౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ moon. she/her. infp. july leo. book music and movie lover. theatre kid. writer. pistachio chai lover.
moon's library about me recommendations
currently playing:
seaside rendezvous - queen (obviously)
inferno - the last dinner party
angel on a satellite - magdalena bay
the song of purple summer - spring awakening
most recent: sun bleached flies - jud duplenticy x reader
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i write for mike faist (+ art donaldson), josh o'connor (+ patrick zweig & jud duplenticy), spencer reid, clark kent (david corenswet), peter parker (tom holland), etc.
1.1k words , kara zor-el x fem!reader , suggestive (16+) , implied vigilante!reader , established relationship , reader mentioned to be chatty and mouthy (like once) , reader wears a dress .
synopsis: kara finds out something very interesting about you and how you react when she says the words 'my girl' ; aka pari self indulging for a thousand words straights (not) because i need her so viciously.
notes: this is . fully self indulgent and also very gay because . i am very gay. erm, yes, this movie has revived me and my will to write but i have no idea how long it's going to last so please enjoy! as usual, expect grammar mistakes bc i do not have a beta reader and in true wattpad girl fashion english is not my first language.
The first time it happened, Kara honestly thought it was a fluke.
Your breath hitched and your heartbeat picked up the second she called you “my girl” but you never said anything about it, so naturally, Kara assumed it was the hand on your waist and her lips on your neck.
She didn’t think much of it; honestly, all she could think of at that point was the way you leaned into her and your voice calling out her name—like it was the only thing you could say. So she went back to kissing along your neck, not really thinking about the specific words at all.
The second time it happened, the two of you were arguing about something stupid. Something along the lines about you getting hurt and Kara dropping her post on the mission to come and rescue you. And it isn’t that you’re not grateful—as you try to tell her in the middle of the screaming match—it’s just that she can’t keep leaving her post during an active mission for you.
Kara yelled back, “Well I don’t care! If my girl is getting fucking shot at, I’m going to run to her—”
She cut herself off as she narrowed her eyes at you, because Kara is always perceptive, especially when it comes to you, and she heard the spike in your heartbeat again, and the way your eyes widened very slightly—almost unnoticeable to the human eye—and your breathing got shallower.
But there’s still not a lot Kara could do about it that time because it was only for a second and then you were yelling at her about how you could take care of yourself again and she had to push that out of her mind.
Really—the third time it happens is when Kara can actually take advantage of it and actually push the limits to see how far your little . . . quirk can go. And of course she does exactly that; why not see her baby get all flustered over her?
Clark is hosting a stupid barbeque and for once Kara attends because it’s her stupid cousin’s birthday, and she can be nice (sometimes). Of course, she drags you with her, because she doesn’t want to be there, she just wants to be home with you. Of course, you look gorgeous in a long floral dress. Of course, Kara has to physically stop herself from touching you all the time because Clark is right there and she really doesn’t want to deal with his nagging.
Like all events that include Clark, this one includes a lot of socialising. A lot of introductions of herself as Kara Danvers, Clark’s cousin from Smallville. The only thing that makes it tolerable is the fact that you’re there, smiling and nodding along and every time someone asks who you are, Kara can grab your waist and tug you closer and introduce you as “my girl.”
This time, slight hitch in your breath, the pickup of your heartbeat and the way you try to suppress your blush is very evident and there’s very little distracting her from it. And yeah, Kara is having the time of her life watching you try to hide it from her, even though she’s literally got superhearing. Especially as you cough behind your arm as her thumb brushes against your waist, or when you quickly volunteer to help Lois any time you catch her staring at you.
It’s very close to the best thing ever: watching her normally composed and mouthy girl turn into a stumbling mess because of her, because of two words that she mutters like it’s habit—because that’s what it started off as. Of course, she’d call you her girl, that’s what you are (alongside with pretty girl, pretty baby, her gorgeous baby, her sweet girl and so so many more that Kara has not stopped taking advantage of).
It’s a little funny—very funny to Kara—how that’s all it takes (yes, Clark is side-eyeing her with his stupid ‘omg my cousin’s in love’ grin. No, she does not give a shit).
As the night begins to finally wind down, with most of the guests either leaving or choosing to get wine drunk with Lois, it’s very easy for Kara to corner you at the kitchen as you’re putting some of the dishes away so that her cousin has one less task to deal with after everyone’s gone (and she won’t admit it, but seeing you do something for her family? That tugs on her heart strings and makes her smile want to kiss you stupid).
You’re near the cabinet when Kara suddenly appears behind you, hands caging you in with her chest pressed into your back. She kisses along your neck, starting at the base and making her way up to your ear. You’re already blushing, breathing gotten shallower, as you lean into her embrace, letting go of the plates so you don’t accidentally drop them. But then her hands move to your waist, gripping them and her mouth moves to your ear, and in that low voice of hers that she knows you love, she whispers:
“How’s my girl doing?”
And Kara can feel the way you freeze. With the way your breathing staggers and your heart rate picks up and she has to hide her absolutely jovial smirk with another kiss against your neck.
“What?” she asks again, “cat got your tongue?”
You can’t do anything, really. You’re caged in between the counter top and your way too smug girlfriend right now, with another super with super-hearing literally not that far away. You really don’t want to give anything away more than you already have, because this little secret of yours is out of the bag.
“Kara,” you say, tone a bit bashful as you try to stand up straight. She doesn’t let you, of course, pulling you back into her.
“Yeah?” she mutters again, kisses on your neck resuming.
“Clark—” You try to remind her that her cousin also has super hearing and you really don’t want him to catch you two getting frisky in his kitchen, but it seems like your girlfriend doesn’t really care right now.
“Not my name, baby,” she says as she bites your earlobe, slowly dragging her teeth down. “Or is my girl suddenly shy? Hmm?”
There it is again—those two words. Your absolute undoing. Kara isn’t sure if they’ll have an effect on you right now, with the neck kissing and the teasing, but she’s pleasantly surprised when you shudder and close your eyes, like out of everything else it’s those two words that get to you the most.
Clark calls her name out, and she takes a step back, still with the biggest shit eating grin on her face. Doesn’t matter if her cousin’s found you two out, doesn’t matter if she had to stop this show—because now she knows exactly what gets you, and god save you because Kara Zor-El is about to use that weakness.
If only confirmed by her quick kiss and a promise for taking care of her girl later tonight at home.
summary: it takes ten weeks for clark kent and a shy, touch starved, you to fall in love. (or, 4 times clark touches you and 1 time you touch him.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week one
The Daily Planet only seems to employ lovely, outgoing people. You're convinced of it.
You don't know how or why they hired you after meeting some of the people here. Maybe your interview self had somehow managed to make you seem like you’d fit right for that thirty minutes.
Whatever happened, they hired you anyway.
For the past week you’ve tried so hard to settle in. To put yourself out there a bit more. It hasn’t helped much.
There's some faulty wiring in your brain, you're sure, that makes you awful and awkward and idiotic around people you don't know. And right now, you don't know anyone. At work or in metropolis as a whole.
Cat Grant has tried no less than five times to strike up a conversation with you. Which is nice of her and horrible for you. Every attempt leaves you fumbling through responses and replaying every part of it in your head for hours afterward.
To avoid inflicting your shyness on anyone else, you've got into the routine of taking lunch late. By the time you head to the breakroom. Most people have already finished theirs up.
With your head shoved so far into the refrigerator you might as well be looking for the opening of another reality in the back of it, you squint at the shelves. Where the hell is your cherry soda? You know you set it right next to your lunch box so it can’t have gone far. Unless someone took it. But putting it next to your lunch box kind of implies–
“Hey!”
You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.
“Here,” he says, “Sit down.”
You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think you’d do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.
You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.
Once you’ve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. He’s staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots.
There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? He’s tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.
“S’okay,” you find your voice, staring at the floor. “I’m okay, I'm fine.”
You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.
“Okay, that's good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you’d hear me come in, but–”
He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.
“Gosh. Sorry. I’m being rude. I’m Clark.”
You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply.
Clark can't believe it when you tell him, he’s heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now he’s done this. He might've ruined everyone’s chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent.
“Nice to meet you,” he gestures toward the refrigerator, “what were you looking for?”
His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before.
“I, uh, just my soda,” you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. “It's fine though, it doesn't matter.”
Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!
“Was it cherry?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Theres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,” he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. “Stay there a sec, okay?”
You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.
When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.
It’s simple to Clark, he’s just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.
Still you reach out. What you’re sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week three
Your easy routine – get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone – has been slightly tweaked.
Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.
At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you can’t figure out what else it could be.
Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.
Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind he’s been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.
As if you’ve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clark’s impossible to miss.
He’s a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you won’t lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.
“Where’re you heading?” he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.
Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.
“Home?” you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.
He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if you’re so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.
“Can I walk you home?”
What is going on?
“Uhh… sure.” you agree, taking a step in the right direction. “If you want to.”
You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.
For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.
The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.
It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.
And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but he’s spending his time with you. You're… just you.
What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasn’t figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.
“What, uh…” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk he’s drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. “What’re you doing this weekend?”
“Oh…” your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Really?”
“Well,” you shrug, “I need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.”
Clark hums, nodding absently, “You’re not hanging out with your friends?”
He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like he’s missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed.
“...I don’t really have any.” you whisper, timid.
Clark's brain seems to misfire and he can’t formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.
“I haven’t had time to make any, okay?” You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.
It’s maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” He blurts, shaking his head, “I didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.” He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. “I’m such an idiot.”
You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.
You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.
“It’s not true anyway. You have at least one friend.”
You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building.
You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, it’s just so nice.
“Really?” you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest.
“Yeah, I’m your friend.” he nods “if you’ll have me.”
When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.
This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week five
The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..
Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that you’ve rushed here because you left the apartment too late?
Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasn’t made a mistake.
You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. He’s already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward.
“Oh gosh,” your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. “Am I late?”
“Nope,” he says easily, already getting to his feet. “I’m early. I wanted to get everything set up.”
As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.
It's the first time you’ve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair.
“You look really nice, honey.”
That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.
“So do you, Clark.” you murmur.
Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. “So… I got a little of everything.”
“This is too much, you shouldn't have,” you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice to me.”
As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not.
Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question.
“Theres no part of me that could be mean to you,” He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. “It’s easy to be nice to you.”
There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.
It's hard to believe how lucky you’ve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man you’ve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.
“I’ve never been very good with people,” you start. “And I moved here just for the job, I didn’t really think about… about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friends…”
You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.
“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.”
Clark’s expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset you’d ever think gratitude was necessary.
“You don't have to thank me,” he says, quietly. “It’s my pleasure, really, honey.”
You try your best to internalise those words as soon as he’s said them, the corners of your lips lifting.
“And…” He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure you’re listening. “I get it, y’know.”
The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. It’s so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all.
“Yeah, right.”
“No really,” he turns until he’s fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. “I grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.”
Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning.
By the time the sun begins to set, you’ve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.
It’s so sweet the effort he’s taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.
“Next time, I’ll bring the food.”
Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You don’t notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice.
“Yes!” he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, “Whatever you wanna do.”
The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.
The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.
“Thank you.” you say quietly.
Clark shakes his head almost immediately.
“No, thank you.” His smile softens. “I had a really great time.”
Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.
This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week seven
When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?
The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things he’s done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.
It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy.
With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer and–
There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now.
You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.
The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.
“...For me?”
The corners of Clark’s mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.
“Of course they are,” he says. “My ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.”
“You totally could’ve,” you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. “I invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.”
Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.
“They made me think of you when I saw them.”
Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.
Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. It’s cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, it’s tight but nice.
You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase.
When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again.
“What can I help with?” he asks, “Put me to work.”
You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.
“Nothing,” you point toward the tiny table. “you can sit and relax.”
Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. He’s always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt.
“You’re so strange, Clark.” you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time you’ve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, you’d guess he likes it. “You can’t sit still, can you?”
“I can sit still.” he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie.
When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.
“I don’t think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,” you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone… helping me.”
His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours they’re softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.
“That is relaxing to me.”
“Yeah?” you snort, “Helping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.”
“It was,” he replies, tone genuine. “Besides those printers are super fiddly, honey.” you roll your eyes, jovially. “I like looking out for the people I care about.”
Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.
“People you care about…” you start, “Including me.”
“Including you.”
All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. It’s the nicest thing to hear.
The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you.
“Oh no.”
You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand.
The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.
“Oh, no no no.” you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. “I forgot the timer,” You press a hand to your forehead. “I'm such an idiot, sorry.”
Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldn’t get right.
“Whoa,” he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. “It’s fine, it's fine, sweetheart.”
“No It’s not,” your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“You have!” he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. “It’s just a little… over done.” you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. “We could order takeout and pretend you made it.”
It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.
His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.
“Jeez,” you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.
The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides.
One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.
It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week ten
Clark’s apartment is nice, it’s maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that you’d happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.
He’s very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.
You’ve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.
“Here you go, pretty.” he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. He’s closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain.
Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. It’s weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically.
You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and you’ve grown to crave them. Despite this, you can’t figure out why he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet.
Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.
“Whats wrong?” he asks.
It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if you’ve got this wrong he’ll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.
“Why haven’t you kissed me?” there's no hesitation in your voice.
His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.
“I…” He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. “I wasn’t sure you'd want me to.” His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”
That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.
Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.
There’s no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.
summary: leaving the bar after a night out with the team isn’t as easy as it may seem when you’re disgustingly in love and the raindrops speak to you. genre: fluff!! so much fluff. tags/cw: literally pure fluff, kissing, established relationship, alcohol consumption, intoxication, pet names (angel, honey, baby), no use of y/n w/c: 1.3k. a/n: partially inspired by pink in the night by mitski. my first time posting any of my writing in years and first time ever posting it on tumblr! english is not my first language so if you notice any mistakes, please let me know!!! gif credits to @reidgif
masterlist
“Okay, um, I think it’s time we go home, huh?”
Days like these didn’t happen often at the BAU. Ones when six p.m. hit on a Friday and the team could leave work and go home after an uneventful week that didn’t require them to go out of state for any cases. It was actually quite a rarity, so when an offer to go out for drinks started going around, no one even thought to decline it.
And Spencer couldn’t think of a better way to relax than for you to be there with him, so he called you and invited you to come with him and the team.
Spencer wasn’t drinking, of course. You needed to get home somehow, and he was more than content just spending time with his friends in a non-work environment. You, however, were plastered and were currently leaning your head on his shoulder. He was pretty sure that if he gave you a few more minutes, you’d fall asleep right there. You tended to be a sleepy drunk, especially when you could feel him against you, all warm and cosy and completely in love, to the point where he couldn’t deny you anything ever, even if he really wanted to.
Hearing his words, you immediately lifted your head off his shoulder and looked up at his face. “But we’re having fun! Aren’t you having fun?”
“I am having fun, angel. I’m just getting a little tired.”
He wasn’t really, but he knew that if he let you know he could see that it was you who could barely stay awake, you’d immediately try to prove him wrong. Which would be pointless and would change nothing, because you’d still be tired and end up cranky after waking up way too early in the morning.
You sighed but nodded your head with a firm expression either way. “Okay, then. We’re going home.”
So you said your goodbyes, which was harder than it might seem when Penelope Garcia is drunk, and she’s in her I love you so much, I had so much fun, we really should do this more often, I can’t wait to see you again phase, and went to the parking lot, where Spencer’s beloved car was waiting.
You managed to take a few steps into the rain before stopping him in order to dig through your purse, trying to find something. Something Spencer had no idea why you would need right now.
“Everything okay?”
“Yup. Just looking for my keys.”
“You don’t need your keys, angel, I’m taking you to my place.”
“Really?” You asked, as if for some reason it was hard to believe you’d be spending the night at his apartment. Even though at this point in your relationship, you were pretty much together more often than you were alone when you weren’t working. “Okay then, wait a second.”
You said and stopped whatever you were doing, just to do something that confused Spencer even more. Still, he stood there and waited as you leaned your head back, eyes closed, and arms spread out.
“I’m sorry, honey, what exactly are we waiting for here? It’s raining pretty heavily, we should get in the car.”
“Shh, they’re talking.”
Spencer took a second to scan his surroundings, noticing there was no one in close proximity to where you were standing. He stayed silent, trying to listen to whatever you were hearing, but other than the now distant hum of music and conversation inside the bar you’d just left, there was nothing.
“...Who is?”
“The raindrops.”
“The… Raindrops?”
“Mhmm.”
“And what are they saying?”
“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love youuu,” You said, swaying gently from side to side as Spencer looked at you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and endearment. Because, unfortunately, just as he could never deny you, he would never, ever not indulge you.
“Is that a direct translation?”
“Yeah. We speak the same language.”
“Would that be… The raindrop language?”
“It’s the I love Spencer Reid so, so, so very much language.”
“Oh. Huh, I think I understand some of it, too. They’re saying something a bit like…” He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his warm, though now thoroughly rain-soaked, body. “This is a really sweet moment, but you need to get in the car because I love you so very much and don’t want you to get sick. No matter how romantic this is.”
You looked up at his face with a frown, lips in a pout as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Is that what they’re saying?”
“Mhmm.”
“Wow. Those raindrops are some real party poopers, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know… I think those are some seriously wise raindrops. They know what they’re talking about.”
He tapped his forehead gently against yours and gave you that look he always does when trying to convince you to do something. The one where he lifts his brows and his eyes go all chocolate and honey, and you feel like it’s enough to make you melt. Going home with him, however, sounds much nicer than being mixed into a puddle with the rain and dirt, so you easily comply.
“Alright, then. But only because we love you so much.”
He smiled down at you, possibly more amused now than ever before, and gave you a kiss so warm you could feel it seeping into your bones.
“Alright, then. Come on, Gaia.”
“Gaia?”
“The mythological Mother Earth. Since you’re all buddy-buddy with the rain now,” He explained as he led you by hand toward his car.
“Oh, okay. You’re just being a smarty pants. Thought that eidetic memory of yours has finally failed and you were mixing up your girlfriends,” You said with a smug expression on your face, even though, with your mind clouded by the alcohol, you did get worried about the name for a second.
“How could I possibly ever want anyone else when I know what it’s like to be with you? Who else would speak raindrop to me, you silly girl?”
–
In the morning, though it wasn’t really morning anymore since it was actually well past ten, you were woken up by tiny drops of wetness on your skin. Realising it was Spencer pressing soft kisses all over your body, you began to stir.
“Mm, good morning, angel,” He settled on top of you and kissed you, morning breath and all. It’s been a long time since either of you stopped caring about things as mundane as brushing teeth or thinking it’s gross. But then, the way he kissed you always was, he’d suppose. Messy, all teeth and tongue and desperation and so much love. And he loved it more than anything in the world – how you’d kiss him back just as eagerly. As if waking up had become a mission for both of you, to find each other and kiss as soon as humanly possible. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah, actually. Which is pretty weird because I usually wake up at the ass-crack of dawn after drinking.”
“It’s probably because of the rain,” He started explaining as he lay on top of you. “The drop of barometric pressure that comes along with rain reduces oxygen levels in the air, which can make you a little tired. The sound is also a type of pink noise – kind of like white noise, but a little more soothing. It creates a perfect sleep environment.”
Still a bit sluggish from sleep, you stared at him and giggled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing. Just remembered last night.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually,” He pressed another kiss to your lips, this one much quicker than the last. “I didn’t know you were such a polyglot. It’s impressive.”
“Oh yeah? Well, there’s a lot more where that came from, baby. I’m very serious about loving Spencer Reid.”
As he kissed you, he couldn’t stop thinking about how, even while being so silly, you made him feel things no one else ever has. Things no one else ever could. No one other than you.
a/n: so as I said, it is my first time sharing my writing on tumblr so I’d love to know what you think!!
summary: what starts as an academic crush on your painfully observant professor becomes significantly harder to survive after spencer reid signs a piece of feedback with “I remain yours sincerely.” unfortunately, you make the deeply questionable decision to keep it tucked inside your phone case.
includes: no use of y/n, professor!spencer reid, student/teacher dynamic, mutual pining, slow burn, academic yearning, intellectual intimacy, awkward flirting, emotional repression, praise kink if you squint, small age gap, office hours tension, accidental confession, unresolved sexual tension, humiliation as a love language, reader is down catastrophic, hopeful ending
based on this request
By the second semester, you know three things with absolute certainty.
First: Dr. Spencer Reid writes on whiteboards like he’s racing a clock only he can see.
Second: nobody voluntarily sits in the front row because it’s psychologically exhausting to be perceived by him for extended periods of time.
And third:
You are developing a deeply academic crush that is rapidly mutating into something clinically embarrassing.
The lecture hall hums softly around you with the sounds of backpacks unzipping and laptops waking from sleep. Rain taps against the high windows in restless little bursts, turning the late afternoon light silver at the edges.
At the front of the room, Dr. Reid is already halfway through uncapping three different markers at once.
He’s wearing a charcoal cardigan today.
You notice because of course you do.
Not in a normal way, either.
In the kind of way where your brain stores the information carefully like it might appear on an exam later.
“Statistically,” he says without turning around, “most people remember information better when there’s contextual novelty attached to it, which is why you all remember where you were during emotionally significant events but not what you ate last Tuesday.”
A beat.
Then he glances back toward the class.
“Unless it was tacos. People tend to remember tacos.”
A few students laugh.
You do too, unfortunately loud enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically.
There it is.
That tiny spark of recognition.
Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just enough to say I know you.
Which is worse.
Much, much worse.
Because you’ve taken two semesters with him now. You go to office hours. You answer questions when nobody else will. Once, during your first class, you made an offhand comment about eidetic memory research and his entire face lit up like someone plugged sunlight directly into the national power grid.
Since then, you’ve been doomed.
Utterly doomed.
You try to focus on the lecture.
Really.
You do.
But Dr. Reid teaches like a man accidentally possessed by forty-seven documentaries and an anxiety disorder. He paces when he gets excited. His hands move constantly while he talks, long fingers stained faintly with marker ink. He veers off-topic in fascinating directions and then somehow circles perfectly back without notes.
It should not be attractive.
And yet.
Here you are.
Again.
Second semester.
Same problem.
Maybe worse.
“Now, if we look at the correlation between environmental instability and cognitive adaptation,” Dr. Reid continues, already turning back toward the board before the class has fully caught up, “there’s a measurable increase in hypervigilant pattern recognition in subjects exposed to inconsistent formative environments, which sounds complicated but is actually just your brain becoming an overachieving raccoon.”
Marker squeaks across the whiteboard in frantic slanted lines.
His handwriting is terrible.
Not objectively unreadable, exactly. More like every word is trying to outrun the next one. Sharp angles, crowded letters, arrows shoved into margins as though his thoughts physically cannot remain in a straight line.
You stare at it anyway.
Fondly.
Which feels like a personal failing.
He writes faster as he talks, cardigan pulling slightly across his shoulders when he reaches higher on the board. One sleeve has ridden up near his wrist, exposing the thin line of his watch and a faint smudge of ink against his skin.
You should be taking notes.
Instead, your brain is busy cataloging details like you'll be taking a quiz on his anatomy.
Then he steps sideways to underline something, and your gaze drops completely against your will.
Oh no.
Oh, that’s unfortunate.
Because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid has a nice ass.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not in a “male model carved from marble” way.
Just… unfairly nice for a man who spends most of his time talking about psychology and forgetting to eat lunch.
The slacks help.
Which feels hostile, honestly.
You blink hard and jerk your attention back to your laptop with the violent internal energy of someone trying to slam shut fifty browser tabs at once.
Focus.
Academic environment.
You are a serious student.
A serious student who absolutely did not just spend several seconds staring at her professor’s ass while he explained trauma responses.
Jesus Christ.
“Repeated exposure to unpredictability,” he says, still writing, “can create compensatory behaviors centered around control, organization, or information gathering.”
A few tired chuckles.
Then the clock clicks over.
Immediate chaos.
The lecture hall empties like someone pulled a drain plug.
Students flood toward the exits in clusters of conversation and damp jackets, the noise swelling briefly before dissolving into the hallway outside. Within less than a minute, the room goes from crowded to echoing.
You stay seated.
Not intentionally.
At least that’s what you tell yourself.
Your laptop suddenly needs to be shut very carefully. Your charger has apparently tangled itself into a knot requiring advanced engineering. Your pens must be arranged with the precision of ceremonial artifacts.
At the front of the room, another student has stopped to ask Dr. Reid something about the midterm.
You try not to stare while pretending not to listen.
It’s difficult.
Because listening to Spencer Reid explain things is like accidentally falling into a Wikipedia rabbit hole narrated by a very pretty insomniac.
“…the issue isn’t the terminology,” he’s saying, already rifling through papers again while the student nods along. “It’s application. Most people can memorize diagnostic criteria. The harder part is recognizing behavioral variance in context.”
His sleeve slips down slightly as he gestures, revealing ink smudged along the side of his hand again.
God.
You wonder briefly if there’s a psychological term for being attracted to a man who looks like he's constantly five minutes away from a lecture.
Probably.
He’d know it.
The student thanks him and heads out, disappearing into the hallway with everyone else until suddenly it’s just—
You.
And him.
The room feels different when it empties.
Too large. Too quiet.
Rain patters softly against the windows.
Dr. Reid glances up from stacking his notes, clearly registering your continued existence only now. “Oh, you're still here. Perfect.”
Your stomach drops so fast it’s honestly impressive.
Perfect?
There is no version of “perfect” that has ever ended calmly for a student being addressed by a professor after class.
Your brain immediately begins cycling through possibilities at medically concerning speed.
You plagiarized accidentally somehow.
You cited the wrong edition.
You hallucinated an entire journal article in APA format.
You’ve been academically excommunicated.
“Me?” you say brilliantly.
Dr. Reid blinks once. “Yes?”
Excellent start.
You shove your charger into your bag and stand quickly enough that your chair squeaks against the floor.
The sound echoes.
Violently.
You briefly consider walking directly into the rain and starting a new life elsewhere.
Instead, you manage a strained little, “Sorry. Uh. Yeah. What’s up?”
Dr. Reid gathers a few loose papers into a stack before pulling one free.
Your paper.
You recognize the bent corner immediately because you spent three straight hours staring at it last weekend in a caffeine-induced fugue state.
“I finally finished reading these last night,” he says, tapping the packet lightly. “Your section on adaptive masking behaviors was particularly good.”
The panic in your bloodstream stutters awkwardly. “…good?”
“Yes.” He looks faintly surprised by your surprise. “Very good, actually.”
There’s something deeply unfair about receiving praise from Spencer Reid specifically. He says things too earnestly. No performance to it. No academic politeness. Just direct sincerity delivered with terrifying eye contact.
You feel your nervous system fold like cheap lawn furniture.
“You made an interesting connection between hypervigilance and social mirroring,” he continues, flipping through the pages. “Most students approached the assignment from a purely diagnostic perspective, but you framed it as a survival adaptation first, which is considerably more accurate.”
Your heart does an embarrassing little cartwheel.
Because this is the problem.
Not just that he’s attractive.
It’s that every time he talks to you, it feels like he’s opening a secret door in your ribcage and switching on all the lights.
“Oh,” you manage intelligently. “Thanks.”
“And your question here.” He points suddenly to a paragraph halfway down the page. “About whether prolonged masking eventually alters baseline identity perception?”
You nod slowly.
He looks delighted.
Actually delighted.
Like you handed him a particularly interesting puzzle and not a half-panicked essay written at two in the morning while eating stale pretzels.
“That’s the kind of question people usually don’t ask until graduate-level behavioral analysis,” he says. “There’s still ongoing debate about it, especially regarding prolonged trauma adaptation and identity diffusion.”
You try very hard to remain normal about the fact that Spencer Reid is complimenting your intelligence in an empty lecture hall while rain taps softly against the windows like a movie determined to make things worse for you personally.
“Most current models oversimplify the distinction between performed identity and integrated identity,” he continues, already slipping fully into Lecture Mode again. “Humans are actually much more context-dependent than people like to admit. Personality isn’t nearly as fixed as we pretend it is.”
He flips another page absentmindedly.
“You also cited Dr. Nakamura’s 2018 paper, which almost nobody finds unless they’re specifically looking for it.”
Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.
“…you noticed my citations?”
Dr. Reid looks up.
There’s a tiny crease between his brows now, confused in the gentlest way possible. “Of course I noticed your citations.”
Well.
That’s going to live in your skull forever now.
He says it like it’s obvious. Like naturally he paid attention. Like naturally he read your work closely enough to recognize specific research choices.
Meanwhile you’re trying not to ascend directly out of your body.
“You’re one of the strongest writers in the class,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Your arguments are usually more structurally complex than your peers’, even when you seem unsure of them.”
The room abruptly feels too warm.
You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “I didn’t know you thought that.”
Because there’s something unbearably intimate about being understood academically by someone you admire. It feels dangerously adjacent to being seen naked. Like he’s looking directly at the shape of your thoughts with careful hands.
Dr. Reid glances back down at your paper again, seemingly unaware he’s currently causing neurological events.
“I did mark a few places where your transitions got rushed,” he says, pulling a pen from behind his ear. “Mostly because I think you were thinking faster than you could physically write.”
You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. “That does happen.”
“Yes,” he says immediately, almost too quickly. “I know.”
Silence.
Tiny.
Strange.
His expression shifts a fraction afterward, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Rain rattles softly against the windows again.
And suddenly you become acutely aware that you are alone with Spencer Reid in an empty lecture hall while he holds your paper like it’s something fragile.
Dangerous situation, truly.
Then he uncaps the pen and scribbles something quickly across the last page.
His handwriting slants wildly across the margin.
Fast. Crowded. Ink-smudged.
You watch his hand move despite yourself.
When he finishes, he folds the packet once and offers it back to you.
“There,” he says. “I added a few additional reading recommendations if you want them.”
You step forward to take it, fingers brushing briefly against his.
Electricity.
Actual cinematic electricity.
You almost drop the paper.
Humiliating.
“Thanks,” you say, quieter now.
“Mhm.”
But he doesn’t let go immediately.
Not enough to mean something.
Just enough to notice.
Then he seems to catch himself and releases the pages all at once, clearing his throat lightly before stepping back toward the desk.
You look down automatically.
At the bottom of the final page, beneath a cluster of notes and arrows and recommended articles, he’s signed off absentmindedly in cramped blue ink.
Excellent work here. Keep pushing this line of thought.
I think you’re asking the right questions.
— I remain yours sincerely,
Spencer Reid, PhD
Your pulse trips over itself.
Because who signs feedback like that?
Who writes I remain yours sincerely like a Shakespearean poet accidentally trapped in modern academia?
And worse:
Why does it make your stomach feel like it just fell down an elevator shaft?
The walk back to your apartment is a blur of rainwater, campus lights, and psychological deterioration.
Your umbrella keeps tilting sideways in the wind.
You barely notice.
Because every functioning part of your brain is currently occupied by one singular, catastrophic detail:
I remain yours sincerely.
Who writes that.
You clutch the paper tighter inside your bag every time the rain picks up, irrationally terrified the ink might smear. Which feels insane. Deeply insane. The behavior of a woman one inconvenience away from being studied in a laboratory.
By the time you get home, your shoes are damp, your hair is frizzing at the edges, and your nervous system is fried.
You lock the apartment door behind you and immediately pull the paper back out.
Like an addict.
Like a widow rereading war letters.
“Oh, this is bad,” you mutter to yourself.
Your apartment offers no judgment. Just soft lamplight and the hum of the refrigerator and rain whispering against the windows.
You drop your bag onto the couch.
Then sit at the kitchen table with the paper spread carefully in front of you.
You read the signature again.
And again.
And then, because apparently humiliation is now a recreational activity, you trace the letters lightly with your thumb.
Spencer Reid, PhD.
The ink catches faintly against the pad of your finger where he pressed harder on certain strokes. You can almost see the speed of him in it. The impatience. The intelligence outrunning the mechanics of handwriting.
God. You're so weird. You're unhinged. You're obsessed.
Your phone buzzes with a text from your friend Maya.
did u survive reid’s lecture or did he accidentally make eye contact and kill you instantly
You stare at the message for a long moment before replying:
worse
Three dots appear immediately.
what happened
You look down at the paper again.
At the stupid signature.
At the devastating little yours.
Then, against every survival instinct evolution ever gifted humanity, you take a picture of the bottom half of the page and send it.
There’s a full thirty seconds of silence.
Then:
OH YOU ARE DOWN HORRENDOUS
You groan aloud and drop your forehead directly onto the table.
The phone buzzes again.
“I remain yours sincerely”????? WHAT IS HE A PROFESSOR OR A MAN WRITING YOU FROM THE CRIMEAN WAR
Another buzz.
he wants u biblically
“HE DOES NOT,” you say aloud to the empty apartment, scandalized.
Your phone immediately lights up again.
u kept the paper though didnt u
You freeze.
Slowly, guiltily, your eyes drift toward your desk drawer.
Because inside that drawer already sits: one graded response paper, two annotated reading packets, and a sticky note from three weeks ago where Dr. Reid had written:
Your interpretation here is excellent. Come see me during office hours if you want to discuss further.
The sticky note currently lives tucked inside your favorite book like a pressed flower.
You close your eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to yourself.
Another text arrives.
DID U KEEP THE PAPER
You type back:
not officially
Maya responds instantly.
that is the most incriminating answer ive ever heard
You abandon the conversation entirely and toss your phone onto the couch before she can escalate further.
Then you sit there alone for a moment.
Quiet apartment. Rain outside. Spencer Reid’s handwriting beneath your fingertips.
The thing is, you know this crush is ridiculous.
He’s your professor. Technically not even that much older than you, but enough that it matters. Enough that your brain keeps trying to file this under impossible and failing spectacularly every single time he looks at you like your thoughts are worth listening to.
That’s the real problem.
Not the cardigan.
Not the hands.
Not even the objectively offensive existence of that signature.
It’s the attention.
The terrifying sincerity of it.
Spencer Reid listens to you like he’s carefully placing your words somewhere safe.
And you don’t think anyone has ever done that before.
Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought.
Too honest.
Too close to something real.
You exhale slowly and pick the paper up again, intending to finally put it away somewhere normal and reasonable.
Instead, your gaze catches on the folded edge of your clear phone case sitting beside you on the table.
No.
Absolutely not.
You stare at it.
Then at the paper.
Then back at the phone.
“This would be a humiliating choice,” you inform yourself firmly.
Silence.
Rain taps softly against the windows.
Five minutes later, you are sitting on your couch with Spencer Reid’s signature folded carefully behind your phone.
You look at it through the clear plastic.
Immediate stomach flip.
“Oh, you absolute loser,” you whisper to yourself.
But unfortunately:
you’re smiling.
By the time midterms crawl across campus like a biblical plague, your situation has not improved.
If anything, it’s evolved.
Dangerously.
Because now there is routine.
Now there are office hours conversations that accidentally become forty-five minutes long. Now there are moments where Dr. Reid pauses to ask, “You read the article I mentioned, right?” already knowing the answer before you nod.
Now there are tiny things.
Tiny, lethal things.
The way he automatically hands you printed articles first when passing materials down the row. The way his face brightens with visible recognition every time you speak in class. The way he says your name like he enjoys the shape of it.
It’s become less like a crush and more like being slowly haunted.
Which is why remaining after lecture today feels less unusual than it probably should.
You don’t mean to time it like this.
It just… happens.
The room empties in that familiar way, like the building exhales and forgets to inhale again. Chairs scrape. Jackets zip. Someone laughs too loudly in the hallway like they’re trying to prove they’re still human after all that thinking.
And then it’s just you again, hovering at the edge of the aisle with your notebook pressed a little too tightly to your chest.
Dr. Reid is still at the whiteboard.
Erasing.
Relentless little motions. Wrist flicking. Chalk dust or marker residue or whatever ghosts lectures leave behind drifting faintly in the air. His cardigan is pushed up at the elbows now, like it’s given up on behaving properly.
He doesn’t look over immediately.
Which, somehow, makes it worse.
Because you’ve started to associate his attention with a kind of internal weather shift. Like the room tilts slightly toward you when he notices you’re there.
You clear your throat.
Soft. Careful.
“Dr. Reid?”
The eraser pauses mid-swipe.
Then stops completely.
He turns.
And there it is.
That subtle recalibration. Like a radio finding your frequency without meaning to.
“Oh,” he says. Not surprised exactly. Just… pleased in a quiet way that feels too personal to name. “You’re still here again.”
Again.
Like it’s a pattern he’s noticed.
Like he’s been waiting for it.
You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your entire existence. “Yeah. I had a question about today’s lecture.”
“Of course.” He sets the eraser down on the ledge beneath the board and steps away from it fully now, giving you his attention like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What about it?”
Your brain, traitorous thing that it is, briefly offers you ten different ways to phrase this more intelligently.
None of them survive the trip to your mouth.
“It was about emotional responses,” you say. “Like… how people react differently to the same stimulus depending on context and prior experience.”
He nods slowly, like he’s already tracing where this is going.
You continue anyway, because stopping now would be suspicious and also physically impossible.
“You said something about adaptation shaping perception. And I was thinking about whether emotional responses can… overwrite themselves? Like, if enough context builds up, does the original reaction still matter, or does it get replaced entirely?”
Dr. Reid tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything he respects—carefully, like it might shift if he blinks wrong.
“That’s a more complicated question than it sounds like you intended it to be,” he says gently.
Your stomach drops.
“Sorry,” you start immediately. “I didn’t mean— I just meant like in general, not—”
“No.” He interrupts softly. Not sharp. Just steady. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good question.”
That does something unfortunate to your nervous system.
He takes a step closer to his desk, resting one hand lightly on it as if anchoring himself to the conversation.
“So the original response doesn’t disappear. It becomes less accessible, or it gets reframed by later experiences. But it’s still there. Just… quieter.”
You nod slowly, trying to keep up.
“That’s why certain triggers can feel disproportionate,” he adds. “They’re not creating a new reaction. They’re reopening an old one that’s been reorganized over time.”
Something about the way he says it makes it feel less like psychology and more like confession, even though it absolutely isn’t.
You swallow.
“That makes it sound like nothing ever really goes away,” you say quietly.
A beat.
Dr. Reid looks at you a little more directly now.
“It doesn’t,” he says. Simple. Certain. Then, softer: “But that doesn’t mean it stays the same.”
The room feels warmer again.
Or maybe that’s just you.
You glance down at your notebook like it suddenly contains emergency instructions for being normal.
“Right,” you manage. “That makes sense.”
It doesn’t feel like it makes sense. It feels like it rearranged something in your chest and didn’t bother explaining itself.
Dr. Reid pushes off the desk slightly, as if the intensity of the moment has to be gently contained.
Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Is that what you were thinking about specifically? Or was there another angle?”
There it is again.
That attention.
Patient. Open. Not assuming you’re wasting his time.
You hesitate.
Because the truth is more dangerous than the question.
But you’ve never been very good at leaving things unasked.
“I guess I was wondering,” you say slowly, “if people can… respond emotionally to something they intellectually understand isn’t rational.”
Dr. Reid stills for half a second.
Not much. Most people wouldn’t notice.
But you’ve started noticing everything.
“That happens frequently,” he says after a moment.
Your grip tightens on your notebook.
“Even when they know better?”
His gaze flickers briefly toward you again. Sharper now. Not unkind. Just… more precise.
“Yes,” he says. “Especially then.”
A quiet beat stretches between you.
Too quiet.
Your pulse has started doing strange, uneven things against your ribs, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming that this conversation has drifted dangerously close to something exposed.
Because the problem with Spencer Reid is that he listens too carefully.
Most people let things slide past them. Most people hear the shape of a sentence and move on.
Dr. Reid hears the fracture lines underneath it.
And right now you’re increasingly certain he’s standing one follow-up question away from watching you spontaneously combust in front of the behavioral sciences department.
You tighten your grip on your notebook hard enough to bend the edge slightly.
“Right,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Okay. That actually answered my question, so I should probably—”
You gesture vaguely toward the door.
Toward freedom.
Toward escape.
Toward literally anywhere that is not this room with this man looking at you like he’s trying to solve something.
But Dr. Reid’s expression shifts faintly before you can move.
Concern.
Not suspicion. Somehow worse.
“Are you alright?”
There’s no accusation in it. Just immediate attentiveness.
Which unfortunately makes panic bloom hotter in your chest.
“Yep.” The word arrives at terminal velocity. “Absolutely. Totally fine.”
You are speaking with the cadence of someone being held hostage by her own nervous system.
His brows pull together slightly. “You seem anxious.”
“Well,” you laugh weakly, “I think that’s sort of my baseline.”
Wrong choice.
Because that earns the smallest flicker of a smile from him.
Soft. Brief. Real.
It hits you directly in the bloodstream.
You need to leave immediately.
“I just remembered I have to…” You motion uselessly with one hand. “Do something.”
Brilliant.
Academic titan.
Dr. Reid opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, and that tiny moment of anticipation detonates pure survival instinct in your chest.
“Anyway!” you blurt. “Thanks for answering my question. Sorry. Again. I’m gonna go.”
You turn too fast.
Your bag catches against the side of a chair.
The strap yanks violently sideways, dragging the chair with it in one catastrophic scrape against the floor.
You stumble trying to untangle yourself, notebook slipping from your grasp entirely.
Papers explode everywhere.
For one suspended second, the universe goes completely still.
Then Dr. Reid moves instantly.
“Oh, here—”
You both crouch at the exact same time.
Of course you do.
Naturally.
Because God is dead and this is apparently funny to the universe.
Your foreheads nearly collide.
You jerk backward so abruptly you lose balance a second time, catching yourself with one hand against the floor while loose papers scatter farther beneath the desks.
“I’m so sorry,” you say immediately, horrified.
But that's not the end of the torture. Because why would it be? Why would the universe and whatever forces rule it let you get out of this embarrassment that easily?
Your phone.
No.
No, no, no.
Time slows with cinematic cruelty.
The device must have slipped from your bag when the strap caught the chair. The clear case popped loose on impact, skidding separately across the floor.
And there, face-up beside the phone itself like evidence submitted directly to a court of law—
his signature.
And Dr. Reid is staring directly at it.
There’s no plausible explanation for this.
None.
You cannot even pretend it’s accidental.
Who accidentally stores a professor’s signed feedback inside their phone case?
No one, that's who. Just you.
Your soul begins exiting your body through your ears.
Don’t panic, your brain says uselessly, while panic fully consumes the landscape.
Dr. Reid reaches for the paper slowly.
You want the floor to open and swallow you whole like a tectonic event.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
Dr. Reid looks at the note for one suspended second longer.
Then another.
His expression changes in tiny increments you only notice because you’ve spent months studying him with the intensity of a graduate thesis.
Recognition.
Confusion.
Realization.
And then something else. Something softer. Something that makes your pulse stumble violently against your ribs.
Very slowly, he lifts his eyes to yours.
You have never known true psychological horror until this moment.
“I can explain,” you blurt immediately.
Can you?
Absolutely not.
But the sentence launches itself out of your mouth anyway with all the grace of a car accident.
Dr. Reid’s brows lift slightly. “You can?”
“No,” you say honestly. “Actually, not in a way that helps me.”
Excellent.
Wonderful.
You briefly consider faking your death.
He glances back down at the paper again, thumb resting lightly near the edge where the fold has started softening from use.
And then, very softly:
“You kept it.”
Not teasing.
Not judgmental.
Which almost makes it harder.
Heat floods violently into your face.
“This was,” you say immediately, “so much less creepy in my head.”
A tiny crease appears between his brows like he’s trying not to smile.
“I didn’t say it was creepy.”
“It’s objectively creepy.”
“I don’t think objectively means what you want it to mean there.”
“That’s worse somehow.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Actually twitches.
You stare at him in horror.
“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whisper.
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You’re visibly experiencing amusement.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
The smile threatens again, smaller this time, restrained at the edges like he doesn’t fully trust himself with it.
And then, disastrously, his gaze drops once more to the signature.
His own handwriting.
His own absurdly formal sign-off.
When he speaks again, there’s something almost embarrassed threaded through his voice now.
“In fairness,” he says, “I probably shouldn’t have written ‘I remain yours sincerely.’”
You make a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and cardiac arrest. “No, you really shouldn’t have.”
“I wasn’t thinking about how that sounded.”
“That somehow feels less reassuring.”
His eyes flick back to yours then.
Warm amber under fluorescent lights. Too attentive. Too intelligent.
“But you noticed it,” he says quietly.
There’s no ego in the statement.
Just observation.
You swallow hard.
“Yes.”
The room goes still around the answer.
Not awkward exactly.
Just aware.
Dr. Reid looks down briefly, almost thoughtful, before carefully placing the paper back atop your fallen notebook instead of immediately handing it over.
“You know,” he says after a moment, “historically, formal academic correspondence used possessive sign-offs fairly often.”
You stare at him.
“Are you trying to academically explain away my crush on you right now?”
The sentence escapes before you can stop it.
Silence detonates instantly afterward.
Your entire nervous system flatlines.
Because you did not mean to say that.
You meant to think it privately and then carry the shame forever.
Dr. Reid goes completely still.
His lips part slightly like his brain lost the next page of the script.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring at the floor. “Forget I said that.”
But the problem with Spencer Reid has always been this:
he never ignores important things.
And when you finally force yourself to look back up, he’s watching you with an expression so carefully controlled it almost hurts to see.
“You have a crush on me,” he says.
Not mocking.
Not smug.
Honestly, he sounds more astonished than anything else.
You squeeze your eyes shut briefly. “I am asking respectfully for the earth to open beneath me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I currently have.”
You expect discomfort.
Distance.
Professional correction.
Instead, Dr. Reid exhales softly through his nose and sits back slightly against the leg of a desk beside him, still crouched across from you among scattered papers and your exploded dignity.
And then, to your complete horror, he says:
“I thought there was a possibility.”
Your head snaps up.
“What?”
A faint flush has appeared high on his cheekbones now.
Tiny. Visible.
It rearranges the architecture of your entire universe.
“You’re very attentive to me,” he says carefully.
You choke immediately. “I need you to stop observing things.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“You’re a behavioral analyst. This is abuse of power.”
That almost earns another smile.
Almost.
“But I wasn’t sure,” he continues more quietly. “And I didn’t want to assume something that would make you uncomfortable.”
You stare at him.
“You noticed,” you say faintly.
Dr. Reid tilts his head a little.
“You keep every note I give you.”
Well.
When he says it out loud like that, it sounds medically concerning.
“I didn’t think you knew that.”
“I didn’t,” he admits. “Not conclusively.”
His gaze flickers briefly toward the paper beside your phone.
“I do now.”
You cover your face with one hand.
“This is the worst day of my life.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“That’s because you’re not experiencing it from inside my body.”
A pause.
Then, very gently:
“No,” he says. “I don’t think I am.”
Something changes in the room after that.
Tiny shift. Tectonic consequence.
The humor softens at the edges, leaving behind something quieter. Something breathing carefully between the two of you.
Dr. Reid reaches down first, gathering the scattered pages into a neater stack before offering them back to you properly this time.
Your fingers brush again.
And this time neither of you jerks away immediately.
It lasts maybe half a second longer than it should.
Enough to feel intentional.
Enough to ruin you permanently.
His eyes lift to yours again, thoughtful in that dangerous way he gets when he’s turning something over carefully in his mind.
“You know,” he says slowly, “there are ethical complications here.”
You let out a startled laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
His fingers tap once against the edge of the paper still resting between you.
“You’re my student.”
The words land carefully. Reluctantly.
Like he hates them a little.
“Which means,” he continues, “that regardless of how I feel about this conversation, there are boundaries I’m responsible for maintaining.”
Your pulse stumbles.
Regardless of how I feel about this conversation.
That’s the moment the floor drops out from under you.
Because that’s not rejection.
It’s worse.
It’s possibility wearing a seatbelt.
“But there are also only six weeks left in the semester.”
Your breath catches.
The words land between you with astonishing softness.
Not a proposition.
Not quite.
Just a door left cracked open in the dark.
Dr. Reid seems to realize exactly how that sounded one second after saying it, because a flicker of alarm crosses his face immediately afterward.
“I’m not implying,” he starts quickly. “I mean, I am implying something, technically, but not inappropriately. I just meant that institutional boundaries are temporary in specific contexts and I thought transparency was preferable to pretending I hadn’t noticed the situation and now I’m explaining this badly.”
You stare at him.
Then laugh suddenly.
Not nervous this time.
Real.
Because Spencer Reid, genius profiler, has gone visibly flustered sitting on the floor of his own lecture hall.
The sound seems to catch him off guard.
His shoulders loosen a fraction.
And for the first time since this catastrophe began, the panic ebbs enough for something else to bloom beneath it.
Something warm.
“I… I can wait six weeks,” you say softly.
Spencer’s smile is small enough that someone else might have missed it entirely.
You don’t.
Because of course you don’t.
It changes him in tiny ways. Softens the sharp concentration he usually wears like armor. Pulls warmth into his face until he looks less like Dr. Spencer Reid, terrifyingly intelligent guest lecturer, and more like a man trying very hard not to look too happy about something.
wc: 1181
summary: bombshell!reader visits the daily planet for the first time
me: hopefully ppl arent over clark kent just yet??
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surprisingly, you’d never actually been to the daily planet. lois had worked there for years at this point, but you’d never had a proper reason to go up in the building. lois would always meet you by the entrance or wherever you were convening for the night.
she wasn’t answering her phone, though. you were supposed to meet at 5:15pm outside the tower that held the daily planet, but it was fifteen minutes after with no sign of your friend.
you approached the receptionist with a smile, clicking your nails on the front desk.
“hi,” you softened your voice to get what you wanted, “would you happen to know what floor the daily planet writers are on? my best friend is late for our plans and my heels are just killing me.” poor guy didn’t stand a chance as you directed his attention to your outstretched leg, shimmering under the stockings extended up to your pencil skirt.
fifty seven seconds and a flirty once-over later, you were standing in the elevator, watching the floors count up.
the elevator doors opened with a clunk, revealing your figure like in golden globe promo videos, breathing life into the office.
as if choreographed, every head in the office looked up, zeroing in on you. your heels clicked against the floor, keeping the room’s attention as you entered it.
“hey!” lois got up from her desk, rushing over to you with surprise in her voice, “what are you doing here?”
“you haven’t checked the time lately?” you raised a playful eyebrow, biting your lip as lois glanced down at her watch and cursed.
“i’ve been completely in the zone, just give me a few minutes to finish off and pack up.”
you waved her off, wandering around the office curiously. you probably should have been more reserved, standing in your best friend’s office space, but you made yourself right at home.
“i knew you loved me,” you grinned, picking up the framed photo she had sitting on her desk. lois didn’t say anything, rolling her eyes as she typed furiously at her desktop, rushing to get out of there. “who is that?” you pointed to the model of perfection sitting at the desk across from your friend.
“hm? oh that’s clark,” she replied distractedly, formatting her article. you didn’t need any further encouragement, approaching the giant hunched over a comparatively tiny computer.
“they let you look like that and have brains? talk about unfair.”
clark looked up at you with a start, the most gorgeous blush spreading over his cheeks.
“uh… me?” he asked, floundering under your dedicated gaze.
“who else, handsome?”
“golly, i, uh, thank you, ma’am.”
“ma’am? oh, you’re adorable.” you introduced yourself, and clark extended his hand with more vigour than you’d ever been offered before. you took it, more than aware of how small you felt in comparison to him.
“so, does the small-town charm get you many girls in the big, scary city?”
clark was sure you were teasing him. you had to be. unfortunately for him, he was raised as a southern gentleman, and ma kent had instilled sincerity as one of his core traits.
“that’s not really my, uh, focus.” he was panicking, unsure of how to handle you. you pouted, seemingly upset at his lack of game.
“that’s too bad,” you trailed your fingers along his desk, clark’s eyes following your every move, “there’s a thousand girls in metropolis who are looking for a man just like you.”
“o- oh.” clark gulped, unable to focus on anything but you. you were by far the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and your confidence was something he’d seldom come across. he admired the way you seemed so sure in your own body, of your own appeal. as clark, he wished he had the same assuredness.
“c’mon, don’t torture poor clark,” lois laughed, tapping you lightly on the lower back, a signal it was time to go.
“no, it’s okay, really okay,” clark rambled, shutting off his computer at the speed of light, pulling his bag off the back of his chair to catch up with you and lois as you departed for the elevator.
“god, how tall are you?” you bit your lip as you drank in his towering form, somehow miles tall while simultaneously taking up hardly any space. it was like he wanted to be invisible, despite being the hottest man you’d ever had the pleasure of encountering.
“i don’t know, um…”
“lois, this man cannot be real. what kind of man doesn’t take the opportunity to show off that he’s over six feet?”
lois was well used to your penchant for teasing, choosing to go along with it by now.
“clark is a very humble man,” she said, stepping into the elevator first.
“clearly,” you followed her in, attention still on clark, “so have you worked here long?”
time for your secret weapon. clark rambled out an answer about how he got hired, and you shifted your gaze: eye — lips — eye. clark’s brows shot to the roof, the words dying on his tongue as you raised your eyes back to his, shooting him your best seductive look from under thick lashes.
“so, um, yeah.” he finished quickly, knowing he’d only make a fool of himself as long as you were giving him those bedroom eyes.
“fascinating.” your voice was husky, enjoying the way it so clearly made clark nervous. he adjusted his collar, thinking he was being at all subtle as he loosened it from his neck.
“alright, well, we’ve got drinks plans, so i’ll see you next week, kent,” lois said quickly, practically pushing you out of the building.
“really nice to meet you, clark.” you put all your emphasis on his name, over-enunciating the consonants as you gave him a last once over.
“you too — really nice,” clark stumbled out, trying his best to smile confidently. it only half-worked.
you waved just your fingers as you turned to follow lois, making sure your hips had extra sway as clark struggled to start his own way home, stuck in his spot as he tried to process the last twenty minutes.
just as he’d gotten going, you took a calculated gamble, tossing your hair over your shoulder and looking back his way. sure enough, clark had risked one last look back at you, looking both humiliated and delighted as he caught your eye. you flashed him a brilliant smile before contributing to lois’ conversation effortlessly.
“please don’t break my coworker's heart,” she said with a sceptical look, “i don’t wanna have to listen to him cry about you at work.”
“i have no intention of breaking his heart,” you played innocent, “his bed, however…”
lois hit you on the arm with a disbelieving scoff, pulling you into the bar you’d both been wanting to try.
wc: 1748
summary: spencer sees your work persona crack while at a bar
cw: ?
me: who even invented exam season i just wanna talk
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
If someone were to rank the BAU on how hard someone could be to read, it would probably go something like this:
Hotch, of course
Gideon
You
Prentiss
Rossi
Everyone else.
You were a master of compartmentalisation. You’d been at the BAU for just under three years, and Spencer still hadn’t truly learnt to read you. It scared him a little, but mostly it just made him curious.
You rarely flinched when you saw a gruesome scene. You never looked confused, only calculating. When you caught a killer or saved a victim, you didn’t cheer or celebrate; you only allowed yourself a small smile. It was driving Spencer crazy trying to figure you out.
He couldn’t even figure out if you really liked him. You never said anything unkind to him, and rarely interrupted his rambling unless it was absolutely necessary, but you never exactly looked glad to be talking to him.
The BAU were just wrapping up a case in Portland, and Spencer was watching you again. The gang had caught the killer, and everyone was in high spirits. You didn’t give much in terms of expression, a small satisfied smile, the only indication you even knew it had all wrapped up.
You sat quietly on the plane, earbuds in and flipping through pages of an old Penguin classic. Feeling Spencer’s eyes on you, you looked up.
“You read it?” You asked, holding up the cover so he could see. Spencer startled, aligning with the conversation you’d started.
“Um, yeah, a few years ago.” Your face didn’t change.
“Did you like it?”
His brows raised fractionally, surprised you were asking.
“Um, yeah, yeah! I thought it was an interesting look at masculinity, death and ego. Do you like it?” You shrugged slowly, constructing your next sentence carefully.
“It’s not bad, but it feels like the type of novel that prides itself on dissecting the egos of everyone but the author.”
Spencer nodded, contemplative. “I hadn’t thought about it through that lens,” He said.
This whole exchange told him very little about you. You were smart, obviously, and well read, but he knew all that about you, and it was just about a given to be in the BAU. But did you like him? You asked him a question, which points to yes, but didn’t continue the conversation, didn’t show any particular enthusiasm, and didn’t display any typical physical indicators of affection or fondness.
He was still musing over this days later on a Friday night.
“You can’t be looking this troubled at the start of the weekend, man.” Derek leant on the corner of his desk, arms folded across his tight navy t-shirt.
“I’m not troubled, Morgan.” He barely glanced up, eyes intentionally trained on his files.
“Oh, you are,” He teased, taking the file from his hands with a grin, “The files can wait until Monday, Pretty Boy. Bunch of us are going to the bar in 20; you’re coming."
“No I’m not!”
Twenty minutes later, Spencer was in fact at the bar. It was loud, and crowded, and everyone seemed to fit in in a way he never could. So, instead of being part of the merriment with the rest of his friends, he watched. Watched the conversation playing out in front of him, watched the bar, watched the dance floor.
“Hey guys…” His voice was quiet, especially when fighting against the rattling bass of the music. Still, Emily and JJ caught it, both breaking out into screams when they followed his line of sight. Amongst the sweaty crowd of bodies writhing and grinding to the beat was you, unlike they’d ever seen you.
You’d let your hair down — literally. Instead of the crisp work uniforms they’d otherwise seen you in, you were dressed for the bar better than they were. Slinky going out top and jeans that hugged your sides, your hair tossed through the air as you moved, hands running up and down your own body.
You were surrounded by a group of women you clearly knew, all dancing amongst the crowd, not a visible care in the world.
“Guess we know why she was so eager to go home tonight,” Emily grinned, studying you carefully.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile like that,” Derek added, referring to the brilliant beam that was blinding even across the room. Spencer was transfixed. A far cry from your serious persona at work, you looked years younger than you were with the sparkle of life in your eyes. He wondered how you turned it on and off.
“Should we go and say hi?” JJ asked, eyes following your every move.
“No,” Hotch said, “She’ll see us on her own. Clearly the compartmentalisation is how she handles the job, and we don’t know if mixing worlds will upset her.” The rest nodded like it made sense, but Spencer couldn’t deny being a little upset about it. He’d love to meet who you really were, not who you made yourself be to survive a job that takes too much from you.
An hour or so later, Reid was heading to the bar for a glass of water. He’d already passed his mentally decided allotment of drinks for the night, and really didn’t want a hangover in the morning. He was almost there when you bumped into him at full force, still somehow dancing.
“Sorry,” You said on instinct, before your eyes had even lifted, “Reid?” Spencer could feel himself shrinking down, sorry for bothering you, even accidentally.
“Hey.” His lips pulled into a straight line, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
“Oh my god!” You cried, the biggest smile he’d ever seen splitting your face. “How crazy you’re here! Wait, you have to meet my friends.” You grabbed his hand without looking back, dragging him through the crowd to the group of women he’d seen before. Reid followed behind, utterly disarmed by the switch-up of your personality.
“Guys!” You yelled over the music, pulling Spencer right into you, looping your arm through his, “This is Spencer, he’s my favourite coworker.”
The other women all greeted him kindly, but Spencer could hardly pull himself to give more than a polite hello, almost starstruck at your admission. He could tell you were drunk, not just from your general demeanour but also your slight unsteadiness on your feet.
“Favourite?” He asked quietly, but you didn’t hear or pretended to.
“He’s like this super genius, knows everything about everything.” You were leaning on him, hand around his arm, whilst Spencer stood awkwardly. Your friends didn’t really care either way, not trying very hard to listen over the music. “C’mon, Spence, don’t you wanna dance?”
Spencer stole a look over at your coworkers, because really? Spence? You barely talked to him at work, let alone called him affectionate nicknames. What had gotten into you? He didn’t have time to consider it because you were taking his hand, making him dance with you.
“You like ABBA?” He yelled and you leaned in closer to hear. You screwed up your face, making an expression Spencer had never seen before. Disgruntled but kind of adorable.
“Yeah,” You said, “Obviously. Who doesn’t?” You span, face glowing from joy and exertion.
“I guess I just didn’t think that was your kind of music.”
“Maybe you’re not as good of a profiler as you thought,” You teased, making him boogie with you. Spencer was awkward, all lanky limbs, yet it was somehow still endearing.
“Maybe you’re too good at compartmentalising.” It was direct, yes, but you were almost proud of him for saying it.
“Touché. You want a drink? I’ll buy.” Spencer shrugged, letting himself be led to the bar behind you.
You and Spencer ended up sitting by the bar for the rest of the night. You’d stolen a stool and he stood close by, practically between your legs as you spoke animatedly. Both of you had been surprised by the other, so different to inside the walls of the FBI, that you kept finding excuses not to go back into the crowd of sweaty bodies. Another story, another joke, anything to keep each other close.
The whole team had seen you, Spencer had let you know quietly when he’d noticed them watching, in case you’d wanted to retain your persona. You’d only shrugged. The compartmentalisation was never about your team, it was to protect yourself from the evil you saw every day. If Hotch saw you giggling into Spencer’s shoulder while you were off the clock then that was none of your business.
“Can I call a cab for you?” Spencer murmured in your ear, finally leading you with a soft hand on your back when you nodded.
“This was really fun,” You confessed when you got outside, eyes shining in the streetlights. Spencer was caught off guard, not used to seeing you at all in this kind of way.
“Yeah,” He said, “It was. Are you going to pretend it didn’t happen on Monday?”
Spencer instantly regretted it when you bit your lips, eyes flying down to the ground between you.
“No,” You mumbled, No it’s just…”
“I’m sorry,” He interrupted, “I didn’t mean that. I just had a really good time tonight, and I feel like we’ve worked together for three years and this is the only time I’ve ever felt like I’ve known you at all, and… I really like it. What I know of you, I mean.”
“Maybe I can find a balance between work and real life,” You said slowly, shy smile growing on your lips.
Spencer just smiled, eyes crinkling as he opened the taxi door for you. Just before you pulled it shut, you stopped.
“I’ll see you at work, Spence.”
As the cab pulled out into the street, you let out a soft sigh. Things were going to get harder from here, you knew. Mixing work with your life would only complicate things, and certainly invite the horrors from work back into your home. Still, maybe letting a few more people in would be good for you. Especially when it was a know-it-all genius whose eyes crinkled up when he smiled.
summary: Clark Kent is helplessly in love, catastrophically awkward about it, and somehow even more charming because of it.
Clark “Superman” Kent
word count: 3k
a/n: this is a little something i made this week while i was waiting for my next class (cause why is there always a 2 hr gap??) I hope you enjoy! (*cough cough* jake seresin next?) side note: have u ever had a teacher who’s been edging u w the perfect grade? cause that’s me in english rn like pls i was so good in hs what is happening now
warnings: dangerously awkward flirting, excessive yearning, Clark Kent being down horrendous, coffee casualties, physical affection, kissing, secondhand embarrassment, umbrella sharing, weaponized eye contact, mild language
Clark Kent looked like the kind of man who should know how to flirt.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Gentle eyes hidden behind glasses that absolutely did not disguise the fact that he was unfairly handsome.
And yet—
“I panicked,” he admitted as coffee spread across the bullpen floor.
You stared at him from beside your desk, blinking slowly while reporters twisted in their chairs to watch the disaster unfold.
“You spilled an entire latte because I touched your arm?”
Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”
Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.
You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”
Clark glanced down.
The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”
The bullpen erupted.
Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.
Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.
And weirdly adorable.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”
He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”
“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”
Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.
Clark shot him a betrayed look.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.
Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.
It hit you like a truck.
Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.
Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.
He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.
“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.
-
Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.
Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.
You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.
Mostly because of Clark.
Which was ridiculous.
You barely knew him. Technically.
But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.
He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.
Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.
Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.
And his eyes.
Jesus Christ.
You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.
Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.
Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.
At first you thought you imagined it.
Then you noticed patterns.
Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.
It was honestly kind of endearing.
Today, however, was especially bad.
You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.
Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.
Clark stared down at it in horror.
You stared at him.
“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”
Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”
You pointed.
The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.
Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”
“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”
He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.
“It was slippery.”
“The mug exploded.”
“It’s a very slippery mug.”
You laughed again.
Clark visibly melted.
Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.
It was becoming a problem.
“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”
Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”
“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”
“They can interfere with technology.”
“Sure.”
“It’s science.”
“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”
Clark huffed out a laugh.
God.
That was dangerous too.
Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.
You liked making him do it.
Probably more than you should.
“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.
You blinked.
Shit.
“I am not.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Clark’s ears turned pink.
And for some reason, that made you bold.
“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”
Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”
“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”
“I really don’t think I do.”
“That’s actually insane.”
Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”
The room went completely silent.
Your heartbeat stuttered.
Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.
“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.
Then he physically walked into a cabinet.
You slapped a hand over your mouth.
Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Never better.”
“You hit that cabinet really hard.”
“I’m durable.”
You snorted.
Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.
And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.
-
Lois Lane cornered you two days later.
“You like him.”
You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”
Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.
“You and Smallville.”
“We are coworkers.”
“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Lois smirked.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”
You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Absolutely.”
“This is humiliating.”
“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”
Cute.
Right.
Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.
Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.
It was that he was good.
Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.
Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.
Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.
Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.
Who does that?
Who is actually like that?
“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”
“What?”
“With Clark.”
You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”
“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.
You looked up instinctively.
Big mistake.
Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.
Which honestly was possible.
The man moved weirdly fast.
Clark smiled the second he saw you.
And there it was again.
That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.
Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.
“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.
“Worth it.”
Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.
Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”
Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
“Everything,” Lois corrected.
Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.
Clark looked adorably confused.
You looked anywhere except directly at him.
“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”
He handed them over carefully.
Your fingers brushed his.
Clark froze.
You felt him freeze.
The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.
It was ridiculous.
A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.
And yet.
Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”
“You’re asking me?”
A nervous laugh escaped him.
“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.
“What?”
Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”
“Clark.”
“It’s not important.”
“Clark.”
His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”
The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.
“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.
Clark blinked.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“But you seem so calm around me.”
You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”
For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not a soft huff.
An actual laugh.
Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.
Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.
“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.
Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.
“I think you’re incredible.”
Oh.
Oh, you were in serious trouble.
-
It started raining halfway through your walk home.
Not normal rain either.
The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.
You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”
“You forgot your umbrella too?”
You turned.
Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.
Of course he had an umbrella.
Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.
“You stalking me, Kent?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”
He lifted a paper bag slightly.
You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”
Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”
You narrowed your eyes.
Clark smiled innocently.
Suspicious.
Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.
Warmth immediately surrounded you.
Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.
You tried not to notice.
Failed horribly.
“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”
Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”
Oh.
Oh, that was dangerous.
The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.
Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.
Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.
Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.
“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.
Clark blinked. “I am?”
“You’re getting rained on.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, move over.”
You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.
Clark immediately went completely still beside you.
Your arm brushed his.
Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.
Clark looked down at you slowly.
And there it was again.
That look.
Like you were something precious.
Something worth handling carefully.
It made your chest ache.
“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”
Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”
“Is that what this is?”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”
Rain hammered softly overhead.
Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.
Your breath caught.
He noticed.
You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.
And suddenly the space between you felt very small.
Very warm.
Very dangerous.
A car horn blared somewhere nearby.
Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”
“Yep.”
“That was—”
“Definitely something.”
Clark laughed nervously.
You smiled despite yourself.
Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.
Clark went silent.
His fingers instinctively curled around yours.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.
You looked up at him.
Clark looked completely undone.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”
Clark stared at you for one long second.
Then he smiled softly.
“I might argue you did.”
Your heart was never recovering from this man.
Ever.
-
By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.
Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.
You were trying not to look equally affected.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.
Neither of you moved.
“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”
Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”
Neither of you let go.
A smile tugged at your mouth.
Clark noticed instantly.
“What?”
“You’re still holding my hand.”
Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.
“Oh.”
But he still didn’t let go.
Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
The movement was absentminded.
Gentle.
Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.
Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.
His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.
“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Clark stared at you.
You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.
“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”
Clark still looked frozen.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”
“No.”
Your eyes snapped back to his.
Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.
“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”
The rain suddenly felt very far away.
Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.
Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.
You leaned into his touch before he could ask.
Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.
Then he kissed you.
And—
Oh.
That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.
There was nothing uncertain about it.
Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.
Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.
Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.
Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.
Sweet.
Tender.
Like he was trying to memorize you.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.
Clark looked completely wrecked.
His glasses were crooked.
His hair was damp from the rain.
And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.
“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.
You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”
“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”
You smiled so hard your face hurt.
Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”
“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”
You stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”
“You walked into a wall?”
“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.
“That is somehow worse.”
Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.
“I’m trying to be romantic.”
“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”
The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.
You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”
His ears turned pink again.
“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”
Clark looked away innocently.
“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”
A soft smile spread slowly across his face.
Then he leaned down and kissed you again.
Softer this time.
Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”
Clark considered that seriously.
“…Probably not.”
You laughed.
And Clark smiled like it was still the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.
|| spencer reid sees reader again 4 years after he left her sobbing in her room.
warnings none
w.c 1.8k
~~~~~
The soft clicking of keyboards and shuffling papers surrounded you as you kept your eyes locked on the file infront of you. After yale, you’d went to training to become an agent and landed a position at vicap, while you were going through the file you had spread out infront of you, a sudden ringtone took your focus off of it, you glanced an the caller ID seeing it was your friend meghan. You met her at a party while you were both in college, quickly becoming great friends. Her voice was frantic on the phone, something about needing you at the bau.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m coming,” you’d assured her, already grabbing your jacket before she’d even finished explaining.
Now you were pushing through the glass doors of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, your heart racing. A kidnapping. Meghan had been drugged at a bar, held for six hours before being found. The BAU had her in one of their conference rooms for questioning.
Your entire focus was on getting to Meghan, on seeing her face and making sure she was actually okay. You were halfway across the bullpen when someone stopped you, a tall guy with broad shoulders. “Hey excuse me, are you looking for someone, im SSA Derek Morgan. Can i offer any help?”
“Uh hi yes im looking for my friend- Meghan, she called me asking for me, where is she? is she okay?”
“Meghans okay, shes in questioning right now you can talk to her once she comes out” you smiled slightlyand nodded along, glad that your friend was doing okay.
You were turning around to go and sit down somewhere when you saw the face of the boy who you thought youd soend the rest of your life with.
And time did that weird thing where it both froze and accelerated at once.
Spencer Reid stood by a desk, a file forgotten in his hands, staring at you like you were a ghost. Except ghosts didn’t have your face, your eyes, the same way you were staring back at him.
Four years. Four years since he’d sat at your desk saying the words that were dreaded, Four years since you were sobbing on your bedroom floor because he’d broken up with you before graduation, before anything could get messy—and told you that you deserved better than him. That he was too much, that you had your whole life ahead of you, that he didn’t want to hold you back.
“Hi,” you said, because what else do you say to someone who’d been your entire world once?
“Hi,” he managed back, and his voice had that same careful precision it always did, like every word had to be measured and perfect. “You’re… you’re here.”
“My friend Meghan—she’s—” You gestured vaguely at the conference room, unable to finish because you were too busy cataloging the changes in him. He was taller somehow, or maybe he just carried himself differently now. His hair was longer. There was a confidence in his posture that hadn’t been there before. He looked like a man instead of the brilliant, anxious boy you’d loved.
“Meghan shouldnt be too long,” Emily said, appearing at your elbow with knowing eyes. The next second she was introducing herself, warm and professional, and then the others were gathering, a blonde girl who youd guessed to be a mother by the stain on her shirt, an older guy who you recognized from bookshop windows passing by, and a very colorful woman who was really kind. Last one to introduce himself was Aaron hotchner, the chief. You shook hands,introduced yourself also. The moment youd said your name, most of the team had shared a knowing look, you ignored it and answered questions about Meghan, about how you knew her, all while hyperaware of Spencer standing a few feet away, pretending to work but definitely not working. You could feel him looking at you every few seconds. Feel it like a touch.
He couldnt help it, 3 years, 165 days, 14 hours since he last saw you. You looked a bit thinner, your cheek bones were more prominent, you wore heeled boots, with a jean skirt. That was always your favorite. You had your necklace on that your mom had given you for your birthday when you turned 15, you never took it off. Your hair was shorter and lighter.
Your hand reached up to tuck your hair behind your ear when something caught the sunlight dipping into the room, his heart dropped to his knees. The huge diamond rock sat on your ring finger on your right hand, it looked like it cost more than spencers yearly paycheck. The realization hit him like a physical blow. You were engaged. And in that moment, all spencer could do was breathe and swallow the lump that was growing in his throat.
The door to the bullpen opened again, an older guy walked in like he owned the place. Tall, blonde, effortlessly handsome in the way that old money and confidence made you. Your fiancé. Your very successful, very wealthy fiancé who’d swept into your life two years ago and convinced you that you were allowed to be happy again.
He headed straight for you, hand already reaching for your arm.
“There you are,” Mark said, his eyes sharing a glance with hotch and the others. “I came as soon as you called. How’s meghan?” He put his arm around you, pulling you into him.
“Still being questioned,” you said, turning into his embrace automatically. “She was really shaken up.”
“Of course. We’ll make sure she’s taken care of.” He kissed your temple,
“this is Mark,” you said, feeling the shift in the room’s energy while you threaded your fingers through his. “My fiance. Mark, this is the team. They’re helping with Meghan’s case.” Mark was nice, he shook everyones hand with respect.
Mark extended his hand to Spencer with a small smile. You knew what was going to follow, Spencer winced as he looked at Marks stretched hand, hesitantly, he took it. “Dr. Spencer Reid”
A quick look of recognition spread across your fiances face “Ah, you’re spencer”
You watched Spencer’s confusion flicker across his face before he shook Mark’s hand. “I… yes. How did you—”
“Your reputation precedes you,” Mark said smoothly, and there was something in his tone that made your skin prickle.
A few minutes of small talk that felt like standing on a tightrope, and then Mark turned to you. “Can we talk for a minute? In private?”
You hesitated, glancing toward the conference room where Meghan was waiting for you, but Mark’s expression was insistent in that polite way that left no room for argument.
“Sure,” you said. “Uhm, can we—”
“Of course,” Emily said quickly, already gesturing toward an empty room off the side of the bullpen. A small room with a window and a closed door.
You didn’t know that window was two-way. Didn’t know that the moment you and Mark stepped inside, Emily would be guiding everyone else—despite Spencer’s quiet protest of “This isn’t right”—into the observation room on the other side.
“This is completely inappropriate,” Spencer was saying, but JJ had already linked her arm through his. “This is the love of your life, Reid. Let us have this.”
Inside the other room, Mark closed the door and immediately his expression shifted. The charm drained away, replaced with something tighter.
“I have to leave,” he said. “There’s a meeting I can’t miss.”
You blinked. “Okay.. A meeting? Mark, you’ve been to a hundred meetings. Why are you—” And then it hit you. “Is this about Spencer?”
“Of course it’s about Spencer,” Mark said, and there was an edge to his voice you’d rarely heard directed at you. “I thought that by now, by the time I actually met him, he’d have moved on. That he’d have someone else.”
Your chest went tight. “What does that mean?”
“It means I didn’t expect him to still be…” Mark’s jaw worked. “Alone. Still available.”
“Mark, what are you talking about?” You were genuinely confused, watching his face flush slightly with frustration.
“I didn’t think that when I finally met your great love, he’d still be waiting for you like some—some charity case.” The words came out harsh, and you felt them like a slap.
“Excuse me? What youre scared to leave me alone with him because you think im gonna run to him professing my dire need for him? Thats how low you think of me?” Your voice had gone very quiet. The dangerous kind of quiet.
“Don’t play dumb. The way you talk about him, the way your whole face changes when he comes up—I thought by now you’d have… I don’t know, gotten over it. Moved on completely. Not still be playing the role of his savior.”
You leaned off the table. “Don’t you dare talk about him like that. That was never what I was to him. Ever.”
“This is exactly what i mean!” Mark said, and his voice rose slightly. “You’re defending him! Your ex! That you claim to have completely moved on from!”
name
“Are you serious- Of course I’m defending him Mark,” you said, and you could feel anger rolling through you in waves. “He hasn’t done anything to you. He doesn’t even know you! Why are you being such an asshole to someone you’ve never even met?”
“I know him from how much you talk about him,” Mark shot back. “Do you hear yourself when you say his name? Do you have any idea what your face looks like?”
“So what, you’re jealous? Is that what this is?” You shook your head, already moving toward the door. “You know what, I’m not doing this right now. Meghan is hurt and she needs me. You need to go cool off. We’ll talk about this tonight when I get home.”
You didn’t wait for his response. You just opened the door and walked out, your heart hammering, heading straight back toward the conference room where Meghan needed you.
Behind you, Mark stood in the observation room—the room he didn’t know wasn’t private—for another ten seconds before he grabbed his jacket and left, the door slamming behind him.
On the other side of the two-way mirror, there was complete silence.
Spencer was staring at the empty space where you’d been, his expression shellshocked. His hands were clenched at his sides.
JJ slowly reached for his arm.
“Well,” Morgan said after a moment. “That was—”
“Don’t,” Spencer said quietly. His voice sounded scraped raw. “Please don’t.”
Emily exchanged a look with penelope, who looked almost sympathetic.
“Reid,” JJ started gently.
“I said don’t.” Spencer turned away from the mirror, and his eyes were too bright. “She’s engaged. That’s what matters. She’s happy. That’s what I wanted. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
But the way he said it sounded like a lie even he didn’t believe.
wanna kiss his face (with an uppercut) ➶ ˚ | spencer reid
୨ৎ masterlist. series masterlist.
୨ৎ summary: trying to figure out spencer reid was impossible. (un)fortunately for you, he's been dying trying to figure you out too. or... part four of my spencer reid smau <3
୨ৎ pairing: spencer reid x film girl!reader
୨ৎ warnings/tags: smau, miscommunication, language, #desperatespencerreid, penelope is TIRED, reader is TIRED, a mere sprinkle of angst
୨ৎ a/n: woahza two parts in one weekend who let me lock in?? spencer js wants his wife back and she's not having it 💔 anyways this one is pretty much back to normal length so hope yall enjoy <33 p.s if I repeat songs pls ignore I don't remember what I put in each part :)
lab.rat
♫ You're Just a Boy (And I'm Kind of the Man) ➤ Maisie Peters
liked by: kingofthe_lab, spence_reid, penelopee_garcia, and 3 others
lab.rat: girls night outtt <33
kingofthe_lab: thank GOD we don't have work tmr omg my head is pounding
⤷ lab.rat: hm i wonder why 🤔
spence.reid: fun fact hangovers can be worsened by genetics :) some genes are responsible for enzymes which breaks down the alcohol byproducts acetaldehyde!
⤷ lab.rat: 👍
lab.rat
♫ Rose-Colored Boy ➤ Paramore
liked by: kingofthe_lab, spence_reid, penelopee_garcia, and 7 others
lab.rat: beautiful morning <33
kingofthe_lab: idk how you can manage to be productive i'm literally laying on my couch watching gossip girl 💔
⤷ lab.rat: i rlly needed to get out of my apartment lwk 😓
⤷ kingofthe_lab: don't tell me it's bc of HIM
⤷ lab.rat: omg no what
⤷ kingofthe_lab: idk somebody's pants r on fire 👀👀👀
⤷ lab.rat: hello??
___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
lab.rat
♫ She Plays Bass ➤ beabadoobee
liked by: spence_reid, kingofthe_lab, penelopee_garcia, and 5 others
lab.rat: late night bookstore run!
spence.reid: I found that copy in one of the vintage bookstores I went to! I hope you like it :))
⤷ lab.rat: wait YOU sent me it? 😭😭
⤷ spence.reid: if you don't like it that's ok?
⤷ lab.rat: no it's nice thx Spencer :)
⤷ spence.reid: of course !!
kingofthe_lab: i'm so fucking scared....
⤷ lab.rat: ME TOO 💔
___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
spence.reid
♫ Heaven Knows I'm Miserable ➤ The Smiths
liked by: d_morgan, penelopee_garcia, j.jareau, emily_prentiss, lab.rat and 9 others
spence.reid: it's been hours please let me go home
penelopee_garcia: idk you'd probably be home sooner if you weren't texting your gf instead of doing paperwork!
⤷ j.jareau: wait they're on speaking terms again?
⤷ emily_prentiss: apparently it's complicated
⤷ penelopee_garcia: oh spencer ur gonna have to explain this later
⤷ spence_reid: do I have to?
___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
lab.rat
♫ A Certain Romance ➤ Arctic Monkeys
liked by: spence_reid, kingofthe_lab, penelopee_garcia, and 8 others
lab.rat: what a lovely view <3 p.s, thanks for the flowers ;)
kingofthe_lab: WAIT WHAT"S HAPPENING??
⤷ lab.rat: ummm wouldn't you like to know weatherboy !
⤷ kingofthe_lab: YES I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW WEATHERBOY??
spence.reid: p.s translates to post scriptum in latin, meaning "after the writing" :)
⤷ lab.rat: wait I learned this in high school latin 🥹🤞
⤷ spence.reid: ALSO greek mythology attributes the red color of roses to the death of adonis, where aphrodite tripped on the thorns while running to him !!
⤷ penelopeee_garcia: huh what a funny way of saying "hey hope you like the flowers"
⤷ emily_prentiss: freak4freak over here damn
___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
lab.rat
♫ drop dead ➤ Olivia Rodrigo
liked by: spence_reid, kingofthe_lab, penelopee_garcia, j.jareau, and 11 others
tagged: spence_reid
lab.rat: a lovely view indeed !!
kingofthe_lab: WHAT THE FUCK???
⤷ lab.rat: #loveitoverhere
⤷ kingofthe_lab: omg i'm so confused rn what is going on I don't even know where to start
⤷ lab.rat: uhhhhhhh idk!
spence.reid: I really liked pride and prejudice :)
⤷ lab.rat: I KNEW YOU'D LIKE IT HAH
⤷ penelopee_garcia: r we ignoring the elephant in the room....
⤷ emily_prentiss: HELP HE ACTUALLY DID IT???
⤷ j.jareau: I feel like a proud mother rn oh my god
⤷ aaron_hotchner: good for reid :)
"singing if it's meant to be then it'll be…I forgive it all as it comes back to me."
genre: gentle flangst
summary: in which you stumble into a church, and meet someone whose kindness you've needed.
warnings/tags: religious themes (reader is non religious, but neither are trying to convert the other), grief, jud is a cutie pie as always, "forbidden romance" but it's just starting, made with fem!reader in mind, but there are no gendered descriptions.
word count: 1.2k
i recommend listening to sun bleached flies by ethel cain while you read!
➽──────────────❥
One week into your stay in Chimney Rock, and you were entirely bored. You’d come here to pack up a house, your aunt’s. Her passing had revealed that her home was left to you, so you'd left your apartment in Brooklyn to take care of it. How long the stay would be, you weren't sure, but you knew you couldn't sell it. It was the only thing you had of the person who’d loved you the most. Anyways, you’d somehow tried all of the restaurants, walked down every street, and explored every crevice of the small town.
Except one place.
Our Lady of Perpetual Grace.
You had passed by it on your many walks back and forth to the town square, but had never stopped to enter.
It'd been a long time since you'd been to any church.
This time however, as you made your way to finally stock the empty fridge in the kitchen, you paused. It was beautiful–tall, and Gothic, and surrounded by beautifully planted trees.
You figured you should see what was inside. Just this once.
You walked up the cobblestone stairs, and entered. Sunlight bled through the tall windows, illuminating the carefully carven pews before you. A large, wooden cross served as the centerpiece of the church, complete with an intricate recreation of Jesus. Below it was a man. He was on his knees, at the end of the pews, looking up at the altar in front of him. You paused, and quickly turned around–you figured you were interrupting something.
“Wait.”
You turned. And saw him for the very first time.
He was tall, and lean. The sun washed over his face, his nose, his scruff–he was beautiful. Tired, but beautiful.
You cleared your throat, realizing that you were staring. “Sorry, I, um, I didn't mean to interrupt.”
A smile spread across his face, warm and inviting. “You didn't. I’m Father Jud Duplenticy.” He opened his arms. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, I uh…I'm not exactly sure why I came here, to be honest.”
“You're not a Catholic.” He wasn't accusatory, or pitying…just genuinely curious.
“No, I uh, I grew up in it, but…it's been a while. I guess I’m here for the nostalgia of it all.”
He nodded, bit his cheek. “Well, you're welcome to stay…and chat, if you're up for it.”
Your eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not looking to be converted.”
Jud laughed at your apprehension. “Good thing I’m not looking to convert you.”
Blood rushed to your cheeks. “Right, yeah, I…” You shut yourself up and sat in the nearest pew. “You can go back to praying, or whatever you were doing.”
He bit back another laugh. “I was just about done. And I’d like to learn more about you…?” You told him your name, and he gestured to the seat. “Can I…?” You scooted over, and Jud sat next to you. “Beautiful day, isn't it?”
You snorted. “Are you always this positive?”
“I try to be.” He smiled.
“It’s a little scary.”
“Then I’ll try not to be.”
You smiled, and tugged at your sleeve. “I’m not sure what to say.”
His eyes softened. “You don’t have to say anything. Or you can say everything.”
“Is there a happy medium?”
Jud laughed, again. You thought to yourself that you were already growing to love that sound, but pushed it down as soon as it arose.
He’s a priest. Relax.
“Well, I…I’m not religious. If you hadn't already gathered that, Father.”
“What would you consider yourself?”
“A person. I don't know.”
Jud shook his head. “That's a perfectly fine answer.”
You nodded, and stared at the windows. Anything but his reassuring smile.
He cleared his throat. “What brought you Chimney Rock?”
“Well, I’m from California, I moved to New York for college, and…” You inhaled.
He urged you on, gently. “And?”
“My aunt lived here. She died, and left me the house without telling anyone, so…now I’m here.”
You felt a warm hand land on your shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. It's not your doing.”
“Still. I’m sorry.”
Apprehensively, your eyes turned to his, before quickly looking away. “Yeah,” you repeated. “If I ever had any faith, it's certainly gone now.”
He nodded. “I understand.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why?”
You laughed. “I tried really hard, you know. With the whole Christianity thing.”
“I believe you.” His thumb ran over your knit cardigan.
“I remember when I got baptized, and I…I could feel that it wasn't right. I'd done bible study, and prayed, and annotated, and listened to worship music, and…”
“And it still didn't work for you.”
“Yeah.” You sighed, clasped your hands. “I gave up on trying a long time ago.”
The two of you sat in silence, observing the church around you. He never seemed to grow uncomfortable. Jud gave space and let you decide when to fill it.
“It's a beautiful cross.” You commented.
He blushed. “Thank you. I built it.”
“You did that?”
He nodded. “I find carpentry calming.”
Your laugh filled the room. “Wow. You were really destined to be a priest, Father Jud.”
He smiled. “I guess I was.” His hand fell from your shoulder. You missed it as soon as it left.
Sunlight spread across the room once more, and a willow tree just outside the window swayed in the gentle breeze. “You were right. It is a beautiful day.”
“They usually are, here.” Jud paused, and chose his words carefully. “I know you're not in Chimney Rock by choice, exactly. But I hope you'll make the most of it.”
God. Does he have to be so reassuring?
You attempted a smile, and sighed as the light hit his face again. This time, you noticed the freckles scattered on the bridge of his sharp nose. “I should go, I uh, I don't have like, any groceries yet. I was on my way to do that before…”
Jud smiled. “Before I interrupted.”
You laughed. “Yeah.”
He stood, allowing you to exit the pew. You noticed a ring on his thumb as his hand rested on the wood of the seat.
Why am I looking at his hands?
“You're welcome here. Anytime you feel you need it."
You hesitated, before asking the question that had weighed on your mind since he stopped you from leaving. “Why?”
Jud’s eyebrows furrowed, confused. “Why?”
“Yeah.”
He looked away, and shrugged shyly. “I’m a priest.”
“I’m not buying it.”
He sighed at your relentlessness. “Maybe I’ve taken a liking to you.” You raised an eyebrow. “We're similar. I've been where you are…religiously, I mean."
Your breath caught, and you cleared your throat. “Thanks. For talking with me.”
“Of course.” He grabbed a notepad and pen from his back pocket, and scribbled something down. “Here.” He stretched his hand towards yours.
“Your number?”
Jud smiled, and nodded. “Call me, if you ever feel like talking. I’d like to be a friend, if that's alright with you.”
As you clutched the note, your hands brushed. Annoyingly, you felt yourself soften. “It is. If we're friends…do I still have to call you father?”
A laugh burst out of him once more, and you held yourself back from melting in front of him. “No, no…Jud is fine.”
You felt a laugh escape you. “Alright. I'll see you around, Jud.”
He waved as you left, warm as always. As soon as you disappeared, he muttered under his breath.
“God…give me strength.”
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ note from moon: this will probably get a sequel, since the school year ending has freed up my schedule a whole lot.
please reblog and/or comment if you enjoyed this fic!
Wait I just requested Clark Kent but didn’t get specific, Clark Kent and shy!reader ?? You write him perfectly like I’m biting my fist
ty for requesting! fem, 1k
You are terrified of annoying Clark.
Not because Clark is scary. Clark would never hurt you. It doesn’t take much to acquiesce this from what you know about him, which was not so long ago not a lot, but is now increasing by the day.
You know Clark likes to be kissed very gently sometimes, but most of the time, if there’s privacy, he enjoys turning into a kiss with his lips already parted. He knows that you enjoy this the same, though you might stammer and flush the whole way through.
You know that Clark weighs two hundred and forty pounds and that a genuinely insane amount of that is muscle. He knows that you like to be carried like a sack of potatoes and promises to always be able to do that, as though you’re worried his incredible musculature percentage is going to melt away.
You know that Clark has liked you for a long time, and that he’s patient with you despite that. He knows, in tandem, that you liked him for longer, but were far more shy about saying anything and so said nothing at all. Which is why Clark has started reminding you often and with incentive to speak your mind. To do what you want.
His tenacity when it comes to this encouragement is as shameful as it is warming. “Come on, say it! I know there’s something on your mind. You can tell me anything, honey, you know that.” He’s rambling around a pencil, the two of you sitting on a bench in Metropolis Park attempting to finish a crossword puzzle together before the afternoon rush. “I won’t judge you.”
“Clark, I don’t want to tell you anything,” you plead.
“Want, you said, but not need. There’s something.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It is an it. That’s not nothing.”
You think Clark might’ve invested in the wrong early morning puzzle. Brain teasers might suit him better. “It’s really nothing.”
He offers his hand palm up against his thigh. When you take it, he sews your fingers together and tucks them against his stomach, like he’s trying to convince you to let him keep them. “Okay. Don’t tell me.”
“I think that the act of telling you is an example of what I want to tell you, so telling you will make it worse.”
Clark ditches the paper, tucks the pencil into his pocket, and hums. “I see.”
You feel hotter the longer he has your hand. Clark rubs the back with his thumb, a back and forth smoothing motion that forces you to relax. No matter how shy you are, you’re getting used to his gentleness, and everything it entails to be at the receiving end of it each day. If you tell Clark what you’re worried about, he won’t judge you, or make it worse, or throw it in your face later. It’s not in his nature.
“Do I annoy you?” you ask finally, small and thin as wetted rice paper.
“Never.”
You wince. It was too quick a response with no explanation. “Are you sure?”
“You never annoy me. I love being around you, being close to you, and everything you do is endearing to me. I think that that’s how it goes. And you are a remarkably interesting person with more emotional intelligence in her pinky finger than most people possess in their whole bodies, so everything you do is– You are so careful. With me, and with my feelings, and I couldn’t appreciate that more. So no, you don’t annoy me, you never have. If anything, I admire you more every day. And even if you were to do something annoying, not that you have,” —he shoots you a furtive glance— “I could forgive it, because it’s you.”
“Oh gosh,” you mumble, looking away from him entirely. You have never been so read for filth in your life. How can he answer every insecurity from a simple question? “Sorry, Clark, but I might need some warning if you’re going to do that again.”
“Do what?” he asks, pulling at your arm to encourage your face back his way. “Did I say the wrong thing?”
“You didn’t have to wax poetic at me, I shouldn’t have– I shouldn’t have asked such a stupid question. It’s not like you could say yes without looking like a bad person.”
Clark’s eyes are a strange, electric blue, but they suit his clear skin and his dark, dark hair. The line of his brows is broad and proud atop his glasses. “Angel, you don’t have to feel bad for asking for reassurance.”
“I didn’t mean to, though. I was just wondering. And now it’s more annoying because I’m making this into a real conversation you’ve had to have with me.”
“Oh, no,” he whines, shifting into your space subtly, “trapped in conversation with the sweetest woman alive, how will I go on? Gosh, should I leave you here to recover someplace else? How could I ever go forward, having spent a morning here, holding your hand? I am truly tortured.”
You do not like sarcasm on Clark, but at the same time, it’s so dorky and achingly kind. “Sorry,” you mumble pathetically.
Clark nudges your shoulder with his. He must restrain himself. His large shoulders don’t do any damage.
“If I do annoy you, though, I’d like to know,” you say. “Is that okay, if I ask you to let me know?”
“Honey, ask me for anything and I’ll try to give it to you.”
You hesitate, letting the sudden weight of it all sink in. He is a done and dusted sort of man, isn’t he? He made such quick work of your worries, you could almost forget you’d felt insecure at all if it weren’t for the warmth that lingers in your cheeks and neck. “Kiss?” you mumble.
He practically whines. “Yes, please,” he says, clearing his throat, and leaning down to slot his lips and nose against yours, his mouth driving forward in a careful, barely-parted kiss.
He chucks you under the chin as he pulls away. You go malleable as a sugar pull, reaching immediately into his pocket for the pencil in want of a distraction lest he melt you completely.
clark doesn't really need to eat, and it's not a fact he's actively made known.
it's telling that even after thirty years, martha kent had no idea that it wasn’t necessary to cook up a storm whenever her son came home for the holidays. there was no reason to suspect otherwise — with how the younger kent would indulge, a wide smile on his stuffed cheeks.
he liked to think that it was the love that went behind the cooking that made him feel full.
when he met you, the sentiment carried — in the manner he'd watch you intently as you manouvered around his kitchen like it was your own.
you'd notice your boyfriend boring holes into your back, whenever you suggested a night in. it was never a problem, until that idle, looming shadow grew closer and warmer.
his hands gravitate to the base of your hips, holding you in place before the stove. "gosh. it smells so good in here.."
you might've believed him if he didn't have his nose buried to your pulse. there was no hiding the small smile that curls at your lips, wordlessly feeding him a spoonful of chopped, roasted sweet potatoes.
he lowers his head and takes it, a low, content rumble sounding in his throat, unable to stop the words that spill between chews. "mmph—god, thas' amazing."
the sound of his grunts had churned in your own belly, in distinct arousal, "uhuh…" you manage, swatting him away, "scooch over big guy."
clark grumbles a protest, only clinging harder at your request to shoo him away. "can't. s'warm here."
"oh come on…you run hotter than the stove."
there was silence as soon as you said that, and the smile that accompanied only made you roll your eyes. "meant your body temp, narc."
"mm." brazenly, his hand is sliding beneath the hem of your shirt. heavy palms find its way up to your belly, coaxing the fat there. "y'are too."
"that's…cuz…" you try, completely distracted at the task at hand — at the manner his thumb skims beneath your breasts, his parted lips blow cooled air to the shell of your ears, forcing you to jump. "cuz…cuz i've been cooking —" then, he gropes a tit. you yelp, "clark!"
the taller man pulls back with a pouty look, rubbing at his chest where you'd elbowed him in surprise. you feel your cheeks warm for a whole other reason now.
"time-out. go!"
"but i —"
"now."
your back quickly turns to the stove, trying not to cave when you hear the obviously dejected shuffle of his feet toward the couch.
that evening, you'd have never cooked faster than you ever had in your entire life.
