tatiana

writer. 19. professional simp. entp. masterlist is pinned. requests are open

[buckybarnesthehotshot]

↳ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭  ↳ 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ↳ 𝐤𝐨-𝐟𝐢

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞

ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ʙʟᴏɢ! ʜɪ! ᴍʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ'ꜱ ᴛᴀᴛɪᴀɴᴀ, ɪ'ᴍ ᴀ 19 ʏᴇᴀʀ-ᴏʟᴅ ꜰɪʟɪᴘɪɴᴀ ꜱᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ. ɪ'ᴍ ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴛᴘ ᴄᴀɴᴄᴇʀ ᴡʜᴏ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴘɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴏʙʙɪᴇꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ɢᴏᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇx; ɪ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴏʀ ɪ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴜꜱᴛ. (ᴊᴋ)

[kosmogrl]

ever since I was a little girl I knew I never wanted to tell anyone anything

[abigail]

guys be honest am i doomed forever

[etiennelux]

reading a negative review of something you love written by a person who very clearly didn’t understand it at all

[soothenerves]

find myself listening to music i loved years ago and i realize i still am her

[diseases-for-center-control]

FLY MY MOSQUITOES 🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟

[diseases-for-center-control]

HELL YES UNTREATED STANDING WATER

🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟

🟦🟦🟦🌾🟦🟦🟦🌱🌾🟦🟦🟦🟦🟦🌾🟦🟦🪷🟦🟦🟦🟦🟦🟦🟦🟦🌱🟦🟦🟦🟦🟦

[diseases-for-center-control]

GROW MY CHILDREN

🟦🟦🥚🪱🟦🟦🌾🟦🟦🟦🟦🪱🟦🥚🟦🌾🟦🪱🟦🟦🟦🪱🟦🪱🟦🥚🟦🟦🪱🟦🟦🟦🟦🟦🥚🟦🪱🟦🟦🟦🥚🪱🟦🟦🥚🟦🪱🟦

[diseases-for-center-control]

YES

YES

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[diseases-for-center-control]

My children have invented a new mosquito-borne illness of Crash Your App

[sistersorrow]

Reblog to give your mutual's browser Digital Dengue Fever

[i-am-a-fish]

just laid down in my bed and oh my god ooooohhh my god ouughgg it's so comfy oooouuughgggg

[buckybarnesthehotshot]

NOOOOO MY MV1 :((

[bebx]

I wish y’all could see all the diabolical Gi-hun/In-ho WIPs and prompt ideas in my folders right now. I promise I will (try to) finish and post them eventually

[cybersunnie]

red ink and red capes

You left Gotham to work at the Daily Planet and have to deal with CLARK KENT and his red pens.

includes fem!gothamite!reader / david!clark / fluff / slow burn / co-workers to something more? / dense x denser / mentions of violence and injuries / alien invasion / safe to read / wc 4.6k

The sharp squeak of your boots echoed across the marble floors of the busy Daily Planet lobby. You moved toward the elevators, thumbing through the paper’s latest crossword book. You were halfway through 21-Across (Clue: “Winged Gothamite”) when a chime dinged above the elevator bank.

You stepped inside once the doors slid open and pressed the button for the newsroom, your eyes skimming over the puzzle. The doors began to close until a large hand caught the edge, holding them open. That almost made you jump.

Your heart dropped. So did your pencil. Without thinking, your hand shot toward your bag for your pepper spray, instincts kicking in before logic could catch up.

Time slowed as you watched the doors start to slide open again.

First, you saw disheveled black curls, then blue eyes behind thick glasses, and finally that familiar, awkward half-smile.

Oh, great. It was Clark Kent.

He hated your opinion pieces.

Well, he didn't outright tell you that, but he didn't have to. You knew he did. Why else would he, almost every morning for the last three months, drop the latest issue of the Daily Planet on your desk, complete with little annotations in the margins of your column?

You weren’t surprised, though. After all, you never missed a chance to criticize the one man he always seemed to have exclusive interviews with: Superman.

Listen. You didn't hate the man with the red cape and underwear. 

Sure, your articles read like you had a personal vendetta—judging by the never-ending flood of emails defending Superman—but hate wasn't the right word. You were just skeptical of him. He seemed too perfect. Too polished. Too kind. There had to be a catch, something that the Metropolitans were overlooking.

Did you have major trust issues? Yes, but anyone from Gotham did. 

You had been mugged, held at gunpoint, and stabbed. The streets of Gotham were grimy and infested with crime, and the city’s superhero was more myth than man.

So, yeah, Superman was too good to be true. (And you were overdue for some therapy.)

You exhaled and zipped up your bag. 

Clark looked down, noticed the pencil on the floor between you, and then glanced up at your still-tense posture. “Oh, sorry,” he said gently. “Did I scare you?”

“No.”

You didn’t elaborate. He didn’t press.

There was a brief silence as the elevator started moving, humming softly around you. You bent to retrieve your pencil, brushing it off against your coat. Clark stayed quiet, hands clasped in front of him like he was holding back a dozen things he could say.

It wasn’t until the elevator dinged for the newsroom floor that he finally spoke again: “I read your latest column.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t,” you deadpanned.

As you stepped out into the buzz of ringing phones and clacking keys, you extended your hand without looking.

Like clockwork, Clark pulled the folded Daily Planet from his worn leather satchel and placed it in your palm.

You tucked your crossword book under your arm and flipped straight to your piece. There, you saw his signature red markings. Circles. Question marks. Underlines. A scribbled “hmm” in the margin next to a line you were particularly proud of. A familiar irritation prickled in your chest.

“You think he’s performative?” 

“That’s what I wrote.”

He hummed. “Interesting.”

“Has anyone ever told you your handwriting sucks?”

“Uh, no? Not that I recall.”

You glanced at him. “It sucks.”

He faltered in his steps as your words landed like a punch. “Jeez.”

You kept walking, but he trailed close behind. He followed you past copy editors and coffee-stained desks until you reached your own. Jimmy sat at his desk across from you, typing one-handed while eating a donut with the other.

Clark leaned a hip against the low divider, still watching you. You tried to ignore the way his eyes tracked every movement—how you set down your bag, tossed the crossword onto the desk, then folded the newspaper neatly despite yourself.

“I think he’s genuine,” Clark said, a little quieter now. “From… the many times I’ve interviewed him.”

“Morning, Jimmy,” he added without missing a beat.

“Morning, man,” Jimmy mumbled, barely glancing up from his monitor. 

You let out a small breath through your nose. “Doesn’t that make you a little biased?”

Clark hesitated. “I guess it does.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile and tapped the folded paper against the edge of your desk. “Well, there you go. Your opinion’s been compromised since the beginning.”

You thought that would be the end of it.

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above you, mixing with the constant clack of keyboards and the ring of desk phones. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone shouted for a fact-checker. Cat gossiped to an uninterested Lois. Jimmy snorted at whatever was on his screen. 

Still, Clark hadn’t left. 

You glanced up and saw his brows drawn together in that vaguely concerned way that made you want to disappear under your desk. His gaze was soft and unreadable, almost like he could see through you. Every part of you hated it. You weren’t some puzzle that needed to be solved. 

“But what if you’re wrong?” he said, his voice lower now, almost hesitant. “Not everything good is fake.”

You stared at him, blinking once. “Remind me—you’re from…?”

A flash of confusion crossed his features. “Smallville. Kansas.”

“Right.” You nodded, eyes narrowing. “Of course you are.”

There was no heat behind your words. Just resignation. But his frown tugged deeper, like he couldn’t quite decide if you were teasing him or not.

“As you know, I’m from Gotham,” you added, your tone dry. “And the politicians there pose for charity galas and cut deals with mobsters in the same evening.”

He didn’t argue. He just pressed his lips into a thin line and pushed up his glasses.

You toyed with the corner of the folded newspaper. “We’re just... different people, Clark.”

He remained for a moment more. You could tell he wanted to say something else, the words on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave you a nod and walked to his desk, just a few steps behind Jimmy’s. Too close for comfort.

And for the first time in months, you missed the Gotham Gazette. 

Not the mold in the break room or the rats on the fire escape, but the cynicism. The unfiltered grumbling. The way no one took things too personally. Lois, at least, reminded you of your old co-workers.

You dropped the newspaper on top of your clutter of papers and sticky notes and powered on your monitor. Over the divider, you stared at Jimmy and the donut he held, half-eaten and perfectly golden. Your stomach growled. 

Impulsively, you leaned over and swiped it from him.

“Hey!” Jimmy’s head snapped up, staring in betrayal at his now-empty hand.

You took a generous bite. It was still warm, the bread soft and just the right amount of sweet. You felt better already.

“I deserve it,” you said through your mouthful. “And you owe me for the pizza, anyway.”

He opened his mouth to argue, his pointer finger held up, before reluctantly agreeing with a grumble.

You shrugged, plopping down on your chair, and it squeaked under the sudden weight. The computer finally booted up and showed the lock screen. You should start working. The deadlines were closing in, but you were too busy chewing and wondering if Clark had a point—maybe not everything good was fake.

That thought stuck with you longer than it should’ve.

It lingered through the rest of the workday, through the buzz of conversations and the ringing phones and even Perry shouting across the bullpen about someone misfiling the morning briefs.

You didn’t bring it up again with Clark. You didn’t have to. He had already left his response.

Later that night, back in your apartment, you found the newspaper still folded in your bag. You had brought it home out of habit, planning to recycle it or maybe tear it up for notes. Instead, you unfolded it and smoothed it flat on your desk:

EXCERPT FROM: The Daily Planet, Opinion Section A City Can’t Rely on a Cape | By YN LN

Superman is a symbol. That much is undeniable. But lately, I’ve been wondering what kind of symbol he really is. Metropolis has grown too comfortable with the idea of being saved. When buildings collapse, when chaos strikes, we don’t duck. We look up.

[Underlined: "We look up."] Hmm. Is that really so bad?

There’s a fine line between hope and dependency. What happens if Superman doesn’t show up next time?

[Clark's note crammed beneath this line. Barely legible:] What happens if anyone doesn’t show up? That’s not unique to him. Isn’t community also about trust?

We have civic systems for a reason. Emergency services. Leadership. But those things fade into the background when there’s a god in the sky.

[Underlined twice: "god"] Hyperbole? (Also, Superman is Superman, not a God. He would agree with me.)

And maybe that’s the problem. We stopped trusting people to save each other. We started trusting one man.

[Clark put question marks next to this line.] Or maybe he inspires people to act. I’ve seen it.

Superman does the work, yes. But it’s hard not to notice how much of it is done while cameras are rolling. He shows up just in time. He leaves just as fast. It’s heroic, sure. But is it honest?

[Underlined: “while cameras are rolling.”] You're saying he's performative?

He saves the day, then disappears. It feels like theatre. Good theatre. But still.

He’s not acting for applause. He’s acting because people are in danger.

I’m not questioning his intent—well, maybe I am. Not his goodness, necessarily. Just the way he performs it. The practiced smiles. The press conferences. The perfectly timed pauses. It feels curated.

[Underlined: “practiced smiles” and "perfectly timed pauses"] You’re seriously overestimating how much prep time he has.

I’m not saying we don’t need Superman. I’m just saying we shouldn’t need him. There's a difference.

Because hope isn’t supposed to descend from the sky, it’s supposed to grow from the ground up.

[Circled: "hope." Underlined: "grow from the ground up."] Beautiful.

Beautiful.

You stared at the last annotation longer than you meant to. The ink was a little heavier here, like he had gone over the words twice before moving on. You wondered if Clark circled hope because it mattered to him, or because he wanted it to matter to you.

A soft breeze shifted the page, making it crackle under your fingertips. You pressed it flat again.

You muttered, barely audible, "Still think your handwriting's shit."

The months in Metropolis were a blur. 

You supposed that had to do with the weekly alien and supervillain attacks. There had been an explosion on the edge of the city, an unexplained blackout, cars flung several stories into the air, only for it all to be resolved by the time you finished your second cup of coffee. 

Fortunately, you’d never been caught up in the chaos. Just close enough to hear the sonic booms or see the red-and-blue blur zip by through the windows of the Daily Planet newsroom. The rest, you usually caught on the nightly news or in the reports you fact-checked for your colleagues.

And as much as you hated to admit it, you had become… less skeptical of the heroes. 

Not adoring. Not idolizing. But respecting in the same way you respected Batman. (Which wasn't much.)

Still, you wrote your critiques. They weren’t always about Superman, though. No, you weren’t obsessed like Lex Luthor. In fact, your most recent draft was on LuthorCorp’s ridiculous rebrand campaign and why it should fool no one. 

See? You had range.

The stale bite of toner lingered in the newsroom air, mingling with the sweet hint of someone’s cinnamon oatmeal heating in the microwave. You weaved around desks with practiced ease, dodging a flustered intern carrying two precariously stacked boxes of back issues. He didn’t even look up when he muttered an apology.

At your desk, the latest issue of The Daily Planet sat neatly beside your keyboard—undoubtedly Clark’s doing. Beside it, a folded scrap of newsprint lay tucked under your nameplate, inked in Perry White’s unmistakable scrawl:

CONGRATS ON A YEAR, GOTHAM. I’M SURPRISED YOU’RE STILL HERE. – P.W.

You smiled despite yourself. Coming from Perry, it might as well have been a handwritten letter of recommendation sealed with wax.

Your chair let out its usual groan as you sank into it, dropping your bag to the floor. Lois passed by mid-argument on the phone, flashing you a quick grin. Across the bullpen, standing next to the copy machine, Clark caught your eye and offered a small wave. He always did.

That was the oddest part of moving to Metropolis: how nice everyone was. Or at least, trying to be. Especially Clark. He’d long since stopped trying to sell you on Superman’s nobility, but he still marked up your articles with his red-inked annotations. He brought you coffee on rough days. And for reasons you couldn’t explain, he had a habit of watching you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You weren’t sure what to make of any of it. Or him.

Jimmy once joked that it was Clark’s version of flirting. You had hit him with a rolled-up editorial for that. 

After typing three whole sentences about Lex Luthor’s rumored temper tantrums, you figured you deserved a break. You stood by the coffee machine as it sputtered and hissed, your chipped Gotham Gazette mug waiting to be filled. It wasn’t pretty, but it had survived two moves and a fall from your kitchen counter.

“Rough morning?” Clark’s voice came beside you, smooth like honey.

You jumped a little. He hadn’t startled you, exactly, but you hadn’t heard him approach. A man of his stature had no business moving that quietly. You turned to find him in his usual slate-gray suit, his tie slightly askew. 

“Same as any other,” you said, shrugging. “I got a note from Perry, though.”

“Oh, right.” He grinned, dimples and all. “Your one-year mark. Congrats.”

“Thanks.” 

The coffee finally filled your mug with a last, sad burble. You grabbed your mug and took a sip, wincing. It was burnt and bitter. You decided to add creamer and a buttload of sugar to improve the taste. 

Suddenly, he asked, “Do you like hot dogs?”

That earned him a side-eye. “Sure. Why?”

“There’s a stand a few blocks from here,” he explained, clearing his throat like he was trying too hard to sound casual. “Lunch break’s soon. I was thinking of walking over.”

“Go for it." You turned to walk away, mug in hand. "Weather’s nice.”

You didn’t get far. Clark stepped into your path three steps in, palms raised like you might walk through him. When he didn’t say anything right away, you raised your brows.

“Uh, I’m trying to ask,” he began with a sheepish tilt of his head, “if you wanted to have lunch with me. Just the two of us.”

Your heart gave a strange, inconvenient thud against your ribs. “Just us?” 

He nodded, a little too quickly. “Only if you want to.”

You considered him for a moment and took a long sip of your doctor’d coffee. It tasted less terrible. 

“Okay,” you said at last. “Hot dogs sound good.”

His smile widened. It was infectious.

“Did someone say hot dogs?” a voice cut in. You turned and saw Steve rolled up in his chair like a man possessed. “Hot dog stand on 52nd?”

Clark visibly deflated. “Yeah, that one.”

“Oh, I love that cart. Count me in!”

You sighed into your mug. 

And by the time the lunch break finally rolled around, seven people walked out of the Daily Planet for hot dogs instead of two.

Lois claimed some fresh air wouldn’t hurt. Jimmy said he needed candid shots for a fluff piece and brought his camera. Cat tagged along after overhearing the word “truffle ketchup.” Steve and Ron argued over who owed who lunch, then both came just to spite the other. 

You and Clark stood near the curb, each holding a paper-wrapped hot dog. You were only a few bites in when you noticed something yellow on his nose.

“You’ve got mustard,” you said, amused.

He reached up. “Where?”

You pointed, lips twitching. “Left side. No—your other left.”

Clark dabbed at his nose with a napkin, entirely missing the spot.

“Still there.”

He frowned, trying again. Still missed.

You gave him a blank stare. “You’re killing me.”

You reached up, wiped the smudge away with your thumb, and held it up like proof. His eyes followed your hand, then met yours.

And for a second, it felt like the city stopped moving. The sound of honking cars faded. The glint of sunlight off nearby windows seemed to dim. All you could see were his eyes behind those glasses, warm and too much. It made your chest tighten.

But then the street shook beneath you. A sound like thunder cracked overhead, sharp and unnatural. A flock of pigeons exploded into the air.

You spun toward the sound just in time to see something falling—no, slamming—into the pavement a block away. The impact launched a wave of debris into the sky. Screams erupted. Glass shattered. Sirens somewhere started wailing.

“What the hell—?” Jimmy began.

Another crash. This one was closer. The ground vibrated with heavy, rhythmic thuds, like a giant’s footsteps. People ran. Cars swerved.

Out of the dust emerged something not of this Earth. Easily four stories tall, its skin shimmered like obsidian glass, covered in chitinous armor and thrumming with some kind of gold-lit circuitry pulsing along its limbs. Its mouth split vertically, releasing a screech that sounded like metal twisting underwater. It batted away a taxi like a toy.

Cat let out a blood-curdling scream and bolted.

You were already backing up when another shadow passed overhead—a second one. Smaller. Winged. Its talons dug into a fire escape and peeled it from the building like paper. Fire burst from a transformer nearby. The whole block lit up in strobing chaos.

Happy work anniversary to you.

"Clark?"

You turned. He wasn't next to you.

“Fuck!” you swore, not wanting to leave him behind but not having much of a choice. 

Steve shouted at you to run as debris rained down and dragged Ron with him.

Hot dog abandoned, you stumbled with the crowd, your breath catching in your throat as a parked car exploded to your left, sending you flying sideways with the concussive force. You landed hard on the concrete, the air ripping from your lungs, ears ringing.

Pain pulsed through your palms. You tried to scramble up, but your leg didn’t want to cooperate. Something in your hip screamed every time you moved. You looked up and froze.

The winged one was descending. Its glowing eyes zeroed in on you.

Your heart stopped. You could smell ozone and burning rubber. Its claws dug into the asphalt as it crept closer, clicking and seething. You dragged yourself backward, heartbeat thudding against your ribs. No one else was near. It was just you and this thing and the brutal knowledge that you weren't going to outrun it.

You clenched your fists and tried to stand, to run. “Come on,” you muttered to yourself, refusing to go out like this.

Then a sonic boom split the sky.

The creature reared back just as something crashed into it from above—a red-and-blue blur that slammed it into a nearby building with the force of a missile. Concrete exploded. You gasped, shielding your face from the dust.

When you looked up, he was there.

Superman.

Hovering just above the wreckage, red cape rippling, eyes glowing faintly as he hovered between you and the monster. His jaw was clenched, arms squared, chest rising like he hadn’t just plowed through solid brick. For a moment, he turned toward you, and the sheer force of his gaze made your skin prickle.

He was looking at you like he knew you.

But that was impossible.

The monster lunged. He met it midair, dragging it higher into the sky with a blur of motion and another concussive boom.

You collapsed back onto the sidewalk, heart in your throat, unable to move. Jimmy rushed over seconds later, breathless.

“Are you okay?!”

You nodded numbly.

Above, the two figures fought like gods between skyscrapers. Yeah, this place was nothing like Gotham.

Lois crouched next to you, voice shaking. “He got to you just in time.”

You didn’t answer.

Your fingers curled against the concrete, still feeling where you had touched Clark's face. Still tasting mustard and ash in the back of your throat.

“Clark,” you breathed out. “Where’s Clark?”

Jimmy turned in a panicked circle. “I thought he was with you!”

Lois’s voice was tight with urgency. “I’m sure he’s fine.” Her hand closed around your arm. “C’mon, we gotta get out of here!”

They hauled you upright—Lois on one side, Jimmy on the other—and for a moment, your legs didn’t feel like they belonged to you. The pain in your hip flared with each step, but the adrenaline surged higher. Around you, Metropolis cracked open like a fault line.

A power line swung loose overhead, arcing sparks against a blackened sky. Sirens howled in every direction. Cars had been abandoned in the street, doors flung open, alarms still wailing uselessly. Shattered glass crunched underfoot. Somewhere behind you, another building groaned and folded inward, sending a plume of smoke into the air like a scream.

Lois was muttering about getting back to the Planet, regrouping, getting the story out, but it all came through like static. You could barely focus. The edges of your vision blurred. Your legs moved because they had to.

And above it all, Superman moved like a comet. Arcing through the chaos, streaks of red and blue against the wreckage. His blows shook the air. He was everywhere. Fighting for everyone. Always in motion.

He had saved your life.

A man you didn't trust. A symbol too polished, too heroic, too perfect to ever be real.

Another explosion shook the pavement. A car alarm wailed beside you as a storefront collapsed across the street. Jimmy tugged your sleeve. “We gotta go, Gotham!”

Lois kept a hand on your back as the Daily Planet’s globe peeked into view over the rooftops, still spinning—still standing.

You all picked up your pace.

The Daily Planet was buzzing when you got back.

Phones rang without pause. The overhead lights flickered. Reporters shouted over one another. Someone swore near the printer. Someone else cried into a headset. Screens flickered with stills from the attack—grainy shots of the winged thing crashing into the side of the Baxter Building, shaky footage of Superman streaking across the skyline in a blur of red and blue.

The front page layout was still blank, the headline space blinking like a warning.

METROPOLIS ATTACKED. SUPERMAN SAVES CITY—AGAIN? UNKNOWN ALIEN CREATURES BREACH CITY SKYLINE. THE SKY FELL. THEN SUPERMAN CAUGHT IT.

All three were contenders. Perry hated all of them.

You moved through it all like a ghost, eyes scanning the bullpen again and again. Your blouse was torn at the hem. There was dried blood on your palm from the fall. Someone had wrapped a blanket around your shoulders on the way in, but you couldn’t remember who.

You were barely listening as Lois barked something at Steve. You barely noticed Jimmy setting his camera down with shaking hands. He looked pale, but alive. Everyone was accounted for.

Everyone but him.

No sign of Clark.

And the longer that remained true, the more something inside you twisted.

The noise faded to a low hum, the newsroom working on autopilot now—pushing copy, checking layouts, arguing about punctuation. You sat at your desk. You didn’t type. You didn’t move. You just kept glancing at the elevator.

But he never stepped out.

Not when Perry shouted to finalize the headline.

Not when the print went to press.

Not when the first stack of evening editions hit the metal carts with a heavy thud.

It had been hours, and there was still no sign of him.

The newsroom fell into low murmurs, the soft clack of keyboards, a cough, a yawn. TV screens overhead flickered between footage of destruction: charred rooftops, cracked pavement, Superman pulling wreckage off a city bus. A still frame showed the red of his cape mid-whip, frozen like a flag in a storm.

“Hey! Clark!”

Your head snapped toward the voice.

Clark stepped out of the elevator like he had simply taken a walk. There was a scrape on his cheek, barely scabbed. Glasses perched low on his nose. Dust on his slacks. His collar was wrinkled, and his tie was missing altogether. But he was upright. He was there.

The tightness in your chest faded into something smaller. Ache. Relief. 

“Clark!” Jimmy rushed him first, gripping his shoulders with both hands. “Dude, where were you? We thought—”

“I’m fine,” Clark interjected, apologetic and breathless, holding up his hands. “When I was running, I got all turned around.”

Jimmy nodded, seemingly too relieved to question it.

You didn’t move. Not yet. You just stared as he stepped further into the bullpen, murmuring reassurances and quiet hellos. Then he looked around and saw you.

He stopped moving.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. You didn’t think. You just walked.

When you finally reached him, you shoved him in the chest. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to feel something solid under your palms. He was real.

“Idiot.”

He stumbled a step back, more startled than hurt. “Hi?”

“You don’t run off by yourself in the middle of an alien invasion!” you snapped, louder than you meant to. “Seriously, what were you thinking?”

He looked at you with something like regret etched across his face. Quiet. Heavy. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Your voice cracked. “Something could’ve happened to you.”

The words slipped out without warning. It was too honest, too fast. You clamped your arms across your chest like they might hold in the rest.

“I mean—who else is going to annoy me every morning?”

Clark stepped a little closer, careful. Measured.

His voice was soft. “Are you okay?”

You nodded. Then shook your head. “I’m fine,” you said. “I’ve been beaten up worse in Gotham.”

Somewhat a lie.

Your head still rang from the chaos. Your shoulder ached from where you had hit the pavement. Your hip was bruised. But that wasn’t what stuck. What lingered, what burned, was the image of him not coming back. The space he could’ve left behind. And how hollow everything would’ve sounded without him in it.

In the silence, Clark’s hand found yours, tentative but warm. You didn’t pull away.

Then, he leaned in.

You froze as his forehead brushed yours first, light and careful, like asking permission. And then his lips pressed against your hairline. It was barely anything. A press of lips to skin. The kind of kiss that said, I’m here. The kind that felt like it could hold the pieces of you together, if only for a moment.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His lips lingered for just a second longer than necessary, and when he pulled back, your skin still burned with the ghost of the contact.

You didn’t speak right away. Didn’t trust yourself to.

But when you finally did, your voice was a whisper. “I’m still mad at you.”

A quiet smile touched his mouth. “I know.”

You turned before you could see how he looked at you.

But you felt it.

Like sunlight on your back.

sunnie speaks! this is the longest fic i have ever written omg. but i'm so glad it's finally done!! gothamite!reader and clark kent are both idiots in love, your honor! let's chat about clark kent!

if you like my work, consider following @sunniefics to stay up to date on all my future fics!

notifying  @aphropanacea @zyafics @qardasngan @missmontiopath @florallyarranged @callme-secret @hoforfictionalmen-andwomen @ye-olde-trash-panda @charlyrmv @vlassk @after8hore @ohnaurshayla @readingwiththedevil @otakusimp1 @nemesyaaa @dahling-dahlia

[buckybarnesthehotshot]

love this! this was so cute 

[spiderbeam]

OP81: never love an anchor

oscar needs safe passage out of the hell that is ketterdam. much to his dismay, you might just be his best shot.

pairing: grisha!oscar piastri x privateer!reader

contents: grishaverse au, reluctant allies to lovers, title from never love an anchor by the crane wives, violence, minor character death, bonus appearances from f2 and f1a drivers, implied sex. ft. the last shanty by the celtic connection

word count: 7.3k

Night falls on the island of Kerch like an expensive coat. Parlors and clubs with poor paint jobs glow underneath the dark sky, the dirty, corpse-ridden waters of the Geldcanal cascading like moonlight. Gambling dens with flashing signs. Pleasure houses. Taverns. It’s no wonder outsiders fall prey to the vicious animal that is the city of Ketterdam.

Oscar walks down the cobbled path with a steady stride. Sure, certain—like he knows where he’s going. He keeps his head down when he passes by a gambling den, avoids making eye contact when he walks past a pleasure house. When he crosses paths with a pair of stadwatch officials, he tucks his hands inside his pockets to hide his fidgeting.

In the six unrelenting months he’s been in Ketterdam—watching over his shoulder, heart thundering away in his ears every time he hears Ravkan being spoken—he’s picked up on a few things. 

Ketterdam is like a bucket with a hole at the bottom. Everything leaks—secrets are better kept if they’re never spoken.

It was only his second week in the country when he saw a Heartrender being dragged away from the shady place he’d been hunkering down at. A Heartrender—Grisha capable of manipulating a person’s internal organs, of bringing men to their knees, second in ranking only to the Black General back in Ravka. Taken away from the boarding house like a dog.

It was an easy lesson—the first one he learned. Ketterdam is a city where the only thing more dangerous than being a tourist is being Grisha. 

A definite complication considering Oscar’s situation. 

Kerch isn’t like other places, not like Fjerda or Shu Han. Being Grisha is not exactly a crime here—the silver lining being that, if he’s found, at least he won’t be burned at a pyre or have his insides tossed around by an overeager scientist. But the island nation is moved by greed and coin. A place carved from bricks upon bricks of sins and debauchery. And the line between legal indentures and slavery is kept vague. Terrifyingly vague.

Oscar did not escape his home country to become prisoner to another. 

The tavern he steps into is not a tourist trap, as far as he can tell. No flashing lights around the sign—just the curved Kerch script in an oak slab. 

The Gilded Maw. Not foreboding at all.

Oscar leaves any remaining hesitation at the door. The bar is not crowded—not as other establishments on East Stave are. If anything, it seems like it’s mostly dock workers and fishermen from Fourth and Fifth Harbor drinking the end of the day away. 

He sticks to what he was told. Reaches for the papers inside his pocket to ensure they’re still there, alongside with the last of his money. It’s reckless, he knows, walking around Ketterdam with an envelope of kruge on his coat. If anything, he’s begging for someone to steal it right off his pocket.

He made it though. Now, he just needs to find you.

Conversations are in an unintelligible mix of languages sewn together by the ocean. Kerch, Shu, Zemeni. Men of the sea that laugh loudly, voices hoarse with brine.

Sitting at the bar, he spots you. He thinks. Strictly speaking, he hasn’t met you. He wasn’t exactly in the business of befriending smugglers back in Ravka. Nonetheless, he has it under good authority that if he wants passage out of the island—something quick, something discrete, something he can afford—you’re the one to go to.

Oscar hesitates a moment too long. Stands just steps shy of the entrance uselessly, staring at the back of your head like you’ll stand up and greet him. He realizes a beat too late he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say. 

His legs move of their own accord as he takes a seat next to you. You barely raise your head, and before he can think on it again, Oscar hears himself saying, “I need passage out of Ketterdam.”

He’s not sure what he expects, exactly. He’s too aware that his back is too straight, that nerves are buzzing underneath his skin. His face is impassive, though. He makes sure of it.

You snort. “And I need a deck that stops stinking of rotten fish.” You raise your glass, a murky liquid that does not smell like it should be ingested sloshing around. “But hey, dreaming is free.”

“I have money,” Oscar says.

Your eyes brighten at that, ears perking up. “What can I do for you?”

“I heard you leave for Novyi Zem in the morning. Before sunrise. I want to be on your ship when you do.”

“You and many others,” you say casually, though Oscar isn’t too sure he buys that. He’s not Kerch, sure, but he’s not gullible either. You don’t exactly have people lining up to get on your ship. That, and—well. He doesn’t mean offense, but you’re not… you’re not what he had in mind when he was told there was a smuggler that could get him out. “Why should I take you?”

“…I have money?”

You huff a laugh. “I heard. The journey to Novyi Zem is long, though. At least two week’s worth. Have you been part of a crew before?”

“No.”

You raise a brow, and there’s a glint in your eye that unsettles Oscar, if only slightly. He gets the sudden, uncanny feeling that he’s being tested. It might still be all in his head—especially since your relaxed, uninterested posture hasn’t so much as shifted an inch. “Of any kind?” 

Oscar considers it just for a split second. “I was in the army. Does that work?” It’s more truth than lie, anyway.

You narrow your eyes. “Stadwatch?”

He doesn’t know what the right answer is. “Um.” Oscar hesitates a second too long.

“You’re Ravkan, not Kerch,” you say finally, conclusively, and Oscar promptly realizes that he’s failed whatever test you had laid out for him. Your eyes drop across his frame, lips setting into a line. “I don’t transport Grisha.”

“I’m not,” he responds a beat too quickly. Even when the tavern is brimming with laughter and loud conversation, Oscar’s voice drops. “I am Ravkan, but I have papers.” Either for emphasis or justification, he adds, “I’m not Grisha.”

You raise an unimpressed brow, but extend your hand nonetheless. Oscar reaches inside his pocket, a yellowed page neatly folded into a rectangle. Your eyes barely skim over it, reading over his name and dropping below. The corner of your lips twitching upward into an amused smile.

“I’ve seen better forgeries scrawled on napkins,” you say with a laugh that scratches against the back of your throat. “I hope you didn’t pay good money for that.”

“It’s not fake.”

You seem to tire of this dance. You turn to look away from Oscar once again, flagging down the bartender as he serves you another glass of something cheap. He wonders, not for the first time, if this whole thing would’ve gone differently had he been born a Heartrender. He could’ve made you bend the knee with a flick of his wrist, hold the beat of your heart within his reach. Maybe being a Heartrender would’ve meant he never would’ve left Ravka in the first place. 

Alas.

“Oscar, yeah?” You ask, though it’s not much of a question. You meet his gaze evenly, and even when you’re sitting down, even when he’s taller, there’s something off-putting about you. Intimidating. “You have a particular brand of desperation to you. Only Grisha and indentures have that in Ketterdam. Saints forbid, maybe you’re both.” You take another drink from your glass. “I make a living off jobs from Fourth Harbor, so I’m not about to break the law for a stray like you.”

Oscar decides it then—just as he had the first week he stepped foot in this Saints-damned country. He hates this city. “But you’re a pirate.”

You scoff. “Privateer. There is a distinction.”

Oscar blinks uselessly. “Which is?”

“Important to take into consideration, of course.”

Exasperation starts showing in the crease of his brows. “And you don’t break the law?”

“Not all of them,” you say flippantly. “Especially the laws that could land me a seat on the Council of Tides’ bad graces. Getting my ship ran aground is not exactly great for business.”

“Then—let’s say, hypothetically, that I am…” he trails off, the word lodging inside his throat. Six months, and it’s the closest he’s come to saying it out loud. 

You tilt your head, amused. “Uh-huh.”

“I can make myself useful.” 

“Cute,” you say with a shrug. “But you’re not my type.”

He furrows his brows, before realization dawns on him and his ears turn pink. “That’s not what I—” he tries, but you’re already standing up.

“It’s been fun,” you shrug on your jacket, “but I have people waiting on me.”

“Wait—”

Oscar doesn’t think then—not rationally, anyway. Not when his last ticket off the country is already turning her back on him. He doesn’t think. His hands move of their own accord, and before he can blink, you’re stopping dead on your tracks.

Bare inches away from your face, you watch as Oscar’s envelope of cobbled together kruge drifts in the air—floating, suspended, but never quite falling.

Even with your back turned to him, he watches as you consider it for a beat. He can see it in the tilt of your shoulders, how you weigh the pros and cons. It’s a beat, barely a moment, and Oscar dreads finding out whether the risk was worth it.

“You said it takes two weeks to Novyi Zem—at best,” he says, keeping his voice steady. Like he knows what he’s offering. “With me on your ship, you can make it in one.” 

You pick out the envelope mid-air as you turn to him, pirate frock coat billowing slightly behind you. Caught in an invisible breeze that has no clear point of origin. No windows open. No doors left ajar.

Just Oscar. 

“Would you look at that,” you say, mischief in your eye. “A spot just opened up.”

You were right. The deck of the Driftmoor stinks of rotten fish.

“Oi, Captain,” one of the crewmen calls out from near where Oscar stands. Kerch seems to drift further away into the ocean, the coasts shrouded in fog as the ship is steered into the True Sea. Oscar can feel the deckhand lingering near him. “Your new friend is looking green in the face.”

“He’ll get used to it,” you call back, unbothered. “Just give him a bucket, Arvid.”

The man—or boy, really—side-glances at Oscar, before promptly shoving a wooden bucket into his arms. “Do us all a favor and aim inside it.”

Oscar’s certain he does not look green. He’s been on ships before. Just not ones that reeked of rotten carcasses. He’s much fonder of land travel. Carriages. Horses. Walking.

“Eyes on the horizon, Piastri,” he hears you call out.

He chose this, he tells himself. This is his own doing.

The laughter that follows grates at his ears. Waves rock the boat, the sleek deck tilting from side to side.

Oscar vomits into the bucket.

It’s during the second night that Oscar hears noise from his not-so comfortable hammock in the underbelly of the Driftmoor. Unintelligible voices speaking phrases he can’t make out. Among them, though, he recognizes one—yours. And tangled between sentences he can’t string apart, there is one word that stands out. Grisha.

Oscar stands up from his hammock in a blink. No hesitation, no second-guesses. Just regret. Pungent. Bitter. His mind is already deciding the worst. Of course he shouldn’t have trusted a smuggler. Of course a smuggler would sell him out.

He should’ve stayed in Kerch—risked his future as an indentured servant. He’s long been told what they do to people like him in countries like Shu Han. How they cut Grisha open to figure out what makes them different. Or Fjerda—where their sacred drüskelle hunters take pleasure in lighting pyres under their feet and watch their skin splinter into charred flesh.

Oscar’s footsteps are light. Careful. Practiced. He’s already trying to chart a plan in his head. He’s in the middle of the True Sea—the closest strand of land being the very place he only just left. He’s not sure how many people you have in your crew—but it could be anywhere from seven to twenty. How is he supposed to take twenty people on his own?

The main deck is illuminated by oil lamps. You stand at the center of it, unsurprisingly, with a handful of your crewmen around you. Cast in the flickering glow of the lamps, Oscar sees the shadows dancing on your faces—human, then monstrous. Waves and foam kiss the hull of the ship.

He’s still considering his options when your voice rises. “Well, look at that,” you say, and Oscar freezes on his spot. He turns, and although he’s sure you can’t see his face, he schools it into something impassive. Neutral. Not terrified. “Our guest of honor has decided to grace us with his presence.”

You haven’t drawn your sword, even when it sits by your belt. Firm. Too sharp. Neither does the rest of the crew. Oscar steps down from the quarter deck, only to realize a handful of barrels have been set up as tables, salted meats and rum at the center.

“Have you decided to join us?” you ask, voice deceivingly light. In lieu of a response, Oscar reaches for one of the bottles offered to him and takes a long drink. It tastes awful.

As he sets the bottle down, he hears Arvid say something to you in Zemeni. He doesn’t speak the language—though he picks up two words. Little Palace.

“What did he say?” Oscar asks, an attempt to sound relaxed that doesn’t quite sound like it should. His voice has too sharp an edge—paranoid. 

You snort, and Arvid grins in response. He tilts his head towards Oscar. “I said you must be too accustomed to the luxuries of the Little Palace. Do we not meet your standards?”

“I never said that,” Oscar responds, shoulders drawn tight.

“Lay off,” you tell Arvid, not unkindly. “Tomorrow Oscar’s gonna be taking up half your job.”

Arvid raises a glass to that, though he suspects the boy shouldn’t be drinking in the first place. 

“In fact,” you say, emboldened. “Here’s to Oscar—who will fill the sails of our beloved Driftmoor from dawn to dusk.” There’s a twitch of your lips, something amused, devious. He can’t place it. 

Then, louder, “Grisha of the year!” you mock, and the rest of your crew cackle and crow in unison. 

Heat crawls up Oscar’s neck. Deckhands raise their bottles under the flickering glow of the oil lamps. His face feels hot. The insult is there—he knows it is. And yet, there you stand. Drink in hand and lips curved into a grin. Moonlight casts shadows on your face. You tip your bottle in his direction, and make a mockery of a bow.

Oscar’s jaw ticks. He looks away.

The sun hasn’t quite risen over the horizon, the dark color of the sky progressively fading into a lighter shade of blue. The ocean, for once, feels calm. Peaceful.

Oscar is not the first to rise that day. He spots Arvid up on the crow’s nest, a boatswain by the name of Chloe climbing down the ropes of the main mast.

Brine is heavy in the air—very nearly hiding the scent of rot. And Oscar doesn’t quite understand where it comes from. As far as he’s aware, they haven’t been fishing—and it stands beyond reason that the smell only stinks on the deck, but seems to fade underneath it. Like the floorboards themselves refuse to let it contaminate the rest of the ship.

A boy with curly hair nudges against Oscar, uncaring. It severs his train of thought, reminds him of the task at hand. 

He stares up at the sails—wide, not as worn as he’d expect. If anything, they almost look brand new. Not full, though. His feet fall into stance like second nature, sleeves rolled up, his left palm positioned diagonally over his right. 

The ocean air kisses his cheeks, salt cleansing his lungs. Reaching for his power is a steady thing. Familiar. And even when he hasn’t truly summoned how he was intended to for months…

Wind picks up in a sudden, ferocious manner. Coats billow and flap, pressure dropping on the main deck as stray hairs fall into Oscar’s eyeline. He closes his eyes, allows himself to hear the steady thrum in his veins over the whistling and howling of the wind. He outstretches his hands, guiding the stream and filling the sails of the Driftmoor.

He hears a loud whistle from the side. Oscar glances, if only momentarily, and catches you besides Arvid. The boy tilts his head appreciatively, last night’s jeering nowhere to be found. “Etherealki are always so impressive,” Arvid says, eyes wide with amazement as he watches Oscar guiding the current. “I’ve never met a Squaller before.”

“And not just any Squaller,” you say, tone undecipherable. “One from the Little Palace. You might as well be meeting royalty, Arvid.” There’s a barb there, sharp. For the first time since you’ve met, Oscar briefly wonders if your jabs are less about him being Grisha, and more so about where you suspect he was brought up. He supposes he hasn’t denied it.

The Driftmoor cuts through the tide, faster than it has for the past two days. Something like pride swells in his chest. When he turns to face you, though, he finds you’re already looking at him.

Wind brushes against Oscar’s hair and cheeks. Cold. Sharp. This time, you’re the one to turn away first.

Oscar gets the chance to properly approach you late in the afternoon. His arms feel sore, his body spent, but he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t let it show. 

Instead, he approaches you once he’s relieved from his post. You sit on one of the crates, back leaning against one of the outside wooden walls of your quarters. Even when there’s an open spot next to you, he chooses to stand. 

“I never said I was from the Little Palace,” Oscar says, in lieu of a greeting.

You shrug, body still angled towards the horizon. No land in sight—just endless waters. “Didn’t need to,” you say, tilting your head in his direction, “you reek of it.” 

His brows furrow, jaw tensing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The way you hold yourself,” you say, and Oscar catches the moment your gaze sharpens with something he can’t name. “Even in Ketterdam. You still stand straight. Proud. Like you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” You take a drink of the blue-glass bottle in your hand. 

Oscar thinks it’s ridiculous, your assessment of him. He has spent the past months terrified out of his mind, looking over his shoulder so often it became second nature.

You continue, uninterrupted. “In a world so openly dangerous for Grisha, only those from the Little Palace carry themselves like that. ‘Suppose it’s easy, when you grow up between gilded walls.” You meet Oscar’s gaze evenly. He straightens. “So. Were you?”

There’s no purpose in lying—not when they’re already beyond a point of return. Literally. Ditching him in Kerch would be a waste of time.

Oscar nods once.

“The Little Palace,” you hum, and you tap the crate next to yours. Oscar isn’t sure why he follows the quiet command—why he chooses to take a seat next to you. “Safe haven for all Ravkan Grisha.” You pause, just for a beat. “I didn’t think Grisha ever left the Little Palace.”

“It’s not common,” Oscar finds himself saying. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion. He knows it won’t show on his face—it never does for people like him. Grisha that hone their talents age slowly, their faces taking a natural, beautiful glow after using their powers. Glossy hair. Brighter eyes. Soft skin. Even so, it doesn’t mean he can’t feel the weight of the day on his limbs. “And Little Palace has four syllables, not ten,” he says, words sharper than he should’ve let them. “You don’t need to say it like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, turning your gaze away from the horizon and towards Oscar. He watches as your eyes catch on his features for a split second. Just long enough for him to notice.

“Like it’s some grand title,” he responds, a huff scratching at the back of his throat. “It’s meant to be demeaning. The Grand Palace for the royal family, and the Little Palace for their attack dogs.”

You hum again, more thoughtfully this time. If any resentment had slipped into Oscar’s voice, you neglect mentioning it. Even so, you don’t respond immediately, so he takes it as a sign that the conversation is over. Until—

“Does leaving the Little Palace make you a deserter?” 

Oscar bristles at that. Deserter. It catches him off-guard, not the word itself, but the weight of it. It lodges inside his chest, an odd feeling. Deserter.

It takes him a beat. Two. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice quiet. Small. 

“Ah,” you say. The ocean rocks the Driftmoor, evening wind picking up. The sun sinks over the horizon, painting the sky with threads of gold. “I’ve met deserters in the past. From Shu Han. From the Wandering Isle.” You meet his gaze again, and Oscar is surprised by his breath catching in his chest. Waiting. “You should know, it’s all the same at sea.”

Oscar can feel himself lingering then, not just on your eyes, but on the slope of your nose, the angle of your jaw. He nods, once, before he forces himself to turn away. The ocean bleeds into a molten color. Rose, then tangerine. His gaze flicks down to the floor of the quarterdeck, the handrails that seem to glow in the sinking light, a glossy sheen over the wood of the railing and floor alike—the sort of quality that has no place in a pirate ship.

“If you were in the Second Army, then,” you start lightly, “does that mean you used to wear a kefta?”

He turns to you, with a raised brow and an unamused expression. He finds you tampering down a grin. 

“Fox fur lining everything?” you continue, mirth lively in your tone. “Etherealki are blue, right? I could see that looking good on you.”

“For a pirate captain, you are awfully unserious.”

“Privateer,” you correct with a grin. “And I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Oscar snorts. You tilt your head, thinking. “I’ve always found it a bit ridiculous—this hierarchy you have in Ravka.”

That piques Oscar’s interest. “How so?”

“Well, you divide Grisha into Orders. Corporalki. Etherealki. Fabrikators,” you list. “So, what? Corporalki are soldiers. Fabrikators are workshop workers?”

“Etherealki are also soldiers,” Oscar says, his voice tinged with a defensiveness he should’ve forgone the second he left the Little Palace. 

“Of course,” you say, faint amusement dripping from your words. “But you don’t think it’s arbitrary?”

He leans back against the polished wood. “I suppose there is reason to it. Corporalki can manipulate your organs. Etherealki summon elements. It’s no surprise they make better soldiers than Fabrikator metal workers.”

You nod once, as if considering it. “Yeah, maybe,” you say, offering him a drink from your bottle. His knuckles brush against yours, a spark of something Oscar can’t seem to place running down his spine. He takes the bottle into his hand and brings it to his mouth. 

Days bleed into one another, and Oscar can feel the change in the air. Nights are warmer, wind currents tinged with something fresher. If he closes his eyes, he can nearly make himself believe that he’s smelling the scent of Zemeni jurda flowers.

By the time night falls, the rest of the crew seem to have noticed the shift as well. Twilight feels lighter aboard the Driftmoor, with a handful of wine bottles somehow making rounds, passing from hand to hand.

In the midst of it, a couple of deckhands take out a concertina and two fiddles, the rest of the people aboard stringing words together into a sea shanty. Sitting down against the hard floor, Chloe and Arvid sing along.

Don’t haul on the rope, don’t climb up the mast.

If you see a sailing ship, it might be your last.

Across the main deck, Oscar catches you singing the words, smiling a grin that is not quite a grin. Something foreign—something softer.

A sailor ain’t a sailor, ain’t a sailor, anymore.

It doesn’t take long for the music to grow louder, more vivid with more people jumping in. Someone pulls out a pennywhistle, another drums hands against the barrels. The melody picks up into something less slurred—notes upon notes, clear as ice.

Two girls he doesn’t know the names of—sisters, by the looks of it—sing the words as they pull each other onto matching crates, laughing and smiling.

Oscar watches from his spot as members of the crew pair off into couples, dancing along to the lively music. He rests his feet on an empty crate, looking up at the starry night sky. Constellations stare back at him—the same ones he could see back home.

The dancing is drunken and uncoordinated, a tangle of limbs more often than not. Oscar follows it with his gaze, hiding a smile behind a bottle. As he searches the crowd, though, he finds himself looking for you.

His brows pinch together when he doesn’t spot you. Not until he feels the air shift beside him—silently. Near imperceptibly. 

You sidle up beside him, hair pulled back by a worn piece of cloth tied around your head. You swing your legs, nudging him to the side and sitting next to him on the crate. 

“Didn’t expect you to join us,” you say, voice lighter than it was when he first met you. Less guarded, maybe.

“It seemed like a good night to make questionable decisions,” Oscar responds easily.

“Is it, now?” You raise a brow, the corner of your lips curving upward. “Did it reach your standards?”

“Surpassed them,” he says, fighting off a smile, “definitely.”

You hum, tilting your head towards the rest of your crew dancing to the music. He blinks, and you’re hopping off the crate, stretching your arms above your head.

“Well,” you say, a glimmer in your eye. “It’s not a celebration if we’re not dancing.” You offer your hand out to Oscar, who cocks his head slightly. “You feeling up to making more questionable choices?”

Oscar gnaws at the inside of his cheek, biting down a smile. “What are we celebrating?”

“The end of your first week at sea, of course.” And with that, Oscar takes your hand, your fingers interlacing with his. You guide him into the crowd, the upbeat tune of the fiddles leading the way. Bodies spin around the two of you, laughing and singing along.

Oscar takes one of your hands and spins you once, before you return to him with a grin. He lets go of your fingers to steady you by your waist, a smile curving onto his lips.

Moonlight paints shadows on your face, though your whole expression seems to be cast aglow. The two of you dance, narrowly avoiding each other’s feet, sharing laughs that seem to quiet into something less loud. More intimate.

Your hands brace themselves against Oscar’s shoulders, and you accidentally tip forward like you might fall. Oscar steadies you, but when he looks up, his face is a breath’s away from yours. He could count your eyelashes if committed to it. His breath catches in his throat. You search his face, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes briefly drop to his lips. If the wind picks up then, neither you nor Oscar mention it.

The song ends, claps and cheers erupting from around the deck. But Oscar lingers a moment too long. Just a second. Maybe two. It’s noticeable nonetheless. Up until you pull away, and he follows suit.

Moonlight frames your features. The ocean air makes Oscar feel different—bolder, perhaps. And when your gaze returns to him, you’re looking at him questioningly. 

“What are you grinning about?” you ask.

“You’re blushing,” he says, failing to hide how pleased he sounds. 

“What?” you say, alarmed. You look away, clearing your throat. “You’re mistaken.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, noncommittally. And, for once, he’s delighted to find you’re the one looking flustered for a change. Oscar ducks his head slightly, his index finger tilting your head towards him. “Don’t worry, Captain,” he says, quietly, teasingly. A secret. He leans closer to your ear, lips ghosting against the shell of your ear. “It suits you.”

You freeze on your spot for a beat. Two. You blink up at him, watching as the corner of his lips curves up, amusedly. Then, unexpectedly, you reach up for his collar, tugging him down towards you and meeting him halfway.

It takes him a moment to react—but when he does, he responds in kind, his tongue swiping against your lip. Distantly, Oscar can hear a different song picking up again. 

“I thought I wasn’t your type,” he hums against your lips.

“Arrogant,” you murmur, and Oscar has the inexplicable urge to bite down on your smile, feeling it pressing against his mouth. He tugs at your bottom lip before you pull away, featured flushed. Something flutters in his stomach. He likes the sight of it more than he’s willing to admit. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you say, reaching for his hand and tugging him farther away from the crowd with you.

The skies are clear, the moon’s silvery reflection casting an ethereal glow across the True Sea. The celebration—for what, no one can be sure—aboard the Driftmoor doesn’t end until the sun is rising over the horizon, painting the landscape a molten gold. In the midst of dancing and laughing, no one notices Oscar and you are gone for the better part of the night.

The music resumes, loudly, brightly. No one hears the sound of clothes falling in your cabin. Of skin on skin, of lips on lips, like it’s a competition of who can make the other moan first. Of books and trinkets falling from your table in disarray. Of breathless pleas and whispers of Oscar, Oscar, Oscar—

The Driftmoor cuts through the waves. Onwards.

The arrival to Novyi Zem is imminent. According to Amna—the ship’s navigator—they should only be three days from Eames Harbor. The approaching end of the journey is palpable on the deck of the Driftmoor, with conversations about Zemeni trinkets and spices becoming a recurring topic among crewmates. 

His last days before what might as well be his new life are heavy. A noticeable weight. Still, Oscar is adept at pushing things away, deep into the back of his mind. Your lips are a good distraction, too.

He feels like a teenager again. Sneaking around, tugging at your hand when you’re distracted, pulling you closer to him. Sealing kisses against your neck—grinning when he pulls those pretty sounds from you. You smile—sharp, dangerous—when you make him fall apart, too. Tousled hair. Flushed faces. Moments tucked into the ridges of the Driftmoor like stitches on the sail.

On the second to last day, a thick fog settles on the horizon—salty, metallic. Oscar is already on the quarterdeck, bringing his hands together to clear the view, when he feels you step beside him.

“Don’t,” you say. Cautiously, perhaps too sharply.

Oscar drops his hands, brows furrowed. Your gaze is glued to the horizon like a magnet, a compass.

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer—not immediately. Instead, you tilt your head up to the crow’s nest, where Arvid stands with a spyglass in hand. 

“What do you see?” you ask, and it’s only then that Oscar picks up on the ghostly silence that has settled over the ship. Floorboards creak. Gray waves brush against the hull.

Arvid turns the spyglass towards the direction you’re gesturing. The fog is too thick, and Oscar doesn’t understand why you won’t let him clear it with a flick of his wrist.

“Nothing in sight, Captain,” Arvid calls back, though it doesn’t seem to ease you in the slightest. If anything, your back looks tenser—strung with wire.

“Captain—” Oscar tries, before Arvid lets out a shrill whistle.

“Avast!” Arvid calls. “There’s a ship ahead!”

Two orange lights come into view amidst the dark gray fog like two predatory eyes. Then—too close for comfort—a ship sails through the cloud. Armored. Commanding.

Oscar recognizes the ship immediately. Fjerdans.

You whistle loudly, calling out, “Kerch rules apply! Keep to your stations and your pistols!”

Oscar watches as deckhands move around with practiced speed, though it’s impossible to miss the unease that seems to grip every boatswain and crewmen.

Dread crawls into Oscar’s chest like a spider. Before he can spiral, though, you press a pistol into his hands. He looks up, only to find your jaw tight and your eyes clouded with a glint he can’t place.

“Under no circumstances use your powers, understand?” you say, before you’re hurrying down the stairs, calling out orders as the rest of your crew prepares. Oscar doesn’t even get the chance to say that he doesn’t know how to use a gun. 

Distantly, Oscar hears something being called out in heavily-accented Zemeni, then near indiscernible Kerch. You shout something back, and by the time you reach the main deck, Chloe and Arvid are holding onto the boarding ladders as three Fjerdans stride onto the Driftmoor.

Oscar freezes on his spot. Ice cold dread seeps into his bones, threatening to splinter them in half. The three men—light-skinned, light hair, icy gazes—wear black and silver uniforms armored with metal, a club and a whip attached to their belts, a medallion hanging from each of their necks. These are not just Fjerdans—they are drüskelle. Oscar’s mouth runs dry. Grisha hunters.

“Fjerdans,” you say casually, airily. Even when the rest of your crew are locked in position. Even when your sword sits at your hip, visible for the drüskelle to see. Even when they have all but boarded your ship. “You’re a little far west. Out of your jurisdiction, some might say.”

One of the drüskelle tosses you a leather pouch, gray eyes sweeping across the vessel. He scrunches his nose in disgust, getting a lungful of that rotting fish stench. You open the bag, only to find coins inside. 

You arch a brow. “Now, where would a pair of dashing witch hunters like yourselves stumble upon this amount of kruge?” You raise your head, grinning, almost eager. And perhaps it would’ve fooled Oscar before—but he can see now how it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I thought your lot hated Kerch.”

“Your country is built on sin and depravity,” the taller one says, voice thick and accented. 

Your eyelashes cast crescent shadows on your cheeks. “Don’t forget lust and greed.”

“We look for drüsje.” The Fjerdan scans the deck, eyes flicking over Oscar. He watches as you remain impassive, unflinching. Drüsje. Witches. Grisha. 

“You waste your time, then,” you say simply. “We don’t deal with Grisha.”

The drüskelle on the left—not as tall, but bigger—narrows his eyes at you, before adding something in Fjerdan to the leader of the three. 

You tilt your head at him. “This is not a slaving ship. The only cargo we have are exports from the Merchant Council.” You blink, smiling a chilling thing. “Should I show you our papers as well?”

The silence that befalls the Driftmoor is stifling. He can’t imagine why you’re deciding to be so civilized in the face of intruders—even when he knows more drüskelle await on their ship.

The drüskelle on the left glares at you, lantern raised in hand. The orange glow casts shadows on Arvid and Chloe’s faces, who still linger close. His icy gaze scours the deck, and Oscar keeps his spine pin-straight, pistol still within reach. It’s useless in his hand—maybe as convenient as a large rock to hit someone in the back of the head with. 

Oscar blinks, and the drüskelle lunges forward towards Arvid, hands reaching out like wolf claws. Arvid—wide-eyed, startled, with no time to react—raises his hands to attack.

You raise your pistol a fraction of a second too late, and your lookout’s windpipe is trapped under the steel grip of the drüskelle, his wrists seized together.

Oscar sees the test then. A crewmate reaches for their weapon. A crewmate doesn’t raise their hands, weaponless—Grisha do.

Your pistol clicks. The drüskelle grins like a wolf baring its teeth. “Drüsje,” he says, unmoved by Arvid struggling against his grip. Witch.

“Release him. Now.” Your voice is a knife. Sharp. Cutting. Any false pretenses are long gone. “I don’t take kindly to stowaways. Much less those that threaten my crew. Now, release him.”

The drüskelle laughs, a scratching, hoarse sound. The wind shifts then, violently—and Oscar watches as the drüskelle starts coughing. Retching. His face starts to turn blue.

It’s not Oscar’s doing.

The two other drüskelle turn. Disbelieving, Oscar sees it. The metallic chord of his medal snaking around his neck, silvery—a noose. 

Your hands are outstretched before you. The drüskelle drops to his knees, eyes bulging—but his hands don’t let go.

“I said,” your voice is metal, a sword, a blade. Deadly. “Release. Him.”

All hell breaks loose. The two remaining drüskelle lunge, weapons drawn and snarls carved into their faces. Swords clash and bullets ricochet—bolas are thrown, entangling limbs of your crewmen.

Oscar doesn’t blink—he just springs into action. More drüskelle try to board the ship, hungry, smelling blood in the water. Oscar brings his hands together and casts them into wide arcs; Fjerdans fall into the water like raindrops. Still, a few more hunters make it onto the Driftmoor.

He feels fire flash near his face, nearly burning his skin off. He whips his head around, only to find Arvid’s fingertips engulfed in flames. He casts a fireball onto the opposing ship. Oscar twists his hands and pushes them out, fanning the fire. 

The flames overtake the Fjerdan vessel, eating away at wood like kindling. Oscar hears a hissing sound, too close, too quick—and by the time he turns around, he manages to catch the exact moment Arvid’s arms are entangled together by tight leather chords. Oscar shifts his stance, before he’s taken by the sudden slap of a whip across his face. He stumbles back, momentarily disoriented. By the time his vision clears, an elbow collides against his jaw, knocking his head to the side. Oscar blinks and he’s falling—so he does the best he can do, and drags the drüskelle down with him.

Oscar’s head slams against the deck with a loud thud. His vision swims, before he feels the press of leather against his throat. Oscar struggles against the Fjerdan—the irony of being a Squaller about to die from asphyxiation is not lost on him.

Oscar thrashes, freeing his hands and trying to draw from his power. He could pull the air out of the drüskelle’s lungs—he recalls George doing that once, back in Ravka. But he can’t focus, can’t reach deep enough—not with black dots shrouding his vision.

Suddenly—inexplicably—he breathes. Deeply. Fully. As his sight returns, he sees you mere paces away. Hands outstretched, features cast aglow. Beautiful. Deadly.

“You should’ve listened to me while you had the chance,” Oscar hears you say, his ears ringing. You close your hands into a fist, and he can feel the drüskelle’s uniform—the same uniform that had metal lining—shifting. Tightening.

The body of the drüskelle topples over him. Someone—he can’t be sure who, not with shapes and silhouettes still blurry around him—hauls him up, pulling his arm over their shoulder.

Grisha aren’t magic. They are extensions of the natural world—he’s been taught that since he was a child. They don’t practice sorcery, they practice Small Science. 

His vision focuses around you. Sharpens. And as Oscar’s eyes roll back and his consciousness ebbs, his last thought is that he may not be magic, but you certainly are.

Oscar wakes up feeling like someone has drilled a hole into his head. Stuffed him with cotton. And drilled again.

The world still doesn’t feel steady around him, dipping like waves. He feels seasick—again.

“Ugh,” he groans, holding up his head, like that will ease the pain.

“Welcome back, sunshine.”

He squints, wills the colors into shapes. Finally, he recognizes his surroundings as your quarters. Table. Lamp light. Shelves with books and trinkets.

Oscar wants to slump back against your pillow. Close his eyes. He wants to ask how long it’s been—how long he’s been out. If they’re in Novyi Zem yet. If everyone is okay.

Instead, like sand scratching against his throat, he says: 

“You’re a Fabrikator.” He blinks a few times as his eyes adjust to his surroundings. Then, they narrow, voice accusing, “You lied to me.”

You breathe out, like you’d been expecting it. You tilt your head at him, watching him from the corner of your room, by the window. Sunlight warms your skin. “I never said I wasn’t Grisha.”

“But you said—” His voice is hoarse, unused. A consequence of being strangled, probably. “You said you didn’t transport people like us.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t know who you were,” you retort. “You were a stranger, in Kerch, asking me if I would smuggle you out of the country.” You drop something onto your table, and Oscar realizes you’d been holding a bullet. Not a pistol—just the bullet. “How could I know that wasn’t a trap? That I wouldn’t be leading the enemy onto a ship of Grisha?”

Oscar furrows his brows at that. Pauses. “Are all your crew…”

You shrug your shoulders softly. “Not all of them. Some.” You turn your head, meeting his gaze evenly. “Most.”

Oscar nods. Or he thinks he does, at least. The world still feels unsteady around him. Quicksand—in more ways than one.

“So, Arvid is an Inferni,” Oscar says slowly. You murmur a quiet Yeah. “And you’re a Fabrikator.”

“There are others,” you start. Gently, cautiously. “Chloe is an Alkemi. Hamda and Amna are Tidemakers. It was true, though—that you’re the only Squaller aboard.”

It starts clicking—slowly, progressively—like gears sliding into place. Why the ship is so well kept. Why the handrails and floors are always polished, the sails new and the underbelly intact. Why the fading scent of rotting fish sticks to the main deck and there only—a deterrent.

“It’s gonna bruise,” you add, unprompted. A way to change the subject. You point to your own left eye. “Depending on how it heals, it’ll either look like a gnarly battle scar or like you got into a bar fight and lost.”

“Great,” Oscar says with a small groan that scratches his throat. He tilts his head to you; however, and finds the corner of his lip curving upward. “What are my chances?”

“Toss of a coin, really,” you say, a lighter lilt to your voice. You clear your throat. “You’ll be pleased to know we’re half a day away from Novyi Zem. Maybe you’ll find a decent Healer there.”

A weight settles on his gut. Odd. Out of place. This is everything he’s been waiting to hear—a new start, beyond Ravka, beyond Kerch, beyond everything and everyone. It’s what he’s been working towards for months.

The disappointment in his stomach almost feels tangible. Bitter.

“Are you staying?” he asks foolishly, hope tucked between his heart and his ribcage.

“Not for long,” you say, carefully walking towards him. He sits up, stifles a wince. “A week. Maybe less.” Your tongue swipes across your lip. “You’ll like it there.”

“Maybe,” Oscar says, slowly. “Maybe I won’t.” His head pounds, his arms ache, his body is begging for him to lay back down again. Still, he leans closer to you. “Perhaps I’ll have to find a new place.” Your eyes search his face, before landing on his lips. “Perhaps I’ll need a talented pirate to take me back around.”

This time, Oscar is the one that meets you halfway. He feels you smiling against his lips. 

“Privateer,” you correct, and Oscar swallows the word without complaint.

Life at sea. He could get used to that.

a/n: hope you enjoyed!!! i have a few more grishaverse au ideas in store so stay tuned <3

[buckybarnesthehotshot]

MAY UR LIFE BE AMAZING AND WONDERFUL ALWAYS OH MY GOODNESS THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO READ <3

[corgicrafter]

I don’t think they wanted to be painted

[brasilando]

what if 👉👈 i tried to overtake you and accidentally crashed into you 🥺 and then i look at you like this after 😘😍 would you be mad at me? 😚

[cafffine]

be pro-aging but wear sun screen. sun protection is not beauty industry propaganda it will save you. wear it. or else.

[rheumaticrhetoric]

[endlesss-rain]

scarlet johannson did not spend an entire decade fighting tooth and nail to make natasha into an actual character instead of the sex object writers wanted her to be while also having to endure the most vile, misogynistic questions during press tours for people to now disrespect her legacy because yelena is 'better'. the only reason why that is, is because of everything scarlet went through. natasha singlehandedly paved the way for every other female superhero in the mcu and don't you forget that

[hornvey-deactivated20260114]

Say it louder for those in the back

[thecrazyreadersstuff]

i'm so done with seeing and finding purely smut fics, what happened to yearning?? what happened to developing plots??character development??fluff?? angst?? hurt/comfort?? what happened to those monologues of characters that hurt your heart and made you go insane AGH

[formulanni]

Oscar’s curious case of self-cannibalization

Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls @brawngp2009 @korolrezni-nikolai @d00dlespng @beenucks @mintraindrop