you join the group after stumbling upon them on your own during the farm era
daryl is weary of you, but you guys get close because you have a similar upbringing. not necessarily in every aspect, but you grew up in a very rural area surrounded by people much like him
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ through this trust, you reveal to him your obsession with music
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ rave to him about all the vinyl records and cds you had before the world went to shit. maybe you even worked at a mom-and-pop thrift shop that collected vintage records.
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ you’d spend hours telling him in detail how you feel about old albums from the 70s, ranting about old hollywood scandals, and debating certain genres.
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ “you mean to tell me, you’re like 50 years old and you’ve never heard of Janis Joplin? Tell me ‘yer joking Dixon.” you’d say, pointing an accusatory finger at him. he’d scoff and look up from the knife he was sharpening, “it ain’t my fault i’m not some music freak like you. ‘sides, i usually just stuck to the same ole stuff merle would throw on every now and then.”
let’s just say: music lover!reader would make it their mission to culture this man.
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ you’d sing your favorites to him while completing tasks by his side…although not with much grace. he’d never say it out loud, but it warmed his heart to hear your silly attempts at hitting high notes like Prince or deepening your voice to sound like Leonard Cohen.
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚“found this today, figured you might know something about it. ‘s don’t look like the mess you talk about, but i was thinkin’ about ya.” he’d say, bashfully sitting the cracked jewel case next to you. you can’t contain the gasp that leaves your mouth when you look at the unexpected gift. you’re smiling ear to ear when you say, “daryl! you are too sweet. i can’t believe this.” as you rub your fingers along the edges of the CD. his face gets warm and he turns from your gaze. “it’s nothing really. glad ya like it.” he’d stammer before walking away, leaving you blushing and speechless.
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ when you guys eventually start dating, supporting your obsession becomes his love language.
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ continuing to spoil you with records and cds when he can find them, just because he knows how much you care about these things. he knows he’s just some old redneck who looks crazy digging for Donna Summer albums in the middle of an apocalypse, but he could never deny you of something that makes you happy. something that makes you feel normal again.
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ maybe during the Alexandria era, you two get your own house. on one of the first nights, you’re laying in bed next to daryl, rubbing circles on his bare chest as you look around the bedroom. the empty dresser beside the door catches your eye. “hey hon,” you say softly, “i know it’s early but maybe we should start making this place look a little more like our own.” daryl grunts in response, “how we ‘spose to do that?” you shrug before glancing up to meet his eyes, “just an idea.”
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ the next evening you find yourself sitting on the porch next to carol. daryl had left earlier that morning, kissing you goodbye and hurrying out with no explanation. knowing him, you just assumed he was handling business with rick.
“-and that’s exactly what i told her.” Carol said, finishing up some story of hers. you began to respond when your attention is turned to the sight of daryl walking towards the porch, lugging a large box with him. “wonder what he’s bought back this time.” carol said, following your gaze. “lord only knows.” you giggle, standing up to meet him at the bottom of the steps.
“hey there, handsome.” you say, smiling up at him as he stops in front of you. “missed you,” he says while dropping the box softly on the steps, “found something i think ya’d like.” curiously, you reach for the lid of the box. carol steps further to get a better look as you nearly jump at the sight of what’s inside.
a wooden record player, covered in beautiful engravings and complete with a built in CD player.
“oh my goodness, honey this is amazing.” you whisper, staring at the piece in awe. he lets out an airy chuckle at your reaction; “you said you wanted somethin’ for the house. ‘spose that could go somewhere. help ya rebuild your ole collection.” he explains, watching your face light up with each word.
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ the record player becomes your most prized possession. you move it throughout the house as you do, never missing an opportunity to bless your ears with the sounds of scratched records and nearly bent CDs. daryl loves coming home to you drooling on the couch, snoring along to the gentle voice of Doris Day flowing from the record player sat on the coffee table. he kisses your temple and carries you to bed, bringing the record player upstairs with him shortly after.
♡ ̆̈✧˚ ⋆｡˚ similarly, he loves the rare occasions where you awake before him. interrupting his sleep with quiet whispers of patsy cline as you sing along, getting ready for the day. “you’re beautiful, ya know.” he’d say, voice deep with sleep as he watches you from his spot in bed. you’d turn around and wave his compliment off, making some teasing comment.
but he’d soften his voice and say: “no, i mean it. don’t know how i got so lucky. wanna spend the rest of my life with ‘ya and ‘yer little tunes.”
hi!!! I just recently found your blog, and im so obsessed!! we are acctually so alike beleive it or not!! I am an infj too, and I LOVE music and film. I just started watching the walking dead about two weeks ago, and I am currently on season 4 episode 11. At first, rick was my favorite but by season 3 daryl became my favorite!! I love the way you write him, I feel like it is so accurate to him.
since you are open to requests, I was wondering if youd write something for him of what navigating near-death experinces are like for him and a fem!reader. You can choose whether they are in a relationship, if it more like a carol or beth situation, or whatever! I just love your writing and want to read more of your work!!
ps, and sorry that this is sooooo long haha but I loved your Messy fic. So good!!!! <3
hi angel!! oh wow it's so cool that we have all those things in common! :D i also only started watching twd recently in may, i just started season 7 and i still love it (though i hate negan). honestly i was really infatuated with daryl from the beginning, he was so snarky in the ealier seasons ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა but my favorite era of his was the prison arc! apart from that i really like glenn and tara too, they are so wholesome and characters i could actually see myself befriending! thank you for requesting, your blog is absolutely gorgeous 🤍 i had so much fun writing this, i hope you like it!
When the apocalypse started, Darly wasn’t really all that affected by it. Before the outbreak, he was in a strange state. Drifting, following Merle around, petty crimes — he basically lived for the rush of adrenaline that came with riding. It was simple: he didn’t mind living, but it wouldn’t have made a difference if he died. Not to the world, and not to him either.
But then again, what’s the use in dying? Suddenly, the world was crumbling all around him, breaking apart, nothing was the same. He didn’t expect that anything would change for him though, not really. Not like it did for the other people, the good ones. He was already used to the ruins.
The outbreak came with one life altering realization, at least. Daryl Dixon had always been a survivor. Sure as hell wouldn’t just succumb to death, now. It came as a relief, knowing that staying alive was justified now. For the sake of the fight, if nothing else.
Still, he didn't expect much more to change. He was still that same man from before — or so he thought.
It took a while, took countless walkers, gunshots and arrows and flesh being ripped apart, but at some point into this new reality, Daryl’s own world shattered as well. His view of himself drastically evolved, and consequently, he saw the whole universe in a different light.
Somewhere along the way, surviving on pure grit had turned into holding onto life for a cause. Maybe it wasn’t the world that had changed, but he himself. It would certainly explain why people acted so different around him all of a sudden… He couldn’t believe it at first, but they actually looked up to him. Being used to either insults or pure avoidance, it baffled him when it began. All these people who had been something — counting on his protection.
Had it started before or after he changed? Impossible to say. Only thing that matters, it’s true.
Daryl just couldn’t get used to it. Still isn’t.
Truly, it doesn't matter much. Not when the only opinion he cares about is yours, anyway.
Come to think about it, he’s pretty sure you’re the reason he became a different person. Better? Maybe. He wants to be the absolute best man he can, for you deserve much more than simply Daryl Dixon. Even if he can't be what you deserve, he’ll make sure to come as close to it as possible.
If someone asked you, you’d deny that he changed at all. Insist that he simply began to see who he really was as of lately. That he’s always been this good, just didn't know it.
He’s sure that’s not true, because y’know, he was there. What he can't deny though, is that you have always looked at him like he was worth something.
God… that’s only one of the reasons he loves you. That you really believe in what you say about him. Daryl knows you do, ‘cause he’s tried to change your mind — show you the truth — more than once. Gave up on it, eventually. You made him, with sheer force of will.
This is the happiest he has been in all his life. This meaning right here, right now, in love with you.
Yet, it’s also the cause of all his dread and misery. Because Daryl is absolutely terrified of losing you.
Everyone has that fear about someone, sure. Or they have lost them already. But, you see, it’s different for Daryl. Because he has never had anyone like this. No one who held such an incredible power over him that they could make him — do anything.
He loves you overwhelmingly, and in that same breathtaking way, he fears losing you.
Can’t seem to forget about the danger lurking behind every corner even for a second, not like the others do. It’s constantly on his mind. He won’t let himself take a break of it.
To cope, he just tells himself that he’ll do anything to protect you, then. He takes that vow very seriously. It’s what keeps him from losing his mind, a cause, being devoted to your protection.
Doesn’t leave your side, ever. Even when you’re going into the woods for a moment to yourself. He will give you a little bit of privacy, turn his back maybe, all gentleman like, but it’s really almost nothing. Not a high price to pay compared with your death, he finds. And it’s convincing.
You think it’s charming, actually. He’s right to act this way, even if to some people, it might seem a little obsessive. Daryl is not very vocal about his love for you. He’s never been that way. Instead, he proves it with actions. And that’s how you know his devotion to you runs deeper than simple affection. You’re his person. It just is that way. He realized slowly, but the more he felt that it was you, it was always gonna be you, he acted like it, even if he couldn’t put a name on it yet. It started with small things, but grew bigger and bigger until eventually, he understood, and by that point it had taken over his whole life: his love for you.
The world has become a dangerous place. You both know that. There are no excessive, sappy declarations of adoration because you're both aware of what you’re getting into. And really, facing a horde isn’t all that different than hiding behind fences, because there could be a walker sneaking up on you anytime. Nowhere is safe. Except... right there, in his arms.
Daryl can’t handle being confronted with the thought of losing you, because it’s something he constantly has on his mind already. Not really in words. There’s no constant lingering thought like “Oh no, I might lose her.” Instead, it’s constantly present in his actions toward you. The incredibly aware way he lives, always on the lookout for danger. How he takes care of you… The way in which he loves you proves that it would destroy him if you were taken away.
He’s devoted to you, and only you. He protects a lot of people, sure. Cares about many, some in a special way, like Carol. But she is like him… she doesn’t need him to be there at all times, even though for her, he would. He watches out for her, yeah. Just like she does him. He loves her, too. But you, he loves in a different way.
In his mind, the ideal would be to melt into you and fuse into one person. That would make everything easier. Actually, he already sees the two of you as one. Of course, it’s out of the question whether you can fend for yourself. However, protecting you isn't something he has to think about, it’s more of an instinct at this point, it’s protecting himself. That’s why he jumps at any sign of trouble. Why he pulls you onto the bike behind him like it’s second nature. Doesn't need to tell you to hold on tight — you already know.
Protection is a little different with the two of you, actually. He knows very well that some people prefer to have their loved ones stay back, at the camp, where it’s safe. Rick made this whole point about Carl not going on runs a while back, and everyone knows that Aaron can't stand the thought of Eric being anywhere else but behind the walls of Alexandria.
That really threw him off at first. He gets the sentiment, understands that his friend wants his partner to be safe. That’s natural, sure. Hell, he’d give anything to know that you were out of danger.
But what no one seems to understand is… there is no safety anymore. Walls may create that illusion, but it’s merely that — make-believe. A charade, so people won't lose their minds. He’s okay with that, but he never believed in it. Knows what it’s like out there… And that’s the same way in here, exactly the same way.
Knowing you do, too, is what soothes him. You get why he can't have you stay behind in Alexandria. You don't mind being joined at the hips, glued to his side out and inside of the town.
Wherever Daryl goes, you follow. If it’s for your sake or his, he’s not quite sure. The latter, probably. He knows that you can see the frantic fear swimming behind his eyes. Loves you even more for never complaining even when his measures seem a little over the top. For instance, even now, in your shared house in Alexandria, he hasn't stopped following you to the bathroom. It’s a habit, one he can't seem to give up. Whenever you’re gone even just for a moment, his mind begins making up scenarios of everything that could happen… It’s terrible.
And he’s never told you about it outright. Worries it might come off as weird, too much. To most people, it probably would. But you accept it, it’s like you already know. Because truthfully... you’re the same way. Keeping close to him when he’s leading the way through the woods, right in his tracks. Or the way you smile back at him when he’s following you through Alexandria, a bit grumpy because he’d rather it were just the two of you. Doesn't care for the other people. But still — he’s right behind you. Trotting after you like a guard dog while you cheerfully make rounds trough the town, greeting every single person. You take comfort in knowing he’s there. He knows because you reach back to hold his hand, pulling him to your side. Squeeze it reassuringly, and it makes his heart beat out of his chest. He doesn't even mind the bustling of the community all around you anymore, no. When has he ever cared about anything else when you stood right beside him?
Daryl has no idea why you love him this much, really. Why you put up with him whe he is like this, the only thing he has to show for being adoration. And maybe his crossbow skills. But, he’s not complaining. Not at all. He feels honored, and maybe a little undeserving.
Taking care of you in return comes naturally. He wouldn't dream of leaving you behind, ever. No, he thinks it safer to be right by his side on a dangerous mission than staying back: in fact, he makes sure of it. You’re safe with him. He’d die for you.
He would, he really would, it’s a fact that he doesn't even take pride in. No proof of his love, not in some sappy romantic way. Actually, there’s nothing romantic about it at all. It’s just — a truth, simple as that.
It’s the kind of love you share. Unconditional, plainly that: true. Nothing frilly or pretty about it… Because more often than not, it brings despair. There’s no butterflies, but crimson blood pulsing trough your veins. His skin hasn't been ripped off, not yet, and still, his innermost is laid bare to you, in all it’s twisted glory. There’s nothing beautiful about flesh and bones. Nothing at all. Why should there be? It’s nothing anyone ever gets to see, except the walkers when his time has come.
At least, that’s what he used to think. Nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming intimacy of having you know exactly what it looks like. That is the price to pay. It would be uncomfortable if it were anyone but you. Strangely, your gaze he doesn't mind. He never would. It’s bearable because he knows that the same blood curses through you. Knows the confines of your soul, the off putting paleness of your bones. He’s seen you, and you’ve seen him, and you’ve discovered that you're the same. Two hearts made from the same emotion. Devotion so strong it could rip him apart, but he doesn't see anything strange or disproportional about it because yours is just as overwhelmingly powerful. Soothing, yes. To know that it’s real, it’s really love, because you know him in and out.
He would die for you without hesitation. Just like that, sacrificed. But he would mourn it, mourn the loss of livigng next to you because it is the most blissful he has ever felt. And it would be painful — not the teeth gnawing at his flesh, not the desperate attempt to breathe when his lungs are failing, but knowing how you’d be hurting when he’s gone. To imagine you burying his body... how alone you would feel. He can't be sure which emotions exactly would bring tears to your eyes, of course. But he knows, he just knows. Because he would feel the same if you were to be taken from him. If the you were dead, there would be no sense in staying alive. He fears it might be the same for you... And that’s the other reason Daryl takes you with him. Why you gladly accompany him on every single run. If you are to leave this world, then it will be together, hands joined for eternity.
Maybe you have already melted into one. Everything seems to point at it. Your death would be his demise, as well.
Daryl never thought he would find a love like this, and yet he did. Now, he doesn't know if he should be happy about it. He is, more than ever, and it feels absolutely wonderful. But at the same time, you have revealed to him the terror of love. The danger that comes with it. He is untethered to earth, spinning in space, no gravity left to hold him. Only connected to you — you, you alone have become his universe. In his arms, you feel at home. But he wishes you didn't have to give up the whole world to be with him. He gave his up in a heartbeat, he never had it to begin with, nothing could rival his love for you. And yet, it is with regret that he realizes he has become your world. Because Daryl Dixon is not enough to be everything for you. He never has been. And yet... there is nothing he can do about it. He couldn’t hold back, couldn't keep away even if he wanted to. Not only because he needs to be near you. No, distance he could bear, for your sake. He can’t, because he knows you love him just as deeply as he does you. And for nothing in the world could he bear to bring despair upon you.
Daryl is not in control. Control has long since slipped from his grasp. What really overwhelms him is that he doesn't care. Detached, because the only thing that matters is you, and it has been like that for a long time.
In that way, loving you has saved him. He finally found a reason to live. Didn’t even think he needed one anymore, but it turns out he always did, he was always waiting for this. Now, he could never leave this earth, even though it’s not his anymore… He would never bring that upon you. But the real surprise is — he doesn’t mind. Not as long as you’re here with him.
Summery:House notices a sudden shift in your daily habits—from avoiding your mandatory morning coffee to an uncharacteristic wave of irritability—he does what he does best: solves the case.
Pairing: Greg House x f!reader
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Accidental Pregnancy, Fluff and Angst
Request by: @brittlegambitsiren
The clinic at Hospital was, as it always had been, a battleground of minor inconveniences. The air smelled of industrial lemon cleaner, rubbing alcohol, and the collective anxiety of forty people waiting to be told they had a common cold.
You sat behind the low wooden desk of the triage station, rubbing the back of your neck. A low, dull ache had settled deep into your lower back around mid-morning, and by 3:00 PM, it had blossomed into a persistent throbbing. You stared blankly at a patient chart, the words blurring together.
"If you stare at that folder any harder, you might actually set it on fire. Which would be great, because then I wouldn't have to sign it."
You didn’t even need to look up to know Dr. Gregory House was leaning against the doorframe. The distinct, rhythmic thump-clack of his cane had given him away three corridors ago.
"I’m just tired, House," you sighed, tossing the chart onto the desk and leaning your head back against the vinyl chair. "Go terrorize Cuddy. I’m not in the mood to be your verbal punching bag today."
House didn’t leave. Instead, he limped into the cubicle, his piercing blue eyes tracking your every movement with a terrifying, algorithmic precision. He leaned heavily on his cane, tilting his head as he analyzed you.
"Tired. Right. Because a standard twelve-hour shift normally turns a functioning medical professional into a sluggish, irritable zombie who has visited the staff restroom four times in the last two hours."
You blinked, a sudden flush of heat creeping up your neck. "Are you tracking my bathroom breaks now? Because that crosses about five different HR boundaries, even for you."
"I don't need to track them; I have eyes. And ears. And a nose," House said, stepping closer. He sniffed the air slightly, leaning in just enough to make you instinctively lean back. "You didn't put on your usual vanilla perfume today. Because it makes you gag. Just like the smell of Foreman’s leftover Thai food did at lunch."
"It was old fish, House! Anyone would gag at that."
"Foreman eats chicken pad thai. No fish. No seafood," House countered smoothly. His gaze drifted down, his sharp eyes lingering on your hands.
You were currently pressing the palms of both hands flat against your desk, trying to find a position that didn't make your lower back feel like it was being compressed by a hydraulic press. You also hadn't touched your morning coffee. It sat on the edge of the desk, completely cold, a thin film forming over the dark liquid.
"You haven't had caffeine today," House observed, pointing the brass handle of his cane at the mug. "You live on coffee. If you don't have a cup by 9:00 AM, you usually threaten to amputate Chase’s fingers with a bone saw. It is currently mid-afternoon."
"I'm just fighting off a stomach bug," you snapped, your irritation flaring up much faster than it normally would. To your absolute horror, your eyes pricked with sudden, inexplicable tears of sheer frustration. You choked them back, clearing your throat angrily.
House’s demeanor shifted. The mocking, playful glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by something intensely focused, almost quiet.
Six weeks ago. A rainy Tuesday night. A bottle of high-end scotch you’d brought over to his apartment to celebrate a mutual victory over a near-impossible diagnosis. One thing had led to another—a blur of desperate hands, tangled sheets, and a rare, raw vulnerability that neither of you had spoken about since. You had both reverted to your usual banter the next morning, pretending the shift in the universe hadn't happened.
House let out a short, sharp breath through his nose. He reached into his lab coat pocket, pulled out a small, metallic object, and tossed it onto the desk. It landed next to your cold coffee with a soft clink. It was a small keychain flashlight.
"Catch," he said suddenly, grabbing a roll of medical tape from the counter and tossing it directly at your chest.
Your reflexes were usually sharp, but your hands moved a second too late. The tape bounced off your scrub top and thudded to the floor. You gasped, your hand flying instinctively to rest flat over your abdomen—a protective, subconscious gesture.
House’s eyes locked onto your hand resting over your stomach. The diagnosis in his mind was complete.
"You're an idiot," House said softly.
"Excuse me?" you bristled, pulling your hand away as if burned. "Because my reflexes are slow today? I told you, I'm sick!"
"You're not sick." House took two steps forward, closing the distance between you until he was standing right over your chair. He leaned down, resting both hands on the handle of his cane, forcing you to look up at him. "Your breasts are tender—you’ve been adjusting your lab coat straps all day. Your lower back hurts, your olfactory senses are in overdrive, you’re retaining water in your ankles, and your emotional volatility is currently rivaling a teenage girl at a boyband concert."
Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Your brain was entirely jammed by the sheer weight of what he was implying.
"House... what are you saying?" your voice cracked.
"I'm saying," House murmured, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, dropping the usual harsh edge he reserved for the rest of the world, "that the math adds up to exactly forty-two days ago. Which means you are currently carrying a tiny, miserable, misanthropic parasite."
The room felt like it was spinning. Forty-two days. Six weeks.
"No," you breathed, a wave of panic washing over you. "No, we used... it was just one night. It can't be."
"Contraception has a failure rate. Especially when it’s expired, which, knowing my nightstand drawer, it probably was," House said dryly.
You stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. You expected him to look terrified. You expected him to make a joke, to run away, to hand you a slip for an OB-GYN appointment and tell you to handle it. But he didn't. He just stood there, looking at you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
"You're sure?" you whispered.
"I'm always sure. Go to the lab. Draw a serum hCG. Prove me right so we can stop pretending you have a stomach flu."
Twenty minutes later, you were standing in the restricted staff bathroom down the hall from the diagnostics department. The small plastic cup in your hand felt heavy, and the white plastic test strip you had snagged from the clinic supply closet sat on the edge of the sink.
Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely submerge the tip of the strip into the liquid.
One minute. You closed your eyes, leaning your forehead against the cool mirror. Your mind raced through the logistics. A baby. With Gregory House. The man was a brilliant, vicodin-addicted lunatic who alienated everyone he met. And yet, six weeks ago, when he had held you in the dark of his bedroom, he had been so remarkably gentle.
Two minutes. You opened your eyes and looked down.
Two distinct, dark pink lines stared back at you.
The breath caught in your throat. It was one thing to hear House deduce it with his terrifying medical logic; it was another thing entirely to see the chemical proof staring back at you. You were pregnant.
When you walked into the Diagnostics office, the glass-walled room was empty except for House, who was sitting at the conference table, spinning his cane on its tip. He looked up the moment the glass door slid open. He didn't ask. He just looked at your face, reading the answer in the pale shock of your expression.
"Wilson owes me fifty bucks," House said, though there was no real triumph in his voice. It was a defense mechanism, and you knew it.
"You told Wilson?!" you gasped, the panic flaring up again.
"Didn't have to. I bet him fifty bucks this morning that you’d be off coffee by noon. He thought you were just having a rare moment of health consciousness." House stood up, leaning heavily on his cane as he walked around the table toward you. "Sit down before you pass out. You look like you've seen a ghost."
You sank into one of the leather chairs, burying your face in your hands. "House... what are we going to do? You're... you're you. And I'm... this wasn't supposed to happen."
House stood over you for a long moment. The silence stretched between you, heavy and thick with uncertainty. For a man who always had a snappy comeback, an insult, or a philosophical lecture prepared, he was remarkably quiet.
Slowly, he reached out. His calloused fingers brushed against your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. When you looked up, his expression was completely stripped of his usual mockery. It was the same look he wore when he was looking at a patient he genuinely wanted to save—focused, intense, and fiercely grounded.
"First of all," House said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register, "we are going to get you some actual food that doesn't make you want to vomit. Second of all, we are going to figure it out."
"You don't even like kids," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your cheek. "You call them crotch-goblins."
"They are crotch-goblins," House agreed, his thumb brushing the tear away from your cheek with surprising tenderness. The warmth of his skin against yours was anchoring. "They're loud, they leak from various orifices, and they demand constant attention. But this one... half of its DNA comes from a woman who actually manages to tolerate me for more than ten minutes at a time. So the odds are slightly better that it won't be a total disaster."
You let out a watery, breathless laugh, reaching up to clasp your hand over his. "It's going to be an absolute trainwreck, Greg."
"An absolute, catastrophic trainwreck," House murmured, a genuine, soft smile finally tugging at the corners of his lips. He let go of your hand, shifting his weight as he pointed his cane toward the door. "Come on. I'm taking you home. If Cuddy asks, I'll tell her you have a highly contagious, fictional tropical disease. She won't risk coming near either of us."
As you stood up, your legs still a little shaky, House reached out and placed his palm firmly against the small of your aching back, guiding you out of the office. For the first time all day, the ache didn't feel quite so heavy.
-end
Tag list: @urfinalg1rl
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hi my loves :) it’s been a busy past months/year!! ive been rereading some of my works on here and its making me miss writing!! i’d love to get some requests to start getting out of my hiatus <3 they are open, please feel free to leave something! headcanons, blurbs, imagines, etc.
(i write for: DC/batfam, Top Gun, RDR2, and The Pitt)
Summary: John finds himself torn between the love you’ve built together and the ghost of the man who made it all possible, wondering if he’ll ever be enough.
wc: 2,313
Warnings: a little smut, angst, fluff, missing Arthur, body worship, hurt comfort
ao3 link
Inspired by Tyler, the Creator's song "Like Him (feat. Lola Young)" as well as a phenomenal edit I saw on tiktok the other day from @ arthursnipple with this song.
"That's it, baby," he rasped, pounding into you with little restraint. "Take what ya need."
He could feel you tightening around him, your nails digging into his back as you urged him on. And God help him, he wanted to give you everything - to make you scream his name until your throat was raw.
"You like that, sweetheart?" he grunted, angling his hips to hit that sweet spot deep inside you.
John could feel his own release building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter at the base of his spine. But he held back, determined to bring you to the brink first. He wanted to watch you come undone on his cock, to see the look on your face as you shattered in his arms. So he repositions your leg over his shoulder before doubling his efforts, his hips snapping into yours with brutal force as he watches your breasts bounce perfectly. Your lover pressed open-mouthed kisses to your ankle as you begged for him to keep going, to keep filling you up, just as you had done so many times before.
“That’s my baby,” he grunted, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You moved your hand to cover his on your waist, and the soft contact caused him to meet your gaze.
Do I look like him?
The thought flashed across his mind faster than he could realize, and the startling thought caused a stutter in his hips. You pretend not to notice as he softly shakes the thought from his mind, but his eyes left yours as quickly as he found them.
John's hips snapped forward again, driving into you with renewed intensity. The bed frame creaked and groaned beneath you, threatening to give way under the force of your passion. But John barely noticed, too consumed by the unease he suddenly felt deep in his chest.
“Cum for me, baby,” he commanded, his voice rough with desire and desperation, “I wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.” And with a final, intense thrust of his hips, you shattered in his arms, body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over you. John worked you through it all, prolonging your climax until you were boneless and completely spent beneath him. After allowing you a moment to catch your breath, he pulls out of you and quickly finds the bandana on his nightstand to wipe up his mess. He’s slow and deliberate about it, studying every curve of your body while avoiding your gaze.
“You didn’t finish,” you whisper.
“That’s okay, sweetheart.”
-
The night was still, the only sounds coming from the soft rustle of the wind through the trees and the rhythmic creak of the old wood frame beneath the weight of the two of you. The room was dark save for the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the thin curtains. He couldn’t sleep. He rarely does these days.
His gaze fixed on the ceiling, his thoughts heavy and tangled. Your hand rested lightly on his chest, your fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. A gesture so small, but one that made his heart ache with the weight of everything he didn’t know how to say.
You were here, with him, at Beecher’s Hope. After everything—after the chaos of the gang, the bloodshed, the loss—you had chosen to stay. Chosen him. And yet, as John lay there, staring into the darkness, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else’s shadow lingered between you.
Arthur.
He hadn’t spoken the name out loud in years, but it lived in his mind like an uninvited guest. The man who had saved him, the man who had been everything he wasn’t—steady, loyal, selfless. The man you had loved first.
John had never blamed you for it. How could he? Arthur was easy to love in ways John never felt he was. He had been your rock, your safe haven, in the chaos of the life you’d all been trapped in. John wasn’t blind to the fact that if Arthur hadn’t been taken by sickness, hadn’t sacrificed everything for the people he cared about, you wouldn’t be lying here now. Not with him.
His chest tightened at the thought, and his free hand moved to rest over yours, his fingers brushing the back of your hand as if to reassure himself that you were real.
John had always felt like a man playing a role he wasn’t fit for. Husband, father, lover—they were words that didn’t sit right on his tongue, responsibilities that felt like borrowed clothes he couldn’t quite fill. And yet here he was, with you beside him, Jack in the next room, and a life that felt almost too good to be true.
John takes a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls lazily toward the ceiling. “You think about him a lot, don’t you?”
You stiffen at the question, fingers wrapping tightly against the fabric of his union suit, you don’t need to ask who he means. There’s only one man whose shadow stretches this far, even after all these years.
“John…” you start, your voice soft but edged with warning.
“I’m not mad,” he says quickly, cutting you off. His eyes meet yours, and you see something in them that makes your chest tighten—an understanding that feels heavier than anger ever could. “I just… I just want to know.”
You look away, your gaze drifting to the fireplace in the bedroom. The flames flicker and dance, and for a moment, you see Arthur’s face in your mind’s eye—his crooked smile, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you. You swallow hard, the memory sharp and bittersweet.
“Sometimes,” you finally admit. “I think about what he’d say… what he’d think about all this.”
“All this,” John echoes, his voice quieter now. He crushes his cigarette butt in the ashtray on the nightstand, running a hand through his dark hair. “You mean us.”
You nod, your throat too tight to speak. You know this is a conversation you’ve both been avoiding for years, but it was bound to happen eventually. The ghost of Arthur Morgan has always been a part of your relationship, even if neither of you wanted to admit it.
John rolls to face you, propping himself up on his elbow, his lips pursed together. “Do you… do you ever wonder if it woulda been different? If he hadn’t…”
“Don’t,” you interrupt, your voice sharper than you intended. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Don’t do that, John. It’s not fair. To him. To us.”
He nods, but the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease. “I know it ain’t fair.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken until now. You feel the sting of them, not because they’re cruel, but because they’re true. Arthur had saved you in more ways than one, even in death. He’d given you the strength to carry on, the courage to find something resembling happiness again. And yes, he’d brought you to John, even if not intentionally.
“Sometimes I wonder if he’d hate me for this,” he murmurs. “For bein’ with you. For tryin’ to give you the kind of life he wanted to.”
You squeeze his hand tightly, willing him to feel the truth of your words. “Arthur wouldn’t hate you, John. He’d want me to be happy. He’d want you to be happy too.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. The firelight plays over his features, casting shadows under his eyes and across his jaw. For a moment, you think he’s going to let the conversation drop, but then he leans over and cups your face gently, his calloused thumb brushing away the tears you didn’t even realize were falling.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough,” he says, his voice raw and unsteady. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life tryin’ to be.”
Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you. It’s not a hesitant kiss, or a questioning one—it’s fierce, full of need and vulnerability and love. His lips press against yours with a desperation that speaks of all the things he can’t say, all the fears he carries but refuses to burden you with. You gasp against him, your hands clutching at his shirt as if to ground yourself, and he deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair.
The world outside the cabin fades, the weight of the past momentarily lifting as his warmth surrounds you. When he finally pulls back, both of you breathless, his forehead rests against yours. His eyes are glassy, his breathing uneven.
“I love you,” he whispers, the words as much a plea as a promise.
“I love you too, John. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He pulls you into his side as you dry your tears on the fabric of his shirt. It’s not long after that sleep claims you. He turned his head to look at you, his breath catching at the sight. The moonlight painted your face in soft silver, your features relaxed and peaceful. You looked beautiful, even in sleep—especially in sleep, when the weight of the world seemed to lift from your shoulders.
John’s breath was slow and measured as he lay beside you, the faint glow of moonlight outlining your figure against the bed. You were wrapped in his arms, your bare skin glowing like some ethereal thing, soft and inviting. His gaze roamed over you, unhurried, lingering on every curve and line as if he could imprint the sight of you onto his very soul.
He’d seen you like this countless times before, but tonight felt different— more fragile, as if this moment existed on the edge of something he couldn’t quite name.
His hand moved slowly, almost reverently, tracing the curve of your shoulder, the delicate slope of your collarbone. His calloused fingers felt clumsy against your softness, but he didn’t stop, letting his touch map the places his eyes had already memorized.
Every freckle, every scar, every mark on your body felt like a story he wanted to know by heart. The faint dip of your spine, the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, the way your hair fanned out across the pillow—all of it was mesmerizing, sacred.
John’s hand drifted to your arm, following the curve down to your wrist, where he paused to marvel at the fragility of it, at how someone as strong as you could feel so breakable in his hands. He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your palm, then to the delicate skin of your wrist where he could feel your pulse thrumming beneath his mouth.
His chest tightened as he shifted closer, his lips trailing along your arm, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck. He wanted to know every inch of you, wanted to memorize you in a way that went deeper than touch or sight. He wanted to carry the memory of you with him always, in a place where no time or distance or loss could ever take it away.
As his hands moved to your waist, his fingers splaying across your skin like he was anchoring himself to you, he closed his eyes and breathed you in. You smelled like home—faint traces of lavender soap and the earthy scent of the outdoors. He thought of how often he took for granted the simple presence of you, the way you fit against him like you belonged there.
You stirred under his touch, your breath hitching slightly as you turned your head toward him, your eyes fluttering open. The sight of you looking at him, sleepy and soft, sent a rush of something overwhelming through him—something that felt like love but was too big and too consuming to be named so simply.
“John,” you whispered, your voice heavy with sleep but laced with something deeper, something knowing.
He didn’t answer, couldn’t find the words. Instead, he leaned down and kissed you again, his lips slow and deliberate, tasting the softness of your mouth, the heat of your skin. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, though that burned beneath the surface—it was a kiss of devotion, of a man trying to capture the essence of the woman he loved in a way that words and memory alone could never hold.
When he pulled back, his hand moved to cradle your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek as his eyes searched yours. “I just… I just want to remember you like this,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion.
You smiled softly, your hand covering his as you leaned into his touch. “I’m not going anywhere, John.”
He nodded, though his chest still ached with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. Maybe you weren’t going anywhere, but life had a way of taking what mattered most. And if it ever did, he’d carry this night, this moment, with him always—every inch of you burned into his memory, like a brand on his soul.
His lips brushed your forehead, a kiss so light it was barely there, but it carried all the things he didn’t know how to say.
He loved you. He didn’t always know if he deserved you, but he loved you more than he’d ever thought himself capable of loving anyone.
John’s eyes grew heavy as he let the warmth of your body and the steady sound of your breathing pull him toward sleep. He didn’t have the answers, didn’t know if he ever would, but as he lay there with you in his arms, he knew one thing for certain.
He’d spend the rest of his life trying to be the man you needed him to be. Even if he’d never quite escape the shadow of the man who came before him.
Summary: Clark takes you the Daily Planet holiday party <3
Word count: 4k+
Warnings: fluff, Steve being a dick
A/N:
read imaginary girlfriend here
hi guys! this was a request by an anon, so thank you so much! You can read this as a part 2 of my fic imaginary girlfriend, hope you guys will like it! xxx
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The Daily Planet holiday party was exactly what Clark expected
and exactly what he dreaded.
Too much noise. Too much attention. Too many people who knew him too well, people who thought they understood him because they’d watched him for years, not realizing how much of himself he’d learned to tuck away between polite smiles and pressed shirts.
The bullpen had been transformed into something that looked like it belonged in a Christmas movie if you squinted hard enough.
String lights drooped between desks, looping awkwardly around computer monitors like they’d been installed by someone with more enthusiasm than skill. Tinsel clung desperately to filing cabinets and corkboards, shedding glitter every time someone brushed past. A cheap artificial tree leaned in the corner, slightly crooked, one strand of lights already flickering like it was reconsidering its life choices.
Someone had spiked the punch ( which was weird to Clark since there was alcohol available), and someone else had already spilled it, leaving the faint smell of sugar and alcohol soaked into the carpet. A playlist of overly cheerful holiday music played too loud from someone’s phone hooked up to speakers that had seen better decades.
Perry White stood near the copy desk, nursing a drink and pretending not to notice any of it—pretending, with impressive commitment, that this was not happening in his newsroom.
Clark stood just inside the doorway, coat still on, scarf still looped around his neck, palms damp despite the chill outside.
He adjusted his glasses.
Then adjusted them again.
His heart was already beating too fast.
He told himself—firmly—that this was fine. That he had handled worse. That this was just coworkers and string lights and punch that definitely shouldn’t have been that color.
And then you stepped in beside him.
You didn’t announce yourself.
You didn’t need to.
You weren’t flashy. You never were.
That was part of what undid him.
The dress was fitted to your body, elegant, dark, soft fabric hugging you in a way that felt intentional without being loud. Short enough to show your legs, long enough to keep its dignity. It didn’t sparkle. It didn’t shout. It simply was.
Devastating in its restraint.
Your hair framed your face simply, styled in a way that looked effortless but absolutely wasn’t. Makeup done with care—enhancing, not disguising. Familiar features made luminous instead of masked. And beneath it all, faint but unmistakable, the scent Clark loved most in the world.
Warm. Comforting. You.
Clark’s brain short-circuited the moment he saw you like this back in his apartment.
It didn’t reboot.
For a split second, he forgot the room. Forgot the noise. Forgot how to swallow.
This—this—was his girlfriend.
The woman who curled up in his sweaters.
Who stole his socks.
Who kissed him hello like she’d been waiting all day.
Standing here, glowing under office string lights like she belonged anywhere she chose to stand.
His body reacted before his thoughts caught up.
He leaned in automatically, hand settling at your lower back—not claiming, not controlling. Just grounding. Like touching you reminded his nervous system how to function.
“You okay, honey?” he asked quietly, voice pitched low so only you could hear it.
You turned to him, eyes calm, steady, warm in a way that cut straight through his panic.
“Baby,” you said softly, almost amused, “don’t worry about me. I’m great.”
Your tone alone eased something tight in his chest.
He nodded once, like he trusted you completely. Like he always did.
“Okay. Good. Because—” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as his gaze flicked back to you, then away, then back again like looking too long might be dangerous. “You look… very… wow.”
It was the most eloquent sentence his brain could currently assemble.
You smiled—the kind of smile meant just for him—and squeezed his fingers gently.
“Breathe, sweetheart.”
He did.
Slow. Careful. Like you were teaching him how again.
Only then did the room start to come back into focus.
Across the room, Lois Lane spotted you immediately.
She froze mid-sip, eyes narrowing—not suspicious, not hostile, just intensely, professionally alert.
“Oh,” she said, loud enough to carry. “There she is.”
Clark felt it like a pressure drop.
He winced slightly, shoulders tensing before he could stop himself. “I’m sorry in advance,” he murmured to you, already resigned.
You squeezed his hand once, reassuring. He didn’t know how you stayed so calm when everyone else seemed to be circling like sharks.
Lois crossed the room with purpose, drink already in hand, heels clicking against the floor. She stopped directly in front of you, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe—not unkindly, but thoroughly, like she was mentally filing evidence.
Then she smirked.
“Well,” Lois said, “guess I should stop telling people you’re a government psy-op.”
Clark groaned quietly under his breath.
You laughed lightly, unfazed, voice warm. “That would be appreciated. I was worried I’d have to start filing paperwork.”
Lois snorted despite herself, then leaned in closer, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial instead of interrogative.
“You look incredible, by the way,” she added, genuine now. “Like… drop-dead gorgeous. Which brings me to my first question.”
Clark stiffened.
He knew that tone. He’d heard it aimed at criminals, politicians, and once, memorably, at a suspiciously cheerful barista.
She tilted her head toward him, lips curling. “What’s his secret?”
Clark opened his mouth—no idea what he planned to say—and then froze.
Before he could humiliate himself further, Jimmy popped up at Lois’ shoulder like a summoned gremlin, nodding with exaggerated seriousness.
“Yeah,” Jimmy said, peering at you like you were an unsolved miracle. “Like—is he paying you? Because if that’s the case, I can help him budget. I’ve seen his grocery receipts. He buys name-brand cereal.”
Clark went scarlet. Scarlet.
“Jimmy—!” he protested, mortified, one hand half-lifting as if that might physically stop the words.
You didn’t miss a beat.
“If he were paying me,” you said pleasantly, lips curving into an easy smile, “I’d insist on hazard pay.”
Jimmy blinked.
Then he burst out laughing, delighted and unrepentant. “Okay, I love her so much already, Clark.”
Clark looked like he might dissolve into the carpet.
“Well, well.”
Cat stepped into view, eyes lighting up as she took you in. Not subtle. Not restrained. Open appreciation, sharpened by curiosity.
“Oh, honey,” Cat said, gesturing vaguely between you and Clark, “he didn’t just punch above his weight.”
She tilted her head, smiling wickedly. “He left the atmosphere. You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
Clark made a small, helpless sound—something between a cough and a whimper—and dropped his gaze, ears burning.
Cat turned fully to you now, eyes bright. “Blink twice if you’re being emotionally manipulated by a farm boy with nice shoulders.”
Clark’s head snapped up. “Cat—”
You smiled sweetly, unbothered. “I pursued him, actually.”
The effect was immediate.
The room didn’t just quiet—it stilled.
Lois’ eyebrows shot up.
Jimmy’s grin froze mid-smile.
Cat’s mouth fell open just a fraction.
Clark stared at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics.
“You—” he stammered, completely undone. “You don’t have to say that.”
“Oh, I know,” you said softly, glancing up at him, eyes warm with amusement and affection. “I just like watching you panic.”
Cat laughed, delighted and sharp. “Oh, she’s dangerous.”
Lois shook her head, impressed despite herself. Jimmy leaned closer to Clark and whispered, reverent, “Legend.”
Clark was still reeling—heart pounding, brain short-circuited, deeply aware of the way your body leaned easily into his—when a voice cut through the group.
“Kent.”
The single word cut through the hum of the party with practiced authority.
Clark’s spine straightened instantly, shoulders squaring on instinct before his brain had even caught up. Years of muscle memory snapped into place — reporter, employee, yes sir.
He turned.
Perry White stood a few feet away, hands planted firmly on his hips, suit immaculate despite the chaos of the holiday party swirling around him. His glasses sat low on his nose, sharp eyes already assessing the scene: Clark, the woman at his side, the subtle but undeniable closeness between you.
“You gonna introduce me to your guest,” Perry asked, tone gruff but curious, “or are you hoping I don’t notice you brought company?”
There was no accusation in it. Just expectation.
Clark swallowed.
This mattered more than he wanted it to.
Not because Perry was his boss — though that alone would’ve been reason enough — but because Perry White was a man who valued truth, integrity, and backbone. And Clark had spent years being careful. Quiet. Unassuming.
He felt your presence beside him, steady and warm, grounding him without saying a word.
He turned to you first — not out of formality, but respect — meeting your eyes. You gave him the smallest nod, reassuring, supportive. I’m here.
Then he turned back to Perry, breath measured, voice steady despite the chaos roaring in his chest.
“Of course, sir. My apologies.”
He gestured gently toward you, his hand hovering at your back like it belonged there — because it did.
“Mr. White,” he said, clearly, deliberately, “this is my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend.
He didn’t rush it.
Didn’t stumble.
Didn’t hedge with qualifiers or awkward explanations.
Just truth, spoken plainly.
The word hung in the air.
Perry blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“…Your girlfriend,” he repeated, skepticism edging into surprise.
“Yes, sir,” Clark said, unwavering.
Perry’s gaze slid to you then — not dismissive, not leering, just sharp and assessing. He took in your posture, the calm confidence with which you stood, the way you didn’t shrink under his scrutiny.
Then he looked back at Clark.
For a long second, he said nothing.
Then he snorted.
“Kent,” Perry said, shaking his head slightly, “I knew you were hiding something. Just figured it was another Pulitzer, not this.”
Clark’s ears burned bright red. “Sir—”
Perry waved him off with a dismissive flick of his hand, already turning fully toward you.
“You got nerves of steel,” he said, tone dry but not unkind, “or a very specific weakness.”
You met his gaze without hesitation, expression open, composed, entirely yourself.
“Probably both,” you replied evenly.
Perry huffed a short laugh — surprised, approving.
“Fair enough.”
He extended his hand toward you, grip firm, professional. “Nice to meet you. Enjoy the party.”
You took his hand, returning the handshake easily. “Thank you, sir.”
Perry nodded once more, already turning back toward the room, satisfied.
As he walked away, Clark let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
His shoulders loosened. His hand found yours fully this time, fingers threading together.
He leaned in just enough to murmur, “You handled that… really well.”
You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. “So did you.”
"Well I’ll be damned.”
Clark’s shoulders went tight immediately. He knew that voice. Knew that tone.
Steve Lombard stood there grinning, drink already in hand, posture loose and smug in a way that had always made Clark grit his teeth. His eyes slid past Clark entirely, landing on you with unapologetic interest.
“And who is this?” Steve said, grin widening. “Kent, don’t tell me she’s your relative, because I will never believe a goddess like this came out of the Kent genes.”
There were a few awkward chuckles nearby. A few people shifted uncomfortably.
Clark stiffened fully now, spine straight, jaw setting. “Steve,” he said sharply, “this is my girlfriend.”
Steve blinked.
Then burst out laughing.
“Oh yeah,” he said between laughs, shaking his head. “And I’m dating Beyoncé.”
The sound landed wrong. Too loud. Too mean.
“Sorry to tell you, pal,” Steve continued, waving a dismissive hand at Clark, “but there’s no way a loser like you could handle a woman like her.”
Clark felt it then—immediate and sharp.
The familiar urge to apologize. To deflect. To smooth things over.
But underneath it, something else flared.
Anger.
His hand tightened at your back without him realizing it, fingers pressing there like a reflex. Protective. Grounded. A silent are you okay?
You noticed.
Of course you did.
Steve finally looked back at you, grin still fixed in place as he stepped closer. “Steve Lombard,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Lovely to meet you.”
You didn’t take it.
The refusal was subtle. Calm. Absolute.
You simply looked at him—really looked—meeting his eyes without flinching, without smiling, without shrinking an inch.
“I wish I could say the same,” you said evenly. “But it was not nice meeting you. Like… at all.”
The grin slipped.
The room seemed to tilt toward you.
You kept your tone light, almost curious — the way people did when they were genuinely interested.
Or when they were about to make someone very uncomfortable with a well-placed question.
“Quick question,” you said, head tilting just slightly, eyes never leaving his. “Is this the part where you explain why I apparently shouldn’t exist in this equation…”
A beat.
“…or the part where you apologize to my boyfriend for deciding his worth based on your own insecurities?”
You let the silence stretch — not aggressive, not rushed.
“Because,” you continued calmly, like you were clarifying a point in your therapy session, “I’m noticing a lot of projection happening here. And I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page before it turns into something you regret saying out loud.”
Your smile was polite. Almost pleasant.
“But if it helps,” you added, voice still even, “people usually don’t question someone else’s lovability unless they’re deeply uncomfortable with their own.”
The room didn’t just go quiet.
It stilled.
Clark’s breath caught beside you.
Steve’s grin was gone. Completely. Like someone had flipped a switch.
You held his gaze another second — not cruel, not smug — then softened just enough to be unmistakably final.
“So,” you finished gently, “which option are we going with?”
No raised voice.
No insults.
Just a mirror he hadn’t asked to look into.
And Clark — standing there beside you, hand still warm at your back — had never loved you more.
Steve opened his mouth.
Closed it.
His eyes darted—not just to you, but around the room, as if suddenly realizing he didn’t have an audience anymore. Just witnesses.
He cleared his throat, forcing a laugh that didn’t land. “Right. Uh. I—yeah. I think Perry needs me.”
You nodded once. A small, decisive motion. “I think so too.”
Steve didn’t argue.
He turned and walked away quickly, shoulders stiff, disappearing into the crowd without another word.
The air slowly loosened.
Clark stood there for a second, heart pounding—not with embarrassment, not with fear—but with awe.
He looked at you like you’d just done something impossible.
Like you’d stepped into a room full of doubt and shut it down with nothing but honesty and spine.
“…You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly, though there was no accusation in his voice. Just wonder.
You turned to him then, the edge gone from your posture like it had never been there. The steel melted back into warmth, into you. Your hand brushed his arm, fingers curling there with intention, grounding him the way you always did.
“Of course I did, baby,” you said gently.
Clark’s breath caught.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice — not because you were afraid of being heard, but because the words belonged to him alone.
“You’re worthy of love,” you said, slow and certain, every syllable deliberate. “You always have been. And I’m going to love you for the rest of my life.”
For a second, Clark forgot where he was.
The newsroom.
The party.
The people watching.
All of it fell away under the weight of that promise.
His eyes went a little glassy before he could stop it. He squeezed your hand harder, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he needed the reassurance of something solid to keep himself upright.
“You—” His voice cracked, traitorous. He swallowed and tried again. “You don’t have to say things like that.”
You smiled, soft but unwavering. “I know.”
Then, because you were you, your expression shifted — playful, bright, just a touch dangerous.
“And also,” you added, lifting your chin and glancing pointedly around the room, “no one calls my loser a loser.”
Clark let out a startled laugh — short, breathless, helpless.
“I am not—” he started.
You poked his chest lightly. “You absolutely are.”
He laughed again, fuller this time, shoulders loosening as the tension finally bled out of him. “I can’t believe you.”
“You love me,” you said smugly.
“I do, so much,” he admitted instantly, without hesitation, like the truth lived too close to the surface to be hidden anymore.
The two of you stood there for a moment longer, hands still linked, grinning at each other like teenagers who’d just gotten away with something. Clark leaned his forehead toward yours, not quite touching, just enough to exist in the same breath.
“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.
You bumped his shoulder with yours. “We’ll unpack that later, big guy.”
“Okay! That’s enough.”
Lois appeared out of nowhere, already halfway through a sip of her drink, eyes sharp and amused. “It’s been five minutes since you walked in, and that’s five minutes too long without alcohol.”
She pointed at you decisively. “My friend. You’re with me now.”
You laughed, surprised but not resisting as Lois grabbed your wrist. “Is this an intervention?”
“Yes,” Lois said cheerfully, already steering you away. “For your terrible decision-making skills. Starting with dating Clark Kent.”
“Hey!” Clark protested weakly.
Lois shot him a look over her shoulder. “Relax, Kent. I’m borrowing her. Not corrupting her.”
“Debatable,” you said, laughing as she pulled you toward the drinks table.
You glanced back over your shoulder then.
Clark stood where you’d left him, still a little stunned, still smiling like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. His tie was crooked again. His glasses slightly askew. Completely undone.
You lifted your hand in a small wave.
He smiled back — soft, private, full of something that felt like forever — and gave you the tiniest nod, like he was saying I’m right here.
And for the first time that night, as the party swelled back into laughter and music and clinking glasses, Clark Kent didn’t feel small.
He felt chosen.
The rest of the night softened after that.
Not all at once. Not magically. Just… gently.
Like a room exhaling after holding its breath too long.
The sharp edges dulled first. Conversations lost their brittle snap and slid into something easier. People leaned instead of stood rigidly. Laughter came without effort—less performative, more genuine. Someone turned the music down a notch, and suddenly it felt less like a workplace pretending to be festive and more like people allowing themselves, briefly, to enjoy being together.
Someone refilled the punch. Someone else abandoned it for beer. A scarf was draped over the back of a chair and forgotten. The artificial tree stopped flickering and settled into a steady glow.
Lois relaxed first.
She perched on the edge of a desk with her drink balanced loosely in her hand, one heel hooked around a chair leg, posture open in a way Clark rarely saw at work. No crossed arms. No sharp angles. She laughed more than she interrogated. Listened more than she challenged.
At one point, she let Jimmy finish an entire story without interrupting him once.
Clark noticed. He always noticed.
Every so often, Lois’ gaze flicked toward you and Clark—just a glance, quick and thoughtful. There was something almost satisfied in her expression. Like a theory she’d been chewing on for weeks had finally clicked into place.
Jimmy hovered nearby, curiosity radiating off him in waves.
He asked you about your work—real questions, thoughtful ones—and actually listened to the answers. He nodded along, brows furrowed in concentration, occasionally chiming in with follow-ups that showed he wasn’t just waiting for his turn to speak.
“That’s… really cool,” he said at one point, genuine awe softening his voice. “Clark never talks about this stuff.”
Clark blinked, mildly offended. “I do too.”
Jimmy shot him a look. “Yeah right.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Clark groaned, tipping his head back slightly. “I’m terrible at summaries.”
“You’re terrible at underselling yourself,” you said fondly, squeezing his hand.
He smiled at that—small, shy, but real.
Cat drifted in and out of conversations, as if she owned the airspace; her heels clicked softly, her presence magnetic. She complimented your taste in music when a song you recommended came on. Your earrings. The way you’d paired your shoes with your dress.
Even Perry lingered longer than usual.
He stood near the punch bowl, arms crossed, surveying the room with his usual gruff authority—but his gaze kept drifting back to Clark. Not scrutinizing. Not evaluating.
Watching.
Every time he caught Clark smiling too wide or leaning a little too close to you—head dipped, attention fully focused—there was the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. Like a man who’d just learned something unexpected and decided, quietly, that he approved.
And Clark?
Clark stayed close.
Not hovering. Not territorial.
Just… present.
His hand always found yours—fingers brushing accidentally, then intentionally, then lacing together and staying there like it had always belonged. When you shifted, he shifted with you without thinking. When someone addressed him, his body angled toward you even as he responded.
Every few minutes, his eyes flicked to you.
Not anxious. Not jealous.
Just reassured.
Like he needed to see you were still there. Still real. Still choosing him.
You caught him doing it once and smiled.
He flushed faintly and looked away, but his grip on your hand tightened just a little.
At one point, Lois leaned over toward you, voice low and amused, eyes still trained on Clark.
“He’s gone,” she muttered. “Completely. I’ve never seen him like this.”
You followed her gaze.
Clark was mid-laugh at something Jimmy had said, shoulders relaxed, head tipped forward, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. He wasn’t watching the room. Wasn’t monitoring reactions. Wasn’t bracing for impact.
He was just… there.
Open. Unguarded. Happy in a way that didn’t ask permission.
“Good,” you said softly.
Lois huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. Good.”
There was a pause then—not awkward, just thoughtful. Lois took a sip of her drink, eyes still on Clark, then finally glanced back at you.
“Can I ask you something?” you said gently.
She turned fully toward you. “Shoot.”
You hesitated for half a second—not because you were afraid, but because you wanted to say it right.
“Why is it so hard,” you asked quietly, “for you guys to understand that I’m with Clark?”
Lois blinked.
You continued, still calm, not accusatory. “I know everyone was messing with him. And I get that some of it was teasing. But… why was it so unbelievable?”
Lois opened her mouth immediately. “Hey—no. Okay. First of all,” she said, holding up a hand, “when we first saw you, yeah. It was a surprise. But only because—” she gestured vaguely at you, then laughed, “—you were real. And gorgeous. Let’s be honest.”
You smiled despite yourself, shaking your head. “Continue.”
“But,” Lois went on, her tone shifting—less sharp, more sincere, “I’ve seen Clark. I’ve known Clark.”
She leaned back against the desk, drink resting loosely in her hand now, eyes distant like she was replaying years of memories.
“Never once,” she said slowly, “in his entire life—at least not since I’ve known him—has he put himself first. Not his wants. Not his happiness. Not even his needs.”
You listened, heart steady, attention fixed on her.
“It’s always been other people,” Lois continued. “Other stories. Other responsibilities. Other disasters. He’s always juggling something. Carrying something. And he does it quietly, like it’s just… what he’s supposed to do.”
She glanced back at Clark again, softer now. “So yeah. I wondered. Why now? Why you?”
She exhaled, a small, almost rueful smile touching her lips.
“And then I watched him, how he was with you.”
You stayed quiet.
“I watched him not flinch,” Lois said. “Not overthink. Not disappear into himself. He’s not splitting himself in half trying to be what he thinks he should be.”
Her gaze returned to you, sharp but kind.
“He doesn’t feel like he has to juggle two sides of himself with you,” she said. “He’s just… Clark.”
Your throat tightened—not painfully, but with something warm and heavy.
Lois shrugged lightly, like she was trying to play it off, but her voice was steady. “And I get it. You’re good for him. You make him feel safe enough to stop carrying everything alone.”
You swallowed, then smiled softly. “He’s good for me too.”
Lois nodded once. “Yeah. I figured.”
Across the room, Clark laughed again—bright and unguarded—and when his eyes flicked over and found you, his smile softened instantly. Like the rest of the world dimmed just a little when you were in view.
You smiled back.
Lois watched the exchange, then snorted quietly. “God. If he gets any happier, I’m filing a complaint.”
You laughed.
But underneath it, there was something settled now. Something understood.
Time slipped the way it does when no one is checking it.
“So,” Jimmy said, casual, eyes flicking toward where you were standing with Lois near her desk. “That went… well.”
Clark choked slightly. “That’s one word for it.”
Jimmy grinned. “She absolutely ended Lombard. Like, spiritually.”
Clark huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “She told me she was ‘being polite.’”
“That was polite?” Jimmy’s eyes widened. “Man. Remind me never to get on her bad side.”
Clark smiled again, gaze drifting back to you without him realizing it. You were laughing at something Lois had said, head tipped back slightly, hands animated, completely at ease.
Jimmy noticed.
“Oh no,” he said, nudging Clark again. “Don’t do that.”
Clark blinked. “Do what?”
“That look,” Jimmy said. “The one where you stare at her like she personally invented happiness.”
Clark’s ears went pink. “I don’t—”
“You do,” Jimmy cut in. “All the time. It’s gross. And kind of amazing.”
Clark ducked his head, smiling into his glass. “She just… makes things feel lighter.”
Jimmy sobered a little at that.
He followed Clark’s gaze again, watched you gesture as you spoke, watched the way Lois leaned in instead of interrogating — a rare sight.
“…Okay,” Jimmy said slowly. “Real talk?”
Clark glanced at him. “Always.”
Jimmy shifted his weight, fingers absently twisting the camera strap slung across his chest — a nervous habit Clark had seen a hundred times but never really noticed before.
“I used to think,” Jimmy admitted, “that you just didn’t want this stuff. Like—” he waved a hand vaguely between Clark and you, “relationships. Being seen. Being happy in a loud way.”
Clark frowned faintly. “I did want it.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said quickly. “I know that now.” He nodded toward you. “But before? It was like you were always holding something back. Like you were bracing for the floor to drop out.”
Clark exhaled slowly.
The music played low and warm, muffled by laughter and the clink of glasses. For the first time all night, he didn’t feel the need to scan the room, to listen for everything at once.
“I didn’t know how to want something just for me,” he said quietly. “Not without feeling like I was taking it from somewhere else.”
Jimmy didn’t interrupt.
“I was always afraid,” Clark continued, voice steady but honest, “that if I let myself have something good… I’d be failing someone else. Somewhere.”
Jimmy absorbed that, eyes softening as he looked back toward you.
“And now?” he asked gently.
Clark didn’t hesitate.
“Now it feels like I’m allowed to be here,” he said. “With her. With all of you.”
Jimmy smiled — not teasing, not sarcastic. Just real.
“Yeah,” he said. “It kinda feels like that.”
They stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, comfortable in the quiet.
Then Jimmy nudged him again, grin returning. “Also, for the record?”
Clark raised an eyebrow.
“If she ever breaks up with you,” Jimmy said solemnly, “I’m siding with her.”
Clark laughed — quiet, fond, a little disbelieving. “You’re unbelievable.”
“She rewired Lombard in thirty seconds,” Jimmy said. “That’s power.”
Clark shook his head, still smiling. “She didn’t even raise her voice.”
“That’s the scariest part,” Jimmy agreed.
“You look different, Clark.” He said, softer.
Clark glanced at him. “Different how?”
Jimmy shrugged. “Like you’re not waiting for someone to tell you you’re allowed to be happy.”
Clark’s throat tightened.
Across the room, you caught his eye again.
You smiled — small, knowing, unmistakably his.
Clark smiled back, something warm and steady blooming in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think I finally stopped asking.”
Jimmy clapped him once on the shoulder. “Good. About time.”
Eventually, the party thinned. People gathered coats, said lingering goodbyes. The music wound down until it was more hum than song. Someone turned off half the lights, leaving only the soft glow of string lights reflecting off windows and glass.
The newsroom felt different then. Quieter. Almost tender.
Near the doorway, you helped Clark into his coat.
He stood still for you, trusting, letting you fuss with his scarf and smooth his lapel like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your fingers brushed his chest once, absently, and his breath stuttered.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he murmured, though he made no move to stop you.
“I know,” you said, smiling. “I want to.”
He leaned down then, voice hushed, awe threaded through every word.
“You were incredible tonight.”
You looked up at him, really looked—at the warmth in his eyes, the softness in his expression—and brushed your thumb along his jaw, feeling the heat there, the faint roughness of stubble he hadn’t quite shaved away.
“So were you,” you said honestly.
He exhaled shakily, like the compliment had landed somewhere deep. His forehead came to rest against yours, breath warm, familiar. His hands settled at your waist, gentle but sure, like he needed the contact to stay upright.
“I don’t know how I got this lucky,” he whispered.
You tilted your head slightly, nose brushing his. “You didn’t,” you said softly. “You were just ready.”
His breath hitched.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Clark kissed you.
Not rushed. Not desperate.
Slow. Deep. Certain.
The kind of kiss that carried everything he hadn’t known how to say out loud—gratitude, devotion, relief, love so steady it felt like a promise. His lips lingered, forehead still touching yours when he pulled back, eyes shining behind his glasses.
He smiled then—small, private, a little dazed.
And for once—surrounded by fading laughter and people who finally saw him—Clark Kent believed it.
Believed in the love he’d found.
Believed he deserved it.
Believed in you.
The way you write Clark Kent is so beautiful and sweet!! I'm manifesting him right now!!! You perfectly envisioned my dream guy!!! Ahhhhhhh!!!@@😝🤭🤭🤭💗💗💗💗💗💗
18+ ⋮ biting dick's bicep while he fucks you in a headlock cw: mild blood
he’s got you in a fucking chokehold.
literally—his bicep curved around your throat from behind, crook of his elbow pressing up against your jaw while your back arches against the muscled heat of his chest, and he’s grinning, cock buried so deep inside you it feels like the stretch is permanent, like your body’s gonna memorize this angle forever and flinch at it in public.
“bite,” he pants, not even winded, voice hot and cruel and sweet against your ear. “come on, baby, don’t be shy. you know you want to.”
and fuck, you do. his biceps are ridiculous, taut and thick and flexed just to show off, twitching against your cheek like they want to be marked up. he likes it, that’s the worst part—he wants to see the bruises later, wants to trace the shape of your bite with his stupid pretty fingers and gloat about it
so you sink your teeth in—deep, deeper than you meant to, right where the vein throbs under his skin, and you feel him groan, feel his cock jolt inside you like he’s trying to fuck through the floor, hips slamming into the backs of your thighs so fast and steady now it’s mean.
“fuck yes—jesus, that’s it,” he gasps, hand slipping from your hip to your clit without mercy, rubbing fast and tight like he wants you crying.
you whimper around his arm, lips slick with spit and blood and sweat, tongue lapping at the wound like you’re starved for it—metallic and warm, intimate in a way that makes your toes curl, because it’s him, because you did that somehow.
and he’s laughing. “you little freak. fuck—look at you, you’re so into this. gonna cum just like that, huh? like a good girl in a headlock?”
your answer is just a noise, animal and helpless, because he’s right, of course he’s right, he knows exactly how to hold you, exactly how to fuck you through it, how to keep the pressure on your neck just tight enough to make your vision blur and your pussy clench around him like it never wants to let go.
and you don’t—not when he keeps talking in that low, filthy murmur, not when you can feel the sting of your teeth still throbbing in his arm, not when he grabs your jaw and tilts your mouth back open with two fingers just to see the mess you made.
“pretty,” he mutters, breath hot against your cheek, still fucking into you so deep it aches. “all mine. say it.”
you can’t. you just moan and shake, blood and spit pooling on your tongue, thighs trembling, tears caught on your lashes. he chuckles again. “that’s okay, baby. i’ll make you scream it later.”
“you might as well take the breath from my lungs. the stars from the sky; i wouldnt need the sun to rise. if youre not here, where would i be? darlin, dont take your love from me. i could live without, oh, just about anythin. but, if i lose you, darlin, then i lose everything..”
drabble | fluff, romance
authors note | i dont know how to write english accents. also i changed the plot for this so many times— originally it was supposed to be a long angst fic, but now its a short fluff. enjoy!
the fire crackled low, casting a warm amber glow over the battered old flat. the sofa creaked as john adjusted, careful not to jostle you where you lay against his chest, your legs tangled with his, your cheek tucked just over his heart. sleeping peacefully as the fire crackled in the background. he would occasionally watch the fire dance, not being able to join you in sleep as his mind was racing. he had the cigarette halfway to his lips before he remembered.
your voice echoed in his head, half-mocking, half-sincere: “you smoke that indoors again, and im burning this apartment down, constantine.”
he sighed, quietly, and set the cig back in its crumpled pack on the armrest. his hand found your lower back instead, fingertips tracing the hem of your shirt.
it wasnt supposed to go this far.
you were meant to be a one-off. a fling. a night of comfort in a world gone to hell. but now… it was daily. you were living here. your coat hung beside his, your records mixed in with his grimoires, your plants on the windowsill where there used to be dust and cigarette ash and your scent— lingered on his shirt, his sheets, even his bloody skin. he glanced down at you. your face was relaxed, lips slightly parted in sleep. it undid something in him, slow and irreversible. he hadn’t noticed it happening. not really. not until you looked at his kitchen drawer like it had personally insulted you.
“one fork?” you said outraged, holding the sad utensil like it might bite you. “one spoon? john, you live like an animal.” the next day you came home with an entire set of cutlery and a smug smile. “now you can eat like a person.”
that was the beginning of the end, wasn’t it?
the bottles stopped piling under the table. the cigarette ash disappeared. there was even a bloody throw pillow now. a floral one. he hadnt even argued. hed grumbled, sure— but then you kissed him on the cheek, whispering “its soft. youll like it, even if you wont admit it.” you were right. he did like it, not because of the act itself, but because it was from you. that alone made his heart warm. with you things were at peace, blissfully to the outside world and its depravity. when you were in his arms it felt like the chaos of the world paused just for a moment.
he moved a part of hair from your face, heart tightening in a way that felt dangerously close to hope. his thumb lingered there, just at the curve of your cheek.
“i was a right mess before you came along,” he murmured to the air. “still am, most days. but at least now the place smells like vanilla and lavender instead of blood and booze.” you stirred a little, nuzzling into him, murmuring something incoherent. he smiled despite himself— soft and crooked and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. it scared the hell out of him. how easily youd made a home here. how quickly hed let you into the ruins of his life. how much he had to lose now.
usually, relationships didnt last long for john. people got hurt, left, died… or more commonly self sabotage. it was a way of self protection, hurting them before he got hurt. but for the first time in a long time, the idea of losing someone made his lungs feel hollow. like the breath would leave him if you ever walked away. “if i lose you, luv…” he whispered, voice nearly breaking, “then i lose everythin, dont i?”
the fire popped. you nuzzled into his chest, getting more comfortable. you know when a cat is sleeping on you and youre not allowed to move? this is what that felt like.
john laid there quietly, holding onto you like he could keep the whole world from taking you. you were the only thing keeping him from slipping under. he was careless when he fought others, often deemed a selfish coward by his enemies. but for you? for you he would do anything to see your smile, to hear your laugh. you were his everything, and that fact terrified him.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥❀࿐I WALK THE LINE (bradley bradshaw x reader)
long time no see!! i’ve had the worst writers block ever + i’ve been vacationing a lot so this blog has been a bit neglected but i miss u all ): here’s a cute little draft from a few months ago <3
bradley bradshaw had long ago decided that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for you.
which is why you found yourself shooting up straight from your slumber at the sound of banging in the kitchen, taking note of the cold empty spot beside you. curious as ever, you tip-toed from your shared bedroom to investigate the commotion. the hardwood floor creaked with each footstep, halting any of your plans to be discreet.
when you peered into the kitchen you immediately wished you had a camera to immortalize the view before you. gone was your outdated kitchenspace that endlessly complained about. in place of the chipping vinyl backsplash was a tasteful assortment of handmade tiles, stylish utensil holders replaced the old cheap ones, and a welcoming shade of dark green replaced the beige paint that once covered your cupboards or counters.
in the midst of it was bradley. squatted in front of a freshly painted cabinet, screwing in a new set of handles. you nearly groaned at the sight of bare, toned back muscles on full display and a pair of jeans held up snugly by his favorite belt. you didn’t know what had you more awestruck; the new kitchen of your dreams or your hot fiancé that made it happen.
not missing a beat, you made your way to bradley and lovingly rubbed his shoulders to get his attention. he looked up at you instantly, brown eyes shining and flashing his signature smile. “good morning, sweetheart. i didn’t mean to wake ya.” he spoke, now standing up to face you. you wasted no time wrapping your arms around his neck to push your body flush against his. “when i mentioned wanting a new kitchen i didn’t think you’d do this,” you gestured behind you, “you’re unreal.”
he chuckled and pressed a kiss to your temple, “whatever it takes to make my girl happy. besides, i have the whole day off, i figured I’d keep myself busy.”
you smirked at his words, “thank you baby.” bradley opened his mouth to respond, but was quickly cut off by your finger being pressed against his lips. “however, i think my hardworking man deserves a break,” your hands dropped to rub sensually down his broad chest, “you have the day off, don’t you?”
he smiled the biggest smile you’d ever seen, all bright teeth shining, before responding: “i guess a break wouldn’t hurt.”
could we have some frank boyfriend hcs please? love ur writing !! <3
frank castle as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s
r e q u e s t e d ♡
cw ᝰ .ᐟ gender neutral reader ,, sfw ,, it’s frank castle so 🤨 mentions of blood and stuff
FRANK AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . loves quietly. fiercely. like it’s carved into him. he’s not the type to write poems or whisper sweet things — but he brings you coffee before you wake up and keeps his arm around you in every crowded room. he remembers how you take your tea, what shirt you sleep in, the exact sound you make when you laugh too hard.
frank doesn’t fall in love. he commits to it. like a vow. something permanent. he watches over you the way most people breathe — effortlessly, constantly, without needing to think. puts himself between you and danger before you even register that something’s wrong. it’s not dramatic for him — it’s just instinct.
watches bad action movies with you and critiques the gun work the whole time. “that’s not how recoil works.” “no way that guy walks away from a wound like that.” but when you laugh at him for it, he gets all smug. “just saying. i could do it better.”
frank’s not invincible. he carries grief in his ribs and guilt in his spine. sometimes it catches up with him. some nights he won’t come to bed. just sits on the floor beside it, back to the wall, eyes dark. like if he closes them, he’ll lose everything. including you. he doesn’t talk about his past much. doesn’t talk about feelings either. but when he holds you it’s with this kind of aching gentleness, like you’re the last good thing in a world he doesn’t trust anymore.
he never asks for anything, but he always lights up when you touch him first. when you kiss his shoulder without warning. when you reach for his hand. like it catches him off guard, every time — the idea that someone like you could choose someone like him.
he always drives. always. he won’t say it out loud, but he needs to be in control — needs to protect you, even from a fender bender or a bad intersection. keeps one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth. sings quietly when his favourite old songs come on. you almost miss it the first few times.
has a quiet little grunt-laugh when you get sarcastic. never full-on laughs — not the belly kind — but it’s a sharp exhale, a crooked smile, head tilted like “you got me.”
“you tired?” you’ll ask, and he’ll grunt something half-hearted. “i’m good.” but then he’s pulling you in, pressing his face into your neck, one heavy arm around your waist like a shield.
he doesn’t say i love you much. but he shows it in the way he always notices when you’re cold, the way he drives a little slower when you’re in the passenger seat, how he keeps an extra sweatshirt of his in your closet like it belongs there. frank listens when you talk. keeps your words tucked away like secrets. remembers names you mentioned once, the kind of books you like, the way you bite your lip when you’re about to cry but don’t want to.
he’s not scared of bullets or pain or anything that can be solved with his fists — but he gets scared of you leaving. scared that you’ll wake up one day and realize you deserve someone softer. someone safer, someone cleaner. so he’s careful. careful not to break things, careful not to raise his voice. careful not to bleed too close to you, even when he’s hurt.
keeps a toolbox in your apartment before he ever brings a toothbrush. fixes that squeaky cabinet door without being asked. rehangs your shelves, patches your drywall, silently wires your lamp so it stops flickering. doesn’t make a big deal about it — just hands you a cup of coffee after and kisses your forehead like it’s nothing.
does your dishes without saying a word. folds laundry with sleeves tucked in and socks matched. gets grumpy if you try to help while he’s in the zone. “i got it,” he mutters, brow furrowed like laundry’s a mission he must complete correctly. then he’ll look over and gently nudge you onto the couch. “sit. rest.”
like taking care of you is just part of his day.
he doesn’t sleep through the night, but he tries not to wake you. gets up quietly, makes tea in the dark. reads worn paperback thrillers with a flashlight like he’s still out in the field. but if you come find him — sleepy and barefoot, rubbing your eyes — he just opens his arms. pulls you into his lap, tucks his chin over your head.
gets oddly proud when he teaches you how to shoot. or fix a leak. or throw a punch. grins when you hit the target, calls you a natural. but the truth is he never wants you to have to use any of it. he’d burn the world down before he let something hurt you.
keeps a knife in the drawer by the bed. one in the glove compartment. one taped under the coffee table. it’s not paranoia — it’s habit. he was trained to anticipate the worst. but when you ask him about it, he softens. “just in case,” he says, hand resting on your back. “nothing’s gonna happen to you.”
he’s the kind of boyfriend who always knows when something’s off. even if you’re smiling, even if you say you’re fine. he notices when you’re quiet for too long, when your shoulders are tight. doesn’t push — just pulls you close, rubs slow circles into your back.
won’t ever tell the world what you are to him, but he keeps a photo of you tucked behind his driver’s license. always checks on it before he leaves for anything dangerous. you’re his anchor. his reason. he’s not a man who believes in second chances — but somehow, you are his.
he cooks like he’s back in the marines. efficient. fast. always enough for leftovers. but over time, he starts adding things just because you like them. makes your eggs how you like them, even if he doesn’t eat that way. tries your weird coffee orders without complaint. grumbles when he actually likes it. “too sweet,” he says, but finishes the whole thing.
when you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed. always. tucks the blanket around you, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with hands that have broken bones and pulled triggers — but only ever touch you like you’re made of silk. then he lays beside you, arm wrapped around your waist, breath evening out to the rhythm of yours.
still wakes up too early. still checks the locks. still sits with his back to the wall in restaurants, even when it’s just brunch on a sunny sunday. but now he does it with your hand in his, thumb tracing soft, absent-minded shapes across your knuckles. he doesn’t say it, but his body speaks for him: i’ve got you.
he keeps things simple. practical. doesn’t like clutter. but then your books start piling up on the nightstand, and your sweater ends up on his desk chair, and your perfume lingers in the bathroom air — and he doesn’t move any of it. not even once. instead, he adds to it. a second toothbrush. a pair of slippers in your size. a grocery list stuck to the fridge that says “your coffee” in his blocky, all-caps handwriting.
he won’t say i miss you when you leave for a few days, but he’ll text to ask where you keep the cereal. then follow up with “never mind, found it.” when you come home, the bed’s made, the dishes are done, your favorite blanket’s draped over the couch. he doesn’t know how to say i missed you, so he just lives it.
he starts to laugh more. not loud, not often — but the kind that makes you freeze for a second because it’s real. usually when you tease him. or when you trip over nothing and pretend it was “parkour.” that little huff he gives, the crinkle by his eyes — it feels like a gift every single time.
he does that thing where he kisses the top of your head every time he walks behind you. in the kitchen, brushing your teeth, putting on your shoes. just a soft press of his lips to your crown.
you’re the only one he lets bandage him. he’ll brush off broken ribs like they’re nothing but sits still when you press alcohol-soaked cotton to a split knuckle. watches you like you’re something holy. like your hands could undo every war he’s fought.
reads labels now. like, really reads them. checks if the cereal has too much sugar. makes sure the medicine doesn’t interact with the one you take. won’t admit it, but he googled the skincare brand you use to see if it was safe.
refuses to let you carry heavy groceries. like, absolutely not. you once tried to bring in two bags and he took them out of your hands mid-step. “what the hell are you doin’?” he said, annoyed, already loading up his arms.
doesn’t like crowds, but he’ll go anywhere with you. leans down and says “stay close” in your ear, hand low on your back the whole time. doesn’t let go until you’re home again.
he won’t dance. won’t sing. won’t go to parties. but he’ll hold you in the kitchen, swaying slightly to the radio while you hum into his chest. that, he’ll do.
major dog person. duh. doesn’t care that he’s tough. doesn’t care that he’s seen things — nothing melts him like a dog wagging its tail. he’s the kind of guy who’s out in the yard throwing a ball, talking in that low, soft voice that only dogs get to hear. “go get it, buddy!” and you almost can’t believe it’s him saying it.
makes sure your car is always in running condition. not just oil checks, either. he replaces your windshield wipers, cleans the headlights, checks the tires — all without you asking. it’s like his way of protecting you, even when he’s not around. he knows it’s a small thing, but it’s one more way to make sure you’re taken care of. you get a flat tire? frank’s there in a second. doesn’t matter what time it is, doesn’t matter if he’s just gotten home after a week-long job. he’ll grab the tools, roll up his sleeves, and take care of it — no problem.
when he gets home after a mission, he’s quiet at first. but then he’ll slide into bed next to you, pull you close, and breathe you in like he can’t quite believe he’s back. “missed you.” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, like it took everything out of him just to say it.
when you’re quiet, lost in thought, he notices. doesn’t pry, but always checks in with a low “you alright?” just so you know he’s paying attention.
frank is actually really into music, but only plays it when he's alone with you. he has an old guitar stashed in a corner of the apartment and you’ll catch him strumming it softly in the mornings before either of you are fully awake.
whenever you’ve had a bad day, he’ll quietly take care of things around the house — extra dishes done, the laundry folded without you asking, everything wiped down and cleaned up. not because he has to, but because he wants you to feel like home, like you have one less thing to worry about. he doesn’t say anything about it; he just silently goes about it while you take a nap or relax.
he’s sentimental about your things. you’ll catch him carrying around a keychain you gave him, or putting a postcard from your last vacation on his fridge. it’s subtle, but there are all these little pieces of you around his place — items that remind him of you, things that carry a piece of your heart.
good at remembering all your friends’ names. and the names of their kids. and their jobs. you’ll be like, “i saw claire today,” and frank will be like, “the one with the twin boys? she doin’ okay?” like it’s his job to keep track of your whole social circle now.
he has a weird soft spot for baking shows. says he doesn’t care, just watches ‘cause you do — but then suddenly he’s dead serious about whether the sponge is overbaked. sits there with his arms crossed, judging the contestants like he’s on the panel. “too much fondant. gonna cost ‘em.”
he’s surprisingly good at picking gifts. not flashy ones — thoughtful ones. a new mug because your favorite one cracked. a hoodie from a concert you couldn’t go to. a book by that author you said you liked once, six months ago. he remembers everything.
he buys you snacks when he’s mad at you. not big mad — just quiet, brooding, stubborn mad. instead of talking it out right away, he drops a bag of your favorite chips or candy on the counter and walks away like that settles it. it kind of does.
he’s so gentle with your stuff. your phone, your clothes, your decor — he handles all of it like it’s fragile, even if you toss it around like nothing.
he has zero patience when you’re sick. not annoyed — just worried. extra gruff. keeps asking “you need anything?” even though he just brought you tea, tissues, meds, and a hoodie. paces around the house like he’s prepping for battle against your cold.
he doesn’t talk in the mornings. just grunts and nods. but if you’re up before him and being cute or busy or just existing in his space, he’ll pull you into his chest without saying anything.
he’s not a big texter, but he reads all your messages the second they come in. always leaves you on “read” because he’s looking at it immediately, even if he replies 3 hours later with just “ok” and a thumbs-up emoji he definitely didn’t mean to send.
he always checks the expiration date on your food. opens the fridge and mutters under his breath about the milk “cutting it too damn close.” doesn’t want you eating anything that’ll make you sick. throws out the sketchy yogurt when you’re not looking.
he’s so good at reaching things for you. doesn’t matter how tall you are, he lives to reach the thing on the top shelf before you can. you stand on your toes, and he’s suddenly behind you like, “you’re gonna hurt yourself.” then hands it over like a knight returning a holy relic.
he doesn’t like you walking home alone. ever. if he can’t come get you, he’ll track your location. texts you the whole way like, “where are you now?” “you inside yet?” “door locked?” and you know the second you stop answering he’s already throwing on his jacket.
he uses your bath products and thinks you don’t notice. you’ll wonder why your fancy shampoo is suddenly disappearing faster, but then he walks past smelling like lavender and vanilla and acts like nothing’s different. you bring it up once and he grunts, “smells nice. don’t make it a thing.”
he tucks your legs into his lap when you sit next to him. even if he’s sore. even if you’re fidgety. he just wants you there — anchored to him, warm and close. sometimes he absentmindedly rubs your calves or traces circles on your ankle while he watches the news.
he hates being away from you overnight. says he doesn’t mind, but when he’s gone, he sleeps like shit. texts you random things at 3 a.m. — “you lock the door?” “the heater working?” “dog okay?” you know he only really rests when he’s home and you’re curled up next to him.
he always brings you water before bed. even if you don’t ask. even if you forget. there’s always a glass or a bottle on your nightstand when you crawl under the covers.
he kisses the inside of your wrist when he’s too tired to speak. when the day’s been too much. when his body hurts and his mind’s too loud — he pulls your hand to his mouth and presses his lips there.
he never lets you pump your own gas. doesn’t matter the weather. rain, snow, heatwave — he takes the keys and gets out before you even unbuckle. doesn’t say a word about it. just does it because it’s second nature now.
he always opens jars for you, even when you don’t ask. like you’ll just be holding it, about to try, and suddenly he’s there. doesn’t say anything, just takes it, opens it, hands it back.
he lets you warm your hands on him. no complaint, no hesitation. just grabs your frozen fingers and presses them to his neck, under his shirt, into his palms. grunts when it stings, but never pulls away. just says, “go ahead. s’okay.”
always lingers at the door when you leave. watches you walk to your car, stands there until you’re out of sight. won’t move. won’t blink. like part of him won’t settle until you’re home again.
he’s weirdly good at untangling necklaces. big hands, thick fingers, but somehow he’s patient as hell with tiny knots. sits at the table, squinting like he’s disarming a bomb.
he knows which drawer all your stuff is in. at his place, at your place, doesn’t matter — he knows where you keep your chargers, your snacks, your pain meds. grabs things before you even ask. sometimes you wonder how he pays that much attention. you forget — he’s a soldier. he notices everything about what he loves.
he lowkey judges your shoes. not fashion-wise — function. “you’re gonna walk five blocks in those?” and if you say yes, he just sighs and gives you his arm the whole time. doesn’t say another word. but if you stumble once? “told you.”
has a deep, secret love for hot chocolate. doesn’t ask for it, never buys it, but if you make it? he’s sipping it silently, eyes half-lidded, shoulders relaxed. you catch him making it for himself once. refuses to make eye contact.
he gets the mail before you can. every day. rain or shine. not because he cares what’s in it — because he wants to be the one to deal with anything stressful before it reaches you. bills, notices, whatever. you only ever get the fun stuff. the packages. the postcards.
he remembers anniversaries you forget. first date. first road trip. the day you moved in. doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just quietly brings home your favourite dinner or sets a movie up you mentioned on that day.
he absolutely has a favorite mug. won’t admit it. but if you’re ever using it, he pauses for a second like he’s been emotionally robbed. won’t take it back, though. just pours his coffee into something else and quietly hopes you offer to switch.
he fixes things that don’t even belong to him. neighbor’s broken porch light? fixed. squeaky gate down the block? doesn’t squeak anymore.
never lets you walk through the door first if it’s dark. goes in ahead of you, even if it’s your place. checks the rooms out of habit. flips the lights on.
knocks before entering your space, even when you live together. bathroom door cracked? he knocks. bedroom door half-closed? still knocks. doesn’t matter if he knows you’re alone — he respects your space.
weirdly good at calming you down in traffic. if you’re driving and someone cuts you off? hand on your thigh. if you're stressed about getting lost? “take the next right, i got you.”
he teaches you how to punch — gently. wraps your hands himself, touches your wrists like he’s afraid they’ll bruise. he holds the pads out and murmurs “that’s it, right there,” every time your form’s good. he doesn’t teach you so you can fight. he teaches you so you won’t ever feel helpless.
so careful when you’re sleeping. gets out of bed like you’re made of glass. turns the TV down low. covers you up without waking you, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses your shoulder and just stares for a second like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.
he writes down your car’s license plate. and the make. and the year. and the tire pressure. keeps it in a little notebook in his glove box — not because he’s nosy, but because he needs to know in case anything ever happens.
puts his name down as your emergency contact without asking. just does it. one day you’re filling something out and he goes, “already on file.” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like of course it’s me. who else?
he reads manuals. like, actually sits down and reads them. toasters. phones. whatever you buy, he knows how to fix it, clean it, use every setting.
he wears your hair ties on his wrist. even when you didn’t ask him to. finds them in the bathroom or under the couch and just keeps them there like it’s a reflex. you don’t notice until one day he silently hands you one without looking and you realize — he’s always paying attention.
calls you “kid” sometimes, even if you’re not younger. not condescending — it’s fond. soft. it slips out when he’s feeling protective. like, “c’mon, kid, get some rest,” or “you did good, kid.” and if anyone else calls you that, he bristles like no — mine.
he gets tense when you’re near windows at night. especially lit ones. moves around the room in ways that put him between you and the glass. not paranoid. just hardwired to protect you. you don’t notice until one night you go to close the curtains and he’s already there, pulling them shut with a soft, “let me get that.”
he texts you like he’s on a recon mission. all short updates: “headed back.” / “store’s packed.” / “traffic’s shit.” but every now and then, he’ll throw in something like “you eat yet?” or “thinking about you.” and those are the ones that wreck you a little.
he always leaves the porch light on if you're out late. even if you say you don’t need it. even if you’re only gone for ten minutes. it’s not about the light. it’s about you always having something to come home to.
he’s secretly a little superstitious about you. doesn’t let you say things like “what if something happens to you.” knocks on wood under the table. leaves the porch light on even when you’re only gone ten minutes. he’s seen too much not to be cautious. and you — you’re the one thing he refuses to lose.
double-knots your laces. crouches down in front of you without a word, doesn’t make it a thing. just ties them up snug and gives your ankle a gentle pat before standing.
sets your things by the door if you’re running late. bag, keys, jacket, water bottle. lines them up neatly like he’s giving you every small advantage he can. “you’re gonna be late,” he says, already handing you your coffee. you kiss his cheek on the way out. he pretends it didn’t make him smile.
he gets fussy if you don’t eat. doesn’t scold, just… fusses. quietly. starts cooking something without asking. sets a plate in front of you like “you don’t gotta finish it, just eat a little.”
wears your chapstick when he can’t find his. acts like it’s no big deal. “same stuff, right?” but if it smells like you he ends up keeping it in his pocket the rest of the day.
refills your water bottle. always. before bed. before work. if you leave it in the car, he brings it in and tops it off. just does it. in his head, hydration = survival = love.
he buys you medicine before you even realize you’re sick. notices you sniffling or rubbing your temples, and the next day it’s already there — cold meds, your favorite tea, tissues, cough drops.
ONESHOT : thru everyone else eyes, as they slowly realize that tim cares for you more than he'd care to admit.
A/N : theehee
masterlist
WHEN Dick agreed to go out for ice cream with you and Tim, he was expecting to pay. However, he wasn’t expecting you to wander off on your own. He wasn’t sure how he lost the two of you. He seemingly looked away for a second and was left with nothing but silence when he called your names.
He groaned as he ate his ice cream and began to search for the two of you. The streets were dark and quiet, you weren’t in Gotham, in a small town on the outskirts that Tim claimed had the best ice cream ever. Which was proven true with each lick Dick took.
And as he went to rest on a lonely bench behind the ice cream store, he heard your voice.
“Please, Tim, mine is so terrible,” you whined through a laugh, words laced with playful frustration.
“I told you you wouldn’t like it. You hate everything involved with that flavor, and you still got it,” Tim’s voice was all so familiar, too annoyed to budge it seemed. Bringing a light smile to Dick’s face as Tim hadn’t changed from the months they spent apart.
As dick took a few, slow calculated steps forward, planning to scare the two of you, is when he heard something that he expected less.
“Fine. We can trade, only if you stop whining like a dog,” Tim gave in to your eyes. Something Dick wouldn’t imagine.
“Thank you Timothy,” your voice was like chores as he watched you switch your ice creams.
“Yeah, yeah,” his response was short and seemingly aggravated.
Yet as Dick looked forward he could see something different. A twitch of Tim’s lip as he looked down at you. Not his normal dead, tired stare. No, it was a stare that Dick was unfamiliar with when it came to his younger brother.
It was something more, something of admiration and care. A softer look that one could even mistake for love. That’s when Dick decided to leave you too alone, as some things didn’t need a witness— just time.
DAMIAN hated Tim. Well, hate might be too strong of a word, much to Damians dismay. He pretended he wanted Tim dead, never hiding the illusion that he wouldn’t know what to do if the boy truly did leave his life.
So when the two ended up sparing together in the cave, Damian did not hold his punches. He never did when it came to Tim. Yet maybe the third time Tim fell to the ground without much effort Damian began to realise something was different about him.
“You’ve somehow managed to get worse,” he scoffed, circling
“Wow, thanks,” Tim grumbled as he moved to get up. “Can we take a break for a minute? I need to check on something.”
“Breaks are for the weak. But if you’re that desperate, I’ll allow it.”
What caught Damian off guard wasn’t the break—it was the speed with which Tim snatched up his phone. Or maybe it had been the way he let out a breath as he checked his notifications. Or the way his shoulders seemed to untense when he typed.
It only caused Damian to question his softened stare more. Curious to who was whittling down Tim to an actual person than an asshole who ran on nothing but annoyance, caffeine, and spite. A flicker of something else behind the usual apathy. Even Tim’s silence seemed less guarded.
“I have to go,” Tim muttered, grabbing his things, already halfway out.
“Skipping training?” Damian quirked a brow. “That’s a new low. What might it be this time? Fathers company failing under your guidance?” No response. “A new case you might be able to solve?” Not even a blink. “Your best friend need help with something?” A short pause. That was it. You. You needed him.
Damian was quick to put it together as Tim muttered an annoyed goodbye and left to go see you. Yet his attitude wasn’t as damp as it typically was.
Something had changed. And the cause had your name written all over it.. One he wasn’t sure he could welcome just yet.
TIM WASN’T responding to Barabra’s messages.
Intel was coming in from every corner of the city. Red Robin was needed. Chaos had taken root. But Tim had stopped moving—feet planted just outside an apartment building Barbara didn’t recognize.
“I’m okay,” was all his message said.
Then radio silence.
She tried not to worry. She tried harder not to be angry. But when she tapped into the lenses in his cowl—tech meant for worst-case scenarios—her anger fell to confusion.
She saw you.
Tears in your eyes. Hands trembling slightly. And Tim—he wasn’t moving. He was just… waiting. Steady. Still.
Whatever you said, whatever passed between you, Barbara never fully saw. Only a burner phone exchanged, and then Tim was gone again. Back into the shadows.
She didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t understand what could be more important than a mission.
But she felt it. Knew it.
Whatever it was between you and Tim—it was real. More real than she expected.
JASON didn’t know what he expected when you showed up at the manor that night. The whole family was torn to shreds after a particularly rough patrol. Blood. Bruises. Too many near-misses.
But you? You just walked in, barely saying a word, patch kit in hand. Straight to Tim.
Maybe it was the way you leaned onto him, close enough to feel his breath, yet not close enough to be overbearing. Maybe it was the way your fingers gripped his face as he began to fight your help, yet not moving an inch away from you as you showed as lack of response. Maybe it was the way you apologized everytime he winced too hard.
Or maybe it was the way Tim looked at you.
His voice tells you the opposite of his eyes. As they searched your face up and down. Not like a soldier. Not like a vigilante. But like a man drowning in every ounce of peace you gave him. Like he’d been walking through fire and you were the first drop of rain in years. A sense of happiness. As if you were the sun that rose in the morning. A sense of hope. As if you were the boat that came to save him from the sea.
He looked at you like you gave him the will to live. And you in return patched his wounds so he could keep living.
Jason wasn’t sure what episode of the show he was on, but he knew that it was a shitty rom-com that he would watch to relearn what it was like to love.
YELLING crowded Tim’s room before he heard the slam of the front door. Bruce never left his room to see you leave, instead he left to watch the aftermath. He just watched the silence that followed swallow Tim whole. No anger. No fight. Just… silence.
Tim was a ghost after that. Tasks unfinished. Coffee cold. Eyes flicking toward his vibrating phone every time it buzzed. Waiting. Hoping.
Bruce didn’t understand it until hours later—when he passed Tim’s room and saw the laptop screen. A photo of the two of you. A photo where you were smiling. so brightly it hurt to look at. Tim, beside you. But Tim wasn’t looking at the camera.
His eyes were on you.
There was something there. Something Bruce hadn’t seen in him in years. Tim Drake was in love. Hopelessly. Maybe that’s why Bruce said nothing. Why he just nudged his son away from the screen. Sat him down. Distracted him with reports, intel, chess. Anything. Because maybe—just maybe—if Bruce kept him busy long enough… Tim would figure out what he needed.
when I comment on the constant sexualization and romanticization of topics like inc3st, gro0ming, or non con in Tumblr fics and someone responds "you're pro-censorship"
like why saying that pretending inc3st or ped0philia is hot is bad make some people offended on this app ?!
the sky was a striking blue, unaccompanied by any clouds or contrails, and the sun looked as bright as ever. you felt like you were in heaven as you lounged in your old beach chair, dressed in one of the few bikinis you owned, your skin slick with spf, and your eyes gently closed.
but this only lasted for 5 minutes.
the sun had only blessed you with its warmth and heat for only five minutes before it seemingly disappeared. your source of light was now replaced by a shadow, completely ruining your barely-started tan session. with your attempt at gaining that summertime shade now temporarily obscured, you let out a dramatic groan.
“richard grayson, you have two seconds to get out of the way or else your ass is grass.” you warn, though you’re sure the man blocking your view of the sun was far from threatened. your eyes were still shut but you could hear his hands flop to his side as he sighed in defeat, “how’d you know it was me? i didn’t even say anything!”
you open your eyes now, getting a look at your boyfriend standing in front of you. he’s wearing a pair of shorts that hang flattering around his waist with his toned body and abs, in all their glory, fully on display. you can’t help but smile at the sight. “because you’re the only one who’d think to bother me on the only sunny day of the year.” you say, trying to keep up your irritated facade despite the smile that stretches across your face.
dick chuckles at your antics before sitting down in the lawn chair directly next to yours. he stretches his arms above his head before speaking, “i figured i’d join you on your tanning adventure since i have the day off,” he takes a minute to look you up and down. “and i’d be a fool to miss seeing you in a bikini.”
you roll your eyes, feigning annoyance at his flirtation despite the heat that rises to your face. “i guess I don’t mind having you around—especially if you’re shirtless.” you shoot back. he smiles brightly in response. “although,” you pause to reach for something on the table beside your chair, “if you’re going to tan with me i expect you to wear spf.” you throw the small bottle at him and he catches it immediately. he’s quiet for a moment as he looks at the bottle in his hands.
“i’ll wear it, but only under one condition.”
your eyebrow shoots up, “and what’s that?” you know where he’s going with this. “you have to put it on for me.” he says, leaning into the space between your chairs with the bottle outstretched towards you. you wordlessly grab the bottle from his large hands and walk towards him.
you’re standing in front of him, looking slightly down at him due to the new height difference. for some reason you feel slightly bashful and dick notices, resting his hands on your waist to guide you closer to stand between his legs. his blue eyes stare up at yours and his plump lips are slightly parted as he watches you open the bottle, putting the smallest amount onto your index finger. you quickly swipe the product on his cheeks and finish with a playful “boop!” on his nose.
he boyishly smiles and blushes at this, “i knew you’d do that.”
you put more spf on the palms of your hands and begin gliding your hands across the broad expanse of his chest. his skin is hot beneath your touch and you, almost selfishly, take your time to savor the moment. his grip on your waist tightens as you work your way down to his abdomen. you continue to move slowly, not only for your own enjoyment but because you can tell his mind is already wandering.
“you’re awfully quiet for someone who usually has so much to say.” you comment, peeking through your eyelashes to meet his gaze that’s locked on your steadily moving hands. “it’s not my fault you’re being such a tease,” he says as he grabs your wrists to stop your movements.
“i’m just helping you out. ‘s wouldn’t want you to burn, baby.” you say, playfully pouting at his actions.
dick clicks his tongue in his response and momentarily releases your wrists, just to pull you down to his lap seconds after. the chair is too small for the two of you and has your legs hanging uncomfortably over the armrests, but you pay little attention to it as you bask in the warmth of your body pressed against his. wordlessly, dick rubs his hand along the plush of your thigh and rests his other on the back of your neck.
he looked into your eyes, searching for permission. you lean in slowly, his hand guiding for your face towards his as your lips met into a tentative kiss. dick, in typical dick fashion, deepens the kiss by pulling you closer and getting a soft grip on your hair. in the moment it feels as though everything else has faded around you, your tanning session long forgotten as you lose yourself in dick’s touch.
you pull away to catch your breath, “was this your plan all along?”
If I can't have you baby, no one else in this world can!
SYNOPSIS: The Batboys & Cass at their most unhinged, most protective, and most devoted.
TAGS: FEMALE Reader! Fluff! Jealousy! Fake Marriage, Mild possessive behavior, Mild innuendo / suggestive banter, Mentions of weapons/violence + Older! Of-Age! Damian
NOTE: Don’t take the content or characterizations too seriously! It’s literally just a goofy, for-fun fic :ppp
AO3: yenwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!
જ⁀➴ RICHARD GRAYSON
“I hate these missions,” came Dick’s voice, petulant and immediate in your earpiece.
You didn’t pause. Instead, you stepped delicately around a marble column, your heels tapping rhythmically across the ballroom floor. Your dress shimmered with every movement, a slinky midnight blue number that hugged your form like it had been stitched by jealous gods. Your fingers grazed the low curve of your hip, pretending to adjust the fabric, when in reality you were activating the mic hidden beneath a faux diamond brooch.
“Nightwing,” you said calmly, smiling at a champagne server as they approached. You took a glass with a graceful nod, flipping your hair over your shoulder with casual elegance. “We’re at a gala. There are hors d'oeuvres and a string quartet. Try not to combust.”
“I am combusting,” he muttered, like he was personally being subjected to torture. “You’re pretending to be married to Barry Allen. That’s basically infidelity.”
“We fake-filed a fake tax return together like, five minutes ago,” you said dryly. “Relax.”
Dick huffed—huffed—and you could practically see him brooding on some rooftop, arms crossed like a bat-gargoyle. “I just think I, your actual husband, should be there.”
You let out a quiet sigh, walking toward the ornate staircase where Barry stood chatting up a senator. You could already see the knowing glint in his eye as he spotted you, lifting his glass like a man trying too hard to appear casual.
“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, smiling sweetly as you closed the distance. “You are literally in my ear. You’re more present than Barry is right now, and he's the one touching me.”
“What?!”
You glanced sideways at Barry. He shifted, his palm resting in the safe, polite territory of your lower back as he leaned in to whisper something to the senator. “Arm, Dick. It’s just an arm. We’re blending in. No need to send in the Batjet.”
“I swear to god if he tries the forehead kiss thing—”
You blinked. “What forehead kiss thing?”
“He does this thing,” Dick said, his voice a little breathless with outrage, “where he smiles all slow and soft and tilts his head, and he leans in like he’s gonna whisper something but instead he does this little forehead press like he’s in a rom-com. I hate it. That’s how he seduced Iris that one time!”
You bit the inside of your cheek to suppress a laugh, shifting your weight subtly as you allowed Barry to guide you toward the center of the room. The music shifted into a softer waltz.
“Pretty sure they were already dating when that happened.”
“Not the point. I should be the one fake-forehead-kissing you at fancy galas.”
You stepped past an older couple slow-dancing near the fountain centerpiece and turned, giving Barry a small apologetic smile as you pretended to be distracted by something in your clutch.
“Would that make you feel better?” you whispered.
“Immeasurably.”
You were about to respond when you caught the faintest flicker of movement overhead. The security camera nearest you pivoted. Just slightly. Just enough.
Your smile vanished.
“Did you just hijack the camera feed to watch me?”
Silence.
“Dick.”
“…No?”
“Dick.”
“Camera’s just doing its job.”
“You are the camera.”
There was a beat of long, silent guilt on the line.
“It’s a security sweep,” he finally muttered, defensive. “Totally standard.”
You turned and stared directly up at the rotating lens, narrowing your eyes. “You’re pouting, aren’t you?”
“No,” he said, full pout in his voice.
You glared at the camera, already knowing the exact pout he was pulling behind the cowl. Barry chuckled beside you, still in his gala-husband role. You looped your arm through his and leaned in with a soft smile, playing along for the watching donors. Wealth glittered across the ballroom. Pearls, tuxedos, and dresses worth more than a small country’s GDP.
And then Dick dropped the line.
“You just had to wear that gown, didn’t you?”
Your eyebrows twitched.
“It’s a dress.”
“It’s a crime scene, actually.”
You nearly snorted champagne up your nose. “Are you okay? Do you need to go punch a mugger and walk it off?”
“You don’t understand,” he hissed. “There are at least six guys pretending not to stare at you right now. One of them dropped a canapé. I watched it happen. I’m seconds from pulling the fire alarm.”
You hummed in amusement and tilted your head, letting the chandelier light catch the sheen of your lashes.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
You swirled the champagne in your glass, then took a slow, knowing sip, the bubbles tickling your lips as you smirked. “Are you gonna rappel in through the ceiling and punch Barry in the face mid-waltz?”
He didn’t answer immediately. And that was the worst part.
“…Maybe.”
You laughed under your breath, drawing curious eyes from across the floor. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever married.”
“I’m the only man you’ve ever married!”
“For now,” you teased.
Dead. Air.
You could feel it through the silence. The precise moment Dick’s jaw clenched, the way his hands probably curled into fists on some high-rise ledge. You almost felt sorry for the next criminal who looked at him funny.
“Sweetheart,” he said finally, voice dropping into that dangerous purr he only used when he was 70% teasing and 30% ready to commit felony assault. “If Barry so much as breathes too close to you, I’m driving over there and disguising myself as a waiter just to strangle him with a linen napkin.”
You giggled again, covering it with the rim of your glass and a quick flutter of lashes.
“Relax. You’re still my real husband.”
“I should hope so. I signed that marriage license in blood.”
“You pricked your finger opening the envelope.”
“It still counts.”
જ⁀➴ JASON TODD
The dim light of the bookstore warmed the space, the faint scent of old paper mixing with the musky air of Gotham’s streets. It was the perfect Saturday afternoon. You and Jason had been to this little corner bookstore a few times, tucked away near the flat you shared, where no one bothered you, just the way you liked it.
Today, the place had a sale. And you were taking full advantage. Because, books.
You bent slightly, pulling another book off the shelf. Your fingers lingered on the spine, the title catching your eye, but your gaze drifted briefly to Jason beside you.
He was holding a stack of books you'd already picked up, his strong arms braced beneath the weight. His other hand was occupied, casually flipping through the pages of a suspense novel. His worn-out motorcycle helmet hung off his elbow, the strap digging into his skin like it always did when he wasn’t too concerned about making a spectacle of himself.
The sight of him in his usual attire, tight compression shirt, cargo pants, and those damn ratty boots, was almost enough to make you forget why you were even here. You couldn’t help it. Your husband, who exuded that rough, untamed charm that always made your heart skip a beat, even after everything.
You coughed, quickly pulling your focus back to the shelf, cheeks flushed. You weren’t here to ogle at him. You were here to buy books, to stock up for the upcoming winter nights in your cozy little flat.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him glance over at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he noticed the way you’d momentarily gotten lost in thought.
“You okay there, doll?” His voice was low, but that teasing drawl was there, practically sending your internal warning system into overload.
You snapped back to the shelf, cheeks now officially flushed. “Fine. Just… you know, checking out some new releases. That’s all.”
Jason took a step closer, his hand reaching out to adjust the stack of books he was holding, brushing against your side. You could feel his eyes on you, that damn teasing look in them. He knew.
"Uh-huh," he muttered, clearly amused.
You shot him a glare. “Stop being so obvious.” You grabbed a couple more books, pretending they were the most interesting thing in the store, while mentally trying to avoid imagining how good he looked in those pants.
The moment passed, and you made your way to the counter. But, of course, Jason insisted on carrying all the books for you, despite them weighing next to nothing. Which, really, wasn’t a huge shock. The man could bench press a car if he felt like it.
The cashier, a young guy in his twenties, greeted you with a friendly smile as he began scanning your newest babies.
“Oh, you read The Cruel Prince?” the cashier suddenly asked, lifting the book from your pile with excitement. “I’ve been dying to meet someone else who loves it.”
You couldn’t help but grin, excited to talk about one of your favorites. “Yes! It’s amazing. I love Jude as a character. She’s so strong, and the plot twists? Wild.”
The cashier, clearly eager to engage, leaned in slightly, his elbows resting casually on the counter. “I know, right? I just finished The Wicked King,” he said with a boyish laugh.
“I’m almost done with The Queen of Nothing now.” His eyes flicked up, lingering a moment too long on your face. “You into high fantasy like this, or was it just a one-time thing? ‘Cause if you’re looking for recs… I’ve got a few I think you’d really love.”
You smiled, delighted by the conversation. “Oh, I’m always open to fantasy suggestions. I love character-driven stuff with sharp worldbuilding.”
Completely absorbed, you missed the way the cashier’s eyes dipped briefly down your frame before flicking back up to meet yours. "Lucky for me, you stopped by today.”
Jason, who had been standing just behind you, tensed. Subtly, he stepped closer, the warmth of his body brushing your back as he shifted the weight of the books in his arms. His free hand settled on your waist, low and firm.
It was casual, at least outwardly, but there was nothing casual about the way his fingers flexed slightly against your coat.
The cashier, oblivious or ignoring the shift in energy, handed you the receipt, gaze still lingering. “Seriously, though. A doll like you geeking out over The Cruel Prince? That’s rare. Real rare. Kinda makes a guy believe in fate.”
Jason’s voice cut through the moment, cold enough to make the air around you drop a few degrees. “Yeah,” he said, eyes locked onto the cashier’s now, unreadable but intense. “She’s one of a kind.”
The cashier blinked, clearly feeling the shift, but tried to laugh it off. “Right, of course. I’ll, uh, finish ringing this up.”
Jason didn’t move, didn’t blink. “You do that.”
A moment later, the books were bagged, and the cashier’s enthusiasm had visibly dimmed. He offered a half-hearted smile, handing you the bag. “Enjoy your books.”
Jason took it before you could, his hand brushing against yours as he did. “We will.”
You followed Jason out of the store, blinking at the sudden rush of cold Gotham air. You were about to say something when you caught the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes stayed forward.
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Jealous?”
He scoffed, but didn’t deny it. “Nah. Just making sure it’s clear. You’re mine.”
You slipped your arm through his. “Always.”
જ⁀➴ TIM DRAKE
“Hi, Timmy Junior,” you crooned, crouching low to the penthouse floor with a dramatic sweep of your coat as it slipped from your shoulders. Your fingers found the cat’s chin, scritching gently beneath the plush fur.
The feline let out a noise of pure bliss, an undignified grrrrrr-rup purr as he leaned his entire ridiculous body weight into your hand.
“You’re so spoiled,” you whispered like a secret, ruffling his ears. “Where’s your dad, huh? Inventing new molecules? Hacking the Pentagon again?”
You padded deeper into the apartment, your heels left by the door, your coat sliding neatly onto the rack with one smooth toss. The air inside was warm and low-lit, cast in that signature honey-gold glow Tim always adjusted for you when you worked late at the hospital. Cozy, inviting. The kind of lighting that lured you toward rest like gravity.
Your gaze landed on him instantly. Folded up on the couch in a soft Gotham U hoodie and well-worn sweatpants, socked feet tucked beneath him, glowing laptop balanced on his knees.
The blue light framed his face like a crime scene photograph. His fingers flew across the keys, precise, fast, controlled. His brow furrowed, and his jaw clenched just slightly, like whatever he was typing deserved war.
You didn’t say a word.
Instead, you launched yourself forward like a sleepy jungle cat and collapsed into his lap, head-first, limbs folding as you burrowed in like you belonged there. Because you did.
Tim paused, but only for a second. Then one arm wrapped around your waist, locking you into place as his other hand resumed its furious typing like your sudden weight had simply activated some comforting subroutine. Like muscle memory. Like ritual.
“You’re late,” he murmured, finally meeting your eyes with that gentle, tired smile you’d always been weak for.
“Code blue,” you mumbled, curling tighter into his hoodie. “And two separate idiots who thought knife fights belonged in the ER lobby.”
He hummed low and familiar. “Gotham.”
You exhaled slowly, melting into him. The scent of him wrapped around you—green tea, clean soap, and ozone, like he hadn’t moved from this couch in hours. The safest smell in the world.
But something… tugged.
You felt it now. His body didn’t soften the way it usually did when you came home. His hold was there, but too controlled. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t gone away. He hadn’t kissed your forehead.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”
Tim’s lips parted like he wanted to deny it, but instead, he let out a breath that deflated his whole chest. “It’s nothing,” he said, almost too fast. “Just… internet drama. Dumb stuff.”
“About work?” you asked, brows raising.
“No,” he said after a beat, tone shifting. “About us.”
You stilled.
Tim blinked at you, then sighed. “You did an interview with Vicky Vale today?”
You blinked again, slower this time. “…Yesh,” you mumbled into his neck. “She was a nightmare in heels, but Bruce said something something ‘positive press,’ ‘curated coverage,’ PR speak, blah blah—”
“Right,” Tim cut in, nodding slowly. Too slowly. “And in that very public interview, broadcast to half of Gotham… you said Nightwing was your favorite vigilante.”
Silence.
You shifted.
“I stand by my words.”
He gasped in faux betrayal and grabbed your hand, holding it up like a piece of evidence. The diamond on your engagement ring caught the light dramatically.
“This is a literal rock,” he said, dead serious. “A shiny, cut-from-the-mountain, six-years-of-our-life-together rock. And that,” he gestured vaguely in the air, “is slander.”
You bit back a grin as he continued, spiraling.
“…Treason, even,” Tim added dramatically, eyes wide with mock hurt. “I should call Bruce. Or the League. Or Alfred. Someone’s has got to arrest you.”
You covered your mouth to stop the laugh threatening to bubble out. “You’re going to tattle on me to Alfred?”
“Damn right I am. He likes me best. He’ll understand.” He pointed a finger accusingly. “And you—you—are officially banned from Titans reruns, YouTube edits, and any content where Nightwing is in leather and doing that thing with his sticks.”
You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “What thing with his sticks?”
Tim looked personally wounded. “You know what thing. The twirly thing! The one with the hip pivot.”
You smirked, throwing your arms around him like a blanket. “Hm. But you're still my favorite fiancé.”
He scowled into your hair. “Not good enough. I want it in writing. Signed affidavit. Notarized.”
“Fine,” you deadpanned. “I, under oath, declare Timothy Jackson Drake to have the second-best butt in Gotham.”
Tim pulled back sharply. “Second?!”
“Best fiancé,” you corrected with a squeal, kicking as he launched a tickle assault. “Best fiancé! Tim! Stop! I swear to—!”
He kept going, merciless and grinning, until you both dissolved into laughter and flailing limbs on the couch. Tim finally flopped beside you, chest heaving, arms still tangled around you.
You were still breathless, clutching your stomach, when he murmured:
“…Still should’ve been first-best butt.”
You reached over and kissed his nose. “You’re number one in my heart.”
“And in Alfred’s rankings.”
“Exactly.”
જ⁀➴ DAMIAN WAYNE
The wind bit at your exposed skin, Gotham’s chill cutting through every crack in your suit, making you shiver despite your best efforts to hide it. You tried to pull the oversized cape tighter around your shoulders, Damian’s cape, and flicked it dramatically, hoping for a bit of extra warmth. It made you feel a little ridiculous, but god, it was warm.
You glanced sideways at Damian, the stone wall of a man beside you, not even acknowledging the cold as he stared down at the street below, his jaw set and his posture as rigid as a statue.
You raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’m freezing my ass off in your oversized cape, and you’re standing there like a stone wall, making me look like a damsel in distress.”
Damian flicked a glance at you, his lips barely twitching into a smirk. "You do look ridiculous."
You rolled your eyes, adjusting the cape again. It really did swallow you whole. You felt like an overgrown child in a giant’s cloak.
"Well, at least I’m warm," you muttered, "unlike some people."
“Tt. I’m fine, beloved,” he said, but there was a little something extra when he said beloved.
Something warm. Something intense. And despite the cold, your heart did a little leap.
Sexy stone statue, you grumbled to yourself. You were so not above it.
The night air crackled with tension for a moment before Damian broke the silence. “Something’s off. Stay close.”
You straightened, your body on high alert, instinctively leaning closer to him. You followed his gaze toward the flickering lights…A bank alarm.
The unmistakable shriek of Gotham’s most wanted sound—bank robbery.
“Trouble,” you said, giddy with the thrill.
“Indeed,” Damian replied, voice low and dangerous. Before you could respond, he vanished into the night, melting into the shadows.
“Show-off,” you muttered, launching a web and following him across the rooftops.
You landed beside him, crouched above a black van outside the bank. Thugs were unloading duffle bags—money and cologne, Gotham’s finest.
“Someone’s making a withdrawal,” you whispered.
“Then let’s make sure they don’t get too comfortable,” Damian muttered. With a single flick of his wrist, a Batarang flew out, slicing through the air and knocking one of the thieves out.
“Smooth,” you swooned, eyes wide with admiration. “Hey, this might be the best date night we’ve had all month.”
“Tch. I prefer less… crowded dates,” Damian shot back, already taking down another guy with a fluid motion that made it look effortless.
Fast. Precise. Unfairly hot.
You couldn’t help but grin, heart racing as you jumped into the action, doing a flip over one of the thieves to disarm him mid-air. You were all set to land on your feet, ready to keep up the momentum, when suddenly, a shadow slammed into you from nowhere.
The impact knocked the wind from your lungs, sending you crashing into the rooftop with a grunt.
Damian’s head snapped your way, eyes dark, hand flying to his blade. Ready to kill.
"Wait!" you said, breathless, as you pushed yourself up and caught sight of the person on top of you.
"Black Cat?" you breathed, disbelief flooding your chest.
She grinned down at you, that too-familiar cocky smile spreading across her face.
"Hey, Spider," she said, pressing a hand down on your shoulders, keeping you pinned, her fingers firm and possessive. "Long time no swing. You look… deliciously out of breath."
Your brain short-circuited. "Holy shit. What are you doing in Gotham?"
Before she could answer, a shadow dropped hard beside you. Damian. Radiating absolute fury in a tight, concentrated glare.
“Get. Off.”
Two words. Ice-cold.
Black Cat didn’t flinch. In fact, her grin widened.
"Ooooh," she said, drawing out the syllable like she’d just tasted something expensive. “You must be new. You gotta get in line, cutie. Spider’s got fans, you know.”
“I am not a fan,” Damian snapped. “I am her partner.”
You sat up. “Aw.”
Damian flushed.
“In combat,” he added stiffly.
You winced. “Less aw.”
Black Cat howled. “Oh, this is so much better than I hoped. You got yourself a territorial one, huh?” She leaned in close to Damian, eyes twinkling. “Tell me, do you bite?”
“I don’t bite,” Damian said coldly.
“Oh?” she said with a smirk. “Shame.”
“I maim.”
“Well, you’re no fun,” Black Cat tsked, her hips swaying as she walked forward with that signature, cat-like confidence. “Relax, Bird Boy. Just saying hi to my favorite Spider.”
You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Guys! Seriously? We are not doing this right now. We’re literally in the middle of a robbery!”
Black Cat flipped her hair over her shoulder, unfazed. “Handled it already, sweetheart. I snagged the bank’s security drive, webbed the goons to their getaway van, and took care of the heavy lifting before I jumped you. You’re welcome.”
“…You webbed—my web fluid?!” you gawked.
“Borrowed,” Black Cat said airily. “Don’t be stingy.”
“I made that with bio-polymers and blood, you kleptomaniac bat-licking menace—”
“Oh, please,” she rolled her eyes. “I'm sure you can make another one of your web knick-knacks.”
Damian’s eyes flashed. “Those cartridges are proprietary.”
“Pro‑pri‑e‑tar‑y!” you echoed, stabbing a finger at her. “He means off-limits, you thieving furball!”
Black Cat rolled her shoulders, utterly unbothered. “I’ll return them. Hm… rented at a fair rate, of course. Maybe half a million an ounce?”
Damian growled low in his throat. “You—I'll—”
“Okay, okay, enough. Look. I’ll put them back before breakfast tomorrow, deal?” Black Cat offered, waggling her fingers like this was a brunch invitation and not felony-level theft.
You opened your mouth to protest because you absolutely did not agree to that, but it was too late. With a mock curtsy and a wicked glint in her eye, she vanished into the shadows, her laughter echoing like a warning shot.
You turned back to Damian, who stood tense, blade still in hand, every muscle in his jaw working overtime.
“I should have let her fall off the building,” he muttered.
You snorted. “You would never.”
“I could have accidentally loosened her grip.” He sheathed his sword with more force than necessary. “No one touches you like that. No one pins you but me.”
Your brows shot up. “So you do want to pin me—”
“Strategically,” he snapped.
“Strategically?" you purred, arms wrapping round his shoulders. "That’s what we’re calling rooftop makeouts now?”
“I—Tt—focus.” But Damian's hands settled at your waist anyway, traitorously warm. “We need to debrief. Secure the scene. Call in the GCPD. Recheck the vault—”
“Oh, Dames…”
જ⁀➴ CASSANDRA CAIN
You were no better than a man.
You were definitely not supposed to be staring. Or, at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as you tried to focus on the workout in front of you. But there was no way you could ignore Cassandra right now.
She was… perfect.
Her form was flawless as she moved through her calisthenics routine. Push-ups, pull-ups, even backflips! Nothing seemed to faze her. And here you were, struggling not to turn into a puddle of goo on the gym floor.
It wasn’t fair, honestly. How was one person allowed to be so hot? You were supposed to be stretching, but instead, you were completely fixated on your girlfriend, who was now hanging effortlessly from the pull-up bar.
She wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, you were sitting here pretending to stretch, but your eyes couldn’t stop following her every move. How could you not? She was making calisthenics look like some kind of sexy ballet, and you were feeling some type of way about it.
You were so lost in your thoughts that you barely heard the guy who suddenly sidled up to you. You looked up, confused, to see him standing a little too close.
"Hey, uh…" He cleared his throat, clearly trying to sound casual. "I noticed you were watching your friend there… I could totally show you how to lift weights, you know. Maybe even you."
You blinked at him, trying to suppress a laugh. Your brain was still stuck on your friend? Was that supposed to be his pick-up line?
“Uh… really?” you said, raising an eyebrow as you glanced back at Cassandra, still breezing through her workout like she was in some kind of fitness commercial. You could barely keep your mouth from hanging open.
"Yeah!" He puffed out his chest like he was some kind of Greek god. "I can handle lifting your body weight, no problem."
You blinked again. "Oh??"
"Yeah," he said with a cocky grin. "I can totally do it."
You crossed your arms, trying not to burst into laughter. “Okay, then. Show me.”
The guy dropped to his knees in front of you and looked up, ready to lift you. You tried to brace yourself, but honestly, you weren’t sure what was going to happen. This was either going to be impressive or a disaster, and you were pretty sure it was going to be the latter.
He grunted. Nothing.
You raised an eyebrow, watching as he struggled. His face was turning red, sweat starting to drip from his forehead, and—yeah, this was as bad as you expected. He couldn’t even get you an inch off the floor.
“Need help with that?” you asked, barely able to hold back the giggle bubbling up.
“No—no, I’ve got it!” he snapped, lifting harder, but the effort only made him wobble like a newborn giraffe.
"Maybe next time, huh?" you said with a sigh, holding back your amusement.
Then, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, Cassandra appeared. You didn’t even see her coming. One second, the guy was still struggling with the whole “lifting you” thing, and the next, Cassandra was casually stepping between the two of you. She looked at him like he was a bug she couldn’t be bothered with, then lifted you effortlessly with one hand.
You froze.
One hand.
The guy’s face drained of color as Cassandra set you down like you were a stuffed animal she was tossing back on the shelf. She didn’t even glance at him as she flicked her hair back, returning to her workout like nothing happened.
Meanwhile, the guy? He was just standing there. Shocked. Maybe a little bit scared. His mouth was moving, but no words came out.
Could not have imagined a more embarrassing moment for him…
Turning to Cassandra, your grin only widened. “Baby… you just broke his soul.”
Cassandra didn’t even glance your way. She simply raised an eyebrow, then shot you a small smile as she signed, He should have known better.
As you were about to respond, the guy finally seemed to snap out of his daze. He stammered something about ‘his form’ and ‘next time’ before practically sprinting off, likely rethinking every choice he’d made that led him to this moment.
You chuckled under your breath, eyes flicking back to Cassandra. “Well, looks like you just ruined his chances of ever lifting a girl again.”
Cassandra shrugged, clearly unfazed, and went back to her pull-up bar. Not my problem.
As she started packing her things, she shot you a sly smirk. Let’s go home. I’ll give you a workout of your own.
You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile pulling at your lips. “That… sounds promising.”
And just like that, the gym, the only thing on your mind now was what your workout would look like tonight.
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