Gotham’s protector. The world’s greatest detective. The only man to face gods and monsters without fear…just can’t say “no” to his daughters.
Word Count: 4,022
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Duke had seen many strange things since joining the family — rooftop sword fights over snacks, Tim mixing energy drinks like a mad scientist, Dick swinging from chandeliers, Jason hiding stolen contraband in the Manor — but nothing, compared to the current conversation in at Wayne Manor.
“So,” Duke said, eyes narrowing, “you’re all trying to convince Bruce to let you take the Batjet to Tokyo.”
“Correct,” Tim said from his spot on the couch. “For mission purposes.”
Jason leaned back in his chair. “Translation: vacation.”
“And Bruce said no,” Duke confirmed.
“In about four different languages,” Dick sighed from his spot on the rug. “He’s in a mood.”
“Then why,” Duke asked, “are you all sitting here like you still have a plan?”
Jason smirked. “Because we do.”
Damian nodded solemnly. “A manipulative one. We don't like resorting to such measures, but Father is being difficult. We have no choice.”
Duke looked at the boys, feeling fear rise within him. "I don't like this.
"Don't be. It's harmless." Tim reassured. “We call it Sister Power.”
Duke's fear deflated. “Sister… power? What does that even mean?”
Damian crossed his arms. "You haven't been here long Thomas, but surely you've noticed that Father has a clear favoritism towards Cassandra and [Name]."
Duke frowned, thinking it over. “I… can’t say that I have.”
Jason shook his head, an amused smirk on his face. "Bruce is a total girl dad. He loves his sons we know that. But the way he treats his girls is on a whole different level."
"It's either hilarious or ridiculous," Tim added. "There is no in between."
Duke looked between them, pure disbelief painted on his face. “Oh come on!”
Dick got up from his spot on the floor and took a seat next to Duke on the couch. “Trust us on this. Before Bruce, we were all only children. We didn’t know what favoritism looked like. But when it came to [Name], it was obvious. She’s his favorite. And when Cass came along?” Dick grinned. “We realized Bruce Wayne is Gotham’s Ultimate Girl Dad.”
Duke still looked unconvinced. "I still think you guys are being dramatic."
"Okay," Dick got comfortable in his seat. "Here's a story for you."
The look in his eyes shifted — that particular mix of nostalgia and disbelief that only came from living in Wayne Manor too long…
…Bruce had been on an important Wayne Enterprises video call — one of those tense board meetings where everyone looked like they’d rather be filing their taxes in a hurricane. Ten people on-screen, all stiff suits and monotone voices.
He sat at his mahogany desk in his home office, posture perfect, expression unreadable. The laptop camera framed him neatly: Gotham’s most stoic CEO, unbothered and intimidating.
Then the office door creaked open.
You stepped inside first, dressed in your pajamas and holding your phone like it was a sacred artifact. “Dad, what color should I paint my nails?”
The question dropped into the silence like a bomb.
Every executive froze. Someone coughed. Another adjusted their tie.
Bruce didn’t even flinch. “Hmm,” he murmured, eyes still on the screen. “Let me see.”
You walked around the desk, showing him your phone. “Jade green, sage green, or emerald green?”
“Sage,” Bruce said simply, then unmuted himself. “Apologies, Lucius, continue.”
Lucius barely managed to keep a straight face.
And then Cassandra appeared, also in her pajamas and a blanket over her shoulders. She pulled up a chair and sitting on Bruce’s right side. She didn’t say a word, just took a seat and started sketching little doodles on the corner of his notepad.
Bruce let her. Of course he did.
Half the board looked shocked. The other half looked terrified.
At one point, you pulled up another chair and sat on his left. You leaned against Bruce’s arm, scrolling through your phone while he calmly discussed profit margins like this was the most normal thing in the world.
When the call finally ended, Bruce closed his laptop and looked between you two.
Cass showed him the picture she drew. A series of Batman doodles but they were vague black blobs with pointy ears and eyes.
“Very nice,” he said simply.
Cass smiled. You nodded, satisfied.
And just like that, Gotham’s most powerful businessman spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in a posh nail salon while his daughters got their matching sets…
…Back in the present, Dick spread his hands like he’d just presented irrefutable evidence.
“So yeah,” he said with a grin. “Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. Dark Knight. Total pushover.”
Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, that confident grin already forming.
“Oh,” he said, voice low and dramatic. “You think that’s bad? Lemme tell you about the time your sweet sisters nearly totaled the Batmobile.”
Duke blinked. “What—”
But Jason was already lost to memory, the glint in his eye shifting from smug amusement to pure disbelief…
…It had started as “training.”
You decided it was time for you to learn how to handle the Batmobile. Cass had already mastered evasive maneuvers and parking. You? You were still stuck on the fun part — the speed. And Cass decided to give you a hand since Bruce was busy upstairs.
“Slow and steady,” Cass said calmly from the passenger seat, hands clasped in her lap. “You need to respect the vehicle.”
You grinned, revving the engine. “Respect, got it.”
She gave you a look. “That’s not what I—”
Before Cass could finish, the Batmobile shot forward. The roar of the engine echoed through the cave like thunder. You swerved—way too fast—and slammed the brakes so suddenly that the entire car jolted forward and crashed into the rock wall with a teeth-rattling BANG!
Then a faint plop as a stalactite somewhere dislodged and fell into the water.
Cass exhaled through her nose. “You okay?”
You nodded, dazed. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes.”
The noise had echoed through the cave like an explosion. Within seconds, the cavalry arrived. Jason appeared first, half in his gear, looking way too delighted for someone who just heard a crash.
“Oh my god—” he wheezed, doubled over laughing. “You—you wrecked the Batmobile!”
You groaned, pressing your forehead against the steering wheel. Cass, to her credit, sat perfectly still, expression unreadable except for the tiniest twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth.
A few seconds later, heavy footsteps approached — Bruce’s.
The laughter died instantly.
He stopped in front of the Batmobile, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes scanned the damage — smoke, dented metal, a tire barely hanging on.
Jason braced himself for the explosion. This was it. The Bat-yell. The lecture. The grounding for life.
But Bruce didn’t yell. He just opened the driver’s door and crouched down beside you. “Are you okay?”
You blinked. “Yeah… I think so.”
He nodded once, standing back up. “Good. That’s what matters.”
Jason stared at him, stunned. “That’s what matters?”
Bruce ignored him, inspecting the front bumper. “I should’ve explained the braking system better.”
Jason’s mouth fell open. “You’re apologizing?”
Bruce stood, calm as ever. “The car can be repaired. Though next time, I’ll supervise your training.” He shot a not-at-all serious glare at Cass.
Cass smiled back at him. “She learns fast.”
Bruce actually smiled back. “I know.”
Two days later, two new cars showed up in the cave. Smaller. Sleeker. Modified for “practice.”
Cass got to pick the color. Midnight blue. “Stealthy,” she’d said. "And there are two so we can match!"
Jason had never been so personally offended…
…Back in the living room, Jason leaned back in his chair, smirk broad and satisfied.
“And that,” he said, “is how the twins of chaos crashed a billion-dollar car and somehow got rewarded for it.”
Duke blinked. “Matching luxury cars is crazy!”
Dick crossed his arms. “He didn’t talk to me for a week when I popped a tire.”
Damian was fuming in his chair. "I've known how to drive since I was eight! And he won't let me drive!"
Tim sighed, leaning back against the couch. “You’ve heard Dick’s corporate chaos and Jason’s vehicular tragedy. Now let me tell you about the time Bruce tried to be a responsible parent… for less than two hours…"
…It started with an argument.
You had snuck out of the Manor one night — nothing reckless, just a spur-of-the-moment visit to your friend’s house party. Cass had gone with you, not wanting to miss any fun. All Bruce saw were empty rooms, the silent tracker, and the security footage of the two of you hopping a fence in Gotham at 11:47 p.m.
The next morning, Bruce called both of you into the living room.
He stood there, arms crossed, voice firm. “You both know better,” he said. “You’re grounded. No missions, no patrol, no going out for a week.”
Cass accepted her fate, but she didn't look happy about it.
You tried to argue. “But Dad, it was a small party! Only like, thirty people were there!”
Bruce’s eyebrow twitched. “You broke curfew.”
“We were expanding our cultural awareness by interreacting with the unique Gotham youth!”
He didn’t budge. Cass put a hand on your arm — the unspoken don’t push it gesture — and the two of you retreated upstairs.
Tim had been in the corner the entire time, pretending to look at his phone, but watching everything. He nodded approvingly.
Finally! Consistency. Discipline. A real rule enforced and punishment given when rules were broken.
That lasted exactly one hundred and ten minutes and thirty-nine seconds.
Around noon, Tim heard footsteps on the stairs. You appeared first, dressed casually, hair done, purse over your shoulder. Cass followed, calm as ever, keys in one hand, and a homemade latte in the other.
Bruce looked up from his seat as you both approached.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Out,” you said simply. “We’re meeting our friends for lunch.
"Don’t wait up,” Cass shouted cheerfully.
Bruce blinked once. “Alright. Be safe.”
Tim nearly dropped his coffee, but did drop his jaw.
You leaned down, kissed Bruce on the cheek, and walked out the door like nothing was wrong.
Bruce went back to reading the Gotham Gazette as if he hadn’t just undone his own punishment.
Tim sat frozen in the his seat for a solid thirty seconds before finally blurting, “Bruce! They're grounded!”
Bruce didn’t even look up. “Oh. Right.”
A beat of silence.
“And are they still grounded?” Tim pressed.
Bruce turned a page. “I’ll revisit it later.”
He didn’t…
…Back in the living room, Tim pinched the bridge of his nose.
“So, yeah,” he muttered. “Grounded for a week. Gone in less than two hours. When they came back they told Bruce all about it.”
Jason was already grinning. “I still can’t believe you thought he’d enforce it.”
“Can you blame me for hoping?” Tim asked flatly. “He grounded me once for forgetting to eat dinner. He said it was ‘self-neglect.’ ”
Dick laughed. “Bruce’s logic when it comes to his daughters exists in another dimension.”
Duke just stared at them, slack-jawed. “He really just… let them go? Unbelievable.”
Damian straightened, expression carved from pure suffering. “My father’s hypocrisy knows no bounds,” he began solemnly. “Observe."…
…It began, as these tragedies often did, with good intentions — his, specifically.
Damian had always adored animals. He rescued them, rehabilitated them, even smuggled a few injured strays back to the Manor. Each time, Bruce had said the same thing: “No more animals in the house, Damian.”
A reasonable rule, perhaps. Until they got involved.
It was a quiet Sunday when it happened. Damian had just finished training when he heard you and Cassandra’s laughter echoing through the main hall.
“What the…” he muttered. He turned the corner and froze when he saw the animal. "What is the meaning of this!"
You and Cass turned to look at the boy. You immediately went into defensive mode.
"Damian you don’t get it," you began.
Damian grinned like he had a checkmate in chess. "Father is going to be livid when he sees this."
You clasped your hands together, pleading for sympathy from your younger brother. "She was all alone Damian! Scared and defenseless! Stuck in a tree and in need of help!'
"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Damian urged. "You did not find a ZEBRA stuck in a tree."
Cass hugged the Zebra like Damian would take her away any moment. “We named her Wonder Zebra! Diana has to know we named this majestic creature after her.”
Damian blinked. “You cannot be serious.”
Cass smiled at their new companion. “She’s calm and has good energy.”
“Good energy?!” Damian gestured wildly. “She’s a zebra, not a therapy dog!”
The zebra snorted and began nibbling at one of Bruce’s antique rugs.
You gently patted her neck. “She’s just hungry. Poor thing’s been through enough.”
At that exact moment, Bruce came down the stairs. Damian folded his arms, relief flooding him — finally, someone rational.
“Father,” he announced, “they’ve brought home a wild animal. I assume you’ll handle this.”
Bruce stopped halfway down, taking in the scene: his daughters, his ruined carpet, and a striped fugitive from the Gotham Zoo. A long silence followed.
“Girls,” he said finally, “where did you find it?”
“We were just walking down the street and she was stranded Dad!” you answered innocently. “All alone stuck on the unforgiving streets that would corrupt her! We had to save her and give her a loving home!"
Bruce nodded once, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And you want to keep her?”
Cass nodded. "She can't go back out there. She's clearly been raised in captivity. She won't survive on her own. And I've seen the neighbor's lawn, the grass is fake!"
Damian smirked. “He’ll say no.”
But Bruce didn’t say no. He pulled out his phone.
“Father?” Damian asked, horrified. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the zoo,” Bruce said simply. “We’ll make the proper arrangements.”
Ten minutes later, Bruce Wayne owned a zebra.
Later that day, a new enclosure was being built on the property. Alfred was giving instructions to the contractors as Cass brushed the Wonder Zebra's mane. You gave Bruce's large body the tightest hug you could manage.
Damian stood at the fence, glaring at Bruce. “You said no more animals.”
Bruce just sipped his coffee. “I said no more unapproved animals.”
Damian gestured wildly toward the zebra. “How is this approved?!”
Bruce shrugged. “It’s domesticated now.”
You handed him an apple slice. “Want to feed her, Dad?”
Bruce smiled. “Sure.”
Damian groaned. “This is absurd!”…
…Back in the living room, Damian crossed his arms with righteous indignation.
“So yes, Thomas, Father not only allowed them to keep a zebra, he bought it. Within the hour.”
Duke blinked. “...A real zebra?”
“It took six months for Alfred to convince Bruce to give Wonder Zebra back to the zoo,” Jason said. "He still owns her but Alfred got sick of her eating his roses."
Tim leaned forward, smirking. “So now you get it, right? The favoritism?”
Duke ran a hand down his face. “I’m starting to think Bruce doesn’t parent them—he just funds their adventures.”
Dick laughed. “Welcome to the Wayne family.”
Night had settled over Wayne Manor, the kind of quiet stillness that felt almost suspicious after years of living with vigilantes. The boys had spent hours brainstorming ways to convince Bruce. They needed a backup plan in case you and Cass decided to not help them.
Duke shook his head. “There’s gotta be some situation where Bruce says no to them.”
Tim raised a brow. “If there is a limit, we haven't reached it yet.”
Damian, ever the realist, folded his arms. “Perhaps tonight will be the exception. Father returned home not long ago from his date with Selina. He is… preoccupied.”
Dick looked at him. "How do you know?"
"I saw them while I was in the kitchen getting a drink. Father grabbed some wine and two glasses and left with her," Damian clarified.
Jason grinned. “Oh, so the Bat and the Cat are having their little romantic rooftop debrief, huh?”
“Not on the rooftop,” Damian said flatly. “They went in the direction of his bedroom.”
That earned a collective grimace.
Dick coughed. “Okay, boundaries. Ew. But fine — if there’s ever a time he’s gonna draw the line, it’s now.”
“Exactly,” Tim said. “He won't let anyone interrupt his…"adult time"… with Selena. ”
Jason leaned back, smug. “Yeah, no way he’s getting out of bed for anyone right now.”
The universe heard them — and laughed. Because just then, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the hall.
Cass’s quiet footsteps were unmistakable. Yours weren’t — you were humming, the sound bright and careless. Both of you held dozens of shopping bags in your arms. The glossy bags cutting into your arms didn't dampen your moods one bit.
"Hi guys," Cass said casually.
"Have you seen Dad," you asked. "We want to show him our haul."
The brothers exchanged nervous looks.
“Relax,” Tim whispered. “Even Bruce has limits.”
Jason looked at the both of you, a confident smirk etched on his face. "Bruce and Selena are in his bedroom. If you catch my drift…?"
You and Cass looked at each other. The boys couldn’t read your expressions, but you two shared that silent understanding only sisters could. You both dropped your shopping bags with synchronized thuds, expensive logos scattering across the floor.
Jason blinked. “Oh, no. No way. You two aren’t actually—”
But you two were already marching down the hall.
Tim groaned into his hands. “They’re doing it.”
Duke whispered, “He's going to say no to them. This has to be the night.”
Dick felt himself flinch. "They're going to be devastated. Their first 'no' ever."
Damian sighed, defeated. “They're going to need comforting. Let's have snacks and movies ready for them.”
The boys moved to the kitchen like they were preparing someone's final meal.
Somewhere upstairs, faint music played — soft jazz, far too romantic for Wayne Manor’s usual gloom. You and Cass walked in perfect step, as if you were on a mission of personal vengeance.
By the time you reached Bruce’s door, the muffled sound of laughter and low voices confirmed your suspicion.
You knocked firmly. “Daaaad?”
Silence. Then a shuffle. Then hushed voices.
You frowned. “Dad?”
Cass added, “We need to show you something.”
More frantic movement followed. Then, Selina’s voice — unmistakably irritated — came through the door. “Bruce, don’t you dare—”
Too late. The door opened.
Bruce stood there in a black silk robe, hair a little disheveled, a light layer of sweat clinging to his skin, trying very hard to look like a man who hadn’t just been interrupted.
“Hi, girls,” he said evenly, the faintest edge of guilt in his voice.
You beamed. “Hi, Dad! We're done shopping!”
Cass excitedly bounced on her toes. “We bought a lot things.”
Behind him, Selina groaned. “Of course you did.”
You stepped forward, undeterred. “They had a sale at Cartier. And Cass found perfume that smells like Gotham rain.”
Cass nodded seriously. “It does not. It smells like Gotham in the summer.”
Bruce managed a smile. “That’s great girls.”
You peeked past him. “Hi, Selina!”
Selina sat up, the sheets pulled strategically high, and a forced smile on her face. "Hello girls. I'd come up to greet you but your Dad and I are very busy right now."
Cass tilted her head. “Busy?”
You blinked innocently. “Busy with what?”
Selina groaned again. “Unbelievable.”
You tugged one Bruce's sleeve. “Anyway, we wanted to show you what we got!”
Cass tugged Bruce's other sleeve. "And you have to smell the perfume and tell [Name] I'm right."
Bruce hesitated, eyes darting to Selina’s glare, then back to your hopeful expression and Cass' pleading look.
He sighed. “Alright. Let me make myself decent.”
Selina buried her face in her hands. “You. Are. Hopeless.”
You leaned up to kiss Bruce’s cheek. “Love you, Dad! You’re the best.”
Cass gave a small nod. “We'll wait for you in the living room.”
You both turned and padded down the hall.
Behind the closed door, Selina glared, “What about me?”
Bruce raised a brow. “What about you?”
Selina stared like he’d just committed a crime against humanity, but Bruce only walked to his closet and pulled out some clothes.
The boys had set up the living room to perfection. Popcorn bowls with 5 different flavors. Ice cream tubs with dozens of toppings. Blankets. A carefully queued movie.
Jason stared at the spread and sighed. “Feels like we’re prepping for heartbreak.”
Duke took a sip of one of the soda cans, letting the fizz calm his nerves. "Because we are."
Tim checked his phone. “It’s been ten minutes. No screaming, no crying, no door slamming.”
Dick frowned. “It’s the quiet before the storm.”
Damian poured a glass of water with grim solemnity. “Father may require this after the confrontation.”
Jason snorted. “It's a bittersweet night boys.”
Then they heard it. Two sets of footsteps heading their way, quick and heavy.
The boys turned toward the sound just in time to see you and Cass descend the stairs — all smiles and laughter — followed by Bruce Wayne himself, now in gray pajama set and matching slippers.
Dick blinked. “Oh my god. He actually came downstairs.”
Jason squinted. “In his pajamas and matching slippers!”
Bruce looked utterly unfazed. “You said you had something to show me?”
You and Cass nodded enthusiastically and began unloading your shopping bags onto the every available surface like a luxury-themed magic trick.
Perfume. Jewelry boxes. Clothes. Shoes. Half of Gotham’s economy.
Cass held up the perfume bottle. “Smell this. Tell her I’m right.”
Bruce leaned down obediently, smelling the sample strip you held out. “Cass is right. It smells like Gotham in summer.”
You gasped, offended. “What? No way! It’s totally Gotham rain!”
He smiled faintly. “Sorry honey.”
Jason muttered under his breath, “He’s so whipped.”
Tim, deadpan, “This isn’t even parenting anymore. It’s diplomacy.”
Cass handed Bruce another bag. “Look inside.”
He peered in. “A suede jacket?”
You nodded proudly. “For you! We saw it and immediately thought of you.”
You smiled, satisfied, then added casually, “Oh! And we’re borrowing the Batjet next week. Tokyo trip.”
Jason choked on his drink. “You’re what!?”
Bruce didn’t even flinch. “File the flight plan first.”
Tim slammed his hand on the counter. “Are you serious?!”
Bruce looked at him calmly. “Always.”
The boys went dead silent. The sound of you and Cass giggling and rummaging through your bags filling the air.
Then Dick groaned, throwing his hands up. “I give up.”
Jason dragged a hand down his face. “He was in bed with Catwoman and still said yes.”
Duke muttered weakly, “We did this whole set up for nothing.”
Damian glared at his father. “Father, you are an embarrassment to the concept of discipline.”
Bruce looked around the room, expression neutral. “You all finished?”
The boys collectively mumbled variations of yeah, whatever, as you and Cass started showing your things again, talking happily. The boys abandoned the movie and started eating the food they prepared, drowning their defeat in calories.
The haul went on for three hours before the sisters disappeared down the hall with their things. Bruce watched them go, an unmistakable fondness softening his features.
Jason folded his arms. “You do realize they’ve got you completely wrapped around their fingers, right?”
Bruce’s lips quirked. “I know.”
Selina appeared at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, still in silk and absolute disbelief. “You’re impossible.”
Bruce gave her a small, unapologetic smile. “I’m a father.”
Selina sighed, rolling her eyes — but the corner of her mouth twitched. “A hopeless one.”
Bruce took her hand and lead her back upstairs, slippers soft against the wood floor. “Goodnight, boys.”
The room fell silent for a moment before Duke exhaled. “I can’t believe he’s the same guy who terrifies the Justice League.”
Dick laughed softly, looking toward the staircase. “That’s our dad.”
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ absolute batman!bruce wayne x sunshine!fem. reader | ~11.5k words, p1.
CONSISTS OF ↬ not really proofread. reader is girly in an elle woods way. more info on reader + absolute batman in the collection main page. slow burn. talkative reader. super brooding batman. by slowburn i mean he barely speaks in a brooding way. brief scene of gross men in an alley and how that impacts the reader. minor mentions of petty crime. bruce is an absolute tank, canonically like 7 foot in the suit. reader is a mortician and civilian.
── .✦ You never expect Gotham’s most fearsome vigilante to end up protecting you. Yet, when he does, your bold, talkative energy and warmth meets his relentless, haunted presence.
| navi. | masterlist. | dc masterlist. | absolute batman collection. |
The city was heavy that night, pressed down beneath the kind of rain that turned the streets into dark rivers and left the air tasting like rust and smoke. Gotham did not soften for anyone, and yet you walked through it as though it might, the pink bow clipped into your hair bobbing lightly with each careful step you took in your heels. You had your coat buttoned to your chin, pale wool cinched at the waist, the hem brushing your thighs, and in your hand you clutched a small purse as if it contained something far more precious than lipstick and loose change.
You should not have been there. Not on that street, not in that hour, not with the neon flicker of a dead sign painting everything sickly green and the sound of broken bottles crunching underfoot. But life had a way of leading you places, and maybe you were too stubborn or too sweet to turn back.
The men noticed you before you noticed them. Three of them, shadows peeling from the alleyway with too much laughter and too little fear, the kind of men who mistook softness for weakness. One had a knife that caught the wet streetlight and threw it back in a crooked line across your path.
“Well, look at this,” the one with the knife said, his voice thick with the kind of triumph that came from finding prey. “A doll wandered into the wrong part of town.”
You froze, your purse strap digging into your shoulder as your grip tightened. Your heart began to thrum hard in your chest, a rhythm you could not control, but you lifted your chin anyway, because that was all you could do.
“Don’t be scared,” another one jeered, though the smile on his face said that he wanted nothing else from you. “We’ll take real good care of you.”
Your throat felt dry, your lips pressed together in a trembling line, but you said, as softly as you could, “I think you should let me pass.”
The knife-wielder grinned, stepping closer. His shadow stretched long across the wet pavement, reaching for your feet. “That’s not how this works, toots.”
And then it happened.
The sound was not thunder but something deeper, heavier, a thud that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The rain shifted, falling harder for a moment as though the city itself was startled. The men went silent, heads snapping upward, and you followed their gaze.
He was there, crouched on the edge of the rooftop across the street, and even from below you could feel the weight of him. A shape too large to be a man, too deliberate to be a shadow, a figure that filled the empty air with a presence so thick you almost forgot to breathe. His cape hung black and heavy in the rain, his eyes glowed pale and unearthly, and when he moved, it was with the soundless grace of something that had been hunting far longer than any of you had been alive.
The men cursed, stumbling back, but the one with the knife gripped it tighter, trying to pretend he was not already afraid.
And then Batman dropped from the roof.
He landed with a force that sent water splashing in every direction, his boots hitting the pavement like the crack of stone splitting. He was enormous up close, easily a head taller than the largest of them, his shoulders impossibly broad beneath the armored plates that seemed forged from the night itself. You had heard rumors, whispers passed in bars and at office water coolers, stories about Gotham’s monster, Gotham’s guardian, Gotham’s curse. None of them had told you that he was this.
The men broke before him. One ran, slipping in the water as his feet scrambled for escape, but Batman’s hand shot out and caught him by the back of the jacket, lifting him as though he weighed nothing. He slammed him against the brick wall with a force that rattled windows, the man crying out as the breath was driven from his lungs.
The second swung a broken bottle, desperate, but Batman moved too quickly, his gauntlet catching the man’s wrist before it could connect, twisting until the bottle fell, shattering at their feet. With a brutal efficiency, he dropped him to the ground, leaving him groaning in the rain.
The last man, the one with the knife, tried to hold his ground, but his hand trembled. Batman loomed over him, a solid wall of muscle and armor, and the knife might as well have been a child’s toy.
“Go,” Batman growled, the word low and guttural, vibrating in your bones.
With nothing more, the man went.
And then it was only you and him.
You stood frozen, your purse still clutched against your side, your bow dampened by the rain but still defiantly pink. He turned toward you slowly, the pale glow of his eyes catching the faint reflection of your startled face. He was massive, too massive, and you realized that you could stand in front of him and be completely hidden by the width of his chest alone.
You should have been terrified. Instead, you found your voice.
“Um,” you said softly, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “Thank you. You’re… very big.”
The words slipped out before you could think better of them, and for a heartbeat, you were sure you had made a mistake. The silence stretched thick between you, the rain pattering against his armor, his breath slow and steady behind the mask.
Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was deep, rough, like gravel dragged across iron. “Go home.”
It was not a suggestion.
But you only blinked at him, then lifted your shoulders in a small shrug. “You don’t have to be so scary about it. Do you even get breaks? Or do you just stomp around all night, scaring people?”
He said nothing. His eyes flicked down toward you, then away again, as though your presence.. the softness, the ribbons, the playful smile were all things he could not quite categorize.
You shifted your purse, took a hesitant step closer, and smiled up at him. “You know, if you ever needed someone to patch you up, I’m really good with band-aids. I even have pink ones with little strawberries.”
For the first time that night, he froze.
The rain kept falling, the city kept breathing, but Gotham’s shadow stood still, unmoving, as though he had been caught in something even he did not expect.
And though you could not see his face, you had the strangest feeling that you had just disarmed him more thoroughly than any weapon ever could.
The silence stretched between you, broken only by the sound of rain tapping against the metal of his armor and the quiet rush of cars on some distant avenue. You thought he might vanish without a word, melt back into the shadows the way the stories said he always did, but instead he stood there, watching you as though trying to decide whether you were some trick the city had conjured or something real that had managed to survive inside it.
You smoothed a damp strand of hair back from your cheek, your smile not fading even under the weight of his stare. “Well,” you said softly, your voice carrying a brightness that sounded almost ridiculous in the dim alley, “I think I’ll be fine now, thanks to you. Unless you think those men are waiting for me around the corner, which I suppose would be rather inconvenient.”
His shoulders shifted, the faintest movement, and then he spoke, low and certain. “They won’t come back.”
Something about the way he said it made you believe him instantly. You nodded, satisfied, and adjusted the strap of your purse, your heels clicking lightly against the wet ground as you stepped past him.
But then you paused, tilting your head up at him again. “You could walk me home, you know. Just in case. I live only a few blocks away, and I promise I won’t talk too much if you don’t want me to.”
It was bold, maybe even foolish, but you had never been the type to hide what you wanted to say.
For a long moment he did not move, and you thought he might refuse. But then, without a word, he fell into step behind you, his presence as steady and inescapable as the city itself.
The streets were quieter as you walked, though every sound seemed louder with him beside you. The dripping of water from fire escapes, the distant rumble of thunder, the echo of your footsteps against his much heavier ones.. all of it was amplified. You glanced at him once or twice, your eyes tracing the impossible size of his shoulders, the way his cape dragged faintly through puddles, the pale glow of his eyes that never seemed to waver from the dark ahead.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” you asked after a block, your voice light, almost teasing. “That’s fine, I talk enough for the both of us. People tell me I should learn to keep my thoughts to myself sometimes, but I’ve never been very good at that. It’s like trying to hold water in your hands, like, you can do it for a little while, but eventually it all spills out anyway.”
He said nothing, and you laughed softly at yourself, shaking your head. “See? Talking too much already.”
Another block passed, and you found yourself glancing up at him again. “Do you get cold in that suit? It looks heavy. Though.. I guess it must keep you warm if you’re out here all night.”
Still no answer, though his head shifted just slightly, as though acknowledging you.
You sighed softly, though there was no frustration in it. “You know, you’re very intimidating. But I don’t think you mean to be, at least not with me. You saved me. That’s not something an intimidating monster does. That’s something… good.”
This time, his eyes flicked toward you, a quick glance, brief but enough to make your heart give a strange little jump.
The rest of the walk was quieter, though you filled it with small comments about the rain, about the way the city lights reflected in the puddles, about how you were glad you had worn a coat that buttoned high enough to keep your dress dry. He never responded, but you felt the weight of his attention beside you, steady and constant, like the rhythm of the rain itself.
When you finally reached your building, a modest brick structure with a flickering light over the door, you turned to face him. He was enormous in the glow of the streetlamp, his armor slick with water, his cape draped heavy around him, but you smiled up at him as though he were nothing more than a neighbor who had walked you home after dark.
“Thank you,” you said softly, your hand brushing the damp strap of your purse. “For saving me. And for walking me here. I don’t think I’ve ever felt safer, which is a little ironic, isn’t it? Considering you look like you could crush me with one hand.”
The silence stretched again, and then he said, low and steady, “Stay inside at night.”
You tilted your head, your smile widening just slightly. “I’ll try. But I can’t promise. The city doesn’t really let you live by rules, does it?”
For a moment you thought he might say something else, but instead he turned, the shadows already swallowing him back into their endless folds.
“Goodnight, Batman,” you called after him, your voice sweet against the wet air.
And then he was gone.
The flickering light above your doorway buzzed softly as you lingered for a moment longer, staring down the slick street where he had vanished, half-expecting him to reappear from the shadows, but when he didn't you decided to head to bed with little smile on your face and a big man on your mind.
The days following your first encounter passed in a strange blur. You worked long hours, cataloging evidence, preparing reports, cleaning and arranging the bodies that arrived from the streets, accidents, and crime scenes alike. You moved through the mortuary with the same steady, precise motions you had always had, but your mind wandered constantly to the memory of him. More so, the impossible bulk of his presence, the quiet intensity of his gaze, and the way he had allowed you to speak to him without fear, without aggression.
It was late again, the night lighter than the one before but still heavy with the city’s pulse. You had just finished a long shift and were walking home, a small bouquet of wildflowers in one hand, a journal tucked under your arm, your coat buttoned high against the chill. The streets were quieter than usual, the neon lights reflecting in the puddles left from an earlier drizzle. You rounded a corner near an alley when the sharp, angry voices reached you first.
Two men had a boy cornered, his jacket pulled tight around him as if it might shield him from their strength. One man shoved the boy against the wall, his hand gripping the collar roughly. The boy’s small frame shuddered, and you could feel your stomach knotting, not out of fear, but from that familiar determination that had always driven you to act when someone was in danger.
You stepped forward and swatted your bouquet a bit to take their attention from the unfortunate boy. “Hey!” you called, soft but carrying enough authority to draw their attention. “You need to leave him alone.”
The men turned toward you, expressions flickering between amusement and disbelief. One laughed, a low, cruel sound. “And who’s going to stop us? You?”
You smiled lightly, though it was not warmth that guided you but calm composure. “Maybe not,” you admitted. “But I can make it uncomfortable enough that it won’t be worth your time.”
You bent slightly to retrieve the bouquet from your hand and held it in front of you like a sword, the vivid yellows and pinks stark against the grime of the alley. The movement caught their eyes long enough for you to step closer to the boy and pull him behind you. “Go on,” you said gently as if it was a stray dog you were talking to, but your voice was unwavering. “I don’t want anyone hurt tonight.”
Before they could respond, a shadow fell across the alley, heavy and cold, and the sound of boots striking the wet pavement made your chest lift with both apprehension and relief.
He was there again.
Batman landed between you and the men, the cape settling around him in a living wave of darkness. His pale eyes swept over the scene, sharp and unflinching, and the men froze in the exact way everyone in Gotham reacted in his presence.
You bent slightly to guide the boy behind you, your calm hands firm on his shoulders. “See?” you murmured to him. “It’s okay now. You’re safe, do you know how to get home?” When he nodded you handed him a flower and offered a warm smile.
The men tried to move, to recover their aggression, but Batman moved faster than thought itself. A single step toward them and they stumbled backward, tripping over each other as fear took the place of their feigned confidence.
You watched him silently, your heart still steady despite the adrenaline, as he methodically disarmed and scattered them without a single word to you. When it was done, he turned his head in your direction.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, low and deliberate, his voice like gravel sliding over steel.
You straightened, clutching the bouquet to your chest. “I work at the morgue,” you said simply. “I see worse than this every day. I’m used to it.”
His eyes flickered toward you, just long enough to register a hint of something he could not name, something unfamiliar. You noticed the slight tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders that told you he was measuring you.. not for threat, not for skill, but for courage.
“You’re very calm for someone walking alone in this part of the city.. again,” he said, his voice carrying the slightest edge of admiration.
You shrugged lightly, allowing a small, teasing smile to play across your lips. “Calm helps. And someone has to be when the city never sleeps and nobody watches. It’s the job. Besides,” you added softly, “I’ve always liked keeping people safe, even if I can’t punch them into submission.”
For a long moment, he said nothing, and the silence stretched comfortably, like the calm after a storm. Then, in that way that only he could, he shifted his weight, and you realized he was moving beside you. Not leaving, not disappearing, but walking in step as you led the boy safely toward the street.
By the time you reached the corner where you would part ways, you had long forgotten to be nervous. You looked up at him, noting how the neon light caught the glint of rain on his armor and made him seem both impossibly enormous and impossibly human at the same time.
“Thank you,” you said softly, tucking a loose hair behind your ear.
His pale eyes lingered on you longer than necessary, and for the first time, there was no hint of the unapproachable shadow, only something that hinted at curiosity, respect, and something he would never admit aloud.
“Goodnight,” you whispered, your voice light, and then you stepped onto the street, turning toward home.
He did not move immediately. He lingered in the shadows, watching until you entered the building, until the door clicked softly behind you, leaving him alone in the alley once again. And yet, when he finally melted back into the night, there was a weight to his silence, the faintest trace of wanting, of interest, of a connection he was far too cautious to explore.
The city had settled into a quiet rhythm the following night, the usual low hum of traffic mingling with the occasional splash of water from a gutter. You had finished your late shift at the mortuary, arranging a small set of flowers on a tray for a family that had requested them, and you were walking home, your bag slung over your shoulder, your notebook tucked under your arm, already half-brimming with notes about the day’s work. Your shoes clicked against the always damp pavement, and your coat pulled tightly around you made you feel almost ordinary, almost safe, if there was such a thing in Gotham.
But of course, Gotham never allowed ordinary to last long.
You rounded the corner toward a dimly lit street when a shadow detached itself from the darkness ahead. You let out a startled gasp and swatted with your notebook as if it was a bug buzzing around your ear.
Once he stepped fully into the light, the rain-slicked armor glinting faintly under a streetlamp, his cape hanging like liquid shadow behind him.
You stopped mid-swing, clutching your notebook a little tighter, and allowed a small, easy smile to spread across your face.
“Oh hey! Well, this is unexpected,” you greeted, voice bright, almost cheerful. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. I suppose that’s a good thing? I mean, I’m not complaining. Not at all. It’s just—” You laughed lightly, as though talking quickly could somehow keep the tension at bay. “It’s a little intimidating, you know? I walked home just fine last time, but maybe this time you’re here to lecture me about the perils of Gotham’s night streets or something.”
He did not respond immediately, only stepped closer, his presence swallowing the street, and you found yourself pausing, briefly caught between bravado and the overwhelming sense of his proximity. But your voice did not falter.
“I should warn you,” you continued, stepping carefully past him while gesturing vaguely toward the block ahead. “I talk even more when I’m nervous. Or excited. Or both. And I’ve got a million opinions about everything, so if you’re expecting silence from me, you might want to adjust your expectations right now.”
He tilted his head slightly, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his glowing eyes. “You need to stop walking alone in the dark,” he said finally, his tone low and deliberate, the weight of his presence as heavy as ever.
You shrugged, smiling even though your heart had picked up a few beats. “I live here. That’s where alone happens. Besides, I’ve had plenty of practice keeping myself together in situations worse than a couple of guys trying to mug me. I work at the mortuary, did I tell you that? I handle death for a living. A little alleyway confrontation isn’t going to rattle me too much.”
He studied you, and you noticed how the rain clinging to his armor did not seem to dampen the raw intensity he radiated. His gaze lingered on you longer than necessary, and yet it was not predatory, not threatening. It was as if he was trying to understand why someone like you could stand in front of Gotham’s darkness and laugh lightly at it.
You waved a hand toward the street ahead, your voice picking up again without pause.
“I mean, really, the city would be miserable if everyone tiptoed around like scared little mice all the time. You can’t just patrol endlessly and expect people to be afraid all the time. Someone has to keep their heads up, even if it’s just me, talking constantly to anyone who will listen... or anyone who doesn’t really have a choice but to listen.”
He said nothing, but you caught the smallest shift of his shoulders, the tiniest acknowledgment of your words. Encouraged, you kept going.
“You probably think I’m reckless, don’t you? Oh, I know you do. But I promise I’m careful in my own way. I make plans. And I talk a lot. Did I mention that? Because I do. A lot.”
For the first time that night, he stepped aside slightly, creating room beside him without breaking the silence entirely. The street seemed quieter with him moving closer, a strange intimacy forming in the shadows between his immensity and your light chatter.
You glanced up at him, tilting your head. “I mean, really, you must have noticed by now I don’t exactly fit the typical profile of a Gotham civilian. I spend all day handling things people would rather look away from, and somehow I still find time to talk incessantly to strangers in the street. You must have something like that in your files, right? ‘Dangerous civilians with too many words’? That’d be me.”
His gaze finally met yours fully, and though he said nothing, you felt the faintest shift in the air between you, as if your words, your presence, your relentless chatter had carved a little space in his shadowed world.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice, but still chatty as ever. “I’m not afraid of Gotham’s streets. I’m careful, yes, and I make my way home smartly, but I’m not afraid. Not really. And to be honest… I think that surprises you more than anything. Because most people are afraid. Most people just freeze or scream. I talk. I ask questions. I make jokes. Sometimes bad jokes. Really bad jokes. And somehow that seems to work better than cowering. Weird, right?”
He stepped closer, the presence overwhelming, and you tilted your head up at him. “You’re always this quiet?” you asked, your voice bright despite the tension. “I mean, I get it. Mystery suits you. But it’s exhausting sometimes, being the only one talking. Someone’s gotta do it.”
He didn’t answer, and you seized the silence. “I suppose I could make a list of things I’ve noticed about you,” you continued, letting your tone wander between playful and analytical. “Like the way your armor catches light in puddles, or how you don’t blink when you’re focused. Or how I’m pretty sure you’ve saved someone at least ten times without ever saying a word about it.”
He did not answer immediately. Instead, he let you continue, letting the flood of words and warmth pour over the quiet weight of his armor. And for a moment, the city itself seemed to pause, the streetlights flickering in time with your voice, the distant hum of traffic softened under the strange connection forming in that dim, rain-slicked alley.
He exhaled, quiet and measured, and finally said, “You walk a dangerous line.”
“I like lines,” you said cheerfully. “I walk them all the time. Some people call it recklessness, but I call it perspective. I get to new things! Plus,” you added with a sly smile, “it’s more fun talking to someone who doesn’t just respond with threats or silence. Even if that someone is… well, you.”
Finally, his voice broke the quiet, low and deliberate. “You also talk too much.”
You laughed softly, as though it were the greatest compliment he could have offered. “I know. But I think you like it, really. Admit it. I mean, you wouldn’t be standing here if you didn’t.”
He didn’t reply, but there was a subtle shift in his stance, a movement almost imperceptible, like the briefest easing of tension in his shoulders. You smiled to yourself, stepping past him and toward your own street, your words spilling over without pause.
“Oh! And another thing,” you continued, turning slightly so he could see your face in the streetlamp glow, “I might not be able to punch anyone and send them flying, or stop a villain single-handedly, but I put pieces together that people overlook. That counts for something, doesn’t it? Or do you only admire people who can throw a punch harder than a truck?”
His eyes followed you as you moved, and you felt it, the quiet assessment, the respect, the weight of his attention that somehow made the rain feel lighter, the night less dangerous. You reached your building, your smile unwavering, even as your chest still beat a little faster than usual.
“I should go inside now,” you said, still chatty, still warm, “before you start thinking I’m trying to trap you in my monologue forever. But… thanks. For always being there somehow. I don’t know if you understand how much that helps. The city is… heavy sometimes, and seeing you, even like this, it makes it lighter.”
His gaze lingered for a long moment before he stepped back into the shadows. “Stay safe,” he said finally, low and deliberate.
You waved at him, letting your voice carry softly through the alley. “I will. You stay safe too, Batman.”
And then you turned, stepped inside, and closed the door behind you, leaving him in the wet street, the echoes of your words lingering, and the faintest trace of a smile tugging at something buried deep beneath the armor and shadow.
The streets were quieter than usual that afternoon, the city’s hum softened by a rare lull in traffic and the muted clatter of construction somewhere down the block. You were making a delivery—reports for a civic project you helped track for the mortuary, a favor that somehow fell on your desk—and you hadn’t expected to run into anyone noteworthy.
But there he was.
Bruce Wayne. Not a shadow in armor, not some untouchable legend of the night, just a man. Massive, broad-shouldered, and standing near a street-level command post for a city project, with papers and tablets in hand, issuing instructions with a tone that brooked no argument.
You stopped, coffee in one hand, notebook in the other, and let your grin widen. “Of course,” you muttered, “of course I’d run into the city’s most intimidating person when I’m just trying to make a delivery!”
He glanced up sharply, the kind of gaze that pinned you in place without a word. Pale eyes, intense, measuring, sizing you up in a heartbeat. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, something you'd only heard from him when he was Batman, but now it's as if the city itself had granted him authority over every sidewalk calm but cutting, as if the city itself had granted him authority over every sidewalk.
“I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” you said, stepping forward, letting your confidence carry over the tension in his stare. “But I have to say, I didn’t expect Gotham’s most terrifying man to be… managing paperwork and schedules. Very practical. I like it.”
His eyes flicked down at your notebook, and then back at you, just long enough to register amusement—or perhaps incredulity. “You really do just.. talk a lot,” he noted quietly and deliberately.
“So, that’s actually my superpower,” you replied lightly, grinning. “Notice things, talk about them, annoy people into paying attention. Works wonders. You’re actually experiencing it firsthand.”
For the first time, he allowed a shift in posture, just slightly, the smallest acknowledgment that he was, if not impressed, at least intrigued. “Most people aren’t as... bold.. as you.”
“Good,” you said, stepping closer, letting the city noise fade into the background between your words. “Boldness is my specialty. Observing, noticing, talking before I properly filter my words… I do it all. And right now, I notice you. Fascinating. Terrifying. Wayyyyy too focused. And apparently really good at controlling everyone around you.”
He studied you carefully, silent, as if calculating whether your audacity would earn his respect,or his disapproval. “You’re fearless,” he said finally.
“Curious,” you corrected with a bright laugh. “Fearless sounds dramatic. I prefer curiosity. And being fearless in your presence? Honestly, not as hard as I thought it would be. Most people I meet just assume I’ll be intimidated because my pen has a pom-pom on it and I have a bedazzled notebook.”
A faint twitch at the corner of his lips suggested something akin to amusement. “Dangerous,” he murmured.
“Orrr… persistent!” you countered, leaning casually on the edge of a nearby barricade, letting your notebook rest on your arm.
You lingered for a moment, pretending to review your notebook, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. The way he moved was deliberate, precise, and every gesture controlled. It was captivating, he was captivating. You found yourself smiling despite yourself. Most people in Gotham inspired caution, anxiety, or exhaustion. But him? He inspired… curiosity.
“Do you ever take a break?” you asked, voice light but carrying genuine intrigue. “I mean, for all the paperwork and meetings and decisions, don’t you ever just… stop? Breathe? Maybe even talk to someone who isn’t trying to sell you something or annoy you with politics?”
He paused mid-motion, hand hovering over a tablet, and turned his head just slightly, giving you a look that was all assessment. “I don’t usually talk to people like you,” he said carefully, his tone measured, yet not entirely closed off.
“Perfect!" you said with a grin, letting the playfulness creep into your words. “Neither do I. That’s why this is fun. You’re intense, infuriating, and entirely too serious, and I think that makes you a little interesting. Dangerous, even.”
He let that hang in the air, sharp eyes meeting yours, and you noticed the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth, the barest suggestion of a smile that vanished too quickly to be real. “Interesting,” he echoed at last, in a low and deliberate voice. “And dangerous. That seems appropriate.”
You tilted your head, stepping a fraction closer, letting your confidence fill the space between you without breaking the boundaries of civility. “You say that like it’s a warning.. or a compliment. Which one is it?”
He didn’t answer immediately, only studied you, the intensity in his gaze like a weight pressing against your chest in the most thrilling way. Then he finally spoke, voice quieter now, almost private. “Maybe it'sboth.”
You laughed softly, not hiding your amusement. “Oh! Keeping life exciting, I see.”
His eyes flicked down at his tablet, and then back at you, the faintest hint of curiosity breaking through the edge of his usual command. “You really are persistent,” he noted, almost reluctantly.
“Exactly,” you said, leaning slightly on the edge of a nearby barrier, letting your words carry just enough tease to make him pause. “And persistent people usually get what they want. Sometimes it’s answers. Sometimes it’s information. Sometimes… well, sometimes it’s just a moment to see someone like you in daylight instead of the shadows.”
He was silent, weighing your audacity, and you could feel it.. the tension between absolute control and human reaction. Then, without warning, he gave a curt nod toward the stack of papers he’d been holding. “You should go. This isn’t the safest area to be when there's work.”
Your grin widened, undeterred. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll survive. And you?” you added, letting the playfulness drip from the words. “You’ve been working too hard. Maybe you should talk to someone who asks questions instead of answering your interrogations and orders all day.”
He didn’t respond, only glanced at you once more, a long, quiet look that carried curiosity, and something unspoken you couldn’t quite name. Then he returned to his work, and you turned toward the exit with a smile, already imagining the next time you’d see him.. whether here, in the shadows, or somewhere between.
And as you walked away, coffee in hand and notebook tucked under your arm, you felt a thrill that wasn’t just from the city itself. It was from him. Absolute, overwhelming, terrifying, brilliant Bruce Wayne, and the fact that he had noticed you.
That night, you found yourself in a situation that felt all too familiar, except this time The alley was narrower than you remembered, shadows pooling thick and dark between the trash bins and fire escapes. You had been moving quickly, confident in your stride, chatting into the phone absentmindedly as you headed toward the shortcut you took far too often.
At first, you didn’t notice the figures. A single shadow merged into the wall, then another, blocking the path behind you. By the time you realized what was happening, the exit was gone. The way forward was blocked by three men whose faces you couldn’t quite make out in the dim light, bodies large and imposing, postures tight with menace.
You stopped, chest rising slightly with shallow breaths, heart skipping in sharp beats. “Uh… hello?” you said, voice steady but carrying just enough edge of uncertainty to betray your nerves. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Trouble had other ideas. One of them stepped forward, a sneer you could feel even in the darkness. “Too bad you’re in our way, sweetheart.”
Instinctively, you shifted your weight, hands curling into fists, ready to fight, but the space was too tight, the number of people against you was too high, and suddenly, every move you tried felt wrong, clumsy, and ineffective. You jabbed at one of them, only to have him grab your wrist and twist, pain flaring, forcing a gasp from you. Another blocked your path, and before you could spin away, the third pressed forward, shoulder bracing yours against the brick wall.
You struggled, feet digging into the uneven ground, throwing punches and elbows, but they were too fast, too coordinated, and even your quick reflexes — normally your best ally — weren’t enough. For the first time in a long while, you felt the edge of panic slip in, sharp and cold, curling around your chest.
“I—hey! Stop!” you shouted, voice rising with effort, trying to sound braver than you felt. “Leave me alone!”
They laughed, a low, dangerous sound that made your stomach drop. You tried to twist your body, to kick out, anything, but the tight corner and the weight of their collective strength made every attempt futile. You were trapped, and you knew it.
Your mind raced for options. Run? Block? Bluff? But everything you tried failed, every maneuver predictable against more experienced, stronger opponents. You realized, with a sinking clarity, that this time, your strength wasn’t enough.
For a heartbeat, you froze, breath catching, as the shadow of true vulnerability settled over you. The world narrowed to the feel of rough hands against your arms, the hiss of breath, the cold brick at your back — and the terrifying awareness that you couldn’t fight your way out.
And then, at the edge of your vision, something shifted in the shadows. Movement, swift and deliberate, that made every hair on your neck prickle. A silhouette landed silently behind the men, tall, imposing, and impossibly still.
“Leave her,” the voice came, low, gravelly, absolute. A presence that made the men falter instantly, their confidence cracking under the weight of authority they could not ignore.
You blinked, heart still hammering, chest heaving, but for the first time in the night, a flicker of hope threaded through the fear. Someone had arrived.
The three men hesitated, glancing at one another, and then the shadow moved again faster than you could track. Suddenly the attackers were being pushed, blocked, and thrown into the alley walls with a precision and strength that made your jaw drop.
You didn’t move yet, still pressed against the brick, still catching your breath. Finally, when the last of them fled the figure stepped closer. You blinked against the dim light, recognizing the dark cowl, the cape brushing the ground, the pale, piercing eyes that seemed to see everything.
The adrenaline had barely started to fade, leaving you with a hollow, jittery sort of quiet. Your breaths came in uneven bursts, chest still tight from the fear, hands trembling slightly as you tried to brush off the lingering tension. Normally, you would have yapped nonstop, commenting, making jokes, ranting... but tonight, every word felt heavy and inadequate, swallowed up by the weight of what had just happened.
He stood a few feet away, silent, still, with his cape draping around him like the shadows themselves. His eyes flicked toward you, scanning carefully, noting the subtle tremble in your shoulders, the way your hands clutched your coat. There was no judgment, no impatience, just an unshakable presence that somehow made you feel seen and protected in a way you rarely allowed yourself to feel.
“Are you going to be alright?” he asked, voice low but genuine.
You swallowed, struggling to find words. Normally you’d chatter on to cover nerves, but now your throat felt dry, your tongue heavy. “I-.. I think so,” you managed, voice small, uneven, not at all like your usual rapid-fire confidence.
He tilted his head slightly, silent for a moment, and then seemed ready to turn, to melt back into the shadows where he belonged. But something in you shifted, and it something you rarely let show. Despite the pride and energy that usually carried you through life, you were still human, still rattled, still needing the faintest touch of reassurance.
“Wait,” you said, voice catching slightly. “Can… um, can you walk me home?”
It wasn’t bold, wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t playful in any way. It was quiet, honest, and there was no hesitation, no double meaning. Just… need.
He paused, eyes meeting yours, and in that silent exchange, you knew he understood. He didn’t question it and he didn’t hover uncertainly. Instead, he nodded once, subtle but complete, and fell into step beside you as you started toward your home. The air between you was calm but charged, quiet but safe, each of your footsteps falling in tandem with his.
You kept your gaze on the sidewalk, careful not to meet his eyes right away, and yet your voice emerged, tentative and embarrassed. “And if-… y’know-.. if it’s not too much… could you… maybe stay the night?”
The words hung in the air like fragile glass, half-question, half-plea, and you swallowed the heat rising in your cheeks. You didn’t try to soften it with jokes or chatter. You didn’t make it easy to dismiss. This was real.
He didn’t smile, not in the usual teasing way. He didn’t say anything for a heartbeat, letting the words settle. Then he nodded again, slightly more firmly this time.
“I’ll stay,” he said, voice quiet but absolute, a promise that carried weight. “You don’t need to be alone tonight.”
You let out a small, relieved breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and for the first time since the alley, you felt your body relax slightly. The tension that had held you rigid began to ease, and it was instead replaced by a strange combination of warmth and comfort. Even with the adrenaline still simmering in your veins, even with your mind replaying the fear over and over, having him there made it almost bearable.
The walk from the alley to your apartment felt longer than usual, though the silence between you was far from uncomfortable. Each step of your boots against the cracked pavement echoed softly, mingling with the distant hum of the city that never fully slept. You kept your hands stuffed in your coat pockets, shoulders still slightly tense, eyes darting to the shadows that had once felt so menacing.
“You’ll be safe here,” he said quietly, pale eyes scanning the street one last time as you approached the front door. The way he said it wasn’t boastful or intimidating, it was matter-of-fact, solid, and showing you that he was a presence you could rely on.
You nodded, fumbling with your keys, and finally slid the door open, letting him step inside first, naturally protective even without saying a word. The familiar warm, faintly herbal scent from the candles you always kept lit, mixed with the lingering aroma of coffee and old books wrapped around you both in an instant.
He paused at the threshold, observing quietly, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his posture softened slightly, even behind the mask. “You… live here alone?” he asked, voice low, more curiosity than judgment.
“Yeah,” you murmured, gesturing vaguely toward the small but cozy apartment. “It’s… mine. Quiet. Enough room for me, my mess, and my cat.” You gave a small, wry smile at the last part, as though the cats were a confession. “If you ever meet them, they’re… opinionated.”
He didn’t comment, only stepped in, eyes flicking over the space with the careful attention of someone used to noticing every detail. The apartment was simple but personal, filled with small touches that spoke volumes about you. Framed photographs lined the shelves, pictures of family gatherings, vacations you’d taken alone, and a few candid shots of friends laughing so hard their heads tipped back, capturing moments that felt alive.
You watched him, quiet, a little self-conscious despite yourself, noticing the way his eyes lingered on the photos, his posture still as commanding as ever but softened by the intimacy of the space.
“There’s… a lot of people I care about,” you said softly, almost to yourself, gesturing toward a wall of images. “Not all of them are alive anymore, but… they mattered. Still matter.” Your hand brushed across a photo of someone you’d held in the morgue, a gentle smile on your lips despite the memory. “I keep them close, in little ways, so I don’t forget.”
He didn’t speak, only nodded slightly as his gaze lingered with that quiet, measured respect that always unnerved you in the best way. Then his gaze shifted to the other items scattered around the apartment. Your stack of well-worn books were on the coffee table, journals with neat handwriting set on a bookshelf, and a pair of sneakers tucked by the door that were a stark contrast to the heels that you wore everyday.
“You… you’re very intentional,” his voice was quiet, almost an observation rather than a comment. “Everything here looks like tells a story.”
You shrugged, moving toward the kitchen to put the flowers in a small vase by the window. “I like order,” you said softly, still nervous but feeling safer with him here. “Or at least… the illusion of it. Life doesn’t get to be orderly outside these walls, so I try to make this space my own, I guess.”
He didn’t answer right away, only followed you with that same quiet attentiveness, settling in a chair by the corner as you removed the accessories you wore throughout the day. His presence was heavy but not overbearing, and you found yourself relaxing slightly, knowing he wouldn’t overstep, but also knowing he would step in if necessary.
“You carry a lot,” he said finally, pale eyes on you as you arranged the flowers. “Not just tonight… all the time. And you do it… quietly. Without complaint. Without all of the fanfare and praise.”
You paused, fingers lingering on the stems. “I… I mean, I try,” you admitted softly, a hint of vulnerability creeping through. “Most people don’t need to see this side of me. I don’t, uh, let them.” Your voice trailed off, and for the first time, you felt the weight of your own honesty, shared with someone who had already proven he could handle it.
He remained silent, letting you have the space, the quiet, the unspoken reassurance that didn’t require words. For once, it wasn’t about fighting, or about talking, or about moving fast.. it was simply about being seen.
And as you set the vase by the window, brushing a stray petal back into place, you realized that having him here, witnessing your private world, was a comfort you hadn’t realized you needed. The apartment felt warmer now, lighter, and for the first time in hours, your nerves began to settle.
“You must be tired,” you said softly, glancing at him. He had settled into the corner chair again, silent but alert, his guarded eyes scanning the room in that quiet, measured way of his.
“I can manage,” he replied, voice calm, low, and deliberate. But you could see the faint tension in the lines of his shoulders, the subtle weariness in the way he shifted his weight.
“Well,” you said, stepping over to the coat rack and tugging one of your hooded sweatshirts free, “I can’t have you sitting here like a statue while you’re exhausted. Here, take this.” You held it out toward him, the soft cotton crumpled slightly in your hands.
He tilted his head, pale eyes flicking to the garment. “That… won’t exactly fit me,” he said carefully, and the faintest hint of amusement brushed his tone, though his face remained otherwise unreadable.
“I… yeah, I know,” you admitted, laughing nervously, holding it up anyway. “It’s mostly to cover your shoulders, maybe your arms… maybe just to… relax? You don’t have to wear it if it’s ridiculous.”
He reached out, taking it from you with gloved hands. “It’s ridiculous,” he said after a moment, and you stifled a laugh. “But I appreciate the offer.”
You stepped back, giving him room to remove his armor and get comfortable. However, once it was just the dark shirt and pants he wore under everything, your hands pressed lightly to your mouth as you tried not to burst out laughing at the sight before you. The sweatshirt which was usually obnoxiously large on you, rested over his shoulders like nothing more than a bib.
“It’s… surprisingly cozy,” he assured quietly, clearly just indulging in your efforts, but you appreciated it nontheless. “And it smells like… you.”
Your cheeks warmed immediately, a blush creeping across your face, and you laughed softly, unable to hide the delighted flutter in your chest.
“Well… that’s… nice, I guess,” you said, voice high but trembling with warmth. “I mean… I didn’t plan on it smelling like me, but… I’ll take it as a compliment.”
He didn’t reply with words, only tilted his head his head slightly as a quiet acceptance of the gesture that brought a warm feeling to your chest.
You sat down across from him, finally letting yourself relax completely for the first time that night, hands wrapped loosely around your knees. “You know,” you said softly, a teasing lilt creeping back into your voice despite the lingering adrenaline, “staying the night means you'll leave smelling like vanilla and likely having cat hair on you.”
He shifted slightly, eyes flicking to you, and for the first time, the barest hint of a smile brushed the corner of his lips. “I think I can manage,” he nodded quietly, and there was something in the tone that made you believe he meant it.
You laughed, soft and genuine, settling back into your chair. For the first time in a long night, the city outside didn’t press on your shoulders. The alley, the fear, the adrenaline all of it had been replaced with the quiet warmth of your apartment, the soft scent of flowers, and the knowledge that, for once, you weren’t alone.
Even if he looked absolutely ridiculous in your sweatshirt.
“Do you… do you ever just… relax like this?” you asked softly, voice low, almost hesitant. “I mean… truly, without thinking about the city, or work, or, y’know, danger.”
He paused, hands folded loosely in his lap, cape draping over the armrest. “Rarely,” he admitted quietly. “But it’s necessary, for everyone.”
You nodded slowly, sinking a little deeper into the cushions. “Yeah… I know that feeling. Rare moments like this, I don't know they kind of feel like little islands in the chaos. And somehow, it’s easier with someone else here.”
His eyes softened just slightly, but he didn’t speak immediately, instead he just let the quiet fill the space between you. He wouldn't admit it, but he was letting you adjust to his presence in your home without pretense or expectation.
You shifted on the couch, realizing the sweatshirt sleeves completely swallowed your hands now, and with a sheepish laugh, you tugged one sleeve up enough to reveal your fingers. “You know,” you said, voice teasing lightly despite the lingering nerves, “you might look ridiculous in this. But… I guess it makes you look… approachable. Less skyscraperish.”
He gave a faint, almost imperceptible chuckle, and you felt your chest warm in response. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t forced, but it was enough to make your heart lift. “I’ll take your word for it,” he murmured, voice low. “And I’ll endure the ridiculousness if it keeps you comfortable.”
You leaned back, exhaling softly, letting the tension of the night bleed away in the quiet warmth. “I… I like that,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, but you knew he heard. “That you just… are. Like you're just here. Without words sometimes. Just noticing.”
He angled his head towards you slightly, eyes unwavering, a silent acknowledgment of both your gratitude and your trust. The city outside hummed quietly, shadows stretching across the room, but inside your little apartment, the night softened, slowed, and felt almost safe.
By the time you had woken up the next morning, he had left, but the blankets he had used were folded neatly, and the door was locked.. which confused you but you were thankful nonetheless. And despite walking with a bit more haste down the sidewalks, the day went by as usual.
More surveying of bodies, difficult lunch breaks where you felt as though you couldn’t stomach anything, and the eventual tick of the clock to the end of your shift. You made yourself comfortable at home after you double checked all the locks on your doors and windows. The only light being your TV which was lit with nothing more than a mind-numbing sitcom, and a candle that gave off the faint aroma of lavender and vanilla.
It was a calm night for once, no issues in alleyways, no people to save, no vigilantes or heroes disturbing your walk.. It was strangely calm. And maybe you jinxed yourself with that thought, because not long after you pondered the walk home, a knock came to your door.
With hesitance you padded over and glanced through the peephole. When you swung open the door, there he was. Not Bruce Wayne, not the polished, city-facing figure you’d glimpsed before, but Batman — who was raw, battered, and very much in need of help. His cape hung in tatters, and faint trails of blood on his forearm suggested the night had not been kind. Even in the dim hallway light, he was impossible to miss: a living mountain of shadow and menace, yet somehow… human.
The hallway was quiet, lit only by the faint yellow glow of the candle and TV. You motioned him toward a chair near your small, practical first-aid corner. He obeyed with the silence that always seemed to announce him even without the cape, settling into the chair like he owned the space, though his posture was tight, almost rigid.
“Sit down. Now,” you said firmly, and he did, the weight of his presence filling the tiny hallway like a shadow made flesh. You sighed theatrically, “Thank you. I was worried I’d have to drag you in here myself.”
He didn’t reply, only tilted his head slightly, watching you carefully as you set your supplies on the counter: antiseptic, gauze, and a small roll of pink bandages you always carried for morale purposes. You caught his eyes flicking to the bandages and grinned. “Don’t worry. They’re functional. They just happen to be adorable.”
“Adorable,” he echoed, voice low, almost questioning, as if testing whether you were serious.
“Yes. Cute, cheerful, defies the darkness,” you said brightly, kneeling beside the chair to get closer to his impossibly large forearm. “And you, sir, are in desperate need of one right here.”
He allowed you to work, sitting still as you cleaned shallow cuts along his forearm. You hummed lightly, deliberately conversational. “You know, most people would probably scream, flinch, or faint at this point. You’re… surprisingly compliant. I guess that makes me slightly special.”
He didn’t react outwardly, but you saw the faint tension in his jaw relax just a little. “Compliant?” he asked, almost dryly.
“Yeah. You’re letting me patch you up,” you said, tilting your head and smiling. “You could fight me, push me aside, vanish into the night again, but instead, you’re sitting here, bleeding like the rest of us. Human, vulnerable… and very, very interesting.”
He said nothing. You took that as encouragement. “And don’t even complain when I use this practical bandage. It’s subtle, yes, but a bold choice nonetheless. You might not like it, but it suits you. Makes you… less terrifying for civilians. Maybe even approachable. Don’t thank me yet.”
Carefully, you pressed the first bandage along a clean cut. He flinched just slightly at the pressure, and your grin widened. “See? You’re human. Admit it. You hate admitting it, don’t you?”
“Not relevant,” he murmured, voice clipped, though the barest twitch at his mouth betrayed the tiniest acknowledgment.
“Oh, it’s relevant,” you insisted, lightly teasing as you applied another bandage. “Being human is very relevant. Especially when you show up at my door in the middle of the night, trying to bleed in peace. I’ll have you know, I have a professional reputation for patching up Gotham’s overly dramatic residents.”
He let that sit, quiet, and you pressed on, moving your hands with careful efficiency, letting your touch linger just long enough to make him aware of it without breaking the barrier. “You know,” you added lightly, “it’s unfair to have a job like yours and expect the rest of us to maintain composure around you. Honestly, you make staying calm nearly impossible.”
Finally, you stepped back slightly, inspecting your work, smoothing down the edges of the pink bandages. “All done. Look at that. You’re not invincible, but now you’re adorable and well-protected. You’re welcome.”
For the first time, you saw something flicker in his eyes—an acknowledgment, a private amusement, maybe even the faintest spark of trust. “Pink,” he grumbled again, voice low, not a question this time, more like a recognition.
“Yes,” you said, brushing your hands on your apron, smiling at the way the color stood out against his dark uniform. “It’s a statement. And apparently, even someone like you can use a little statement now and then. Consider it… morale.”
He said nothing, only allowed a pause to stretch, to let the moment hang in the quiet hallway. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed casually, feeling the tension slowly soften in the small shared space.
“And,” you added, almost mischievously, “if you’re smart, you’ll keep these on for at least a day. Nothing says ‘I’ve survived Gotham’ quite like a faint pink trail left behind. Subtle, but unforgettable. Kind of like me!”
He finally looked up, eyes locking with yours, pale and unreadable, yet for just a heartbeat, you thought you saw the faintest hint of a smile—unspoken acknowledgment that he had noticed, and maybe even appreciated, the audacity of your humor, your boldness, your fearlessness.
He rose silently, cape gathering around him like shadow, and for a brief moment, you could have sworn he hesitated. Not much, but just enough to let you see a subtle, private expression of trust before he disappeared into the night, leaving only the faint scent of sweat, iron, and leather behind.
You exhaled, grinning to yourself. “Batman,” you muttered. “Impossible, terrifying, and somehow… manageable.”
Summary: Clark likes his editor, even if she's a little mean to him.
Word Count: 12.1k
Content: 18+, smut, clark is a disaster and a yearner, reader is a little mean but clark is into it, piv sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral (f!receiving), clark whimpers, light angst, reader is described as having hair, no use of y/n
Link to Sequel: Six Months
To Read on AO3
Masterlist
Daily Planet, Metropolis - 9:47 AM
The hustle and bustle of the newsroom is already well underway by the time Clark Kent makes an appearance. The way-too-big gray suit that he wore at least once a week is crumpled, the coat nearly hanging off his shoulder as he tries to make sure he hasn’t lost any of the papers that are haphazardly hanging from his open bag while balancing a cup holder with four cups of coffee from the nice coffee shop down the road.
Other employees step around the frazzled man as he makes a beeline for his desk, flashing smiles and good mornings to everyone along the way. He’s stopped just shy of his destination as Lois Lane pops out in front of him, eyes heavy with exhaustion, as she eyes the paper cups before plucking the one with the most sugar listed on the order sticker. “Thanks,” she mumbles as she turns around, making her way back to her desk, muttering some stuff under her breath about having to rewrite the byline for her article again.
Clark barely has time to stutter out a ‘you’re welcome’ before he realizes the missing coffee cup has caused the cup holder to begin to tip sideways, the other three coffees teetering dangerously close to disaster. Clark can already see the next two seconds flashing before his eyes: spilled coffee and the exasperated look from everyone around him.
That is, until a perfectly manicured hand shoots out from behind him, deftly swiping the cup holder from him before all of the cups spill over. He follows the hand to its source, landing on your face… your very stern, eyebrow cocked in disbelief, face. “Seriously, Kent?” you ask with a scoff as you set down the holder onto his desk.
He feels the burn up the sides of his neck to his ears as he stammers, clamoring to put his bag down and straighten out his suit. You look nice today, he notes. You look nice every day, even as you stand before him, scowling. All he can think about is how pretty you look and how mesmerizing the red of your lipstick is.
“Y-yeah, sorry,” he finally apologizes, snapping to as he realizes you were waiting for him to respond. “The fight with Superman this morning ended up shutting down the A-Line, so I had to walk.”
You don’t even try to disguise the way your eyes roll at his excuse. “Superman, of course,” you mutter under your breath before raising the manila folder you were holding. “Here are the edits for the article you gave me yesterday, and remember, you still owe me the draft for the Crane case.”
“Geez, let the guy breathe for a second before jumping down his throat as soon as he gets in,” Jimmy Olsen comments with a grin as he saunters over, grabbing another cup from the holder on Clark’s desk. He pats Clark on the shoulder with a faint ‘thanks, man’ all the while pretending you’re not glaring daggers at him as he falls into his chair, sipping happily on his coffee.
You point the folder at Clark, who stands there awkwardly as you turn your fury to Jimmy. “He wouldn’t need a chance to breathe if he got here on time like the rest of us,” you fume. Jimmy holds his hands up in surrender, sending a sympathetic smile to Clark before ducking his head and turning back around to face his monitor. As much as Jimmy loves Clark, he was not going to put himself in front of your wrath for him.
When you turn back to Clark, he at least has the decency to look apologetic, hunched in a way to make himself appear smaller, and the corners of his lips pulled into a remorseful smile. You curse his dimples silently in your mind. “I was hoping getting you a coffee might soften the blow of me being late… again.”
You look down at the two remaining cups and see your name written in Clark’s chicken scratch handwriting with a wobbly smiley face drawn next to it. The sticker with the order on it displaying that he’d gotten you your favorite from the shop down the road that you loved to go to whenever you managed to pull yourself away from your desk for longer than ten minutes. That is to say that it is a luxury around here.
Your eyes narrow and lips purse for just a moment before you shove the folder into his chest, and he scrambles to catch it before it hits the ground. “I’m serious, you better have it to me by six P.M., Perry has been on my ass about it,” you assert before plucking your coffee from his desk and turning to walk back to the editor block, the click of your heels like a siren song that has his eyes following after you trailing up your form before settling on your plush backside before he realizes what he’s doing and looks away quickly, suddenly very interested in the broken ceiling tile above his desk.
He hears a snort of laughter and glances back over at Jimmy, who is not even attempting to hide his shit-eating grin. “What?” Clark asks.
Jimmy shakes his head in disbelief. “Dude, you have it so bad.” Clark dares to look confused as to what Jimmy is referring to. He motions to you and Clark can’t help but to sneak another peek at you as you’re stopped in the middle of the bullpen talking to one of the summer interns, the stern brow you’d had with him has softened as you’re inevitably explaining something you have already gone over at least twice with her before with far more patience than you ever afforded Clark.
Clark doesn’t even realize the dopey smile that works its way onto his face as he stares until Jimmy snaps his fingers. “Yeah, see! That!” He points at Clark’s face, which has now settled into what could only be described as a pout.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clark insists.
Jimmy groans as he spins in his chair. “Just ask her out already, the worst thing she could say is ‘no’.”
Clark’s brows furrow. “Actually, the worst thing she could say is ‘you’ll be hearing from HR’.”
Lois rolls out from behind her desk, looking a bit more chipper than five minutes prior, cup of coffee still securely in her hand. “Fired for sexual misconduct would look really bad with future employers,” she teases.
Clark gives her an exasperated look, and Jimmy waves his hand at both of them dismissively. “I’m telling you, there’s no way she’d say no or report you to HR.”
“Jimmy, I hate to break it to you, but she cannot stand Clark,” Lois informs.
“Yeah, she can’t—” He whirls around to look at Lois, a distraught look on his face. “What do you mean she can’t stand me?”
“Clark, you’re always submitting drafts to her late —” “Yeah, because I get really nervous and end up re-writing it like five times before I give it to her.” “— You’re also always showing up late for work—” “I can’t help if the city is attacked and an entire subway line gets shut down!”
Lois gives him a sharp look, and he swallows, something unspoken between them that Jimmy at least doesn’t pick up on.
“Listen, some women just aren’t impressed with the whole… naïve farm boy vibe you got going on,” Lois finishes with a shrug. “Don’t take it so personally.”
Clark looks to Jimmy for some backup, and luckily, the redhead takes pity on poor Clark, coming to his friend’s rescue. “Lois, I respect your opinion on this matter as a woman, but trust me, she may seem like she’s not impressed, but—”
“Oh, don’t even give me that she’s playing hard to get spiel,” Lois rolls her eyes with a disbelieving smile on her face.
“—But, I think she’s playing hard to get.”
“Oh my god, you’re both HR violations waiting to happen,” she chides before taking another sip of her coffee.
“Aw, c’mon, look, you made him sad.” Jimmy gestures to a very downtrodden Clark, who is simply staring in the general direction where you had disappeared back into the editor block with a visible frown on his face.
Guilt creeps up Lois’s spine, and she sighs. “Listen, if you really like her, then just ask her out already and spare us having to endure the puppy dog looks.”
“There ya have it,” Jimmy nods. “Lois Lane approved office romance.”
Lois lets out a bark of laughter as she and Jimmy dive into their own conversation, leaving Clark to his thoughts. He drops into his seat, starting to look over the edits you’d handed him. The amount of markups on the page doesn’t even surprise him. Bright blue ink scratches out entire segments of sentences, circling others, neat handwriting tucked into the margins explaining each cut and need for clarification.
The first article you edited for him had been even worse. There was more blue penned onto the page than black printed ink. You had torn his article into shreds, the one he had shyly placed into the tray on your desk after he had tried to email it to you, only to be told you only accepted printed copies of drafts, something none of the other editors requested.
(Lois would later tell him that you preferred having something physical in your hands when you edited, and she’d made the same mistake in her first week)
He had been so proud of that article when he’d handed it over. Less so when you’d given the folder back to him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow before walking back to your desk, it took all of five minutes before he’d shown up in front of you, the marked-up draft crinkled nervously between his hands, clearly upset by the sheer amount of edits.
You had stared at him, unblinking, as he stammered all over himself, waiting until he talked himself into an awkward silence before saying anything. Dealing with uppity journalists who took personal offense to edits was nothing new to you. “If you don’t make the edits, then I won’t approve it and it won’t go to print,” you’d said simply. “Unless you’d like to make an argument for the run-on sentences?”
There wasn’t any malice in your voice, and that was the moment Clark realized it wasn’t personal, it was just your job, and you were not just good, but great at your job. He must have been as red as a tomato by the time he turned and fled back to his desk with his tail tucked between his legs.
He made the edits, and when Perry walked by his desk the next day, he was complimented on the pacing and tone of the piece. It didn’t make the front page… not even second or third, but it was his first article in the Daily Planet.
You had even smiled at him and congratulated him on his first article when you were making your rounds that morning.
That was where this inconceivably tiny, bite-sized crush started.
Because even when you shredded his article into pieces, his heart sang at the tiny compliments left in the margins.
‘Good pacing here.’
‘This passage really shines.’
‘Beautiful.’
And of course, it doesn’t help that you are pretty. Walking around the office with your face done up and hair perfectly styled in outfits he doesn’t think he has seen a repeat of since starting here almost three years ago. He always feels like a mess in front of you, especially when he comes in late (which is often) and sees you standing there, arms crossed, looking like you want to go up one side of him and down the other (which you have before).
There is also the fact that you hate Superman.
Well, maybe hate isn’t the right word.
Strongly disapprove of?
He remembers the first time a clip of Superman played while you all had gathered in the newsroom. When everyone else was oohing and ahhing at Superman’s heroics (which Clark may or may not have been preening a bit at), you stood there, sipping at your overly expensive coffee with such an unimpressed look.
“Just what we need, another jackass in tights wandering around.”
Clark deflated at that.
While you never explicitly said you disliked his caped alter ego, you definitely never had anything kind to say either. The articles he submitted to you about Superman? If he had gotten those edits when he was a freshman in high school writing for the Smallville High newspaper, he would’ve never written another article again.
Entire paragraphs marked for deletion or simply ‘TONE’ in all caps next to specific passages. The worst had been when you crossed out a sentence and just put ‘No’ next to it in the margins.
“It’s a feature, not an op-ed, Kent.”
It was brutal. Even Lois couldn’t help the grimace whenever she happened to catch sight of those drafts, her and Jimmy saluting Clark when they knew he was walking over to the editor block to submit a Superman article to you.
Despite that, he looked forward to seeing you every day. You had become the person he looks for the moment he enters a room, without him even realizing it.
So much about you and the way you move through the world has been noted and categorized by Clark.
He loved the moments when he caught you while editing, two or three pens stuck in your up-do because you kept forgetting you’d placed them there and grabbed a new one each time, chewing on your bottom lip as you carefully marked up whatever draft you were working on.
He loved how you took care of the people around you in your own, sometimes standoffish, way.
“Have you eaten?” You’d asked him one day, his second year of working at the Planet. It was late, and it was just you two and a handful of others in the office working towards deadlines that were creeping far too close for comfort. He’d been having the hardest time with the beat Perry had assigned him and had worked through his lunch and any subsequent breaks.
“O-oh, I don’t really have money to order out right now,” he said, almost embarrassed. He’d just paid rent, which meant he would be living off of cup noodles and breakroom coffee until next week when his next paycheck hit.
You glanced up at him from your phone that you were tapping on. “I didn’t ask if you had money, I asked if you’d eaten,” you replied pointedly before returning your attention to your phone. “Beef and broccoli, yeah?” You confirmed, and he was a bit stunned but managed to nod in response. Warmth rolling through his chest that you remembered his food order. “I’ll get those eggrolls you like, too.”
“I can pay you back next week,” Clark offered, and you just waved your hand at him, not looking up from your phone.
“I’m not worried about it, Kent.” You walked off, calling out to the others in the office that you were ordering food, leaving Clark’s heart to simmer in your wake.
He loved how unafraid you were. How confident you were in your convictions. There weren’t many people at the Planet who would go to bat against Perry, but you did constantly. So many times, he’d walk into the newsroom to see you two having a screaming match about whether or not an article should go to print.
“We are not printing this!”
“Oh, come off it, Perry, if you want to play it safe, go work for Newstime Magazine!”
The article almost always went to print. Not without a lot of griping from Perry, and you never were smug about it. Satisfied, yes. But it was about journalistic integrity. It was about publishing articles that no other company would touch with a ten-foot pole due to the fear of backlash because no one else would do it. There were many other employees at the Planet who shared the sentiment, but you were consistently the one who fought for it, loudly.
So yeah, Clark Kent had a crush on you because why wouldn’t he? And maybe Jimmy was right, and he should ask you out.
(Or maybe he was wrong and Clark would be looking for a new job by Friday)
By the end of the day, he decides he will ask you out to dinner. Hyping himself up in the moment as he starts to finish the article that he has already rewritten twice now.
Except he doesn’t end up asking you out at all. Instead, it is five P.M., and he stands in front of your desk, freshly printed draft clutched in his hands as he watches you type away at something on your monitor.
You don’t even look up at him, and he knows that you know he is standing there.
Time stretches on for what he could only imagine to be an eternity, and he can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he waits until, finally, you push back from your desk, turning to face him. “Is there something you need, Clark?” The eye contact you make sends his heart sputtering, but the way his name rolls off your lips has his knees so weak he almost falls against your desk in a heap. Your gaze flickers down to the papers in his hand. “Is that the Crane case draft?”
“O-oh! Yeah!” He says dumbly, and when he doesn’t do anything but continue to stand there, you blink, briefly wondering if he’d suffered some head injury in the last few hours.
“Can I… have it?” you question, brows furrowed in confusion as you stare up at him.
You watch a flush creep up his cheeks, and he practically slams the folder onto your desk. “Y-yeah, of course! I’m sorry it took so long to get to you, I was having some trouble with one of the sources and…”
“I’ll have the edits to you tomorrow morning,” you confirm. “Try to get here on time, Perry wants this to run for the evening issue.”
He nods, pushing up his glasses as they slide down his nose, and pretends not to notice as you follow the movement. “Don’t worry, I’ll be on time, I promise.” You stare at him for a pause before turning back to your computer, muttering something akin to ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ and Clark is struck by the way the setting sun backlights you, wisps of gold brushing against your profile. His heart his hammering in his chest as he tries to will himself to say something, anything else to you.
“Okay, bye.”
Not that.
“Have a good night,” you call out, not looking up from the screen.
Clark shuffles away, already mentally beating himself up as Jimmy appears behind him, bag swung over his shoulder. “That was rough to watch, buddy.”
“Shut up,” Clark groans as he grabs his things from his desk. “I don’t know why there’s such a disconnect between my brain and my mouth when I’m around her.”
“Hey, I get it, man,” Jimmy nods. “She is scary, but in a really hot way—” Clark’s head snaps up, and he gives Jimmy a sharp look because he knows Jimmy’s reputation. “Relax, relax. She’s all yours, I can assure you. I think she’d eat me alive.”
As Clark follows Jimmy to the elevator, he glances back over his shoulder, seeing you still sitting at your desk as everyone else has begun to pack up for the night. You give a smile and bid another editor goodnight as she tells you not to stay too late.
He knows you will anyway.
As they step into the elevator with a handful of their coworkers, all conversing about their plans for the rest of the night, Clark decides that tomorrow he will definitely ask you out.
He does not end up asking you out tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, as a matter of fact. Every single time he resolved himself to doing so, he felt the words turn to mush in his mouth the moment he saw you.
Once, because you had been standing with Lois in the breakroom, laughing in a way he’d never seen before, the snort of laughter so uncharacteristic and unexpected, he had walked straight into the mail cart, sending envelopes and parcels flying all over the place.
The second time, he had gone into the archives to grab some old records to reference for a story he’d been working on, and turned the corner to see you up on a stool, half bent as you tried to wrestle with a box buried on the shelf. Clark could only focus on the swell of your backside in the tight slacks you were wearing and didn’t even register that you had turned to him.
“Clark? Help, please?”
Whatever words that came out of his mouth were unintelligible as his body went into autopilot, grabbing the box you’d been battling with ease, nodding like an idiot as you thanked him before turning on his heel and walking out, completely forgetting about the entire reason he’d gone in there to begin with.
The third and final time, you weren’t even doing anything special, just sitting at your desk, humming along to the desk radio you had quietly going, sorting through papers. Clark was determined this time. He’d spent the entirety of last night rehearsing what he was going to say, all the while fighting an interdimensional creature that was terrorizing downtown.
He had approached you with confidence, and then you’d turn to face him, lips wrapped around a cherry lollipop that one of the secretaries had given out as extras from her daughter’s birthday party over the weekend.
Whatever confidence he had rapidly warped into panic as words fell out of his mouth in a jumble. Indiscernible and certainly not a sentence asking you to go to dinner with him. He stood there as you stared up at him, and he could see the stain of the lollipop on your lips and tongue.
“Clark, what?”
And then he made some sort of noise and, with haste, fled the vicinity, leaving you there blinking, wondering what just happened.
It is that afternoon that he hears you in a quiet conversation with Lois as he is once again unjamming Printer 4. You perch on her desk, leaning close to whisper to her, completely unaware that Clark can hear every single word you say.
“I think Clark has a concussion,” you inform with a solemn look on your face.
Lois almost laughs at that, but keeps her face trained in faux concern. “Why do you think that?”
“I don’t think that man has said a coherent sentence to me this entire week,” you explain. “He’s basically resorted to communicating with me in grunts like a caveman.”
That has Lois snorting with laughter, trying to hide the smile with her coffee cup as she takes a sip of the lukewarm liquid that’s been sitting on her desk for the better part of the morning. “I can assure you he does not have a concussion.”
You give her a pursed look, clearly not believing her. “Then what is his deal?”
It is at this moment that Lois makes eye contact with Clark from across the newsroom. He feels the dread build up in him as a smirk tilts its way onto Lois’s face, and he can almost see the exact moment the thought formulates in her head.
And then the building shakes, lights flickering as a deafening ‘boom’ echoes from somewhere outside. Silence settles in place of panic, as everyone listens with bated breath, hoping it was nothing to be concerned about, perhaps just some construction down the road. Until the second explosion rocks the building, and then chaos erupts.
People are scrambling all over. Clark sees you grab Lois and push her towards the stairwell, yelling at the gaggle of people who are trying to file into the elevator. “Are you idiots? Use the stairs!” That gets them moving, and Clark is moving with everyone else.
As you all get to the ground floor, you can see the source of the explosions, Green Lantern, Mr. Terrific, and Hawkgirl are fighting some idiot on a hoverboard who keeps tossing explosives around like he’s giving out candy on Halloween. Another one detonates, and a building down the street crumbles from the explosion. Debris and dust are scattering through the streets as people run from the epicenter of the fight. Cops are trying to divert traffic away, and the wail of ambulances approaches.
It’s pandemonium.
“C’mon, Kent, move it!” There’s a hand on his arm, and he looks down to find you pulling him along. The crowd around you is a shifting sea, but you’re firm and steady beside him despite the chaos. He realizes he’s going away from where he needs to be, but he lets you pull him anyway.
And then an explosion hits from somewhere above, and suddenly the air is filled with dirt and smoke, and the crowds push forward even as people sputter and try to regain their bearings. You lose your grip on Clark after getting knocked around by the surge of people, and that’s when panic sets in for you as you stop amidst the mass of people, shouting for him. “Clark?” You don’t see his massive form in the crowd of people, and your throat constricts. “Clark?!”
Someone behind you pushes, and you keep moving because it’s either that or be crushed by the swath of people. There’s a barricade another block down, and by the time you make it there, the crowd has begun to disperse, and there’s still no sign of Clark Kent. You feel nauseous as you think of the plethora of things that could’ve happened to him, though the thought of him lying dead in the street with people rushing over him is at the forefront of your mind.
You ask people as they rush by you.
“Excuse me, have you seen a guy, about this tall?”
“A man, curly hair, and glasses?”
A sonic boom cuts through the chaos, and people cheer as Superman flies onto the scene. You don’t, though. Your phone is in your hand as you search for Clark’s number, which has been unused until now in your contact list. It rings once, twice, all the way until the voicemail picks up.
“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
You hang up and try again, ignoring the tightness in your throat when it goes to voicemail once more.
“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get—”
You feel your lip wobble. And again.
“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message—”
With Superman coming to their aid, the heroes make quick work of the lone villain. You barely notice that the crowd has waned as the heroics come to an end. Instead, you’re pacing under the awning of a building, being met with Clark Kent’s voicemail message again and again each time you call him.
You had already called Jimmy and Lois, both of whom hadn’t seen their friend, though Lois tried to convince you that he was fine. You couldn’t help the worry that nagged at you.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Someone asks from behind you.
You whirl around, pulling the phone from your ear, and you can’t even help the wide-eyed look that appears on your face. Superman himself stands before you, bathed in the light of the setting sun that creeps through the skyline of Metropolis behind him. He’s bigger in person, you realize. Broader than you thought he’d be.
“Ma’am?” There’s concern on his face when you don’t answer.
“Yes,” you reply quickly. “Yes, I’m sorry, I’m fine.”
“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but—.”
You look back down at your phone and press the ‘end call’ button, biting your lip.
“I’m looking for Clark,” you tell him. “Clark Kent. You know him, he’s interviewed you before. He was beside me, and then an explosion hit above us, and I lost him in the chaos, and I can’t find him, and he’s not answering his phone—” Your voice cracks, and you don’t even notice the way Superman’s face crumples with it.
“Hey,” he calls out softly as he steps closer. You feel a warm hand on your shoulder, and you look up, your eyes meeting an earthshattering shade of blue. “It’s alright,” he assures. “I’ll find him. Why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll make sure he’s okay.”
You shake your head. “No, if something happened to him, I—”
“Nothing happened to him,” he promises. “I’ll find him, and when I do, I’ll make sure he calls you, how about that?”
You want to be stubborn. You want to tell Superman to shove off. But you’re tired, and there’s a burn in your lungs from all of the dust and smoke. Gripping your phone harder, you shove the edge of it into his chest, and he looks a bit surprised, if not a little amused by the action. “You make sure he calls me,” you order, and there’s a fragility in your voice that Clark doesn’t think he’s heard before, despite the way your jaw is set. You’re putting on a brave face.
A soft smile spreads on Superman’s face. “Yes, ma’am.”
An hour and a half later, just as you fit your key into the deadbolt of your door, your phone rings. The name ‘Clark Kent’ flashes across the screen, and pure relief floods you as you pick up on the second ring. “Clark?”
“H-hey,” his soft voice comes through the other end, and you never thought you would be so happy to hear that Kansan accent. “I’m so sorry, I left my phone at the office and I finally just went back to get it.”
“Are you okay?” you ask as you close your door behind you.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” he replies.
There’s a pregnant pause between you two. You think you should say ‘okay’ and hang up, not draw out the conversation any longer than it needs to be. But you don’t. The bizarre want to hear his voice some more, tugging at you in a way you’ve never experienced before. “Don’t think you get to be late to work tomorrow just because a couple of buildings on our street exploded,” you tease, breaking through the tension of the quiet.
He laughs, and even though you’re silent, he can tell you’re smiling too. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he says.
“Goodnight, Clark.”
“Yeah, goodnight.”
Clark surprises you the next morning by not only arriving on time, but arriving early. He’s so early that it is just you two in the newsroom. The shock is written on your face as you spot him walking from the elevator while standing at the copier, eyes wide and mouth agape.
He gives a shy wave, cheeks dimpling as he smiles at you. “Good morning,” he calls out.
What he does not expect is for you to grab the stack of papers off the copier and march towards him, smacking him repeatedly with the pile of papers. “You can’t just disappear like that during a crisis!” He doesn’t flinch as he is hit. You don’t even notice how gently he’s looking down at you, too busy giving him a piece of your mind like you always do. “Like, what the hell, Clark? I thought something happened to you!”
You run out of steam surprisingly quickly and meet his gaze. “I really am sorry,” he whispers, and you take a moment to study his face and the blue of his eyes, and you’re struck by a thought that leaves your mouth dry.
Clark is handsome.
“Don’t do it again,” you warn, giving him one final half-hearted swat to the chest that has him giving you a laugh that leaves you lightheaded. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
He smiles and nods, and when you go to leave, he can feel the end of the moment between you two rapidly approaching. He doesn’t want it to end. “Would you wanna go out to dinner with me?” he asks before he can even think long enough to get nervous about it.
You blink once, then twice as though you’re not quite sure you heard him correctly. “Dinner?”
He nods, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“Is this a date?”
He nods again and can feel his palms begin to sweat.
“Yes,” you say after a beat. He grins, dimples and all, and warmth spreads through your chest, a feeling you’re hesitant to embrace.
“Friday? Seven P.M.?” He asks.
“Gino’s?” You suggest, a lilt to your voice that isn’t normally there, and he’s mesmerized by the look in your eye as you do, by the way you’re trying to disguise the smile that itches at your face. He nods, leaning in a bit. The papers in your hand are a shield between you two, and you step back. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t be.” He wouldn’t be.
Gino’s Italian Restaurant, Metropolis - 7:43 PM
He was late.
You didn’t miss the sympathetic looks the hostess and waiters sent you every time they passed by your table for two, which was occupied by one. Your glass of wine was nearly empty, and the bread basket was alarmingly full despite the hunger that gnawed at your insides.
You had been trying not to glance down at your phone for the last half hour, knowing that if you had gotten a text, the screen would light up. However, it had remained dark since you sent Clark your last message, asking where he was.
With one final swig, you empty the glass, catching the eye of the waiter, waving him over. “Can I have the check, please?” you ask.
After paying for your singular glass of wine, once you were out in the cool breeze of the summer night, you finally recheck your phone. The absence of any new message sent a trill of fury through you, only amplified by the news report notification about Superman fighting some gigantic monster in midtown.
“Great,” you grumble. “Let’s hope they don’t knock out the T-Line this time.”
The trek home takes far too long with people getting diverted away from the kaiju battle, and the pleasant buzz you had from the glass of wine had long since worn off as you shove through your apartment door, flinging it closed behind you as you kick off your pumps, breathing in the relief for your aching feet.
You’re desperate to get out of the dress you’d squeezed into (after spending far too long debating what dress Clark would like better on you), but the desire to get absolutely shitfaced after being stood up by your coworker was overwhelming. And that’s how you found yourself lounging on your balcony, watching Big Blue himself battle an enormous alien creature from across the city with nothing but a bottle of chardonnay to keep you company.
You stay there until long after the light show ends, just taking sips from the bottle every so often, sitting in your sorrow. Honestly, you don’t even know why you’re so upset. It’s not as though you even liked Clark all that much; you were just looking forward to a free meal.
Like, yes, he was objectively good-looking, and yes, he always remembered your coffee order. And, yes, maybe you prodded him just a little more than you did others because you liked watching him get flustered.
But you didn’t like him.
(You could have, though)
A loud knock at your door startles you from your thoughts. Your bare feet pad against the floor of your apartment as you softly step to your door, peeking through the peephole, finding none other than Clark Kent himself standing outside of your apartment.
If you were any other person, you might have just ignored the knocking, letting him stew in the silence, but you were not any other person, and with half a bottle of chardonnay in your system, you want nothing more than to give him a piece of your mind.
When you rip the door open, Clark looks at you wide-eyed and sputtering. “I’m so—”
“Oh, absolutely not,” you interrupt, shoving your finger into his (startlingly firm) chest. “You have a lot of nerve, Clark Kent.”
“I know, I know, please just let me—”
“Let you what? Explain? Explain how you left me waiting at Gino’s for forty-five minutes for you? Explain how now at—” You lean back to glance at the microwave clock in your kitchen. “—9:57 PM, nearly 3 hours after we were supposed to meet for our date, you show up at my door expecting to grovel at my feet for me to what? To forgive you?”
“No, that’s not it, please just let me explain,” he begs.
You don’t, though. “You made me look like an idiot.” Your voice is soft, and there’s vulnerability, the bite you had seconds prior, leaving your body rapidly. You can feel the way your throat tightens, and the pit in your stomach feels like it could swallow you whole. You hate feeling like this, feeling this small. Clark looks at your eyes and realizes they’re tinged red and clouded with unshed tears. He wants to throw up. “You made me feel like an idiot.”
“I’m really sorry.” His voice cracks, and it looks like he wants to reach out to touch you, but he doesn’t.
“Me too,” you say back, tone empty and despondent.
“I got you these.” He holds out a lightly crumpled bouquet that’s been hanging limply at his side this entire time. You stare at it. It wasn’t one of those grocery store bouquets, no, this one is full of your favorite flowers, clearly and explicitly curated for you.
You blink back tears and grab the bouquet, holding it close to your chest. “Thank you.”
“You look really pretty.”
“I know,” you whisper. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He doesn’t say anything as you shut the door, your gaze catching your reflection in the hallway mirror. It’s almost pathetic, you all dolled up with a bouquet of all your favorite flowers, looking like you were a moment away from the dam breaking.
And then there’s a burn at the back of your throat that you can’t ignore, and you can’t help as the tears finally fall from your eyes, you suck in a deep breath on instinct, feeling the sob try to wretch out from you. You don’t know that Clark is standing on the other side, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he blinks away his own tears.
The weekend passes by horridly fast. As much as you had wanted to waste away and lament about the date that never was (that you would definitely not admit you had gotten your hopes up for), you would not let being stood up consume your entire weekend; they were a precious commodity after all.
So, after spending Friday night ugly crying into your pillow, you pulled yourself together by Saturday morning. You went out to a boozy brunch with some of your college friends, took yourself on a walk around the park to enjoy the sunshine, and spent some time in your favorite bookstore buying books that you promised yourself you would read and not let sit untouched on your bookshelf like the entire neglected pile of others.
By Sunday, you were feeling better. That is, until you were getting ready for bed Sunday night and the dread hit you.
You spent the night tossing and turning, feeling like you wanted to crawl out of your skin at just the thought of having to see Clark again. By morning, it took a generous application of concealer to hide the bags under your eyes and a heavy pep talk in the mirror to even think about stepping out your door.
As with most Monday mornings, as soon as you walked into the bullpen, it was a cacophony of chaos, but at least it was chaos you were familiar with. You make your way to your desk, offering halfhearted greetings, and feel slight relief as you settle into your seat, hoping that work will keep your brain busy enough not to let the anxiety ruin your day.
Then your gaze fixes on the paper coffee cup placed in front of your keyboard. Your name is written in a familiar chicken scratch handwriting. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you swivel in your seat, looking back at the writer block to see that Clark Kent is already sitting at his desk. Hunched and fidgeting with a stack of Post-it notes as he catches your eye. His mouth tilts up into an uncertain smile.
You purse your lips, a scowl forming on your face as you grab the coffee cup, maintaining unblinking eye contact as you proceed to drop it directly into the garbage can next to your desk, and then you spin back around.
Clark grimaces. “Yeah, I deserve that,” he mutters as he looks back at the blank Word document that’s been taunting him since he got in this morning.
It wasn’t any surprise how quickly word got around about Clark’s spectacular failure. Steve had walked by his desk after the morning meeting, giving a ‘womp womp’ that made Clark nearly snap the pencil he was writing with.
“So, let me get this straight,” Jimmy slides over, munching on some yogurt and granola. “You finally ask out the woman you’ve been pining after for who knows how long, then proceed to miss the date entirely without texting her that you wouldn’t be able to make it, and then show up at her apartment with flowers, thinking that would make up for the complete lack of communication?”
Clark sighs. “Yeah, that about covers it.” His voice is muffled as he buries his face in his hands.
“Buddy,” Jimmy starts. “You really fucked up.”
Clark groans, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, Jimmy, I know.”
He didn’t even want to look over at Lois because all she kept doing was sending him looks of disappointment the whole morning. She had stopped by your desk this morning with a grin on her face that quickly morphed into a look of horror as you recounted Friday night’s events.
Even Cat, who was usually all honeyed words with Clark, had been giving him the stink eye.
Honestly, though, no one else could make Clark feel as bad as he made himself feel about the whole thing. He had spent the weekend agonizing over how badly he had messed up with you. The sound of you crying on the other side of the door replaying in his head like his own personal version of hell.
He even called his parents.
“Oh, Clark, honey,” Martha soothed. “You wounded that woman’s pride, you just gotta give her some time to cool off.”
“I don’t know, Ma, I think I really messed this one up,” he said, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he felt the telltale pressure of tears building up.
“Now, Clark, no problem worth fixin’ is ever easy.” He couldn’t see them, but he knew Pa was nodding along. “If this girl is everything you’ve made her out to be, she’ll come around.”
The week passes by, and you coming around is nowhere in sight. Every cup of coffee he left on your desk went directly into the trash, the bouquets of your favorite flowers were pawned off to the secretaries, and the lunches were donated to the breakroom on a first-come, first-served basis.
When he went to drop off drafts for you to edit, you pointedly ignored him. To your credit, the edits you made were not as harsh as he’d thought they’d be in light of everything, though there was an apparent lack of any compliments in the margins that he always found himself looking forward to reading (and re-reading).
“Why don’t you come out tonight?” Lois asks on Friday morning. You give her a look, knowing the standing invite for Friday night drinks includes everyone in the office. “C’mon, he won’t be there, he never shows up.”
You pause, chewing at the inside of your lip, internally hemming and hawing. “I’ll think about it,” you finally concede, which is enough to get Lois to grin, a little pep in her step as she makes her way back to the writer block.
Friday afternoon, Jimmy comes sauntering over to you like a cat that got into the cream. He plants himself on your desk, ignoring your look of indignation when he crumples a few drafts you were working on with his ass. “Check out these photos I just finished developing,” he says as he spreads a handful of photos of Superman in front of you. They’re remarkably clear, some of the best pictures you have ever seen of Big Blue. “I was testing out that new lens I just got.” They were from a fight earlier this week in uptown.
Despite your frequently voiced objections to Metropolis’s favorite hero, you give Jimmy a hum of approval, picking one up to closer inspect it. “These are pretty good, how’d you get such a good shot of him in the air?” you ask.
“Climbed up a light pole,” he informs nonchalantly, grabbing some M&Ms from the candy bowl on your desk.
Your neck snaps to look at him. “James!”
“What?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Gotta do what it takes to get the shot.”
You let out a huff. “Unbelievable, you’re gonna break your neck one of these days.” You continue to sort through the photos, setting aside the ones you know Perry will submit for the front page.
“Haven’t yet,” he says, cheekily popping a few M&Ms in his mouth with a wink.
The final photo is a zoomed-in shot of Superman’s face. He’s smiling down at a few children who have gathered around him in the aftermath of the battle, a familiar softness to his face. You straighten up a bit, holding the photo closer to examine it.
“What’s up?” Jimmy asks when he sees your shift in posture.
You feel like you’ve seen it before, the blue of his eyes, the gentle tilt of his lips hinting at dimples, but the rest of the face is… wrong.
Maybe you’re losing it.
“Nothing,” you reply. “Really great work, Jimmy. Perry is definitely going to run this on the front page.”
Jimmy gives a grin.
You end up at the bar, thinking it might be good for you to let your hair down, literally and figuratively, for the night. Lois lights up when she sees you making your way through the Friday night crowd, and Jimmy has a drink in your hand before you even get a chance to sit down.
You’re listening to Cat go on and on about the guy she’s seeing, and given the debacle of the last week, it should annoy you to hear someone gush about their dating life, but the giddiness on Cat’s face is infectious so instead you sit there resting your chin on your hand with a smile on your face as you nod along asking all the appropriate questions.
It’s loud in the bar between all the people and the music playing, so you barely register the bell above the door ringing. You do, however, clock Jimmy turning to Lois and saying, “He never comes out.”
Instinctively, you turn in your seat, immediately locking eyes with Clark. He looks like he just left the office, suit coat slung over his arm and tie loosened. He’s moving through the crowd towards you, not breaking eye contact as though he’s scared you’ll disappear if you do, only to be intercepted by Lois. “Hey, Clark,” she greets, a tight fake smile plastered on her face. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Uh, yeah, well, not a lot going on tonight, so I figured I’d come… socialize,” he says lamely. You don’t see the flat look that Lois gives him.
Both of them look back at you. You catch Lois’s eyes and give her a little nod of your head, calling off your (very effective) guard dog. However, she narrows her eyes at Clark in a silent warning before returning to her conversation with Jimmy, who had been watching the entire exchange while taking a very long sip of his fruity cocktail.
Clark takes the empty seat next to you. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, fidgeting with his tie.
You stare at him as you play with the straw of your nearly empty cup, unabashedly tracing the slopes and contours of his face. He shifts nervously under your gaze, and you can’t tell if the flush creeping up his neck is due to you or the stuffiness of the bar. You still don’t say anything as you lean forward, and he’s too stunned to move away as your hand reaches out, fingers pressing through the curls hanging on his forehead, brushing them back into a tidier position, spending maybe a bit too long smoothing back the sides. The caress of your nails against his scalp sends a tingle down his spine, and his breath gets caught in his throat.
You don’t say anything for too long, just maintaining eye contact with him, like you’re searching his eyes for something.
“Vodka cran,” you say, resting back into your seat, and Clark wonders if you found what you were looking for.
His ears are red, and he quickly turns to the bartender to wave them down and grab you another drink, getting a soda for himself. Conversation flows between the two of you in a surprisingly easy manner, given the events of the past week. Work-related mostly. Clark is doing a better job of not stumbling all over himself, something he’s silently patting himself on the back for.
“You’ve been on time all week,” you note. Clark tries not to focus on how your lips wrap around the straw or how your gloss has stained the plastic.
“Yes, ma’am,” he confirms, the gentle lilt of his Kansan accent slipping through.
You fall silent for a moment, looking at him with such clarity in your eyes that it’s almost startling, and Clark can’t help but feel like he ground your entire conversation to a halt with just two words. “I’m gonna head out.” And then you’re grabbing your purse, tossing a few crinkled bills onto the bar as a tip before standing up.
“O-oh, okay,” Clark stammers, disappointment creeping up in him.
You’re about to step away until you glance back over your shoulder at him. “Are you going to walk me home?” You ask as though that had been the plan all along and he had just forgotten.
He blinks owlishly at your question like he’s not sure he quite heard you right. “Y-yeah!” He scrambles up, nearly knocking over his barstool, and you both head out after bidding your coworkers a goodnight. Lois cocks an eyebrow at you, but you just wiggle your fingers in goodbye.
Jimmy is giving Clark some waggling eyebrows with an enormous grin on his face that Clark is pointedly trying to ignore.
The walk home is quiet. The cool summer air is refreshing on your skin after sitting in the humidity of the bar, and the couple of drinks you had have left you a little light in the head, though it’s not an unwelcome feeling; you figure you’re going to need some liquid courage tonight anyway.
When you arrive at your apartment building, Clark walks you up to your apartment. You still don’t say anything as you take out your keys to unlock your door, and Clark swallows the lump in his throat, already preparing to say goodbye. “You coming in?” You question as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as you step into your apartment, leaving room for him to follow in after you.
“I—” He looks like a deer in the headlights. “You sure?”
You give a nod, and he steps in, albeit hesitantly, closing the door behind him. As soon as it clicks shut, you’re on him, hand pulling at the tie loosely around his neck, jerking him forward despite the other hand firmly on his chest pushing him back until he hits the door with a thud.
He looks shocked, face flushed and pupils blown wide as he doesn’t know what to do with his hands that hover at your waist but do not touch. You’re leaning up and he’s leaning down, gaze darting back and forth between your eyes and your lips. He thinks the strawberry smell is your lip gloss, and his heart won’t stop beating symphonies into his ribcage.
He doesn’t cross it, though, the invisible boundary that’s between you, even when he feels your breath fan against his lips. “I’m giving you the chance to be honest with me,” you whisper like it’s a warning, your voice husky in a way that has his insides twisting and turning.
“Okay,” he says softly.
You don’t move away as though you’re afraid he might try to run if you do. He can hear your own heart hammering in your chest. You’re nervous, he realizes. “You’re Superman.” Your tone doesn’t suggest it’s a question. It’s a statement. You know he’s Superman, and you’re allowing him the opportunity to be honest with you about it.
“Yes.”
Your heart rate speeds up. “That’s why you missed our date.”
“Yes,” he breathes like it’s painful to remember.
You finally blink, breaking eye contact to look down, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. “You really like me?” This one is a question. This one you’re unsure about.
Clark’s hands finally find purchase at your waist. The boundary between the two of you is barely hanging on by a thread. “Immensely.” Your grip on his tie loosens, and both hands are pressed gently against his chest. It wouldn’t take much; he would just have to lean down another inch or two to bring the whole thing crumbling down, but he doesn’t. “How’d you figure it out?” he asks.
“Your eyes,” you murmur like it was an evident thing, “—and your little… Midwestern-isms.”
He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. Oh, he was in so deep. “My Midwestern-isms?”
“’Yes, ma’am,’” you mock with a bad accent, not at all what he sounds like, and you bite your lip to hide your grin. “How does it work? Your face is… different than Superman’s.”
“The glasses,” he informs, tilting his head. “They’re hypno-glasses, make me look a little bit different, just enough.”
Your hands surge upward before you even know what they’re doing, stopping just shy as you look to Clark for permission, and he nods. As you take off the glasses, it’s like his face comes into focus when you never even realized it had been blurry before. Edges sharpen and define, his nose a little straighter, lips a little fuller, jaw a little squarer.
Moreover, he stands differently when the glasses come off. His shoulders rearrange, and he’s taller now, more confident… broader.
Superman.
“You know everything is starting to make sense,” you ponder as you set the glasses on your entrance table, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. You’re still standing close, his hands on your hips, not allowing you to wander too far from his orbit.
“Yeah?” Even his voice seems crisper, deeper now.
“Mhm,” you hum, “—you’re constantly being late, disappearing whenever some crisis pops up…” You laugh a bit. “I’m actually kind of mad at myself for not realizing it sooner.”
“I thought you might’ve thrown a shoe at me or something,” he admits.
You pull back, giving him an incredulous look. “What?”
“With you not liking Superman and all,” he elaborates. “Figured you would read me the riot act, at least.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s not that I don’t like Superman.”
“Oh?” Eyebrows raise on his forehead. “First time I’m hearing this.”
You shove him, lightly, though he doesn’t move, solid under your touch. “It’s this… dependency we have on him—you,” you correct. “Superman—you—you’re not our savior, and we shouldn’t rely on you to fix every problem or to always show up. We should be able to stand on our own two feet.”
“But I want to help,” he insists, and you see it in his eyes, the earnestness in them. It’s so… Clark. “When things get hard and the world needs someone to lean on, I can carry that weight.”
“And what happens when you need someone to lean on? You may have super strength and can fly and shoot lasers out of your eyes, but you’re still—”
Human.
He doesn’t pretend the implication doesn’t crash around him like tidal waves.
You pull away a bit, not out of reach, not with his hands still wrapped around your waist. “Who’s going to carry the weight for you?” There’s sincerity in your question, and he doesn’t know how to respond because he doesn’t have an answer.
“I—”
You bite your lip as if you’re uncertain whether you should say the next part aloud, nervous to speak those feelings into the universe. “I can,” you say softly.
“I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“But I want to help.” You throw his words back at him, and he’s at a loss for what to say. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon. He wants to kiss you so bad, but he’s afraid of being the one to cross that line.
“Clark.”
He doesn’t know if there’s a sweeter sound than his name on your lips.
“Just kiss me already.”
Except maybe that.
He’s surging forward in the next moment, mouth hot against yours. The barrier is dust between you. He tastes like the remnants of the sugary soda he’d ordered at the bar, and a quick swipe of his tongue against your lips confirms that your lip gloss is strawberry flavored.
You walk backwards, unsteady but confident, hands firmly tugging him along by his shirt, all the while not breaking the kiss that has your brain in a dizzy fog. You can’t help the giggle that escapes as you bump into your destination, the couch, causing your teeth to clatter together.
Clark smiles against your lips as his hands lower, gripping at your thighs as he lifts you off the ground so effortlessly that it has you letting out a quiet ‘oh’. His deep laugh goes straight to your core, and he settles onto the couch with you on top of him, your hands running through his hair, gripping it in a way that has him giving a low groan.
“Is this okay?” he asks in between kisses as though you’re not actively grinding down onto him.
A whimper escapes you as his hard-on catches the seam of your pants just right. “I will actually kill you if you stop.” The normal bite of your tone has given way to desperation. Clark’s entire body warms at that.
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs into your mouth, hands wandering to your ass, pressing you harder down onto him while bucking up into you. He leans back for a moment, placing another peck on your lips as his fingers start making work of the buttons on your blouse. When your cleavage comes into view, accentuated by your bra, something plain and practical, you hear Clark let out a shaky breath followed by an ‘oh, golly’ that has you a giggling mess on top of him. He grins, grabbing hold of the side of your neck as he pulls you back into a kiss. “You’re so pretty.”
You nip at his bottom lip. “I could tell by the ‘oh, golly,’” you tease, though your smugness doesn’t last for long as Clark has you on your back against the couch pillows a second later.
You watch reverently as he unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it off before pulling off his undershirt. He’s like a peacock, the way he fluffs up as your mouth goes slack, seeing what he was hiding underneath oversized button-ups and baggy suits for the last three years.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe. “What the fuck were they feeding you in Kansas?”
He shakes with laughter as he leans back down, slotting himself in between your legs so he can reconnect your mouths, hand sliding up your side to palm your breast, not waiting long to slide underneath the cup of your bra. You arch up into him as his thumb brushes against your nipple, moaning quietly into his mouth, a sound he eagerly swallows down.
He trails kisses to your cheek, down your neck, spending a bit more time nipping and biting there when you give a shaky gasp. He continues down, pressing kisses to the top of your breasts, before trailing down to your ribs to your stomach until settling right above the waist of your pants.
You barely register him unbuttoning your pants until he drags them and your underwear down in one fell swoop. You cant your hips, letting him take them the rest of the way off, trying not to giggle as he throws the heap across your living room. A problem for tomorrow you.
Self-consciousness pricks at your brain as he spreads your legs, fingertips biting into your thighs, and in the glow of the moonlight streaming in through your apartment windows, you watch him lick his lips as he stares down at you, suddenly, any self-doubt fizzles away. One hand trails up your inner thigh to your core, spreading you so he can take in more of the sight. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs before he bends down.
A breathy moan escapes you as he licks a stripe up your center. “Fuck, Clark.” That eggs him on, and he swirls his tongue around your clit in a way that has you reaching down and gripping his hair. There’s a finger prodding at your entrance and then two that are curling into you at just the right spot.
Your chest heaves as you sink further into the couch, eyes fluttering to the back of your head as your apartment is filled with the obscene noises of Clark eating you out, groaning as he mutters about how good you taste. The feeling of his spit mixed with your own liquids trailing down your ass is overwhelming, and then he sucks at your clit in a way that has your toes curling.
“Clark, please,” you beg. You can feel the band at your core tightening with each swipe of his tongue and thrust of his fingers.
He pulls back slightly, now three fingers deep, hitting a spot inside you that has you seeing stars. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaches. “Cum on my fingers.”
Your breath hitches at mild-mannered Clark Kent telling you to cum on his fingers. He dives back in with enthusiasm, which is all it takes as your hips buck up into his face, and he gladly lets you grind against his mouth, especially with the sounds you’re making as you tighten around his fingers. His fingers continue pumping in and out of you as you ride out your orgasm, his name on your lips like a prayer as his lips greedily drink up all you give him.
He leans back, cheek resting against your inner thigh as he watches you catch your breath and give a little whine when his fingers don’t relent, tugging on his hair. A grin works its way onto his face, and he takes pity on your overstimulated self, pulling his fingers out as he presses a kiss to your thigh before crawling back up to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he licks at your bottom lip.
Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, drawing him deeper into the kiss, and you can feel the heavy weight of him against your thigh.
“Good?” he asks as he draws back from you, breathless.
“I think I blacked out at one point,” you respond, still feeling a little lightheaded, which is only exacerbated when he grinds his hips against yours and nips at your neck. “Now take your pants off.” You order as you push him back, propping yourself up on your elbows.
“Bossy,” he teases as he stands, unbuttoning his slacks, letting them drop to the floor. You don’t even have time to register anything else when he pulls down his briefs, and you can only stare with your mouth wide open and brows raised high on your forehead at the size of him. Clark looks a bit uncertain. “Is this okay?”
You surge to your feet and pull him down into a kiss. “It’s always the quiet ones,” you murmur more to yourself as you push him back onto the couch with no resistance and climb up onto his lap. He practically whimpers when you grind onto him. “Seriously, what the fuck were they feeding you?” You question against his lips as you slot yourself against his cock. Naked against him, you really take in how large Clark is in every capacity.
His hands have settled on the globes of your ass, letting you take the reins as you move your hips against his, the wet friction has him moaning into your mouth. “You feel so good,” he breathes. “Thought about this so much.”
“Yeah?” You ask. “Thought about me on top of you a lot, huh?” He nods and tilts his head back as you jut your hips against just at the right spot. You kiss down his jawline, whispering into his ear. “What else have you thought about? Stuffing me full of your cock?”
He stammers a bit, his brain short-circuiting at your dirty talk, and heat spreads up to his ears. “Y-yeah, thought about how good you’d look with me inside you,” he admits.
You reach down between you, grabbing hold of him, and his hips stutter up against your hand, moaning at the feel of your soft skin against his cock. The next thing he knows, you’re sinking onto him and he’s committing the hot, wet heat of your pussy to memory. The burn is expected given his size, and you whine with each inch of him you take.
Clark is a whimpering mess beneath you, brows furrowed in concentration as he tries not to move, letting you set your own pace, though the iron grip he has on your waist is going to leave bruises tomorrow. “So good, so good,” he repeats as he presses kisses into your shoulder. “Gosh, you’re so tight.”
You let the ‘gosh’ slide, given how full of him you are right now. It’s almost overwhelming the size of him, and just when you’re sure you’ve taken him all, you feel yourself slide down another inch. “Christ, you’re so big,” you whine, and you can feel his cock twitch inside of you at that.
“You can’t just say that,” he practically begs, voice cracking slightly, and he’s so tense, you can feel how taut all of his muscles are beneath you.
It’s sweet relief when you feel him bottom out in you and you stay there for a moment, letting yourself adjust, the stinging pain of the stretch not unpleasant, and when you feel more confident you’ve adjusted, you give an experimental thrust of your hips that has you both gasping.
You give another, and you can practically hear Clark grinding his teeth together, and then you raise yourself up, thighs shaking, before slamming back down. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders as you set a rhythm, a little sloppy at first as you lean forward to mash your mouths together, Clark whispering praises against your lips.
Every now and then, he leans back to take in the sight of you bouncing on his cock, completely hypnotized by the sight of your pussy swallowing him and the noises you make each time he bottoms out in you.
The rubber band begins to pull tight in your belly, and your thighs wobble, the rhythm faltering. “Clark.” It comes out as a plea. “Fuck me.”
Whatever restraint Clark has snaps at your words. One hand reaches up, grabbing hold of you by the back of your neck as the other digs into your waist, and then he’s forcing you up and down on his cock, hips jutting up to meet yours halfway, setting a bruising pace that has you keening, “Fuck—” you gasp out. “Oh god, I’m gonna—”
Your orgasm rips through you before you can even finish your sentence, and you feel like you’re drowning in the sensation as the world turns to white noise around you. “That’s it, sweetheart, you’re so good for me.”
Clark doesn’t even give you time to come down from your high as he manhandles you off of his lap, the sudden emptiness is jarring, but it doesn’t stay that way long as he bends you over the couch, hefting your ass into the air and sliding back in.
“Such a good girl,” he groans as he resumes the hard thrusts that have you gripping the back of your couch for dear life. The only thing you can focus on is the delicious slide of his cock into you, and you think you feel tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.
You’re whining, overstimulated as all hell, already feeling another orgasm beginning to bubble to the surface. “Clark, oh God, fuck—” You’re arching your back, and he hits it just right. “Ohmygod.”
A loud ‘smack’ echoes through the apartment, and you barely even register the sting on your ass cheek. “Gonna give me another one, baby?”
“Mhm,” you whine pathetically into the couch cushion. Body shaking, just trying to keep yourself up, though Clark is doing most of the heavy lifting. He reaches down, fingers circling your clit once, twice, and that’s all it takes as you buck back into him, a long, breathy moan escaping you as you cum again. It feels like every nerve in your body is on fire, and you think you’ve forgotten how to breathe.
You barely register him asking, “Where do you want it?”
Your mouth automatically babbling out, “Inside—fuck—cum inside me.”
That has his hips stuttering before he buries himself to the hilt, groaning lowly, and you can feel the warmth spread inside you. You’re both frozen like that, breathing heavily, and then Clark pulls out with a low hiss, gathering you up in his arms before collapsing back onto the couch, you cradled on top of him, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you finally breathe after a moment of silence, and you can feel his chest shake with laughter. You tilt your head up to look at him, and he captures your lips with his before pulling away, reaching up to caress the side of your face, tracing the contours of your cheekbones with his thumb.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest—a feeling you welcome with open arms.
“So, if I agree to let you take me out to dinner again, think you’ll show up this time?”
He grins. “Yes.”
The weekend passes in a blur of tangled limbs and soft confessions. You tease Clark about all it took was you on top of him to get him to talk to you in full sentences, finally. He stammers and blames you for being so pretty.
On Monday, when Clark comes in late, he does so with a cup of your favorite coffee, and you give him a hard time, despite the smile on your face, with no real bite to your words. Clark is on the receiving end of some light teasing from Lois and Jimmy, who, quite frankly, are relieved they won’t have to deal with a pining Clark any longer.
(They quickly realize, though, that even being together, he still stares after you as you flit about the newsroom, possibly looking even more lovestruck)
And when he submits his next Superman article to you, you still tear it to shreds. The peck on the cheek you give him as you hand him back the draft makes him feel a lot better, though.
Prompt: Jack's got no game...or does he? (Jack Howl X Reader)
Requisitioner: @vinegarfiend
Warnings: None!
Words: 6976! (Purchase: Custom Fiction.)
A/N: Hello everyone! We've got another commission to be shared, requested over on my ko-fi! This one comes to you by the sponsor 'Evvie!' --Evvie put in a request that I write a fic that centers around a date that Jack Howl arranges for TWST's Yuu. I decided to lean into one of Jack's lesser mentioned interests aside from in the vignettes hehe.
If you would like to submit a commission of your own, feel free to check me out HERE!
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The living room of Ramshackle Dorm had long since stopped resembling a productive study environment.
Books and loose parchment littered the coffee table in messy stacks. A half-finished alchemy worksheet hung off the edge beside a pack of abandoned pencils, while Deuce sat hunched over his notes with the kind of intense concentration that made it look like he was preparing for battle instead of Trein’s history quiz. Ace was sprawled across the couch like he paid rent, one leg kicked over the armrest as he flipped his pen between his fingers with increasing boredom. Epel had stolen Grim’s usual spot on the rug, cross-legged with a textbook propped in his lap.
Jack sat at the edge of the sofa nearest to the coffee table, posture straight despite the chaos around him. He was one of the only people actually managing to study.
And Yuu?
Yuu sat wedged between two towers of books with their chin resting heavily in their palm, staring blankly at a page they hadn’t absorbed in the past ten minutes.
From somewhere deeper in the dorm came a horrifying sound.
“NYAAAAAAAGH — !”
A loud crash followed.
Then silence.
The entire room paused their agenda.
Ace slowly lowered his pen, casting a look down the hall. “...Do we think he survived that one?”
Another miserable wail echoed from the bathroom.
“MY TAIL’S ON FIRE!”
Epel winced. “Okay, naw, ah’m startin’ ta feel kinda bad for him.”
“You weren’t saying that twenty minutes ago,” Deuce pointed out without looking up from his notes.
“Twenty minutes ago Ah didn’ know the smoke was gonna start comin’ out under the bathroom door!”
As if summoned by the statement, a faint curl of dark brown smoke drifted down the hallway.
Yuu let out a long, exhausted sigh and dropped their forehead directly onto the open pages of their textbook.
“I just want one normal evening,” they groaned into the paper.
Jack’s ears twitched. For the first time, he looked up from his notes packet.
Ace snorted immediately. “You took pity on him on the first day. That was your mistake.”
“I’m serious,” Yuu mumbled, finally lifting their head enough to look around at the group. Their expression was worn down in the particular way only Grim-related disasters could accomplish. “One. Just one normal study night. No ghosts. No explosions. No weird curses.”
Another shriek erupted from the bathroom.
“IT BURNS WHEN I FART!”
Yuu closed their eyes. “And no explosive diarrhea.”
Deuce physically recoiled at the phrase. “You really didn’t have to say it like that.”
“How else am I supposed to say it?!” Yuu threw both hands into the air. “He keeps farting fire! Actual fire, Deuce!”
Right on cue, there was a muffled fwump from the hallway followed by Grim hacking up a hairball. A faint orange glow flickered beneath the bathroom door.
Ace burst into laughter so suddenly he nearly slid off the couch.
“Oh my god, he really is shooting flames out of his ass! I thought you were kidding earlier!”
“Ace!” Deuce snapped, horrified.
“What? He is!”
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, silently sliding Yuu’s textbook out before they could give themselves a welt.
Epel looked deeply conflicted between concern and amusement. His upper lip twitched in the space between “What did he even eat?”
“That raspberry-looking plant from alchemy,” Yuu answered miserably.
Jack immediately looked up from his pilfering. “The red one with the spotted leaves?”
“Yeah.”
“That wasn’t a raspberry.” Jack clicked his tongue.
Yuu sighed, their wrinkles beginning to form wrinkles. “I know that now.”
Ace barked another laugh, close to a strangled garble.
Yuu pointed accusingly toward him and every other mage in the room. “Why does a plant that looks exactly like a raspberry make someone fart fire?! Who invented that?! What sicko in this world thought cultivating that sort of thing would help society?!”
“This is why Professor Crewel says not to ingest random ingredients,” Jack said flatly.
“Okay, in Grim’s defense,” Ace cut in, grinning, “he probably thought eating the magic ingredient would make him stronger or something.”
Another agonized cry rang through the dorm.
“YUUUU! MY TAIL’S GONNA FALL OFF—!”
Deuce looked increasingly alarmed. “Should we maybe take him to the infirmary?”
“He already went,” Yuu replied tiredly. “They said he just has to ‘let the effects pass naturally.’”
“THERE’S NO NATURAL ABOUT THIS!”
“You’ll live!” Yuu called back automatically.
“IT AIN’T LIVIN’ IF I CAN’T SIT DOWN!”
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose while his tail thumped once against the couch cushion in poorly concealed amusement.
“I don’t like how you’re used to this, but I’m not surprised either.”
Yuu looked him dead in the eye.
“Jack. Three weeks ago he swallowed an entire bottle of shrinking potion because he thought it was grape soda.”
“…Right.”
“And one time he set the foyer curtains on fire while trying to roast chestnuts indoors.”
Ace perked up. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that one! Do you still have them?”
Without further comment, Yuu juts their thumb towards the nearest hallway. Ace stretched his neck to see the mangled curtain covering only half of the archway window.
“How do you forget about that one?” Deuce snorted a laugh,”he was missing a patch of fur on his scalp for months.”
“Well now I’ll be shocked if he comes out with anything but a singed ass,” Ace rolled his eyes, “maybe he’ll wear pants now.”
Another distant explosion echoed through Ramshackle.
Silence settled over the room afterward.
“…Ah can smell smoke,” Epel whispered.
Yuu sighed the sigh of someone aged beyond their years. “Yeah. Me too.”
Jack glanced toward the hall again, brows furrowed. For all his usual bluntness, there was genuine concern beneath it now. “…Should somebody check on him?”
Before Yuu could answer, Grim came tearing around the corner at full speed.
His fur was puffed out twice its normal size, eyes wild with panic, and smoke curled faintly behind him like a cartoon fuse.
Ace snickered so hard he had to fold over the arm of the chair. Deuce made a helpless noise that was half groan and half laugh. Epel buried his face in his sleeve, shoulders shaking. Even Jack looked like he was fighting the impulse.
Yuu simply closed their textbook with the exhausted calm of someone who had already accepted their fate hours ago.
“Come on. Let’s go see if Crewel isn’t upset with you anymore.”
—
Crowley’s announcement about an extended weekend was barely up an hour before the entire campus lit with excitement.
Students flooded the halls making plans, arguing over reservations, scrambling to book train tickets home before everything filled up. Even Ramshackle wasn’t immune to it. Grim spent the last twenty minutes dramatically lamenting that nobody ever took him on luxurious vacations despite the fact he is practically a “campus celebrity”.
Yuu tuned him out, for the most part.
They were currently crouched beside the old couch in Ramshackle’s living room trying to untangle a charging cord that had somehow wrapped itself around one of the table legs. The late afternoon light filtering through the dusty windows painted the room gold, and outside they could hear the distant chatter of students heading back from classes.
The front door creaked open.
“Yuu?”
Jack’s voice carried easily through the dorm, deep and familiar.
“In here!” they called back.
Heavy footsteps crossed the floorboards before he appeared in the doorway of the living room. He had his gym bag slung over one shoulder, ashen hair slightly damp around the edges like he’d showered recently after practice. His ears twitched once when he spotted them half underneath the coffee table.
“…What are you doing?”
Yuu looked up blandly, holding up the tangled mess of cord. “Fighting for my life.”
Jack snorted through his nose.
It was brief, but Yuu had learned by now that Jack’s quieter reactions usually meant he found something genuinely funny.
They finally tugged the cord free with a victorious little “Ha!” before standing up and dusting off their knees.
“So,” they said, “what’s up?”
Jack shifted his weight.
Immediately, Yuu noticed something slightly…off.
Jack was normally straightforward to the point of bluntness. If he had something to say, he usually just said it. But now his gaze flicked away for half a second, one hand adjusting unnecessarily on the strap of his bag.
His ears angled back faintly.
“There’s a long weekend coming up,” he said. “My family usually heads to a ski lodge in the Shaftlands around this time. We’ve got a membership there.”
Yuu leaned back against the arm of the couch, watching him curiously. The explanation sounded rehearsed somehow, like he’d been thinking about how to bring this up for a while.
Jack continued before the silence could stretch too long.
“My siblings like going every year. There’s good snow this season, apparently.” His ears flicked once. “So I was thinking…”
He hesitated, took his cheek between his teeth. Amber eyes dodged Yuu carefully in a game of stalling.
Then he finally looked at them properly.
“Do you…want to come with me?”
Yuu blinked.
For a second, they genuinely thought they’d misheard him.
“…Wait,” they said slowly. “Really?”
A faint flush crept onto Jack’s face almost immediately, visible even beneath the darker tone of his skin. He looked away first, shoulders stiffening just slightly as though he already regretted phrasing it so bluntly.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
Yuu stared at him another second before narrowing their eyes suspiciously.
“What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one.”
“You’re inviting me on a vacation trip. There is absolutely a catch. A fee?”
Jack exhaled through his nose, somewhere between amused and exasperated. “No catch. I just…” He adjusted the strap of his gym bag unnecessarily. “Thought you could use a break.”
The last part came as a flustered mutter, his ears flattened down.
And before Yuu could brush it off or joke again, he quickly added, “Besides, I never really repaid you for helping with the mess in Savanaclaw when we first met.”
“The magift incident?” Yuu asked, the first thing on their mind.
Jack nodded once, not eager to discuss the details of his dorm’s shame.
Yuu couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped them. “Jack, you’ve repaid me like ten times over since then.”
“I haven’t.” he argued.
“You helped me deal with Azul, dummy.”
“That’s different.”
Crowley made the request, and he couldn’t in good conscience leave you to suffer when the other three idiots fell to Ashengrotto’s mercy.
“You also fix things around Ramshackle constantly.” Yuu gestured vaguely around the room. “The window latch. The porch steps. My hair dryer last week—”
“True,” Jack interrupted, ears twitching faintly. “But I broke that first.”
He’d stopped by for a shower after his morning run, and they’d leant it to him before class. The clogged fan was more-so their own fault yet he still replaced it.
Jack’s mouth twitched faintly at the corners, the closest thing he usually got to a grin when he had full control. Which he tried to maintain with their eyes scrutinizing every subtle shuffle on his feet.
Jack finally looked back at Yuu, more serious this time.
“So,” he dragged out, cutting clean through the moment before either of them could dance around it any longer. “Do you want to come?
There was something earnest in the way he asked it now. Not awkward exactly, Jack was too proud for that, but careful in a way Yuu wasn’t used to seeing from him. You opened their mouth to answer, but paused.
Their nose scrunched up with an afterthought. “What about Grim?”
The question was practical.. Leaving Ramshackle unattended overnight was one thing.
Leaving Grim unattended was another entirely.
“I already asked Ruggie senpai to watch him.” Jack assured, setting his shoulder back a bit.
Yuu blinked, shocked.
“You asked him before asking me?”
Jack looked faintly defensive at that. “Well, yeah. I wasn’t gonna invite you if you couldn’t actually go.”
Jack shifted slightly where he stood near the doorway, one hand still hooked around the strap of his gym bag. There was a quiet confidence to the answer, like this had been settled before he’d even stepped foot inside Ramshackle today.
The thought stirred something in Yuu’s chest. He really meant to give them a break.
Jack shifted his weight, one hand still hooked around the strap of his gym bag. “Besides, Grim knows Ruggie senpai already. It’s not like he’d be stuck with a stranger.”
“True,” Yuu admitted slowly, though their eyes narrowed a second later. “How much did Ruggie charge you?”
Jack looked away.
That deflection was answer enough.
“…Jack.”
“It wasn’t that bad, believe me.”
“Jack.”
Said man heaved a sigh from his chest. “How much he charged is between him and me, but it’s not unreasonable. So quit looking at me that, alright?”
He wouldn’t so much as think of the number. Ruggie’s resourcefulness would truly remain a mystery from them and anyone else who wanted to stick their nose in it.
Rather than drag the painful silence out, Jack jut his chin in their direction. Amber eyes locked pointedly on the drapes behind them rather than see that pitying expression.
The silent question sat between them for a third time, along with the travel pass in his back pocket.
A ski trip with Jack.
Cold mountain air. Snow. A few days away from NRC chaos.
Yuu’s eyes crinkled at the corners at the very thought.
“…Yeah,” they said. “I do. Pick me up on Friday? ”
Jack gave them a curt nod before shuffling to tug a small brochure from the lodge out of his duffle bag. It was kept pristine, likely safe in a pocket rather than smooshed with his gym belongings. He handed it over to them with formal courtesy, yet the gentle sway of his tail gave away exactly how glad he was for their decision.
---
The Shaftland mountaintops are more breathtaking than any hill on the Island of Sages.
That was Yuu’s first coherent thought, stepping out of the shuttle and into the crisp mountain air.
Snow blanketed everything in soft white layers, thick over the rooftops and piled high along the paths winding between cabins. The surrounding pines glittered with frost beneath the late afternoon sun, and somewhere in the distance Yuu could hear the muffled sounds of people laughing near the slopes.
Their breath fogged in front of them immediately.
“Oh, wow,” they murmured in awe.
Beside them, Jack adjusted the duffel bag over one shoulder, looking considerably more at home in the cold than Yuu did. His ears twitched slightly in the mountain wind.
“Told you it was nice.”
“Nice?” Yuu repeated, looking around in disbelief. “Jack, this place is gorgeous.”
Something pleased flickered briefly across his face at their reaction before he looked away again.
The lodge itself sat further up the mountain, all warm golden lights and dark wood beams against the snow. Smaller family cabins dotted the surrounding area, smoke curling lazily from chimneys.
As they started up the path, Jack cleared his throat.
“So… there’s something I should probably mention first.”
Yuu glanced at him. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not.” He paused. “It’s just that my siblings aren’t here.”
“Oh?”
“My sister got grounded for sneaking out.”
Yuu snorted, watching as an elder-brother 's worries drag Jack’s expression to something miserable.
“And my brother ditched the trip for a date.”
That made them fully stop walking, raising a brow with an impish glint.
“…Your little brother?”
Jack looked deeply unimpressed. “Yeah.”
Yuu stared at him for one long second before their shoulders shook.
“No way.”
“Don’t start.”Jack flicked their forehead, “We can still go back to school.”
“Jack Howl got abandoned for a date by his baby brother?”
“He’s not a baby. He’s a rebellious tween who thinks he knows everything.”
“Yet he has better game than you.”
Jack groaned while Yuu skipped beside him, boots crunching through the snow again as they continued up the path.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.” They pinched their fingers together with just a millimeter from touching.
His tail flicked behind him in annoyance, though Yuu caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Still, after a moment, Jack glanced sideways at them again.
“…You don’t mind, right?” The question was casual on the surface, but Yuu noticed the subtle hesitation underneath it. Without his siblings, they’d be alone overnight. He was trying to gauge whether this suddenly becoming a trip with just the two of them changed anything. The last thing Jack wanted to be was inconsiderate.
Yuu schooled the nerves bundling deep down.
“Jack,” they said, “I agreed to come because I wanted to spend time with you. We can pester your siblings next time.”
Jack nearly missed a step up the pathway, just as his cheeks finally took that tinted color. Although unlike the people surrounding them, his flush wasn't from the cold.
“…Right,” he muttered.
Yuu hid their smile behind the collar of their coat.
—
By the time they reached the cabin area, snow had already started dusting lightly from the sky again.
Jack stopped in front of a large cabin tucked near the edge of the woods. Warm light glowed through the windows, and the entire place looked cozy enough to belong in a postcard.
“This is yours?” Yuu asked.
“My family’s,” Jack corrected as he unlocked the door.
The inside was even nicer.
Warm wooden walls, thick rugs, a massive stone fireplace already crackling with heat. The air smelled faintly like cedar and smoke, and Yuu immediately felt their frozen fingers start thawing.
“This is huge,” they took it in as Jack carried both their bags inside before they could protest.
“It’s easier when everybody comes up together.” He set the luggage down near the small kitchen archway. “My grandparents stay here sometimes too.”
Yuu wandered a little further into the living area, still taking everything in, before turning back toward him.
“So where am I sleeping?”
Jack answered so quickly it almost sounded rehearsed.
“You can take my room.”
Yuu blinked. “Jack, I can just use a guest room.”
“There isn’t really one,” he admitted. “And I figured you’d probably be more comfortable in mine than sleeping around a bunch of my family’s stuff.”
“Oh.”
The sudden thoughtfulness of that hit harder than expected, but this was Jack. They should have expected him to think ten steps ahead.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’ll stay in my parents’ room. They’re not using it this weekend anyway.”
“You don’t have to give up your room for me.”
“It’s fine.”
And judging by the firm look on his face, arguing about it would go nowhere.
Yuu smiled a little instead.
“…Thanks, Jack.”
His ears flicked upward slightly at the sound of his name spoken so softly.
Then, before the moment could linger too long, he grabbed one of the bags again and jerked his head toward the hallway.
“C’mon,” he said. “I’ll show you where everything is.”
—-
By the time they were ready to leave the cabin, the afternoon properly settled in around the mountain, turning the snow outside bright and almost blinding beneath a pale winter sky.
Yuu stood near the front door in a bundle of borrowed layers, blinking down at themselves as they adjusted the cuffs of the cream puffer coat Jack had handed over from his mother’s closet. It was warmer than anything they’d brought, thick and soft-lined, with a pale, almost feminine cut to it that made it look a little too cute on them in a way they were not entirely prepared for. The matching gloves were a little oversized, and the fluffy ushanka hat kept slipping low over their ears.
Jack, who had apparently decided this was normal and not at all worth commenting on, was tightening the strap on his own gear nearby.
“This is your mom’s?” Yuu asked, tugging the sleeve down over their wrist.
“Yes,” Jack said, glancing over. His gaze traveled briefly over the fit before he nodded once, apparently satisfied. “It suits you.”
Yuu paused.
That earned them an immediate, suspiciously casual look from Jack as he finished fastening his boots.
“It’s just winter gear. Don’t make a big deal about it,” he added, though the faint rise of color on his cheeks suggested he’d been thinking something else entirely.
Yuu smiled to themselves and turned toward the mirror near the entryway just long enough to catch their reflection. Between the soft coat, the scarf wrapped high around their neck, and the fluffy earflap hat Jack’s mother had lent them, they looked warmer than they ever had in their life.
Also, annoyingly adorable.
“I can’t believe you let me wear something this cute,” they said, turning back to him.
Jack huffed softly through his nose. “You act like that’s a bad thing.”
A few minutes later, they were outside, heading toward the slopes with the cold air crisp against their cheeks and the snow crunching under their boots. Jack carried most of the gear without complaint, snowboard tucked under one arm and an extra tube under the other. The beginner slope was already busy with other guests in the distance, though not so crowded that it felt overwhelming. Everything around them shimmered with winter light and movement — people socializing, ski poles flashing, the distant whoosh of snow underboards.
Yuu looked around with wide eyes. “I didn’t expect there to be so many people this time of year.”
Jack glanced at them and gave a small nod. “Told you.It’s a popular spot for tourism. If we went an hour south, you’d be near where Epel’s from.”
“I know, but still.”
He seemed pleased by that in the quiet way he usually was, and for a moment he looked almost at peace here, as if the mountain had been built specifically for him.
Yuu’s gaze dropped to the snowboard in his hand, then to the tube, and they made a face.
“I should warn you,” they said, “I have never skied or snowboarded in my life.”
Jack stopped walking.
“…Never?”
“Nope.”
He studied them for a moment, then said, carefully, “If you want, I can teach you. But maybe not today.”
Yuu blinked. “Why not today?”
Jack gave them a look that was somehow both patient and practical. “Because it’s your first time, and I’d rather not send you down a slope headfirst when you’ve got only one day here.”
Yuu made a soft, offended sound. “I’m not that fragile.”
“Maybe next time,” Jack continued, tone easing a little. “When we have more than one day.”
The wording did something unhelpful and warm to Yuu’s chest, but before they could poke at it, Jack adjusted his grip on the tube and nodded toward the beginner slope.
“There are sled tubes,” he said. “You can start with the bunny run.”
He almost wanted to say it suited them, given how those ear covers knocked their intimidation factor from neutral to docile. Yet thought better of it.
At the lift, Jack stood behind them when they boarded, one steady hand settling at their waist for balance as the seat swung slightly under their weight. Yuu startled a little at first, then relaxed when they realized he was just making sure they didn’t slip.
The cold air brushed their face as the lift began to rise, carrying them over the white slope below. From up here, the mountain looked even prettier — wide stretches of untouched snow, the sharp line of the trees, and tiny skiers moving like dots below them.
Jack kept one hand lightly at their side, careful and grounding.
“You okay?” he asked.
Yuu leaned back a little, watching the slope grow farther below them. “I think I’m too busy being impressed to be nervous.”
“That’s good.”
He looked ahead again, posture easy but alert in the way it always was. The quiet between them felt comfortable rather than awkward, broken only by the creak of the lift and the distant rush of wind.
By the time they reached the beginner run, Jack dismounted smoothly and then turned back to help Yuu down. He took the tube next, setting it on the snow and patting the inner edge.
“Sit.”
Yuu obeyed, then immediately looked uncertain once they were settled into the tube. “This feels suspiciously like the prelude to disaster and I don’t have health insurance.”
“It isn’t, I promise.” He bit his lip not to laugh.
Jack knelt slightly in front of them, checking the tube’s position, then adjusted their gloves where they held the handles. “Hold on tight.”
Yuu’s fingers tightened obediently.
Jack’s gaze sharpened just a little. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
Yuu looked up at him. “Yes.”
He didn’t ask again.
“You want me to send you down?”
That made them hesitate for half a second, but only half. “Yes.”
He held their gaze one second longer, clearly making sure they meant it, before his expression eased. Satisfied, he nodded once.
“Okay.”
Then, with one quick shove of his foot against the side of the tube, he sent them careening down the slope.
Yuu’s scream split the air almost immediately. His ears flicked back on recoil.
Jack followed on his snowboard right after, pushing off with easy control, and for one brief moment he heard nothing but wind —
Then Yuu’s screams broke into laughter.
He caught the sound immediately, sharp and bright over the snowbend.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
Apparently they were enjoying themselves enough.
He kicked harder, carving down the slope after them while their laughter carried back up to him again and again, warm and delighted and entirely unlike the nervous sound they’d made only minutes before.
At the bottom, Yuu wobbled upright in the tube, cheeks flushed red from the cold and from laughing so hard they could barely breathe. Their hair had come loose from beneath the hat in a messy windblown halo, and they looked thoroughly thrilled.
The tube had half-swallowed them on landing, awkwardly stuck around their hips while they tried unsuccessfully to stand.
“It won’t let me out,” they wheezed.
Jack stepped off his board, amusement obvious now as he grabbed both their hands.
“One, two—”
With a firm tug, Jack pulled them free at last, and Yuu nearly stumbled straight into him before catching themselves. They were still laughing, breathless and bright-eyed, when Jack looked down at them and asked, feigning nonchalance, “Did you like it?”
Yuu was still trying to recover enough to answer properly, but the smile on their face said everything.
Jack’s gaze softened by a fraction. “Your voice is usually easy to pick out of a crowd,” he huffed a laugh. “But all I heard going down was you.”
Yuu laughed again, breath fogging in the cold air.
Then suddenly they pointed straight up the mountainside.
“Again!”
“Okay,” Jack said easily, stepping back to grab their gear. “C’mon, let’s head ba—”
“No.” Yuu pointed further upward toward another slope entirely. He followed their goal to the advanced placement course. The black diamond. His teeth clenched.
“That one! I want to do that one!”
—
By the time they reached the top of the black diamond course, Jack was beginning to understand exactly what his senpai meant when they called Yuu his weak spot.
He had told himself it was a bad idea almost the entire way up.
Not because he doubted Yuu’s courage. That was a reoccuring problem, actually. They had far too much of it.
The second they flashed him that bright, reckless smile and pointed toward the advanced slope, every sensible thought he had about maybe this is too much for a first day had gone right out of his head.
He just couldn’t say ‘no’.
So instead of refusing, he ended up hauling a two-person tube up the slope while Yuu practically bounced beside him, still buzzing from the first ride like they had just discovered the meaning of life.
At the top, Jack set the tube down in the snow and exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog in the cold air. The slope ahead dropped away sharply, fast and narrow, with hard-packed snow and enough natural bumps to send even a good rider airborne if they hit it right. It was the kind of course that looked fun only after you survived it.
Yuu, naturally, looked thrilled. He forgot how easily they adapted.
Jack glanced at them, then pointed toward the front of the tube. “You sit there.”
Yuu blinked. “Why?”
“Because I’m heavier,” he said, already stepping around them, “and the back will stay steadier that way.”
Their expression shifted into open amusement. “You’re just worried I’ll fall out, there’s a chasm between your eyebrows that’s going to leave a mark.”
Jack did not answer immediately, mainly because they weren’t wrong and he wasn’t about to tell a boldfaced lie.
Yuu grinned wider and climbed into the front of the tube with far too much enthusiasm, settling in and gripping the handles. Jack moved behind them, bracing one knee in the snow as he lowered himself into place. The tube dipped slightly beneath his weight, and he immediately adjusted, one arm coming around to steady the side.
His hands hovered for a second at Yuu’s waist, then settled on the handles once he was sure they were secure.
“Hold on,” he commanded, curt. “Don’t let go and keep your feet from skidding.”
Yuu looked back over their shoulder, eyes shining with ice globs clinging to their hair. “If we hit a rock, do you think it’ll launch me?.”
“Yes. So let’s not.” Jack discouraged the thought, not finding their human slingshot funny.
That earned him a laugh, soft and delighted, and Jack had the completely unhelpful thought that they looked especially pretty like this—cheeks pink from the cold, hair dusted with melting snow, eyes bright with anticipation.
He looked away before that thought could become anything more dangerous. They’re here for a break. Nothing more.
Yuu, apparently not intending to give him a chance to recover, rocked eagerly in the tube. “You ready?”
Jack let out a quiet breath. “No.”
He gave one last look down the course, gauged the line ahead, then braced himself.
When he kicked off, the tube lurched forward hard enough to make Yuu yelp, and then they were flying.
The first straight down drop sent them both into screaming. Albeit Jack’s was far less pitched and more from a sink in his chest.
Cold wind tore at Jack’s ears. The tube bounced hard over a ridge, jolting them up off the snow for a second before slamming back down. Instinctively, Jack’s legs squeezed in around Yuu’s sides to keep them from sliding too far forward. His arms tightened too, one hand braced at the side, the other catching the tube whenever it started to drift.
Yuu shrieked, then immediately burst into laughter so bright Jack almost laughed with them just from the sound of it.
The track was rougher than it looked from below. They hit one bump, then another, and the tube hopped sideways before Jack leaned hard to the left, steering them away from the edge of a cluster of exposed rocks. A few seconds later they hit a dip that lifted them so suddenly both of them left the ground for a breathless moment.
“Watch the turn!” he called, because apparently he was now the responsible one in a situation that involved being hurled downhill in a rubber tube at questionable speed.
“I’m trying!” Yuu shouted back, still laughing hard enough to make the words waver.
Another bump. Another sharp slide.
Jack leaned right this time, narrowly missing a patch of ice and a tree trunk that flashed past just close enough to earn a sharp, startled noise from both of them.
His pulse was beating fast now—not from fear exactly, though there was some of that too—but from the sheer ridiculousness of it all. The cold air, the speed, the rush of being with someone as the world blurred around them. It was different compared to doing it alone on a snowboard.
At some point, Jack’s focus bent and it became less about leading the ride and more joining in for the fun
He got it now.
He understood why people did this for enjoyment. Why his parents had always seemed so fond of the tubing runs when they came here together. With another person in the tube, the whole thing felt different—less like a solo test of balance and more like a shared rush, a sprint through cold air with someone else’s laughter in your ears.
It was more chaotic than snowboarding. Less controlled.
Far more fun.
Especially when the wind steals your screams and no one is there to judge.
By the time their tube shot toward the end of the course, both of them were breathless from shouting and clenching their stomachs every time it bounced. Jack barely had time to brace before the run flattened out and they slid to a stop in a spray of snow.
For a second, there was only silence as they caught their breath.
Then Jack leaned forwards, trying to catch the vibrancy back with his pulse in his ears.
Yuu twisted around in the tube to face him, cheeks flushed, eyes shining so brightly they almost looked lit from within.
“One more time!”
Just like before, who was Jack to tell them ‘no’?
—
By the time evening settled over the lodge, the windows had gone dark with winter night.
Dinner had been simple—salisbury steaks, baked potatoes, and warm rolls from the lodge restaurant—but after a full day out in the cold, it had tasted better than almost anything Jack could remember. Yuu had looked half asleep by the time they’d gotten back to the cabin, all bundled up again and flushed from a dip in the sauna.
Inside their space, though, the cabin was alive in a different way than when they first settled in. The fireplace crackled softly across the room, casting amber light over the wood-paneled walls and the thick blanket draped around Yuu’s shoulders. They were curled into the corner of the sofa in front of the fire, looking small beneath one of Jack’s heavy blankets and very content about it.
Jack returned a moment later carrying two mugs carefully in his hands.
Hot cocoa steamed from both cups, the scent sweet and rich as he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the couch beside them. It was well past his usual bedtime—far past it, really—but he did not seem even slightly bothered by that fact. If anything, he looked like he had settled into the quiet of the evening as naturally as he did the snow.
Yuu peeked at him over the rim of the blanket. “You’re really staying up this late?”
Jack glanced at the clock, then back at them. “It’s not that late.”
“It is for you.”
He gave them a look that was almost dry enough to count as a joke. “I’m aware.”
That earned a soft laugh from Yuu, and Jack’s tail gave a lazy sweep behind the couch before settling again.
For a while, they simply sat there together, shoulders almost touching, heat from the fire warming their faces while the storm-soft hush of the mountain pressed gently against the windows. Yuu held the mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep into their fingers. Jack leaned back into the cushions with his own cocoa resting carefully in his palm, looking far too calm for someone who had spent the entire day hauling them around the slopes and pretending he was not absolutely charmed by every second of it.
After a little while, Yuu turned toward him.
They lifted their cup without a word, a silent request.
Jack understood immediately. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he raised his mug to meet theirs.
The ceramic made a soft, cozy clink.
Yuu smiled at him over the rim. “To Jack,” they said, voice warm with the firelight. “The best guy I’ll ever know. Thank you for bringing me here. I had a lot of fun.”
Jack froze mid-sip, his grip tightened around the mug handle. He should have expected this, maybe. Yuu was always kind in a way that got under his skin before he had time to brace for it. Too sincere, too sweet, it’s no wonder their enrollment at Night Raven was a fluke. At least partially, since their mind could string sentences most guys there cringed to even think.
Even him. Jack is not the type to extend an invite to another person. Their company had to be better than his own solitude. Yuu miscontrived his intentions. For that, he was guilty.
That undeserved admiration settled heavily over his shoulders.
Jack looked at them quietly for a moment, his cocoa forgotten in his hands. The cabin had gone still around them—just the crackling fireplace, the soft hiss of wind outside the windows, and Yuu sitting curled beside him beneath his family’s roof like they belonged there.
Like they belonged with him.
“You’re special,” Jack sighed, resigning himself to honesty’s curse. His voice dipped to a low rumble, short of his usual blunt dictation.
Yuu blinked at him, clearly caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in his voice.
Jack’s ears twitched once before flattening faintly with embarrassment, but he forced himself to continue instead of retreating from it.
“I meant what I said before,” he admitted. “About wanting to give you a break.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the fire before returning to them. “But that wasn’t the only reason I asked you to come.”
Jack swallowed a thick thought.
“I wanted…” He exhaled slow through his nose. “I wanted time with you. Just you.”
Something in Yuu’s expression softened immediately.
Jack could feel his pulse beating harder now, strangely aware of every inch between them on the couch. The warmth of them. The faint scent of cocoa and cedarwood lingering in the room. The way Yuu’s knee pressed against his when they shifted.
“I like being around you,” he continued, tucking his chin down. “More than anybody else.”
The confession sat between them in the firelight, raw in a way Jack usually hated being.
He waited, not that he could add more if he wanted to. His voice wouldn’t comply.
“Jack.”
They called, and he turned to face their response with dignity… yet the look on Yuu’s face nearly unraveled him completely. Their eyes were warm and shining in the glow of the fire, their expression so unbearably fond that it made his chest ache.
Yuu moved before he could ask what they were doing, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his cheek. Their lips were warm and quick, and when they pulled back, they reached up with one finger and brushed a little whipped cream from the tip of his nose. He hadn’t realized it was there to begin with.
“I like spending time with you too.”
That guilt in his stomach dispelled as quick as it made an appearance.
Something inside him gave way.
He set his mug down quickly on the table beside the couch before it could spill from his suddenly clumsy grip. Then his hand came up to cradle Yuu’s cheek, large and warm against their skin, thumb brushing lightly beneath their eye as though he couldn’t help touching them now that he’d started.
Yuu leaned into his palm, their chest rising with one deep breath.
Before he could wonder what that meant, Jack took the plunge down a new, undiscovered slope. He pulled them in and stole that breath straight from their lungs.
Yuu made a soft startled sound against his mouth before melting into him almost instantly, one hand catching lightly against the front of his sweater. The kiss tasted faintly of cocoa and whipped cream, sweet and warm from the drinks they’d abandoned moments earlier.
Jack’s fingers flexed gently along Yuu’s cheek as he tilted closer.
He’d imagined this before—more than once, if he was being honest with himself — but reality was somehow worse in the best possible way. Yuu was warm beneath his hand, lips soft against his, their breath mingling with his in little uneven puffs while the fire crackled beside them.
Yuu shifted closer on instinct, and the blanket slipped around both of them as they moved. Jack’s other arm immediately wrapped around their waist to steady them, pulling them into his lap like there was nowhere else they were supposed to be.
The couch cushions dipped beneath the added weight.
Neither of them cared.
Jack kissed them again, slower this time.
He lingered in it.
Savored it.
His thumb stroked softly along Yuu’s cheekbone while their fingers slid upward into the hair at the nape of his neck, gentle enough to make a shiver run down his spine despite the warmth of the room.
Outside, snow drifted quietly past the windows.
Inside, the fire painted a portrait of passion.
Yuu pulled back barely an inch, enough for Jack to feel their smile against his mouth before they leaned in again themselves this time, kissing him with a sweetness that made something deep in his chest tighten painfully.
Mercy.
He liked them so much.
More than he’d realized.
Jack’s forehead rested against theirs when they finally broke apart for air, both of them breathing a little unevenly after the leap they’d just taken together.
Jack might’ve decided to ask Yuu along by mere chance, yet there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it’s the best decision he’s made in a long time.
adult toph beifong x bookworm!reader
warnings: tooth rotting fluff. based on this request
summary: toph can't enjoy the beauty of literature on her own, so she has you read books aloud for her.
toph had her head in your lap, eyes shut with her arms lazily over her chest as you two sat beneath a willow tree. the gentle breeze and the chirping of the birds were enough to bring calm between the two of you.
while you two sat, you had your nose in a book, reading the pages out loud as per toph’s instruction. she couldn’t enjoy the beauty of literature and stories on her own, so she had you—the woman she loved—reading them out for her.
toph didn’t care much for the story itself, but she knew they were your favorites and she loved to hear your voice. she loved the feeling of the gentle vibrations from your soft-spoken voice rumbling against her skin.
you reading out loud was like music to her ears, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to tease you.
“the knight would sneak away in the middle of the night, away from his duties, just for a chance to see his beloved’s face once more. at the risk of getting caught—”
“why would the knight do that?” toph interrupted. “risking getting hung by the king all because he fell in love with his daughter?”
“toph!” you pouted at her, though she couldn’t see it. “you just interrupted the best part! and besides, people do crazy things when they’re in love.”
toph grinned, liking the way your voice pitched higher as you defended your favorite piece of literature. “okay, fine, fine. proceed, milady.”
you rolled your eyes, smiling as you tried to find where you left off. “where was i? oh—! okay. —at the risk of getting caught, the knight slowly pushes the princess’s doors open. the wooden oaks creaked, the sound loud and a complete contrast to the stillness that welcomed him in the hallways—”
“pffft,” toph blew raspberries, picking at her ear. “that knight is totally getting caught.”
“toph!” you whacked her on the head gently.
“ow!”
“pay attention!”
toph’s smile grew wider. “i am!”
you huffed, the poutiness evident from your voice alone—and it made toph’s heart swell. god, she loved teasing you and getting a reaction out of it.
“you told me you wanted me to read to you, and you keep stopping me before i can even finish a paragraph. this story is really beautiful, and i want you to pay attention to it, tophie. like, really pay attention to it.”
toph could hear the frown in your voice, and how your words started to trail off into something quieter the more you went on about this fairytale. with a sigh, she reached for your hand and brought it to her face, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“okay, fine. i’m sorry,” she said gently against your hand. “go on, princess. i’m listening.”
you took a deep breath, smoothing out the page of the book with your free hand while toph kept her cheek rested against your knuckle.
you cleared your throat and looked back down at the text.
“...the knight stepped into the princess’s chamber, the moonlight spilling across the floor like silver silk. she was standing by the window, waiting for him. when their eyes met, the rest of the world—the king’s guards, the looming towers, their duties—simply ceased to exist.”
you glanced down, and toph was actually quiet. her eyes were still closed as she let your words linger in the air.
“he reached out,” you continued, your voice softening at the intimate scene you were reciting. “‘i would face a thousand armies,’ the knight whispered, ‘just to know you are safe within these walls. just to see your face again.’ then, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the princess’s lips.”
toph let out a long, slow exhale. for a moment, you thought she had fallen asleep, but then she spoke up.
“we should recreate that scene.”
your face warmed with embarrassment. “i told you to stop interrupting!” you stammered out sheepishly.
toph could only laugh. she loved these moments—these soft, vulnerable moments where it was just you and her, and you reading out loud to her while she teased you in between.
to her, it was absolutely perfect.
“sorry, baby.” she grinned. “i just can’t help myself.”
Housewardens react to their S/O's healthy, beautiful afro
[Because they couldn’t afford quality hair products after arriving in Twisted Wonderland]
[This beautiful art is made by a etsy user: KokoBoutiquesDesigns]
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
Riddle Rosehearts:
The first time he sees your hair after you’ve been able to properly care for it, he stops mid-sentence during a study session. You’re worried for a second that you’ve broken some obscure rule about "excessively voluminous hair." But then a small, genuine smile appears on his face. "It... it suits you," he says, his voice softer than usual. "A well-maintained appearance is a sign of discipline. I'm... glad you were able to acquire the correct tools for the task." It’s his strict, rule-loving way of saying he’s proud of you and thinks you look absolutely stunning.
Leona Kingscholar:
You find him napping under a tree, and when you gently wake him, his eyes blink open slowly. Then they widen just a fraction. He sits up, a low whistle escaping his lips. "Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in." He reaches out, not to touch, but to gently pat the air near your crown, appreciating the full, healthy shape. "Took you long enough, Herbivore. 'Bout time the world got to see your real mane. It's a pain to maintain, I know, but... it's a good look on you." He smirks. "Now stop blocking my sun."
Azul Ashengrotto:
He’s going over ledgers at the Mostro Lounge when you walk in. His professional smile falters, replaced by a look of pure, calculated admiration. "My, my. What a magnificent transformation!" he exclaims, already mentally noting the potential profitability of a new hair care line. He circles you, not in a creepy way, but like an art critic viewing a masterpiece. "The shine, the definition... truly impeccable. A sound investment that has clearly paid dividends in beauty and confidence. Would you... consider documenting your routine? For research purposes, of course." He's genuinely impressed, and his business brain is whirring, but the soft look in his eyes is all for you.
Kalim Al-Asim:
His reaction is immediate and full of joy. "WHOA! YOUR HAIR! IT'S SO BIG AND BEAUTIFUL!" he shouts, grabbing your hands and spinning you around in the Scarabia lounge, much to Jamil's slight annoyance. "It looks so happy and healthy! We have to celebrate! Jamil, can we order some special oils and treats? Let's have a party! This is amazing!" He’s so genuinely excited for you, his eyes sparkling. He might not fully understand the struggle, but his heart is so full seeing you so confident and radiant.
Vil Schoenheit:
Oh, Vil was not having it. He took one look at your struggling curls weeks ago and declared, "This simply will not do." He was the one who meticulously researched ingredients, funded the perfect product cocktail, and even taught you his patented sectioning and application techniques. So when you present the final results, his critical gaze softens into a look of deep satisfaction. "There," he says, adjusting one perfect coil with a gentle finger. "Now you are living up to your full potential. Beautiful. Flawless. As you should be." He says it so matter-of-factly, but you know it's his version of a warm, proud hug.
Idia Shroud:
You send him a selfie first. The typing bubbles appear and disappear for a full two minutes before his response comes through.
>///< WHOA. HDGFJSK... RADIANCE LEVELS CRITICAL.
(◕‿◕)♡ S-SO MUCH VOLUME... IT'S LIKE A BEAUTIFUL, FLUFFY CLOUD... A SUPER-RARE, ULTIMATE EVOLUTION FORM...
He’s hiding behind his screen, blushing a brilliant blue. When he finally sees you in person, he can barely make eye contact, muttering about "render distance" and "graphical upgrades," but the shy, awestruck smiles he keeps shooting your way say everything.
Malleus Draconia:
He has a habit of appearing silently, so when you hear a soft "I see..." from behind you, you're not even startled anymore. You turn to find him studying you with that curious, intense gaze. "The nature of your hair has changed," he observes, his head tilted. "It holds more magic now. Not the kind I am familiar with, but a magic of... vitality. Of health." A rare, gentle smile graces his lips. "It shines with your spirit, Prefect. It is a crown worthy of you." He says it with the same reverence he'd give an ancient, powerful artifact, and it makes your heart soar.
[I don’t personally have curly hair, so I hope this is accurate—please let me know if I’ve missed anything]
Okay… how dare he look this fine?!? Who is this vogue model?? (<—My bestie first reaction) 10/10! Loving it! I’m leaving! This is too gorgeous (lies! I’m staying)
pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader, Oliver Queen x fem!reader
Summary: Years of marriage with Bruce Wayne unravel when (Y/N) discovers a devastating secret. Hurt but unbroken, she turns to Oliver Queen—the one person who still sees her for who she truly is. As shadows from the past and feelings long buried resurface, (Y/N) must navigate a path between heartbreak and hope, and decide what the future really holds.
Warning: infidelity, heart break, divorce, betrayed, jealousy, use of y/n, not proof read
word count: 5.7K
an: i hope you guys like <3
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The grand halls of Wayne Manor seemed almost intimidating to anyone who didn’t know it well, but to her, it had become a second home. It hadn’t always been that way. There was a time when she was just a name in Gotham’s high society—known as the fierce, self-made model who turned her brand into an empire. Despite the glamorous life, she had never really felt at home anywhere.
That was, until she met Bruce Wayne.
Their paths had crossed one rainy night during a fundraiser hosted at the manor. She had been representing her foundation, advocating for underprivileged youth, while Bruce had been there as the host—charming, aloof, and impossible to ignore. They exchanged polite smiles, but it wasn’t until later, when they were both stuck in the dimly lit library avoiding the crowded ballroom, that they had their first real conversation.
“You’re hiding from your own party,” she teased, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
Bruce huffed out a soft laugh, running a hand through his dark hair. “Sometimes, the mask I wear at these events is heavier than the one out on the streets.”
She arched a brow, curious. “And here I thought Gotham’s favorite billionaire was always the life of the party.”
His smirk faded into something more genuine, his gaze softening as he looked at her. “Not always.”
That night had been the beginning—two guarded souls finding comfort in each other’s honesty. The chemistry was undeniable, and before long, they found themselves seeking each other out during League meetings, missions, and any spare moment in between.
It wasn’t long before Wayne Manor became her second home. Bruce had insisted she move in after a particularly dangerous mission left her injured. At first, she resisted—independence had been her shield for so long. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and despite herself, she found it impossible to resist his earnest concern.
Their wedding was small, private, just the way they wanted. When they exchanged vows in the manor’s garden, surrounded by roses and the few friends they trusted, it felt like their chaotic lives had finally found a semblance of peace.
Life wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. They balanced their duties as heroes with the life they built together. Bruce would come home late some nights, bruised but alive, and she would be waiting—always with a warm meal and a soft touch. They made it work because they fought for it, and love, for them, had always been worth the battle.
But lately, something had shifted. She couldn’t pinpoint when exactly it started, but she could feel it.
Bruce had been coming home later and later, offering vague excuses about patrols or League business. He’d disappear into the Batcave for hours without a word, his usual tenderness replaced with a cold distance.
She tried not to think the worst. Maybe the pressure of Gotham was just too much, or maybe he was worried about something and didn’t want to burden her. But when she found herself alone in the manor more often than not, doubt began to creep in.
One evening, she couldn’t take it anymore. As Bruce slipped into their bedroom, his movements stiff and distant, she sat up and called his name.
“Bruce, what’s going on?”
He didn’t turn to face her, instead loosening his tie with a weary sigh. “It’s just League stuff. You know how it is.”
Her jaw tightened, frustration boiling under her skin. “You’ve been saying that for weeks. Talk to me. Please.”
He hesitated, and for a moment, she saw something flicker in his eyes—guilt? Pain? Before she could unravel it, he looked away again.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Her heart sank, and she swallowed the ache clawing at her throat. “You promised me we wouldn’t do this—shutting each other out.”
He didn’t respond, just shrugged off his jacket and headed into the bathroom, leaving her in the heavy silence.
As she lay back in bed, a bitter thought crossed her mind: When did Bruce Wayne become a stranger in his own home?
One evening, as she sat in the dimly lit study, the manor felt colder than usual. A knot had formed in her stomach over the past few weeks—Bruce’s absences becoming more frequent, his explanations growing vaguer. She tried to ignore the uneasy feeling gnawing at her, but it was becoming harder to pretend everything was fine.
Her phone buzzed on the desk—a notification from the Batcomputer. Furrowing her brows, she tapped on the screen, pulling up the security feed from Gotham’s East End. The camera displayed a shadowed rooftop, and at first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Then, she saw him—Bruce, still in the Batsuit, standing just out of the light. Relief washed over her, knowing he was safe, but it quickly vanished when a familiar figure sauntered into view. Selina Kyle—Catwoman—moved close, her hand resting on Bruce’s chest as she leaned in, whispering something. Bruce didn’t move away. Instead, he tilted his head down, capturing Selina’s lips in a slow, lingering kiss.
Her heart stopped, disbelief rooting her in place. It felt like a nightmare—one she couldn’t wake from. A shaky breath escaped her, and her vision blurred with tears. She wanted to scream, to break something, to demand an explanation, but all she could do was stare at the screen, frozen in place.
It felt like time had stopped. The warmth of the manor vanished, replaced by a bone-deep chill that seeped into her skin. Her hands shook as she reached for the tablet again, desperate to convince herself she’d seen wrong—that it was some cruel illusion. But the screen didn’t lie. Bruce was still there, holding Selina as if she were the only thing keeping him anchored
After a few moments, she forced herself to close the feed, not wanting to see any more. Her chest felt tight, like the weight of the world was pressing down on her. Betrayal coursed through her veins, mixing with heartbreak and rage.
She sank onto the nearest armchair, burying her face in her hands as silent sobs wracked her body. How could he do this to her? After everything they had been through, every night he came home bruised and broken, every time she held him and whispered reassurances into his ear. After all the whispered promises of forever. How could he just throw it away?
Once the tears subsided, a numbness settled in. She knew she couldn’t confront him—not now. She wasn’t ready to face the lies, the excuses. She needed to get out, to breathe, to think. One thought cut through the fog of pain—she couldn’t do this alone.
Without another moment of hesitation, she grabbed her coat and keys, barely noticing how her hands trembled. There was only one person who might understand—someone she could trust, even after all this time.
Before she knew it, she was outside the familiar gates of Queen Mansion. Her knuckles rapped on the large wooden door, and after a few moments, it creaked open to reveal Oliver—still dressed in his casual clothes, surprise flashing in his eyes.
"(Y/N)?" His voice was low, gentle, and full of concern. "What’s going on?"
She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Ollie... I didn’t know where else to go."
He didn’t say anything right away—just held her, one hand gently stroking her back, grounding her with his warmth. When her sobs finally slowed to quiet hiccups, he guided her inside, leading her to the plush leather couch in the living room.
"Sit," he said softly, his hands lingering on her shoulders for a moment. "I’ll get you some water."
She nodded, barely able to muster a word. When he returned, he handed her the glass and sat beside her, his gaze never leaving her face.
"(Y/N), what happened?" he asked gently, voice full of worry.
Her hands shook as she took a sip, the cool water soothing her raw throat. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. "I... I caught him. With her."
Oliver’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and empathy. "Bruce?"
She nodded, wiping a stray tear with the back of her hand. "Catwoman. On a rooftop. I... I saw them kissing. He didn’t even... didn’t even hesitate."
Oliver’s hand found hers, squeezing gently. "You didn’t deserve that. Not from him."
Her lips trembled, and she swallowed the lump in her throat. "I thought he loved me, Ollie. After everything we’ve been through... how could he just throw it all away?"
Oliver moved closer, his hand reaching up to wipe a tear from her cheek. "Some people don’t know how to value something good when they have it. But you... you’re stronger than this. You always have been."
She looked up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of dishonesty, but all she saw was sincerity and warmth. For the first time since seeing that video, she felt a tiny flicker of safety.
"I just... I didn’t know where else to go," she whispered, guilt creeping into her voice.
"You can always come to me," Oliver replied firmly. "No matter what."
(Y/N) stayed silent for a moment, her hands trembling around the glass. Oliver couldn’t take his eyes off her—seeing her so broken tore at his heart. He had always admired her strength, how she never let anything break her spirit. But now, seeing her like this, it was as if someone had ripped his own heart out.
He reached for her hand again, giving it a comforting squeeze. "I can’t believe he did this to you," he muttered, voice laced with anger. "You gave him everything, and he just... threw it away?"
She bit her lip, trying to hold back another wave of tears. "I thought we were happy," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I gave him everything—my love, my loyalty... my whole heart. Was that not enough?"
"It was more than enough," Oliver said firmly, brushing a thumb over her knuckles. "Bruce doesn’t know how to appreciate what he has. He doesn’t deserve you."
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "I always thought we were invincible. That no matter what Gotham threw at us, we’d face it together. But now... I don’t even know what’s real anymore."
"Hey," Oliver whispered, shifting closer, his voice more tender. "You are real. Your love was real. Don’t ever doubt that. Bruce made his choice, and it was a damn stupid one. But you—you’re still the strong, brilliant woman I know. You’ll get through this."
Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him, vulnerability etched across her features. "Why does it hurt so much? I feel like... like I’m falling apart."
Oliver pulled her into his arms again, holding her tightly, his chin resting on the top of her head. "Because you loved him with everything you had. That’s what makes you incredible—you give your heart completely. But sometimes people don’t know how to handle something so pure."
She buried her face in his chest, her fingers clutching his shirt. "I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I just want the pain to stop."
He stroked her hair gently, fighting back his own surge of emotions. "I know. And I’ll be here for you—every step of the way. You don’t have to go through this alone."
His words made something in her chest loosen just a bit, and she took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. "Why are you always so good to me? Even after everything..."
Oliver pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. His gaze softened, and he gave her a faint, almost bittersweet smile. "Because I never stopped caring about you. And seeing you like this... it kills me. If I could take away your pain, I would."
A single tear slipped down her cheek, and without thinking, Oliver leaned in and kissed it away, his lips brushing gently against her skin. When he pulled back, his hand cupped her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "You’re stronger than this, (Y/N). I know you are. And I’ll do whatever it takes to help you remember that."
For a moment, silence settled between them, thick with memories of a time when they were each other’s world. Years ago, before Bruce had even entered her life, Oliver and (Y/N) had been together. Their love had been fiery and intense, filled with late-night missions and whispered confessions under the stars. But the demands of their double lives as heroes had pulled them apart—missions in different cities, priorities that never seemed to align. Despite the breakup, the love between them never really faded. There was always something unspoken, a connection that remained no matter the distance or time.
Even when she had moved on with Bruce, Oliver never stopped caring. It was just easier to pretend the feelings weren’t there. Seeing her now, broken because of someone else, made his chest ache with a familiar longing. No one had ever come close to what they had—not even Bruce. Nothing and no one could change that.
He looked down at her, his heart pounding in his chest. "You know," he whispered, his voice almost a breath, "no matter what happens... I’ll always have your back. Just like before."
(Y/N) looked up at him, her expression softening. A part of her knew that no matter how much time had passed or how many heartbreaks she endured, there would always be a part of her that belonged to Oliver. And right now, wrapped in his arms, it didn’t hurt as much.
When (Y/N) returned to Wayne Manor, the familiar grand entrance felt colder than usual. She took a deep breath, reminding herself to act normal. She couldn’t let Bruce see the cracks in her facade just yet.
As she stepped inside, Alfred greeted her with his usual warm smile. "Good evening, Mrs. Wayne. Dinner will be served shortly."
(Y/N) nodded, forcing a polite smile. "Thank you, Alfred."
She made her way to the study, where Bruce was hunched over his desk, reviewing case files. He looked up when she entered, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "You’re home early," he noted.
"Yeah," she replied simply, moving to the window, her tone distant. She could feel his gaze on her, but she kept her eyes trained on the darkening sky. She couldn’t look at him—not now.
Bruce cleared his throat. "Is everything okay?"
"Fine," she answered quickly. A bit too quickly. Realizing her mistake, she softened her tone. "Just tired."
Bruce approached her cautiously, his hand resting on her shoulder. Normally, she’d lean into his touch, but now she stiffened, barely masking the flinch. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did and chose to ignore it.
"You know you can talk to me," he said quietly, his voice gentle.
Her stomach twisted. The irony wasn’t lost on her. "I know," she whispered, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile. "I just... need some time."
He hesitated before pressing a kiss to her temple. It took every ounce of willpower for her not to recoil. Instead, she stayed still, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts and none at all.
"I’ll be in the Batcave," he murmured before slipping away, leaving her alone in the vast, empty room.
As soon as he was gone, she exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to her chest. Holding it together around him was harder than she thought. She knew she had to keep up appearances for now. But each interaction chipped away at her resolve, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could pretend everything was okay.
The days that followed felt like a slow unraveling. Y/N drifted through Wayne Manor like a fragile ghost, each smile a carefully crafted mask, each word measured to hide the storm raging beneath her skin. Her heart ached with a weight she refused to show, but Bruce could sense the shift—an invisible line now stretched between them, fraying with every passing moment.
She spent more time away, retreating into Oliver’s world where she could breathe without pretending. With him, the walls didn’t feel so necessary, and her tears, once trapped behind clenched jaws, found permission to fall. Yet even as she leaned on Oliver’s quiet strength, a piece of her remained shattered—haunted by the betrayal, the secret that clawed at her from within.
Back at Wayne Manor, Bruce’s eyes searched hers for a hint of the woman he married. But the woman he saw was distant, locked behind eyes that no longer looked at him with warmth or trust. Every attempt he made to reach her was met with polite deflection, a coldness that sliced sharper than any fight.
One night, standing by the grand window in the study, Bruce’s hands trembled with a frustration he barely understood. The city lights stretched before him, but all he could see was the growing void in their marriage. When she passed behind him, silent and still, he reached out, resting a tentative hand on her shoulder.
“Please,” he whispered, voice raw with longing and regret. “Tell me what’s happening.”
Y/N froze. The touch that once brought comfort now felt like a reminder of the betrayal she kept buried deep. Her breath hitched, eyes filling with a sorrow she refused to let escape. She swallowed hard, then turned to face him, forcing a fragile smile.
“I’m just busy, Bruce,” she said softly, but the words shattered under the weight of everything left unsaid. Bruce wanted to press, to pry beneath the surface, but he knew better. Y/N was a fortress, and she had learned long ago not to let anyone inside when it hurt. Whatever storm was brewing behind those eyes, she was facing it alone
He searched her face desperately, craving the truth, but all she gave him was silence. The distance between them wasn’t just space—it was a chasm carved by secrets, lies, and broken promises.
And in that silent, aching moment, Bruce realized the battle wasn’t just outside in the shadows of Gotham—it was right here, inside their own home, fighting to hold onto the woman slipping through his fingers
(Y/N) couldn’t sleep at night. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind spinning with anger and heartbreak. Images of Bruce with Catwoman flashed behind her eyes, making her chest tighten all over again.
The next morning, she found herself at Oliver’s mansion once more. It had become a routine over the past few days—escaping from Wayne Manor and seeking refuge in Oliver’s presence. He didn’t just offer comfort; he made her feel wanted—like herself again. Being around him was like a breath of fresh air, washing away the bitterness Bruce left behind.
Today was no different. Oliver greeted her at the door with a familiar grin, dressed casually in a white t-shirt and dark jeans that made his green eyes seem even more striking.
"Morning, gorgeous," he greeted, leaning against the doorframe, his tone playful but warm. "You really can’t stay away, huh?"
(Y/N) smirked, crossing her arms. "Don’t flatter yourself. I just came to make sure you’re not setting your kitchen on fire again."
He chuckled, stepping aside to let her in. As she walked past him, Oliver caught her hand, pulling her back just enough to brush his lips lightly against her knuckles. "You know, you always did like saving me from myself," he teased, eyes glinting.
The simple gesture sent a spark through her, and she couldn’t help but smile. Oliver’s flirtatious energy didn’t just make her feel better—it made her feel powerful, like she was reclaiming something that had been taken from her.
She arched a brow. "Maybe I just like the challenge."
Oliver’s smirk widened as he let go of her hand, but not before trailing his fingers against her palm. "You’ve always been the one person who never made me feel like a mess. Maybe that’s why I keep hoping you’ll come around."
Her chest tightened at that, but not in the suffocating way she’d felt since discovering Bruce’s betrayal. This was different—this was warmth and nostalgia wrapped up in Oliver’s crooked smile and the way he looked at her like she was the only one who mattered.
He walked with her into the living room, and as she settled onto the couch, he plopped down beside her, a little closer than necessary. "So," he drawled, giving her a sideways glance. "You planning to grace me with your cooking skills again, or did you just come to stare at me while I attempt to impress you?"
She couldn’t help the genuine laugh that bubbled up. "Impress me? Oliver, I think your ‘cooking’ does the opposite."
He feigned offense, hand over his heart. "Ouch. Remind me never to make you pancakes again."
Her laughter faded into a softer smile, and Oliver’s expression turned more serious. "Hey," he said gently, reaching over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m glad you’re here. You know that, right?"
(Y/N) bit her lip, the vulnerability catching her off guard. "I know," she whispered. "It’s just... you make me feel—"
"Like yourself?" he finished, his voice softer, eyes holding hers.
She nodded. "Yeah. Like I’m still... me."
He shifted closer, his hand resting lightly on her knee. "You’ve always been you. Bruce couldn’t change that. And if he can’t see how amazing you are, that’s on him. But me? I never forgot."
Her pulse quickened at the sincerity in his tone. Being around Oliver wasn’t just a distraction—it was a reminder of who she was before Bruce. Before everything went wrong. And for the first time in days, that realization didn’t hurt—it just made her feel stronger.
Oliver leaned in, his face just inches from hers. "You deserve to feel loved. To be wanted."
(Y/N) hesitated, her eyes flicking to his lips, then back to his eyes. He waited, letting her make the next move. And then, without overthinking, she closed the gap between them. The kiss was slow, almost tentative at first, but when his hand cupped her cheek, deepening it, she didn’t pull away.
It wasn’t just a kiss—it was reclaiming a part of herself that had been buried beneath heartbreak and betrayal. When they finally broke apart, Oliver rested his forehead against hers, his thumb brushing over her cheek.
"You still feel like yourself?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with something almost like hope.
(Y/N) smiled softly. "Yeah. More than I have in a long time."
Bruce Wayne found himself pacing through the corridors of Wayne Manor, his mind clouded with uncertainty. For days, (Y/N) had been distant—quiet, detached, and seemingly lost in thought. It wasn’t like her to be so reserved, and it gnawed at him, stirring an uneasy feeling he couldn’t quite place.
He tried to dismiss it, blaming the strain of their chaotic lives. Perhaps it was just a phase—a lull between missions. But the more he observed her, the harder it became to ignore the tightness in his chest, a sense of dread settling in his stomach. Every time he reached out—whether it was a touch to her shoulder or a soft word spoken over breakfast—she would offer him a fleeting smile, never meeting his gaze for too long.
One evening, as they prepared for a gala at Wayne Enterprises, Bruce finally gathered the nerve to address it. (Y/N) was adjusting her earrings in the mirror when he approached her from behind, his hands gently resting on her shoulders.
"You’ve been... distant," he said cautiously, catching her eyes in the reflection. "Is everything alright?"
(Y/N) paused, her fingers stilling. She forced a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Just tired, Bruce. Nothing to worry about."
He didn’t buy it. Bruce knew her too well to believe that simple excuse. Yet, before he could press further, Alfred appeared in the doorway, informing them that the car was ready. Bruce gave her one last look before allowing the moment to slip away.
More days passed, and Bruce’s unease grew. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, that he was missing something crucial. Part of him knew—deep down—that his own actions had caused this distance, but he convinced himself she didn’t know. There was no way she could have found out. Yet, he found himself distracted during patrols, his mind wandering back to her. Was she pulling away because of him? The guilt gnawed at him, but he kept telling himself it was just his paranoia. The questions haunted him until he couldn’t stand it any longer.
Returning home late one night, Bruce made his way to the master bedroom, his steps quiet but purposeful. Pushing open the door, he froze. Suitcases were neatly lined up near the bed, and (Y/N) was standing by the window, divorce papers in hand.
"(Y/N)," he started, confused and already fearing the worst. "What’s going on?"
She didn’t look at him, keeping her gaze fixed on the darkened skyline of Gotham. "I’m leaving, Bruce."
His heart pounded, panic setting in. "Leaving? Why—what’s this?" He gestured toward the papers.
Finally, she turned around, eyes red-rimmed but resolute. "Divorce papers."
His world seemed to collapse. "Divorce? (Y/N), please... let’s talk about this. I—"
She cut him off, her voice steady despite the pain laced in it. "No. There’s nothing to talk about. I know about you and Catwoman."
Bruce felt his stomach drop, guilt and regret flooding him all at once. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The realization that he was losing her—truly losing her—left him paralyzed.
"Do you know what hurts the most?" (Y/N) asked, her tone deceptively calm. "I gave you everything—my love, my loyalty, my life. I trusted you more than anyone, and you threw it all away. You let me believe I was enough while you went behind my back."
He stepped closer, desperate. "(Y/N), I never meant to hurt you. I was... reckless, selfish—"
"Yes, you were," she whispered, her voice wavering. "But I’m not going to let you make me feel small. I deserve better than someone who breaks his promises. I’m done fighting for this marriage when you’ve already given up on it."
Bruce swallowed hard, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. "Please... just don’t leave. We can work through this."
She looked at him, eyes cold and determined. "You made your choice when you betrayed me. Now I’m making mine. I refuse to be the woman who stays while her husband keeps hurting her."
Bruce’s shoulders sagged, and for the first time in years, he felt completely helpless. He wanted to beg, to plead for another chance, but he knew deep down that he had crossed a line that couldn’t be undone.
(Y/N) didn’t wait for another excuse. She picked up her bags and walked past him without a backward glance, her footsteps echoing down the hall. Bruce didn’t follow. He remained rooted in place, staring at the space she left behind, the divorce papers still clutched in his trembling hands.
And as the reality sank in, he knew he had made the biggest mistake of his life. The emptiness settled in his chest, and the regret was suffocating, more punishing than any wound he’d ever endured.
A few days had passed since (Y/N) left Wayne Manor, and she found herself at Oliver’s mansion once again. The city lights glittered outside the tall windows, casting soft patterns across the polished floor. She sat on the plush couch, lost in thought, a glass of wine in her hand.
Oliver came in from the balcony, his green hoodie swapped for a simple black t-shirt. He leaned against the doorframe, watching her for a moment before speaking.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said softly, moving closer, his voice almost a caress. “Thinking about him?”
(Y/N) sighed, her shoulders dropping. “Not in the way you think. I just... can’t believe how stupid I was. How I let myself believe he was different.”
Oliver sat beside her, his presence grounding her. His hand found hers, and he squeezed gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmured, his tone low and comforting. “Bruce is the one who made a choice—one that cost him someone incredible.”
She looked down at their joined hands, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “You always know what to say.”
“That’s because I know you,” Oliver replied, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “And I know you’re stronger than this. You built your own life, your own success—without anyone’s help. You don’t let anyone tear you down.”
(Y/N) turned to look at him, her heart pounding a little harder. “Sometimes, I forget how well you know me.”
Oliver smirked, his confidence radiating off him. “Trust me, I never forget. You’re unforgettable.”
A quiet laugh escaped her, but it was tinged with vulnerability. “When did you become such a charmer?”
He raised a brow, leaning in just a bit closer. “I’ve always been one. You just forgot.”
The space between them seemed to shrink, the air charged with something new—something familiar yet unspoken. Oliver’s hand shifted, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw before cupping her face.
“You deserve someone who knows your worth,” he whispered, his gaze dipping to her lips. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted.”
(Y/N) didn’t move, couldn’t even think of pulling away. Her heart raced as Oliver leaned in, his lips brushing hers—tentative, as if giving her the chance to stop him. When she didn’t, he kissed her fully, pulling her closer with a gentle but undeniable force. His hands moved to her waist, and when her arms wrapped around his neck, he deepened the kiss, passion mixing with tenderness.
When they finally broke apart, she stayed close, their foreheads touching. She was breathless, but it wasn’t just the kiss—it was the way Oliver looked at her, like she was the only thing that mattered.
“Maybe... I needed this,” she whispered.
Oliver’s hand slid into her hair, his voice soft and sure. “I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Let me remind you how it feels to be loved.”
And for the first time in what felt like ages, (Y/N) allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—she deserved to be loved like this.
Months had passed, and life had moved forward. (Y/N) entered the grand charity gala with Oliver by her side, her arm linked through his. She wore a sleek, floor-length gown that hugged her curves with effortless grace. Oliver’s tailored suit complemented her elegance perfectly. The crowd turned to admire the striking couple as they made their entrance.
After greeting a few guests, Oliver excused himself to catch up with some old friends, leaving (Y/N) to mingle on her own. She smiled politely, chatting quietly with a few familiar faces, her confidence shining even without Oliver beside her.
But then, something shifted. The air seemed to tighten around her, and she sensed a familiar presence before she even turned.
Bruce.
She turned slowly, already knowing whose eyes were burning into her back. He stood a few feet away, clad in his signature black suit, brooding and composed on the surface—but his eyes betrayed him. They softened the second they landed on her, flickering with disbelief… and something heavier. Regret.
“(Y/N),” he said her name like a prayer, a whisper pulled from a memory he didn’t know he still carried.
She offered him a tight, measured smile. “Bruce.”
He took a slow step forward. “You look… incredible.”
She tilted her head slightly, lips curling with poise. “I know.”
Bruce let out a soft breath, trying to find his footing. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I was invited,” she said simply, her voice smooth and detached. “Oliver and I came together.”
His jaw twitched.
“I see,” he said, gaze dropping to her bare shoulder, as if he could find a trace of the past there. “You seem… happy.”
“I am.”
There was silence between them, the hum of the gala dimming beneath the tension. Bruce's voice lowered.
“I’ve thought about you. Every day.”
(Y/N)'s smile didn't falter, but it didn’t soften either. “Should’ve thought about me when it mattered.”
He flinched. Just slightly, but she saw it.
“I made a mistake,” he admitted. “The worst kind. And I’ve paid for it every day since you left.”
“And yet,” she said calmly, “you still let me walk away without trying to stop me.”
Bruce took a step closer, now only inches from her. “Because I knew I didn’t deserve to.”
For a moment, the world felt still. The weight of the past hung heavy between them—but (Y/N) didn’t bend. She wasn’t that broken, betrayed woman anymore. She had risen.
“You’re right,” she said softly. “You didn’t.”
Just then, she felt the familiar warmth of Oliver’s presence behind her. A strong hand settled at the small of her back. “Everything alright here, love?”
Bruce straightened, his expression hardening the moment he saw Oliver. But (Y/N) didn’t flinch. She leaned back into Oliver’s touch, her body language making it abundantly clear.
“We’re just catching up,” she said casually, eyes still locked with Bruce’s. “Bruce was just about to excuse himself.”
Oliver’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, but his voice was pleasant. “That so?”
Bruce looked at them—at her—and for a fleeting second, the mask cracked. He nodded stiffly. “Yeah. I was.”
He began to step back, but Oliver’s voice stopped him.
“Bruce.”
Bruce paused.
Oliver’s arm wrapped around (Y/N) a little tighter as he leaned in and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to her temple.
“She’s not yours anymore,” he said quietly. “And she never will be again.”
(Y/N) didn’t say a word. She simply let Bruce see her radiant smile, the one he hadn’t been able to bring out in years, and the way she turned fully toward Oliver with complete, unwavering love in her eyes.
Bruce walked away moments later—alone, defeated, and finally realizing that the woman he once took for granted… had never needed him to begin with.
And as (Y/N) and Oliver walked back into the warm glow of the gala, laughter and music surrounding them, she whispered to him, “Thank you.”
“For what?” Oliver asked, smiling down at her.
“For being the one who stayed when it really counted.”
Oliver grinned and kissed her again. “Always, love. Always.”
I had a vision and had to write it. Yuu is a super secret idol 'YUURSONLY' that just debuted and now some of their close peers are their friends. Mainly Idia and Rook. A bit x reader?
Content: 3.6k words. Gn. First year squad supremecy. Yuu is very scatterbrained they are exausted. Idia and Rook friendship
***
"Seriously! The vocals are insane! They did not need to pop off so hard, but we love them for that!" A voice in the distance called out, so full of excitement it could be heard from where you stood.
“Oh but we did! It wouldn’t have been the same if they didn’t!” Another replies, just as uppity. The positivity is almost infectious with how angsty Night Raven college could be. Almost only because the aforementioned angst has gotten to you too currently. Seriously, when was the last time you got at least 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep?
Your fellow best friend and classmate next to you peered over to where the voice was coming from in the distance. "What are they chattering about?" Ace hummed as you and your group of first years passed by another. You could only hear bits and pieces of a very passionate conversation from ahead of you, their muddled voices slowly becoming more coherent with each step closer. One voice immediately stood out from the rest.
"Oh yes, their debut has been magnifique! I have never heard such a unique sound before! It's simply as the critics have said: out of this world! Beaute!"
Huh...?
You, Ace, and Deuce all look to each other then to Jack, Grim, Epel, Ortho, and Sebek in that order. Your shared goal of going to Ramshackle for a study session is now put on hold. Turning the corner you're faced with an interesting assortment of students gathered together. There was Rook, which you had already gathered by his unique way of speaking from earlier, next to Idia of all people who seemed to be elated to be talking to him oddly enough. Then there was Vil which you supposed makes sense if Idia just happened to stumble into those two and got stuck in a conversation, but that doesn't explain why Kalim was there, let alone Lilia. The latter two shared a club together you remember, but it still doesn't answer on why they're all gathered here.
In your experience, when assortments of personalities that clash are in casual proximity to each other like this, usually there's trouble to follow. And in your experience, that trouble will inevitably follow you. You really are not in the mood for more trouble today, so much so you rescheduled all of your usual antics for next week. This problem would have to wait in line. You have a full booking anyways.
"Huh, why are they all together out here?" Jack inquired, he scratched at the back of his head as you all quietly observed the situation unravel. Epel was especially quiet, pushing back his accent that always slipped out when he was free from Vil's eyes, and here he was walking right back into his den.
"Never in my days did I think I'd see Idia and Rook of all people chumming it up."
"Yeah... its weird seeing Idia so... uppity..."
"'Uppity?' More like weird. And creepy!"
"Thats mean, Grim."
You nudge the beast on your shoulder before Ortho lectures him and consider what Epel and Deuce just said. It wasn't too odd, you guessed. This entire trip here was odd. Dealing with all these overblots was odd. Being a legally recognized therapist to a school filled with repressed trigger-happy mages because Crowley didn't want to hire a real one was odd. This was fine, actually. You still need to harass Crowley for a legal ID you just realized—
"I admit, I was quite skeptical at first when I heard about a new idol that seemed to come out of nowhere. I was expecting plain nepotism or fast-fashion music but this," Vil swipes at something on his phone with everyone around him peering over to see what's on it, "this is not something someone untalented could make. It's clear a lot of hard work went into it."
There's faint music coming from Vil's phone now. Hard to hear from how far you are. You have a foreboding sense of trouble ahead.
"Tres bíen! A new star is shining and I am honored to be able to watch them soar!"
Oh shit. Are they talking about—
"Hey hey! What are we talking about over here?"
Dammit Grim that was your line!
The group in front of you all paused and turned at the interruption; it was a sight that gave you a moment of whiplash as that usually meant a fight was brewing. Instead Kalim just beamed and waved you over, reminding you that you yourself need a therapist.
"Oh hey Grim! Yuu! Oh, it's all of you! Welcome! Hi!"
Idia still seemed happy with the crowd as well, or maybe it was the sight of his little brother Ortho here to act as a social balm for him. He didn’t seem to need it currently. Everyone waved their hellos, you included as an odd sense of... fear? Intimidation? Hung at the back of your chest.
"Oh! Its that the new solo artist YUURSONLY that’s been trending? Big brother and I just got done binging them last night!"
"It is! Aren't they great? I showed them to Jamil earlier and he actually listened to it and broke down why some parts of the music are made the way they are– seriously, have you ever heard music like this? It's so... different!"
Oh god. It is as you thought. They know about it. Rook knows about it. Ortho knows about it. Lilia knows about it. You're so screwed...
"Um..." Deuce starts before stopping. All the other first years look to each other again before continuing, hoping someone else aside from Ortho knew what was going on. Well, another first year does know but there's no way you're gonna say anything yet. You need to keep your cool.
"What's... YUURSONLY?" Grim asked for the rest. At that Idia gasped.
"Ortho! You seriously haven't told them about YUURSONLY? How could you! It's your duty as my brother to indoctrinate others into the fandom!"
Lilia watched the ones in front of him, admiring the spirited youth. "Kfufufu. It does make sense. Though they are topping charts, the community is still in bloom."
"It is still in bloom," Rook repeats, face becoming serious for a moment before he continues, "oh but that is so exciting! Watching a community bloom under the stars in real time is beautiful! I wonder what they will call their fans? How will their music develop? Oh mon ami, my heart may explode!"
Theres practically sparkles around Rook as he speaks, there would be around Idia too if he wasn't doing his whole 'disappointed brother' bit. Scratch that actually, he's still has the sparkles too he’s just shocked that he has even more people to rant to. The opposite of gatekeeping, he is throwing the gate at you.
"It's not like I wasn't gonna tell them at all, Idy! I wanted to experience a study session between friends now that I'm a student and Yuu here offered their dorm to study in!"
Ortho's sweet declaration of friendship and connection was immediately interrupted by the first years being themselves, save for you, Deuce, and Epel who didn't bother with the theatrics.
"Hmph." Went Sebek as he crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in a poor attempt to hide his true feelings, earning an eye roll out of Epel who seemed to forget Vil was here.
"That's... we're not 'friends'. I'm just doing what any upperclassmen would do for their peers."
"Aww how cute, Jackie here is all flustered" Ace snorts, smirk rising to his face as if to try to be as bratty as he can.
"I am not flustered."
"Aren't you? Your ears went sploot and then your face got all—"
"Let's get back to the topic, Grim." You didn't actually want to get back to the topic. Not with a gaggle of detectives in front of you. You would be happy to eavesdrop on opinions of your music if it was any other situation. In this situation, the longer you stay, the more you risk Rook putting two and two together. If it had to be anyone, why him?
Jack nods at you slightly, ears twitching in a 'thank you' motion you don't think he realizes he does. Ace relaxes and Sebek uncrosses his arms to allow their first year friend to continue. Ortho immediately gets into explaining mode, lights flashing on his as he projects a holographic screen into the air.
"YUURSONLY or their stage name, Yuur, is a brand new solo artist that just debuted late last month!" There Yuur was on the front cover of every headline. It was surreal to see your stage persona projected right back to you. Face covered sure, but every moment you see yourself on the screen is one you spend overthinking.
A video plays, and there Yuur was in their mask and stage outfit in front of the camera for one of their new music videos that just released. It's not obvious it's you, right? You even made sure you chose a super specific clothing style that no one has ever seen you wear before— mainly because you're broke and not allowed to be un-uniformed most of the time but still...
"They're in the news right now because all of their released songs have topped the charts and are even projected to be the most streamed this year! Everyone is scrambling to try and define what genre they are, some are claiming it is a new one entirely, especially with the way their lyrics are formatted. The most common trend is describing it as 'out of this world' because of how unique it is!"
"I think it should be called PopRock nu-metalcore in my opinion."
"Lul what? It's clearly Otapop nerdhop."
"I think it can best be described as no genre, all drama."
"A beautiful observation, Vil! So many are overlooking the haunting opera-eqsue vocals in combination with those lower tones! There is a reason why it hasn't been defined."
"I just think it sounds nice whatever it is!"
Everyone is watching the video and listening. You stare at everyone's faces and see everyone quietly agree with Ortho’s observations. The visuals are things that reminded you of home, mixed with the things you loved about this world. No one else can mimic that. In the cinematic video itself, it often looked like Yuur was distant from the world all or pulled between two. The lyrics flowed unlike most music here. Probably because unlike most music here, artists don’t have to translate their drafts from their native language into another language from a different dimension.
"Even linguists are interested in the way they speak. There also appears to be a story happening within the debut album as well. There's no confirmed meaning however most of the fans agree it's about being lost or finding one's true self or home." To make things worse Ortho then beams up a bunch of different posts of netizens talking about YUURSONLY.
There's already fancams and edits. Videos of covers of the music and choreography. Music reviewers, opinion posts. For a brief moment you swear you see someone post a screenshot of a fic titled 'I was sold to YUURSONLY by my neglectful mom and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.' That was something you definitely needed to bookmark and read later when you weren’t as overwhelmed.
"We'll see if the story continues in the future. I hope it does! I want to see how Yuur finds their way home!" The tension that just left your body returned with that statement, so unintentionally loaded.
Another video. Oh you remember this. It was a small concert. Practically private. Your— or rather— Yuur's practice show. The crowd certainty doesn't look small with some clever camera work but you know the truth. You were a panicked mess in this video because all you could think about were the groceries you don't have and the exam due the day after. The crowd is raving, bouncing off the walls as they wave their lightsticks.
"It's YUURSONLY!" The host calls out
"And we're theirs!" The crowd replies.
It was perfect. Call it a powertrip all you want, it was hilarious in the moment to make it their fan chant and it was probably Yuur's best idea as stupid as it was. One that hopefully won't be regretted in the future...
"Did I mention that they're local too! They're from Sage Island, all those locations in the video are from Port Street itself!"
Okay Yuu. You're Yuu right now. Not Yuur. Play it cool.
"I did hear about them!" You beam. "They're pretty good, I listened to their music before." Yeah, you listened to it over and over again until you got annoyed with your own voice. Was it a good idea to admit you're a fan? Would that make you more suspicious? You then point to an area in another part of a different music video, trying to change the topic.
"Oooh look! I go to that coffee place all the time, it's amazing!" Which is exactly why it appeared in the video. You wanted to show this humble shop that has brought you nothing but joy off to the world to see and appreciate. They deserved it for all they have done, often giving you an extra drink on the house after a particularly stressful week.
"Lol? No way? Srsly? You're a YUURSONLY stan too?" Idia locked eyes with you, bright yellow irises shining as his hair fired up. He wanted to outdo the sun with how bright he was.
Lilia chuckled. "The coffee there is good. I ran into Rook and Idia on the way over to visit it. I was planning to try out what they ordered in the video and it seems they also had the same idea."
"That combination of drink and pastry together so... oof. Wonderful. I feel like I understand them better now since I had it. It was perfect timing too since they ran right out afterwards! There was quite a crowd. All so passionate to understand their idol better!" Rook was elated
Dammit. You're happy the place got more business, but that was also a special quiet spot for you to hang out in and relax. You and your friends. Hopefully the hype dies down a bit...
"Seriously? All of that over a simple cafe order? Coffee is hardly worth that much wait."
"Well maybe if you had something other than black coffee Sebek, you might enjoy it!"
"Hey Yuu, isn't that the place you showed us one time?" Grim nudges you as he points to the screen again
"It is! I remember the egg tarts there being the best." Deuce smiles at the others reminiscing of the times you all spent over there hunched around a table just to talk after a long day out.
"Ah, yes I remember the espresso being really strong..."
Ace looks to Epel next him then to the screen, then straight to you. "Hey, isn't that your order, Yuu?"
On the outside, you simply glance back over to the video Internally you have leaped and sprinted out of your own skin. "Hey, it is my usual order! They have good taste!" You knew you should have picked something else. Ace’s comment had to just be a coincidence. His and Deuce’s quirk of pointing out the obvious. He didn’t have to throw you under the bus like that, knowing or not.
"Yesss! Pop off legend! I need tour dates now!"
Idia's words make you chuckle. "... Yeah same..." Tour huh? It will bring in some much needed money and let you see more of this world but it was also a big responsibility. You have classes and you still have much to learn about the cultures of this world in order to be respectful. What if you're figured out as not being from this world itself? What happens when you mix up languages? What then?
"Since they are from the island..." Your words are careful, testing deep waters in front of the people that could expose you easiest. Ortho looks to you, waiting for your words. "Do you think they'd hold some concerts here early in their career?"
Everyone is quiet for a bit in contemplation, then Vil speaks up. "It’s possible. It is not uncommon for young stars to perform in their home countries. However, newcomers tend to perform in the Shaftlands. The Shaftlands are considered the Capitol of entertainment. Most shows I have starred in were filmed there." Vil's news seems to sour the others just a bit. Rook tuts a bit with his hand on his hip.
"Alas, such is life. No doubt having your first tour in the Shaftlands is a safer option but a tête-à-tête competition with the Shaftlands if they perform out here on the island is a bold move that may define them further! Either route they take is a magnifique choice!"
"It would be so nice if it was closer to us but thankfully a flight to The Shaftlands isn't too expensive! Me and my family would go all the time! I would love to see them in person, ahahaha!”
"A local concert would be epic. Performing in the very place that they came from and show the rest of the normies why they're on a different level lolol. It would be such bold thing to do. It's like saying 'I'm not a sell out!' to everyone else.... but The Shaftlands would guarantee more popularity though."
"Choices, choices. No point dwelling over it for them. It's best to keep carrying on and trying to score a ticket when they announce the date wherever it is!"
You were overwhelmed. You have certified fans in your close circle and several of them are very nosy. How long until they recognize your voice from a melody you hum? Or an outfit you wear looks just a bit too similar to Yuur’s?
"I mean their music is pretty good but this all seems to be a bit much, don't you think."
Seriously, Ace? That has to be on purpose now. First the order comment, now this? He has to know your secret identity and is holding it over your head. He cannot be this dense. You internally mope a bit. You weren't offended over his comment, it was the fact you couldn't banter with him over it without exposing yourself.
"Aw come on Ace! I'll play their instrumentals during our session, they're great. I'm sure you're gonna be a huge fan— I calculated that it's a 96.74% chance with all of you!"
A smile pulls at your lips as you join Orthos pleading. "Aw man, why do you guys always have to shut down things I like? After everything we've been through together? Really? I’ve done so much for everyone here…"
"Yeah exactly. Plus you're really gonna bully a little kid??" You and Ortho were absolutely evil smiling at the rest of your friends who all know they don’t have a choice in the matter
"'Little kid' my— let's just go study! Or at least try to. Let’s be honest you're gonna end up falling asleep again, Yuu!"
"It was one time!"
"Because all the other times I was here to WAKE you UP! You are the second human with sleeping issues I have to deal with!”
You nudge Ortho and waved your goodbyes as you all turn to leave, continuing the friendly banter all the while.
"Hey, I have insomnia. You know I struggle with sleep, what do you want me to do?"
"Geez you never sleep when you're supposed to henchhuman"
"You’re still having sleeping problems Yuu? Is it those weird dreams again?" Deuce clings to you as the rest of the group starts moving again.
"Vil made sure to drill potionology into all of us, reckon we try making a sleeping potion?"
"You guys may put them to sleep forever then."
"Oh please Jack, not everyone is lame enough to go to bed at 10 every night."
"There is nothing LAME about having a SCHEDULE. SOMETHING YOU CLEARLY NEED."
"What do you do when you can't sleep anyways, Yuu?"
Ortho looks up at you and follows your gaze to where you stare at the group behind you again who were wrapping up their conversation as well. Your gaze fixated on Rook and Idia, who still seemed to have much to talk about. Seems they unintentionally became closer though you. You swallow, then look to Ortho who you worry is already cranking the numbers in his head. You can hear it now: ‘Chance of Yuu being Yuur: uh duh of course it is. The name is just one letter off.’
"Mmm nothing much, I just go out for a walk around campus..." And you also go for a walk off campus. There are weaknesses in the barrier around the school Crowley isn’t even aware of which you abuse frequently. Your secret double life become a triple life, became a quadruple life and it has gotten to a point where the things you have to confess will be a novels length.
Still you can't let them know the real reason you're always late to certain events due to filming or that you’re exhausted throughout the day because you spent all night trying to think of a chorus. Not yet. But maybe... just maybe... with the way so many of the people here are rooting for you… With the way you need to open up to someone about this…
You can make a special performance just for them. They will be theirs and Yuu will be YUURSONLY .
This is my first TWST fanfiction, so i’m sure I haven’t gotten Leona 100% in character here, but I still hope it’s enjoyable. The pretty basic edit was done by me!（＞人＜；）
Some spoilers for Chapter 3 of Twisted Wonderland!
Pairing: Leona x Black!Reader
While staying in Leona’s room temporarily Leona helps you out with a bit of a bad hair day - only because you woke him up.
This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.
When they all arrived in Twisted Wonderland, the reactions varied wildly; Irritation, indifference, curiosity, empathy, pity, disgust, admiration. All directed towards them—The Yuus. Not you. You didn't even seem to exist.
You aren't important. At least not enough to be a protagonist in this story all seven of them are living in.
The realization that you're alone in this world seems to hit like ice cold water dumped over your head and the chill of it creeps into your heart, freezing your veins and arteries.
You arrived the same way they did: Another world, no magic, the black carriage ride that would've seemed like a lifetime opportunity. But you aren't like the Yuus. You can't muster the determination and resolve they have to push through this unfamiliar terrain without much of a reaction. In fact, you cannot even begin to understand why none of them are upset about this.
Why? You find yourself asking over and over again and the question echoes relentlessly in your mind. Why aren't they grieving everything they've lost? Because you can't seem to stop thinking about it—Everything you've ever amounted to is gone. All your relationships, achievements, successes and lessons. Everything you've built is gone like a dream. Erased in an instant.
Hundreds—no—thousands of eyes stare at all of you. You don't have time to think about how beautiful they are. You've been stripped bare and raw of everything that ever made you you. You've been killed without ever physically dying.
As you struggle to adjust into this unfamiliar world, you can't help but admire others you share Ramshackle with. They're strong and determined, truly remarkable individuals. Charismatic and brave, they seem like the type of fictional characters the fanbase would adore—praised for the grit and unyielding stubbornness they display valiantly. Even the other students of magic descent respect them.
Sometimes you lie awake in your room—rundown and shabby, but improving. Together you're slowly transforming the dorm into something livable, maybe even inviting. During moments like these you find deep appreciation within yourself for the other seven that arrived with you. In vulnerable moments like this, they aren't companions; they're a lifeline.
Then there's you—a playground rock next to shining gems on pedestals. They reassure you that you're important. But nobody outside these croaking walls seems to believe that. The frustration builds sometimes, a tight knot in your chest just twisting and turning, and inevitably only knotting more. Curled up on the creaky floor, clutching your hair while staring wide-eyed at a single spot as if that floorboard specifically caused all of this. Tears don't seem to come; instead, you sit there, taking deep, shuddering breaths, lost in a sea of thoughts that you're drowning in.
Why? Why are you treated like a Ramshackle ghost—or even less? You all share the same origin, the same story of loss and these faux "New beginnings", so what makes you so different, so unappealing that nobody seems to want to spare more time than polite? Is it because of the fear that grips your heart? Its clutch is tight and cold, holding you to this new world full of threats hidden behind the guise of beautiful and new magic you didn't have back home.
The mesmerizing people that wield such pretty magic can control bodies while leaving consciousness intact—or the opposite. The idea of someone with malicious intent having that power over you is a chilling nightmare. You cannot simply compete for your own safety.
The inhabitants of Twisted Wonderland are simply stronger. Not just the fae, mers, or beastpeople, but even the humans. Their bodies are resilient, able to shrug off low-level magic that would leave you bloody or bruised.
At times you wonder why exactly nobody seems to care enough to remember you and there are moments when you find yourself gazing in the mirror, only met with an unfamiliar face. The reflection you're met with isn't quite yours—it's something darker, something hollow. A shadow, endless and consuming, its eyes locking with yours with an unnerving intensity. That smile, twisted in ways that were once pretty, no longer feels like it belongs on your face.
It's almost as you though you're looking at an echo of yourself, a distorted version that somehow feels both foreign and familiar, comforting in its familiarity but unsettling in its wrongness.
You blink, and the reflection moves. Just a slight shift, a creeping inch closer to the glass, closer than where you stand in reality. Your heart leaps into your throat, panic surging through you as you back away, tearing yourself from the bathroom and your own gaze. You slam the door behind you, leaning against its cold, worn surface. But even as the chill presses against your skin, it does nothing to calm the racing of your heart. The sleep deprivation is wearing you thin, and the hallucinations are becoming harder to ignore, more frequent, more real.
Ace's eyes narrow as you attempt to make small talk in the Ramshackle kitchen. He's friends with all the Yuus and quite close with them all. Deuce lingers somewhere nearby and you can hear his footsteps clomping around as he chases Grim. A soundtrack you've grown familiar with over time.
"—so yeah. He totally shrugged us off. Said we weren't 'big kid' enough to know what was going on." Ace rants, throwing his arms up in exasperation before running a hand through shaggy locks, his scarlet eyes met your own briefly before he continued rambling about something that had happened today in physed. His words swirl around you, filled with the day's energy, yet never fully reaching.
You always liked when the Adeuce duo visited. They were really only here for the others and you knew it, of course. If you remain in your room when they visit, neither boy will seek you out. They only included you in their escapades when you're right there—an afterthought. It felt cruel, like an unspoken rule of polite indifference. Nobody hated you, you just weren't important.
Deuce poked his face into the room, offering a polite wave as he rummaged through the fridge for a snack before leaning against the counter as he watched you make lunch. His expression is thoughtful and only vaguely curious.
"You don't really do anything, do you?" The words slipped out like a quiet curiosity that cut deeper than he likely intended. It's not a jab, just a question. Maybe that makes it hurt more. You felt like a rarely regarded lamp in a corner, the bulb long burned out, the shade dusty and untouched, and a soft light no longer emit from it.
You awkwardly muster a smile and try to respond—to list a reason you're worth more attention than you receive, but your voice falters. Before you can say a word, Grim streaks across the table, scattering papers and bunching up the cheap cloth. One paw hits Ace in the face and Deuce barely manages to avoid a fall with the creature darting between his legs.
Both boys shoot up, laughter and curses ringing out through the dorm as they chase Grim out of the room. You're left in the quiet, the emptiness settling over you like dust—suffocating and dull. The buzz of the kitchen light hums in the silence, a low, monotonous sound that only seems to heighten the irritation building inside. It's the kind of anger that feels pointless, but it consumes you anyway, making you feel unbearably stagnant.
Your eyes are locked on the tiles beneath your feet, the stark off-whiteness almost glaring under the dim light. You stare so intensely that your eyes begin to sting, but you can't bring yourself to look away. Something feels off, something is off.
And then, it hits you. Your oldest companion—the one constant presence you could always count on—has abandoned you. Your shadow is gone. For a fleeting moment, you feel exposed, like the absence of it leaves you vulnerable. You almost want to reach out, to search for it, but there's nothing there. The realization leaves you with a cold, sinking feeling, and the silence suddenly feels oppressive.
Your gaze pulls away from the tiles, heart racing, trying to dismiss the unsettling feeling. Turning back to the counter, you expect to regain a semblance of calm. But as you do, something catches your eye—your shadow is cast strangely, distorted in a way you don't recall. Paranoia gnaws at you, the question unanswered. Was it always like this? You couldn't even remember.
Before you could process it any further, you hear Yuuken's voice, calling you from down the hall, asking for help with the renovations.
Engaging with anyone here was an uphill battle—woundingly difficult. The conversations seem one sided, his interest always fleeting as if there's nothing about you that's all that interesting. You're invisible. Once again, feeling like a ghost, a nameless background character in a story you were pasted into, into a story that you weren't even supposed to be dragged into.
What cuts deeper like a blade into the fat layer is the reality that you're not just standing idle. You're there in the overblots, fighting every battle as if you were qualified despite being dastardly unfit for this work. Fighting just as fiercely for people who don't even dare to acknowledge your existence for longer than necessary. You've pulled people to safety, pushed others out of the way of dangerous attacks and when it's all over you're tending to the injured, soothing the boy whose overblotted until he comes to. Yet when he wakes his eyes are darting for someone else.
All you want—all you need—is a simple acknowledgement. A thanks.
Yuu is injured but so are you. "What about me?" The words slip out before you can stop them
"What about you?" He repeats as his eyes rake over your crumpled form; battered and broken.
His voice is distant, edged with a vague obligation of care or pity. "You're hurt. Staff and paramedics will be here soon. Stay put." You would've felt your heart swell to feel any sort of acknowledgement and being withdrawn from your lonely bubble but he goes ahead and says that to everyone else and the hope sputters out and fades away. Are you merely another faceless voice in the crowd?
But he's beside Yuuka and her friends, thanking them tending to the others, offering words of comfort and appreciation and a hot surge of jealousy envelops you for only a fleeting moment before it cools almost immediately. It's not Yuu's fault. She's stumbling over words, eyes darting between you and him, desperately trying to redirect all the praise.
"They helped a lot too. Don't worry about me. Please—they took a lot of hits for the team—" her voice is rushed, earnest. She sees you. She knows.
But you're numb. The words wash over you, leaving you staring blankly. Your focus sharpens as you watch him, the indifference cutting deeper than any wound from battle.
It's not Yuu's fault, you think, the realization like a blade. And it's not mine either.
Your eyes harden, the simmering negativity solidifying into something darker—hatred for this world and its unforgiving, selective gaze.
The Blot's words wrapped around you like velvet, warm and inviting. Each word a whisper, and just beyond your comprehension. It spoke in a language too rich, too layered for you to fully grasp, yet you found yourself managing a nod and agreeing to flowery promises barely understood.
Home seems too far now, a vague dream you once had a long time ago that's memories grow dim within your worn mind. Crowley's so-called "research" moves at a snail's pace, each reassurance vague and hollow with no weight behind it. They have housewardens, heirs, socialites, all silently pining to have them by their side in the end. The others have people who want them here.
When graduation comes, you know you'll be alone. No citizenship, no comforting embrace after a long day, no government papers to properly own a home, and no magic to shield you.
A higher education was beyond your reach without the proper credentials. You could aim for a trade but no reputable company would hire a ghost in the system without insurance. Shadier paths were on the table for you but you didn't want to hurt innocent people and you weren't ready to die. Not yet.
"You promise?" The words rasped from your throat, a fragile plea to the pitch-black figure—it smiles.
Snowflakes gathered on your broken body, frostbite gnawed at your fingertips and toes. The cold seeped deep, pressing kisses to your very bone marrow. The results of the accident are chilling, your body numb and your mind blocking the pain out.
"You'd accept even if I won't, darling." It purred, voice dripping with amusement and leaning over your mangled body. Once again you looked like broken porcelain. Doll carnage—too pretty to die in its eyes.
"You're going to die in that stupid uniform." It reminds with a melodious laugh escaping it, crouching so unseen eyes met yours and the empty gaze felt cold like a harpoon through your skull.
A response doesn't form just yet, instead your words linger on time quickly slipping away. "You'll make me live?"
"You make it sound like a punishment."
"It could be."
Its grin only widened. "I'll make you thrive—I'll sponsor you. Only to test magicless bodies, of course. You're soaked with hatred, my dove—enough to feed me for centuries and I just might be able to use all that to give you some fancy powers," The Blot chimed and waves it's hands around with a lighthearted laugh as if you're not mangled and dying right now.
You muster a nod and your vision is blurring quickly, adrenaline settling in as your blood pumped quickly to get you up, away from the charming danger you'd shake hands with if your body was capable of movement.
"I've waited too long.." It murmured softly, a hint of cruel reverence sends a shiver runs down your spine as the Blot's presence looms closer, its hands—tender, almost too tender—brush away strands of hair from your face, as if trying to soothe the tension there. Your body trembles under the weight of its touch, that impossible softness juxtaposed with the suffocating darkness that clings to it. The Blot's dark hands reach for you, wrapping around your shoulder and back to prop you up, not in malice but in something more unsettling, as though its cradling you like something fragile, something it fears may break at the breeze.
It laughs, a low, melodious sound, "Even a worm will turn," it murmurs under its breath, the words curling into your mind, buzzing like static. You can't focus on anything other than the overwhelming presence of it, the heat of its breath a nearly welcome sensation against the stinging snow, slowly burying you.
It'd been a few days since the accident—now you walk the halls, your feet knowing the path subconsciously as your eyes linger on the jewelry again, the weight of it palpable on your finger. The design is intricate, just as you'd always admired—luxurious without tipping over into excess, a perfect balance of elegance. But it's the stone at its center that pulls at you, black as the void. It swallows light, reflecting nothing but its own cold depth, as if it has its own consciousness. You feel it almost stare back at you.
A scoff slips past your lips, quiet but bitter. On your left ring finger... really? The symbolism is unmistakable, painfully so. The left ring finger—a spot traditionally reserved for unions of love, a mark that binds two hearts together. But for you, it's a symbol of something far more suffocating. This ring doesn't speak of affection or choice. It speaks of a contract. A binding agreement you were coerced into on the brink of death.
You'd like to think that in a normal situation you would've denied it but a voice in the back of your consciousness rejects that. You know you would have taken the deal.
Yuuta's voice comes from behind, cutting through the weight of your thoughts. You don't flinch, but his sudden presence forces you back into reality. His usual smile is present, though there's something different in his eyes today—a worry you can't quite ignore.
"Hey! You walk fast-" He pants, falling into step beside you. "Doing anything for lunch? Me and the others are... honestly really worried about you. Ever since you came back a few days ago from that night-blizzard-walk.. you've been off." His voice drops slightly as he tilts his head to try and meet your gaze.
It's hard to resist his pleading look. Yuuta has a way of being both persistent and comforting, and something about him makes you swallow your usual refusal. You nod, even though you'd planned to stay alone, to work through your thoughts—thoughts about the Blot, the contract, and the strange shift in the world since you'd returned.
Sighing inwardly, you follow him to the familiar table. As you lower yourself onto the bench, your thoughts still scattered, the sound of something unpleasant catches you off guard—a soft, squishy noise. You frown, reaching down to find a purple whoopie cushion beneath you.
Before you can say anything, Ace's laughter rings out, easily cutting through the table's chatter. "I told you it'd work! They're always in their own world, seriously."
Epel's high-five to Ace is audible, and you can almost feel their amusement. Deuce, on the other hand, shoots Ace a disapproving look. "A whoopie cushion? What are you, twelve?"
Ace chuckles, standing and grabbing the whoopie cushion from your hands before glancing back at the others, a mischievous grin still present on his face. "Firstly, I saw you laugh too, and hey, what can I say? I'm a guy who appreciates the classics." His crimson eyes flick to you, and before you can even process it, he taps the cushion gently on your head a few times. "Real spacey lately, huh?"
The words hang in the air, and for a split second, you freeze. Spacey. They're speaking first. They're acknowledging you first. After everything, after how invisible you've felt... now they decide to reach out?
Anger grows in your chest but you quickly suppress it. Your fingers instinctively brush the blot ring on your finger, feeling its cold weight. Thrive. The Blot's promise. The smile and soft words is the only thing you can offer right now, even if it feels a little too forced, too foreign on your face.
"Have I been?" You ask, the words coming out light and easygoing. "It's difficult to sleep in a rickety, haunted dorm. You and the others should sleepover more. I like the background noise."
It wasn't a full lie. You did feel less lonely when they visited, but the feeling only increased tenfold when you could hear everyone downstairs while you remained forgotten in your room. Still, you left the invitation open.
Just you wait. You thought, your smile dimming as Ace returned to his spot and the conversation flowed, your earlier anxieties and insecurities nulled by the ring thanks to the contract.
You'll ease yourself into their lives, each thread slipping through the spaces between them, invisible but vital. Not just the ones at the table, but everyone you've fought for, the ones who've forgotten you, the ones who've never seen you or bothered to try. You'll become a part of them so intertwined that they'll find it impossible to live without seeing you in every aspect of their days and nights.
In time, you'll make sure of it. You'll be everywhere—in their laughter, in their sorrows, in the smallest moments, the ones they think they can forget. They'll breathe you in without even realizing, and soon, every part of their lives will have a thread of you running through it. You'll be their lifeline.
part two
srry if its not the cute, comforting lovestory you were expecting lol
I'm sorta leaving it on an open end here to keep you all guessing ig lol. I can probably write separate minifics or whatever for this au I made or drabbles or maybe even a second chapter if anyone wants.
I wrote this in November and am posting it now so that was my procrastination ig
I've been sitting on this idea with no motivation to write it for probably two years so spare with me if it doesn't make sense or it's no good.
First time writing for tumblr and I haven't written outside of my notes app in a long time lol
A Crash Course to Kendrick's Super Bowl Performance, from a Black Woman
Note: this does NOT go in depth into all of the song's lyrics. I don't have time to recount two decades of his discography. This is just a summary of the performance itself.
Let's start with the first visual we get:
UNCLE SAM - most notably recognized from WWII American wartime propaganda, Uncle Sam is the personification of American patriotism and freedom. The term "uncle" is also evocative of Uncle Tom from Uncle Tom's Cabin, an abolitionist book that aided in inciting the Civil War. Uncle is also a very common term (both endearment and derogatory) towards Black men (eg. "unc"). Samuel L Jackson was fantastic.
Uncle Sam also resembles a circus ringleader, notable for my next point:
THE GREAT AMERICAN GAME - no, not Super Bowl. The GAG is us the people being pitted against each other: through late-stage capitalism, through the culture war, through class warfare, through being built of the backs of slaves. We are all players in the GAG because none of us on this site were the oligarchs seated at the inauguration.
This is also seen as Kendrick's stage was a Play Station controller. Not only did it remind of circus rings visually, but it was a game battle stage. The Great American Game is a battle royale of the commoners for the amusement of the rich whites.
Remember the foods / Them color was tin and brown / But now they 100 and blue - For this I'll just say, look what the last election said about lowering the price of eggs... and look at the prices now.
The revolution about to be televised / You picked the right time / But the wrong guy - Election 2024 once more.
THE FLAG DANCERS - yes, the dancers formed the US flag... off of the backs of Black people. Not a single white person in sight, and that's true of the cotton pickers in the fields. Plantations are part of how the US came to economic prominence after being a "backwater" colony. Remember tobacco? Cotton? Our bloodlines do.
The red and blue dancers are also notable for representing the Crips and Bloods, two infamous street gangs. The dance in Not Like Us is the Crip Walk. I recommend researching more on your own time about them, but just know they are a large part of the stereotype of Black people being "ghetto."
TOO LOUD, TOO RECKLESS, TOO GHETTO. Do you really know how to play the game? - This is exactly what Black people, especially Black men, get told all the time. It's why we change our names on resumes if they sound "too Black." It's why we codeswitch in non-Black company. This is especially rich considering how non-Black people love our culture and love to make money off of us, as the latter part of the quote points to. And it's even more profound during the Super Bowl-- the NFL is majority Black players.
STREET LIGHT A CAPELLA -- "thug" stereotype dancers to counteract the a capella connotations, with Uncle Sam then saying that Kendrick figured out "bringing other street guys around being a culture cheat code." Yes, this is a direct hit at Drake (listen to "Not Like Us") but also politically. Look up "model minority". Notably I would point to Candace Owens, or the Miami Venezuelan political group that's been in the news recently, especially as this directly led to Kendrick being surrounded by...
DANCERS IN WHITE -- it's white America. That's... that's the allegory.
NOT LIKE US TEASER -- Kendrick says "Not Like Us" is "their favorite song." -> he means white people specifically here. It comes after he's surrounded by all white dancers, the women around him who are his call and response are also in white (my opinion, they represent the industry). He's saying "Not Like Us" is the favorite of yts because it is about BLACK MEN FIGHTING. This again is reflected in the video game stage and ringleader Uncle Sam.
SZA -- instead of giving what they want, we see SZA. She's one of Drake's exes and Kendrick has always supported her.
ALL THE STARS -- This was in the first Black Panther movie, which I recommend you watch. Rest in Power Chadwick. Notably, this movie was incredibly mainstream as a major Marvel movie, and then we have Uncle Sam say...
"THAT'S WHAT AMERICA WANTS: NICE AND CALM. DON'T MESS THIS UP" -- translation: Marvel (the industry, America, etc.) wanted a safe, semi-pop song because white American likes safe pop songs, not Kendrick's usual heavy rap style about his life as a Black man! Don't mess up what you've got going mainstream for having this "Black rap feud" with Drake, who is an R&B model minority to white people because he's safe.
So what does Kendrick say?
IT'S A CULTURAL DIVIDE / IMMA GET IT ON THE FLOOR -- He was warned not to be political or apologetically Black for this Super Bowl performance, but he is using this big stage opportunity to speak out.
40 ACRES AND A MULE / THIS IS BIGGER THAN THE MUSIC -- 40 acres and a mule are what the freed slaves were promised. Instead, this land went to white sharecroppers. Research Jim Crow laws.
THEY TRIED TO RIG THE GAME / BUT YOU CAN'T FAKE INFLUENCE -- rig the election, rig the industry like with model minority Drake, rig the Great American Game with culture war to distract from active class warfare.
NOT LIKE US -- the only thing I'll mention because it made me holler is Serena Williams crip walking on Drake's metaphorical grave. She's another one of his exes.
TURN THE TV OFF -- exactly like he said! The TV is a distraction, the Super Bowl is a distraction, the mainstream news is often a distraction. Turn it off and get with your people!
GAME OVER — could not see this on my stream but at the end of the performance, the lights in the stadium spelled this out. The world is watching, America…
In conclusion, Kendrick Lamar is a visionary and thank you for coming to my TED Talk.
