#and then a year and a half of learning how to socialize again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

scribes-of-valar · 4 months ago

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𝘍𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘔𝘦

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ ᴋᴇɴᴛ x fem! reader

「 ✦ A/N ✦ 」 I have learned that his eyes are in fact green, I apologize for my horrible ability to figure out eye colors. Also, Lana is going to be wildly mischaracterized in this, very briefly. I "hate" to do it, but it's wholly necessary.

✬ summary ✬ You've been labeled a freak after your accident during the meteor storm. Now, someone's hunting you down because of it and the only person you can trust is Clark. But he's not the all-American boy he pretends to be.

“Dude! We wrecked them,” two football players barrel their way down the hall, paying no mind to the people around them. You’re used to meatheads like this, and you’re used to having to move around them.

But, somehow, they still always manage to find you within the crowd of forty other students. You duck out of his way but he turns, slamming his shoulder into yours and sending you flying into the lockers. Your back slams into the metal, a low groan of pain slipping through your lips.

Arms loosening, your books drop to the ground. The asshole in front of you takes great care to kick them away from you as he walks off. “Watch it, freak,” he sneers, his friend laughing beside him.

“Pricks,” you hiss under your breath, slowly peeling yourself off the lockers. It’s not as though you’re not used to this. Keeping to yourself in a town so small was ostracizing. Being quiet meant becoming a target, no matter how hard you tried to go unnoticed.

Kneeling, you collect the few books you can find. Glancing through the feet of the crowd, you frown, wondering if you’ll just need to buy another notebook. Again.

“Here, this is yours, right?” A pair of legs stop in front of you, worn-out denim blocking your field of vision. Tilting your head up, you swallow hard as Clark Kent stares down at you, notebook in his outstretched hand.

“Um,” you swallow roughly, snatching the notebook and jumping to your feet. “Yes,” you meet his eyes for a moment, but his blindingly good looks become overwhelming quickly. “Thank you,” you mutter, looking at your shoes rather than him.

“I’m sorry about them,” he rubs the back of his neck and you risk a glance at him. Wholly earnest and truly apologetic. He’s not even the jerk that slammed you into the lockers. But he looks as guilty, as if he had done it. “They’re-”

“Assholes,” you interrupt, eyes snapping up to meet his before regretting the decision and immediately looking away again.

He chuckles and it’s the nicest sound you’ve heard in a while. “Not quite what I was going to say, but yeah.” Clark’s better at picking up social cues than half the school. His lips tilt down when he sees the way you’re hunched into yourself, curled protectively around the books clutched to your chest. “We have English together, don’t we?” He says your name and your eyes round, not believing he even knew you shared a class.

“Yes,” you tell him, but your voice cracks and you wish you could go die in a ditch. Four years here and you think this might be the longest conversation you’ve had with someone. At least, the longest that didn’t revolve around you selling them the answers to tests or homework.

“Here,” he nods you forward, finally letting you out of your cornered position against the wall. “We’ll walk together.” There’s an earnest sincerity in his voice that makes you uncomfortable. You’re used to either being ignored or taunted, there’s not an in-between and you’re fine with that.

Still, you can’t find it in yourself to turn away that bright smile of his. “Alright, thanks,” you tell him, shrugging the strap of your bag further up your shoulder.

The walk to English from your locker isn’t a long one, but Clark seems content to slow his stride. You don’t know what his plan is here, what he thinks he’s going to get out of forcing a conversion from you.

“You work with Chloe on the Torch, right?” Your brows furrow as you shoot him a surprised look. He lets out a sheepish chuckle, “Observant,” he excuses weakly.

You narrow your eyes at him and nod, “Yeah, but I just edit it. I’m not interested in any of the hands-on stuff like she is.” Honestly, you’re not even sure Chloe’s aware that you work with her. You have a theory that she believes all of her writing is just that good.

It’s not.

Most of your nights are spent clarifying her excited rambles as she investigates the odd tragedies of Smallville.

“How come?” From the tone of his voice, it’s clear he’s just interested in making small talk. It seems so natural to him, keeping the conversation flowing perfectly.

You know he means well, but there’s a worry that he might see you as some charity case. He was a witness to the jackassery you deal with every day. Maybe he thinks you’re one of those pathetic kids who eats lunch alone and desperately needs someone to lead them out of the darkness.

Good intentions, but it’s nowhere near the truth. You don’t bother to answer his question, stopping and forcing him to do the same. His expression turns into one of confusion and you give him an awkward smile. “I appreciate the help this morning, but I’m not looking for pity or a white knight.”

Clark’s face drops, clearly not expecting you to be so blunt. “That’s,” he stumbles slightly over his words, shaking his head. “That’s not what I was trying to do. It’s something else,” he leans down, voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s about-”

“Clark!” You both startle, jumping apart as Lana approaches. “I’ve been looking for you.” He smiles at Lana, though his eyes dart toward you. Taking the opening, you give him a brief wave and run down the hall so you’re not late for English.

Something about his tone gnaws at the back of your mind. It was too serious to be something as simple as a pitiful offer of friendship.

Glancing over your shoulder, you see him still staring, something intense burning in his green eyes. Shaking your head, you ignore it, shoving down the instinctual pull toward him and head to class.

You’re sure it’s nothing.

Editing The Torch was interesting. For one, it involved a lot more investigative journalism than it should for a high school newspaper. But it also meant that you were aware of the happenings in town far before anyone else was.

Pen tucked between your teeth, you flip through Chloe’s latest article. It’s not half bad this time, mainly some grammatical errors. Sentences that could easily be split into four rather than one. Beyond that, it’s one of the more compelling pieces you’ve read through for her. And not necessarily in a good way.

You’d, of course, heard all about Lana being attacked in her pool by that boy Jake. Everyone said he’d been after her since freshman year, that it was only a matter of time before he pounced.

That wasn’t the interesting bit, though. What you’re reading now is something you had been completely unaware of. Apparently, Lana had no chance of fighting back. Not when Jake could breathe underwater.

The boy had been what people are deeming a “meteor freak.” One of the many civilians affected by the multitude of meteorites that plague your town. Someone clearly had a vendetta against them. The only reason Lana’s still alive is because someone had put a bullet in his head and left behind a threat for the rest of the “freaks.”

Chloe is normally subtle about her biases in her writing, but she’s not bothering to hide anything in this piece. She makes it clear how she feels about the “freaks,” and how she thinks the shooter could be a hero, working to rid Smallville of their oddities. The longer you read her tirade, the more your stomach turns unpleasantly. Your grip around the paper tightens, fingers ripping small holes into the sheets without you realizing.

You don’t disagree that Jake deserved the bullet, but you’re worried for the other students who were like him. The ones that aren’t going around attacking girls and are just trying to live their lives. The thought of what could happen to them if a piece like this is published sends you into a wave of anxiety. In a time of fear, the last thing everyone needs is the incentive for mob mentality.

The sound of Lana Lang’s voice catches you off guard for the second time today. “What are you saying, Clark?” Startled, you nearly topple out of your chair. Letting out a sharp breath, your head tilts toward the door.

Chloe, Lana, and Clark all pour into the office. You burrow deeper into the worn-down cushions of your chair and let out an unamused huff. Usually, you can linger unnoticed until they leave.

They’re so wrapped up in their knock-off Scooby Doo mysteries that they never even realize another person’s in the room with them. And, maybe, if you stay, you can figure out just what is going on with this supposed “freak hunter.”

“I’m saying that we shouldn’t be celebrating a murderer,” Clark frowns and he sounds more stern than you’ve ever heard him before.

“Oh, really?” Chloe snaps, storming over to her desk and dropping a thick manilla folder on top. “Because if he hadn’t been there, who knows what would have happened to Lana.”

Clark frowns, lips flattened as he glares at them both. “You know that’s not what I mean,” he huffs. His eyes drag over the room and you expect them to skip over you like they always do. Instead the wrinkle between his brows smooths and he looks surprised. “Hey,” he calls your name and your eyes widen.

Shoulders up to your ears, you shrink further in your chair as the girls turn toward you. “Who are you?” Chloe demands, glaring at you.

Letting out a bored sigh, you toss her half-edited paper onto your cluttered desk. Three years you’ve been doing this, she’s only just now realizing someone lives behind the cramped little desk in the corner. “I’m your editor,” you tell her, getting to your feet and stretching out the kinks in your back.

You lean against your desk, arms crossed as you survey the two girls. Lana looks sheepish but Chloe still has that defensive glare on her face. It fades a little as her lips part, realization dawning over her. You’re sure she’s got a vague recollection of your first and last time speaking to her in freshmen year.

“I like your new piece,” you tell her, nodding toward the stapled paper beside you.

“Oh, yeah?” She whips around toward Clark, a smug grin on her face. He lets out an angry huff of breath, fists clenched by his sides. “I told you people would agree with me, Clark. These people are becoming dangerous, someone fighting against them isn’t-”

“Don’t mistake that for a compliment,” you snap, cutting her off, eyes narrowed into slits as you glare at her. She pauses, tilting her head toward you, seemingly taken aback. “I meant it more as, ‘I’m simply impressed with your brazen disregard for journalistic integrity’. Or even basic human decency.”

Clark’s brows draw together, something akin to surprise flitting across his face. Chloe, on the other hand, looked extremely pissed off. “Excuse me?” She snaps.

“Oh, yeah,” you pick the papers up and read out the first few lines. “‘A heroic and valiant action saved the life of one of our own. Jake Pollen, appropriately deemed a meteor freak, was shot on the third of this month. His actions against a female student call into question whether or not we should be afraid of all of these freaks. Are they all dangerous? Are we safe from them?’”

You toss the paper on the floor between you both and tilt your head, shoulders tensing with irritation. “Not only do you have a weak opening, you degrade a young boy who has just been brutally shot and killed-”

“He died attacking me,” Lana butts in, her eyes narrowed in disbelief at you.

“Irrelevant,” you scoff, waving her off. Her jaw drops with astonishment and you offer her a slight grimace of apology.

“Look, sorry for what happened. But this isn’t about you and it isn’t even about Jake. It’s about the other students you’re putting at risk by labeling them all as monsters. Do you really think calling for each other’s heads is the way to handle this?” You demand, glaring at Chloe. “Is it not your job simply to inform instead of editorialize?”

“Well,” Chloe’s lips tug into a sarcastic smile. “Clark,” she calls, glaring over at the boy who hasn’t once taken his eyes off of you. “It’s a match made in heaven. You can go save the freaks together,” she says, practically spitting the word out.

Eyes darting toward Clark you catch the grateful look he sends you. Not willing to indulge much further in the conversation you snatch your bag up from the floor. “Consider this me tendering my resignation,” you toss at Chloe as you storm out.

“Can you believe her?” Chloe snaps as you walk out the door.

“Who was she?” Lana asks, you don’t hear Chloe’s reply as you storm down the hallway. Like you do every other night, you stayed too late editing the paper. You’ll have already missed the last bus by now. It’s not unusual for you to walk home alone, but something feels different about tonight.

Hands pressed against the metal bars of the school doors, you’re nearly outside when you hear someone call your name behind you. Turning, you see Clark jogging up to you. “Clark,” you greet flippantly, not eager to talk after your little show in the office.

“Hey, um,” he pauses in front of you, a slight flush on his cheeks as he meets your eyes. You’re less overwhelmed than you were earlier today, maybe because you’ve already wasted your energy on Chloe. “Did you mean what you said back there?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it,” you tell him, blunt and concise.

He gives you a sort of lopsided grin, “Right. It’s just…” his gaze drifts past you, eyes looking unfocused as he stares at the wall beside you. You scrutinize him, eyes trailing up and down his body as he falls into some sort of trance. “I gotta go,” he suddenly blurts out, running down the hall and leaving you standing at the door.

Peering your head around the corner, you watch him disappear into one of the classrooms. Shaking your head with a huff, you finally make your way out of the school. Fortunately, you don’t live too far away.

It’s just a crappy little house that an older woman has been renting to you since you got emancipated freshman year. Your parents have long since moved on and the silent walk home is familiar to you.

Although, tonight, the shadows seem to creep closer than they ever have. You keep a tight grip on your bag, taking care to stick close to the dim light the street lamps provide. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you stop short.

There are eyes on you. An unfamiliar pair that makes you call upon the long-buried instinct of prey running from danger. Muscles twitching to life with adrenaline, you tilt your head over your shoulder, observing the shadows for movement. There’s no one there for you to see, but you feel them nonetheless.

Their eyes are cruel and cold, but mostly they’re angry. Angry at you simply for living, for breathing the same air as them. Sucking in a sharp breath, you turn on your heel picking up speed as you rush toward your home. You swear the lights of the lamp nearly go out as you practically run along the sidewalk.

Footsteps, quick and light, echo down the pavement behind you. Your legs pump furiously, pushing you forward as fast as they can. Chest heaving in and out as your breath fogs up in the chilly air of the night. The eyes burn hotter on the back of your head, closer somehow. You’re nearly home, you can already see the crooked roof of the tiny house.

Every part of you wants to turn around and face whatever monster has decided to claim you as their own. But you force yourself not to give in. Keeping your head stubbornly forward, the only thing you think about is making it inside before whoever’s behind you catches up.

Running up the stairs, your feet pound loudly against the weak wood of your front porch. You nearly break the door down when you stumble into it. Fingers fumbling along your keychain, you scramble to slot your keys in the lock. Something just in the corner of your eye catches your attention.

YOU’RE NEXT FREAK

Gasping, you rip the paper off your door, momentarily forgetting the pursuer behind you. But when you turn back around, no one’s there. The feeling of the eyes is gone. That instinctual, gnawing urge to run and never stop slowly ebbs away.

You slump against your door frame, swallowing thickly as you catch your breath. Eyes drifting back to the note, you feel your stomach sink. This wasn’t a threat, it was a promise of what was to come.

Surveying the street once more, you reluctantly accept that there will be no identifying your stalker tonight. You slip inside your home and slide your couch in front of the door. You hope if the person decides tonight’s the night they’ll act on their promise, the couch will slow them down somehow.

Biting at the cuticle around your thumb, your foot taps with anxiety as you take a seat in your dining room chair. All night, your eyes never leave your front door, note crumpled in your sweat-slick palm.

Threat of death isn’t something many want to deal with alone. And despite your constant and unflinching status of being a loner, neither do you. For some odd reason, you’ve noticed that everyone in this town seems to flock to Clark when they have a problem.

Not the police, they’re useless anyway. Not their parents. Just Clark.

Somehow, you’ve become one of those people. You never thought you would be, when things got bad you always just imagined yourself running away. Instead, you find yourself standing on the front porch of the Kent’s house. As you have been for the past ten minutes, you debate knocking.

You can’t put a finger on what drew you here. Something instinctually pulled you toward the bus stop, with no destination in mind.

Then, got off at a stop you never had before. It was a blur how you found yourself walking along the lonely stretch of road that led to the Kent’s farm, but here you are.

Someone calls your name and your shoulders fly up to your ears, immediately recognizing the kind voice. Eyes squeezed shut, you debate just lying and saying you needed directions somewhere. It would be a shitty lie, but you might be able to get away with it.

Still, the way he had approached you yesterday, the tone of his voice. It all gnawed at the back of your mind. You already knew that he wasn’t calling for the freak's heads. A voice buried deep in your subconscious kept telling you that he might even be able to save you.

Finally turning, you offer Clark a weak grin. He takes it in stride, walking toward you slowly, like how he might approach a wounded animal, he gives you another bright smile.

God, does he bleach his teeth with sunlight?

“Hey, Clark,” you wave slightly and he chuckles at the awkward way you say his name. It rolls off your tongue unnaturally, not used to trying to be polite with someone.

“Hey.” His brows furrow and his smile turns down at the corners. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but, what are you doing here?”

The note crumpled in your hand itches at your palm. You feel like it’s burning a hole into your skin as you descend the steps of his porch. You start toward where he’s standing by the barn and he moves to meet you halfway.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, hoping he hears the sincerity in your voice. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

The smile drops off his face completely, replaced by the same concern you’re sure he would show his closest friends. No wonder everyone comes to him for help. You think he might be saintly.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, hand coming up to cup your shoulder. The warmth of his palm seeps through your sweater, it eases some of the tension running rampant through you. You should shy away from the touch, get irritated, not melt into his touch like you are right now.

You don’t know how to verbalize your situation to him. There’s a lot of history that’s conducive to explaining your current predicament. A lot of painful history. Rather than delving into that, you simply hold the note out to him.

His jaw clenches as he takes it from you, eyes narrowing as he reads it. He folds the note up and places it in his back pocket. The action makes your brows furrow but you don’t question him. His gaze flits up to meet yours, something sympathetic and angry in his eyes.

“Freak?” He questions and you don’t need to guess at what he means.

Eyes closing, you let out a low sigh. “I’d been hoping to get through high school without anyone knowing.” Rubbing the back of your neck, you let out a laugh dripping with sarcasm. Holding your palm out to him, you open your eyes once more.

He hesitates for a moment, giving you a questioning look before sliding his hand against yours. You ignore how nice it feels to have the touch of another person and flex your fingers, giving him a little shock.

Clark’s brows furrow, his hand jumping atop your palm. “I’m like a walking burst of static shock,” you tell him. “An electrical line fell in the pool with me during the meteor storm.” You tell him briefly, not delving into the shit show your life turned into after that.

Slowly, you take your hand back, already missing the warmth he’d provided. “I’ve had an odd relationship with anything electronic since then.”

Clark’s eyes narrow before his face lights up with realization. “The computer lab in sophomore year.” You let out an annoyed sigh, rolling your eyes as he gives you a goofy grin. “You told everyone that water had fallen on the computer. But it was you, wasn’t it.”

“Yes,” you tell him, giving him an unamused glare. “I can’t believe you really thought a computer exploded because of some water.”

“Hey,” he scolds, though you can practically hear the laughter he’s holding back. “You’re a very believable liar.”

“Thanks,” you snark, but you can’t hold back the smile that tugs at the edges of your lips. “Clearly, I didn’t do a good enough job of hiding it, though.” You offer him a weak chuckle, but his smile slips at the reminder of why you’re here. You almost regret mentioning it, if only because of the way the atmosphere thickens with tension.

“Right,” he huffs and glances toward his barn, something pensive coming over his face. You rock back on your heels while you wait for him to miraculously solve all of your problems.

Doubts begin to creep in, stomach tightening with guilt as you look him over. Forehead furrowed, jaw clenching, he paints a pretty picture. Angry, but still one of the most handsome boys you’ve ever seen. And one of the kindest.

How selfish is it to drag him into your mess? This isn’t petty high school bullshit where you want him to beat up a meathead football player for you. This is a murderer running rampant that has painted a target on your back. Now, you’ve dragged Clark into this, as well. You don’t think you can stoop any lower.

“Alright,” he turns back to you, green eyes boring into yours. “You’ll stay up in the loft for now.”

Oh, you can stoop so much lower.

“Clark,” you object, but he waves you off before you get to say anything else.

“Don’t argue,” he tells you, sounding more commanding than you’ve ever heard from him. Hand on your shoulder, he turns you toward the barn and steers you inside.

Glancing over his shoulder, he double checks no one’s around before he closes the doors behind you. “Come on,” he nudges you forward, leading you toward the stairs.

When you picture a barn loft, the first thing that comes to mind is not; studio apartment. But this might as well be close enough. Bed, dresser, mirror, you think there might even be a small TV tucked in the corner under a tarp. Besides a shower and toilet, someone could legitimately live here.

“Wow,” you breathe out, stunned as you ascend the stairs. “I thought it would be more…” You trail off, eyes rounding with interest as they land on the telescope by the window.

“Rustic?” He finishes for you, laughing slightly.

You flush, giving him a sheepish smile. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Clark gives you a good-natured smile and nods toward the couch. You follow along beside him, taking a hesitant seat at the end, trying to keep as much space between the two of you as you can. His brows quirk up at the movement but he doesn’t say anything.

“I spend most of my time up here. The chickens might not have liked me kicking them out, but they learned to live with it.” Despite how awful the joke might have been, it still eases a small huff of amusement out of you. It’s enough to help you sink further into the couch, nails relinquishing the sting they were pressing into your palms.

“I shouldn’t be here, Clark,” you stare down at your lap, shame lining the inside of your gut, causing it to churn nauseatingly. “I’m already asking you for too much-”

Clark reaches over, hands covering-enveloping, really-your own. He gives you an affectionate squeeze, waiting until you look up and meet his eye to speak. “I want to help, really.”

Normally, there’s still a little bit of doubt niggling at you. But there’s such stark sincerity in Clark’s eyes. You can see how much he wants to help in the way he keeps your hands in his, even though you know you’re probably shocking him. It happens sometimes when you get really upset.

He doesn’t let go.

It’s the only reason you nod, giving in and letting someone else into your life for the first time in a long time.

Something flits out of your locker as you open it. You shove your books inside, eyes narrowed as you turn toward the square of paper lying on the ground. You bend, narrowly avoid getting your fingers stepped on, and pick it up.

You don’t know what you were expecting when you opened it. A note from a secret admirer (in your dreams.) Maybe a mean note from another jock.

YOU CANT HIDE FROM ME FREAK

You definitely were not expecting another threat, and you almost feel stupid that you didn’t see this coming.

“Hey,” Clark’s voice has become familiar to you now. A soothing balm over your constantly frayed nerves. He’s developed a tendency to walk you to class, always looking over your shoulder for you. He seems to have self-appointed himself as your bodyguard.

Fingers trembling around the note, you feel a warmth building in the back of your throat. You drop your head as something unfamiliar burns in your eyes. The note flutters back to the ground as you slam your locker closed and shove past Clark.

You haven’t cried in years, you’re not about to let yourself have a breakdown in the middle of the hallway. Clark calls your name behind you, but you force yourself to ignore it, barrelling through the congestion of students and running into the first empty classroom you find.

The classroom lights are turned off and the blackboard is cleared of the notes from the last period. You don’t make it very far inside before you’re sinking against a desk and crumpling into yourself. Shoulders shaking as you’re wrecked by cries that make your ribs ache.

Two weeks you’ve been staying with Clark. One more student has been killed since then, a girl you’d shared geometry with. This whole time you’ve known about the threat hanging heavy above you. Still, you’ve gone to school, you’ve kept up normal appearances like nothing was wrong. The only difference has been Clark. Not the bright red target on your back.

You’ve gotten so wrapped up in the comfort of a friend that you haven’t even thought about the murderer lying in wait for you. Complacent and stupid, you’ve let yourself believe you’re truly safe. Now, curled up in one of the few places that’s meant to be a haven, you’re being starkly reminded of your mortality.

The classroom door opens and closes near silently, and you don’t have to look up to know who’s followed you inside. Wiping desperately at your eyes, you try and swallow down the hiccuping cries bubbling up in your chest.

Clark whispers your name gently and you hate how pitying he sounds. “Stop,” you snap, clenching your eyes shut as he pauses his slow progression toward you.

“I saw the note,” he tells you. His voice sounds gentle, but you can hear the anger lying in wait underneath. Anger for you, instead of at you, for once.

You hum in response, too tired for words as you wipe away the remnants of your tears. You suck in a few deep breaths, finally calming yourself down enough to not feel a cry burning in the back of your throat.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” you admit, aiming for a laugh but it sounds more like an apology.

“Because someone’s trying to kill you,” he offers teasingly, the lilt in his voice helping you lift the mood. You huff out a short laugh and he takes a step closer. “I promise, I’m not going to let them hurt you.” It’s hard to doubt the conviction in his voice, even if you want to. Even if you don’t want to believe someone genuinely has your best interests at heart.

Looking up, you’re startled to find Clark already so close to you. He tilts his head down, green eyes locked on yours as he surveys your face for any further signs of hurt. Without thinking, your fingers drift toward his, searching for warmth, for reassurance.

You worry he might pull away as his eyes widen. Maybe you’ve pushed too far. Instead, he flips his palm over, lacing your fingers together and squeezing. Your heart stutters. You shove the feeling aside and offer him a small, shaky smile that he returns without hesitation.

“I don’t think you know how lonely living like this has been,” you whisper, staring at the buttons of his flannel instead of facing him. It’s easier to talk to a shirt than it is to look at Clark. You don’t want to run the risk of seeing judgment on his face.

His fingers flex around yours, thumb rubbing idle circles on the back of your hand. “I have a slight idea.”

Your breath catches at the tone of his voice. He doesn’t sound like someone riffing on the angst of being a teenager, but rather someone whose experienced the alienation that comes from meteorite mutation.

You glance up at him with wide eyes and he offers you a grin, “Wanna get out of here?”

“Clark Kent,” you arch a brow, “are you becoming a bad influence?”

He rolls his eyes and tugs you off the desk. You stumble slightly, but he’s quick to keep you upright, arm wrapping around your waist as he steadies you.

His grin softens at the edges, melting into something softer. “It’s your own fault. Come on,” he murmurs, “I want to show you something.”

With your jaw dropped to your chest, you’re sure you paint an incredibly unattractive picture right now. Still, if Clark holding a tractor above his head like it’s nothing isn’t jaw-dropping, you don’t know what is.

“So,” the sentence gets away from you before you even begin Clark flushes slightly, and somehow, it’s not from strain. He places the tractor back by the barn and sends you a sheepish smile.

“So,” he echoes, shrugging and looking at you expectantly. His gaze darts to his house and he walks forward, cupping your elbow and leading you back into the barn.

You look over your shoulder, back at the tractor, and scoff in disbelief. “The meteor clearly had favorites. It really made you that strong?”

Clark glances down at you but his eyes dart away too quickly for you to read them. “Sort of,” he answers, his voice so carefully neutral that your eyes narrow in suspicion. Still, you can tell from the way that he won’t meet your eye that he’s already shared more with you than he ever wanted to. It’s better not to push him.

“Right,” you take the stairs up to the loft and he follows behind you. “I guess you do know how it feels then.” You take a seat on the couch and his brows quirk in confusion. “To be so lonely,” you clarify, offering him a strained smile.

Clark exhales softly and lowers himself beside you, “More than you know.” He closes the gap between you both, taking your hand in his once more. “You don’t have to feel so alone anymore,” he promises, eyes filled with a sincerity that sends warmth flooding through you.

“Neither do you,” you squeeze his hand in yours, heart fluttering with hope.

History is an interesting subject, but the class is a nightmare. Before, you didn’t know anyone. You’ve never had someone to talk to or share secret looks with in class when the teacher messed up. Now, you’re greeted by Clark’s eager smile every day as you walk to your seat. You still don’t talk much, but just having him around makes you feel lighter.

His presence is even more of a comfort now that you know his secret. Or, at least, half his secret. You know there’s something more to Clark Kent than what he’ll ever let you see. But just the little bit he’s shared is enough to sate you.

“Clark,” Lana whispers beside him as you take your seat.

You busy yourself by pulling out your notebook and pencils, but you can’t help the way you tune into their conversation. You’re trying to break the habit of being a horrible eavesdropper, but it's easier said than done.

Clark turns toward her and you spot the way her face falls out of the corner of your eye. “I hate fighting with you,” she tells him, sounding soft and regretful.

“I do too,” he swears and you don’t have to look to know he’s giving her that puppy-dog look. It makes your stomach twist, and you hate yourself for it. Clark’s just doing you a favor. He’d treat anyone with the same kindness he’s shown you. He certainly doesn’t owe you anything. You have no right to feel possessive over a boy who’s been in love with Lana Lang since freshman year.

“But, Clark,” Lana continues, voice tight with frustration, “how can you tell me the boy who did that to me didn’t deserve what happened?”

Clark lets out a low exhale and for a brief second, you catch his gaze flitting toward you. Quickly, you flip open your notebook, pretending to be reviewing whatever gibberish you wrote last period.

“Of course he did,” he admits, and you feel your grip on your pencil tighten.

There’s nothing wrong with him agreeing. That boy had attacked Lana, he’d tried to assault her. You don’t disagree that he deserved it. But it’s a dangerous line between one man deserving that and the rest of you “meteor freaks” being hunted down.

“And Tina?” Lana presses on. “She was a psychopath. And Mr. Arnold? Eric? Every one of those meteor freaks we’ve dealt with has wanted to do nothing but hurt us. They all want to punish us for their issues.”

God, when is the bell going to ring?

You glare over at the history teacher, the man barely lets you talk long enough to ask to go to the bathroom. He doesn’t seem to mind this little hate rally happening beside you.

“Well,” Lana pushes, “am I wrong?”

There’s a long pause and you keep your stare wholly focused on the blackboard in front of you.

“No,” Clark finally relents.

Your pencil snaps in half, part of it flying into the back of a classmate’s head.

Eyes widening, you’re quick to toss the remnants of the pencil to the side and turn back to your notes. You force yourself to focus, even as you feel Clark’s eyes on you. Stubbornly, you refuse to meet his gaze.

“I don’t like fighting with you, Clark,” Lana says, softer now. “But I can’t stay friends with you if you don’t believe in what this vigilante is trying to do. He’s ridding Smallville of a plague that’s clung to us for too long.”

Heart pounding against your ribs, you dig your nails into your palms, ignoring the little static shocks sparking off of them. You’ve remained so healthily detached from the student body, that you’d forgotten just how bad your abilities get when you’re angry.

Clark remains silent, keeping both you and Lana teetering on the edge of your seats. You lean closer to them, unable to help yourself.

After a painfully long breath, Clark dips his head down. “You’re right, Lana.”

The light explodes above you.

The students scatter, trying to avoid the shards. Heart hammering, you jump out of your seat. The screams provide enough of a distraction for you to run to the front of the class.

You’ll never be Lana. You’ll never be someone special to him.

You’ll always just be another freak.

Through the chaos, Clark’s eyes manage to find yours, and the look on his face, the mixture of shock and regret - and something else you don’t want to name - causes another light to explode above you. Wincing, you duck your head and bolt, needing to get out before you cause another fire.

Clark’s voice calls after you, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Because no matter how much he smiles at you in history class, no matter how warm his hand feels wrapped around yours, you’ll never be more than this.

You’re a secret, a mistake. Nothing more than a problem he’ll have to deal with one day.

You’d brought most of your important belongings to Clark’s, something you’re now realizing was a mistake. You would have loved to just storm home and never have to see him again. But everything you put value on is stuffed under the bed in his loft.

Quickly, you grab all of your clothes and stuff them into the bag you brought, not bothering to fold them up nicely. You shove everything in, one after the other, with all the aggression you know you can’t let out on someone else.

“What are you doing?”

Your eyes flutter shut, head dipping slightly as your hands tighten around your clothes. “What’s it look like?” You mutter, zipping your duffel with a sharp tug, ignoring the sleeve that sticks out.

Clark exhales softly, “It looks like you’re leaving.”

You hear the sadness in his voice, you can perfectly picture the hurt look that will be on his face. But you know that if you turn around and look at him, you’ll fold. You’ll give into him like nothing was ever wrong. But you can’t do that to yourself. You deserve better than that.

Keeping your back to him, you turn toward the stairs. “Then that’s what I’m doing,” you tell him bluntly. And all of the warmth, all of the happiness he’s helped blossom within you has just vanished from your voice, as if it was never there to begin with.

It couldn’t have been real, not if it was that easy to lose.

Clark isn’t one to be so easily deterred. He lets out a stubborn huff and strides toward you, grabbing your elbow and stopping you from leaving. “Look, I can explain-”

“I’m not looking for an excuse, Clark!” You snap, whipping around to face him. You’re so close, just a little press forward and your lips would be touching his. “There shouldn’t be anything to explain in the first place.”

Clark’s expression falters, shoulders slumping with the weight of your words. He opens his mouth, searching for something - anything - to say. But before he can, something slams into him, sending him flying over the loft’s railing.

Warm blood splatters across your cheek before you’ve even realized what’s happened.

“Clark!” You scream, rushing to the edge just in time to see him hit the ground hard.

You don’t hear the shot, but you see another bullet embed itself into the wood beside you. The post splinters and cracks under the impact and you duck. Bolting down the stairs, you keep low before any other bullets find their home in you.

Your knees hit the ground painfully as you skid to Clark’s side, hands trembling as you flip him onto his back.

His lips are already turning blue, cheeks a sallow pale you haven’t seen before. “Oh, god,” you gasp, watching his veins pulse green where the bullet has lodged itself in his shoulder.

“Have to,” he sucks in a sharp breath, voice so faint you have to lean in to hear him. “Have to take it out,” his voice cracks and sharpens erratically, but you just barely manage to make out what he’s trying to say.

Your eyes dart from his to the bullet wound. The skin has puckered up and turned an unhealthy green color. “Clark,” you mutter his name, sounding completely unsure. But he doesn’t respond, and when you look back at him you see that his eyes have fallen completely shut.

Panic courses through you, it lodges itself painfully in your throat and you worry you might throw up. Your fingers creep up his arm, pressing against the wound. He jolts up, a low groan of pain hissing through his lips, but he gives no other sign of life.

Letting out a low breath, your face creases with disgust as you press your fingers into the wound. There’s a squelch and blood spurts up your arm as you probe for the bullet. He writhes under you, body seizing erratically. His movements nearly throw you off him, but you lay yourself across the chest, holding him down.

It doesn’t take long for you to feel the bullet, its metal has been warmed by the blood oozing under your fingernails. You stretch your fingers, pressing against the torn muscles until you have a solid grip on the bullet. Clark lets out a loud groan that you try and quiet, attempting to calm him. But you’re close to tears as you rip the bullet out.

Your hand quakes, the weight of the offending piece of metal in your hand far too heavy to be natural. Your own veins pulse green, electrical shocks radiating from where the bullet sits in your palm.

Clark stirs, sitting up with a sharp inhale. Startled, you scramble back. His eyes flick toward the bullet in your hand, face twisting into something unreadable. You don’t have a chance to say anything before he snatches it from you and tosses it clear out of the barn.

“Clark?” You question, eyes widening as you watch the gaping wound in his shoulder stitch itself together. He follows your gaze and winces.

“I’ll explain, I promise.” He gets to his feet and takes your bloodied hands in his, helping you up. “I’ve got to-”

“Go,” you say, still dazed. He hesitates, watching you like he thinks you might make a run for it. “I’m not going anywhere.” He frowns and doubt flickers in his eyes. “Scout’s honor.” He hesitates only a moment before all you see is a blur where he’d once been standing. You’ve barely blinked before he’s completely disappeared from view.

With an out-of-body shock, you stare down at the blood soaking through the sleeves of your shirt. That was certainly not just meteorite benefits.

You’d used the hose behind the barn to wash the blood off your hands before you made your way into the Kent’s house for a proper shower. The last thing you needed to explain was how their son nearly bled out in your arms.

Afterward, you found yourself on the loft bed, shell-shocked. Hands in your lap, eyes unfocused, staring blankly ahead. You hadn’t moved by the time Clark returned.

“Hey.”

You jump, startled by the unexpected warmth of his palm on your arm. Blinking up at him, you find a tentative smile on his lips, one you don’t have the energy to return. Sighing, he lowers himself onto the bed beside you.

“Did you find him?” You ask, slipping your arm out from under his touch. It’s easy to pretend you don’t see the hurt that flashes across his face.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, shifting slightly away from you on the bed. “Van McNulty,” he tells you. “He won’t bother you again.”

“Well, I guess I can leave, then,” you tell him flippantly, but you make no move to get up.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I guess you can.”

Nails digging into your palms, you feel electricity rush through your veins. It sparks at the tips of your fingers and tingles through your legs. Swallowing it down, you glare holes into the wooden floorboards. “What are you, Clark?” The question slips out before you can stop it, sharp and demanding. He starts to stutter something out, but you cut him off before he can play dumb. “I’m not an idiot, I know that we’re not the same.”

His face twists with hesitation, “I’ve never told anyone before,” he admits, voice quiet. “I was always so afraid that they’d look at me the…”

He trails off and you scoff. “What? The same way they look at me?” A bitter smile curls on your lips, “If there’s one thing that’s not special about you, Clark, it’s feeling like a freak.”

He glances over at you and you see the tension in his shoulders ease slightly at the knowing look on your face. He exhales, rubbing his palms across his jeans. “I guess not.” He struggles for the words and you keep quiet, letting him work it out. “I’m not from here.”

You don’t need to be a genius to know he’s not talking about Smallville.

“Alien,” you breathe out, head dropping as your mind races to catch up.

“That’s all I know,” he tells you, and you hear the truth in his words. But you also hear the sadness, the desperation to know the truth of where he comes from. “I’ve never been able to tell anyone before.”

“Well?” You prompt, glancing over at him. “How’s it feel to finally tell someone?”

He frowns, studying you as he tries to gauge your reaction. “I don’t know.” A small smile lifts his lips, “Are you going to call the government on me?” He teases and you can’t help but let out a small laugh.

“No, Clark. You won’t be going to Area 51 anytime soon. Although,” you add with a smirk, “after what you told Lana, I’m tempted.”

He frowns, the smile fading. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know,” you say softly, giving him a resigned look. “You were keeping the peace, I don’t expect you to ruin a lifelong friendship for someone who’s practically a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger,” Clark objects, tone firm in its conviction. He reaches out, taking your hand in his and lacing your fingers together. “Do you think I would have just told a stranger something like this?” He shifts closer, lifting his other hand to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. You let out a low huff, tired of running from what you find in them.

“No,” you whisper, barely trusting your voice to stay steady.

Clark shakes his head, leaning in until your lips just barely ghost over each other. “Clark?” You murmur, breath mingling with his.

He exhales softly, his forehead resting against yours. “Yeah?” He murmurs, hand cupping your, arm winding around your waist.

You let yourself melt into him, into his warmth. A small smile plays on your lips. “How about we be freaks together?” You tease, pressing your lips to his. And when he kisses you back, just as eager, you know, whatever comes next, you won’t be facing it alone.

Taglist: @mollymal

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toudan · 4 months ago

Text

Homecoming

You’re a casual fan, you think. Spider-Man is cool, and you just really like him. That’s all... until you learn that the friendly neighbourhood web-slinger is so much closer than you think.

PAIRING.⠀Xia Yizhou | Caleb x Reader

CONTENT.⠀female reader | superhero AU & Spider-Man Caleb | descriptions of anxiety, fluff, happy ending, mentions of blood and bruises, secrets, slice-of-life (as much as it can possibly be), some angst and hurt/comfort | ~7,6k words

A/N.⠀I really said "I'm going on a writing hiatus" and "I'm gonna lock in" with my whole chest knowing damn well I'm a liar ... anyway yeah this fic was inspired by this Spider-Man Caleb fanart... it made me go crazy.... I hope you enjoy!

available on AO3 | reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

@hunters-association @theseabreezestreet

You were on the verge of a breakthrough. You just knew it.

You were absentmindedly swinging your legs back and forth as you sat at the table. Your laptop was open and displaying several windows—some were images of Spider-Man, some were news articles. Your tablet, and in turn, your notes, had gone completely forgotten. Spending time passively scrolling social media was far from productive, but compared to what you were reading, exam revision was totally dull.

Developing an interest in Spider-Man had been unintentional. You saw him mentioned in the news. Out of curiosity, you looked him up, and all of a sudden, you found yourself deep in the rabbit hole. Before long, you were up-to-date with daily news, keeping up with his movements and making friends with fellow Spider-Man fans. It was swift and unexpected, but you found it more fun than whatever you were previously doing.

He was far from the first superhero Linkon City had seen. There used to be rumours about the God of the Tides and how he ruled the seas for centuries before he found the love of his life. There was also Lumière of the N109 zone, a vigilante who suddenly stopped being active about fourteen years ago. Legends of the Abysm Sovereign and the Foreseer were passed down through generations. No one had proof they existed, only the product of their labour. It was as if they didn’t want to be seen. Still, that didn’t stop your interest from getting piqued.

The difference between Spider-Man and the past legends of Linkon City was that Spider-Man was still active. A web-slinging genius with a no-kill rule, he made the streets significantly safer. Photos and surveillance footage of him were constantly shared, but no one had any luck finding his identity yet. You weren’t investigating him for malicious reasons. You were just, for the lack of a better word, nosy. You wanted to know the man behind the mask instead of the neighbourhood guardian the news always talks about.

You looked at your screen. There was a rough timeline of his appearances the past week. He was in different parts of the city, catching robbers and other criminals with his presumably handmade technology. There wasn’t a strict pattern to how he operated. It seemed that he liked to lurk before making a move. It was how he brought down the corrupted colonels of the Farspace Fleet. Fighting crime appeared to be easy for him, and he wasn’t as destructive as some were. It was impressive. Everything he did had you in awe. His dexterity and swiftness, his strength and courage—he was just what Linkon City needed, you thought.

Just as you were about to go into another deep dive, a hand pushed your laptop shut. Caleb was towering over you when you snapped your gaze to him, brows furrowed as you gave him an offended look. He lightly jabbed your forehead and only smiled in response, seemingly pleased with your reaction.

“You’re supposed to be studying.”

You sputtered. “I was studying!”

“No, you weren’t. You were looking at Spider-Man again.” He tapped his fingers on your tablet, reilluminating the screen once more. “Your exams are next week. You need to focus.”

“I can multitask,” you argued half-heartedly. “And, I’ve never let you down, have I?”

Caleb took the seat across from you with an exaggerated sigh. “I guess not.”

“Why do you hate Spider-Man so bad anyway?” You frowned, trying to move his hand away. He didn’t budge. “He’s keeping the city safe. That’s a good thing!”

“I don’t hate him, but you’ve been distracted. I’m trying to help you.”

“You sound jealous,” you joked. Resting your cheek in the palm of your hand, you looked up at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Are you sad I’m not giving you enough attention?”

He pursed his lips, visibly unimpressed. “Set the table. Dinner’s ready.”

“You’re no fun!” you whined. “It’s not my fault there’s finally something interesting!”

You begrudgingly moved your items to the side and got up to make your way to the kitchen, slippers sliding against the floor. The savoury aroma swirled into the air, making your stomach growl involuntarily. Your irritation now forgotten, you made quick work of setting the table and pouring two glasses of water. With your job finished, you waited at the table, eyes drifting over to the TV on the wall. The screen displayed two reporters behind a desk beginning the evening segment. It faded into a clip of men webbed stuck to a lamppost, undoubtedly the work of Spider-Man himself. They were looking to rob an innocent passerby before the webslinger caught them red-handed.

“Huh. That’s where we live,” you spoke up after rereading the headline.

Caleb placed the plates on the table. “That’s why I always tell you to be home before curfew.”

“It’s not like I break curfew anyway,” you grumbled. “You know I hate being out when it’s dark.”

Distracted, you kept your eyes on the screen. The public had mixed opinions about Spider-Man himself. You, along with your circle of friends, thought of him as a hero, feeling safer knowing that he was out there protecting innocent people. From helping an old woman cross the street to busting evil plans, he was using his talents and intelligence for good. He worked tirelessly every day to keep the streets pristine and harmless. The police, on the other hand, weren’t as fond of him. The LCPD openly expressed their distaste for Spider-Man, citing that he was an obstacle in their investigations. Some people thought he was just another guy with a gimmick. These criticisms didn’t seem to bother him at all. If anything, every time someone said anything negative about him, he’d work even harder just to prove them wrong.

You knew it was far from wise to idolise a public figure, but with Spider-Man, he inspired you to do your best every day. You liked to imagine he’d be proud of you if he knew you. You worked hard and powered through no matter how many setbacks you had. As silly and childish as it sounded, he made for great motivation. He was a good guy, he was cool, and—

Caleb waved his hand in front of your face, a warning tone in his voice. “Pipsqueak.”

You jolted, snapping back to the present. “Sorry!”

“Why do you like Spider-Man so much?” he asked, poking at his food. “You got a crush on him?”

You sputtered. “What? No!”

He gave you a look that urged you to continue. Heat rose to your face as you felt a spotlight shining down upon you, giving you the floor. It was hard not to feel embarrassed about something that felt so childish. You hummed thoughtfully, trying to think of words to say. Knowing you were going to sound like a child regardless, you sulked, defeated, and finally gave him a response.

“It’s just… I really like superheroes,” you mumbled timidly, fiddling with your fingers. “I admire people who use their strength for good. Like you!”

The corners of his lips twitched. He seemed pleased. “So do you like me or Spider-Man more?”

“You are jealous!” you said with an accusatory tone. “Caleb, it’s not like that! It’s like… You know when you have a favourite celebrity? That’s what Spider-Man is to me.”

He made a face, though he ended up relenting. “Okay. I get it.”

“Yeah! It’s kinda like how you used to like—”

“Your food’s gonna get cold,” he interrupted, flustered. “I put all my effort into making your favourite. Don’t let it go to waste.”

“Fine,” you drawled out, unable to hold back the smile from stretching across your lips.

Spider-Man eventually faded to the back of your mind throughout dinnertime. You found yourself engrossed in conversation with Caleb, slipping into the normal banter and routine with ease. Somewhere in between, he changed the channel to natural documentaries instead. When you gave him a questioning look, he just shrugged and said that you should take a break with him. Not one to deny his requests, your laptop went forgotten as you spent the remainder of the night on the couch with him.

It was nearing midnight, and from the way that you yawned, you were nearing your limit as well. The documentary was long finished; the past few minutes were just advertisement after advertisement, regular products with unnecessarily catchy jingles. You glanced over at him, suddenly curious. Unlike you, he didn’t seem to be tired at all. If you were more awake, you’d notice the anxious bouncing of his leg or the worried furrow in his brow, but fatigue was catching up to you fast. With another yawn, you pushed yourself to your feet, taking the throw blanket with you.

“Goodnight, Caleb.”

He smiled at you. “Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Fully sated and worn out, sleep came as easily as breathing. Images flickered behind your eyes, displaying dreams and vignettes in film reels. You dreamt of endless summers and sweetness, of growing up and exploring the world. When you woke up the next day, only a fragment of those memories remained. Caleb was already gone when you left your room. He left a note saying he’d left early and that breakfast was in the fridge. After treating yourself to his homemade cooking, you set off for classes and got the day started. It wasn’t very eventful. Classes weren’t particularly interesting. Lectures were about things you already knew, and a majority of your classmates were absent, leading to little to no conversation. Before long, the academic day was over, and it was time to return home.

The streets were bustling with activity as you waded through the crowd. Clamour and chatter were more than loud, people surrounded you, and the scent of car fumes mixed with savoury food bombarded all of your senses. You were starting to see now why people liked to say that Linkon City never sleeps. With everyone getting off work, the city was beyond crowded. Restaurants were fully seated, as were the cafés. Traffic went by incredibly slowly. Dogs barked to the sound of car horns and people were emerging from the train station in groups. You gripped your bag tightly, anxiety clawing at the back of your mind. News and posters about pickpockets were nearly a regular occurrence; it was better to be safe than sorry.

You managed to make it to a street where there were less people. You recognised some of the vendors out and about, offering them warm smiles as you walked past. Occasionally, you stopped by and bought a few snacks to take home. Now having your hands full, you were more than ready to go home and unwind. You hummed a catchy pop tune under your breath, leisurely walking down the path when the TV screens in the electronic stores came alive. You came to a stop, standing in front of the clear glass. It was a news segment. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the screen displaying surveillance of Spider-Man was context enough.

He single-handedly stopped a burglary, moving with inhuman agility and fighting with incredible strength. It showed a group of men bound together by his webs, cursing and fruitlessly struggling to break free. It took a few seconds before the familiarity of the background sank in. The convenience store, the townhouses and the DVD store… The incident happened not too far from home. A frown overtook your features. Despite the crime rate being significantly lower thanks to Spider-Man’s efforts, the curfew was still in place, and the unrest remained. It was not any different for you.

As you made a move to continue your walk, you felt something being snatched from your grasp—your bag. The thief ran at full speed, deftly navigating through the crowd as you yelled for help and followed him, aggressive footfalls slapping against the concrete. Absentminded apologies left your lips whenever a complaint was heard from a passerby. Your chest was beginning to ache, but you needed it back. It had everything. Your phone, your wallet, your house keys with the chain Caleb bought for you. You couldn’t afford to lose it.

The traffic light turned red just as the thief crossed to the other side. You contemplated just dashing through, but anxiety kept you rooted to your spot. They were going further into the distance. You bounced on your heels nervously, eyes glaring at the timer. 40, 39, 38…

It was now or never.

Cars honked at you as you ran to the other side, the combination of noise nearly sending you jumping out of your skin. You pushed through your fatigue and kept running until you tripped over your shoelaces, collapsing to the ground with a loud thud. You hopelessly reached out, watching the thief’s silhouette disappear into the distance. Tears of frustration sprang up to your eyes and you buried your face in your hands, uncaring of how you looked to other people. You weren’t fast enough. All your important things were gone, about to be left somewhere you could never find, and your information would be stolen—

“This yours?”

Your bag was dangling in front of you. Were you so distraught that you were hallucinating having someone come to your aid? You blinked and stared at it dumbly, your mind trying to grapple with the situation. The person crouched down to your level, and Spider-Man’s face came into view.

Wait…

You screamed in surprise, frantically pushing yourself away from him. “What—”

“Hey, hey, It’s okay. It’s just me. I webbed him. He’ll be stuck there for another three hours,” he said casually, speaking as though he was just another regular pedestrian and not the famed vigilante of Linkon City. “I had to look at your ID card to make sure it was you, but I’m glad I got to you in time. Here, take it.”

You barely managed to catch the bag as you were still gawking at him. What felt like a thousand questions were popping up rapidly in your head. How did he know? When did he get here? What was going on? How was he so fast? Caught off guard by your stunned silence, he brought a hand up to scratch the back of his head sheepishly, feeling awkward under your stare.

“Everything okay?” Spider-Man asked tentatively, waving a hand in front of your face. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, your reaction slightly delayed. “N-No.”

“Listen, I have to go. There’s gonna be a robbery on Ninth Street.” He helped you get on your feet, carefully making sure you had your balance. “Get home safe, okay? And don’t leave past curfew.”

“Okay,” you said, dumbfounded. It didn’t take long before you managed to snap yourself back to awareness. “Yeah, okay. Thank you for getting this back to me.”

He did a casual salute before aiming his web shooter at a building, swinging away with ease. Digging through your bag, you were relieved to find that everything was intact. Once the confusion went away, excitement came rushing in. You hastily grabbed your phone and dialled Caleb’s number, lips curling into a grin. He picked up after the first ring.

“What’s up?”

“You will not believe what just happened to me,” you said in one breath. “I just met Spider-Man.”

A loud crash was heard in the background.

You hesitated. “Are you busy? It sounds like you’re in the middle of something…”

“Everything’s fine, don’t worry about it. So, you met Spider-Man?”

You nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see you.

“Uh, pipsqueak?”

“What? Oh, yeah. I did! I’m walking home right now. Someone tried to steal my wallet and I couldn’t catch them, but Spider-Man did and he got it back for me. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Someone tried to rob you?” You could practically hear the frown in his voice. “Why didn’t you call me?”

You blinked. “You’re at work. What were you gonna do?”

He fell silent. It took a couple of beats before he spoke up again.

“Well, I’m glad you got your stuff back. Just make sure to be home before sundown. Tell me when you’re back, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back in time for dinner, I promise.”

“It’s okay! Take your time,” you reassured him. “I’m heading home now. See you.”

You had a pep in your step for the rest of the way, feeling in high spirits after the encounter. The weight on your shoulders was lifted, leaving you feeling lighter. You didn’t realise how much you needed to breathe. Relieved would be an understatement—it was as if everything fixed itself in front of you. You didn’t generally consider yourself a lucky person, but today, you had won. The encounter with Spider-Man replayed itself in your mind, echoing his voice, reminding you of the proximity you shared.

After sending Caleb a quick text to let him know you got back safely, you began to cool down from the day. You tossed your keys on the counter and went straight for your room, determined to change out of your sweaty clothes. Since he was normally the one to cook dinner, you didn’t have to do much preparation in the kitchen. You put away the clean dishes, washed the leftover ones in the sink, and decided to tidy up a little. With your tasks done, you returned to the living room and flopped down onto the couch with a groan. Though you didn’t hold high expectations for what was on TV, you turned it on for background noise anyway, half-listening to the dialogue in the show that was playing.

The clock on the wall continued to tick. Caleb would get off work soon. You ended up smiling to yourself, excited to tell him about your day. Lying comfortably on the couch, you continued to passively scroll through social media to kill time. You were beginning to hear the telltale sounds of people returning home. The sound of a car door closing, your neighbour’s doorbell ringing, eager dogs overjoyed to see their owner home. Considering the traffic you’d seen earlier, Caleb returning a little later than usual wouldn’t be that irregular.

With that in mind, your worries were eased a little. But as minutes faded into hours, nighttime came, and not a single call or message from Caleb was seen. Worried, you sent him a text, only for them to be left on delivered. Calling him led straight to voicemail. Growing increasingly agitated, you called him again and again, only to achieve the same result. He always told you if he was going to be late. He always picked up after the first ring. But your attempts to get through to him went unseen, and it was getting harder trying not to sink into your anxiety the longer his silence went.

You paced around the room, fingers clutching your phone as the call went to voicemail again. Your eagerness for dinner had long dissipated and was replaced by immense dread. Worst-case scenarios were starting to appear in your mind, fuelling your panic with its increasingly violent visions. You chewed on your nail as you paced back and forth, trying to reach Caleb to no avail. The situation was growing more dire with each passing second.

You glanced at the time. It was three in the morning. You were wide awake on pure adrenaline and distress. You couldn’t bring yourself to feel tired. It was as though all of your senses were on high alert. Everything was too loud, too much, and your clothes felt rough against your skin. Instinctively, you made your way into his room and crawled into his bed, hugging his pillow and rocking back and forth. The smell of his detergent and perfume soothed you enough to have you breathing normally again. Your fingertips dug into the material, knuckles going white and shaking from how rigid your grip was.

The world started to feel less daunting when you finally calmed down. You felt exhausted, completely boneless. Your eyelids were getting heavier, and as you lay there surrounded by everything he owned, you found yourself falling slowly. The room is dim with only the city lights outside peeking in through the curtains. You felt a cold draft coming through the window, sending shivers running down your spine. Fabric rustled and you felt the mattress dip, immediately jolting you awake. A mixture of relief and fury washed over you.

“Caleb?”

His breath hitched.

You blindly patted the nightstand in search of the lamp switch. Once the room was illuminated, you squinted at him through half-lidded eyes. “Where the hell have you been?” you asked groggily. “I’ve been—”

Your eyes dropped to his outfit. It was the same suit that Spider-Man wore, although more torn and worn down. Whatever tiredness was left in your system dissipated when you saw him. You sat still for a few moments, trying to contemplate whether you were imagining things or if this was real. You didn’t know where to begin. It was as if time stopped. There he was, the person you had been waiting for, standing at the foot of the bed like a deer caught in the headlights. You stared at him with your mouth agape, your mind struggling to put the pieces together despite the obviousness in front of you.

You didn’t know where to begin. Did he always sneak back home like this? What happened to him? In the end, you settled for the most urgent one in your mind—

“How long have you been hiding this from me?”

He forced a smile, the gesture awkward and tense. “A couple of months.”

“Months?” you asked, voice rising in volume. “You’ve been—you—god, I don’t even know what to say.”

“I’m sorry.”

You pursed your lips. “Come here.”

He tentatively complied, sitting down in the spot next to you. Your hands cradled his face, thumbs brushing over the bruises and making him grimace slightly. He didn’t say a single word. It was as if he was also dumbfounded himself. You were still upset, but the longer you looked at him, the more the anger faded. At least he was home. Injured, but still home in one piece. It was leagues better than the thousands of scenarios your mind was conjuring up earlier.

“You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically meek. It was unlike the Caleb you grew up with.

“But it can wait,” you said, pulling him into a hug. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I was worried about you.”

His arms wrapped themselves around your waist and he held you close to him, a shaky breath escaping his lips. He held onto you with a desperation you’d never seen before. He relaxed into your touch just the slightest, reassured by feeling your warm body against his. You pressed your cheek to where his heart would be, feeling its steady rhythm remind you that he was here—that he was home.

Your voice was meek when you spoke. “I thought you left me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“So you decided with radio silence?” you snarked back. Something in his expression flickered, making you calm down once again. You frowned at the amount of bruises visible on his face and the dried blood on his split lip. Softening, you told him, “Go take a shower and get changed. I’ll patch you up.”

He didn’t argue. He only nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, walking sluggishly. The sound of running water filled the stifling stillness as you took a proper glance around the room. There was an evidence board, several open books, and a well-used first aid kit on the desk. Your heart sank. Just how long had he been doing this, getting himself hurt and having to mend himself? Didn’t he trust you? Why did he keep this a secret from you? You heaved out a sigh and hid your face in your hands, frustration and sadness simmering beneath the surface.

There were a lot of questions you wanted to ask, but this wasn’t the right time. Right now, all you could do was be there for him.

He emerged a handful of minutes later, dressed in comfortable clothes. You scooted over and patted the space next to you, lips pressed in a taut frown. Now that the suit was off, you could see the hits he’d taken more clearly. Splashes of blue and purple were scattered across his skin, some big and some small. There were a couple of cuts and scrapes close by, both old and new. It was the worst you’d ever seen him.

“Sit,” you urged timidly. You gingerly applied the ointment on his bruises, careful not to hurt him as he stared up at you. He looked so vulnerable and so fragile that it made you feel like your heart was going to burst out of its confines. “Talk to me. Please.”

“It was Gran,” he said. “She made a serum. I didn’t know it until a few days later. I was stronger, faster… I could hear everything. I could feel everything.”

“How come I never knew this?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. I’m supposed to be your hero, remember?” He laughed in a self-deprecating way, avoiding your gaze. “I had to stay strong. Figure things out, get stronger… Make sure you’d always be safe.”

Setting the first aid kit aside, you pulled him into your arms once again. He held onto you tightly, fingers grabbing the fabric of your shirt so tightly that his hands were trembling. You raked your fingers through his hair and brushed them back, keeping them away from the wounds on his face. For a moment, it felt like there were only the two of you in the world. All you could hear was his quiet breathing as he latched onto you, unwilling to let go.

It broke your heart to see him this way.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t rely on me.”

“No, that’s not it,” he sighed. “I’d go through anything for you. I just… I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t keep any secrets from me anymore.” You pulled away. He looked up at you with a pained expression, years of secrecy and isolation making themselves known in his glossy eyes, the quiver of his bottom lip. “Can you do that for me?”

He nodded weakly.

“I need words, Caleb,” you said, your voice firmer than intended. You cupped the side of his face, feeling him clasp your hand with his own, warm and calloused. “Can you promise me that?”

“I can,” he exhaled shakily. “I promise.”

The tears you were holding back brimmed at the corners of your eyes, small droplets sliding down the sides of your face. A hushed whimper broke out of you. Caleb held on to you like you were his lifeline, refusing to let go for even a split second. The gravity of his words weighed heavy, as did him baring his heart. He melted in your embrace, sinking deep into your comfort as you gently scratched his scalp, easing every worry he was holding.

“Don’t lie to me again, okay?” you murmured into his ear.

“I won’t anymore. I swear.”

—

Though months seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye, the emotional turmoil stayed deep in your heart the entire time.

Life had turned completely upside down. With the new knowledge of him being Spider-Man looming over you, you were having trouble placing yourself. Some days, you felt excited and happy for him. He was more open with you when it came to his successes. He’d tell you about the petty criminals he caught or the passersby he helped while swinging through the city. He was passionate about his identity as Spider-Man, and he was committed. You wanted to support him in every step of the way. Some days, you’d feel like you were sinking. You previously didn’t worry all too much when Caleb returned home late, but since that day, fear and anxiety kept you company on lonely nights.

He didn’t always return looking completely beat up. Sometimes he was unscathed. Sometimes it was just a couple of bruises. But you hated being home alone, especially in the dark where everything seemed to get much worse. You were losing sleep because you’d stay up to wait for him to come home. You needed to see him with your own eyes, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to go to sleep in peace. He tried to give you estimated times to soothe you, but it didn’t always work. You’d wait in the living room, rock yourself back and forth as you wondered if he was coming home.

Your mind wouldn’t let you forget that he lied, either. You already forgave him a long time ago, but you remembered. You’d question yourself, question him, and what would come after was an overwhelming sense of guilt. He was trying. He was more open. He was showing you an important part of himself, bringing you along with him on his journey, yet doubts still lingered in your mind. He kept his cheerful disposition, constantly reassuring you that everything was going to be fine, but your mind was filled with what-ifs. What if he was hiding more from you? What if he was lying? What if he thought of you as a burden?

It was irrational to feel this way. You knew that very well, and yet, you still felt like you were fading out of his life. You talked to Caleb normally, interacted with him like you always did, but something felt different. It was as if he was drifting further and further away from you. Your outstretched hand, desperately trying to reach him, and his fading silhouette. Everything had changed. You felt like you were losing him in real time and there was nothing you could do about it. Everything had changed, yet it was all the same. You still had breakfast together. He still picked up the phone after the first ring. He still smiled at you, looked at you like you were his whole world. You were teetering between security and uncertainty. You didn’t want to feel this way, but you were helpless. These feelings came by themselves, and the more time you spent alone, the more difficult it became to ignore them.

Your sentiments towards Spider-Man had only grown stronger with the knowledge that Caleb was him. His name was more well-known in the city, growing popular among kids and women, and he was constantly being praised by the press. You supported him. You had total faith in him, trusted in him and his strength. But sometimes you’d stay awake stressing about how safe things truly were. More fame meant more notoriety among criminals, and you’d often wonder how long it would be before something drastic happened. You wanted the best for him, you really did, but something guttural gnawed at you. The desire to keep him to yourself, the need to protect him. You wanted to sink your teeth into his flesh, to keep him in your maw. You wanted to hide him away somewhere only you knew.

You dreamt of it sometimes—of risking your life for him just to keep him safe. You constantly wondered if things would be easier for him if you left. You knew there was much that he wasn’t sharing with you yet. You knew it would take time regardless of how much he trusted you, Still, you felt as though you were being kept in the dark. Being Spider-Man seemed to be so easy for him. It suited him, even. You couldn’t see anyone else doing the same thing that he did. But you didn’t know what you were meant to be. You felt for him very deeply, as did he, but the vagueness in the air bothered you more and more every day.

Were you only being selfish?

You thought back on one of the mornings you spent with him. A full spread of breakfast lay across the table and the news played in the background. The sun was shining bright, peeking through the gap between the curtains, and the weather was good. But there was a sense of foreboding that loomed over you, one that you couldn’t keep to yourself. You called his name softly, leading him to look away from the screen.

“Are you okay?” you asked. He blinked at you, confused by the question.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

Somehow, it wasn’t enough.

“Are you okay?”

You didn’t know.

“I’m good. Sorry, I just thought you looked a little distracted.”

The lie slipped out of you with ease. You felt childish. You felt burdensome for needing reassurance from him that he wasn’t going to leave you behind, but you could never bring yourself to say it. Between your pride and the overwhelming fear of rejection, the words you desperately wanted to stay would remain within the confines of your mind. He didn’t seem to be convinced by any means, but he didn’t push the matter. A part of you wished he did.

It wasn’t a fight. There was nothing wrong. Even when he returned home blood and bruised, exhausted out of his mind, you took care of him with love and care. It didn’t matter that you didn’t understand why he was risking his life. Caleb never broke his promises or broke away from the path to his goals. He wasn’t about to let you stop him. With great power comes great responsibility, he said. But was this responsibility thrust upon him, or was he doing it out of his volition?

You hated feeling helpless. You knew he didn’t need you to do anything, but you felt like you weren’t an integral part of his life anymore. You felt like a bystander, like someone he was slowly forgetting. You shouldn’t feel this way. You should feel happy that he still cared about you, that he cared about the city to give his all into protecting it, yet your mind just wouldn’t let you. Your thoughts on Caleb hadn’t changed. You still thought he was the most important person to you, but what used to be admiration and even love for Spider-Man was turning into resentment little by little.

Some days, you hated him. You felt like a little kid without her favourite toy. You felt like a lonely child in a class full of people. You knew it was useless to dwell on these things, so you tried to occupy yourself. You put all your effort into your studies. You kept yourself busy doing chores even on the days when it was his turn. You didn’t wait to eat dinner with him; you went out for food and drinks with your friends, came back a bit later than the sunset. It wasn’t as if he’d notice. He wasn’t home when you needed him to be.

His name was constantly trending on social media. Spider-Man rescues bus from hijackers. Spider-Man stops bank robbery. Spider-Man comics and merchandise releasing. His name became the talk of the town, earning the attention of the rest of the country. The newfound fame kept him even busier to the point where people were starting to dig deeper into his true identity, leading fans and investigators to wait outside your home. You kept ignoring them, but they were persistent. Your declining of their questions only made them more curious. Not only did you feel like he was slipping out of your grasp, but also like the safety of home was in jeopardy.

It wasn’t his fault. You couldn’t blame him for it. But sometimes you wondered if he knew just how much this was affecting you, as self-centred as it seemed. The satisfaction you expected from uncovering the truth about Spider-Man never came. The final piece of the puzzle was right in front of you, living and breathing under the same roof as you were, and all you could harbour was disappointment.

What Caleb was doing was major. He was keeping the city safe—keeping his home safe, for you and everyone. You found yourself sinking further into guilt and bitterness, the light at the surface growing smaller as you fell deeper and deeper. It was childish of you to be throwing a tantrum over something like this. So, you decided to grin and bear it. He understood you like the back of his hand; doing the same to him was the very least you could do. You pestered him less about his missions, stopped trying to call again and again when he didn’t respond. He’d always come home, even if it took days. He never broke promises. He promised he wouldn’t.

If he noticed the change in you, he didn’t mention it. His actions, however, said otherwise. He did his best to pay more attention to you. He tried to spend as much time with you as he could despite your conflicting schedules. He listened to everything you spoke about, promised you to be careful when you asked, and continued to protect you in his own way. You didn’t know exactly what it was that seemed to switch the dynamic completely, but at a certain point, you were no longer drowning in the pool of negativity. The sun seemed to shine brighter, the flowers in full bloom, and your cheeks ached from how much you’d been smiling. The lingering sense of foreboding faded into nothingness, replaced by pure optimism and trust. The future didn’t feel so glum anymore.

You supposed all you needed was time.

Time to heal, time to process everything. Time had a way of turning wounds into scars, healing phantom pains into a comfortable stillness. The claws that had your heart in a death grip had loosened, letting go of the chains they wrapped around it. You felt lighter, happier. Some semblance of normalcy had returned—as normal as it could be considering his dual life, but you weren’t going to take it for granted. You felt like you could finally breathe after being underwater for so long. Even here, where you were alone in the apartment, you didn’t feel lonely. It was… normal. A relief. It didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

It was quiet save for the sound of your nails tapping against the keyboard. It was a sunny afternoon. Having had a productive morning, you aimed to finish the rest of the day in the same way. You were focused and determined to finish the essay quickly so you had more free time. But as the hours went by, that determination waned, and you found yourself at a dead end. You blankly stared at the blinking cursor on the word document. It almost felt like the thing was mocking you. Fatigue and boredom were catching up to you increasingly quickly. You knew the material by heart. You knew what you wanted to talk about. Yet no words came to mind—you were drawing a blank, and the thoughts in your mind were already drifting off elsewhere.

The counter was littered with snacks, surely something Caleb would chide you for. Your tumbler was long empty, left with nothing but melted ice cubes at the bottom. The dishes awaited cleaning in the sink and the TV remained turned on, playing a rerun of some generic soap opera. Defeated, you closed the word document, eyes drifting to the window beside you.

Outside, the skyline was painted in hues of orange and blue. Birds flew over the horizon, ready to migrate elsewhere for the upcoming spring. Your chest rose and fell with your exhale as you let your mind wander. You used up your creativity for the day, you thought. You haven’t made significant progress on the essay since you started it a few hours ago. Before you could beat yourself up about it, three loud knocks were heard from the window. Caleb’s masked face peeked over the wall as he gave you a gentle wave. Giddy, you got off your chair and skipped over, fingers deftly undoing the lock on its doors. You slid it open, allowing him to crawl in.

“I thought you were busy fighting crime,” you teased, watching as he took the mask off. His hair was tousled and his cheeks were flushed from exertion. “Are you slacking off?”

He huffed, amused. “I can multitask.”

He unhid his hand from his back and handed you a large bouquet of sunflowers, the gesture immediately making you melt. Flowers weren’t that out of the ordinary. Caleb liked bringing you gifts and trinkets he thinks you’d like. You got an equally large bouquet during your high school graduation and another one when you were accepted into university. You took it with a smile, murmuring a quiet ‘thank you’ and curiously looking at him. He bounced on the heels of his feet, seemingly nervous about something. His brows knitted together.

“You okay?”

He met your gaze. “Do you still think Spider-Man is better than me?”

You blinked a few times, confused. From the way he said it, it appeared that it wasn’t the first time he thought of something like this. You chuckled and crossed your arms over your chest, shifting your weight to the other leg.

“Getting jealous of yourself, Caleb?” It was your turn to be amused. “I never said he was my number one hero.”

“You never said I was your number one hero either.”

You sighed in mock exasperation. “Why is this important? You’re the same person.”

“I just wanna know,” he said, uncharacteristically sheepish.

“First of all, that happened once,” you corrected, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Second of all, I love you. Spider-Man or not.”

His lips curled into a smile. “You love me?”

Warmth blossomed across your chest, rising all the way up to your cheeks as your lips parted in surprise, sputtering incoherent syllables. You awkwardly turned your head away, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. Love had never been discussed, not really. It just felt like an unspoken commitment since you were children. He was the most important person to you, and you were the most important person to him. You never really thought about labelling your relationship.

Your eyes widened when you remembered you always referred to him as your partner whenever you spoke of him to your friends. You already gave it a label without realising it. You opened and closed your mouth like a fish, struggling to come up with a reply. You could feel his gaze on you, hear the satisfaction and mischief in his words. Clearing your throat, you tried to compose yourself and decided to follow through. You couldn’t take it back anyway, and even if you could, you didn’t want to.

“Yeah. I do,” you said, feigning indifference. “I thought you knew that.”

He couldn’t stop the smile from expanding into a grin. A breathless chuckle left him. His cheeks seemed to be getting even pinker as he fidgeted in his spot. He scratched the back of his head with flustered giddiness, struggling to keep eye contact with you. You didn’t think you ever saw him this shy. He was always your brave hero Caleb, the same boy who held you when you had nightmares, the same boy who held your hand when the thunderstorms got too loud. He was the same boy who defended you from bullies and got into trouble for getting into a fight with them. He was the same man who held nothing but affection in his words for you, the same man who would fall into playful banter with you.

You sighed softly, the corners of your lips twitching up. “You’re not gonna say it back?”

Though he didn’t need to, there was still a hint of insecurity in your tone. You looked at him expectantly, still watching as he tried to maintain composure. You weren’t used to seeing him this way, but you thought you could learn to do it. It made for a rather nice sight.

“I love you too, pipsqueak,” he finally said.

You beamed at him, placing the bouquet on the counter before leaping into his arms, delightfully laughing when he caught you effortlessly. You looped your arms around his neck and hooked your chin on his shoulder. Your legs were wrapped around him, your body supported by his arms around your waist. He held you as if you were as light as a feather. He nuzzled into your hair, letting out a content sigh. The air felt so light, so carefree. The remnants of your worries disappeared into the air, replaced by pure joy and unbridled affection.

“So… What’s the plan? Are you done with the day?”

“I’m going back to work. They need me,” he replied. With a jovial tone, he continued. “But I’ll be back for dinner.”

“You mean it this time?” You pulled away, searching into his eyes for honesty. You were still prone to worrying. His vigilante lifestyle was full of unpredictable moments, so it consistently kept you on your toes, leaving you unaware of what to expect. You were desperate for his words to be true. You felt as though you’ve been away from him for way too long. You craved his presence, his warmth—you craved him.

He gave you a boyish smile. “Yeah. I do.”

And that was a promise.

#all #caleb x reader #lads x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lads caleb x reader #lads fluff #lnds x reader #lnds caleb #lnds caleb x reader #love and deepspace #lads caleb #xia yizhou #caleb lads #caleb xia #love and deepspace caleb

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thebroccolination · 6 months ago

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GMMTV ISN’T CONTRACTUALLY FORCING THEIR ACTORS INTO THE CLOSET

Recently, I saw a fan from the U.S. claiming on TikTok that GMMTV contractually forces their queer actors to keep their sexual identities a secret. Why else would there be so few openly queer actors???

So, first of all, it’s not like the few openly queer actors in GMMTV had to break some corporate closet door to escape, and then GMMTV went, “Aw, shucks. Well, I guess y’all win. We’ll keep paying you, you little rainbowy scamps.” There are only a few of them because being openly queer in Thailand’s media industry is still fucking hard.

Fluke Natouch of Until We Meet Again (and OhmFluke 1.0) fame left his agency years ago to work freelance so he could navigate his career on his own terms. When openly gay director New of Studio Wabi Sabi approached him to offer the role of Pharm, Fluke very actually asked New if he was sure he wanted an openly gay actor in his series. This was a conversation that two openly gay men had! No sexualities whatsoever were hidden in the having of this conversation! Or in the public recounting of it later!

Fluke asked New this because there are still roadblocks for openly queer actors, and as a freelancer, he knew this. Some sponsors are hesitant to have a queer face on their commercials, and some of the industry’s upper management are old bigoted guys holding the purse strings. Why do you think so many of these guys have to appear straight-presenting?

Interfans contribute to the glorification of heteronormativity, too. How many times have I seen interfans lusting over the KinnPorsche actors as “real men” or excusing Joss’s myriad issues over the years because he’s “so hot”?

How many femme actors are given roles with complexity? How many are shunted into comedic roles or tragic figures? How many interfans point at Pharm and complain that He Cries Too Much? You’ve all seen it. “P’DEEEEEAN.”

Regardless of what interfans claim to want, the series that tend to do best nowadays feature straight-presenting actors. Bad Buddy, 2gether, My School President, KinnPorsche, etc.

Ironically, the series that lean hard on queer themes tend not to do as well.

So you can see why most choose to keep at least a veneer of heterosexuality or else keep the glass closet door closed.

New cast Fluke and Cooheart in Until We Meet Again because Studio Wabi Sabi was both agency and production company owned by New, and New could do whatever he wanted. SWS was very much a safe haven for queer actors of all levels of openness.

And regardless of my complaints about New’s directing and perpetual insistence that he do all the editing and sound design himself (stop, man, I’m begging you, learn how to delegate), he has been working for years to create a welcoming space for queer actors in an industry that is still extremely cautious, and I’ll always respect him for that.

As much as people love to hate a corporate body, GMMTV’s myriad flaws are more based in the categories of “terrible organization” and “poor management” and “haphazardly throwing a thousand medicore, half-baked projects at a wall until one of them sticks by chance and then celebrating that surprise hit into the ground”—not “forcing their actors into the closet.”

As far as I’m aware, the only khuujin (“imaginary couple”) in the industry who’s Openly Dating is PorscheArm, and they were already out and together before the fame, so they’re more Public Figures Advocating for Social Progress than they are BL actors. I’d say ZeeNuNew are borderline, because while they seem increasingly more cavalier with their subtlety, even they’ve been excruciatingly careful in their labeling over the past few years. (“Are you a couple?” “You could call us that.”)

And there’s a reason for the caution. Things are changing for the better, but progress is slow.

In an early, post-SOTUS interview from 2016, infant actors KristSingto were point-blank asked by TV hosts if they’re “normal” with a heavy insinuation that they’d be mocked and laughed at unless they asserted their heterosexuality in front of a live audience. Not exactly a warm and kind environment to say, “Actually…” As the first in the line of fire, KristSingto were constantly bombarded with invasive questions and suspicion and homophobia, and it’s only been nine years since SOTUS aired.

Now, you’ve got the evolution of hosts making lewd innuendos at khuujin and trying to “trick” them into Coming Out for content. Yet, all the khuujin seem to know how to play the game Juuuust Right to avoid saying anything concrete and damning, leaving just enough crumbs for fans to pick up on and enjoy.

Because look how the few openly queer actors are treated. Bruce Sirikorn Kananurak’s best-known role is framed villain Aey in Lovely Writer, and Gun Korawit Boonsri is regularly cast as Sassy Gay Side Character. Cooheart gets variety in his roles, but he’s with Studio Wabi Sabi under New, an openly gay CEO who famously allows his actors a ton of freedom in their image. And it says a lot to me that Cooheart didn’t make the move over to GMMTV along with his colleagues last year.

So, y’know, of course I’m not saying GMMTV is paradise. While he was with SWS, Boun said he wanted to get tattoos but New advised him against it because it might have limited potential roles. So New didn’t forbid it, he just cautioned Boun against doing it. Meanwhile, he implied recently that he’d like to dye his hair blond again, but GMMTV has to approve things like that. Hence, you’ll hear about some GMMTV actors who just get a tattoo done or cut their hair without telling anyone and then they show up for work with an insouciant shrug; the beg forgiveness>>>ask permission move.

So GMMTV does have some stupid public image rules, and they have also discouraged certain actors from interacting with each other in case it drives their profit margins down (see: The Chronicles of Management Driving KristGun Apart—I’m making a post about it, don’t worry). And I’m sure the Grammy Powers That Be go ://// if a GMMTV actor says, “Hey, I’m thinking of telling the world I’m bisexual tomorrow,” and go, “Maybe don’t though.” It’s just not something they’re Contractually Obligated to hide; it’s more common sense.

Like I said, GMMTV’s real crimes in my eyes are things like 1) repeatedly trying to push men like Foei and Joss who’ve proven themselves to be toxic nightmares to women and queer people over and over throughout the years, 2) overworking their most popular actors to physical and mental exhaustion, 3) barely promoting their GL productions despite their obvious popularity, 4) shoving their Not Singers onstage with zero vocal training, 5) prioritizing trends over quality, 6) having Zero Plan of what to do Most of the Time, 7) hiring on more and more actors without hiring enough managers to support them, and more.

There’s no “you gotta be Heterosexual-Presenting or else” clause in their contracts. They’re just actors in a conservative Asian country where marriage equality has only recently been recognized, and that’s not even close to having social equality. Plenty of western actors don’t want the extra baggage of being Openly Queer (see the Kit Connor debacle), let alone in a country controlled by military and monarchy.

Thailand isn’t a queer paradise.

Hell, look at Japan: they invented BL and GL and their government isn’t even close to recognizing marriage equality. To the majority of Japanese people, BL and GL are embarrassing subgenres that “Normal People” (ie: what heterosexuals are called in Japan—yes I’m serious) would never publicly admit to enjoying. I know this because I was a Queer Foreigner in Japan for eleven years and my whole existence was weird.

As far as I’ve heard from friends who work with GMMTV, it’s a far more progressive company than many interfans give it credit for. Many of the staff are openly queer, a ton of their directors are openly queer, and their actors who are queer are either open with the understanding that there are limitations to that choice or closeted to protect their job opportunities. Once you’re Openly Queer, you’re pushed into a very different and much smaller box, and they all know it.

So y’know. GMMTV actors aren’t All Straight, and the ones who are queer aren’t Closeted by Force. GMMTV is just a company of people with a wide tapestry of nuance, just like you’d expect from any large organization of artistic and business folk producing queer media for a general audience.

In 2025, let’s please abandon the myth that GMMTV is an evil kpop company. <3

It’s a sloppy, poorly run nightmare factory. :D

EDIT: Also, director X confirmed on Twitter last year that GMMTV has no anti-dating policy.

#thai bl #thai gl #thai ql #gmmtv #studio wabi sabi #domundi

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dreamcubed · 2 years ago

Text

i think he knows | theodore nott x reader

song; i think he knows [taylor swift] pairing; theodore nott x ravenclaw!fem!reader genre; not actually unrequited love, s2l, fluff word count; 3,1k timeline; half-blood prince warnings; swearing, theo's lack of communication summary; you had fancied the mysteriously quiet slytherin boy for as long as you could remember (since first year), and, quite frankly, your best friend was sick of you going on about it without ever making a move

masterlist

"wanna see what's under that attitude."

—————————————

Truth was, you knew you weren't special for having your attention caught by Theodore Nott. Despite his almost entirely anti-social personality and apparent grumpiness, many girls longed after him. You completely understood, of course; there was something enticing about a potentially misunderstood quiet boy, and the idea of becoming the one person they show affection to was self-indulging.

The fact of the matter, as your best friend, Cho, frequently pointed out, was that you had never even so much as spoken to him. You hoped he at least knew you existed, from the times you had been praised in class for your assignments, but you had no proof that he even recognised your face.

"Babe, it's sixth year now- that's over five years of you fancying Nott," Cho said as she caught your gaze lingering over to the Slytherin table again. It was your second day back after summer, so you had a lot of long-distance admiring to catch up on.

"Okay, so?" you replied, not even bothering to move your eyes away from the object of your desires.

"So, it's time that you do something about it," she continued, shovelling scrambled eggs on to both her plate and yours, "Do you really want to leave Hogwarts without any dating experience?"

You finally prized your eyes away from Nott, opting instead to meet your concerned best friend's gaze, "I don't think it's the sort of time to be thinking about dating."

"It's especially the time to think about it," she said, "Our lives may be shorter than we think they are - don't die with regrets."

You sighed, unable to argue.

"Plus, it really wouldn't hurt to have some positivity around here. You can feel how much heavier the air is than before."

That, you had to agree with. People were still laughing in their friend groups throughout the hall, sure, but there was a lingering sense of dread that had stuck with everyone since the Triwizard Tournament and reign of Umbridge, and it was only getting worse.

"Maybe," you finally concluded, picking up your fork to dig into your breakfast.

"You have nothing to lose," she added, "Your social circles are completely separate, and, you're pretty as fuck."

You couldn't help but smile at her compliment, "Even if that's true, I'm completely inexperienced."

"It's not that hard."

"Yeah, says the girl who had both Hogwarts champions drooling over her. No offence, babe, but you're biased."

"That could just have easily been you if you'd ever spoken to either of them."

"Whatever you say."

Cho sighed, deciding to not argue any further with you on the matter - for now.

***

It was amazing how potions went from your least favourite subject to your favourite after Slughorn took over from Snape. The lessons were no longer a fear-inducing chore, but instead a time of laughter and enjoyable learning: the way it should be.

Harry Potter especially seemed to be flourishing in the subject, much to the dismay of Hermione Granger, who usually took the spot at the top of the class. You were glad to not be a part of their constantly hectic lifestyles, although you had almost been when Cho had a thing with Harry the year prior.

Regardless, your main focus during potions was the gorgeous Slytherin boy who sat across the classroom from you - another of the best students in the class. Your seat was stationed at the perfect angle to sneak glances at him without raising too much suspicion: you definitely hadn't ensured that a few weeks ago during the first lesson or anything.

"Shit, I forgot the anjelica," you muttered to yourself, gazing at the list of ingredients in front of you as you had been wondering why your potion was a navy blue when it was meant to be a royal blue.

You left your station to head over to the ingredients cupboard, where you gazed at the arrangement before you. It was organised alphabetically, so your eyes shifted to the top left hand corner where you spotted the jar that you were after.

You stood on your tiptoes in attempt to reach it, but after failing, you huffed, going to pull out your wand instead. That was when a hard chest pressed against your back and a large pale hand grasped the very jar that you were in dire need of. You turned around quickly only to spot the guy you had fancied for an unhealthy amount of time - and his face was shockingly close to yours. His scent swarmed your nostrils, making your knees weak.

He raised an eyebrow at you.

Coming to your senses, you cleared your throat, "Uh, I need some of that anjelica- please."

His eyes shifted down to the jar in his hand as he stepped back slightly. The added distance meant that you could finally breathe.

Nott presented the jar to you, and you gratefully took it, thanking him in the process. As you went to open it and take what you needed, he left the cupboard and went back to his station, which was in view of where you were. You remained shocked for a few moments: did he not need some of the herb? His eyes locked on to yours from where he now was, making you panic and quickly depart the cupboard with the jar still in your hand.

Rowena, how did Cho expect you to ask him out when you couldn't even make eye contact with him?

***

The following morning, you were sat at breakfast with Cho and your other fellow Ravenclaws, busy discussing the latest ancient runes essay that you had to complete. Just as you began to discuss the difficulties you had with writing the conclusion, you were interrupted by the sound of owls from above. The morning post had arrived.

Typically, you didn't get anything. Maybe the occasional letter from your mother, but that was about it. So, you were mildly surprised to see an envelope drop in front of you.

It was a very small envelope: that was the most confusing part. You couldn't think as to why your mother wouldn't send a normal-sized letter, but you opened it nonetheless. Only, the contents of the envelope made your stomach drop as dread filled your bones and veins.

A tiny note was enclosed, that wasn't addressed or signed, and it simply read "I see you staring at me". Instinctively, your eyes looked up and over to the Slytherin table, where Theodore Nott sat, evidently having been watching you this entire time. His face was completely blank, until he arched an eyebrow at you - clearly a favoured expression of his - which made you begin panicking.

"Oh, fuck," you mumbled, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Only Cho, who was sat next to you, heard your profanities, and turned to you with confusion adorning her face. "What is it?"

You passed the note over to her, still gazing at Nott who now had the slightest of amused smirks tugging on his lips.

"Oh, fuck," Cho mimicked you, finally making you prize your eyes away from the boy, "Yeah, I see why you're panicking."

"This is going to socially ruin me," you sighed, "He'll probably tell the other Slytherins and then they'll bully me until the end of my school career."

"Okay, catastrophising much?" she said, gently slapping you, "Nott like never talks, I highly doubt he divulges his friends with personal information."

"Yeah, his personal information!" you whisper-yelled.

"I mean, maybe he likes you back."

"What?"

"He doesn't indicate at all in that note that he's mad at you for staring at him."

"Yeah, but, don't you think he'd go about it in a different way if he returned the feelings?"

Cho paused to think for a moment, "No, actually. Maybe he was pretty sure that you were staring at him, but needed to confirm it. So, he wrote that note to you, intentionally not signing it, to see if you would immediately look to him after reading it."

Your eyes widened with realisation, "Wait, are you saying I could have still saved myself, but instead instantly looked in his direction like a fucking idiot?"

"Y/N," she hit your arm, "I think this is a good thing. Try and be more optimistic."

"Easy for you to say."

***

You felt sick to your stomach as you arrived at your potions lesson that day, keeping your head down as you took your usual seat. Normally, this would be when you'd steal your first glance at Theodore Nott, but the thought of seeing his face again paralysed you with fear.

"Y/N, relax," Cho whispered to you, but her words were futile. Relaxation seemed impossible in times like this.

"Today, class, I want you to pair up with someone you don't usually work with," Professor Slughorn announced, "By that I mean, someone who isn't from your house and doesn't sit on your table."

You mumbled a curse under your breath as people began to move around, looking up to try and locate the nice Hufflepuff girl you sat next to in history of magic. Only, Cho had already disappeared to her side, and they were chatting happily with each other. Rowena, this was bad. You didn't have the biggest social circle.

"Excellent, everyone seems to be in pairs," Slughorn spoke, making you furrow your eyebrows.

Looking to your side, you were shocked to see that Nott had silently sat next you, and was gazing at you intently.

"Hi," you squeaked, flashbacks of breakfast flooding back to you.

He gave you a curt nod, and turned back to face the front.

You didn't listen to a single instruction that Slughorn gave after that, as your brain was much too pre-occupied with concepts of social suicide and humiliation. Was Nott just trying to torture you?

"L/N," a deep voice snapped you out of your thoughts. That was it. The first time you had ever heard Theodore Nott speak.

You turned to him, only to realise that everyone was standing up and getting ingredients - had you really been that spaced out?

It must have been evident in your facial expression that you had no idea what was going on, because Nott opened his potions book and pointed at the potion that you were making. You looked at the ingredient list, but you couldn't say that you were actually taking any of it in.

Clearly, Nott was aware of this fact, and let out a small sigh that made you feel exceptionally guilty. Regardless, he walked over to the ingredients cupboard himself without another word and soon returned with everything you needed. In the meantime, you had snapped out of your stupor and set up the cauldron and cutting board. You didn't want him to completely regret pairing up with you.

What potion were you even making? You finally processed the words on the page: amortentia. Your eyes widened.

This might not end well.

***

You had never thought being a remarkable potion maker - who was collaborating with a fellow remarkable potion maker - would be a bad thing. It turned out that it very much could be when the steam from your concoction wafted up your nose, overwhelming your senses with the smell of intertwined chestnut and paper money. As if the faint scent of Nott that you picked up on whenever he walked past didn't make you nervous enough, now it filled the entire room, since you certainly weren't the only capable potion makers in the class.

"Alright, class, it seems that we have all about finished," Slughorn clapped his hands together, "And, now, for my favourite part."

You had a feeling you knew what was coming.

"Miss Parkinson, what does the potion smell like to you?"

"Uh," the girl flushed a bit, her eyes flicking towards Draco Malfoy, "I don't know how to describe it - clean, expensive. Like a really fancy fragrance."

"Fascinating, most fascinating," Slughorn replied, his eyes gleaming, "Mr Nott, what about you?"

Were you already about to hear him speak for the second time? He hadn't spoke throughout the entire potion making process, which, to be honest, you were kind of glad for.

"Coconut," he said simply, "And vanilla."

Your breath hitched.

You used coconut shampoo.

Your favourite perfume was a vanilla scent.

"That is most interesting!" Slughorn grinned, "It is fascinating to hear what enraptures you all the most!"

You didn't realise that your eyes had glued on to Nott as Slughorn proceeded to ask other students what amortentia smelled of to them until the Slytherin boy turned to face you and raised a singular eyebrow.

You felt warm underneath his gaze.

He smirked.

***

You packed up at the end of the lesson, preparing to return to the Ravenclaw tower until dinner time along with Cho who was still across the room. Just as you were about to walk over to her, Nott grabbed your arm and jerked his head in the direction of the door. It was a silent invitation to walk with him somewhere, from what you could gather. You turned around to tell Cho where you were going, but she had already disappeared, much to your confusion.

The first few minutes of the walk were in silence, and the awkwardness was killing you. It was only once you had emerged from the dungeons that Nott finally said something.

"You aren't subtle."

A lightning bolt of shock and nerves shot up your spine and made you stiffen up as you walked. You managed to force out a mumble of, "I know."

He shrugged, "It's cute."

Had you heard him right? No, you couldn't have. You just weren't used to hearing his voice.

"I thought you were shy," you muttered, but he heard and chuckled a bit.

"No. Just quiet."

You clutched your books close to your chest.

"You're shy," he added.

You nodded.

He chuckled again, and silence ensued for another couple minutes.

"Hogsmeade," he said.

You hummed in surprise.

"This weekend. Me, you."

Your jaw dropped - did he mean a date? A Hogsmeade invitation had certain implications among Hogwarts students.

But he didn't clarify, not once on the way to the Ravenclaw tower.

***

"Relax, Y/N, you'll be great," Cho assured you, wrapping your scarf around your neck since the autumn breeze was nippy in Scotland.

"I don't even know if it's a date."

"Of course it's a date," she shook her head, "Everyone knows what inviting someone to Hogsmeade means."

You grimaced, "I don't know if Nott is the most up to date with social norms."

"Regardless, he's not a fucking idiot."

You gave your best friend a small smile.

"Now, he'll be waiting for you in the courtyard, so hurry!"

***

You had only ever seen Theodore Nott in casual clothing from afar before, catching a glimpse of him before he disappeared amongst the other Slytherins. But, Rowena, you had been missing out on quite an indulgent sight.

How could a man make such a simple outfit of a knitted jumper and baggy jeans look so good? You didn't understand it, unable to feel anything but self-conscious in your own ensemble.

He didn't smile at you as you approached, but instead gave you a curt nod. And, as you both began walking towards the carriage, the silence was truly beginning to suffocate you. So, you reached inside the crevices of your brain to talk about something - anything - and finally landed on informing him of every little thing that had happened to you that week. It wasn't particularly interesting, mainly because you were omitting the details about him, but it meant that the quietness was filled with your babbling.

Which was how it went the entire journey to Hogsmeade.

At first you weren't sure he was listening, but when you paused mid sentence for a moment, he raised his eyebrow at you and gestured for you to go on. So you did.

"...and honestly, I don't know why Cho thought that was a good idea," you sighed as you both stepped out of the carriage, "She nearly set her hair on fire!"

You heard a small chuckle erupt from the boy next to you, making you look over to him in surprise.

"What about you? How's your week been?" you asked cautiously, nervous to see his reaction to a question that required a wordy response.

He shrugged.

It was frustrating.

You chewed your lip for a few seconds, "Look- I get you find communication difficult. But, please, I need more to work with here."

He gave you a surprised expression, and stopped walking, making you halt too. Nott looked around pensively, completely unreadable.

"Nott?"

He looked at you and scowled, "Theo," he corrected.

"Theo- what are you doing?"

Letting out a loud exhale, he grabbed your hand and pulled you away from the main street of Hogsmeade and to a more hidden area behind some of the houses. When you turned around, you realised that he was right in front of you - to the point that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your face.

"I'm not good with words," he mumbled.

You hummed in agreement.

"I don't like talking to people," he continued, "But I want to talk to you."

Your breath hitched, "Really?"

"I'm not an idiot- I've known that you've fancied me for years."

You felt your ears heat up.

"But this year, when we started back, I-" he paused, trying to piece together the words in his mind, "I saw you, and it was different than before. I wanted your attention."

A smile crept on to your face as you gazed up at him.

"So, I know I need to work on being open - but I want to try. For you."

You don't know where the wave of confidence came from, but you found yourself pressing your lips against his and combing your fingers through his hair. He gasped at the sudden contact, but quickly reciprocated the affection until you pulled apart.

"Rowena... I always thought you knew. I can't believe I was right."

"Horrifying?"

"A little," you nodded, "But it's obviously worked out."

————————————————

masterlist

written; 03/06/2023 —> 15/08/2023 published;17/08/2023 edited; —/—/——

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holyblonded · 2 months ago

Text

strawberry swing | always sunny in australia

pairings: sam kerr x teen!reader

summary: the story of chickie

warnings: foster care, social workers, abandonment

notes: before anyone accuses me of fucking trauma porn again (smd) most of my characters backstories reflect my own experiences. so leave me alone 😀

Your birth is a mystery.

There’s no hospital certificate, no photos of a baby wrapped in a blanket with proud parents smiling beside her. No recorded time of birth, no gentle whispers of a name chosen with care. You were surrendered at a fire station in Perth just a few days after coming into the world—tiny, blinking up at the fluorescent lights, swaddled in a blanket and left in silence. The only thing anyone knows is the date you were found: September 3rd.

So that became your birthday. You’ve never celebrated the actual day you were born, but September 3rd became a symbol of something different, survival. Existence. The day someone, somewhere, decided you deserved a chance. And so, when you started playing football, it was only natural to wear the number 3. Not because it was lucky. Not because a hero wore it before you. But because that number was yours. A reminder that you made it. That you’re still here.

You were placed in foster care right away. At first, everything was a blur, faces came and went. Families with different smells, different rules, different ways of making dinner. You learned not to unpack too deeply. Not to leave your clothes in drawers. Not to get too comfortable with anyone’s pets or start calling someone “Mum”. You learned how to adapt, how to nod when spoken to, how to keep a tiny part of yourself locked up and protected.

But then came the Patels. Mr. and Mrs. Patel were older, their children grown and long moved out. Their home was warm in the way that made your shoulders drop as soon as you walked in. The first night you stayed with them, you were so quiet that Mrs. Patel brought you warm milk with honey and sat next to you on the couch without saying a word. Mr. Patel gave you a bedtime story and called you “little one” with such affection it made your throat ache.

You were five years old, and for the first time, you felt like a child.

They never treated you like a charity case. You weren’t just a number in a file or a check from the government. You were their kid. Mr. Patel taught you how to garden, even though you pulled up the carrots too early. Mrs. Patel showed you how to make roti, guiding your little hands with gentle patience. They gave you a bedtime. They taught you to fold your clothes. They came to every parent-teacher meeting.

And when they saw you running circles around the backyard with a half-deflated ball tucked under your arm, Mr. Patel chuckled and said, “We’ve got a little footballer on our hands.”

So they signed you up.

You still remember your first match. You were wearing hand-me-down cleats that were a little too big, shin guards that kept sliding, and a jersey two sizes too long. But you were buzzing with excitement.

“Go, sweetie! Run, run, run!” Mrs. Patel called from the sideline, her voice high and delighted.

“To the goal! That’s it!” Mr. Patel shouted, jumping up and down like he was the one sprinting across the pitch.

You scored. It was messy, a bit lucky, and absolutely glorious. When you turned to the sideline, they were both clapping like you’d just won the World Cup. That moment was burned into your heart forever. Not the goal—them. The way they looked at you like you were something special.

But good things, you learned early, don’t always last.

By the time you were seven, Mr. and Mrs. Patel were struggling. Their age had caught up with them. Mrs. Patel’s arthritis made mornings difficult. Mr. Patel was having trouble keeping up with appointments. And the social worker gently, apologetically, told you it was time.

You didn’t say a word as you packed your things. Just a small duffel bag. The rest had always been borrowed.

Mr. Patel gave you a hug that lasted longer than it should’ve. Mrs. Patel tucked a little hand-stitched elephant into your pocket — “For courage,” she said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

The drive away from that house was one of the longest of your life. You curled up in the backseat, forehead against the window, watching the world blur by. Michelle, your social worker, kept glancing at you in the mirror. You didn’t cry. Not then. Your chest felt like it had caved in.

But then you whispered, almost too softly to hear: “Wherever I go from here… I want to keep playing football.”

Michelle didn’t blink. She just nodded, voice steady. “I can do that for you.”

And she did.

No matter how many places you bounced around after that, she made sure there was always a ball at your feet. Always a field. Always something to hold onto.

You were small, and angry sometimes, and too stubborn for your own good. But you never stopped playing. Never stopped believing that maybe, just maybe, one day, you’d find another place that felt like home.

And until then, you had football. You had the number 3, you had yourself, and most importantly you had the fire to survive.

You were used to doing things on your own. By thirteen, you had already lived more lives than most kids your age. You had lived in group homes and in strangers’ guest rooms, unpacked your bag more times than you could count, and learned how to get to practice no matter the distance. If it meant walking an hour, hitching a ride with someone’s cousin, or kicking around in a parking lot with a half-flat ball, so be it. You didn’t complain. Football made you feel alive, like you were more than your case number, more than another kid shuffling through the system. It reminded you that you were good at something.

But when you were turning fourteen, everything shifted.

You were placed with Edison and Savannah Mulberry, a well-off couple in Perth with a house full of sunshine, a garden that actually looked like a garden, and the biggest flatscreen you’d ever seen. They reminded you so much of Mr. and Mrs. Patel it almost hurt at first. Savannah hummed while she cooked and called you “sweetheart” from the moment you walked in the door. Edison was the type to high-five you every time he saw you and blast music from the speakers in the kitchen while making pancakes.

And best of all? They were massive Tillies fans. Not the fake kind, not the people who tuned in once a year for the important and barely knew any names. No, Edison could rattle off stats for every player, and Savannah had a scarf signed by Lisa De Vanna from years ago. When they found out how serious you were about football, it was like Christmas had come early. They bought cones and pop-up goals. They cleared out the garage so you could store your gear. Edison went full soccer dad mode, showing up to every training, every match, yelling like he was the coach.

You were embarrassed at first. Then, you secretly loved it.

And one weekend, they brought friends with them to one of your matches. Roger and Roxanne Kerr.

You didn’t know who they were at first, just that they were really friendly, smiled a lot, and seemed to know everything about football. Edison was buzzing with excitement, talking you up before the match like you were already a professional. You tried not to let it get to your head. But you did what you always did when you stepped on the pitch: you balled out.

You scored two goals. Assisted another. Broke ankles. Ran the game like you were born to do it.

After the final whistle, Roger and Roxanne came up to you, all smiles.

“That was brilliant,” Roger said, giving you a little clap on the shoulder.

“Seriously, you were everywhere,” Roxanne added. “So much composure for someone your age.”

You muttered a quiet thank you, looking at your shoes, trying not to blush. Edison, of course, was already grinning like he won the lottery.

“I told you she was good!” he said, practically bouncing. “She’s got something, doesn’t she? The instincts, the footwork, the mind for it!”

They smiled, nodded, clearly impressed. You didn’t realize how important their opinion was. Not until you got home.

Because Sam Kerr, the Sam Kerr, their daughter, happened to be visiting that week.

Over dinner, Roxanne casually said, “You should come to her next match, Sam. The kid’s got something special.”

“Really?” Sam asked, half-interested as she chewed. “Alright. I’ll come.”

You didn’t know she was going to be there. You didn’t know Tony Gustavsson, coach of the Matildas, would be there too.

You were just playing. And again, you crushed it. Another goal. Two assists. Dominating the midfield like it was your backyard. You played with joy, freedom, and a touch of feral hunger, like you had something to prove and nothing to lose.

From the stands, Sam leaned over to Tony.

“We need her,” she said. “She’s a freak. But she’s only thirteen.”

Tony didn’t take his eyes off you. “She’s fourteen in a month,” he said with a smirk.

That was the beginning of it.

Sam wasn’t someone who half-did things. If she believed in you, she believed in you. She spent the next month in Perth during a break from club and national duty. And instead of resting, she spent it with you.

She started by casually showing up to your training sessions. Then she offered to play one-on-one. Then she took you to this corner café you loved, where they had killer sandwiches and live acoustic music on Fridays. You opened up slowly, walls still high, trust still tentative, but she didn’t push. She just stuck around. She teased you when you tripped over your own shoelaces, taught you how to loft a ball with your laces perfectly, listened to your favorite playlists. You even made her watch some dumb rom-com you liked, and she didn’t complain. Much.

One afternoon, you showed her your favorite view of the city, up this trail behind the local park. You told her about the Patels. You told her about walking hours just to play. She didn’t say anything for a while.

Then she said, “You’re tough as nails, huh?”

You shrugged. “I just love the game.”

Sam smiled. “Yeah. I can see that.”

By the end of the month, she had gotten your favorite cookies, these fancy ones from Sydney that were nearly impossible to find, and gave them to you on your birthday.

“Happy fourteenth,” she said, grinning. “Now come play for the national team.”

You hesitated. But something in you trusted her. So you said yes. Everything felt like it was finally falling into place.

Until it wasn’t. Just weeks before your official call-up, Edison had a sudden heart attack. He survived, but it was serious. Savannah was overwhelmed, struggling to keep up with his care, and social services stepped in.

You were going to be moved again. It was a gut punch. After everything. After hope. After belonging.

You sat in the office, arms crossed, bracing for another round of disappointment, when Sam stood up out of nowhere and said, “She’s not going back into the system. I’ll take her.”

You whipped your head toward her. “What?”

“I’ll take you,” Sam repeated. “You’ll stay with me.”

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “You’ve got enough going on. You’re— You’re Sam Kerr. You don’t have time to—”

“I’m not letting this happen to you,” she said firmly. “You don’t have to keep starting over. Not this time.”

And just like that, she became your legal guardian.

You cried when you signed the paperwork. Sam pretended not to see, just ruffled your hair and said, “Alright, let’s get you packed. You’ve got a debut coming up.”

You never said it out loud, but in that moment, you stopped surviving.

And for the first time in your life… you started living.

#woso x platonic!reader #woso fic #woso x teen!reader #woso x reader #woso community #woso fanfics #woso #arsenal wfc x teen!reader #arsenal wfc x reader #arsenal x reader #arsenal wfc #arsenal x teen!reader #matildas x teen!reader #matildas x reader #auswnt x teen!reader #auswnt x reader #sam kerr x teen!reader #sam kerr x reader #·˚ ༘ always sunny in australia

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t4kalcvr · 15 days ago

Text

NOTHING GOOD HAPPENS AFTER 2 AM

𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐘𝐀𝐌𝐀 word count :: ( 2741 ) genre :: fluffyyy, && romance content contains :: college kids, && all-nighter! honestly just pure fluff !!

— “nothing good happens after 2AM… unless it’s you.”

1:50 AM

the café was dim, empty except for three flickering ceiling lights and a lingering scent of burnt espresso. jageyama sat in a corner booth, hunched over his untouched drink while yamaguchi and hinata laughed too loudly over some dumb video. suga was sipping tea like he hadn’t aged a day since college started. tanaka, as usual, was halfway between hyped and hallucinating.

“alright,” kageyama muttered, glancing at his phone. “i’m heading out.”

five pairs of eyes snapped up.

“no.”

“don’t you dare.”

“we’re not doing this again, kags.”

he sighed. “it’s almost two. i don’t do things after two.”

hinata slammed a hand on the table. “you’re still on that rule?! it’s been years!”

“it’s a smart rule,” kageyama muttered, grabbing his hoodie. “nothing good happens after 2AM. people text their exes. get stuck in sketchy karaoke bars. get hit by bikes. everything’s worse at 2AM.”

yamaguchi leaned in with a smirk. “or… you finally meet someone worth staying up for.”

suga gave him a look. “tobio, you’re 19. the worst thing you do after 2AM is google protein shake reviews.”

the table laughed. kageyama scowled, ears tinged pink.

“have fun going home to your silence, man,” tanaka said, raising his cup like a toast. “let us know if your yogurt betrays you again.”

he left to a chorus of jokes and fake pity, tugging his hood over his ears.

the street was cold. not freezing—just that stubborn kind of chill that slips past your clothes and settles in your bones.

kageyama shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the pavement.

he didn’t even see you until he nearly walked into you.

you were sitting on the curb. hood up, eyes red-rimmed, phone glowing faintly in your hand.

kageyama paused, unsure if he should say something. maybe he shouldn’t. maybe—

“hey,” you said suddenly. not startled. just tired.

he blinked. “hi.”

you sniffed, eyes flicking up to him. “i’m fine, by the way. just… humiliated. but fine.”

“…okay.”

you let out a breath. “sorry. you looked like a safe stranger to say that to.”

kageyama glanced around. the street was dead silent, all the café chatter far behind him. “you sure you’re okay?”

you gave a half-shrug. “i got stood up.”

he winced. “that sucks.”

“yeah. and the worst part?” you rubbed your face with your sleeve. “i didn’t even want to go out. i just thought… maybe if i broke the ‘nothing good happens after 2am’ rule, i’d be proven wrong.”

his heart stuttered.

“what?”

you looked up. “you know the rule, right? nothing good happens after 2am?”

kageyama sat down next to you before he could stop himself. the curb was cold, but you didn’t move away.

“…yeah,” he said quietly. “i live by it.”

you laughed, a soft, surprised sound. “do you really?”

he nodded. “i was literally walking home because it’s 2am.”

you looked at your phone. 2:01. “guess you broke it too.”

he glanced sideways. “you don’t seem like a bad thing.”

your breath hitched—just a little.

“you don’t seem like one either,” you murmured.

you ended up talking for an hour. maybe two. you didn’t keep track, and neither did he. he learned your name, and you learned that his social skills were still under construction. you told him about your job, your bad date streak, your favorite kind of ramen. he told you about volleyball, how he still plays pick-up games on sundays, and how he’s terrible at small talk unless it’s about sets.

and somehow, you laughed. he made you laugh.

by 3:30 am, your fingers had started brushing without either of you moving away.

“i was supposed to go home,” kageyama said softly, staring at the empty street.

“i was supposed to cry in an uber.”

he looked at you. “you wanna do something reckless?”

you raised a brow. “like what?”

he pointed. “there’s a vending machine around the corner with really bad strawberry milk.”

you weren’t sure why the offer made your chest warm.

maybe it was the way he said it—like it was a sacred ritual. like that vending machine around the corner had never let him down. like bad strawberry milk at 3:30 in the morning was supposed to taste like victory.

“seriously?” you asked, brushing your hands off on your jeans as you stood. “vending machine strawberry milk?”

kageyama shrugged, already walking. “it’s not THAT bad, i was kinda kidding.”

you jogged a little to catch up to him, the soles of your shoes tapping lightly against the cracked sidewalk. “do you drink it a lot?”

he glanced at you, his face unreadable for a second. “only when something feels… like it might matter.”

you blinked. “that’s oddly poetic for vending machine milk.”

he flushed. “i didn’t mean—i just meant, i don’t drink it with just anyone.”

you laughed, soft and breathy. “okay, tobio. i feel honored.”

he stopped at a rusted old vending machine tucked against a convenience store wall. the light above it buzzed faintly, moths circling like tiny satellites. the glass was smeared, the buttons half-faded—but the little pink carton, bright and ridiculous, glowed behind the plexiglass like a prize.

kageyama fished out a handful of coins from his pocket, sliding them in one by one. the machine made a low mechanical grumble, spat out the first milk carton with a dull thud.

he turned to you, holding it out. “you first.”

you raised an eyebrow. “what if it tastes like regret?”

“then you’ll know i was honest about how bad it is.”

you cracked the seal and took a sip.

it was… weird. artificial and overly sweet. the kind of flavor that didn’t pretend to be real fruit. but it was also kind of nice. familiar in a way you couldn’t explain.

you licked your lips, smiling. “yeah. this tastes like a bad decision.”

he took his own carton, cracked it open, and lifted it in your direction like a toast.

“to bad decisions that don’t feel so bad.”

you clinked cartons. “to breaking rules at 2:01 am.”

you found a bench nearby—metal and cold, but facing the earliest edge of sunrise. pink streaks were starting to crack through the horizon, painting everything in a soft, sleepy glow. the city hadn’t woken up yet. it was yours, for now.

you drank your strawberry milk in silence beside him.

not awkward silence. just the kind that wrapped around you gently, like a blanket. his knee kept brushing yours. he didn’t move it. neither did you.

eventually, he leaned back and sighed, his breath fogging slightly in the morning air.

“this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“you mean… meeting me?” you teased.

he looked at you. serious, but not nervous.

“i mean… i thought going home early would keep things simple. but now i kind of wish i’d stayed out earlier.”

your heart fluttered.

you took another sip. “guess the rule was wrong.”

he gave a small, almost-smile. “or maybe it was waiting for the right exception.”

you didn’t say anything back. you just leaned into him—just a little—and he didn’t pull away.

you stayed on the bench a little while longer, the strawberry milk half-forgotten in your hands as the sky shifted from pitch black to a soft ink-blue. the kind of quiet that only exists when the world is paused.

then, you spoke.

“do you wanna keep going?”

kageyama blinked. “going where?”

you stood, brushing your hands on your jeans again. “anywhere. everywhere. just… not home yet.”

he looked up at you, thoughtful. “aren’t you tired?”

“i’ll be tired tomorrow. i’m not ready for this to be over.”

he hesitated for one heartbeat—then nodded, standing beside you.

“okay. what next?”

4:12 am

you found a 24/7 convenience store glowing like a beacon in the quiet street.

“we’re not buying anything,” you whispered as you slipped inside.

“what are we doing then?” he asked, confused.

you grinned. “chaos.”

you each grabbed the ugliest sunglasses off the rack, popped them on like you were movie stars ducking paparazzi. you wandered the snack aisle pointing at random flavors like they were exotic dishes—‘shrimp mayo chips?’ ‘carbonated jelly drinks?’ ‘who asked for this?’

you dared him to try a banana-flavored rice cake.

he did.

he gagged immediately.

you laughed so hard you had to duck behind a shelf.

“okay, your turn,” he said, voice muffled around the rice cake from hell. “you eat one of those pickled plums.”

“absolutely not.”

“coward.”

5:03 am

you passed a tiny park—empty swings, a slide glistening with dew. kageyama slowed beside the entrance.

“you wanna…?”

“race you to the swings,” you called, already sprinting ahead.

he chased after you, long strides catching up fast, his laugh echoing into the sleeping sky.

you collapsed into the swing, breathless, and he took the one beside you. the chains creaked gently as you pushed off with your feet, back and forth.

“when’s the last time you did this?” you asked.

he tilted his head back, looking at the stars. “middle school, maybe.”

“we’re reclaiming childhood then.”

he didn’t reply, but his small smile said enough.

5:39 am

you walked with your hands in your pockets, both of you trailing the painted edge of the sidewalk like it was a tightrope. when he wobbled and nearly tripped, you stuck your arm out dramatically to steady him.

“thank you for saving my life,” he said, deadpan.

“you’re welcome, tobio. i take my duties as a sidewalk guardian very seriously.”

he chuckled softly, and you swore it was the kind of sound you could wrap yourself in. like it was something only you got to hear.

6:10 am

you found an empty rooftop. you weren’t sure if you were allowed up there, but the ladder hadn’t stopped you, and neither had he.

you sat together on the edge, legs dangling over the side, cartons of water and a bag of random snacks between you.

the city blinked slowly awake beneath you—lights flickering on, cars humming softly, a gentle buzz starting to build in the distance.

kageyama’s shoulder brushed yours again. it didn’t feel accidental this time.

“you really think nothing good happens after 2am?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

he stared at the skyline for a second, then turned to you.

“not anymore.”

you looked at him, smiling despite the sleep weighing heavy behind your eyes.

“good.”

you leaned your head against his shoulder, and this time he leaned back.

6:42 am

the sky was bleeding pale gold when you finally climbed down from the rooftop, both of you blinking into the morning like you’d just time-traveled.

you reached the corner of the block before kageyama cleared his throat.

“can i walk you home?”

you looked over, surprised but not unwelcome to the offer. “you sure? you’ve already stayed up way past your personal danger zone.”

he huffed. “i think the danger’s already happened.”

you laughed. “what, me?”

he looked away, cheeks pink. “kind of.”

you smiled and nodded toward the street ahead. “alright, then. you lead.”

the walk was slow and unhurried, both of you buzzing from exhaustion and something warmer, deeper.

“so…” he said after a while, kicking a loose pebble across the sidewalk. “what do you usually do on nights like this?”

“you mean when i get ditched and end up accidentally bonding with a volleyball player over expired strawberry milk?”

he snorted. “that’s a pretty specific category.”

you grinned. “yeah, well… i don’t normally do this.”

he glanced at you. “me either.”

you walked in silence for a few steps before he added, “you made it not weird, though. most people would’ve thought i was awkward.”

you looked at him with soft amusement. “oh, you were awkward. but it was the good kind.”

he made a face. “there’s a good kind?”

“yeah. the kind that makes someone feel… safe. like they don’t have to pretend.”

his pace slowed just slightly. “that’s how you made me feel.”

you blinked, heart stumbling.

“…oh.”

you weren’t sure what to say after that, but you didn’t have to. your hands brushed again, and this time, it wasn’t subtle. he didn’t pull away.

7:04 am

your apartment building stood at the very end of a sleepy block, tucked beneath the long shadows of taller structures, the kind that trapped the last bits of dawn in their teeth. the concrete stairs leading up to your door were cold and a little chipped, but somehow, in that moment, they felt like the steps of something cinematic. something that mattered.

you stopped just before them, turning to face kageyama.

“this is me,” you said, voice a little quieter now. the kind of quiet that comes after laughter, when all that’s left is the weight of what you’re feeling and the silence that makes it heavier.

he nodded, hands buried in the pocket of his hoodie. the wind tugged lightly at his sleeves, ruffling his hair, which had gone slightly messy over the night. he didn’t seem to notice.

you both stood there, like time had pulled the brakes just for the two of you.

“so,” you said, smiling, even though you could feel the ache of the night finally catching up to you. “what now?”

he looked at you like he was still trying to figure out how the past few hours had even happened. “i don’t know.”

you raised an eyebrow. “honest.”

“but,” he added quickly, “i don’t want this to be the only time.”

the words hit your chest in a way that felt sudden and too soft to prepare for.

“me neither.”

your voice came out smaller than you intended, but you didn’t take it back. you meant it. maybe a little too much.

he took a half-step forward, just enough that the space between you started to feel intentional. your fingers were only inches apart now. you could hear the sound of birds somewhere overhead and the soft hum of a car starting up blocks away. the city was waking, but for a second, you weren’t part of it.

his gaze flicked down. not too obviously. not too fast.

just long enough.

your breath caught.

you both leaned in, slow, uncertain—like if either of you moved too fast, the spell would break. your noses brushed. his eyes fluttered closed. your heart thundered.

and then—

“TOBIOOOOOOOO!!”

the shout cracked through the morning like a slap.

you jumped. kageyama stumbled back, his entire body locking up like a guilty teenager.

you both whipped your heads upward just in time to see hinata and tanaka hanging halfway out of an open window across the street, hair wild, mouths grinning like wolves at a full moon.

“IS THAT A GIRL?! TOBIO, YOU’RE LIVING A WHOLE MOVIE DOWN THERE!”

“BRO, DON’T FUMBLE. WE’RE ROOTING FOR YOUUUUUU!”

“WE STAYED UP ALL NIGHT FOR YOU BRO. WORRIED SICK!”

kageyama buried his face in his hands, turning a bright, almost glowing shade of red. “i’m going to kill them.”

you bit down on your lip, laughing so hard your knees nearly gave out.

“your fan club is kind of intense,” you teased.

“they’re not my fan club,” he muttered.

“sure they aren’t.”

you took a step up toward your door, then paused—turning just slightly over your shoulder.

he looked at you like he wasn’t ready to leave yet. like this part of the night shouldn’t end. like he’d let the sun rise ten times over if it meant one more minute.

you leaned in, quick and sure, pressing your lips gently to his cheek.

he froze.

his breath caught, chest still.

you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your own wide with something that felt dangerously close to real affection.

“text me when you’re not being emotionally destroyed by your teammates,” you whispered.

then you slipped inside your building, leaving the door half-open for just one more look.

from the hallway window, you watched hinata and tanaka abandon the third floor and take the stairs two at a time, yelling:

“WE GOTTA GO SEE HIS FACE IN PERSON—NO WAY IT’S THAT RED—”

“HE LOOKS LIKE A STRAWBERRY MILK CARTON—OH MY GOD—”

kageyama groaned, fists clenched at his sides like he was preparing to evaporate.

but he was smiling.

god, he was smiling.

and somewhere, between the blush on his cheeks and the ridiculousness of it all, you realized:

you were too.

💬, well, this is shortest fic ive written !! but it was technically more of a drabble ! lwk came up with this because ive been binging how i met your mother 😭😭

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