Come Into My Bedroom

neighbour! clark kent x new girl! reader

SYNOPSIS: with a new problem in smallville ridding people of their inhibitions and exacerbating urges, clark finds himself confronted with a dilemma as his neighbour arrives in his loft, afflicted by the same epidemic

WARNINGS: where to start?, slight dubcon (purely because reader's emotions are being exaggerated by an outside force (not a person though, it's unspecified)) but consent is verbalised later between both parties, clark is kind of pathetic (what did you expect from me?), kissing, palming(?), he's a sensitive guy, clark reacts to seeing reader's bare skin like a victorian man seeing a woman's ankle, kind of dirty talk, clark in that white t-shirt (i KNOW you know what i mean), blowjob, handjob, clark compares every sexual experience to ascending to a new plane of existence and finding paradise, he's a loud boy, couch sex, semi-public sex? (in the loft in the barn, but literally no one is around and they're alone for hours), fingering, clark using his super speed for illicit activities, cowgirl, missionary, it's not said whether or not clark is a virgin, but he's definitely inexperienced, clark being scared of his strength being a danger to reader, praise kink (neither of them react to the praise in any particular way, it's just that there's a lot of praise so if anything i'm just showing off my praise kink), mention of sex against a wall, creampie

this is inspired by the episode of smallville in season one where there's that flower that makes people make poor decisions and behave rashly, and also by this scene that i saw on tiktok with clark and lana (if anyone finds this i need them to send me the link... for research purposes) (EDIT: someone found it so here's the link) where he just folds the moment she kisses his neck. i also borrowed a few lines of dialogue from my clark jacking off headcanons.

also for someone who rarely spells the word rhythm right first try, i use it a lot in this. fair warning there may be accidental tense changes and pronoun changes but i've tried to go through and eliminate that.

this will probably be the last instalment of the neighbour clark series, although i'll probably return to this idea eventually to add thoughts, but they won't be tied directly to this series, just to neighbour clark as an au. thank you to everyone who has enjoyed and supported this series and been so patient with me (i had no idea it had been over a month since part four).

part one! part two! part three! part four! part five!

Clark can’t seem to escape you over the next week, not that he really minds much. But it’s become almost impossible to make it through an encounter with you where he doesn’t feel like he’s at risk of coming undone. 

You’re always hanging out with Lana and Chloe in school and out of it, you’re at the Torch whenever he is, same with the Talon. He’s even come home to find you baking with his mother! What divine power hates him so much that you have to be everywhere he turns? 

Sometimes you’re not even doing anything particularly scandalous. The only remotely salacious thing you did while baking was licking the batter off your fingers, and that definitely did send Clark through the loop. Your pure existence anywhere nearby just threw him off. 

~~~ 

You have one thought and one thought only as you walk towards the barn that contains Clark’s little hideaway. The farm is empty besides him - Mr and Mrs Kent are in town at the market, so they’ll be gone for a while. You’ll have plenty of alone time with Clark. 

“Clark?” You call as you enter the barn. 

“Hey!” He greets, voice a little breathy. 

“Can I come up?” 

“Yeah, no problem.” You make your way upstairs, finding Clark reading through some book when you reach the top. “Hey, what’s-” 

He turns, and the sight he’s met with has him pausing. You’re in a pair of teeny denim shorts, a black cropped tank top with thin straps, and an open button-up. It’s a warm summer’s day and your skin is practically glowing in the light that filters through into the barn. The cute little brown cowboy boots on your feet really tie it together. There’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary about your outfit, but something about it feels different. It feels… he can’t place it. Although maybe it’s just to do with the air you have about you as you stand there. 

“What are- what are you doing here?” He asks. 

You shrug. “Well, it’s just been such a long, hard day, and I missed you. Kept thinking about you. Thought we could hang out. We haven’t hung out together in ages, you know? Just the two of us.” You’re moving towards him as you speak. Well, it looks like you’re just moving further into the space - pacing, perhaps - but he’s sort of backing away the entire time, keeping equal distance, and you’re turning to match his direction the entire time. “It’s been so long, Clark.” 

Your hand grazes over the telescope, but you don’t move it, don’t look in it (which he’s more than thankful for, because it’s currently aimed towards your house). 

“Y-yeah, we can hang out.” 

“What have you been doing?” You ask, looking around, then at him.

You take off the shirt, and it feels like he’s watching it in slow motion. The way your head turns, the way the material just gently, slowly glides down your smooth skin, and then it’s draped over the back of a chair. You stretch, arms reaching into the air above your head and showing off more bare skin. And as you reach the peak of your stretch, fighting the tension in your muscles and bones, you let out a purposeful moan. 

Clark is going to die. 

“Uh, just homework,” he says, swallowing to combat the dryness in his mouth as you turn towards him and begin to approach him. 

You smile a little. “So smart. You’re so good, Clark.” Well, you and he both know exactly where that comment’s going. 

“Uh- hm. Not- I’m not…” He’s backing away from you to keep some distance as you keep walking towards him. His foot hits a metal bucket, a loud clang! ringing around the barn as he stumbles a little. 

“Not what, Clark? Not smart? Not good?” Clark glances behind him to make sure that he’s not going to trip over something else or fall down the stairs, and when he turns his head back to face you, he’s shocked to find you directly in front of him. 

Your fingers hook onto his belt loops, tugging him closer to you by his hips. His eyes go wide as he looks down, then at you, multiple times in very quick succession, his face the epitome of bewilderment. 

“We both know that’s not true, Clark. You’re good. And smart. And strong. You’re amazing.” 

“Wh-what are you doing?” He manages. 

“Come on, Clark, I know.” 

“What?” 

“I know how you feel. I get it now. I’ve been totally blind to it because you’re too polite to look. But I want you to. I want you to look. I want you to touch-” His eyes turn wider still, and he’s still looking confused beyond anything. “I want you to taste. I want you to do whatever you want.” 

He sees then how dilated your pupils are, how heat radiates off you. You’re not yourself. Whatever’s been going around and getting to people the past few days has reached you. This isn’t you. 

But everything he knows points to this thing, whatever it is, exacerbating existing feelings, not creating new ones. So maybe you do really want him. It doesn’t make it any better, though. It’s still taking advantage. 

“Y-you’re sick,” he tells you as you lean in and begin to mouth at his neck. 

His eyelids flutter and a smile begins to pull at the corners of his lips. No. No, he needs to be responsible. He can’t do this now. Even though you’re handing yourself to him on a silver platter, telling him you want him to. Even though his heightened senses are letting him know the way your heart begins to beat a little faster, the way your breath turns shallow and gaspy, the way you smell as arousal begins to form a little patch in your underwear. 

“This isn’t really you. You’re sick.” 

“Oh, trust me, Clark, I’ve wanted this for a while.” 

“N-no, you’re not yourself. You can’t - ah!” He’s cut off by his own high whine when one hand releases his belt loop and instead directly palms him. His hips buck into your touch involuntarily. “Oh my God.” You apply the slightest bit of pressure, and watch proudly as his eyes roll back momentarily. Oh, he’s pent up. “N-no, no you- you’re sick. This is wrong.” 

“Don’t you want me?” You ask. 

“Baby, I’ve never wanted anything more than this, but-” 

“Then take me!” You whine. “Fuck me!” 

“Please,” he tries, although with your hand still on his clothed cock and his neck still tingling with the lasting effect of your kisses, it comes out more like a whine. 

You lean up, kissing at his jaw. “What if it makes me feel better? What if it cures me?” 

“I-I don’t think-” 

“Don’t think, Clark. Please. Just- just let go. Just be with me.” 

His eyes shut for a moment. “Fuck,” he breathes out as he reaches his verdict. He turns his head, meeting your lips. It’s a messy clash of tongues, desperate for one another. 

You back him towards a desk that’s been set up against a wall, and push at his shoulders to make him sit down. He looks up at you with those angel eyes, pupils blown and eyebrows raised a little, lips pouting and all coming together to create a look that just begs you to ravish him. 

You meet his lips with yours again, hands reaching blindly to find the hem of his sweater. You find it, pulling it up and over his head with as much speed as possible, finding that tight white t-shirt underneath. 

“Fuckin’ love this shirt,” you mumble, kissing him again. “But I need it gone.” 

Clark nods, eagerly reaching to pull the t-shirt over his head. His desperation means it gets stuck a little on the way up, and you have to help him get it off, but you don’t mind. You’re quick to get your hands on him, as he begins to kiss down your neck, you trail your hands over every muscled inch of him. 

He sucks a mark into the skin of your neck, kissing over it when he’s done, like a finishing touch. “Oh, Clark,” you breathe out, nails lightly scratching over his stomach. He shivers a little, breath shaking. 

Your fingers find his chin, tilting his face up to give him another kiss, before you’re getting to your knees in front of him. He watches with wide, adoring eyes as you begin to undo his jeans, kissing down his stomach as you do. 

You make quick work of his jeans, bringing them halfway down his thighs, then pulling his boxers down far enough to free his cock. He looks painfully hard. Clark knows that this is his body’s standard reaction to you. You don’t. You’re also not aware of the way Clark’s thoughts run wild when he fists his cock to the image of you at night. Granted none of his fantasies have ever played out quite like today has, but he’s going to be thinking of this for a very long time. 

Your hand wraps around his thick base, and he lets out a precious little gasp. You smile up at him, and from this angle, you look like a fucking enchantress. He swears you’ve got him under some kind of spell. 

You move your hand. Clark is ascending to a new plane. 

And then, with your hand still pumping him, and as Clark watches, you lean your head closer to his tip. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. 

You lick over his slit, and his head tilts back against his wishes. He doesn’t want to look away. Doesn’t want to miss a single moment. He wants to bask in the glory of this image forever. 

And then your lips wrap around his tip, a sensation like no other, and you press forward, taking him as far as you can. “Oh, baby, please-” he moans, wrangling the urge to flex his hips forward. “Y-yeah, that’s it, honey.” 

His head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut as your hand pumps what you can’t fit in your mouth. You watch him through your lashes, waiting for him to look back at you. But he doesn’t. 

So you pull off. 

Clark just about suppresses the whine that threatens to escape at the loss of the wet heat of your mouth, and instead a rather disappointed sigh leaves him. The world outside your mouth feels cold and lonely. 

But you fix it by leaning forwards and beginning to kiss around his pelvis, smirking a little against his skin as he shudders. Your hand is still moving to a steady rhythm, and even though Clark misses the feeling of your mouth, the combined sensation of your slick hand and your kisses on his hips is too good. “Clark, honey,” you mumble, nipping at the skin over his hip bone. He gasps. “Would you look at me?” 

“C-can’t,” he denies, shaking his head. 

“Why not?” 

“Because - oh, God-” You suck his skin just a couple of inches away from his base, disappointed to find no mark when you pull away. “Because if I look at you, I think I might cum.” 

You give him a sympathetic look. “What would be so bad about that?” 

“I can’t. Not yet. Have to - have to last.” 

“Oh, Clark,” you hum with a pout. “It’s okay if you cum. I want you to. We’ll go as long as you can. We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.” You reach a hand up, smoothing it over the planes of his chest. “Look at me? Please?” Clark nods, looking down and meeting your eyes. “There’re those pretty eyes.” 

You plant a final kiss on his hip before taking him in your mouth again. “Oh, please,” he whimpers, his hips twitching. 

His hands rest against the desk beneath him, but not gripping it, instead clenching his fists until his knuckles turn white. You reach for one of his hands, guiding it towards you, but Clark shakes his head and pulls it back, placing it firmly on the desk again. 

“Keep going, baby, please. I’m almost there.” 

You pull away to breathe, jerking him off with newfound speed, and Clark’s breaths turn into panting moans. This time, when he feels the urge to throw his head back, he fights it. He holds the eye contact you’re giving him, just like you’d asked. 

“Let go for me, Clark. Wanna see it. Wanna taste it.” Your tongue meets his tip as you wrap your mouth around the blushing tip of his cock, and you drag along his slit. 

“Yeah. Right there. Yes, yes, fuck!” 

Clark crumbles as he cums, shooting spurts onto your tongue and moaning through it, your hand and mouth working him through the pleasure and milking him for all he’s worth. 

You grin up at him, kissing the head of his cock, and standing. He lifts a hand, cupping your face and shifting some fallen hair, smiling at you, blissed-out and awe-struck. 

He leans forwards, catching your lips in a sweet kiss. “Couch?” You mumble, and he nods, taking your hands in his as he walks towards the couch. He sits down on it, an old and worn piece of furniture - but it’ll do. It looks sturdy enough. 

You sink into his lap, knees either side of his hips, kissing him. You blindly find his hands, pulling them to the button of your shorts. The way his fingers move to get you out of those shorts is nothing short of eager, quick and fumbling in his desperation to become impossibly closer to you. 

He finally gets the button undone and the zipper down, and you clamber off him, pushing the shorts down till they hit the floor, and you step out of them. Clark sits forward, pretty green eyes gazing up at you, flickering down to the hem of your tank top. 

His nose nudges at the skin revealed beneath the bottom, and he takes a long breath in, eyes closed, as though he’s savouring a sweet smell. Through all this, though, his hands remain balled into fists at his sides. He doesn’t grip the couch cushions like you’d expect, doesn’t dare touch you, for whatever reason. 

You toy with the hem of your tank top for a moment, Clark watching with hopeful eyes, and then you pull it up and over your head. You hook a finger into the band of your underwear - another light blue set Clark remembers fantasising about, silk and lace and matching the bra - and pause. “You wanna help me take these off, Clark?” He nods, lifting his hands and hooking his fingers into the material on your hips, tugging them down gently. 

“Oh-” he breathes out. You push him back softly with a hand on his chest, straddling him again. His eyes trail down from yours, landing on your clothed chest. 

You laugh a little. “Touch me, Clark. Then I’ll take it off and you can get a look.” 

“Y-yeah. Yeah. Okay.” 

You smile, grabbing one of his hands and guiding it to your core, fingers gently stroking over your folds. One finger slips through, and Clark almost gasps. 

He’s slow with it at first, tentative, until you kiss him and whisper, “Clark, please.” 

He adds a finger, finds a rhythm, faster, but still so gentle, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you. He curls his fingers just right, prompting a moan from you. 

“Oh, God,” he whispers to himself at the feel of how wet you are. Because of him. 

You reach a hand between you, middle and index finger on your clit, and you begin to rub tight circles, gasping at the spike in pleasure. 

Clark is watching every response to every bit of stimulation, and he looks down at your moving fingers. “Does it- does it feel good when you do that?” He asks. You nod. He meets your eyes, innocent as can be for someone who’s got two fingers buried inside you. “I want- can I?” He asks. 

“Uh-huh.” Clark replaces your fingers with the thumb of his free hand. His hands are huge. You’ve thought about it before, plenty, about Clark’s large hands on you, on your chest or cupping your ass, but now that you’re actually with him in this setting, the thought turns you on even more. If only he didn’t seem scared to touch you. 

“Am I-” Clark begins, looking up at you with hopeful eyes. 

“You’re doing so good Clark,” you praise. “So good. Please.” 

He leans forwards, kissing your neck, collarbone, down until he finds the tops of your breasts. He kisses you there too, while his fingers below speed up in their rhythm, driving you closer and closer to the edge. 

“Clark- Clark, oh, please.” 

“Good?” He questions. 

“Yes. Yes. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, breathless. 

Your hips begin to move with the rhythm of his fingers, and Clark watches in awe as you do, adding pressure to your clit and practically doubling his speed. Your eyes go wide at the feeling, intense but so, so good. He’s so fast, you think it’s inhuman. In fact you’re pretty sure it has to be. 

“Hhhmmmm, Clark, how are - fuck, oh, God - how are you doing that?” 

Clark doesn’t respond, and you don’t get the chance to ask again because all of a sudden, your orgasm crashes over you in a heavy wave that feels like it’ll never end. 

You collapse onto him, legs trembling and chest heaving. You bite into his shoulder, hard enough to break skin possibly, which you feel bad for, but he doesn’t seem hurt by it. 

“Oh my God, Clark. That was incredible.” You lean back, cupping Clark’s jaw and tilting his head so he meets your eyes. 

“Can I- can you, uh…?” His gaze lowers to your chest momentarily, and you smile. Your hands reach for his wrists, lifting them up, pushing his fingers towards his mouth. He knows what you want, and he complies wordlessly, sticking his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean of your slick. 

“That’s it,” you hum, guiding his hands to your back, to the clasp of the bra. 

He unhooks it, dragging the straps down your arms, and discards it to the side. He stares at your bare chest in complete awe, green eyes shining. 

You reach down, pumping his cock to get him good and ready, and Clark still struggles to shift his gaze. “You ready?” You ask, and he nods. 

You push yourself up on your knees, and Clark’s eyes widen a little suddenly. “Wait, wait, what about protection?” 

“I’m on the pill,” you say. “And I’m clean. Are you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And do you still want to do this?” 

“More than anything.” 

“Good.” You line him up with your entrance, and sink down onto him. 

If Clark thought anything before was good, this was a whole new level of ecstasy. “Fuck, oh my God,” he gasps. 

His hands clench into fists at his sides again. You ignore it for now, even though you want nothing more than to feel his hands on you. 

You begin to move, starting with a slow rhythm to ease Clark into it, and hooking your arms around his neck, kissing him. “You feel so good,” he whispers. “You’re tight, and wet, and warm.” He kisses you softly. “Baby, please.” 

“I know.” You pick up your pace, bouncing on his lap, smiling at the way he moans. Your ass meets his thighs with a rhythmic plap! plap! plap! sound, your hands clinging to his shoulders for some stability, because he’s still not touching you, and more than confused, you’re starting to feel even a little insulted. 

You kiss his pulse point, just beneath his jaw, and bite at his earlobe. Your hands slide up to his hair, giving a tug, and he moans. You notice his hands twitch, but he doesn’t touch you. 

“Why won’t you touch me, Clark?” You ask, leaning back and slowing your hips. 

He meets your eyes, guilt flashing through. “I-I just… I’m really strong.” 

“I know,” you say, one hand squeezing at his bicep. 

“N-no. I mean… like, really strong. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I’m not fragile, Clark.” 

“I know, but - I’m inhumanly strong. And if something goes wrong…” 

“I don’t care. It’s a minor risk. You know what I do care about? The fact that I have an insanely hot guy under me who refuses to touch me. And my legs feel like they’re gonna give out. So unless you want this to stop right now, you’re gonna have to take the risk.” 

He nods. “Are you sure? I don’t want-” 

“You won’t hurt me, Clark. I trust you.” 

He nods again, hands finally finding your hips, and with the aforementioned inhuman strength lifts you up and lays you down on the couch, crawling on top of you. 

“There we go,” you say, grinning and looping your arms behind his neck. 

Clark slips back into you, beginning to thrust slowly. “You look so pretty under me,” he muses. 

“Clark, you can’t just say that to a girl,” you giggle. He laughs a little, kissing you softly. He’s still keeping a slow pace, which you presume comes from the fear of hurting you accidentally by using too much force, but you’re impatient. “Clark, can you go faster?” 

“Y-yeah. Yeah.” He speeds up, and props himself up with one arm above your head, while the other heads south, fingers finding your clit and beginning to rub circles onto it, just like before. 

“That’s good. That’s good.” 

He nods, and more sounds begin to flood from his mouth, matching your moans. “Oh, God, baby. You feel so good. You’re so good. So pretty.” 

“You’re doing so well Clark,” you tell him. You wonder about his strength, about what he means by inhuman. Certainly, there was something inhuman about his speed earlier as he worked your clit. “Do I get to see this inhuman strength later?” 

“Uh- I probably-” 

“Please?” You clench around him for a moment. 

He falters, hips stuttering a little as a whimper escapes him. “If you do that, I think I’d give you anything you wanted.” 

“So I can see?” 

“Yeah, you can see. I’ll show you. Promise, baby.” 

Clark lets out a breathy moan, head falling into the crook of your neck as his hips gain speed, and he adjusts his thrusts to match it. “Are you close, Clark?” 

He nods. He hardly trusts his voice. “Just need a moment.” 

“It’s okay. You can cum.” 

He shakes his head. “Not before you.” God, you’d think his invulnerability would give him some advantage in holding out, but poor Clark’s so sensitive that every stroke feels like absolute heaven and it feels like he’s barrelling full-force to what will no doubt be the most incredible finish of his life. 

And then his fingers are moving against your clit just as fast as before, if not faster, desperate to get you to finish before he does. “Oh my God, Clark, what the fuck? How are you doing that?” A loud moan escapes you. “Fuck-” 

“You like that?” He asks. 

“Fuck, yes. What other inhuman abilities are you hiding from me?” 

“I’ll tell you later?” 

“You better.” 

He leans down, kisses everywhere he can reach, your jaw, your neck, your chest, your lips, even drags your earlobe between his teeth and gives it a gentle bite. You really don’t care about Clark hurting you, because it doesn’t exist as a thought in your mind that he could. He wouldn’t ever lay a hand on you, and you know that. In fact, at this point you’d willingly let him throw you against a wall and take you there. 

“Clark, I - I’m close. Please.” 

“I’ve got you. It’s okay, baby.” He adjusts himself to grab your hand, holding it by your head and intertwining his fingers with yours. 

You lift your head, searching for his lips, and he’s more than happy to gift you a kiss, soft in comparison to the speed and desperation of his thrusts. You moan into his mouth as you reach your climax, body twitching as Clark carries you through it, your walls clenching around him like a vice, drawing a particularly loud moan from him. 

“That’s it,” he hums as you come down from your high. “You okay?” 

You nod, a blissed smile on your face. “So okay.” 

You card your fingers through his hair, pulling lightly, and Clark moans. “I’m close, baby. Please, I need it. Need it so bad. Can I - where do you want me to-” 

“Inside,” you say. “Want to feel it.” 

“Okay.” 

His eyes meet yours properly, finding your dilated pupils, hazy eyes, and the utter joy in them, and that’s all it takes for him to be thrown headfirst into his own climax. He presses his forehead to yours, gasping your name as he spills his load inside of you. “God, you feel so good. Oh, fuck.” 

“There you go. That’s so good, Clark,” you praise, kissing him and swallowing his whimper. “You’re so good, honey.” 

Clark pants as he slows to a stop, giving you a soft kiss before he pulls out. He watches in awe at the way his cum drips out of you and onto the couch beneath you. 

“You were amazing, Clark.” 

“You were incredible,” he says, smiling at you. 

You pull him onto you and wrap your arms around him, smiling when he does the same to you. 

Needless to say, when Clark later demonstrates his inhuman strength by lifting a literal tractor above his head (not forgetting the joke you made when you met him about him benching a tractor), you’re quick to drag him up to his room before he can show you all the other superpowers he possesses. Although he does a damn good job of showing you that super strength.

taglist;

@mariswxt @blueeweeb @ssnapsaurus @i-got-a-bad-feeling-about-this @milestellerismybf @purple-1995 @writergiih @elysianrosie @glennussy @rainwaterxx @brinascorpio @withthistreaserisummon @babble28 @mollymal @alexcole1326 @mizzfizz @jiminie1028

fake boyfriend (ricky bowen x reader)

summary: in which (y/n) asks ricky to pretend to be her boyfriend and that makes hidden feelings slip out. 

prompt: “can you pretend to be my boyfriend? it’ll be fifteen minutes tops.”

extra pairing: luke patterson x platonic!reader

warnings: underage drinking, kissing(?)

gif’s not mine.

This is what I get for lying, (Y/N) thought to herself as she scrambled around the party desperately looking for her best friend.

She walked past a couple making out in the corner of the living room, nose scrunching up in disgust as she got a glimpse of the sloppy kiss. It was loud, music blasting at full volume and voices that could barely be heard over the thumping of the base (she wondered if the neighbors would complain about that). A cheer erupted from the kitchen and she turned her head around to see two girls celebrating they’d gotten the little white ball inside the red cup, they were close to winning the round of cup pong. (Y/N) bumped past dancing teenagers, apologizing halfheartedly. She held a red cup in her hand, carefully raising it over her head as she moved past people, trying her best not to spill the content. She wished she could just sit back and enjoy her drink, instead she found herself avoiding Bobby Wilson.

At the distance she saw Luke Patterson, her childhood best friend, talking to Julie Molina.

She smirked as she watched them interact. They were unbelievably adorable. (Y/N) knew Luke had the biggest crush on Julie, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself. She knew Luke like the back of her hand and his adoration for the younger girl was evident in the way he spoke about her and how absolutely smitten he looked at the moment.

Feeling eyes on him Luke turned around to meet her eyes. She glared at him, half playful, half serious. All it took was a single look of her face to notice the slight annoyance and Luke immediately knew the reason behind it. The idiot had the audacity of chuckling.

This was all his fault and he was laughing.

Such an ass, honestly.

She rolled her eyes and cursed him in her mind, flipping him off as she did. He responded with a smirk. She wasn’t truly mad, over the years she’d come to learn and accept that she could never be truly upset at Luke, and he was well aware of that.

Luke didn’t feel particularly guilty. When he’d suggested introducing (Y/N) to his band mates he’d done it without ulterior motives (she would counter that he’d known about Bobby’s crush on her and was therefore responsible for her current situation, he would shot back that she’d been the one to lie).

Truth to be told (Y/N) had been pretty excited when Luke had suggested that she meet his friends. She’d known Patterson since they’d both been in diapers, they’d grown up together and there wasn’t a moment of her life that she couldn’t remember him being around, but attending different schools meant that they had different groups of friends. Now, that was cool and all (after all, Luke was like that annoying little brother that you just can’t shake off and she was certain that if they’d had the same friends they both would’ve exploded) but lately he’d been talking a lot about his new band, Sunset Curve, and she’d been dying to meet them. She wondered if they would have embarrassing stories about Luke which she could use to tease him.

They were all incredible people. Alex was incredibly sweet and sassy, Reggie was incredibly funny and Bobby had an incredibly evident crush on her. It was so obvious it was almost painfully uncomfortable. Luke would later let her know that Bobby had been asking about her ever since he’d seen the picture of them together at (Y/N)’s mom’s wedding.

Now, (Y/N) liked Bobby just fine— he was a nice guy, much like Alex and Reggie —but she wasn’t interested in him in a romantic way. She had told him that, trying to let him down as gently as possible, but he seemed fixed on the idea that he could make her change her mind.

Being absolutely done with his shameless flirting she had resorted to her last option: lying. And not only did she lie but she did it like a pro, slowly introducing the idea that she was seeing someone before, weeks later, announcing that she now officially had a boyfriend.

Luke had snorted, she had elbowed him hard in the gut and Bobby had finally backed off.

She never expected to be forced to introduce her invisible and completely nonexistent boyfriend to Luke’s friend. But EJ’s parents were out of town and he’d asked Alex if Sunset Curve could play for his birthday and when people from both East High and Los Feliz had heard the band was playing a massive party had been formed. Bobby had jumped at the opportunity of meeting her boyfriend in this gigantic get together, she had given him a tight lipped smile and a nod and Luke had smirked at her discomfort.

She hadn’t panicked much at first, at the end of the day she could just tell him that her ‘boyfriend’ was sick and wouldn’t be able to make it. Well, that possibility had gone out of the window the moment Luke decided to open his big mouth.

“Oh, he’ll be here,” Luke had informed Bobby as they got ready to go onstage, ignoring the glare (Y/N) sent his way and (somehow) managing to not flinch when she pinched him in the arm in an attempt to make him shut up. “He texted me, said he wouldn’t miss it.”

It was payback. She’d eaten his favorite cookies two days prior (even when he’d called dibs on them and tried to hide them at the back of the cupboard) and now she was paying for it.

In the midst of panicking an idea had popped into her head; she just needed someone to be her fake boyfriend for the night. 

Brilliant plan, if she said so herself. 

So now here she was after Sunset Curve’s performance, looking for the only person in the world that could pull off the ‘fake boyfriend’ role; Ricky Bowen.

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dumbification (kinda); riding; MDNI 18+ w/ RODRICK HEFFLEY

rodrick gets lost when you ride him. no, not lost as much as distracted.

it's a little comical, really. it's mostly flattering when you watch his eyes focus completely on your tits. but it's also a little funny. there were times where you held back laughter when rodrick's mouth would go slack, his plump lips still glistening from your lip gloss, drool leaking from the corner. he was a big drooler, you knew that. you had the evidence from the nap the two of you had taken earlier still resting on your sternum, right between the things he couldn't keep his eyes—or hands—off of.

you wouldn't call him dumb (at least to his face) in most circumstances, but he tends to get really dumb when you ride him. you've told him as such, cooing down at him as you tipped his chin up with a gentle pull from your pointer finger.

"you've gone dumb on me?" you asked him, your voice more sultry than even you thought you could muster. and it sent him off the deep end. his eyes fluttered shut, and his head tipped all the way back. you actually think he whined, and the stroke to your ego was almost as big as his orgasm.

like i would | rc

| pairing: (non canon) rafe cameron x female reader

| genre: fluff, boyfriend rafe, rafe calls his gf baby like 100 times

| content warnings: mentions of being sick, tears lol, mentions of food

| précis: your boyfriend takes care of you while you’re under the weather.

| word count: 1,184

| a/n: im sick rn so posting this from my drafts

The first thing Rafe notices when he gets home is silence. If you’re home before him (which he knows you are today), you usually call out a greeting from wherever you are, to let him know that you’re there.

So, when he calls out your name and gets nothing in response, it’s safe to say he’s a little worried. He slowly walks to  the bedroom, where he, insert relieved sigh, finds you curled up underneath the comforter.

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𝘍𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘔𝘦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re sure it’s nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YOU’RE NEXT FREAK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, does he bleach his teeth with sunlight?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you can stoop so much lower. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t let go. 

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

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

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

YOU CANT HIDE FROM ME FREAK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, when is the bell going to ring? 

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

“Well,” Lana pushes, “am I wrong?”

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

“No,” Clark finally relents. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The light explodes above you.

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

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

You’ll always just be another freak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

end. — I do not own the characters or the TV Show Smallville, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © scribes-of-valar 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Taglist: @mollymal  

Do you know a fandom’s about to die when everyone starts posting social media AUs

twin beads | luke castellan

wc + pairing: 6.7k, luke x daughter of poseidon! reader

synopsis: you’ve been unclaimed for five years. you’ve loved your best friend even longer. the sea used to be your greatest solace, but after percy jackson comes to camp, it’s your cruelest reminder. (based on this ask!)

warnings: best friends to lovers <3, percy/reader sibling dynamic, fluff and angst then fluff again, hurt/comfort, shameless making out. sorry this one is so long but besties to lovers is my lifeblood!!! i get so attached!! designated song is true blue by boygenius:)

i. you said you wanted to feel alive, so we went to the beach

“Ahoy, sailor!”

The familiar voice ricochets across the lake. You turn, leaving glimmers of sun behind you as you stare back at the docks of Camp Half-Blood. An orange blob with a curly mop of hair is beckoning you. You laugh, wave back at him, and plunge into the water. It cools your face after staying above the surface for so long—you just love watching the light reflected off the waves. But the second you’re under the water, the soreness in your muscles, the heat on your face, the exhaustion from treading for so long, are washed away from you. You swim with precision and vigor, relishing the feel of the river cupping your limbs to spur you forward. Not to sound lame, but you fucking love swimming. 

But maybe not as much as you love your best friend. 

He laughs when your head pops out of the water at the edge of the dock. “Wow, that took you longer than usual,” he teases, brown eyes glinting in the dawn. “You getting sloppy?”

You huff, splashing some water up at him but it barely touches him. “I’m tired, you moron. I’ve been out there for an hour.”

Luke leans down at the edge of the dock, offering you a hand. His face is bemused when you latch onto him, and with a good flex of his bicep he pulls you up. “All right, c’mon,” he grunts.

All your energy evaporates the second your body’s out of the water. You’re far too lazy to be graceful, so you sprawl out onto the dock like a dying fish, letting the sun kiss every inch of you. “Eww,” Luke giggles overtop you, prodding your side with the tip of his shoe. “Get up, you mermaid.” 

“Make me, you mailman.”

Your arm drapes over your eyes, and you sigh. There really is nothing better than these moments; droplets of water soaking into your skin after an early morning swim, your best friend right beside you. 

He keeps nudging you with your shoe, over and over until your ribs start to hurt. You groan, swatting him away and stretching out your limbs with a groan, letting them pop and relax, until you blearily make your way to your feet. 

“You forgot your towel again,” Luke condones, but like always, he’s brought one for you. 

He goes through a practiced routine of drying you off, wrapping the towel around your shoulders and down your arms, across your back, scrunching the water out of your hair. It doesn’t matter how cold the water gets—this part always makes you warm. 

“Thanks,” you smile as he hands the towel off to you. “Anything interesting happen this morning, O Captain, my captain?”

“Not yet, sailor, sir,” he replies in a stuffy, gruff voice the two of you have joked around with since you were kids. “Just grabbing you for breakfast.”

You giggle, following him past the docks and to the shore. Once you’ve grabbed all your stuff, you both fall in stride and head towards your cabin, your twin five-beaded necklaces hanging over your shirts. 

Five years ago, when you got to Camp for the first time, you were as big a loser as any. You were bad at everything—everything—and had no real friends until you accidentally whacked some other friendless loser in the head with an oar when you were about to go canoeing. Luke got mad at you, but his little sister Annabeth was even more furious. He offered to be your partner for the day anyway. You’ve been partners ever since. 

Over the years the two of you have grown in status at the camp, more so Luke than you. He’s an excellent cabin leader and by far the greatest swordsman in camp. You, still unclaimed, have found solace in giving younger campers swimming lessons and wading out there on your own till you get sunstroke. (It’s happened a few times. Luke is never pleased, but also refuses to let the Apollo campers take care of you. He nurses you back to health with ice cream and horrible gossip.)

But every night you return to the Hermes cabin with a hollowness in your chest. One bunk emptied, then immediately filled. You’ve had the same one for five years, and the only condolence is that it’s right next to Luke’s, and sometimes you spend hours at night making faces at each other till your laughter endangers other people’s sleep. 

Yes, you love the water at Camp Half-Blood, but you love Luke most. 

Rumours of a new kid are rustling at camp. You haven’t seen him, but you’re just dying to get in on the gossip. Apparently he slayed a minotaur. Apparently Annabeth has seen him. And apparently he’s unclaimed. You hate to admit it, but this is the most exciting news you’ve heard in weeks!

Your afternoon is spent giving some swimming lessons and taking some Demeter campers canoeing. (Some of them freak out on the water. so it’s a nice challenge to untangle the sea plants they get hooked around their boat.) It feels like you’ve been here forever. A break is in desperate demand right now. 

You have no idea what kind of God heard your prayers, but your fellow counsellor has an unimpressed look on her face when she taps you on the shoulder and goes, “Your friend’s calling you.” 

The way she says it is almost degrading. You turn to look back at the shore to see the dark curly hair you’d spot a mile away. Next to him is a much shorter orange blob, shuffling awkwardly as Luke attempts to flag you down. Score!

You shoot an apologetic look at her. “Uh … I’ll be right back.” You wince, already disposing of your baggy orange shirt (it’s Luke’s) with your bathing suit underneath. 

“No you won’t,” she says dryly. “Just go.”

You flash a smile you hope is loaded with charm, and you’re off into water. As you swim, the only thing on your mind is I really really hope that’s the new kid, and I wonder what Luke’s face looks like right now. (He’s probably grinning, eyes crinkled at the sides as he tries to follow your figure beneath the waves. Maybe he’s doing that cute thing where his head tilts to the side as he watches.) 

When you’re close enough to the shore, you come out of the water, wringing your hair. “Hey, guys!” It’s Luke, Chris, and some blonde kid you’re sure is the new one. “What’s up?”

Luke is about to say something, then he frowns. “Where’s my shirt?”

“Left it in the canoe, I’ll go back for it later,” you reply, limply gesturing behind you. 

“And where’s your towel?”  

“Okay, I did bring one this time!” You counter. “I just gave it to a little Ares kid ‘cause she forgot hers.” 

Luke clicks his tongue, shakes his head at you, but of course he’s got one in his hands so what’s the worry? He’s endearingly amused when you take the cloth and dry yourself off, and the new boy, having watched this all raptly, widens his eyes and drawls, “Ohhhh, so you’re his gi—”

“This is Camp’s resident mermaid, Percy.” Chris butts in, adding your name almost as an afterthought. 

After you fasten your towel around you, you’re put off by Percy’s scrutinizing stare. “Look, it’s been a pretty weird day so I cannot tell if you’re joking or not.” 

“I’m not a mermaid,” you snipe, throwing Chris a dirty look. “People just call me that because I give swimming lessons here.” You stick your hand out to the blonde boy. “Nice to meet you, Percy.” 

He gives a polite nod, a little awkward. “Right back at ya.” The two of you study each other as you shake. He’s young, probably about twelve, a smatter of freckles across his face. His eyes look like the lake. Something itches in the back of your brain. There’s a moment where the shake is suspended, neither of you have let go but are no longer actively holding on, and you see it in his face that he’s studying you, too. Huh.

The conversation continues as normal, but you almost start to feel queasy for a second. “We’re trying to find something Percy’s good at,” Luke says with a pat on Percy’s shoulder. “You got any ideas?”

“Yes, please, because I really would like to have a word with my father,” Percy clips. “Is Glory, like, purely a skill thing or can I get some if I tie someone else’s shoes or something?” 

“I don’t have shoes,” you add unhelpfully. 

“It’s okay, dude,” Luke squeezes Percy’s shoulder. “Camp is great, no matter where you end up.”

Even if you’re like her, he means without saying. Even if you don’t end up anywhere. 

You meet Luke’s eyes. This is a kid that wants so badly to meet his father, to ease the ache inside him. You are the absolute worst person for this. One of the longest current unclaimed streaks and your ache remains. To Percy, you’re the biggest example of a failure there is, and Luke is only just now realizing it. 

“Maybe try the infirmary?” You pipe, shuffling back and forth on the sand. “You might have a knack for medicine.”

“Doubt it,” Percy swallows. “But yeah, okay. Who’s your parent, again?”

Percy can’t see it, but Luke and Chris send you a shifty look and all you can do is widen your eyes to be like, Help! Don’t make me crush his dreams! I don’t want another kid to hate me! 

You swallow. No matter how fast you think, you cannot come to a logical sentence. “I, uh—”

Just then, in another stroke of luck (wow, that’s two more than usual) an Athena counsellor that looks insanely disgruntled is running towards you. “Stolls put spiders in our cabin again,” he heaves once at a stop. “Please get rid of them.”

“Can’t you just squash ‘em?” Percy asks. 

“Not the spiders, the twins.” 

Chris is already nodding, but Luke looks to you first. He’s anxious, disappointed. You wish you could smooth out the creases in his brow with your thumb. “Don’t worry,” you stretch out a smile. “I’ll chill with Percy. It won’t take you guys too long.”

He’s still hesitant. You’re not sure this is a good call either. But he reaches out, quickly squeezes your shoulder and mutters, “Thank you.” Your skin feels gooey when he touches it. 

His signature roguish smile returns as he looks back to Percy. The side of his face is shadowed by the sun so well it makes you jealous. “Don’t give her a hard time, eh?” He reprimands playfully. 

Percy smiles a little. “I’ll try not to.”

You are once again reminded just how easy it is to love Luke. How effortlessly he moves into your heart. It happened to you after you slapped him with an oar. It’s already happening to Percy.

You’re sure he won’t like you nearly half as much. 

After Luke and Chris leave, Percy resigns to staring out at the campers canoeing on the lake. Maybe now is a good time to admit you’re not good with kids. Luke has tried many times to make you his welcome partner, but you can’t take to the role nearly as well. You’re perpetually antsy. And sweaty. 

“So, what cabin are you a part of that lets you do this all day?” Percy asks, squinting against the sun. 

Your heart gets heavy. With a sigh, you sit yourself down, and Percy soon follows. “Hermes, actually,” you say as casually as you can. 

Percy goes pale as a sheet. “Uh, what?”

“I’m unclaimed,” you clarify. “I don’t … I don’t have a parent.”

There’s always a pitiful pause whenever a camper figures that out. This one is somehow … clunkier. “Oh,” Percy says. “Oh. Okay, that makes sense. For a second I thought—phew.” Then his eyes trail down to the thread hooked around your fingers, the five beads you run your thumb over. “How long have you been here?”

“Five long, blissful years,” you hum dryly. 

Water ripples over pebbles on the shore. Every new camper’s ambition is eroded by the truth you represent. Percy’s no different. His brows furrow and his face falls. “And you’ve never been claimed?” He asks, and you can feel the noxious mix of pity, confusion and despair laced beneath it. 

You shake your head, watching some Demeter kids splashing each other’s canoes with their oars. “Nope. But it’s not so bad. I like my cabin, you know? I like my life. Doesn’t really matter who your parents are anyway, I think. You do the same activities as everyone else, just on different teams.”

“But doesn’t it make you mad?”

“It used to,” you shrug, “But not anymore. It’s just …” You sigh, rolling a bead against your thumb. “If I’m unclaimed, I’m unclaimed. That’s the way it is. You can’t force the Gods to do anything.” 

“That’s what Luke said,” Percy remarks, almost bitterly. 

“I’m a rare case though, Percy,” you half-lie to him, nudging him a bit with your shoulder. “You’ll get claimed. It’s your first day. And until then you’re kind of free to be whatever. You don’t have to fit into anything, which is kinda nice, and you can screw around as much as you want and nobody can really get mad at you ‘cause you’re new.” A smile rises on your face. “And I heard you killed a minotaur, so you’ve already got some cool points.”

His face screws up in a grimace, and it makes you laugh. “Oh joy, cool points. Can’t live without those.”

Okay, maybe you’re not bad with kids. Maybe you’re just bad with boring kids. Because this is going decent, right? 

“What if I don’t get claimed, though?” Percy asks after a moment, a vulnerable note eclipsing him. It resonates inside your chest. You pause for a moment, heaving a loaded breath. 

“Do you fart a lot in your sleep?”

His melancholy pauses. He looks at you like you’ve grown another head. “Uh … what? No? I think?”

“Then you can take the bunk above mine if you want. It’s empty now,” you say. “And if you’re never claimed you can come swimming with me, and we can find seashells to put under Luke’s pillow every night until he starts thinking they’ve always been there.”

Percy blinks. “Do you have any friends?”

“Yes, and I’m going to torture him until I die. Cabin eleven is oodles of fun, Percy, you’ll see!”

He looks a little horrified. “Luke said I was going to like you,” he mutters. “I … am not sure if he’s right.”

Oh, well. You’ll take it. 

ii. you can't help but become the sun

You can’t sleep, and Luke knows it. His eyes burn into the side of your face as you stare up at your bunk. You sneak him a look. He smiles ruefully. Sweeping his arm up from beneath his covers, a makeshift tent is formed next to him. He nods to you. Before you know it, you’ve abandoned your own bed, taking a single step until you skirt into the pocket of his mattress Luke has carved for you. He lets the sheets fall, cocooning you with him the way he always does. 

You’ve been sharing beds on occasion for years. One of you gets cold, has a nightmare, or wants to talk until your mind fades out, the only solution is a place next to each other. Whispers against cheeks, giggles muffled into pillows, necklaces knocking together. You used to be further apart. Now you can’t remember the last time Luke hasn’t latched onto you the second you’re within reach. It warms you a little more each time. 

When your head hits his pillow, the two of you just stare at each other for a moment, lips pursed in amusement. His face is so wildly nostalgic to you—five years seems like too short a time to have known him. His eyes are pitch-dark and soft with exhaustion, but you can still pick out the trademark Hermes mirth glimmering through. You sometimes forget his scar, probably because you know he wants you to forget it. He’d kill you for thinking this, but you kind of like the way it hugs the curve of his cheek, bunches up when his dimple appears. It makes you sad. It makes you happy. It makes you love him. 

“Percy likes you,” he whispers, opening himself up so your chin brushes his shoulder. “That’s a first.”

He’s only wearing a tank top to sleep, so his warmth seeps through his skin when you tap him on the chest. “Shut up!” You hiss back, tapering into a giggle. “Has he picked up on anything yet?”

Luke bites the inside of his cheek, regretfully shaking his head. “Nope. But all that skill stuff is kinda arbitrary anyways. He’s still hung up on kleos, though, so … that’ll come in handy for Capture the Flag.”

“Ah, yes. Using a child’s misguided need for fulfilment as a weapon. A camp classic.” 

“Well someone’s gotta be useful for Capture the Flag in this cabin and it sure as hell isn’t you, mermaid,” he barbs back. 

Your jaw drops in mock offense and you squeeze a hand around his shoulder to shake him. “I will put you in a headlock right now, Luke, I’ll break your arm—”

“Be quiet!” He giggles as you attempt to wrangle yourself on top of him. “I’ll be nice to you, I’ll be nice, stop!” You get absolutely nowhere before the bed creaks and Luke shoves you back down. Your pulse rattles through your mouth as you laugh silently. “You’re the worst,” he mutters in your ear, raising the hairs on your neck.

“Well Percy likes me, so,” you turn your nose to the sky like a haughty old lady. 

“Percy’s a funnier, less annoying version of you,” he pokes your side. “That’s how I knew you’d get along, you weirdo.”

The momentary adrenaline this conversation has brought you is mellowing. “Hey, I’m very—very funny,” you mumble through a yawn. 

Luke laughs quietly. “Sure you are.”

He pulls you back to him, arm slung around the dip of your waist. When you make no protest, he seals you against his shoulder again. It’s started to feel a little different, him holding you like this. There’s an uncertainty your body faces about how to respond. His thumb runs over your spine and you decide to relax into him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. Your chin knocks against his collarbone and you have the urge to curl yourself against his chest, just to feel him breathe. 

“Get some sleep, sailor,” he murmurs, fingers brushing through the roots of your hair. You don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. Your cheeks warm, and you bury yourself even further into the space against his shoulder and his pillow. Gods, there’s something wrong with you, isn’t there?

“Will do, soldier.” The campy voice you do is half hearted at best as you find yourself absorbed in the closest thing to a full home you’ll ever get. In this sleepy hollow with bedsheets and a boy, there is acceptance. 

Well, mostly. You think you dream about Luke brushing a kiss along your hairline in your last bit of consciousness. You think you wish it was real. You think you want him to do it again.   

iii. when you don't know who you are, you fuck around and find out

The last time your cabin lost a game of Capture the Flag, you’d still been taller than Luke. That’s how long your winning streak has felt. There’s no reason you foresee that changing today. Even when Annabeth drags Percy along with her on whatever surely precarious quest to victory she’s created. It’s unlike her, to bring a newbie along. It’s concerning. 

“He’s fine,” Luke drawls to you when your face has been tense for twenty minutes. “Annabeth’s got a plan.” He’s a little winded after clearing out some Ares kids with Chris. You aren’t much use when it comes to weapons—your friends take the lead as you wait from a distance, ready for backup. Thank the Gods they didn’t need it this time. You’re content to just watch, but whenever Luke grins after getting another kid to surrender, veins in his arms raised like rivers on a map, you get a little distracted and you’re not sure why. 

You just huff back at him, totally normal when he wipes a sheen of sweat off his jaw. “Annabeth’s gonna use him as cannon fodder,” you mutter back, and Luke hits your arm with an appalled grin. 

Annabeth did, in fact, have a plan. So you won. Obviously. 

You’re still doubtful Percy wasn’t cannon fodder, though, with how beat up he looks on the shoreline when the rest of your team flocks to the stolen flag to claim victory. He’s slumped down on the rocky shore, a few equally beaten Ares kids straggling away from him. 

“So I was right, huh?” Luke hums in your ear, pulling your eyes to him. 

He’s revelling in newfound glory, and damn it, you get confused when you look at him when he’s like this. You’re not sure when it happened but you want to tear your heart out of its chest because of how sick it makes you. Some of his curls are stuck to his forehead with sweat, his hair suffering a serious case of helmet-head. But it’s the pride oozing off him, the infectious happiness laced through his smile, that makes you fond of him in a way you’re not sure you should be. He’s beloved for a reason—he looks almost prophetic after winning a match, and he knows it. A glaring difference between the gangly boy you met all those summers ago. If you weren’t his best friend, you’d probably be one of his many admirers, watching his teammates fawn over his talent and wishing you were beside him. 

But you are beside him. And you’re his friend. Not an admirer. So everything’s fine. 

“You wouldn’t be saying that if we lost,” you retort, knocking your chestplate against his. It’s meant to be a friendly nudge, but Luke leans into it until you swear you feel his heart beating through the metal. 

He’s grown into his smile, less boyish and more wry. “You know I never lose, sailor.” 

You want to reply, but his eyes are startlingly pretty in the sunlight. That’s normal. Whatever. A heat rises in the apples of your cheeks so you scoff lightly and turn away as soon as possible. You feel Luke’s gaze following as you turn attention elsewhere. Your sternum feels fluttery.

Percy catches your attention again. Gods, he looks beat. He’s talking to Annabeth as she helps him up, and you see the gnarly scrape marring his cheek. You should probably check on him, right? 

You’re halfway to the kids when Annabeth shoves Percy backwards into the water. Like, shoves. 

“Annabeth!” You’re scowling at her the same way she scowled at you when you first hit Luke with that oar, rushing over to help Percy. 

“What is wrong with you?” Percy sputters out lying in the lake, but you’re ankles-deep in the water before you know it. He’s glaring daggers at Annabeth, but she looks relatively unimpressed. What happened during this game? 

“Thanks,” Percy mutters as you help him up. 

You say something to shrug it off but you can’t remember what, because your eyes are drawn to the scrape on his cheek. You have to blink a few times to get it, but you’re pretty sure it’s dissolving. Vanishing off his skin. “What the hell?”

Everyone on the shore is watching him now, trying to memorize his injuries before they wash away. Percy’s staring down at himself like he’s just been body-swapped. “I don’t understand.” 

You’ve never seen anything like this before. The strangest feeling fuels you—your bones feel firmer somehow, like the blood inside your body has weight to it. Like something is happening. A fear pierces your gut. 

Annabeth’s eyes have raised, and so have Percy’s. Your mouth goes dry. Right above him is the symbol of a trident, radiating so blue it washes out the sky itself. 

The claiming symbol of Poseidon. 

“Your dad’s calling,” Annabeth says, a smile itching the corners of her mouth. 

Percy looks like he’s going to pass out. You probably do too. “Told you you’d get claimed,” you manage to squeeze the words through the knot in your chest. 

You’re smiling until Percy looks at you, then looks up. His face goes white as a sheet. Or, as white as it can bathed in a pale blue glow. “Uh…” He blinks slowly, and your stomach twists. “I think she was talking to you.”

When you look up and see an identical trident looming over your head, you know something’s wrong. It’s made worse when Chiron rings out your and Percy’s name, branding you as children of Poseidon. 

Poseidon. 

You have a father. And he’s known you all this time. Your ears hollow out like a rush of water in a cavern.

Luke is the first to kneel. The rest of the camp follows. You watch as the entire camp basks in the glory of newcomer Percy Jackson, so quickly claimed by one of the most powerful Gods of Olympus. And you, who has waited five years to earn even a shred of his favour. 

This thing you’ve wanted for so long is suddenly the greatest insult in the world. Your best friend can’t even meet your eyes. 

iv. i remember who i am when i'm with you

You stare at Percy as he unpacks his things. Waiting to see traces of yourself in his face, traces of your father. Anything that could give you an inkling of what he looks like. Of what you look like. Of how this happened in the first place. 

It’s a futile search. Percy’s blue eyes, his freckles, the bridge of his nose, they’re all … nothing. Half of you is half of him, but there’s no indication of which parts. The cabin is cold. You’re not going to sleep well without Luke nearby. You’re not going to sleep well ever again. 

You feel nothing but strife, your throat closing in every time you take even a second to think. You don’t want Percy to see you cry. So you do what you always do. 

This has to be in the running for most overwhelming day of all time ever. Even when submerged in your favourite place on earth, you can’t get away from your dad. Your dumb stupid dad that has made the things you love and has ruined your life. 

You swim hard, and you loathe how good it feels. At least you know why now, but that doesn’t do much to ease you. When you pop up again, the sun has started to sink into the sea. And Gods, you have to give your dad credit. The landscape is so gorgeous you almost forget how long he’s ignored you. 

You wonder if this is the last time you’ll find solace in the lake. If eventually, it’ll be nothing but an extension of your father’s neglect. 

The water ripples around you. You frown, barely having noticed it when someone taps your shoulder. You turn. “Luke?” You swallow, but why are you surprised? 

He’s panting, cheeks splotched with sun as he treads water, droplets worming down his face from his soaking curls. “Been looking for you,” he puffs, “Percy’s worried. Called you from the—from the thingie but don’t think you heard me.”

You assume he means the docks, but you don’t say anything as he takes a deep, grounding breath. “You’ve been out here for hours. Hours. For a second I thought you drowned.”

“Now we know that can’t fucking happen,” you mutter a touch too bitterly, staring down at your legs warped beneath the water. 

Luke’s silent as he watches you. “…Have you been crying?”

When you don’t reply, Luke tugs on your wrist. “C’mon, sailor, let’s go.”

“Not tired,” you say, frozen by the hot tears brimming on your lashes. 

“I’m not leaving you out here. Come on.” He frowns when you yank your hand away as he tries pulling you again. “You’re gonna get heatstroke.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

He reaches for you again and you try to reject it for a moment, but he’s stronger than you, and he loves you better than even the water could. The second he has you close your resolve falters. He holds you against his shoulder, knees knocking against yours as you tread. 

“It’s okay,” he croons when you involuntarily start to cry. For a Poseidon kid, you can’t seem to control your waterworks. “It’s okay, I know.”

His hand cards through your scalp and you relish in the warmth of his bare skin on your cheek. He smells like comfort. You cling to it with all you have, until your nails start to dig into his skin and your eyesight blurs. 

“Come back with me and I’ll dry you off, okay?” He kisses the top of your head, the way you dreamed it last night. “I’ll take care of it.”

You’re not sure which it he’s referring to, because it could honestly apply to anything. When you both set off for shore, you’re so distracted by your own misery that Luke’s actually able to keep up with you. He’s up on the dock before you so he can pull you out. 

The second you’re out of the water you feel like you’ve been gutted with a lead pipe. All the energy it gave you leaves, and you realize just how right Luke was about spending too much time out there. You can’t feel your legs. 

You buckle over almost instantly, but Luke holds you before you can even think of falling. “I’ve got you,” he assures, guiding you down to sit on the dock. Your eyes are too weak to even admire the sunset. Luke drapes a towel over your shoulders, rubbing it over your arms, a welcome familiarity. He takes his time, wringing your hair and drying your back as you gaze blankly ahead. There’s a tenderness to it now. Luke’s ruthless when it comes to a lot of things. When it comes to how he loves, too. But there’s nothing demanding here. He lets your tears fall in silence, undisturbed, the touch of his hands through the cloth a silent promise. 

When you’re fairly dry, he fetches something then quickly comes back. “Here.”

It’s his shirt. You only notice you’ve been shivering as he pulls it over your head, lets you fill in the sleeves, gently gathers your hair back. “Thanks,” you say. His fingertips brush your neck as he hooks them around your necklace to rest it over the shirt. You think he does it to remind you you’re still the same. You’ve had five years together. It doesn’t have to end now. 

“Why did it take him so long?” You struggle to say, eyes glossed like sea glass. “Why—why now? What did I do?”

Luke puts an arm around you. “I don’t know,” he mumbles honestly. 

You sink into his warmth like a wave meets the shore. “Five years, Luke. He ignored me for five years. And he takes Percy right—right away.” It’s hard not to choke between every word. “I just thought I’d never get claimed, and I was fine with that, and now I’m … this!”

Its hard to tell if the dampness of your cheeks are the remnants of saltwater or your tears. “I don’t want this,” you sniffle. “I waited so long … and I just don’t want it.”

Luke rubs your shoulder, lips pursed against your head. He murmurs into your hair, “I know, sailor. It’ll be okay. Promise.”

His voice is reserved. You look up at him. His jaw is resolute, his eyes red-rimmed in a way you hadn’t noticed before. “You’re upset too,” you comment quietly. 

He laughs listlessly. “Yeah, of course I am. I’m losing my favourite cabin mate.”

You sniff and try to smile. “Percy?”

He rolls his eyes fondly, and it feels like all you want. He squeezes your shoulders tight and you long desperately to be closer. “I just don’t know what I did wrong,” you whisper, pressing your cheek into him. “Why didn’t he see me until he saw Percy? Am I just … unremarkable or something?”

“No, no. Absolutely not—c’mere.” Luke loops an arm around your waist and manoeuvres you into his arms, cradled on his lap so you can bury your face in his neck. You can’t stop fucking crying, but his patience for you is infinite. “You are by far the most remarkable person I know.” He seals you against his chest, scratching your scalp the way he knows you like. “None of this is you, okay? Your dad’s an idiot. You are—you’re everything. They’re all mindless up there, they don’t know how to love you. They don’t deserve to.”

An edge seeps into his timbre that gives you pause. You feel weak, discarded. It sounds like he’s talking about a different person. But he’s right. He has to be, because he knows you better than you know yourself.

Luke keeps going. You peek at his face when he speaks. Stubborn as ever. “He doesn’t have any fucking right to you. If he wanted that he should’ve claimed you when you got here. You have a life. You … you had a home. And now just because he’s got another kid he kills two birds with one stone? He pretends like this is some Godly intervention? Like he didn’t ignore you the whole time you’ve been here because he couldn’t stand how much you didn’t need him? How much better you are? You’re my …” He struggles, brows furrowed, the sun melting in his eyes. “You’re my best friend, and we’re supposed to be together. He’s not allowed to take that from you.”

Your heart stirs. “Sounds like you’re jealous,” you try to tease.

Luke heaves a sigh, his muscles rippling against your chest. You’re suddenly aware of the fact that he’s got no shirt on. And that he’s pressed against you in a way that makes you question if you should be this close. Beads of water cling to the divots in his skin, and you linger a little too long on one nestled in his collarbone. You swear you think this every time he goes swimming with you: when did he get so … hot? And every time you think it, you want to gouge your heart out with a spoon. 

“Can you blame me?” A melancholy smile plays on his face. “I liked having you all to myself.”

Tears spring to your eyes all over again. “I liked that too.”

It’s a whisper that sends you forward, Luke bringing his forehead to your own, and you want to live in the warmth that coils through you. His nose catches against yours when he laughs, but he doesn’t move. You take a moment to savour it. You think he does too.

He wipes a tear off your face as you say, “I’m still yours.”

“Yeah?” Luke hums a bit, his hand sliding up your waist in a most unfriendly manner. “How?” 

You catch the glimmer in his eyes, that plucky smile he’s had since fourteen. Something shifts.

“What are you asking me, Luke?” You can’t fight the smile. 

“What do you want me to ask you?”

“I dunno, what do you want me to want you to ask you—”

“My Gods, you’re a pain in the ass.”

He groans, throws his head back, and kisses you like you aren’t the most annoying person in the world. 

It’s so cliché, but for a brief moment your strife is well worth it. You yank him closer before he pulls away. It’s a little unsure, the two of you so used to toeing the line, but soon you’ve given in and your hands are in his hair, mouths parting, and it’s messy and wanting and everything you need. 

Luke slips his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, palms flattening against your sun-beaten skin. It feels so good, better because the shirt is already his, a whine scratching your throat as he moves up so his thumbs graze the skin beneath the tie in your bathing suit. 

“Oh, sailor,” he coos against your mouth. You want to retaliate but it’s lost when he squeezes your thighs, warming you in all the right places. It’s hard to understand this is even happening—it feels like you’re underwater, a blissful fuzziness growing in your head entirely at his mercy. 

He razes kisses down your still-damp neck, catching pearls of water on his tongue. You cling to his shoulders, raking your hands down his back just so you can feel more of him. Luke’s dropped down to your collarbone at this point, tugging the neck of your shirt down as his teeth graze the bone. “You’re my best friend,” he mutters over your skin. “Still mine. Always mine.”

“Mmhm,” is all you can say back, the husk in his voice making your eyes screw shut. He teases a spot so sensitive you groan and laugh at the same time. The regret is immediate, but you feel a chuckle pass his lips, too. “Luke,” you purse a smile. He dots kisses back up your neck until you start returning the favour. 

You kiss his jaw, a few spots on his neck, feeling the flex of his muscle all around you as he squeezes the fat of your hips. You finally sweep up the water in the hollow of his collarbones, and his grunt of your name makes you, frankly, delirious. 

He brings your mouth back to his, skin sticking to each other. It’s harder to kiss as fervently when you’re both giggling against each other’s tongues, running fingers along the planes of each other’s bodies trying to see which places feel new and which are known from memory. It’s a fifty-fifty split, and you love it. 

Somewhere along the way he peeled off your shirt because it was clinging in places you knew he wanted, but now you’re panting and giggling into his hair, his nose pressed into your neck, both of you melded together with salt and sun. “You really know how to cheer a girl up, mailman,” you grin. 

His lips fix to your skin. “Really? You’re still gonna call me that right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Like it better when you call me captain,” he murmurs, nose grazing along your pulse. 

You swallow, “That doesn’t work unless we’re doing the whole sailor-ship bit.”

“We’re always doing the sailor-ship bit.”

“I seriously can’t believe I’m in love with you.”

He sighs warmly at the words. “You have no idea how much I’ve been dying for you to say that. Even though I knew you would.”

You roll your eyes as he presses his forehead to yours, and you’re more glad than ever that his face is the one you love so much. It’s a pretty great face. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says tenderly. “You’re too incredible for Poseidon. You’re worth more than that.”

He still looks gorgeous blurred by your tears. You listen to the beat of his heart and the waves rolling. “More than any water anywhere?”

“More than the fucking Styx, sailor. I’ll promise you that.”

That night, Luke stays with you and Percy in your cold chapel of a cabin. You exchange stories until Percy falls asleep in his bed, curled up like a sea otter. “He’s a drooler,” Luke notes fondly, eyes flicking to yours. “Like you.”

You shove his chest playfully until he wraps his arms around you and anchors you to sleep, like every night before. This time, as you drift off, he kisses your forehead again. Once because he loves you, and twice to make sure you know it’s real. 

luke taglist: @sunniskyies @apollos-calliope @lillycore @sunny747 @m00ng4z3r @pabkeh @thaliagracesgf @theadventuresofanartist @bonnie-tz @ash-williamsss @sucker-4-angst @kitkat-writes-stuff @too-deviant

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because you’re mine (it seems like we’re meant to be)

reader x elliot // bonfire fluff

warnings: drugs , alcohol use

a/n : i know this is very random, considering i’m a bts account, but recently euphoria has been giving me motivation to write, so feel free to request more!💫

the white shafts of daylight have passed, gone are the shadows of evening. flames from the fire rise boldly against the black sky. before that great fire their skin is glowing red, orange and gold. every eye is reflecting the flickering light, each iris containing a small picture of the bonfire before them. yet, it isn’t simply just the sight that has you mesmerized, so too has the crackling and the woody fragrance of smoke. you end up being put in front of elliot’s legs, feelings his knees against your back. you feel something press against your lips. as you look down to see a cup and elliot’s face, peering up at you imploringly as he offers the drink to you.of course, you take it, pulling it away to peer into the contents.

 “what is this?” you ask; it’s bright blue and looks like there’s glitter in it.

“i made it,” says elliot, and that’s enough of a reason to believe that you won’t die drinking it. so you knock back half of it in one go, swallowing and then frowning as you hand the cup back. 

“it’s supposed to taste like blueberry slushie, but i’m not sure if i got it right”.

you smack your lips. “tastes more like synthetic syrup” you admit, moving your hand to run your fingers over the nape of elliot’s neck.

his lips curl back into a hazy grin, reaching up to plant a kiss on your lips “i guess you’re right” elliot says moving back, but you kiss him back, a little harder than necessary; you’re not nearly drunk enough, but you kiss elliot like that anyway.“alright, alright,” rue calls. “don’t start fucking with all of us here”

elliot pulls back, turning to look at her, then pecks your cheek smiling, “there’s a first time for everything.”

beside rue, lexi makes a pained noise and immediately gets up. 

you pull back from elliot just enough, although you’re still tangled together as the rest of you dissolve into another conversation.

you let yourself listen to the lazy conversation as elliot wraps himself around you, clingier than usual thanks to the alcohol. elliot can still remember the new year’s eve, when you’ve crushed through the door trying to find rue, as cliche as it sounds, he knew you’ll mean a lot to him in the near future. 

and you did, still do.

maybe it was inevitable, then, for you to fall together the way you did—under the stars, and the entire world at your feet. when you kissed him for the first time out there, elliot told you it was probably a bad idea. but as soon as your lips met, both knew, there was no going back.you bring the joint to your lips and inhaling before you let out a long stream of smoke as you stare up at the stars.

there’s a light touch of elliot’s fingers caressing your sides.

you look up at him with that same lazy grin; there’s only the light of the moon and the fire, but it’s enough to see the way elliot looks at you. 

you want to blame it on the alcohol and the drugs, but elliot always kind of looks at you like he can’t believe you are real, like no high or euphoria could ever compare. you understand. it’s the way you look at him, too.

you take another drag of your joint and then lift your chin up, and elliot gets it immediately, leaning down and over you until your lips are nearly touching. you hold it for a second, at least until elliot gets impatient and bites your bottom lip, and then you open your mouth and breathe the smoke into his mouth. you can feel elliot grinning as your lips brush together, and then you lift your head up an inch to press your lips together into a kiss.by the time you resurface—or elliot pulls away, letting you back into the rest of the world, because it’s always hard to focus on anything else—the others have started their own conversation.

“you two are making me sick,” says nate.

“you’re fucking sick,” says fez.

you’re too lost in your own thoughts, brought back to the present only by elliot tickling your chin, leaning in and whispering, “are you sleeping?”

you grin, keeping your eyes closed as you murmurs “just thinking.”

“about?”

you hum. “you.”

elliot kisses your nose. you finally open your eyes, looking up at elliot looking down at you.

“i love you, you know,” says elliot, not taking his eyes off you.

you thumb at the corners of elliot’s mouth,“ i love you too,” you answer, breathless.

i think the first time you and joquin hook up, you're giggling. your face and ears are flushed, and you're giggling bc you can't believe this is actually happening. you're trying to make jokes about the situation you've gotten yourself into to ignore how you're starting to sweat bc doing this with him is actually a big deal for you. then you lock eyes and joaquin's not laughing. in fact, you don't think you've ever seen him so quiet. his eyes are roaming all over your face, drinking you in (is that the right phrase?) and you can see the redness on his cheeks and creeping up his neck. he tells you to cut that shit out and that's when you know this is just as serious for him as it is for you.

GOD i wish he was real😣

i can see this so vividly im gonna throw the fuck up.

he's sitting at the top of the bed, back lazily pressed against the stack of skewed pillows. he's almost completely naked, only one layer—the most important layer, keeping him from revealing everything to you. in no time, though, joaquín's boxers will slide off of his hips and join the pile of clothes on the floor, just as your bra and panties will, too.

you're working on that now, forearms wrapped around your back as you fumble for the clasp on your bra. it's taking you too long, even though it shouldn't. but you're nervous. you are so incredibly nervous and by trying not to show it, you're letting it show. hands shaking and fumbling, giggles coming from your lips, eyes avoiding contact.

you're so in your own world that you haven't even realized that joaquín is inviting you into his. not until he leans forward and places a hand on your bicep. just that one touch stops you.

"do you want me to...?"

your first instinct is to say no, but it would be foolish to do so. you're obviously struggling, why not just accept help? you nod and let your arms fall.

joaquín reaches around your back and places both hands on the clasp of your bra. he's close to you like this, not as close as when the two of you were kissing just minutes before this. but somehow this feels more intimate than before. sharing his air—lips hovering, his eyes staring at the bridge of your nose and, likely, your cleavage, your eyes finally just looking at the tan and clear skin of his face.

he's so pretty.

your bra is undone and you let it fall from your arms. joaquín does help a bit; he pulls the piece of material off of your arms and tosses it to the side of the bed. and then he just stares.

you're still feeling giggly, laughter is bubbling under your skin, and to try and avoid it you lean forward, cocking your head to the side enough to slot your nose with his. he kisses you back with lingering pecks. once, twice, and as you go in for a third he whispers against your lips, "hold on, hold on."

you're pulling back, eyebrows furrowed, wondering what could be wrong. "is something—?"

he shakes his head, big hands coming up to rest on your hips. "no. 's okay. just wanna look at you for a sec."

immediately, you're grinning, playfully punching his shoulder with not even an ounce of your weight or real intention behind it. you're giggling as you chastise him, jokingly telling him to hurry up and other things through a ramble.

he humors you for a second, lips splitting into a grin that always blinds you initially, but then he licks his lips and his smile drops to make room for an expression that's just a little more serious.

"no, no, no. let me just look at you. c'mon, be serious for a second. just sit there and look pretty. you've always been good at that."

and then your brain is spinning and you can't do anything but listen to him. sitting on your heels, tits out, letting joaquín stare at you. and yeah, his gaze is lustful, of course it is. but it's appreciative. he's admiring you, not for what you have, but for who you are.

as soon as he gives you the go ahead, you're climbing onto his lap and kissing him stupid.

love that lasts | joaquín torres x fem!reader

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader Summary: When Thanos snapped his fingers and erased half of all life from the universe, he also took you from Joaquín. Five years later, he is still trying to learn how to live without you – until the Avengers can save the world. Warnings: Google Translate is my best friend – apologies if the Spanish is used incorrectly in this fic, I do not speak it but I tried my best to make sure I used words properly. Mentions of bad mental health, nightmares. It's very angsty at the start, has a bit of fluff, but mostly full of angst. Word Count: 4.2k A/N: I rewatched Infinity War and Endgame last week and came up with this idea. Since we know that Joaquín survived the snap, I decided I wanted to write something angsty about where you didn't survive and this was born. This was the most challenging fic for Joaquín I've written so far but also the most rewarding, I think. I know everyone's really moved on from the whole Infinity War/Endgame thing regarding fics, but I really wanted to write this so I hope people will enjoy it. The title of the fic comes from 'Still' by Noah Kahan – I had his album on repeat almost the entire time I was writing this.

Joaquin Torres always knew that the Avengers were going to save the world. From the moment that half of all life on Earth had disappeared, he knew that whatever had happened, the Avengers would somehow find a way to fix things. 

He just didn’t count on it being five years later.

There had been one good thing that had come out of him not being blipped, though – the fact that his mom hadn’t been either. If he’d had to live without her, he’s sure he would have gone insane. Because it was hard enough to live without you.

He’d spent days wishing that he’d been taken too. The first few days had been the worst. He’d been unable to leave the house, having to learn to grieve you when he wasn’t even sure if you were dead or just gone. 

He remembered every moment of that first day like it was yesterday. How he’d just arrived home from going to pick up some takeout for the two of you and he’d seen his neighbour turn to dust in his front yard while he’d been outside gardening, making the most of the evening light. He thought he must have just been seeing things.

He’d walked through the front door of your home and called out your name, heading into the kitchen to put the take out down before he went to find you, feeling more than confused. Then you’d appeared in the doorway to the kitchen and Joaquin had been flooded with relief.

“I’m home, angel, I have the takeout in the kitchen, come get yours” Joaquin called, starting to get the take out from the bags. “Hey, have you seen anything weird on TV today?”

“Joaquin…”

He’d looked up at you, then, just soon enough to see you say his name as you slowly started to turn to dust in front of his eyes. The blanket that had been wrapped around your shoulders fell to a pile on the floor as Joaquin stared at where you had been standing only seconds earlier. 

“Angel?” Joaquin’s voice was small, hesitant. He put the container down that he’d been holding and walked towards the doorway, half expecting you to be hiding behind the wall, ready to jump out and scare him. It’d been a trick of the light, something like that. But all that was left of you was the blanket on the floor and your phone which had fallen on top of it.

He’d fallen to the floor, grabbing the blanket in his hands and holding it to his chest for what felt like hours as the feeling of numbness overtook him. The blanket still smelled like you and he never wanted to let it go.

Whatever was happening, whatever had happened to your neighbour and to you… there was nothing Joaquin could do about it. He wasn’t an Avenger, he wasn’t anyone special. He knew in that moment that he was going to have to live with it. That fact alone could have killed him.

His knees went numb after kneeling on the floor for so long but he couldn’t find it in himself to pull himself up from the floor. Not even when the sun finally set and the house was blanketed in darkness. The food on the counter had long gone cold. It was only when your phone, sitting in his lap, buzzed, that he’d been pulled out of his stupor. His mother was trying to ring you. She’d thought Joaquin had been taken when she couldn’t get a hold of him, but the second he answered your phone, she knew that you were gone.

Joaquin had stayed with his mother for a while after that, not being able to bring himself to be in the house without you there. There were memories of you in that house everywhere he looked. The sheets still smelled of you, all of your things were still in the cupboards, every time he opened up Netflix, your profile was there. Everything was there except for you. 

“You could always sell the house and move back home with me properly, mijo,” his mother had said. “It’s not smart to be paying your mortgage on that house when no one is living in it.”

He shook his head. “I know it’s not smart, mamá, but I just can’t. We bought that house together. We were making a life there. I can’t even bring myself to move her things, how could I sell the place and clear everything out?” 

His mother reached across the table and placed her hand over Joaquin’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Then you’ll stay here until you’re ready to go home.”

“I don’t know if it will ever really be home without her, mamá,” Joaquin said honestly, meeting her eyes. His were full of tears, as they were most days since you’d gone.

There was no hesitation as his mother stood up from the table and walked around to him, wrapping her arms around him to pull him into a hug. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “She was the love of your life. Just like your father was the love of mine. You don’t have to move on like she never existed, mijo. Time will continue to pass and she will continue to be with you, even when you cannot see her.”

Joaquin sniffed, holding his mother close as he cried. “I really love her, mamá,” he murmured, not really expecting her to hear him since his voice was so muffled.

She did, though. Gently rubbing his back, she closed her eyes and let out a long, shaky sigh. “I know you do. I loved her too, mijo. Just like she was my own,” she hummed. “Don’t lose hope. She will return to you one day, I believe that. Your soulmate will find you wherever you are, in any life.”

As the years went on, Joaquin started to believe that this was the way it was always going to be. The Avengers had not saved the world like he thought they would. And he was going to have to learn to live the rest of his life with only memories of you. Like his mother had said, time continued to pass, no matter how much he wished it wouldn’t.

The world changed. He changed. Things became darker and he became darker with them, though he desperately tried to keep the spark alive in his chest – if only because he knew that was what you’d want him to do. You would want him to still be the same Joaquin that you’d loved, but how could he be that person without you?

He threw himself into his job, working day and night to try and keep himself afloat. It seemed strange to be doing such mundane things in a world that was so different. To have to keep earning money to pay the mortgage of your house. To have to get out of bed every morning and shave. To have to make food for himself to eat during the day. To have to go to the grocery store to get milk for breakfasts and coffees.

Five years had passed slowly. Joaquin had made it through them relatively unscathed, with a few mental scars here and there. Every day he was grateful that he still had his mom. That she was there to comfort him when the days were hard and that he was still alive to be there for her as well. If she’d been alone through all of this, it would have broken Joaquin’s heart even more.

When he eventually moved back into your home, every time he cooked dinner it was like you were in the room with him. He could feel your hand on his back as he cooked, your arms around his waist as he washed the dishes. It was like you were still there with him, but then he’d blink and the memories were gone, washed down the sink with the water he drained.

He still cooked enough food for two people before realising it was only him. For a while, he could never bring himself to eat the second serving, until times got harder and he couldn’t afford to waste anything. 

He would be laying in bed at night and he could swear he could feel your arm draped across his side. He could feel the ghost of your kisses on his lips. Your side of the bed was empty every night and yet, he could never bring himself to wash the pillowcase you’d once slept on for fear of the way you smelt disappearing entirely, forcing him to lose another part of you. He couldn’t lose anymore of you.

His friends who had survived the blip had suggested that he put himself back out there. Go on a date, find someone new. There were plenty of stories of people who had gone to support groups after losing loved ones and had found new love there. The likelihood of everyone who had been blipped coming back was slim to none, so why not? But Joaquin could never bring himself to let you go. Even just thinking about going on a date with someone else filled him with guilt. People had tried to set him up on dates but he had never gone through with actually going on any of them. 

His mom was the only one who understood. Even if it meant that her baby would never be able to give her the grandchildren she’d wanted for so long, it didn’t matter to her. She had loved you like you were her own child. All she wanted was for Joaquin to be happy and for some miracle to bring you back to him so that he could be. But even she had lost hope after the past five years that anything could bring you back to him. 

And then… the Avengers saved the world.

~~~

That morning, Joaquin is sitting in a coffee shop – one that had been your favourite before you were gone. He’s missing you a little more than normal this morning and had decided that a good way to feel like he was with you would be to come out and spend time at a place you loved. He’s taking a sip of his coffee when someone suddenly appears in the chair opposite him.

Joaquin almost chokes on his drink, coughing a little as he looks at the man in front of him. He hadn’t walked in from anywhere, he hadn’t been in the coffee shop before. He’d just… appeared. What the hell was going on?

“What the…” the man says, looking around the coffee shop with a confused and haunted look in his eyes. “You’re not my wife… I was just sitting here with her… Where is Sylvia?”

Joaquin’s eyes widen. For a moment he wonders if the man is just confused, maybe there’s something wrong with him mentally and this is his way of asking Joaquin for help… but then, on the table in front of him, his phone lights up and starts to ring.

The contact photo is of you and the name on the screen is yours.

He drops his coffee, spilling a little on the table as he reaches for his phone. His hands are already starting to shake. A part of him thinks this must all be a cruel joke. Someone has broken into your house and stolen your phone, or there’s some kind of technological glitch. But another part of him, the part that is still hoping after all these years, truly believes that when he answers the phone, your voice will be the one he hears on the other end of the line. 

“Angel?” Joaquin’s voice is hopeful as he holds his phone up to his ear and presses the answer button. “Is that you?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line and Joaquin’s stomach drops. But then he hears it. “Joaquin… where are you? What’s going on?” Your voice – your voice on the other end of the line. It’s real. By some miracle, you’re home. “You were just unpacking the takeout and then…”

“Angel, just stay there, okay? I’m coming home,” Joaquin says to you, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair as he stands up. “I’m so sorry, sir. You should call your wife,” he mutters to the man still sitting on the chair opposite him, looking confused.

He takes off at a run, almost running straight into a few people walking through the door of the cafe. He doesn’t hang up the phone the entire time he’s running home, just grateful that your favourite coffee shop is within walking distance of your house. He’s grateful that he wasn’t driving – he doubts he’d be able to focus on the road properly, knowing that you’re home and waiting for him.

Joaquin runs faster than he’s ever run in his entire life. His throat hurts from his heavy breathing and the air rushing in and there’s a stitch forming on his side. There’s sweat dripping down his forehead, owing to the sweater he’d put on this morning and the pace at which he’s running. But he’s not going to stop or slow down for even a second until he gets to you.

Once he reaches your street, he pushes himself to run even faster. He can see your house in the distance and he hopes he’s not dreaming as he runs towards it. He doesn’t think he can deal with the pain of walking inside the house and not seeing you inside again. 

He’s breathing heavily as he reaches the front door, fumbling in his pocket for the key. He doesn’t even notice his neighbour in the front yard, the one he’d seen disappear five years ago, standing right where he’d disappeared, holding his wife close.

Joaquin doesn’t manage to get the key in the front door before it’s pulled open, his hands shaking too much with adrenaline. His head snaps up and his eyes fall on you, your hand on the door handle and your cheeks tear-streaked as you look at him.

“Oh, dios mío,” Joaquin mutters, instantly stepping inside the door and wrapping his arms around you. He holds you tightly to his chest, worried that you’re going to disappear from his arms for good this time. “Are you real? Are you actually here? I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming. This can’t be real.”

Your hands fist the fabric of his sweater as he holds you close. Whatever happened, you don’t really know yet, but what you do know is that Joaquin is acting like he hasn’t seen you for years. The house looks the same, you’d noticed, as you’d walked around before Joaquin came home and you heard the sound of his keys at the door. But something is off.

“I’m real, Joaquin,” you murmur into his ear. “You’re not dreaming. But I don’t know what’s going on… where did you go? You were unpacking takeout and then you were gone.”

Joaquin pulls away from the hug but still keeps his arms firmly wrapped around your waist. He can’t bring himself to let go and he fears it’s going to be that way forever now. “Angel, it’s… it’s been five years since I last saw you. Thanos… he wiped out half of all life in the universe… you were– you were gone.” Tears start to fall down Joaquin’s cheeks and he doesn’t realise until your hand moves to gently swipe them away. He leans into your palm, finding comfort in the feeling of your warm hand on his cheek. “But the Avengers… whatever they did brought you back to me. It was them, I know it must’ve been.”

He internally curses himself for ever doubting them.

“Five years?” You frown, eyebrows knotting together as you try and piece things together in your mind. For you, it had just been like you’d blinked and things had changed but for Joaquin… it had been five years. Five years without you, and yet when you’d called… he had literally come running. “I was gone for five years?”

Joaquin nods, reaching one hand up to wipe the tears from your own face. He can’t imagine how terrifying it must have been for you to come back and not find him anywhere, for you to be alone in the house. He’s more grateful than ever now that he never tried to sell the house. If you’d come back and an entire new family had been living in your house…

“They were the hardest five years of my life, angel,” he says softly. “I thought that you were gone forever.”

You look at him for a moment, a little confused. “But you still live here… you still kept my number in your phone… you– Joaquin, you came running to me when I called… what have you been doing for the last five years?”

Joaquin’s heart cracks a little in his chest. “Angel, I’ve been waiting for you.” 

With that, he can’t bring himself to maintain his self control any longer. The hand that had wiped the tears off your cheeks gently holds the back of your neck as he presses his lips to yours. You reciprocate immediately. Five years of wanting, five years of waiting for something he was sure was never going to come… a kiss five years in the making. Joaquin is surprised he was able to hold off for so long. He’s never going to take advantage of kissing you ever again. 

~~~

A little later, you and Joaquin sit on the couch in the living room. Your hands are entwined, legs tangled under a blanket in front of you. It had taken a while to pull yourselves from the doorway. You were both in a little bit of shock – Joaquin in shock that you were finally back here after five years, you in shock that you had been gone that long.

“You really never dated anyone at all in the last five years?” You ask, resting your head on his shoulder as one of his fingers draws patterns on your palm that slightly tickles. 

Joaquin looks down at you and sighs. “Believe me, my friends tried to make me. They even set up a couple of dates for me to go on, but I never went on any of them. I just couldn’t bring myself to get out the front door.”

Frowning, you look up at him. “Why not?”

“Because none of them were you, angel.”

He gives your hand a squeeze and you snuggle closer into his side. You’d been insecure in your relationship at times – five years ago – but you knew you could never be insecure about it anymore. How many other people could say their partner had waited five years for them on a sliver of hope that they’d come back after disappearing from the universe? 

In his pocket, Joaquin’s phone starts to buzz. He pulls it out of his pocket and smiles as he sees his mothers contact on the screen. “I’ve got a phone call for you, mi amor.” He hands the phone to you and his heart warms as he sees your smile upon seeing who’s calling. “I think she almost missed you more than I missed you.”

You take the phone off of Joaquin and instantly hit answer, holding the phone up to your ear. “Suegrita,” is all you say and even though Joaquin isn’t holding the phone, he can already hear his mothers cries on the other side of the line. 

He motions for you to put the call on speaker. 

“Mamá, you told me not to lose hope,” he says, taking advantage of a moment of silence from the other end of the line while his mother isn’t sobbing. He’s already planning to go and see her as soon as possible – especially when she’s like this.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of his mothers sobs on the other end of the line, and then she speaks. “You bring her home to see me soon, mijo!” She exclaims to Joaquin. “Mi querida niña, you do not understand how happy I am that you are home with your love.” Her words are directed at you now.

There are already tears streaming down your cheeks at her words. “You must have taken really good care of him these past five years for me, suegrita,” you sniff. “Thank you for looking after him when I couldn’t.”

Joaquins arm wraps around your shoulders and squeezes tightly. 

“I knew you would come home to him one day, querida,” his mom says. “Soulmates will find each other in life no matter what comes between them. I told him that years ago.”

His mother only hangs up after Joaquin promises that he’ll bring you around to see her tomorrow. You know you’re going to need to prepare yourself for plenty of hugs and kisses from her, and even though for you it’s only been a matter of weeks since you’ve seen her, it’s been five years since she saw you. It’s going to take a while to get used to that fact. 

“Mamá took good care of me, angel,” Joaquin says, rubbing his hand up and down your arm. “I don’t know what I would have done without her here. I cried in her arms more than I can count over the past five years.” 

You frown, moving until you’re straddling Joaquin’s lap and you can hug him properly. You bury your head in his neck and one of your hands moves to rest in his hair. His arms wrap around your back. “You don’t have to cry anymore, baby.”

Joaquin chuckles a little. “I think I’m probably still going to do a lot of that. I can’t make any promises, angel,” he rubs your back. “A part of me still thinks I’m dreaming. That I’m going to wake up any second and you’re going to be gone.” 

You pull away just enough so you can look him in the eyes. “I’m real, Joaquin. I’m not going anywhere. Not unless there’s some other alien out there that’s going to get rid of half all life in the universe again.”

He scrunches up his nose. “Don’t joke about that. Too soon.” 

Smiling, you lean in and touch the tip of your nose against his gently. Joaquin takes advantage of the closeness of your face to lean up and capture your lips with his. He can feel you smiling into the kiss. Maybe if he does this enough, he can make his brain realise that this is real. That you’re here in his arms, your lips on his. That against all odds, you’re home.

~~~

He knows the nightmares aren’t going to go away any time soon. They’ve been plaguing him for years at this point. He’s lost count of the amount of times he’s woken up from a dream that you were alive, or a nightmare where he had you back only to lose you again. It’s why, when he wakes up later that night, his heart racing and sweat drenching his body, that it’s not a surprise to him.

What does surprise him is that he forgets you’re here now. It’s not until he hears your soft, sleep filled voice speak his name and feels the mattress move underneath him that he spins around from where he’d moved to sit on the edge of the bed to see you. 

“Baby, are you okay?” You ask quietly.

Joaquin takes you by surprise by pretty much launching himself at you. He places a hand on your cheek, another one on your thigh. You’re sitting up, legs crossed, staring at him full of worry. 

“Baby?” You try again.

“You’re real,” Joaquin mutters. “I’m not dreaming. It’s not a nightmare.” 

You reach up a hand to rest on the one on your cheek. “It’s not a nightmare. I’m real.”

Tears fill Joaquin’s eyes again. He’s still haunted by the nightmare, one where he’d lost you again, and his brain is just sleepy enough to make him think that this is all a dream, even after trying to convince himself that it isn’t. Even after hearing your words confirm that it isn’t. 

“Please don’t leave me,” he murmurs.

You shuffle closer to him until you’re face to face, until you can feel his unsteady breaths on your face and your noses are almost touching. “I’m not going anywhere, Joaquin.”

He brushes his lips against yours softly, barely even a kiss. “Don’t leave me.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and kiss him properly in an attempt to wake him up a little. It’s almost like he’s still in the midst of the nightmare, that he can’t manage to pull himself out of it completely. The fact that he’s had to deal with all of this alone for the past five years makes your heart hurt. 

“I’m home now, baby,” you mutter against his lips after you pull away. “I’m not leaving you. I’m home.”

Joaquin’s arms move to pull you closer to him until you’re almost sitting in his lap. “You’re home,” he says softly. 

“I’m home,” you repeat.

He takes a moment to just breathe, then. Focusing on the feeling of your hands on him, the feeling of his hands on you, trying to ground himself. You’re home. You are really home. And for the first time in five years… Joaquin finally feels like he is home too.