again when he finds you peacefully resting with your eyes closed.

“Stop looking at me.” You mumble groggily, shuffling so you turn back to face him, your shirt rides up slightly and Aaron can’t help but fix his eyes on the sliver of skin being exposed on your back.

Your one eye peeks open and  you snort when you see his wistful expression, “Baby—it’s one night.” You reason.

He snaps his gaze to yours, “Oh, so we’re back to baby then? What happened to ‘Hotch’ huh? Might as well just call me ‘Mr, Hotchner at this rate considering—”

“Oh my god you’re insufferable when you want to be.” You snap at him.

“Come and cuddle me and I’ll shut up.” He retorts back tauntingly.

You huff, sitting up in vehemence and glaring at him, “You’re an evil man.” You accuse, tugging off your shirt and leaving yourself in your bra and sleep shorts as you move closer to Aaron.

Aaron who smirks wickedly and before you can even think about moving back to your side of the bed, wrestles you into his arms despite your grumbles and complaints.

“Mmm, better.” He hums contently while you accept your fate of feeling your body practically stuck to Aarons by the sheer amount of moisture in the air and on your skin.

“This is awful.” You complain, your voice muffled into the cotton of Aaron’s sleep shirt.

“For you!” he agrees pleasant as ever, as if he’s not the one who put you in this position.

“I’m right where I wanna be.”

If Aaron wakes up in the middle of the night with a pillow in his arms instead of you and a subsequent pillow and duvet wall separating the two of you. That’s his own business.

At some point, you’ve gotta look out for number one.

[hotchsbear]

my angel summary: aaron loves to fluster you with his sweet talk cw: 18+mdni, f!ngering, oral (f receiving), aaron coming in his pants

aaron’s jacket is draped over the back of the chair where you left it for him, his tie folded with careful precision beside it.

you’re curled up on the couch now, legs stretched across his lap, socked feet warm against his thigh. he’s leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the couch, the other absentmindedly cradling your ankle. his thumb presses slow, thoughtful circles into the arch of your foot as if it’s something he needs to focus on to stay present.

“thank you, sweetheart,” he says quietly, voice rough in that end-of-day way. “for dinner. especially this late.”

you glance up at him, catching the softened lines of his face, the way his shoulders have finally dropped now that he’s home. “i love doing that, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“it was,” he says gently. “to me.”

his thumb squeezes your foot once, a little firmer, affectionate. he leans forward then, careful not to jostle you, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“i’m really happy to be home,” he adds, quieter now.

you smile, something warm blooming in your chest. “i can tell.”

you’d just finished talking about the case, well, as much as he ever talks about them. the couch feels like neutral ground now, safe again. he exhales, deep and slow, eyes drifting somewhere past you for a moment.

“today,” he says, after a pause, “we were out near a field. it was a rural property which was overgrown.” his thumb stills, then resumes its slow movement. “there were jade vines climbing along the fence line.”

you perk up immediately. “really?”

he nods. “they were everywhere.” his mouth curves, faint but unmistakable. “i thought about how much you like them. how you stop every time you see one.”

heat creeps into your cheeks before you can stop it. “aaron…”

he looks at you then, really looks, eyes warm, intent. his hand leaves your foot, coming up to cup your face, thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone.

“i think about you all the time,” he says. “even when i don’t say it. even when i don’t show it the way i should.”

your lips part, something small and breathless escaping you. you lean forward instinctively, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. he hums against it, smiling, and kisses you back.

when you pull back, you’re pouting just a little, and he notices. of course he does.

“what?” he asks.

“you always say things like that so calmly,” you murmur. “like you’re not completely undoing me.”

his brow lifts, amused. “am i?”

you lean forward suddenly, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, hiding there. his arm comes around you immediately, protective. you can feel his smile against your hair.

“angel,” he murmurs, and the word hits exactly where he knows it will.

you groan softly and burrow closer, mortified and flustered all at once.

he chuckles, “you were scolding me just the other day,” he reminds you. “you said i needed to ‘love on you more.’” his hand rubs soothingly along your back. “and now you’re hiding?”

“…well,” you mutter. “yes.”

he shifts slightly, just enough to tilt your chin up, coaxing you to look at him.

“look at me, angel,” he says softly.

you do, heart thudding, and he leans in to rest his forehead against yours.

“i’m grateful,” he says, “to be with someone like you. to come home to this. to you.”

your answer is another kiss, your legs tightening just a little in his lap as he smiles into it, completely, unmistakably at ease.

you take a moment to really look at him, like you always do when he finally lets himself be still.

the first few buttons of his white shirt are undone now, collar relaxed, the sharp line of him softened just enough to feel private. his hair has fallen flatter without the gel, darker at the temples, a little unruly in a way that feels earned. he looks tired, yes- but gorgeous in that quiet, devastating way that makes your chest ache.

your hand drifts up, fingers brushing the open edge of his shirt as you lean in again. you kiss him like you’re memorizing him. he hums softly against your mouth, a sound that never fails to make your stomach flutter.

“the picture you sent of yourself,” he murmurs between kisses, lips barely leaving yours. “while you were out for a run-“

you pull back just enough to look at him, amused. his eyes are darker now, focused, his hand warm at your waist.

he smiles, “believe me when i tell you they were more than just a bit distracting.”

your eyebrow arches. “oh yeah?” you tease. “because you only replied with a ‘look at you. how was it?’”

he exhales a quiet laugh, thumb brushing lightly over your lower lip. “yes,” he says calmly. “i couldn’t indulge more than that. i know you.” his gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “you like to cross lines.”

you smirk, unrepentant.

“and i was busy,” he continues, “but that doesn’t mean i didn’t think about you in a more specific way, honey.”

you tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “mm. i don’t know.”

his brows lift slightly. “you don’t believe me?”

you shrug.

he reaches up then, brushing your hair back from your face with such care it almost makes you ache. his fingers linger at your temple, his palm warm against your cheek.

“why don’t you show me,” you murmur softly, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up again, “what you thought about?”

his breath stutters, just barely. it’s subtle, but you catch it.

aaron leans in, resting his forehead against yours. “you have no idea how dangerous of a question that is.”

his hand tightens at your waist as he kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s answering without words, like he always does.

“but whatever my girl wants, she gets.”

you thread your hands into his hair, tugging him close again, your mouth open, warm with want, nibbling softly at his lower lip as you kiss him, tasting like salt and surrender.

"you looked so pretty, just as you do now," aaron murmurs, pulling back just enough to take you in. he lets his hands glide down the length of your sides, his palms broad and steady.

"i thought about taking this off, despite how good you look in it, " he whispers, “will you allow me to take it off?” and you nod as he pinches the hem of your skin tight tank top, peeling it up, revealing more and more of you to the quiet room.

“you too,” you murmur, your hands finding its way to the other buttons, “let’s keep this fair.”

aaron smiles and helps you and when you finally managed to unbutton every single one you slide the dress shirt off his upper body.

your hands find his chest instantly, fingertips diving into the thick, wiry hair there. he shivers.

"ughh, you’re so hot," you mumble.

he lets out a breath of disbelief, smiling faintly, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. he bends down to kiss you again, slower now, deeper. his tongue slips past your lips, mapping the shape of your mouth, memorizing it. he licks every part he can reach, wanting more and more. then his mouth begins to drift, trailing wet, reverent kisses down the line of your jaw, along your throat, until he reaches the edge of your bra.

his fingers find the straps, easing them down your shoulders with aching care. he watches your eyes as he does it, sees the way your breath deepens and your pupils darken, your lips parting as you pant. he pulls the cups down, slow and steady, until your breasts spill free.

"look at you," he says, more to himself, and then he is lowering his mouth, pulling one nipple between his lips, tugging gently with his teeth. “you see, this is unfair, sweetheart. how good you look like this.”

your jaw drops, a quiet sound catching in your throat as your hands flow to his hair, holding him there. your eyes are going heavy-lidded as you watch him.

"oh," you breathe.

aaron groans softly at the sound, the vibrations humming through his chest. he suckles you gently, unhurried and savoring and letting the soft weight of your breast fill his mouth as his tongue swirls lazy circles over the sensitive peak.

he moves to the other, brushing the soft underside with his nose before taking you in, mouthing at the tender skin.

his palm smoothes up your side, fingertips brushing the swell of your ribs, holding the shape of you close.

"how are you doing, honey?" he murmurs between kisses, letting his mouth drag up the center of your chest.

“perfect,” you say, your breath shuddering as your hands travel his body, delicate fingers feeling his shoulders, his arms, his wrists and fingers.

"i like it when you talk," you whisper, like he doesn’t already know you.

he huffs a breath against your sternum. "is that right?”

you nod, eyes still hooded low and pupils blown wide as he looks at you.

"mhm, makes me feel..." you trail off.

"yes? tell me," he urges softly.

"makes me feel so good," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “s’just so hot.”

he smiles at you lightly, kissing down your belly now, your skin trembling as he descends your body.

"i’m glad you feel that way," he assures you, tongue dipping into your navel, making you giggle.

when he reaches the waistband of your shorts, he looks up at you, hand already undoing the buckle.

you squirm, fingers flying to help.

"hey, don’t rush me," he grounds out, voice like gravel, a teased warning. you huff but obey, hands retreating to trace over his knuckles as he drags the zipper down. he kisses between the open denim, right where the little bow on your panties peek out. that single spot makes his mouth water.

“i was gone for so long- too long, let me savor this.”

he shifts down more, his shoulders bumping your thighs, pulling your shorts down. he kneels over the side of the sofa to give you room and in one slow, reverent movement, he leaves you bare beneath him.

he groans out a sound from deep in his throat before he can stop himself.

“i thought about you exactly like this,” he says while keeping his eyes on you, “you look like an angel.”

“aaron-“

he knows you were about to object, “don’t you dare say anything different about yourself. i wish you could see yourself from my eyes.”

you smile bashfully at him, your finger going to your mouth, holding your nail between your teeth as your knees bump together. your glistening puffy lips push together between your legs, until he gently nudges them apart, opening you.

"fuck," he says, kissing the skin of your knee, your inner thigh, leaning his cheek against it, “you’re gorgeous.”

his fingers come up, pressing into the apex of your thighs, collecting your arousal and spreading it. you gasp something blasphemous as he touches you, as he lets his finger gently circle your shining little clit.

“i wish to have you like this every day,” he confesses. you do, you think, but you don’t say that because he’d object due to his job.

he feels like he is drooling, his jaw slackening as he watches his fingers play with you. you look so warm and wet and inviting, clenching and pulsing.

“aar-" you beg.

"i know," he cooes, his eyes, black as yours, finding your gaze, "i know.”

you moan and squirm again, and he pulls his hand away to taste you even as you whine at the loss. his eyes roll back at the taste of you, hunger flashing hot through his body. he can’t hold back any longer. he dives into you, head first, tongue hungry, all need and no hesitation. he eats you with slow, dragging strokes, his tongue flattening and curling to catch every drop of you.

your back arches in a perfect curve, your soaked pussy covering his face. he moans against you, and you answer with breathy little sounds, each one sweeter than the last, like music pressing into his skin.

"you sound so pretty, honey," he mumbles into your cunt, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently.

"oh fuck-!" you gasp, one hand fisting in his hair. he moves to bring his fingers up, prodding you with just one. he slides it in with ease, feeling you squeeze around him with a hiss.

"oh my-" your eyes roll back as he looks up at you, “fuck.”

"i will never get tired of your reaction," he chuckles, kissing the skin of your thigh, "after all this time you’re still not used to it?”"

"s- fuck, just feels so good.”

“mhm,” he hums, “i can tell.”

he’s aching now. his cock heavy and stiff in his jeans, throbbing at the sight of you spread out and pliant-so ready, so damn pretty, and all his.

his mouth finds you again, letting his teeth graze your clit as he slides in a second finger. his eyes never leaves your face. he watches as sweat beads at your temples, your mouth parts in a perfect wayS

"aaron- fuck, don’t stop.”

“i won’t, you don’t have to worry.”

you clench around him, your pussy fluttering as he feels your walls pulse and draw him in deeper. he moans into you, licking firmly, then suckling your clit between his lips, rolling it steadily with his tongue. your head falls back, the long line of your throat catching in the light, letting out the prettiest yelp of pleasure.

“you’re doing so good, sweetheart, just let it happen. come for me.”

"oh fuck!" you cry out, thighs trembling as you come hard around his fingers. he keeps going, groaning against you, taking in every last second.

“there you go, you are perfect.”

when you come back down to earth, gulping in gasps of air, he is still kissing your clit, gentler now.

his fingers slip out of you slowly, careful not to jolt you.

you reach for him with both hands, cupping his face.

"come here," you say softly. he follows you, letting you pull him up and kiss you hard. you moan into his mouth, tasting yourself as his swollen lips and tongue claim you there.

“that’s what i mostly thought about,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb beneath your eye.

you grin, dazed, still floating, and he chuckles under his breath at the look on your face.

“mhmm,” you whisper. “you should let me know more often.”

he reaches for your panties then, careful, unhurried, helping you back into them like it’s something sacred instead of casual. the gentleness of it makes your chest tighten.

“aaron-“ you start, blinking up at him. “but… you?”

he stills for half a second.

then he shakes his head, just barely, jaw tightening. “i-“ his cheeks color faintly, betraying him. “i’m fine.”

it clicks all at once.

your eyes widen. “oh my god.” you take a glance at his pants, his crotch obviously stained with a dark patch.

his ears go red instantly. “sweetheart, i’m sorr-“

you laugh softly, breathless, leaning up to kiss him again. “that’s so hot, aaron.”

he exhales, half-embarrassed, half-helplessly fond, resting his forehead against yours. “you’re impossible.”

he helps you into your pants next, steadying you when you sway, then slips his dress shirt over your shoulders, buttoning it halfway without thinking. it smells like him.

“there,” he murmurs, “my pretty girl.”

you curl into his chest, wrapped in him, and he holds you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

A HELLO AND A KISS

pairing: aaron hotchner x lawyer!reader summary: aaron hotchner survives serial killers and endless paperwork—but apparently not you breezing past him without a hello, based on this request. (im so sorry, i got carried away and did not include the part of r meeting the team!!! pls dont hate me) warnings | an: jealous hotch, protective hotch, simp hotch, hotch is just down bad for his girl, one bj joke word count: 2.4k

✧ masterlist

You hadn’t come home last night.

Aaron had simply received a brief text: Don’t wait up. A case fell into my lap last minute. It wasn’t unusual—not in your line of work, and certainly not in his. You’d both sent that message before, more times than either of you could count. It came with the territory.

You and Aaron had always kept your professional lives separate. A clean, white, necessary line in the sand. It helped keep the bloodstained parts from crossing over and kept your dinner conversations from becoming post-mortems or courtroom recaps. After all, it was easier not to talk about the men Aaron arrested when you were the one prosecuting them.

He didn’t put it together right away.

But all five of his senses were attuned to you. Honestly? his sixth sense was you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there—he could feel you, hear you, even smell you before he ever caught a glimpse.  It didn’t take much. Sometimes, it was just the sound of heels—your heels—that gave you away.

It was that click-clack rhythm that he had grown accustomed to over the months, filtering through early mornings when you forgot your keys, then your case notes, then your coffee. It trailed after you in the hallway, embedded in every corner where you’d left pieces of yourself scattered around his home.

And now, that same sound echoed from behind him, followed by the heavy thud of the courtroom door swinging shut.

“Can’t believe he’s actually trying to weasel out of this,” Prentiss muttered under her breath, just as you swept past their row.

The unsub’s public defender had filed a not-guilty plea days earlier—citing supposed evidence mishandling, mistaken identity, even floating some half-baked theory about a setup. It was desperate. Flimsy. But just credible enough to stall the trial, to buy time he didn’t deserve.

You didn’t look Aaron’s way. Didn’t slow your pace. You gave no reaction at all, just glided by, slipping into the prosecution’s chair like it was your usual seat at the office.

“New face,” Prentiss noted, leaning toward Hotch. “She wasn’t at the prelims was she?”

Hotch finally cleared his throat. “No.”

He meant to say more—something neutral, something about new counsel, something properly professional, something more him—but the words got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Especially when the most him thing in the world was sitting right there, only meters away from a man he’d gladly kill with his bare hands if he so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Though, truthfully, he knew you’d get to him quicker with words, with strategy, with that cool, calculated tone that could cut deeper than any punch Hotch could throw.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Fully locked into that little world of yours, where the second you stepped into a courtroom, you grew fins and dermal denticles, transforming into a shark in couture and four-inch heels.

It stung. Just a little. But he knew why you were doing it. He just couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to sit in a room and watch you give someone like that—worst of the worst—your full, undivided attention.

He’d only had the pleasure (and slight terror) of watching you in court twice before—neither case connected to the BAU and already, he was starting to sweat. Just a little. Maybe.

Aaron clamped his jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the effort must’ve been visible because he caught Rossi huffing a laugh under his breath.

Of course Rossi knew. Rossi was the only one who’d actually met you off-duty. And the last thing Hotch needed was Rossi even hinting at the tiny, minuscule, barely-worth-mentioning fact that you wore Aaron’s old college t-shirt to bed, or that just a few hours ago, he’d been ogling your bare legs as you stumbled out of the shower, mumbling at him to go back to sleep.

Because as soon as Prentiss or Morgan—who already looked half-asleep in his seat—caught wind of it, it wouldn’t be a murder trial they were interested in anymore. No, it would turn into entertainment, something far more exciting than sitting at their desks, pretending to work through paperwork they never submitted on time anyway.

He shifted in his seat. No engagement was the best engagement, he figured.

Instead, he forced his eyes off you and onto the defendant, who was fiddling with his tie like that would suddenly make him more credible. Like anyone in the room would forget what he’d done just because he shaved and tucked in his damn shirt.

But the second you stood, rising slowly from your chair, Aaron’s gaze snapped right back to you, so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. Still, you didn’t look his way. Of course you didn’t. You were here to do a job. And right now, that job was dismantling a man with nothing but your voice.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. He was definitely sweating now.

By the time the trial hit the halfway mark, he could tell your energy had changed—or was about to—with the unsub being called to the stand.

Hotch sat stiffly, watching you shuffle your notes with little effort. Morgan had finally roused enough to start paying attention, and Prentiss was scribbling away in the margins of her legal pad—none of which, Hotch would bet good money, had anything to do with the actual trial.

You stood once more, brushing that stubborn piece of hair away from your face—the one that always seemed to fall whenever you were reading something from above. He wished he could push it away for you, wished he could pull you out of this courtroom entirely, shield you from every ugly, broken thing the world could throw at you.

But then your voice cut through the room, reminding him that this was your job.

"Alright," you began, voice crisp but bored, like you were already three steps ahead. That’s what anyone else might think. But Aaron knew you were ahead five.

"Let’s go back to March 5th," you said, pausing just for a second. "You said you didn’t know Jessica Harlan."

"I didn’t," Tanner snapped back, so fast it almost made Hotch smile.

That kind of panic was never a good sign—and he knew it was one of your favourite tells. The second someone cracked like that, it was like flipping a switch, like flashing a green light across the battlefield. Go get him.

"Right," you hummed, nodding like you were humouring a stubborn child throwing a tantrum. "Right."

Another pause.

You were good at that—giving the poor soul on the receiving end (victim, really) of your arguing capabilities enough time to think. To second-guess themselves. Hotch had picked up on it early on, and when he’d once asked you about it, you gave him a dry, matter-of-fact answer: it gave people enough time to realise how stupid they sounded.

"And yet, a witness places your car parked across the street from her apartment two nights in a row. Same make, same model, same license plate."

Tanner shifted in the witness chair, but you didn’t rush him. You stood there, cool and composed, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

“I –”

"Parked there?" you cut in, tilting your head like you were offering him an easy out. The trap was already set.

You reached for the remote, clicking the TV monitor on.

"Okay, that’s completely understandable," you considered with a polite nod toward the jury. "Though I’m not quite sure what your explanation is for getting out of the vehicle on the second night and standing in front of Jessica Harlan’s apartment for—" you glanced down at your watch, "—thirty-seven minutes."

You glanced back up, eyebrows raised just enough to look curious but not confrontational. Just a lawyer looking for answers.

Tanner opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at his hands like maybe they’d have a better explanation than he did.

Aaron recognised the footage immediately, thanks to Garcia’s handiwork. The screen showed Tanner stepping out of his car, glancing around, and then just…standing there. Across the street from Jessica’s apartment building.

Doing absolutely nothing.

For thirty-seven minutes.

The same number of stab wounds Jessica and every other victim had endured.

You didn’t even glance at the screen. Your focus stayed fixed on Tanner like a blade against his throat.

“Maybe you were just out getting some fresh air. Though I’m not sure stalking is generally recommended for cardio.”

"Objection, Your Honour—" the defence attorney barked, already on his feet.

You raised a hand, before the judge even had time to respond. “Withdrawn.”

"I wasn’t watching her,” Tanner argued, drawing the attention back to himself.

"No?” you echoed, cocking your head to the side. “Then what were you doing, Mr Tanner? Practicing your standing endurance?"

He huffed out a weak laugh with no real humour behind it. It was the kind that people made when they realised they were cornered and didn’t have the tools to dig their way out.

“I just... needed some air,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"I get it, I do," you agreed in faux sweetness. "We all need fresh air. Though it’s odd, don’t you think?"

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica Harlan was stabbed thirty-seven times…" You took a step closer to Tanner, and Aaron had to physically stop himself from moving. Remind himself that you knew exactly what you were doing. That this was all part of the strategy. Even if, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to stand between you and every monster you faced.

"Which," you continued, "happens to be the exact number of minutes you spent outside her apartment."

Tanner swallowed, but that didn’t seem to faze you.

"Just like you spent thirty-seven minutes outside Eliza Horne’s place of work," you listed off, each word tightening the noose around Tanner’s neck. "Thirty-seven minutes outside the gym where Marissa Cole trained. Thirty-seven minutes at the café Danielle Ruiz visited every Thursday—”

Aaron felt Prentiss lean in beside him. “She’s good.”

He didn’t look away from you long enough to answer.

Good didn’t even begin to cover it.

You were extraordinary. And somehow—somehow—you were his.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve you, what twist of fate had put you in his path, but he would be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

Grateful that you had let him in.

Grateful that he got to see you whole.

Whether it was in a courtroom, where you left your smile and affection at the door to tear the truth out of some of the worst people, or in the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed—the way you teased him for how he pronounced pecan—he had seen it all. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

A nudge from Rossi pulled Aaron out of what felt like a permanent trance—the one you had managed to put him in with no effort whatsoever.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Got you reminiscing about your prosecutor days?"

Aaron let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "I think if I’d stayed," he said, glancing back toward you, "she would’ve put me to shame."

"Would’ve been one hell of a show,” Rossi murmured. “Don’t let her get away.”

Aaron’s mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He wasn’t planning on it. Hell would have to freeze over before he let even the smallest possibility of that happen.

His eyes found you again—right where they belonged—just as you finished with Tanner.

The day wound down eventually, and Aaron doubted the trial would drag on much longer, not after what you’d done to Tanner and his defence team. There wasn’t much left of them by the time you were finished.

He lingered just outside the courtroom, waiting. He’d managed to come up with a half-convincing excuse to stay behind, though neither Morgan nor Prentiss seemed to question it. They were too busy arguing over whether they could convince Penelope to hack into your trial schedule just so they could sit in on another one.

Not that Aaron could blame them.

The courthouse entrance doors swung open again, and you finally stepped through, files tucked under your arm, eyes fixed on your phone as you breezed past.

You didn’t even glance his way.

Again.

Aaron blinked. Really?

"So I don't even get a hello?" he asked, stepping lightly into your path with a raised brow. “Twice in one day. Must be losing my edge.”

You looked up, startled for half a second before your entire face lit up at the sight of him.

"I’m so sorry!" you blurted, already smiling. "You know how much I hate it when things fall into my lap last minute. I've been running around all day just trying to catch up—”

"No, no," he interjected, keeping his face painfully neutral, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just a little. "It’s fine. I’m obviously not that memorable."

"And I thought I was the needy one." You shook your head, still laughing under your breath as you tucked your phone away and shifted your files into one arm.

“Come here,” you cooed, hooking two fingers into the front of Aaron’s jacket, tugging him down.

He went willingly—no surprise there.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek first, soft and easy, before leaning in for a slower one on his lips. The kind that made him forget you were still technically in public.

"Better?" you asked, pulling back just enough to see the answer written all over his face.

"Only a little," he murmured, and before you could so much as blink, he reached out and took the files and your briefcase from your arms like it was second nature, like he’d been carrying your things for years.

“You carrying my stuff now, too?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to earn my next hello.”

You laughed, the sound unwinding every knot in Aaron’s chest, loosening him in ways only you ever could.

“Keep this up and you’ll have my mouth doing a lot more than just saying hello.”

Yeah.

He was completely gone.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[ssahotchnerr]

I need hotch with angry bau reader 😔😔 I’m genuinely so pissed off recently and him calming me down would actually heal me

over the line

you and me both 😣 cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, typical cm case descriptions, a misogynistic rude officer, hurt to comfort <3 wc; 1.2k

You’d just finished another debrief on a case you already knew would be especially difficult. After all, it wasn’t every day you were called out after only one victim; this one had been so brutal that nobody wanted to give the guy a chance to do much as think about making it serial.

Now, you were all gathered around the table, deep in discussion of victimology. But despite the focus, you still caught the murmur of a side discussion to the left of you. 

"Don’t know why we’re even trying to find this guy. Way she was flirting, sounds like she had it coming." One of the officers snickered under his breath, muttering to his colleague. He got a laugh in response. A laugh. Un-fucking-believable. 

You were already in a bad mood hearing about the case on the jet, but rehashing it brought an even sicker feeling to your stomach. It didn’t help that your features left you a practical mirror image to the victim. It may have well been you plastered up on that board. 

You turned towards the officer, your expression full of shock and disdain. "What did you just say?"

Sharing a glance with his friend, he realized he had two options: retreat and shut up, or continue to be an asshole. Clearly he chose the latter, the option that fed his ego. “I said she had it coming. Look at her,” he added, gesturing towards the table with open disgust.

The crime scene photos. The victim bound and mutilated. The defense marks were clear as day, painting the image of her struggle in your mind as if you’d watched it happen right in front of you.

"She had it coming." You repeated, taking an authoritative, threatening step towards him. The rest of the group fell silent, their attention snapping to you. "You think she asked for this to happen? Is that what you think?"

He shrugged, a smirk forming on his face. He challenged you right back: Yes. 

A sharp, disbelieving laugh tore out of you. Your fists clenched as you stepped in again, deliberately invading his space. “Maybe we should hand you over to him next,” you snapped, your voice rising with fury. “Then we’ll see how fast you realize nobody asks for this.”

“From the looks of it, I’d think he’d prefer you.”

“Oh-”

Before you could finish, Aaron intervened, gently yet resolutely grabbing your elbow. He held back the Sweetheart that threatened to pass his lips. "Agent. A word, please."

"Get your men in order. It's disgusting." You snapped at the chief as he joined the rest of you, arriving too late to stop what had already been said.

Your glare didn’t waver as Aaron began to guide you away. You allowed him to do so, even as anger burned hot in your chest, your hands still trembling at your sides. His grip was grounding, even as your pulse still pounded, rage coursing through your veins.

"I don't care if I was out of line." You started rambling as soon as the conference room door shut behind the two of you. "I wasn't going to stand there and let him belittle that poor girl."

Now, finally able to use the endearments he’d grown accustomed to, Aaron tried, “Sweetheart-“

"The fucking audacity.” You let out an exasperated sigh, beginning to pace. “Again, I don’t care if I overstepped, I don’t care how ‘unprofessional’ it was. He had no right - none - to speak about her like that, to twist what happened into some sick joke.”

"That's not why I pulled you away. I was afraid you'd start swinging at the guy."

You scoffed, averting your eyes, though the tension in your expression didn’t ease. Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you shook your head, your jaw set. "He deserved it."

"He did. He was out of line, and thought he could get away with it without consequence. You made sure he didn’t.“ Aaron's lips tugged into a smile, referring to you barking at the person in charge. "And you did my job for me. Maybe you should do it more often."

You laughed gently, but it faded as quickly as it came. You felt yourself coming back down, the anger no longer flaring but settling into something quieter, heavier. 

“Hey.” His hands rested gently on your forearms, holding you still and steadying you once more. While appropriate, an outburst from you was rare. "Do you want to talk about it?"

As Aaron studied you, his brown were soft and full of concern. He could see the exhaustion etched into your features, the way your shoulders carried the weight of the past few days. The empathy you felt for the victim. 

He was infuriated by the way the officer had spoken to you, and in moments like this, he almost wished he didn’t have a badge - or the restraint that came with it; sometimes it would be nice - and warranted - to be able to use his fists to make a point. He ached at the thought of how it must have made you feel, even as a quiet sense of pride settled in at how you’d handled yourself. 

You shrugged, biting on the inside of your cheek. To hold back tears? Buying time to answer? You weren’t quite sure.

Quickly glancing around to make sure no one was coming, he pulled you into his arms and held you close. There were no words that felt right - sometimes, that was just how it was. So he held you tighter, hoping it might be enough to say what he couldn’t.

You sank deeper into his touch, letting out a sigh as he pulled you close. For the first time in days, the tension in your shoulders began to ease. His embrace was familiar and loving, a quiet refuge from everything that had come before. If only you could stay here forever, wrapped in this quiet safety, shielded from all that was cruel and ugly.

"It's getting to me too." He offered softly. You weren't the only one visualizing yourself as one of the victims, and the thought unsettled him deeply. 

You hummed sadly into his chest, burying your face deeper into it. For a moment, you were overtaken by the juvenile notion that you could hide here forever. 

Much too soon, a knock on the door signaled that the two of you were needed. Aaron sighed and pulled back reluctantly, maintaining his hold on you. “Do you need another minute? Can I get you anything?”

Did you? Maybe you could manage, but the thought made your stomach twist into knots. Back into the suffocating atmosphere of the bullpen where horror awaited. Back to the misogynist asshole who thought he could belittle and poke fun without consequence.  It would be much easier to stay here and hide - concealed and safe. But you couldn’t. You owed it to the victim. You had to see it through.

At your prolonged silence, and from the expression of unease that grew quietly on your face, Aaron decided for you. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart.”

“No, no, I’m okay,” you started to protest, rather unconvincingly - the shakiness in your voice giving you away. “I just want to catch this son of a bitch unsub.” 

“Take two more minutes.” Aaron pressed a kiss to your forehead, reaching for the doorknob. 

“Is that an order?”

With the door open halfway, he turned back, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “If that’s what it takes.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

TOO PRETTY TO BE STRESSED

pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader summary: aaron swears he's not the clingy type...until you show up, and suddenly it's a full blown PDA parade in the bullpen, based on this request. warnings | an: fluff, they're so in love it makes me sick, lots of touching, hotch soothing r's stress with his credit card, i am once again spreading the suggar!daddy!hotch agenda, the team being annoying, hotch enabling r's spending habits. word count: 2.1k

✧ masterlist

Walking through the doors of the FBI never quite feels normal. You’d think being married to the man who runs one of its top units would earn you a little immunity from the nerves, but nope. There are still plenty of tight-lipped smiles from men who clearly think you don’t belong (to be fair, you technically don’t), and those awkward elevator rides where you end up clarifying, again, that you’re just here to drop off lunch for the most handsome agent in the building. Not that you say that part out loud. 

It doesn’t happen often, hardly ever, really. Aaron’s not the kind of man who forgets things, especially not lunch. Maybe twice every four months, if that. And even then, he never asks for you to bring it. He usually brushes off your offers with a quick ‘I’ll grab something from the cafeteria’ which, of course, actually means ‘I won’t eat until dinner.’ 

And that just won’t suffice. Especially not when he’s been filling out his shirt so nicely, lately.

So there you were, pretty shoes dragging against the dull bureau floor, lunch in one hand, cookies and your purse dangling from the other, wrist definitely starting to ache. You weren’t exactly sneaking into the bullpen, but you weren’t strutting either. Just stuck in that awkward middle space reserved for people who technically shouldn’t be there, but have the authority to show up anyway, because boss man said so.

“There she is! Hotchner’s better half,” Emily called out, spinning her chair around with a grin.

You offered a sheepish wave, trying not to drop anything. “I come bearing gifts…and mild wrist pain.”

“Oh! Are those the butterscotch ones?” Penelope squealed, jumping up from where she’d been perched on Spencer’s desk.

“Yes, new recipe,” you said, carefully setting your things down on JJ’s desk as she kindly unhooked your overloaded purse. “I swapped out the dark brown sugar for light, added a little sea salt on top, and I may have used browned butter this time. I was feeling ambitious.”

“You browned the butter?” Penelope gasped. “You absolute kitchen goddess!”

Spencer leaned in for a closer look as you popped the lid off the container. “That actually changes the flavor quite a bit. The Maillard reaction from browning—”

“Yes, yes, science, great,” Emily cut in. “Can we eat them now, or is there a presentation we have to sit through first?”

You laughed, nudging the tin closer to everyone. “No presentations. Just cookies. Though if anyone gives them a rating out of ten that’s higher than a nine, I won’t complain.”

Morgan was the first to grab one, swiftly using it as a pointer to gesture towards Aaron, who was pushing back his chair. “Oh look, here he comes.”

You glanced up just in time to catch it—that little motion he always did, fingers brushing his tie flat against his chest as he stood. A completely innocent gesture. Totally routine. And somehow still enough to make your mouth water.

“You know,” Morgan added, mid-chew, “that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen him leave his office. Last time he moved like that, we had an active shooter in the building.”

“Alright, don’t scare her,” Rossi scolded, swatting Morgan’s bicep with a file. “She already doesn't like coming here as it is.”

“Now, that’s not true, Dave,” you corrected, grabbing Aaron’s lunch. “I love seeing you all. I just prefer doing it without all the security nuisance, badges, metal detectors and guns.”

Morgan nudged your elbow, eyes still on Aaron as he made his way over. “For a guy who claims he’s not clingy, he’s practically tripping over himself right now.”

“Oh, he’s definitely clingy,” you grinned, just as Aaron reached you, wasting zero time before leaning in and placing a swift kiss to your lips, murmuring a dreamy ‘Hi you’ before pulling away.

“Come on.” Morgan shook his head, reaching for his second cookie. “This is the same guy who made us sit through a mandatory refresher on workplace boundaries, and now look at him, breaking every single one.”

“Let them be in love,” JJ said sweetly, sipping her coffee like this was all perfectly normal.

You looked up at Aaron, eyebrows raised, trying to coax some kind of reaction to all the teasing. But he didn’t even glance at the others, just kept his eyes on you as he took the lunch bag from your hands, his fingers brushing along your wrist with just enough pressure to say thank you, I missed you, without saying anything at all.

“You didn’t have to come all this way, honey.”

“I know, but I overbaked and figured I was due for my monthly dose of shocking the system.” You glanced around the bullpen, cringing a little at the endless clacking of keyboards and constant ringing of phones. It was all starting to give you at least four different headaches. “Feels like there’s less oxygen in here somehow.”

“That’s because no one is allowed to breathe until all the paperwork is done,” Emily interjected dryly. 

“Is that true, Aaron?” you asked, reaching up to fuss with his tie. “Are you working your team too hard?”

“They live to complain.”

A chorus of groans and mock-offended noises rose up around you, just as Aaron’s hand slipped to the small of your back, steering you gently towards his office.

“Blinds stay open, you two,” Morgan called after you, pointing two fingers from his eyes to yours. “We’re watching!”

“Just keep walking,” Aaron murmured into your hair, voice quiet and beguiled, giving your hip a subtle squeeze as he guided you up the stairs.

You bit back a grin, feeling far too smug—and frankly, far too giddy—for someone standing in a federal building. Inside his office, he quietly closed the door behind you and you made yourself at home by sliding into one of the chairs across from his desk. 

“Think Morgan might have a point, you are getting a little reckless with the PDA. You’re going soft.”

He moved to his chair, smoothing his tie against his chest as he sat. “I’ve always been soft with you.”

That answer knocked the wind out of you in the quietest way. You blinked once, then shook your head. “Wow. Okay. That’s not even fair.”

He just looked amused, unpacking the lunch bag while sneaking glances at you like he couldn’t help himself. “You know they’ll be talking about this all afternoon.”

You waved him off and kicked his foot gently under the desk, because footsies, like true love, didn’t have an expiration date. “Let them. Let them talk about how you have a gorgeous, brilliant, amazing wife who is kind enough to hand-deliver your lunch.”

“They already know.”

“Good answer.” You nodded, satisfied, and handed him a few tissues just as he took the first bite of his sandwich. “Now, how's your day been? And don’t say ‘fine’, or I’ll start pulling out my therapist's voice and asking about your coping mechanisms.”

He chewed, giving you a dour look over the top of the sandwich like he was already reconsidering speaking at all.

“Busy. Two consults, one profile draft, and I’ve had to remind Morgan three times to finish his report.”

“So… business as usual.”

“Basically.”

He took another bite, and you used the pause to admire him. How pretty he looked. He was getting subtly more rugged with time, never quite managing the clean-shaven look, not for lack of trying, but that had always been fine by you. You loved him exactly as he was.

Your eyes wandered over his desk, taking in the meticulously organised scene in front of you. Everything was in its place, except for a single pen and one loose file slightly out of line, a tiny disruption in an otherwise perfect system. It made you smile.

He wiped his mouth, and in that moment, his wedding band caught the thin stream of light this moody building begrudgingly allowed in. As if the universe was saying, yes, look—he’s yours.

And you thanked her silently for it. Because he was.

“Want to ditch the rest of the day, fake a headache, and run away with me to somewhere that doesn’t require badge access?” you proposed, straightening the photo of you on his desk. 

He tilted his head. “Tempting.”

“You’d never actually do it, though.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’ll think about it the whole time I’m here.”

Your smile pulled a little wider. “That’s enough for me. That—and as long as I’ll have you home in time for dinner,” you said, though it came out as more of a question. Maybe even a tiny, minuscule threat. 

“Don’t worry, I will,” he assured you kindly. “I know your parents are coming over tonight. I wouldn’t dream of making you face that alone. I’m guessing that’s what’s been bothering you, hence the industrial-sized cookie batch?”

You sighed, slumping back into the chair. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

“You know they’re hard work. And I can only fake-smile and nod my way through so many stories about people I don’t remember and opinions I didn’t ask for.”

Aaron set his sandwich aside, abandoning it on the tissue you had passed him earlier. He used another to wipe his hands, then stood, taking two steps to get to you. 

Before you could say anything, his hands were on either side of your chair, gently turning it to face him. He crouched down, and you instinctively parted your legs so he could slot in between them. 

“Hey,” he urged softly. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it together, and if it gets to be too much, I’m excellent at coming up with polite excuses to get them out of the house.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, sweetheart.”

And just in case his words were not confirmation enough, his hands came to cradle your face, thumbs circling your skin before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Go to that bookstore you like,” he said next, already reaching into his pocket. “Grab your favorite coffee, roam around for a while, and try not to stress until they text you that they’re on their way, okay?”

He pulled out his wallet and fished out his card. “You’re too pretty to be stressing in this skirt.”

You raised a brow, lifting one leg and watching the flowy fabric settle back down over your knee. “It’s cute right?”

“Very.” He nodded, dead serious. “Go buy yourself another one.” He extended the card towards you like it was non-negotiable.

You laughed, giving his hand a light swat. “I’m not taking your card like some 1950s housewife.”

“You’re not. You’re my very independent, endlessly capable wife who I happen to love spoiling any chance I get. Now, please, take it. Call it payment for lunch…and for making you come all the way here, knowing full well how much you’d rather avoid this place.”

You pouted, eyes dancing between the card and his face. “Fine,” you relented, plucking the card from his hand. “But I’m only getting one book. Two max. The bookshelf is about to collapse.”

“Buy as many as you want.” He reached down, helping you to your feet with a gentle tug. “I’ll build you a new bookshelf.”

“You?”

“Yes, me.” 

“You’ll build me a new bookshelf?”

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “With actual tools.”

“Okay, now I have to see that.”

He pulled back, straightening your cardigan, fussing without ever making it feel like fussing. “Then you better pick up a lot of books.” 

You rolled your eyes, tucking the card away into your pocket. “This is enabling.”

“This is love,” he corrected, stealing a quick kiss before walking you to the door. “Text me when you get there. And if you see a ridiculous romance novel with a cheesy title, get it. I want to hear the plot.”

You grinned, poking his chest. “You just want to make fun of me.” 

“No, I just like knowing what’s taking up space in that beautiful head of yours.” 

“It’s mostly just you.”

He looked like he was trying not to smile too hard at that, so you saved him the trouble by leaning up and giving him one last kiss, ignoring all the hollering behind you from Morgan. 

“I love you,” he promised, smoothing a hand down your arm. “Now, go before I change my mind and fake a headache just to come with you.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @mggslover @khxna @keiminds

join my taglist here 💌

[moonstruckme]

Hi mae! I know that you just recently wrote a steve period fic, but it just made me think about him going through all that with reader and then her mood totally changes once she feels better? Like he feels all bad watching her in pain and not being able to do anything about it and then all of a sudden she's pawing at his waist all flirty and like all over him he's like refusing to let her give him head because she was just in so much pain??? Like he feels guilty? And he's just really sweet about it but she just won't let up and the sweeter he is about it the more she wants to. Would you be interested in writing something like that? Thanks for considering this even if you don't!

Hi, thank you for requesting!

cw: smut-ish so mdni please, reader who menstruates, mention of period cramps

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 552 words

When Steve’s shirt rides up, there’s a dusting of hair down the middle of his stomach that you’re completely infatuated with. If you were to make a list of your boyfriend’s most attractive physical attributes, it would go eyebrows, that mole on his cheek, hair (he’d be shocked to learn that wasn’t first; you can never tell him), lips, trail of stomach hair. You let it tickle your nose, feeling the scratch of denim jeans against your chin. 

“Baby.” Steve’s voice is wavering on just this side of stern, but still insanely gentle. “I said not right now.” 

You look up at him with big eyes. “But why not?” 

Steve’s cheeks are bright. You’ve been on the couch together for most of the afternoon, you slotted between his legs just like this, but it’s only recently that you’ve slunk down from your place on his chest. You think Steve likes this new vantage point as well as you do. You’re pretty sure, actually, judging by the growing bulge in his jeans. 

“Because,” he says, frowning a bit concernedly, “you’re not feeling good.” 

“I’m feeling better now,” you tell him. 

“You were just not feeling good, though.” 

You laugh, only growing more amused when Steve’s concern appears to worsen. Your cramps have been gone for an hour at least, and half of that hour has been spent trying to get in your boyfriend’s pants. It’s not something that’s ever been a problem for you before. You’d leave it alone if you thought he was really serious, of course, but you have reason to suspect Steve’s reservations aren’t for himself. 

“I’m fine,” you promise. Running your finger lightly inside the seam that hides his zipper. “I’m good now, seriously.” 

Steve puts his hand on top of yours, stilling it. He gives your fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t you want to chill out for a while? A little bit ago you were asking if I’d kill you if you asked me to. I feel like you should, like, take it easy.” 

You suppress an exasperated sigh. It’s not that you don’t get where Steve is coming from, but circumstances have changed. He’s spent the past few hours reheating your hot water bottle, rubbing your back, and letting you cling to him while you cried from pain. He’s been unfailingly good to you. 

“This is what I want,” you say, moving your hand to press your lips to his zipper instead. You feel Steve’s dick twitch. 

Steve makes a quiet choking sound. His brows come together, somewhere between guilty and stern, casting shadows over his darkening eyes (this is why they’re top of the list). “Jesus,” he hisses. “Are you—seriously, are you sure?” 

You think about teasing him some more, but Steve’s fraying restraint, so utterly sweet, melts you. “Yeah,” you tell him sincerely. “If that’s okay with you?” 

He eyes you a moment longer, triple-checking, before he nods hastily. You have the button of his jeans undone with a flick of your thumb. 

“Do you—would it help if I—” Steve wets his lips, watching you draw down his zipper. “If I helped you, after? Or is the whole system down?” 

You snort while you take him out of his underwear. Steve knows better than to take it personally. “Yeah, we can see about that after.”

[lazysoulwriter]

the first morning

content: established relationship, smallville!clark, first sleepover, soft intimacy, kissing.

you wake up before him. it takes you a second to remember why your room feels different — why the air feels warmer, heavier, like something sacred is happening quietly under your own roof.

then you see him.

clark is half on his stomach, half turned toward you, one arm bent under the pillow, the other resting dangerously close to your waist like even in sleep he’s making sure you’re still there. the early morning light spills through your curtains, catching in his hair, turning the dark strands almost gold at the edges. he looks younger like this. softer. no worried crease between his brows. no weight of the world on his shoulders. just a boy sleeping in your bed for the first time.

last night had been awkward in that sweet, fumbling way first sleepovers always are. him standing in your doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, asking your parents if it was really okay. him triple-checking that the bed frame was “sturdy enough.” him hesitating before taking his shirt off, not because he was shy, but because he was afraid of hurting something.

“i can sleep on the floor,” he’d insisted.

you’d rolled your eyes and pulled him down by the hand.

“clark, you’ve saved my life three times this month. you can share a mattress.”

now he’s here. breathing slow. safe.

you reach out before you can stop yourself, brushing your fingers lightly through his hair. it’s soft. warmer than you expect. he shifts immediately. not awake — just instinct.

his hand moves, finds your waist, and tightens gently. careful, always careful. even half-asleep, he measures his strength without thinking.

“you’re staring again,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

you freeze. “i’m not.”

he hums softly, eyes still closed. “you are.”

you smile, leaning closer. “you look peaceful.”

that makes him open his eyes. the blue is hazy at first, unfocused. then it clears, and he sees you. really sees you. and something in his expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache.

“did i… break anything?” he asks quietly, glancing toward your bedframe like he genuinely expects splinters.

you laugh under your breath. “no. you didn’t crush my house, superboy.”

he makes a face at the nickname but doesn’t argue. instead, he shifts closer, resting his forehead against yours. the mattress dips slightly under his weight. you feel how warm he is, how solid, how very real.

“i kept waking up,” he admits. “just to make sure you were still here.”

your heart does something embarrassing and huge inside your ribs. “i’m not going anywhere.”

his thumb traces absentminded circles at your hip, barely there. like he’s grounding himself.

“i know,” he says. but there’s something fragile in it. something that says he’s spent a lifetime afraid of losing the people he loves.

you tilt your chin up and kiss him. it’s slow. softer than any kiss you’ve shared before. not desperate. not hurried in some shadowy hallway or behind the barn when no one’s looking.

this one feels… domestic.

his lips move against yours carefully, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. one hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his touch feather-light despite the strength coiled under his skin.

when you pull back, he rests his nose against yours.

“i like this,” he whispers.

“what?”

“waking up with you.”

the words are simple. honest. clark always is.

you tuck yourself into him, fitting against his chest like you belong there. his arm wraps around you fully now, protective but gentle, his chin resting on the top of your head.

outside, smallville is probably already awake. birds arguing in the trees. the world turning. but in here, it’s just you and the boy who could lift tractors, holding you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. and maybe you are.

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[onlyasteelmancanbealover]

the odd couple

fratboy!clark kent x fem!chubby!nerd!reader

18+ mdni

original ask <3

summary: nobody expects the frat boy and the chubby, nerdy girl to ever look in each others’ direction. but who cares what people expect?

word count: 3.5k

contains: fluff & smut. frat clark the wonderful gorgeous sassy little gentleman, reader is a weird literary nerd, lois lane being kickass propaganda. college kids being pretentious to turn each other on, my fav. some talk of drinking/being drunk, fraternity parties. clark and reader uhaul lesbian tf outta each other, first kiss/boyfriend trope. *piv, protected sex, light and bubbly and sweet because ughhhh… *no use of y/n

a/n: well yes, @intwoweeks ! i love frat clark, if you guys want more i will definitely do more with him– fics, blurbs, whatevs. hope you like ;)

————————————͙͘͡★———————————

If we asked anyone to explain how you and Clark Kent went well together, they would be at a loss for words. From the outside, it just… didn’t make sense. But then again, neither of you really made sense as individuals. That is, you didn’t fit into boxes in the way college kids like to. 

Clark was a brother in Alpha Gamma Rho. He was a backwards-hat, cut-off tank kind of guy. The legend of AGR keggers because he never seemed to get drunk. The very same legend who held doors for everyone, even if it made him late. You could see Clark mowing down brothers on the frat lawn in a game of tackle football, or studying with a pair of crooked, taped glasses in the library. Sometimes he was pulling senior pranks, parking cars on roofs or wrapping an office in Christmas paper. Other times he was exercising his secret duty of negotiating with campus police when a party was coming up, bringing them donuts and promising no problems, if they’ll only let it run its course. Needless to say, the farmboy wore many hats– but he had a core that was simple. Warm, thoughtful, passionate love. Intentional care. Remarkable intelligence. Those were just a few things that you loved about Clark. 

And you– well, who could ever figure you out? The girl with no solid shtick. President of the literature club, occasional peer tutor through the university library, who could often be found committing drunken karaoke offenses at the off-campus bar with your friend and roommate Lois. Nobody would be shocked to see you in fishnets and lacy black everything one day, and mary janes and a denim skirt the next. You walked with your head down and iPod blasting on school sidewalks, but you managed robust debates in class. You even put on the bulldog mascot suit and rushed the field during your sophomore-year homecoming game, because your public speaking professor (assistant coach of the MetU team, coincidentally) offered anyone a pass on the final presentation if they had the guts. When your peers would walk by and see you either hiding in a novel or handing out bookmarks for your club, no one batted an eye – because you were just that girl who did anything. Knowing everyone, yet knowing no one. 

It seemed every expectation of you both was subverted by another facet. Multi-dimensional in a one-note world. College isn’t always the place for fully-formed people like that, but perhaps it can be good for finding each other… can’t it?

You and Clark worked from the beginning.

He liked you when he found you standing in the corner of one of his frat parties, cradling a vodka cranberry (heavy on the vodka) with glazed eyes, staring over the sea of bodies like someone had personally offended you. He thought your dopey frown was sweet. You both remembered that night like it was yesterday.

—͙͘͡★—

“What’s the matter?” Clark had cooed, sauntering over with an empty beer bottle and a torturous little smirk on his face. His eyes were green and bright like the light across from Gatsby’s dock. You loved Gatbsy. Your drunken self thought of Gatsby religiously. Something about drinking and prohibition, and then the thought train just…

“My one friend dragged me here, and I think she’s gettin’ her face chewed over there,” you slurred, pouting, as a black-polished nail pointed across the party to another corner near the kitchen. Your good friend Lois, the only friend you had, really, had a guy in a jersey shoved up against the wall like she wore the pants in that makeout. 

Clark snickered and rested his elbow on your shoulder, laughing softer when you tried to wrestle out from under it. “You’re friends with Lane? That can’t be right. Lois is wild– and she’s here all the time. I’ve never seen you before.”

You lifted your buzzing head and rolled your eyes, sipping your drink– nearly missing the straw, and chasing it with your tongue. “Yeah, well, she needed a resume booster and I needed to get out of the house.”

Clark grinned at your soft mushing words, and he jutted his chin out with a curiously furrowed brow. “How many of those have you had, shortie?”

With a disgruntled scoff, you deflected: “M’not short!”

“Right, you’re just tall among hobbits,” Clark said, and he sat against the windowsill beside you.

He took a second to look you over that night. You had on quite the mix: a dainty little silver necklace that would nod to self-discipline, but it was bracketed by a denim jacket filthy with button pins screaming of new wave and half-niches. A little square neck tank that revealed a freckle by your collarbone. Army green cargos that rose low enough to squeeze the chub of your hips and tummy. Your boots had to have a platform at the very least one inch tall, he deduced, because they were serious and you were still short. And to top it off, there was a plum rim around your lips but a soft, neutral center, which meant you had lipstick on at some point, and had drank it all off. 

All of your small contradictions mixed with your very suspicious glances at him made his heart thump, and he knew then and there that he could see you sitting across from him at diners and nuzzling into his neck at theaters. He saw you kissing his cheek, he saw you crying over a test, he saw you waking up with tank top straps slipping from your rounded shoulders and yawning like a cat. He saw you with him, the little romantic…

“Y’know, you don’t look like a frat party kind of girl.”

“I do what I want,” you scrunched your nose, “Nothing means anything anyway.”

“Oh, do I detect a little nihilism, shortie?” Clark teased.

You swatted his shoulder and whined, “I am not short! And do you even know what that word means?”

“What, you think I’m an idiot?”

“Who coined nihilism?” you sneered, leaning down a bit to study his eyes, to see if they shifted. 

Clark tipped his head back and craned up, giving you a knowing grin. “Nietzsche. But that one guy Jacobi was the first guy to bring it up, Nietzsche just made it big. There was that other guy who wrote about it in Fathers and Sons…”

“Turgenev,” you suddenly smiled, the drunken judgement slipping away. “You know your depressing Germans!”

“And Russians,” he hummed, smiling wider. Your eyes were big as the moon, and his heart felt like it could seize at any moment. He had to find a way to keep you. “What’s your name, smartypants?”

By the way you smiled, it was clear you preferred that nickname. 

—͙͘͡★—

It was unusual, following that fateful encounter. Usually in college you get the couple who dances around each other for years, or you get the two horndogs who can’t even wait until the first date. For you and Clark, it just started… shapeless. 

You were too drunk to walk home that night, and so was Lois, so instead of letting you crash with all the other drunkies on the ground floor of the AGR fraternity, Clark personally put you both up in his room. He slept in his buddy Oliver’s room next door, in case he heard any creepers try to catch you or Lois offguard… or if he heard any puking. Then, when he expected to find you embarrassed the following morning, you were simply precious. A perfect, whiny little picture of a hangover– asking him shamelessly for McDonald’s and hogging his mattress until the fog cleared. When he asked Lois if you’re usually so fond of quick friendships, she just raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t be stupid.”

And you liked him from the start, too. Let’s get that straight. 

You didn’t really want to, because the reputations of frat guys seemed to lean towards accuracy in most cases– but you couldn’t deny that they could be brutally attractive. When he stalked over with a Sharks cap on backwards, pretty little curls of chocolate peeking out at the nape of his neck, flexing those annoyingly toned arms under an AGR short-sleeve, you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. If you weren’t drunk, you might have been a bit more stuttery. But it was when he gazed up at you like a puppy whilst dropping all kinds of specialized knowledge on philosophy, the soft timbre of his tone cutting through the egregious EDM shaking the house, you felt the butterflies making your toes curl in your boots. He was sweet, non-threatening, and he smiled like a wolf. Something in your gut told you that Clark Kent was hiding a whole lot of beautiful behind that brotherhood insignia on his chest. 

It took you two all but a week to fall disgustingly in love, because Clark fell first, and he was a self-starter. 

He found you at the library the day after your drunken romp at his house and brought you a coffee (his brothers felt the urge to adopt you as their pet, by the way, when they found you rummaging like a racoon through the fridge and Clark sitting on the counter behind you, staring with hearts in his eyes… and Lois asleep at his side.) The day after that, he bribed Lois with five bucks to tell him you would be leaving the literature club at four. He walked you to your tutoring shift. The next, he almost breached the creepy line when he used the student directory at the tutoring center to find your dorm number… but you didn’t mind when he showed up with Chinese food and that God-given grin. 

Then the week was up again, and there was another AGR party. You were formally invited that time; he snuck you up to the roof through a series of window-hoppings, and he kissed you when you were in the middle of a rant about women writing under male pseudonyms…

—͙͘͡★—

“And did you know that they didn’t even let George Eliot get buried in Westminster? All that judgement for being a female writer, and then the thing with her husband dying and finding a new lover, and the Church said no, so now she’s buried in Highgate and she’s never been moved! Such bullshit, because she literally redefined–”

Clark couldn’t take it. Your eyes did this special thing when you got angry over book stuff, this little flash– like someone was starting up a lighter, over and over again– and it made his knees weak. He lurched forward as if he had no control over the urge, and he pressed his lips to yours in a manner that didn’t match the preceding; gentle, like he might hurt you if he wasn’t careful. His big palms, a bit rough around the curves, cradled your cheeks, and he smiled when he felt the way you sucked in a little breath, like he made you lose your place in thought. 

You didn’t even pull away, you only let your lips brush his as you asked, "What are you doing?”

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, like an absolute idiot. But he wasn’t one. If any girl would take that kind of truth bomb well, it would be you. He knew that for sure.

You nearly knocked him on his back with how excitedly you kissed back, lips slotting against his eagerly and unorganized, head tilting from left to right, trying to find the right way, the right pace, the best feeling. He knew within a second of your sloppy mouth that you had probably never kissed anyone before and were dying to figure it out. 

“Easy, easy!” he chuckled, passing his fingers through the strands of hair around your face. “Jeez, Einstein–”

“Shut up,” you giggled, pulling back. Your eyes were on fire in a whole new way. “You love me?”

“Probably,” he hummed. Definitely. 

“I love you,” you countered. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s probably too soon,” you reasoned, eyes drifting to his lips like they were a magnet. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. 

“Maybe we’re moving really fast,”

“Maybe.”

“What would I be?” 

“My girlfriend.”

“And you’d be my boyfriend,”

“Hopefully.”

“And you want that?”

“Sure I do.”

“You don’t think I'm fat?”

“What?” Clark mumbled against your skin, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He could volley your questions with his lips on your neck. “Stupid question… I like how much you weigh, and if you lose a pound I’ll be pissed.”

“I’ve never had a– mmf– a boyfriend before,”

“That’s fine,” a kiss.

“I might get needy,”

“Mm, please do…” a nip.

Your eyes fluttered when his hands slipped into your back pockets, squeezing happily. “I have a lot of h… homework, all the time,”

“So do I.”

“I vote in every election,” 

“Mhm, so do I,” a squeeze.

“I want to write books for a living, even if it means I’m poor,”

“I have a family farm back home… won’t ever have to worry…”

“I- I want to have kids… three kids and two dogs,”

“Farm’s definitely big enough… they better have your eyes, cutie.”

“Mmf–” It got hard to think when his teeth scraped behind your ear. “Are you even listening? You’re talking crazy,”

“Three kids, two dogs, active citizen of democracy, I’ll keep you fed and pretty and– mm, is this new perfume? – n’ you love me?”

“Oh, god… yes.”

“Good. Then we’re both crazy.”

—͙͘͡★—

So, it worked. Nothing you said turned him off or away. He practically knew what you were thinking before you said it. Clark didn’t have to learn to anticipate your every move, he just did. And you seemed to read his mind, although that wasn’t so innate as it was easy– it was all over his gorgeous, gorgeous face. 

It was one of those things where you seemed to just fit like interlocking fingers. Every strength, every weakness, they melded into a trade of wills. Where he couldn’t, you could, and you shared life like a milkshake. One straw and a lot of kissing between sips. 

Your first time was in your shared dorm room with Lois, when you remembered to lock the door but forgot to deadbolt it, and so she had the misfortune of opening it up and finding the two of your startled into fits of laughter, hiding from her grumblings about ‘boys’ and ‘privacy’:

—͙͘͡★—

You really had never felt anything like it before, and whatever bad porn you watched or had seen in artsy movies did not do it justice. Or, maybe it was just Clark.

Clark had you pressed into the mattress under two hundred and twenty pounds of soft, twisting muscle, his hands wrapped around your back and digging into your sides. You weren’t sure you’d ever be small enough to hold, but maybe you just needed a bigger guy all this time. Everything in proportion, right?

And god, he was a whiner. Clark rutted into you in what should’ve been little motions, but he was so genuinely large that any thrust made your legs shake. It was quite a struggle getting the condom on, actually, because he was so anxious to be sweet with you that his hands shook. You had to roll it on for him, and you couldn’t help but laugh at his blushing cheeks. 

“Oh, god, baby,” he whimpered, nibbling at the joint of your neck and shoulder as the plush heat of your walls throbbed around him. “Oh my god, oh my god…”

You were a hot mess, burning up and completely eager. Every grind was met with a buck of your hips, your knees hitched high and your fingernails– purple this time– digging into the meat of his back. For a first timer, you had no reservations. You moaned into the dampening hair behind his ear, “Ho-oly shit, Clark…”

His hands rushed to touch every inch of your back and sides as he lifted himself up a bit and gazed down at you. His chain dangled against your lips and he watched as you took it in your mouth, passing it between tongue and teeth, batting those sinful lashes up at him. He scrunched his face up with a weak desire and tucked a hand under your knee, opening you up that last bit before driving into you with a force that managed to compromise speed and safety. Just as his hands kneaded your tummy, just as your hands twisted the sheets up, just as the two of you were begging and pleading and whining like little vocal twin flames, Lois unlocked the door and froze in the doorway. 

You startled immediately and Clark flopped on top of you, his first concern to cover you from whoever it was. But a poor moment of judgement caused him to keep going, even when Lois burst into a flurry of curses. 

“Jesus Christ, you guys– oh my god, somebody should’ve just told me, I wouldn’t have come home, couldn’t even put a fucking sock on the door like civilized people– oh my god, are you still going? Fuck, guys, ew! Privacy! Privacy in my own dorm room, that's all I ask! Boys in the room, there’ll never be boys in the room she said– oh, Christ, someone text me when it’s over!”

You devolved into helpless, shocked laughter as she babbled herself out and locked the door again, and Clark smiled into your chest as he made you punctuate every giggle with a moan. He couldn’t get enough of the way you sounded– it was breathy, like a whisper, until it hit harder and your pleasure reached a low register, whiny and hungry. He wanted to chase it out of you until you had no sound left. And he did– until your back arched, until the condom simply couldn’t take any more, until your eyes fluttered shut and wouldn’t open again, until your body twitched and slumped and every other word either sounded like “Clarkie” or “Love you.”

—͙͘͡★—

No matter what first came to pass, or whatever college threw at you, Clark didn’t budge. He knew it when he sought you out at that party. He knew you were the stroke of good luck he’d never find again. So, he kept you. Good choice, because he got a free tutor out of it- not that he needed it. The perks were really just making out in the library. 

He met your parents after a couple months, and they gushed over him. The homegrown farmboy had the good sense to bring flowers, and your parents kept them on the sill for weeks until they wilted to nothing. You showed him your childhood room, and he nearly cried at a little list of birthday wishes you had pasted next to your vanity, to which you laughed and accused, “You sap.”

Then it was his turn; he took you home on break to the farm, and his parents nearly gave Martha’s ring over on the spot. You received five pie recipes free of charge. Jonathan Kent gave you a rigorous tour of the farm, and he even let you brush the horses– one of which sneezed on your nice blouse. Clark took you into town for a new one and you got to see all the places he grew up in, and then you nearly cried, and all he could do was kiss you and tell you just how pretty you looked with grass in your hair. 

Clark bought you exactly one second-hand novel a week, and you wrote him little poems on scraps of paper and tucked them in every place possible, so that when he went through life, he’d find it unexpectedly, and remember that wherever he was, you were, too. 

He went to the slam poetry night your club hosted. You were crowned kegger queen to his kegger king at a particularly rowdy party. His brothers threw you a birthday party and got you delightfully drunk, so you could enjoy a childhood birthday wish of stargazing at midnight next to a cute boy. Said cute boy had to usher his friends to bed just so he could consummate the day you were brought into the world properly (and it was better than the first, somehow.) When you woke up the next morning, hungover in his bed, you smiled to yourself. Your tank top strap slid down your arm. He pushed it up. 

It didn’t matter on your shy or outgoing days, or when you felt dark or light. It didn’t matter when he had to put on the ‘brother’ face and do the stupid shit fraternities do. What mattered was that he protected your heart in a little box, and just when it felt like maybe you two wouldn't meet on some small level, you did. It was synchrony. It was easy.

And you know what? It didn’t have to make sense. You two were the odd couple. Soulmates exist like flames in the eyes of girls who float in the wind. He was yours, backwards hat and all, and there was nothing easier than that.

[moonstruckme]

hello, lovely mae! every fic you share with us is amazing, but recently i feel like you’ve been spoiling us extra! i have been loving reading your new steve fics and rereading your backlist. “You pass out (and Steve almost passes away)” is one of my favourites. 

if you feel like it, could you maybe write something with steve and a reader who has really rough cycles? my last one was scary bad. it’s nice to have someone with you who recognizes that even though you’ll be okay and it’ll pass, it’s wretched in the moment. (this is also a reminder for people to not put off visiting a doctor if they know something is wrong and are able to visit.) regardless, i am sending you so many air kisses!

Hiiii angel, thank you so much for your request! Many many air kisses back <3

cw: reader who menstruates

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 508 words

Each time you wince, Steve grips you a bit tighter. You’re lying with your head in his lap and his arm draped across your side, the once comforting weight becoming more vice-like with every cramp. Eventually you have to tap out. 

“Steve.” You pat his hand, your voice tight with pain. “Not helping.” 

“Shit, sorry.” His hold loosens quickly. 

“It’s okay. Just, too tight.” 

“Yeah, got it.” Steve brings his hand to your head, brushing the baby hairs from your temple. “Sorry, honey.” 

He keeps doing this; feeling your forehead, like you’re going to have a fever, the kind of ailment he can monitor. You’re watching a movie, and his hand travels from your forehead, to your cheek, to the back of your neck. You shut your eyes when the pain in your abdomen makes it impossible to pay attention to anything else. 

You don’t have to see Steve’s frown to know it’s there. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, not sounding very convinced of this himself. “Is the hot water bottle not helping?” 

“It’s not very hot anymore.” 

“You should have said.” Steve reaches over you. He untucks your shirt from around the barely lukewarm water bottle and starts to get up. 

“Wait.” You grasp pathetically at his pant leg to keep him from going. Another cramp sends a twist of agony through your middle, and you hiss. “Ahh…” 

Steve hisses, too. “Shit.” He sits right back down. “God damn it.” 

The self censure in his tone actually makes you laugh. “That wasn’t your fault.” 

“I moved—” 

“Not how it works, Steve.” 

Though your overworked abdomen doesn’t thank you for laughing, the humor does make you feel a bit better. Steve sits still while you breathe through it, and eventually the cramp passes. 

You look up at him. “Will you just stay here, please?” 

The bunch of Steve’s eyebrows is painfully distressed. You watch it soften in real time, the tension around his eyes melting away and the purse of his mouth turning more sad than troubled. Steve struggles with this, you know. He likes problems he can fight, things he can take a bat to, and sitting quietly while you’re in pain doesn’t feel right to him. It’s taken him a while to learn how to do nothing when there’s nothing he can do. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says. He settles back in, smoothing back your hair so you’re laying comfortably on his lap again. “What about…” Steve reaches across you, pushing up your shirt to settle his hand over your stomach. “...this?” 

It’s nowhere near as warm as a hot water bottle, but Steve knows that, he isn’t an idiot. It’s the contact that makes the difference. 

“That’s good,” you sigh. 

“Okay. Hey.” He taps your cheek, prompting you to look up at him again. Steve’s lips quirk in a small, lovesick smile, and a much nicer feeling seeps through your belly. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do, okay?” 

You let your cheek lay heavy on his thigh and reassure him, “You’re doing it.”

[satellite-evans]

danger calls

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: Superman keeps finding the woman he loves in the middle of disasters because you refuse to run from danger.

Word count: 7k+

Warnings: fluff, mention of injuries, buildings collapsing, rushed ending

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The first thing Clark noticed in every room he walked into was you.

Always you.

Not the headline Perry White was shouting about across the newsroom. Not the stack of reports waiting on his desk that he was definitely supposed to finish before noon. Not even the distant tremor that rippled faintly through the pavement outside the Daily Planet building, the kind of vibration that most people would never feel but that Clark immediately recognized as the early sign of something going very wrong somewhere in the city.

No.

The first thing he noticed was you.

You sat two desks away in the bullpen, half curled into your chair like you had been there for hours. One leg was tucked underneath you, the other lazily hooked around the chair leg, your posture completely indifferent to the concept of ergonomics.

Your pen rested between your teeth as you read through your notes, chewing on the plastic cap with quiet concentration. Papers were spread around you in the organized chaos that only made sense to you, highlighters scattered like colorful landmines across your desk.

Clark had walked into the newsroom a dozen times already.

And every single time, his eyes had found you first.

It was automatic now. Instinctive. Like breathing.

He loved everything about you.

Everything.

Clark loved the way you ate lunch like it was a small ceremony that had to be done correctly. The way you carefully unwrapped your burger before even touching the fries. The way you separated everything on the tray with almost surgical precision, as if the fries and the burger would start a territorial dispute if they came too close to each other.

The first time he had pointed it out, you had looked genuinely offended.

"They get soggy if you mix them."

Clark had nodded very seriously, like this was an entirely reasonable explanation, even though the logic behind it still baffled him.

He loved the way you walked.

You moved through the newsroom like you were always slightly ahead of the world, like your brain had already decided where you were going five minutes before your body caught up. It meant you walked just a little too fast for everyone else, weaving around desks and chairs with effortless momentum while other reporters scrambled to keep up with you.

Clark often slowed his pace just to watch you move ahead of him.

You talked with your hands constantly.

When you were passionate about something, your whole body seemed to join the conversation. Your fingers sliced through the air as you argued your points, your eyebrows lifting, your head tilting, your shoulders leaning forward as if the sheer force of your enthusiasm might push your argument into someone else's brain.

Clark had once watched you passionately explain to Jimmy why Gotham pizza was objectively inferior to Metropolis pizza for nearly ten minutes.

Jimmy had tried to argue back.

He had failed spectacularly.

Clark had sat nearby pretending to work while quietly enjoying every second of it.

He loved the tiny crease that appeared between your brows when you concentrated.

A faint line formed as you reread a paragraph in your notebook. Your pen tapped lightly against your lip while you thought.

Clark knew that crease better than he knew most people.

It appeared when you were writing something important.

Or when you were annoyed.

Or when someone said something particularly stupid in a meeting.

He loved the way you hummed under your breath when you wrote.

You never seemed to realize you were doing it. The sound was barely audible, a quiet melody that slipped out of you when your thoughts were moving faster than your hands could keep up with.

Clark could hear it from across the room.

He could hear your heartbeat too, steady and familiar among the hundreds of other heartbeats in the building.

If he listened closely enough, he could map your entire presence in the room without ever looking.

But he always looked anyway.

Because he loved the way you existed.

It was such a strange thought, he knew.

But it was true.

Clark loved the small things about you that no one else seemed to notice.

The way your nose wrinkled slightly when you laughed too hard.

The way you absentmindedly twirled the end of your pen when you were thinking.

The way you always stole the last donut from the break room but somehow convinced everyone it had been Jimmy.

You filled every space you stepped into with something warm and bright and stubbornly alive.

If Clark had been completely honest with himself, there was not a single thing about you that he would have changed.

Not one.

Except for one thing.

Your stubbornness.

Clark Kent was the strongest man on Earth.

That was not arrogance. It was simply fact.

He could lift buildings. He could stop speeding trains with his bare hands. He could hear disasters unfolding from miles away and cross the city in seconds to stop them.

But somehow, impossibly, you were still the most immovable force he had ever encountered.

Your stubbornness was legendary.

When you decided something needed to be done, it was done.

Logic, caution, and sometimes even basic self preservation had very little influence over your decision making process.

Especially when someone was in danger.

Clark had asked you to stay out of trouble more times than he could count.

You had never once listened.

And the frustrating part was that he understood exactly why.

Your heart was bigger than your sense of fear.

It meant that if there was a child trapped somewhere, you would be there trying to help before anyone else even thought to move.

If someone needed pulling out of rubble, you were already climbing into the wreckage.

If danger existed, you ran straight toward it.

Clark had saved the world more times than most people could imagine.

But you were the only person he knew who would argue with him about how to do it.

Which was exactly why he had been standing on the edge of the Daily Planet rooftop with his jaw clenched so tightly it was beginning to ache.

From above, the city looked like a wound.

Three blocks of downtown Metropolis had been carved open by the rampage of something large, angry, and very much not from Earth. Asphalt had been ripped apart like paper. Several cars had been overturned and tossed aside as if they had weighed nothing. A storefront window down the street still crackled faintly with leftover heat vision burns from when Clark had forced the creature away from a group of trapped pedestrians.

Smoke curled upward into the sky in lazy gray spirals.

Sirens screamed from every direction.

Police cruisers were arriving. Fire trucks were pushing through traffic. Ambulances lined the street like a chain of flashing red lights.

Clark had stopped the alien creature less than two minutes ago.

It had taken him roughly twelve seconds.

It had taken the city much longer to recover.

He stood there for a moment, scanning the area with the quiet focus that had become second nature. He listened for heartbeats. For panicked breathing. For the subtle sounds of shifting rubble that might indicate someone trapped underneath.

Everything was controlled now.

First responders were moving through the wreckage.

People were being evacuated.

No immediate threats remained.

Clark should have felt relief.

Instead he felt something else.

Because right in the middle of all the chaos, over the wail of sirens and the crackle of radios and the distant hum of emergency vehicles, Clark heard a voice that made his stomach drop.

"Oh my god, hold still, sweetie. It's okay. It's okay, I promise."

Clark closed his eyes.

He did not even need to look.

Of course.

Of course you were there.

He would have bet his entire savings account on it.

Two seconds later Superman landed in the street with a gust of wind strong enough to scatter loose papers across the pavement. The impact sent a small shockwave rippling outward that rattled broken glass along the sidewalk.

Several people gasped.

Someone shouted his name.

Clark barely noticed.

The creature was already gone. He had dealt with it moments earlier, launching it high enough into the atmosphere that it would not be returning any time soon.

What remained was the aftermath.

Overturned vehicles.

Cracked asphalt that split through the street like lightning.

Shattered windows.

And civilians scattered across the scene, some injured, others helping pull people free from the wreckage while first responders rushed to stabilize the area.

Clark's eyes moved across the scene quickly.

Paramedics treating a man with a broken arm.

Two firefighters cutting through a bent street sign to free someone pinned beneath it.

A group of police officers directing traffic away from the destruction.

And then he saw you.

Of course he did.

You were crouched beside a crushed sedan near the curb.

The car had clearly taken the brunt of the creature's rampage. The entire front half of the vehicle had been compressed inward, the hood folded like crushed foil, the windshield spiderwebbed with cracks. The frame had bent dangerously toward the passenger side, creating a pocket of space that was currently the only thing keeping the vehicle from collapsing entirely.

Inside the car, a child was crying.

And you, apparently, had decided that the correct response to this situation was to climb halfway inside it.

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You have got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.

Your knees were on the pavement, your upper body leaning through the broken window as you tried to reach the child inside.

"It's okay," you were saying gently. "I'm right here. You're doing great. Just hold still."

The car creaked faintly.

Clark could hear the stress fractures in the metal frame shifting under the pressure of the weight.

One wrong movement and the entire thing would collapse.

And you were inside it.

Clark felt a headache forming.

You did not notice him until his shadow fell over you.

You looked up.

Your hair was half falling out of the clip you had thrown it into that morning. Dust smudged across your cheek and the shoulder of your jacket. There was a small cut on your knuckle that was already beginning to dry.

You blinked at him like this was a completely normal interaction.

"Oh," you said casually. "Hey."

Clark stared at you.

There were dozens of civilians around them now.

Phones were out.

Several people were filming.

A police officer was standing nearby with the slightly stunned expression of someone witnessing a very strange interaction.

Clark took a slow breath.

His voice, when he spoke, was calm.

Public calm.

The kind of calm Superman used when he was very deliberately not allowing himself to sound like he was about five seconds away from losing his patience.

"Ma'am," he said evenly, "that vehicle is structurally unstable. That could have been extremely dangerous."

You blinked up at him.

Then you glanced back inside the car.

"Yeah," you said, like this was a minor inconvenience, "well, the kid's leg is stuck."

Clark exhaled slowly through his nose.

"You should step back."

You squinted at him slightly.

"You could help."

Clark nodded.

"I am helping."

You gestured vaguely at the situation.

"You are standing."

Clark's eye twitched.

Behind him, one of the firefighters made a very suspicious coughing noise that sounded an awful lot like someone trying not to laugh.

Clark ignored him.

He crouched down beside you and placed one hand carefully against the twisted metal frame of the car.

The entire vehicle weighed less to him than a grocery bag.

He lifted it slowly, deliberately, making sure not to shift the frame too quickly.

The car rose several inches off the pavement like it was made of cardboard.

You immediately leaned farther inside.

"Okay buddy," you said gently to the child. "We're gonna slide you out, alright? You're doing amazing."

The kid sniffled but nodded.

Clark held the entire vehicle suspended with one arm while you carefully freed the child's trapped leg and helped him crawl out through the broken window.

The moment the child was clear, Clark gently lowered the crushed metal back onto the pavement.

Paramedics rushed over immediately, taking the child into their care.

The kid, however, did not want to let go of your hand.

You smiled softly and squeezed his fingers reassuringly before the paramedics gently guided him toward the ambulance.

Clark watched the whole exchange.

And despite himself, some of the tension in his chest loosened.

You were always like this.

You walked straight into danger without hesitation if someone needed help.

It was one of the things he loved most about you.

It was also the thing that terrified him the most.

You stood up and brushed dust from your clothes like this had been a completely normal part of your day.

Clark folded his arms.

"Ma'am," he said again, slightly tighter this time, "next time you should leave situations like this to trained professionals."

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

"Excuse me?"

"You could have been seriously injured."

You shrugged.

"I was careful."

Clark stared at you.

"You were inside a collapsing car."

"I had it handled."

Clark felt his jaw tighten.

A small crowd had started to gather nearby.

Several people were watching the conversation with open curiosity.

Someone whispered, "Is this happening right now?"

Clark forced the polite Superman voice again.

"It is my responsibility to keep civilians safe."

You folded your arms.

"And it is my responsibility not to ignore a kid trapped in a car."

Clark leaned slightly closer.

His voice lowered, just enough that the people filming might not catch the exact tone behind it.

"You are not invincible."

You looked him dead in the eye.

"You are."

There was a long pause.

Someone in the background whispered loudly, "Is she arguing with Superman?"

Another voice said, "I think she's winning."

Clark inhaled slowly.

Very slowly.

"Please," he said tightly, "step away from dangerous areas in the future."

You gave him a look.

Clark knew that look better than he knew his own reflection.

The look meant absolutely not.

The look meant you had already decided he was wrong.

Then, without another word, you grabbed your bag off the pavement and walked toward the ambulance area like the conversation had concluded exactly the way you wanted it to.

Clark watched you go.

Several firefighters were now openly grinning.

One of them muttered, "Good luck with that, Superman."

Clark groaned internally.

This was not over.

Not even remotely close.

Three hours later, Clark opened the apartment door.

He already knew what he would find before he stepped inside.

Your heartbeat had been in the apartment for the last forty-seven minutes.

He had heard it the entire flight home.

Still, when the door swung open and he stepped into the quiet warmth of the apartment, the sight in front of him somehow still managed to make his eye twitch.

You were already inside.

Of course you were.

You sat at the kitchen counter like the events of the afternoon had been nothing more than a mildly interesting inconvenience.

Your legs swung lazily from the stool while you ate cereal straight from the box, one hand buried inside it while the other held your phone. A half-full glass of milk sat beside you, completely ignored, because apparently pouring cereal into a bowl had been too much effort for the evening.

Clark slowly closed the door behind him.

Very slowly.

The soft click echoed through the apartment.

"Hi," you said casually, not even looking up from the cereal box.

Clark just stood there.

For a moment he didn't move at all.

His glasses were slightly crooked from how fast he had flown back across the city before changing into his civilian clothes. His hair was still wind-tossed, refusing to settle properly no matter how many times he had tried to smooth it down before coming upstairs. His tie hung loosely around his neck, half undone, the knot sitting somewhere near the middle of his chest like it had simply given up.

He looked like a man who had stopped an alien monster, saved a dozen civilians, and then flown home in record time to lecture someone.

You finally glanced up at him.

It took exactly half a second for you to read his face.

Your shoulders sagged slightly.

"Oh boy."

Clark walked forward slowly.

He dropped his keys onto the counter with a quiet clink.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

Dust still clung faintly to the sleeve of your jacket. There was a faint bruise beginning to form on your forearm that definitely had not been there that morning. The small cut on your knuckle had dried into a thin red line.

Clark felt his jaw tighten.

"Do you have any idea," he began slowly, carefully, like he was trying very hard to keep his voice from rising, "how dangerous that was?"

You reached into the cereal box again.

You pulled out another handful of cereal.

Then you popped it into your mouth and chewed thoughtfully before answering.

"I mean," you said after swallowing, "technically you got there before the car collapsed."

Clark stared at you.

The silence stretched.

"That," Clark said slowly, "is not the point."

You shrugged like the concept itself was debatable.

"The kid is fine."

Clark dragged a hand down his face.

"You could have been crushed."

You tilted your head slightly.

"But I wasn't."

"You could have been."

"But I wasn't."

Clark pointed at you.

"This," he said, gesturing emphatically, "this right here is exactly the problem."

You grinned slightly.

Clark groaned and began pacing the kitchen like a man attempting to burn off frustration through sheer movement.

"I swear," he muttered, running a hand through his hair again, "you are like a magnet for danger."

You leaned back on the stool.

"I work in journalism."

Clark spun around.

"You climbed inside a collapsing car."

"There was a kid."

"There are always kids!" Clark said helplessly, throwing his hands in the air.

You softened slightly at that.

Your fingers stopped digging through the cereal box.

Your voice, when you spoke again, was quieter.

"I couldn't just leave him."

Clark stopped pacing.

The words settled between you.

That was the thing.

That was always the thing.

Your heart.

It had always been the problem.

Not because it was wrong.

Because it was too big.

You would never walk away from someone who needed help. It wasn't in you.

Clark sighed slowly and leaned against the counter across from you, folding his arms.

"I know why you do it."

You tilted your head at him.

"But?"

Clark hesitated.

Then he looked at you fully.

"But you scare the crap out of me."

Your expression shifted immediately.

The teasing light in your eyes faded.

Clark looked down at the counter for a moment before continuing.

His voice was quieter now.

More honest.

"I hear everything in this city," he said softly.

He tapped his fingers lightly against the counter.

"Every accident. Every scream. Every collapsing building."

You watched him carefully.

Clark met your eyes again.

"And then I hear you in the middle of it."

Your throat moved slightly as you swallowed.

Clark continued, his voice rougher now.

"You don't run away from danger."

You gave a small, sheepish shrug.

Clark sighed.

"You run toward it."

You looked down at the cereal box in your hands.

Your voice was quiet.

"Someone has to."

Clark pushed himself away from the counter and stepped closer.

Without a word, he gently took the cereal box out of your hands and set it on the counter.

"You don't."

Your eyes flicked back up to his.

"You already save people," Clark said quietly. "Every day."

You frowned slightly.

"With your stories," he continued. "With your voice. You hold people accountable. You expose things that would stay hidden if you didn't write about them."

His expression softened.

"You already make the world better."

You studied his face for a long moment.

Then you muttered quietly, almost stubbornly,

"Still helping."

Clark groaned and dropped his forehead against the counter.

The dull thud echoed through the kitchen.

"You are impossible."

You laughed.

And Clark hated how much he loved that laugh.

It was warm and bright and completely unapologetic.

He lifted his head and looked at you again.

The frustration in his face had softened now into something gentler.

Still exasperated.

Still tired.

Still deeply, hopelessly in love.

"I love everything about you," he said.

You blinked.

Clark sighed.

"Everything."

A small smile tugged at your mouth.

"But?"

Clark pointed at you again.

"The stubbornness."

You grinned.

Clark shook his head slowly.

"I am going to be giving this speech for the rest of eternity, aren't I?"

You slid off the stool and stepped toward him.

Before he could react, you wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your face against his chest.

Clark melted instantly.

His arms came around you without hesitation, holding you tightly against him.

"You love me," you mumbled into his shirt.

Clark sighed deeply and rested his chin on top of your head.

"Unfortunately."

You laughed again.

Clark pressed a soft kiss into your hair.

Quietly, almost like he was saying it to himself more than to you, he added,

"But I really do wish you'd run away from monsters."

You leaned back just enough to look up at him.

Your eyes were bright.

"No promises."

Clark closed his eyes.

He sighed.

"Of course not."

The accident happened two days later.

Tuesday morning.

Clark had been sitting at his desk at the Daily Planet with the deeply familiar expression of a man attempting to write something he did not care about in the slightest.

His computer screen glowed in front of him, displaying the exact same sentence it had displayed for the last fifteen minutes.

"City council officials discussed the proposed budget allocation for next year's infrastructure improvements..."

Clark stared at it.

He reread it.

He sighed.

Then he deleted it.

He started again.

"During Tuesday's meeting, members of the Metropolis city council..."

Clark stared again.

He sighed again.

Then he deleted that one too.

For the third time.

Three paragraphs.

Three deletions.

At this point he was pretty sure the article was actively resisting being written.

Across the bullpen, your desk sat empty.

Which was already suspicious.

You were supposed to be there. You had texted him earlier that morning saying you were running late, which was not unusual. You had also added something about coffee and traffic and a bagel emergency, which Clark had not fully understood but had accepted as a valid explanation.

Still.

The empty chair bothered him.

Clark leaned back in his seat slightly and rubbed his eyes.

Around him, the newsroom buzzed with the usual chaos.

Phones rang.

Jimmy was laughing too loudly at something on his screen.

Perry was already shouting at someone about deadlines.

Lois was typing with the aggressive speed of someone determined to destroy her keyboard before lunchtime.

Clark tried to focus again.

He placed his hands back on the keyboard.

He typed another sentence.

Then his hearing caught something.

Metal screeching.

Clark's head lifted slightly.

The sound came from somewhere downtown.

Brakes screaming.

A truck horn blaring far too long.

Clark went still.

Three blocks away.

His hearing sharpened automatically.

The sounds rushed in clearer.

A delivery truck engine roaring out of control.

The driver shouting something panicked.

Pedestrians yelling.

Running footsteps.

Then the violent, unmistakable crunch of metal as the truck slammed sideways into something.

Glass shattered.

Car alarms started screaming.

Clark was already halfway out of his chair when he heard it.

Your voice.

Clear as day.

"Hey! Hey, can you hear me?"

Clark froze.

He had literally talked about this.

Two days ago.

Two.

Days.

Clark inhaled slowly.

Then he stood up.

Across the room, Lois glanced up.

"You okay, Smallville?"

Clark adjusted his glasses with forced calm.

"Just remembered something I forgot to file," he said.

Lois squinted at him.

"You forgot something you were filing?"

Clark nodded.

"Very important paperwork."

Lois narrowed her eyes further.

Clark smiled awkwardly.

Then he walked quickly toward the stairwell.

The moment the door closed behind him, Clark vanished.

Three seconds later Superman landed in the middle of the intersection.

The impact cracked the pavement beneath his boots and sent a gust of wind rushing down the street.

People gasped.

Several phones immediately lifted into the air.

The truck had ended up halfway on the sidewalk.

Its front bumper had wrapped itself around a streetlight like an unfortunate metal hug. The hood was crushed inward, steam rising from the engine.

A parked car had taken the worst of the hit and now looked like it had been folded in half.

A small crowd had gathered at a cautious distance.

And right beside the passenger door of the truck, someone was kneeling on the pavement.

Clark didn't even need to look closely.

You were halfway inside the truck through the open passenger door.

One knee on the seat.

One foot still on the sidewalk.

You were trying to help the driver, who looked dazed and extremely confused, unbuckle his seatbelt.

"Okay, okay," you were saying gently. "You're good. Just stay with me. I'm gonna get this off you."

The driver blinked at you.

"I think I hit a mailbox," he said weakly.

"You hit a streetlight."

"Oh."

Clark landed beside the truck with a heavy thud.

The ground shook slightly.

Several people cheered.

Someone shouted, "Superman!"

You glanced over your shoulder.

"Oh," you said casually.

Clark stared at you.

"Oh. Hey again."

Clark continued staring.

"You," he said slowly, "were supposed to be at work."

You gestured vaguely at the wrecked truck.

"I took a quick field trip."

Clark rubbed his face.

Inside the truck, the driver looked between the two of you.

Then he squinted.

"Wait," the driver said slowly. "You guys know each other?"

You froze.

Clark froze.

The driver pointed vaguely between the two of you.

"Because this feels like a very specific kind of arguing."

You smiled nervously.

Clark cleared his throat.

"We have crossed paths," Clark said stiffly.

The driver nodded thoughtfully.

"Ah."

You finished unbuckling the seatbelt and helped the driver shift carefully toward the door.

Clark reached out and effortlessly lifted the entire front end of the truck upright so the frame stopped leaning dangerously against the streetlight.

The driver stared.

"Oh."

Then he looked at you again.

"You call him often?"

You shook your head quickly.

"No."

Clark sighed.

The driver looked between you both again.

"So you just happen to show up whenever she gets into trouble?"

Clark pointed at you.

"Exactly."

You crossed your arms.

"I was helping."

Clark gestured broadly at the wreckage.

"You were climbing into a crashed truck."

"He was stuck!"

Clark stared at you.

The driver slowly climbed out of the truck and leaned against the door.

Then he nodded thoughtfully.

"I feel like this argument has happened before."

Clark and you both spoke at the same time.

"Yes."

The driver nodded again.

"Yeah. I thought so."

The third time happened a week later.

Clark had almost started to believe you might actually try to be careful.

Almost.

It was early evening, the sky over Metropolis washed in deep oranges and fading gold as the sun dipped behind the skyline. Clark had been two neighborhoods away, high above the city, listening in the way he often did when he wasn’t actively responding to something.

The city had its own rhythm.

Millions of heartbeats. Conversations spilling out of apartment windows. The distant rumble of traffic. Music drifting from rooftop bars. The quiet hum of a thousand ordinary lives unfolding at once.

Clark could separate those sounds the way someone might sort through radio stations.

Most of the time, everything blended into background noise.

But sometimes something cut through it.

That evening, it had been the fire alarms.

A piercing mechanical wail echoed through several blocks, loud enough that Clark’s attention snapped toward it immediately.

Then came the crackling.

Fire had a very distinct sound when it started to spread. It snapped and hissed as it fed on wood, drywall, furniture, anything it could reach. Clark heard the flames licking through the walls of a small apartment building, the structure groaning faintly under the sudden heat.

People were shouting.

Doors were slamming open.

Someone screamed down a hallway, telling everyone to get out.

Clark moved before the thought even finished forming.

In less than a second he was airborne, cape snapping behind him as he cut through the evening air.

From above, he spotted the building almost immediately.

It was small, three stories at most, tucked between two older brick structures on a quiet street. Smoke poured from the upper floor windows in thick black waves, curling into the sky like dark storm clouds.

Flames flickered behind the glass of several apartments.

Residents were spilling out onto the sidewalk below in clusters, some barefoot, some clutching phones or pets or hastily grabbed bags.

Fire trucks had already been dispatched.

Clark could hear their sirens approaching from several blocks away.

Then he heard something else.

Your voice.

Clark’s stomach dropped.

Through the chaos of shouting neighbors, crackling flames, and blaring alarms, your voice carried clearly through the second floor hallway.

“There’s still someone upstairs!”

Clark actually faltered midair.

Of course.

Of course you were inside.

He didn’t even know how you kept managing this.

Clark pushed forward faster, blasting through the smoke-filled air toward the second floor.

The window shattered inward as he entered.

Glass scattered across the apartment floor, blown aside by the force of his arrival.

Smoke filled the hallway so thick it hung like a gray curtain, turning the entire floor into a hazy maze of flickering orange light and shifting shadows.

Clark’s vision cut through it easily.

He saw you immediately.

You stood halfway down the hallway, your arm wrapped firmly around the shoulders of an elderly woman who looked both terrified and dangerously unsteady on her feet.

The woman’s gray hair had partially fallen loose from its bun. Her slippers dragged against the carpet as she struggled to keep up, one hand clutching your sleeve tightly.

“Almost there,” you were telling her gently, your voice hoarse from the smoke. “Just a little farther.”

Flames licked along the ceiling at the far end of the hallway, spreading fast.

Clark landed directly in front of you.

The floorboards rattled under the impact.

You looked up.

Your entire face changed the moment you saw him.

Relief washed over you instantly, your shoulders sagging slightly like the weight of the situation had finally lifted.

“Oh good,” you said breathlessly. “You’re here.”

Clark stared at you.

For a moment he didn’t even speak.

You were covered in soot. Smoke had darkened the edges of your sleeves and streaked across your cheek. Your hair had completely escaped whatever attempt you had made to tie it back that morning.

Your eyes were watering from the smoke.

And you were standing inside a burning building.

Again.

Clark finally managed to say the only thing that came to mind.

“Why are you here.”

You coughed slightly, waving a hand through the smoke.

“I was interviewing someone in the building.”

Clark stared at you.

“You were interviewing someone.”

You nodded weakly.

“It was about a rent dispute.”

Clark blinked.

A piece of flaming ceiling panel crashed down somewhere behind you.

The fire was spreading faster.

Clark didn’t argue.

He simply stepped forward, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other scooped the elderly woman up with careful ease.

Both of you gasped slightly as the floor vanished beneath your feet.

In the next second Clark launched through the same window he had entered.

The cool night air rushed over you as you burst out of the smoke cloud and into the open sky.

Several people on the street below gasped and pointed.

Clark landed gently on the pavement beside the growing cluster of fire trucks.

Paramedics rushed forward immediately, taking the elderly woman from Clark’s arms and guiding her toward an ambulance for oxygen.

You stumbled slightly when Clark set you down.

A paramedic immediately approached you with concern.

“Ma’am, were you inside the building?”

You waved him off quickly.

“I’m totally fine.”

The paramedic looked skeptical.

“You were inside a structure fire.”

“I’m totally fine,” you repeated.

He tried to check your arm.

You pulled it back.

“Seriously. I’m fine.”

Across the street, Clark stood with his arms folded.

His cape shifted slightly in the evening breeze.

His expression was not pleased.

You could feel it without even looking.

So you didn’t look.

You focused very intensely on the paramedic checking your oxygen levels.

Clark watched the entire exchange from across the street.

Your heartbeat was still slightly elevated.

Your lungs were irritated from smoke inhalation.

Your hands were shaking faintly.

And you were insisting to a trained medical professional that you were completely fine.

Clark dragged a hand down his face.

You still refused to look at him.

One of the firefighters walked past Clark and glanced toward you.

Then he looked at Superman.

Then back at you.

Then back at Superman again.

“…you know her?” the firefighter asked.

Clark sighed.

"Unfortunately."

Clark had been standing in Perry White’s office when it started.

Perry was pacing behind his desk in the way he did when he was delivering one of his famous lectures about journalistic integrity, deadlines, and the apparent inability of reporters to turn in stories before the universe ended.

Clark stood near the desk with a notebook in hand, glasses sitting neatly on his nose, nodding every few seconds like he was listening very carefully.

“Deadlines are not suggestions, Kent,” Perry was saying, stabbing a finger toward a stack of paperwork on his desk. “When I say noon, I mean noon. Not noon-ish. Not sometime before dinner. Noon.”

Clark nodded again.

“Yes, sir.”

In reality, Clark had not heard the last three sentences.

Because four miles away, something had exploded.

The sound reached him first.

A deep, violent boom that rattled windows across several blocks. The kind of sound Clark recognized immediately as a gas explosion.

Then came the secondary sounds.

Concrete cracking.

Metal twisting.

The awful groaning noise of a building losing its structural integrity.

And beneath all of that, chaos.

People screaming.

Car alarms blaring.

Sirens already starting in the distance.

Clark’s focus sharpened instantly.

He could hear the building collapsing inward, sections of flooring giving way one after another in a domino effect.

Dust and debris poured into the air.

And somewhere inside that collapsing structure was a heartbeat he would recognize anywhere.

Yours.

Clark went perfectly still.

Your heartbeat was faster than normal.

Uneven.

Adrenaline.

You were moving through the rubble.

Talking to someone.

Clark didn’t even hear Perry finish his sentence.

He simply turned and walked out of the office.

“Clark?” Perry called after him.

Clark didn’t answer.

He moved through the bullpen quickly, pushing open the stairwell door and disappearing down the stairs before anyone could question him.

Thirty seconds later Superman dropped out of the sky.

The building had partially caved in.

It was an older commercial structure, three stories tall, the kind of place that housed small offices and construction storage spaces. The explosion had blown out most of the first floor walls and caused the front section of the building to collapse inward like a broken jaw.

Dust filled the air so thick it turned the entire street gray.

Chunks of concrete littered the ground.

Twisted metal beams stuck out of the rubble like exposed bones.

People stood behind police tape, shouting names, crying, pointing toward the wreckage.

Construction workers in hard hats were trying to pull debris aside with their bare hands while they waited for emergency crews.

Clark landed hard in the middle of it all.

The ground shook beneath his boots.

A fresh cloud of dust rolled outward from the impact.

He scanned the wreckage immediately.

Heartbeats.

He counted them automatically.

Several injured.

One unconscious.

Two trapped beneath debris.

And one very familiar heartbeat moving somewhere near the center of the collapsed structure.

Clark pushed through the rubble in three strides.

And then he saw you.

Right in the middle of it.

Of course.

You were kneeling beside a construction worker who had clearly been caught in the collapse. One of the steel support beams had fallen across his leg, pinning him beneath it.

The man was pale, breathing hard, one hand gripping your sleeve while you tried to keep him calm.

“Okay, okay,” you were saying gently. “Stay with me. Someone’s coming.”

Your voice sounded strained.

Clark’s eyes dropped immediately to your arm.

Blood.

Not a lot, but enough to make his stomach tighten.

Your sleeve had been torn open at the shoulder, and a long scrape ran down your arm, already darkening with dried dust and blood.

Your hair was coated in gray debris.

Your cheek had a faint bruise forming along the bone.

Clark felt something sharp twist in his chest.

Then he landed beside you.

The impact rattled the loose debris around you.

Your head snapped up.

For half a second your face lit up with pure relief.

Then your expression shifted.

“Oh.”

Clark stared at you.

You winced slightly.

“Hi.”

Clark didn’t say anything at first.

His eyes flicked briefly over your injuries again.

The scrape.

The bruise.

The way your left hand was shaking slightly from the adrenaline.

Clark forced his face back into the calm, neutral expression Superman always wore.

He crouched beside the trapped construction worker and placed one hand under the steel beam.

The metal groaned faintly as Clark lifted it like it weighed nothing.

“Careful,” Clark said, his voice steady and controlled.

You immediately moved.

Despite the fact that your arm was clearly hurting, you shifted forward and carefully helped the construction worker drag his leg free from beneath the beam.

The man cried out in pain but managed to pull himself out as Clark held the beam suspended.

The moment the man was clear, Clark set the steel down gently.

Paramedics rushed forward almost immediately, lifting the injured worker onto a stretcher.

You stayed crouched for a second longer, catching your breath.

Then you slowly stood.

Clark straightened too.

Dust swirled around him, cape shifting in the wind.

He crossed his arms.

And for a moment he simply looked at you.

From an outsider’s perspective, Superman looked calm.

Composed.

Authoritative.

From your perspective, he looked like someone preparing to give a lecture.

You slowly took a step backward.

Clark pointed at you.

“You.”

You froze.

Clark inhaled slowly.

Very slowly.

“How,” he began.

He paused.

Then tried again.

“How do you keep doing this.”

You raised both hands slightly in surrender.

“In my defense,” you said carefully, “this one exploded around me.”

Clark closed his eyes for a brief moment.

Then he pointed again.

“I told you to stay away from dangerous situations.”

“I wasn’t looking for it!”

“You were inside a collapsing building!”

You gestured around the wreckage.

“You were inside a collapsing building too!”

Clark opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“That,” he said finally, gesturing toward himself, “is different.”

You tilted your head.

“How.”

Clark gestured at the giant red S on his chest.

“I’m Superman.”

You shrugged.

“You showed up.”

Clark stared at you like you had just explained gravity incorrectly.

“You cannot rely on me showing up.”

“You always do.”

Clark went very still.

The words hung between you.

Your voice softened slightly as you stepped a little closer.

“I know you hear everything.”

Clark looked down at you.

Your eyes were tired now, but steady.

“And I know,” you continued gently, “that if someone needs help… you will come.”

Clark sighed quietly.

You reached up and brushed some dust off his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world to casually tidy Superman after a disaster.

“You worry too much,” you said softly.

Clark looked at you.

Then he said very quietly,

“You don’t worry enough.”

You smiled.

Clark groaned.

Because he already knew.

This argument was not ending here.

It would happen again.

And again.

And again.

For the rest of his life.

And every single time he heard your voice in the middle of danger, Clark Kent’s heart would still stop.

But he would always come.

Every time.

Clark had barely finished the thought when his eyes flicked back to your arm.

You were trying very hard to act like nothing was wrong.

Clark knew that trick. You did it every time you got hurt. A casual shrug. A small smile. That very convincing “I’m fine” voice that fooled absolutely no one who actually knew you.

Except right now he was Superman.

And Superman was not supposed to know you.

Which meant he had to do this carefully.

Your sleeve was torn open from shoulder to elbow. Dust and dried gray debris clung to the scrape along your arm, but Clark could still see the thin line of red where the skin had broken. It wasn’t life threatening. It wasn’t even serious.

But it was enough.

Enough to make his chest tighten.

Enough to make the protective part of him wake up again.

You were still standing there like the conversation had been about the weather instead of the fact that you had just been inside a building that exploded.

Clark exhaled quietly.

Then he turned his head slightly toward the emergency crews moving around the site.

“Paramedic,” he called.

His voice carried easily over the chaos.

One of the paramedics, a woman kneeling beside a stretcher a few yards away, looked up immediately. When she saw who had called, she stood and hurried over, medical bag swinging against her hip.

“Yes, Superman?”

Clark stepped slightly to the side, gesturing toward you.

“This civilian was inside the collapse,” he said calmly.

You blinked.

“Hey—”

Clark continued like you had not spoken.

“She needs to be checked for injuries.”

You stared at him.

The paramedic immediately shifted into professional mode, already reaching for gloves.

“Of course.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly.

Clark folded his arms.

The paramedic gently reached for your injured arm.

“Let’s just take a quick look.”

“It’s just a scratch,” you insisted.

Clark raised one eyebrow slightly.

You noticed.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Oh you have got to be kidding me,” you muttered.

The paramedic carefully rolled your sleeve back the rest of the way. The scrape was longer than it had looked through the dust. It ran down the side of your arm, red and irritated from debris.

“Did you hit something?” she asked.

“A wall,” you admitted.

Clark’s jaw tightened.

The paramedic cleaned the scrape gently with antiseptic.

You winced.

Clark noticed that too.

“Any dizziness?” she asked.

“No.”

“Headache?”

“No.”

“You were exposed to the explosion?”

“I was down the hall.”

Clark spoke again, voice calm but firm.

“She was also inside the structure during partial collapse.”

You shot him a look.

“Thank you,” you muttered.

The paramedic gave you a small sympathetic smile.

“Superman’s very thorough.”

You huffed.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Clark pretended not to hear that.

The paramedic finished cleaning the scrape and wrapped a small bandage around your arm.

“There we go,” she said. “You’re lucky. Could’ve been worse.”

Clark silently agreed with that statement.

Very strongly.

The paramedic stepped back.

“You should still take it easy tonight,” she added. “And maybe avoid collapsing buildings for a bit.”

You nodded politely.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Clark made a soft noise under his breath.

You looked up at him again.

He was still standing there, arms crossed, cape shifting slightly in the dusty breeze, watching you with the very unmistakable expression of someone who absolutely did not believe you would follow that advice.

You pointed at him.

“I was helping someone.”

Clark replied calmly.

“You were injured.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“You were inside an explosion.”

Clark inhaled slowly.

Several nearby firefighters had stopped working and were now openly watching the exchange like it was a form of entertainment.

You dusted your hands off and grabbed your bag from the rubble beside you.

“Well,” you said brightly, “thanks for the assist.”

Clark stared at you.

You took a few steps backward.

Then a few more.

Clark did not move.

You pointed a finger at him.

“I’m leaving.”

Clark said nothing.

You turned and began walking toward the police tape.

Clark waited exactly three seconds.

Then he called after you.

“Ma’am.”

You stopped.

Very slowly you turned around.

Clark’s voice was calm.

But the tone underneath it was unmistakable.

“Try,” he said carefully, “to stay out of dangerous situations.”

You stared at him.

Then you smiled.

“Can’t promise anything.”

Clark closed his eyes briefly.

Around them, the firefighters burst out laughing again.

Clark sighed.

Of course.

Of course you couldn’t.

taglist : @kristine13 @mollymal @clarkswhore-jpeg @fire-joestar @sunlightkent

[rosesaints]

touch tank

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, irritatingly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here! word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry) content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending

It doesn’t start with sex.

It starts with Clark.

Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy). 

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep. 

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you. 

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really. 

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, gently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is. 

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative. 

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name. 

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about  the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone  in the shower.

Truly. 

You're just trying to get clean. 

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle. 

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow. 

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, clement and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again. 

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and  fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly. 

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair. 

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin. 

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.  

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

.

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

.

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up. 

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you.  He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there. 

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door. 

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in. 

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway. 

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys. 

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there. 

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

 The banana bread. 

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong. 

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind. 

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it. 

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts. 

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, more purposeful.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now. 

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

Because yeah. You do know.

[luveline]

how about clark being clingy with his gf?

thank you for requesting ‎★ fem, 1k

“What are you gonna do today?” Clark asks. 

Not wanting to sound horrendously lazy and or like a giant loser, you tip your head back in the pillow and think. “Well, I guess there’s laundry to do. I need to wash my clothes for work, and you have a bunch of white socks that are collecting at the bottom of the basket, like a mountain. Then I could go get some groceries,” —Clark eats like he’s trying to gain weight but never does— “and maybe take your watch to get fixed, the jeweller’s is right next to the market. They could probably fix it before I finish getting groceries. And then, I don’t know. I could go to the gym? Or, at least do something.”

Clark makes a long groaning sound of disgust, though it’s fond, which is strange but evidence that you’re in love with him enough to be able to hear the difference. “You could do none of those things. I’ll do your laundry and my own. I’ll get the groceries, and fix my own watch, and you could stay here in bed where you deserve to be, resting.”

“You just asked me what I was gonna do today?” 

“I was hoping you’d say, ‘stay here in bed with my boyfriend so he can hold me, and lavish me with breakfast in bed.’”

“You couldn’t have interrupted me sooner?” you ask. You’d just spelled the whole day out. “Besides, it’s not your week. Laundry is my chore this week. You gotta do the dishes.”

“I will do both,” he says, like he’s trying to convince you. 

“Not fair.”

“You cleaned the bathroom yesterday when it was my turn, so it’s your fault I have to make things equal.”

“You left it in a mess,” you say. 

Clark uses his body to encourage you onto your side, your back to his chest, your legs a tangle as his arm slings over your shoulder, cuddling you with his face pressed to the back of your neck. “I’m sorry,” he says against your skin, “I wouldn’t have left it all night.” 

“I know.” 

“Sorry, honey.” He kisses you slowly, chastely, at the very nape of your neck. 

“It’s fine, I don’t care, it’s–” Obviously if he did it all the time it would be a problem, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t need you to explain that to him. Not that you’d even want to. “Clark, shut up about the bathroom.”

He tips himself over your further, more cuddling, warm as a blanket with a comforting weight to it as his arm curls around you and bunches you up, encouraging your weight further across the bed to accommodate him. “Okay,” he says, sounding very happy to be spoken to in such a way. “I’m doing laundry, and you’re watching TV. Good talk.”

You’d laugh, but you’re distracted by the smell of him on top of you. Clark relaxes so heartily that he’s basically pushing you off of the bed, now, draped over you. He’s squishing you. You stick your head out of his embrace and turn enough to force his eye. 

“Clark, baby,” you say, offering your softest look, “you’re squishing me.”

“Oh, gosh, sorry,” he says, shuffling back. 

You take the opportunity to turn in toward him, your leg going over his thigh, arm over his side. Clark grasps your hip as though you need help to get comfortable, unnecessary and achingly nice of him. Worse when you lift yourself up some to move your arm and he slides his own beneath you to take your weight. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

“There’s really nothing else I’d rather be doing,” Clark says, his eyes a stormier shade of blue than usual in the dim lighting of your curtained bedroom. The February sun tries its hardest to find you between the cracks, little stripes of gold breaking through to kiss across Clark’s pale chest and arms. 

You rub at his bicep, feeling the skin warmed beneath each sluggish ray of sun. 

“We can’t do nothing today,” you reproach softly. “If we don’t keep up this weekend, we won’t get any time to ourselves next weekend.” 

“I can keep up. You know I’m fast.”

“You can’t super speed your way through the laundry.”

“Baby,” he says, reaching to hold you by the neck, his thumb brushing along your jaw, “I promise that anything we would have done today, when we’re together, I will get done tomorrow. Okay? I just want it to be about us, just me and you. Just one day for us. Do you believe me?”

“That you’ll do everything?”

“Yeah.”

When Clark promises, he doesn’t tend to break them. You tilt your face down to chase his touch, letting him caress the plush of your lips with his thumb, the breadth of it, and finding you’d rather not speak and make him stop. You nod twice. 

“Yeah?” he asks, framing your face in his hand. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, “okay. Today’s for being with you.”

He beams and gathers you even tighter to his chest, twisting around until you’re lying right on top of him. 

“What the hell is going on?” you mumble. 

Clark kisses your cheek, your nose, and the corner of your eye before hooking his chin above your head. You press your own kiss to the mildly scratchy side of his neck. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his cadence so soft it borders inaudible, as though your minor annoyance at being moved around is the worst of all ailments. 

You’d feel sorry for him if you weren’t so in love with him. At least his affections can find a mirror in you, and your soft sorriness as you work your way up his chest to kiss his cheek. “Nothing, baby. ‘M just tired.”