eyesofiridescence

[eyesofiridescence]

fly to your city (excited to see your face)

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader summary: you were his first home, and he was the only thing that ever made smallville feel big enough—until he left, and you let him. when you love someone, where does all that that love go? (inspired by normal people and no one noticed by the marias) listen to the playlist here. word count: 8.8k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, bdsm undertones, soft dom! clark, size kink, unhinged and feral reunion sex, unprotected sex, riding, multiple orgasms, creampie, clark picking the reader up multiple times, mating press, angst. a boatload of it. ungodly levels of yearning. friends to lovers to strangers to a mysterious fourth thing?????

You find him right where the gravel ends.

Right on the edge where the road starts to lose its name, where the fenceposts get swallowed up by tall grass and the corn gets all gold at the tips from a little bit too much sun. There’s humidity in the air, thick and wet and sticking hot to the back of your knees. 

And Clark—he’s just standing there, straddling his old bike like it’s part of him, one foot on the ground, the other on the pedal. 

Like he’s been waiting all afternoon for someone to dare him to move.

He’s in that familiar, tell-tale Royals shirt again, the one that’s been through three summers and way, way too many Fourth of Julys and baseball games. It's been washed to a soft blue, collar a little chewed out by the Kents' dryer, sleeves stretched out around the kind of arms you pretend not to notice unless you’re looking directly at 'em. There’s a glass bottle of cream soda tucked in the crook of his elbow, the kind that sweats through the label and leaves a sticky ring on tables.

You coast up smooth and slow beside him, gravel crunching under your tires, your bike squealing a little as you brake. Then, out of instinct, out of just wanting to see him do something, you nudge your front tire against his.

“Hey. You just gonna stand there brooding all summer or you gonna come help me steal peaches off the Jacobs’ tree?”

He blinks, once. Doesn’t look over yet. Just shifts the bottle between his hands like it’s giving him something to do.

“You know that’s not our tree,” he says.

“Didn’t stop you last week when it was the Johnsons’,” you point out. You raise your brows, bite back a grin. “Come on. I know you’ve got the hops, Kent.”

“I didn’t jump the fence,” he says finally, looking at you now. You catch your own reflection in his glasses for half a second before he looks down again. “You climbed it. I supervised.”

“You hovered,” you say.

“I did not hover.”

“You hovered.”

Clark exhales like the word physically pains him. 

He tilts his head up, squints at the sky like it might offer him a way out of this conversation, or maybe just a distraction. 

But you keep going, not to be mean, but just because it’s so damn easy. The kind of easy that only happens when someone’s been in your life since kindergarten. Since he spilled apple juice on your backpack and you kicked him in the shin with glitter shoes and he was the only one who sat next to you on the bench during school pick-up time.

“I just—” He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks pink already. “I wasn’t showing off.”

“Who said you were?”

He flinches a little, and you know, that’s the thing with Clark. He’s fast, strong, bulletproof on paper, but he’s never really quite figured out how to armor up around you.

You smirk, sweet and cruel, and take off.

“Race you to the river,” you shout behind you, already halfway into the corn.

“You know you're terrible at racing,” he calls after you.

You don’t look back. “Guess you’ll have to chase me, Kent!”

And he does. You can hear him coming, his tires slicing over the path, his breath catching in time with yours, his laughter carrying on the wind like something weightless and golden.

Swerving left, then right, darting through the cornrows until the field finally breaks into open air. The river’s just beyond, and when he catches you, it’s all momentum—his hand at your waist, both bikes skidding sideways into the soft grass, limbs tangled, gravel in your shoes, everything spinning.

You land in a heap. Your elbow in his stomach. His cheek in the crook of your shoulder. You’re both laughing so hard it’s hard to breathe.

“That was cheating,” you say, once you can talk again.

“You said to chase you,” he murmurs, lips close to your ear, voice warm like dusk. “Didn’t say I had to lose.”

You stay like that for a second too long. Sun sinking somewhere behind the barn. Your body curves into his like you’d practiced it, like you’d been preparing for this moment since you were fourteen and your mom made you sit next to him in youth group because “Clark Kent is a very polite young man.”

Then, his voice again—quieter, tentative.“You know I like you, right?” 

You don’t let the silence hang.

“I hoped,” he adds quickly, and it’s so Clark that it almost knocks the wind out of you.

You roll over to face him, chin dutifully in your palm. He’s looking anywhere but at you. His lashes—they're so dark that they cast shadows on his cheek. You watch the way his mouth pulls into that same nervous line he always gets when he’s trying not to hope too hard.

“I mean, you’re not exactly subtle,” you say, casually.

“Hey—”

“You bring me my favorite drink every Sunday. You volunteered to be my lab partner after you saw what I did to the last one’s eyebrows. You walked three miles home from the county fair because I forgot my sweater and didn’t want to sit in your truck.”

He ducks his head. There’s a crooked, bashful smile starting to curl at his mouth. “Well, when you put it like that—”

“I like you too, Kent,” you say.

And there it is, oh, there it is. His eyes snap back to yours, startled. You just let the moment settle. Let him feel it. Let yourself feel it too—the absolute bigness of it, the tooth-rotting sweetness, the way it wraps around your ribs like something you might never, ever outgrow.

“Been liking you since you loaned me your gloves that one time I fell off my bike and tried to pretend I wasn’t crying.”

“That was fifth grade.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice light but honest. “You’ve been soft n' sweet since fifth grade.”

That’s when he laughs again, full-body, chin tilted up towards the clouds. “And what are you gonna do about that?”

You shrug, teasing. “Guess I’m gonna keep making fun of you until you kiss me.”

And then, he does.

It starts tentative, more of a breath of a question. Like his hand slides up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge of it like he still can’t quite believe he's got you. You tilt your face into him, into the softness of it, the want seeping through every brush of his lips.

His lips meet yours, soft and clumsy and maybe even a little surprised. But you smile into it, and that… that breaks the dam. 

He goes back in again for seconds, but it doesn't land as gracefully as you two hope. His nose bumps awkwardly against yours. One of your hands fists in the front of his shirt to pull him closer, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear. His tongue swipes at the seam of your lips, shy at first, then braver when you open up for him.

When you finally pull apart, it’s just for the barest of inches.

His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, both of you breathless and grinning like fucking idiots. “You good?” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes flicking down to your mouth like he’s not done with you just yet.

You nod, dizzy in the best way. “Yeah. Better than good.”

And maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the wildness of being seventeen and certain. 

But you think—if kisses could keep, you’d bottle this one and carry it in your pocket for the rest of your life.

.

for you i should be helping you read the map. i know that, i know that. but you’re laughing so hard right now and it’s doing something to my memory. like—i want to remember the exact shape of your mouth when you do that. not just the smile part, but how it starts out small and then gets bigger when you look away, like you’re trying to stop it but just can’t. how your whole face lifts with it. how you crinkle your nose a little like you think it’s unfair to laugh too hard at me, even when i probably do deserve it. (also, for the record, i did pack the tickets. they’re just under the jumper cables. not lost. you give me way too much crap for that.) we’re about thirty-five minutes from the state fair, by the look of the road signs. you’ve already declared that you’re getting a funnel cake and one of those weird lemonades in the giant plastic boot, and i'll absolutely be pretending i don’t want any until you offer me some. i’ve made peace with this. but anyway. the real reason i’m writing this is because you keep looking at me like i’m already yours, and i don’t think i’ve ever had anything in my life that felt that simple. i love you so much it feels like i’ve been loving you my whole life — long before i knew that’s what it was. i think i loved you when you beat me at checkers in second grade and then offered me the last orange popsicle even though it was your favorite. i think i loved you when you walked your bike next to mine the whole way home after i wiped out, even though we were already running late for dinner. all i can think about is how much i want to give you good things. little ones. always. like this day. like this letter. like the better half of my funnel cake, even if you insist you don’t want it. yours, clark p.s. if i win you a goldfish again, we are not naming it after another days of our lives character.

.

You’re eighteen and you're sitting on the porch steps with your knees drawn up and your hands tucked into the sleeves of your hoodie, watching the road. His truck’s already here, parked under the elm. He’s been standing at the foot of the porch for a few minutes now, like stepping up would make everything real.

You haven’t really said anything yet. You’re scared that if you open your mouth, it’ll all spill out. Every what if, every I don’t want you to go, every please stay, just don’t make me say it first.

Never really learned how to be brave like that. Not when it comes to him.

Clark shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The porch light flickers overhead. A dying bulb, one Jonathan’s meant to change for weeks. You wonder if anyone else is going to sit on these steps after tonight and think about this moment—if that bulb will still be broken in the morning. Or if it’ll just be you, alone, in a house that still smells like childhood.

“You gonna say something?” he finally asks, quiet. His voice is careful. Not impatient. Just uncertain. And God, when did he become the one with uncertainty?

You look at him. Really look at him. His shirt’s wrinkled, that Metropolis U logo cracked a little at the corners. His bag’s already packed in the passenger seat. There’s a tightness in his shoulders that doesn’t go away even when he exhales.

And all at once, you feel like you’re watching someone walk backwards out of your life.

You love him. You know that. It’s not a crush or a phase or something you’ll forget by Thanksgiving break. It’s in your ribs now. In the soft, constant ache you’ve had every time he talked about the city like a future with a door he was already walking through. 

Because deep down, you’ve always known you weren’t going. That you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. 

That part of you belonged to this place—not in some romantic, sweeping way, but in the way you belong to gravity, to habit. To people who need you here. People you can’t walk away from. And you’d resented that, sometimes. Hated it. But it’s also shaped you. It’s the reason you notice the sound the screen door makes when it closes. The reason you know how to fix the water heater without being asked to.

He’s going to learn other things. Bigger things. To save people you’ll never meet, in cities you’ve never been to. You’re not angry at him for that. Never could.

But there’s something about the inevitability of it that… that just hurts so badly.

“You look tired,” you say.

He huffs a laugh. “So do you.”

You want to say I am. Want to say you’re the only one who makes it better. But that’s dangerous territory so instead, “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

He nods. Doesn’t move.

You gesture vaguely at the truck. “You pack everything?”

“Mostly. Just gotta grab the charger from the kitchen. Ma says I’ll forget my head if it’s not bolted on.”

You try to smile. It doesn’t really come together. It just gets lost somewhere on your face, between your eyebrows and your mouth. “I don’t want this to be the end.”

“It’s not,” he says quickly, too quickly. “I’ll call. I’ll come back on weekends. I can fly back in, literally. I’ll be faster than the Greyhound, I promise.”

You look at him, and for a second, it’s like being kids again. Him with that wide-eyed, insistent hope. Like if he says it the right way, it’ll come true. Like the world will just do it, just bend to his good intentions.

Because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done. Turns things into plans. Into problems to solve. Like love is just logistics. Like heartbreak’s just a scheduling conflict.

You rest your chin on your knees, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. “You can’t fly your way through this one, Kent.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his hand to the porch railing, fingers curling over the wood like he needs something to hold onto. His voice, when it comes, is soft and urgent and a little bit wrecked.

“I can do this,” he says. “I want to do this. I can make this work. I’ve carried tractors. I’ve held buildings together with my hands. If I can do that—if I can lift all that—I can carry us too. I can do that. Please—just please, let me do that."

You look at him then. Really look. And it breaks your heart, because you believe that he believes it.

But you also know: he’s not just trying to carry you. He’s trying to carry the whole world. And the world’s got a stronger grip than you do.

“You can’t keep both arms around me forever,” you say. “Not if the world keeps pulling you away.”

His mouth opens like he wants to argue. Then closes. And then—

“I’ll do it for you,” he says, almost breathless. “Even if it’s hard. I’ll make time. I’ll—I’ll tear the sky open if I have to.”

But you shake your head. “That’s the problem, Clark. I don’t… I don't wanna be a responsibility.”

“You’re not,” he says, stepping closer now, standing on the lowest step so you’re nearly eye-level. “You’re not. You’re—sweetheart, you’re the thing that keeps me grounded. You’re the reason I come back.”

“Then why does it still feel like you’re already gone?”

His face twists—like it hurts to hear. Like it confirms something he’s been trying very hard not to name.

You swallow hard. “Every time you leave, a little more of you stays gone. And I wait for the text, and I wait for the call, and I tell myself, ‘he’s trying, he’s doing his best,’ but Clark—your best has to be out there. Helping people. Saving cities. Being who you’re supposed to be.”

His jaw tightens. “So what? I don’t get to have anything else? I don’t get to be someone’s?”

You stand. Step down to meet him.

“You do. Just not mine. Not if it means I have to keep you from being you.”

There’s a beat. One breath. Two. Then, softly: “You think it’s selfish.”

“I think it’d be selfish to keep asking you to come home to me when the whole world needs you more.”

Clark looks down, eyes blinking fast, like if he stares hard enough at the porch wood he won’t have to cry. Like the weight of everything—his powers, his love, his heart—is finally too much. You reach out, take his hand. He lets you. His palm is warm, callused from working the farm all summer, steady like it always is.

You squeeze it. Squeeze it tighter. Then let it go.

“Be good out there,” you whisper. “Be careful. Don’t forget where you came from.”

He lifts his eyes to you, and there’s so much in them. So much love. So much grief. And that awful, awful understanding.

“Will you still think of me?” he asks, voice cracking.

You nod. “'Course, dweeb. I’ll think of you every time the wind changes.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender.

And then you step back. Let him walk to the truck. Let the door close behind him. Let the engine rumble on, headlights catching your porch steps for one aching second before he pulls away.

You stand there for a long time after he’s gone.

.

Subject: checking in hey there, i hope this isn’t weird. i wasn’t sure if i should send something, but ma says it’s always better to write when you’re thinking of someone, and i guess i’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. not in a heavy way. just… in that way where something small reminds you of someone and then they just kind of stay in your head all day after. finals are over (thank goodness) and i didn’t fail anything, though my rhetoric professor said i “overexplained” my last paper. which feels just a bit rude, considering i was trying really hard to underexplain it. turns out i’m just really not very good at pretending i don’t care about things. ma sent me a shoebox full of christmas cookies even though it’s not even thanksgiving yet. most of them crumbled in the mail, but i’ve been eating the pieces with a spoon like cereal. she says she saw your cousin at the hardware store—apparently they’re fixing the porch steps. ma says the wood’s soft now, “just like everything else on this side of town.” the city’s… a lot. i’m getting used to it, kind of. there’s this bakery on 12th that sells cinnamon rolls the size of hubcaps, and the lady behind the counter always gives me the biggest one, even when i’m last in line. she calls me “darlin,” which feels a little funny out here, but nice too. sometimes, on sunday mornings, i bike down to the river and just sit. don’t do much, just watch the water move and try not to check my phone. it’s not the same as the spot back home, no skipping stones, no cattails, no frogs trying to race each other—but it’s something. you crossed my mind the other day because someone in class said they’d never been on a dirt road before. i thought that was wild. i told them how my girlfriend my friend you used to ride your bike with no hands all the way down the lane by old man ridge’s cornfield, and they looked at me like i made it up. i didn’t tell them how you’d stick your legs out like wings when you did it. that part’s mine. anyway. i hope school’s going alright. and work. and everything else. i hope the leaves are turning slow this year, and that you’re getting time outside before the cold sets in. write back if you want. no pressure. i’ll be home for christmas, if you’re around. best, clark

.

It’s been ten years.

Not in the clean way you imagined it would be. Not in semesters or seasons or chapters.

Just a long, slow forgetting that never quite takes. You went to college eventually—state school, close enough to come home on weekends but far enough that you could pretend you weren’t waiting for him to text. You studied too hard, dated people who never asked about Smallville, never asked about the way your voice always changed when you said Clark.You kept your head down and your world small. 

(Safe.)

You stopped counting anniversaries, but some part of you always remembered. It’s like he left fingerprints in your brain—certain songs, certain skies, certain kinds of kindness that you couldn’t unlearn even if you tried.

And then, in November, you see him again.

It’s nothing. A stupid errand. 

You’re home for a few days, in between classes and the apartment you share with two roommates who always forget to do their dishes. You’re walking out of the grocery store, headphones in, balancing a paper bag on your hip, keys in your teeth, when he rounds the corner of the parking lot, and everything—everything—stops.

He’s taller. Or maybe just steadier. His gait, his posture—there’s this quiet confidence now, like the world no longer fights back when he walks through it.

You stop. Bag still on your hip, eggs still in jeopardy, and for a second you can’t breathe.

He’s on the phone, head tilted, brow furrowed in a way that’s still so Clark you could cry. A little more muscle in his arms. A different weight in his step. Still in a flannel shirt, sleeves shoved to his elbows like muscle memory, and that same beat-up Royals t-shirt underneath. His hair’s longer. His arms are broader. 

His voice—when it reaches you, after he sees you and fumbles off the call—is just slightly deeper. A little hoarser. Like he’s had to say a lot of hard things lately.

“Hey,” he says, blinking. “You’re home.”

You nod. “Just for the week. My mom needed help with the attic.”

“Right,” he says, shifting his weight. “That old attic.”

You both laugh, quietly. It’s awkward, but not really cruel.

“How’s school?” he asks. “You’re almost done, yeah?”

“One semester left,” you say. “Then maybe grad school. If I survive biochem.”

He smiles then, really smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners like they used to. And it’s awful, because you remember the last time he smiled at you like that. Awful, awful, awful.

“You’ll survive,” he says. “You always do.”

You want to ask what he’s been up to, but you know. Everyone does. Superman sightings. City rescues. A train derailment in Metropolis last fall; he was on it. Someone tweeted a blurry photo of him with soot on his cheek and a woman’s baby in his arms.

You don’t bring it up. He doesn’t either.

Instead, you both stand in the parking lot like it’s still summer and you’re eighteen again, swatting mosquitoes and talking about where you’ll end up. Back when the answer still sounded like “together.”

There’s a silence. The kind that feels like a room you both used to live in.

“You look good,” he says, finally. And it’s so soft you almost miss it.

You study his face. But his eyes are still the same. Gentle and wary all at once. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks too long.

“So do you,” you reply. “I saw your article. The one on post-quake reconstruction.”

His eyebrows lift, surprised. “You read that?”

“I read all of them,” You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because you mean it. Maybe because it’s the only way you still get to feel close.

“I kept your voicemails,” he says, voice low. “From high school. Even the one about the raccoon that broke into your guys' pantry.”

You smile, but your throat stings. It feels like hearing the song you used to fall asleep to, back when things were quieter. 

Clark steps forward. Just a little.

“Do you ever think about—” he starts. Then stops.

His hand lifts halfway like he might reach for you. But he instead doesn't. Instead, he just lets it drop again, fingers curling into his palm like he’s holding something back.

A gllance down at your shoes. The laces are still uneven. Some things haven’t changed.

You know what he was going to ask. And you know there isn’t time, will never be enough time, to answer it.

“I should go,” you say, and your voice is gentle, like setting something down. “My mom’s waiting.”

Clark nods, once. But his eyes don’t move. Like he’s still trying to memorize you right before the moment ends.

You shoulder your bag. Grip it tight. “Bye, Clark,” you murmur.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “See you.”

He doesn't say when. He doesn't promise soon.

.

VOICEMAIL (UNSENT DRAFT) Timestamp: Tuesday, November 1st, 7:43 PM Location: Hy-vee – Parking Lot Duration: 2 minutes, 31 seconds [BEGIN RECORDING] Hey. Um... hey. It’s me. Clark. (short pause) Obviously. I don’t really know why I’m calling. I guess—I guess I saw your car. At Hy-vee. Same spot you always used to grab, third from the cart return. Still got that dent by the taillight. I was gonna go in, but… I don’t know. I couldn’t. You looked happy. Not like laughing happy, just... normal happy. Pushing your cart with that one wheel that always squeaks. list in your hand, headphones in, like any other Tuesday. and I stood outside my truck like a fool for probably five whole minutes before backing out of the space. I wasn’t avoiding you. I just—I think part of me hoped I’d run into you again someday. Like really run into you. Same aisle, same time, some kind of weird cosmic timing thing. Not like this though. Not when i’m still figuring out how to hold all this. I miss you. I’m not supposed to say that, right? I know that. But I hope whatever you were picking up tonight—milk, cereal, whatever—I hope it’s what you needed. I’ll let you go. Uh—not that you’re listening. Not that I'm gonna send this. Okay. (quit inhale) Night. [END OF RECORDING] Saved to: Voice Memos > Drafts > Not Sent Last opened: 9:12 PM Playback: 2x speed available Option to Delete: [yes] [no]

.

Your car gives out somewhere past the grain elevator. 

No bang, no dramatic hiss of steam—just a weird and nerve-inducing mechanical sigh. A flicker on the dash. A sudden silence as the engine stutters and gives up. Then nothing but wind.

It’s the kind of stillness that feels just a smidge personal. Punishing, even.

You sit there in the cold, breath misting against the inside of your windshield, watching it bead and vanish in ghostly little ovals. There’s a chill creeping in through the seams of the door. Your fingers are stiff where they clutch the steering wheel, like letting go will make it real.

Try the key again. Just to say you did. The engine clicks, whines, and dies all over again. Dead.

Shit.

Your fingers are quickly turning numb. You try to stretch them as best as you can in your lap, crack the knuckles like that’ll warm them. 

The loneliness out here, just flat fields and old fence posts and the faint suggestion of grain silos in the distance, presses against the windows like a fog. You check your phone. One bar. Maybe half a bar. No service, not really. But it doesn’t matter.

You already know who you’re going to call.

And it’s stupid. It’s so stupid. 

You promised yourself two years ago, lost at your first college party, a mosquito bite blooming on your ankle, arms crossed so tight across your chest you thought your ribs might cave in—

Don’t call him. No matter what. You don’t get to want him and let him go.

But here you are.

Still, somehow, his name’s still in your phone. Not under anything cutesy, just—Clark. And when you press it, your thumb trembles.

It only rings once.

“Hey,” Clark says, voice low and immediate. 

You bite down on the inside of your cheek.

“My car—” you start, but your throat catches. Embarrassing. You force it down. “It’s dead. I’m dead. I mean, the car’s dead.”

“Where are you?” he cuts in, already moving.

“Highway 5,” you say. “Just past the turnoff. Maybe a mile out of town. I think I passed the old gas station.”

“I’ll be there,” he says. “Right now. Don’t get out. Just stay warm.”

The call ends. You don’t look at the clock. You don’t need to.

The wind outside picks up. It whistles against the passenger-side mirror, loud and thin like something almost alive. You draw your coat tighter around you, but it’s not much. Just denim and threadbare fleece and a few years too old.

You don’t even hear him land. The air shifts—just barely—and then he’s there, knocking on your window with the gentlest knuckle.

You turn and it’s Clark.

Clark Kent, standing out in the field of dead corn, boots crunching over frostbitten stalks, his hoodie shoved under his red jacket like he got dressed in a rush. Red in the cheeks from the air. 

When he sees you, really sees you, they soften, then crumple. Like you’re the only thing he’s been worried about since the moment the call came through. Like he’s checking for bruises.

He opens your door without a word.

“Can I—?” he starts, already unzipping his jacket.

You nod, and he wraps it around your shoulders. It’s still warm. Heavy with him. You breathe it in—his smell, somehow exactly the same. That stupid clean laundry scent mixed with cold air and something underneath it. Something like home.

“I didn’t know if you’d still—” you begin, but he shakes his head.

“I came,” he says, and his voice is raw with it. “That’s what matters.”

He crouches down to your level. Looks you over like he’s trying to assess damage he can’t name.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter this time. The worry’s right there in the way his brow draws in. You always loved that about him—how he couldn’t ever really hide it. How being soft was never a performance.

You nod, even if it’s not entirely true. “Just cold.”

His mouth presses into a line. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you warm.”

He takes your hand, so fucking careful, like you’re glass—and lifts you out of the car like you weigh nothing. You don’t protest. You just go.

The wind hits harder once you’re out, and he doesn’t let go, just pulls you close against him and rises like it’s instinct. The field drops away beneath you. The car. The frostbitten road. Everything but the tight circle of warmth where your body presses against his chest.

You glance up at him. His jaw’s tight. There’s a little muscle that ticks when he’s tense, and it’s doing that now. He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you tighter as the wind rushes past.

“I was already home,” he murmurs after a long moment. “Back in Smallville. Was gonna call tomorrow. I just—didn’t know if I was allowed.”

“You are,” you say, too fast. “You always are.”

His eyes flick down to yours then, and they don’t look tired anymore. They look wrecked. Not just from the cold or the flight. From you.

You don’t say anything else for a long time. Just let him carry you toward the distant lights of your house—still glowing warm through the trees, still there. Your breath fogs up in front of you and with something else too—something old and familiar. Grip his shoulders without really thinking about it.

The first time he flew you like this, it was more of a dare than a thing that was done on purpose.

Summer night right before he went off to college. You’d just finished watching some grainy old movie on the Kent’s living room TV, something with a kiss in the rain and too many dramatic violins. You’d sat too close on the couch, your knee resting against his.

When the credits rolled, you teased him—half-laughing, half-not. Told him he should try that sometime. Real romance. 

He grinned at you in that crooked way he did back then, the lamp light shining softly across his face. "You think I’m not romantic?” he said. Feigned offense. Tried to play it off. But his ears were red. 

They always went red when he got nervous.

And then, quieter, more serious: “I could show you something, if you want.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, like magic?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sort of.”

Didn’t really understand what he meant, at least at the time. But you said yeah, whispered it, almost, like you were giving him something. And he took it gently, like he knew.

Then he scooped you up and lifted off the ground. Straight into the dark.

You couldn’t stop laughing at first. A wild, exhilarated kind of laughter that bubbled out of you before you could think. You tucked your face into his neck and whispered, “I didn’t know it would feel like this,” and he just held you tighter and said, “Me neither.”

The snow’s coming down harder by the time he sets you down on your porch. The light above the door buzzes faintly, flickering like it can’t decide whether to stay on. But Clark doesn’t move right away. He just stands there with you, jacket still wrapped over your shoulders, his breath clouding in the space between.

It would be so easy to say nothing. To thank him, unlock the door, step inside and let the silence swallow it all. 

But that's never been yours and Clark's style.

“I never stopped loving you,” he says.

You breathe in, chest tight. Because of course he hasn’t. That’s the cruel thing—how easily you believe him. How you’ve always known.

“I know,” you say. And you do.

Clark shifts closer. “I’ve tried to put it away. Thought maybe I had. But seeing you again—” He stops, shakes his head, almost laughs. “It’s like no time passed. Like it’s all still right here.”

You close your eyes, hating how much you want to believe it could be that simple. That he could just love you and it wouldn’t undo you. “You don’t make it easy."

“What?”

“Letting you go.” Your voice shakes. “It feels like I’ve been trying for six years, and you just… you show up, and it’s all still here. Like none of it ever left.”

Clark swallows hard. “Maybe it didn’t. Maybe some things—you just don’t get rid of them. They stay.”

You let out a breath that feels almost like a laugh. Almost. “You always think that’s enough. That if you believe hard enough, it’ll hold.”

He doesn’t argue. He just looks at you, and you can see it—the faith in him. Always the immovable object in the unstoppable force that is your life.

And you reach for him before you can think any better of it. Arms circling around his waist, and he comes into you like he’s been waiting—no hesitation, no question. He bends just enough to press his chin into your hair, the slope of his chest firm against your cheek. His breath catches there, ragged, hot in the cold night air.

Snow gathers on your shoulders, melts into his collar. Neither of you moves.

After a long silence, you whisper against his chest, “I really, really don’t know what to do with you.”

He huffs a laugh, small, almost bitter. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… let me love you. That’s all.”

And your heart breaks, because it’s so simple when he says it. Because part of you wants to believe it could be enough.

You pull back, just enough to look at him. His face is so close. His eyes are wrecked with it.

“Clark,” you say quietly, like saying his name might hold you both in place. "I can't give you an answer right now."

"I know."

.

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.

It takes you three days.

Three days of pretending you're okay. 

Of going through the motions—helping your mom unload groceries, fixing the leaky faucet in the laundry room, scrolling endlessly through your phone without seeing a thing. Three days of rerunning that scene like it's stitched into your brain. You replay it over and over and over.

His voice in the cold, cracked with it: I never stopped loving you. The way he said it like it was already true, no matter what you did next.

You didn’t know it could hurt to be loved that much. Not when it’s Clark. But it does, because there’s something about the way he loves that feels both weightless and heavy—like floating and falling at once. Like being known down to the bone. But now you think you know.

The house is still when you wake up. Your breath ghosts in the kitchen window when you press your face close, watching the frost sparkle on the road outside. You don’t even think about it—you just move.

Throw on a hoodie, tug on your gloves, grab your bike from the shed where it’s sat all winter. Tires soft. Chain a little rusted.

Doesn’t matter.

You start pedaling.

It’s cold enough to bite your cheeks, sting your lungs. The wind rushes past, that familiar roar in your ears. But your heart—God, your heart’s even louder if you could believe it. It beats with every push of the pedals, every mile marker, every turn in the road you know by heart. 

You pass the cornfields. The old train tracks. The sign welcoming you to Smallville like it never meant anything but him. And by the time the Kent farm crests into view, your legs are shaking. Your lungs feel scraped raw. But you don’t stop.

You see him before he sees you—Clark, in the driveway, half-bent as he loads something into the bed of Pa Kent’s old truck. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still damp from a shower. There’s a thermos of coffee on the hood, a set of gloves stuffed into his back pocket. He looks—normal. Like your Clark.

The bike skids in the gravel and you all but launch yourself off it,  hitting the brakes too fast and just about let it crash to the ground behind you.

“Clark!”

He straightens, confused at first. Squints toward the road. Sees you.

And then—stillness.

You breathe hard, chest heaving. He doesn’t move.

“I’m in,” you say, voice cracking on it. “Okay? I’m in.”

He steps around the truck slowly, hesitant. Careful, like you’re a skittish deer that might bolt.

“What—what are you saying?” he asks, and it’s not disbelief in his voice exactly, it’s hope. Hope pressed down so tightly he can’t quite trust it. “You don’t have to—if you’re just saying it because you feel bad or because you miss how it was—”

“I’m not,” you say, already stepping closer. “Clark, I’m not.”

You open your mouth—then laugh, not because it’s funny but because the whole fucking thing is ridiculous. You’re standing in the driveway where you used to sneak him kisses behind the barn. You’re breathless and cold and your fingers are still trembling and somehow it still feels like the safest place on Earth.

“I don’t know,” you say, honestly. “No? Yes? I mean—I think so. I’ve been thinking about it for three days straight and it hasn’t stopped feeling like the right kind of terrifying.”

He blinks. You keep going.

“I mean, it’s not like I have it all figured out. I don’t know how to make it work. I still don’t know if I can live with the idea that someone else might need you more than I do—but I do know that I’m tired of pretending like this isn’t the only thing I want. You. Us. All of it.”

You ramble on, voice unsteady. “And—and I’ve been looking at grad schools, you know? There're some programs in Metropolis. Good ones. And maybe I don’t get in, or maybe I do and I hate it, and maybe we still mess this up, but I think—” You pause, press your hand to your chest like it’ll help hold your ribs in place. “I think I’d regret not trying more than I’d regret failing.”

A beat.

You meet his eyes. “But you’re it for me, Kent.”

He stares at you. And then shakes his head, like he can’t help it, like he needs to push the disbelief out of his system or it’ll get stuck somewhere permanent.

“You mean it?” he says, voice hoarse.

“Yes, god, Yes,” you say, stepping in close now, hands reaching for the hem of his shirt, curling in the cotton like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Can't stand another day without you.”

His eyes flutter shut.

“And what,” he whispers, like the memory of a grin, “are you gonna do about that?”

“Guess I’m gonna keep giving you hell until you kiss me.”

Then you kiss him.

Your back hits the side of the truck, hard enough to rattle the frame. He follows you into it, crowding you against the metal, and it’s all instinct after that—his hand tilting your chin up, your fingers fisting in his hair, your mouths moving like you’re trying to make up for lost time in a single breath.

And you gasp when he presses in even closer, overwhelming your sense, his hips pinning you to the truck door, the ridges of old metal biting into the backs of your legs. 

His body's still impossibly strong. Familiar in a way that guts you. This is the same boy who used to lift hay bales with one arm, who kissed you for the first time on that field and shook with nerves while doing it.

He still feels like home. Still that boy who looked at you like the sun rose just for you.

“You haven’t changed,” you say, lips brushing his jaw, tasting sweat and salt and something you don’t have a name for.

“I have,” he breathes. “But not where it matters.”

You’re half laughing against his mouth when he finally tears himself back just enough to breathe, to look at you properly, his forehead resting against yours. His chest rises hard against yours, fast and uneven.

Then, suddenly—he bends, scooping you up into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your back leaves the truck door, legs instinctively winding around his waist before you can think any better of it.

“Clark—” You jolt, clutching at his shoulders. His mouth finds your jaw, then your cheekbone, the soft corner beneath your eye. Kisses everywhere, everywhere he spots exposed skin. You can’t help the breathless little laugh that slips out, breathless. “Wait—what about your parents?”

“They’re not here,” he mumbles against your skin, pressing another kiss to your temple, to the corner of your mouth. He sounds desperate. “Ma and Pa are at the Coopers’, fixing the tractor. They’ll be gone for hours.”

“Clark,” you say again, but your voice falters when his lips drag along the edge of your throat, when he kisses the hollow just below your ear.

He doesn’t put you down. 

Just starts walking, boots crunching against the gravel drive, carrying you up the porch steps like he’s done it over a thousand times in his head. Every few steps, another kiss—your hairline, your nose, the corner of your mouth, like he can���t stop, like making up for lost years could happen just one inch of skin at a time.

The door creaks when he shoulders it open, and you’re half terrified, half thrilled, whispering, “We shouldn’t—God, this is insane—” but you’re still kissing him anyway.

He moves through it without looking, carrying you past the kitchen where the scent of coffee still lingers, past the living room where you once sat watching movies until you both fell asleep. It’s dizzying, disorienting—being in this house again, but like this.

“Baby,” you whisper once more, fingers tightening at the back of his neck. Your voice cracks on it. “I missed you.”

His steps falter for half a beat, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t set you down. His grip on you only tightens. “I missed you so much it hurt,” he says, the words muffled against your shoulder, almost a groan. “Every damn day.”

You shut your eyes, because it’s too much, because it’s everything, and let him carry you the rest of the way—to his room.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Clark sets you down on the edge of his bed, but he doesn’t let go—his hands linger at your waist, thumbs pressing into your hoodie like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His eyes dart over your face, hungry but hesitant, like he’s still waiting for you to push him away.

You think of making a joke, an aside, but one glance down at the bulge on his jeans, and suddenly, you don't really feel like being coy anymore. "Clothes off, Kent."

His laugh bursts out. His forehead drops briefly against your shoulder, like he needs a second to catch up. “You can’t just—” he starts, voice muffled.

You tip his chin up with your hand. “I can. I did.”

God, he makes you so damn happy. It has to be lethal, the way he looks at you right then—his shirt comes off with one smooth movement, all muscle and soft skin and freckles and sweetness. You're scrambling to take your own clothes off, and then the moment, the moment they're all gone, you're tackling him back on the bed.

Clark smiles, lopsided and silly. "You're so pretty."

You kiss him for that, kiss his cheeks, his stubbled jaw, his collarbone. Cunt ghosting over his eager cock, rolling your hips experimentally just to hear him groan and go all putty in your hands again.

"Oh, fuck."

"Okay, okay, I'm—" Fuck. Of course, it's a stretch. You're wetter than you've ever been in your life, but it still always feels like this daunting task, getting him inside of you. Clark, ever the optimist, encourages you. "You can do it, sweetheart. I know you can take it."

"So full," you mumble between breaths of air, shifting slightly just to try to fit even more of him. Just to see him fall apart a little bit more. "So full, baby."

He pulls you down to kiss you, tongue licking its way inside your mouth, wants to taste every inch of you, everything he's missed out on the past few years.

There's something so damn intoxicating in seeing Clark crumble like this underneath you, . Trying so damn hard to keep his eyes on you, but eventually, those eyes roll to the back of his head, grip turning tighter on your hips before he even realizes it.

He's getting closer—you can feel it, his hands come up to palm your breasts in those big, calloused hands, thumbs rolling over your nipples until you keen out a sigh. 

"Such a good girl, working so hard for me. Come on, you can do it—just a little faster now, angel—"

You moan, hips trying to cant down harder with every stroke. Using him, riding him for dear life, until you come with a silent scream.

And that's when he lifts you, airborne just for a second as he rolls the two of you over until you're practically folded in half, legs slung over his shoulders. Fuck, him being strong has never been so fucking attractive. You're completely at his mercy.

The first roll of his hips is rough—aching in a way you know will hurt the next morning. The head of his cock dragging into you, just barely managing to get a little over halfway. It doesn't even feel like he's wrenched an orgasm out of you, always takes a little bit more effort than you think is reasonable with him, but god. 

God, you'll take it. You'll take all of him.

Clark slowly, slowly bottoms out and then his eyes dart across your face, one stray hand going to cup your cheek. "You okay?"

"Yes, yes," You're going to absolutely cringe over your tone later, breathless and nodding and babbling, and there might even be tears in your eyes, but you need it. You need more. "Don't you dare stop for a second."

"I won't," He rocks forward, then back, wrenching a gasp from your lips as you squirm. "I won't, I swear."

His pace turns into this agonizing, brutal grind, his cock throbbing inside of you. You're getting absolutely fucked down into the mattress, the springs creaking and the sheets sticking hot against you skin.

You look down, and he's a sight to behold. Abs formed from years of farmwork, flexing as he carves his way inside of you, arms, large and veiny, holding you in place as you cling to him helplessly.

"Wanna feel you, baby," Clark begs, his breath against your collarbone. "Need you to come at the same time, okay? Be a good girl for me."

And that's when he rams deep inside of you, thrusts turning unsteady and erratic. Your body jerks, your hands getting tangled in his hair and toes curling, and for one perfect, perfect moment, you're filled with warmth. 

After a moment, both of you go still, chests heaving, eyes locked on each other. Satiated.

Graciously, you unhook your legs from behind his back as he pulls out and slumps right there next to you on the bed. He immediately turns over on his side to look at you, really look at you, one hand tracing across your hip.

“That was—” he stops, laughs, shakes his head like words aren’t big enough. “That was… unreal. You okay?”

You laugh, brushing your nose against his. “I’m fine. Better than fine.”

“Good,” he says quickly, earnest as ever. “I just… I didn’t want to mess it up. I kept thinking, don’t rush, don’t—”

“Clark.”

“I know, I know. It’s just… I really want to go again.”

You groan, dropping your head against his chest. “Slow down, cowboy. Some of us need a minute to, you know, breathe.”

He chuckles, pulling you closer, his hand drawing absent-minded shapes on your back. “Fair. I can wait. I’ll wait however long you want. Just… don’t kick me out, okay?”

You tilt your chin up at him. “Kent, I’m not kicking you out of your own room.”

His smile spreads wide. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me, then.”

.

Five hours later, you’re lying in his bed again, finally, finally spent for real this time. Clark's half-asleep, mumbling something about chores he forgot to do for the farm. You tell him he’s ridiculous, that you’ll help him feed the cows in the morning if he promises to stop worrying right now. 

He just smiles, eyes still closed, and says, “Deal.” 

.

Apartment Listing: Metropolis Area Looking for: 2BR / 1BA (or more) | Long-term lease | Immediate move-in Ideal Unit Includes: ☐ South-facing windows (we like the light) ☐ Rooftop access ☐ Hardwood floors (been tracking in Kansas dirt for years, we can’t be trusted with carpet) ☐ Nearby coffee shop (within walking distance—non-negotiable) ☐ Pet-friendly (dogsit occasionally) ☐ A kitchen with enough room for two (we don’t mind bumping into each other, but some extra counter space would be nice) ☐ Decent water pressure  ☐ Laundry in unit (or a laundromat that doesn’t eat socks—compromise possible) About us: Quiet couple in our mid-twenties. One of us works full-time (often odd hours), the other splits time between freelance and grad school. Clean, responsible tenants with references and steady income. Previously lived in small towns and small apartments—just looking for a place that makes sense for both of us now.  Let us know if you have something available or coming up!

[eyesofiridescence]

just one ; clark kent

fandom: superman 2025 (dc)

pairing: clark x reader

summary: you and clark have been best friends since college, and you know everything about each other—including his superhero identity—but tensions have risen since you started working with him at the daily planet, and after superman is exposed to a 'truth telling toxin' you decide to take a little advantage of the fact that he can't lie

notes: a little late to the party, but have a clark kent fic! sorry this is late (and i've been m.i.a.) i've been busy watching the film eight times, crying about the film, and having an existential crisis about the fact that i'll never love another man the way i love david corenswet... but anyway! i struggled a little with this, hence it taking so long, so i'm sorry if it sucks? but regardless, i always love to hear what y'all think, so please let me know!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, it has some corny moments, some jealousy, brief mention of a dating app, lots of tension, very minor miscommunication, clark jokes about eating kryptonite, jimmy is a well-meaning meddler, italics, clark says 'gosh' a lot, and SMUT (making out, f oral receiving, fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty-ish talk, also it's a few thousand words of smut oops) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21621

- Clark - 

“It’s kind of pathetic if you think about it,” Jimmy says. 

Lois rolls her eyes. “Don’t start, Jimmy.” 

“I’m not starting anything,” he says, gesturing toward Clark with his coffee mug. “Just look at him. He’s like a golden retriever waiting for someone to throw the ball.” 

Lois tries not to laugh, but a soft snort slips out before she can hide it behind a sip of coffee. 

“I think it’s sweet,” Cat says, perching on the edge of Jimmy’s desk. “Being in love with your best friend is so… early-two-thousands romcom coded.” 

Lois swivels in her chair to give Cat an incredulous look. “What does that even mean?” 

“It means Clark is a nerd who’s hopelessly in love with a girl way out of his league, and it’s adorable in a tragic, pathetic kind of way,” Jimmy says. 

“Jimmy!” Cat smacks his arm. “Stop calling Clark pathetic.” 

“I’m not calling him pathetic,” Jimmy insists, still grinning. “The pining is pathetic. There’s a difference.” 

“You’re still being a jerk,” Lois mutters into her coffee. 

Their teasing continues, but Clark barely registers it. He hasn’t heard a word since the moment you walked through the door—hair mussed from the wind, a binder hugged tight to your chest. Perry intercepted you immediately, stopping you at the front desk to talk about the article you submitted late last night. Clark only knows this because he can hear every word from across the newsroom—the warmth in your voice, every shift and cadence he’s memorised over the years. 

It’s not an accent or a twang. It’s just you. 

The voice that lingers in his dreams, that echoes in the back of his mind whenever he’s flying through the sky, wondering if you’re thinking about him too. 

It’s always you. 

“Morning, team!” you greet cheerfully, dropping your bag and binder onto the desk opposite Clark’s. 

Jimmy smirks, his gaze flicking toward Clark before settling on you. “Good morning, hot shot. What was all that with the boss about?” 

Clark is staring—he knows he is—but he can’t help it. You’re just so goddamn beautiful. You have been since the day he first met you, and no amount of superhuman restraint has ever dulled the way you affect him. If kryptonite is his greatest weakness, you’re a very close second. 

“Didn’t you hear?” you tease Jimmy. “I’m the new headliner.” 

“Front page?” Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Already? Wow. I’m impressed.” 

You grin, pretending to flick your hair off your shoulder with mock dramatics—and that’s when Clark notices it. The change. The subtle way your body reacts. 

Your heartbeat picks up, quick and sharp against his ears. He can see it now—literally see the steady thump of your heart beneath your ribs, see the way the muscles in your chest tighten and your breath catches ever so slightly. 

But why? 

The question lodges in his mind like a splinter. Is it Jimmy? Is it something Jimmy said? Does he make you nervous? Does he make you excited? 

Do you... like him? 

Clark’s brow furrows. He tracks the heat rising under your skin, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hand as you lower it to lean on your desk—and then he freezes. 

Oh, God. He’s staring directly at your chest. Through it, technically, but from the outside no one else would know the difference. His face heats, and he blinks hard, forcing himself to stop—to look away before someone notices. 

“Better watch out, Kent,” Lois says, smirking over the rim of her coffee cup. “You might’ve just convinced Perry to hire your biggest competition yet.” 

Clark clears his throat, pulling his gaze up to your face where it belongs. “Yeah, I think I did.” 

You give him that cheesy little smile—the one where your nose scrunches up, your cheeks flush pink, and his heart stops—the one that slips into his dreams every damn night. He loves that smile. He loves your face. He loves you—and God, he hates that he’s too much of a coward to say it out loud. 

He wishes he wasn’t. 

He wishes—of all the powers in the universe—that he had the ability to rewind time. Then, he’d go back to college, back to the late-night study sessions and coffee runs and the years of friendship and banter. Back to that night, right before graduation, when he told you the truth about who he really is. 

If he’d been half as brave as everyone thinks he is, he would’ve said— 

I’m Superman. And by the way, I’m in love with you. Wanna make out? 

Maybe then things would’ve been different. Maybe if he tacked it on to the big reveal, you would’ve fallen for him too—charmed by the whole ‘superhero’ thing. 

And maybe by now you’d be doing everything and more than just making out. Because yeah, he wants to do a lot more than that. A lot more. Which is a real problem, because just thinking about having you—really having you—makes him dizzy enough to fly straight into a building. 

He isn’t joking when he says you affect him like kryptonite. He doesn’t know why, but when it comes to you, he’s helpless. Powerless. He’s always felt things more deeply than most—because he isn’t like most—but with you? It's something else entirely. 

He knows for a fact he couldn’t live without you. That’s why he convinced you to stay in Metropolis after college. Why he’s never stopped being your best friend. Why he got you the job at the Daily Planet—because weekends with you weren’t enough. He needs you every single day. 

And that’s also why he’s never told you how he really feels. Because the way he loves you scares him—and if it scares him, what would it do to you? Probably terrify you. Maybe even drive you away. And he can’t risk that. 

He can’t risk losing you. 

So here he stays, hopelessly stuck in the friendzone, listening to you chat animatedly with Cat about some loser you met on Hinge who you’re going out with tomorrow night. 

“His profile says he’s into hot yoga and smoking meats,” you say, holding your phone up for Cat to see. 

It takes every ounce of—superhuman—self-control for Clark not to scoff. 

“Baby girl, it also says he collects limited edition knives,” Cat points out, her brows drawn. “Are you sure you want to go on a date with this guy?” 

You roll your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but he’s the only half-decent match I’ve had in weeks.” 

Cat blinks at you. “Seriously? But your profile is perfect. I made sure of that myself.” 

“I know,” you sigh, your gaze sliding toward Clark—who’s very conspicuously looking anywhere but at you. “But I left my phone unattended on my desk a couple weeks ago, and someone thought it’d be funny to change everything so the only matches I got were Arkham escapees.” 

Jimmy snorts at his desk, but his eyes stay glued to his screen like he isn’t blatantly eavesdropping. 

“Clark,” Cat says, her glare narrowing at him. “Messing with her dating profile? Really?” 

Clark’s head snaps up—blue eyes wide and full of faux-innocence. “It was Jimmy’s idea.” 

“Dude,” Jimmy says, swivelling in his chair, “you really don’t want to start pointing fingers. Because I won’t hesitate to—” 

“Okay!” Lois cuts in, standing from her desk with her empty mug in hand. “I’m going to need you all to shut up and get some actual work done before I lose my mind.” 

Jimmy chuckles and turns back to his desk. Cat sighs, handing your phone back with a dramatic shake of her head. Clark glances toward Lois, mouths a quiet thank you, then lets his gaze drifts back to you—only to find you already watching him. 

You’re wearing a that half-scowl, half-smirk look that makes his stomach flip like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He feels seen. Exposed. Almost like you’re the one with x-ray vision. Or worse, maybe you can read his mind. 

He raises a brow. “What?” 

“No snide comment about my hot-yoga-loving, knife-collecting, entrepreneurial date?” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, he’s an entrepreneur? That’s impressive. Really sounds like you found a winner.” 

“Entrepreneur is just code for broke,” Jimmy mutters. 

You ignore him, your eyes staying locked on Clark. “So, you’re not going to warn me against going on this date?” 

Clark shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he’s not affected. “Why would I? He sounds great.” 

“He collects knives, Clark,” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Doesn’t that seem a little… murder-y?” 

Clark smiles, leaning forward again until his elbows rest on the desk. “For your sake, I hope he’s not.” 

“But if he is...” you press, voice dropping low. “You think there’ll be anyone around to save me?” 

The way your lips curl, the glint in your eyes, that soft, sly note in your voice—it’s enough to make Clark feel uncomfortably warm. He always runs hot, but looking at you now? Teasing him like this? It feels like you’re daring him to lose control. 

God, the things he’d do if you weren’t looking at him like that in the middle of the goddamn newsroom. 

“You mean Superman?” he asks, his voice low now, matching yours. “I’m sure he’s got better things to do on a Friday night.” 

Your brows shoot up. “Better things?” 

“Maybe,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, but his throat feels tight. 

“Well,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair, “you’d know. Considering how close you and Superman are. All those exclusive interviews…” 

Jimmy snickers quietly, but neither of you spare him a glance. 

“I hope he doesn’t, though,” you add, tone light but loaded, your smile lingering as your gaze slides toward your computer screen. “I hope he’s got nothing better to do. I hope he’s hanging around, just in case my date is a psycho and I need saving.” 

Clark opens his mouth to reply when Steve walks by, cutting in like a brick through glass. 

“Haven’t you been saved by Superman, like, five times already?” 

Your cheeks heat, and Clark hears your heart pick up—a sound so sweet it nearly undoes him. Because he knows it's for him. Well, Superman technically, but Clark Kent is taking this win. 

“It was once—maybe twice,” you say quickly. 

“Actually,” Jimmy chimes in, “I think it was more—” 

“Oh my God,” you cut him off, flustered. “Why is everyone so chatty this morning? Can we please just work?" 

Steve rolls his eyes and keeps walking. 

Jimmy frowns. “You and Clark were the ones—” 

“Jimmy,” Clark says, his voice clipped in a way that makes Jimmy blink. “Seriously. Work.” 

Jimmy throws his hands up in surrender and spins back to his screen. Clark waits a beat, then glances up over the low partition between your desks. The second your eyes meet his, he can’t help the small, smug curve of his mouth. You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own grin, and suddenly it feels like the whole newsroom has faded into background noise. 

Because you’re looking at him like that—with those eyes—and lousy date or not, you still know exactly who’s going to show up if you need saving. 

The rest of the day goes by like any other. Everyone gets lost in their work, debates flare and die out, coffee is chugged like it’s oxygen, and Perry yells at someone for a misspelled headline at least once. It’s fair, though—journalists should at least know how to spell. At least. 

By three p.m., Clark can tell you’re deep into that afternoon slump—when the sunlight pouring through the big glass windows feels too warm, your last coffee was too long ago, and you’re one sigh away from curling up at your desk for a nap. 

Clark secretly loves this time of day. He doesn’t get the same crash as everyone else, so it’s the perfect time to spoil you without you—or anyone else—raising an eyebrow. He lives for the way you give him that sleepy, dopey smile whenever he drops a chocolate bar on your desk, grabs something from the front desk for you, or—his favourite—when he walks down the block to get you a real coffee from your favourite café instead of the sludge in the breakroom that Perry insists on calling coffee. 

He’s just about to do exactly that when he sees you drag your tired feet into the printer room and start stacking cartons of paper reams like some kind of reckless architect. 

He stops at the doorway, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder as you drop a third box onto the wobbly stack. “Building. What does it look like?” 

“It looks like you’re five seconds from filing for workers’ comp,” he says, stepping into the small room. 

The space is cramped, mostly taken up by the oversized printer and a few sad piles of paper—some blank, some the casualties of misprints. The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with office supplies and random junk that no one has bothered to sort since, well, ever. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a small smirk. “I can still type with a broken neck.” 

Clark is about to argue when you bend over and press your palms flat against the top box to test its stability. His words die in his throat. His eyes—traitorous, shameless—drop to the curve of your ass, barely two feet in front of him. He’s staring—again. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop—because apparently, all it takes to unravel Superman is you in a pair of fitted grey office pants. 

Then you plant one foot on the unsteady tower like you’re about to climb Everest, and something in him snaps. 

“Woah, no way,” he says, stepping forward in a blur. 

Before he can think better of it, his hands are on your waist—warm, firm, and holding you steady as he pulls you back down to the floor like you weigh nothing. 

The heat of you bleeds through the thin fabric of your shirt, and it’s dizzying. You’re too soft, too precious, and he has no business touching you like this. His breath snags in his chest, sharp and unsteady. He’s hugged you before—plenty of times—but this? This is different. This feels dangerous. 

Then, of course— 

“What’s going on in here?” Jimmy asks, grinning like an idiot as he leans against the doorframe. 

“I was just trying to—” you start.  

“She was just—” Clark says at the same time. 

And then he hears it—your heartbeat, skipping once before it kicks into overdrive. Your body grows even warmer beneath his hands, and you step away quickly, like his touch was too much. His stomach twists. 

You’re flushed. Flustered. Because of Jimmy? 

The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. It has to be. What else could it be? You’ve never looked at him like that. Not Clark. Not the way you look—the way your body reacts—when Jimmy appears, always wearing that lazy grin, the one that apparently drives women wild. 

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jimmy says, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. “The printer room is a classic. Just don’t let Perry catch you—he almost had a coronary when he found me in here with someone.” 

Then he winks and walks away, strolling across the newsroom toward his desk. 

For a second, Clark just stands there, jaw tight, the faint sound of your too-quick heartbeat still humming in his ears like static. He wants to say something—ask why you get all warm and pink every time Jimmy walks into a room—but he swallows it down. This isn’t the time. He doesn’t have the right. 

Instead, he clears his throat and turns back to the shelf, reaching easily for the toner cartridge on the top shelf. 

“This what you were risking your life for?” he asks, holding it out to you. 

You sigh dramatically as you take it. “Yes, that. Don’t look so smug just because you’re freakishly tall.” 

“Sorry,” he says, tone dry, “next time I’ll let you make the ER trip.” 

You scowl up at him, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Well, not all of us can be eight feet tall and built like a Greek god.” 

A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Seven and a half, tops.” 

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still pink. “You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re reckless,” he fires back, soft but certain. 

There’s a beat—a pause thick enough to feel. Your eyes hold his, that half-challenging, half-teasing look that makes his pulse thud a little harder. Clark’s not sure if you know what you’re doing to him or if you’re just being you, but it’s suddenly too much. Too warm. 

Jimmy’s stupid grin flashes in his mind. He can still hear the way your heart had jumped when he appeared, the way you’d flushed—warm and flustered in his hands, but not because of him. 

Clark clears his throat and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for you again. “Try not to give yourself a concussion while I’m gone,” he says, trying for light, but it comes out a little too clipped. 

You blink. “Gone?” 

“Coffee run,” he mutters. “You look like you could use it.” 

“Oh. Thanks,” you reply, with that soft, tired smile—like it’s just another small kindness between friends. 

And it kills him. Because he doesn’t want to be just friends—not when Jimmy’s grin gets that kind of reaction out of you. He wants that reaction. He wants to be the one who makes you smile, who sets your cheeks on fire, whose presence throws your heartbeat off balance. 

By the time he’s back out in the newsroom, his chest is tight and his jaw aches from clenching so hard. Jimmy is laughing with Cat at his desk, and Clark can’t help but picture you grinning at him like that. Laughing like that. 

He swallows hard, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevator before he does something stupid. Like break the sound barrier just to get to your favourite café and back, because apparently, that’s the only way he knows how to compete. 

The walk helps. A little. At least enough for him to stop replaying the printer room in his head like it’s a crime scene and he’s looking for evidence of when, exactly, he lost his mind. He forces himself not to rush, because it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Most of the Planet’s staff will be chained to their desks until well after sunset—you included. Then he’ll walk you home like he always does, listening to you rant about something dumb Perry said or the latest atrocity the breakroom coffee has committed. God, he loves your voice when you’re like that—sharp, alive, unfiltered. 

It’s pathetic, he knows—just as Jimmy had so graciously pointed out this morning—but Clark couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. Because aside from saving the planet and doing as much good as one man—one Kryptonian—possibly can, he lives for you. 

He hasn’t thought much about what he’ll do when you inevitably find someone. Someone who isn’t him. Maybe he’ll move to a red sun planet and sulk until he withers away. Or move to the moon and mope for all eternity. Or, hell, maybe he’ll just swallow a chunk of kryptonite and be done with it. 

Because the truth is, he doesn’t think he’d survive it. Losing you to someone else would tear him apart in ways nothing else could. It’s the second-most painful thought in his head—the first being losing you in the other sense. The permanent, irreversible sense. Which is exactly why he should be trying to keep his distance. Why he shouldn’t need you like this, so badly it scares him. 

But every time he’s tried to warn you, every time he’s told you that being close to him is too dangerous, you’ve just looked him in the eye and said you don’t care. That you need him. 

And God help him, because hearing you say those four little words—I need you, Clark—is enough to bring Superman to his knees. In more ways than one. 

“Uh, Clark?” Lois asks, head tilted, one arm holding the elevator doors open. “Plan on moving any time soon?” 

Clark blinks, hard, and realises he’s back at the office. In the elevator. Holding your coffee in one hand and a paper bag with two warm pastries in the other. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Daydreaming.” 

Lois smirks as she steps aside. “Wonder what about.” 

Clark steps out of the elevator and—of course—his eyes go straight to you, all the way across the bullpen. You’re at your desk, typing away with that little furrow between your brows, the one he could sketch from memory. 

“I swear you’ve got a sixth sense just for her,” Lois says as she steps into the elevator. “Doesn’t matter where she is—you always know. Like your compass doesn’t point north. It points to her.” 

Lois is a journalist, Clark knows that. Words are her weapon. But the truth of them still hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t mind the teasing, but he hates how transparent he is—how anyone can look at him and just see. 

“You should just ask her out,” Lois adds lightly. “Put us all out of our misery.” 

Before he can find an answer, the elevator doors slide shut and she’s gone—taking her sharp words and knowing smirk with her. 

Clark waits a moment, draws a deep, steadying breath, then crosses the newsroom toward you. He can see the exposé you’re working on, the one you’ve ranted about a hundred times, and he can practically feel the focus radiating off you. It almost makes him hesitate—almost. 

“Coffee,” he says, placing the cup on your desk. “And pick a pastry. Or we can split them both.” 

You flinch slightly before glancing up at him with that dopey, tired grin. Your bottom lip is swollen and raw from chewing on it, and the sight alone makes something stir in his chest—and lower. 

“Where’s my coffee?” Jimmy calls, spinning lazily in his chair. 

Clark hears it again—your heartbeat, stuttering once before racing fast—and his chest tightens. He doesn’t want to regret getting you this job, but he’s starting to think he might have been better off leaving you at Metropolis Mail. You hated it there, but at least you didn’t have a crush on any of the old, sleazy men you worked with. 

“Clark doesn’t like you like he likes me,” you tease, eyes narrowing at Jimmy. 

Jimmy snorts. “And you know what? I’m grateful that he doesn’t. Otherwise, we’d have to—” 

“Jimmy,” Cat interrupts from across the bullpen, “don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to staple your mouth shut.” 

Clark settles at his desk, watching as you reach for the bag of pastries. Your cheeks are still pink—flustered, again—and he can hear your pulse humming too fast. 

“Okay, we’re halving these,” you declare. “I’m not choosing between a chocolate croissant and a cinnamon roll.” 

He smiles softly as you tear open the bag and flatten it on your desk. You split the croissant, then the cinnamon roll, eyes flicking between the halves before—like always—you pick the smaller pieces for yourself. He knows you do this every time you share food, even when it’s something you love. He’s only asked you about it once, and you’d just shrugged, saying he’s bigger so he gets the bigger piece. 

But no matter how many times you do it, it still makes him feel special. 

Then—before Clark can even think about standing up to grab his halves of the pastries—you lick your fingers. Slowly. A low hum vibrates from your chest, the sound unexpectedly loud in the unusually quiet newsroom. 

Clark’s breath catches. His eyes flick up, locking on to the way you drag your fingers between your lips. It’s a simple gesture—intimate but mundane—except somehow, it’s not. It’s you, and suddenly the air feels charged—thick with something electric, something that has Clark’s body reacting before his brain can catch up. 

He shifts in his chair, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably tight his trousers have become. 

Jimmy snorts quietly at his desk, barely suppressing a giggle. Even Cat, a little further away, throws Clark a knowing smirk, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a sitcom. 

Clark clears his throat, trying to focus on his screen but failing spectacularly. This—this slow, deliberate lick of your fingers—is a distraction he doesn’t want but absolutely can’t resist. 

And today is the longest Thursday ever. 

- You - 

It’s not often you’re at work early, especially on a Friday, but this morning you woke up at six a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. No matter how many times you tossed and turned or fluffed your pillow. So here you are, chewing on the cap of your pen and glaring at the empty desk across from you—Clark’s desk. 

He’s not always on time—extracurricular activities and all—which is something you should be used to by now. But you’re not. You still worry every time he’s not where he’s supposed to be, and you know it’s ridiculous, but you just can’t help it. 

“Relax,” Jimmy says, startling you as he drops his bag onto his desk. “He’s just late, not dead.” 

You shoot him a glare. You want to say you don’t know that, but you also don’t want to put that kind of energy into the universe. So you settle for sticking your tongue out like the mature, well-adjusted adult you are. 

Jimmy chuckles. “Seriously, I don’t know how you two keep this up. It’s exhausting.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to your computer, not yet caffeinated enough to have this argument. Again. 

“Why won’t you believe me?” he presses. “He’s into you. I know he is. Why would I lie—” 

“Would you keep your voice down?” you hiss, brows pulling together. “I don’t need the entire bullpen hearing about my pathetic crush on my best friend slash coworker.” 

Jimmy snorts. “But you’re fine with the entire bullpen seeing it?” 

Your chair squeaks as you whip around to face him. “What do you mean, see it?” 

“The way you two are constantly falling all over each other,” he says, eyebrows raised as he drops into his chair. “I mean, come on. The man brings you coffee—good coffee—twice a day, gets you snacks, picks up your mail, walks you home every night, gives you his jacket when it’s cold or rainy. And newsflash—most friends don’t hold each other by the waist in the printer room.” 

Your cheeks go hot, your pulse skipping once before slamming into a frantic rhythm. The memory of Clark’s hands—big, warm, wrapped around your waist like they belonged there—flashes through your mind. The press of his fingers, the solid weight of him so close, the ghost of his breath against your neck. It’s enough to make you squirm, thighs squeezing together as you hope to hell that Jimmy doesn’t notice the way you shift in your seat. 

“That’s just… Clark,” you argue. “He’s nice. He was raised well. He’s a gentleman, Jimmy. More than anyone can say about you.” 

Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Okay, I’m ignoring that insult because I know you’re just deflecting, and you know I’m right.” 

“I know you’re delusional.” 

“Why are you so stubborn?” 

“Because,” you say, sitting up straighter, “Clark knows I have a crush on him. Okay? He knows. So if he liked me as anything more than a friend, he’d ask me out. But he doesn’t. Obviously. And I’m fine with that.” 

Jimmy frowns, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out. “He knows?” 

You nod. “He knows.” 

“How do you know he knows?” 

Well, that’s… complicated. 

You can’t exactly say oh, because I’m pretty sure Superman can hear my heart go feral whenever he so much as looks at me. Or that he can probably see it pounding and feel the heat rushing through your veins. Or—hell—you wouldn’t even be surprised if he’s picked up on other… reactions. Like that first time you saw him in the suit up close. Or the time he came over to help you move furniture wearing just a tank top and shorts, and—okay, you need to stop thinking about that before you pass out in the middle of the newsroom. 

“I just know,” you mutter. “Intuition. Or whatever.” 

Jimmy groans and tips his head back like he’s talking to the ceiling. “You know, for journalists, the two of you are really bad at using your words.” 

You glare at him—eyes narrowed, jaw tight—wishing you could come up with something snarky to snap back with. But you can’t. Your brain is a mess of Clark’s big hands, his broad shoulders in a tank top, and the way that goddamn suit hugs his thick thighs. 

So, with a frustrated huff, you turn back to your computer and try to focus on work. You finish your first cup of the Planet’s signature sludge by the time Cat breezes in, giving you a wink and a smile before settling at her desk. Lois is next, muttering to herself as she drops into her chair and starts furiously typing whatever it is she’s afraid she’ll forget. 

Your eyes flick up to Clark’s desk every few minutes, and occasionally, you make the mistake of glancing at Jimmy, who is watching you with a very amused grin. He raises his brows, smirking, like he’s daring you to admit that he’s right. You try to ignore him, but after the third look, you can’t stop yourself from scowling and mouthing at him to fuck off, when— 

“You’re very late this morning,” Lois says. 

Your head whips back toward Clark’s desk—eyes wide, heart thudding—and there he is. 

You think you’d be used to him by now. Those bright blue eyes, the unruly curls, the dimples framing those full, stupidly pretty lips. But somehow, every time you see him—which, by the way, is a lot—you feel like you can finally breathe again. Like you’ve been holding your breath without realising it, and now that he’s here, smiling sheepishly and looking perfectly dishevelled, your lungs remember how to work. 

“Yeah, I overslept,” he says, voice low and still a little rough with sleep. 

Your heart stutters when his gaze lands on you, and it’s moments like this that make you wish you could control your own damn body—because how could he not know? Your entire nervous system launches into full red alert whenever he’s within fifty feet of you. And you know he can see, hear, feel everything. 

“Overslept but still had time to pick up coffee?” Jimmy asks, grinning as he swivels in his chair. 

Clark’s eyes flick to him, his brows drawing just slightly, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs one of the two coffees he’d set down and steps toward you, holding it out. 

Your fingers brush his as you take it—just for a second—but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His skin is warm, steady, and now yours feels like it’s buzzing. You pull back quickly, your traitorous heart hammering like it’s trying to tell on you. 

“Thanks, Kent,” you mutter. 

He smiles—soft and quiet, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses—and you try not to melt. Or stare. Or do anything suspicious, like sigh wistfully and start fanning yourself with a stack of misprints. 

“So,” Jimmy says, still grinning and clearly unperturbed, “excited for your date tonight?” 

You take a sip of coffee—good coffee—and sigh. “Nope. Cancelled.” 

“What?” Cat pops up at her desk, frowning. “Why?” 

You shrug. “Apparently something came up.” 

Clark raises his brows, but his eyes stay glued to his screen. “Like a prior conviction?” 

You give him a flat look. “Funny.” 

His gaze flicks up, lips twitching. “I’m just saying. Your taste in men is—” 

“Very inconsistent,” Jimmy cuts in, smirking at you. 

Your cheeks heat—you know what he’s trying to say—but you ignore him. Your eyes stay locked on Clark. “What’s wrong with a guy who sells hand-forged artisanal blades?” 

“Where? From the back of his van?” Clark asks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Nothing wrong with that. Sounds very entrepreneurial.” 

You narrow your eyes, running your tongue across your top teeth as you fight back a smile. Because how is it fair that he looks this goddamn cute while mocking you? While teasing you for getting dumped by some knife-collecting ex-con you met on Hinge. 

“At least you’re giving Superman the night off,” Steve mutters, appearing beside your desk with a half-eaten bagel and a mug that says World’s Best Grandma. 

You turn to him, brows drawn. “Okay, for the last time, I have not been saved by Superman that many times.” 

“Um,” Jimmy says, “yeah you have. You’re Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen.” 

Lois spins around in her chair. “Yeah, what are we up to now—like, five or six?” 

“I thought it was five,” Steve says around a mouthful of bagel. 

“Actually,” Cat pipes up, “I think it’s more than that.” 

“It’s not that many!” you argue. “I counted last night—it’s only been four.” 

Everyone stops, eyes flicking toward you. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Lois frowns. Jimmy raises a brow. Cat giggles. And Clark looks... smug. 

You blink. “What? What’s everyone looking at?” 

“You counted?” Lois asks. 

Clark smirks—he actually smirks. “You keep track?” 

Your eyes go wide. Your whole face catches fire. 

“Oh God,” Jimmy sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some weird crush on Superman.” 

“No,” you reply, too fast. “What? No, I—obviously not. Why would I—?” 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s real convincing.” 

You groan and drop your face into your hands. “I do not have a crush on Superman.” 

“Oh, come on,” Cat says brightly. “There’s no shame in it. The guy’s built like a Greek statue and has the jawline of a god.” 

“And the thighs,” Steve adds. “Don’t forget the thighs.” 

“I’ve never even looked at his thighs,” you lie, still mumbling into your palms. 

There are a few snickers. Jimmy mutters something to Steve about, “Thighs? Really, man?” And then— 

Clark coughs. Once. Loudly. 

You swallow hard and peek through your fingers, just in time to see him lift his coffee to hide a smile. 

“Wait,” Lois pipes up, her tone light but undeniably playful, “didn’t you say the other day when we were watching that live feed of him saving those puppies that you needed to go home and take a cold shower?” 

Clark chokes. Your heart stops. 

He coughs into his fist, turning away slightly like that’ll help disguise the pink creeping up his neck—and the ridiculous grin stretching across his lips. 

Jimmy bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s right. I heard that.” 

“It was a joke,” you say quickly. “I was joking. And I only said it to Lois—” 

Lois grins. “You also said, and I quote, ‘he could break your back and you’d say thank you’.” 

Your eyes go wide. Your pulse spikes. You feel like you might faint. 

And across from you, Clark is coughing harder. 

“Oh no,” Cat gasps, rushing toward him. “Clark, are you okay?” 

He’s hunched over now, still trying to hide his face. “I—I’m fine,” he manages. “Just... swallowed wrong.” 

“Wow,” Jimmy sighs, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin. “I guess you don’t really have a type then.” 

God. If only he knew. 

“It was a joke,” you say again, sharper now. “It was late, we were all mad about staying back, the breaking news started playing and I made a joke to lighten the mood, okay?” 

Steve snorts. “Then why are you so defensive?” 

Your eyes snap toward him. “Why are you still here?” 

He holds his bagel up like a white flag and turns back to his desk. 

Then Perry’s voice booms across the newsroom, calling Jimmy into his office, and the buzz of conversation quickly dies. Lois spins back to her desk, Cat returns to her phone, and the bullpen slips back into its usual rhythm—paper rustling, keys tapping, the occasional frustrated sigh from someone fighting a deadline. 

With a deep breath, you sit up straighter and try to focus on your inbox. But it’s hard. Because across from you, Clark—apparently recovered from his dramatic coughing fit—is sipping his coffee like nothing happened, eyes fixed on his screen... but there’s something suspiciously smug about the set of his mouth. 

When his gaze flicks up to meet yours, you lift an eyebrow. “You good?” 

His lips twitch. “Didn’t realise Superman made that kind of impression on you.” 

Your breath catches. There’s a spark behind his glasses, barely-there but undeniably real. A little teasing. A little warm. A little dangerous. 

You clear your throat and look back to your screen. “I really was joking.” 

“I know,” he says softly, but you’re not convinced he means it. 

Because for the rest of the morning, his eyes keep finding you. And you can feel it. The weight of his gaze is heavy—too deliberate to ignore—and you can’t help but meet it. Every time. Even when you’re halfway across the newsroom chatting with one of the copy editors, or heading to the breakroom for your third—or fourth—cup of coffee. 

By lunchtime, you feel wired. Not from caffeine or overtiredness, but from the way Clark Kent hasn’t let your heart settle all goddamn morning. And if he smirks at you one more time, you’re pretty sure you’re going to go into cardiac arrest. 

“You busy?” Perry asks, startling you as he appears beside your desk. 

You clear your throat and glance up at him. “Always.” 

“Good. Then you’ve got time to help me.” 

You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t. You haven’t been here as long as the others, but you’ve pretty much clocked Perry—and when he’s in one of these moods, it’s best not to argue. 

“City Council’s pulling the same shit they tried back in ’07, and I need ammo,” he says. “Go find Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign exposé. Should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back. Try not to get lost in there.” 

Then he’s gone, and you’re left staring blankly across at Jimmy—who is chuckling and shaking his head. 

“Right,” you mutter, pushing up from your chair. “And I’m assuming he means second shelf, far back... in the archives room?” 

Jimmy nods. “Yeah. Down the hall, past the printer room, last door on the right.” 

“Great. Thanks.” 

You tuck your phone into your pocket—just in case you do get lost—and head toward the archives room, without looking back at Clark. 

You reach the end of the hall, just as Jimmy had instructed, and push open the last door on the right with a loud creak. It’s dim inside, with no windows and only half of the overhead fluorescents working—some of them flickering ominously. Metal shelving units packed with labelled boxes line the room, everything smelling faintly like dust and yellowed paper. 

You take a deep breath—then immediately regret it, coughing softly as you start down the first aisle. Your eyes skim the labels on the boxes, your brain trying to decode whatever terrible filing system is in place. It’s not alphabetical, not by date, not even by section. You can’t make any sense of it— 

“It’s chronological.” 

You yelp, spinning around just as you reach the end of the aisle. 

“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “Why would you sneak up on someone in a creepy room like this?”  

Clark chuckles quietly. “I wasn’t sneaking.” 

“You didn’t knock.” 

“I figured you’d hear me.” 

“Well, I didn’t.” 

He tilts his head, lips curling, dimples creasing. “Probably because you were muttering to yourself.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still climbing. “Whatever. It’s not chronological, though. These dates don’t make—” 

“Based on when the reporter started the investigation, not publication date,” he says. 

Your jaw drops. “You’re kidding?” 

He shakes his head, chuckling again. “Nope.” 

“Oh my God,” you sigh. “Whoever decided that is evil. Why doesn’t Perry fix it?” 

Clark turns toward the shelves and shrugs, his arm brushing yours—just barely—and it takes everything in you not to flinch, or lean in, or breathe weird. 

“I think he secretly enjoys torturing us,” he says, glancing sideways. “Plus, who has the time to reorganise the entire archives room?” 

Your traitorous eyes drop straight to his mouth, watching his tongue drag across his bottom lip. Your breath stutters. You’re not even standing that close—it’s just too quiet in here. Too dim. And he’s far too pretty to be looking at you like that. 

You clear your throat. “Yeah—uh, I guess. I mean, we could volunteer Steve. Not like he does much anyway.” 

Clark huffs a laugh. “Hey. Steve does an excellent job of eating other people’s lunches and leaving greasy fingerprints on things.” 

“That’s true,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, he’s kind of a catch. Don’t you think?” 

You turn and continue around the shelves into the next aisle. 

Clark follows. “So, Steve is your type then?” 

You give him a flat look. “Don’t.” 

He presses his lips together to contain whatever smug grin is threatening to break free. “Don’t what?” 

“Don’t bring up the goddamn Superman thing,” you say, turning back to the shelves in the hopes that he can’t see the colour crawling into your cheeks. “It was a joke. And Lois… ad-libbed. She made it sound way hornier than what I actually said.” 

He lifts a brow, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. “What did you actually say?” 

You pull out a box and blow the dust away to read whatever’s scrawled across the top. Not that you’re really paying attention. Your brain is fried—too aware of the huge man standing beside you, watching you with such intensity you feel like his stare could brand your skin. 

And, well, it could—technically. 

“I said that half of Metropolis is going to need a cold shower after seeing Superman save some puppies,” you lie—through your teeth. “You know, the female half—and gays. I mean, anyone who is attracted to men, really. Because Superman is a man. A big man. And he was saving puppies, so… yeah.” 

You peek out the corner of your eye as you pull out another box. He’s full-on grinning now—that cheeky grin he gets when he thinks he’s said something hilarious, or knows he’s winning one of your petty arguments. 

“What about the back breaking?” he asks. 

You fumble the box in your hands and it falls to the floor, papers scattering everywhere. 

That is not something you ever thought you’d hear Clark Kent ask you. And those words—in that voice—have completely short-circuited the connection between your brain and your motor function. 

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping to your knees. 

Clark crouches beside you and starts gathering the papers just out of your reach. 

“I meant—” you start quickly, keeping your eyes on the scattered pages. “The back-breaking thing wasn’t, like... literal. I meant emotionally. You know, like... he could ruin me—anyone, he could ruin anyone… metaphorically.” 

He pauses, then glances at you. “Metaphorically?” 

“Yeah. Like, Superman, the idea of him, this gorgeous—” you hesitate, almost choking on your words, “objectively gorgeous guy who’s too good to be true. I mean, he could ruin anyone, right?” 

Clark frowns. “Right.” 

“Besides,” you add quickly, “I have to try and say things that make it seem like I don’t really know Superman because he’s saved me so many goddamn times.” 

He chuckles quietly. “That’s just because you’re near him all the time, and he has to get you to safety before all hell breaks loose.” 

“Okay,” you mutter, stacking the pages with unnecessary focus, “but you don’t need to mention it in every article you write.” 

He shrugs, handing you the papers he’d collected. “Superman likes talking about the people he’s saved.” 

“Clark,” you sigh, reaching for the stack of pages. 

Your hand brushes his, and your breath catches. You both freeze. 

You swear you feel a pulse of heat where your fingers touch—and you know it’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop your heart from thudding, or your skin from flushing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. 

And then— 

“Hey guys,” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the tension. “I hate to break up whatever’s going on in here, but Perry’s about ready to rip heads off if he doesn’t have those notes soon.” 

You jump up so fast you nearly knock another box off the shelf. “Shit, I—um—” 

“Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign, right?” Clark asks, his eyes scanning the room. 

You know what he’s doing, and it’s at times like this that you’re incredibly grateful for his superhuman abilities. 

You nod. “Yep. Perry said they should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back.” 

He steps away, walking along the back of the room before disappearing down a far aisle. 

Jimmy grins and wriggles his eyebrows like an idiot. “The archives room, huh? Pretty cozy in here. Tall stacks to hide in.” 

“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving the box you dropped back onto the shelf. 

Clark returns a few seconds later, holding up a file. “Reynolds’ notes, ’07.” 

“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “No one can find anything in here except this guy.” 

Clark just smiles, and you roll your eyes. Jimmy takes the file, shoots you a cheeky wink—as if he has any clue about what’s going on—and heads back out the door. 

You turn to Clark, brows raised, lips twitching. “How do you do it, Clark? How do you find things in this terribly organised filing system?” 

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Dumb luck?” 

“Hm,” you narrow your eyes playfully. “I think you’ve got a secret, Kent.” 

You can almost swear you see him blush, but the room is too dark to tell—and you have to look away from his stupidly gorgeous face before you forget how to act like a normal human being. 

He doesn’t reply, he just follows you out of the archives room—flicking off the barely-working lights on the way—and up the hall toward the newsroom. You’re just passing the printer room, trying very hard not to think about the way his hands had felt on your waist, when he finally speaks. 

“I was thinking,” he says, “movie night tonight, at my place? You know, since your date bailed.” 

You glance over your shoulder at him. “Sure you don’t have better things to do on a Friday night?” 

“Nah,” he replies with that small smirk—the one that makes your heart stutter. “Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen is giving me the night off.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, for that comment, you’re paying for takeout.” 

He chuckles. “I always pay for takeout.” 

“Yeah?” You stop just outside the breakroom door. “Well, I’m ordering extra this time.” 

“Extra food that I’ll end up eating because you always order too much,” he teases. “Of course. It’s tradition.” 

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. “Whatever. I’m still ordering it.” 

And then—before he can see just how much he’s affecting you—you slip into the breakroom and let the door fall shut behind you. 

You turn, grip the edge of the counter, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten straight minutes. Because what the fuck is going on? His voice, his smile, his face, his everything—he’s not even trying, and you’re already halfway to a heart attack. 

You’ve known Clark for years—you’ve been best friends for years. And yeah, he’s always had… an effect on you. But this? This is something else entirely. Being around him this much is starting to feel dangerous. Like the longer you stay in his orbit, the closer you are to coming undone. Every glance that lingers. Every touch that means too much. Every smile that knocks the air clean out of your lungs. You keep pretending it’s fine—but something has shifted. And whatever it is, it’s getting harder to ignore. 

Jimmy’s words echo in your head, and for one traitorous second, you almost believe them. Almost believe that there might be something real behind the way Clark looks at you. 

But no. Surely not, right? That’s not how this works. He’s Superman. He saves cities before breakfast. He could have any woman he wanted. 

And you? You’re just the friend. The one who gets takeout with him on Friday nights because he feels bad that your date bailed. The one he teases in the bullpen. The one trying not to fall apart every time he gets too close. 

You press your palms harder into the counter, as if you can steady yourself with pressure alone. But your heart’s still racing, and your lungs won’t quite fill. 

You cannot keep doing this. Not like this. 

Because one of these days, you’re going to look at him and forget how to pretend. 

- 

You never thought you’d be happy about a hectic Friday afternoon, but today, the distractions are doing a better job than your self-control ever could. 

Perry is hell-bent on nailing this latest City Council scandal, and he’s got the entire bullpen scrambling to publish before the end of the day. Cat is helping Jimmy track down incriminating photos, sift through old campaign trail shots, and monitor social media for real-time fallout. Clark’s stuck on the phone with whistleblowers and trying to pin down a statement from any councilmember who’ll take his call. Steve’s out on the street gathering public reaction—loudly complaining the whole time that his Knicks column is getting bumped. And you’re at Lois’s side, helping her fact-check quotes and comb through timelines while she tears through the main exposé like a woman possessed. 

It’s chaos—in the best way. Because everyone here does their best work under pressure, with ten empty coffee cups on their desk. And the best part? You’re too busy to risk another lingering moment with Clark. Too distracted to spiral. Too occupied to feel anything. 

It’s perfect. 

Right up until five p.m., when Perry signs off, Lois hits publish, and everyone starts packing up for the weekend. 

“Coming straight over, or are you going home first?” Clark asks, shrugging into his jacket. 

From the corner of your eye, you see Jimmy’s head snap toward you—and your cheeks heat immediately. 

“I’ll head home first,” you say, trying to keep your voice quiet. “Change into something comfortable before I come over.” 

It’s no use though—Jimmy hears everything. 

“You know I’ve got a whole drawer of your clothes at my place, right?” Clark says, blue eyes flicking—just briefly—toward Jimmy, who is inching closer on the wheels of his chair. 

You let out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s not a whole drawer. Is it?” 

“Oh, it is,” Clark replies. “Though I think half of it’s just my old college stuff. Pretty sure you stole more than Ma ever got the chance to donate.” 

Jimmy gasps—he actually gasps—like a dramatic little asshole watching his favourite soap opera play out live. 

Both you and Clark turn toward him. He’s still sitting in his chair, halfway between his desk and yours, glancing between the two of you with wide eyes. You’re scowling. Clark just looks mildly sceptical. 

Then, after a beat, Clark shakes his head and turns back to you. “Anyway. You want me to walk you home?” 

“No,” you say—way too fast. “I mean, I’m good. I’ll catch a cab.” 

He nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re on your way?” 

“Okay,” you echo, giving him a tight smile. 

He tucks his chair under his desk, gives Jimmy a polite—but vaguely curious—goodbye as he steps around him, and walks off through the newsroom toward the elevator. You watch after him until the doors slide shut and the numbers above begin to light up as the lift descends. 

Then you turn back to Jimmy, who has now scooted right up to your desk. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed like a man who’s just connected the final thread on a conspiracy board. 

“You’re pranking me,” he says flatly. 

You close your eyes, breathing deeply. “Jimmy, just… don’t.” 

“You have a drawer. Of clothes. At his apartment.” 

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand. 

“No—no. Don’t talk. I need to process. I’m having, like, a full-on event.” 

You frown. “An event?” 

“You wear his clothes!” he hisses, loud enough to make your pulse spike. “You hang out at his place constantly. You’re going over tonight, after your date bailed—on a Friday—and you just casually told him you were gonna ‘change into something comfortable’ like that’s not the sexiest sentence ever uttered in this newsroom!” 

Your face burns even hotter. “It’s not—I didn’t mean it like—” 

He gasps again—loudly. “Do you have a drawer of his clothes at your place? If you say yes, I’m pitching Cat a column on office romance and you two are going to be my lead sources.” 

“Well—I mean, yes, but—” 

“Oh my God. You’re basically a couple without the sex!” 

You scowl. “Jimmy—” 

“I’m just saying!” He throws his hands up, wheeling backward like he needs a full-body reset. “You’re over there more than his landlord. You do Friday night takeout. You have drawer rights. He gives you heart-eyes every time you speak. And you’re both still pretending this is all just… platonic?” 

You stare at him, mouth dry. 

“Please,” Jimmy says, softer now, scooting forward again and leaning his forearms on your desk. “Don’t make me live through an unnecessary slow burn. I’m too young to suffer like this. Just jump him.” 

You groan and cover your face with both hands. “Oh my God.” 

“You don’t even deny that you want to,” he says, grinning now. “You’re just too scared to actually do it.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “Can you please shut up?” 

“Nope,” he says brightly. “I’m way too invested now. I’m not going to shut up until I have proof that you two have finally boned.” 

You drop your hands from your face with a sigh and push back from your desk. “Okay,” you mutter. “I’m leaving now.” 

Jimmy just watches you—arms crossed, smug as hell, like he knows something you don’t. You pull your jacket on, pack your bag, and sling it over your shoulder. 

“Just do yourself a favour,” he says. “Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.” 

You give him a look. “Jimmy—” 

“Trust me,” he says, rolling back toward his desk. “You don’t end up with a drawer at someone’s place and standing Friday night plans by accident.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that.” 

“Sure it’s not,” he chuckles. 

You huff and hitch your bag higher. “I’m leaving now.” 

He turns to face his screen, still grinning. “Have fun, and don’t be shy. You might be… surprised.” 

You stand frozen for a second—heart pounding, thoughts tripping over themselves—then spin on your heel and walk away before you can say something you’ll regret. Before Jimmy’s cryptic nonsense makes your brain explode. 

He’s just messing with you, obviously—he’s teasing, making things up. Because there’s no way a drawer and some clothes and a Friday night movie night means anything more than friendship. 

Right? 

It’s just takeout. Just TV. Just Clark. 

You jab the elevator button harder than necessary, tapping your foot impatiently while you wait for the doors to open. The second they do, you slip inside and start digging through your bag for your headphones. You need distraction—a podcast, an audiobook, something. Anything to stop thinking about Clark fucking Kent before you’re sitting beside him on the couch. 

A breath apart. Bodies warm. Pulse thrumming. 

God. You are so monumentally screwed. 

As soon as you get home, you head straight for the shower, hoping the hot water might help rinse away all your spiralling thoughts. You take your time washing your hair—twice—and exfoliating everything before simply standing under the spray, trying to remember how to breathe. How to be human. How to stop over-analysing every little thing Clark has ever done for you. 

Curse Jimmy Olsen and his stupidly smug words and overly supportive encouragements. 

By the time you step out, you smell like coconut, vanilla, and just a hint of panic. You quickly dry off before picking out a soft pair of sweats and your favourite movie night hoodie. Then you open your underwear drawer—and pause. 

You stare at the unorganised mess of cotton and lace for almost two full minutes. 

It’d be ridiculous to put on something cute. Right? This is just movie night. With Clark. The same Clark who’s seen you eat popcorn off your hoodie while ugly crying over Marley & Me. There is absolutely no reason to wear something small or uncomfortable or even remotely pretty. 

Tonight isn’t special. Nothing is going to happen. 

But then Jimmy’s stupid voice echoes through your head, making everything feel a little less certain. 

“Ugh. Fine,” you mutter, grabbing a pair that could generously be described as a little nicer than usual. 

They’re not scandalous—or over the top—just better than the ones you wouldn’t want found on your body if you got hit by a bus. Which, honestly, is a pretty low bar, but whatever. 

After getting dressed, you quickly pack your bag—keys, wallet, snacks—and slip on the first pair of shoes you can find before heading out the door. 

You’re halfway across the lobby when your phone buzzes with a text—from Clark: 

Something came up. Spare key is under the mat. Won’t be late. 

Before you can question it, a breaking news alert flashes across your screen: 

BREAKING: Robot Attack in Downtown Metropolis 

Authorities are responding to a violent incident involving an unidentified mechanical threat near the 6th & Hadley tech district. Witnesses report strange gas emissions and widespread damage. Superman has been spotted at the scene. Officials urge residents to avoid the area until further notice. More to come. 

You quickly hail a cab, fall into the backseat, and bring up the live feed of the attack downtown. There’s not much to see from the helicopter camera—just the blur of scattered civilians, crumbling storefronts, and a distant flash of red and blue cutting through the smoke. 

Your chest tightens. Your heart starts pounding harder. You know he’s Superman, and he literally does this kind of thing at least twice a week—but still, every single time, you worry. 

What if this is the one time things go wrong? 

What if this is the time he doesn’t get back up? 

What if you lose him before you ever get the chance to tell him how you feel? 

Thankfully, you don’t live far from Clark, and it isn’t long before the cab pulls up just outside his apartment building. You pay the driver, slip out, and hitch your bag higher on your shoulder as you approach the front door. 

You’re here so often that the lobby staff don’t even bat an eye as you walk past. You slip into the elevator, ride it up, and walk the hallway like you know this building better than your own. Then you stop at his door, lift the welcome mat, and spot the little silver key that had been tucked beneath it. 

Of course Clark Kent is naive enough to leave a key under the mat—like that’s not the first place a burglar would look. He’s lucky he doesn’t live in Gotham. You know for a fact he’d have been robbed at least once by now—probably more. 

You step inside and try not to breathe in too deeply like a total creep, but it’s hard not to when the whole place smells like him—familiar and clean, with the faint, crisp edge of cold air from his frequent trips to the Antarctic. 

You kick your shoes off, drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and head into the lounge room to flick on the TV. You settle on the couch and flip through channels until live news coverage of the attack pops up. 

“We’re receiving confirmation that the area has now been cleared of civilians, and that Superman has successfully neutralised the mechanical threat responsible for tonight's attack,” the female news anchor reports. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. 

“Authorities remain on the scene, working to identify the strange gas released during the incident. While it appears to be non-lethal, several sources—including a spokesperson from the fire department—have confirmed that individuals exposed to the gas are experiencing some unusual side effects.” 

You lean forward, the curious journalist in you coming to life. 

“In what can only be described as one of the stranger developments this year, witnesses and responders alike seem to be... unable to lie. More than that, they’re being compelled to speak—blurt out personal details, opinions, even long-held secrets.” 

You frown. “Like... a truth serum?” 

“We now go live to Darren McMillan, reporting live from the scene. Darren—what more can you tell us?” 

The feed cuts to a man in a plain surgical mask—which you doubt is doing anything—standing outside a half-burnt bakery. 

“Thanks, Elsie. I’m just outside the perimeter, where hazmat teams and emergency services are still assessing the area. The good news is, no major injuries have been reported. And while the gas remains unidentified, officials say there’s currently no evidence of toxicity or long-term danger.” 

The camera pans out slightly. 

“That said, the psychological effects are harder to pin down. One first responder told me he hasn’t been able to stop talking about his childhood hamster for twenty straight minutes. Another admitted—without prompting—that he once embezzled over four thousand dollars from his mother-in-law. And personally, I—uh—” 

The reporter freezes, eyes wide as he makes uncomfortably direct eye contact with the camera. 

“—I think I might be in love with my barista. Also, I’ve been cheating on my girlfriend with someone from accounting.” 

There's a split-second of stunned silence, then the camera wobbles—and the feed cuts back to the studio. 

“We... seem to have lost Darren for the moment,” the anchor says awkwardly. “We’ll continue following this story as it develops. In the meantime, residents are advised to avoid the area until the all-clear has been given.” 

You snort a laugh as you push off the couch and wander back into the kitchen. You reach for a wine glass from one of the higher cupboards, then spot a bottle of red sitting by the stove—Clark might be immune to alcohol, but he always keeps a bottle around just for you. 

You crack the lid and start to pour—only to somehow misjudge the angle and splash red wine all over your hoodie and down the front of your sweats. 

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly setting the bottle back down on the bench. 

With a sigh, you peel off your hoodie and make your way toward Clark’s bedroom, ignoring the way your heart does that annoying little flutter when you step inside—even though you’ve been in here a hundred times before. 

You go straight to the second-top drawer of his dresser, where he keeps the clothes you usually wear, and grab a pair of old sleep shorts and a threadbare Metropolis University shirt—both clearly his. He wasn’t kidding when he said you’d stolen most of his college wardrobe. 

You change quickly and throw your wine-stained clothes into the hamper by the door on your way out. You know he won’t mind. He never does. Then back in the kitchen, you mop up the spilt wine before pouring yourself a generous glass and leaning back against the counter to scroll through your phone. 

You’re mid-sip when you hear the soft thud of feet on the balcony.  

You glance up, heart hammering, and see Clark step inside. His face and suit are streaked with ash, hair wind-tousled, eyes dark and unreadable. He’s looked better, but he’s definitely looked worse—and for the first time since that breaking news alert popped up on your phone, you feel like you can breathe again.  

“Clark,” you say, stepping forward. “Are you—”  

“Wait,” he says—not loud, but firm.  

You freeze.  

He takes a breath, jaw tense. “You shouldn’t be here.”  

You blink. “What? But you told me to—”  

“I mean,” he says quickly, “it’s not that I don’t want you—” He cuts himself off, mouth twitching like the words are fighting their way out. “It’s... not advisable.”  

“Clark,” you say slowly, “are you okay?”  

He nods—then immediately shakes his head. 

“Are you hurt?” you ask, setting your wine down on the counter. 

“No,” he replies. “But the gas—the stuff from the attack—it has... some kind of neurological effect. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”  

Your brows lift. “Wait... it affected you too? But you’re—”  

“I know,” he says with a small, strained smile. “I’m trying to fight it.”  

“Oh. So,” you step forward, lips twitching, “you’re telling me you can’t lie right now?”  

He nods again. “Yes, but it—it’s more than that. I—” His voice catches, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I want to say things. I want to just blurt everything out.”  

Any trace of amusement falls from your face, and your eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. Like—you feel like you’re just going to fly out there and tell the world that Clark Kent is Superman?”  

He huffs a soft laugh. “Not exactly what I’m worried about—”  

“Wait,” you cut him off. “Okay, first, we need to lock the doors. I know you’re you, so it doesn’t make much of a difference, but I’ll still feel better if they’re locked, okay?”  

You don’t wait for him to reply—you just start moving through the apartment, slamming shut every window, locking the balcony door, then the front door, and double-checking each one. Twice. 

When you return, he’s still standing exactly where you left him—caught between the lounge room and the kitchen, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. 

“I swear I’m going to do everything I can to help you,” you say, your hands starting to tremble. “I know I can’t actually stop you from flying through the window, but—I’ll try.”  

He lets out another soft laugh, low and a little tense. “I’m not going to—”  

“How do we get this out of your system?” you ask, stepping in close and crossing your arms over your chest. 

Clark opens his mouth—then hesitates. His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows, like he’s only just noticed what you’re wearing. 

“That’s—um. That’s my shirt.” 

You glance down. “Oh. Yeah. I spilled wine on mine.” 

He nods, slowly, jaw clenched like he’s physically holding back the rest of the words—but then his eyes drop lower, and his voice slips out before he can stop it. “You look good in my clothes.” 

Your heart stutters. “What?” 

He visibly winces, because he definitely hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—you always wear my stuff, I know that, I just—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “Forget I said anything.” 

You take a step back, flustered, hoping he’s too distracted to notice the heat creeping up your neck. “Okay. Um. What do you need? Should you eat something? Try to sweat it out? Or—I don’t know, take a cold shower?” 

He doesn’t answer. He just keeps standing there, stiff and quiet, like if he says even one word, the rest might follow whether he wants them to or not. 

Your arms fall to your sides as you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Well... at least we don’t have any secrets.” 

Clark huffs—one breath, sharp and low. “Just one,” he mutters. 

You blink. “What?” 

But he’s already turning away, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m gonna take that shower.” 

And then he disappears into his room without another word, leaving you dazed, confused, and—yeah—a little horny after seeing him in that goddamn suit. 

As soon as you hear the shower start running, you turn and scull the rest of your wine—wincing as it burns your throat. You set the glass back down on the counter with a soft clink, then brace your palms against the cool marble and draw a few deep breaths, trying to stop your thoughts from spiralling. 

Just one. 

Just... one? 

What does that even mean? What kind of secret? Something big? Something small? Something life-ruining? Oh God—what if it’s something serious? What if he’s dying? Or secretly married? Or, like, used to be evil? 

You groan and drop your forehead to the counter. 

No. You need to stop. This is ridiculous. 

It’s normal to have secrets. Everyone has things they keep to themselves. That doesn’t make it shady—or bad—or dangerous. It’s probably just something awkward. Or embarrassing. Or, knowing Clark, so deeply uncool that it makes him cringe to even think about it. 

Yeah, that’s it. That’s definitely it. 

He’s not dying or secretly married or evil—he’s just Clark. 

And he doesn’t owe you everything. He doesn’t even owe you anything. 

You’re lucky to have as much of him as you do. You don’t need to know every little thing. Besides—he’s got a secret. So do you. And despite Jimmy’s encouragement, you’re pretty damn sure you’re never going to tell him. 

Okay. You need to stop freaking out. 

You need to focus on helping Clark through whatever this is before he accidentally tells all of Metropolis that he’s Superman. You need to find a way to flush this toxin—or whatever it is—out of his system. 

And if you can’t do that? 

Then you need to distract him until it wears off. 

By the time Clark’s bedroom door cracks open, you’re back on the couch. The news is still playing, volume low now. The anchor is saying something about clean-up efforts and eyewitness accounts—but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not when Clark Kent is walking toward you in a pair of low-slung dark blue sweats while he’s halfway to pulling a shirt over his head. 

It’s not like you’ve never seen him shirtless before—you have, occasionally. When you went to the beach together. During that horrible June heatwave. That time he spilled hot soup on himself. 

But still. Seeing him like this, fresh from the shower, curls damp and clinging to his forehead—it hits different. It makes your breath hitch, your skin flush, and that spot behind your hipbones ache. 

“Hey,” you say quietly. “Feeling better?” 

“I feel cleaner,” he mutters, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch—as far from you as it’ll allow. 

You swallow hard and shift a little, turning more toward him than the TV. 

“Okay,” you start, “first—I just want to say, I totally respect you having secrets. It’s normal. I mean, Lois and Jimmy are always joking that we’re too close, but we still have things we keep to ourselves. Not full-on secrets, but—like—it’d be weird if we knew every single thing about each other, right? No—wait, that’s not a question.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I swear I’m going to respect your privacy. I’m not going to ask any questions you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry—I know I’m rambling. But—” you take a breath “—I was thinking, if you can’t just sweat it out or whatever, then we need to keep you distracted. Stop you from flying out there and announcing your secret identity to half the city. So… what if we just talk? Anything. Everything. No secrets. Just... stuff I might not know. Like—I don’t know—when did you first figure out you could fly?” 

Clark just stares at you for a moment—unblinking, brows raised, the slightest twitch pulling at the corner of his lips. He looks a little less wrecked than he did earlier, a little amused, and there’s something else in his eyes you can’t quite place. A look you only catch sometimes—fleeting, private—one he’s usually quick to hide. 

But not tonight. 

“Uh,” he says eventually, voice a little hoarse. “Okay. Flying was… weird. At first.” 

You tilt your head. “So, you just—what? Floated off the ground one day?” 

“Pretty much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was in high school. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Hard to say—everything was happening at once.” 

You snort softly. “Puberty was a little rougher on you, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “It was.” 

“Do you know what triggered it?” 

“The microwave,” he mutters. 

Your brows rise. “The microwave?” 

“It kept burning my popcorn.” His expression turns sheepish. “I yelled at it and then, next thing I knew, I was on the ceiling. Ma screamed so loud I thought I’d broken something. Which—I did. I crashed into the dining room light trying to get down.” 

You bite your lip to hide your grin. “That’s actually adorable.” 

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m pretty sure I cried. I, uh… cried a lot back then.” 

Your throat tightens and that soft ache in your chest sharpens. “Clark.” 

“No, really. I was a very emotional child. Also, kind of flammable,” he says with a tight smile. “The heat vision was a nightmare. Powers come first, control comes later.” 

“Oh my God.” 

“There’s a reason I was homeschooled for two years.” He pauses, his smile softening. “Well. That, and I had a crush on my tenth-grade teacher and Ma said I was dangerously distracted.” 

You laugh again—quietly—and drop your eyes to your lap, hoping Clark doesn’t notice the way your body flushes with heat. Because seriously, who gets jealous of their best friend admitting he had a crush on his teacher over a decade ago? 

“Okay,” you say, eyes flicking back up. “This is good. Is it working?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “A little.” 

“Good. Next question, then.” 

He lets out a low, quiet laugh and leans back, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Alright. Hit me.” 

You clear your throat, shifting to face him more fully. “What do you think about when you’re flying? Just flying—not in the middle of a fight or racing back to your fortress to heal. Just... in the air.” 

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Closes it. Opens it again. His expression twists, jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold it in—like whatever he’s trying not to say is fighting its way out. 

You open your mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer when— 

“You,” he says, voice strained. 

You blink. “What?” 

“And—and my parents,” he adds quickly. “When I can see Kansas. I think about work, too. A lot of things. But I think about you a—” He cuts himself off, hands curling into fists in his lap, brows furrowing. “I think about you a lot.” 

Your breath catches. The room feels suddenly very, very still. Your pulse is loud in your ears—too loud—drowning out the sound of the TV and your own uneven breathing. 

He thinks about you. A lot. 

What does that even mean—and what the hell are you supposed to do with it? 

“Ask me another question,” he says abruptly, almost desperate. “Please.” 

You blink at him. “What?” 

“Just—change the subject. Anything else.” 

You panic. Your thoughts scatter. Your mouth opens, closes—opens again, and then—God help you—you blurt out the first thing that hits your tongue. 

“Are you a virgin?” 

Clark makes a sound halfway between a cough and a gasp. “What?” 

“I don’t know!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “I panicked! And—and I’m just curious because... you’re Clark. I mean, you’re so kind, and sweet, and polite—and you’ve never even had a real girlfriend the whole time we’ve been friends, so I just—” 

“Yeah,” he mutters, tone dry. “Funny, that.” 

You frown, heat creeping up your neck. You want to ask what the hell he means by that—but you know you can't. Not right now. 

“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you say instead, softer now. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a thought I’ve had for a while, and it sort of just... slipped out.” 

“No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not a virgin.” 

You nod, lips parting like you might say something—maybe to apologise again, maybe to change the subject—but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits. You feel warm all over. Too warm. 

Clark clears his throat. “Still trying to distract me?” 

“Yeah—” you reply, blinking fast. “Yes. Of course.” 

He gives you a lopsided smile—shy, but trying. “Then ask another question.” 

You hesitate, voice catching as your conscience flares to life. He seems almost normal now—still a little flushed, a little off—but mostly back to himself. Maybe his metabolism is quickly burning off the effects of the gas. Maybe he’s not feeling so compelled anymore. 

Maybe you should take advantage of this while you still can. 

No secrets. Just one question. The one that’s been burning a hole in your chest for years. 

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Have you ever been in love?” 

The second the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back. Clark stiffens—not in a sharp, startled way, but more like someone trying to hold back a shiver. 

“Yes,” he says, immediately—because he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. 

Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask who, but you’re not sure you could survive the answer. 

“What about you?” he asks. 

Your breath catches. “Me?” 

He nods. 

“I—I’m not the one in the hot seat right now, I—” 

“Is it Jimmy?” 

Your eyes go wide. “What?” 

“Are you in love with Jimmy?” he presses, brows pulling tight. 

You just stare at him, stunned, voice caught somewhere in your chest as your brain struggles to catch up. 

“It’s fine,” he says, gaze dropping to his lap. “I get it. You spend a lot of time with him. You’re always talking about him. He makes you laugh. Your pulse goes crazy whenever—” 

“Clark,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to be. “I’m not—what? No. I’m not in love with Jimmy.” 

Clark blinks at your denial like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like maybe he wants to—but can’t. 

“Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes. “You said—my pulse. You listen to my pulse?” 

He tilts his head. “I can’t really help—” 

You frown. “I know you can hear it, Clark, but I’m asking if you actively listen to it.” 

“Yes,” he mutters—even though it’s obvious he didn’t want to say it. 

Your cheeks burn. “How often?” 

“I don’t know.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Some—most of the time.” 

You blink. “What? So you just... tune in? Like I’m a podcast or something?” 

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.” 

“No,” you fire back. “I’m not stopping. Because you just accused me of being in love with Jimmy fucking Olsen. And then you admitted you listen to my pulse like it’s your own personal metronome. And before—” You stop, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. “Before, you told me I looked good in your clothes. Clark, I’ve been wearing your clothes since college, and you’ve never said that to me.” 

He meets your stare—eyes wild, jaw tight, brows drawn. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. And maybe that’s exactly what you need him to do. 

“I know we’ve always been close, but—but working together—” Your voice shakes. “It’s different now. We’re too close. Something’s shifted, and I don’t know what. Yesterday in the printer room. Today in the archives. You’re acting weird. I’m acting weird. Everything is weird. And now, somehow, you think I’m in love with Jimmy?” 

“Your heart beats like crazy whenever he’s around,” he says, the words falling out fast, like he’s been holding them in for too long. “You—your whole body flushes. Your hands start trembling. I can see it, hear it, feel every reaction you have when he’s around and it—it—” He cuts himself off, raking a hand through his still-damp curls. 

You watch him for a beat—heart racing, skin burning. The silence stretches between you, taut and heavy. It feels like the same tension that clung to the air in the printer room. And in the archives. Palpable. Suffocating. 

“Jimmy?” you say softly. “Whenever I’m around... Jimmy?” 

He nods, stiff and careful. Like opening his mouth might let too much out again. 

You take a deep breath, shifting a little closer on the couch. “Then tell me, Clark…” Your voice drops, quieter now. “What am I feeling right now?” 

His eyes flit over your face, searching. You watch him track your expression, the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders. Like he’s trying to solve you. Like he already knows—but doesn’t understand. 

“You’re... flushed,” he says first, voice low. “Your skin’s hot. Your pupils are huge. You’re... you’re breathing hard.” 

He swallows, brow furrowing in concentration. 

“You shifted closer, too. You do that when you’re comfortable, or—or trying to be comforting, but—” His gaze flickers downward. “Your hands are shaking.” 

You don’t answer. You just watch him. Let him keep going. 

“I can hear your pulse in your throat,” he says, eyes there now. “It jumped the second I started talking. And it hasn’t slowed down. Not even now.” 

He shifts, clearly flustered, and you swear his gaze flicks to your mouth before he catches himself and looks away—back to your lap, your hands, your shoulders. Anywhere but your eyes. 

“I—I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says finally, and he sounds so lost—so completely confused—you almost feel bad. “I know what your body’s doing, but I don’t know what it means.” 

You blink at him. “You really don’t?” 

He exhales, voice dropping low. “I don’t want to get it wrong.” 

That’s it. That’s all it takes for your last thread of patience to snap. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—your whole body humming, trembling—and still, he just sits there blinking at you like he’s never once considered the most obvious thing in the world. 

“God,” you mutter, pushing to your feet with a frustrated huff. “Clark—it’s you. It’s not Jimmy, it’s not even Superman. It’s you. I react like this around you.” 

His eyes widen—just slightly. He blinks up at you—once, twice—like his brain is buffering, trying to reboot. 

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “I cannot believe after all these years, you’ve only just figured it out. And you thought it was because of Jimmy?” You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut to keep the emotion from spilling over. “I thought you fucking knew.” 

“You thought I knew?” he asks, his voice low, rough—a little wrecked. 

You look at him again, expression tight. “Yes, Clark. I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious—because every time you look at me, my heart races and my whole body gets hot and—Jesus Christ. It doesn’t even matter, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and none of this makes sense, so just forget it.” 

You move past him—but his hand catches yours before you can get too far. It’s gentle, but there’s tension in it. 

You freeze. 

“Wait,” he breathes. “Please.” 

You take a breath—but before you can fully turn around, he tugs. Hard. 

Suddenly you’re off balance—caught, pulled, guided down into his lap like gravity made the decision for you. Your knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest, and the space between you disappears. 

Your breath catches. His does too. 

You’re so close you can feel the shape of his next exhale against your lips. His hands hover at your waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you. 

“I’m not lying,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that matters. “I mean—I can’t. I just… I never thought you could feel that way about me. Never even considered it. Not after all these years. Not until thirty seconds ago when you told me—because I’m an idiot.” 

For a moment, he just stares at you—like he can’t quite believe that you’re real. That you’re here, straddling his lap, flushed and breathless and saying all the things he never let himself hope to hear. 

And then— 

He grins. 

Not the awkward, bashful one you’ve seen a hundred times before. Not the polite press of lips he gives strangers on the street or the sheepish half-smile he shoots you across the bullpen when you catch him watching you. 

This one is brighter. Slower. Wider. It blooms across his face like a sunrise—like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time and can’t quite handle it. His eyes crinkle at the corners, blue as heaven, and the dimples in cheeks deepen in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s the kind of smile that punches you in the gut. The kind that says you are everything. 

It steals the breath from your lungs. 

You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until his hands finally cradle your waist—steady, warm, reverent. 

“Can I—?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. 

But you’re already nodding. Already closing the gap. 

And then he kisses you. 

It starts soft—tentative, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But it only takes a second for instinct to take over. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you in closer, tighter. His mouth moves with yours like he’s learning, adjusting, finding his confidence with every brush of lips, every quiet breath shared between you. 

You feel him exhale through his nose—shaky, relieved—like he’s never been this close to peace before. Then his hands glide up your sides and back down again, broad and warm and possessive. The kiss deepens. The tension that’s been wound tight between you for years finally begins to unravel. 

His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, and you open for him without hesitation. A soft moan breaks from you—and a ragged one answers from him. He kisses you harder, needier. His fingers flex at your hips, anchoring you, dragging you impossibly closer. 

“I used to dream about this,” he breathes against your mouth. “Every night. You. This. Just… you.” 

You whimper—actually whimper—and grind down against him before you can stop yourself, chasing the pressure, his voice, his hands, him. 

He groans—loud and helpless—his grip tightening until you gasp. 

He pulls back, just barely, his lips parted and kiss-bruised. His eyes scan yours like he’s checking for damage, guilt flooding in. 

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, breath hot against your cheek. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“Clark.” You cup his jaw. “Tell me what you want.” 

He stills beneath you, swallowing hard. 

Your voice drops. “The truth. Say it.” 

His breath catches—your thighs tight around him, your chest rising and falling against his. His fingers dig in again. 

“I want…” His voice cracks. “I want you to stay right here. I want to kiss you. I want to feel you—all of you. I want you to keep grinding on me just like—” 

You do—grinding down, slow and precise. 

He groans—chokes on it—his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Gosh.” 

You lean in, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “What else?” 

“I want to touch you,” he breathes, helpless. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want—” 

You press your hips down again. 

“Please,” he whispers. 

“Tell me.” 

He looks at you—eyes blown wide, voice nothing but want. “I want to fuck you.” 

You gasp, your mouth falling open in stunned silence. 

Clark Kent just said a bad word. 

Your brain stalls. It short-circuits. You blink down at him, lips parted, heartbeat pounding somewhere in your throat. In all your years of friendship, you’ve never heard him swear. You’ve barely heard him curse—maybe the odd Jesus Christ or damn it—but a full-on fuck just fell from those perfect, full lips. 

“Did you just say… fuck?” 

His cheeks turn pink—he actually blushes—and he ducks his head with a low groan, hiding his face against your neck like he might disappear into your skin. You feel the grin spreading slowly across your throat before his lips press there—soft and reverent, trailing heat as he speaks again. 

“I—” He lets out a breathless, choked laugh. “I can’t lie right now. It’s not fair.” 

You bite back a grin, drunk on the heat of him. “Are you accusing me of taking advantage of you, Kent?” 

His mouth finds your neck again—slow and sure, like a secret—and he hums against your skin. “You’re absolutely taking advantage.” 

You laugh—quiet and shaky—and curl your fingers into his hair, gently tugging until he looks up at you again. His eyes are blown wide, dark with need, but still soft around the edges—Clark, always Clark. 

And you love him for it. 

You want him for it. 

You need him. 

“Come on, then,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Show me what you’ve been holding back, farm boy.” 

His breath catches. His hands tighten at your hips. 

“You sure?” 

You barely have time to answer before his hands slip lower—and then he’s moving. Effortless. Strong. He rises to his feet with you in his arms like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing at all. 

You yelp, startled, arms flying around his shoulders. “Clark!” 

He grins again—that Clark Kent grin—bright and wide and unfairly charming, even with kiss-swollen lips and pupils so blown you can barely see the blue. “I thought you liked being carried by Superman.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Do not start.” 

His smile only widens as he carries you toward his bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? I think it’s cute that you have a crush.” 

Your mouth drops open in mock outrage. “I told you that was a joke.” 

“Oh, come on.” He’s laughing now—full and warm—and you hate how much you love it. “What was it you said? That he could break your back and you’d say thank you?” 

You slap his shoulder. “I cannot believe you’re bringing that up right now.” 

He just shrugs, eyes sparkling. “You said it. In front of several witnesses.” 

“You’re the worst.” 

“And you,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he nudges the bedroom door open with one foot, “have been in love with me this whole time.” 

You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s still grinning—but it softens the second he lays you down, slow and careful, like you’re something priceless. Then he settles between your legs. 

Your breath catches at the sight of him. On top of you. And then— 

“Favourite colour?” you blurt, just to feel steady again—just to see if he still can’t lie. 

He blinks. “Blue.” 

“First thing you ever noticed about me?” 

“Your laugh.” 

“What’s your biggest fantasy?” 

He groans. “You. In this bed. Right now. Can you—can you not?” 

You smirk. “Ever jerk off thinking about me?” 

He flushes scarlet. “Yes. Obviously.” 

“Say something filthy.” 

He makes a strangled sound, then mutters, “I want to come with your thighs around my head.” 

You blink, stunned—and a little breathless. 

He groans again and buries his face in your neck. “Stop taking advantage of me,” he mumbles against your skin. 

You laugh—helpless, delighted. “I literally can’t. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” 

His mouth finds the curve of your throat again—hot, open-mouthed, worshipful—and his hands tighten where they’re splayed across your hips. The teasing slips, melts away, becomes something quieter. Something serious. 

“I mean it,” he whispers, lifting his head, his gaze burning into yours. “I want you. Not just right now. I want you. Forever.” 

The words hang in the air between you, soft and searing, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him—this man, this impossibly good man—whose weight is pressed heavy and solid between your thighs like he belongs there. 

Because he does. He always has. 

Your fingers slide up his neck, into his hair, pulling him down again until his mouth finds yours—hot and slow, like he means to burn the shape of it into his memory. His body moves with yours, a slow, rolling grind of heat and muscle and want. There’s no rush in it. Just need. 

He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime. Like he’s going to spend the rest of it making up for lost time. 

When he breaks away, it’s only to press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, the hinge of it, then lower—trailing kisses to your throat like he’s tasting every inch, like he’s been starving for it. For you. 

“I used to lie right here and imagine this,” he breathes, voice cracked and close, hot against your skin. “You. Under me. Wanting me.” 

You gasp when his teeth graze your pulse, when he suckles gently at the spot. Then he soothes it with his tongue and lifts his head—eyes dark, full of heat and something more dangerous now. Something utterly undone. 

“I have to get you ready for me,” he says softly, almost apologetic—but his hands are already moving, slow and sure, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Your breath stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter around his hips. 

God, Clark Kent is going to ruin you. 

“Take your time,” you whisper, voice barely there. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

He smiles—something small, crooked, adoring. And then he leans down, kissing you again, deeper this time, while his hands begin to explore. 

He pushes your shirt up inch by inch, his palms dragging over your ribs, your sides—careful and reverent, like he’s learning, memorising, all of it. Like this is something sacred. His breath hitches when he bares your chest—and the lacy, nothing bra you’re wearing—and for a second he just stares, like he just can't believe you’re real. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Gosh, you’re—” 

You pull him back down to kiss you, fingers fisting in his hair, and he moans into your mouth as your hips rock up, seeking friction. His hands bracket your ribs, firm and warm, steadying you—grounding you—and when he pulls back again, it’s just far enough to press his lips to the centre of your chest. 

“I want to make you feel so good,” he says, kissing lower. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want to watch your face when you come.” 

You shudder, eyes fluttering closed. 

“And I want—” He kisses your sternum. “To take my time.” Another kiss, lower. “So slow you beg.” One more, right above the waistband of your underwear. “So deep you scream.” 

You gasp, your whole body arching up into his mouth—and he smiles against your skin, sweet and filthy and so, so in love it makes your head spin. 

One of his hands slides under your thigh, lifting it gently, while the other tugs your shorts—his shorts—and panties down with aching care. He kisses the inside of your knee. Then the top of your thigh. Then a little higher. 

You can barely breathe. 

When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up—blue eyes blown dark but still so brilliantly, impossibly Clark—and the heat in them nearly knocks the wind out of you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. The only thing he’s ever needed. 

“Okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low. 

You nod—frantic. “Yes. God, yes.” 

And then he lowers his mouth to you. 

You cry out, fingers flying to his hair, hips jerking before you can stop yourself. His tongue moves slow at first, like he’s savouring the taste, mapping you out, learning every reaction. You feel his groan vibrate against you—feel the subtle roll of his hips into the mattress, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. 

Holy shit. 

Clark Kent is between your legs. Clark Kent is making you feel like this. You can barely comprehend it. You’d laugh if you weren’t already half-shaking. 

He hums again when you tug at his hair. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he needs you to stay still so he doesn’t lose control. You can feel it now—just beneath the surface—something wild and aching in him, restrained only by the thinnest, fraying thread. 

And when you look down again, his eyes are still on you—bright blue, locked with yours, so full of hunger and wonder and want that you can’t breathe around it. 

“Clark,” you whisper, almost a prayer. 

His eyes flutter shut. He groans into you like the sound of his name on your lips might be his ultimate undoing. 

And then he starts to really eat. 

There’s no other word for it—he devours you. All soft lips and filthy tongue and low, guttural sounds that vibrate straight through you. His hands are everywhere—steadying you, spreading you open, holding you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

You feel like you might pass out. Like your whole body has been waiting years for this—desperate, unsatisfied, quietly starving—and suddenly it’s too much. He’s too much. Too strong, too good, too fucking Clark. 

You’re gasping his name on a loop, tugging at his hair, barely holding on—and then you feel it—the sharp, sudden snap of your bra giving way. 

You startle. “Did you—?” 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against your cunt, voice rough with need. “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

And then he’s back at it, moaning into you like he needs this more than the goddamn sun. Like he might die without it. 

Your head tips back, a choked sound leaving your throat. You’ve pictured this. A thousand times. In a hundred different ways. But your imagination was subpar at best—because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the reality of Clark Kent between your legs. 

Those bright blue eyes flicker up at you—needy, glassy, reverent—and the second your gaze locks, he groans again, fucking into you with his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you. The sight of him like this—desperate and devout—makes you shudder. 

And then he gives you more. 

One of those impossibly large hands curves up over your chest, thumb brushing your nipple, and the other slides between your legs—slow and careful, but sure. His fingers are thick, coaxing, stretching you open with gentle precision, and the pressure of them alongside his tongue makes you keen, hips lifting helplessly into the rhythm he sets. 

“You feel…” he breaks off, voice muffled against you, breath ragged. “You feel so good. You’re so perfect.” 

You can barely think. His mouth is relentless, his fingers maddening, and he’s everywhere—too much and not enough all at once. He groans again, this time deeper, more desperate, like he’s unravelling by the second. 

“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried. “I need you to be ready for me. I—I’m trying to take my time, I swear—” 

He’s losing it. You can feel it in the way his hand tightens on your breast, in the way his hips grind slowly down against the mattress, seeking friction. Superman, falling apart. Big, strong, godlike Clark Kent on his knees for you, coming more and more undone with every breathless moan you make. 

You thread your fingers through his dark curls, tugging, trembling. “Clark—oh, fuck—please—” 

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you. Just let go for me.” 

And with his fingers curling just right, his mouth wet and hot and hungry, you do. 

You come with a gasp and a full-body jolt, your hands in his hair, your thighs clamped around his head—but Clark doesn’t stop. Not even a little. His tongue keeps moving, slow and thick and dizzying, and his fingers never falter. You're writhing under him, trembling, oversensitive—but he’s got you. One hand bruises into your hip, fingers curling, holding you down like you weigh nothing at all, and his other forearm braces across your pelvis, anchoring you to the mattress as your body bucks helplessly against his mouth. 

“Clark—please—” you gasp, too gone to string anything else together. 

He’s whimpering into you now, low and desperate, hips grinding down against the bed like he needs something—anything—to keep from falling apart completely. 

“Gotta get you ready,” he mumbles, voice deep, breath hot against you. “Need you open for me. You taste so good, sweetheart—so good—” 

Another breathless moan spills from your throat. You’re shaking under him, thighs trembling, vision going a little white around the edges—but his mouth is still on you, relentless, adoring, starved. 

You twist a fist in his hair and pull—hard—and he groans at the sting, finally lifting his head. 

“Clark.” Your voice breaks—your whole body is flushed and ruined, but still you want more. “You said you wanted to fuck me.” 

His eyes flicker—wide and dark and frantic. 

“So fuck me.” You tug again, urging his face up toward yours. “I’m begging you. Fuck me.” 

His restraint snaps with a full-body shudder, and suddenly he’s surging up over you, mouth crashing into yours, and it’s wild. Nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and tongue and groaning, desperate need, like he’s been holding this back for as long as he could—and now there’s no going slow. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—barely—but his hands are already moving. You can see them tremble as he pushes his sweats down his hips and kicks them off, like he’s barely holding on to enough control to get undressed. You glance down and instantly gasp. 

“Oh my God.” 

He chokes on a laugh—flustered, flushed scarlet—but it doesn’t slow him down. His chest heaves as he settles between your thighs again, mouth brushing yours with a shaky sort of reverence. 

“You—you okay?” 

“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, dizzy with need. “Please.” 

He fumbles it over his head, tossing it aside in one swift movement—and you’re left blinking up at him, dazed and desperate, with nothing but his bare skin and broad chest and huge arms above you. He’s gorgeous. Flushed and beautiful and too damn much, and he’s yours. 

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, a little breathless. 

“You’re massive.” 

His breath stutters at that, and he grins—but it’s helpless, strained, the kind of grin that says he’s one second from losing all control. “Yeah, I—should’ve warned you.” 

“You kind of did,” you murmur, legs wrapping around his waist. “You said you had to get me ready for you.” 

“I did.” His voice drops to a rasp as the head of his cock drags against your slick. “You feel—gosh, you feel like a dream.” 

You blink. “Gosh?” 

He groans, forehead dropping softly against yours. “Sorry. I’m—” 

“Say it dirtier, Clark.” 

“What?” 

You grin, wild and breathless. “Come on. Tell me something filthy. I know you can do it. Just let go.” 

He hesitates, clearly fighting every instinct in his wholesome Kansas-raised body—but then he curses under his breath and mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna lose my mind. I want to fuck you so deep you forget your own name.” 

Your breath catches. “See?” you whisper. “That’s more like it.” 

“I blacked out a little,” he mutters, still flustered. 

“Say something else,” you breathe. 

He groans again—almost a whine—his whole body practically trembling with restraint. “You’ve tortured me for years. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you fell asleep on my shoulder—I wanted this. You. All of you.” 

And then he’s reaching between you, holding himself against your entrance with shaking fingers. You both gasp when the tip pushes in—just that—and it’s already too much. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, clinging to his shoulders, the stretch impossibly intense even before he’s really in. “You’re not gonna fit.” 

“I—I can stop—” 

“No.” You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare. I want you. I want all of you.” 

He lets out a soft, strangled moan, almost losing it then and there. “I’ll go slow. Just—just breathe.” 

And then he starts to push in. Inch by slow, burning inch. His hands firm where they cradle your hips, his breath ragged against your cheek as your body tries to take him—tries to stretch around something impossibly thick, impossibly deep, impossibly Clark. Because of course this gorgeous, sweet nerd has an enormous cock. 

You keen, nails digging into his back. “Jesus Christ—” 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice cracking. “Tell me to stop and I will. Just—ugh, you feel so good. So perfect. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You’re not,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “You’re ruining me, but you’re not hurting me.” 

He lets out a shuddering groan and kisses you—soft and aching and full of so much love you could cry. “I don’t want to ruin you.” 

“Too late.” 

You both laugh—helpless, breathless—and then he slides in just that little bit deeper, and the sound turns to a moan. You’re gasping, trembling, stuffed full, but you don’t want him to stop. Not for anything. 

He kisses you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your throat—whispering apologies between every shuddering breath. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to worship it, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of your skin, your warmth, your everything. One hand splays across your ribs, thumb brushing the curve of your breast, the other grips your thigh, gently coaxing you open as he sinks deeper. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, wrecked. “You feel so good, I can’t—I’m trying—gosh, I’m trying—” 

You can tell. Every inch he gives you is slow, reverent, but barely leashed—like his self-control is hanging by a thread and the only thing keeping it intact is you, trembling beneath him, arms locked around his neck, whispering please into the shell of his ear. 

His nose nuzzles your cheek, your temple, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me if I hurt you.” 

“You’re not,” you gasp, even as you clench around him, every muscle taut and trembling. “You’re perfect. Just—just keep going.” 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, a soft groan rising from his chest as he finally presses all the way in. 

Your body tries to adjust around him, stretched and aching and overwhelmed, but all you can feel is him. Every solid inch. Every trembling breath. Every whisper of your name like a prayer. And then—he stills. 

Buried to the hilt. Inside you. 

Clark Kent, inside you. 

You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. Feel him shaking, still trying not to move. 

And then, in the quiet between two shared, ragged breaths, you realise—he’s crying. 

Just a little. Just barely. But it’s there, glittering at the corners of his impossibly blue eyes as he looks down at you like you’re something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch. 

“I love you,” he breathes. “I’ve always loved you.” 

Your heart cracks open at the sight of him—this incredibly strong, impossibly good man trembling above you, full to bursting with love. You reach up, fingers brushing the corner of his eye, wiping the tear before it can fall. 

“Clark,” you whisper, your own vision blurring. “I love you too.” 

His breath hitches again, and for a second it feels like the whole world stills—just the two of you, wrapped in each other, like everything is finally aligned. 

You cradle his face in your hands and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Then another. Then you press your forehead against his and whisper, “Now fuck me like you promised, Kent.” 

His eyes flutter closed, and a groan tears from his chest. 

“I can take it,” you murmur, arching into him, your body already pulsing around the impossible stretch of him. “You’re not going to hurt me, so stop holding back.” 

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, gaze wild and reverent all at once. “You—you’re sure?” 

You nod, fingers threading through his hair, grinning now. “Fuck me.” 

And just like that, whatever thread of control he was clinging to snaps. 

He moves—finally, fully—and the sound he makes is feral, low and broken in the back of his throat. His hips snap forward once, then again, rough and barely restrained, and your whole body jolts beneath the force of it. He’s huge, maddeningly deep, the stretch still toeing the edge of unbearable—but you don’t want him to stop. You want more. 

You rake your nails down his back, gasping as he fucks you with slow, jolting thrusts, like each one is him trying not to break—but the way his breath catches says he’s not going to last much longer. He’s flushed and wrecked and shaking, sweat collecting at his temples, strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead. 

And he’s so fucking pretty. 

That face—those big, blue eyes gone half-lidded and dazed, those kiss-bruised lips parted with every gasping moan he tries to bury in your neck. The muscles of his back flex beneath your hands, corded with tension. His shoulders shake. His grip bruises—literally—where he holds you. 

He’s trying. Trying so hard to be careful. 

But you don’t want careful. 

“Clark,” you gasp—and his head lifts instantly, eyes locking with yours like he needs you to ground him, to steady him, to keep him from flying apart. 

Your hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly over sweat-slicked muscle, and the sound he makes is barely human. The stretch still burns—you’re trembling, gasping—but you love it. You love him. You dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, pull him deeper. But it’s still not enough. 

You lean up, mouth brushing his ear. 

“Stop being careful,” you whisper. “Stop pretending you haven’t been dying to fuck me since the day we met.” 

That’s all it takes. 

He shudders—like the breath has been ripped from his lungs—and then he really snaps. Gone. Whatever shred of control he had left disintegrates, and he drives into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and can’t any longer. 

“Sweetheart—” he chokes, forehead falling to yours as his hips pound into you, rough now, relentless. “You have no idea. I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long I thought I might lose my mind.” 

His voice is thick, shaking. And his hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks like he still can’t believe this is real. 

And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go. 

He’s everywhere. Surrounding you, filling you, pressing you so deep into the mattress you don’t know where you end and he begins. 

His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, all tongue and teeth and need—but there’s nothing rushed about the way he kisses you. Even now, even like this, he still tastes you like you’re precious. Like you’re some kind of miracle. 

And he won’t stop touching you. His hands roam your body like they’re mapping it, like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes to commit every inch to memory. One cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your whole body arches into him. The other drifts down your side, over your thigh, then back up again, everywhere at once, like he can’t bear not to be touching you. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked—soaked in worship and disbelief. “You always have been.” 

He thrusts deep, a little slower, and your breath catches. His name tumbles from your lips again, desperate. 

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he confesses, hips rocking into you with aching precision. “But nothing… nothing ever came close to this. You—” he groans, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat “—you feel like heaven.” 

You cling to him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around his hips. “Clark,” you breathe. “You’re gonna make me—” 

“I know,” he whispers, kissing the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. “Me too. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” 

And then he changes the angle—just barely, just enough—and you both feel it. You cry out, clutching at him as your whole body starts to shake. His rhythm falters for a second, stutters with the force of how much he’s holding back. 

“I—I’m not gonna last,” he pants, burying his face in your neck. “You feel too good. You feel too good.” 

“Don’t,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Don’t hold back.” 

He lifts his head to look at you—his face so full of love it hurts—and then he kisses you like he’s saying goodbye to every year he had to pretend that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you. 

And then he starts to move again—harder, rougher, deeper—and the heat builds sharp and fast, curling low in your belly as the whole world narrows to him. His body. His mouth. His voice rasping your name like it’s a holy thing. 

You’re close. So is he. And you can both feel it. 

But then he shifts—sits up on his knees, never slipping out of you—and the new angle punches a gasp from your throat, your back arching hard against the mattress. 

“Clark—” 

His hands find your waist, and his breath catches. For a second, he just stares—like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. Then one of his palms flattens against your lower belly, fingers trembling. 

He can see himself—a thick, impossible bulge stretching you from the inside out. 

“F—fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, voice wrecked, “I—I didn’t think…” He trails off, too far gone to finish. Too undone by the sight of what he’s doing to you. 

The thrusts are deeper now, angled just right, and every drag of him against your walls you makes your vision go white. You’re a mess beneath him—head thrown back, hands tangled in your hair, then palming at your own breasts, too overwhelmed to know what to do with yourself. 

And he’s watching all of it. 

“You’re gonna break me,” you gasp, almost sobbing on a moan. “You’re gonna—Clark, I can’t—” 

“Yes, you can,” he pants, dragging his thumb over your nipple, thrusting harder, faster, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect—look at you—look at you.” 

Your body starts to lock up, the orgasm barrelling toward you like it’s being pulled from your soul. You try to fight it—try to hold on for him—but he hits that perfect spot again and it breaks you. 

You shatter around him with a scream, legs shaking, fingers digging into your thighs to ground yourself, and he feels it. Feels the way your body clamps around him, fluttering and pulsing, and it sends him reeling. 

His thrusts lose rhythm. His hands clamp down hard—one gripping your hip, the other braced behind him—and he’s trying to hold back, trying so hard. 

You force your eyes open just in time to see it happen. 

His mouth falls open. A breathless moan rips from his chest. And his eyes—his bright blue eyes flare molten red for a half-second before he squeezes them shut and throws his head back, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he keeps looking at you. 

A raw, animal sound tears out of him as he comes—deep inside you, again and again, his whole body shaking with it. 

He’s trying not to break the bed. Trying not to break you. 

And the heat of it—him, all of him—it feels endless. 

Then finally, he stills. 

You don’t know how long the silence lasts. 

Long enough for your pulse to slow, your body to stop trembling, for your senses to crawl their way back into place—though you still feel wrecked, in the best possible way. 

Clark leans over you, his body a trembling wall of heat. His arms are braced on either side of your head, eyes still squeezed shut, and his jaw is slack, like he’s still riding the aftershocks. 

Then he exhales a shaky breath, nuzzles into your cheek, and whispers, “Are you okay?” 

You hum, blinking up at him. “I think I saw God.” 

That makes him laugh—soft, breathless, a little stunned. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “I was trying really hard not to… you know. Lose control. Burn a hole through the ceiling.” 

You smile, boneless and glowing beneath him. “I think you did great.” 

He kisses you again, then slowly, carefully, pulls out—and you both gasp. The stretch, the ache, the sudden emptiness—it makes your hips jolt, your fingers curl, and Clark wince in concern. 

“Sorry—sorry—” he breathes, already reaching to cradle your waist, pulling you gently into his arms. He shifts you both onto your sides, wrapping around you protectively, like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world. 

You melt into him, sighing as your limbs tangle together, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand stroking lazy circles over your belly. 

After a minute, he presses a soft kiss behind your ear. “I think the gas has worn off,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I mean—” he trails off, then grins against your skin. “I still want to say filthy things, but I'm not being compelled to.” 

You giggle, turning in his arms to face him. His cheeks are flushed pink, his hair a mess, his blue eyes so soft you could cry. Again. 

“You’d say them anyway?” you tease. 

He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “If you asked nicely.” 

You pretend to consider it. “What if I get on my knees and beg?” 

A groan vibrates in his chest. “You're a dangerous woman,” he murmurs. “I’m in so much trouble.” 

You lean in and kiss him—slow and lingering, tasting the smile he can’t seem to get rid of. And then you whisper against his mouth, “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.” 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wide, like he still can't believe what you’re saying. 

He cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and whispers, “Good. Because I’ve been in love with you for years.” 

You blink up at him, smiling. “Years?” 

“I told you,” he breathes. “You’ve been torturing me.” 

You kiss him again, a little giddy now, your whole body aching and your heart so full it might burst. 

And then, nestled against him, sleep starts to pull at you, but you fight it long enough to mumble, “Clark?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you think it’s too late for pancakes?” 

He chuckles softly, tugging you closer. “You really are perfect.” 

- 

You spend the entire weekend at Clark’s apartment. Mostly in his bed—sometimes on the couch, or the kitchen counter, or in the shower. And once in the hallway, because you simply couldn’t make it any further without having him inside you. 

By Sunday night, you finally tear yourself away—because you know you can’t show up to work Monday morning wearing a pair of his old boxers and a threadbare Metropolis U shirt. 

You make it exactly twelve minutes at home, by yourself, before you’re packing a bag and heading right back to his place—relieved to find he’s just as desperate to have you back in his arms. 

On Monday morning, you both wake up with every intention of being on time for work—but it doesn’t quite happen. Because when Clark steps out of the shower, fresh and steamy and completely naked, you can’t help yourself. And you’re starting to realise that he has a very hard time resisting you too. 

So, after yet another mind-blowing, back-breaking orgasm, you both finally force yourselves to get dressed and head into the office. 

“They’re going to know,” Clark mutters as the elevator doors slide shut. 

There’s only one other person inside—an intern whose name you’ve forgotten. 

You glance up at him. “How will they know?” 

His lips twitch. “Well, for one, you’re limping.” 

You bite your cheek to keep from grinning. “I can’t help that. Blame your Kryptonian physiology.” 

“Now you’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Your heart’s racing. Your pupils are blown.” His eyes flicker down. “Your hands are trembling, and you’re—oh.” 

His breath hitches slightly. You’re not sure if he can see it, feel it, maybe even smell it—but he knows. He knows exactly what you’re feeling right now. And if this poor intern weren’t in here, you’d probably both be halfway to naked already. 

Your eyes lock—those ridiculous glasses framing that stupidly gorgeous face, blue eyes dark with want—and the moment stretches taut between you. You’re staring so hard, so heavy, that the soft ding of the elevator startles you. 

Clark chuckles, stepping aside to let you exit first. 

You try not to limp through the newsroom—but it’s hard. Your thighs are shaking. Everything aches. And you can feel every single bruise his mouth and hands seared into your skin. 

“Well, well, well,” Jimmy says, scooting back from his desk with that stupidly wide grin. “Look who finally decided to show up—together.” 

You roll your eyes. “We live in the same neighbourhood.” 

Jimmy snorts. “Right. And I’m Superman.” 

Clark coughs into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. You shoot him a warning glance. 

“I’m serious,” you add, dropping your bag beside your desk. “Same subway line. Total coincidence.” 

“Mmhmm.” Jimmy swivels to follow your path, eyes tracking you like a hawk. “And the coincidence wore off on both your faces.” 

You frown. “What does that even mean?” 

You wince as your ass hits the chair—too fast, too sore. You try to cover it with a cough, but it’s too late. Clark is biting back a smile, and Jimmy’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline. 

“You’re blushing,” he says. “Kent is glowing. And unless my hearing’s gone, you just whimpered when you sat down.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Please tell me I don’t have to pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

“You didn’t hear anything,” you mutter, shifting awkwardly in your seat. 

He’s about to respond when he pauses—squinting at something. His grin widens, eyes locking on to something near the collar of your shirt. 

“Oh my God. Is—is that a hickey?” 

You slap a hand over your neck. “No.” 

Clark chokes on nothing. 

“It is!” Jimmy exclaims, jumping up from his chair to get a better look. 

“No,” you say again, firmer. “It isn’t. It—it’s a burn. I burnt myself.” 

Cat pops up from her desk, squinting. “Looks like a hickey to me.” 

Lois spins around in her chair, smirking, arms crossed. “You burnt your neck?” 

“It happens,” you mutter, fumbling for your phone to check the damage. 

Clark gives you a helpless look over the top of his glasses, mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, cheeks red. And if he didn’t look so goddamn cute, you’d probably hurl a pen at him for leaving a mark so high. 

“You’re seriously denying this?” Jimmy asks. 

“I’m not denying anything,” you say. “I don’t have to deny it, because it isn’t anything. It’s just a bruise.” 

Lois tilts her head. “You mean burn?” 

“Yes—burn,” you say quickly. “Whatever. It’s still nothing. Now can we please—” 

“Kent!” Perry’s voice booms across the bullpen. “My office. Two minutes. Bring your notepad.” 

Clark nods once and scrambles to grab a pen and paper. Jimmy sighs—giving up for now—and collapses back into his chair. Cat drops down at her desk. Lois flicks her gaze from you to Clark, then slowly spins back around. 

You sink lower into your chair as your monitor wakes up. You can see Clark collecting his things, tucking in his chair. He starts toward Perry’s office—then stops beside right your desk, and leans in. 

You glance up just in time to catch the soft smile on his pretty mouth, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Then he reaches out—one hand gently cupping the back of your head—and presses a kiss to the top of your forehead. 

It’s so sweet, so simple, it makes your chest ache. You almost—almost—forget where you are. 

Until— 

“I knew it!” Jimmy shouts. 

Cat’s head pops up again. Lois spins around. Even Steve cranes his neck from across the bullpen. 

“I was right,” Jimmy goes on triumphantly. “You two finally boned!” 

“Olsen!” Perry shouts. “Watch your language.” 

“Sorry, Chief,” Jimmy says—though still grinning like the smug little shit he is. 

Your face burns as the bullpen erupts around you—laughter, gasps, even a slow clap from Steve. You sink deeper into your chair, wishing it would swallow you whole. And Clark—that traitor—just gives a soft chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he walks off toward Perry’s office, not even trying to hide the smug little smirk on his face. 

You glare daggers into his back. He doesn’t turn around, but you swear he knows—you can feel it in the satisfied roll of his stride. 

“I knew it,” Jimmy says again, practically vibrating with glee. “I called this weeks ago. Honestly, I feel vindicated.” 

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Jimmy, please.” 

“I’m just saying!” he says, unrepentant. “You two have been doing the will-they-won’t-they tango since the Reagan administration. It was painful.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “You're being dramatic.” 

“You weren’t even alive during the Reagan administration,” Lois states dryly. 

“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “It’s been that long.” 

You drop your hands, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re impossible.” 

He shrugs. “It’s a gift. Besides, I had a bet going with Cat, and this definitely means I win.” 

“You didn’t win,” Cat calls. “You bet that we’d catch them making out in the office, and that was a forehead kiss.” 

You groan again. “You’re the worst.” 

“And yet,” Jimmy leans forward, cocking a brow, “I’m still your favourite.” 

You open your mouth to argue—but hesitate. 

His grin softens. “Seriously, though? I'm happy for you. Both of you.” 

You blink. 

“Clark’s a good guy, and you…” He nods at you meaningfully. “You deserve someone who looks at you like he does.” 

Your throat goes tight, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You swallow. 

“Thanks, Jimmy.” 

He gives you a mock salute, then leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Superman’s gonna be crushed, though. His favourite civilian, officially off the market.” 

You snort. “I think he’ll survive.” 

“Will he?” Jimmy muses, hands clasped behind his head, feet up on the desk. “I don’t know. He always seemed very invested in your wellbeing.” 

You shake your head, cheeks still pink as you turn back to your monitor, heart thudding a little too fast in your chest. 

Across the bullpen, just before Perry’s office door swings shut, Clark glances back at you. 

And smiles. 

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[eyesofiridescence]

just my type

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: when you realise your crush on your roommate is getting out of hand, you decide it’s time to start dating again. but nobody on any dating app comes close to being as perfect for you as clark kent is. tags: roommates to lovers, mutual pining, dating can be rough but at least you have a clark kent at home warning(s): men suck sometimes (not clark), reader described as being shorter than clark, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader, slightly suggestive content (no smut) word count: 10k note: this gif is so roommate!clark waiting up for you to get back from your date to make sure you’re safe coded. also, i’m trying a different tone for this fic, more rom-com and less poetic. i hope you enjoy it!

masterlist

The moment you caught yourself smiling at the mere mention of Clark’s name, you knew it was time to start dating again. 

Not him, obviously. That would be complicated. 

Complicated, as in you’d have to sit in front of your future therapist and explain how you ended up living in a run-down apartment with roommates you found on Craigslist after being kicked out by your former roommate, who once handed you a fork and you mistook it for a declaration of love.

You’d been living with Clark for over a year now, and somewhere along the line, you stopped noticing exactly when the shift happened. 

At first, he was just your new subletter, the one who carried a couch up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. Clark was the guy who treated organising the fridge shelves like an Olympic event, who insisted on splitting the electric bill down to the cent, who made terrible coffee but somehow made the perfect cup of tea for you before you woke up.

And then one day, Clark was the guy you were laughing with on the couch until midnight, even though you had both sworn you needed an early night. He was the one pressing a warm mug into your hands when you came home shivering, the one humming under his breath when he worked at the kitchen table, the one who somehow managed to make your apartment feel like a place you wanted to be. 

You had fallen for him so quietly it was almost impressive.

Clark was currently in the kitchen committing what could only be described as breakfast-related food crimes. The pancakes on the skillet were a strange shade of brown that no cookbook would approve of. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

“So,” Clark said, flipping one pancake with a spatula so large it could double as a snow shovel. He caught your raised eyebrow and grinned. “Today’s special is Experimental Pancake Surprise, now with thirty percent fewer fire hazards.” He angled the spatula toward his mouth like a microphone. “Order up, folks.”

Having just gotten home from work, you leaned against the kitchen counter, unbuttoning your coat and laughing. 

The coat was a soft wool blend in a colour you never would have picked for yourself, but you loved it. Clark had given it to you for your birthday, claiming it was “just practical,” but it was the kind of thoughtful gift that meant he had noticed how often you forgot a scarf in winter. You wore it constantly. 

Clark turned back to the stove, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter as one of the pancakes slid into the pan at a dangerous angle. You stepped in automatically, holding the plate steady. Your fingers brushed his, just for a second. 

It was nothing, except that you could feel the warmth of his skin even after you pulled your hand away.

And then, in a tone so casual you almost missed it, Clark said, “We should do breakfast for dinner more often. There’s something kind of intimate about it.”

Your laugh came out too quickly, too loud. “Right. Romantic smoke alarms.”

Clark grinned, but his eyes flicked to yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual, and it was enough to send your heartbeat stumbling. 

Which was why you needed to meet someone else. Literally anyone else.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of Clark’s coffee.

When you walked into the kitchen, he was humming some old song you half-recognised. His hair was still mussed from sleep, the curl over his forehead rebelliously out of place. 

Steam curled into the air as he set your tea on the counter in your usual spot. He knew exactly how you liked it, right down to the splash of your preferred milk.

Living with Clark for over a year had made your routines fold together without you noticing.

You reached for plates while he moved aside without looking, a sidestep you both knew by muscle memory. You slid past him to get to the toaster, and he leaned back just enough to let you through. When you reached for a high shelf, Clark hovered nearby, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Need a hand?” he offered. And before you could answer, he scooped you up by the waist and shifted you over so he could grab what you needed. “I’m stronger than I look, remember?” 

You felt your stomach flip, but of course, you didn’t tell him that. “You’re hogging the counter again,” you teased, opening the fridge and grabbing the butter.

Clark tilted his head and tried not to smile. “That’s a really odd way to thank someone for using their superior height to come to your aid,” he replied.

You laughed, closing the fridge and hip-checking Clark as you popped bread in the toaster.

You hadn’t planned to live with him this long. 

A friend of a friend was looking for someone to rent a room from, you needed to escape your previous roommate’s very vocal bedroom situation, and you thought, why not?

When you first met him, he’d been towering, slightly awkward with an oversized sweater and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hair untamed in a way that suggested a small tornado had conspired against him. Yet beneath that imposing frame was a sweetness you didn’t know how to measure—you wanted to stare in surprise and hug him all at once.

By the second week, you’d caught yourself smiling like an idiot when you heard him unlocking the door, and by the second month, you knew you were in trouble.

And then there was the night that erased any possibility of pretending Clark was just some guy living in your apartment. 

You had been curled on the sofa with a blanket, halfway through an episode of your comfort show, when one of the floor-to-celing windows in your living room slid open, and Superman flew in like he owned the place. 

He was still in the suit, scratches marring the iconic fabric, a faint burn on his sleeve. His hair was dishevelled, eyes dark-rimmed, tired in that way you’d only seen on people after really hard days. 

You’d just sat there, frozen mid-bite of your ice cream, and said, “Well, that explains why you can carry five grocery bags in each hand despite never going to the gym.” 

Clark had laughed tiredly, and that was that. 

From then on, you were the only one who got to see him without the glasses. Seeing him without the disguise made mornings like this worse. Or better, depending on how much you enjoyed torturing yourself. 

Clark was already dressed, though he just wore socks instead of shoes, and a neatly folded pile of your laundry sat on the sofa. He must have decided to do a load for you while you slept. 

You told yourself it was just a roommate thing, no different than you buying his favourite biscuits when you went grocery shopping. Still, your stomach swarmed with traitorous little butterflies. Seeing your sweater on top of the pile, folded with the care you couldn’t quite summon for yourself, made your pulse quicken.

No matter what plans you had for the weekend, you and Clark always sat down to have breakfast together. It was one of the things you cherished most about living with him, especially on weeks when work kept you both so busy you hardly saw each other at home.

Clark grinned as he buttered his toast. “You’re quiet this morning. That’s suspicious.”

“I’m not quiet,” you denied, though you were. 

You watched the way the morning light caught in his black hair, the cornflower blue of his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. All the parts of him that no one else got to see up close—the raw, unmasked Clark. 

Despite you willing it not to, your heart thudded harder. It was getting a little ridiculous how your body responded to him. You could feel your stomach tighten in that familiar, dangerous way that it only ever did for Clark.

You needed to do something about your crush before it became a real problem.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, you pressed your hand against the counter and leaned forward. Saying it out loud made it real, but you couldn’t let your brain spin the daydreams into something else any longer.

So you said it. “I’ve got a date tonight,” you announced, making your voice as casual as you could manage.

There was a pause—long enough for you to catch a flicker of something odd in Clark’s expression—before it was replaced by a broad, genuine smile. “Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”

You shook your head, trying to sound like your heart wasn’t about to leap out of your chest. “Just someone from an app. First time I’ve opened it since you moved in.” 

Why did you have to say that? your brain scolded. Too much information. Too revealing. Too close to the truth: that you hadn’t wanted to date because meeting Clark felt terrifyingly close to meeting the elusive “one” everyone always raved about.

Clark raised his brows. “Guess I’ve been keeping you too busy for romance.”

“Or maybe I’ve just been too traumatised by your cooking experiments,” you countered, the ease of your usual banter beginning to settle the knots in your chest.

He laughed, and it was warm enough to make you forget your own name for a moment. “Fair enough,” Clark conceded. “Do I get to vet this guy? Make sure he’s not a criminal?”

You pretended to think it over and took a sip of your tea. Perfect, as expected. “You can interrogate him if we ever get to a third date,” you allowed. “I think calling in Superman for a first date might be a little over the top.”

Clark leaned back into his chair, pretending to consider it. “I’ll settle for a background check, just to be safe.”

“You’re absurd,” you said, sugared with affection.

“Protective,” he corrected, grinning. Perfect dimples surfaced,  and you felt your knees betray you and were glad to be sitting down. “There’s a difference.”

You rolled your eyes and pretended the heat in your face was from your tea. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The truth was, you’d never met anyone who made you feel safer than Clark. He picked you up and walked you home from late shifts even if he was busy, regularly checked in and called if plans changed, and checked the locks before bed without a word. 

But that was just Clark. That was just what he did for people he cared about. It didn’t mean anything beyond friendship and good manners; you were sure of it.

As you finished breakfast, tucking into your slice of toast, a quiet part of you wished Clark had told you not to go on your date. 

Not as a test—just a whisper of hope that he might feel the same. But he didn’t. Clark would probably never say the words you were counting on, and yet, you kept wishing he would anyway.

You shoved your hands deep into your pockets and tried not to think about the night you’d just suffered through. 

Your date was half an hour late, without a hint of apology, and a smile that said, I am the way I am, deal with it. The man had talked about himself so much that you started drafting a mental bingo card: cryptocurrency, fantasy football, anecdotes about his LinkedIn connections. 

None of these things were inherently bad. It had more to do with the way he was forcing his every opinion on you without asking you a single thing about yourself.

You weren’t sure whether to roll your eyes, cry, or invest in his bitcoin predictions just to make him stop talking.

And then came the cherry on top: he apparently forgot his wallet. He’d said it like it was a charming quirk rather than a ploy to make you pay. You never minded splitting the bill on dates, but going on a date without a way to pay for your meal was just obnoxious.

At that point in the evening, you didn’t care about money or pride. You were just relieved to escape that smug asshole, so you paid with a sweet smile on your face. 

All you wanted was to go home, yet your date’s blissful ignorance led him to think he was going with you. You had rejected him quickly and firmly, then walked away before he could protest. 

And now here you were, trudging home with your gut winding tight, replaying the evening like a tragic film you couldn’t switch off. 

As always, the constant pang of absurd, inevitable comparison wormed its way in. 

How was it even fair that the man you lived with—who made cereal for you when you were late for work, who never failed to ask about your day, who laughed at your terrible jokes and somehow made you feel like the most loved person in the world—even existed? 

It wasn’t just that you loved Clark; it was that he had created an entirely impossible blueprint for every man in the world. The dating apps were cruel by comparison. Here you were, brave enough to put yourself out there after a year of domestic bliss, and this terrible date was your welcome-back gift.

Every time you thought of your night, you couldn’t help but tally up all the ways Clark was unavoidably singular in comparison. He held doors open, carried groceries for strangers, made the corniest jokes, and asked questions that actually mattered. 

Meanwhile, you were stuck with a date who was rude, self-absorbed, and apparently allergic to basic human decency.

The absurdity of it all made your lips twitch with a wry, helpless smile. You shook your head, muttering to yourself about how Clark had ruined your expectations for men. Even as you tried not to, you couldn’t stop imagining how different tonight could have been if he had been there instead. 

You were halfway to your apartment, trying not to think about every awful word your date said, when a sudden gust of wind tousled your hair. 

You looked up, and there was Superman, red cape fluttering in the evening wind. The streetlamp caught his slicked back hair in an almost absurdly heroic halo of gold. He landed lightly on the pavement beside you, offering a concerned tilt of his head.

“Evening, Miss,” he said, voice carrying that familiar warm lilt, with just the right amount of self-important gravity. “Rough night?”

You blinked. “That’s putting it lightly. How’d you know I’d be here?”

Clark shrugged as though locating you on your walk home was the same as spotting a pedestrian in distress. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Right. Rescuing from what, exactly?”

“From the crushing weight of life’s terrible dating choices,” Clark said solemnly, placing a hand over the emblem on his chest. “I’ve saved many damsels from worse, but none so tragically exposed to cryptocurrency lectures and fantasy football politics.”

You snorted, impressed that he’d had the time to read the text you’d sent him in between Superman business. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” You pretended to swoon, “I thought I was doomed to a lifetime of mediocre men! And here comes Superman.” You giggled, the fun of pretending not to know Clark lifting your spirits. “How ever can I repay you, Superman?”

Clark shook his head theatrically. “I accept gratitude in all forms, though smiles are encouraged.” His gaze softened just a touch, and you caught the tiny slump of his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. Something in him lingered on the sadness of your evening, even while you were joking.

You laughed, pretending to clutch a non-existent pearl necklace. “Well, that’s a first for me: being saved from a terrible date by a guy who can literally fly. Most men just talk endlessly and forget their wallets.”

Clark took a step closer, voice still carrying that playful, heroic cadence. “Unfortunately, those men seem to congregate on dating apps. It’s all very sinister, I’d stay away,” he advised. “There are good men out there just waiting to show you how great you are. I’m sure you’ll find one.”

You smiled at that. “You’re the only guy who seems to be doing that tonight. You’re really setting an impossible standard, Superman,” you teased. 

Clark grinned, shrugging in mock modesty. “Well, it’s impossible to notice someone that beautiful and not look for their smile.”

The two of you walked the rest of the way home side by side, keeping up the act of strangers meeting for the first time. You told him about your terrible date in exaggerated tones, and Clark offered mock outrage and gallant sighs. Together, you constructed a little bubble in which Superman had swooped in just in time to prevent your night from being ruined.

Beneath the jokes, though, Clark listened. You could feel it, his concern, his wish that tonight had been different, that you didn’t have to go through this at all.

By the time you reached your building, you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, breath uneven and cheeks sore. 

“Thank you, Superman,” you said with mock solemnity as you fumbled with your keys. “For saving my night—and making me smile.”

He gave a half-bow, arms folded across his chest, cape stirring in the breeze. “Anytime. I live to serve. Especially against terrible first dates.”

You slipped inside, letting the door swing shut on him, your laughter still caught in your throat.

A minute later, the living room window slid open. Superman slipped through silently, and by the time he straightened, the superhero stiffness was gone. Just Clark stood there, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. He had his habitual, slightly crooked smile—the kind that always made your chest flutter.

“Hey,” he said, voice finally stripped of all heroic gravitas. “I got your text. How was your date?”

And just like that, you doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. The silliness of it all was the perfect balm to help you get over your terrible date, and you finally felt like yourself again.

Clark just watched, amusement twinkling in his eyes, a hand brushing back a strand of dark hair from his forehead. 

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous. I can’t even—” Another peal of laughter cut you off, and Clark chuckled softly, letting you get it all out.

“You know I’d do anything to make you laugh,” he reminded you fondly. Clark wiped at the tears streaming down your cheeks as you looked up at him, still giggling.

“Well, congratulations. You officially get credit for walking me home, cheering me up after a terrible date, and somehow making my evening not completely miserable,” you said. “Should I get you a thank-you card, or…?”

Clark pursed his lips, mock-thoughtful. “I accept gifts, but only if they come with chocolate. And maybe a promise not to date terrible men while I’m on duty.”

Your heart stuttered, but you forced a casual shrug and smirked instead. “A promise? You’re asking a lot from a person just trying to survive dating apps.”

He stepped a tad closer, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, warmer, brighter. “Well,” Clark said softly, gaze locked on yours, “I think you deserve better.”

Your breath caught. Not quite panic, just that strange, fluttering, stomach-tied-in-knots feeling you always got around Clark. 

You both laughed, nervously, awkwardly, but neither of you moved away. The teasing had softened, and in the quiet pause, the almost-touch of his hand brushing past yours sent a spark up your arm. It couldn’t even be considered contact, but it was enough to make your brain scream Why are you like this?!

“Alright, I promise,” you whispered, shaking your head with a grin. “Whatever you say, Superman.”

“Good,” Clark said, voice low. He smirked, casual and utterly himself again. “Bet you wish I’d done that background check, huh?”

Pushing the cart down the aisle, you tried not to laugh at the nonsensicality of it all. Grocery shopping with Clark was, somehow, exactly like living with a Grandpa who could also bench-press a car.

“Pasta sauce,” you said, holding up a jar with a flourish. “Red or—”

Clark, squinting through his glasses, reached for another jar across the shelf. “Oh, but this one has less sugar.”

“‘Less sugar,’” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “It’s pasta sauce, Clark. It’s tomato paste and sadness in a jar. We survive on red sauce, not heart-healthy spreadsheet analysis.”

He blinked, genuinely considering your words, and then picked up the jar you wanted. “Okay, fine. But only if you promise to eat something green tonight. Even a leaf would do.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “A leaf? I’m not going to force myself to eat vegetables, I’m an adult.”

Clark grinned, clearly pleased with your quip, and nudged your shared cart gently with his elbow to line it up with the shelf. The movement was so slight, so perfectly timed, that you didn’t even have to adjust your step.

Then disaster struck. 

Clark, ever heroic, tried to reach for a high shelf of cereal. The stack wobbled dangerously. “Whoa—” he muttered, a hand shooting out. One box tumbled to the floor. He let out an embarrassed laugh as several other boxes followed, domino-style. Crouching to gather them, he mumbled, “I swear I didn’t mean to start an avalanche.”

You joined him, picking up a stray box. “You really are capable of saving the world and destroying breakfast in the same motion,” you mused.

Clark grinned sheepishly. “It’s a gift.” Then he stood and started pushing the cart down towards the produce section.

By the time you reached the fruit aisle, he was carefully inspecting apples like a scientist studying a rare specimen. “These look good,” Clark said, holding one up at eye level. “Not too bruised, not too shiny.”

You leaned closer, suppressing a laugh. “You realise these are for eating, right? Not models for an oil painting.”

Clark chuckled softly, putting the apple back and nudging the cart just enough to give you space. “I know. But it’s fun to pretend everything is important when I’m with you.”

You shook your head, an affectionate grin tugging at your lips. “That’s a cute line.”

Clark looked up at you, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, and gave you that crooked, half-smile that made your stomach lurch for reasons you absolutely did not want to unpack in a public grocery store.

You turned the corner of the aisle, cart squeaking slightly on the floor, when another shopper’s cart came barreling toward you from the left. It bumped yours hard enough to send you stumbling sideways.

Instinctively, Clark’s hands shot out—one catching the edge of your cart, the other sliding around your waist to steady you. You collided gently with him, chest to chest, and froze, breath hitching.

The other shopper muttered a quick, embarrassed apology and shuffled past, completely oblivious to the tension they’d created.

“Golly,” Clark murmured, voice low and tight. His blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, fixed on you, and just a fraction too aware of how close you were.

You bit back a laugh that threatened to escape. “Golly?” you repeated, the word tumbling out with a twinge of disbelief. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Clark’s lips twitched. “Well, it’s a very versatile word,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the faint hitch in his voice betrayed him. He kept his hands lightly at your waist, just enough to steady you and not enough to let go entirely.

You shook your head, laughter spilling out. “You’re funny, Kansas,” you said, pressing closer against the cart instead of moving away. “I think the danger’s past.” When you tilted up to whisper in his ear, you didn’t see the way Clark’s throat tightened as he swallowed. “You can let go now, Superman.”

He leapt back like he’d been burned and blushed. “Right, sorry, I just—” Clark cleared his throat and motioned for you to push the cart toward the register. “Golly,” he whispered softly, just to himself.

By the time you reached the checkout, your cart was overflowing with the evidence of a week’s worth of groceries: bright bell peppers, an embarrassing number of snack items, and a suspiciously large tub of your favourite ice cream you hadn’t put in the cart.

The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a sunny disposition, greeted you both like old friends. “Well, look at you!” she said, scanning items with practised speed. Then, she motioned to Clark as she addressed you, “Shouldn’t your husband be paying for all this, gorgeous?”

You paused mid-step, hand hovering over the wallet in your open bag. “Uh—”

Clark let out a deep, hearty laugh that made heat spread across your cheeks. “You’re absolutely right,” he declared, reaching for his wallet and swiping his card with exaggerated flourish.

You blinked, still stunned, and muttered, “Clark—really—”

He ignored your protest, leaning on the counter as he bagged the groceries. 

The details of his appearance made your brain short-circuit. Clark’s glasses—which you so rarely saw him wear, since he didn’t need them at home—gave him that perfect mix of handsome and nerdy charm. The dark curls at his temples were shaggier than usual, and his blazer was a little wrinkled at the elbow. 

He was arranging your groceries with the same intense concentration he used to save cities.

“You know,” the cashier said with a knowing smile, “he’s a good one. The way he jumped to pay—he must really love you.”

Your breath caught, and a tiny voice in your head argued fiercely about how to respond. Don’t say anything. Play it cool. Don’t melt into a puddle and declare your undying, unrequited love for your roommate.

Clark noticed your silence and grinned, nudging you slightly with his shoulder as if to say, See? Told you so. The gesture was casual, but the warmth in it, the effortless familiarity, made your chest ache painfully.

“Thank you,” he said to the cashier as she handed him the receipt. “I think we make a pretty good team, don’t you?”

Back at the apartment, you kicked off your shoes and placed the singular grocery bag Clark let you carry on the kitchen counter. Your coat, the one he got you for your birthday, was still slightly fragrant with the faint scent of his cologne. The wool always seemed to absorb his smell when you spent time together. 

You slid your hands down the wool, letting the fabric smooth over your fingers. It was warm in a way that wrapped around you like a protective hug. The sleeves fit perfectly, and the collar was just high enough to make you feel cocooned against the world. Every stitch, every soft seam, felt like it had been made with care.

You held it for a moment longer and thought about the first time you’d worn it. How Clark had handed it to you like it was nothing, and yet it had felt like a quiet declaration. It had become your comfort piece; a little boost of courage, a little shield against anything that could rattle you.

But after the grocery store—after the cashier’s comment about Clark being your husband, and how he must really love you—and the routine of walking and bickering and brushing elbows, the coat felt heavier.

You wondered if she had mistaken Clark for your husband because even she could see how much you loved him. 

Maybe you were wearing a little piece of your heart on your coat sleeves.

With a soft, reluctant exhale, you eased the coat off your shoulders. Before Clark got home—he’d gotten side-tracked helping one of your neighbours find their cat—you carefully hung it in the closet, straightening the hanger as if it could keep your feelings tucked away for a while. 

“Secret’s safe another day,” you whispered to yourself with a self-deprecatory smile.

You knew you’d wear it again. You just needed to wait until your heart stopped skipping every time Clark laughed at something only the two of you would find funny.

It had been a few weeks since you’d plunged back into the unpredictable waters of dating. 

Not that it was anything special. 

You’d been on a handful of first dates that were mostly forgettable, some with men who talked exclusively about themselves, some who were nicer but ultimately incompatible for one reason or another.

You were starting to think dating apps were some cruel, algorithmic joke. Then, amidst the bad conversation and awkward silences, you met Harry. 

Harry was unremarkable in the best possible way. No dramatic quirks, no bombastic life stories, no one-sided debates over cryptocurrency or fantasy football leagues. Just a kind, attentive man who laughed at your jokes, asked questions you actually wanted to answer, and paid when the check arrived without making a big deal about it.

Your first date had been perfectly simple: pizza at a quiet little place you’d never been to before, followed by a stroll around your favourite park. Just two people walking and talking under the soft glow of streetlamps. It was comfortable and fun, so you didn’t hesitate to agree when he asked you on a second date at the end of the night.

So here you were, standing at the threshold of date number two, waiting for Harry to pick you up and feeling a cocktail of anticipation and nervous excitement. 

It was pleasantly surprising to feel it again after a string of unimpressive dates. 

You adjusted the sleeves of your buttoned baseball jersey and debated bringing a jacket when Clark walked into your room, face free of glasses and hair rumpled like he’d just gotten home from work.

“That’s quite a look,” he said, raising an eyebrow and giving you his usual lopsided half-smile. “Full Metropolis Meteors regalia? What’s the occasion?”

You chuckled. “I’m going on my second date with Harry, he has tickets to the game tonight. He’s coming by to pick me up soon.”

Clark’s expression dropped, like someone had sucked the air out of the room. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a beat, he looked completely deflated.

“Clark?” you asked, taking a cautious step closer. “What happened?”

He waved a hand, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, unconvinced. You studied him carefully. “What’s going on? Come on, spill.”

Clark hesitated, jaw working as if forming words were suddenly a Herculean task. Finally, he let out a small, almost embarrassed chuckle. “I guess,” at the last second, his tone turned humorous, “I’m just surprised someone from the dating apps is impressive enough to warrant a second date.”

You paused, immediately recognising the joke for what it was. A shield, a mask, an attempt to hide exactly what he was feeling. Your gut swirled, but before you could press him, there was a knock at the door.

Harry. Timing, as always, was unkind to you.

Clark’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he straightened abruptly. “Well, go get him,” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder a little too firmly, a little too quickly. You blinked in surprise. “Have a nice time.”

You nodded, stepping toward the door. “How do I look?”

Clark’s eyes softened, a quiet intensity breaking through the playful mask he tried so hard to keep in place. “You look beautiful, like always.” He paused, gaze lingering longer than it should have. “I hope he makes you laugh as hard as I do.”

Your stomach did that impossible flip. 

Clark was being too sincere, too heavy for it to be just casual encouragement. You forced a bright, teasing smile, hiding the ache in your chest, and opened the door to Harry, stepping out with a wave and a glance back at your roommate.

Clark already looked smaller in the room without you, his smile faint but still there. Little did you know it was all a brave front for the friend he loved too much to admit he wanted for himself.

The stadium was alive with the kind of energy that made your chest thrum and your ears ring: the roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of bats against balls, the waft of popcorn and hot dogs mingling with freshly cut grass. 

Meanwhile, you were freezing.

You hadn’t worn the coat Clark got you since that day at the grocery store. At first, you told yourself it was helping—like maybe putting it away had cleared some strange fog you hadn’t noticed you were in.

After all, not long after, you’d met Harry, and here you were, on an objectively good date.

But sitting in the chill of the stadium night, your breath puffing white in the air, you wished you’d brought your coat. More than that, you wished you were here with Clark instead, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way no jacket ever could.

Harry was animated beside you, pointing out players and making guesses about the next play. His enthusiasm would have been infectious if you weren’t so distracted.

You clutched your fries a little too tightly, the paper corners digging into your palms. You tried your best, nodding at all the right moments, laughing a second too late at Harry’s jokes. The noise of the crowd should have heightened your own excitement, but you felt oddly hollow. 

It was as if the anticipation belonged to everyone but you.

“You okay?” Harry asked, lowering his voice slightly over the cacophony. His brow furrowed. Concern softened the features that, moments ago, had been enlivened with excitement.

You forced a smile that wasn’t reflected in your body language. “Yeah, yeah, just… a little stuck in my head tonight.”

Harry studied you for a moment longer, deciding whether to push or let it go. Finally, he nodded. “Want to talk about it?”

You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You’d been trying not to overthink things tonight—to let yourself enjoy the date—but honesty was creeping its way forward despite your better instincts. 

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said carefully, trying not to grimace. “I started going on dates because I was trying to get over someone else—my roommate. I still have feelings for him. And being here with you tonight, it feels like I’m not giving you a fair chance.”

Harry didn’t interrupt, just nodded for you to continue.

“You deserve someone who can show up fully, and I can’t do that right now. You came looking for a real connection, and I’m not in the place to offer that,” you confessed.

Harry gave a small, easy smile—no surprise, no hurt, just quiet understanding. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said softly. “I really do get it. Dating’s complicated enough without having to untangle old feelings on top of it.”

You let out a breath, a little tight, but relieved all the same. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’m really sorry. I wanted tonight to be fun—and you really are a rare find on those dating apps—but you’re not the person I’ve been thinking about all night.”

Harry just shrugged, calm and unbothered. “No hard feelings. It’s better to be honest than to spend the evening pretending.” He held out a hand, guiding you toward the exit with the same quiet attentiveness he’d shown all night. “Let me get you home—to that roommate of yours.”

When he pulled up outside your building, Harry insisted on walking you to your door since it was already dark. 

You gave him a genuine but apologetic smile. “Thanks again. I appreciate you getting me home safe. You’re a really great guy.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.”

You unlocked the door, opening it wide enough for you and Harry to see Clark standing in the hallway that leads to your rooms. He looked like he’d been expecting you. His shirt was buttoned neatly, sleeves slightly rolled, hair tousled in that somehow-stylish way he always managed.

Notably, Clark’s eyes tracked you the moment the door opened. 

There was a beat of silence as Harry and Clark sized each other up. Harry—far away enough to not connect the dots to Superman, but close enough to see that Clark was handsome and clearly cared for you—gave you a subtle nod and smirk. 

Clark straightened, the faintest grin on his face, and inclined his head toward Harry. “Hi, you must be Harry. I’m Clark, the roommate.” His tone was a little formal but warm.

Harry offered a wave with a friendly smile. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”

Clark’s posture shifted, arms crossing lightly in a protective line, but his gaze softened the moment it found you. That faint, private smile stayed just for you, and your chest tightened in a way that felt entirely inevitable.

Harry noticed, and he gave a nod, his voice low but amused. “Yeah,” Harry said quietly, intending it for your ears only. “I get it. No hard feelings.”

You laughed awkwardly, panic rising in your chest. Clark, having caught it thanks to his superhearing, raised an eyebrow in mild confusion.

“Goodnight,” Harry said after a beat. “Take care of yourself.”

You waved, stepping inside as he headed back down the stairs. Then Harry was gone, leaving you alone with Clark. Slowly, you closed the door behind you, feeling uncharacteristically shy in your own apartment.

Clark’s eyes held yours, unreadable and steady, before that familiar smile appeared. 

“Hey,” he said, voice laced with warmth. “Everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you until a little later, the game’s still on.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and for once, the lie felt almost impossible to maintain.

Clark tilted his head, eyes soft, and stepped just a fraction closer. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, letting his gaze roam over your face as if he couldn’t look away. Slowly, his eyes drifted downward, and a faint furrow appeared between his brows.

“You were outside without a jacket?” Clark asked, his voice carrying that you know better than that note you’d heard before.

Normally you’d call him mother hen Clark for that, but this time you refrained.

“It’s not that cold,” you said automatically, even as the faint shiver in your fingers betrayed you.

He shook his head, lips curving downwards. “It’s freezing out there. And you—” Clark stopped, his eyes flicking toward the closet for just a second before returning to you. “You haven’t worn your coat in, what, a few weeks now?”

There was a sharpness in his tone—light, teasing on the surface, but with a thread of quiet disappointment woven through it. It made you shift your weight, guilt curling low in your stomach.

“Does that bother you?” you asked, tilting your head.

Clark pretended to consider it, scratching the back of his neck and frowning dramatically. You knew that was just him buying himself time to come up with a response.

“Bother me? Well, I suppose someone could say it’s mildly irritating. Or horrifying. Or—” He held up a finger, mock serious. “A crime against meteorological common sense.”

You chuckled, but the sound was a little tight. “A crime against common sense, huh? That sounds serious.”

Clark shrugged. “Very serious. I might sentence you to a life of wearing coats from now on, even in the summer.”

“That doesn’t sound like meteorological common sense,” you countered, trying to hide the pang in your chest. “I can survive a night without my coat, Clark.”

“Survive, yes,” he said, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “But you’d be far less…” Clark trailed off when he couldn’t think of any more jokes. His whole body deflated, like he couldn’t physically keep the facade up any longer. “Protected.”

You blinked rapidly, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone. 

Clark stepped back as if nothing had happened, brushing it off with a chuckle. “Not that it matters. Silly me, worrying about coats.”

You hated his sudden and uncharacteristic self-deprication. “It seems like it matters, though,” you pressed, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “That coat—”

Clark cut you off quietly, his playful grin slipping into something more tender. He looked like he might brush it off, the way he did with most things, but then he let out a quiet sigh. 

“I like it when you wear the coat,” he admitted. “I like it a lot.”

The casual teasing had disappeared, leaving only that quiet, earnest Clark you always felt but never expected to hear so plainly.

You opened your mouth to reply, but Clark held up a hand, a faint flush painting his cheekbones pink. “It sounds strange, but I like knowing you’re out there, wearing something I got you,” he explained, “Something that keeps you warm. It means that, in a way, you’re warm because of me.”

The way he said it made your heart squeeze.

You blinked at him, lips slightly parted, breath catching in that uneven way you always did around him. Your stomach had taken up permanent residence in your throat, twisting in ways that were entirely unfair and entirely too familiar.

Clark’s blue-eyed gaze lingered on you—just a little too long, just a little too intense—and warmth bloomed in your chest. You noticed the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and the faint flush on his cheeks was darkening. The same way your fingers itched to reach for him, to close that invisible space between you.

Clark rocked gently on his heels as he leaned just slightly closer, though he kept his tone light. “I know,” he said softly, as if reading your thoughts, “it’s a little foolish to care about somebody else’s fashion choices this much.”

You laughed, but it came out breathy, your chest tightening. “No, no, it’s—I wouldn’t say that it’s foolish,” you admitted, heart thundering behind your ribs.

Clark grinned, small and careful, and you felt the pull of it. That half-smirk that said he was thinking ten things at once, most of which involved you, and that little spark in his eyes that dared you to meet it.

You took a tiny step back, almost instinctively, and he mirrored you, just enough to keep the distance tantalising, teasing. 

In that space, in the rhythm of his small gestures and the heat of his gaze, you realised what you’d known for so long but kept buried: Clark felt it too. The same pull, the same quiet craving that had made you so painfully aware of him for the last year.

It was a delicate dance of proximity and hesitation, of teasing words and nearly-touching hands, and every second felt like a challenge. Your heart raced, your mind spinning, and you wanted him to stop pretending that nothing had changed between you.

Clark crossed his arms. Though he leaned casually against the doorway leading to the kitchen, you could see the tension in his shoulders. “You never told me why you’re home so early,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Was the date so horrendous that you had to flee?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Hardly. Harry was a complete gentleman,” you assured him. “I just think we’re better off as friends, that’s all.”

Clark tilted his head, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. “Better off as friends, huh? So, basically, you met the only guy who actually got a second date and immediately hit the brakes?”

“We just realised that even though we like each other, it’s not going to work out.” You paused, realising, “Actually, he could be a perfect match for one of my coworkers. Maybe I can—”

“Wait—what?” Clark’s eyes widened, mock-indignant. “Did you just suggest setting up your perfect date with one of your friends from work?”

“It’s logical!” you protested. “It’s not like we’ve been dating a long time, it was one and a half dates. It’s perfectly civil to offer to set him up with someone more compatible.”

Clark shook his head, stepping a fraction closer. “‘Civil,’ huh? That’s your rationale for ending the only dating-app experiment that actually went well?” His tone was teasing, but there was a slight edge beneath it now.

“I’m not ending anything,” you said, a little more flustered than intended. “I just— he’s really nice, but we’re better off keeping things friendly!”

“‘Friendly,’” Clark repeated slowly, almost incredulous. “‘Friendly’ is why you ended things? ‘Friendly’ is why you’re sending away the only guy who didn’t make you want to run screaming?”

“Stop repeating everything I say,” you grumbled. The absurdity of Clark’s protests hit you: his expression wasn’t just teasing—there was a flutter of genuine panic in the way his jaw clenched. “Why is this bothering you so much? If you think he’s so great, you date him.”

Clark ignored your quip. “I’m not just repeating everything you say,” he said quickly, voice rising a fraction. “I just mean— I don’t think you should give up on someone who could be a great match for you just because you’re friends! Friendships can be a really solid foundation, right?” Clark rubbed his forehead. “I’m just saying, you know, you’ll miss out on something great if you never let it get past friendship.”

“I never said I’d never let a relationship go beyond friendship,” you defended yourself, frowning. 

Clark ran a hand through his dark curls, exhaling sharply. “I know, I know, but…” He paused, gaze flitting to the floor for a second, then back up, voice softening. “It’s not just about Harry; I feel like you’re missing the potential for a really great relationship. Not that it’s anything like… never mind.”

You blinked at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Clark. I never said I would count anyone out because of a friendship. Harry’s just not the guy. That’s all.”

“Good,” Clark nodded. “That’s… Yeah— I… Good.”

“God,” you murmured, the words catching in your throat, “…you just want me to date anyone but you, don’t you?”

Clark froze, eyes widening in sheer disbelief. “What? No! No, that’s not it at all!” He clenched his fists, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve been trying to explain for the last few minutes that friendship—our friendship, everything we’ve built for the last year—is exactly why you shouldn’t settle for anyone else! That’s why I’m perfect for you!”

You gaped at Clark in disbelief, not quite sure if he’d really confessed or if this was all a dream. 

“Perfect for me?” you repeated, your voice breaking around the words. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Clark rubbed his temples, flustered. “Of course I hear myself! You think I’d just say something like that if I didn’t mean it?” His voice wavered, the usual steadiness undercut by nerves. “I’ve been trying to tell you without telling you, but you never—” He broke off, groaning under his breath. “Gosh, you drive me insane.”

“Me?!” You pressed a hand to your chest, incredulous. “You’ve spent weeks pushing me toward anyone who so much as smiles at me, and somehow I’m the one driving you insane?”

Clark stepped close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. “What was I supposed to do?!” His voice dropped, thick with frustration. “Be a bad friend and tell you not to put yourself out there? You think I wanted to sit there and watch you force sparks that aren’t there while I—” Clark cut himself off, jaw tight and breath ragged.

Your pulse skittered wildly. You didn’t move when his hand twitched at his side, then finally, as if against his better judgment, brushed the back of yours. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it set you ablaze.

The air between you thickened, your chest rising and falling too quickly, every nerve stretched tight. The fight had cracked something open—rage bleeding into desire, sharp and unstoppable. You turned your hand over, letting your fingers graze against his, and a shiver ran through him at the contact.

“While you what?” you breathed. Every ounce of fight collapsed into raw, trembling awareness.

He met your gaze, eyes burning with equal parts fear and want. His thumb grazed your knuckle, a touch so small it felt catastrophic. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Clark challenged softly. “Tell me I’m imagining this—that you don’t feel it too.”

You opened your mouth, but no denial came. Just his name, fragile and aching on your lips, “Clark…”

That was all it took. 

In the next heartbeat, his hand was on your jaw, the other splaying across your back as if he couldn’t stand another second of distance. You surged up at the same time he pulled you in, the kiss colliding out of you both—messy, furious, and desperate.

It was teeth and heat and the sharp gasp you gave when his mouth claimed yours like he’d been starving for it. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, and Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like lightning.

Every protest, every half-formed argument between you shattered into the kiss. His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, frantic and tender all at once, while your lips parted, answering him with a hunger that had been buried too long. The air around you buzzed, alive with something you’d both tried too hard to ignore.

When you finally tore apart for breath, foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping, Clark’s voice was wrecked, “Tell me I’m wrong now.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you gently caught his dark curls in your hands, tugging Clark back down before either of you could think. His mouth opened against yours, and you let him in, your heart ricocheting as his arms crushed you closer, lifting you slightly off your feet as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The world narrowed to nothing but the heat of him, the way his breath stuttered when your arms hooked around his shoulders, the addictive press of lips that had only ever said your name but never tasted it until now.

When you finally broke apart again, it wasn’t with distance but with your noses brushing, your lips still trembling against his. Neither of you moved away, both of you caught in the impossible gravity of what you’d just done—what you couldn’t undo even if you tried.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your shared apartment had gone utterly, terrifyingly still—save for the thundering of your heart and the feel of his breath fanning across your lips.

When Clark carefully set you back on the floor, you pulled back just enough to look at him. He stood before you flushed, his curls mussed from your hands, lips kiss-bitten and parted like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

The sight hit you like a tidal wave: this was real. 

Not some half-formed daydream, not a cruel trick of your imagination.

You’d kissed him, and he’d kissed you back.

Your throat went dry. “I—”

But Clark shook his head, voice low and frayed at the edges, the words spilling out like he’d been holding them in too long. “I thought—Gosh, I thought you felt it too. And then you started going on those dates, and I figured I’d made it all up in my head. I thought I wanted it so badly I was seeing something that wasn’t there.”

The confession opened something deep in you, raw and undeniable. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of Clark’s shirt again, desperate to anchor yourself. 

“No. That’s not—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I only went on those dates because I was trying to get over you. I thought if I kept putting myself out there, it would fade, or at least stop hurting so much. But it didn’t. It never did.”

His eyes widened, the pain and disbelief in them giving way to something softer. Clark’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his hands still holding your waist like you might disappear.

“You were trying to get over me?” he echoed, half-disbelieving, half-thrumming with a hope he didn’t dare let loose.

You nodded. “And failing, miserably.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit across from someone, trying to listen, when all I can think about is you? Or what it’s like to wish every stranger would smile the way you do?”

Clark lifted a quivering hand, cupping your jaw and sweeping his thumb behind your ear. You leaned into it without meaning to, your body betraying the truth you’d just confessed. Your breath caught, eyes locked on his mouth again, desperate and dizzy with it.

“Clark,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you meant to say.

“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t say my name like that unless you’re sure you’re not going to take it back.”

Your chest constricted, lips parting on another breathless laugh. “You think I could ever take this back?”

That was all it took. Clark surged forward, catching your mouth in his. His hands were everywhere, steady and desperate. He could hardly believe that he could finally hold you without restraint.

You gasped against his lips, hands pulling him closer, needing him closer. And Clark gave in, kissing you like he’d been waiting a lifetime for permission.

Then he broke, grinning against your mouth. With a boyish laugh, Clark swept you off your feet. You yelped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, before he spun you around and set you on the kitchen counter. His arms circled you tight, burying his face against your shoulder for just a beat, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Golly,” Clark murmured into your skin, his voice light with relief, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You tugged him away just enough to see the flush on his cheeks, the wrecked and radiant smile tugging at his lips. You kissed him again—softer this time, giddy and sweet—because now that you had him, how could you not?

Clark laughed against you, the sound low and dazzled, and pulled you in tighter. “I think it’s time we get rid of the space between our bodies,” he suggested. “Permanently.”

The words knocked another shaky laugh from you, equal parts wonder and disbelief. “Clark Kent, what are you proposing?”

“That when I tell my coworkers I’m heading out for the day, it’s because I’m going home to the person I love, not just my roommate,” he said. His knuckles brushed gently across your cheek, reverent now where he’d been desperate moments before. “I’ve wanted this for so long… I just hope it’s what you want too.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening with something warm. “I was never going to get over you,” you admitted. “Every date was just me trying not to feel this.” You pressed your palm over his heart. “Not to feel you.”

Clark’s expression softened, the fire in his eyes settling into something deeper, steadier, no less consuming. “Then don’t get over me,” he whispered, forehead lowering to rest against yours. “Stay right here with me.”

Your smile was wide and irrepressible. “Like I’d want to be anywhere else.”

He kissed you again, chastely this time, a promise more than a question. And when he pulled back, you could see it all written across his face. His relief and devotion were so unguarded that it made your knees tremble.

“I’m yours,” Clark said simply, utterly certain. “Finally.”

And then he hugged you again, arms tight around your waist, as if he could fuse you to him and never let go. You allowed yourself to sink into him completely, laughing against his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, everything felt exactly as it should.

You sighed. “Can you believe we yelled at each other over… what exactly?”

Clark chuckled, voice rumbling low and warm. “I think it was your fault,” he teased, though the smirk in his voice betrayed how ridiculous he knew it all had been.

“Me? I was perfectly reasonable,” you shot back.

“‘Reasonable’?” he repeated, mock scandalised, leaning back to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Absolutely terrifyingly reasonable.”

You both dissolved into giggles, the kind that left your ribs aching and your cheeks sore, and he pressed another giddy kiss to your mouth just because he could. You grabbed his face with both hands and returned it with all the silly, uncontainable joy you were feeling.

When you finally parted, Clark’s gaze flicked downward. His brow furrowed, then lifted with amused recognition. “You know this is my jersey, right?” he asked.

You glanced down at the buttoned baseball jersey you’d thrown on earlier. “What? No it’s not. It’s mine.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, grinning. “Remember that game we went to with Lois and Jimmy? You got cold, so I gave it to you. Check the back.”

You twisted to look, and sure enough, bold red block letters across your spine read KENT. Your laugh came out half-giddy, half-incredulous. “Oh my god, how did I not notice that? I’ve been walking around wearing it all night—I went on a date with another guy wearing it!”

Clark just grinned, flushed and smug all at once. He leaned in until his forehead bumped yours, voice dropping low. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, all warmth and cheekiness. “If there’s one thing I like you wearing more than that coat I gave you,” he brushed a kiss against your temple, then whispered against your hair, “It’s my last name.”

You huddled slightly in the soft warmth of the coat Clark had given you, glancing at your phone for the third time in as many minutes. The evening air was crisp, but mercifully not biting. At least you were bundled up in the perfect combination of warmth and comfort. 

You told yourself you were being perfectly patient, rational even—but inside, your stomach was doing a little drumline of anticipation. 

It was likely that your date would be late. After all, you knew he had a pretty demanding side job with unexpected hours.

And then, like a scene from a rom-com, Clark came barreling around the corner, slightly out of breath, his hair tousled in that impossibly charming way of his. “Sorry! Sorry, There was a bridge collapse I had to help with, and—” He skidded to a stop in front of you, hands slightly raised, blue eyes wide with earnest panic.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “It’s okay, really. You didn’t keep me waiting too long.”

Clark gave a sheepish grin, straightening just enough to look halfway composed, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Good. I’m just glad you’re wearing your coat, it’s cold tonight,” he said.

Sliding your arm through his as you headed toward the restaurant, you felt that familiar easy rhythm of being together. You let yourself relax into him, the humour of the moment washing through you.

Seated across from him at the table, the lights of the restaurant casting soft shadows over his strong features, Clark leaned back with a mock-serious expression. “So… before we order, tell me: cryptocurrency? Are you into it yet, or—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, because honestly, after everything, words seemed almost too clumsy. You leaned across the table and pressed your lips to his, shutting him up instantly. 

Pulling back just enough to catch your breath, you whispered, “I love you.”

Clark’s eyes went wide for the briefest moment before a blush spread across his face. “I love you too,” he said. And then grinned, dimples on full display, utterly himself again.

[eyesofiridescence]

Cute & Sexy & Smart & Funny

boyfriend!clark kent x fem!reader, 2k words

a/n: 1x 'He's Just Not That Into You' reference but Clark is so totally into you

The apartment’s quiet, except for the soft clink of keys as Clark fumbles to unlock the door—three tries, somehow, even though he could snap it in half if he really wanted to.

When he finally gets it open, he steps inside with that slightly-too-careful way of his: shoulders broad, glasses slightly fogged from the change in temperature, hair just a little out of place—like he flew here and didn’t bother fixing it before landing.

“Hey!” he says, voice bright, immediately dropping his bag by the door. “Sorry I’m late. I, uh... got caught up helping someone with a flat tire.” His grin is wide as he starts toward you, loosening his tie with a dramatic sigh—like he’s been working hard all day, which, technically, he has. World-saving counts.

When he reaches you, there’s no pause, no second-guessing. His hands find your waist as he pulls you in, pressing a firm, breath-stealing kiss to your lips that knocks his glasses askew and makes your heart stutter in your chest.

“Missed you,” he adds, still grinning as he heads to the kitchen of your shared home.

You swallow, watching him go into the kitchen. You've never really gotten used to him; he still makes butterflies go crazy in your stomach. You return back to your book, curled up on the sofa, but your eyes aren't really processing the words anymore. "Missed you too."

Clark's laugh is low and amused as he notices how distracted you are. He's untying the knot on his tie as he comes back into the room, draping the fabric over the back of the armchair. He's got his sleeves rolled to his elbows, the soft blue of the fabric bunching around his forearms.

"You look comfy," he teases, his voice laced with warmth. His gaze drifts over your figure, his lips twitching with a fond smile. He's not subtle about it. He's never been shy about admiring you.

Your lips twitch, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I am. I left lasagna for you in the microwave, by the way. You can heat it up."

His eyes light up - half from the mention of food, half from the way you’re smiling at him like he’s something sweet worth keeping. He definitely is.

“You made lasagna? And saved me some? Marry me,” he says, deadpan serious for exactly two seconds before his face splits into a dorky grin. Clark heads to the kitchen but pops back a moment later—kiss planted gently on your temple in passing. “You’re stuck with me now, you know. I don’t leave people who feed me.”

You smile, amused. "Did you really help someone fix their tire?" You watch as he heats up the lasagna you'd left for him; a hefty portion, since he eats a lot of protein. Obviously.

"Yeah," he says with faux-modesty, leaning against the counter as the microwave beeps. He's probably not even going to bother with a table. He's tired, hungry, and he doesn't want to be that far from you for longer than he has to. "It wasn't a big deal," he adds, taking a bite and swallowing, all while keeping his gaze trained on you. "Just a nice old lady in distress."

"Cute," you hum thoughtfully, then scooch over on the sofa. "Come sit. Don't stand and eat. You'll get stomach cramps."

Clark's eyes are soft as he follows your instruction, sitting next to you and slinging an arm around your waist to pull you in close. His chest warm against your side. He takes another bite, humming in approval at the taste. "This is so good, babe."

His hand starts lazily rubbing up and down your arm. His eyes trail over your features, then land on the book in your lap. "What're you reading?" he asks, head tilting as he peers over the cover.

He can read it himself, of course—he's got super vision that can read books from miles away. But he doesn't want to use it. It feels less intimate, somehow, not relying on the powers at his disposal.

"Oh, my mom recommended it," you murmur, tilting the paperback so he can see the cover. "It's about the India-Pakistan split."

Clark squints, taking in the title as he finishes his mouthful. His eyebrows raise. "Is it good so far?" He's genuinely interested, his head tilted curiously. He doesn't need to feign it. He knows you well enough to want to hear what you think.

Your boyfriend takes another bite, wiping some sauce from his chin with the back of his hand, completely unaware of the way it makes him look even more attractive.

You smile at his motion, lifting the back of your hand to wipe at his chin. "You've got tomato sauce all over. And it is good, yeah."

He laughs softly, his gaze softening with affection. He's so easy to please, and he never looks as relaxed as he does when he's with you. His hand comes up to catch yours against his face, trapping it there so he can turn his head and press a kiss to your palm. His lips warm against your skin make his intentions clear: he's not done being close yet.

"I should probably shower," he murmurs, still holding your hand against his cheek. "But I also kind of just want to stay right here."

"Mmmm, shower later," you hum as he sets his bowl down. "I wanna kiss you for a bit."

Clark doesn't need more invitation than that.

He shifts, carefully turning you in his lap until you're straddling him, his big hands on your hips. His eyes are soft with affection as he looks up at you. "Can't say no to that." His voice is a low murmur as he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss. His movements are sure. He knows you, he knows you're his.

You melt into the kiss, your hands coming up to cup at his jaw, holding him steady.

The kiss is unhurried and almost lazy as his thumbs rub slow circles against your hips. He breaks it with a soft, contented sigh, shifting his focus to your neck. He brushes your hair aside, pressing his lips just beneath your ear, in that sensitive spot that makes you gasp just the way he's expecting.

"You look extra handsome today," you murmur after you press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. He tilts his head to give you better access.

His breath stutters as your lips find new skin, and he can't help the soft, pleased hum that leaves his throat. Clark's eyes flutter shut and he leans his head back as you kiss him. His hold on your hips tightens, his body responding to your touch like a chemical reaction. "Only today?" he murmurs, a teasing note in his tone.

You huff. "Of course you look handsome every day. Just... you look extra pretty today."

His laugh is fond, though it hitches as you keep kissing his neck. His large hands move to your thighs, his grip firm but careful as he guides you more firmly into his lap. "I'm pretty?" The pout that he gives you makes you laugh. "I'm not hot?"

"You are hot," you reply thoughtfully, resting your head under his chin. "But you're more cute than hot, you know?"

A low groan escapes him, half from satisfaction, half from slight indignity. "I'm not cute." He protests, his voice rough yet soft. He's not actually annoyed, but he'll pout for the heck of it, like a big, strong (and admittedly cute) puppy dog.

"I'm hot. And strong. And tough." His argument is undermined by the way he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist like he's afraid you're gonna disappear. You're not, of course. You're happiest with him.

You smile, bemused. "You know in He's Just Not That Into You, Scarlett Johansson who plays Anna asks Conor that question? She was like, am I cute, sexy, smart or funny, and you can only be two of the things, except there has to be one from the looks column and one from the personality column?" I press another kiss to his Adam's apple.

Clark hums, the sound a mix of consideration and pleasure as you kiss the sensitive skin of his throat, his eyes fluttering shut instinctively. He can't help but respond to your touch, his body molding around you, his thumb tracing lazy circles over the small of your back.

When he responds, it's with a smile in his voice, as though the whole conversation is an inside joke only he's a part of. "And let me guess," he murmurs, his tone amused. "I'm cute and smart, huh?"

"No, you're all of them," you murmur softly against his throat.

Clark's breath catches - just slightly - and he goes very still for a second. Then, slowly, his arms tighten around you, pulling you flush against his chest. His voice drops low and warm and full of wonder.

"You're gonna make me float right off this couch if you keep saying stuff like that," he murmurs into your hair. "And I do mean literally." He tilts your chin up gently with one finger, his eyes meeting yours behind slightly crooked glasses.

"But just so we're clear… you’re the one who’s cute and sexy and smart and funny," he says softly. "I'm just the lucky guy who gets to kiss you."

You scoff. "You have such a low opinion of yourself, Clark," you pull away slightly to peer at him. His glasses make him look so handsome, it's unfair. "I'm the lucky one."

He huffs, a soft sound that's half-laughter, half protest. "You're so stubborn," he murmurs, his expression shifting to one of fond exasperation as you pull back to look at him. There's something almost reverent in his touch as his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

"Please," he says, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. "Let me be whipped for you in peace."

Your eyes crinkle at the edges. "You're whipped, huh?" You melt into his hands, like putty for him to mold, however he pleases. His hands are big and warm and soft and when they're on your face, you feel extra safe.

"Hopelessly," Clark admits, voice low and unashamed. His thumb brushes your cheek as he pulls you in, forehead resting gently against yours. His breath is soft against your lips, warm and steady. He doesn’t rush the next kiss—he just hovers there for a heartbeat, letting the moment stretch.

"Completely gone for you," he whispers. "No hope of recovery."

You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "I'm whipped for you too, y'know. I don't make lasagna for every guy."

He laughs, the sound warm against your skin, a quiet rumble in his chest. His hand moves to your hip, his thumb resting in the dip right above your jeans. He pulls you impossibly closer, his heart racing even as he tries to act nonchalant.

"Only the special ones?" he teases, his lips hovering close enough to brush the shell of your ear, breath hot against you.

"Only one particularly special one," you amend.

He hums in agreement, his mouth now tracing a path along your jawline, his lips light against your skin. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, barely a brush of contact before his gaze locks with yours, eyes darkened with desire but soft with affection.

"Only one, huh?" His breath hitches, like the thought does something to him. He swallows hard, his hand slipping under the hem of your shirt, large palm flattening against your hip to pull you harder into his lap as he murmurs, "I like the sound of that."

"Good," you murmur decisively. "'Cos I'm all yours."

His breath stills as he processes your words, then: "I'm the luckiest guy in the world."

[eyesofiridescence]

suckable

summary: a routine fire alarm inspection leads into you proving to clark that he does have a suckable dick (kinda.)

tags: 18+, smut, roommate!clark, established friendship, f!reader, i broke clois up (sorry,) clark is older than reader (non-specific,) reader doesn't know clark is superman, fire alarm inspections, clark kent is a DORK, reader just barely realizes she has a crush on clark, blowjob, messy blowjob, big dick!clark, big boobs!clark, big arms!clark, sub!clark, size difference (sorta?), m!nipple play, reader swallows but there's also kind of a facial, begging for like two seconds, sweet!clark, aaannd he picks reader up one time.

a/n: yayy my first clark fic !!! (facedown drooling twitching)

wc: 4.5k, reread once by my eyes

my masterlist - my askbox

You’ve been roommates with Clark for approximately… seven months. 

It’s been great really. No complaints, especially since he’s never home long enough to be annoying. He does the dishes, he takes the trash and recycling down every Thursday, and he usually makes enough food that there’s leftovers for your lunches the next day. The friendship between you two is easy, but not intimate. Clark, to you, is personable, but not personal.

You do know that he moved in with you after moving out with his ex girlfriend, and that the relationship ended as amicably as possible for “professional reasons.” Clark also works at the Daily Planet and being a writer may or may not be why he needs a roommate in his thirties. He grew up somewhere not Metropolis to your knowledge and he goes back home usually one weekend a month. 

And that’s it. That’s all you know about your roommate of seven months. It’s kind of nice to live with a dependable man, especially when he’s not just kind but also sort of intimidating. Your last roommate was a young woman around your age, and though she was fun, you were always a little worried about the weird neighbor down the hall. He really liked talking to you when you’d take the recycling down, or god forbid, when you’d have to do your laundry in the basement of your building. As soon as Clark found out about that he made a point to start taking the trash down for you and coming with you to do your laundry. The weirdo neighbor backed off pretty quickly when you began walking around with a 6’4 grown man who gave him the stink eye any chance he got. 

Obviously you’d rather be living alone, or with a romantic partner, but neither of those things seem like they’re in your cards at this point. Clark is a good alternative. You get plenty of alone time when you have a day off since Clark is at work until five most days, and on top of that sometimes he goes out with his friends. Alternatively to the time you get to spend alone, you also get to feel just a smidge safer at night. Metropolis is nowhere near as dangerous as Gotham is, at least not at night, but you can never be totally sure. Superman can handle whatever huge creature is toppling buildings over, but you can’t really call Superman if there’s someone trying to break into your apartment. You can call Clark though, or rather, knock on his door. Usually.

Tonight Clark is out. He’s actually out a lot later than usual, which is strange. He said something vague this morning about having to go to a meeting later tonight with his friends after work and he’d “be back aroumd smghmsgh.” His voice muffled at the end of his sentence because he had stuffed a cinnamon swirl eggo in his mouth. Helpful! 

Around ten you finally peel yourself off the couch. It feels strange to get ready for bed without Clark being around. You aren’t dependent on him, but like, it’s routine by now. You brush your teeth, he brushes his teeth, and then you both go to bed. Sometimes he showers, but that’s not your business to think about. At all. Clark is your friend and roommate. Your kind, dependable, tall, handsome, buff, protective, roommate. You walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water, telling yourself you aren’t prolonging the time before you get ready for bed sans-Clark.

The water pools in the sink as you run the tap for a moment before sticking your glass under. It fills a little too quickly. You chug it, pour more water in the glass, then let your eyes flit to the overhead cupboards. A notice is taped to one of them, one which you taped up. 

NOTICE: Fire alarm inspection

Dear valued tenants,

This coming Saturday the MFD (Metropolis Fire Department) will be entering your apartments to test your fire alarms. These tests will happen between 8am-11am. If you are unable to be present this Saturday please let me know by e-mail so we can rearrange a time. 

Thanks.

Ugh. Your landlord is a nice person but is it necessary to start fire alarm testing at 8am on a Saturday? You were kind of hoping Clark would get home early tonight so he could be the one to let the fire department in tomorrow morning, but you guess not. He’s going to end up sleeping in late if he’s not home soon, so you better set your alarm. 

— 

It’s 7:59am. And they’re already here. 

You had woken up to a strong knock on the door of your apartment that had you gasping for breath as you stumbled out of bed, throwing a more presentable shirt on. Thank God the fireman that you opened the door to looked worse for wear than you did. If you had opened the door to a sexy fireman while wearing your somewhat holey Snoopy sleepshirt, which you’ve had since middle school, you might have lit yourself on fire to test the alarm.

Now you’re sitting on the couch backwards, staring at the fireman as he stands on a ladder in the kitchen. You’re kind of wondering if the fire department needs to do this. You’re pretty sure Clark could check the fire alarm without using a ladder, which you’re tempted to tell the fireman, but he seems nice enough. It’s just early, you’re grumpy. 

“I’ve been doing this for almost a decade now,” the fireman says. You hum in an interested tone, watching as he uses a screwdriver to unscrew the panel of the fire alarm. It falls down into his other palm and he checks the batteries.

“Expired,” he says disapprovingly.

Okay fire alarm guy. 

He takes a couple batteries out of his shirt pocket and replaces the old batteries. Then he screws the panel back on. It kind of feels like watching you dad or uncle fix something, which would be sweet if you weren’t sleep deprived and annoyed that somehow this guy made his way to your fourth floor apartment before these tests were even supposed to start. 

The fireman puts his screwdriver back into his toolbelt and then looks back at you from where he’s standing on the ladder. 

“Might be loud,” is the only warning you get.

A shrill beep screeches through the apartment as he presses the “test” button on the alarm. It wakes you up all over again, making you jolt upwards. You’re close to cussing, but then you hear a different loud noise. Two loud thuds echo from behind Clark’s bedroom door.

Oh shit, he was still sleeping.

A couple more thuds sound out before Clark’s door is ripped open. There’s a wild look to him as his chest puffs anxiously.

“Fire?” He asks at the same time the fireman says “alarm works now!” Proud as ever.

No, there’s no fire. But it’s starting to get warm. 

You’ve never seen Clark straight out of bed. Typically he showers at night, after you go to bed, so that you can have the bathroom in the mornings. That means that by the time you see him each morning he’s already dressed for work, curls tamed, and he’s all put together. Right now though, he’s the least put together you’ve ever seen him.

His hair is somewhat screwed up, the curls flat on one side of his head from how he sleeps, and his glasses are a little crooked from how hastily he must have shoved them on. Clark is also shirtless, which is surprising. You kind of took Clark as the kind of man who has old fashioned cotton pajama sets considering he wears a suit to work everyday. You very much wish he was right now.

Clark is obviously a strong guy. He’s got great arms that you’ve been able to admire multiple times over the last seven months, and sometimes you’re able to see how big his chest is when his dress shirts strain just right. But right now, you’re getting a full view of everything, and he’s so, terribly, attractively, big. Clark’s arms are much bigger than you thought they were, but so is everything else. His stomach pushes against the stretchband of his pajama pants just right, making you think of the time that he had shared the fact that “Ma fed me well,” over dinner. Fuck yes she did. Thanks Ma. His stomach looks dense with strength, like he’s been bulking his whole life, and his tits… Lord. Never in your life have you ever thought that a man having tits could be attractive, but Clark Kent doesn’t seem to be able to be unattractive. They look heavy and the skin looks soft and for a split second you think about what it would be like to run your hands up his body and cup them. 

You notice that you’re staring at him, but he doesn’t. Instead, Clark seems to realize that the guy in your apartment isn’t an intruder, but is actually checking the fire alarm. He walks over quickly, and in typical Clark fashion, strikes up a conversation with this guy. He’s distracted fully, giving you more time to kind of drool over the new angle you’re getting of his arms.

Normally you wouldn’t do this. You’ve purposefully been avoiding being attracted or generally objectifying Clark no matter what because when he moved in with you he was sorely broken up over his last relationship ending. Clark was much too sweet for you to think about in that way, no matter how delicious he is to stare at. But it’s been months now, and he seems more okay, and damn it he’s shirtless and it’s 7:30 in the morning and you’re pissed! You deserve a little eye candy, no? 

You let your eyes drop back to his stomach as he stands while talking to the fireman. The profile of his tummy almost hanging over the waistband is making your whole body heat up, but then your eyes drop lower and it gets worse.

He’s not wearing underwear.

There’s literally no possible way that he’s wearing anything beneath the pajama pants. You can see the outline of what you think is morning wood, but you aren’t entirely sure. If he had a boner that big right now he wouldn’t just be casually talking to a stranger in your apartment, right? But then again, there’s no way he’s packing something that much. It wouldn’t be human to be that big soft. He must just be oblivious. Fuck, you’re perving out right now.

It’s pressing against the plaid pattern of his pants in a way that maybe is camouflaged to the poor fireman who now looks like he’s trapped in a conversation with Clark. You watch as the fireman slowly packs up his ladder and moves unsubtly toward the door in an attempt to drop a hint that Clark isn’t picking up. It, yes it, isn’t camouflaged to you though. You watch from the couch as his pants tent around it, the thickness of it pressing against his leg as he moves toward the door with the fireman. Sweat starts to form at your brow as you swallow dryly. 

Maybe his last girlfriend just couldn’t stand the hospital trips after they had sex? That’s the only plausible reason you can see someone dumping Clark. He’s suffering from the success of all those inches. 

The fireman finally shuts down the conversation Clark had started with a gentle “I have to go test other alarms now,” and slips out the door. Clark turns to you now, still clearly oblivious to the third leg he seems to be showing off.

“I totally forgot about that inspection, geez.”

You are braindead. His words don’t even seem like words anymore as you get another full frontal view of his less-than-normally-clothed body and the inside of your skull feels fuzzy. It’s too early for all of these emotions of frustration and then sudden insatiable heat. Maybe you’re getting close to ovulating or something, but Clark is triggering you badly.

“Are you hard?” You ask.

Clark instantly reaches his hands down, covering his crotch.

“What? No, I just– I just threw these on. They must be too small.” He sputters. 

Just threw those on? Your brows scrunch together in confusion. If he just threw those on before coming out of his room and he’s not wearing anything else (other than his glasses…)

“I sleep naked,” Clark admits flusteredly. Your eyes widen just as your mouth hangs slightly open in surprise. This is not something that you thought Clark would ever say, nor admit if it was the case. His ears are turning pink as his hands cover his crotch area still, though you doubt he’s actually covering all the square footage of his downstairs property. 

“I started sleeping naked when I moved away from home. It was like a freedom thing, I think.”

Oookay. Coolio. Packing that tidbit of info into your brain and saving it for later when Clark isn’t home and you have a certain something charged. You nod with your mouth still open, then swallow back the dryness on your tongue before speaking again.

“Why do you…” you start speaking but then he moves toward the couch and your voice trails off. He sits opposite you, looking a little ashamed as he shoves a pillow over his lap. “Why do you still sleep naked?”

He can’t make eye contact with you now, he’s too embarrassed. It almost seems like he never really thought about the fact it might be strange to still sleep naked, and now he has to face the music. 

“Clothes just… restrain stuff,” he admits quietly. 

Stuff.

“Stuff?” You reply. “What stuff?

He shakes his head, says your name quietly like he wishes you’d forget this. “You know what stuff. My stuff.”

This is insane. There’s no way he’s that big all the time. That’s not something you believe. 

“You’re seriously not… that’s not just morning wood or something?” 

Clark shakes his head again and seems even more embarrassed now. His fists push into the throw pillow on his lap nervously. “I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “I know it’s strange. Or scary, I’ve been called scary.”

Aw. You feel kind of bad for him amidst all your curiosity about this newfound limb on your roommate. The best comfort you can offer in this awkwardness is a shrug.

“It’s okay, Clark,” you attempt a normal voice, “it’s just a surprise.” 

He laughs quietly, thank goodness. His smile is always a ray of sunshine but right now it breaks up the insanity of the situation. “Golly, it’s a surprise to you? Imagine growing this thing,” he chuckles. Like it’s normal.

The honesty is somehow scarier than the fact that his dick is really that big. That’s just Clark’s life, he has to have that in his pants all the time, and now you have to know that he has that in his pants all the time too. What the fuck? What is this morning?

Clark finally works up the courage to look at you again, though you can still see the remnants of his flustered expression from moments before. His eyes stroll over your face and he seems to realize your befuddlement. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. You raise your head to nod, but then feel the tug of a question caught in your throat. 

“How big is it?” You ask. The tables turn again and Clark is back to being the one caught off guard. He sputters some breaths and attempts words but you shrug. “I’ve already basically seen it, Clark. I’m just curious.”

The last thing you say seems to ease him some more, as silly as it is. It’s true, you’ve basically seen the outline of the whole thing now, so he has less reason to be shy. Clark, again, nods. Then he picks the pillow up off his lap and places it on the ground beside his feet. This gives you a chance to see the way his stomach pouts out from his body while he sits, and the way his tits sit. They still look so soft, but you can’t make Clark any more uncomfortable than he already is, so you try your best to maintain eye contact.

“Eight and a half inches,” he manages to spit out. God, he sounds ashamed of it. Why is he ashamed? 

You gawk at him. “I don’t even think I could fit half of you in my mouth.”

Why did you say that? Oh my god, why did you say that? 

“That’s… fair. Nobody ever has,” Clark admits shyly. “I don’t think it’s possible.”

It sounds like a challenge. Your eyes drop back to his lap, searching for a moment until you can finally focus on the visible outline against the worn fabric of his pajamas. 

“I could try,” you suggest. Clark’s head tilts down a little as he tries to meet your eyes that are currently feasting on the sight of his lap. He starts to say “what” but you stumble out more words. “Like just to see. Not in a sex way, but in an experimental way. Just to see.”

He seems a little speechless, his mouth forming the shapes of words that don’t come out, seldom for a shocked whisper of your name. Clark swallows the saliva in his mouth and then  leans back against the couch, nodding.

“Not in a sex way,” he repeats as you slide off the couch and maneuver yourself between his legs. “Aw geez.”

Stupid cute man with a stupidly big cock. You aren’t technically breaking the “roommate rule” of don’t-fuck-your-roommate at least. You’re not fucking him, you are both just trying to see how much of Clark’s dick is humanly possible to suck. 

He lifts his hips for you as your hands reach up and slide his pants down his legs, pulling them off with little struggle. It exposes his thighs to you, the hair that feathers out from his pubic area into a softer dusting around the outer area where his dick lays. It’s too heavy to even stand up on its own, it just lays against his thigh. He’s uncut but the foreskin is pulled back slightly, exposing the deep pink of his tip and how it’s starting to drool pre-come. 

“Sorry, it’s um, been a bit. I’m a shower so don’t worry about,” he swallows nervously again, “about it getting any bigger than this.”

It is a little comforting to know you won’t have to deal with any more than you signed up for, but mostly you just want to soothe him. Clark seems so ashamed of how big he is, which isn’t totally unfamiliar. He always seems awkward in social situations, like a mega block in a world of lego bricks, but this is something you can help. You’ll prove to him that he is suckable.

But you’ll prove it in a moment. First you focus on what your mind, what’s left of it, wants to do.

You lean down and nudge your nose against the side of his cock, inhaling a little bit. He smells clean, just like the rest of him, but also a little different, a little more Clark than everywhere else. Your eyes meet his as you let your tongue loll out of your mouth and drag up his shaft, then lap at his tip as his head falls backward.

“Y-you said it wasn’t a sex thing,” he protests weakly. 

“It isn’t,” you protest. It’s not a total lie. “I’m making sure you’re as hard as possible. You have to be fully hard for me to–” “Please just put your mouth on me,” he blurts out. “Please? You wanna figure this out too, right?”

Holy needy. You weren’t really expecting Clark to be this submissive. He’s probably just desperate because, as he said, it’s been a little while, but he’s already begging. 

“Yeah,” you mumble against his tip, “yeah okay.”

He’s so much more than a mouthful. You were expecting it to be a lot, but you can’t breathe at all once his tip is fully in his mouth. Clark isn’t just long, but he’s thick too. It feels like you bit off more than you could chew, literally, and you’re just desperately swallowing around him. It’s especially hard to focus on not choking because he keeps making these little sounds and grasping at the arm of the couch. Clark clearly doesn’t want to push you at all. The hand that isn’t on the arm of the couch is gripping the couch cushion ferociously and his hips keep trying to buck up but he resists it, though just barely.

It isn’t a sex thing, it’s an experiment, you need to focus.

Your eyes slide shut as you decide to lock in, tuning out the noises and movements he’s making. Most of your focus goes into relaxing your jaw to fit more of him in. You know you’ll ache later, but it’s worth it. He’s so heavy in your mouth and in your hands as you hold him. The wetness of your mouth doesn’t seem to be enough and so you keep drooling out more and more saliva, trying to lube your throat so he’ll slide in easier, with less resistance. It doesn’t feel humanly possible, he’s completely right.

You attempt to say his name, but just gargle around his cock. He struggles back a “yeah?” and that’s when your eyes open again.

You’re far enough down on his dick now that when you open your eyes and look up at him, you’re met with a slight underside view of his stomach and tits. Clark looks back down at you with clouded eyes and a sweaty brow, meeting your own accidental doe eyes. It’s hard not to look pathetic and needy when you have a dick in your mouth, it’s just what happens. You maintain eye contact as you work your throat, attempting to open it up more to take him further and he whines while looking into your eyes. 

Clark breathes your name once, then shuts his eyes tight as his chest heaves.

“Are you trying t-to make me come?” He asks. His voice sounds pained, but his cock throbs in your mouth as he asks the question.

Well, are you?

He looks close already, even more wrecked than five minutes ago when this “experiment” began. Obviously you want him to come, you’re sucking his dick for gods sake, but he’s just making sure. He’s just being good and making sure that he’s allowed to come. The two of you are losing any inhibitions about this pretense of an experiment and you’re ready to fully let loose.

You can’t respond to his question without pulling off his cock, and you sure as hell don’t want to lose the progress you’ve made on his length, so instead you give in. Reaching up from the floor with your hand, you trail your fingers up his body and then cup his left tit in your hand. His breath catches as he looks down at what you’re doing, and that’s when you rub your thumb over his nipple. It hardens immediately and he lets out a rough moan as you nod, resuming bobbing your head up and down his cock. 

Yes you’re going to make Clark come. You want to make this big, delicious, kind, man come his brains out, either in your mouth or on you, or both.

Whatever efforts you were making previously tenfold as you start to start to jerk off whatever you can’t fit in your mouth with your free hand, the other one still entirely focused on groping the soft fat of his breast and toying with his nipple. Clark starts to let his hips buck up more as he begins to repeat your name, whining each time you stimulate his nipple just right. Drool leaks out of your mouth and onto your balls as you let the back of your throat get pummelled relentlessly. It feels like your brains are melting in your head each time you feel him throb or taste him leaking a little more pre-come. “I’m gonna come,” Clark warns. He says it again, but makes no move to pull you off him. 

Your eyes meet his with some sense of determination, and you hope the bob of your head and the nod of your head don’t look too similar as you try to reply with a nod of “yes, yes, come.” The message, thankfully, is received. Your hands work relentlessly to stimulate him fully through his orgasm as he spills down your throat. You try to keep up with swallowing but it starts to feel like if you don’t pull off of him you’re going to have come drip out of your nose. Finally you jerk back, watching as his cock doesn’t slow down at all, shooting ropes not just on your face and neck, but dripping onto his own thighs too. He’s so noisy as he comes, on top of all the things in motion he’s moaning your name and thanking you.

“Thank you, thank you,” he whimpers, “m sorry it’s such a mess.”

It is such a mess. You didn’t take into account that him having a big dick might mean him having bigger balls, which you certainly won’t neglect if the two of you ever do this again, but now he’s coming so much. Some of it is already half dried on your sleepshirt by the time he’s finished.

Clark’s head rolls back again, his legs falling even further apart, as he catches his breath. He has half a mind to hand you the pants you peeled off him earlier, apologizing for not being able to clean you up properly. It’s a sweet gesture, and you’ll excuse his lack of aftercare since it seems like he just emptied his entire bloodline down your face and shirt. After somewhat cleaning the come off you, you’re surprised as he lifts you up onto the couch, moving his spent cock out of the way so you can sit on him. 

“Thank you,” he says again, pushing his nose against your shoulder, “sorry I ruined your experiment.”

It seems that despite what just happened, Clark will always be the considerate, sweet, guy that he’s always been during his time as your roommate. His breath is soft against your shoulder as his eyes flutter and look down.

“And sorry for ruining your shirt.” 

A giggle pushes its way through your chest and past your aching jaw. “It’s fine. I’ll just take off my shirt next time we try.”

Clark’s posture goes a little rigid at the mention of a next time. He pulls his nose away from your shoulder and looks at you a little curiously. “Next time?” 

You’re quick to respond, shrugging it off casually to avoid the many questions and considerations you’re sure Clark will chatter away at you once his brain rebuilds itself from his orgasm.

“Yeah, next time. I only fit like… half of you in my throat. I think I can do better than that,” you say defiantly. Clark huffs a laugh of disbelief out. “I just need more practice.”

“More practice. Sure,” he agrees softly.

>///<

thank you for reading ! please leave your thoughts in the replies or tags of your reblog, or leave them anonymously in my askbox !!

no pressure tags for my friends who may be interested... @joeloverture @pascalssbabyy @cosmickid-inmotion @mochamadeleines

[eyesofiridescence]

The Cat That Got the Cream – S. Reid

Summary: Much to your dismay, Spencer is all too willing to put himself at risk (and rely on statistics) when it comes to catching unsubs during cases. And since he’s always right, you can never provide a good enough reason that will make him listen to your concerns. So after yet another unpredictable encounter, you finally decide to dole out the type of punishment Spencer—smug, defiant, and attention-starved—has been chasing for days.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x femBAU!Reader (no use of y/n)

Genre: Smut

General Tags: 18+ this contains explicit sexual content; porn with plot fr; season 4 spencer; established relationship; minor typical CM case discussions and content (violence, murder, blood, etc.); minor injuries to reader and spencer; LOOOTS of buildup and tension like look at the damn word count; banter and teasing; kissing; the team makes a few appearances; a little angsty toward the end, but it's resolved

Smut Tags: afab reader; d/s dynamics, with spencer being more submissive and reader being more dominant (but he is def a Switch in My Heart)—so technically brat!spencer and brattamer!reader; dry humping; handjob; spit as lube; edging; ruined male orgasm; spencer cries; reader sits on spencer's face; cunnilingus; some praise; s and r both become overstimulated; brief thigh/cock slapping; multiple male orgasms; mention of safe word use but is not actually needed; bit of aftercare

Word Count: 17.3k (i am nothing if not detail-oriented)

A/N: hiiiii tumblr hi spencer reid Freaks. i never thought i'd actually submit something to the sr x reader community but this idea has been in my notes app for months and i started actually doing something about it a few weeks ago. this was created solely for my own enjoyment, but i've put so much thought and effort into it that i felt it'd be a waste to hold it hostage in my google docs. this also may literally be the only fic i write on this account lol, if it is, thank you for the visit!!!!! maybe we’ll see each other again ^_^

•••

Spencer is by no means a narcissist or egotistical, despite how perfectly aware he is of his intelligence. But when his judgement, especially that which hinges on emotion, is proven correct after any doubtful protests from the team, he can't help but feel intensely smug. He doesn't show it overtly, but he also doesn't hide the way he raises his eyebrows or purses his lips with that look in his eyes, as if to say, “Look who was right all along.”

Spencer’s cat-that-got-the-cream attitude amuses you. When it begins edging into patronizing territory, however…

“I really don't see why you're still holding this over me,” he says your name impatiently. “I accurately assessed the situation, made a calculated decision based on the profile, and successfully coaxed Grayson Crade into surrendering himself to police custody.”

You scoff as the light turns green and you accelerate in silence.

The team got back to Quantico only two hours ago, after spending the past few days on a case in a town in Connecticut. The case involved a killing team: the dominant who abducted and killed older female addicts off the street, and the submissive who was hired to take photographs of the women, posed and styled in clean clothing. 

The dominant, 44-year-old Tyson Marsh, had recently lost his estranged mother to an overdose. She had been an addict his entire childhood, and as he was her only kin, he was the one who had to identify and claim her body. The trigger, however, had been the photograph he was shown when foul play had initially been suspected. Her matted hair, sallow skin, and raggedy clothing, among other things, tipped him over the edge.

You don't think you’ll ever forget something he said when he was finally apprehended and interrogated—the confused, pleading, broken tone in his voice.

“How could I let her die in that condition?”

Marsh had hired university student Grayson Crade after finding his advertisement online as a photographer. Crade had a terminally ill mother and was in dire need of money for school and her treatment. Marsh had money to offer, in exchange for Crade’s loyalty and secrecy: Crade helped pose the victims and snapped their portraits before Marsh buried them along the stream close to his home, complete with wildflowers and grave markers.

In a sick, sad way, these two men were both coping with the ugly reality of death taking their unwell mothers away. 

The case came to an end with Marsh giving himself up to allow Crade to flee in his car. He was chased and cornered on a closed bridge undergoing construction. He got out of the car with Marsh’s gun in hand as he backed himself up against the railing. That’s when Spencer, alone and without a word, stepped away from the safe shelter of the SUV and into Crade’s line of sight, holstering his own gun as he approached with determination and his palms spread in placation. 

You had watched with bated breath and a flicker of dread from behind another SUV on the other end of the bridge. Although your fingers tightened out of anxiousness around the grip of your gun, you had already known Spencer would pull something risky like this. You noticed how this case weighed on him more than usual. You knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself, not when he felt that he could be of help to someone he so easily empathized with. 

Crade’s hold on Marsh’s gun was firm, and so was his aim on Spencer. It was a tense few minutes of relative silence, broken only by Crade’s cries of protest and frustration toward Spencer’s soft, quiet words. You could scarcely make out what he was saying, much to Morgan’s similar annoyance next to you, if his quiet muttering was anything to go by. All you could focus on was the soothing hum of Spencer’s voice and the look of patience on his face. 

Finally, Crade had crumpled to the ground in tears, his grip on the gun loosening enough for Spencer to carefully step closer and grab it. You sighed, a mix of relief and exasperation. Once he cuffed Crade and was assisted by other officers in walking him over to one of the SUVs, he met your gaze. He offered a tight-lipped grin, one meant to reassure you that it was all over and dealt with. And perhaps he was also hoping you’d recognize how well he’d handled the situation. 

But you were too stubborn to give in to that little gleam in his eye, and too irked to do anything that may reinforce his behaviour, however heroic it may be. 

Yes, it had all worked out in the end, and yes, maybe Spencer wasn’t in a whole lot of danger back there, but that isn't the point. The point is that Spencer—sensitive, considerate, gentle Spencer—is far too comfortable taking this type of risk. He always puts his all into the cases the team works on, but he gets especially invested when he can see parts of himself in the people involved. That’s something you love about him, of course, but it’s also something that scares you to death.

As selfish and contradictory to your job as it may sound, you wish Spencer would think of himself more. If anything ever happened to him, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. 

Perhaps childishly, you had kept a slight distance during the wrap-up in Connecticut, the short flight back to Quantico, and the writing of the post-case report in the bullpen. But you always drive him home, so the ride thus far has consisted of his incessant justifications and your wilful rebuttals.

You exhale sharply through your nose. 

“We didn’t know that his mother had passed just a few hours before then, Spencer, he could have done anything.”

“While the death of his mother certainly factored into the emotional instability he exhibited, at that point, the likelihood of him harming me was nevertheless just as low—if not lower—as him harming himself. He was profiled as non-suicidal and unlikely to act impulsively—a profile primarily the two of us worked on, in case you forgot.”

You cock an eyebrow at that last remark but decide not to entertain it. “Right, it wasn’t impulsive at all that he took Marsh’s car, tore through traffic, and then pointed a gun at you. And sure, he totally couldn’t have devolved further because he had just lost the only family he had—are you hearing yourself?”

From your periphery, he drops his head back in irritation. “His flight was clearly preplanned by the two of them, and despite his undoubtedly dangerous and illegal driving, he didn’t hurt anyone. The fact that he led us to an empty bridge with nowhere to go indicates he was done running anyway. The gun was more for security than a weapon he meant to seriously use against me.”

You’re not even able to get a syllable out before he keeps going.

“And to reiterate, I determined that the probability of him deviating from the profile, even after Missus Crade’s passing, was low. Not zero, but low,” he says your name again, this time in a drawn-out way that makes it sound like he thinks you’re stupid. “I was willing to trust in our odds. Because that’s essentially what a profile is, isn’t it? A guiding tool for us to further increase the chance of us doing our job successfully?”

You scoff again at the tone he uses. You’re about to question his attitude, no longer interested in Grayson Crade, when he makes one more snide jab at you that has your eyebrows shooting up your forehead. 

He utters it like he's actually fed up with your apparent incompetence: “Keep up, agent.”

Oh?

If he notices your slightly-rougher-than-usual stop at the red light, he doesn’t show it. You’re looking at him fully now, and he is pointedly keeping his gaze out the car window to his right. You know he can feel your narrowed eyes piercing into the back of his head, if his sudden fascination with a nearby bike corral is of any significance. 

You don’t say anything, studying his red-bathed figure. Your eyes drop to his hands, where he fidgets with his fingers in his lap. You also notice the subtle but rapid bounce of his leg.

Nervousness? Anticipation? Eagerness? 

Oh, he’s definitely aware of what he’s doing. You have no doubt he’s trying to fight a satisfied little curl of his lips, even if he knows you can’t see his face. He’s expecting you to say something, to continue your little debate, or—more exciting—to call out his increasingly petty behaviour. 

But giving Spencer exactly what he wants is not nearly as fun as making him work for it.

The light turns green and you drive off without a word. You allow the silence to settle for the last few minutes it takes to get to his apartment, noticing Spencer’s constant fiddling and shifting in your periphery. 

The inside of the car is stuffy with tension as you come to a stop in front of his building. He’s facing forward now, but his eyes are cast downward, where he’s looking at his tightly clasped hands. After a moment, he slowly turns his gaze to you.

You look at him blankly, making yourself appear unaffected by his expectant, innocent, wide-eyed stare. 

Oh you could devour him. And you usually would, after he purposely pushes your buttons like that. You haven’t had sex in nearly a week, since you aren't ones to mess around during a case. You almost can’t blame Spencer for acting like such a brat, especially if it will guarantee you showing him what happens when he gets on your nerves.

But you make no move to leave the car or say anything. 

Spencer’s eyes restlessly flicker from your face to the area around you and back again, like he can't quite look at you directly but is forcing himself to anyway. You think he knows what you’re doing, what you're intentionally denying him. Maybe that's why he, full of pride and perhaps uneasiness under your unwavering gaze, mutters a quick ‘good night,’ before he promptly opens the car door and steps outside. He retrieves his bags from the back seat, and when he closes the door, he lingers.

He is the image of barely contained…something. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers twitch around where he grips the strap of his bag. He nibbles on his bottom lip. And he looks at you with that same maddeningly innocent expectation—or, no, it’s actually more like an invitation.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Spencer.”

You love him. You really do. But you’d be lying if you were to say the way he wilts on the spot doesn't give you a slight buzz. 

Another moment passes. You continue to watch him watch you. You think he might just be willing to apologize or, absurdly, get back in the car. Then he petulantly huffs and spins around to finally walk to his apartment steps. 

You allow an amused smirk to creep along your lips as you watch him half-scurry, half-trudge up to his door. He throws one more sullen glance over his shoulder before he disappears inside.

It certainly is a shame you won't feel his warm body next to yours when you fall asleep tonight in your own bed, woefully alone. 

But you're a patient girl. 

You drive off.

《★》

After the dramatics he left you with last night, you thought you would walk into the bullpen this morning to a still sheepish, if not regretful, Spencer at his desk. 

When you had gotten home after dropping him off, you did admittedly feel a bit bad about leaving him like that. You wouldn't have let him get away with his behaviour toward you, definitely not. But you had pent up needs, too, and it might have ended up being worthwhile to have followed him into his apartment and sorted things out physically, between his sheets…

When you get to your desk, however, you're sorely mistaken. 

Spencer doesn't even bat an eye from his spot across yours, doesn't bother to lift his gaze from the file in front of him, already hard at work. You would think he didn't even process your entrance, if he didn’t pointedly clear his throat and take a sip from his mug. 

That’s what makes you notice the absence of yours. 

Since Spencer always gets to the office early, he makes your first cup of coffee for you (as well as any other subsequent refills). He even times it so that it’s just the right temperature when you arrive.

Your pause is brief, but you're sure Spencer notices. He needlessly smacks his lips when he finishes drinking, and goes back to working on whatever it is that has him so absorbed.

You roll your eyes as you tuck your bag under your desk, walking past him. You haven't even properly looked at how many files have been placed on your desk and you're already on edge. 

You greet Penelope and JJ by the kitchenette and begin pouring yourself a cup. 

“My, my, my…and what exactly do we have here? JJ are you seeing this, too, or have I finally actually lost it?”

You replace the coffee pot and, casually, look over at where Penelope sits at the table. She’s looking at you with that cheeky glint in her eye, the one that shows up when she’s aware of something out of the ordinary. 

…Damn.

In fairness to JJ, she’s trying her best to look clueless as she shrugs from where she leans against the counter. But you notice the rapid flit of her eyes to your fresh cup of coffee. 

It doesn't matter if neither of them are profilers. They're just unbearably attuned to any potential drama around here. 

“It’s gonna be an uneventful day of reading and writing and reviewing reports, profiles, and consultations,” you tell them. “I’m gonna need a little something.”

With a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, you take a sip of your drink, forgetting that you've only just finished making it. Your head jerks back at the heat that pricks your tongue. 

“What, like a third degree burn?” Penelope smirks as you quickly put the mug down with a grimace. “Don’t tell me prince charming’s ruined your ability to handle a piping hot cup—you know, I didn’t even think you knew how to use that old thing!”

You sigh, “Penelope.”

She turns to JJ. “Seriously, when was the last time you saw our fair lady over here doing something as beneath her as getting jitter juice when she’s got her own trained errand boy at her beck and call?”

“Penelope…!”

You can't even find the words to respond, so you just let out an incredulous scoff. You look to JJ, as if asking her to defend you against Penelope’s absurd commentary on something you didn't realize anyone paid attention to.

“Well…Spence is just…nice enough to have your drink ready for you in the morning.” She looks carefully between you and Penelope. “And he’s happy to get you a refill. And another. Without you having to ask. So you never need to leave your desk. Like, ever.”

Penelope hums in confirmation, eyeing you like all the answers of the universe have just been revealed. 

You sigh again. “What does that—why—how do you guys even know that?”

“Always remember that I, the mighty oracle of Quantico, have eyes everywhere, sweet pea,” Penelope says, “therefore nothing—and I mean nothing—goes undetected around here. Especially anything going on between my two baby lovebirds, especially when there's trouble in the nest.”

“Okay, the nest…is fine,” you tell them firmly. “I’m just getting a drink. There's nothing for either of you to poke your noses into.”

Neither of them say anything, but from the way they blink at you with matching, poorly controlled grins, you may as well be talking to two goldfish. 

You grab your mug and give them an assured nod as you walk past them and back to your desk, feeling their eyes follow you.  

Once you sit, you finally allow yourself to mentally get ready to tackle your appointed stack of manila folders. As you log into your computer, you decide to spare a quick glance at Spencer.

He’s already looking at you, but he quickly averts his gaze when you meet his eyes. You notice that, despite his headstart and overall speedy work ethic, he seems to have barely just begun doing anything. In fact, the one-page document he’s currently filling out is still relatively blank. His pen isn’t even uncapped.

You dryly chuckle under your breath as you grab the first folder off the top.

《★》

Paperwork days like today are always slower and more relaxed than when the team is actively working on a case. They’re boring and tedious, sure, but they’re nevertheless much appreciated breaks in between flying out of state and racing against the clock to catch a killer. 

The few hours that have passed since you began working have been fairly productive, with just a little over half your pile left to complete. 

Before you take a break for lunch, you have one more profile for a police precinct you want to finalize for submission. This one is for a county in Kansas, something about a string of connected home break-ins that have steadily escalated to the homeowners ending up murdered. As capable as you are, you prefer getting a second opinion before you officially submit anything to JJ. Typically, you ask Spencer to read it over. After all, besides his genius brain and critical eye, he’s quick. 

You’re hesitant now as you glance over at him. You haven't spoken a word to each other all morning, but you have briefly caught his eye a few times. You hate to admit it, but this childish silent treatment he's decided to subject you to is beginning to make you antsy. 

It hasn't even been a full day since you wrapped up the case in Connecticut, and you miss him. 

But much like Spencer, you're too proud to be the one to say something first. 

So instead, you watch him as he focuses on something on his computer screen. His brows are ever so slightly furrowed, his eyes squinting in concentration. Your eyes trace over the soft slope of his nose, down to his pink lips. They look a bit more pigmented than usual, so he must have been nibbling on them. And he shaved recently so he doesn't have any stubble. He's slowly rubbing his chin with his fingers, supposedly in contemplation. His watch has slid down almost to his forearm—his bare forearm, because he's rolled up the sleeves of his cream dress shirt to his elbows. 

It isn't until he drops his hand that you realize he’s caught you staring. 

You don't know what, exactly, the look on his face is, but he doesn't look surprised. His brows are raised disinterestedly, as if he’s asking can I help you? 

Deciding to be as nonchalant as possible, as if there isn't a truckload of tension between the two of you, you gesture to the Kansas case on your desk.

“Just finished writing up a profile. I could use a second pair of eyes before I submit it.”

It’s the same thing you always say. You don't really ask him directly to look over your work, but he knows what you're implicitly requesting and is more than happy to do it. He’s told you before about the immense value in peer review and all that. 

He looks down at your assessment. Then he looks at you. With an air of dismissal, he says, “I don't think Prentiss or Morgan are busy right now.” Then he focuses once more on his computer screen, evidently ending the exchange.

You blink at him, unable to say or even think anything for a moment.

What is he hoping to achieve right now? 

The question is forming in your throat before you scatter it through a harsh sigh. 

If he wants to double down, fine. You’ll let him throw his little fit. But you're not about to beg for his attention.

Moving unhurriedly, you pick up the case and your profile and walk over to where Emily and Derek’s desks are situated. They both look up at you as you approach them and ask, “Can one of you review my profile before I give it to JJ?”

A beat of silence. They look at each other in bewilderment, communicating without saying a word. Derek looks behind you, presumably at Spencer. Then he gives you a once-over before he says, “Pretty boy gettin’ a system reboot or what?”

Meanwhile, Emily wordlessly takes your papers and begins looking over them, chuckling at Derek's joke all the while. 

You sigh in response. Derek is smirking at you like he can read your thoughts, however, as if your lack of answer is answer enough—to what, you don’t want to know. Derek has always been one to run wild with scandalous assumptions.

“Aw, don't be like that,” he says. “Come on, what business do you have over here when loverboy’s just one whistle away?”

“What?” you let out a laugh of disbelief. “Is it so wrong to want to seek guidance from you guys—my dear friends—for a change?”

He tsks, his grin teasing. “Nuh-uh, don’t get sweet with us.”

“And may I ask what has inspired this ‘change’?” Emily glances up for a second before continuing her perusal.

You throw your hands up, “Nothing!” You look between the two of them with what you hope is enough light-hearted bafflement to get them off your back.

“Nothing?” Derek tilts his head in obvious suspicion. “The same nothing that dragged your cute little butt to the coffee machine this morning?”

“Oh my god…” you mutter, looking away from him in annoyance. 

“You know, I heard about that, too, and I couldn't believe it,” Emily pipes in. “Pretty weird…”

“Okay, are you done?” you point to your profile, deadpan.

It’s Emily’s turn to grin knowingly as she gathers your papers and holds them out to you. “You’ve got a solid profile there, agent. No notes.”

If it were Spencer, he would have made specific comments on the strong connections you made and the details you cleverly picked up on. He would have some additional insight based on statistics or past cases, and you would go back and forth for a little bit, discussing and dissecting further. Not because you've missed anything, but because Spencer always provides knowledge only he readily has access to.

Damn you miss him.

“Thank you.” You take the documents, ignore Emily and Derek’s sudden barrage of questions and protests, and walk away without another word. 

At your desk, you put everything in order and slip them into their rightful folder. You can’t bring yourself to spare a glance in Spencer’s direction as you walk past him to take the file to JJ’s office.

“Ford County, Kansas,” you announce as you place the file on JJ’s desk. All she’s able to do is look up from her own clutter of papers and folders before you give her a curt smile and turn out of the room. 

You need the day to be over. You need your friends to mind their own business. And you need Spencer to let go of this silly grudge.

《★》

With almost thirty minutes left until your official home time, you cap your pen and close the last folder on your desk. You lean back in your chair and try to stretch every stiff muscle in your upper body. With a satisfied sigh, you stand and begin gathering all your completed work.

“Hey,” you hear Derek call your name from his desk. “You done?”

“Yes, sir!” you chirp, unable to hold back your grin.

“What do you say you help a dear friend out and take one or two of these off my hands?” He gestures to his pile, which contains maybe ten or so more separate folders.

Emily chuckles from her desk, nearly done with her own load. “Smooth.”

You vaguely register that Derek’s referencing your earlier conversation as you make your way over to Hotch and JJ’s offices, all your papers neatly clutched in your arms.

“How many times have I said ‘no’ to that question?” you ask innocently over your shoulder.

You go to JJ first, depositing some of the files on her desk and bidding her a good night. Then you knock on Hotch’s door and deliver the paperwork he requested to be given to him directly. And just like he always does when you finish up early, he lets you leave with an affirmative nod and a ‘see you tomorrow.’

As you’re logging out of your computer and making sure your desk is in order, you peek over at Spencer.

He always finishes his work long before the rest of you, but he hangs around at his desk until you’re ready to leave. Sometimes he looks over your work and offers insight. Sometimes he talks to the others. Sometimes he reads a book. Sometimes he’s on his computer engaging in debates or discussions on different online forums.

When you grab your empty mug and walk past him to the kitchenette, you see him leaning over an open book on his desk. And when you return and reach under your desk for your bag, his book’s packed away and he’s sitting in his chair.

His messenger bag is resting in his lap, but he looks ready to go with the strap secured across his torso. His hands are politely clasped together, and he’s looking at you with the look you were expecting when you initially walked in this morning. His eyes are round and the corners of his lips twitch a little in apparent supplication. 

He hasn't spoken to you at all today besides when he blew you off earlier, and now he wants to pretend everything is normal?

If you didn't know Spencer, you would take his appearance of innocence at face value. He’s genuinely oblivious about a lot of things, but you know when he uses that naivety to evade confrontation.

You also know that Emily and Derek are watching the two of you intently. So, in the interest of not making a scene right here in the office, you simply ask him, “Are you going home now?”

Of course you know he’s going home. But if he’s going to switch up your routine, you can do that, too. If he wants a ride home, he can ask for it.

It’s petty. 

It makes you feel a little bad, especially since this whole thing started with your own (arguably overbearing) protectiveness.

You don't care.

“Yep,” he nods.

You hum, “Okay.”

He continues looking at you, his lips a tight line.

“Well…I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You don't see if he reacts. You look away from him and wave goodbye to Emily and Derek, turning to make your way to the elevators. 

You make it all the way to the parking garage before you hear the echo of footsteps and Spencer calling your name.

You don't stop walking until you're unlocking your car door. You open it and turn to Spencer, who's standing a few feet away and attempting to catch his breath. 

“Did you need something?” You have to fight to hold back a smile as you watch him place his hands on his hips.

He inhales deeply before letting a breath out. “Um, yeah—uh,” he swallows, “can I—will you drive me home?”

You trail your eyes down his body, pretending to think about it. You don't believe he seriously thinks you'll say no, though the way he squirms a little as he stands there betrays at least some level of apprehension.

And suddenly you feel your previous resolve weakening as you look at his face, at those big, brown, timid eyes. Although he doesn't quite deserve your full forgiveness yet, you can't handle being so cold toward him for much longer. 

Spencer Reid makes you soft in ways that are entirely unfair. How is it that he can get away with almost anything and you're inclined to let him?

You hope the tender ache you feel for him doesn't bleed into your words when you tell him, “Of course I will, Spencer. Get inside.”

The little breath of relief and the sincere 'thank you’ he utters as he scurries to the passenger seat makes your lips twitch.

The drive to his apartment is quiet. The music on the radio replaces the lack of conversation, though the air between the two of you is far less tense than yesterday. You pretend not to notice him stealing glances at you, and you pretend to check the sideview mirror for cars so you can sneak glimpses of him. 

You cut the engine once you park on his street. For a moment, neither of you say anything. But again, unlike last night, you don't feel the silence congesting the space between you. 

“Did you want to come inside?” Spencer asks you bashfully.

Despite the way your insides flutter when you meet his entreating eyes, you can't quite stifle the desire to toy with him. Just a little. Especially since he’s dancing around what he really wants to say.

“Do you want me to come inside?”

He blinks, wavering for only a moment. But he grows more sure of himself when he simply says, “Yes.”

《★》

From the moment you had left the car a few hours ago to now, as you shut the bathroom light, you've been second-guessing your approach. 

That is, you're wondering if you should just disregard how Spencer’s been acting since returning from Connecticut; let it go, and keep things moving. After all, you knew then that he was doing it on purpose to get a rise out of you. And it almost did. 

The thing is, you just can't pass up the opportunity to push Spencer until he’s really at his wit’s end. So, if he wants to play this game, then you can play, too.

But when you walk into his bedroom and lay eyes on him all cozy in bed and waiting for you…truly, how can you resist him?

That is what runs through your mind as you pull back the covers and settle into your spot next to him. Like clockwork, he turns off the bedside lamp and adjusts himself so that he’s facing you. 

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't even touch you. And now that you think about it, it's been entirely too long since you've felt him, in every sense of the word.

So, you reach out to him in the dark, first tangling your legs with his, then resting your arm on his waist.

He sighs like you've just unwound him. Your affection after so long (less than 48 hours) encourages him, and he snakes an arm around your hip to pull you closer.

You can't quite see his face, but you can feel the air he exhales. He gets closer to you still, the tip of his nose now digging into your cheek as he breathes you in.

“Missed you,” he mumbles. His lips ghost over the corner of yours, and it would be oh so easy to tilt your head just slightly and finally end both of your suffering. 

You do indeed tip your head up to brush your nose against his, but you hold off on doing anything further. 

“Did you?” Your whisper of breath against his lips makes Spencer part his mouth and grip your hip tighter. He only nods, effectively nuzzling into you.

You slowly slot your lips between his, but you still don't kiss him. Lowly, teasingly, so maddeningly close your lips caress his, you say, “Hmm, you haven't been acting like it…”

You hear and feel his breath hitch. He still doesn't say anything as his lashes flutter shut against your skin.

Then: “Please…” It’s a slow trickle of warm air, from his mouth to yours. 

What you give him can't even be classified as a peck. Your lips briefly and only partially close around his top one before you pull away, grinning against Spencer’s mouth when he quietly huffs and follows you.

Swiftly, you press your lips against his in a chaste kiss, pulling back again before he can process the action. “Please what, baby?”

You peck him again, but you're only able to move a hair’s width away before he fully seals his mouth over yours with a muffled groan. 

You hate to admit it, but your head goes blank enough for you to reciprocate immediately, your body winning out over your mind. Any and all thoughts about wanting to draw this interaction out until Spencer's nearly in tears dissipate as your hand runs up his back and into his hair. 

Spencer hums against you, and perhaps egged on by your fingers curling through his strands and your teeth clacking against his, he rolls his torso on top of yours. His elbows lock tight on either side of you, and he takes advantage of your intertwined legs to slot one of his between yours for more leverage. 

When he hungrily drags his mouth down to your jaw, and then your neck, the oxygen you now have access to manages to reach your brain and dispel the Spencer fog. 

It takes genuine effort for you to tug Spencer by his hair out of the crook of your neck (like he's a mangy street cat you've grabbed by the scruff) and say to him, breathlessly, “Not tonight, Spence.”

You feel him freeze, feel him pant against your skin. He sounds partly dazed, partly concerned when he eventually says, “...What?” 

You’re evil, you decide. You must be, for only a person who is cruel would take pleasure in intentionally winding up their lover just to leave them hanging. 

“Just wanna sleep, baby,” you say. You skirt your hand to the front of Spencer's head to smooth his hair away from his face. “‘M tired.”

Your hand falls away as he drops his face back into the crook of your neck, his whine muffled by you and the pillow beneath your head. He sounds endearingly ridiculous when he asks, “Why?”

You breathe out a laugh, “Why am I tired?” You’re not sure what the smothered noise he makes is meant to communicate, but it ignites the part of you that can never resist teasing Spencer. “Looong day of paperwork, honey. So many files… Maybe I didn't get myself enough coffee.”

For the second time, Spencer goes rigid. Your lips curl upward and you move your hand back to his hair.

The silence stretches on for a few moments, and all the while your fingers continue to comb through Spencer’s locks. Under different circumstances, you're sure the repetitive motion would soothe him right to sleep. 

You don't expect him to respond with anything meaningful, and yet you laugh in surprise when he promptly rolls off of you and, presumably, turns his body to face the opposite way. 

Clearly amused, you ask, “What, you don't have anything for me?”

Predictably, he says nothing, though he does nudge his foot backward to give you a gentle kick. 

You hum contently. “Night, Spence.”

An exaggerated huff is all you get. By the time you're completely out a few minutes later, your head is swimming with unfinished ideas of how else you could mess with Spencer when you wake up. He really made your resolve waver tonight, and after tasting him for that small amount of time, you're seriously considering if this abstinence isn't just punishment for you.

But you're a patient girl. 

If you're struggling, Spencer won't be much better off.

《★》

You don't know what time it is when your eyes open, but you know your alarm hasn't gone off. The room is noticeably lighter now, which is why you're able to see Spencer quietly shutting the door behind him and shuffling back over to the bed.

He’s slipping beneath the covers when he looks at you and registers that you're awake and blinking up at him. He presses his lips together as he lies down, facing you. 

You can tell he isn't sure whether he should say something or go back to sleep. In fact, you aren't sure either. For the sake of just doing something, you whisper, “What time is it?”

Just as quietly, Spencer replies, “Five thirty-nine.”

Both of you continue to look at the other in silence. As you lie there, maybe a foot apart, you slowly reach over to brush his hair back. 

“We still have at least an hour.” Your voice is neutral, like you're commenting on the weather. But between your touch and what you choose to leave unsaid, the implication is there.

Spencer doesn't stop looking into your eyes. “We do.”

Instead of drawing your hand back right away, you trail your fingers down from his temple to his chin. You rest your hand on the mattress and ask, “You tired?”

“Mmm…although fatigue is the most noticeable side effect of getting an insufficient amount of sleep, the issues that arise when one consistently sleeps a small number of hours run far deeper. Considering the fact that I’ve only slept for approximately five hours and twenty-four minutes, and adults ideally need at least seven hours of sleep each night to maintain optimal health, mood, and cognitive capability, it’s safe to say that I haven’t done myself any favours to prepare for the day ahead as well as my life long-term.” He draws his lips into a tight line before adding on, “So, generally speaking, whether I’m tired or not is relatively unimportant, since it's merely a symptom of a whole host of problems that may be afflicting me.” 

You look at him with suppressed amusement. “So what you're saying is you’re feeling wide awake?”

His lips twitch. “I certainly don't feel like going to sleep.”

“Good to know.”

Spencer continues to stare. His eyes roam around your features, then they dart briefly to your hand. 

There's a trace of hesitance when he slightly lifts the blanket with his outstretched arm and asks, “Can you come here?” 

It’s getting predictable now, how pliant you become in spite of your determination otherwise whenever Spencer looks at and speaks to you in that careful, pleading way of his. 

But when a beautiful boy with round eyes and soft lips beckons you closer, you come closer. 

You shuffle into Spencer's waiting embrace, winding your leg over his hip to cling to him as close as humanly possible. As you nose into the dip of skin between his exposed collarbones, you accept then and there that maybe you're not so evil after all. With his chin nestled atop your head and his hands rubbing your back, you think that both of you have had enough.

You sigh blissfully and place a lingering kiss on the hollow of his neck. His smell is somewhat enticing you to go back to sleep, and you flutter your eyes closed just as he murmurs a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

Your lashes brush against his neck. “For what?”

He lets out a breath. “I was…unkind and obnoxious—cold—toward you yesterday.”

“Yeah…” you hum in feigned contemplation, “you were, weren't you?

“I just,” he huffs defensively, “I wanted your attention.” You can feel his fingers pinching the fabric of your shirt. “You know, as juvenile as playing hard to get may sound, it's a researched and well-known psychological strategy that has notable merit. The interplay between desire and frustration creates a sense of intrigue and challenge—it’s human nature to be attracted to the elusive, since we tend to equate value with scarcity.” He swallows. “So I hoped that by disrupting our usual routine and making myself less available, you'd become both curious about and bothered by the abnormality. And do something about it.”

Spencer Reid playing hard to get?

You take in what you had pretty much suspected, and chuckle lowly, “‘Do something about it’?” Your question is asked with a lazy grin, but a touch of something predacious seeps in. “You hoped your indifference would result in some type of reward?”

Spencer takes a quiet, shaky breath, his fingers digging into the space between your shoulder blades. You feel him nod.

With the way warmth flashes low in your pelvis, you mentally give Spencer some credit. If you had to define both of your styles of attraction, intrigue and challenge are strong choices. 

You bite your lip as you use the leg you have curled around Spencer’s hip to roll him onto his back. The hold he has around you loosens as you straddle him, but you keep your face close to his. 

You savour the way he looks at you, your voice velvety as you continue, “Except, you behaved in a way that should warrant punishment more than reward…” Your hand cups the side of his neck, hooking your thumb under his chin to tilt his head back. Your cheek presses against his as you whisper into his ear, “But I bet you don't see a difference between the two, huh?”

“The—uh,” he swallows again, “although the brain’s reward and punishment systems are each comprised of their own distinct, interconnected regions, they're not entirely separate from each other. So I suppose I…”

He trails off as you sit up, scooting backward so that you're tightly seated on his semi-hard cock. You don't move, but the fabric barrier is so thin between you two that there’s little need for much more.

“You what?” you grin at him. 

He utters your name thickly, unwilling to say more as your hands caress the sides of his clothed stomach.

“I’m curious, Doctor Reid, on what observations you’ve made of me regarding the interplay you mentioned between frustration and desire.” You lean forward. “Did your little psychology exercise work? I’m sure you’ve been able to sense my frustration, but what of my desire?”

His hands find their way to your hips, squeezing as he says, with as much steadiness as he can muster, “Well, considering the fact that you’re perched on my lap and those shorts aren't thick enough to hide anything, I’d say I’m sensing your desire loud and clear.”

You quietly gasp when he uses his grip on you to hold you down as he presses his hips up. You’re certain he can feel the hot pulse between your thighs, just as you can feel his growing hardness. 

Yeah, no. The scheming can be put on hold for now. 

“And what do you think, doc?” you ask before you lose your restraint completely. “Should we do something about it?”

He lets out a ragged breath when you grind down on him. “Are you…going to mess with me again?”

You plant both hands on either side of his head, your grinning face hovering over his. “Not unless you want me to.”

The silence is deafening as he blinks once. Twice. A third time. He’s either stunned by the molten heat between your bodies or he’s really pondering your response. 

Then he’s cursing under his breath and smashing his mouth against yours. You don't waste time parting your lips to allow his tongue to connect with yours. Both of you moan in satisfaction and relief, the air between you hot and moist. 

One of his hands slip beneath your shirt so he can dig his fingers into the skin of your waist. He uses the other to push himself into a sitting position with you still on top, neither of you pausing the downright violent collision of your lips for a second.

He helps you roll your hips against his, and finally you detach from one another, allowing Spencer to openly pant into your mouth. You take the opportunity to begin kissing and nipping at his flushed neck.

You continue to grind against each other, filling the air with heavy breathing and whines of pleasure, until your neediness urges you to move things along. Both yours and Spencer’s hands are fumbling with the waistband of your shorts when it happens. 

You freeze, with your mouth open against the crook of his neck, at the sound of a ringtone.

This job. Even when you're in the process of spiraling into the depths of your lust, the sound of your phone ringing at an odd hour of the day will have you hurrying to find out what’s happening. 

Before you're fully aware that your body is pulling away from Spencer and clambering off his lap, you’re picking up your cellphone from the nightstand and staring at JJ’s incoming call. 

You grumble in deep disappointment and hear Spencer flop back against the pillows behind you, letting out his own cry of frustration.  

You take a moment to catch your breath before you answer, “JJ.”

She must be able to hear the irritation in your voice because she sounds especially apologetic when she says, “We got a case. Montana, four women killed. We’re leaving as soon as everyone gets here, we’ll debrief on the jet. Is Spence with you?”

“Yeah, I got him,” you sigh.

“See you soon.”

You plop your phone back on the nightstand and sigh again. Turning your head over your shoulder, you see Spencer adorably lying on his back with all four limbs outstretched like a starfish. He mournfully looks up at the ceiling with an even more adorable pout. 

You turn fully so that you can lean down and give Spencer a kiss on the nose. He scrunches it and looks at you with a mix of longing and dismay.

“Duty calls, baby,” you whisper to him, leaning down again to give him a chaste kiss. 

He sighs as you stand, but he doesn't move from his position. Unable to resist, you reach toward his bulge and playfully swipe your hand over it like you're ruffling a head of hair. 

He yelps your name as his legs jump up comically, almost curling himself into a ball as he angles his body away from you. 

“Come on, Spencer, we got a killer to catch!” You leave the room cackling.

Although it wasn't your intention to deny him again, especially when you yourself were looking forward to the release…you can't help but think this interruption is a sign. 

A sign that Spencer is still in some sort of detention. That he’s supposed to wait a little longer.

Yes. That’s it. It’s the universe’s bidding.

You just hope it’ll all be worth it.

《★》

You have to hand it to Spencer’s compartmentalization skills. Over the course of the few days it took to work on the Montana case, he did a decent job of not alerting the team to the reality that he has been steadily losing his mind. Because while the pre-case interruption had obviously made Spencer more restless than usual, you hadn’t been making it any easier. As per usual. 

You hadn’t gone back to the silent treatment strategy and neither did he. In fact, when you had walked into the round table room with Spencer in tow around half an hour after JJ’s call, and he pulled out your chair for you like he always does, Emily immediately picked up on the resolved tension between the two of you. She was the only one sitting at the table then, and you were a little relieved you didn’t need to walk into a room with multiple curious eyes. 

She didn’t say anything, though you were sure she wanted to. But you caught her eye as you sat down, and she quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

You shrugged noncommittally, and as the rest of the team began trickling in, it wasn’t long before you all got into work mode. 

Yes, there had been very little room for distraction as you eventually landed in Whitefish, Montana, and got situated with the local police. Your days were full of victim family interviews, visiting locations of relevance, following up on possible leads, and other far more important things than your and Spencer’s desires. 

That has always been the number one rule, firmly established at the beginning of your relationship: never let it get in the way of work. While you’re out on a case, you and Spencer keep things strictly professional. No flirting over takeout in the conference room, no touching while looking over the geographical profile, and absolutely no sex in each other’s hotel rooms—visiting each other to discuss the case or just to chat are fine, but nothing further.

Both of you are always very well-behaved. You’re both good at never crossing that line, save for the occasional affectionate shoulder rub or soft smile. 

And the Whitefish case was no different, for the first two days. You worked alongside Spencer like normal. The visit to the ME’s office went off without a hitch; you examined evidence together no problem. Generally speaking, your working hours were nothing short of productive.

That being said, you can’t say you were surprised when, at the end of the third day, you toed dangerously along that line of professionalism. And of course it had been after Hotch sent everyone back to the hotel, during the hours where you were not strictly two working professionals.

Spencer had been sitting on the bed in your room, thumbing through a lengthy police report on one of the earlier victims, when he quietly asked, “Are you avoiding me?”

You turned around from where you stood at the little desk against the wall, bewildered. “What?”

He sighed as he tossed the document to the side, where it landed atop the other scattered folders on the mattress. “Maybe avoiding isn't the right word, but…I just…I feel like you're…I feel like I’m…not with you enough?” 

His entire face scrunched like his own words confused him, and he looked to you as if you could explain his predicament for him. 

You placed the evidence photo you were holding behind you before you leaned against the edge of the desk to consider his response. “We’ve been paired together for nearly the entire case.”

“Yeah—no, I know that, it’s just,” he half-laughed, half-scoffed at himself, “I guess I wish I had more of you?”

You softened at the quietness of his words. “Spencer…” 

“I know, it's, like, incredibly unprofessional and selfish of me to say that while we're literally in the middle of an on-going investigation—although, I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s been hindering my ability to work, exactly, as I’m sure you can attest to based on—”

“Okay, Spencer baby,” you butted in as you stepped toward him. He immediately pressed his lips together as he looked up at you. You put your hands on his shoulders and gave him a gentle smile. “I know what you’re saying.”

He sighed as he rubbed his face with his hands. “This is so embarrassing, I can’t believe this—my own inane need for your attention—is getting to me right now.”

You laughed a little as you rubbed his shoulders reassuringly. “It’s not embarrassing, honey, it’s…” You saw his eyebrow quirk up in question from behind his fingers. “It’s understandable. I mean, it has been a while since we’ve really had each other, huh?” You hadn’t meant anything by it, but you involuntarily stepped closer enough so that your knees brushed his.

“Don’t remind me,” Spencer grumbled into his palms. He let his hands drop into his lap as he peered up at you through his lashes.

As you stood there above him in the quiet of your hotel room, you were suddenly much too aware of how his cardigan felt under your slow, wandering hands. You were very aware of the way your eyes flickered momentarily to his lips. And you were certainly aware of Spencer's knees parting just the slightest amount as he continued to hold your gaze. 

With a sharp inhale, you adjusted your grip on his shoulders. “Hey, it’s getting a little late, and I think we’re both a little distracted right now. We’ll keep working tomorrow when we’re better rested.”

After a brief pause, he nodded in resignation. You made room for Spencer to stand and gather the files he had brought into his arms. 

As you walked him over to your door, you let out a quiet breath. Your palms were clammy, and your chest had begun to bloom with warmth. 

Nothing had happened between the two of you. 

The fact that you had wanted to mentally tack on ‘yet’ to the end of that statement was most definitely not promising, however.

And that weakness in resolve is precisely why you should have declined Spencer’s request when he turned to you at your unlocked door. It was an innocent ask, an ordinary plea for the one private display of affection you allow when you visit each other’s rooms during a case. 

“Kiss?”

When you met Spencer halfway, you had every intention to pull back, open the door, and bid him a good night. That’s what you always do. That’s what you have always agreed on. That’s what was supposed to happen after your lips had separated from his. 

But…your hand, with a mind of its own, snaked up his arm to cradle the back of his neck and tugged him against you once more. 

The way your lips met his then was not the fleeting kiss that you had shared just a second before. He let out a grateful hum as his mouth parted against yours, rules be damned. You stroked the skin of his neck as you kissed him over and over again, and you thought to yourself that Spencer was indeed correct about how woefully little attention you had paid to each other on account of the case.

The case. You had been in the middle of saying goodbye to Spencer because you both needed to go to bed so you could continue working on the case in the morning. 

Right.

The sound of paper hitting the floor served as a more immediate cue to stop before things progressed further than they had already. You jerked away from Spencer like a gun had gone off. If you hadn't suddenly taken on such a serious mood then, you would have laughed at the way Spencer stumbled into you, not quite aware that you weren't supporting his weight anymore. Once you were both steady, you quickly bent down to pick up the files Spencer had dropped.

He cursed under his breath, apology laced in the way he said your name. “That was—sorry, for getting so carried away.”

Spencer hastily opened the door as you handed the files back to him. With a flustered wave of your hand, you replied, “My fault, too, Spence. But we’ll finish this case tomorrow and maybe actually get somewhere once we’re finally home, yeah?”

And the case had indeed been resolved the following day. Although, capturing the unsub, 28-year-old Luis Lowry, had left you with a shallow knife wound in the arm and quite the bruise on your jaw after he had knocked you down during the final pursuit. 

You had been with Spencer and Rossi on the road when Garcia sent you his place of operation: an abandoned community centre just a few minutes away. The three of you, armed and donned in your kevlar vests, were the first to arrive. The unspoken plan was for Rossi to survey the outside while you and Spencer each entered the building from the front and the back doors.

You had been sneaking down a cluttered hallway when Lowry jumped out at you from a storage closet, and your only saving grace had been the fact that he only had a knife. He sliced at your bicep, and though you were able to knock the knife out of his hand, he was quick with his other one. Your head snapped to the side as he landed a punch to your jaw, the force of which had you toppling into a nearby heap of dusty classroom chairs. Dazed, you hadn't realized he wrenched your gun out of your hand until you blearily watched him flee in the direction you had come from.

Before you could sit up, Spencer’s voice boomed down the hallway from the other end, sand and dirt crunching under his feet as he skirted around boxes and shelves to get to you. 

“He got my gun,” you croaked when he kneeled down in front of you. “Surprised me, ran to the back, the gymnasium.”

“You’re bleeding.” His brows furrowed as he zeroed in on the cut on your arm and the mark on your face. 

He reached out to you, but you waved him off. “I’m fine. Just wait for the others. If Rossi hasn't found him outside, then he's still in here somewhere.”

With a quiet huff, Spencer stood and looked down the hall. 

“Spencer,” you warned. You had already known what he was thinking. “Wait for the others. He has a gun and places to hide. Don’t.”

But he had just shaken his head. He hadn’t even spared a glance at you before he stalked to the end of the hallway and turned out of sight, ignoring your sharp whispers all the way. 

You strained your ears for any noise as you swiftly got to your feet. You spotted Lowry’s knife on the floor and picked it up, just in case. But you hadn't had much time to chase after Spencer before you heard everything happening, simultaneously and quickly.

There had been the sound of approaching police sirens followed by cars screeching to a stop. Reassurance had deceived you then. Because a moment later, shouting and scuffling erupted from the gym’s direction. Then a gunshot just a millisecond later. Then another. Then nothing.

If Lowry had managed to catch you off guard and strongarm you with just his own agility and a simple knife…

Your feet thudded against the ground as you raced to the back of the building, heartbeat hammering in your ears. You heard shouts coming from outside and accompanying footsteps as other officers made their way through the doors.

You were barely able to feel the sting of your wound as you knocked into the doorway of the gymnasium in your haste to get to Spencer. The gym, much like the rest of the community centre that you had seen, was a mess of rubbish and other random items. You saw Rossi and more officers running in before you spotted half of someone’s body on the ground behind a large wooden ball cart.

Your first thought had been, Are those Spencer’s shoes? Your second one had been, Why isn’t he moving?

The chill that had trickled through your body was quickly replaced by relief when Spencer’s head popped into view. He got to his feet, one hand clutching his gun and the other holding his side. He looked a little ruffled, but there was no blood. He was completely fine. 

You tried to catch your breath as you stormed over, equal parts grateful that Spencer was unharmed, and frustrated that he had done it again—the needless heroics. And when he immediately looked for you amidst the other officers hauling a wounded-but-still-conscious Lowry toward the exit, you had wondered if it was just out of concern for your injuries or if he knew it, too: that you were quietly simmering with exasperation over his actions yet again. 

Except this time, Spencer had acted on your behalf. This wasn’t a situation where he had wanted to help the unsub. No, he had operated on anger as opposed to empathy. And that was worse. 

For the short amount of time the BAU had spent wrapping things up in Whitefish afterward, that blend of emotions persisted. You had allowed Spencer to direct you to a medic outside the community centre, but you dismissed him once you were being examined. In the car back to the police precinct, you hadn’t stopped his thigh from pressing into yours, though you refused to join in when everyone discussed his takedown of Lowry. And on the jet ride home, you had sat beside him in your usual spot on the sofa, but you kept your headphones on the entire time.

Once you had made it back to Quantico and finished everything for the night, you hadn’t even looked at Spencer when you threw a ‘You coming?’ over your shoulder on your way out of the bullpen. He had followed without a word, and he hadn’t said anything either when you took the route to your apartment instead of his. 

You were reminded vividly of the last time you and Spencer had driven home after a case. Not even a week had passed since then, and the context of the tense air pervading the interior of the car was very much the same. But this time, neither you nor Spencer seemed to be in an argumentative mood—with Spencer seemingly more bashful of his risky behaviour and you thinking over what was bound to happen once you made it home.

And now, as you walk into your apartment with Spencer quietly trailing in after you, your entire body is prickling with anticipation. You can hear and feel your heart beating as you place your bag by the door, take off your shoes, and pad over to the kitchen. 

The only sounds that cut through the relentless silence are you pouring yourself a glass of water and Spencer’s careful footsteps as he comes to linger a little ways behind you. You turn and lean against the counter to face him. 

For a moment, Spencer only watches as you take a sip from your glass, your eyebrows lazily raised in expectation. His fingers drum a random pattern against his legs, eyes blinking irregularly like he’s trying to pick one out of dozens of things to say. 

Finally, he lets out a sharp breath through his nose. He says your name imploringly, “I can admit that what happened with Luis Lowry was maybe a bit reckless on my part, but I…” He trails off at the almost bored look on your face. “...You don’t want to hear any of that right now, do you?”

You shrug.

Spencer looks down for a moment. When he drags his eyes back up to meet yours, he looks so pitifully helpless that you can’t stop the small chuckle that leaves your lips. The sound is both amused yet devoid of humour. It’s somewhat bitter in a way that makes Spencer’s breathing change rhythm. 

You allow him to stew in his discomfort for a few beats before you tell him simply, “Go sit on the bed.”

It takes a few seconds for Spencer to determine what to make of your request and the menacingly suggestive timbre of your voice. But what he does know is that you're looking at him with a glint in your eye, stirring something in his belly that has been neglected for far too long. The sensation is enough to elicit a funny little noise out of him, and he clumsily hastens to your bedroom.

You take your time refilling your glass before you saunter over to the door Spencer left ajar. He attentively watches you close it and place your cup on the nightstand. He tries to read your face as you stand in front of him the same way you had last night in the hotel room. 

With the way your eyes rove over his rigid figure like you’re mentally taking him apart, however, Spencer suspects you’re not going to go as easy on him—and in that deep corner of his mind that entertains his most private thoughts and desires that he hesitates to share even with you, he hopes he's right. 

Heat flares up his neck when he feels himself twitch at the thought.

“You seem tense,” you say as you step closer. You’re not exactly gentle when you weave your fingers through his hair and use your grip to pull his head back. His throat bobs, but he doesn't say anything in response, so you ask, “What’re you thinking about?”

From this angle, you can see how dilated Spencer’s pupils are as he blinks up at you dumbly. The word devour flashes into your mind.

Spencer’s voice is weak when he answers, “You.” He swallows before he continues with more intensity, “I’m thinking about how much I want—need—you.” And then his voice becomes desperate again when he adds on, “Please.”

You tilt your head to the side. “What do you need me to do, Spencer?”

Breathless. Maybe a little hesitant, but just for a split second. “Your worst.”

Spencer isn't sure how he didn't notice before, but he sure as hell notices your other hand on his belt now. He’s physically unable to look away from your face as you unbuckle him one-handed (a skill he is both impressed and wildly turned-on by). He exhales a long breath when his belt drops to the floor. He wants to kiss you stupid.

You release your grip on his hair as you step back. “Everything off, and lie down.”

As much as you enjoy undressing Spencer yourself, you like watching his fine motor skills decline in front of your very eyes. You slowly work some of your own clothing off as Spencer simultaneously fights with his tie, sweater vest, watch, slacks, dress shirt, and socks, as if he doesn't even know where to begin. His fingers are ungraceful, his movements jerky.

By the time he’s bare, you've only slipped off your bra from under your tank top (a careful process, what with your bandaged arm) and taken off your pants. But your lack of nudity is by design. 

Spencer eyes you questioningly but ultimately says nothing. He’s feeling unbearably hot under your gaze, and he doesn't want to do anything you might not like. Yet. So he quickly lays his head on the pillows and waits for your next move.

You can tell Spencer’s careful not to move his hands away from his sides as you sidle up to the bed. You can't resist the wide-eyed look he’s giving you, so you bend down to give him a few fleeting kisses. You like that he still fights to keep his hands to himself, even when you're pulling away too quickly for his liking. His head lifts up to follow, but you disregard the whine he fails to restrain in favour of straddling him instead. 

But you don't sit facing him. You hook your legs on either side of his torso and settle lightly onto his chest, your palms flat against the pale plane of his stomach to steady yourself. You hear him wince just the tiniest amount when you press against the reddened skin where Lowry had elbowed him. You’ll try to avoid that area for now. 

Spencer's hands hover around your hips, and you tell him promptly, “No touching, baby.”

He scoffs but obeys anyway, spreading his arms out to the side to grasp the sheets instead. 

You bring your attention to the growing length between Spencer’s thighs, resting mostly hard beside his belly button. You’ve told Spencer multiple times before, usually followed by his immensely flustered eye roll, that you think his dick is, for lack of a better word, endearing. Most days you're perfectly content with simply holding it in your hand, rubbing the skin under the sensitive head, keeping it warm in your mouth. He’s so responsive, vocally and physically. It’s like he’s made to be tested to his limits.

You graze your hand lightly over him from tip to base, then cup as much of him as you can more snugly just to hear him gasp. And just to mess with him, you hold him at the base and wave him from side to side.

With an undercurrent of embarrassment, Spencer says your name in complaint, and you laugh at how entirely non-threatening he sounds. 

But you acquiesce anyway. You take him firmly in one hand and begin slowly pumping him, dry. Every time you move your hand upward, the soft skin of his shaft engulfs the rosy head of his cock. And every deliberate downward stroke pulls the skin back to expose him once more. Your hand doesn’t glide—it squeezes, tugs, drags. Your warm grip is something, but you know it’s not nearly enough.

“Oh…please,” Spencer whispers. His legs have been pretty still so far, but you can see the muscles in his thighs tense with every move you make.

He’s exceedingly hard and throbbing by now. You stop your movements and hold him steady at his base once more, the head of his cock now moistened by the few beads of precum that have leaked out. You reach out with your other hand to scoop up a fresh drop with your finger, pulling your hand away to marvel at the connective string that stretches between you.

Rhetorically, you ask him, “You think you’re ready, Spence?” 

You hear him eagerly hum in affirmation as you bend forward and release a trickle of spit right onto him. With the added lubricant, your hand moves much more smoothly as you pump him with more vigour. He releases a loud, drawn-out groan, breathy and full of relief.

After a few short minutes, Spencer rasps out, “Oh, I’m not gonna last much longer.” He’s leaking like a faucet now, and your hand is so wet and so warm, and it’s been so long since you’ve had him like this—you can’t blame him for how quickly he’s coming apart, can you?

“How much longer, Spence?” you ask in amusement. 

His chest rises and falls rapidly beneath you, and his answer is spoken between harsh breaths and poorly controlled moans. “Not—mmm—oh please, ‘m so close, so so so close.”

When he can no longer say anything comprehensible, you ask him, “Are you gonna cum, Spencer?”

His hips are restless as he blurts out, “Yeah, yes yes, I’m gonna—!”

You snatch your hand away. 

The devastation is immediate as Spencer’s hips buck high into the air to chase your touch, his heels digging into the mattress. He gasps a genuinely agonized, “Oh, no, no, oh, please—” He repeats your name in between appeals, his cock a furious shade of red as it twitches against his stomach. 

Your grin is wicked as you speak over his aimless babbling. “Every time you feel like you’re gonna cum, you have to tell me. Understand?” 

With the state of his mind at the moment, you're not surprised when he has to take a second to collect himself before he responds with a forlorn, “...I understand.”

You don't do anything for a few moments to allow his cock some reprieve, then you carefully take him into your hand again to stroke him slowly. 

He begins panting again less than a minute later, and when you give him a squeeze closer to his tip, he grits out, “Closecloseclose.”

You let go of him for a second time and his entire body goes limp in frustration. Except for his cock, of course, which is once again twitching desperately.

And again, once you deem Spencer far enough away from immediately blowing his load, you circle your fingers around him to recommence your firm caresses. 

Spencer had been lucid enough to keep count of how many times you brought him to the edge the first few times you did so. But after he had to alert you that he was on the brink of orgasm just so you could take it away for the eighth time, he decided to stop paying attention���decided to stop thinking, for that matter. 

At one point, he had even tried to be sneaky. He attempted to curb his sounds so that you wouldn't know he was close. But you know his body’s tells, and he received a sharp slap to the thigh when you realized what he tried to do.

Spencer is operating purely on physical sensation now, his brain capacity limited to the now purplish-red stiffness drooling over his pelvis. That’s why he doesn't realize you’re asking him a question until you're softly rubbing the skin around the place he wishes you would touch. He heaves a great sigh, then croaks, “...Huh?”

You grin and reply in a gentle voice, “I said, how are you feeling, honey?”

Spencer feels like a lit stick of dynamite, not just because he’s physiologically close to exploding but because his mind is completely fried. He feels like he’s been in some type of purgatory for hours. He also feels like crying out of want and frustration. 

But all he mutters is, “Feel like Jell-O.”

You laugh brightly and, with a feathery touch, skim your fingers along his shaft. “Well then, I think maybe it’s time to give you what you deserve. What do you say?”

You start your movements up again before Spencer can properly signal his assent, though the enthusiastic yelp that follows and the way he spreads his legs is answer enough for you.

With every edge you’ve brought him to, the interim between stroking him and having to stop has grown shorter and shorter, to the point where no matter how long you wait for his impending orgasm to subside, he can only handle being touched for a few seconds at a time. 

This is why you're working him painfully slowly now, so that you can make this final stretch last for as long as possible. You marvel at how stiff he is, the heat of his skin, how painfully engorged his tip is. Every time you inch your grip upward, you swipe your thumb delicately over his glistening slit. And when you reach the base of him, you give his balls an attentive squeeze.

Because he’s fully expecting to finally, finally, cum, Spencer isn't discouraged by your relaxed pace. He’s loud as he moans, groans, and hums in anticipation, that sweet release approaching fast. 

In fact, as soon as you speed up by a fraction, he’s gone. Spencer calls out your name, “Please—don’t stop—oh, I’m—!”

Wickedly, cruelly, but very much intentionally, you immediately halt and instead squeeze the shaft of his cock in your fist. The sound Spencer makes low in his throat is feral and full of a sense of betrayal as he digs his feet into the mattress, his legs bent and his hips thrusting uselessly, frantically toward you. 

It takes a bit of effort to maintain your grip, especially with his torso attempting to rise beneath you, but your hand remains frozen in place as he yells out, “Hah—no—you—agh, fuck!” 

You watch eagerly as his cock throbs in your hand, pulsing as though it is fighting to escape your grasp. For about five seconds, nothing happens. Then a few pathetic spurts of cum land below his belly button, not as much as he normally releases and especially not enough for how long he's gone without ejaculation. 

The one regret you have about your position is that you can't see the look on his face as he gets what he deserves.

But you sure as hell can hear the shuddering breath he takes as he comes down from his extremely short-lived high, his lower body sinking flat in defeat after a final twitch of his hips. His cock, still hard as you let go, lifts off his stomach in search of stimulation. Then it joins the rest of Spencer's body in dissatisfied stillness.

Spencer’s legs jerk a little when you smooth your palms along the sides of his stomach, his hips, his thighs. Your touch and your sweet coos, though patronizing after what you subjected him to, are so loving that he melts. But he’s also still reeling from disappointment and your meanness. His head is muddled with emotion and neurotransmitters that have no business being there, and he wants to touch you and bite you and lick you, and he still needs more, so much more—

Spencer covers his face with his palms when he feels tears springing to his eyes and a whimpery sob slipping past his lips. If he had the mental capability right now to rationalize this unexpected physiological reaction, he would. Instead, he simply wipes his eyes and takes a few watery breaths to calm himself. 

At the sound of his sniffling, you climb off his chest and turn to sit next to him instead. You rub a soothing line across his stomach and gently ask, “Hey, are you okay?”

He keeps his eyes covered, embarrassed and suddenly shy under your attention. He feels ridiculous, because you’ve never made him want to hide during moments of vulnerability before. And from the characteristic sincerity in your voice, now is no different. Spencer attributes his bashfulness to the fact that there's something objectively comical in the contrast between his emotional sensitivity and the obscene erection he’s still sporting.

“Yeah,” Spencer heaves through a breathy laugh, eyes still moist, voice still thick, and face still covered. “You're just—you’re doing a good job.”

Your brows draw together. “What do you mean?”

“At doing your worst,” he tells you, sliding his hands away so that he can look directly at your puzzled expression. Just seeing your face makes him feel infinitely better, especially since you look adorable when you're confused. “I’m feeling sufficiently punished right now.”

When you pick up on the humour laced in his voice, you roll your eyes lightheartedly. “Oh, you think that was my worst?”

He widens his eyes theatrically, mostly joking when he says, “Okay, well now I’m scared.”

You know he isn't serious, but you don't want to completely dismiss how he was feeling just a second ago. You give him a small smile and ask him, “Do you want to keep going?”

Spencer returns your smile with his own gooey, tender one. Even though he doesn’t know what else you may possibly have planned, if you do indeed plan to show him your real ‘worst’, he trusts you. He craves you. Maybe it’s the obsessive part of him talking when he thinks to himself that to be brought to ruins at your hands is always an honour. 

So, his voice is drenched in reverence as he replies, “Please.”

As a sign of your gratitude, you lean down and connect your lips to his. He sighs into the kiss, gingerly lifting his hand to cup your cheek while being wary of the bruise on your jaw. You grin against his mouth, and he grins back, his tongue poking out to lick a playful stripe from the bottom of your gaping mouth to the top. Your giggle is muffled by Spencer hungrily capturing your lips with his, and you meet him in the middle again and again. 

With his mind returning to its earlier haziness, Spencer’s eyes are glossy for a new reason once you eventually pull away. He swipes his thumb across your spit-slick lips in wonder before he looks into your eyes patiently. 

The fondness in his gaze makes nervousness briefly flicker in your stomach. You turn your face into his palm to kiss it and also to break eye contact for one merciful second. 

You’re laughably timid when you tell him, “I’m gonna sit on your pretty face, and after you make me cum, I promise I’ll give you what you really do deserve. Okay?”

Spencer’s neck turns red at the vulgarity of your words and the image they create, though he does appreciate your directness. He can do nothing but nod rapidly, then supply an equally eager, “Okay.”

You give him one more pleased peck before you rise. You maneuver your body so that you're once again facing the foot of the bed, then you carefully plant your knees on either side of Spencer's head.

As you hover above him, Spencer takes in the wet patch on your panties. You’re patient, waiting, as you let him trace a finger along the dampness. His breath is moist and hot against your inner thighs, and you let out a surprised giggle when his head jumps up to plant a chaste kiss on your covered slit. 

This time, when Spencer winds his other arm around your thigh, you allow him. For a minute, it seems like Spencer’s just lying there, breathing in your scent and prodding at you just to tease. Then he hooks your panties to the side and uses it to tug you down. 

You can't help but gasp when your aching cunt seals over Spencer’s eager mouth. You pitch forward at the shudder that zips through you, your palms landing close to his sternum. For a few seconds, you're paralyzed by pleasure, the neglect that you’ve been experiencing finally catching up to you, too. After you realize you're holding your breath, it takes a conscious effort to shakily inhale and exhale.

“Fuck, Spence—mmm,” you stutter out. Your eyes flutter shut, and your lips can’t decide whether they want to be pinched between your teeth or parted in bliss. “Missed this so much, you're so good.”

Spencer’s strained hum sends a buzz through you that makes your back arch. Although your hips, with a mind of their own, try to set their own grinding rhythm, Spencer’s grasp on you is tight. You can do nothing but sit there, shaking, and take what he gives you as his tongue washes over your engorged clit. 

And the sound is lewd. Wash truly is the right word to describe what Spencer's doing to you and how it’s filling the room. He doesn't try to be gentle or (you'd dare to say) kind in how he licks and sucks at your most sensitive bundle of nerves. It’s all wet, wet, wet lip smacks as he catches your essence on his tongue, uses that tongue to carve a searing path through your folds, and wolfishly swallows you just to open his mouth for more.

Your moans become staccato when he starts moving his head side to side, up and down in time with the swipe of his tongue. You're so far gone that you don't pay any mind to how you're messily sliding all over Spencer’s face, not when you’re busy pairing the conjured visual of his dainty nose to the sinful nub dipping shallowly into your entrance. 

But the thing that does it for you is the sight through bleary eyes of Spencer’s writhing legs clenching together as his heavy cock repeatedly jerks into the air and thumps back against his stomach. The keen roll of his hips, the clear fluid once more oozing from his tip, the endless purrs against your cunt—

Through a hard swallow to alleviate your dry throat, you babble out, “I’m gonna cum, Spence, oh god oh god oh—!”

You can’t even make a sound as soon as you feel that first all-consuming wave of ecstasy, once again paralyzed by how good it feels. Your nails dig and scratch at Spencer’s skin as your mouth drops open in what might pass as pure disbelief more than a silent scream, because it’s like your brain is incapable of comprehending such a blissful flood of sensation 

Then, finally, you’re able to take a breath and release a raw, ragged wail, deep from your gut. At the same time, your hands slide off Spencer’s torso and land on the mattress instead as every part of you violently quivers. Your elbows threaten to buckle at the same time that your head bows.  

Your body doesn’t know whether it wants to jump away from Spencer’s relentless lapping or allow him to eat you whole if he so pleases. But you don’t seem to have any say regardless as he tightens his grip on your panties and coils his arm tighter around your thigh to secure your position above him.

You squirm. “Ah—Spencer!” 

Okay, now you’re really trying to angle your hips away from the sting of overstimulation, but you’re still weak and Spencer’s ignoring you. He’s loud beneath you, moaning and totally lost in his own insatiable world. You paw at his arm, but when he doesn’t budge, you resort to something a little more forceful.

You draw your hand close to his cock and deliver two decent slaps.

The first one makes him jolt and cry out against you. The second one makes him bring his knees up and loosen his grip. At last, you unsteadily dismount and plop down next to him.

Both of you are panting like a pair of dogs, gratefully accepting the unobstructed flow of oxygen. You look at Spencer, who has his eyes closed and his mouth parted, as though he were the one who experienced such pleasure. His chest heaves, and his face…

God, his beautiful, delicate face is soaked.

Spencer may be adverse to germs, but he never seems to mind the scandalous mess you can make of him. You bite your lip to bar a moan at the sight of your slick smeared across his chin, reaching nearly all the way up to his eyes. You laugh through your nose—he reminds you of a sleepy, sated puppy ready to drift away.

His mouth curls into a smile, cheekbones popping out enticingly, when he feels you wiping his face with your fingers. 

“What’s so funny?” Your voice is slightly hoarse, your tone jokingly defensive.

His eyes are still closed and his cheeks are still dimpled. “I’m not laughing.”

“You’re gloating.”

“Yes, well, you’re currently ridding my face of the residue from the insanely life-altering orgasm I gave you.”  

You love when Spencer gets cocky like this, but it simply wouldn't do if he knew you loved it. Who knows what he'd try with you then.

“Maybe so…” you reply coyly. Your touch turns playful as you trace the bridge of his nose. “I guess you've proved yourself to be very deserving.”

Spencer’s eyes pop open at that. He looks at you blankly before taking a glance down at his unyielding erection. He had forgotten about himself and his earlier want in the heat of, well, you. Now, he remembers clearly, feels the stiff ache from being hard for so long.

“Oh,” he mumbles, and like a switch has flipped, his bravado falters and he’s at your mercy once more. He thinks it's ludicrous how effortlessly you can knock him out of rhythm.

“Oh,” you repeat in amusement, your voice silk and your movements silkier as you pull your hand away from his face and crawl on top of his thighs. You wonder if he, too, can feel the stickiness of your panties as you settle just above his knees. You snort when Spencer quickly reaches for an extra pillow, fluffing them so that he can prop himself up a little. The thought makes your still-sensitive cunt flutter: he wants to watch.

Your eyes don't stray from his face as you rub circles into the skin around where he’s aching for you most. His entire body is coated in a light sheen of sweat. His lower stomach still has the drying remnants of his earlier release. He’s watching your wandering hands with great focus, but his eyes meet yours when you carefully run your fingers along the bruise on his side. His mouth parts as you bend down to plant a soft kiss on the reddened skin, your gaze holding his the entire time.

Spencer feels heat spread up his neck and over his cheeks. He closes his eyes because now you’re being extra sweet, and the way you're looking at him is almost too much to handle.

Spencer’s gasp is quiet when you show him a little more sweetness by taking his neglected length in your hand and beginning a slow stroking pattern. He bites his lip and opens his eyes again to watch as you pause to gather the cum and precum leftover on his stomach, spreading it over his cock to slide your hand up and down him more smoothly. Your touch brings relief, but you're moving slower than Spencer needs.

“Please,” he mumbles with a small pout, “you promised not to tease.”

Your lips quirk up. “Well, I don't think I promised that…” At Spencer’s whiny groan, you clarify more soberly, “I’m not teasing, I’m just working you up, baby, can't go fast right away.”

“But I’ve been worked up for at least an hour now,” he argues. And to his credit, the uncomfortable-looking dark purplish hue of his cock speaks to just how much blood flow it’s been getting for far too long. In fact, you wouldn't be surprised if he faints any minute now. 

To avoid any sudden losses of consciousness, you pick up the pace a little, earning a grateful sigh from Spencer. 

“‘At least an hour’?” you ask jokingly. “You can't be more specific, doc? No minutes?”

“Well, apologies for my lapse in temporal integrity—you turned my brain into little more than raw meat with electrical impulses not too long ago.”

You tsk, “Damn, I was aiming for total brain soup.”

The laugh Spencer lets out morphs into a low groan when you clasp your other hand around him, working him with that dual twist motion you know drives him crazy. You're still moving at a leisurely pace, but now you’re consistently rubbing over his weeping tip. You can see in his half-lidded eyes, in the unseeing glaze making its way over them, that he's getting lost in pleasure once more.

Of course, Spencer was right. As always. He really has been so worked up for such a long time, there’s no way he’s going to last even two more minutes, no matter how slow you choose to move. 

“I’m wary of telling you…” he trails off when you speed up some more, thighs flexing beneath you. He breathes out your name, then continues thinly, “...how…good this feels.”

One of your hands kneads his balls while the other keeps stroking. “Why, honey? You think I’m gonna do something?”

He screws his eyes shut and shakes his head at your sarcastically innocent tone, at the grin he can hear without seeing. “I’m worried that…mmm…you're going to do nothing.”

“You don't want me to stop, huh?”

He shakes his head again and opens his eyes to look at you pleadingly. His fists are clenched at his sides, and he’s biting into his swollen lip, as though he’s too nervous to show any signs of enjoyment.

You drop your teasing tone and tell him earnestly, “You can loosen up, Spence, I’ve got you, I swear.”

Maybe Spencer sees the truth gleaming in your eyes. Maybe he's pliant now that he’s on the cusp of euphoria. Maybe it’s just the sound of your voice, the comfort of your words. Whatever the reason, Spencer believes you.

He can feel it again. Not just the pleasure snowballing low in his pelvis, but the heat behind his eyes that signals the formation of tears. It’s both of these things that make Spencer dig the heels of his palms into his eyes and let out the most embarrassing whine-moan he thinks you've ever drawn from him. 

Normally, you'd tell Spencer to keep looking at you, but after everything you've put him through tonight, you'll grant him this one favour. Besides, you're fairly content watching his body’s reaction. 

You're certain if his legs weren't pinned beneath you, he’d be steadily fucking your hand by now. Despite his limited mobility, however, you can see and feel him trying to thrust into your tight fist. While one hand works him at a pace that has Spencer unable to subdue the sounds he’s openly emitting now, the other holds onto his hip. But rather than controlling his movements, you're instead giving him a reminder: with your warm palm against his sticky skin, you've got him.

His panting is becoming breathier, pitchier, and wilder, his chest and stomach rising and falling so rapidly it resembles hyperventilation. Spencer's been mindlessly mumbling your name and other things under his breath for a while, but he’s getting loud enough now that you can catch words like “close,” and “please.”

Then he moves one of his hands to grip the edge of the mattress while he slings his other arm over his eyes. From his swollen cock to the tips of his ears, Spencer is flushed red. You know he has barely a few seconds left, and you need to hear him.

You bend forward so he can hear you clearly, your fist around his cock loosening a little, just so he can pay attention. “I’m going to wring you dry, Spencer, is that okay with you?” 

Your sweet voice doesn't at all mask your mischievous intentions, and Spencer, even as distracted as he is, knows you have one more trick up your sleeve. But he can feel himself unfurling, so he simply can’t afford to care at the moment.

“Yes,” Spencer rasps without hesitation, “yes—anything, anything you—yes yes yes yes—!”

He takes a gasping breath as his back arches. 

Then he’s cumming. And cumming. And cumming. 

Ropes of his thick seed land on his chest, his stomach, spill over the knuckles of your hand and his balls, pool below his belly button, saturate the sparse trail of hair leading downward. He’s liberally painting himself in his own cum, and it's probably the filthiest he's ever looked, next to the earlier image of him covered in your release.

The sequence of broken ‘ah’s and ‘mmm’s tearing through his throat makes him sound like he’s receiving punch after punch to the gut. It sounds almost painful, the torrent of pure ecstasy crashing through his lean, weak body. But he’s still trying to roll his hips in sync with your strokes, mindlessly riding the wave of his long-awaited orgasm. 

So you don't stop gliding your fist over him. With the cum coating your fingers and the drops still appearing, everything is so slick that it makes stopping feel unnatural. At least, that's what you decide to tell yourself. 

When you encircle the head of Spencer's cock, his torso jolts. He removes his arm from his face, and at long last, you can see his dazed expression and the—oh wow—tears wetting his cheeks. He looks at you through clumped lashes and unfocused eyes, his brows pinched together in mixed confusion and bliss.

“...What…?” is all he can say as his attention shifts from your bright face to your hand still working his cock. He whines when you massage his balls with your other hand, taking hold of him between your fingers. 

“I know you have a little more in you, baby,” you tell him. You weigh him in your palm and give him a tight squeeze for emphasis, which makes him jump again.

Under normal circumstances, Spencer would probably rattle off information about refractory periods and semen production. Now, as he begins shifting in discomfort, he breathlessly says, “I don't think—I can give—more—”

You let go of his balls, and he yells out your name when you begin rapidly swiping your palm against his glossy tip. His entire body starts convulsing and shaking like he’s being electrocuted, and you have to tighten your legs around his so that you don't fall off his lap.  

“Ah—I can't, please—stop…!” He’s pleading amidst an explosion of breathy, delirious laughter and gritted teeth. He’s not as hard as he was earlier, but you can feel him throbbing in your palm. 

You know he’d use the safe word if it really is too much, but you still ask him, “You want me to stop?” You pull your hand away from where you were rubbing his tender head, instead focusing on just stroking him, which has him sighing out in slight relief.

He still hisses at your unrelenting ministrations, but says nothing else. His hands fly up to grip the pillow under his head, his eyes screwing shut in supposed acceptance.

“Knew you could keep up, doctor,” you murmur with a pleased grin. Then you speed up to a brutal pace.

Spencer tries to stay still for a few seconds, but he can't anymore. A frenzied sob bursts out of him as he begins thrashing beneath you, his head turning from left to right, his torso writhing and rippling with the exertion of both breathing and receiving such relentless stimulation. But to your amusement, he keeps his hands obediently above his head as he claws at the pillows. 

When he starts up with the ragged raving under his breath again, you know he’s close. Aided by the frothy cream smeared all over his cock and between your fingers, you zero in on working his raw tip. 

This time when Spencer cums, it’s like he isn't even expecting it. He’s spilling all over himself before he registers his orgasm, eyes rolling beneath his lids and jaw dropping in an almost offended groan as his body violently jerks and jumps.

With an evil giggle, you don't stop pumping him, not until he’s crying your name and twisting his torso into a near upright position to escape your touch. The cum pooling on his pelvis drips onto the bed as he starts pushing his legs up, bucking you off him like a mechanical bull. You’re laughing as you slip off his thighs and land on the mattress between his legs, and finally you stop once he shakily grips your wrist. He collapses flat on his back and gasps for air like a man nearly drowned.

Once the last few dribbles of his release finish oozing out of his spent cock, you let him slip out of your grasp and plop weakly against his heaving stomach. You rest both your hands on his thighs, which makes Spencer jolt. Either to ground himself or in case you wander, he doesn't let go of your wrist as you rub your hands over his sweaty skin. 

But you're done with him now, and you tell him as much as you duck your head to kiss the back of his hand. “You did so good for me, Spence,” you mumble into his skin. You drag your eyes over the trails of cum decorating his entire torso and the sheets beneath him. “Made such a mess.” Another kiss.

He lazily looks down at himself, then he tosses his head back against the pillow with a whine of embarrassment and discomfort. He doesn't say anything for some time, possibly waiting for his heart rate to settle and his brain to start firing normally again. 

His voice is wrecked as he eventually slurs, “Yeah’m covered in all kindsa bodily fluids. Feel dirty.”

His hand reluctantly slips away as you slowly stand from the bed. He blinks as you reach for your glass of water on the nightstand before you coax him into a sitting position. He grunts with the effort but gratefully drinks from the cup when you hold it to his lips.

You run your fingers through his sweaty, disheveled hair and lean down for a quick forehead kiss, even if he’s clammy. “Let’s go shower, yeah?”

He lets you place the glass back down, but he doesn't let you pull him to his feet yet. You're standing between his legs, and he reaches out to grasp your hips and press his face into your chest. He could fall asleep like this, if he ignores the drying stickiness all over his, well, everywhere. For a quiet minute, all Spencer does is breathe you in and listen to your heartbeat. And once he feels his own match the rhythm of yours, he pulls back to give you a nod, his eyes tired and entirely content.

He leans against you as he stumbles to the bathroom, both of you chuckling at his utter gracelessness and another comment about Jell-O. He waits by the sink while you begin taking off your final articles of clothing. You toss your soiled panties to the side, but when you reach for the hem of your tank top, Spencer is quick to wobble toward you.

“Your arm,” he whispers. He eyes the bandage on your bicep while he bats your hands away so he can finish undressing you. 

You murmur back, “It’s just a scratch.”

Spencer drops your top to the floor, wholly unimpressed. “You were slashed with a knife.”

“It’s a shallow cut. I didn't even need stitches.”

“Only because you were quick enough to make it a shallow cut, if you had been any slower, or if he had been any more vicious, his knife would have penetrated your skin a lot deeper.”

You shrug. “But I wasn't slower.” Spencer scrunches his face in disbelief, but you don't let him argue. “If you had been slower, he would have shot you with my gun. I don't know about you, Spencer, but I think I got off lucky—I imagine being in a situation where you willingly put yourself at risk of being shot is more of a concern than a little knife wound.”

You know Spencer wants to look at anything in the room other than you—in fact, you dare him to—but he very bravely meets your gaze. He doesn't blink as his eyes dart between yours, searching for a sign that you'll let this go. Or maybe he recognizes the true, fearful anger that has been festering ever since Connecticut.

But whatever he finds has him stepping closer to cup your face with both hands. He swipes a loving thumb across the tender skin of your jaw. With a sigh, he simply whispers, “I know.”

You feel your face getting hot as you continue. “What if Grayson Crade pulled the trigger on that bridge, what if you ended up saying the wrong thing, what if he got impatient and decided he was tired of it all and took you with him? What if Luis Lowry chose to shoot you immediately? Or overpowered you, or hid somewhere else?”

He swallows. “I know.”

“You know,” you repeat quietly. The bitter edge in your voice dampens. “I don’t like when you go head first into dangerous situations when you don’t need to, Spence. Especially if it’s about me. You’re brilliant, and I trust your judgement—I trust you—but it’s terrifying when anything could happen out there.”

His forehead presses against yours when he pulls you closer, murmuring a sheepish, “I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then he says it again: “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I get it, Spence, I do. I can’t even be that mad because I get it, I just—” You crane your neck back so you can look at him properly. You hold onto his wrists and let out a little huff. “I love you, you know?"

During this very serious moment, he has the nerve to let a smile pull at his lips, and he doesn’t bother to keep the pleased chuckle out of his words when he says, “I know.”

You turn your face away in feigned irritation before the kiss he’s about to place on your nose can land. “Whatever. You’re going to keep being you and do selfless things and help people, but just know that I’m going to think you’re an idiot and a loser the whole time.”

He laughs delightedly, moving one of his hands to your lower back so he can press you against him. “That’s fine…” He pauses to leave a lingering kiss on your bare shoulder. “...As long as you show me what happens to idiot losers like me who provoke their relentless girlfriends.”

You can feel his smug smirk against your skin when he nips cheekily at your neck. You don’t know what you can even do at this point, how you can ever win against Spencer and his secretly masochistic tendencies. 

But you suppose if he’s going to ask for it, then you can sure as hell make him take it at your discretion, over and over again. 

•••

A/N: thank you for reading! comment or reblog with thoughts, prayers, or violent reactions if you'd like <3

[eyesofiridescence]

MORNINGS SPENT WITH CLARK.

contains : established relationship. suggestive. authors’ shameless ode to bush appreciation, masquerading as fluff

shirtless, as always when clark leans over the sink to wash his face. ostensibly to avoid the splashback, though the true reason benefits you more than him.

the mirror’s already begun to fog. steam rises in delicate plumes from the basin. in reflection, clark moves like a figure behind frosted glass. he tilts forward slightly, water cupped in both hands. muscle tightens along his arms. biceps thick, forearms taut and veined. warm water spills down his wrists, following the cords of tendons before falling into porcelain. behind him, you’re perched on the toilet. panties pulled back into place, bra strap slipping halfway down your arm. the plastic seat is cold beneath you but you haven’t budged since taking your morning piss. haven’t wanted to; too focused on the man in front of you.

his torso gleams faintly—warm and dewy, with light slanting across the planes of muscle and shadows gathered in the hollow of his clavicle. clark straightens, lifts the towel and presses it to his face. with every motion that unfolds, kryptonian muscles shift in an instinctual chain: draw. release. reset. all with an idle yet powerful grace.

the waistband of his flannel sleep pants sits on his hips, barely skimming the deep ridge of his obliques. the fabric clings at the dip, framing the dark thatch of curls beginning just below his navel. thick and slightly unruly, soft-looking where it fans out and vanishes beneath the seam. your gaze lingers, greedy. the trail leads downward, inviting. what’s hidden underneath, a rigid shaft thrumming with the hot flood of arterial blood—morning’s gift, could be inside you by now, if you’d had your way.

clark wipes the mirror clean with his palm, catches your eyes in the reflection. one brow arches.

“you staring or thinking?”

yawning, you stretch one foot forward and nudge lazily along the slope of his calf.

“can’t i do both?” water hits porcelain in muted percussion. “thought you were supposed to pee,” he quips, “not sit there and get worked up again.”

you slide your foot higher, toes glide tracing the hollow of his knee. the muscle there responds in a small, involuntary twitch. somewhere in the kitchen, the kettle clicks. light spills across the floor in pale sheets, cutting across the steam in ribbons. one last swipe of the towel across his face. he turns toward you.

you blink up at him, slow.

“now i can touch you?”

smiling, he nods. the edge of his knee brushes yours.

“and brush your teeth after.”

you smile. reach forward and hook two fingers under the waistband of his pants.

the morning begins there.

 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ

[eyesofiridescence]

dripping like honey

a/n: is the picture in the header clark kent? no but go with it okay. it matched the aesthetic i was going for. this is a nonsensical drabble of pure horny nonsense because i couldn’t fucking help myself. seriously someone needs to stop me from staring at pictures of this man and screaming internally. anyways it’s pwp and pure filth and full of lovey dovey romance because this man is killing me slowly. divider by @/strangergraphics.

summary: there wouldn't be another man you'd willfully allow to find eternity between your thighs except him. OR clark kent absolutely gets drunk eat pussy.

word count: 1.3k+

pairing: clark kent x f!reader

warnings: EXCPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, pwp, oral (f receiving), hints of sub!clark, body worship, fluff, squirting, cum eating, cumplay, begging, he finishes untouched, pussy drunk clark, cussing, needy clark, it's basically filth.

You don't remember how long it’s been. The evening dusk dripped into the glow of a midnight moon and still you were there, clawing at rumpled white sheets. Your tongue was heavy, eyes even more so. And even if you wanted to get up you could barely lift your hand to dig into his tousled black curls. A thick moan rising up and out of your permanently parted mouth.

“Clark-” you slurred, eyes crossing tighter than your toes when his tongue flicked along your over sensitive clit. “Oh f-fuck.”

He smiled against the wet skin of your thigh. “You said I could keep going.”

Really it was your own fucking fault. But you had yet to meet anyone—including you—who could say no to Clark Kent when he flashed those glistening ocean eyes. He could get away with atrocities not even humans could think up. The only reason he never did was because his soul was too pure, his heart practically glowing in the darkened bedroom as he dropped to his elbows. His chin smeared in your slick.

“I said one more,” you forced out, whining at the emptiness left behind where his fingers were hooked into you right down to the knuckle. “S-Shit baby-”

“That was one more.”

“That was two,” you retorted, unable to stop your thighs from shaking as they lay draped over his broad shoulders.

No response. Asbolutely nothing. He was too busy staring at the way your pussy fluttered, silently begging for him to bury two more fingers into the wet heat he’d happily get lost in. The faint red neon glow of your alarm clock proved your point. Had it been an hour already? Over sixty minutes of being stretched and teased and devoured by the large man enraptured by the way your hole dripped a sticky mess of cum.

The peek of his pink tongue swiping along his bottom lip siezed your chest, air catching in your throat. His cheeks were stained red, pupils blown out and black, and you swore you could barely recognize the sweet bumbling man from earlier in the day. Your paths crossing only a few times—what with you being down in the print room half the time. But that certainly didn’t stop this. Two people that were always meant to find one another, permanently tied from the start.

“I can make it three,” he mumbled more to himself.

You choked on your spit. “Clark-”

“Please.” Teeth scraped along your hip, soft and reverent in his gentle nature—even as he begged to eat you out for longer than you could take. “I’ll make you feel so good. Tastes like honey, you got no idea how good it is. One more. Just one more-”

He rambled as you burned before his very gaze—heart hammering an unsteady beat he could no doubt hear. A kiss to your pelvis became a direct line down to your oversensitive throbbing clit. Tongue sweeping out and mouth molding over your slick lips. He made out with your pussy, moaning into the warm flesh, as if it were your mouth. And you shook beneath his touch, gasped at the way he sucked your skin into his mouth, his nose buried in the tufts of hair sticky with his spit.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” you rasped, fingers yanking at his curls to push him close.

Before you understood the extent of his powers you were terrified of suffocating him. Horrified at the thought of breaking his jaw, cutting off his airways with a wrong move. Now you grinded onto his nose with a thick moan—eyes rolling back, heat flushing beneath the glistening skin of your chest.

He came up with a dazed grin, eyes drooped low enough to send sparks down your legs. “Love you too much to kill you.”

“Y-yes,” you whimpered, pushing down onto his tongue with a cry. “I want another.”

His response was a hoarse groan you felt vibrate up into your chest, eyes fluttering shut as he sucked at your clit with a wet smack of his lips. You tried to catch your breath. Did whatever you could to drag air into convulsing lungs, but the effort was useless when three fingers slid up and into your dripping entrance. Crying out at the stretch you fucked yourself along his face, involuntarily kicking your feet against his back and yanking at his hair tight enough to make him whine.

“‘S so much,” you slurred, tears spilling down your temples and falling lost to the pillow beneath you.

“Take it for me?” His words were breathy and pitched, the entire bottom half of his face shining in the lowlight of his bedside lamp.

How could you say no? When he looked at you like the sun wasn’t enough to sustain him if you weren’t here.

You nodded, gasping in a lungful of air as his fingers hooked in just a bit further, pressing up along your spongey walls with a thick moan. Clark was lost. All his attuned sensed entirely shut off when you grew wet enough to spill along his tongue. Each thrust of his fingers punctuated by the wet squelch of your pussy.

“So delicious,” he mumbled under his breath, tongue curling around your clit.

It happened before you could really place what it was. That violent pull on your stomach, tight enough to strain your muscles as you dragged your hips along his tongue—fucking yourself on his quick moving fingers. Each breath came in wet gasps, eyes rolling back far enough to hurt, and Clark felt it in the throbbing pulse of your walls. He grinned, doubling down on each thrust and watching as you fought for some mere piece of control—anything to combat the rush of pleasure threatening to crack down your spine.

“I’m—fuck—Clark w-what is that?” you cried.

“Let go for me.”

“B-But-”

“I got you,” he breathed, his other hand lacing between your clenched fingers. “C’mon sweetheart. Give me one more taste?”

He ducked down with a pleasant moan, tongue flicking up the span of your pussy, fingers pressing hard along the spot that practically burned with euphoria. And you broke. Sobbed his name loud enough for it to resonate in his neighbors apartment. You came so hard you felt as if you’d gone blind, body shaking with beneath his tight grip. A rush of liquid spilled between your thighs, wetting the bed, his face, and everything in between. But Clark loved it.

The broken sound at the back of his throat sent another wave of mind numbing pleasure through your body. His mouth sealed over you, fingers dragging it out for longer than you could take. But you were his good fucking girl and you would take it in an instant.

Maybe that’s why you let him suck at your entrance until practically nothing but his spit remained. Each deep rooted grunt and moan loud enough to shake your chest. He burrowed his face into it, eyes rolling back and hips grinding down into the bed.

“How’s it taste?” you mumbled, peeling open your eyes to see his glazed over with lust.

He gasped, fucking himself along the sheets now sprayed with your cum. “G-Good.”

“Share?”

Clark crawled up and over your body quicker than usual, his cock swollen to a near purplish hue. You felt it twitch on your thigh, felt the warm spurt of cum land on your skin the second his lips touched yours. He came with a groan, tongue licking deep into your mouth and hips grinding down along your hip—drawing it out for as long as he could. The flavor of you on his tongue overtook your senses, aftershocks still ravaging your body.

“You came already,” you said into his kiss, teeth clacking against his.

If it was at all possible his cheeks flushed a darker shade of crimson. “I could do it again.”

The hard twitch of his cock told you all you needed to know. “One more?”

He smiled, lips dragging down your jaw. “I can make it two.”

[eyesofiridescence]

── IN THE CLOSET.

summary: you and Spencer are secretly married, but keeping it hidden from the BAU is harder than expected—especially when a trip to the supply closet turns into something a lot more intimate. between stolen kisses, whispered praise, and almost getting caught, you both can’t seem to resist pushing the limits.

pairing: spencer reid x afab!married!reader.

cw: +18. mdni. semi-public (supply closet). light teasing. light fingering. etablished relationship (secretly married). some fluff / humor. requested.

taglist: @imperishablereverie @userhotd @lvve-talks @prismozo @bluestrd @yardofbrunettes @lacelottie @hrtfilm @tinythebunni @cestdommage @dionnesthedoll ( to be added )

You’ve read the statistics—probably in one of the many case files stacked on your desk. Workplace romances? Not ideal. Workplace marriages? Career suicide.

And yet, here you are: two years into your secret marriage with Spencer, sitting across from him at the BAU, pretending like he’s not the one who packs your lunch, warms your feet in bed, and knows exactly how to make you come undone with just two fingers and a murmur of your name.

Spencer glances at you over his monitor. It’s subtle—so subtle that Hotch wouldn’t clock it unless he were profiling the hell out of you both. But it’s there. That glint. That little spark that says I love you, and I’m definitely thinking about last night.

Your mouth quirks, and you drop your gaze to the case file. It’s safer than catching his eye and giving in to the blush that creeps up your neck every time you remember he’s yours—in every possible, legal, and scandalous way.

It’s mid-afternoon when it starts again.

You're heading to the supply closet to grab a fresh pack of Post-Its—totally innocent—and you hear footsteps fall in behind you.

“Need backup?” Spencer asks, voice low, conspiratorial. You don’t turn. You know that voice too well. You just smirk. “Always.”

The corridor is empty—most of the team is off in the conference room discussing a lead, and Penelope is still tinkering in her office with her latest algorithm baby. You don’t even hesitate when you slip into the narrow supply closet and tug Spencer in behind you.

He closes the door with a soft click.

There’s not a lot of space. Shelves tower around you, stuffed with file boxes and reams of printer paper. The air smells like cardboard and toner. It should not be sexy.

And yet.

His hand settles on your waist, steadying you as he closes the few inches of space between you. His body is warm, all lanky limbs and unassuming strength, and he smells like his office soap and that faint trace of cinnamon in the perfume he swears he doesn’t wear on purpose. (He does because it drives you crazy).

You rest your hands against his chest. His heart is already racing. “Someone’s excited,” you whisper.

Spencer grins. “Someone wore that perfume I like.” You did too. Because of course he had to be excited by a perfume too. Your breath catches, and he dips to brush his lips against your cheek, feather-light.

“It’s just perfume.”

“No,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth now. “It’s my perfume.”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too hard, but he’s already noticed. Spencer always notices. You swear he could read your thoughts even without the profiling degree and genius IQ. Your fingers hook into his belt loops. He exhales, quiet and shaky.

“This is incredibly irresponsible,” you say softly.

“I know.”

“We’re going to get caught.”

“I know.”

His mouth meets yours before you can warn him a third time. It’s not rushed—it never is with Spencer. He kisses like he does everything else: with intention, curiosity, reverence. Like you’re something sacred. Like he’s memorizing you.

Your lips part for him, and he lets out a soft noise that vibrates against your tongue. His hands slide beneath the hem of your blouse, warm and careful, until he’s touching your bare waist.

“Missed you today,” he whispers.

“You’ve seen me all day.”

“Not like this.”

You giggle into the kiss, arms wrapping around his neck as he backs you against the shelf. A stapler shifts somewhere behind you, clattering down onto a stack of envelopes. You both freeze.

Silence.

Spencer glances at the door. “We locked it, right?”

“…No.”

He blinks. “Should I?”

You shrug. “Where’s the fun in that?” He groans under his breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder with a soft thud. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Probably. But I’ll leave you a really poetic note.”

That earns another kiss—deeper this time, with just enough tongue to make you shift your hips against him. He hisses softly, lips dragging to your jaw. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs.

“I have some idea,” you tease, palming him gently over his slacks. The fabric is already strained. He bites down on a moan, hiding it in the crook of your neck. “Sweetheart…” Your knees nearly give at the pet name.

“Spence,” you whisper, fingers tugging at his belt. “We don’t have long.”

He nods, already sliding his hand down your pants with careful hands. Your panties are already damp with anticipation and you let a shaky breath out. Spencer sucks in a breath as he slips a hand between your legs finally.

“Oh my God.” You whimper, biting your fist to stay quiet.

His fingers stroke you gently, reverently. He looks wrecked already, cheeks flushed, lips pink from kissing. His free hand braces you as he bends slightly for a better angle, whispering praise that shoots straight through your core. “So wet for me—always so good, so pretty, so mine.”

His fingers slide in with practiced ease—two, curling just right. You grip the shelf behind you, trying not to sob.

“Jesus, Spence—”

He hums, watching your expression like it’s his favorite novel. “I love you like this,” he says. “You always let me make you feel good.” You’re panting now, every muscle pulled taut, thighs trembling as his thumb circles your clit in lazy figure-eights.

And then—A voice. Just outside the closet door. “I swear the new Post-Its were in here—” It’s Morgan.

You freeze. Spencer stills, his hand deep inside you.

Silence again.

Then: “Nah, I got some at my desk. We’re good.” Footsteps retreat. The door stays shut. You and Spencer breathe again.

He lifts his hand slowly, gaze locked on yours, and brings his fingers to his lips. You stare at him. “You’re such a menace,” you whisper, eyes wide. He licks them clean.

You whimper.

“Can I finish what I started?” he asks, voice hoarse. You nod, eyes blown wide and he grins like the devil and sinks to his knees.

“You’re going to be quiet, are you?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, already wrecked. “Well, I’ll try.” But a strangled noise escape your lips when his fingers finds the way back inside your cunt, glistening with your wetness. Your thighs shakes already, Spencer’s thumb brushes over your clit in featherlight circles.

He curls them just right to make you see stars, for your thighs to clench around his hand, for your back to arch. There’s a smile on his face as he fucks you slowly with his fingers—even though he knows the rest of the team are going to search for you if you are gone for too long.

That’s how you finish, panting and chuckling as he kisses you to mute your moans.

Later, back at your desks, Spencer has a suspiciously smug look on his face, and your thighs are still trembling under the desk. You shoot him a glare, trying not to smile. JJ walks by and pauses. “Hey, you’re all flushed. Everything okay?”

You nod too fast. “Just warm in here.” JJ narrows her eyes, then glances at Spencer. He’s staring way too intently at his paperwork. She smirks, just slightly. “Mm-hm.” When she’s gone, you look at Spencer.

“She knows about us.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like we’re not technically allowed.”

“But if Hotch finds out—”

“He’d probably just ask us to be more discreet.” You glance down at your blouse, still wrinkled from where his hands had roamed. “Discreet,” you mutter. “Sure.”

He reaches across the desks and links his pinky with yours.

And damn it all, you smile.

[eyesofiridescence]

◇ The Fake Relationship ◇

Part two of The Romantic Comedy

Prev Chapter || Next Chapter

Summary: Realizing you've put your foot in your mouth, you desperately try to backtrack as Spencer desperately tries to help.

Warnings: fluff, future chapters will be 18+ though, reader is an erotica romance author, and is already thinking somewhat impurely about hands

A/N: This one was very trope-y and a bit cliché but we're finally through the set-up so now onto the more fun chapters next week! Let me know what you think in the comments!

Masterlist

Stepping back for a moment, you realized you’d finally reached peak exhaustion.

Neither your writing job nor your role on the BAU was a particularly restful career. You’d balanced week-long cases with midnight writing time, burning the candle at both ends.

Now whatever was left of your wits after expending your last half an hour writing was desperately clutching Spencer’s shirt, haunting the man with your desperation.

The emergency lights flicked on as you came back down to reality.

“Sorry!” You squeaked out, putting as much space between you as possible. Which admittedly wasn’t a whole lot.

“No…no. Not at all. What-”

“I should go,” you shouted again, fully aware you were at least thirty seconds from passing out from sheer embarrassment. You grabbed your bag quickly, hard shut down your computer, quickly saving your first chapter, and tried to run away.

Tried being the operative word.

“What do you need me for?” Spencer stepped in front of you again, steadying you with a hand by your elbow to make sure you couldn’t fully dodge him.

“It’s nothing. It’s a stupid idea really. Not appropriate.”

Not appropriate was exactly how you would describe the thoughts that popped into your head when he was straddling you earlier, too.

“In this scenario, I think I can define what is and isn’t inappropriate. Sit down and talk me through it,” he said gently, walking you back to your seat.

“Okay,” you nodded quickly, trying to avoid the many different scenes from books popping into your head as he pulled your chair out for you and sat you down.

“Your writing was good, Y/N. It’s for your book, right?”

“Yes,” you said, almost embarrassed to respond in more than one syllable. But Spencer let the silence rest and waited for you to do or say anything else, so you had to pull your big girl pants back up and communicate. Effectively.

“Yes. I have a book due to my editor in a couple of weeks - I signed a four book deal after my first one was modestly popular online. Social media really blew it up so they wanted to lock me in for a few books,” you started, sinking back into the chair as you explained the fluke that was your writing career.

“Anyway, I’ve been here for a while now so romance isn’t exactly on the brain. I haven’t written in months and so my editor… So I need to start writing.”

Spencer sat so silently, you’d be so sure he was asleep if his eyes weren’t locked directly on yours.

You were so used to Spencer fidgeting - moving, reading, playing with a pencil between his fingers, drinking coffee - that this sudden rush of attention wasn’t immediately comfortable. “Spencer, you’re staring.”

“Sorry, sorry. Um, so you just needed to find something to write?”

You nodded and continued again.

“Yeah, I needed to find something to write about. And I don’t really want to lean into the whole serial killer romance thing.”

Spencer nodded along with you, finally nodding and moving again, and you let out a sigh as you watched him think.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll help you.”

Surprised, you looked up, once again making almost uncomfortable eye contact with Spencer Reid. You wished, too, that you had a notebook at that very moment to help you remember the exact feeling of your heart beating out of your chest.

A scene where you jumped straight into his lap and started twirling your fingers through his hair came to mind. Focusing again, you pushed it away.

“Help me with what?”

“I’ll help you write your book.”

“Oh! Oh no…” you stood and grabbed your bag again. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Okay, great, glad we are in agreement. Now let’s never talk about this ever again.”

You stood and grabbed your bag, but a firm grip on your wrist tugged you right back down. Instead of your own chair though you found yourself in Spencer’s chair.

Or more realistically speaking, in Spencer’s lap.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you mumbled under your breath.

“I know I don’t have to help you, but I want to. It sounds interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Yes.”

“You have three PhDs, and a number of other accolades, an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory. Helping me write a romance novel that will be, at best, a good beach read, is interesting to you?”

Spencer seemed to consider for a moment, and then leaning in slightly, whispered his answer. “Yes.”

You would have shivered had your body had the energy for that.

“Sure, Spencer. Okay. And how exactly are you going to help me?”

He took another moment to think about his answer. You took that as your opportunity to leave, quickly jumping up again after a too comfortable moment in his arms, and quickly left the office.

For two days after you avoided even thinking about Spencer, or your book, or writing about Spencer in your book.

Two whole days. A wonderful weekend away from what was becoming a real puppy crush. You found yourself inexplicably looking up Spencer on any platform you thought he’d have a presence on (not a single social media but a number of child prodigy articles from newspapers in Nevada from a handful of years ago.)

Then you found yourself back at work, facing a stack of books and the most confrontational version of Spencer Reid you’d ever been acquainted with.

“The Love Hypothesis, The Spanish Love Deception, The Unhoneymooners, The Deal, The Kiss Quotient - did you know that fake relationships are often ranked as readers second favorite romance trope?”

“Spencer what are you- Spencer our coworkers will be here soon, put those away,” you gasped, quickly rushing to push each and every book into some nook or cranny of your desk.

“This is the FBI, Spencer, what has gotten into you?”

As you moved each book, you realised that, though they appeared to be new, there were cracks in each book's spine. There were some tabs sticking out randomly, the type you’d seen in Spencer’s paperwork before, and you found yourself almost more exasperated.

“You read them? All of them?”

“ I wanted to help,” he shrugged, taking a few out of your hands and stuffing them back in his satchel. “Besides, some of them were pretty good.”

“Okay. Okay, Spencer, since we’re both acting a little bit out of character today, I have to ask: why do you want to help me?”

Finally, the man fidgeted uncomfortably. He tugged at the collar of his shirt once, then twice and finally looked back at you.

“I want… I want to practice,” his voice was barely a whisper as the tips of his ears reddened. “There’s… there is a girl I like, and… I’m not exactly the most experienced at romance.”

You tried to stop yourself from feeling disappointed at his admission. Your sudden burst of interest in Spencer was only due to his helpfulness. It had been three days, it wasn’t enough for you to feel truly disappointed that nothing could start with him.

And he was your coworker, too, and that would be a nightmare. And you realized quickly that he was still talking, and you’d accidentally tuned him out for half a minute at the least.

“I read your books, too. The first two. They’re not exactly instructional guides I can follow, but it would be fun to get some ideas about y- about what girls like on dates. You know?”

Letting out a sigh, you sat down at your desk.

“So you want to do this?” you asked, holding up the nearest book to you.

“I want to do this.”

You nodded and thought it out for a second. You needed the help. You needed to write, and though apparently clueless about women, he was courteous and handsome, and most importantly consenting.

“Fine.”

“Fine? Really?”

“Don’t make me regret this, but yes. Let’s try it out.”

Spencer’s smile warmed your heart. It genuinely warmed your heart. Handsome men really needed to be stopped, you thought, nearly regretting your decision. But, as you had been before agreeing to many relationships with men before in the past, you were desperate.

“So we need to do the contract thing and the ground rules thing, and then-” Spencer started, flicking through one of the books for quotes and places to start.

“Vetoed and vetoed. We’re just doing research for a book, right Spencer? Why should we put rules down? We’re profilers. We know what is too far, and more importantly, we know how to communicate.”

Spencer nodded along with your points.

“Then, we should just shake on it?”

You hesitated for a second, thinking about where your mind would evidently go and thus had already gone if you got even a glimpse of his hands. You knew they were veiny.

“We can shake on it, sure.”

With that, his hand - yes, veiny - grabbed yours and you found yourself in an agreement of mutual destruction.

Spencer was going to help you write your book, and you were going to stop yourself from thinking about wrapping your legs around him until you were satisfied.

And with that you found yourself a fake boyfriend.

[eyesofiridescence]

♡ The Meet Cute ♡

Part 1 of The Romantic Comedy

Next Part

Like any of the great creatives of our time, the reader has found themselves stuck in a writing slump to end all writing slumps. With a literary agent breathing down her neck, and an absolute refusal to download any dating apps, she stumbles upon one of the greatest untapped romantic resources of her lifetime: Spencer Reid.

Warnings: Fluff/ none? Future smut, slow burn, slightly suggestive etc. Mentions of inappropriate age gap romance (not reader and Spencer).

A/N: Here's the first part! I got carried away with a request and decided to make it a full series, so we'll see how well I do with remembering to post ㅠㅠ everyone please send whatever the opposite of a writing block is my way, I wanna make it through this one fr

The view of a blank screen illuminating your dark apartment was one that you were beginning to grow immensely tired of. You’d tried typing out paragraphs, and then deleted them, and then simply tried to go with sentences, and those had ended up being deleted, too. By the time you’d tried to force yourself to type out a single word, you’d given up. 

“I can’t do it,” you’d cried into your coffee a week earlier, meeting with the literary agent you knew was absolutely tired of your shit by this point. 

“Okaaaayyy. What exactly is it that you can’t do exactly? Because if you say "write" you'd be absolutely incorrect.” 

“I can’t write.” 

Taking a long sip of her coffee and trying her best to subtly roll her eyes - subtlety was the one thing she hadn’t managed - you squared your shoulders and repeated yourself. 

“I really can’t write,” you moaned. “I’ve tried and tried and all that comes out is thriller, horror, death, gore - the worst parts of a Christie novel tied up into a neat little Doyle novel with a splash of whatever new mystery writers there are. It’s not my genre but I started my new job at the FBI and it’s all that’s on the mind.” 

You really loved your job. You didn’t enjoy that it was becoming your entire life, but you’d been warned multiple times from coworkers and acquaintances that it was a lot to handle. 

“So quit.”

“I can’t quit, I love my job.” 

“Then stop writing.”

“I can’t stop writing, I love writing.”

 You would’ve screamed out your frustrations, but the franchise coffee shop you were stuck in was currently filled with stressed students and drone-like salary workers just trying to replace the blood in their bodies with caffeine, and you didn’t quite like the idea of zombified masses coming towards you. 

“I can’t write, but I can’t stop writing, and I can’t quit my job.”

Nodding, your agent took another sip of her coffee, then set it down carefully and leaned into you across the table. 

“I’m sorry to ask this but… when was the last time you had sex?”

“Oh my god!” 

“It’s a valid question in this line. Your books have been marketed so far as spicy romances, I need to make sure you’re getting the best inspiration you can in order to write. If you’re in a dry-spell, it could explain your difficulty writing.” 

“But-” 

Your agent stood up, cutting you off quickly as she began to pack her things. 

“But nothing, girl. Get back on the apps and give me at least 10,000 words, a synopsis, and some buzz words this time next month. I believe in you.” 

You sighed and downed your coffee, melting further into the table before another stressed looking student asked you to vacate it so they could write an essay while aptly caffeinated.

Apps were off the table after a rough internet stalking case you’d worked on a few months prior, so you tried bars, but drinking alone was depressing and none of the men were inspiration-worthy.

Instead you’d tried a change of atmosphere. Your apartment was dark and dingy, and at least your desk at the BAU had a lamp. And the kitchen provided as much free coffee as you deemed healthy enough to drink. 

You stared again at a blank document before deciding you needed to resituate yourself into the world of your novels. 

You’d published three so far, under a quite popular and rather famous pen name. They were all connected but followed different couples among them. You sighed looking through their GoodReads pages, avoiding the reviews with a desperate zeal. You remembered the feeling of writing each one. The first you’d finished while in your final year at college. 

You’d been with your high school boyfriend still, so the novel had been a sentimental pile of shit about how love was forever. You’d luckily had it published weeks before he announced that he’d got his female roommate pregnant, so at least you got a paycheck out of that heartbreak. 

After college you’d taken a year out to work on yourself, which obviously meant you’d been unemployed and living on your book royalties and the remainder of your savings from college. When you started dating an older man who bought you dinner and not your fellow somewhat broke peers, you’d been absolutely inspired to write another book. 

That one hadn’t ended well either, after you’d met the man’s adult daughter. So adult that she was in fact older than you. You did some therapy after that one. 

Your third romance novel had seemingly come from nowhere, even if you’d been casually seeing a few people the year it came out. But you found that working towards a goal had made you infinitely inspired, and you were trying your best to get accepted into a role in the BAU that year. 

Any ex boyfriend claiming to be the inspiration for that one was dearly mistaken. That dreamy man was tough to attain, high maintenance, required multiple qualifications, and a certain level of… physical fitness only parallelled by the FBI. 

Now with all your goals met, and a further two books of the three book deal you’d signed with your publisher still unfulfilled, you were in a slump to end all slumps. 

You were still sitting at your desk feeling sorry for yourself when you felt someone breathing down your neck. 

“Burning the midnight oil?” Spencer asked, leaning over your desk and clutching his own free coffee in his hands. 

“You know you probably shouldn’t sneak up on someone with a gun and a licence.”

“If I also didn’t have a gun myself, that might be wise advice,” Spencer replied, pushing in closer to read your writing.

You closed the document a second too late. The damned man was like a super computer. 

“What is ‘The Boss Breakdown?’” he asked. 

“It’s a book I think,” was the best you could come up with as you closed the tab. Which only unfortunately brought up the work in progress document you’d been not-working on and making no progress in earlier. 

“Untitled Project 4?” Spencer asked again, as you willed yourself to spontaneously combust. 

“It’s what I’m calling my paperwork. You know, to get it done quicker?” You said, hastily closing this tab, too. Google chrome chose that moment exactly to end your social life at work forever as your idea document popped up behind that one. 

“Friends to lovers. Enemies to lovers. Roommates to lovers. Friends with-” 

“Okay, please stop! STOP!” You screamed, choosing to just turn off the monitor, standing quickly. 

Standing too quickly as your legs got caught in the cursed government assigned desk chair, you found yourself quickly tumbling to the floor. A hand reached out to grab you, but your incredible luck meant that the both of you dropped to the floor together. 

Spencer’s arm hit just above your head as he grimaced feeling the pain of the fall reverberate into his arm. His legs fell either side of yours as you finally opened your eyes. 

Hands interlocked, bodies pushed together on the floor, both panting from the sudden adrenaline of the fall, you found yourself in the perfect rom-com compromising position. 

“Sorry,” you whispered as Spencer hovered centimeters above you, eyes locked with yours.

“Anyone here?” the voice of the security guard called out into the office as you froze up. You weren’t sure if it was embarrassment or fear of being caught up in an office scandal that stopped the both of you from making your presence known. 

“Call themselves Supervisory Special Agents, and not one of them is special enough to supervise turning the lights off. Damn…” the officer muttered before entrenching the two of you in complete darkness.

Spencer stayed atop of you, as though it were the most comfortable place in the world. 

“So what was that all about?” He asked in another whisper, even though no one else was near. 

“It was nothing,” you whispered back, trying your best to figure out where every part of his body was in relation to yours in the shadows.

“It didn't look like nothing.”

“Oh yeah? What did it look like then?”

“It looked like a book.” 

“Well… ding ding ding we have a winner,” you said with a huff and tried to stand, only to be forced down again by an unseen hand. 

“Y/N. Are you that author?” Spencer asked? 

“What? No. What author? That author? Why would you ask that?” you practically vomited the words out, still trying and failing to wiggle yourself out from underneath the apparently very solidly built man. 

“You’re writing a book, right? I heard you on the phone with your literary agent a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

“You- what?”

“Rossi is an author too, you know.”

“Rossi writes non-fiction books about cases he has worked on. I write the book modern bodice-rippers. Not exactly the type of thing I want to tell the whole world, Spencer- would you move? God you are hard.” 

You couldn’t see the eyebrow raise, but you practically heard it. 

In a flash, something came to you. Whether it was the comment you made or a final willingness to listen, Spencer suddenly became easier to move as you jumped back up into your desk chair, turned on your monitor, and vomited up your brain onto the page. 

You felt Spencer once again at your back as you typed out every word that entered your brain, not stopping to edit or proofread once. It was messy, there was no plot, no character names, no visible progression so far, but there were words. 

There were finally words. 

After a solid thirty minutes of panting and the banging sounds of your fingers connecting with your keyboard, you finally pushed away from your desk and grasped at where Spencer, now illuminated by your monitor once again, stood. 

Grabbing his shirt between your hands and pulling him a step closer as you still sat, you practically screamed out your request.

“Spencer Reid, I need you.” 

[eyesofiridescence]

spencer reid x shy!reader

[eyesofiridescence]

SOME PROTECTOR ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x ex!reader

summary: it’s been 313 days. spencer still remembers the last thing you said to him. you still mean it. he’s been holding on from a distance ever since.

genre: angst (some smut & fluff in flashback scenes, but it’s mostly angst & hurt no comfort lol) | w/c: 7k

tags/warnings: inspired by the song “some protector” by role model, fem!reader, no use of y/n, yearner-in-chief spencer reid, yearninggg, like SO much yearning, minor alcohol consumption, relationship/breakup flashbacks, mutual pining, no happy ending (unresolved tho maybe?), panic attack in a flashback, sex scene in a flashback (making out, p in v, riding), 18+ MDNI

a/n: had a moment while editing where I almost gave up on this fic and deleted it but I’m pushing thru to post it anyways bc I worked rlly hard on it 🥲 recently been obsessed with this song and couldn’t stop picturing spencer when listening, so obviously I had to write 7k words to get it out of my system. obviously. also had “the way I loved you” in mind from reader’s side of things! if anyone is interested in a part 2 lmk because I’m already kind of itching over it 😶 (p.s. first pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance, just had the right dress!)

It’s been 313 days since the breakup. Spencer knows because he’d counted at first. Then stopped. Then started again.

He wouldn’t be here if not for the occasion — an engagement party for friends. One of those events where absence says more than presence ever could, so he showed up.

Now, he lingers at the edge of the room, half-shadowed by a bookshelf, pretending to care about the drink in his hand. He’d arrived a little late on purpose — a strategic delay. Fewer how’ve-you-beens, fewer questions about whether he’s seeing anyone new or if he’s talked to you. His plan was simple: blend into the perimeter, nod through a toast, and leave early without making a scene.

He hadn’t planned for you.

You walk in fifteen minutes after he does, wearing a dress he’s never seen before and a smile that almost passes for real. Your new boyfriend is beside you.

The thought had crossed his mind, he’ll admit. He met and became friends with the newly engaged couple through you, so there was always a decently high chance you’d be here tonight. But he hadn’t let himself linger on the thought long enough to plan for it, and he especially hadn’t allowed himself to consider the possibility you’d bring a date with you to a party you knew he’d be at. But nothing could’ve prepared him for it anyways. No amount of mental prep would’ve soothed the ache of watching another man’s hand find yours.

At first, Spencer can’t bring himself to look at you directly. But he tracks you in pieces — the tilt of your chin, the curve of your smile, the hand at your waist. The neckline of your dress, dipping just low enough to undo something in him.

You haven’t seen him yet. He’s not ready for when you do.

The room hums — clinking glasses, laughter pitched too loud, someone making a joke about wedding hashtags like it’s the cleverest thing in the world. But none of it reaches him. It all sounds submerged, warped by memory.

One hand tightens around his glass, the other buried in his pocket, fingers curled tight. He’s trying to ground himself, or maybe just keep himself from doing something stupid. Like walking up to you. Like saying your name. Like asking if it’s still his to say.

Spencer knows who your boyfriend is. He’s heard his name dropped casually by mutual friends. He’s done the requisite, ill-advised Google stalk with Garcia’s help. He’s memorized the basics: Ian Lockhart. Works in marketing. Graduated top of his class from UPenn. Youngest of three. Allergic to shellfish.

But that doesn’t stop the question from forming:

Does he truly know you?

Does he know you hate mint in desserts and prefer dark chocolate over the overly-sweetened milk variety? That you dog-ear the pages of whatever you’re reading instead of using bookmarks, even though you own at least fifteen of them? That you sleep with one hand curled under your chin like a child, hum under your breath when you feel safe, get hiccups when you’re anxious, and apologize for things that aren’t your fault?

Does he know the way you sound when you say Spencer’s name?

He hopes not. He hopes so. He doesn’t actually really know what he hopes for.

You’re smiling up at Ian like the weight of the room hasn’t doubled. Like this is just another party, not a place where Spencer’s body remembers every single version of you it ever loved.

And then — you spot him.

Over someone’s shoulder, through the blur of motion and candlelight, your eyes meet Spencer’s.

Something shifts in your face — a memory breaking the surface too fast to hide from. A flicker of something that looks a little like wanting, followed by restraint. You don’t look at him like a stranger. You look at him like before.

You tilt your head — a trace of kindness tugging at your mouth. But it only lasts a second before you turn away.

Spencer can’t breathe.

He’s still stuck in that second. He feels it like a match struck behind his ribs.

—

By the time the first toast of the night is over, you’ve disappeared down the hallway towards the kitchen. Spencer lets his gaze follow you just long enough to punish himself for it.

You still tuck your hair behind your ear the same way you used to, he notices. That quiet, automatic gesture like you’re not even thinking about it. You’ve always done it that way, like muscle memory.

And now he’s thinking about September, nearly three and a half years ago. Your first fall together.

It had been raining that day — that steady kind of rain that makes everything feel like it’s underwater. You’d been sitting on his couch with your legs tucked under you, a book splayed open in your lap, your thumb idly tracing the edge of the page. Spencer was talking too much, as usual. A fact spiral he hadn’t meant to fall into, born out of habit and the way you made the room feel safer somehow just by being in it.

“And there’s this theory,” he’d said, glasses pushed up too high on his nose, hands fidgeting with the frayed edge of the blanket between you, “that we can smell the weather changing — like, literally smell the oils and sugars released by leaves breaking down. That’s why autumn feels so…”

He trailed off, embarrassed, suddenly sprung back into hyper-awareness of how long he’d been speaking. But you just looked at him and smiled, that full-faced kind of smile you didn’t hand out easily. “So you’re saying you can smell fall coming?”

He nodded, sheepish. “Sort of. Yes. And I like it — the smell, I mean. It kind of reminds me of being a kid. Like old books and new pencils and being a person who still thought the seasons changing was like magic. Not that the seasons changed much in Vegas, but… still.”

You laughed. Not a sharp laugh, not mocking, but a delighted one. The kind of laugh that only shows up when someone says something completely true and completely weird and you’re so completely glad they said it.

Spencer looked at you like he didn’t quite know how to process how beautiful you were in that moment. Not just physically (though yes, that too), but emotionally. You didn’t flinch away from his oddities — you leaned toward them. Like maybe you were made of the same quiet strangeness he was.

You closed the book in your lap after folding down the corner of the page and laid it gently on the coffee table. “Tell me more things that remind you you’re a person.”

He blinked. “What?”

“That’s what you meant, right? That the smell of fall makes you feel human. Tell me more things like that.”

He hadn’t realized it, but that’s exactly what he meant. And so he did. All night.

Little things. Soft things. Things no one else ever asked him about. The sound of his mom reading him Chaucer and Kempe when he was still too young to really process what the stories meant. The hot sting of seatbelt buckles in the desert sun. The click of a lamp turning on in a dark room. The way library cards used to be made of paper and crinkle at the corners. The feeling of your hand in his.

You listened like every one of them mattered. And every one of them did, to you at least.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. One minute you were curled beside him on the couch, both your heads tipped toward each other like magnets. The next, the sky outside had gone black and your fingers tangled loosely in the drawstring of his hoodie like you’d nodded off while trying to keep him from drifting too far away.

He never told you this, but when he woke up — before you stirred, before the world returned — he’d studied you. Every tiny detail. The part in your hair. The sleep-creased edge of your cheek. The way your mouth twitched when you dreamed. He counted every last freckle splayed across your cheeks. Drew constellations between them in his mind.

That was the night he knew he’d fallen hopelessly in love with you.

He blinks, and all of the sudden he’s back in the present, back at the party. You’re walking towards your date, two glasses of wine in your hands. The one you hand Ian is red. The one you sip from is white — you’d always preferred a colder, crisper Sauvignon Blanc over a full-bodied Chianti or Merlot.

You glance towards Spencer, and in that look, he swears he can see it. The ghost of that night. The version of you who laughed at the way he thought autumn smelled like #2 pencils and old books. The one that fell asleep easily with your body pressed to his side because you trusted him not to move.

He doesn’t look away.

Not yet.

Someone calls his name across the room and he answers with a vague nod. His body is here, but his mind is hovering somewhere else. Caught in the gravity of your glance, still trying to make sense of the soft exhale it pulled from his lungs.

—

You find him before he can decide to leave.

There’s a stretch of seconds as you weave through the room when Spencer wonders if he’s imagining it. If he’s hallucinating your trajectory out of want.

But no, it’s real. You’re coming toward him — slowly, carefully. Like you don’t trust what might happen when you finally get close.

“Spencer.”

His name falling from your lips still sounds just as gentle as it always had. He straightens. Not because he needs to — he’s never felt like he needs to perform for you — but because his body can’t help but brace when you look at him like that.

“Hi,” he manages, his voice quiet, like too much sound might make the moment collapse. “You look…”

Beautiful isn’t neutral. Radiant is worse.

So he lands on a very lame, very simple, “You look well.”

Your smile tilts, crooked and familiar. “Have you been avoiding me tonight?”

Spencer hesitates. He doesn’t look away, but something in his expression shifts — like he’s been caught doing something he didn’t realize was visible.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he says carefully. “Not intentionally. I just… I thought it was better to keep my distance. I didn’t want to intrude on you and...”

You nod once, like you expected that. You look across the room towards where you’d left Ian.

“He’s getting another drink,” you say, mostly to fill the space.

Spencer only nods. He doesn’t ask about him. He’s already heard enough from others. And what would you say, anyway?

He studies the curve of your wrist as you lift your glass. He used to press his mouth there — absentmindedly, in greeting, in gratitude. He blinks the memory away.

You glance down at your feet, then up again. There’s something almost sheepish about it. “You cut your hair.”

His hand grazes the back of his neck. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“I like it,” you say softly.

There’s no teasing in it. No flirtation. Just something honest. Small and steady, like the thrum of your voice used to be in the mornings, not yet fully awake, legs tangled beneath the covers.

“Thanks,” he says.

Another silence. Not awkward, not exactly. Just… weighted. Like you’re the only two people in it who remember something that’s no longer allowed to exist.

You wet your bottom lip, the way you always do when you’re thinking too hard. Spencer looks away. It feels dangerous to look for too long.

“I saw you on the news last month,” you offer. “That case in Pittsburgh.”

His gaze flicks back to you. “Yeah. That was…” He lets out a sigh. “Long week.”

“You looked tired,” you murmur. “More than usual.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s not even concern, not exactly. Just observation. You always did that — noticed things he didn’t say out loud.

He shifts his weight. “We’ve had worse.”

You nod, but you’re still watching him, seeing right through him. He used to hate that. He used to love it, too.

There’s a long pause. Then, voice soft: “You still forget to eat when you’re anxious?”

Spencer huffs a breath — almost a laugh. “I still forget almost everything when I’m anxious.”

You smile, but it’s a sad thing.

“Your mom still calls me sometimes,” you say so quietly he almost misses it. “Thinks we’re still together.”

His breath catches. “She forgets. I’m sorry. I’ve told her a bunch of times.”

You shake your head, silently telling him the apology isn’t necessary. “She always asks if you’re eating. And if I’m making sure you sleep.”

Spencer nods and swallows, hard. He can’t bring himself to answer right away.

“I never correct her. She’s always so happy when I say yes.”

That lands somewhere deep — deeper than it should. Maybe it’s easier this way. To pretend, in some small corner of the world, you’re still his.

The silence creeps in again, fuller this time. You step an inch closer, not on purpose, not consciously. He doesn’t step back. The space between your arms hums with memory.

There’s a ring on your right pointer finger, the same one you always wore — a vintage, gold band from your grandmother’s jewelry box. Spencer used to twist it mindlessly while you read.

He wonders if you let Ian do that now. He wonders if he even notices it.

“I like the dress,” he says with a nod towards your outfit before he can stop himself. “The color.”

You tilt your head. “You always liked lavender.”

“I still do.”

Internally, you start to wonder: Did you wear it because you knew he’d be here tonight? Subconsciously, did you pick this dress out of your closet with Spencer in mind?

You look down again. Then up. You meet his gaze a second too long, and for a moment, it’s like everything falls away — the party, the boyfriend, the reasons you shouldn’t still care.

Then Ian calls your name from somewhere behind you.

The sound breaks whatever thread had been holding you there. You blink, eyes clearing, and step back half an inch — enough to remind yourselves what year it is. Where you are. What this isn’t anymore.

You glance over your shoulder, then back at Spencer.

“I should—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in gently. “Of course.”

You hesitate. Just for a breath. And then: “It’s really good to see you, Spence.”

Spence. He nods, slow and careful. “You too.”

You walk away. Spencer stays where he is, heart knocking unevenly in his chest, eyes fixed on the place you’d just stood like maybe you’ll return if he waits long enough.

You don’t. But you do turn around, just once, halfway through the room. Your gaze finds his again.

It’s brief, that look. Barely a second. But it says enough:

You remember everything.

—

Somewhere across the room, you laugh.

It’s not at him — Spencer doesn’t know what was said or why it was funny — but it’s the sound that stands out to him. That specific cadence. The one that always tumbled out of you just after midnight when you were tipsy and barefoot and glowing with affection you never tried to ration.

Your hand lands on Ian’s arm, light and familiar, fingers curling just slightly.

And that—

That’s what undoes him.

Because you used to do that to him. You used to touch him like he belonged to you.

Images swirl in his mind — your palm against his skin. That sweater. That night. That look on your face when you pushed him down onto the couch like you didn’t need words to tell him you wanted him. The memory ambushes him, full and bright and dizzying, like it’s been waiting all evening for the right moment to strike.

—

One month into dating, you wore a loose red sweater on a date with Spencer — one that hung off your shoulder and drove him to the edge of restraint. He’d never say it aloud, but that sweater still haunts him. The curve of your collarbone. The bare sliver of skin at your hip when you lifted your arms. The softness of it. Of you.

You hadn’t slept together yet. Spencer had been so careful about it — cautious in that way he always was when something really mattered to him. He wanted to be sure this thing between you was real first (it was). Wanted to be sure you were ready (god, you were). Wanted to be sure he was ready, too.

You’d come back to his apartment after dinner, your thigh pressed against his in the cab, your voice syrupy and laced with secrets, low in his ear: “You gonna keep being shy, or are you gonna do something about it?”

He kissed you the second the front door closed behind you. Harder than he meant to — sloppier, too. But you moaned softly into it and fisted your hands in his jacket like you didn’t want to waste anymore time being polite about this.

It was a little frantic at first. Your back hit the wall. His belt clattered to the floor. You laughed into his mouth, breathless and giddy, hands everywhere — threading through his hair, yanking at his shirt, skimming down the front of his pants like you already knew exactly how he liked to be touched.

He walked you back into the couch, then you took the reigns and pushed him down onto it. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, grinding down in a slow, devastating rhythm that made his vision blur.

Within minutes, you were undressed from the waist down, the sweater still on. That somehow made it even more intense — or maybe it would’ve been that way regardless, he couldn’t really say for sure. All he knew was the skin of your thighs, the heat of you moving against him, the breathy way you said his name when his hands cupped your ass and pulled you tighter into his lap.

“Spencer,” you gasped, mouth against his jaw. “Please.”

He remembers the exact moment you said it — the way your breath caught, the stutter in your hips, the way your fingers curled at the back of his neck.

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his, so close he could feel every shake of your inhale. And then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m yours, Spence. Okay? Don’t be gentle.”

And that was it. Spencer Reid — always careful, always afraid of taking too much — finally let go.

That night, he told you he loved you with every part of his body. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew you heard it anyway.

He fucked you slow and deep from below, gripping your hips as you rode him and matched his rhythm with every grind of your body against his. Not tender, but not rough either — just real. Like every motion was a word he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud. You clung to him, nails pressing into his shoulders, moaning softly as his lips found every part of you he could reach — your throat, your collarbone, the delicate skin just below it. He mouthed at the place your pulse fluttered hardest and stayed there until you broke.

And when you did — when you came around him with his name caught in your throat like something sacred — he followed, buried deep inside you, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer only he knew how to recite.

After, you collapsed on his chest, the red sweater twisted around your ribs, your legs still tangled with his. You were quiet in that way that only happened when you were fully content. One hand traced over the back of his — slow, barely there — like you couldn’t stand to not be touching him, even in sleep.

Meanwhile, he didn’t sleep at all.

Just lay there memorizing you: the shape of your mouth, the curve of your waist, the warmth of your bare skin under the blanket, the rise and fall of your breath.

Spencer had been with others in the past. But he’d never touched someone quite like that before. Never been touched like that either — not with that kind of need or care or want.

And now?

Now you’re across the room with someone else’s arm around your waist, yet he still can’t stop thinking about that night. About your mouth. Your hands. Your voice when you begged him not to hold back.

You catch him looking with a twitch of your lips like you’ve caught a secret.

For a second, he thinks you know what he’s remembering. Maybe you’re remembering it too.

And then, just like that, the moment passes. You look away and turn slightly toward Ian, laughing again — softer this time. But something about it’s off — you smile too quickly, blink too long, seem too practiced.

And god, Spencer feels it now — an ache that starts behind his ribs and spreads. He knows that look. The forced composure. Your tight little nod. The way your shoulders curl inward, just enough to seem invisible.

You’re tired.

Not just from the party or the heels. Not even from the fact that Spencer is here. No, you’re tired in a quiet, cell-deep way. The kind of tired that creeps in when you’ve been holding everything too tightly for too long. He used to see it in your posture before you ever spoke. In the way you’d knead at the back of your neck. In the sound of your keys hitting the kitchen counter just a little too hard.

His whole body aches with the memory of it.

Because he can’t touch your elbow now, can’t draw you into a hallway and press his hand to your spine and ask, Is it bad today? in a voice soft enough to disappear into your skin. He can’t guide you to the couch and take your shoes off for you and rub slow circles into the arch of your foot. He can’t be that version of himself for you anymore.

But he remembers. He remembers it all.

—

You’d had a rough shift.

Spencer knew before you said a word. He heard it in the way your bag hit the floor when you’d walked into his apartment — not thrown exactly, but dropped with too much force. Watched it in the way you kicked off your shoes in the hallway like they’d betrayed you. You didn’t kiss him hello. Didn’t even meet his eyes.

You just paced the kitchen in your scrubs, hands trembling slightly. Your voice cracked when it finally came. “She was just a kid, Spence. She died right in front of me.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just crossed the room, took your phone gently from your hand, and set it down on the counter.

You looked at him like you weren’t sure if he’d understand. Like some part of you expected him to step back.

But then, you broke.

It happened all at once, because panic doesn’t slow down or ask permission. One moment you were upright, breathing, trying — and the next, you were not. Your breath hitched. Your eyes went wide. Your hands clawed at your chest like you needed to open it, like the air in your lungs wasn’t enough.

“I can’t— I can’t—”

“I know, baby,” he said, already reaching.

He slid to the floor with you, back against the cabinets, his body folding around yours to hold you steady. His hands were firm but gentle — one at your shoulder, one at the base of your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re okay. You’re right here.”

You let out a single, ragged sob and collapsed against him, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling through the floor. He didn’t flinch — just tightened his arms around you, voice soft and measured in your ear.

“Five things you can see,” he murmured. “Just try for me.”

You shook your head, breath shallow, shoulders tight. “Can’t.”

“Okay. Okay. Just look, then.” His hand moved slowly along your back. “The floor tile. The fridge magnets. The photo of us in Vegas framed on the wall. That stupid spiky plant you named Steve. Me. I’m right here.”

You gasped — air, finally — and he held you through it.

“You’re not alone,” he said, steady as a heartbeat. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

It took seven minutes for your breathing to settle. Even longer for your hands to stop shaking. But he didn’t let go.

Later, when you were curled against his side in bed — voice scratchy, eyes raw — you said it like a confession:

“I’m sorry, Spence. I…I don’t want to be too much.”

He turned toward you and answered without hesitation as he pulled you closer into him.

“There’s no such thing as too much. Not with you.” He pressed a soft kiss to your temple before adding, “You’re just enough, all the time.”

—

The memory lingers long after it fades.

Spencer exhales, slow and shaky, chest tight with the ghost of it — your voice in his ear, your fingers curled into his shirt, the unbearable tenderness of that night on the kitchen floor. He can still feel the imprint of you, sharp as breath in cold air.

When he blinks, the present returns in pieces: music pulsing, voices laughing, people moving all around him. But it’s your absence that hits harder: You’re gone. You’re not near Ian, not near the party hosts, not near anyone. You’ve slipped out of the crowd, vanished discreetly like you always could when your shoulders got too heavy to hold up.

He knows where you’ve gone before he even moves. Knows the way you seek out quiet. Knows the exact rhythm of your retreat.

And so he follows.

—

It’s started to snow.

Not hard — just flurries, soft and inconsistent, the kind that hover before deciding whether or not they want to stick. String lights stretch across the balcony railing, catching in the wind.

You’re alone. Or trying to be, at least.

One hand rests on the railing. Your thumb circles the condensation on your wine glass, which you’ve long stopped drinking from — just holding it now, mostly for the sake of keeping your fingers occupied.

Spencer finds you like gravity. Like an orbit he never quite escaped.

You don’t turn when you hear him step outside. You don’t have to — you already knew he’d be the one to track you down.

The door hushes shut behind him. He doesn’t speak, not at first — just stands there for a moment in the doorway, watching your silhouette outlined against the snow-smeared sky.

You exhale through your nose. “Ian talks too much when he’s nervous.”

Spencer steps closer. “You used to say the same thing about me.”

You look over your shoulder. Not smiling, but not not smiling either. “Yeah. But it was different with you.”

He doesn’t respond, but you hear the way his breath catches. He shrugs out of his jacket without thinking — an instinct time hasn’t yet pulled from him. It’s the same instinct that used to make him drape it over your shoulders on late walks home, or leave it folded at the foot of your bed after an argument, still carrying the shape of his body. He eases it around you gently, and you let him. You hold it closed at the collar with one hand, and for a second, Spencer swears you lean into the warmth of it — the him of it.

“Has it always been this cold in January?” you ask with a laugh, eyes on the city skyline.

Spencer’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Yeah. But I think we just didn’t notice it the last few Januaries. Or at least I didn’t.”

You turn your head to look at him, slowly this time. “Why not?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Because I had you.”

And just like that, the wind cuts through the silence between you. You both shiver, but neither of you move.

“Some nights I still wake up thinking I heard your voice,” you say quietly.

He blinks.

“I don’t know what it says. It’s not really words — just… the shape of them. I think my brain fills in the rest.”

Spencer swallows, hard. “What does your brain imagine?”

You shake your head. “All kinds of things, I guess. But it definitely misses how you used to say my name.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hands twitch at his sides. His throat works around something sharp.

“You know,” he says softly, “I still talk to you sometimes. In my head. I still tell you about cases, and books you’d hate, and little things I see that remind me of you.”

You blink quickly, but not quick enough to hide the sheen in your eyes. “Do I ever answer?”

He nods, his voice rough, a sad smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah. Sometimes you do.”

A beat passes. The snow starts to stick in your hair.

You both move at the same time. Just a half-step closer, your bodies angled toward each other like two halves of the same thought.

His hand brushes your wrist on the railing. Yours lingers at the lapel of his jacket, still clutched around you like armor. Your eyes drop to his mouth then flicker back up. You’re not smiling. Neither is he.

The city exhales around you. Somewhere inside, a champagne cork pops. But it feels like you’re the only two people on the planet.

Spencer leans forward — just barely. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough to feel your breath warm the space between you. His voice, when it comes, is barely a sound:

“I would’ve done anything to keep you.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t cry. You just whisper, “I know.”

And you do. You know. You’ve always known.

A full minute passes like that. Eventually, you pull back and shrug the jacket from your shoulders, hold it out with an unsteady hand. Spencer takes it slowly, without a word, fingers brushing yours for a half-second too long.

You step towards the door and turn slightly, just enough to get a look at him. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you?”

Spencer watches the snow catch in your hair. “Of course.”

You nod once. “I meant it.” You pause, blink back a tear before adding, “I still mean it.”

You look at him then — really look, as if you’re expecting him to say something in response, but he doesn’t. And so, after one more tremble of hesitation, you’re gone.

Spencer doesn’t go inside right away. He watches the snow collect in the grooves of the railing, in the spaces between bricks on the balcony wall. Watches his breath fog in the air like smoke. He can still smell your perfume on his jacket. Still feel the shape of your voice in his chest.

And god, if you’d asked him, if you’d reached, if you’d said come with me, he would have, without question.

But that’s the thing about moments — they pass. And once they do, all that’s left is the before. And the after.

He presses his palms to the cold railing. Breathes deep. And then, the darkest memory comes.

—

You weren’t angry. That was the worst part.

You were quiet. Controlled. A little too still — like someone who’d already cried in the car then reapplied her makeup and practiced how to sound fine. Spencer had been reading when you showed up, a case file open beside him, a mug of tea cooling untouched on the coffee table.

He hadn’t been expecting you.

But the second he looked up and saw you in the doorway — your jacket still zipped, your eyes dim, your shoulders pulled back like a wall — he knew. Even before you spoke, he knew.

You sat on the edge of the couch without a word. You didn’t take off your shoes. Didn’t reach for his hand. Just stared at him, quietly. Like you were still deciding whether or not to break your own heart.

“I don’t want to do this,” you said softly once you finally got yourself to speak.

Spencer’s breath hitched. “Then don’t.”

But you shook your head, eyes glassy. “It’s not that simple.”

And he felt it then — that slow, precise tear in the fabric of something he thought he could still fix. The moment peeling open like skin beneath a dull blade.

“I love you,” you said. “That hasn’t changed. I need you to know that.”

His lips parted. He said your name — soft, small — like maybe saying it would anchor you both back to solid ground.

But you went on. “I just don’t know how to be with you when you won’t let me in.”

He blinked, confused. “I let you in.”

“No.” You shook your head again, more tired than anything else. “I know you wanted to. And you thought you did. But… you didn’t. Not really.”

Spencer looked down. He knew you were right.

He’d been quietly withdrawing for months — not in big, obvious ways, but slowly. Case after case. Canceled dates, sleepless nights, long silences between texts. Promises made in touches instead of words, apologies offered in the form of forehead kisses and new books and please don’t ask me to talk about it.

You’d stayed anyway.

You kept showing up — with dinner, with warmth, with hope. And he kept failing to reach back the way you needed him to.

He wanted to believe you knew that he loved you, even if he didn’t always know how to say it when the weight got too heavy. But he never really told you where the weight lived. Never let you see what it cost him just to hold it all together.

“It’s not you,” he said, the words spilling out too fast, like they were trying to outrun the inevitable. “It’s just— I’ve been… I’ve been trying not to make it worse.”

Your brows knit in confusion. “Worse?”

“For you,” he said softly. “I didn’t want to drag you into my darkness. I thought… I thought I was protecting you.”

That was the moment something shifted in your face. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just that quiet kind of grief that comes from loving someone who keeps pointing you to a door without handing you the key.

“I didn’t need protecting, Spencer,” you said. “I just needed you.”

He reached for you then, without thinking. Not to fix it — he already knew it was too late for that — but to hold on to you one last time.

You almost let him, but then you pulled away. The moment had already passed. The truth had already landed.

“I keep waiting for you to let me all the way in,” you whispered. “Keep hoping. Keep thinking if I just love you a little harder, maybe you’d stop holding back.”

He wanted to tell you he never meant to. That he never meant for the silence to feel like distance, or for his grief to become a barrier. But he couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t even lift his eyes to meet yours.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way,” he choked out.

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

And then — like a wound coming undone at the seam — you stood.

He stood too — reflexive, as if maybe just the movement would change your mind. But you were already reaching for your bag, already curling into yourself, one arm tucked across your ribs like you were barely holding your body together.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I can’t do this anymore. I need to feel like I can breathe again.”

He nodded. Because what else do you do when the person you love more than anything else in the universe is asking you to let them go?

You turned toward the door and took a few strides before hesitating and looking back.

Spencer was still standing there, frozen in place, eyes red and rimmed with tears, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller — like if he could just shrink the hurt, maybe you’d stay.

You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out a key — your key to his place, the one you’d already taken off your keychain as you cried in the car. You set it down on the entry table, and your fingers lingered over the shape of it for a second too long before pulling back and reaching for the door.

You steadied yourself enough to speak, but your voice still broke as you did. The kind of words that echo louder once the silence sets in:

“I’ll love you forever, Spencer. Even if I have to do it from far away.”

Despite your best efforts, you froze once more before you could bring yourself to step outside. “I’ll never stop,” you added in a whisper.

Then the door closed behind you.

—

The snow’s falling heavier now. Slow, deliberate flakes, shapeless against the sky.

Spencer stays outside long after the cold has sunk into his hands, long after the balcony door clicks shut behind him. Somewhere behind the glass, people are laughing. A new song is starting. But all of it feels miles away.

You’d asked him — softly, like it might break if you said it too loud:

“Do you remember the last thing I said to you?”

He’d thought it was just nostalgia. A prompt for some shared memory, a fragment you wanted him to hold with you for a final moment before moving on.

But it wasn’t.

You weren’t asking if he remembered — no. You were asking if he still believed you.

I’ll love you forever. I’ll never stop.

I still mean it.

He grips the railing tighter. Because now he understands: you weren’t reaching back into a memory. You were reaching towards him. Tentatively. Hopefully. Asking if it still means anything. If it’s still real.

You’ve moved on, at least that’s what you tell yourself. Maybe Ian — solid, safe Ian — is more than just a placeholder. Maybe it’s still the wrong time for you and Spencer. But maybe some small, stubborn part of you is still tethered to him by a thread neither of you has had the courage to cut.

Maybe that look you gave him tonight wasn’t just nostalgia. Maybe it was permission. Or forgiveness. Or both.

Maybe it’s not too late.

Or maybe it is.

But maybe — just maybe — if he reaches, you’ll reach back.

And for the first time in 313 days, Spencer can’t bring himself to just wonder from afar.

He needs to find out.

—

The warmth of the party hits him too fast once he steps back inside.

It's jarring, like surfacing through ice. Noise and light and heat pressing in on all sides.

He moves before he knows where he’s going. Not calmly. Not with logic. Just instinct — pulled forward like a tide. Past the hallway. Past the bar. Past an acquaintance calling his name.

He’s scanning the crowd now with something closer to desperation than hope. Looking for the lavender of your dress, the curve of your mouth, the shape of a future he once held in both hands.

He thinks he sees your hair by the fireplace, but it isn’t you. Just someone with the same soft tilt of the head. Another not-you in a sea full of not-yous.

He checks the hallway. A guest bedroom. The stairwell. The far end of the kitchen.

You’re not there. You aren’t anywhere.

The edges of the room start to blur. For a moment, he thinks he’s too late. Thinks maybe you’ve already slipped through his fingers for good.

But then — he sees you.

Near the front door, coat draped over your arm, ready to leave. Ian’s standing beside you, saying something low near your ear. You’re nodding, distracted. Your fingers tighten around your purse strap.

Spencer stops moving.

His whole body goes still — like someone hit pause mid-scene. Like the universe has given him one last, final frame to memorize you before you’re gone.

He could go to you. Reach for you and pull you into him, Ian be damned. Say your name. Tell you the truth — that it’s been 313 days since you left and he’s loved you for every single one of them. That when you turned to him on the balcony and said I still mean it, he should’ve said I never stopped, either.

But he doesn’t.

Because the part of him that’s always loved you best — the part that curled around you on the kitchen floor, the part that kept you at a distance thinking it was safest — knows what it means to protect someone.

And sometimes it means letting you walk away, even when it feels like it might kill him.

So he stays where he is. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He just watches.

Watches the way you pause at the door like something intangible is tugging at you. Watches the moment your head turns, as if your muscles knew he was there before your heart could catch up.

Your eyes meet Spencer’s across the foyer, and for a second, the rest of the world vanishes.

Neither of you smiles. Neither speaks.

But everything is said.

It’s in the way your mouth parts like you might call his name and then don’t. In the way you look at him like you remember it all. Like you never stopped remembering. Like you never stopped wanting.

He wants to go to you. God, he does. It takes every ounce of strength in him to hold back.

And after one long, fragile heartbeat, you look away and leave with Ian’s hand pressed against your back.

The door closes softly behind you. Spencer doesn’t move.

He watches the snow blur the windows. Watches the space you left behind.

And in the quiet, he holds it all. The ache. The memories. The weight of a love he never stopped carrying. The feeling of caring so deeply for someone from the outside of a life that used to be his.

Because that’s what he is now — an outsider.

Not your partner. Not your future.

Just some protector.

And maybe — for now — that can be enough.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[eyesofiridescence]

oh and also more no boundaries spencer 🙏🏼🙏🏼 just re-read it and I need him so bad. like dial up the lack of boundaries, the possessiveness (from him) and you're cooking

not dating - spencer reid

summary: you and spencer were not dating. then why did you act like this? wc: 2.1k+ cw: SMUT, possessive/jealous spence Pt 2 to 'and they were roommates' but this could also be read as a standalone. a/n: I HOPE THIS DID IT. like i totally see what you mean, i feel as though the last fic wasn't as non-boundaries as i was trying to emulate, so i hope this one was better. we're gonna get there no boundaries anon, don't worry

You and Spencer were not dating.

That was part of the promise that sleeping together would not affect your friendship. So instead, you continued living together as per usual, staying best friends. But there were signs that Spencer thought of you as more as a friend. For example, tonight. You had ever so sweetly asked Spencer if you could host a little party for your birthday and he had said yes, anything for you.

But now, Spencer had realised that the party was slightly bigger than just ‘little‘.

You were Spencer’s best friend; there was no one he loved more than you, but at the sight of some of your friends, he frowned. You were always mature and kind, but some of the people you shared classes with were seriously immature, and gave Spencer the impression that they were all frat boys when they they did their bachelors degree.

You were lost in the apartment, dancing to the music with a drink in hand. Spencer sat on the couch, watching as people danced around you, the conversation had by the two girls on the couch completely drowned out. Spencer crossed his arms over his chest, huffing slightly. He didn’t like that your attention wasn’t on him. Worse, he hated that your attention was on a tall, finance bro looking guy, so typically masculine with his hand resting on your hip as he moved his body with yours.

Spencer stood up, making his way onto the makeshift dance floor in the living room. Your eyes lit up as you spotted him on the dance floor and you immediately abandoned the man you were dancing with to greet him with a big hug. “Hey Spence! Come meet my friend Denis!” Denis, Spencer thought. He had a finance bro name too. Spencer kept an arm around your waist as you dragged him over to meet your friend.

The two men introduced themselves with a solid handshake, and Spencer was glad to discover that Denis was shorter than him. “Oh, you’re the FBI guy, right? The genius?” Spencer grinned, looking down at you and attempting to guise his arrogance by teasing you. “Talk about me much?” “Can’t help myself, Spence.”

“Let me guess Denis," Spencer started. "Accounting and finance.”

“Shit, you really are a genius! How’d you know?”

“Well, the FBI doesn’t just hire anyone.” Spencer replied with a wink, dragging you away from Denis and the busy crowd of dancing bodies. His smirk dropped when he turned away from Denis, rolling his eyes. It didn't take a genius to take a guess at Denis's major. Spencer kept guiding you across the apartment until he was playing with his keys to open the locked kitchen door. “The kitchen, Spence? We have two bedrooms and this is what you choose?” Your roommate kicked the door shut, digging his head into the crook of your neck and whining softly at your words.

Giggling softly, you wrapped your arms over Spencer’s shoulders, a hand playing with the hair on the back of his neck. His hands tightened around your waist and he pushed you back until your hips hit the kitchen counter. Spencer’s front laid flat against yours and he deeply inhaled your perfumed scent as you held each other in the kitchen.

“You sick of everyone?” Spencer nodded against the skin of your neck and you turned your head slightly to press a kiss to his head. Spencer dug his head out from your neck, glimpsing down towards your lips with a silent question. He leaned in closer, and you smiled softly, pressing your lips against his in a short kiss. ”Why don’t you hide away in your room? No one will say anything.”

“I want to be close to you.”

“Oh Spence, you know I’m right here.” Spencer’s hands trailed underneath your shirt, cold against the warmth of your body. “Hey, look at me.” Spencer abided to your request, lifting his eyes up to meet yours. “I promise when everyone leaves I’ll come to your room and cuddle.” Spencer licked his lips, staying silent for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay.”

But Spencer didn’t move away yet. “Spence?” “I-I don’t want Denis to flirt with you.”

“I’ll stay as far away from him as I can, okay?” Spencer looked back towards the kitchen door before turning back to you and dipping his head down to kiss you again, claiming your lips as his.

You and Spencer were not dating.

Even as he retreated into his room, locking the door behind him and you returned to your friends, you stayed away from a flirtatious Denis, just because you had promised him to. You knew Denis could have wooed you into bed, and you could have had an enjoyable night together, but you promised Spencer to return to him when the party was over to give him all the cuddles he could want.

Your friends asked you about him. Is he single? They questioned, because Spencer was undeniably an attractive man. And despite the raging jealousy you felt, you smiled with raised eyebrows, teasing them about their crush on him. But no, you told them, he’s not single. Because even though you weren't dating: Spencer was yours.

“Anyway he’s my best friend. He’s off limits anyway.” And your friends had shared a look, asking what he had pulled you into the kitchen for. You didn’t realise they had seen. “He got overwhelmed by the crowd. Wanted to tell me he’d be going to his room.”

You and Spencer were not dating.

You shooed away the last of your crowd of friends through the gap in the open door, telling them you loved having them over, but Spencer didn’t want anyone home past 1 am, hence the timing on the invitation.

Locking the door behind Amelia, who insisted for you to ‘Have fun with Spencer’ while winking at you. Of course she knew. Not because he was the person closest to you after Spencer, but because you were so obvious, and she had an eye for romance.

Knocking on Spencer’s door, it didn’t even take him five seconds to open it for you. He smiled at you, contacts replaced by his thickly rimmed glasses, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. “I need to take my makeup off and change into pyjamas, but I just wanted to tell you everyone’s gone.” Spencer nodded, following you out into the narrow hallway and towards your room.

His hands found home on your hips when you came to a stop in front of your bathroom mirror, reaching for your cotton pads and micellar water. Spencer pushed his front against your back, chin resting on your shoulder as he watched you take your makeup off. You grabbed your cleanser next, leaning over the sink as you watched away any last remnants of your makeup. Spencer was ready for you with some thick napkins instead of your face towel, dabbing gently at your face before you went in with moisturiser. "It's better than a towel," He'd say, "Since napkins are disposable, they won't gather bacteria like a towel. That would break you out."

“Want some?” Wordlessly, Spencer nodded, letting you spin in his arms to face him. You massaged the moisturiser into his skin, being carefully not to knock over his glasses. Spencer grabbed both your wrists, lowering your hands slightly so he could press kisses to your open palms.

You and Spencer were not dating.

He was welcome to stay in your bathroom though whilst you changed into your pyjamas. You lifted your dress over your head, stripping away your bra to throw a small tank top over your head. Spencer watched the exposed surface area of your body as you returned to your bedroom, fishing out large sweatpants before returning to the bathroom, still talking to Spencer as you let your panties slip down the expanse of your legs.

Tossing your clothes into your laundry basket, you hiked the sweatpants up your legs, humming attentively as Spencer gave you a break down on his opinions about each individual person who had been in your house just an hour ago.

You nodded, making a mental list of who you could never have over again. One that started with Denis, otherwise your best friend would go crazy.

“Let’s go to bed?”

You and Spencer were not dating.

But he guided you into his room anyway, and let you lay down on your preferred side of his bed, resting your head on the extra pillow he had just for you.

Spencer made himself comfortable against your back, light fingertips running alongside the dip of your waist. He pressed kisses to your shoulder, all the way up to your neck, where he had to move your hair to reach your skin.

You and Spencer were not dating.

His hand found the waistband of your sweatpants, licking his chapped lips before asking “Can I?” You hummed, lifting your hips up to make it easier for Spencer to drag your sweatpants down your legs. They stayed pooled around your ankles, but you had enough space to spread your legs for him as much as you could from your position on your side.

Spencer ran a hand up and down your thigh before ridding himself of the confines of his sweatpants. He brought a hand to his cock, stroking himself to make himself harder.

Changing your mind on the position, you flipped around on the bed so you could face Spencer, and he gasped at the sight of your low-cut tank top, exposing the sight of your tits to him, swollen from your compromising position on your side. Pushing away Spencer’s hand, you replaced it with your own, squeezing his shaft tightly. “Okay, okay, that’s good!” Spencer gasped, long fingers wrapping around your wrist to stop your movements on his cock, which was becoming increasingly sensitive.

His free hand eased your leg up to rest on his hip, opening you up for him. He slid his hand down to touch you, his fingers travelling down your slit before returning upwards to rub little circles onto your clit. “Not surprised you’re already so wet. You get horny when you drink.”

“Spence! That’s mean.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Well, I could say the same for you.”

“That’s no secret. But I’m always horny for you.”

You and Spencer were not dating.

Spencer slid a finger into your entrance, causing you to gasp loudly, a hand coming up to clutch his bicep. Removing his hand from you, he slid the finger coated with your juices into his mouth, sucking on it gently. Your eyes were trained on his mouth as he did, and the second his finger was out of his mouth, your lips were on him, eagerly kissing him.

The man moaned quietly, a hand wrapping around his dick to bring it to your entrance, beginning to push it in mid-kiss. You whined loudly, breaking apart from the kiss to throw your head back, pushing your chest up. Spencer’s eyes widened at the sight of your chest so close to his face, so with a final thrust of his hips, filling you up completely, he moved his attention to your tits, pulling your shirt up to expose them to him.

Leaning down, Spencer captured a nipple between his lips, sucking gently on the bud. You gasped, bringing a hand up to lace in Spencer’s hair. Your hips began moving on their own accord, grinding against Spencer to feel every inch of his cock inside you. Spencer pulled his hips back slightly, moving them forward to push back into you.

The movements were lazy, your hips rolling to support his motions. Spencer moaned out your name, feeling his balls tighten with his approaching orgasm. He separated his mouth from your tits, bringing his lips to your neck, where he immediately began sucking hickeys onto your skin, dragging his teeth against your neck. You shuddered, arching your back when his fingertips connected to your clit, adding pressure onto the already sensitive area.

You could tell he was pulling out all the stops to try and make you cum with him, but it was still working.

You and Spencer were not dating.

But as you both orgasmed, crying out each other’s names like a shared secret, Spencer couldn’t stop the confession from tumbling out of his lips like a prayer. “I love you.” He cried, hips stuttering before stilling, emptying his load inside you. “Fuck, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You and Spencer were not dating.

When you came down from your high, you giggled softly, pressing a kiss to Spencer’s lips and mumbling “I love you too, Spence.”

You and Spencer were not dating.

But he still made sure you went to the bathroom and drank plenty of water to rehydrate yourself, before forcing you back into bed with him, where he held you as you slept in his arms. Like, really held you.

You and Spencer were not dating, but it was in that moment that Spencer decided he would ask you to become his. Officially.

taglist: @dearlizzies, @tiaajosephin

[eyesofiridescence]

Hiya! Been binging you spencer fics and they've made me so soft

Would you consider doing with Spencer helping his bau!girlfriend with her vest because she's maybe nervous or something? Maybe a few stolen kisses despite their usual professionalism..?👀🤞🏻

Only if you want to, of course <3

unprofessional — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: kissing ?? i had post!prison spencer in mind for this, but you're free to imagine whatever era you want. a/n: haiiiii !!! this is short but i hope you like it <3

You stood behind the black SUV, fumbling with the straps of your vest. You sighed as you noticed how much your hands were trembling.

“You okay?” came a soft voice behind you. You turned, your vest still half-done, hanging crookedly off one shoulder. Spencer was standing just a few feet away, concern etched into his face. He was already fully geared up, tie tucked in, and sleeves rolled just above his wrists the way you liked. “Just nervous,” you admitted, managing a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Spencer stepped closer. “Let me help.” Without waiting for permission, his fingers reached out to adjust your vest. He tugged the shoulder straps into place and straightened the front. “You have no reason to be nervous,” he said softly, glancing up at you through his lashes.

“I know,” you murmured, but it came out quieter than you intended.

Spencer paused, his hands stilled on your sides. You bit your bottom lip out of habit and his expression shifted instantly. “Stop that,” he scolded gently.

Spencer hated that habit. His hands left the vest, one rising to cradle your jaw while his thumb swept over your bottom lip, tugging it free. Then, without another word, he leaned in and kissed the spot where you'd just bitten down. You giggled against his mouth, and he smiled at the sound.

“Spencer,” you whispered, palms pressed lightly to his chest as you tried to create some space between you. “We’re at work.”

"So?" He shrugged, already dipping his head again.

Before you could protest again, he leaned in for another kiss, and this time, you didn’t stop him. You kissed him back. His lips moved slowly against yours, as his hands drifted back down to your vest, tightening the last few adjustments. It was almost impressive, his ability to multitask between kissing you senseless and making sure you were properly protected. Spencer pulled back just slightly, his gaze dropping as he checked your vest one last time. But you weren’t paying attention to that anymore. You were still dazed from the kisses. Spencer looked up again, meeting your smitten eyes. He knew he’d done that to you. And he couldn’t help himself. He leaned in with a smile, placing a single kiss on your lips.

“We're so unprofessional,” he whispered against your mouth.

“You started it,” you murmured back, reaching up to rest your hand on the back of his neck, your fingers curling into the soft hair at his nape. You gave a small tug, urging him closer. “Don’t complain now.”

“I could—” he kissed you again, this one a little deeper, “—never complain about—” another kiss, slower this time, “—kissing you.”

You giggled and then leaned in to kiss him back, pouring just as much love into it as he gave you. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. When he finally pulled away again, it was only to frame your face with both of his hands. His hazel eyes searched yours. “We’ll both be okay,” he said softly, nudging his nose against yours.

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding. “I know.”

With him beside you, how could you not be?

[eyesofiridescence]

ELLE! What about some Spencer fluff where maybe gf!reader is a waitress at a restaurant the team go to and the team are all laughing at him because ‘ooo Spencer has a crush on the waitress’ and maybe when they go to leave spence is like ‘oop one sec’ and runs over and gives her a kiss and says he’ll see her at home and everyone’s like ?????

sooo cute, great idea. thanks for the request!

Spencer Reid x waitress!reader who blows the teams mind [930 words]

CW: fem!reader, fluff

Spencer and his team walking into your restaurant during your day shift had come as a surprise. 

You knew that as much as he didn’t like to text, he would have done his due diligence to give you fair warning before showing up at your workplace with his coworkers (his friends and family for all intents and purposes) in tow. 

His smile as they enter the building is both apologetic and shy, and you realize that this is likely a surprise for him as well. 

You shoot him a wink in understanding which is thankfully missed by his entire team who are too busy scouting the restaurant for a table and flagging down the host to notice you shining the wine glasses behind the bar. 

You decide that – while this isn’t the way either of you wanted you to meet some of the most important people in his life – when life gives you lemons, you should at least have some fun with them. 

You quickly tap your coworker on the shoulder and offer to take over the table for him. He doesn’t fight you over it – large groups hardly worth the measly tips when they all end up paying separately anyways – and the next thing you know, you’re introducing yourself to your own boyfriend and his friends as their waitress for today. 

Spencer wars with the inability to look at you and the desperation to catch your gaze; his eyes darting nervously from the table, his coworkers, and your form at a speed you're sure would leave a lesser person dizzy. 

You bite back a smile as you take everyone’s drink orders, purposefully leaving Spencer for last. 

“And for you, handsome?” You purr; a muscled man (who you’re left to assume is the infamous Derek Morgan) whipping his head up to level Spencer with the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen as Spencer fights to maintain his composure. 

“Uh, I- just water for me, please.” He manages somewhat eloquently. You smile at him with a nod, murmuring a ‘coming right up’ before sauntering away and smiling to yourself as the team explodes in excited whispers behind you. 

“What do you know? The kid’s still got it.”

“Still? When did he ever have it?” 

“Spence, you’ve got to get her number before we leave.” 

“Oh my God, look at his blush!” 

“So you agree? You think she’s pretty?” 

“Don’t torment him.”

“Relax, Hotch. This is a completely reasonable reaction to finding out Pretty Boy here has game.” 

“What game? He hardly said four words to her.”

“I said six words, actually.”

“And stuttered an uhm there too, does that count as seven?” 

“Alright, that’s enough. This is a working lunch.” 

The rest of the meal goes rather smoothly after that, you finding excuses to lean over Spencer as you pass plates around and brushing a hand over his shoulder in apology, and Spencer blushing and sharing the odd knowing look with you from across the room as you clean other tables. 

The team more or less forgets about Spencer’s admirer by the time they’re settling their tab, an older gentleman offering to pay which results in a round of grumbles and complaints about how they would have picked a more expensive restaurant if they knew Rossi was footing the bill. 

You resign yourself to smiling at the back of your boyfriend’s head as they go to leave the restaurant, hoping he’ll at least turn around to catch your eye before they ultimately disappear through the door. 

But Spencer does you one better, offering a quick ‘sorry, just one second’ to the group before turning around and jogging over to you, not a lick of hesitation from him as he takes your face between two gentle hands and presses a deep kiss to your lips. 

You vaguely register a faint choking sound, the sound of someone swatting their hand against someone else's arm in excitement, and a proud whistle, though it all quickly fades into the background when every nerve in your body is responding to the physical stimulus that is Spencer Reid. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, lips parting from yours though hardly putting any space between the two of you at all, “I didn’t know where they were taking us for lunch until we were parked outside, I would’ve given you a warning.” 

“I know, handsome, it’s okay. It was fun getting to see you.”

He smiles in response before pressing another kiss to your lips. 

“Sorry for causing all the teasing, though.”

He huffs a laugh, taking one step back as he resigns himself to leaving you and returning to work. ���If they hadn’t been teasing me about this, they would have found something else to tease me about.” 

“Tell them I’ll meet them properly another time soon.” You say as he backs away from you – narrowly missing the host stand on his way towards the door.

He doesn’t bother responding – doesn’t have to – only smiling at the inevitable while his team gawks at you from behind. “I’ll meet you at home?” 

You nod in agreement. “See you later, babe.”

You finally turn back towards your own duties, thankful for a relatively quiet afternoon in the restaurant as a round of cheers and jeers sound in the doorway. 

“Babe!?” 

“Meet you at home?”

“Spencer Reid, where have you been hiding her!?” 

“This working lunch has been very enlightening.” 

“Garcia’s going to be so pissed she missed this.”

“Maybe she can hack into the security system here and create a highlight reel for all of us.” 

“I can’t take you guys anywhere.”

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[eyesofiridescence]

ꨄPublic Display of Awkward — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: fluff/comfort word count: 1,1k

paring: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings & summary: no warnings. Spencer isn’t used to public displays of affection—but with you, he wants to learn.

author’s note: lots of tenderness and public displays of affection! I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Spencer wasn’t the hand-holding type.

Not because he didn’t want to be, but because he wasn’t sure how.

In the quiet privacy of your apartment, he could press a kiss to your shoulder without overthinking it. He could hold your hand for hours on the couch, curled together beneath a shared blanket. But out there—in public, surrounded by eyes and assumptions and attention—it felt different. It felt… observed.

You were walking side by side, close enough that your jacket sleeves brushed now and then, but not touching—not really. The crowd around you moved in waves: parents tugging along kids, couples snapping photos, a street musician playing something jazzy near the café. Spencer kept glancing around, his posture a little tense, as he always was in bustling spaces.

You noticed the way his fingers twitched sometimes near his coat pocket—like maybe he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if it was the right moment. So you made it easier. You slipped your hand into his without a word, letting your fingers lace gently through his. A silent offer, no pressure. Just a question with skin instead of words.

Spencer went still for a beat. Not in panic, but in calculation. He looked down at your hands, then at your face, like he was double-checking your intent. You didn’t look back—just kept walking, giving him space to choose what to do with it.

And he did. Carefully, Spencer curled his fingers between yours and gave the faintest squeeze. Then, as you reached the edge of the sidewalk and paused to wait for the light, you felt it: his thumb brushing slow and deliberate across the back of your hand.

A small movement — thoughtful, almost fragile.

“Do you like when I do that?” he asked, voice soft, as if he might stop if the answer was anything but yes.

But you could only smile, feeling your heart thudding. “I do,” you said simply. “Very much.”

And he nodded—just once—like he was storing that information away somewhere important.

He thought about it later that night. He thought of how easy you made it look. How holding hands in public wasn’t a statement for you—it was just affection, simple and honest. How when people passed by, you didn’t drop his hand or change the subject or pull away. He thought about all the reasons it had always been hard for him: the scrutiny, the exposure, the fear of not doing it right. But more than that, he thought about how proud you looked when you had him close.

And he realized: if you weren’t ashamed of him, maybe he didn’t have to be ashamed of showing it either.

The next morning, while the two of you stood in line at your favorite little corner café—him reading the day’s specials with furrowed brows like he was reviewing a thesis, you gently swaying on your feet behind him—he reached for your hand again. No hesitation this time. His fingers found yours with a quiet certainty, warm and steady, and before you could so much as glance at him, he lifted it slowly to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Soft, casual even. Like he’d done it a hundred times, like it was something he did on every slow morning, in every line, surrounded by the half-asleep city.

“Spence?” You blinked, surprised, and tilted your head with a smile tugging at your lips.

He glanced down, eyes warm, a hint of mischief dancing there like sunlight on water. “What?” he asked, though he definitely knew.

“That’s… new,” you replied, grinning now.

He hummed, pressing another feather-light kiss to your knuckles—less hesitant, more familiar this time. “Well,” he said softly, “it’s what people do sometimes. When they’re in love.”

That startled something tender in your chest. You stared at him, caught off guard in the best way.

It happened again, days later, in the grocery store—aisles too bright, music too soft to recognize. The place was quiet for a Thursday evening. You were standing in front of the greens, comparing bunches of parsley like it was a life-altering decision, when Spencer drifted over to you.

He didn’t say anything, just came to stand beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. You felt him there more than saw him—his quiet, comforting presence, the way he always fit next to you without effort.

Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. A slow, thoughtful kiss. No hesitation, no awkward pause. Just his lips against your skin, gentle and grounding.

You didn’t move. Just closed your eyes for a second, let it happen, let yourself feel the way he was starting to settle into you—more confident in the way he loved you, in the way he showed it.

He pulled back slowly, hand grazing your lower back for a moment, and then wandered off toward the cereal aisle, as if he hadn’t just made your whole chest feel like it was glowing.

The “payoff for his efforts”, as Spencer later named it, was different — you were halfway home from dinner down the sidewalk when Spencer just… stopped walking.

It was subtle—just a quiet pause, like he’d remembered something important mid-step. You turned to look at him, brow slightly raised, but he wasn’t looking at the street or the sky. He was looking at you. Really looking. And not in that intense, cataloging way he sometimes had when he was working.

His hand found yours again, fingers lacing without effort, like muscle memory. There wasn’t a sound in the world except the soft clink of a spoon stirring coffee from a café behind you, the wet hush of tires on damp asphalt. And then Spencer leaned in—slow, hesitant for half a second—and kissed you.

It was soft, almost reverent. The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove anything. That didn’t rush, didn’t take. Just… offered. The press of his lips against yours was gentle, steady, like he’d taken all the words he could never quite say and folded them into the space between you. It wasn’t his first kiss with you, not by far—but it felt like a beginning anyway. His fingers moved to your waist, squeezing it once, as if grounding himself. Your hand came up to rest lightly against his chest, where his heart beat quick and certain beneath your palm. And when he finally pulled back—just slightly, just enough to breathe—he stayed close, his forehead nearly brushing yours.

You were smiling. You hadn’t realized you were until he did too.

“I think I get it now,” he whispered.

You tilted your head. “Get what?”

“Why people do this kind of thing in public.”

Thank you for reading ♥︎