High School Sweethearts… Sort Of” - Superman/Clark Kent
[ Clark Kent / Superman x Reader ]
Everyone has that one high school crush they never forget. You were his, the cheer captain with the bright smile. Eleven years later, Superman saves you on live television, and suddenly Clark Kent is reliving Friday night lights all over again.
Everyone had that one high school crush. The person you could never quite forget. Maybe it was the classmate who always lent you a pencil, the senior who never noticed you, or the star quarterback who felt miles out of reach. School law. Some people never grew out of it.
Fifteen years later, people would come to the reunion still looking for them. Wondering what could have been.
For Clark Kent, that person was you.
Clark graduated from Smallville High eleven years ago, at eighteen. He still remembered the smell of cut grass on the football field, the endless Kansas sky, and the squeak of sneakers against the gymnasium floor. He remembered his friends from the AV club, the hours in the dim journalism room, the nervous quiet he carried in the halls.
But most of all, he remembered you.
Ms. Popular herself. Cheer captain. Bright smile, perfect laugh. The kind of girl who could walk into a room and have the whole place orbit around her. You said you were going to be a TV star someday, and no one doubted it. How could they? You seemed destined for it.
Your family’s farm wasn’t far from his. Wheat, cattle, corn — and your father made good money off it, enough that you always had nice clothes, a clean car. You were the girl everyone loved, the one parents whispered about — she’ll be famous someday, you wait.
You weren’t cruel, though. You’d smile at Clark when you passed him in the halls. Sometimes, after a football game, you’d pat him on the shoulder and tell him “good job.”
And Clark… Clark would go red all the way to the tips of his ears.
Because even though he stood on the football field, he wasn’t on the football team, not really. He sat on the bench, year after year, careful never to risk too much, never to let his “abilities” slip. Mr. Kent had made sure of that. No touchdowns, no glory.
According to Tommy H., the quarterback, and everyone else, Clark Kent didn’t stand a chance. Not with a bombshell like you. Not with the cheer captain. Not with the girl who was leaving Smallville behind the second graduation caps hit the ground.
So Clark did what he always did. He kept quiet.
At graduation, he sat behind you. He watched you beam with your friends, heard your mother sob happily in the crowd, and saw your father’s proud grin.
When it was over, you turned, smiling at him with that blinding sunshine of yours, and Clark managed to stammer out a soft, “Congratulations.”
It was the last thing he ever said to you.
And then you were gone.
Clark Kent had plenty of secrets. He grew into them, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders. He became a man, a reporter, a hero. He wore glasses and smiles and hid in plain sight.
But every now and then, when he let his thoughts wander back to those endless Kansas fields and the old Smallville High gymnasium… he still thought of you.
The girl he couldn’t stop thinking about all these years later.
It had been eleven years since you graduated from Smallville High.
Back then, you left with stars in your eyes and your sights set high — Hollywood, Broadway, the bright lights of New York. You swore you’d be a star, the next Dolly Parton, a household name by twenty-five.
It hadn’t quite worked out that way.
The competition was brutal. There were dozens of girls who looked like you, sounded like you, maybe even wanted it more. You landed a few commercials, a catalog shoot, even an extra role or two. But it wasn’t the career you had imagined when you strutted across that stage in your graduation cap.
Your agent suggested another direction. “You’ve got presence,” he said. “Camera loves you. Why not news?”
So you took the leap.
Now, eleven years later, you weren’t a movie star — but you were something. A recognizable face on Metropolis News Channel 1. A reporter with a reputation for her pretty smile, soft voice, and stubborn tendency to plant herself right where the action was.
You chased the biggest stories, no matter how dangerous. You’d been shoved by rioters, drenched in rainstorms, nearly flattened by a falling lamppost. You never got your exclusive with Superman, though god knows you tried, but you were always there. On scene. First with the mic.
It had become something of a running joke with the crew. You were always the first one to dash toward the blue-and-red blur with your microphone extended, calling out breathless questions. And you were always ignored. Superman never stopped, never even looked your way. You could see him in the background of your reels sometimes, just a streak of cape and muscle flying past, and your coworkers would tease you for it.
“Your boyfriend’s playing hard to get again,” they’d say, and you’d roll your eyes, laughing, but a small part of you burned with frustration.
It wasn’t the life you planned, but it was a good one. People knew your name. You never had to worry about your rent. You laughed with the crew in the studio after long shifts. And sometimes, late at night, you wondered: if the chance to audition again came…would you even want it anymore?
“Are we rolling?” you asked, tightening your grip on the microphone as you smoothed your hair back.
Your cameraman gave you a thumbs-up, his face pale as rubble shook the ground beneath you. He tried not to look at the monstrous figure wreaking havoc just yards away, probably because if he did, he’d bolt.
You pasted on your brightest smile. “Hello, Metropolis! This is [Name], reporting live from Fifth Avenue, where a surprise attack has just unfolded!”
A boulder the size of a sedan crashed into the street behind you, the sound rattling your teeth. You didn’t flinch, not on camera.
“As always,” you continued, voice steady, “we are first on the scene—”
The words cut off as you and the cameraman ducked instinctively. A car spun through the air above your heads, slamming into a lamppost and crumpling like foil.
You popped back up a second later, brushing dust from your sleeve, still smiling into the lens. “—and as you can see, the attack is still very much in progress.”
Behind you, the sky was a blur of blue and red, cape snapping in the wind.
“But our very own Superman,” you said, voice catching just slightly, “is doing a wonderful job holding the line.”
Your cameraman muttered under his breath, “You’re insane,” as he steadied the shot.
But you didn’t move. You adjusted your mic, eyes tracking the blur of motion. Superman darted forward, intercepting another chunk of falling concrete before it could crush a bus full of terrified commuters. You moved quickly with your cameraman, repositioning closer to the action, giving the audience at home a ringside seat to the chaos.
“Superman has just pulled four civilians from the wreckage of an overturned taxi,” you reported breathlessly, walking backward as you spoke, the camera following you. “Despite heavy damage to the block, no fatalities have yet been reported. Emergency crews are on route, but until then, Superman is the only thing standing between Metropolis and disaster.”
The ground trembled as another explosion rocked the avenue. You ducked instinctively, but when you straightened, you caught him again, cape flashing, body colliding with the villain, sending shockwaves rippling through the air.
The words died on your tongue.
You didn’t notice the massive chunk of concrete spiraling end over end toward you until it was already too late. Your cameraman shouted, throwing his arm up uselessly, and your breath caught in your throat—
A shadow fell over you.
And then impact.
The slab smashed against something solid just inches behind you, splintering into harmless rubble that clattered across the ground. The shockwave never touched you. Because floating there, broad shoulders squared, cape falling heavy around him, was Superman himself. The debris had struck his back and crumbled like chalk against steel.
You blinked up at him, stunned, your mic trembling in your hand. He didn’t even glance at the wreckage — his gaze was fixed on you, sharp, unyielding, voice low and edged with disapproval.
“What are you doing?”
You froze. The mic nearly slipped from your fingers.
He looked bigger up close, broader, radiating a power that made the air hum around him.
And then his gaze snagged on you.
For just a moment, his stern expression faltered. His eyes widened.
“[Name]?” he breathed.
Your heart skipped. Superman knew your name?
You blinked, and then — because live television had never scared you, you grinned at the camera and quipped, “Well look at that, Metropolis! Superman knows my name. Guess I really am famous now.”
The corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but bit it back, rolling his eyes skyward instead. Before you could say another word, his arm slid firmly around your waist, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. With his other arm, he snagged your shrieking cameraman and the heavy equipment like it was made of cardboard.
“Wait-hey! We’re still rolling!” you protested as the ground dropped away beneath you. The wind whipped your hair, your mic still clutched in your hand.
In seconds, he set you both down at the far end of the street, beyond the police barricades. The crowd gasped, phones flashing as you stumbled onto solid ground. Superman hovered above you, cape billowing, eyes sharp again.
“Stay away from the danger zone,” he ordered firmly. “You make it harder for me to work.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already turning. Panic flared. “Wait! Can I get an interview after?” you shouted, lifting your mic toward the sky.
For a heartbeat, you thought he’d ignore you.
Then, mid-flight, his voice carried back over the crowd, rich and low: “Maybe!”
The cheers of the bystanders drowned out your laugh, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you adjusted your hair, turning back to your wide-eyed cameraman.
“Please tell me you got that on tape.”
Your cameraman stared at you, pale and shaking, clutching the camera like his life depended on it. Slowly, he nodded.
“Oh,” you said, breath hitching with giddy disbelief, “this is gonna make the highlight reel.”
The battle was over.
The villain was cuffed and groaning in the custody of the Metropolis SCU. Fire crews were dousing the last of the flames, smoke curling into the morning sky. The streets were chaos, crushed cars, shattered glass, civilians trickling out from hiding places with wide eyes.
And Superman hovered above it all, cape heavy with soot, eyes sweeping the crowd.
He wasn’t sure if he’d actually give that interview you shouted for — truth be told, interviews were dangerous, distracting, and complicated. But still…he found himself scanning for you. Not the crowd of reporters clawing for attention at the barricade, screaming his name into microphones, cameras flashing like lightning. Not the news vans lined bumper to bumper down the avenue.
You.
And suddenly, he understood why he probably hadn’t noticed you before. Among this sea of lenses and shouting, you’d have been just another face, another voice calling his name. But now—
“Superman!”
His head snapped toward the sound.
And there you were.
Not at the barricades. Not wedged between the dozens of elbows and microphones. No — you’d somehow slipped behind the protective gate, standing tall atop a toppled-over car, balancing like you belonged there. Hair windswept, eyes bright, microphone still clutched in one hand. You weren’t shouting like the others. You just were. And somehow, that was louder than all of it.
He sighed, but the corner of his mouth curved before he could stop it. Of course it would be you.
He drifted toward you, footsteps landing lightly on the cracked asphalt as the crowd roared behind him. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks, “Superman! Superman, one question! Over here! Please, just one statement!” but he only saw you.
“Good job,” you said, smiling up at him like it was the simplest thing in the world.
And suddenly, Clark wasn’t standing in the rubble of Metropolis anymore. He was seventeen again. On the football field in Kansas. You were in your cheer uniform, sunlight bouncing off your hair as you leaned over the railing, giving him that exact same smile. “Good job, Kent!” you’d said back then, clapping him on the back after a game he barely played in.
For the first time all day, Clark felt warm.
The crowd noise dulled as you tilted the mic toward him, grinning like you had the upper hand.
“So,” you said, balancing on the crumpled car, “how about that interview?”
Superman’s jaw flexed. He meant to brush you off, meant to give you the usual half-answer that never promised anything, but the words slipped out before he could catch them.
“I’m free tomorrow.”
Your brows lifted in delight, lips parting in surprise. “Tomorrow?”
His stomach dropped. Too late to take it back. “Yes. Tomorrow.”
You smiled wider, teeth flashing. “And how exactly will I find you, Superman? Do I just…shout into the sky?”
He exhaled, trying to play it cool. “Give my friend Clark Kent a call. He’ll put us in touch.” The words came out too quickly, too casual, but he tried to cover it with a faint shrug. “He’s the guy that usually interviews me.”
Your eyes lit up instantly. “Clark Kent!?”
He stiffened, blinking as if he’d been struck. “You…know him?”
“Of course I know him!” you said happily. “We went to high school together! Smallville, class of—well, I won’t date myself. But yeah. Clark’s the sweetest.”
His heart nearly stopped.
You were beaming now, eyes faraway with nostalgia. “I had the fattest crush on him back then. Everyone thought I’d move away and forget all about Smallville, but…” You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’ve actually been wanting to reach out. Catch up, you know?”
Clark’s ears rang. He was so close to giving himself away then and there, tearing off the glasses he wasn’t even wearing in the moment, shouting it’s me. Instead, he swallowed hard and forced his voice to stay even.
“Well,” he said, managing a small, sheepish smile, “I’m happy to reconnect you two.”
It sounded smooth enough, but inside he was screaming.
Because all these years later, after hiding, after doubting, after convincing himself you’d never thought twice about him, here you were, telling Superman of all people that Clark Kent had once been your high school crush.
Score.
It was late evening in Smallville when Clark asked you to go for a drive. The air was warm, cicadas buzzing in the trees, and the fields rolled endlessly under the fading light. He hadn’t told you where you were headed, only smiled that nervous, boyish smile as he guided the truck down the familiar dirt road.
When he parked, you realized exactly where you were.
The high school football field stretched before you, bleachers a little rusted now, grass patchy in spots. The goalposts still stood tall against the darkening sky, and for a second you swore you could almost hear the faint echo of cheers and the marching band.
“Clark,” you said softly, stepping out of the truck. “The field.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, following you toward the fifty-yard line. “Yeah. I thought…maybe it was fitting.”
“Fitting?”
He chuckled nervously. “It’s where you always told me ‘good job,’ even when I hardly played. You were the one who decorated my locker during spirit week. You were the only cheerleader who ever really noticed me. And I think about that all the time...that smile, the way you made me feel like I mattered.”
You blinked at him, your heart swelling.
And then Clark Kent, the boy you’d once pined for and the man you loved now, dropped to one knee in the middle of the field. The empty bleachers, the scent of cut grass, the faint glow of the stadium lights — it all wrapped around the two of you like the past had been waiting for this.
“[Name],” he said, voice steady but his hands trembling, “I’ve loved you for longer than I can admit. Will you marry me?”
You gasped, tears springing to your eyes as laughter bubbled out of you. “Clark Kent—you absolute sap—YES!”
He slipped the ring onto your finger, and you tackled him before he could stand, the two of you collapsing into the grass, laughing and kissing like teenagers who had just been given a second chance.
Later, you drove back to the farms.
The porch lights glowed warm against the twilight, and the smell of cinnamon and peaches greeted you before you even made it through the door. Martha had baked pies, two, just in case one wasn’t enough and your mom arrived with a basket of wine bottles that she declared were “absolutely worth opening tonight.” By the time everyone was seated around the Kent table, it was a chorus of voices, glasses clinking, chairs scraping against the old floorboards.
Stories flowed as easily as the wine. Your dad teased Clark about his “clean” football jersey back in the day, while Jonathan proudly retold the tale of Clark’s very first tractor job like it was a superhero feat of its own. Martha and your mom couldn’t stop gushing, trading hugs across the table until you swore they might fuse into one person.
And through it all, Clark never let go of your hand. His thumb traced absent circles over your ring, his eyes darting to it as if he needed constant reassurance it was real. Every time you caught him staring, you gave his hand a squeeze, and he’d smile at you like no one else existed in the room.
When the first toast came, you clinked your glass against his, grinning ear to ear. “So,” you teased, “does this make us high school sweethearts now?”
Clark ducked his head, cheeks pink, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s…not how it works.”
“Sure it is,” you nudged, bumping your shoulder into his. “You’re my quarterback, Kent.”
That made him laugh, soft and shy, the kind of laugh that warmed the table more than the wine ever could.
Dessert came next: peach pie, still warm from the oven, and cobbler that your mom insisted was “just a little burnt, but perfect with ice cream.” Everyone dug in with the kind of appetite only farm families could muster, forks clinking, laughter spilling.
It was then, while Clark was mid-bite, that you leaned toward him with a grin, lowering your voice to a stage whisper that your parents couldn’t not overhear.
“Oh! We have to invite Superman to the wedding. I mean, he was our matchmaker.”
Clark froze. Utterly. Mid-bite, fork still hovering in the air.
Then he coughed, nearly choking on the mouthful of pie, and fumbled for his napkin. Both families turned to look at him curiously as his ears flushed bright red.
“Superman?” Jonathan echoed, amused. Looking over at his wife knowingly “Now that would be some guest list.”
Your mom perked up, eyes gleaming. “Oh! Could you imagine the photos? We’d make every magazine in Kansas.”
"Whose superman again?" asked your father
You laughed, leaning back in your chair, clearly entertained by the idea. “Well, it’s true! If it wasn’t for him allowing me an interview, Clark and I might never have reconnected. He’s practically our cupid.”
Clark pressed his napkin to his mouth, looking like a man trying to hide in plain sight. He set his fork down carefully, too carefully, and gave you a sheepish, helpless little smile.
“Honey,” he said, voice low but carrying just enough weight to hush the room. His eyes flicked nervously between your parents, his parents, and then back to you. “There’s…something I need to tell you.”
The table went quiet. Even the clock ticking in the hall seemed to stop.
If he was going to tell you, he might as well tell your parents too. Because how else would he explain, a few years from now, when your kids started flying around the barn loft or shooting laser beams through the back fence?
You blinked at him, eyebrows raised, lips quirking with a half-smile. “…Clark?”
And suddenly, he looked exactly like the boy you remembered, flustered, earnest, heart on his sleeve, only now he had the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.
“Superman’s already going to be at the wedding,” he said carefully.
You tilted your head. “Oh? You invited him?”
The whole table leaned in, waiting for his answer.
Clark exhaled. His hand found yours under the table, squeezing tight. “No,” he said softly, almost sheepishly. “I am him.”
For a beat, no one moved. No one breathed.
Then your mother let out a squeak, blinked twice, and fainted clean out of her chair.
Martha was quick to scoop your mother upright, guiding her back into the chair and pressing a cold towel gently to her forehead. “Deep breaths, sweetheart,” she said kindly
Clark was still stiff as a fence post, eyes flicking nervously between your family, worried maybe they'd disapprove suddenly. He opened his mouth to try again, but you cut him off with a grin.
“Clark,” you said sweetly, leaning into him. “I already knew.”
His head whipped toward you so fast you thought he might give himself whiplash. “You knew!?”
You shrugged, sipping your wine like it was nothing. “Yeah. I figured it out after a while.”
“After a while?” His voice cracked, his ears turning bright red. “How long have you—”
“Oh, months.” You waved your free hand casually, trying not to laugh at his scandalized expression. “Honestly, it wasn’t hard. I know you too well. Besides I'm a news reporter”
You smirked, leaning over to poke Clark in the chest. “I just liked seeing you sweat.”
Clark groaned, burying his face in his hand. “Unbelievable…”
But he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips, not when you were beaming at him like that.
Can I request a Nikolai Lantsov x fem reader with prompt #4 “Is that my shirt?” “You mean our shirt?”, please?
Thank you, you're brilliant! 💜
Of course! Thank you so much for the request, Rosie!
Ok, so I may have gone a little overboard with this...I hope you like it, Nikolai is quite hard to write about.
Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x fem!Reader
Prompts: 4 (”Is that my shirt?” “You mean our shirt?”)
Warnings: fluff, insomnia, overthinking
Word count: 1279
What's best for Ravka
It had been hours since you laid down on your shared bed with your boyfriend and you hadn’t gotten one ounce of sleep. Ever since you were a kid, you had trouble sleeping. You usually started the night tossing and turning, you’d get up and make some tea, lay back down, flip your pillow and, if nothing worked, you’d sit on the couch with a good book to read awaiting morning. It wasn’t until you started sleeping with Nikolai that it got better. Something about his warmth and the comfort you found in it lulled you to sleep every night, but so many thoughts rushed around mind for the past few of days that you simply couldn’t find sleep.
Careful not to wake him, you slowly untangled yourself from Nikolai’s sleeping figure and walked out of the room, grabbing your book, putting on his dress shirt and a coat in the process. You made your way through the Spinning Wheel to the part of the observatory where you could see the mountains and the stars. Everyone was already asleep so you didn’t need to worry about your attire or posture. You slumped down on the floor and opened the book to the last page you read, but you couldn’t seem to concentrate. After reading the same sentence for the tenth time, you closed it and put it down beside you. Pulling your coat closer around your body, you looked at the sky and you let yourself worry about your future.
What happens if the Darkling finds us?
Will we truly be able to end the fold?
How many more people have to die before we cease this?
Will Nikolai and Alina marry? ... what about me?
You had already talked to your boyfriend about this, he seems to think it’s what’s best for the kingdom, to have a saint ruling beside him. He says it will be strictly political and that his heart will always be yours. But I’d be the other woman, wouldn’t I? you couldn’t help but think. Our children would not be recognized as truly his. And what of his children with her? He would have to sire an heir, wouldn’t he?
You knew he loved you, you knew it was best for Ravka, but you couldn’t help the ache in your chest as you imagined your Nikolai kissing her, loving her, marrying her and you being left behind, unwanted and forgotten. Who would want you if he could have a saint?
You were so distracted, you didn’t even notice Nikolai walk in until he was sitting down beside you. “What troubles you, my love?”
You faked a smile and said “Nothing, moi tsarevich, or should I say moi tsar?.” Referring to his father abdicating and sailing the Southern Colonies.
“Darling, I know I’m damnably handsome, but that doesn’t mean I’m not smart as a whip. You only call me that when something is wrong. What is it?” He smirked and you rolled your eyes at the damnably handsome comment, but you knew he was right. Nikolai was almost ethereal under the light of the moon and the stars, his bare chest on display.
“When will you propose to Alina?” with that, his whole demeanor fell apart, leaving only a frown.
“Actually... I already did.” you could hear your heart breaking as he continued. “This morning, after breakfast.”
“Oh.” was the only response you could mutter, but you forced yourself to add “Congratulations on your engagement, moi tsar.” and looked away before he could see the tears in your eyes.
“I don’t think congratulations are in order. She said no.” He replied and your gaze shot back to him, completely shocked.
“She said no? Why would she do that? Does she really think Mal is better than you?” you liked Alina, she was a nice girl, but with apparently no taste at all.
“(y/n), lapushka, do you want her to marry me or not?” he asked, voice dripping with humour.
“It’s what’s best for Ravka.” you answered. Even though he knew it, you couldn’t reveal the truth. You couldn’t simply tell him not to do the best for his kingdom just because you loved him, because you couldn’t see yourself with anyone else but him, because you thought that if he left you, you’d never love again. That would be selfish... Wouldn't it?
“Alina seems to think differently. She says that the best thing for our kingdom is for me to be happy and that it would never happen in a loveless marriage.” he reached into his pocket and pulled out the Lantsov emerald before continuing. “My mother gave this to me before she left. I tried to give it to Alina, but she said I should give it to you.”
“Nikolai I-” he put his hand up, cutting you off, and said “Before you say what I know you’re going to say, just let me tell you what I want?” you hesitated for a second before nodding.
“I want you. I don’t care that you’re not grisha, or royalty, or even a saint. I care that I have never loved anyone more than I love you. I want you to be my queen, my wife, the mother of my children, my partner for all my adventures and everything that is to come. The saints know I need you, not just for this, but for everything. I can’t even sleep without you anymore, I woke up because you weren’t there. Everytime I think of a new invention, I want to tell you. Everytime I leave a meeting, I want see you. I think of you all the time and it pains me to realise how selfish I’ve been when it comes to us. I promised you companionship and love, but I’ve been neglecting you for my kingdom, asking you to prioritize something that isn’t yours to reign. Well... yet.” He smiled softly at you, grabbing both of your hands in his. “I want us to make Ravka a better place. Together. I truly think there is no better queen than you.”
“Nikolai, I can’t be a queen! I’m not royalty, I’m not elegant, I can’t dance, I’m clumsy and awkward, the people would never accept me.” you were positive he had gone mad.
“You see, moya lyubov', being a queen is not about being royal or knowing etiquette. It’s about being brave, loving your people and doing everything in your power to make your kingdom the best place for them to live, make it feel like home. You do that to me everyday, you gave me a home, so I know you can do the same for Ravka. I want everything that is mine to be yours. My battles, my glories, my defeats, my kingdom, my heart and my soul, it’s all yours.” he adjusted himself to get on one knee, smiled at you and said “(y/n) (y/l/n), would you do me the honor of becoming my wife and queen?” you smiled, tears streaming down your face.
“Yes, Nikolai!” you exclaimed, tackling him to the floor, both of you laughing.
“Is that my shirt?” he asked, only noticing when your coat opened up a bit.
“You mean our shirt?” you remarked, smirking.
“Of course! Our shirt” he looked up at you with a soft smile before slipping the royal ring on your right hand. “Moya tsaritsa.”
“I love you, Nikolai.” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his.
“I love you more.” he smiled before pulling you both up and saying “We should go back to bed, tomorrow will be a long day with the announcement of Ravka’s queen-to-be.”
hold on to spinning around, confetti falls to the ground
In which Jake falls off the bed, Amy makes a giant list, and the two of them plan the biggest day of their lives, together.
(Post-5x04 fluff)
Read on Ao3
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November 1, 2017
The first thing Jake notices when he wakes up is Amy curled up to his side, her arm wrapped tightly around his waist and her head resting on his shoulder in such a way that he’s gradually losing circulation in the left side of his body. The second thing he notices is his phone buzzing on his bedside table at a rate of what sounds like ten new-text notifications a second. He attempts to reach for it, but his current position makes any movement nearly impossible.
Carefully, so as not to disturb his fiancée, he sits up against the headboard, allowing Amy to fall gently onto the pillow that was previously under his arm. With his upper-body now free but legs still trapped under Amy’s grip, he attempts, once again, to reach for his (still buzzing) phone, but unfortunately, it remains out-of-reach. Meanwhile, Amy remains sound asleep next to him, oblivious to the noise or his current predicament.
Jake sighs and looks around. There’s one more plan up his sleeve, but it’s dangerous. He takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing.
As slowly as he can, he moves his right leg so his ankle dangles over the edge of the bed and bends his knee. Carefully, he pushes his foot into the mattress, giving him the leverage he needs to lean further toward the bedside table. His fingertips graze the edge of his phone. One more inch, he thinks, stretching his arm as much as possible; his fingers finally manage to get far enough across the table; he’s just about to drag the phone toward him when he loses his balance and falls straight into the gap between the table and the bed with a loud yelp.
“Babe, what are you doing over there? Are you okay?” Jake hears some shuffling, and a few seconds later, Amy’s face stares groggily down at him, her glasses almost falling off the tip of her nose.
“‘M fine,” Jake mumbles, grabbing his phone and dragging himself back up to the bed. “Someone’s been texting me nonstop for the past ten minutes, though. Wonder what that’s about.”
“You think we’ll have to go to work?” Amy asks worriedly, wrapping the blankets tighter around herself and scooching to sit next to him.
Jake wraps an arm around her and laughs. “Nah. I specifically remember Holt telling us not to come into the precinct today unless we want to ‘face the consequences.’” Still, he hurriedly turns the ringer off and unlocks his phone.
“Oh, no,” he murmurs. “They’re from Charles. I’m in so much trouble.”
“Wait, why? What did you do? Is it that NutriBoom thing Bill made you register for?” Amy reads the messages over his shoulder and immediately starts giggling, much to Jake’s irritation.
“It’s not funny,” he whines. “I can’t believe Charles is actually mad at me for not telling him I was planning to propose!”
“Well, you did keep it a secret for, like, six months. You didn’t even mention it when he came alone to visit you in prison, and that’s when you did most of your planning,” Amy reminds him.
Jake groans and flops down dramatically onto the pillows. “He is going to kill me.”
“No, he won’t.”
“You don’t know that, Ames!”
In response, Amy takes the phone out of his hands, turns it off, and throws it clear across the room.
“Hey!” Jake complains, stretching after the phone but to no avail. It lands with a thunk in the corner as Amy reaches down and turns his head to face her.
“Charles can wait, but I, on the other hand, cannot,” Amy whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against his jaw.
“But—” Jake tries to twist toward the phone, now lying on a pile of discarded laundry, but Amy’s lips have made their way to his own and he groans and gives in with a dazed sigh.
When Amy pulls away excruciatingly slowly and gives him that look—the one that’s physically painful for him to turn away from—every worry (and thought in general) flies straight out of his head. “Charles can wait,” he agrees, before kissing her again.
——————
“Have I mentioned that I love being engaged to you?” Jake asks later, shooting Amy a lofty grin as he threads his hand through her hair.
Once again, she’s curled up into his side with her head resting on his chest, but this time, nothing is stopping him from enjoying the moment. Amy rolls her eyes but her smile gives her away.
“I love you too. Like, in general, and not just because you let me win yesterday,” she smirks, leaning closer into his embrace.
Jake considers arguing with the last part of that sentence, but Amy’s hair smells like strawberries and the light bouncing off of it makes her look like a literal angel and all of a sudden, Jake’s forgotten how to speak English.
They lie like that for a while, until their heart rates return to normal and sync with each other. A comfortable silence rests over them, and Jake can’t believe he gets to spend the rest of his life feeling like this.
Just as he’s about to drift off to sleep again, Amy abruptly sits up and shakes his shoulder. “Wanna start planning the wedding?” she asks, jiggling her legs under the covers.
Jake makes a face, but his expression softens as soon as he sees the enthusiastic spark in Amy’s eyes. “Sure, why not?” he shrugs, sitting up next to her.
Amy reaches over the other side of the bed to grab a notebook from her bedside table. “Okay, first things first, when?”
“Christmas?”
Amy looks appalled. “Babe, even if we have a small party at the Rec Center, one month is cutting it a bit short.”
“Spring?” Jake corrects himself. “That should be enough time, right?”
Amy nods. “We should say May or June, just in case,” she says, writing the months neatly at the top of the pad. “Once I have a list of things to do, we can divide them up and see how much time is really needed. We’ll need to decide food, decor, seating arrangements…”
About half an hour later, they have a three-page long list of every wedding-preparation task along with the approximate time each item would take. Jake rests his head on Amy’s shoulder as she flips through and horizontal partitions to the list. “If we can commit to about seven hours of work per week, we should finish in exactly—” she counts the number of sections— “twenty-eight weeks, which puts the wedding on—” she pulls up the Calendar app on her phone and scrolls down— “May 15.”
Jake grins. “Hey, like Monica and Chandler! It’s the perfect date.”
“It’s also a Tuesday; we should probably have it that weeke—”
“No, no, keep it on Tuesday. I need an excuse not to invite all of my dad’s out-of-state relatives. Plus,” Jake adds, seeing Amy’s frown, “You and I both know that you’ll just go stir-crazy if you have extra time with nothing to do.”
“Okay, fine, May 15 it is, then,” Amy nods. “I just wish there was some way all of these things—” she taps the last page of the list— “could be done earlier.”
“Do we really have to leave all of them until the week before the wedding?” Jake asks, reading the pages over her shoulder. “Like, why can’t we just choose the napkins now?”
“Well, we'll be putting deposits for them down now, but I don’t want to rent the linens and colors in-fashion now will be out-of-fashion in May, most catering services take bookings now but actual menu items later, it’s impossible to tell which flowers will be in season, and…” her cheeks redden and she looks at Jake sheepishly, although he can’t figure out why. “Sorry, I’m rambling. We have the day off; we should be enjoying it instead of worrying about all of this.”
She starts to put the notepad back on the table, but Jake reaches out and stops her. “No, I think you’re right. This is the last day off we’ll have for a while; let’s try and get some of these done today,” he says seriously, and Amy beams. Suddenly, she leans over and pecks his cheek. “What was that for?” he asks.
Amy shrugs and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Nothing. I was just thinking about how lucky I am to be engaged to you.”
Jake blushes and looks down, biting his bottom lip to hide his smile, and absentmindedly plays with the comforter from where it hangs off of the edge of the bed. “Jeez, Ames, you’ve gotta stop saying things like that, or I’ll look like a tomato by the time the ceremony rolls around.”
“But I am the luckiest woman in the world,” Amy says softly, bending slightly so his eyes meet hers. “I couldn’t have asked for a better person to spend my life with.” She pauses. “Even though you keep stealing my blankets.”
Jake grins and kisses her, using one hand to wrap the comforter loosely around both of their waists. “You warm enough now?”
Amy laughs, pulling it up so it rests around her shoulders. “This is better, I think. Now can we start actually going through this list?”
Jake takes the pad from her hand and reads the first item. “Form the Wedding Party. No problem; that’s easy.”
Amy shakes her head. “ Jake, our friend groups are the exact same. The only ‘easy’ thing to decide is that Kylie will be my Maid of Honor.”
“And that Charles—” Jake starts to add before something occurs to him and he gasps.
“What’s up?”
“Boyle! I left him on read, like, two hours ago! Oh, he’s never going to forgive me. First, I keep secrets from him, and then…”
Amy taps the pen against her chin thoughtfully. “Well, he is going to be your best man, right?”
Jake nods. “Yeah, that’s been decided for a while. He has his speech prepared and everything, remember?” Amy flips to a new page in her notepad and starts scribbling furiously. “What are you doing?” Jake asks, straining to take a look.
“One sec, I think I have an idea,” Amy murmurs. A few seconds later, she holds it up for him to see. She’s drawn what looks like five stick-figures standing in a row, with the one in the middle holding up a sign that reads ‘Best Man?’ in fancy lettering.
“Is that a thing? To ask someone to be in your wedding party all promposal-stylez?” Jake asks dubiously.
“Charles isn’t just ‘someone,’ babe. And he’ll love it, trust me,” Amy says. “You know how excited he gets about grand gestures.”
Jake laughs, thinking about the five-hundredth-arrest party Charles threw him a few years back. “Okay, okay. You’re right. We should probably do it soon, though. Do we have poster board? Or a confetti cannon? Or sparklers? Or—”
Seeing Amy shake her head “no” at all three of those things, Jake jumps out of bed and hurriedly pulls a shirt over his head. “Never mind. I’ll go buy stuff right now. Can you start a group chat with everyone else and get them in on the plan?”
Amy nods, and Jake races out. He’s about to open the front door when something occurs to him, and he runs back to the bedroom.
“What happened?” Amy asks, concerned. “Also, I was thinking that you could ask him to take one of your weekend shifts as a diversio—”
Jake reaches the bed, where Amy is still writing in her notebook, and cuts her off with a kiss. “I love you. Don’t make any major decisions while I’m gone,” he says.
Amy frowns. “Is that why you came back?”
“I just wanted to see my beautiful fiancée one more time before leaving; what’s wrong with that?” Jake looks down. “Also, I’m not wearing any pants, which is a problem.”
Amy giggles at this and looks at him with a mixture of such warmth and exasperation that it takes every bone in Jake’s body to stop himself from kissing her again. If he could spend the rest of his life getting her to look like that every day, well, he’d be the happiest man on Earth.
(And, as of last night, he is.)
——————
End Notes:
title is from “Long Live” by Taylor Swift.
huge thank you to @feeisamarshmallow and @benwvatt for all of your amazing advice and input ❤ seriously, this fic would have been a mess without your help on it.
all’s well that ends well to end up with you (Barlyle)
I haven’t written anything for this ship in awhile so please enjoy this utter fluff. No warnings needed.
——
Phillip will never love another man as much as he loves Phineas Taylor Barnum.
——
Candlelight illuminated the walls, rays from the setting sun casting orange-red light into the room. He scanned his surroundings, breath catching in his throat as he locked eyes with the ringmaster.
Phineas smiled and offered his hand. “Care to dance?”
“Phineas, wha—“
Before he could get out another word, Phineas took him by the hand and pulled him close. There was no music, but they danced anyway, Phineas grinning as he dipped Phillip low to the ground.
“Phin—!” Phillip scrambled to wrap his arms around the man’s neck.
Phineas pulled Phillip up and into a kiss, silencing his protests. Phillip sighed, melting against Phineas’s form, hands sliding up into the man’s hair as Phineas lightly traced his hips. Heat radiated from Phineas, his lips, his hands, and flickering orange light danced in his eyes.
Phineas was first to break the kiss, pulling away with a small smile, hands trailing up to cradle Phillip’s face. Phillip’s hands remained in Phineas’s hair, ruffling and musing, lost in the soft waves.
Before Phillip could speak, Phineas kissed his nose. As Phillip blushed red, the ringmaster asked, “Can we always be this close, forever and ever?”
Phillip smiled and pressed closer, craving warmth, craving Phineas. “Just what has gotten into you?”
Entwining their fingers, Phineas brought Phillip’s hand up to his lips and kissed the ring that whispered of their forbidden betrothment.
In the candlelit silence, he whispered, “All’s well that ends well to end up with you.”
Phillip smiled, heart bursting in his chest, eyes filling with tears in the intimate moment. “I love you,” he mumbled, resting against the taller man’s shoulder.
“I love you too, darling.” Hands, rough and calloused, but soft as they fluttered over Phillip’s skin, fluttered by his neck and rested against his back. Phineas rested his chin atop Phillip’s head, nose lightly brushing along his well-kept hair. “I’ll find someone to marry us, no matter if it takes a thousand years.”
Phillip’s lips twitched at the ridiculousness of the comment and he chuckled, pressing a kiss to Phineas’s neck. “So overdramatic,” he mumbled.
“And true,” Phineas beamed.
Hands cupped Phillip’s face as he chuckled again, lifting him up and meeting his lips in a kiss impossibly softer than the first. Phillip’s eyes fluttered shut as he lifted a hand to rest against the elder’s cheek.
“Happy anniversary, Phillip.”
——
Who, me? Inspired by a whole new album of Taylor Swift content?
