rese

20 | archive for fics !

[thereserecords]

୧ ‧₊˚ 🌿⋅ welcome to the rese records!

this is a sideblog to my main blog, which is under user foodiegoogie. as a way to stay organized and support other writers on tumblr, i decided to birth the rese records <3

fic recs | tag navi | more...

have a swell day ₊˚ʚ 🌱 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

[spiderfunkz]

THE APARTMENT WE WON'T SHARE

peter parker x reader

cw: post-nwh, angst no comfort, in this universe everyone forgets tasm!peter, everyone including his own partner. inspired by the song of the title.

it's peter's first christmas alone. he's undoubtedly sad, it would be heartbreaking for you to see him like this, thankfully you will never get the chance to. that's what peter thinks, he's grateful for that. that you will never have to see him in the condition he's always in ever again.

a part of him wants to meet again. to suddenly bump into each other on the subway, to accidentally grab the same book in the library— he hopes to feel the spark again. to see your eyes flicker in familiarity. a sense of déjà vu. as if in another timeline, you were meant to be.

it was supposed to be this timeline. he's supposed to be in your arms right now, opening presents together. he's supposed to give you a gift he's been saving for all year. a perfect present. now it sits, collecting dust on the corner of his room.

he's tried his best to come to terms with it. but gosh, it hurts. he's been on a new date, a couple dates, actually. but he stopped after the third one. he realized that he was trying to find you in every person he meets. nobody can compete, he couldn't find the spark. no eyes shined like yours, no personality was as big as yours, no lashes fluttered like yours. no one was you. he wanted you, not someone like you.

he came close though. to you.

in a café, it was you and peter's spot. he believes that you were there because an essence of him still lingers. that's what he tells himself. you were in your favorite sweater, your hair was beautiful, neat like always. you held your usual order. before peter leaves he saw something, something that reassured him this was for the best.

you were with someone else.

he was hoping to catch you glance at him, or for you to notice him, even if it meant just for a second. but you didn't. your smile was so wide, you laughed at a joke. a joke peter thought he would make. and then you left. stepping out of the café and out of his life. to make it worse. with someone new.

every time he patrols he always hopes to see you. he thinks this is just pure madness, obsession. but he also thinks that this is him genuinely missing you, not being able to move on from someone who is perfect. his life was near perfection with you. his heart is unable to do continue without you, he's trying.

and on christmas, today, he saw you. in apartment building, the moonlight highlighted you, as if it was a cruel reminder from the universe that he will never see that light in his life ever again. he was so focused he tripped on the edge of rooftop.

as he caught his feet, he thought this was a christmas miracle, but then he realized,

it was the same apartment building you two toured together. you gave an idea to peter that the two of you should share an apartment. to have a place of your own, you've always wanted that. peter wanted to, but you were the most excited about it. to have a roommate that is also your boyfriend.

now you stayed there. with no peter. he speculated that you gave the same idea, just to another person. the christmas tree was glowing, the lights were sparkly, you exchanged gifts, and peter finally accepts the fact that he was never really in your life.

the dates you two went; the rooftop parties, the bookstore-reading days, movie nights, the trips to europe that never happened— all never truly existed. maybe not to you, but only to peter. the promises, his photographs, all poof! gone.

it's been a year. it feels so empty. colder than usual.

you seemed warm. he knows it. now you sit, at the apartment you will never share with peter. he swings away, the mask is suffocating. he comes back to his apartment. it's cold, unfurnished. only a simple bed, table, and a chair. he was never good at interior work. however you were. you were great.

what lies on his table is cold takeaway, one fork— he doesn't know where the spoon went, coffee he left untouched, and one single polaroid of you, a clear one, where you were still very seen. the one he took when he fought his old enemies with his brothers. the rest were gone, well.. not really. it was just oddly faded. a silhouette of you is there, but it was just the presence of your absence.

peter kept everything. how unfortunate. he wanted to call, to reach out first, but never did. he shouldn't. there was no one to talk about this to, no one. he thinks that before reaching out, he should come to terms with it. fully.

he wishes you a merry christmas. he hopes you get the message. heart to heart. he hopes there's still a small chance.

a/n: should i make this a mini series?

[mellenniumfalcon44]

ᴜɴᴘʀᴇᴍᴇᴅɪᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟꜱ

Pairing: Sherlock x fem! reader

Warnings: childhood friends to lovers, fluff, historical inaccuracies, minor plot detail differences, series of flashbacks, poorly rewritten show scenes, not proof read

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a habit of turning up places unannounced, creating irregularities in your life that had been meticulously crafted. Starting in childhood to the day you meet again at Oxford University.

a/n: I’m sorry this fic took forever. I hope this Young Sherlock fandom is still alive.

Part One, Part Two

divider by: @angeliicide

Oxford had always been a part of the finely wrought, mapped out life in which your parents planned from the moment you were born, alongside many other things. Life was laid out on a strict schedule, one you did not stray from. Everything had order, arrived precisely on time, and you were always there to measure up.

Sherlock Holmes was never a part of that plan. But he wriggled his way into it at a young age, somehow managing to inscribe his name onto everyday of your meticulously planned life. He was an unpremeditated arrival, nevertheless a compelling one. The day Sherlock waltzed- or more like barrelled into your life was the first day of four (that ever really mattered) in your whole life you had ever fallen off-course.

It was summer of 1858, the first sunny day after countless rainy ones. You had spent days cooped up inside of your family's new countryside home. Days were played out in the study, reading whatever material your mother laid out for you, solving puzzles with your father, or taking up chores with your nanny. It felt unlikely you’d never see the sun again. But then the rain stopped, replaced by sunshine, a warm breeze, and a game of pall-mall was set on the lawn.

Mother was sitting beneath a canopy with her afternoon tea, petting a shepherd dog your family called Alfie. Father was standing beside you, mallet in hand as he anticipated your ongoing turn, and you were eyeing the hoop just up ahead, evaluating the swing of your mallet, and where it would send the ball, when you heard it.

“Footprints! Going this way!” A voice called out across the yard, an enthusiastic and unexpected sound followed by quick, clumsy stomping, the sound of boots squelching against the moist mud hidden beneath the grass. A young boy appeared soon after, paying no mind to the game of pall-mall as he trampled through it, his muddy prints littering the yard.

“Brother dear!” Another voice called after, their tone vexed and weary. “Sherlock!” They called again, emerging from behind the treeline of the yard. It was an older boy, mindful of the game at play. “Apologies,” he dipped his head respectfully at your father before cautiously making his way around the pall-mall course. He called for the younger boy once more before finally catching up to him somewhere beyond the yard.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Your mothers exasperated query went unanswered as your father examined the footprints scattered along his yard. You too eyed the tracks curiously, befuddled by the strange occurrence. Alfie was barking wildly, desperate to charge after the agitators, though mother was quick to hush him and his desires.

Now side by side, the two boys found their way back into your yard. Apart from the older boy’s seemingly collected composure, he appeared to be lecturing the younger one. His voice carried just enough for you to register his tone and a few words before they stopped in front of the mess of a pall-mall track.

“Apologies, sir.” The older one spoke again, now looking towards father. “My brother, Sherlock, apparently stumbled across a mysterious path of footmarks and let his curiosity get the best of him. Quite frankly, we aren’t very accustomed to neighbors, and I’m afraid that is why he paid no mind to your game nor privacy unfortunately." He continued on for a little while more, using his words to dig his brother out of the hole they’d found themselves in.

You didn’t pay much mind to the older boy, instead your attention wandering to his brother. You could practically see the gears turning in Sherlock's head as he gazed upon the imprints in the ground, analyzing them so intentionally it’s like he wasn’t looking at them at all. Instead, he was somewhere else, a world of his own, one inside his brain that seemed to hold all the answers. And for some odd reason, you found yourself wishing to go there with him. It wasn’t often you were around kids your age. You didn’t have time for that, or at least that is what your parents made sure of. You were to be a proper, intelligent, accountable young woman, fitting of the family name, and ready to mingle with the higher ups of society as soon as you became of age. You didn’t have time for playing in the dirt.

“Where do the tracks lead?” The words slipped from your mouth, surprising the others around you, most of all your parents. But you couldn’t help it if your curiosity got the better of you, afterall, you were only seven.

Sherlock looked up, his gaze meeting your own, a flicker of confusion crossing over his face as he registered that he was now being spoken to. “A bridge,” He replied, words coming out somewhat uneasy at first, as if he was still trying to decipher something. “It crosses over the river bank, just a little ways ahead.”

This piqued your curiosity. “Can I go see?” You looked up at your father, a newfound excitement in your eyes, not at all comparable to how you were feeling over your previous game of pall-mall.

“Darling, you still have much to attend to today,” Father shook his head, forcing a small chuckle in hopes of letting you down carefully. He looked over at your mother and chuckled again, this time almost nervously, as if this singular moment would alter your future forever. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to both of them, it had. “We haven’t even finished our game.” He looked towards the pall-mall course, a small grimace curling at his lips as he recalled the state of the lawn.

“I can show you!” Sherlock exclaimed, his face lighting up with excitement at the potential of someone new to share his findings with.

“Sherlock, no,” His brother attempted to interject.

“Father, may I please!” You implore, looking up at him with a new, surprising, desperation he’d never quite seen from you before. He opened his mouth to reply, choking on the words before looking towards mother. She gave him a pointed look, her eyes communicating all that he needed before looking back down at his daughter. Your stare had only intensified making the old man’s heart twist with fatherly affection. He sighed, “Don’t wander too far, and get home before the sun begins to set.”

“Thank you, Father!” You wrapped your arms around the older man’s waist gratefully for a quick moment before running after Sherlock as he waved you along, leading you towards the path of footprints.

This was the first day Sherlock Holmes had ever swayed the course of your life.

No day after that was as your parents intended. They did their best to work around this new aberration called Sherlock Holmes, but he was stubborn and refused to disappear from your life. For years, mother and father wrestled Sherlock for the time he stole from your days of preparation and learning, but it became nearly impossible. He became a regular feature within your life, an unstoppable force they could not desist.

The second time Sherlock altered your world was in 1864, at just 13 years old.

Every Christmas Eve, it was tradition for your family to spend the evening with father’s colleagues, as well as their families. Though he had a rather dull place of work, Christmastime always seemed to be an exception. And while Sherlock Holmes usually never graced this particular event with his presence, that night also turned out to be an anomaly.

Festoon curtains of red and green were draped along the walls, while extravagant candelabras and chandleries were brightly lit across a rather large dance hall, sparkling through your peripheral. Some guests swayed around the dancefloor, while others remained refined to the tables, hiding behind a glass of wine, or awkwardly conversing with people they didn’t care for. The ladder had unfortunately been forced upon you. Now that you were getting older, your parents were set on securing a place for you in society.

The Holmes family arrived at the party about an hour after you did. Mr. Holmes and his sons were dressed in their best, sharp black tailcoats and trousers, white cotton shirts, and light blue ties to pull it together. Mrs. Holmes wore a stunning dark green gown, while little Beatrice Holmes wore a simple white gown, sleeves and collar hemmed with red and green.

An older gentleman had captured your parents in a long conversation. You weren’t quite sure what it was he was droning on about, but you wanted very much for the conversation to cease. Needless to say, you were certainly relieved once your eyes caught sight of the Holmes family.

Quietly excusing yourself from the dreadful conversation your parents were stuck in, you crossed the floor and greeted the first Holmes you stumbled upon.

“Hello, Mycroft.” You smiled sweetly, a slight pink tinting your cheeks as you looked up at the eldest Holmes brother. He turned, somewhat startled by his name being called. “‘Tis unusual seeing you here?” You looked at him curiously as his gaze met yours.

“Ah, well, Happy Christmas to you too.” He teased lightheartedly, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in a polite smile, his head dipping ever so slightly.

A small giggle passed your lips, your gaze turning towards your shoes in an attempt to hide the embarrassment on your face. “My apologies. Happy Christmas, Mycroft.” It wasn’t often you forgot your manners, but that year, Mycroft had an unintentional habit of making your knees feel weak, cheeks turn pink, and heart flutter out of your chest. You twiddled with the fabric of your dress before asking again, “What brings you here?”

Mycroft adjusted the lapels of his tailcoat proudly, “I’m the corporation’s newest hire.”

“You work with my father?” You inquired, wryly amused.

“Is that surprising?” His brows furrowed the slightest bit, though his small smile never wavered, only turning into a more curious expression.

“No, not at all.” You said quickly, shaking your head. “I only mean to say, Father’s job is rather dull and you’re… not.” You bit the inside of your cheek, hoping Mycroft didn’t take notice of your face crimsoning, or at least realize why you’d flushed bright red.

“You’re right. Dull isn’t the word I’d use to describe Mycroft. Perhaps.. tedious or monotonous?” Sherlock appeared, surprising both of you. His voice was laced with playful sarcasm, looking up at his brother with a look of challenge in his eyes.

“Reliable.” Mycroft countered.

Sherlock continued, “Wearisome.”

“Engaging.”

“Humdrum.”

“Consistent, responsible, charming, and astute, to name a few.” The older brother grinned smugly.

Sherlock turned towards you, all of a sudden over he and his brother's little game. “Alright then. Let us leave the drab individuals to mingle amongst themselves, shall we?”

“We shall.” You giggle once more, playing along and following Sherlock to another part of the ballroom you had yet to explore yourself, but not before bidding Mycroft adieu. You had to catch up with Sherlock again before you hit him on the shoulder disapprovingly, “Your brother is not a drab.”

Sherlock rubbed his shoulder. “Eventually,” He shook his head, slightly mumbling as he continued walking.

“Then I suppose we will be the same,” You sighed, your gaze drifting across the sea of adults in the ballroom, those Sherlock considered drab, and seeing your future among them.

“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Sherlock shook his head dismissively. He turned to look at you, taking in your absent minded expression. He didn’t need to ask to understand the fluctuation in your mood. Sherlock followed your stare and asked, “You wouldn't actually try to fit in with these people, would you?”

“Yes, I might.” You shrugged. “How come?”

“This life doesn’t suit you.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What do you mean?”

“For one, you’re a dreadful conversationalist. You anticipate every word and wind up asking far too many questions. More than any man would like or could answer. And another thing, your face gives away everything you’re thinking. Like now,” He gestured towards your knitted brows, “You’re so flustered and unsure whether you should be upset with me or listen to what I have to say.” You open and close your mouth a few times, attempting to find a response, but the query dies on your tongue. He continues, “You’re smart. You’re ambitious, and curious. You have far more personality than any woman in this room. You deserve far more than a life like this.”

You stand there for another moment saying nothing, your eyes wandering Sherlock’s face, searching for an answer. You find nothing. Before you have the chance to respond, his mother calls him from across the ballroom, beaconing him over to the rest of their family.

You never get the chance to respond to what he said that night. But it stuck with you for a long time after.

The summer of that same year, you and Sherlock became distant. After his sister was found dead, his mother grew ill and left to a mental institution, it was less and less often that Sherlock found himself out of the house. You were back to focusing on your studies, which your parents were grateful for, and the time you would usually spend exploring with Sherlock ceased, replaced by more lessons and books. Then the remaining Holmes’ moved away, leaving behind a vacant home, and a Sherlock shaped hole in your life.

With six years of your life untouched by the influence of a certain Holmes boy, you fell back into the schedule your parents had created for you. You excelled, motivated by the words Sherlock had said to you that night at the party. Not exactly out of spite, but ambition. You wanted so strongly to prove him wrong, to show him you could thrive in society, in the world he said you couldn’t. Even though you sometimes felt that he was right, though you’d never admit it.

The third day Sherlock shook your foundation was in 1870, during a maths lecture at University. You had been scribbling notes down onto your paper as Professor Thompson jotted down several equations onto the chalkboard. Your brows were furrowed in concentration, shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly as you looked down at your paper, wheels turning in your mind as your brain fought to solve the riddles on your page.

“Y,” A voice echoed suddenly across the classroom, a resonant and unexpected sound.

“Why? Why?” Professor Thompson forced a disbelieving laugh, astonished at the nerve of the student who had interrupted his lecture. “Because that is how it works.” You didn’t bother to look up yet, still lost in thought as you attempted to solve the equation on your own.

They countered, “An open disc of radius centered at Y… Not X.”

The professor hesitated and you looked up, both of you taking the words into consideration before the Professor began speaking again, “My apologies. Y.” He corrected, fixing the answer on the chalkboard before turning around. “Who so generously thought to correct me?” He scanned the room, as did you and the rest of your classmates.

In your peripheral vision, a figure stepped into the classroom. You turned to look out of curiosity, but waved it off when you saw a man in scout uniform. The professor continued, “Ah, Mr. Holmes,” Your head whipped back around. “The scout. I see you’ve read my books.”

He responded, “I did.” Your gaze was glued to him. Sherlock. Of course he managed to worm his way back into your life. He had a habit of doing that. He looked so… different. Six years had certainly done him a few favors.

“Which is more than I can say for some of my students.” The Professor sighed, eyeing his students distastefully. Only a moment later, the familiar chime of a bell rang in the distance, signalling the end of class. “Saved by the bell. Homework: find me all the solutions of this quintic.” He wrote down a puzzling equation on the chalkboard as the students packed their things, placing the chalk down with finality before leaving the classroom himself.

With a light, unintentional nudge from the student beside you, you were pulled away from the swarm of thoughts that had consumed your mind since your gaze first set on Sherlock Holmes. You were dizzy, shaken by the unexpected appearance of your childhood friend. What would you say after all these years, if anything at all?

When you turned to look back, Sherlock had disappeared from the doorway of the classroom and you found yourself releasing a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding. For the most part, the classroom was clear, aside from a straggler or two- which included you and the classmate you knew as James Moriarty. The two of you shared a look, but it's clear his intentions lie elsewhere when he stood from his seat and exited the classroom soon after.

Sliding your notebook into your school bag, you stood from your seat and headed for the classroom exit, the thought of Sherlock still occupying your mind. You never imagined him in Oxford- though he certainly has the brains for it. But it was strange seeing him in a traditional university, after all his protest against it in your younger years. Sherlock always preferred being anywhere outside the classroom, exploring the world, figuring things out, hands-on for himself. But a life dedicated to the pursuit of learning was not something that fascinated him. And although he stood before you in the classroom only moments before in a scout’s uniform, it was still a peculiar sight.

Wrapped up in your own thoughts, gaze stuck on your shoes as you made your way up the stairs, you failed to take notice of the man walking opposite of you, making his way into the classroom while you went out.

“Pardon me,” He said politely, stepping out of the way so you could pass through the doorway before you.

You blinked a few times, finally taking notice of the gentlemen, “Oh, thank you.” When you looked up, after stepping through the doorway, you felt your eyes widen ever so slightly. “Sherlock.” His name slipped from your lips unintentionally.

There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes before, just as quickly, recognition crossed over him. He tilted his head slightly, taking you in from a new angle, like he couldn’t believe he was seeing things clearly. You could practically see the jumble of thoughts that passed through his brain all at once before your name passed from his lips. “You’re here.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, “Of course you are.”

“What are you doing here?” You countered, still looking at him with an uncertain expression.

“Well, I found myself curious about the equation on the board,” Sherlock pointed into the classroom, referring to the quintics the Professor had written down in chalk only minutes before.

“Not in the classroom, Sherlock. Here. Oxford.” You spoke more firmly now, chiding him for his foolish response. “Why? How? And as a porter?”

“Scout actually.” He corrected, matter of factly. You quickly lifted your hand and hit him across the shoulder, the action occurring through muscle memory. Sherlock winced, smile fading as he reached up to hold his shoulder and then continued, “My dear brother secured this lovely position for me. He thought it would be easier to keep an eye on me here after my… momentary incarceration.”

“Incarceration?” You repeated, astonishment laced in your tone. You resisted the urge to hit him again. “Sherlock, you fool!”

He must have sensed your desire, cause his hands were raised in an instant, prepared to fend off your attack. “I’m not quite sure I understand your hostility. Are you not happy to see me?” Sherlocks brows furrowed, clearly puzzled by your reaction.

You sighed, “I’m afraid I don’t have time for this at the moment, Sherlock.” Though that wasn’t true. It wasn’t time you didn’t have, but rather the energy. “If you’ll excuse me.” You set your gaze on the wall behind him, hoping he’d take it as a sign to move out of your way and let you through, to drop the conversation and just be over with the interaction that had become rather painful. Sherlock did eventually move, but not without hesitation. You moved past him with an urgency, though you really had nowhere to go beside your dorm room. No classes, no meetings, no plans. You just needed to get out.

“When can I see you?” You heard Sherlock call after you, but you left his question unanswered. He didn’t need a response. You knew that, whether you liked it or not, you would be seeing him again.

Because Sherlock Holmes had a habit of finding you. Even in the most unexpected of places.

taglist: @13ariaa @cipheress-to-k-pop @elletheactualmenace @molassesjuice

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Quiet Strength

Summary: Mycroft Holmes x fe!Reader -> You and Mycroft become each other's Quiet Strength.

Disclaimer: dislike to lovers, change of opinions of people, spoilers for Young Sherlock, silas holmes being a psychopath, flangst, hurt/comfort, historical inaccuracies, a little smut at the very very end, relationship growth, forehead kisses, hand holding.

(gif is not mine)

You and Mycroft had never exactly been friends. 

In all fairness, you had started out as Sherlock’s friend which had given you a starting point to dislike Mycroft. 

He was the older brother. The head of the family. The workaholic. The forcibly responsible one. The one who let his brother stay in prison for three months.

All of which you judged him for. To a certain extent, at least. 

But it was throughout the time you spent with him; being the go-between for him and Sherlock to make sure their information stayed up to date as they worked their ‘kidnapped princess’ case, along with the ‘apostles’. That you started to see him. 

Despite all of his formalities, and his tight and controlling actions against life, you saw the edges. 

They weren’t neat as you had first understood. They weren’t starched and ironed to an empty and flat surface as Sherlock was convinced. Instead, they were…fraying. Whenever he had the time, Mycroft was weaving the edges of himself back together, by hand. 

He was bare-knuckled and numb to the burn of his wounds. 

To make matters worse, when you looked around to the others, they couldn’t see it. It wasn’t because they refused to, or because they were simply distracted with others. It was because they couldn’t see him. At all. 

Mycroft Holmes. Eldest son. Eldest child. Forced to grow up quickly for his family. Who lost his sister. Who felt responsible she had died, despite two parents being there to take care of her. Who felt he had to do things in order to make their lives easier. 

Mycroft Holmes. A man who's always been compared to his genius brother. Who has taken it in his stride. Who hasn’t resented Sherlock for it. Who loves him and cares for him. 

Mycroft Holmes. Who had no-one in his corner. Who is the quiet strength for the rest of his family, even if they, or he, doesn’t see it. Who hides his hurt when his family’s first opinion of him is that he would betray his family. 

That last scenario you were watching unfold right in front of you. 

Silas, Bea, Mycroft, Sherlock, Cordelia, James and yourself. All sitting around a dinner table in Constantinople. 

After everything you’d experienced with both Holmes brothers, you were mere seconds away from attacking Silas. Wanting to make sure he understood the kind of pain he’d put his family through, the kind of torture he’d put Cordelia through. 

You saw the stiffness in Mycroft’s shoulders as Silas addressed him first. Your gaze flicked between Mycroft and his father. 

How could someone so monstrous father a man like Mycroft? Or even Sherlock?

“Promise made,” Silas said before slamming his hand down on the table, leaving the glasses rattling. “Promise kept.”

It was the first time, ever, you’d seen Mycroft have a physical reaction to his fear. Most often, he would breathe through it and try to keep his mind on something calming. 

But from his reaction and the fear in his eyes, you wondered if this dinner wasn’t the first time Silas had led with such actions. 

Loudness, brutality, violence that just showed how much he wanted to hit someone. 

As attention quickly turned towards Cordelia as she pleaded with her daughter, you kept your focus on Mycroft. He was in distress. Everyone was, but something inside of you was growing more angry by the minute. Because Mycroft’s distress was killing you, too. So how could it not be hurting anyone else?

Without a word, you reached for Mycroft’s hand under the table. His hands were shaking as he searched for your hand and held onto it, tight. 

Maybe you weren’t friends, exactly, but in your quietness you understood him. Saw what he was. Saw who he was. 

You agreed with James when he called the entire thing A Greek Tragedy. 

“You seem to agree with James?” Silas asked you, a wicked grin on his face whilst anger brewed underneath. 

“How could I not?”

“Don’t talk to her,” Mycroft warned his father, his voice low and almost growling. 

Under the table, you squeezed his hand gently. I’m okay. It’s okay.

“A not-so-dead daughter, a committed mother, a genius brother who landed himself in jail. His best friend who is just like him, although less prison as far as I’m aware. The eldest son who understood his responsibility but that same responsibility was used against him by the psychotic father.”

Silas laughed. But only for a moment. Slowly, the tips of his fingers pushed the handle of his dinner knife back and forth. 

“And where do you come into the picture, Y/n? Where do you fit into our little Greek tragedy?”

This time, you laughed. “I don’t think that’s a question you want answering.”

As Silas chuckled, his voice laced with something inhuman, Cordelia tried to reason with her daughter, again. 

Very quickly, things became loud. 

Mycroft’s fear made you want to cry. To hug him and tell him he didn’t have to stay. That you could all leave. 

But that wasn’t true. No matter how much you wished it was. Because Silas had at least a dozen men carrying weapons, spread out across his property. And Mycroft still had to make his plea on behalf of the British Government. 

You watched the fall-out. 

Sherlock and Cordeila believing they had been betrayed. Silas’ adoring shock that his son had been the chosen one to keep communications open. James’ shock and surprise at Mycroft’s news. Bea’s hopeful look that she had a buyer and the pay-out could be extraordinary. 

“Did you know?” James asked you. 

Every word that fell from Mycroft’s mouth seemed more painful than the last. You didn’t answer James, though even if you did you didn’t know what you could say. 

Truthfully, you didn’t know. You didn’t know what the British Government had asked of Mycroft. But you had a feeling. Mycroft wanted security in his work and he had easy access to the things the members of the government wanted. 

The government saw it as nothing more than a simple trade. Even if that trade came with emotional warfare. 

By the time things were wrapping up at the diner table, you practically sneered at Silas as he laid his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. And, whilst Sherlock was calling his own brother Judas, Mycroft removed his hand from your own before taking total leave from the table. 

A little over an hour later, you were slipping out of your bedroom and down the hall towards Mycroft’s room. You knocked twice before turning the knob and pushing the door open. 

“You awake?”

Mycroft was laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

“Well, the lights are on,” you said, mostly to yourself as you closed the door behind you. “So, I’ll take that as a yes.”

Without another word, you walked to the other side of his bed before laying down next to him. 

“I’m here,” you told him. “If you want to talk.”

“What’s there to talk about? My father is…well, you saw. And my family thinks I’ve betrayed them.”

“They’ll see sense,” you assured him. “Did they really ask you to betray your family?”

Mycroft nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. “Yes.”

You could figure out the rest of the conversation from there. Mycroft didn’t have much of a choice – there was a chemical weapon about to hit an open market. In a perfect world, men like Silas and his weapons wouldn’t exist. 

But the world was far from perfect. 

Mycroft made a judgment and took it. Choose the world where he gives his father the opportunity to give one buyer the weapons, and hope to god he can figure something else out before it’s too late. 

“He’ll have you followed tomorrow,” you pointed out. “What do you want me to do?”

“Don’t you hate me?”

Reaching between both of you, you took hold of his hand. “I’m on your side, Mycroft. If you want me to follow the ones following you, I’ll do it. If you want me to stay here…I’ll fight you on it, but I’ll stay here if that’s what you need.”

Mycroft turned and looked at you. “You really don’t hate me?”

You shook your head. “No, Mycroft. I don’t. I didn’t have the best impression of you when we first met, but I’m gonna place that blame on myself and Sherlock. You were just his annoying, rule-following, older brother.”

Mycroft nodded, looking back at the ceiling. “People often tell me Sherlock is the better out of the two of us.”

“But then I got to know you,” you said. “Even if you didn’t mean to, you let me see parts of you that I don’t even think your family sees. Let alone, understand.”

“And what parts are those?”

“You’re strong, Mycroft. There’s no doubt about that. But I can also see you’re scared. Almost all the time. You worry for your mother, and your brother. You did worry for your father, before all this went to shit. You keep trying. And when something doesn’t work out, you run yourself into the ground until you find a new solution. Those are the parts I’m talking about. And I wished to god that your family would see it, too.”

Mycroft nodded, unable to speak for a moment. So, he held your hand. 

“I’m glad that you’re the one that sees it.”

Taking in his gaze, there were words left unsaid between both of you. But, with a single look, you knew everything you needed to. 

Mycroft pulled you into him and held onto you for dear life. And you held onto him just the same. 

You were silently thankful that Mycroft couldn’t see your face for the moment, because the tears you’d been holding in all day were threatening to come to the surface. 

“Just…promise me something?”

“Anything,” Mycroft said in an outward breath. 

“Be safe tomorrow?” You asked him. “Don’t try and…fight someone if they’re gonna kill you. Don’t die on me, Mycroft. Not at the hands of your father. Not at the hands of anyone.”

Mycroft moved a little so he could see your face. Soaking in the moment, Mycroft laid a gentle hand against your cheek and, for a moment, your eyes fluttered shut as you melted into his touch. 

Laying your own hand on the back of his, you opened your eyes to see Mycroft memorising you. Your face, your touch, your voice, your presence. 

“I don’t think we have much control over the hands of time,” Mycroft told you. “But, if it’s in our control? I promise.”

Letting out a breath, you leaned further into his touch. “Thank you.”

Pulling his palm to your lips, you pressed a long kiss to his palm. Then his wrist. Finally, you reached up and wrapped your arms around him. In return, he held you just as tight and buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

His moustache tickled a little as he pressed a feather-light kiss to your skin. 

In the morning, just before he was followed out of his father’s complex, and just before he walked past the rest of his family who believed he had betrayed them, you pulled him back. 

“Wait.”

“I’ll be okay,” Mycroft assured you. “I made you a promise, remember?”

Gently, he tucked your hair behind your ear before tilting your chin up so you would look at him. 

“Don’t say anything,” you said, keeping your hands flat on his chest. “When you come back, if you want to talk about it, we can. But, just for now, don’t say anything.”

“About what?”

“This.”

Leaning up, you kissed him. 

It was…new. But meaningful. Not exactly a good-bye kiss, but one for good luck. One that told him that the thoughts he’d been having last night as you laid beside him, fast asleep and both of you fully clothed, weren’t just his own. 

For a moment, he kissed you back. Not long after that, you pulled away, rolling your lips to memories the brief taste of him. 

“Keep your promise?”

Mycroft nodded, leaning in once more. Only, this time, he pressed his lips to your forehead. His fingers ran through your hair as he did so; a quiet, comforting gesture. 

“Always.”

Waiting for him to come back had dragged. Between the curious looks you were receiving from James who desperately wanted to ask – the only thing that was holding him back was the clear worry he could see in your face. And the clear hurt and anger on Sherlock and Cordelia’s face. 

You just wanted him to be okay. 

And, thankfully, he was. 

Long after the dust had settled, both figuratively and literally (a hidden mine blew up), you were all heading back to London. 

On the train, neither you or Mycroft spoke. But you held hands. And, when you grew tired, you laid your head on his shoulder. When he grew tired, he laid his own against yours. 

When the day finally came that you all returned to Appleton Manor, you stayed close to Mycroft. 

Bea was growing closer to James – something else only you seemed to notice. But she was still struggling with the comprehension that her father had lied to her, for her entire life. 

Learning who her family was, and who she could trust, would be a long road. 

It would be a long road for them all. 

In the quiet moments, where Mycroft excused himself and pretended everything was okay, you would follow him. A simple reach of his hand, or a gentle hand against his shoulder soon opened the gate to you hugging him. 

Mycroft, for as long as you had known him, had never really been the physically affectionate type. So, when he reciprocated your touch, your hug, your hold, without reservation, you were glad. 

Even more so when he sought you out for that very thing. 

If you were standing in the kitchen, early in the morning or late at night, making a snack or a drink. You would feel his hands tenderly grip your waist or your hips. Mere moments later, his head would be on your shoulder, or his lips would press soft kisses against your exposed neck. 

Sometimes it would go further than that. But, the most common outcome was Mycroft just standing there, holding you against his chest, without a word. 

“I must return to London,” he told you one afternoon. “There’s…there’s a lot of work waiting for me. After everything…”

You nodded. “I understand. If you’re not sick of me already-”

Mycroft chuckled, reaching out for you. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

You hummed, letting him pull you closer before you wrapped your arms over his shoulders and around his neck. “Beg to differ.”

He chuckled, again, pulling you in at the waist. 

“But, if you’re not, would you mind me coming with you? I’ve got a bit of business to tend to in the city.”

Mycroft raised a brow. “Oh? Something I might like to know?”

“Not yet. It’s not fully thought out yet.”

Mycroft knew that was a lie. Not from you, but to the world. You had thought it, whatever it was, out. There were just a few more steps to take and you needed to clear your path before you could safely step on them. 

“Okay,” Mycroft kissed you. “But I am curious.”

“You will be the first to know.”

“Will I?” 

You nodded. “You’ll be the only one in London. Geographically speaking, nobody here will know until I come back.”

Mycroft chuckled, letting his hands slide down towards your arse. Slowly, you leaned your hips into his whilst he tried to kiss you. 

“You. Are a pain.”

You chuckled, kissing him. “You love it.”

“You drive me mad, woman.”

“You love it.”

A small growl left his throat as he kissed you. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

The next day, when you finally reached London, you and Mycroft went your separate ways. Whilst he headed towards his office, you headed towards a for-sale sign that wasn’t too far from Bow Street. 

“Darling?”

From the rafter office, you peered over the wooden balcony, both of you completely unaware of the new nickname Mycroft had used and you had answered to. “Up here! Come on!”

A little- no. A lot confused, Mycroft looked around the dusty, sheet-covered office. 

“When the boy said to meet you here, I thought he was mistaken but apparently-” Mycroft got to the top just in time to watch you tear another sheet away, proudly, to reveal a sturdy desk. “Not.”

“This is to be our new office.”

“Our?”

“Myself, Sherlock and James.” You were almost beaming with excitement. “We’ve been throwing around the idea for a while. A private investigation agency. Sherlock and James have the experience, and so do I.”

“How did you even find out about this place?”

“It’s great, isn’t it?! Got it for a steal, too.” You were rushing about, pulling sheets off items in order to check their condition. “I’ve had feelers out for a property for a while. I figured I’d be turning it into a tea-shop, or a library or a charity house. But, this one? This place is perfect for what we need.”

“This one?”

You nodded. “There’s an old building just past Fleet Street. I suppose in a couple of months I should have a functioning Charity House for women, mothers and children. My father always said if I was going to invest my time in something, it should be useful. So…here we are.”

Mycroft looked around whilst you mapped out your vision for the place. It was almost fully furnished, save for a few touches that would make it seem less…dreary. 

Lighter curtains in the back would help. So would printed letters on the front of the window, a slightly more welcoming seating area to the right hand side, which was hidden a little due to the position of the storage closet. 

With an open space on the ground floor, there was a perfect opportunity for Cordelia to make some of her cordials. That way, a business was growing and women who didn’t want to seem overly suspicious could simply say they had popped in to buy a few items. 

By the time you turned back to Mycroft, he didn’t seem as in shock as he had done when he first walked inside. Instead, he looked…proud. 

“So, what do you think?”

“I think making sure Sherlock and James are still attached to the hip might cause more trouble than my stress can handle.”

You chuckled, climbing the stairs to reach him, as he smiled. 

“But…I think it’s brilliant. This is brilliant. You’re brilliant, Y/n.”

“Thank you. Now, all I have to do is tell those two.”

“They don’t know yet?!”

You shrugged. “The idea, yes. That I have been looking for a building, no. But, now I can break the news.”

“Good lord, help us all.”

Laughing, you hurried over to Mycroft’s side and wrapped your arms around him. “So, how was work?”

“Boring. Even more so without you there to pester me.”

“I’m sure I’ll be back there soon,” you said.

“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”

You shrugged. “It can be both.”

Mycroft just hummed before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips. Melting into him, you felt his fingers fan through your hair as you let him back you up towards the desk. 

A small gasp escaped you as you finally hit the desk. 

“Sorry-”

“Don’t be,” you said. “Keep going.”

Pulling his down to your lips by his tie, Mycroft helped you scoot further back onto the desk. 

It was amongst the growing darkness of the office, and the empty street outside, that you and Mycroft fell deeper with each other. For however much he was straight-laced, tight and controlled; when it came to you, he was a man untamed. 

With your thighs still trembling from the two orgasms he had served you, you begged for him to thrust harder and deeper for the third. His grunts and moans of pleasure as he felt you clamp and pulse around him only drove him on. 

Leaving you dripping, Mycroft’s arms cradled your body as you held onto him for dear life. 

“Good lord.”

“Holy fuck.”

[swiftsnowmane]

Shōgun ~ John Blackthorne x Toda Mariko ~ fic list

Ep. 4 - The Eightfold Fence:

To the edge of the world by lafiametta

Whispers in the Dark by LittleLightIntheDark

For danger is in words by middlemarch

Serpent and Wild Boar by papersailboats

If you strike, strike deep by lafiametta

Ep. 5 - Broken to the Fist:  

Keep you by lafiametta

Ep. 6 - Ladies of the Willow World: 

Thy will be done by lafiametta 

Reprimand Me for My Sin by DistortedDaytime 

Ep. 7 - A Stick of Time:

Now your silence has me screaming by interstellarbeams

Ep. 9 - Crimson Sky: 

A thousand words unsaid by Vittra

Thine eyes are like the doves by middlemarch 

Just today by LittleLightintheDark 

Tonight is Tonight by andrasteemeraldpetal 

Other/Misc./AU: 

Some first impressions by agoldenwriter

Falling Leaves by TheAstronomer

Haste away by middlemarch

And thy mercy shall follow me by middlemarch 

In Your Head by thehound1994 (Modern AU)

[wintrsoul]

TWO OF A KIND

chapter vii

summary: Who would have thought that sending your son to a summer camp would lead to an unexpected reunion with someone you had sworn you don’t want to see anymore?

Pairings: James Potter x fem!reader

Warnings: poor attempt at french (sorry!)

note: so the minnie and mrs. norris conversation was actually inspired by my post last year :)

chapter viii series masterlist

The soft rays of sunlight filtered through the open windows, casting a warm glow that made the flecks of dust dance in the air as if they were in the spotlight. Harold stirred lightly in his sleep, the feeling of drowsiness slowly fading as a strong hand gently shook his shoulder. He cracked his eyes open, then quickly closed them again as the harsh light pierced through. He heard a familiar chuckle from above, prompting him to stave off the remaining sleepiness that seemed to weigh him down.

Willing himself to open his eyes, his lips tugged into a smile as his father's face came into view. James was grinning widely, his round glasses slipping off his nose as he looked down at his son.

"Morning, Haz," he greeted with a lopsided smile, sitting on the crisp white sheets of his bed. "Slept well?" he asked, his hand reaching out to tousle Harold's messy hair.

The sensation of James' fingers gently combing through his curls had Harold giggling, the sound echoing through the four walls of his room. He playfully slapped James' hand away, grinning as his father pouted in mock disappointment. "I've never slept that well, Dad."

"I can tell. You slept like a baby," James teased as he stood up, walking towards the open windows to close them. "You should head downstairs; I've made your favorite breakfast."

Harold's ears perked up at the mention of food, his eyes lighting up with excitement. James laughed softly at his son's reaction. Grabbing his glasses from the night table, Harold eagerly got to his feet and bolted out of his room.

"Careful, Haz!" James called after him, but it was too late. Harold was already running down the stairs, his footfalls reverberating through the entire house.

As Harold neared the kitchen, he heard a loud bang followed by two voices, clearly in an argument. He furrowed his brows in concentration, trying to make out the words. One voice sounded frustrated while the other voice seemed exasperated and done.

Entering the kitchen, Harold was greeted by the agitated sight of Sirius. The raven-haired man was taking deep, huffing breaths, clearly annoyed by the Muggle object in front of him, which Harold figured out was a microwave.

"You're going to break the poor thing if you keep doing that," Remus Lupin remarked from his seat at the kitchen table, a copy of the Daily Prophet in his hands. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Sirius with irritation.

"Stupid thing!" Sirius muttered, smacking the top of the microwave, ultimately shutting it down with a beep.

"Pads!" Remus exclaimed in exasperation, his wooden chair scraping against the tiled floor as he abruptly stood.

Harold was certain Remus was about to whack Sirius in the head with the Daily Prophet if he hadn't been stopped by the sight of him standing in the entryway. "Harry," Remus called, the irritation in his eyes fading as he looked at the boy whose glasses sat crookedly on the bridge of his nose.

Sirius looked up from where he was hunched over the kitchen counter, his stormy grey eyes lighting up at the sight of Harold. "Morning, Haz," he greeted, moving towards the boy.

"Morning, Moony, Siri," Harold responded, looking up at the two men who seemed to melt upon seeing him.

"Come, eat. Your father made you some waffles," Remus said, ushering Harold to the dining table with a large hand on the small of his back. "Sorry about the commotion. Your uncle is being a bit annoying," he added, to which Sirius completely ignored as he once again smacked the microwave.

"Rem, this bloody thing is broken," Sirius grumbled. Remus rolled his eyes at Sirius' words—a snarky reply on the tip of his tongue, though he refused to say it, lest they have another annoying and unpleasant row. "Marlene must have scammed you into buying this useless..." Sirius muttered thoughtfully, glaring at the now broken device.

"What is this, radio waves?" Sirius asked incredulously as he walked towards where Remus and Harold were seated, completely abandoning what he was doing just seconds ago.

"It's a microwave. And no, Marlene did not scam me. I bought it myself," Remus replied with a heavy sigh, folding the newspaper and already feeling done with Sirius' nonsensical blabbering.

"Yeah, sure," Sirius quipped before taking a bite of his maple-covered waffles.

Just then, James entered the kitchen with an air of positivity, his blue eyes filled with delight. He murmured a small greeting to everyone in the kitchen, stopping right where Harold was seated to plant a loving kiss on the top of his head.

"Hungry, Haz?" he asked as he walked towards the fridge, his eyes never leaving Harold.

Mouth stuffed with overly sweet waffles, Harold could only nod in response, eliciting a saccharine-sweet yet boisterous laugh from James.

Silence took over the room, which was a bit strange since the Potter household was never quiet—not when Sirius Black and James Potter shared the same roof. The quietude was not unwelcome, though, especially not for Remus, who was basking in the peace and quiet while reading the Daily Prophet.

“So, Haz. Anything interesting that happened at camp?” Sirius asked, breaking the momentary silence.

Harold, who was drizzling a concerning amount of maple syrup onto his waffles, stopped, looking at Sirius with a gentle tug of his lips. “Oh, loads of fun. I’ve made lots of friends and played Quidditch.” He replied, eyes meeting Sirius’ grey ones.

“Bet they were jealous of your skills.” Sirius said, puffing his chest in pride.

“We also pranked the other kids with dungbombs.” He uttered, and he swore he saw stars in Sirius’ and James’ eyes.

“Oh— you’re gonna be the death of Minnie!” James exclaimed, clapping his hands loudly.

“Minnie?” Harold asked with a tilt of his head.

“She’s a professor at Hogwarts, Haz,” Sirius said with a slight playful tone in his voice. “Here’s a tip once you go to school: she’s an Animagus, a tabby cat.”

“Merlin, I can still remember your mom almost got into detention when she picked her up because she thought Minnie was a stray cat.” He continued with a chuckle.

Silence enveloped the room, the weight of Sirius' words brought forth a tension that made James tense in his seat. “Speaking of Minnie,” he cleared his throat before sending James a guilty smile.

"Do you think Minnie beat up Mrs. Norris in her animagus form?" Sirius asked, trying to ease the tension that filled the room.

“What kind of question is that?” Remus grumbled, to which Sirius and James waved off.

James snickered lightly at Sirius’ question— completely waving off the slip up, his shoulders shaking. "Bet she did. Godric knows that cat deserved it." James replied, indulging Sirius' thoughts. "I can just picture it," he said with a smile, his eyes closed as if he was daydreaming about it.

“I mean, it could have happened, right?” Sirius said, his stormy grey lighting up. “Remember that one time Minnie had a scratch on her face?”

Remus rolled his eyes, having had enough with their conversation and continued reading his copy of Daily Prophet. Harold on the other hand, listened to his uncle and James with a grin on his face.

The rest of the meal went by with Sirius and James recalling their time at Hogwarts— sharing their escapades with exaggeration that Remus was quick to correct— making James and Sirius only roll their eyes, saying that Remus was being a downer.

He didn't even notice that he had already finished his waffles, too engrossed in Sirius and James' banter. Standing up, he took his plate and walked towards the sink, Remus' eyes following him.

"Harry, can you please give Ollie some treats?" Remus asked kindly, tuning out the conversation of James and Sirius.

"Will do, Moony," Harold replied, opening the container labeled 'treats' in a messy scrawl.

Ollie was a snowy owl, its eyes a glimmering shade of gold that seemed quite intimidating. Harold had never been able to get close to the owl, and this was his first time feeding the nocturnal animal, which looked as though it was glaring at him.

With an outstretched hand and half-closed eyes, Harold hurriedly dropped the treats on the surface where Ollie was standing. In a flash, Harold let out a shriek as he felt the bird's beak dig into his skin, drawing a small trickle of blood. "Ouch!"

James was already beside him swiftly, his large hands cradling the finger that Ollie had nipped. Sirius and Remus stood too, the latter looking at Harold in worry while Sirius sent daggers at the offending bird, which only blinked at him nonchalantly.

"You were never like that, Ollie," Sirius glowered at the owl, his index finger pointing menacingly. "What's gotten into you?" he asked as if the owl were a kid caught stealing candy.

"A bit strange, don't you think? He used to love you," Remus chimed in, completely ignoring Sirius and looking at the boy intently. The weight of Remus' gaze made Harold look away, feeling a bit uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"Must be because I've been away for too long," Harold said with a strained smile, his voice small as he dared to look at Remus, who was still giving him an appraising look.

James clicked his tongue at the open wound, which, though small, was still oozing a trickle of crimson. "Fear not. It's nothing we can't fix with magic," James muttered before reaching for his back pocket, where his wand was safely tucked.

James uttered a spell, and the once bloodied finger of Harold was now healed, leaving no trace of scars on his skin. "Thanks to the years of being tended by Poppy," he added.

"Poor buddy. How about we go outside today? I'd like to show you something," James offered softly, his hand brushing against Harold's newly healed skin.

Harold's face lit up at his father's suggestion, a smile tugging at his lips. "I would love that, Dad."

"Alright, go ahead and change. I'll wait for you in the living room," James mumbled, ushering Harold out of the kitchen.

Harold left the kitchen as fast as his little legs could carry him. The adrenaline from being pecked by the owl and being scrutinized by Remus' eyes made his heart beat faster, as if there were galloping horses inside his chest.

...

James and Harold were walking down the street of Godric's Hollow, the canopy of trees lining the street providing some shelter from the late summer sun. The houses they passed through decreased as they walked further into the neighborhood. In the distance stood a large white house, far from the Potter residence but still part of the neighborhood.

James halted as they reached the rusting gates of the house—the red paint slowly peeling off due to years of exposure to the changing seasons. There were some men in uniform around the yard who nodded in James' direction, a truck pulled on the side of the road that contained some heavy materials.

"This," James began, looking down to meet Harold's eyes as he pushed the gate open with a gentle force, "is what I wanted to show you," he added with a smile.

"I know Sirius used to tell you that this was haunted. But actually, this belongs to your mother." And to me, he wanted to add but decided not to.

Harold's eyes widened at the mention of you, a surprised gasp almost escaping his lips. He had thought he would have to mention you to James to spark a conversation about you; turns out, he didn't even have to.

Heaving a sigh, James twisted the knob of the door and urged Harold to enter first—the smell of dust mingling with the scent of dried wood greeting them.

Harold watched as James looked around the house, his eyes landing on a brown sofa pushed against the wall. It had left a mark on the pale blue surface due to the years it had stayed there. His gaze then shifted to the window, where dust danced in the air as sunlight streamed through the open curtains.

There was once life here. A life James had imagined for the two of you. He had always wanted a big house for you, with kids running around and love filling the air. But now, as he stood there, his heart ached, knowing those dreams were just fantasies—a distant desire he would never see come to life. He had longed to see your shoes by the door, kicked off in a hurry to embrace him, longed to see you reading to your kids by the fireplace as they sat on the floor, their laughter echoing in the living room, drowning out the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth.

He could still remember the times when the two of you sat comfortably in silence, sitting on the floor with takeout and a bottle of wine to treat yourselves after a busy week. Words and promises were shared, "I love yous" whispered with such intensity their meanings could rival the entire cosmos.

And then, those shared words and promises lost their meaning. Life had a cruel way of challenging you— of showing you it had other plans. Life as always, shifts, just like the seasons. You can never stay in summer forever, the gloominess of autumn will come, and so is the harsh coldness of winter, but just like spring, you can always bloom again. That one James should have known, maybe he did— but he just wasn't expecting that you're both gonna be pulled too, washed away in the currents of change.

With a snap of a finger, everything you had built with James since the very first time you met and talked to each other came crashing down like an avalanche, unexpected.

It wasn't a dramatic ending, no slamming of doors, no curses hurled, and no glares thrown like daggers. It was a mutual understanding— you needed to go, and James didn't know how or where to follow. It was a mutual understanding that you both could not do it anymore. And despite the pain, James let you go, like water slipping through the cracks of his fingers.

The deed was still signed under both your names, and James didn't have the strength to change that.

Not yet, at least.

The small parchment with your number in a messy scrawl, the one he had begged Sirius to ask from Marlene— was burning holes in the pocket of his trousers. He still couldn't bring himself to ring you, afraid that you might not even pick up, and James didn't think he could live with that.

He wished you had shortly found what you longed for. It may not have been what he wanted for both of you—never really seeing that you would break up and live separate lives, but he knew deep down that it was what the two of you needed.

Perhaps in another lifetime, you’re still together, happily married with a daughter who waits for him to come home. The stories you won’t tell your kids at night were his greatest fantasies—the sound of your voice that he won't hear again isn’t lost on him.

Maybe in another lifetime, he’ll be granted another chance with you, and the man he won’t be is the one that’s yours.

He pushed the burning feeling of pain to the back of his mind, the presence of his son beside him not lost on him.

James was pulled away from his reverie as the door of the house opened. Two men, along with a slender woman with platinum blonde hair, entered the room. The woman smiled sweetly as her eyes landed on James.

"James," she sweetly called, her cherry red lips tugging into a smirk. She was wearing a fitted dress, really not suited for the place such as this one. “They wanted to look around the house.” She added with a wave of her hand.

James cleared his throat as he tried to appear collected, his hand deeply buried in his pocket. He gave the woman a smile, his cheeks heating up as she returned it with a seductive one of her own.

"Haz, meet Shane," he said as Shane walked towards them, her pointed heels clicking against the marble floors.

"You must be Harry." Shane, the blonde woman, crouched down to Harold's level, her blue eyes looked as if they are boring deeply into his soul.

"I am," Harold croaked out, even though he only met the woman, Harold could not help the prominent look of judgment to appear in his irises.

"Jamie, you didn't tell me he'd be this cute." She exclaimed, her bony fingers reaching for his cheeks to pinch them, pulling a grimace from Harold's face as he felt her perfectly manicured nails dug into his soft skin. The sound of her voice was not unpleasant though Harold would wish not to hear it again. In another circumstance, Harold would probably have blushed at the compliment, but right now—he felt weirded out by it.

"I've heard so many great things about you. It's nice to finally put a picture to a name," she said before straightening her posture and sending James a sickly sweet gaze, which made James looked down with a bashful smile. Harold could have gagged right then and there. He may be young, but he's not oblivious to the implications of this woman's actions, especially when she's throwing seductive looks at James.

James' who's looking a bit flustered let out a chuckle before clearing his throat, gathering the attention of Shane and Harold at once.

"Haz, the reason why we're here is because I want you to meet Shane. She is helping me to renovate the house," James began, his voice light as if he was just talking about the weather and not about the fact he's deciding to finally to change the place where you once lived in.

Harold tilted his head slightly, a look of confusion adorning his features "Why, Dad? Are we moving here?" He muttered as he looked around the house. The state inside indeed need some renovating—the paint was slowly peeling off the walls, the window across the room was broken, and the giant chandelier above was barely hanging with a squeak, as if any minute it could drop on them.

"No, Harry," James paused, swallowing thickly to chase away the lump that had lodged in his throat. He doesn't really know how to break the news to Harold. “We—”

"Your father is planning to sell the house, Harry dear," Shane interrupted, the sweet smile she wore slowly turning into a sinister stretch in Harold's eyes.

"You're kidding, " Harold blinked, his heart clenching painfully as James only looked at him, his silence an answer enough. Had he heard her right? Surely his ears were deceiving him. This couldn't be happening.

This is not what he had expected to come home to. He wanted to enjoy his time with his father, not hear about plans to renovate and sell the house. He wanted to see and plan if he and Harry can get the two of you back together, not drive you away from each other! Did it mean his father was finally moving on for good? Oh Merlin, it couldn't be. He shivered at the thought.

"But you haven't even talked to mum, dad!" he exclaimed, his small voice rising. "Dad, you haven't even told Moony or Siri. You can't just tell me that this house belongs to Mum and then decide to renovate and sell it—"

"Haz," James called, but Harold completely ignored him as he continued to speak hysterically, his arms flailing in the air to emphasize his frustration.

"Tu n'es pas juste!"

"Haz!" James said, his voice sounding a bit louder. Harold completely stopped speaking as he tried to gasp for air. "Are you speaking French?" James queried, watching as Harold closed his eyes and heaved a deep breath.

Shaking his head and pulling away from James' grasp, Harold softly muttered, "I need air—" and hurriedly bolted out of the room, leaving his father with Shane.

...

Harold ran as fast as he could—the burning feeling in his chest completely ignored, feeling determined to get home and tell Harry about what had just happened.

When Harold arrived at the house, he swung the door open with no care in the world. The living room was empty, with no Sirius and Remus in sight. Walking further inside the house, he went towards where the telephone was and grabbed it as he headed towards the cupboard under the stairs.

Dialing the telephone number of your house, Harold begged every god and goddess above that Harry would pick up the phone immediately. He stared at the phone with a blank expression, his mind running amok.

"Hello?" Harold let out a sigh of relief at the sound of your voice, his heart swelling at the realization that this was the first time he had heard you talk after being away for a month. He missed you, very much so.

"Hi Miss L/N, is Harold there?" he asked with a thick faux Irish accent. He hoped you would buy the way his voice sounded. "This is Seamus from camp."

"Oh, yes, dear. Wait for a while." He could melt with the way your voice sounded so sweet and gentle on the phone. Harold heard a shuffle from the other line and then a shout of "Harold! Someone is asking for you!" that followed.

A few seconds ticked by before the sound of footsteps reached his ears, no doubt belonging to Harry.

"Seamus?" Harry asked from the other line, and even though he couldn't see it, Harold knew his brows were furrowed in confusion.

"Harry," Harold began breathlessly. "Are you alone?" he whispered to the receiver, "We have a code red." He whispered with a much calmer voice this time.

"Yes and What? Why?" Harry asked, confusion coloring his voice.

"Do you remember the house that Siri used to say was haunted? Well, apparently, it's Mum's, and Dad is planning on selling it," Harold explained without pausing, wiping away the sweat that accumulated on his forehead. "That's only the tip of the iceberg, Haz. This woman, who's helping renovate the house, seems to be smitten with him," he added, his voice sounding disgusted as he recalled the way Shane seemed to melt at James' gaze.

"Ha—I mean Seamus, that won't happen, okay?" Harry said softly with a chuckle, trying to calm his twin.

"Haz, I am telling you, this is code red! We need to meet before Dad falls head over heels for that woman," he murmured, desperation clinging to his voice, eager to make Harry realize that this problem was bigger than he let on.

"Harold, relax. Dad doesn't fall in love that quickly." Oh, if only they knew. "Besides, I want to spend more time with Mum," Harry said with an authoritative voice. "You should do something, distract him or anything."

Harold sighed at his words, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Harry—" he called but was cut off short by the static sound of a candy wrapper.

"Har—" he heard Harry say, but then it stopped. "I am sorr—" he was cut off again. "Can't help you." The call ended, prompting him to let out an exasperated sigh.

"Thanks for the help, Haz," he mumbled before slamming down the telephone.

...

Opening the door of the cupboard, Harold almost jumped out of his skin as the towering figure of Remus Lupin greeted him. "Moony, you gave me a fright," he breathlessly said, clutching his chest and gulping audibly as he noticed the way Remus was assessing him with a look of puzzlement.

"What are you doing inside, and who were you talking to?" Remus asked, arching an eyebrow, his eyes squinting as he saw Harold fidgeting with the wire of the telephone.

"Oh, just a friend from camp, Moony," he replied with a nonchalant shrug that barely concealed his anxious fidgeting.

"Must you be inside the cupboard?" Remus' question made Harold swallow thickly, his face gradually paling.

"Uh—" he began, but was cut short as the lycanthrope let out a sigh.

"Haz, what's wrong? You've been acting strange," Remus continued, his voice softening. Harold felt the telephone slowly slipping out of his fingers as his palms began to sweat. "You're being timid and secretive and Ollie doesn't seem to like you anymore," Remus paused to take a deep breath, "and you're acting as if you were—"

"As if I were who, Moony?" Harold cut in, interrupting Remus' rambling. Realizing he had almost slipped, Remus closed his mouth and shook his head, muttering a small "No one," softly before walking past Harold.

"As if I were Harold?" He asked hesitantly, heart beating loud as he tried to gauge his reaction. There was a deafening silence that filled the room before Remus let out a disbelieving laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly.

"Uh, no, Haz. F-forget I mentioned it," Remus murmured with a small chuckle , waving his hand in the air as if the very action could magically bury the conversation.

"Moony," Harold began, pausing for a moment, his eyes looking deeply into Remus' brown ones. "I am Harold," he blurted out, watching as Remus blinked his eyes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"What?" There was a look of surprise on Remus' face, tears beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes. "When and how?" His voice was tight as he tried to fight off the turmoil of emotions bubbling in his chest.

"Since camp, Moony," Harold admitted, his eyes avoiding Remus'. "Before you left for a week,"

A small sob wracked Remus' body, the tears that have gathered in the corner of his eyes began to pour— cascading down his scarred cheeks like two rivers.

"Haz!" The sound of James' concerned voice ricocheted off the hall— making Remus hastily wiped the tears off his face. "Why'd you ran off like that?"

Stopping in his tracks, James took notice of the way Remus' eyes is looking a bit red, cheeks freshly wet, "Moony, were you crying?"

"N-no! My eyes are just itchy. Right Haz?" Remus said with an urgency to cover up the fact that he indeed was crying. "I-I should go," he muttered before padding towards the kitchen.

James waited until Remus disappeared down the hall before turning to look at Harold with a raise of his thick brows, "Mind explaining why you ran off like that?"

btw, got carried away writing the scene with James here! I didn’t even realize that the apartment we won’t share has been on loop (you definitely need to listen to the song— it is what inspired me to write the fic in the first place)

as always, let me know what you think!

[wintrsoul]

TWO OF A KIND

a parent trap inspired au

Summary: Who would have thought that sending your son to a summer camp would lead to an unexpected reunion with someone you had sworn you don’t want to see anymore?

Pairings: James Potter x reader

chapters:

chapter i

chapter ii

chapter iii

chapter iv

chapter v

chapter vi

chapter vii

chapter viii

chapter ix

chapter x

chapter xi

chapter xii

chapter xiii

end

in case u want to be tagged

[hexedlover]

Smallville, 11:59

"Don't flirt with me, Clark Kent," you warn, though it doesn't come out like a warning so much as a desperate plea. You’re a little tipsy on your mom’s Riesling and hiding from a house full of family. He’s the boy next door who smells like safety and saves the world in his spare time. You've been in love with him your whole life, and tonight, with the New Year about to dawn, you get the feeling he might just feel the same way. | friends to lovers, fluff, 2.3k words

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Your mom is wine-drunk in the Kent's kitchen, laughing too loud at something Martha said about the Hendersons' new tractor. Your dad and Jonathan are in the living room with Clark's cousin Pete and his wife, arguing about whether that touchdown in the fourth quarter counted. Someone—probably your aunt Linda—put on music that hasn't been popular since 1987.

It's 11:43, and you're sitting on the stairs like you're fifteen again, except Clark's not next to you anymore. He's by the fireplace, letting Pete's four-year-old daughter hang off his arm like it's a jungle gym, lifting her up and down while she shrieks with delight.

"Again, Uncle Clark! Again!"

He's not her uncle, not really, but all the kids call him that. He's just Clark to everyone here, the Kent boy who made good in the big city, who comes home for holidays and helps with harvest and never mentions that he spent last week preventing an alien invasion.

You know, though. You've always known.

The wine makes you too warm—your mom's heavy hand with the Riesling, Martha's insistence that "it's New Year's, honey, live a little." One glass. Maybe two. Enough that standing up feels like a bigger decision than it should be, at first.

"Where you going?" Your cousin Jade appears at the bottom of the stairs, beer in hand. She's almost a decade older than you, always treated you more like a little sister than a cousin. She's also pretty much president of the 'Clark Kent Is Your Soulmate and I Will Die on This Hill' club. "Don't tell me you're bailing before midnight."

"Nah, just—just need some air," you tell her.

"It's freezing out there."

"I need to make a call," you lie.

You've spent years perfecting the art of deflecting questions from family members. It comes in handy when your best friend is Superman. Jade rolls her eyes but waves you on, disappearing into the kitchen.

You catch Clark glancing over as you pass, but Pete's daughter is now demanding he 'make her fly like Superman' (the irony isn't lost on you), and you slip outside without a scene.

Outside is better. Quieter. The Kents' front porch looks exactly like it did when you were five, when you were fifteen. Three months ago, when you were crying with your mom and Martha because your then boyfriend Aaron had just proposed and you'd said no and couldn't explain why.

You sit on the porch swing, the one that creaks on the left side. Clark fixed it at least three times in high school, but it always goes back to creaking.

You enjoy maybe five minutes of quiet before the front door makes its old-house creaking sound.

"It's too cold for you out here."

His voice makes you jump a little. You turn, see him closing the door behind him with that careful way he has, like everything in the world might break if he's not gentle enough, and not for the first time you're overwhelmed with the sudden, stupid urge to just tell him.

You're drunk. Not blackout drunk, but the kind of drunk where the words come slow and the feelings come too fast, all at once. "Then come keep me warm."

It comes out softer than you meant, more honest than you meant, and you watch Clark's face do that thing where he pretends not to notice you've said something that matters. He crosses the porch in two steps, shrugs out of his red flannel—the one Martha bought him a few Christmases ago that he only wears home—and drapes it around your shoulders.

The flannel smells like Clark, which is to say it smells like safety and warmth and all the best things in life. Things you used to dream of having, back when you let yourself dream about that kind of thing. It's obviously big on you, sleeves hanging way, way past your hands.

"I think you're drunk," he says. Not an accusation so much as an observation, and he's not completely wrong. Clark has seen you really drunk plenty of times. He's seen you wasted and vomiting into Mrs. Johnson's prize roses. He's seen you wake up hungover, heartbroken, and all the other messy parts that only best friends ever get to see, the parts most boys only know from a comfortable distance.

You tuck your legs under yourself on the porch swing, making room for him. "Just tipsy."

"Uh-huh." He sits down but leaves a careful gap between you. You think he's measuring the exact amount of space that keeps this safe. The swing creaks its familiar complaint. "You know Aaron left three messages on my phone?"

"What?"

"Wanted to know if I could 'talk sense into you.'" Clark's mouth twists like he doesn't know whether to be annoyed or amused. "Said you'd listen to me."

The night rushes back at you, the one you don't really want to remember—Aaron down on one knee in the cornfields, his grandmother's engagement ring in the cold moonlight, your hands shaking when you told him you couldn't marry him, you were sorry but you couldn't. He'd kept asking why, and it was a question with an answer that was too big for any words you had to offer at that moment.

"Oh my God," you say now. You lean back against the swing, head falling over the top edge in pure, drunken melodrama, nervous giggle slipping through your teeth. "That's ridiculous."

Clark leans back with you. You can't see his face, not properly from this angle, but he sounds like he's smiling. "What, I'm not a reliable enough male authority figure for you?"

"I love how he thinks you can talk sense into me."

"Right? I've been saying that since we were kids. I mean, when have you ever listened to me?"

A little braver, you turn your head to the side, and there's Clark's profile in moonlight (you think there should be a law against people being so handsome) as he stares up at the winter stars.

You can't remember when exactly it was that you started noticing things about Clark that a best friend probably shouldn't notice. Like the exact angle of his nose, and the precise dimples at the corner of his mouth when he smiles. It's been getting worse lately, adulthood bringing with it a whole host of new, confusing observations you can't seem to shake of with none of the innocence and invulnerability of adolescence.

He must feel you watching him, because his head turns to meet yours. "You okay?"

There's a lot to answer to in that question. You know he means Aaron, the breakup, but the wine makes your think of all the other things he could be asking without actually asking, things you don't talk about but you both know are there, hanging in the air between you like cobwebs.

You look up at the stars again. Stars are safe. "Yeah. I am."

You hear rather than see Clark's slow nod. The creaking of the swing fills the silence for a bit.

"He was a nice guy," he says.

"He was a nice guy," you agree.

"But not the right guy?"

You don't say anything. That's a dangerous line of conversation to follow when you're drunk (or maybe not drunk, but...tipsy, worse when Clark's warmth is around you, Clark's scent in your lungs.)

You can't help the joke, though. "You're supposed to say he wasn't good enough for me. What kind of best friend are you?"

"A realistic one," Clark laughs. Then, he hesitates. "He wasn't... he's not..."

Your mouth quirks at his reluctance to say anything bad. About anyone. Ever. "Not what?"

"Nothing." You watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. Must everything he does be so attractive? "Forget it."

"C'mon. If you're gonna start an insult, at least finish it."

His jaw tightens. Then his tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and you think—no, it could be the wine, or the moonlight, or the way you haven't kissed anyone since Aaron, but you're pretty sure Clark is staring at your mouth right now, too.

You feel very suddenly hot under the flannel.

"How's...how's Lois?" You blurt it out. It's a clumsy, desperate attempt to derail a moment that maybe, probably, doesn't even exist anywhere outside of your head, but if you don't do it, you'll explode, turn into little pieces of dust right here on the Kent's porch.

That brings his gaze back up to yours. "What?"

"Lois." Your tongue doesn't feel like it's your own. "Lane?" Your hand gestures with the too-long flannel sleeves don't really help.

You remember her from Clark's phone screen, calling him on that Sunday you stopped by his apartment, from the many stories he's told you of his time at the Daily Planet, from his own mouth. 'She's a force of nature' and 'she's so brilliant' and 'I told her everything because she would've found out anyway.' Every story, every anecdote. Lois Lane was a recurring character.

Clark is looking at you like he can't quite believe what you're asking. "Why?"

"Why?" you echo.

"Why are you bringing up Lois?"

"Why are you answering my question with another question?"

"Yeah, how dare I," he deadpans. There's a strange kind of stillness to him now; he studies you for a long, silent second, like he's searching for the words you can't bring yourself to say. Then, the revelation: "Gosh. You're jealous."

You choke a laugh. "What? No."

He's wearing that infuriating, endearing, boyish grin that makes his blue eyes crinkle at the corners, has made your insides warm and gooey since you were thirteen and realized that maybe boys weren't, in fact, a waste of time and brainpower after all, if they were anything like this boy.

"That's cute."

Oh, you hate him. "Clark."

"What?"

"I am not jealous."

"Okay." He says it too easily, and you instantly know you're being played somehow. His gaze flicks over your face, and his voice lowers, now a gentle tease. "Just to clarify...Lois is only a friend, now."

Now.

"Good." You hope to God he can't hear the relief in your voice because it sounds deafening to you. "That's great. Good for you. Or not, whatever, I mean, either way–"

You stop talking, because he's staring at you. And not like he did earlier, with some strange guarded distance, but a full-on, all-consuming gaze where his pupils swallow his irises, where he looks like he's about to lean across the whole safe gap on this swing and do something you've only imagined (in guilty, half-hidden fantasies in the dark) for far too long.

"W—what?"

"You done?" He says it like he wants to laugh.

"You're laughing at me."

"A little." He scoots closer to you on the swing then, no pretense, just solid, certain intention that makes your heart thud painfully same way it did when you were sixteen and he'd almost, almost, kissed you that night on the bleachers after homecoming. "Kind of waiting to see where this nervous babbling is going."

"I don't babble," you protest. "You're the one who babbles."

His thumb brushes over a strand of hair next to your face, almost idly, almost accidentally, as though he doesn't mean to be doing it at all but it just kind of happens. All of your barely held together composure flies off the porch.

"Okay," he says again.

Your stomach drops in the best, swooping way. He's definitely, definitely staring at your mouth now.

"Don't flirt with me, Clark Kent," you warn, though it doesn't come out like a warning so much as a desperate, borderline-pleading request, you think.

"Who's flirting?" But he's smiling, and now you're really in trouble, because once Clark starts with those dimples, that's it, it's all over. You're a puddle of feelings on a porch swing, waiting to evaporate. "You're the one who wanted me to keep you warm, remember?"

"Yeah, you're doing a lousy job so far."

His whole hand cups the side of your face. "I'll work on that."

He's leaning in and in, closer and closer, the moment suspended and stretched thin, nose almost brushing yours.

"Five!"

A muffled chorus erupts from inside. You look to the door, then back to Clark, with his blue eyes, his stupid long eyelashes and that lock of black hair that keeps falling onto his forehead.

"Four!"

"Is that the countdown?" You whisper it, words half-breathed, like you'll be caught and sent to separate rooms if anyone finds you two out here. You're no longer kids and haven't been in years, but in moments like these, you can almost taste that innocence again, that untarnished way Clark made you feel safe, like no harm, no bad things could ever come to you as long as you were together.

"Think so," he says.

"Three!"

Clark tilts his head. "Do you wanna..."

"I don't wanna."

"Two!"

"Yeah." His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head. "Me neither."

"One!"

The cheers erupt, faintly muffled, and the sound is drowned out by your pulse pounding in your ears.

The first kiss is a whisper, a soft brush of lips that doesn't so much end as begin a new one, a firmer one, with your hands fisting in Clark's shirt to pull him closer.

Kissing Clark Kent isn't anything like kissing any other boy. There's no clumsiness, no awkward fumbling for the right place to put a nose, the right way to tilt a jaw. It's all instinct, all surety, your hands framing his face to pull him down deeper. And he just goes. He yields to every whim, every needy tug of his shirt, his hand dropping to your waist and slipping beneath his borrowed jacket to grip your hip with slightly cold fingers and a warm, warm palm.

"Happy New Year," he whispers against your mouth, grinning.

"Happy New Year," you breathe, and then he's pulling you in again. You don't think it's going to be such a bad year, after all.

[spideystevie]

how to: fall in love again

summary: lovergirl at heart, you've decided love isn't anything you're willing to risk pursuing again after your last boyfriend. and then comes clark kent who's a little too perfect at breaking down those walls. and isn't that terrifying?

word count: 10.8k...yeah <3

a/n: the word count getting longer when i edited oh i'm sure. this one was serious to me. like notes app outline, specific through-line playlist, pinterest board inspo serious. hope it's serious for you guys too hehe fem!reader, no spoilers, avoidant attachment tbh, bit angsty but happy ending! happy reading, let me know what you think <3

If there was anyone more cynical about love in Metropolis than you, you’d be delighted to know. 

It’s not like you’re against love by any means. In fact, you really, well, love it. You love your friends and you love seeing them in love. You enjoy romance books and love songs and romantic comedies. You take pleasure in finding the ways in which love is around you each day. 

You’ve just decided that romantically, it’s not for you. Not anymore, at least. 

It’s been three years since you swore off of it and honestly? You’re doing great! So what if sometimes a viscous yearning creeps through your apartment on a Sunday night? That hardly means anything!

Relationships are one thing and you’ve had your fair share. Once in high school, a couple in college. They never ended well, not like how you would’ve wanted rather. Sometimes they faded like a bruise and other times you were left alone and behind in the rearview. 

But none of that mattered to you anymore once you met Ben.

Six years ago, you fell in love. Ben was a dream and a half. The kind of guy you bring home to your parents and revel in the way they gush over him and the both of you together. The kind of guy someone writes songs about with a swooning guitar and lyrics that wax poetic. The kind of guy you marry. At the time, Ben was it for you. 

Then, three years ago, Ben broke your heart. You hadn’t seen it coming. It felt completely out of left field. You believed you were everything each other wanted until he was walking out the door. 

“I’m not..happy anymore. I don’t know how to make you happy.” He had said and you remember a nauseating confusion coursing through your veins. What did that mean? You were happy….weren’t you? And before he walked out the door, “I hope you find someone who does.”

He clearly had. Two months later he was engaged to another woman you’d had in your home at dinner parties and holidays and suddenly it all clicked. You’re only slightly embarrassed to admit how long you cried and the amount of sweets you ate to try and feel better. 

While the wound was still fresh, the ache cutting so deep in your bones, you decided you never wanted to risk feeling like that again. It took you a while before you felt like you were yourself again.

Two years ago, you got a job as a columnist for the Daily Planet. A basic “how-to” column that you’ve come to love, even if you’d rather be writing something more substantial. There, you met Clark Kent. 

He was everything Ben wasn’t from the second you were introduced. The second he’d fixed his striking blue eyes on yours and smiled at you, something inside you jolted. And you’ve been petrified ever since.

Because if there was anyone who could make you consider taking that risk again, it was Clark.

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It’s a busy day at the Daily Planet. Well, it’s always “busy” but it’s especially so today. The printers are working overtime and there’s people fluttering all about, checking edits and typing like there’s no tomorrow. An argument splits open near the coffee counter. 

Deadlines will do that to you.

You’d arrived earlier than usual, earlier than you needed to considering you were basically done with your newest “how-to” for the next print. Still, the only time you can pin Perry White down to talk to him about writing for something other than your column is on his way from the coffee machine and back to his office. 

“But Perry, I think I’ve really got something here! If you’d just look at it-” your footsteps are hurried as you keep pace with Perry. He stops suddenly and you nearly stumble over yourself, words getting cut off.

“Look kid, I appreciate your enthusiasm but right now I need you to stick to your how-to’s,” he fixes you a look and fits his cigar between his lips before resuming his trail to his office. You sigh, but you don’t want to give up that easily.

“But could you at least just-” you start to plead and then you’re cut off again. He holds up a finger this time and heaves a sigh.

“I’ve given you my answer, kid. We’ve got a deadline to meet.” The words form around the cigar in his mouth. You wither, footsteps faltering. 

“Yes, Chief,” you sigh, to which he just shakes his head. Your shoulders sag, the entirety of your body drooping like a wilted rose. When Perry’s out of earshot you toss your head back with a frustrated groan. 

This wasn’t exactly where you thought you’d be by now. Two years seemed like enough time to establish yourself at the Daily Planet. Your little column that’s shoved towards the back of the paper seemed like as good a stepping stone as any towards writing about something more. 

It’s not like you dislike your column, in fact, you really enjoy it. You just feel like you have more to offer after two years if Perry would just give you the chance one of these days.

You’re admittedly, a little visibly pouty on your way to your desk. It feels a little childish, like you might as well cross your arms and stomp your foot with a hmph! You don’t, of course. Though maybe it’d provide some kind of emotional release. That’s why toddlers do it, right?

As you near your desk you notice there’s a new coffee cup waiting for you by your keyboard. The culprit, you notice next, is standing next to your desk with his bag still on his shoulder like he just got in. Which, he probably did.

It’s hard for you to stay grumpy at the sight of Clark. His tie is slightly askew and he’s holding his own cup of coffee, hot where yours is iced. 

He’s far too nice to you, you think, but he’s a wonderful friend. And God knows you were in dire need of a good one after what happened. Sometimes though, when you start to feel a little lonely, you wonder if he’d be a wonderful boyfriend too, but you’re quick to shove that aside. 

It’s better for you to just be friends. Less scary that way. Less of a risk that you end up absolutely demolished again, too.

“Was just dropping this off. Just how you like it,” he says when you’re within earshot, motioning towards the coffee that wasn’t there when you’d gone after Perry this morning. You can see the ring of condensation it leaves against the lacquered top of your desk. You smile at him.

“Thank you. You know you don’t have to.” 

He matches your smile and shrugs. 

“Yeah but I want to,” he says. There’s a faint pink that blushes his cheeks but you think it might just be the lighting. Still, you revel in the fact that he wants to do a nice thing for you. You try to quell it. The familiar fear of getting too close to someone again prickling your skin.

On paper, Clark is the perfect guy to be with after Ben. He’s charming and patient and kind, overwhelmingly so, to everything and everyone he encounters. He never fails to make you smile. Doesn’t hurt that he’s devastatingly handsome, too. 

Truth is, Clark Kent scares you to death.

“How’d it go with Perry this morning?” he asks, breaking you from your thoughts. You deflate, frustrated all over again. A grimace pulls at his face at the look on yours and the huff that escapes you. “That bad?”

“He refused to read it! Appreciates my enthusiasm but wants me to,” you twist your voice into your best impression of your editor-in-chief, “stick to my how-tos.”

You relish in the chuckle your impression pulls out of Clark. He opens his mouth to say something and is cut off.

“Stop flirting and get to work, Kent. We’ve got a deadline,” Perry’s voice seems to boom as he strides past your bullpen on the floor. Clark flounders, cheeks warming into an embarrassed red. You’re all too aware of the amount of eyes on you and you feel yourself start to fold inwards.

The two of you look at each other and Clark flashes you a tight lipped, shy smile. He motions towards his desk across the way and you nod, wordlessly communicating with each other.

“Thanks again for the coffee,” you say before he can walk away. 

“Anytime, really,” he says as he passes. There’s a fleeting press of his hand against your back. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, heat radiating out from where his touch lingered. You steel yourself for a beat before sitting down at your desk. 

The ice in your coffee shifts as you log into your computer. You glance over to Clark though you can only see the back of his head from here. The side of your hand brushes against the cold drops of condensation on your coffee cup. Goosebumps skitter up your arm.

When you finally take the first sip, a pleased hum drifts out of you. It’s just how you like it, like he had said, but it’s also better somehow. Familiar, but different in the best way. 

Just like Clark, you think.

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Despite it being sarcasm, you can’t get Perry’s insinuation that Clark was flirting with you out of your head. It’s been weeks and no matter how hard you try, it stays at the back of your mind constantly. And it’s starting to do a number to your nervous system.

Sure, maybe your interactions can be read as flirtatious but Clark’s also your closest friend. It’s just friendly banter and actions to show you care. Hardly anything romantic. 

That’s what you keep telling yourself anyway.

It’s a Wednesday towards the end of summer when you start to notice something different. 

The second the workday ends, you’re logging out with a swiftness. You’re not alone. Nearly everyone at the surrounding desks does the same. 

There’s a shuffle of sound as everyone starts to pack up their things. The corner of your notebook bends as you shove it in your bag and you curse under your breath. You’re inspecting it, trying to bend it back into place but the crease is still there in the corner. Annoying.

“Heading out?” 

The sound of Clark’s voice behind you makes you jump in surprise, your bag falling from your hands and to the ground. You’re pressing your hand to your chest, trying to calm your racing heart. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when you turn to face him.

Clark has a bad habit of sneaking up on you. You’re not sure how someone so…big can be so quiet. Or how he only seems to be able to sneak up on you, considering his occasional clumsiness tends to alert his presence. Too busy always trying to not occupy so much space that he almost seems to occupy even more. 

“Sorry! Sorry.” He’s dropped to the ground to retrieve your bag and bent notebook for you. His lips press together in a sympathetic grimace as he hands them over. Your hand falls from your chest to take them. 

“Jesus, you’re like a stealth agent or something, Clark. I’ll never understand it.” You shove the notebook into your bag and sling it over your shoulder. He shakes his head and is reaching to grab your water bottle for you before you even get a chance to turn around and get it yourself.

He holds it out to you and you smile your thanks. There’s a shock of something almost magnetic when your fingers brush his in the exchange. You try not to flinch away too noticeably. 

“Do you have plans? Like, now?” he asks, almost a little nervous. It makes you nervous and you hesitate in your movements. The corners of your eyes crease as you narrow them quizzically at him. “Sorry, that was..really forward.”

“No…why?” You start to walk away, full trust that he’ll follow you. He does. You slide your water bottle into your bag as you walk, Clark keeping pace. “Do you?”

“Oh! No, no I–Well…maybe?” he stumbles over his words and you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His shoulders straighten just a tad. “There’s this new ice cream place that just opened downtown and I saw it and thought of you and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to check it out?”

You nearly trip over yourself, a pit dropping from your throat to your stomach. He thought of you. Is he asking you on a date? He thought of you. A mirage of emotions rushes through you and over your face. Clark starts to panic at your silence.

“Totally friendly!” You let out a soft breath. He thought of you. “Obviously! We don’t have to, unless you want to. And it doesn’t have to be tonight, sorry I didn’t–”

Clark’s a panic rambler you’ve come to notice. It’s rather endearing if you’re honest. The two of you pause outside the elevator. You nudge him with your shoulder which jostles you more than it does him.

“Tonight’s great, Clark,” you say, cutting off his rambling. He looks at you and breathes something like a sigh of relief at the sight of your smile. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. He lets you in first, mumbling under his breath.

“Great. Great, okay.”

Clark leads you around downtown Metropolis, his hand hovering just above the small of your back as a guide when needed. You fall into step and easy conversation the whole way, Clark making you laugh without even trying to be funny. 

You mention the argument that you heard break out by the coffee this morning and he tells you it was Jimmy and Lois arguing–Jimmy annoyed that Lois has used up all the sugar. He mentions his Ma is planning to come visit him in the coming weeks and you swear you can feel your chest start to expand at the evident admiration for her in his voice. 

“Here it is!” he announces a few minutes later as you turn a corner. 

The first thing you notice is the red, yellow, and blue striped awning with scalloped edges. A sign above reads Super Scoops in bright letters and a bold font. The obvious hero homage makes you snort but the small line out the door leads you to believe it must be good.

“How’d you find this place?” you ask, relishing in the shade the awning gives while you wait in line.

“Just happened upon it on the way into work today,” he shrugs. He hopes you don’t realize his route to work from his apartment never crosses this section of downtown. If you do, he’s none the wiser. 

“And the whole,” you wave a hand around, “Superman of it all isn’t at all why you wanted to try it?”

You’re teasing. Poking a jest at his superhero work connection. Clark scoffs a little though there’s no malice behind it, and briefly wonders if maybe you’ve figured him out. (You haven’t.)

“No!” his voice pitches up an inch. “I know you like ice cream and you just did that how-to bit about summer and I just thought you might like it s’all.”

There he goes again. Thinking of you and sending your heart ablaze. You need to get a grip. 

The line moves quickly for which you’re thankful. When you get to the counter, you opt for a swirl of soft serve on a cone and Clark gets his in a cup. The price seems a little outrageous for what you’re getting and you accredit it to the theming. 

You pull out your wallet and Clark gives you a piercing look, bumping your hand away though not unkindly. You go to protest but relent and put your wallet back in your bag when he swipes his card. He shoves his wallet back into the pocket of his slacks, stepping off to the side with you.

“I could’ve paid for that, you know,” you say, eyes locked onto the employee dispensing the swirl of chocolate and vanilla onto a cone. The uniforms here are rather silly. Blue t-shirts with little red capes attached, the parlor’s logo on the back. 

“I know. I didn’t want you to,” he states simply, like he’s telling you the sky is blue. You probably should’ve expected it. Small town, farm boy chivalry and such. 

Clark collects your ice creams from the teenager behind the counter who looks a little miserable. You accredit that to the uniform. He passes your cone off to you as he leads you out the door. 

A comforting silence hangs around you as you linger in a little grassy patch next door. There’s kids running around and a dog chases them off leash. A hum of delight escapes you at your first taste of the soft serve. It’s exceptionally good.

Golden rays of the fading sun cast a radiant haze around the outline of your body. Ice cream is starting to melt around the rim of your cone. The surface tension breaks and a rivulet slips over your knuckles. You let out a soft gasp, more an exhale than anything and quickly lick it off. 

Clark’s looking at you. Endearment glimmers in his irises, the sunlight reflecting off of it. You’re trying desperately to ignore the sticky feeling on your knuckles. You need to wash your hands. Or steal a generous glob of hand sanitizer even.

You catch his eye and feel pinned by his stare. You blink at him. 

“What?” you ask. A thorn of self-consciousness pokes at you for a brief moment. Clark shakes his head.

You’ve got a smear of vanilla soft serve across your left cheek from when you tilted your hand to lick the ice cream off your knuckles. Your eyes are doe like. Backlit by the setting sun, the fleeting rays highlight the frizz in your hair, creating a halo around your head. 

Clark thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

“You’ve got a little..” he gestures towards his own face. You bristle with a light embarrassment. Before you can reach up to wipe away the ice cream from your face, Clark beats you to it.

He’s somehow procured a napkin and softly wipes the ice cream you smeared across your cheek away. You don’t remember seeing him grab them on your way out of the parlor. 

Time seems to slow. The seconds drag by like the pouring of a thick stream of honey. The moment feels incredibly intimate for what it is. Your breath stills in your lungs. 

“There we go,” he says. He turns and tosses the napkin into the trashcan. The spell breaks. Your fingertips reach up to graze against the spot he cleaned. You drop them before he can turn back around to catch you.

“Thank you,” your voice feels a little shaky. Clark smiles at you with a soft shake of his head, a silent don’t worry about it, and takes a bite of his ice cream.

“This is really good,” he says, swallowing it down. He looks so..boyish in this moment and it does something funny to your heart. Combined with him wiping your face clean, you’re a little afraid you could go into spontaneous cardiac arrest.

You’re staring at him, something sweet and awe-like in your eyes. Something in Clark brightens at your attention. His cheeks twinge pink and he smiles softly. 

“Careful,” he points at your cone that’s starting to melt down to your fingers again. You blink away, embarrassed at your staring and hurriedly lick up the melted cream. What is going on with you?

Clark seems to have figured out a way to weasel himself inside and poke at your tender bits, making things in your chest twitch and move in a way they hadn’t in years. You weren’t sure when he had been able to step in so close to do so.

It feels all too familiar, yet different, just like that coffee he’d brought you a few weeks back. Your heart stutters, the beat spelling out an uh-oh.  

You think you might be falling in love with him.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Things steadily progress with Clark after your ice cream not-date.

You’ve crossed into hug territory. Simple side ones when you see him in the office in the mornings. Longer, more proper ones when you go your separate ways after a hang out. Each one starts to untie the rope that’d been knotted around your heart three years ago. 

The risk grows more and more each day and now it feels even more ominous. Because now Clark’s more than just a potential romantic partner, he’s also one of your closest friends. And the thought of losing him in two ways instead of one scares you infinitely more.

You don’t mean to work so late on a Friday but it happens anyway and when you log out and pack up your things, the moon has risen completely in the sky. Clark has stayed late today too but you wonder if he was just waiting for you to finish so he can walk you home. 

You’ve never asked and he’s never outright offered except for the very first time. Now it’s just become something unspoken. A given in your friendship. You appreciate it all the same.

He lingers outside your apartment with you tonight and you can tell something’s bothering him. Like he’s holding himself back, restraining from something. You go to ask if he’s okay or what’s wrong but you never get the chance. 

Because Clark asks if you want to get dinner with him tomorrow night.

“Like a date. A nice, proper one with dinner and dessert.”

And despite the fear that shivers down your spine and the choking anxiety like a lump in your throat, you agree. 

“Yes. Yeah, that sounds…nice.” 

You hope your smile looks real and not as scared as you feel. He seems to buy it. He’s beaming with glee, trying to hide the intensity of it and failing. Quite adorably, you might add.

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at 7.” He states. No sense of a question, just a simple statement. Warmth rushes through you. 

“Okay.” The word is pushed out with a breath. Clark smiles at you. 

“It’s a date!” 

His enthusiasm is comforting and you squeak out a confirming uh huh! which is all you can seem to muster. Words are failing you. He reaches out to squeeze your hand briefly instead of hugging you goodbye tonight. 

You’re grateful for the change, certain he would’ve been able to feel your racing heart when your chest pressed against him. You watch him walk a few strides down the hall before you go inside. 

You’re already nervous when you wake up on Saturday morning. You spend a lot of the day panicking, over both the mundane and existential. Should you wear a dress? What if this goes horribly sideways and the two of you never speak again?

The usual.

In the end, you decide on your nicest dress, or rather, the nicest date night dress you own. You feel good. So long as you don’t think too seriously about it all. 

You’re trying to practice some age-old breathing exercise in the mirror to calm your nerves. Trying not to overthink too much about your shoes or your hair or how this is your first date in three years. You’re interrupted by a knock on your door.

A quick glance at the clock on your way to the door shows it’s seven on the dot. You’re a little surprised at Clark’s punctuality. Not because you didn’t think he wouldn’t be but because you’ve never experienced it before. A punctual date, that is.

You pause at the door for a beat. Then, you shake out your hands and swing it open.

Clark stands at your doorstep with a bouquet of fresh cut flowers. Peonies and delphiniums, chamomile sprinkled amongst blushing roses in a brown paper wrapping tied with string. He must’ve stopped by the florist for these, you think. It might be the prettiest arrangement anyone’s ever shown you, let alone given you.

Clark is staring at you, jaw a little slack. You feel yourself start to fluster under his gaze, shrinking slowly. 

“Wow. You look..” his voice trails off, eyes dropping to what you’re wearing and back up to lock with yours. “You look great.”

Your smile is a little shy, bright around the edges. The heat beneath your skin makes you feel like you could burst into flames.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself,” you say. He’s wearing clothes similar to what he wears to work, a charcoal pair of slacks and the usual white button down but he’s not wearing a tie and the sleeves are pushed up his forearms. It’s really doing something to you. 

A blush rises on his cheeks and it’s his turn to offer you a shy smile. He clears his throat.

“These are for you,” he says, holding the flowers out for you to take. The paper crinkles as you take them from him. Your fingers brushing sends a pleasant zing! down your back. You can’t resist pressing your nose against the blossoms. 

“They’re beautiful,” you say on an inhale. Clark could say the same about you ten times over. “Come in. I’ll put them in a vase and then we can go?”

You back up to let Clark inside and he closes the door behind him. He stands in the tiny entryway. It’s not very big, your apartment; it looks even smaller with him standing in it.

“You can come in further, you know?” your laugh carries through the air like a breeze. He lingers in the entry of your shoebox kitchen now. The bouquet lays gently on the little kitchen table tucked away in a nook off the kitchen.

You’re grateful for the boost of height the kitten heels you decided on give you, albeit small, as you reach up to grab your favorite vase. Clark’s eyes trail after you as you flit around the kitchen. Watching as you bring the vase to the kitchen sink to fill it with water and take it over to the table.  

You untie the string and paper around the bouquet and place the flowers in the water with the utmost of care. It’s a perfect fit. You fluff it a little bit, arranging it so each blossom has space to shine. Then, you slide it to the center of your little homely kitchen table. 

It’s picturesque. And so are you, standing with your hands clasped, admiring it. Clark wishes he had a camera. You turn and look at him, taken aback a bit at the sweet look in his eyes.

“Ready?” you ask. Clark blinks like he’s been shaken out of a stupor. 

“Right. Yes! Let’s go.”

He follows close behind you as you grab your bag off the hook by the door and lock up. It’s your turn to follow him as soon as you leave your building. Ever the gentleman, he walks on the outside of the sidewalk and offers you his arm to hold.

Butterflies that have laid dormant inside you start to revive and flutter around your stomach. It’s a beautiful night in Metropolis, the sky clear and the air fresh. You think you’d be satisfied if you never made it to dinner and just walked around all night instead. Your feet might not thank you though. 

He takes you to a nice restaurant a few blocks over. A place as nice as this was always reserved for anniversary dates in the past, never for a first. This specific one Clark leads you into, you’d never been to. The reservations always too hard to come by.

You’re a little awestruck when you walk in. Your eyes dance around, taking it all in as you get seated. Beautiful artwork decorating the walls. The tables covered in pristine white linens. The lights are low and there’s music playing softly in the background. Clark pulls your chair out for you and pushes it in. 

“This place is so nice,” you say, as you sit. “How’d you even manage a reservation with so short notice?”

Clark looks a little sheepish, his shoulders hunching upwards towards his ears. 

“Oh I, uh- This is going to sound presumptuous and I apologize. I got one a while ago. It’s just taken me so long to work myself up to asking you out.” He says it like a confession. Something in you preens at the idea of Clark liking you so much, he’d plan so far ahead for a first date with you. 

Your nerves start to ease as the night progresses and maybe the bottle of red wine you share helps a bit too. It’s easy with Clark. As if you’ve always been doing this. It sends a thrill through you. 

Slowly but surely, your defenses start to come down. The hesitancy and fear that normally holds you back starts to fade. Clark starts to see you really shine with each new thing he learns and each new laugh that escapes you.

Just like he said when he asked you out, you get dessert after dinner. A rich slice of the most decadent chocolate cake you’ve ever had in your life. Your eyes close when you take the first bite, a delighted hum escaping you louder than you’d like. 

“Oh my god,” you open your eyes and the amused admiration in Clark’s eyes is clear as the moon in the sky. You get a little shy, your skin prickling under his gaze. “This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

You gesture for him to try it. Clark’s reaction almost mimics yours.

“Golly,” is all he says and you laugh a little at his choice of word, both of you going in for another bite. The cake is gone almost embarrassingly fast but you’re both too stuffed to care. The waiter drops off the check as you take your final sip of wine, draining the glass. 

He reaches for it without hesitation, doesn’t flinch at the total, just slides his card into the fold and sets it on the edge where it’s quickly retrieved. You fold your arms and rest them on the table, your hands holding on limply to the space above your elbows. 

The edges of you feel fuzzy. Your head is tilted a little towards your shoulder, a serene smile on your face. To Clark, you look radiant even in the dim lighting. When the waiter brings back his card, you watch as he signs and puts his card back in his wallet. 

He offers you his hand to help you out of your seat and neither of you let go as you walk out of the restaurant. In fact, you make the move to intertwine his fingers with yours and swing them a little between you. He pulls you into his side and you giggle, your shoulder bumping his bicep. 

You feel giddy head to toe. Maybe it’s the lingering effects of the wine. Maybe it’s Clark’s fingers slotted between yours. Or the way he’s been looking at you all night.

All you know is you feel more happy than scared and it’s been so long since you’ve felt this way that you’ve forgotten how good it feels. And maybe it’s your lapse in memory or maybe it’s Clark but it feels even better this time around.

You’re laughing at something Clark says–he’s been making you do that a lot tonight–when there’s a call of your name. The laughter gets stuck in your throat and dies out quick, your steps faltering on the sidewalk. Clark’s eyes are swimming with concern when he looks at your face. 

“Is that you?” Ben’s voice is just like you remember it. You turn towards it and your hand falls out of Clark’s grip when you catch sight of him. Because standing next to him is Jane. Beautiful, alluring Jane who drank your wine at your hosted parties and probably slept in your bed when you weren’t around. 

You think you might be sick. 

“Oh my god, how are you?” Ben gives you a hug, like you’re still friendly and things ended amicably. Like the last time you saw him he didn’t put your heart through a paper shredder. Your limbs feel wooden as you half-heartedly reciprocate. Ben steps back and wraps his arm around Jane’s waist. “You remember Jane?”

She lifts her left hand in a wave and the streetlight overhead catches on the ring on her finger, making it glint. At least she looks a little awkward at the whole situation. You nod, a pounding starting to form behind your brow. 

“Yeah, I..I remember,” you reply. You take a deep breath, force yourself to smile and sound way more friendly than you feel. “Good to see you.”

The puzzle pieces start to click into place in Clark’s head. He’s not completely aware of your dating history but he’s easily figures out that’s what this is. And that you’re completely beside yourself. He’s quick to wrap an arm around your waist, steady and strong. You relax a bit without even realizing. 

Ben catches the motion and his eyebrows raise a hair. He has to look up at Clark, not by a lot but enough that you notice it if you’re paying close attention. And you are. Then Ben looks at you, silently waiting for an introduction.

“Oh. Ben,” his name tastes like venom on your tongue. “This is-”

“Clark Kent.” He finishes for you, taking a step forward and extending his hand. You think you can see Ben wince from Clark’s grip but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. (And if Clark put more of a grip into the handshake than normal, well that’s nobody’s business but his own.)

There’s a beat of silence that passes. The four of you stand on the sidewalk, almost mirror images of each other. The same wave of nausea passes over you, the pressure in your head getting worse.

“Well, it’s good to see you. I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy,” Ben says, voice genuine. Something in you bristles at that, taking it more as one final nail in the coffin jab at you. Clark feels you stiffen in his hold. You’re not sure what to even say, lips parting but nothing coming out. 

It doesn’t seem to matter. Ben nods at you and Jane gives you a tight smile as they pass. You blink at their retreating figures. You’ve long since gotten over the love you held for him but you didn’t expect the pain of it all to still linger. 

You don’t want to let this one twisted encounter ruin the great night you’ve had with Clark but you can feel your reservations start to creep back in. It’s like Clark can see you start to slowly build those walls back up after he’d worked to pull them apart all night.

“Hey, you okay?” 

You focus on the good. The softness of his voice. The care in his eyes. The steadfast grip of his arm around your waist. You inhale and on your exhale, flash him a shaky smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, that was just…” A plethora of words dance around your head. Weird. Unexpected. Awful. Horrifying. “Strange.”

Clark nods and glances over his shoulder in the direction they walked off in. He looks back at you, your eyes locked where his just were. He clears his throat softly and your gaze finds his.

“Sorry but, I couldn’t stand that guy.” A sudden laugh, loud and genuine bursts out of you. A sentence so unlike Clark and yet, you can tell he means it. His eyes crinkle at the corners at the glow that’s started to come back to your face. He almost hadn’t noticed how dim you’d become in that guy’s presence. 

“Yeah,” you say, as your laughter dies down. Your smile softens. “Me too.”

Clark walks you home, conversation still full but maybe not as lively as it had been pre-Ben and Jane. You hate how they seem to haunt you like this. But you revel in how easy it was–and is–for Clark to make you laugh again. 

He expects the night to end at your doorstep but you invite him inside for a little while longer. You’re a little surprised, mostly delighted when he agrees. 

“Make yourself at home,” you say, kicking off your shoes and walking into your kitchen. Clark toes his shoes off and neatly arranges them next to yours. “Do you want anything to drink?”

Clark glances over and can see you grabbing two glasses down from a cupboard near your tiny stove. You set them on the counter and at his silence, look up to where he’s standing.

“Oh! Water’s fine.”

He takes interest in your photos hanging on the walls and the knick-knacks on your shelves. He particularly likes a corkboard you’ve got hung up with a bunch of mementos pinned: movie ticket stubs, fortunes from fortune cookies, postcards, one of your first how-to pieces from the Planet, a photobooth strip of you. 

You bring your drinks in, and set them on the coffee table, water for him and another glass of wine for you. You sit, knees pulled up on the couch and your feet tucked beneath you, your body facing Clark. You like how he looks sitting in your space. Like he fits right in. 

You talk for hours about anything and everything that seems to come to mind. You share the abridged version of Ben and Jane and your chest goes warm at how quick Clark notices your need for a subject change. He switches gears smoothly. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

The hours tick by without either of you paying much attention. Your drinks sit empty on the table and when the conversation lulls, you take them into the sink. Clark checks his watch when you leave the room. 

“Oh gosh, it’s late,” he says. You come out of the kitchen to an apology. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

“Clark, it’s okay,” you shake your head with a smile. His mouth is twisted into an apologetic frown. 

“Still. I should let you get to bed.” Only then do you realize how tired you feel.

You walk him to your front door and watch him put his shoes back on. When he straightens up, you take a step closer to him.

“I had a really good time tonight.” You say softly. Your eyes shine in the dim lamplight. 

“Me too.” Clark smiles. He swallows and shifts on his feet. “Would you..wanna do this again?”

“I’d like that.” You nod, smiling widely up at him. He nods.

Clark leans down to hug you goodnight, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. Yours reach up and over his shoulders. Your body sinks into his and you think you could stay right there forever. After a beat, he pulls back but you don’t let go right away.

With your arms around his neck and his around your waist, it leaves hardly any space between you both. Suddenly, the air feels similar to the moment before lightning strikes nearby in a storm. Your gazes both fall from eyes to lips and back. 

Clark’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you track the motion with your eyes. You swallow, lips parting only just. He starts to lean in and your eyelids start to flutter shut. Your hands are trembling from both anticipation and uncertainty. Not about him, but about the unknown. You send a quick plea outwards that he doesn’t notice. 

There’s no telling what lies on the other side of letting Clark kiss you, a faint warning siren echoing in the back of your mind. You decide to ignore it the second his lips brush against yours. You’ll cross that bridge when it comes. 

The siren fades into a silent static hum, your senses flooded with ClarkClarkClark. Of the gentle press of his lips to yours, pliant and willing. Of the press of his body against yours as you eagerly push up to reciprocate. 

You wonder briefly why you hadn’t done this any sooner. There’s such an ease to it that you almost feel like you’re experiencing deja vu. Like there’s another version of you that wasn’t burned, that gets to kiss Clark like this all the time. You’re envious of her immediately.

His hands slide to your hips to pull you even closer to him and that dreaded siren breaks through the static in your brain. You pull back, your hands falling to his shoulders. Clark’s glasses are askew and have fogged up considerably but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Wait,” you say breathlessly. He’s quick to renew the gap of space between your bodies.

“Sorry-”

“No, no, it’s not- you’re okay,” you pause, chest heaving. You try to catch your breath, coming up short. Your arms fall from his shoulders as you take a step back. “I think I need a second.”

The wounded expression on Clark’s face makes you feel considerably worse. He resembles a confused, kicked puppy and you think you might be sick. 

You turn on your heel and make a beeline for the bathroom. Clark catches your shaking hand wiping at your eyes and doesn’t think twice before following after you. To apologize, if anything. Convinced he’s done something wrong enough to make you cry.

The counter of your bathroom is cold against your palms. You take a couple deep breaths in and out. Mentally kicking yourself because why can’t you just be normal about this and cursing Ben (and his bloodline, too) under your breath for causing your aversion to love in the first place. 

You turn the tap on, splashing cold water on your face in hopes that it’ll shock your system back to normal. Back to how it felt mere moments ago when you were kissing Clark. 

A gentle knock on the door makes you jump.

“Honey, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Your heart pinches, a piece of it chipping away at how sad he sounds. You don’t say anything for a beat. “Did I…” a defeated sigh, “sorry, did I do something wrong?”

You turn the water off. 

“Oh, Clark,” you sigh. He hears the lock click and then the door swings open. This time, his heart twists at the expression on your face. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just..”

You let out a sad laugh and then your eyes are pinching shut. You press your face into your hands.

“I’m just a mess.” Your words are muffled against your palms. Clark tsks in disagreement and takes a step towards you. His fingers circle around your wrists and he’s so soft with you, you think you might burst into tears all over again. 

“Hey, hey, no. Look at me,” his voice is equally tender and you let him pull your hands away. The reveal of your eyes shiny with unshed tears chips away at his heart. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing, I’m fine,” you sniffle, rapidly trying to blink away the tears. One slips past anyway and he quickly smooths it away.

“You’re most certainly not fine,” he says, voice still gentle but firm. Your shoulders slump. Clark sighs. “Let’s get you some water. That sound good?”

You nod, looking at the floor. He leads you over to your couch and sits you down before getting you a glass of water from the kitchen. He’s back faster than you expect and you whisper a quiet thank you when he hands you the water. 

He doesn’t sit until you’ve drunk a considerable amount. You cradle the cup in your hands, looking anywhere but at Clark. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally say. You spare a quick glance up at him. “It wasn’t anything you did, I promise. I just…I haven’t done this since..”

“Since Ben?” Clark fills in. You look at him with a small smile that’s equal parts embarrassed and sad. 

“Yeah. I just spooked myself a bit,” you say. Clark nods in understanding. 

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” he says, resting a hand on your knee. Your eyes focus on it. 

“Okay. I just don’t want you to think it’s because of you,” you say, gaze lifting to his eyes. They’re looking at you like you’re made of porcelain. He scoots a little closer to you on the couch and lightly brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His palm settles on your cheek. 

“We can take it slow, yeah?” Clark offers. You perk up, a little surprised. After all this, he still likes you. He still wants to try with you. The realization makes you ache. You nod, anyway.

Slow is perfect.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The air outside has started to go cold, summer finally fading away into a brisk autumn. You’ve five more dates with Clark now under your belt. It’s slowly getting easier, less scary though you can’t deny that your brain continues to do risk assessments over each new romantic gesture.

He brings you a new assortment of flowers each time. The newest, a golden arrangement featuring sunflowers and dahlias, sits in the usual spot on your kitchen table. The sun reflects off the petals through the window. 

Clark’s at your apartment again in a handknit sweater his Ma made him, sat at the table and warming his hands with a cup of cocoa. Speaking of.. 

“My Ma is visiting this weekend,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“And she’d…like to meet you.” 

The world seems to still, your body going with it. You blink at him, lips parting and closing. 

“Oh!”

Clark rushes his words out, sensing the rising panic in your chest.

“You don’t have to, I know we’re taking it slow and this is definitely, probably not even remotely close to that. But I’ve talked about you so much she won’t stop asking about you, even before this started. It’s only if you want to.”

Your heart picks up at the image in your head of Clark including you in his updates to his Ma. It makes you burn from the inside, a sweetness pooling in your veins. He talks about you. The pendulum swings back and forth in your head as you consider it. 

“Okay,” you say. Clark raises an eyebrow at you.

“You’re sure?” When you nod, he beams. He gets up from his seat and comes over to press a kiss against the top of your head. His excitement is sweet to witness. “I’ll call and let her know.”

On Sunday, you go over to Clark’s for dinner. 

You shift nervously outside the door to his apartment. Your fingers are stiff from the brisk air outside and from the tight grip you have on the flowers you picked up on the way over. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, willing your body to still.

Then, you lift your fist and knock it against his door. You’re wiping your palm against the front of your pants when he answers the door. His smile is blinding.

“Hi,” he steps aside to let you in. The door closes behind you and he dips his head to kiss your cheek in greeting as you’re toeing off your shoes. “You look nice.”

“Hi,” You smile, nerves still going haywire beneath your skin. “Thanks.”

“Clark? Is she here?” You can hear her voice from the kitchen and you glance at Clark, grip tightening on the small bouquet in your hand. You’re a little nervous that it's not as nice as it could be. Clark presses a hand against the small of your back and you remember to breathe.

He leads you the short distance to the kitchen in lieu of a response. As soon as she sees you, her eyes light up. You smile nervously at her and give a small wave of your hand.

“Ma, this is-” Clark starts to say, but he’s quickly cut off. 

“You must be, y/n!” Her accent is thick as honey and it warms your heart. 

“Hi,” you hope your voice doesn’t sound as nervous as you feel. “These are for you, Mrs. Kent.”

You hold out the flowers to her and she takes them with a soft audible aw. Then she’s pulling you into a hug and saying, “call me Martha.”

It takes you a beat to huge her back. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been hugged like this. Different from how Clark hugs you, different from your own mother’s hugs. This one has a specific air of home to it that’s overwhelming. 

You look at Clark over her shoulder who looks extra smiley.  When she pulls back, she looks at the flowers again. Then she turns to Clark who already has a hand extended to take them and go put them in water. 

“Clark has told me so much about you,” she says. A hand, weathered and gentle from age touches your cheek. “You’re even more beautiful than he described.”

“Ma,” Clark says, from the kitchen sink. You smile, loving that boyish part of him that still gets embarrassed when his mom shares something she probably shouldn’t. Martha tsks and angles herself slightly to look at him, her hand falling away.

“I’m serious, Clark.” She turns to you and lowers her voice a smidge. “He’s always talking about you, it's hard to get him to stop. I knew I had to meet the girl he’s so sweet on from the second he mentioned you.”

You can feel your skin start to flush. Your eyes catch onto Clark who’s arranging the flowers in the vase and setting them on his own kitchen table. 

“You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over,” she says almost conspiratorially. Your body softens, something distantly familiar coursing through your veins. Clark catches your eye and smiles at you and it leaves you a little dizzy. 

When the food is ready, the two of them fall into a rhythm, bringing dishes to the table. Watching the two of them interact, you can tell where Clark gets it from. His mannerisms and certain words and phrases in his vernacular. 

Clark pulls out both yours and Martha’s chairs when you sit to eat. The food is delicious and you make a note to ask Martha for recipes when the night ends. 

It’s as easy to talk to her as it is Clark. She asks questions about you and your job and your family. And she also asks about you and Clark. How you met and when you started “going steady” as she puts it. You’re particularly fond of the stories she shares about Clark when he was little. Even more fond of the red blush that covers his cheeks at the more embarrassing ones. 

In the back of your mind though you can’t get Martha’s words out of your head. 

You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over. 

It unnerves you slightly. And at the same time, you wonder how you could even begin to describe how much it means to you to have his Ma treat you so kind and warm. Like you’re already part of the family. Your mind starts to analyze a risk assessment, a voice in the back of your mind poking and prodding and whispering that something this good has to come down. 

Clark reaches for your hand at the table and gives it a quick squeeze, momentarily pulling you out of your spiral. You look at him with a soft smile, ever grateful and surprised that he can read you so well.

At the end of the night, Martha hugs you tight again and you soak it in. 

“It was so good to meet you, dear,” she says, pulling back from the hug. Her hands hold onto your forearms.

“You too,” you smile and she gives your arms a squeeze. She looks at Clark, who’s holding your purse for you in his hand. 

“You make sure she gets home safe, Clark.” 

Clark lips twitch. “I know, Ma. I always do.”

He’s true to his words, walks you safely home and all the way to your door like he always does. You linger outside the door until you’re toeing the line of inviting him in. He kisses you goodnight, soft and sweet, his hand cradling your jaw and yours pressed against his chest. 

It quiets your brain enough for you to get to bed but when you wake up the next morning, it’s racing immediately again. You’re distracted during the work day and no matter how much you try, you can’t get it to stop. A steady downward spiral.

Clark comes home with you after work. You’re unusually quiet on the walk to your apartment and through dinner–leftovers from the night before that Martha insisted you take home with you.

You clear the table of dishes and Clark helps you wash up. When the two of you go to sit on your couch, Clark sits first and holds out a hand. 

“C’mere,” he says, all but pulling you to sit in his lap, though really you might as well be straddling him. For the first time all day, the chatter in your brain starts to dim. “What’s wrong? You’ve been unusually quiet all day.”

You look down at your hands in your lap and shrug. You’re not sure how to phrase it even if you tried. 

“It’s..nothing. It’s silly,” you finally say, still refusing to look at him.

“Hey,” his voice is a soft caress against your skin, gentle like his fingers that tilt your cheek so you look at him. “It’s just me. You can tell me.”

Your gaze roves his face, stars in your eyes. Clark pushes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your cheek like a feather. His eyes haven’t once strayed from yours. 

A shiver runs down your spine and you try not to squirm. It’s still new being seen like this. Like he’s looking right through you, straight into the messy walls of your subconscious. You swallow, your mouth dry and the words hang in a lump in your throat.

“Just..when I met your mom yesterday,” you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, feeling a little silly. Clark’s looking at you, so tenderly it squeezes your heart in your chest. “She hugged me. Like really hugged me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches and something shimmers in his eyes as he scans your face. One hand rubs against your arm and his thumb on the other spreads a tear across the apple of your cheek as he wipes it away.

“Honey, that’s a good thing. Yeah?” 

“I-” You close your eyes and take a deep breath, nodding though your shoulders inch up towards your ears. “Yeah. Yes. I dunno, it just…”

Your shoulders drop on an exhale and your eyes flutter open and latch onto his. Clark looks at you with quiet reassurance. His fingertips trail against the skin of your arms featherlight while he waits for you to finish your thought.

“It felt like home,” your voice is so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Clark's eyes seem to soften even more than they already were. The corners of your mouth twitch into a small smile. You look away to wipe at your eyes, damp fingertips coming to rest along the side of his neck.  “Been a while since I’ve had that.”

Your eyes lock back on his. Something familiar is swirling in his eyes, your breath getting stuck in your throat for the briefest of moments. Your heart starts to play a symphony against your ribcage. Clark’s hands have migrated to the small of your back.

“You’re starting to feel like home,” he says. Your fingers against his neck can feel the timbre of his voice. There’s a rush of warmth that covers you from head to toe. It’s dizzying enough to leave you a little nauseous, though there’s a fleeting thought that wonders if it’s because his words feel like a euphemism for the L word. 

Despite the onslaught of emotion you feel, your lips start to curl into a giddy smile just as Clark leans in to kiss you. His lips slot against yours, slow and sure and it’s enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Your smile gets kissed away but the giddiness doesn’t fade.

His hands on your back pull you closer towards him and your thumbs press against his jawline. Your body feels like it’s starting to liquify in his arms as you melt against him. You pull back and Clark steals one more lingering kiss from you. It elicits another soft smile.

You don’t open your eyes right away, breathing in deep through your nose as you press your forehead against his. His thumbs rub circles against your back and his nose nudges yours. You blink your eyes open and lean back enough to look at him fully. 

You run a hand through the mess of curls on his head, eyes as soft as the edges of your smile. Clark’s looking at you like you hung the moon. The simplest of thoughts pops into your head. A flash of fear shocks your body. You push the feeling down and away, locking it up deep in the gooey center of your heart.

But you can’t lock away the thought that races around your brain like a news headline. 

You’re a thousand percent, without a doubt, in love with Clark Kent.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

It’s an almost difficult realization for you in the coming days. The familiar dip in your stomach, a pull on your heart, like passing by an old friend in the grocery store. Things are safe with Clark, you’re safe with Clark. But it doesn’t quell the stutter of fear in the beat of your heart that’s been opening itself back to love.

You can’t help it but you do the best thing you know how. You pull away even though it’s twisting your heart into knots. A part of you hopes that he’ll break things off if you push hard enough. Maybe it’ll hurt less that way.

Because what if you love him too much, too hard that he slips away? In your head, it’s better to withdraw now and first before he ever gets the chance to. Logically, you know it’s unlike Clark but you can’t help it. You’re not feeling very rational right now. Common sense has seemed to fly right out the window.

Clark feels utterly confused. You keep things about the same at work but the second you get home, he can feel you pulling away. You stop answering his calls. You don’t let him kiss you, barely let him hold your hand. 

He goes into fix-it mode, trying to retrace his steps and figure out if maybe he did something but he comes up short. He tries talking to you about it but you shrug it off, insisting everything is fine when he can clearly tell it’s not. 

He decides that maybe you just need a day or two to yourself and he acquiesces, giving you the space that he thinks you need. When he does, you think maybe he’s finally pulling away too and even though it makes you ache, you think it’s for the best.

But when space doesn’t work and you still won’t talk he knows something is really wrong. In his head, he makes a loose plan. He’ll get you to talk to him somehow, if anything to just get some kind of closure if you’ve decided this isn’t something you want to pursue with him anymore. The thought makes him ache but he has to know.

A couple weekends after dinner with his mom, you’re in your apartment staring at the wilted flowers on your kitchen table, wondering if you should maybe get rid of them. But that feels like getting rid of Clark somehow and you can’t bring yourself to do either of those things. 

There’s a knock on your door and your heart knows it’s him before you do. You open the door and there he stands. His nose is pink from the cold and there’s a sadness so heavy in his eyes it stabs at the tender bits of your heart. 

“We need to talk,” he says, and then at the last second, “please.”

You don’t say anything, just step aside to make room for him to come in. You close the door behind him with a click.

“What’s going on?” he asks as soon as you turn around. You fold your arms, hugging them to you like some kind of armor. 

“What do you mean?” you try to play a little dumb and Clark huffs. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him anything close to angry. 

“You know what I mean. It’s what I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me about for weeks.” he sounds the slightest bit exasperated. “You won’t talk to me outside of work anymore. You won’t let me close enough to do much of anything. You’ve stopped returning my calls. It’s like you’ve completely pulled away.”

He sounds hurt more than anything. 

“Did I do something? What happened?” 

You close your eyes and sigh. “No Clark, you didn’t do anything. Nothing…happened.”

“Then why. Why are you pulling away?”

“Maybe we’re just better as friends!” you burst out, arms falling to your sides. “We were moving too fast. Maybe it’s just…easier if we just go back to being friends. Nothing more.”

“Don’t do that,” he says and you blink at him. Your eyebrows furrow. 

“What? I’m not-” you pinch the bridge of your nose. Your words have started leaving you both so fast your sentences almost overlap. “Clark-”

“You’re quitting before things get tough. You can’t do that.”

“What? I’m not..I’m not quitting. God, Clark I-” your voice starts to break. “I’m trying to protect myself. I’m terrified.”

Clark’s shoulders soften. “Terrified?”

“Yes,” you say and now the words won’t stop spilling out of you. “I’m scared to death of…of this. Of you! Of us! Of…of all of it! I’m scared.”

Clark looks like a kicked puppy again.

“Me? Us?” his voice sounds so small and your heart twists. “Why?” 

“Because I..” you’re almost panting. “Because I love you, Clark. I love you and it scares me because I never wanted to fall in love again. I never wanted to risk the pain of losing someone again. I didn’t want to risk the possibility of things ending just like they did with Ben three years ago.

And then I met you and I just knew if anyone would change my mind it would be you. The thought of being loved by you scared me and at the same time I was scared by how much I wanted that. And I tried not to but falling in love with you was the easiest thing for me to do.”

You’re not sure when you started crying or when Clark got close enough to be able to wipe your tears away with his thumbs. He looks pained at the sight of your tears but beneath that is a joy so vibrant it almost glows.

“Hey, hey, hey,” his voice is a soft melody in your ears. “I love you, too.”

It doesn’t sound as scary to you when he says it outloud. You sniffle, unable to fight the smile that spreads across your face. It’s teary and you’ve got a sudden worry that your nose is running. 

“You do? Even still?”

Clark lets out a soft laugh and nods, wiping away fresh tears that have fallen over your cheeks. “Yeah, honey, I do. Even still.”

“It’s an awful lot of work,” you say. Through a wet laugh, “I’m a mess, clearly.”

“No it’s not. Not for me. Not when it’s you.” 

The look in his eyes is so intense and serious, you’ve no choice but to believe him. Your heart soars. You sniffle again, feeling like a weight has been lifted off of your shoulders. Your fingers curl themselves into the fabric of the sweatshirt he’s wearing.

“Are you gonna kiss me or not?” you tease and it pulls a smile out of Clark. He presses his lips to yours, so tender and soft, it leaves you melting like that ice cream cone he bought you what seems like a lifetime ago.  

Love this go around feels familiar, but it’s different, better even in all the right ways. It’s like returning from a lifelong journey and sinking into a hug. 

It feels like coming home.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

as usual, tagging some people who might be interested (if not u can ignore) & those who asked hehehe: @stevebabey @brettsgoldstein @almightyellie @katsu28 @sanguineterrain @anonymouse1807 @superemobitch @manicandobsessive @clonesdserveb3tter @lalameors @celestialend @claudiwithachanceof @pessimisticmoon @clarkstwin @cupid4prez

[mischievousmoony]

quiet kitchen confessions & growing up james potter x fem!reader

summary: time passes, people hurt, people heal, and confessions of love come when you least expect them ⊹ 2.8k warnings: fluff and angst, post hogwarts everyone's in their early/mid twenties, loss of a parent, mourning, unhealthy coping, reader is shorter than james

· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·

You love nights like this. Cozy nights where all your friends pile onto the sofa and a few armchairs in the boys’ flat and laugh the night away. Drinks are shared and spilled on the carpet. You tell stories and reminisce about your school days.

James still boasts about his Quidditch wins, as if he hasn’t accomplished much more in the professional league by now. Mary manages to make old gossip sound new again, has always been able to tell a good story. Sirius raves on about their greatest pranks, the glint in his eye telling you he wouldn’t mind pulling a few new ones on their loony neighbor. Peter tells old jokes, but still manages to make you all laugh to tears.

Everyone also talks about their current lives. A lot is missed out on when you no longer live in the same corner of a castle, but you all do your best to catch up as often as you can.

Remus announces he landed a new job last week, cueing Sirius to pop open a bottle of fancy wine James’s mum gifted them. Lily had lunch with her sister yesterday, and it didn’t go horribly, you cheers to that. And Marlene was able to get the bar you all love to lift her ban, but won’t tell you how.

And you?

You stay pretty quiet. Life is good, things have been going well at work, but it’s all just more of the same. No new developments or exciting stories to share.

James has noticed the way you’ve kept to yourself. It’s a bit disappointing, since you’re secretly the person he’s most excited to catch up with.

Those feelings started after you graduated. Maybe they’ve always been there, and he’s been too distracted to notice, but now they’re all-consuming. He feels it every time he looks at you. He feels it tickling up his arm to his chest each time your hands brush when you walk too close, and neither of you seems to care to put some space between you. And he feels it like an ache when you’re not around (and not truly appreciating your daily presence at Hogwarts, the way he could appreciate it now, kind of haunts him).

These feelings, he keeps to himself. Which is very unlike him, but you mean too much to him to mess this up. You’ve been his friend for over half his life, and he cherishes his friendships more than anything. It’s not that he’s never going to tell you—he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t at least try to win your heart—but he’s being careful. Waiting for the right moment.

Tonight, his only goal is to figure out why you’re so quiet. But he knows better than to call someone out in front of a whole group of people, so he waits.

He waits until people start trickling out. Lily has to be up early the next day, so she leaves first, and Mary goes with her. Marlene gets a text from her girlfriend asking her when she’ll be over, and she quickly says her goodbyes.

Like always, you offer to help clean up. The boys usually refuse, assuring you they can handle it. But tonight—

“Sure,” James says, gathering as many cups as he can in two hands, wedging the rims between his fingers. “Mind helping me with the dishes, actually? I’ll wash and you dry?”

You giggle. You’ve never seen James Potter do any chore by hand.

“By hand?” you ask, sounding perplexed, but you help him gather the dishes anyway. “Where’s your wand?”

“Eh, probably wedged between the couch cushions or something. It’s only a few, though, we can do it the muggle way, yeah?” he says, and he really just wants the excuse to keep you around longer.

You shrug, taking his word for it, but Sirius and Remus see right through him. They share a knowing look.

“I’m knackered,” Remus says.

“Me too,” Sirius adds, stretching his arms high over his head and faking a yawn. Sirius shoots Peter a look. “You too, Pete?”

“Uh… yeah?” Peter says, catching on a little late, but he manages to play along.

“James, can you handle cleaning up tonight?” Remus asks, but he’s already heading towards his room.

“Yeah, on it,” James says, shooting an appreciative grin at his friends as they all file out.

You roll your eyes, an amused smile on your lips. You see right through their act, but incorrectly assume they scurried off to get out of cleanup duty. Not because they want to give their mate some alone time with the girl he’s been quietly pining for.

James’s shoulder bumps yours as you stand by the sink. The butterflies in your stomach aren’t as strong as they used to be, but they’re still there. Their wings beat a little softer now, after all these years of unrequited feelings, but they still beat, and you think they always will.

You always liked James. You’re not even sure when the feelings really started, but they’ve nestled in deep and haven’t gone away, no matter how much you’ve tried to ignore them, expel them, date other people to get over them.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” James says. “Nothing to share?”

“Yeah, I don’t have much going on at the moment,” you tell him, fiddling with the dish rag as you wait for him to hand you the first cup.

“Nothing to share at all?” he presses.

You shrug. “The most important thing going on for me right now is this,” you say, vaguely gesturing to the flat around you. “Highlight of my week, honestly. Seeing everyone.” You bump your shoulder against his intentionally. “Seeing you.”

James feels heat bloom on his cheeks and hopes you don’t notice. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say warmly, like you’re happy about where you are in life. Happy about how far you and all your friends have come, and you’d be pretty content to stay here. You realize for the first time in your adult life, you actually kind of feel like one.

A silence settles over you, only the sound of the running sink and clinking dishes filling the room.

“My mum misses you,” James speaks suddenly as he hands you a glass.

“Yeah?” you respond, chuckling softly at his abruptness.

James hums. “Visited her with the lads. First thing she asked was why I didn’t bring you round too. Sirius was rather offended.”

She also asked when James is going to ask you out already, but he leaves that out.

You laugh a little more heartily. “Of course he did,” you say, a dry glass clinking against the granite as you put it down on the counter. “I’m touched, though. I love your mum.”

“She loves you. I’ve been visiting her every Sunday. She’s been pretty lonely, since my… my dad… er-” James clears his throat, features hardening for a moment as he stares into the soapy sink. “Anyway, you should come with me one day.”

Your shoulders slump. Fleamont Potter was such a light. He treated all of James’s friends like his own, opened his heart and his home to all of you—summers spent at the Potters were the happiest moments of your life. Everyone felt it when he passed.

Dragon pox. Nothing could be done.

James was inconsolable. No one knew what to do, and he would hardly speak to anyone who wasn’t his mum or Sirius, and even they barely got much out of him. He hardly slept, and he wouldn’t eat.

Until you started dropping off homemade plum pies, and he started to live off them. You made sure a day didn’t go by that he went without one. He swears he gained a stone in a week, eating nothing but pudding and lying in bed all day.

Once, you tried leaving him a shepherd’s pie. Still a comfort food, you thought, but something real to put in his stomach. He rang you up immediately on Remus’s muggle phone to shout at you. That was the first time he spoke to anyone.

“Just because pie’s in the name doesn’t mean they’re exchangeable!” he yelled through the phone, but the sound was dampened because he was holding the telephone out in front of him. Speaking to it face-to-face as you would a person.

“Okay,” you said simply, holding your phone with a vice grip, pressed hard and secure against the side of your head, like James would disappear off the line if you didn’t. “I’ll bring a plum pie tomorrow,” you promised, but you brought it later that night. James accepted it from you personally, that time, and hugged you for half an hour in the dim light of the kitchen. His tears soaked through your shirt, but you didn’t say anything. Just held him as long as he needed.

He nearly asked you to stay the night. But he didn’t.

Instead—

“I miss him,” he choked out, voice muffled by your shoulder.

“I know,” you murmured, holding back tears of your own. “It’s okay to miss him.”

James kept talking to you after that, ringing you on Remus’s phone after he learned how to properly use it. Slowly, he started speaking to everyone else again too. Let his friends back in. Started opening up more, more than he ever did before.

And you still bring him pie sometimes.

“I’m free this Sunday,” you tell him, not worried in the slightest about sounding too eager. If he’d ask you to come every Sunday, you would. Effie is like family.

“Yeah? She’ll be over the moon,” James says, handing you the last cup. “Me too,” he adds, bowing his head to hide a sheepish smile.

He rinses his hands and shuts off the sink.

“Where do these go again?” you ask about the cups, two in your hand as you spin around in place.

“Oh, right there,” he nods at the cabinet now behind you. “But, I got it.”

He steps in front of you, taking the dishes from your hands and returning them to their shelf. Your breath hitches when he suddenly, accidentally, crowds you. You tip your chin up instinctively. His arm hovers, outstretched above you, as he meets your gaze. Faces so close your breath mingles.

He slowly lets his hand fall, resting it on the counter just to the right of you, closing you in, and he just stares at you. Eyes sparkling with something you can’t place, lips parted with words he’s too scared to say.

“James?” you murmur, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as your heart beats loudly in your ears.

“I never tell you how beautiful you are,” he blurts, but it’s soft. Barely more than a whisper. “But I think it. All the time.”

He brushes a stray hair out of your face. His hand lingers by your cheek, his touch so barely there that it tickles.

“What’s gotten into you?” you ask, voice wavering with nerves. You want to pinch yourself, check if this is some dream you’re having, but you’re frozen under his piercing gaze.

“A little courage, I think,” he says, cupping your cheek more firmly. “You mean a lot to me, you know? I don’t say that either. There’s a lot I haven’t said.”

James didn’t plan for any of this to come out tonight. But here you are, a breath away, looking up at him with something akin to awe. Standing in the same spot he stood when he told his friends how screwed he was after he realized he was in love with you. In the kitchen where you helped him come back to himself after his father's death, just by being there.

It’s unplanned, and somehow, it’s perfect. His eyes dart down to your lips and stay there, and you find yourself closing your eyes.

His lips brush against yours softly. You tilt your chin up some more, and he closes the remaining distance. Your lips are soft and taste like butterbeer. James thinks he’d like to live in this moment forever as your lips slot together perfectly, like it’s meant to be.

The tenderness of James’s kiss has you melting into him, your arms wrapping around his middle, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His free arm snakes around your waist, holding you flush against him.

When you break the kiss to come up for air, he rests his forehead against yours. You’re both flushed and panting, letting the moment wash over you. James is the first to pull back, only so he can get a clearer look at you.

Breathtaking, he thinks, tracing your cheekbone with his thumb.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he whispers.

Your eyebrows pinch together, and you’re unable to believe what you’re hearing. “You have?”

James nods, his mouth curling into a soft smile. “Every time I look at you. Every time I hear your laugh, see your smile. All I can think about is how badly I want to pull you close and never let go.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” you whisper, grip tightening on his shirt to ground yourself as he tells you what you’ve dreamt of hearing a million times over.

“Didn’t think I had a chance,” he murmurs.

You don’t see the logic in it, don’t think about the years of friendship with no clear indication that it could be something more. It stopped you from saying anything, too, didn’t it? But all you think about is how you’ve wanted him just as badly this whole time.

“You’re kidding,” you say in disbelief, still trying to catch your breath. “You must be daft.”

“Must I?” James chuckles, his eyes crinkling in the corners as his smile stretches wider.

“James,” you say, your tone turning serious. “You’re the only one who stood a chance.”

A surge of emotions sweeps through him, his lips part as he sucks in a breath, and he can’t help but kiss you again.

He wants you to stay the night, not ready to let go of you yet. He asks you this time, and you say yes.

You lie face to face in his bed, sharing a pillow. Limbs tangled, whispering sweet nothings to each other.

“Is it too plain if I ask you to be mine like this, now?” he asks, cradling your cheek like you’re something precious.

“It’s perfect,” you murmur honestly. What could be more perfect than this tender moment, under the glow of moonlight filtering in through his blinds, you at home in his arms?

He hums, clearly not satisfied. “I’ll get you flowers tomorrow. I’ll bake you a pie,” he decides. “I’ll spell out ‘will you be my girlfriend’ in the crust.”

You giggle, imagining the mess he’s going to make. When it comes to cooking, he’s a real chef, but baking? Psh.

“Can I say yes in advance, though?” you ask, nose brushing with his.

“Please.”

Your lips stretch into your widest, sleepiest smile. “Yes,” you say simply, and he presses his lips against yours once again.

You feel a little less adult now, somehow. More like a giddy teenager having her first kiss, even though it’s not.

And, you finally have some exciting news of your own now. You can’t wait to tell your friends.

James kisses you until neither of you can possibly stay awake any longer, falling asleep all tangled up.

In the morning, Remus is the first in the flat to wake. A bit peeved that James never finished cleaning up after last night. But when he sees your shoes still by the door, he doesn’t mind anymore.

Sirius hugs you both shortly after you emerge from James’s room, acting like an overexcited puppy as he cheers, “About time!”

Effie says the same thing when you visit her with James on that Sunday. Neither of you even said anything, she could just tell.

It’s Effie, of course she could tell.

She pulls you both into her arms, rocking back and forth with joy.

“Fleamont would be over the moon,” she whispers.

And you all hug each other a little tighter.

· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·

[peterplanet]

icarus—j.p

summary: in which you make a potion that remus relies on every month and james realizes the myth of icarus might not have been so far-flung. [mutual pining, friends to lovers, slow-ish burn (a real slow burn would've been 15k words)]

wc: 6.2k

a/n: i've been writing this for ? like 3 months??? it was just kind of a collection of moments at first while i studied for the bar exam but now it's done !! it can leave my google docs !!

masterlist | my requests are open | lmk what u thought of this!!

Something fundamental has shifted. James knew it was coming from the first moment that he looked at you—eleven-years-old with a desperation to be someone worth stepping foot in the Great Hall, someone worth the protective edge of the family that he’d chosen—he knew it was coming, but that still didn’t prepare him for the moment that it did.

You’re older now than the picture he painted of you in his mind’s eye. You’re not a shy, quiet eleven-year-old anymore. Not even the version of who you were at seventeen, riding the boats that had taken you to your first day at Hogwarts, prepared him for you now.

You’re radiant. The sight of you has always stolen the air from James’ lungs, but he wasn’t prepared for this. He feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him, like he’s that same bumbling eleven-year-old trying to catch your gaze and keep it.

You see him before he has time to plan his next move. Your eyes move from the Auror you’d been speaking to and hold James’ gaze for only a moment before your smile spreads slowly over your face.

“James Potter,” you say as you make your way over to him. The Ministry bustles around him, lively in every corner, but he still tries to commit the way you say his name to memory.

You existed on the periphery of his social group throughout Hogwarts as a friend of Lily’s. Despite his constant pining after her, he knows a part of him was just too scared to admit the pull he felt towards you. He’d only started to realize it when he finally let go of the feelings he had towards Lily in seventh year, finally aware that she was far more into Dorcas Meadowes than she could ever be in him.

James goes to say your name and feels his words catch in his throat. Your hair catches the lights of overhead candles in a way that James finds teaches him the meaning of the word iridescent. And that’s not even the worst part.

James knows that a seismic shift has occurred, a world-changing level of difference bleeding into his reality, because of the way you look at him. You appear to be seeing him for the first time, talking to him in a honeyed tone that he doesn’t remember you using back at school. You were a quiet thing then, timid and understated unless properly roused into a conversation—typically with Remus or Lily, rarely with James or Sirius. 

Lily had told him once that you were put off by his boisterous nature, that the attention he and Sirius drew to themselves often startled you. She’d asked him to try and tone it down for your sake, but he hadn’t known how to be anything but the way he was. And honestly, he’d been too afraid to admit that he wanted to have your attention—too terrified to admit that he would have softened if he devoted enough energy to it.

This version of you—the one who stands before him—seems to have outgrown the need to shy away from his intensity. You seem to be willing to meet him head-on. He wonders, though, what quiet parts of you are still there. He finds himself startled by the bone-deep urge to know the answer to that question.

“I think I’m the person you’re looking for,” you say as you cross the small distance to him. You flash a glimpse of a vial in your hand as you go to stand next to James, your hand discreetly opening around his side to slip the vial into his pocket. “For Remus, yeah?”

Too stunned to say much (Sirius did not warn him that you were the one who made Wolfsbane for Remus when he asked him to take over this month’s delivery), James nods. His words come out discombobulated and stilted, “Uh, yes, I…I didn’t realize, well, I didn’t think—”

“—that I was the one who got the recipe for the drink?” Your gaze is knowingly sharp. You know about Remus, then, James realizes suddenly, and you’re smart enough to stop him from saying anything that he shouldn’t when surrounded by witches and wizards who would want nothing more than to get the scent of an unregistered werewolf. “I don’t usually do dropoffs at places of business, by the way, but when Sirius told me you’d be coming in his place, I figured I wouldn’t ask you to make the trek anywhere after work. And I had to come here for a meeting with the girls in the Magical Creatures Department.”

“The girls?” James can’t help but interject. To his knowledge, Amos Diggory is one of the only people who is consistently in the office aside from Cecil Lee. And Cecil only pops in when he has something negative to say about a classification before he retreats to wherever miserable people like to spend the time they don’t have to give to others.

“Cecil and Dumbledore, of course,” you say lightly, eyes scanning around the room as wizards pass you by. “Cecil’s got his knickers in a right twist now because of the advancements we’re making for our furry friends. Says we shouldn’t be giving help to people who can’t do anything for society, and for some reason, Dumbledore wanted me there.” 

You shrug as your eyes tear away from the people passing by, catching James under the brightness of your stare and the weight of your full attention. Any chance that the breath might come back to his lungs evaporates with this development. 

“Anyways,” you go on, “best not to discuss that here, I suppose. Any chance you fancy a pint? There’s a good Muggle pub down the road.”

James feels the color drain from his face as he realizes that you’re not put off by his uncharacteristic silence, that there are things you want to say to him that can’t be said when the ears around you are listening. He wants to tell his eleven-year-old self that at twenty-one years old, he’d be put in this position. He doesn’t think his past self would understand the weight of one-on-one time with you.

He pinches himself—just once, just to make sure this hasn’t been some sort of fever dream—before he agrees.

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You sit across from James in a Muggle pub, two pints between you and a basket of chips. James’ tongue feels heavy, awkward in its attempts to make conversation with you an easy thing. He’s always been boisterous, always been loud, but you’ve reduced him to an imitation of his eleven-year-old self—trying to earn the gift of your undivided attention.

“When did you start making…” He has to stop himself before he says the word potion, the Muggles around the pair of you already suspicious of James’ Auror robes that you’d assured him were more in-fashion than some of what you’ve seen in Muggle London.

“I started working on it with Professor Slughorn in school,” you admit as you set your pint down that you’d just taken a sip from, knowing where he was going before he knew to stop. You lick foam from your upper lip before you continue. “It wasn’t worth talking about then, not really. I was seventeen and fucking stupid, and Professor Slughorn wasn’t much help. It’s one thing to be skilled and a good teacher, but another to create something like that. Slughorn would have stood close to Icarus just to feel the burn as the wax wings melted onto his skin, y’know?”

James does not. His face must give this away because you smile, teeth poking out from behind your lips as you seem to try to stifle the reaction. “Icarus was a figure in Greek mythology, which—really, it doesn’t matter, but I guess the important takeaway is that he was escaping a bad situation with wings held together by beeswax, and he flew too close to the sun and the wax wings melted.”

“That’s where that saying comes from?” James asks, startled. “Didn’t realize it was an insult my entire life when McGonagall said it.”

You laugh at that, really laugh. You drop your head into it and James watches your hair occlude your features, actively resits the urge to brush it back. He hasn’t seen you in over four years and you weren’t even close then—he has no right to casual touches like that.

“Anyways,” you continue, traces of laughter still hanging in the way your voice waivers and fights to continue in a level tone. “Slughorn realized I was trying to do something he couldn’t help with. He sent me to Dumbledore, who was a great help in at least getting me the connections I needed. I think that’s why he called me to that meeting today.

“I’m trying to get it to be accepted as a way to treat patients in hospital,” your eyes hold that knowing quality, the code spoken between the two of you understood. You want to get access to the registry of werewolves to start giving them this potion. “But we’re facing minor setbacks with my dear friend Cecil. Lyall Lupin is all for it, though, of course.”

“How long have you known about Remus?” James can’t help but ask, blunt tone sharpening out the otherwise soft edges of his speech.

You seem to think about that for a moment. 

“Since we learned about it in third-year, I think?” You admit after a beat. “He had very specific days that he missed class. Lily and I would give him our notes.”

James starts at this. He had no idea that you had done that, that Lily had gone out of her way as well. How many people were in on a secret that he thought he had to take to his grave?

Something must show on his face, some flicker of emotion must betray him, because you push the basket of chips towards him. Your gaze is understanding, patient. “We never would’ve told anyone. We never have.”

He mulls this over for a minute, some indignant flicker of jealousy dying in his chest. He takes a few chips and chews them slowly, methodically. 

Remus must trust you implicitly. James finds that he wants to get to that place with you, the intimacy of knowing that you can trust someone’s mutual understanding of what has to be left unspoken. He’s terrified of what that means.

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When James gets back to his parents’ manor, he finds Remus and Sirius waiting for him.

“Thought you got eaten by the Minister for Magic, mate,” Sirius chides as James steps into the entryway. He looks down at his watch, startled to realize the time that’s passed since he finished work. You’d spent the better part of four hours together nursing the same pints you started with.

“Sorry,” he says, genuine contrition in his tone as he passes the vial of Wolfsbane to Remus. “I didn’t realize (Y/N) was the one…that she was the person who figured this all out.”

Some card must leave the space close to his chest by the way that he speaks because Sirius is on him in an instant. “Why is that important information?” He asks, grin teasing as he looks at his best friend.

“Because…” James starts with no end to the sentence, no way to confess what he thinks his friends already know to be true. He catches Remus’s knowing stare, heavy with exhausted fondness. “...I don’t know. She’s not the shy thing she was at Hogwarts anymore, is she?”

Remus, worn down by the month’s progression towards another full moon, chuckles at that in a weary tone. “I think the only people she was quiet around were you two. Never had a problem with me.”

“Who would have a problem with Moony?” Sirius quips. “You’re a natural showstopper with the power to make anyone feel comfortable, babe. Stop selling yourself short.”

The conversation moves on from there, but James finds himself stuck in the idea that you’re no longer shy around him. He can’t help but wonder if that’s a good or bad thing.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

James sees you the next month in a park near your flat. There’s a bustle of life around you—people out for jogs in the rare afternoon sunlight of London, families on picnic blankets, elderly couples on walks. All of it compiles into a beautiful afternoon, picturesque in its banalities.

You’re sitting on a bench in the shade, wearing a pretty floral number that shows just enough skin to leave James desperate for more. He does his best to stifle those urges, scared, as always, by the all-consuming urge to know you in more than just monthly passings.

Most of the past month has been spent in quiet anticipation of what comes next, of what he’s come to realize he wants. James Potter is good at pining—he wrote the book on it, even. But he’s never followed through with intention. He understands that this could make you shy away from him, that it could ruin everything before it’s even been given time to become something.

You have a tote bag sitting next to you. You’re leaning back in the shade, hair rustling in the breeze, eyes closed as you soak in the better part of a rare sunny day. James almost feels bad in disrupting you. 

But you sense him before he even sits down. Your eyes open and your smile blooms slowly over your face, easy like the sunshine peeking through the trees. “Hi, James,” you say as you start fishing around in your tote bag.

You pull out a mid-sized, seemingly hand-knitted pouch and hold it out for James to take as he sits next to you. He takes it from you, fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second.

“This is a cute pouch,” he says in want of something to keep you here, ethereal looking and tender. “Did you make it?”

You nod. “Took up crochet. Was never really good at the household spells in school and I haven’t found the technique now, so I do it by hand.”

James studies the pouch for another moment. He feels the vial of what’s undoubtedly Wolfsbane for Remus in there. He lets his thumb skip over it, tracing the ridges of the bottle with a cautious hand.

“Why do you do this?” He asks suddenly. The question’s been burning him from the inside-out, the one that he wanted to ask when he asked you how you started. He knows that you’re smart, that you’re kind, but he doesn’t understand the depths of you. He can’t reckon with the two images of you—one, a student in a school who got decent grades, never surpassed Lily; the other, this version of you, the one who figured out how to put the right ingredients together and make a potion with the possibility of changing lives.

You pause for a moment, your eyes locked on his. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It isn’t heavy. It hangs in the balance between knowledge and ignorance, settling like humid air. It’s an understanding that there’s too much to say as an answer to that question.

“...I think if you figure something like this out, there’s only one way to do it right. I don’t think you get to be selfish with it, not really. It’s not about money.” Your eyes drift away from his, the weight of what you’re admitting too much to look directly at someone while sharing. “There’s no heroic reason. I’m just…I got lucky. I studied really hard and had the right connections to make this happen, and now I have connections that get me ingredients.

“Your dad invented Sleekeazy, right?” You ask, waiting for James to nod before you go on. “Ask him what he’d do if he got the chance to do something like this.”

You leave a bit after that, having reduced James to pensive silence. His thumb is still tracing the patterns of the crocheted pouch.

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James goes home that night to the manor that his parents bought with a fortune he never thought to question. You think of something great, you get rewarded for it—it’s hard work and dedication, talent and perseverance that he’s never questioned should have been rewarded. And he’s not really questioning it now, either.

He knows that wasn’t what you meant by what you told him, by what you gave him to think about. What his dad did and what you did are two entirely different beasts—one is cosmetic, the other medicinal. 

He goes into his dad’s office almost as soon as he gets home. Fleamont sits in the dying light of the late evening, too enraptured in what he’s reading to have noticed the golden hues turning amber. Still, on instinct, he looks up at the sound of his son’s footsteps stopping just outside his office door.

“How was your catch-up with (Y/N), James?” His dad asks, good natured fondness seeping into his tone as he turns on the desk lamp sitting on his desk. “And how’s Remus?”

James takes post by the window, leaning back against the windowsill so that the pressure is taken off his feet for a moment in the way he’s able to bend his knees. His thumb traces a divot in the wood paneling.

“She’s good,” he says. “And so is Remus—all things considered, y’know?” 

His dad’s eyes turn a shade deeper in understanding. He nods as a way to encourage James on.

“She…uh, she made this potion. She makes it with Aconite and…honestly, I don’t know what else. And if Remus drinks enough of it for the week leading up to the full moon, he’s fully aware of himself when he transforms.”

“How did she figure that out?” His dad’s voice is curious now and he sits a little straighter in his chair. James realizes now that he should have known that this was how this conversation was going to play out. 

“I…that’s not what I want to talk about,” James amends, ashamed to realize he doesn’t really know how to answer that. He sees his dad settle back in his chair and waits a moment before he goes on. 

He takes one breath and then another, finding his words settled in the back of his throat before they come out. “She doesn’t ask for money. She said that if you figure something like this out, there’s only one way to do it right. Is that…I’m trying to figure out what she meant, I guess. Did Sleekeazy feel like that?”

Fleamont takes a moment to himself. James watches it happen, the way his father’s breath draws in on a deep inhale and hangs behind his ribs before he lets it go. He settles into the silence with the knowledge that they’re both trying to fathom how someone could discover what you did, how you could still be selfless in light of something that could have made you a fortune.

His father’s eyes train back on his own. He doesn’t break eye contact as he answers. “What I did was a cosmetic fix,” he says, voice steady if colored with hesitancy. “What she’s doing is bigger than that. A lot of very powerful, intelligent people would have tried to make a fortune off of it, and I imagine she’s gotten a lot of interested parties showing up at her doorstep asking her for the recipe.

“I don’t think she’s selfless in this. I think she’s calculated. I’m not sure that there’s an important difference there, but…She knows that to ask a werewolf to pay for this potion would leave her as economically situated as she is if she asks for nothing—no werewolf, registered or unregistered, is able to get the type of money to pay for this potion in the correct dosage every month. So, she had a choice.

“She could ask apothecaries to carry the potion, at which point no unregistered werewolf would get it. And no registered werewolf would walk in asking for it for fear of judgment. Instead, she builds a reputation by word-of-mouth and gives it away. She gets family members who give her ingredients or donations, whether she asks for them or not. She keeps on going, and no one has to come forward.”

James sits with this for a moment in the window of his father’s study. He tries to reconcile with the fact that you may not have been selfless, but he can’t very well find a distinction in the underlying truth—you gave up profit for the possibility that more people would find their way to you for something that you’re willing to dole out.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

The next time James sees you, it’s at a party. You’re talking to Remus in the corner of the flat that he shares with Sirius, eyes alight as you nod along to what he’s saying. James almost feels bad for interrupting you, but he finds himself constantly drawn to the weight of your gravitational pull. There is no room that you can enter without him finding his way to you.

When you see him, James tries not to tell himself that your eyes seemed to brighten. He’s trying not to ruin what’s just begun, what might not have even started. 

Remus doesn’t stop talking when James approaches him, and he’s shocked by the conversation you’re having. It’s not often that Remus will talk so candidly about his condition—the boy who made a myth out of a shack on the hill usually lives in him in these moments, taking over and keeping him from being vulnerable.

“—it’s mental, really. The transformations are still…painful,” Remus says this like his hesitance could save you the brunt of that confession. You don’t show any signs of taking it to heart. “But they’re bearable. The last thing I remember each month isn’t pain.”

You smile at that—a slow, blossoming thing. Before you can respond, Remus notices James and turns to let him into the conversation. You stand in an odd, almost-triangle in the corner of the party. It’s rare that James Potter finds himself anywhere besides the center of a room, attention drawn to him like it doesn’t know where else to look.

“Hi, James,” you say, voice a gentle lull against the boisterous sounds of the party behind him. 

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Remus decides after only a second’s silence. When he catches James’ gaze as he turns to leave, his stare is full of knowledge that only comes with a lifelong friendship—we’ll talk later, you’re being weird. 

You watch Remus go, a little startled, and James watches you, unsure of what to say. This isn’t the environment he thought he’d find you in and he finds himself floundering uncharacteristically. 

After a moment’s pause, he dares to speak. “I didn’t realize you’d be here,” his tone takes on an awed quality, tender in its sincerity. He wanted it to come out cooler, more suave, more assured, but he’s laying his cards on the table faster than he expected to.

You laugh into your drink, draining the last few sips from it. When you lower it again, your thumb traces the ridges on its side. “I didn’t expect Sirius to invite me, honestly,” you admit. “But I guess Remus pleaded my case.”

James wonders, briefly, if that had anything to do with the conversation they had after James first got the Wolfsbane from you. He files that thought away for the later conversation that he knows Remus will cash in on.

“Sirius loves a party,” James supplies. “And you’ve always been friends with his—our—friends. He’s invited far more unsavory types to these things.”

You smile at that, posture relaxing with the effort of it. You don’t seem to know what to say to that, and James catches a glimpse of the girl he remembers you as—not in a harsh way, but just as a memory to the girl he reckons you carry with you everyday in bits and pieces.

As a consequence, James finds himself talking in a way that’s reminiscent of who he was at sixteen—desperate to keep the attention on him just to prove that he’s someone worth looking at, to make up for the parts where he feels like he’s failed.

“I talked to my dad, by the way,” his words come out jumbled, rushed in an attempt to keep you looking at him. He knows now why he was called Icarus so many times without understanding the meaning, understands it inherently when he finds himself this desperate to hold your interest for just a little bit longer. If the warm kiss from the sun felt anything like your undivided attention does, James reasons that he would’ve let his wax wings melt, too.

“He thinks you’re one of the smartest people he’s heard of.” His dad never said that outright, but it was in the gleam of his eyes and the way he turned to look at James in order to register everything that he was saying. “He has questions I couldn’t answer. But he thinks what you’re doing…it’s calculated. You knew what you could and couldn’t get from something like this, but you still had a choice. And you made it in a way that I…I guess I might never understand, but I’ll always respect. Because you’re helping people that no one else wanted to touch because you heard how painful something was when you were thirteen.”

James realizes, then, what’s been troubling him about you and your selflessness. It comes rushing out before he can stop it. “I don’t think you even took it as a choice, though. Did you?” He tries to keep the awe out of his voice and knows he fails.

In the dimly lit corner of Sirius and Remus’s flat, James looks at you and sees your expression flicker into something reserved, something that suggests that he’s hitting a nerve you never intended to leave exposed. He reckons he’ll remember the way the lights in the flat cast shadows on your face for as long as he lives, that a part of him will always be stuck in this memory of the moment where he tried to figure you out and came close. 

“It sounds really fucking noble when you say it like that.” Your tone sounds angry at first, but James watches as the corner of your mouth tugs up until your face is splitting into a barely-contained smile. He feels relief, thick and sweet, warm and buttery, at the realization that you’re joking. “And, for the record, I wasn’t thirteen—I didn’t even think about this until sixth year. Honest. I wasn’t part of the Slug Club like Lily and Slughorn barely let me have access to the Potions classroom after class to use spare supplies. He didn’t even think that I was capable of doing something like this. I don’t think anyone did.”

Your tone has turned wistful as you study your cup, swirling around the remaining dregs of whatever miserable concoction you’ve been dealing with that Sirius dreamed up. You go quiet for a minute, but James has a feeling that you’re going to continue. He’s rewarded after a moment and gets caught by your gaze meeting his, sharper than it had been in your moment of introspection.

“It wasn’t a choice for someone like me. I was mediocre at best in school—” 

James makes a pained sound at that, feels it catch against his Adam's apple as he tries to swallow it down. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks in a way that James tries not to make other people do.

He’s shaking his head as he starts to speak. “You weren’t mediocre.” At the way that your mouth twists as if readying to tell him otherwise, James holds up a hand to stop you. “You weren’t. You were…You were quiet, sure, but so was Remus. So was Regulus. You showed up, which I think is more than I could say about myself. You weren’t mean, or rude, or…I think kindness has something to do with being above average. 

“Every day, you made a choice to be good. You gave Remus your notes every month and didn’t ask for fanfare about it or even tell anyone.”

“Does someone else’s kindness take away from yours?” He counters easily. “I know you don’t want to believe me that it was a choice because it didn’t feel like one. But it was, sweetheart, and it still is. And you’re playing this off like you weren’t someone worth seeing. I’ve never once thought that you weren’t brilliant—and I never once thought that you shouldn’t be seen like that, either.”

Silence settles between you, though James finds it ironic to consider the lull in conversation quiet when the din of the party drones on behind him. He sees you thinking, biting your lip as you worry it between your teeth. He resists the urge to pull it free from between your teeth, satiates the urge by taking the empty cup from your hands. 

“Stay put, yeah? I’ll get you another drink.”

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Remus catches James the next morning in the throes of a pounding headache and a dry mouth. He sets a glass of water down in front of where James is laying on the couch, where he’d spent the night before following the party.

You’d gone home pretty quickly after your second drink, despite Sirius’s pleas to stay. The party had, James assumes, gotten overwhelming for you around that point. Marlene and Dorcas had gotten into a (loving) (tender-hearted) argument regarding the freedom of house elves while James and Remus played a round of exploding snap. The conversation you’d been having with Lily had seemed to fade out, and you’d left with a promise that you’d come to the next gathering. James hopes that was true and not just you trying to get out of something that overwhelmed you.

“What’s with you and (Y/N)?” Remus asks, no fanfare to the blunt nature of his questioning.

James sits up, feeling mildly accosted before ten in the morning on a Saturday. “I, uh, nothing?” James offers, cringing at how unconvincing he sounds.

Because the truth is complicated—James has wanted you since he knew what that meant. He knows he came close to saying what he meant last night when he told you not to talk down on yourself. He knows you’re smart enough to figure it out yourself, that you can read into what’s gone unsaid.

Remus fixes James with a look that begs the question of really? and James knows that he’s cornered. For as much as he believes that you can understand the conversation that took place between the lines last night, he also knows that Remus has known him since the worst of his Icarus days. It’s stupid to lie to someone who knows you that well.

“Do I have to say it?” James pleads, head hanging in his hands as he covers his face. 

For as vulnerable as James is comfortable being, he finds that his limit is often putting words to that vulnerability for the first time. He feels the words die on the back of his tongue, a speech gone unsaid, a coward’s breath caught in the back of his throat. 

“Not to me,” Remus muses. “But I think she deserves to know.”

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When you get the owl from James asking to meet you in the park where you’d given him a vial of Wolfsbane, your heart finds its way to your throat. You’ve wondered what to call the something blooming between you two ever since he told you that you were someone worth seeing, too nervous to admit how badly you want it to be true. 

It’s easy to get lost in thought on the way to the park. It’s easy to fall into self-deprecation, the worry that you’ve somehow overstepped in a way you didn’t know you could. Your entire life has felt like a dance you don’t know the steps to but wind up performing anyways, like you’re waltzing into the right moments and thoughts in a way that isn’t entirely your doing. You’ve made discoveries that you don’t know how to take credit for when it feels like it was just luck that got you to the conclusion that so many hadn’t considered.

You pick at your nails as you sit on a bench. You’re early—you’d been too anxious to stay home, too wound up to take your mind off of what was about to happen. If you were honest with yourself, you’d admit that you’re terrified that James is going to come and tell you that his friends all secretly hate you. 

James shows up right on time. He’s not as polished as you’ve known him to be before—he looks like the shadow of who he was in Hogwarts, wind-swept hair and a tie that’s slowly undoing itself, and hardly the man you know him to be now. He doesn’t seem to have the countenance of someone who’s about to break bad news. In fact, if you were an optimistic person, you’d hedge a bet that the glimmer you see in his eyes is hopeful.

“You alright?” He asks, noting the way you’re picking your nails.

Your voice tangles itself in your throat. All you can do is nod and give him what you hope is a tender smile, not a warped grimace.

“I, uh, know the owl was a bit sudden,” he admits. “I also know that you…that I might be making this up. That I might be reading into something that isn’t real. And if I am, I promise I’ll…I’ll get Sirius to do the pick-ups for Remus again, or…or whatever it takes to get back to normal with you. It wouldn’t be honest of me to keep something like this to myself, though.”

You sit next to James, a whisper of space between the two of you. If you turned just a smidge to the left, your thigh would brush his. You wonder if you should put distance between the two of you before you can stop yourself, too caught up in the mystery of where he’s going with this. You’re too cautious to hope that it’s what you want, that he could want it, too.

“Sorry,” he continues after a beat of silence. “I’m rambling. I think—I know what I’m trying to say is that I really like you. I liked you in school, more than I think you knew. It wasn’t Lily. Not after she told me about Dorcas. And I think…it’d always been you. And it still is. For me, at least.” 

Your heart finds its way to your throat, your mouth opening slightly to give it room to beat. All of your normal brazenness is quieted under the weight of what James has just given to you. You snap your jaw shut, looking away from James as you try to find your words. You’ve wanted this so badly that you don’t know what to do now that it’s been given to you. 

Your silence must read one way to him, because he’s backpedaling immediately. “Again, I-I’m not in the business of making you uncomfortable. If I’m…if it’s one-sided, I’ll—”

You reach out for his hand before you can stop yourself, your gaze locking back on his from where it had strayed. “It’s not,” you hurry to say. “I didn’t…James, I didn’t think you’d ever…I mean, Lily was your focal point for so long I just never…I didn’t want to hope. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not good at letting myself want. I think I wanted to hear you say that so badly that I didn’t know what to do when I heard it.”

As soon as you’ve spoken, James is pulling you closer. Your thighs are touching now, legs tangled from the awkward push of your bodies together as James hugs you from the side. He’s practically buzzing, hands restless as he takes in what you’ve said. 

“Oh, thank fuck,” he breathes into the curve of your neck. You try to find where to put your hands, one landing around his side while the other finds its home in your lap. “Sweetheart, you had me fucking worried there.”

You can’t stop yourself from laughing. He pulls away from you just enough to look at you, his eyes focused on yours. His gaze darts to your lips, then to your eyes again. There’s another question in his gaze, another conversation taking place without words. 

You don’t make him ask this time. You close the distance, lips pressed to his before you can doubt yourself. You let yourself have what you’ve wanted, what you didn’t dare to assume you’d ever get, and relish in the way that it feels to have the confirmation that you’ve always known where the story was going to end.

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The story was always supposed to find its way to this moment, James thinks. With the kiss of the sun’s warmth on his back, your lips on his like a whisper of a prayer he didn’t know would ever be answered.

He wonders if the falling felt all that different from flying.

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tags: @faefictions, @ellecdc

lmk if u want to be added to my tag list (in general or for specific ppl!) or if u want to be left alone!!

[shinimegami]

[thestormscrolls]

no way in hell am i passing this up

[6-couture-deactivated20171109]

a student from uni scrolled past this and ended up failing all of his courses, even the ones he thought he passed… not gonna take this chance.

[tjourdann]

^ seriously??

[roseidol]

I need this in case we go to online classes

[selenewowww-deactivated20260430]

i need all the luck I can get

[moonstruckme]

hey! ik that you’ve written similar stories so feel free to not do it or change the plot however u may please loll! i feel like all of us anons are getting wisdom teeth surgery recently and i just joined the club. it doesn’t have to be the same surgery, but i had this idea where reader has to get it done and thinks she can handle it on her own even though she shouldn’t. and ofc somehow ex! james potter is contacted and being rlly sweet anyways while she’s delirious. maybe we have a lil confession of remaining feelings and out of all the things that could have startled james that’s it heh heh :) thank uuu

Hope you're doing well angel, thanks for requesting!

cw: modern au, anesthesia, memory loss, joke about sexual favors

ex!James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 1.6k words

“Look, it’s James!” the nurse announces cheerily, escorting James into the room. 

It’s clearly an attempt to pacify you. Your eyes are red and nearly as puffy as the rest of your face, tears shining on your swollen cheeks. Despite his trepidations about being here, the sight of you so obviously out of it has James biting down on a smile. 

“James?” You look for him. 

“Hey, hi.” James steps out from behind the nurse. He gives you a little wave. “How are you feeling?” 

“James.” You tear up again, confessional. “They won’t let me drive home.” 

He gives a nervous chuckle. “I know, love. That’s why they’ve called me. I’ll get you home, don’t worry.” 

“But I can do it myself,” you whimper.

“Alright!” The nurse claps her hands, forcing pep into her voice. “Let’s get you up, then.” 

James steps forward to help her lift you out of the chair, all while you cry and protest that you really can do it yourself. He fights the urge to hush you with a kiss between your brows. This is incredibly, hilariously, typical of you. Even when you were together, you resisted James doing anything for you, from making you breakfast to lifting your heavy furniture when you moved. You have always been obstinately self-reliant. He’s never had you weepily grouse at him before that you’re not a baby, James, however. 

You’re so distraught at the prospect of leaving your car behind that James abandons his, wrestling you (very gently) into your own passenger seat and cramming himself behind the wheel. It feels strange, like being back in your life in small but intimate ways. The car smells like you. James knows where to find tissues when you ask to wipe your face, and he recognizes the station the radio is tuned to when he switches the ignition on. He’s taking you to your apartment next, which is sure to be even worse. 

You whine a bit as he adjusts the seat and mirrors about him ruining your car, but quiet when he reminds you that the alternative is riding in his car, which you seem to find indubitably worse. Then you collapse tearily onto James’ shoulder over him being so tall. He pats your head intermittently while he drives you home. 

James was right. It is worse at your apartment, even worse than he imagined, because you’ve changed things. There’s a new painting hanging on the wall of the sitting room. The plant you cared for all of the two years you were together has been replaced by another. (Did it die? James feels he has to know.) The corner where he always tossed his shoes is now occupied by an umbrella and a bin of recycling waiting to be taken to the curb. After he gets you settled in bed, James sets out to make you a smoothie but can’t find the blender, though that’s fine because he discovers applesauce in the fridge you seem to have stocked just for this purpose. (It’s not fine. James used to know exactly where to find your blender and he doesn’t understand how you could move it. What kind of sick joke is that?) 

You’re still awake when he goes back into your bedroom. Your body relaxes upon his entry, as though you’re relieved to see him. “Where’d you go?” you ask. 

“You said you were hungry,” James reminds you. “How about some applesauce?” 

Your mouth drops open in apparent delight at this reveal, but your mood changes fast when a piece of gauze falls out onto your lap. 

“Oh.” You look down at it in horror. Your eyes lift slowly up to James’, filling, for the hundredth time in an hour, with tears. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” He laughs a little, helplessly, setting the bowl of applesauce down on your nightstand to help you. He brushes his thumbs under your eyes. “Shh, it’s fine, lovely. Aren’t you sick of crying?” 

“I don’t know,” you whimper. “I don’t mean to. I never usually cry so much, I promise.” 

“I know, sweetheart.” James gives your shoulder a squeeze, indelibly fond. He’d really like to fold your head into his chest and keep you captive there while he kisses you from dusk into dawn; it’s a lucky thing that your condition prevents it. “I think it might actually be okay to take the gauze out now. Do you want me to get the other one?” 

You nod, sniffling, and you open your mouth again. James extracts the remaining gauze carefully, taking both pieces to dispose of them in the bathroom bin and reassuring you when you cry out pitifully at his leaving. For someone who refused to plan for any post-anesthesia assistance until the nurses at the clinic literally forced you to call someone, you turn needy fast. 

This doesn’t prevent you from wrinkling your nose when James tries to feed you applesauce. 

“I’m not a baby,” you tell him. 

James fights to keep his lips still. “You’ve said. But you’re not very coordinated right now, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself by accident.” 

You only continue to pout at him. Your brow creases as you plainly try to plot some way around this; it’s dreadfully cute. 

He lifts the spoon enticingly. “Aren’t you hungry?” 

“Can’t I…what if I drink it with a straw?” 

“You can’t use a straw right now,” James explains apologetically. “Sucking on things could hurt your mouth.” 

“I can’t suck on anything?” 

“No.” 

This seems to worsen your distress. You look at your lap, muttering, “I don’t know how I’m going to thank you, then.” 

What starts as a surprised cough turns into a stream of nervous laughter. James nearly fumbles your applesauce, trying desperately to quiet himself. Fucking hell. 

“James.” You look resentful. “It’s not funny.” 

“No, I’m sorry. Erm, that won’t be necessary.” James sets down your applesauce when he starts coughing again, putting a hand to his chest. “We don’t do that anymore.” He doesn’t add that you’ve never needed to return favors, via sexual means or otherwise. You’ll only argue with him. 

Your brow creases anew. “Why not?” 

“Well, it’d be a bit strange.” James eyes you, adding when your bemusement doesn’t let up, “...since we’re broken up.” 

The heartbreak that comes over your expression is enough to make the fissures in James’ own heart burn. “We are?” you ask. 

Oh. James did wonder, when he got the call from the dentist’s office, why you gave them his name of everyone’s in your phone contacts. This explains that. It also explains why you seem so intent on keeping him close, why you do things like hold James’ hand and lean on his shoulder without reservation. It’s not only that you’re feeling sweet and touchy as an effect of the anesthesia; it’s that you’ve forgotten you don’t do those things anymore. 

“Yeah, sweetheart.” James probably shouldn’t be calling you that after just having broken the news, for danger of confusing you, but it’s difficult not to when you look so sad. “For a while now.” 

“Wh…why?” Your eyes grow glossy again. While some of the other things you’ve cried over today James has found a bit silly, this he understands completely. 

“We just thought it was best,” he says softly. “It’s okay. It’s been a while since then, and we’re alright. You’re doing well.” This is something James has gleaned from run-ins with friends-of-friends. He can never resist asking after you, and he’s glad he has the information to supply you with now. “You're doing great, lovely. It’s okay.” 

You look up at him through wet lashes. “But don’t you love me?” 

James swallows. It’s not a question you’d ordinarily be cruel enough to ask, though he knows you’re not trying to be cruel now either. This is something he’s always been honest with you about. “Yeah, I do.” 

“Then why are we—why did we break up?” 

He struggles for words. “Because—” 

“I love you,” you insist, tearily. It’s a gut punch. Whatever words James was in the middle of finding evaporate from his tongue. Of all the things you could have said, he expected that the least. “So can’t we just get back together? Please?” 

“I…” His throat feels dry. “I know you might think that now, but—” 

“No, I know it.” Tears drip from your chin, your voice shattered. The broken pieces of it prick and stab at James’ guts. “I love you. I feel it so much, and I don’t understand. If I love you and you love me, why don’t we just keep doing that? I’m not going to stop. I can tell it won’t stop, James, please—” 

“Okay.” James leans forward, touching his forehead to yours and squeezing his eyes shut so they won’t burn so badly. “Okay, shh. It’s okay, sweetheart.” Your body shakes with tiny sobs underneath him. “I promise it’s okay.” 

“Please?” you ask, brokenly. 

“Sure. We’ll talk about it, okay?” 

“Now?” 

“No, not right now.” James kisses between your brows, partly to soften the blow and partly to give himself another moment to breathe. When he leans back, he tries on a small smile. “But later, alright? Once you’re feeling better. Don’t you want some applesauce for now?” 

You blink, looking a bit dazed. James can relate. “I forgot about applesauce,” you admit. 

“Yeah?” he laughs. “You ready for it?” 

You sit up a bit, sniffling, but level James with a stern look as he reaches for the bowl. “Don’t try to do airplanes or anything.” 

Despite the ache in his chest, James’ grin spreads from a genuine place. “Okay, I won’t.” 

[thereserecords]

IM FUCKING SPEECHLESS 😭 but all that i can say abt this is that i had to place my phone down, cover my mouth in shock, and clutch my chest at different parts throughout this fic like i was actually hurting as james “the ex with unending love” potter 💔💔💔💔

so actually after this they both got back together and then also got married and also built a house together and also

[anon-188]

tradition

pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 0.8k

summary: clark grew up with home videos. you decided to keep the tradition going.

warnings: established relationship, FLUFF, pregnancy themes (bonus), written in headcanon/multiple scenarios style.

- a/n: just a little something while i finish up my other works for the week! thanks for being patient ♡// (gif/photo creds: @olympain)

Clark often shared his childhood memories with you, little moments he held onto with quiet affection. You could tell how much they meant to him, the way his voice softened whenever he mentioned his parents or the farm.

So when he brought up how they used to film home videos—grainy footage, clunky camcorder, someone narrating everything in the background—you got an idea.  

You walked into the kitchen with the camera already rolling. Clark stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled way too good, completely unaware.

“It should be done in a few—” he said, then looked up.

His brows lifted the second he saw the camera pointed at him. A soft laugh slipped out, low and surprised. “What are you doing?”

“Continuing tradition,” you said, grinning as you zoomed in just a little.

“Tradition?”

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Picking up where your parents left off. Home videos—grown-up edition. We’re seriously lacking in flannel though, but we’ll work on it.”

That made him laugh, full and wide, his head tilting back slightly as it broke out of him.

And you made sure to catch every second of it.

One morning you pulled out the camera, letting it record as you stepped toward Clark’s side of the bed. The sheets were rumpled, his arm draped over the edge, morning light slipping softly through the curtains. His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, sticking up in a few stubborn directions.

He stirred at the sound, squinting one eye open, voice gravelly. “You filming me?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling behind the lens.

A lazy smile tugged at his lips. He let out a low laugh, then shifted toward you, one hand sliding around your waist, hauling you back toward the bed.

“Wait!” you yelped, the camera slipping from your grip as he pulled you on top of him.

You laughed as you landed, tangled in the sheets and in him.

"Morning," he mumbled, pressing you closer to his chest.

“Good morning,” you whispered back. Then you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips—the kind that lingered. Somewhere on the bed, the camera kept rolling, quietly forgotten.

You hit record, camera aimed at the front door just as it opened with a soft creak. You were grinning already, half expecting to catch Clark mid-yawn, tie loosened, maybe muttering something about the coffee machine being slow again.

But the second he stepped inside, your eyes went wide.

“Clark!”

A streak of red and blue flashed across the screen as you gasped and fumbled with the camera, jerking it away just in time. The lens caught nothing but the trailing edge of his cape before it ended on a blur of drywall and your hand, Clark's low chuckle just barely audible in the background.

Of course you filmed the quiet days, the holidays, the special occasions. But Clark caught on quick—noticed how the camera was always pointed at him.

So naturally, he had to fix that.

You were standing in the doorway one night, camera in hand, watching him brush his teeth—shirtless, hair still damp from his shower.

He glanced at you in the mirror, foam at the corners of his mouth, and smiled around the toothbrush.

Without a word, he reached out, tugging you gently toward him. You laughed, stumbling a little as his arm wrapped around you. He took the camera from your hand with ease, flipping it toward the mirror until both of you were in frame.

“You’re supposed to be in these too, you know,” he mumbled around the toothbrush, voice muffled but amused.

You leaned into him, cheeks flushed with laughter, as he gave the camera a crooked little grin.

The camera caught everything—your laugh, the way he rested his chin against your head, the moment he kissed your temple, toothpaste and all.

And when you watch them all back—those quiet, flickering glimpses of a life stitched together with laughter and kisses half caught on film—he never fails to remind you.

Of all his memories, you’re his favorite.

⟢ bonus! 

The camera shakes a little as Clark adjusts it. You’re in the kitchen, one hand resting on your belly, the other reaching for a bowl on the shelf. Still wearing his oversized T-shirt.

He zooms in—softly, slowly.

And then his voice, warm and steady from behind the lens:

“And this one’s for you.”

A pause.

“That’s your mom. She doesn’t know I’m filming right now—she’d probably throw something at me if she did.”

He chuckles under his breath.

“But she sings to you in the mornings. Craves the weirdest food combinations I’ve ever seen. And she already loves you more than anything.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching him—and roll your eyes.

“Clark.”

“Just say hi,” he grins. “It’s for the baby.”

You shake your head, laughing—but your expression softens.

And then your voice drops, quiet and sure.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur to the bump, hand resting gently on your belly.

Then a whisper from behind the camera:

“You and her—my whole world right there.”

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: @sophiethelesbian @floufli @yeonalie

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3

• links: masterlist | wattpad | summer request fest

[moonstruckme]

Hello again!! (How are u!!)

I saw this thing going around of characters being written with the prompt “who did this to you?” And I think that could be especially delicious with Peter (TASM ofc) 😋 could work as reader being the hurt one or even .. vice versa!! Mayhaps Peter got hurt and the reader is the one to bust someone up, and shows up to class with a broken nose lmao whatever interests you more

- Lots o love 🍁

Thanks for requesting ml!

cw: bloody noses

tasm!Peter Parker x hothead!reader ♡ 878 words

“Just give me a name, Peter!” You’re storming after him, no help at all as your boyfriend pinches his nose closed between his thumb and forefinger, looking around the kitchen for something to stop the bleeding. “Why won’t you tell me?” 

“Because—” Peter finds the paper towels, wadding one up and stuffing it under his nose. “—because I don’t need you running around Brooklyn with a baseball bat over my bruised nose.” 

“It could be broken!”

“I would know,” he says, oddly confident. Peter leans back against the counter, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Your heart aches to see him in pain, but the blood it’s pumping feels like fire, and you prefer to focus on that. “I appreciate that you want to avenge me, sweetheart, but I can handle myself.” 

You give him a deadpan look even though his eyes aren’t open to see it. “Pete, you know I love you just as you are, but you’re not exactly built like a fighter.” 

“I’m stronger than you think.” 

“Be that as it may,” you go on, rolling your eyes at his macho (and in your opinion, completely delusional) self-assessment, “I want to help.” You move closer to him, placing a hand under his head to support the awkward angle of his neck. Peter opens his eyes to give you a grateful look, and you take the paper towel from him, checking to make sure his nose is still bleeding before putting it gently back in place. “I just want to know who did this to you,” you say softly. “Please, honey?”

Peter eyes you, but you see the endearment taking effect, the slight softening in his features and the twitch his hand gives on the counter, instinctively reaching for you.

“It’s not a satisfying answer,” he says after a minute.

“That’s alright,” you encourage him. “I’ll take anything.” 

Peter sighs. “Alright, I didn’t want to tell you because it’s embarrassing.” You feel your eyebrows pinch, but stay quiet. “I saw some guy stealing a lady’s bike in Bushwick, and when I tried to grab it from him, I nailed myself in the face with the handlebars.”  

You feel your eyes go wide, and Peter’s mouth curves on one side in a sheepish half-smile.

“That’s not embarrassing,” you say. “You were trying to help. Anyway, it sounds to me like it was the bike thief’s fault.” 

Peter actually laughs, then grimaces, hand flinching toward his nose. “Yeah, I thought you might say something like that. Can’t give you a name there, baby. I was distracted, so all I saw was the back of his red beanie while he was running off.” 

You pout at him, stroking at the skin beside his nose tenderly. “Well what were you gonna do, chase him down? Then you might’ve really gotten beat up.” 

Peter’s cheeks color faintly pink. “Yeah, maybe. Anyway,” he moves on quickly, taking on a satisfied tone, “there’s no one to get revenge on. I did it to myself.” 

You hum noncommittally. “Well, I’m sorry you got hurt.” 

Peter grins, and when he removes the paper towel this time, the bleeding has stopped. “Thanks, pretty girl,” he says in a familiar tone, hands finding your hips and angling them against his. “If you wanna make me feel better, I’ve got some ideas.” 

You do make him feel better. And the next day, you come into class feeling a lot better too. 

“Shit,” Peter hisses when you sit down beside him, reaching over to turn your face towards the light so he can better make out the bruises around your nose and the dried blood still crusted around your nostrils. “What the hell happened to you?” 

You shrug, enjoying the feel of his hands on your face. “You should see the other guy,” you joke (though really, you wish you had thought to take a picture). “Anyway, now we’re matching.” 

“When I said it’d be fun to match at school someday, this is not what I meant,” Peter insists, thick eyebrows knit together worriedly. “And who’s the other guy? Did you find a bike to beat you up too?” 

“Better.” You smirk. “A bike thief.” 

It’s possible you get too much enjoyment out of watching Peter’s face as it slackens, eyebrows moving gradually upward as his eyes widen in realization. “Wha—but, sweetheart, there’s no way you found the same guy. Did you just pick a fight with some random bike thief?” 

“No, I think it was him.” You quirk an eyebrow. “Tall, red beanie, giant tattoo on his neck?”

Peter’s lips part in wonderment, and you have your confirmation.

“I figured those guys usually work in the same area every time. So when I saw a dude with a red beanie stealing a bike in Bushwick, I was pretty sure I had the right guy.” 

“So, what?” Peter scrubs a hand through his hair. “You went and riled him up until he punched you in the face? Baby, what were you thinking?” 

You roll your eyes. “I got even,” you clarify, leaning back in your seat as the bell rings. “Anyway, your nose might just be bruised, but his is definitely broken. Like I told you, you should see the other guy.” 

[chrisisvbun]

goddess in red. — clark kent x chubby!fem reader.

synopsis: clark wants to help you buy new clothes, but surprise hits him when he realizes how the fashion industry treats plus size women like you.

cw: body insecurities, fatphobia, reader being kinda mean to herself, clothes not fitting, clark also being a little mean to himself, loads of fluff, tiny smut, clark is ao in love with you and your body, clark being really into chubby girls. important: I mention some sizes but remember that they are just numbers, you can be any size and be or not be plus size — it does not matter, different countries have different conceptions of what's plus size !!! I am plus size myself, so I know this!!

words: 1.7k

Clark always paid attention to you. He always has an eye on you, at any given moment. Working, cooking, watching a movie. And not in a creepy or peculiar way, but a protective one.

It worked, really — you felt protected when you sensed his soft gaze on you, or when his hand moved to the small of your back, not to guide you, but to follow you.

But Clark notices everything, even what you think he doesn’t. He sees how you struggle with the jeans that no longer fit, how every morning you search for cream to massage into your waist and stomach to try and shrink it, even just a little. And how, after wrestling with a pair of pants before going out for a walk, he notices how your stride is uncomfortable and how hard it is for you to breathe.

That’s how Clark started a small savings jar. A bit of change from grocery runs, money he found in his backpack, leftover cash at the end of the month — but he made sure to put at least $50 into that jar each month. When he finally saved up a more-than-decent amount, he proudly brought it to your apartment.

You raised an eyebrow when you saw him at your door — you swear that if this man had a tail, he’d be wagging it back and forth. He had that big-dog smile, the kind they wear when they bring the ball back to their owner. He lifted the jar with the word “clothes” written on it in his handwriting, but you still looked confused.

“I saved up some money to take you shopping. I noticed you were uncomfortable in your clothes, and I don’t like seeing you like that.”

You’re a grateful person — especially with him — and Clark knew you weren’t being ungrateful when your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Even when you arrived at the clothing stores street, you insisted he get himself a T-shirt or something, as if you didn’t want that money to be spent on you.

Clark squeezed your hand as you entered a store, where an excessively thin woman with a tight smile greeted you.

“Hi! How can I help you?” the woman asked in a welcoming tone.

“Hi. We’re looking for clothes for my girlfriend — some dresses, short-sleeved shirts, and jeans,” Clark smiled, his usual polite smile, which faded the second he saw your breath falter.

The woman, keeping her fake, tense smile, looked you up and down. “For you?” her tone wavered, as if it carried disgust.

“Yes… for me.” you sighed as you spoke, used to it.

“Alright… alright, yes, feel free to look around. This aisle has all the dress and top models. And that way are the jeans. You can ask me if you need anything.”

“Will do!” Clark smiled as the woman walked away. “Hey, don’t you like the jeans she’s wearing? We could look for something like that.”

Your eyes moved to the figure of the employee, how her small hips were hugged by the stiff denim.

“Uhm, I don’t know…” you said. “Let’s just look around a bit.”

Clark nodded, but was unsure due to your dim and quiet tone.

After a couple rounds, you found two really cute pairs of jeans, along with two shirts and a dress that Clark said — in his words — “would look like a dream.”

You held the jeans against your waist, stretching them a bit to see how far they’d go. You noticed how the corners reached only the middle of your thigh, and your pout began to show.

“Excuse me, is this the largest size you have?” you asked the same employee.

Again, that same scanning look from top to bottom. “Yes, we carry up to size 10 in jeans. What’s on display is what we have.”

“Size 10?” you asked, voice lower. “Thanks.” you gave her a tense smile, prompting her to leave. You handed the jeans to Clark. “I’m size 18.” you gave a sad smile. “And the shirts are size 10… I’m size 16…”

Clark looked at the clothes like they’d just insulted him. “We can try the dress.” he smiled sweetly, and you believed him.

After fifteen minutes and no sign of you, Clark called softly.

“Baby?” he muttered.

You sniffled. “I can't zip it…” you said, very quietly, almost a whisper.

Clark closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the door. Everything was going wrong — this was nothing like he’d planned.

“I’ll be out in a minute.” you cleared your throat. “I just want to leave."

When you came out, your small, pretty face was red and swollen from crying, a pout on your lips — and Clark felt like the worst person in the world, like he had done this to you.

“Couldn’t find anything?” that condescending, fake tone filled your ears from behind.

You were about to answer when Clark spoke for you. “No, nothing was suitable. I think this place could use a wider size range.”

“Sir, I can’t help with that. I only display what’s in the store.”

“But you can pass along my complaint to your superior — this place is a disaster. It feels designed to humiliate people who just want to buy something nice.” You looked at him, surprised — Clark usually didn’t complain about service, even if it was degrading. But something seemed to have possessed him as he led you to the car, a hand on the small of your back.

Once seated, you played with your fingers as Clark sighed. His hand went to your shoulder, slowly gliding down your back, fingers moving softly against your skin.

“I’m sorry I brought you here, my love. I didn’t think this through and that was wrong.” He pressed gentle kisses onto your exposed shoulder, and you smiled sweetly while stroking his hair.

“You just wanted to help, Clark. It’s not your fault these stores are awful to people like me. I knew I had to lose weight anyway.”

Clark lifted his head like you’d just personally attacked him, shaking it. “You don’t need to lose weight. We went to the doctor the other day. Your body is healthy, your cholesterol is fine, your sugars are good. And your body is beautiful, my love.” One hand dropped to your plump belly, squeezing it lightly, making you giggle. “If you want to lose weight, I’d love to help you, but I know it’s something hard for you — something you don’t enjoy.”

The kisses on your shoulder moved to your arm and down the valley of your chest, his curls brushing your skin, making it rise in goosebumps. “Your body drives me wild, pretty girl. I’d have you any way, but you don’t know how… feral your stomach, your breasts, your hips, these thighs make me…” one hand dropped to squeeze that part with a growl.

You smiled as your lips parted with every kiss he gave you, panting lightly while your fingers ran through his hair.

“Clark, Clark. You are getting carried away.” You tugged his hair gently so his eyes would meet yours. His lopsided smile, drunk on you, when he noticed your grin.

“There’s that smile.” his lips found yours, kissing you slowly. “I’ll make this up to you, gorgeous.”

You never doubted he would — but you didn’t hold him to it. That’s why, when he showed up at your house desperate to take you somewhere mysterious, you suspected he was up to something.

He stopped in front of a store on a corner, Clark hopped out, basically dragging you in like an excited puppy who found a bone.

A young woman was at the front desk, smiling genuinely when she saw your boyfriend. “Clark! Good to see you again.”

You frowned, confused.

“Doll, this is Carolina. Lois showed me this place and Carolina, very kindly, offered to send me all the clothing they have.” Clark looked at you with sweet, glowing eyes, and you couldn’t say no.

With Carolina’s help, Clark showed you beautiful dresses, jeans, shirts — even skirts, a piece of clothing you’d never thought you could wear — that were all your size or even larger.

“I’m not sure if I like everything because it’s all beautiful or because it all fits.” you said with a genuine smile as you slipped on a long skirt that fit beautifully around your hips.

“You look truly beautiful.” Clark said with heart eyes once he saw the twirl you made to show him the skirt.

You two walked to the front to pay, and Clark noticed a dress he hadn’t seen on you before. “Didn’t see this one.” he tried to get a better look, but you slapped his hand.

“It’s a surprise for tonight, I’m taking you out for dinner.” You said, handing Carolina the bags.

Clark raised his eyebrows beneath his glasses. “You taking me out?” he chuckled.

“God forbid a girl wants to take her boyfriend out to repay him for being so sweet and lovely.” Clark smiled and rolled his eyes, paying without even checking the price.

“You are a tease.” he said after you nudged him.

(...)

“Ready?” you said from behind him.

“Never been more ready.” Clark said, playing with the hem of his white button shirt under the suit jacket.

He turned around when you allowed him to, and he is stunned.

A red, long dress wrapped around your curvy, juicy body so deliciously he feels hungry. And when you turn around to show him the open back, he is literally on his knees.

“Oh, baby, I love this so much…” he said on his knees, and of course, since he is so tall, his head reaches your chest, the open part where the fabric goes up and wraps around your neck. He presses kisses there, hands finding the plush of your thighs under your dress, which he got since it had a slit — the slit killed him — , squeezing them as he gets drunk on your figure. “We are not going out.”

“What? I've made reservations! They make your favorite food.” You smiled, stroking his hair and fitting his glasses.

“Oh, but I've got my favorite food right here, dolly.” He gently pressed you against the wall, slipping under your dress to really eat.

[d1stalker]

Lessons in Chemistry [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: Desperate for your attention, Clark does the unthinkable—he turns to the ultimate girl magnet, Jimmy Olsen, for help.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, POV of clark being astronomically down bad, questionable advice, possible second-hand embarrassment WC: 5k - MASTERLIST

Clark has no idea what he’s doing.

Well—that’s a lie. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He just can’t believe he’s actually going through with it.

Because this? This is rock bottom.

He’s Superman, for crying out loud! He’s flown through electrical storms, wrestled alien warlords into the dirt, and stood eye-to-eye with beings who’ve reduced cities to rubble. But now? Now he’s navigating the bullpen of the Daily Planet like it’s mined territory. His shoulders drawn tight, head ducked low, and hands shoved too deep in the pockets of a button-down that suddenly feels too tight across the chest. This is not something he’s proud of. Not remotely. But desperation has a way of scraping the dignity clean off a man.

And so that’s how he ends up standing at the edge of Jimmy’s cluttered desk, where his friend is hunched over his phone, mid-scroll, and chewing on the end of a pencil. “Hey,” he hisses, barely above a whisper.

The redhead doesn’t look up. “Yo. What’s up?”

A glance over one shoulder. Then the other. His voice drops even lower. “Come here a second.”

That earns a look. “Did you break another stapler? I’m not covering for you again, man.”

The taller man exhales through his nose and scrubs a hand through his hair before jerking his chin toward the far end of the room. “I need your help.”

Jimmy follows his gaze, then grins immediately. 

There you are. Leaning against someone’s desk, your laughter rises above the general buzz of newsroom chatter. Steve from Sports is gesturing animatedly about something, but it’s the shape of your smile that stands out. You’ve been here five months—long enough to memorize everyone’s coffee orders, to have nicknames for the janitors, to be included in that horrendous Daily Planet group chat that really only consists of memes or roasts. Everyone likes you.

Everyone talks to you.

Everyone except him.

Because for five months, every time you walk into a room, he forgets how to be casual. He fumbles his greetings, he adjusts his glasses three times too many, he says things like 'yep' instead of 'yes' and then overthinks it for days afterward.

“She’s cool,” comes the easy, admiring reply beside him from the photojournalist, paired with a small nod. “Smart. Funny. A good taste in music and an even better sense of style. I like her.”

“Yeah.” The word leaves his mouth too fast, too high-pitched. “Same.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Jimmy turns to him suspiciously. “Do you have a thing for her?”

Clark winces, and one hand lifts automatically to the back of his neck, rubbing at the skin like that’ll undo the last ten seconds. “Maybe.”

The gasp that follows is dramatic enough to turn heads. He scrambles to shush the smaller guy immediately, but it’s too late; the gleam in those blue eyes is unmistakable. Gleeful. Deeply annoying.

“Oh my God,” the younger man breathes, drawing out every syllable. “It all makes sense now.”

“Please don’t—”

“No, no—shut up. I’m connecting dots. This is important.”

One finger goes up. “The time you dropped your phone down the elevator shaft. That was her, wasn’t it? When she was entering as we were heading out?”

The silence is damning.

A second finger joins the count. “The coffee incident. The one where you somehow spilled a full latte onto your shoes. I remember she laughed at a joke you made.”

Clark is done for, he realizes, as he covers his face with one hand. This was a mistake.

“And that day,” Jimmy continues, holding up three fingers and visibly thrilled now, “when she wore the Star Wars shirt? You walked into a door. A door.”

“I thought we promised to never bring that up again.”

Laughter, loud and unrestrained, echoes off the vending machines. “You’ve been in shambles, man. You’re in love, and it’s wrecked your whole nervous system. How did I not pick up on this?”

"Jimmy—"

“Now that I think about it, you stare at her like she hung the moon. It’s actually kind of sweet. Like a Victorian gentleman who’s never seen a bare ankle.”

“I’m going to walk into traffic.”

A firm thump lands against his shoulder. “No, you’re not. You’re gonna walk over there, talk to her like a normal person, and ask her out.”

 “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Oh, buddy.” Jimmy claps his hands together like he’s about to give a TED talk. “Lucky for, I do.”

—

Jimmy advice #1: “Just be confident, bro. Show her who’s boss.”

Holy, Clark’s hands are sweating. Like absolutely dripping wet. 

He wipes them down the sides of his pants as discreetly as possible while loitering by the elevators, pretending to read the framed fire safety poster for the third time. The newsroom is pretty empty now—most people have already left, and the cleaning crew is shuffling in. 

Then he hears you.

Or, more specifically, hears the clang of your locker swinging open just down the hall, followed by the low shuffle of bags being rearranged and the muffled click of a zipper. You're humming under your breath. He straightens his collar and takes in a deep breath while trying to ignore the way his palms have already started sweating again. Just walk up to her. Lean in. Be cool.

As he rounds the corner, he spots you. You’re bent over your open locker, bag slung over one shoulder, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to fit a thermos into a space that clearly does not want to accommodate it.

And before he can think twice—before reason or logic or shame can stop him—he approaches and slaps a hand against the metal just beside your head, pinning you there underneath him. You yelp and jump about a foot in the air, whipping around so fast you nearly knock the thermos straight out of your own bag, totally startled, eyes humongous. 

When you look up, you see him, standing inches from you, arm braced against the locker door, posture rigid in an attempt to look casual. And well, it's… not really working. Clark swallows once, then does his best approximation of a charming smile.

“Hey,” he tries, nonchalantly.

You blink. Then: “Oh! Uh—hey, Clark!”

A pause. Your eyes slowly travel to the side, glancing at his hand that is still planted beside your head, before looking back at his face, eyebrows slightly raised. Immediately, Clark moves his hand, hoping you did not hear the little squeak that came with the movement or see the wet handprint left behind on the metal. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh—scare you.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, giving him a friendly shrug and zipping your bag the rest of the way. “I thought you were someone else for a second.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Nope. Just me.”

Another silence creeps in.

“How—how are you?” he asks, a beat too late.

“I’m good, I’m good,” you repeat, nodding a little, like you’re reassuring yourself now. “End of the day, you know?”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out a little strangled, more comparable to a gurgle.

You're still smiling politely, but now you shift slightly—cautiously—and begin to slide sideways out from where he’s standing. Not fast. Just enough that your shoulder brushes the locker door as you edge around him. Enough for him to get the hint. He steps back to give you space, arms suddenly feeling too long, too awkward. He wants to put his hands back in his pockets, but they’re too damp. One of them curls and uncurls uselessly by his side.

“You, uh,” you start, adjusting your bag strap, “need something? Or were you just…?”

The sentence trails off. He opens his mouth, but no words arrive. Your gaze flits toward the exit, then back at him, clearly waiting for something that isn’t coming.

“Well, I gotta go,” you chirp, taking another small step back. “But, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Then you're off—practically jogging down the hallway with a little wave thrown over your shoulder. The thermos bounces awkwardly in your bag as he watches the door swing shut behind you in despair, before letting out a deep exhale and resting his forehead on the locker. 

—

Jimmy advice #2: “You gotta smell good. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

After some quick, heavy-eyed Google searches at 3:32 a.m.—best men’s cologne 2025, top fragrances women love, what scent makes a woman fall in love instantly—Clark lands on Dior Sauvage. The name alone sounds promising, he thinks to himself.

And if the internet is to be trusted (which, in this moment of absolute despair, it is), this stuff is apparently irresistible. Confidence in a bottle. The olfactory equivalent of a smouldering glance and rolled-up shirt sleeves showcasing immaculate arm veins. So obviously, he doesn’t hesitate to go to the drug store as soon as he wakes up.

And when he returns home, in the soft, blue-tinged light of his apartment bathroom, he begins what he imagines will be the subtle, sophisticated application of a new signature scent. He sprays once on his chest, then once on his neck. Then again—just to be thorough. One for each wrist, and another spritz across his collarbone, for good luck, of course. A final, sweeping spritz over his entire torso. His eyes sting a little, but that’s normal, right? That just means it’s working. The more the better, after all.

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Clark gives himself a nod alongside a few finger guns, before getting ready and heading to work. 

-

On the subway, a toddler two seats down starts crying.

He doesn’t notice.

He’s standing there in the packed car, swaying slightly with the motion, briefcase in one hand, daydreaming a quiet little reel of possibility: you, stopping by his desk. Laughing at something he says, getting a whiff of his scent and asking if he wants to grab coffee later. 

Someone coughs nearby. It’s a wet, choked sound.

He doesn’t hear it.

An older woman sitting directly across from him pulls a scarf over her nose and gives him a look, a man on the other side discreetly scoots two inches closer to the door, holding his phone in front of his face, and somewhere behind him, someone mutters Jesus Christ under their breath.

He’s floating.

He can’t wait to see you.

Jimmy said girls love confidence. Jimmy said girls love cologne. And today, he’s got both in spades.

-

The elevator is quiet—thankfully. He’s alone, which gives him a minute to exhale and enjoy the lingering aura of his new and improved smell. Chrome walls reflect a slightly flushed version of his face, he runs his fingers through his hair a few times and adjusts his tie as the elevator slows, reaching one of the lower editorial floors. With a cheery ding, the doors slide open.

The man waiting takes a step forward in to the car, but then abruptly stops mid-step. It almost looks like he’s about to gag, but instead, he swallows, then without a word, he steps backward and just… lets the door close again. Confused, Clark watches as the doors shut and the floor counter ticks upward. Weird. He must’ve been intimidated.

By the time he arrives on his floor, he’s feeling good, excited for the possible newfound attention he could receive. Yet, he barely makes it three steps into the office before Perry intercepts him, clipboard in one hand, and a stack of papers in the other. “These are for you,” he states, holding out the documents. 

“Thanks,” Clark says, reaching for the paper.

Perry sniffs, recoiling just half a step. “Whew. Bit heavy on the cologne, are we?”

“Yeah, uh—wanted to try something new.”

The editor eyes him down, hard, with a look of obvious suspicion. “Okay. Whatever you say, Kent.”

At his desk, Clark is in the process of setting everything up when he hears a loud cackle behind him. “My god, it smells like the first time I had car sex. Bad times,” Lois’ voice exhoes in his ears. 

In response is a light chuckle. Well, a better description would be a devious cackle from Cat. “Right? I’m pretty sure the first time I gave head, the guy had sprayed his dick with it. I can still taste it.” The two women burst into fresh laughter, the kind that comes from shared trauma. Still, he frowns faintly. Someone must be stinky. 

-

It’s a little later when you stop by. He spots you approaching from the corner of his eye, and subconsciously, he sits straighter. His hands fly to the keyboard, typing nonsense to make it look like he’s hard at work when you come into full view with a soft smile, your Planet mug in one hand and your lanyard looped through the crook of your elbow, swaying gently. “Hey, Clark,” you say as you reach his desk. “How’s it going?”

“Hey.” He smiles back. “It’s good. You?”

“Same for m—oh my god.” A short, choked cough cuts you off. Your nose scrunches, your hand instinctively raising to hover in front of your face, fingers pressing lightly beneath your nose. “Do you smell that?”

Does he smell the insanely manly scent wafting off of him? Does he smell like a man you want to kiss? Does he—

“What do you mean?”

“It smells like…” Your face twists, searching for the right word. “Like… the boys’ locker room in high school—” you pause, squinting at the ceiling as if the scent will name itself. “—but worse? Like Axe Body Spray’s evil twin.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Oh,” you perk, recognition dawning. “Dior Sauvage. That’s what it is.”

His expression lights up. “Oh! Yeah! I heard it was good, so I bought some.”

Your lips part open, squinting your eyes as they visibly start to water. “Ah. Well. That explains it.”

You try for a smile, but it comes out pained. Nonetheless, Clark thinks you’re gorgeous.

“Wow. This is bringing up some repressed memories,” you jokingly laugh.

… What did you just say? A slow, creeping horror descends upon him. Jimmy’s voice slithers up from the depths of his psyche like a poltergeist. “You gotta smell good, bro. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

Forbidden memory.

But you just said—

His jaw slackens, his stomach drops and he suddenly feels very hot and very cold at the same time. It’s like his nostrils have only now opened and the surge of the pungent stench fills his nose. Has he really been smelling like that all day? “Oh gosh,” he whispers, barely audible.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting in confusion. “Are you okay?”

Out of nowhere, the Kryptonian shoots up out of his seat so fast it makes you stagger back a few steps in shock. “I–uh–I… I gotta go… uh, to the washroom.”

“You sure you’re good?” 

“Yep. Totally. Fine.” He just wants to get out of here. Throw his clothes into the laundry. Scrub everything off him in the shower. “I just… nature calls.”

Faster than you can respond, Clark makes a run for it. Not to the washroom, but down the emergency stairs and right out of the building. 

—

Jimmy advice #3: “Neg her a bit, show her who’s boss.”

Fricking finally. It’s the end of the week, and that only means one thing: drinks with the Daily Planet crew. Every Friday, without fail, the team migrates to their usual spot—an old, slightly grimy bar with good fries and terrible lighting. Clark usually loves it. But tonight, all he can think about is you, how horrible his week has been, and how this is finally going to be the moment where he asks you out and you say yes. 

He’s spent the last hour trying to find a moment alone with you, but you’ve been moving in and out of conversations, laughing with Lois, or getting pulled away every time he so much as drifts in your direction. However, now, you’re standing at the bar alone, fidgeting with your straw, the light above catching in your hair. You look tired but happy, and now’s his chance.

He takes a breath and walks up beside you. “Hey,” he begins, grabbing your attention as he leans lightly against the counter.

You turn toward him, a smile blooming across your face. “Hey, Clark.”

“Didn’t think I’d get a word in with you tonight,” 

“Sorry.” Your eyes roll in fake exasperation. “It’s like whack-a-mole in here. Every time I stop moving, someone shows up to tell me how I can get even more clicks on the online articles.”

“Have you tried writing about alien dating habits?”

A laugh escapes you as you choke on your drink. “God, I wish. I’d kill for a little interstellar romance. You know how many articles I’ve written about city council zoning laws?”

The Kryptonian laughs. “I’m sure you can find a way to combine the two.”

You make a show of nodding seriously. “Maybe next time I’ll be able to add in a forbidden love subplot between a bureaucrat and a tentacled rebel who just wants to build affordable housing.”

“I’d read it.”

“I bet it’d get me a Pulitzer.”

Clark laughs again—too hard, honestly, and it draws a look from someone down the bar. He clears his throat, feeling flushed, but still smiling nonetheless. Your head tilts slightly as you watch him and he might pass out just from the prolonged eye contact alone. In an attempt to steer the attention from himself, he finds his mouth moving: “I was actually gonna congratulate you on getting the front cover yesterday.”

“You earned it,” he adds, and for a second, the compliment lands. Your mouth quirks into a soft, almost-surprised grin as you stir the ice in your drink again. But then— “I mean,” he goes on, oblivious to the fact that he is beginning to dig his own grave. “I got my first front page after, what, two months? But hey, five isn’t bad.”

You go still. There’s a full second of silence. Then two.

The grin on your face freezes and slowly morphs into a tight line. 

“Ah,” you say, and take a long sip from your drink. “So I was slow. Got it.”

Uh oh. Alarm bells ring inside of Clark’s head. Isn’t this what Jimmy told him to do?! “No—no, that’s not what I—” He’s flailing internally. “I was just joking. Well, uh, sort of. But didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. I guess I still have a lot of catching up to do.”

This is bad. This is really, really bad. He feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. “That’s not— You don’t.”

“Mm.” The look you give him makes his heart drop. Then, you glance back toward the table where Lois and a few others are still seated, waving their drinks around mid-story. “Think it’s time for a refill or something.”

“Wait—”

But you don’t. You’ve already turned around, heading back to your friends.

-

“Jimmy what the f–hey man!” Clark swings the bathroom door open so fast it slams against the wall, the sudden echo bouncing off the tiles.

The redhead currently occupying a urinal jumps. “Dude! I’m literally peeing.”

“I’ve been trying to follow your advice all week,” the taller man hisses, ignoring the fact that they are, in fact, very much in a public men’s room, “and it seems like everything I do has made it worse!”

Jimmy zips up, spins, and holds up his hands in surrender as if the reporter has a gun instead of just—well, bad energy. “Whoa, okay, what happened?”

“You told me to neg her,” All Clark can do is stab an accusing finger through the air. “Neg her! I told her five months wasn’t bad for a front page story—do you realize how that sounded?!” His voice cracks at the end, and he presses both palms into his eyes. “She walked away like I said she was illiterate.”

“Okay, it’s not that bad. She probably just thinks you’re cocky.”

“I’m not cocky!” Clark snaps. Then, quieter, “I’m…I’m the opposite of cocky. I’m anti-cocky. I'm practically allergic to confidence.”

“You say that,” his friend points out, “and yet here you are, screaming in a public bathroom, because you sounded cocky.”

“Agh,” he groans, spinning in a tight, anxious circle. “What do I do? I bet she hates me now.”

A shrug. “Just ask her out, man.”

“What.”

“Ask her out,” he repeats like it’s obvious. “Coffee. This weekend. Boom. Done.”

What follows is a brief moment of nothingness as the brunette blinks slowly, trying to compute that suggestion through a haze of spiralling horror. “You have to be joking. She’s not gonna say yes to me after what I just pulled. I don’t think we’re even there yet.”

Jimmy squints. “You literally can’t get more ‘there’ than cornering her at a bar and insulting her journalism career.”

The Kryptonian flinches. “Dude. Fresh wound.”

“Look, you don’t have to make it weird. Just tell her you were gonna hang out with some friends this weekend, but they bailed.” 

Clark rubs his temples. “So… lie to her?”

“It’s not a lie. It’s more like narrative reshaping.” Not true, but it doesn’t seem like he has a choice. 

“I feel pathetic.”

“You got this,” Jimmy claps him on the back before turning to the exit. “All you gotta do is not what you did before.”

“You mean what you told me to do,” he mutters. 

“Stay strong, brotha!” 

Then he’s alone. He groans in defeat, looking at himself in the washroom mirror. His hair is tousled, his face is beet red, and there may or may not be a few beads of sweat rolling down his back. As someone wise once sang, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. He needs to do this. 

-

It’s almost as if he has tunnel vision in the way his gaze is focused solely on you. He’s a man on a mission, but when he finds you, of course, you’re with a giant group of people. He hovers a moment, fingers twitching at his sides, until finally you turn just enough for his window to open.

He cuts through the crowd, stepping beside you before he can talk himself out of it. “Hey,” he breathes out. 

Your face contorts into a mix between confusion and shock. “Can we—” he pauses, peering at the others around you, who are now definitely listening. “—can we talk?” he finishes, gently placing a hand against your arm. He notices your eyes flicker briefly toward the contact. 

“Uh, sure?”

Shifting awkwardly, he gestures vaguely toward the door. “Outside?”

You nod, passing your drink off to someone nearby and follow him out of the bar. The doors swing shut behind you both with a muffled thud, and suddenly it’s too quiet. You hug your arms lightly for warmth, though the night is mild. “I—” he begins, then rubs the back of his neck, struggling for words. “I wanted to say sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to sound rude or dismissive or… I don’t know. It came out all wrong.”

“What did you mean, then?” You ask. 

“I was just—nervous,” he hates how raw the admission sounds coming from his lips. “You got the front page, and I wanted to say something smart and funny, and it ended up just sounding—well. You heard it.”

You huff a small laugh. “Yeah. It wasn’t your best.”

“Ugh, I know.” He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “But I swear I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I was trying to be... charming.”

“Negging is your version of charming?” It isn’t judgmental in the way you say it, more amused if anything. 

“Apparently,” he mutters. “Look, I’ve been trying to—gah, this is going to sound dumb—but I was wondering if maybe you’d want to grab coffee with me tomorrow?”

Your expression softens. 

“I mean, I was planning to go with some friends,” he adds quickly, taking the literal one second of silence as rejection, “but everyone else bailed, so I figured, hey, maybe you’d be up for it—”

Immediately, the excitement in your eyes fizzles out. “I was your last choice, then.”

“What? No—no! That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer, alarmed. Jesus, he can’t manage to get a single thing right around you, can he? “You weren’t—God, you were the first person I thought of. I just didn’t think you’d say yes if I asked you directly, and then I messed up earlier, and then Jimmy—” He stops, breathing hard. “I’ve been following Jimmy’s advice.”

It takes a minute, but when you register his words, your mouth falls open. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “But why—”

“Why Jimmy’s advice?” he interrupts gently.

“I—well—yeah. He’s not the most… uh, charismatic. Certainly wouldn’t be my first choice.”

The taller man exhales, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. His gaze flickers to the ground, then back up to meet yours. “Because I’ve liked you since pretty much your first day.”

“I remember you dropped your ID badge three times between the elevator and your desk,” he says, a little smile playing at his lips. “You had coffee but no actual mug, just one of those little espresso cups someone gave you at the front. And then Perry introduced you, and you shook hands with the wrong person.”

A choked laugh. “You remember that? I was a disaster.”

“No,” he cuts in quickly. “You were—you are perfect.”

Your eyes dart away shyly, but he keeps going. It’s like the floodgates have opened and nothing can stop him, not even the immense beating of his heart. 

“I didn’t know how to talk to you. I figured if I played it cool, or at least like I was cool, I’d… get your attention.” His brows draw. “But then I panicked and asked Jimmy for help, which, in retrospect, was my first mistake. My second, was actually listening to him.”

“So… The random anime locker slam?

He shudders. “Yup.”

“The Dior Sauvage?”

He closes his eyes, clearly in pain. “Yeah. That too.”

You burst out laughing, head tilted back, the sound bright and unfiltered in the quiet outside the bar. He watches you helplessly, in awe. Your shoulders shake with it as you step in a little closer, your hands sliding up to rest gently on his forearms.

His brain short-circuits.

“Clark.”

“Yeah?” And of course, his voice cracks. Great timing.

Your thumbs graze softly along his sleeves. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

That sends a jolt straight through him—his posture tightens, eyes wide, lips parting like he wants to say something and physically can’t.

“I didn’t think you liked me,” you admit. “You were being so… weird this week.”

“I was being weird.” He nods eagerly, finding his voice. “I was—I am—nervous. You’re very…” He looks down to where you’re still touching him. “Distracting.”

“It’s stupid now—”

“Nothing you say is stupid—” You lift a finger and smush it against his lips. 

“Ah ah ah, I wasn’t done.” At first, he’s startled, but then he obediently goes quiet, though it is obvious he’s dying to respond. And he can’t miss the sight of you trying not to smile at the way his mouth puckers beneath the gentle pressure.

“I thought maybe you knew I liked you,” you whisper. “And you didn’t want to hurt my feelings, so you were trying to scare me off instead. You know. So you wouldn’t have to reject me.”

His eyes go even wider, and he makes a noise behind your finger—something indignant and confused and a little horrified.

You lower your hand.

“Are you kidding?” The words tumble out of him. “I would never do that. Never. I—I’ve been trying so hard to do this right.” He takes another step toward you, and without breaking eye contact, your hands rise, sliding up to press against his chest. 

“I would never want to scare you away,” he reiterates, “not in a million years.”

You’re close enough now that he can feel your breath brushing against his cheek. He wants so badly to wrap his arms around you, but still, he’s hesitant. He doesn’t want to move unless you do first. 

“Well,” you murmur, “good.”

Then you tip your chin up and kiss him. 

It’s gentle at first—so soft it almost doesn’t feel real. Finally, he finds the courage to grip your waist, and he draws you in, close enough that your chest presses against his. He doesn’t realize how badly he’s wanted this, but now that he has it, he knows he won’t be able let go. You curl into him, your fingers clasping the fabric of his shirt as your nose nudges his, and his own rubbing the slightest circle on your skin. 

Clark feels like his brain has shut down and rebooted in the span of thirty seconds.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your lips parting in the ghost of a smile, and before the space between you can settle, he leans in again, chasing your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. You giggle against his lips, warm and breathy, and your hands slide up from his shoulders to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the high curve of his cheekbones, giving him a gentle push.

He has a dazed sort of smile, eyes half-lidded and gooey with affection. 

“Maybe… we should give Jimmy some credit.”

“Absolutely not.”  And he can’t help it—he dips down to kiss you again.

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A/N: the dior sauvage anecdotes are, in fact, based on a true story 😭 i had so much fun writing this though!