AmorA

𝅄 ׄ she/her ׅ  ࣪˖  -  infj | melancholic | 2w1 - living for art  gf' Clarisse La Rue

[shisuni]

ᯓ➤ dairy queen closes in 10 minutes ⊹܀˙

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ tim drake ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ you broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are. word cnt. 16.2k

includes ›››› sexual language, dairy queen, car make out, denial, you match his freak and that's why you dumped him

Tim has been living inside the fraction of a second you hesitated before sitting beside him — that infinitesimal pause where your body seemed to remember him before your mind could intervene. He’s worried it like a loose thread, convinced it means something, that it proves there is still warmth there, buried but intact.

“I don’t think you’re good for me,” you’d murmured, voice dulled by exhaustion rather than certainty, even as your hands betrayed you—tugging your scarf tighter around his neck, fingers lingering just long enough to make the words feel like a lie you were both pretending to believe. You’d said it gently, like a confession instead of a sentence. Your eyes were watering, your hands shaking against the scarf. That was a year ago.

He remembers the cold that night more vividly than your words, the way you tried to protect him from it even as you stepped away, leaving him standing there with a warmth he didn’t know what to do with—except keep it.

Tims kept it alright.

It’s almost grotesque, how fiercely.

He’s preserved that pause of yours the way people preserve saints’ bones—wrapped in memory, reverent to the point of ruin. The fraction of a second where you hovered before sitting beside him, knees angled toward him before you caught yourself. That hesitation lives under his skin. Proof, he tells himself. Evidence that your body remembered him even when you tried not to.

And God, the things he’s kept.

The ribbon, slid carefully from your hair when you slept over, breath held like a thief afraid of waking something holy. The broken bracelet beads, every last one collected from the floor on hands and knees, replaced weeks later with diamonds he pretended meant nothing — an upgrade, he said lightly, as if he hadn’t memorized the exact way the original had looked against your wrist. The origami robins and flowers you folded when boredom softened you, creased wings and petals tucked into books, pinned above his desk, carried with him through every move like talismans.

You’d said it so quietly, then.

“I don’t think you’re good for me.”

Murmured, not declared. Your mouth said no while your hands betrayed you — tugging his scarf tighter around his neck, fingers brushing his jaw, thumbs warm against his throat as if instinct refused to let him freeze. The words felt practiced. The touch didn’t. He remembers the smell of your shampoo, the faint press of your knuckles, the way you exhaled like you were bracing for something sharp.

That was a year ago.

A year of being careful. A year of agreeing, without ever speaking it aloud, to be friends.

Friends.

After he’s been inside you, after he knows the exact sound you make when you’re trying not to beg, after he’s memorized the curve of your spine like scripture. 

Sure. Friends.

School makes it easier to lie. Same friend group, same bleachers at lunch, same unspoken rule: don’t touch, don’t linger, don’t look like you remember.

Your new boyfriend is a theater geek.

Volleyball team captain, too, and somehow managing to keep a perfect tan even in the dead stretch of Gotham’s winter, when the sun feels more like a rumor than a fact and everyone else looks faintly gray around the edges. 

Lloyd. 

Same height as Tim, just a little bulkier—closer to Dick’s build than Jason’s—but he doesn’t carry it the way Dick does, doesn’t wear his body with confidence. He's a blonde, freckles scattered across his face like someone forgot to finish the job.

Gemini.

Six hundred fifty-two followers on Instagram. Bio reads ‘i love my gf’.

Yeah. 

Tim loves his girlfriend too.

“Stop glaring,” Stephanie hisses, elbowing him sharply in the side beneath the library table, her shoe nudging his ankle a second later just to make the point stick.

“I’m not glaring,” Tim mutters back, not looking away.

“You’re still watching,” she says, exasperated, “and it’s creepy.”

You’re a few tables over, earbuds in, head bent forward just enough that Tim’s almost certain you’re blasting white noise—something steady, something meant to drown out the world. The library hums around all of you: pages turning, keyboards clicking, the low murmur of whispered conversations bouncing gently off tall shelves and stained-glass windows that filter Gotham’s weak afternoon light into dusty gold.

You were seated with Steph and a few other friends at one of the long tables, five chairs pulled in close, bodies overlapping in that casual, communal way people slip into without thinking. But now your back is to Tim, the familiar line of your shoulders framed by your coat draped over the chair, the curve of your neck half-hidden by your hair.

And there he is.

Lloyd sits next to you, angled just enough that his face is fully visible to Tim, a script spread open on the table between you, pages already dog-eared and marked up with pencil notes. He mouths lines under his breath, brows furrowed in concentration, tapping the edge of the paper with his pen like it might jog something loose.

Every so often, his green eyes flick up.

They land on Tim.

And every single time, the idiot smiles at him—awkward, polite, uncertain—before ducking his head back down and returning to memorizing lines for whatever stupid play he’s involved in this week.

Tim exhales slowly through his nose.

“He’s not even the main lead,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “Why the fuck is it taking him so long to memorize so few lines?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lucas says from beside him, tone flat and edged with sarcasm, “maybe he wants to spend time with his girlfriend. Just a thought.”

Tim doesn’t bother looking at him. Lucas isn’t exactly close—not really—but Stephanie and you had introduced him to Tim after spending time together in art class, and he lets Tim rant without interruption, which counts for something.

“My girlfriend,” Tim corrects automatically.

Dina, Lucas’s girlfriend, groans outright from where she’s leaning back in her chair. “This is why she isn’t sitting with us,” she mutters.

“She isn’t sitting with us because the idiot needed help,” Tim snaps back, keeping his voice carefully light, carefully neutral, even though the words come out sharper than intended.

And he’s not wrong. You had been sitting at the head of the table, comfortably centered, until Lloyd showed up—nervous, bashful, clutching his script like it might bite—and asked if you could help him run lines for an audition. You’d hesitated for exactly half a second before changing seats, scooting closer, tilting the pages toward yourself with practiced ease.

Tim had wanted to shove the script straight into Lloyd’s mouth.

Instead, he watches.

Watches the way you lean in when Lloyd gets stuck, the way you tap the page lightly and murmur corrections, the way Lloyd listens with an intensity that borders on reverence. The library settles around them, quiet and warm and heavy with books that smell like dust and ink and old promises, Gotham pressing its gray, unlovely afternoon up against the windows while, inside, you sit close enough to someone else that your shoulders almost touch.

Tim keeps his gaze fixed there, steady and unblinking, like if he looks away for even a second something permanent might shift without his permission, like the world might quietly rearrange itself while he isn’t watching.

“I hope they start making out,” Dina murmurs into her tea, voice low and wicked, steam curling up around her face, “just so I can watch Tim strangle himself with his computer cord.”

Lucas snickers beside her, shoulders shaking.

Tim finally drags his eyes away from you and turns to Dina, incredulous. “Come on,” he says, voice clipped, restrained by effort alone. “You can’t seriously think he’s actually good for her. He’s a fucking idiot.”

That makes Dina pause. She cups her mug in both hands, fingers warming against the ceramic, gaze drifting back toward your table as if she’s trying to see something she missed. “I’m not saying that, Tim,” she says, slower now. “I’m just… she seems happy. I guess.”

“You guess?” Tim echoes, one brow lifting as he flips his notebook open and starts scribbling absently, blue ballpoint pen gliding across the page. A stick-figure Scarecrow takes shape under his hand—crooked hat, lopsided grin—the ink dark and precise. One of the fancy pens you bought him for his birthday a few months ago. He presses a little harder than necessary.

Stephanie shrugs, spinning her pencil between her fingers. “It could be worse,” she says. “He’s just… awkward.”

Lucas snickers again when he catches the expression that crosses Tim’s face, all tight disbelief and quiet offense.

Tim turns on him immediately. “Fuck you, man,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.

“I mean,” Lucas adds, holding up his hands, “I’m actually with Tim on this one. I don’t like him that much either.”

Oh.

Oh okay.

So Lucas is Tim’s best friend now, apparently, and they are the closest people in the fucking universe.

Tim straightens instantly, pointing at Lucas like he’s just been handed a winning card and swiveling back toward Dina and Stephanie. “You hear that?” he says, vindicated. “He agrees!”

Stephanie shoots Lucas a look and tilts her head. “Dude, come on—”

“She had to ask him out,” Lucas says, shrugging like this is obvious. “Once or twice, whatever, but it’s like—every time. Even for the winter dance. She had to ask him.”

“What happened to feminism?” Dina tries weakly, staring into her cup.

“That’s not what I mean,” Lucas replies, turning toward her. “Come on, you’ve seen how much she overthinks it every time. When have I ever made you feel like you needed to ask me just to see me?”

Dina huffs, looking away, lips pressed thin. “You’re inflating Tim’s ego.”

“I’m not complimenting him!”

“Then why does he look like you just proposed?” Stephanie asks, exasperated and amused in equal measure.

Lucas furrows his brow, confused for half a second before following her gaze.

Locking eyes with Tim.

“Dude…?”

Tim leans in immediately, grin sharp and hopeful, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So you’ll help me?”

“Fuck no.”

Oh.

Okay.

Tim Drake fucking hates Lucas, actually, and he can go die.

Tim groans, letting his forehead drop forward onto his notebook with a soft thunk, pen rolling slightly under his hand. “You all want me dead,” he mutters, voice muffled by paper. “What if I killed myself, huh? What if—”

“She’d probably save you a seat at her wedding with Lloyd,” Stephanie cuts in cheerfully, chin propped in her palm, freckles creasing as she smiles, “and just keep it empty.”

Tim kicks her under the table.

The library exhales as the evening thins out. Lucas and Dina leave around six, their voices fading down the marble stairwell, footsteps swallowed by the building’s cavernous quiet. Gotham presses itself against the tall windows, the sky outside bruised purple and gray, streetlights flickering on one by one like tired sentries. The stained glass above the stacks bleeds muted color onto the floor—dusty golds and blues that settle into the cracks of old stone.

By seven, Stephanie finally closes her textbook, the heavy thud echoing louder than it should in the near-empty room. She leans back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head, curls spilling down her shoulders in loose blonde spirals that catch the lamplight. Her skin still holds a faint tan despite Gotham’s winter, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like constellations she never bothered to memorize.

She glances between Tim and you.

Lloyd left a few minutes ago.

You drifted back to the head of the table after, slipping into the seat like it was always yours, familiar and effortless. Tim doesn’t look up—not once—but Stephanie notices everything anyway. The way his fingers fly faster over the keyboard, knuckles pale, veins standing out against skin that’s already too light from long nights indoors. The way he takes a sharp pull from his energy drink, throat working like he needs to swallow something down before it crawls out of him.

Gods save him.

She stays put.

Doesn’t pack.

Doesn’t even pretend to.

Just slouches sideways in her chair, one knee tucked up, phone glowing softly in her hand as she doomscrolls with deliberate casualness, firmly wedged between the two of you like a human barricade.

“Don’t you have a date with Cass?” Tim asks eventually, voice rougher than he means it to be.

He doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes locked on his screen, lashes casting dark shadows against sharp cheekbones, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. His black hair falls messily into his eyes, untouched since this morning, making him look more tired than he’ll ever admit in Stephanie's eyes.

Stephanie lifts her head slowly. “What?”

Tim swallows. Shifts in his chair. Still doesn’t look at you. Not at the way you tilt your head when you’re confused, not at the way the overhead lamp warms your eyes into something soft and dangerous. “Your date,” he clarifies, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. “With Cassandra.”

Stephanie’s eye twitches.

Ah. Message received.

“I don’t recall what you’re talking about, Timothy,” she says, tone sugary enough to rot teeth.

There are maybe six people in this world Stephanie Brown would willingly do something stupid and petty for.

Right now, she’s sitting between two of them.

“Dinner,” Tim adds, coughing slightly. “That ramen place.”

He probably assumed she’d help him for free.

And leave you alone with this monster?

Absolutely not.

“Ohhh,” Stephanie drawls, suddenly thoughtful. “Yeah. That nice, expensive one near the GCPD? The new one?”

Tim blinks, confused, watching as she nods to herself and begins packing her bag with exaggerated slowness, slipping pens into pockets, zipping and unzipping compartments. “Yeah, I guess—”

“Oh darn!” she interrupts brightly, patting her jacket pockets. “I left my wallet at home. Guess it’d be easier to cancel on Cass and reschedule.”

You pull one earbud free, brow knitting as you glance between them, noticing the way Tim’s eyebrow jumps, a sharp little tell he never quite learned to hide.

“You—” Tim cuts himself off, exhales hard through his nose, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He doesn’t even look at Stephanie when he hands it over. “Here. Don’t be a bad girlfriend and—”

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” Stephanie cuts in, batting her lashes dramatically as she plucks his black card straight from his wallet. She slips on her jacket, curls bouncing as she turns to you with a grin that’s all mischief and affection. “Isn’t he just the sweetest?”

You hesitate, head tilting slightly. “Uh… yeah.”

“YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE,” Tim suddenly snaps, voice echoing through the quiet library, drawing irritated looks from a few remaining students as he stands and physically herds a giggling Stephanie away from the table. “GOODBYE. HAVE FUN.”

She laughs as she goes, practically skipping toward the exit, boots clicking against stone, blonde curls swinging as she throws a careless wave over her shoulder.

Tim watches her disappear into the stairwell, shoulders slumping just a fraction.

With the way she vanishes into Gotham’s night, he already knows—deep, deep down—that he’s losing at least two thousand dollars tonight.

The library settles again, lights humming softly, the city breathing outside the windows.

And you’re still there.

There’s an empty seat between the two of you where Stephanie sat.

You don’t hesitate. You stand and move into it like it’s muscle memory, like gravity still knows where to put you, like you didn’t just walk Lloyd out to his car ten minutes ago with your hand wrapped around his sleeve, laughing softly like you were something out of a storybook—like his fucking prince charming.

The chair scrapes quietly against the floor as you pull it in, close enough that Tim feels the shift in air before he sees you settle beside him. His shoulders tense instinctively, pale skin already gone tight under the library lights, hair falling into his eyes as he stares a little too hard at his screen.

“What are you working on?” you ask, easy and conversational, fingers sliding up to tune your music down as you keep sketching, pencil moving in loose, confident strokes. It looks like something for art class—shading layered gently, lines purposeful without being precious. Stephanie finished the final touches on her landscape the moment she arrived, declared it done, and promptly started meddling.

Tim’s answer comes a beat late.

“Uh—” His voice stutters slightly, like it caught on the way out. “Just… trying to learn this new code. Finished school stuff already.”

You lean just enough to glance at his screen, not touching him, not quite, but close enough that he can see your reflection faintly in the dark glass. You nod, lips pursing thoughtfully. “Looks complicated.”

And then you go back to drawing.

Just like that.

Like you didn’t used to lean into him when you worked, shoulder to shoulder, knee pressed against his under the table. Like your head didn't tilt toward his when you concentrated, lashes brushing his sleeve. Like that wasn’t a year ago, like it wasn’t still burned into him in exact, brutal detail.

Tim swallows.

“Mhm,” he murmurs, the sound rougher than he intends, barely there, fingers hovering uselessly over his keyboard as the library hums around you both—lights buzzing softly, pages turning somewhere far off.

And you sit there beside him anyway, close enough to undo him, drawing like nothing has changed at all.

Tim doesn’t take your closeness for granted. He never has. Tim breathes it in the way he’s learned to breathe in every narrow allowance of proximity these days, slow and careful, like the moment might bruise if he holds it too tightly. You smell like your perfume—soft, familiar, worn into the fibers of your coat—layered with the papery dryness of old books and the faint, comforting bitterness of tea you shared earlier with Dina, mugs cooling forgotten on the table between half-finished thoughts.

And under all of that–barely there but persistent once he catches it–is cedarwood.

Not his.

The stupid blonde’s.

It clings faintly, like static, like a reminder pressed into the air itself. 

You walked him to his car. 

Tim isn’t a traditionalist, not really, but it’s winter and Gotham doesn’t do gentle cold; it bites, sharp and personal, and it only took Lloyd four quiet, “No, I insist—”s from you to give in. 

Amateur. Tim files it away automatically before he lets himself breathe again anyway, because denying it would hurt worse, because this is still you. His fingers crack at the knuckles without him realizing, a soft, dry sound swallowed by the library’s hush, and his gaze drifts—unintentional, unguarded—down to your sketchbook.

And stops.

Freezes.

Red Robin stares back at him from the page.

Not stiff. Not posed. Caught in motion, balanced on the edge of something unseen, weight shifted to one hip like he’s mid-turn, cape flaring in a way that suggests momentum rather than drama. 

The pencil work is confident—dark where it needs to be, light where it breathes—shading layered patiently along the lines of the suit, the texture of the fabric suggested with nothing more than pressure and restraint. The mask sits just right on the face, angular but not harsh, eyes narrowed with focus rather than anger.

It isn’t copied. It’s remembered.

Tim sees details no camera would ever bother with: the slight tension in the jaw, the way the line of the neck curves when he’s bracing to move, the subtle asymmetry that makes the figure human instead of iconic.

When Tim looks up, slow and careful, he finds you smiling softly as you draw, lashes lowered, pencil moving with quiet certainty. You once told him you’d never draw him—that it was bad luck, that you loved him too much to risk it, that some things shouldn’t be pinned down or flattened onto paper.

Gods help him, you’ve drawn him the way people draw something they’re afraid to lose.

Tim almost scoffs. Almost tells you that Red Robin looks worse in real footage, that cameras catch the sweat, the smudges, the moments where he’s off-balance and barely holding it together. He almost jokes, almost reaches for distance—

And then he sees it.

The small beauty mark at the base of the neck, just beneath the line of the mask, placed so casually it could only come from familiarity. From proximity. From having looked at him up close, when the mask was off and the world was quiet.

Something in Tim’s chest tightens, not painful, just full.

You drew him. And you did it sitting close enough that your sleeve brushes his arm when you shift, close enough that he can feel the steady warmth of you beside him, real and grounding, like you never stopped knowing exactly who he was beneath the masks and names and careful compartments.

“Thought you were a Nightwing fan,” Tim murmurs, the words coughing their way out of him in a whisper meant for no one else.

You glance up at him, pencil pausing mid-stroke where it’s shaping the fall of hair along the mask line, graphite smudged faintly along your fingers. “Thats all you, Tim,” you say easily, like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been obvious. “I’ve always liked Red Robin the most.”

“…Yeah?” Tim says after a second, his heart thudding too loud in his chest, the sound filling his ears until it feels like it might spill out of him. He shifts in his chair, shoulders drawing in slightly, like he’s bracing for impact. “He’s kinda boring, though. Don’t you think so?”

You laugh softly, the sound low and warm, shoulders lifting just a little as you shake your head. Your gaze drops back to the page, curls of hair falling forward as the pencil moves again—confident, unhurried—adding loose locks along the mask line, adjusting the angle of his jaw with a few precise strokes. “He’s nice to look at, and his suit is cool” you say, thoughtful, like you’re deciding it in real time. “That’s all that matters for the project.”

Heat rushes to Tim’s face, sudden and overwhelming, creeping up his neck and burning across his cheeks under the blue glow of his laptop screen. He swallows, fingers tightening around the edge of the table as if that might anchor him. “Just… nice?” he asks, voice thinner than he’d like, cracking ever so slightly at the end.

You don’t look up. You hum instead, soft and considering, a small sound tucked between breaths as your pencil hesitates—then continues. “Mhm. Well,” you add after a beat, lips curving faintly, “maybe a little bit more.”

Tim’s knee starts bouncing under the table, fast and restless, the motion telegraphing everything he refuses to say. He doesn’t know what to do with that—whether it’s a compliment or a deflection or something gentler and more dangerous. His mouth opens, closes, then settles on a useless, noncommittal, “Mhm…”

You tilt your head, studying the sketch with a critical eye, tapping the pencil lightly against the paper once. Then, without warning, you say, “He looks like if an Oreo Blizzard was a person.”

Tim pauses.

His fingers still on the keyboard. His knee stutters mid-bounce. The blush drains from his face, replaced by pure, quiet confusion as his brain stalls out completely. He stares at his screen like it’s betrayed him, cursor blinking patiently in the corner.

“Tim?”

He blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s surfacing from deep water.

You’re looking up at him now, wide-eyed and earnest, lashes catching the warm lamplight, pencil hovering mid-air. Your mouth is tilted into something unsure, something fond.

“Mhm?” he says, automatically, voice distant.

“…Dairy Queen closes in ten minutes.”

The words land soft and absurd between you. Tim exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, shoulders loosening just a fraction, something in his chest easing even as his heart picks up again. He glances at you, then at the sketch, then back at you—caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

“…I know.” His voice is careful, deliberate, each word weighed like a stone he’s been carrying around for years. “…And… what does that have to do with us?”

You groan, letting the edge of your sketchbook tap softly against his forearm, a playful, almost affectionate smack that makes him flinch just slightly. “Come on!” The protest is sharp but light, threaded with warmth that curls into the space between you despite the library’s stale, paper-scented air and the muted hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

Tim giggles, curling his fingers around the spot where the sketchbook landed, the sound of it mingling with his heartbeat in his ears, loud and jarring in the quiet. “Hey! You just watched me give my card to Stephanie, Tim Drake is broke now.” he protests, voice clipped with mock indignation, but the curve of his lips and the crinkle at the corner of his eyes betray the joy of being near you, of sharing this space with you.

“I’ll pay!” you insist, leaning a little closer, pencil still in hand, tracing shadows in the sketchbook as if the very act grounds you enough to be closer.

“Absolutely not,” Tim says, shaking his head, pale skin still flushed faintly beneath the library’s dim glow, sharp jawline catching light, lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. His grin is soft, but the tilt of his head, the way his shoulders draw back and his hands still, betray a protective instinct he never can fully hide from you. “When have I ever let you pay for anything?”

Your mouth opens, ready to argue, “Well… that was when we were dating, that’s different—”

You cut yourself off mid-sentence. The words hit him like a sudden draft of winter air, sharp and real, and he sees it: the way your eyes flick toward his, the trace of hesitation. His smile falters, eyes no longer crinkling into the familiar crescent moons but softening into a tentative curve, a dimple barely showing at the corner of his mouth. His shoulders draw in slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if he’s bracing himself against a memory he’s never allowed himself to touch.

He’s never heard you say it—name it—before. 

That what you two had, what you still carry in the spaces between words and touches, was over and that the over part was actually real. Broken, maybe, but real. Your breakup wasn’t a spoken ending; it was a silence he’d been forced to interpret, a confession he always assumed, but now you’re saying it anyway, in subtle, quiet ways, and it feels like the city itself has paused to make him process it.

“…Mhm…Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lower now, almost swallowed by the soft hum of the library. His gaze drops to his lap, hands brushing against each other in that small, nervous way he does when he’s unsure what to say but doesn’t want to let the moment slip. “…Uh I should have a 20 on me though, I'll just pay, yeah?”

The casual tone is a mask. He’s giving up the nonchalant act he’s perfected over months of careful observation, of distancing himself from his own feelings, of hiding in plain sight. Beneath it, there’s something else—something protective, careful, a quiet pursuit to make this moment of pause yours as much as it is his, because he's so sick of your pauses only having an impact on him.

You glance at him, heart squeezing faintly at the expression on his face, at the way he shapes his sadness into something neat, contained, so it doesn’t spill over into the world. There’s frustration in it, sure, but it’s measured, practiced—the same way he’s always measured his words with you, the same way he’s always carried your heart alongside his own without ever breaking stride.

The subtle history of your relationship—the jokes, the shared silences, the afternoons spent wandering Gotham’s streets side by side, the whispered plans, the quiet fights and louder reconciliations—all of it hums beneath the surface, threading through every glance, every brush of sleeves, every half-smile that was exchanged across the sketchbook between you.

For a fleeting moment, the world outside the library disappears, and the city—gritty, cold, unforgiving Gotham—fades behind the steady pulse of proximity, the weight of unspoken words, and the quiet certainty that some things, even after endings, never truly go away.

Not if Tim will let it. 

He didn't let go of Robin and he won't let go of you.

“Come on,” Tim mumbles, already rising to his feet, a small, careful smile tugging at his mouth as he starts packing up—laptop slid into its sleeve, notebook stacked neatly on top, cords coiled with muscle memory precision, the pens you gifted him gathered like he’s afraid to leave any trace of you behind. “We can use my car. You probably walked here right?”

You don’t answer right away.

You’re still stuck on the look he wore just moments ago, the way his expression cracked open without warning. Tim has always been controlled about this—too controlled. When you called things off, he didn’t argue. Didn’t bargain. Didn’t ask you to stay. Sometimes, in your worse moments, you resented that. It felt like indifference masquerading as respect.

But the way his blue eyes widened earlier, bright and unguarded for just a second, the way his composure slipped—it was the first time you saw how deeply it landed. How much it still mattered.

The realization unsettles you, stirring something low and uncertain in your gut, the quiet sense that maybe following him now isn’t as harmless as it feels.

“You comin’?” Tim asks over his shoulder as he adjusts the strap of his bag, posture easy but hopeful. He pauses, glancing back. “Or… I can heat up the car first. If you want.”

“No, I—” You stop yourself, then shake your head gently, moving to pack your things instead. Pencil tucked away, sketchbook closed with care. You hesitate only a moment before taking one last look at the Red Robin drawing, fingertips lingering at the edge of the page like a goodbye—or a promise—before you slide it into your bag, almost reverently.

When you turn back around, Tim is already there.

Holding your coat out for you.

You jump a little, startled enough to laugh, the sound breaking the tension. “God,” you chuckle, slipping your arms into the sleeves, “Alfred is rubbing off on you.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim says casually, adjusting the collar for you without thinking, “he says you rubbed off on me, so.”

He hopes what he just said sticks.

It does.

Your fingers pause mid-button, the moment stretching thin and quiet between you.

+1 point to Tim Drake.

“How bad is it?” you mumble, voice pitched with playful dread as Tim cracks the heavy library doors open just enough to peer outside.

Your fur coat does not have a hood.

“Uh…” Tim glances back at you, a nervous smile flickering as a gust of icy wind snakes raindrops inside. “How about I just pull the car up front?”

You sigh, already knowing the answer. “They won’t let you.”

Gotham’s library sits stubbornly away from main roads, tucked back like a secret it’s trying to protect. With the city’s endless appetite for destruction, they’ve decided some things are worth guarding—this place being one.

“Come here,” Tim murmurs.

He tugs gently at the sleeve of your coat, pulling you closer before you can overthink it. He unzips his jacket and angles himself instinctively, lifting one side to shield your head and shoulders from the cold, creating a small pocket of warmth that smells like clean fabric, ozone, and something unmistakably him.

You falter.

Tim doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush it. Just stands there, steady, letting you decide.

Your hands hover for a second before settling against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric like you’re reminding yourself that friends do this too. That this doesn’t have to mean more.

+1 point to Tim Drake.

The cold rain hits the moment you step outside, sharp and immediate, Gotham winter cutting through fabric and skin alike, the wind threading itself between buildings like it knows exactly where to hurt. Snow hasn’t quite committed yet, but the ground is slick with old ice and slush, the sidewalk shining faintly under the amber streetlamps like it’s been lacquered with danger.

Tim moves first.

Not rushing you, not pulling—just angling himself so his shoulder blocks the worst of it, his jacket still half-open, one arm hovering close enough to guide without touching. You fall into step beside him automatically, boots striking the pavement a little too fast, breath puffing white in front of you, laughter caught somewhere between nerves and cold.

The library looms behind you, all stone and quiet judgment, while Gotham opens up ahead—wet streets, distant sirens, the low hum of traffic threading through the night. The parking lot feels farther than it should, stretched thin by the cold, by the way your coat slips just slightly on your shoulders, by the fact that your fingers are numb and your steps are getting shorter.

You slip.

It’s small—just a fraction of a second where your heel skids on a patch of ice you didn’t see—but it’s enough. Enough for your balance to tip, for your stomach to lurch, for the world to tilt wrong.

Tim catches you without thinking.

His hand is firm at your waist, fingers splaying through the fur of your coat, his other arm bracing you before you can even gasp. The contact is sudden and close and undeniable, your momentum carrying you straight into him, chest to chest, the impact softened only by the way he adjusts instantly, grounding you like this is a problem he’s solved a hundred times before.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Your breath tangles with his, warm against cold, your gloved hands pressing instinctively against his jacket. You can feel the tension in his grip—not rough, not hesitant—just precise, protective, like his body decided this was non-negotiable. His pulse jumps under your palm, fast and real, a quiet tell he never quite learned how to hide from you.

Then the moment passes.

He steadies you, eases you upright, hands lingering a second longer than strictly necessary before pulling back, giving you space without fully stepping away. The cold rushes back in immediately, reclaiming what little warmth you stole from him.

The car is close now.

He opens the passenger door for you, quick and efficient, one hand still hovering near your elbow as you slide inside, the seat cold even through your clothes. Snow crunches under his boots as he rounds the hood, movements smooth, practiced, the kind of unconscious choreography that comes from years of doing things fast and right.

You watch him through the windshield as he slips into the driver’s seat, shutting the door with a solid thunk that seals the world out. The car fills with the quiet whir of the heater starting up, the windows fogging faintly at the edges.

Inside, the air is warm, sealed tight against Gotham’s cold, the heater humming low beneath the dash. Everything unsaid sits between you, dense and heavy, pressing at your ribs.

Friends do that, right?

You’d catch Stephanie at the waist if she slipped. You’d grab Lucas too, even if he made a joke about it afterward.

Yeah.

You’re friends.

+2 points to you.

You turn just in time to see him rake his fingers through his hair, trying to shake the rain loose, droplets scattering across his knuckles and the collar of his jacket. His black hair sticks up in damp, uneven strands, darker with moisture, lashes clumped slightly as he blinks. 

When he catches you looking, his mouth curves without hesitation—easy, familiar—eyes crinkling at the corners, teeth flashing, one dimple cutting deep into his cheek.

Your heart stutters, sharp and traitorous.

+2 points to Tim Drake.

You look away too quickly, forcing your hands to move, to do something normal, something harmless. You dig through your bag like you’re on autopilot, fingers brushing past pencils and folded paper until you find the packet of tissues. You hold it out to him, tone light, practiced, the way you talk when you don’t want him to notice anything’s wrong.

“Dry your hair, you’re going to get sick—”

“Hands are full,” Tim hums, distracted but smiling, one hand reaching back to shove both your bags into the backseat, the other twisting the key and cranking the heater higher. Warm air spills over your legs almost immediately.

So you move.

You pull a tissue free and lean in, close enough that your knee brushes his, close enough that his warmth bleeds into you. You scrunch the damp front of his bangs between your fingers, careful at first, then a little more deliberate, dragging the tissue through dark strands.

Tim freezes.

Not stiff—not pulling away—just… still. Like his body hasn’t been updated with whatever rule you’re operating under now. His shoulders lock, breath hitching just slightly as your fingers brush his scalp, familiar in a way that hurts. You can feel how soft his hair still is, how it curls faintly at the ends when it’s wet.

God. It’s been so long.

You’d do this for Stephanie.

You would.

You’d even do it for Lucas if he complained enough.

Tim is caught somewhere between letting himself melt into the touch and the dull ache of realizing he’s been reduced to the same category. Just another friend. Another person you’re gentle with.

+2 points to you.

“I think it’s dry,” he mumbles, voice lower now.

“No, it’s—” You pause, lifting the tissue, fingers brushing through once more. It’s slick. Too slick. You frown slightly, eyes narrowing as realization clicks.

You look at him.

He doesn’t look back.

“Uh—” His jaw tightens, gaze fixed firmly on the windshield.

“Tim.”

“So what do you want to get?” he rushes out, too fast. “Soft serve, maybe? Blizzard probably—”

“Tim.”

“You know I was thinking—”

“Tim Drake,” you burst out laughing, the tension snapping, “you stole my fucking hair serum!”

You smack his shoulder, not hard, just enough to make a point, before leaning back to toss the used tissue into the tiny trash can tucked by the console—the one you bought and insisted he keep there. He complained about it. Still kept it.

“You left it in my room,” Tim huffs, finally looking at you again, defensive but amused, cheeks pink as he flips on the seat heater under you. “That’s your fault.”

You stare at him for a second, mouth still parted like you’re gearing up for an argument, then think better of it. The tension drains out of you in a soft exhale, and you turn toward the mirror instead, lifting a hand to smooth down a few stray flyaways, checking your reflection in the dim interior light. Your smile lingers there, small and unguarded, like it always has.

Some things, annoyingly, haven’t changed at all—even if it feels like everything else has.

And that’s what makes it so sickening for Tim.

Because you still smile at him the same way, still tilt your head when you listen, still buy him an extra soda from the vending machine without asking because you know he’ll drink it later, still memorize a new coffee order for him every season like it’s muscle memory. Like loving him was a habit your body never quite unlearned.

You do all of that—and then you kiss someone who isn’t him.

Tim presses his tongue hard against the inside of his cheek as he pulls out of the library parking lot, jaw tightening just enough to ache. The tires hiss softly against wet pavement, streetlights bleeding into long, smeared reflections across the windshield as Gotham opens up around them—brick and neon and rain-slick streets, the city breathing low and restless even this late.

He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, posture relaxed in a way that feels practiced rather than real. The heater hums, the radio stays off. There’s no room for anything else.

Five-minute drive to Dairy Queen.

Plenty of time to pretend this doesn’t hurt.

The radio settles into a song neither of you bothered to change, something mellow and familiar, the kind that feels like it’s always existed in Tim’s car. The bass is low, steady, syncing with the hum of the engine and the whisper of tires over rain-dark pavement. Gotham slides past in slow motion—storefronts half-lit, steam curling up from subway grates, traffic lights blinking like tired eyes that never quite close.

The dashboard casts a soft glow over Tim’s hands on the wheel, pale against the dark interior, veins faintly visible where his grip tightens and relaxes in small, unconscious adjustments. His black hair is still slightly damp, curling at the edges, lashes casting shadows when he blinks. 

There's a drop of water at the corner you watch fall from the reflection on your window. He drives like he always does—precise, smooth, attentive—but there’s something restrained about him now, like he’s holding himself a fraction too carefully.

You sit angled toward the passenger window, knee pulled up slightly, coat tucked close around you. The glass reflects pieces of you back at yourself—your eyes, the curve of your cheek, the movement of your fingers as you absently toy with a loose thread. Every so often, without really deciding to, your gaze drifts back to him.

It happens at a stoplight first.

Tim glances over, brief and instinctive, like checking a mirror. Your eyes meet, and for a second the city noise dulls, the song flattening into background hum. 

It’s not charged.

It’s worse than that.

It’s soft. Easy. Like nothing ever broke.

There’s no surprise, no tension, just recognition—quiet, familiar, intimate in a way that doesn’t ask permission. You look away first, clearing your throat softly, adjusting the hem of your coat like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

The light turns green. He looks forward again.

His free hand lifts from his knee, fingers flexing once, twice, hovering in the narrow space between you and the console. Close enough that you feel the shift in air, the warmth of him. 

Tim’s knuckles brush the seam of your jeans when the car rolls over uneven pavement, and for half a heartbeat his hand drifts higher, instinctive, memory-driven to protect you.

He almost rests it on your thigh.

Almost.

You feel it—the pause, the jerk—before he pulls back, settling his hand firmly against his own leg instead, thumb rubbing into his black jeans like he’s trying to erase the impulse. His jaw tightens, then eases. The song swells briefly, chorus bleeding into the small space, and the moment dissolves without ever being acknowledged.

You shift again, uncrossing and recrossing your legs, pretending it’s just for comfort. The next time you glance at him is when you move to put your hands in front of the heater, he’s already watching you, eyes softer now, unreadable in the dim light. The corner of his mouth twitches like he might smile, but he doesn’t. The road curves, and he turns his attention back to it, streetlights sliding in rhythmic flashes across his face.

The Dairy Queen sign appears ahead, bright and almost ridiculous against Gotham’s muted palette. The song on the radio fades into its final notes as Tim signals and slows, the car easing into the lot.

Five minutes have passed.

It felt longer than that. Gods save him.

+2 points to you.

“I’ll go order,” Tim mumbles, already reaching for his wallet like it’s a lifeline, fingers curling tight around the worn leather. He cranks the heat up another notch before you can protest, warm air rushing over you in a sudden wave, fogging the edges of the windshield. Then he’s gone—door opening, cold slicing in for half a second before it shuts again.

You watch him through the glass. Trying to ignore the fact he still remembered your order, that he didn't need to ask.

The night swallows him immediately, Gotham’s winter biting hard, breath blooming white as he steps onto the slick pavement. Tim shrugs his jacket higher on his shoulders, posture straightening as if the cold has given him something tangible to focus on. His reflection ghosts faintly in the window as he walks, pale under the fluorescent lights, black hair getting soaked again before he remembers to put his hood on.

He looks smaller out there. Or maybe farther away.

Inside the car, it’s too warm, too quiet. The radio hums low, some late-night song bleeding softly into the space he left behind. You rub your hands together, then still them, feeling strangely restless. The seat still holds the impression of him, warmth lingering like a memory your body hasn’t caught up to yet.

You lean back in the seat, staring at the ceiling for a second, exhaling slowly.

Outside, snow starts to fall—not enough to stick yet, just thin flakes catching the light as they drift down. Gotham pretending, briefly, to be gentle.

You don’t know why your chest feels tight.

You don’t know why you’re counting the seconds until he comes back. 

You don’t know why the way the warm lights of the Dairy Queen reveal the fact that Tim is blushing makes you want to whine into your hands.

It’s ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. The glass is smudged, the fluorescent glow too soft for Gotham, and yet there he is—standing a little too close to the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, ears pink where his dark hair curls against them. 

He keeps shifting his weight like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, like the choice between a Blizzard or soft serve is somehow a high-stakes decision. You can tell exactly when the cashier smiles at him, because the color in his face deepens, creeping down his neck.

You shouldn’t notice things like that anymore.

You press your palms flat against your thighs, grounding yourself, reminding yourself that this is fine, that this is normal. People blush. Tim has always blushed easily. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.

And yet.

Your chest feels tight in that familiar, unwelcome way—like your heart has recognized something your brain is refusing to name. You told yourself you ended things because it was the right choice, because timing and fear and the city itself were all stacked against you. You told yourself that love doesn’t always mean staying. You’ve repeated it enough times that it almost sounds true.

Almost.

Because watching him now, framed in broken tile and menu boards and warm yellow light, you feel that old ache stir, the one you never quite managed to bury. It’s not sharp anymore. It’s worse than that—dull and constant, like a bruise you keep pressing just to check if it’s still there.

You think about the way his hand hovered in the car.

About how easily you slipped back into orbit around him.

About how natural it felt to sit close, to touch his hair, to laugh like nothing fragile existed between you.

You loved someone else. You’re supposed to now too. 

Lloyd is kind and steady and uncomplicated, and you chose him because choosing him felt safe. Because he doesn’t know how to look at you the way Tim does—like he’s memorizing you for later, like he’s afraid of forgetting.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Tim has never forgotten you. Not once. And some treacherous part of you wonders if you ever really wanted him to.

You swallow, forcing your gaze away from Tim, staring instead at the fogging glass, your own reflection staring back at you—uncertain, flushed, caught somewhere between past and present.

You don’t know what this feeling is.

You just know it hasn’t gone away.

And maybe that’s because you never really knew it at all—never gave it a name, never looked it straight in the eye—especially not in that library parking lot not even five hours earlier when Lloyd ended things, headlights painting the asphalt gold and gray, cutting long slices of shadow between you. 

You’d walked him to his car like you always did, side by side, shoulders brushing ever so slightly, pretending the cold wasn’t gnawing through your coat.

You gave him a blow job in the back seat. Thinking back on it now, you cant really find it in yourself to regret it even if it ended in a break up, because imaging Lloyd as Tim in the moment was so fucking easy.

“Hey… look, you’re great and all, but—” Lloyd had said after, voice low and panting as his hand started fumbling at the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but yours, like he was afraid of seeing something permanent there. “I just think you like me a bit more than I like you and– fuck its making me feel so guilty that…its kind of hard to be around you.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

You had liked Lloyd. You liked that he could smile and make it feel ordinary, the sort of steady warmth that didn’t demand constant attention or complicate your life. You liked that he made it easy to exist without thinking twice, that holding his hand didn’t feel like carrying a secret you weren’t allowed to tell anyone. He was the right shape for comfort. A safe harbor in a city that preferred to chew up and spit out anything soft.

But every time he leaned close, every time his lips brushed yours, your mind betrayed you, sneaking past the warmth and settling on the memory of someone else.

You had always pretended it was Tim. Always.

Lloyd’s hands on your waist became Tim’s in your imagination—steady, careful, asking permission in the way only Tim ever had. Lloyd’s smile faded into the one Tim gave you when he was nervous, the way it crinkled his eyes and made his dimple appear like a secret he didn’t know you had already discovered. 

The warmth in Lloyd’s chest became the slow, even thrum of Tim’s heartbeat, the one you had memorized during years of side-by-side walks through rain-slicked Gotham streets. 

Every kiss, every casual touch, every laugh you gave Lloyd was quietly replaced in your head by a ghost that looked like a boy in black and red, hair curling into his forehead, sharp jawline cut just enough by shadows to make you think of nights spent leaning too close, breathing too fast, and wanting to memorize him in ways that felt too intimate to ever say aloud.

With Lloyd it felt like standing under a lamp-post in the rain that only warmed one shoulder. 

Comfortable. Enough. But never whole. 

Never the way Tim was whole, even when he was frustrating, even when he made you want to scream or run or hide.

Because Tim would always stand in the rain and hear you scream at him to come in the warmth too with a smile on his face.

Tim would never listen to you.

You never meant it to be cruel. You never wanted to betray the quiet warmth Lloyd offered. You told yourself it wasn’t fair to Lloyd. You tried—God, you tried—to be present, to let yourself fall for the person who waited in front of you instead of the one who had always haunted the shadows behind your eyes.

And yet, just hours ago, when Lloyd said it, naming the imbalance, the truth hit harder than the cold ever could.

You did like Lloyd more than Lloyd would ever love you.

Because even without him realizing it, all you saw was Tim.

Through tan skin, blonde hair, green eyes and freckles–you saw pale skin, dark hair, blue eyes and beauty marks.

Every small gift, you'd come home and set it besides the ones given to you by Tim.

For fucks sake you recommended Lloyd the same cologne Tim used.

You were disappointed when he tried the tester in the store and scrunched his nose, shaking his head with a soft and awkward smile.

Sitting in Tim’s car now, the heater blasting warmth that can’t chase away the memory of that parking lot, the streetlights reflecting off the damp asphalt like shattered glass, you see Tim in the glow of the Dairy Queen sign, all pale skin and dark lashes and eyes wide enough to swallow everything you think you’ve built. 

The blush creeping up his neck is more than color; it’s a reminder, sharp as a blade, of everything you’ve tried to forget.

You trace the curve of his jaw in your mind, remembering every late night, every quiet conversation, every time he had said nothing at all but made you feel known in a city that never wanted to know anyone. Every casual brush of fingers, every laugh, every way he moved—like he belonged in the same orbit you couldn’t leave—floods you now with all the things you’d denied yourself, all the longing you’d tried to disguise as ordinary life with someone else.

And Tim… Tim never stopped noticing. Never stopped caring. Never stopped being Tim.

And maybe that’s why your chest aches so much right now. Maybe that’s why the warmth in the car, the song low on the radio, the smell of him mixing with the faint hint of gasoline from your city outside, feels like a tether you can’t break.

You don’t know what this feeling is.

But you know one thing for certain.

It has always been him.

And you used to be furious about it. Angry in the way you only are when something is both inevitable and unfair, when it’s been carving into your chest for years and you’ve spent every ounce of energy pretending it wasn’t there. Now it feels… numb. 

Like touching a wound that never healed but also never bled, a dull ache that pulses quietly under the surface, paralyzed, anesthetized, but still very much alive.

Tim slides back into the car, shaking a light drizzle off his hair, the glow from the Dairy Queen sign painting him in gold and wet streaks. He’s smiling, that soft, crooked smile that used to make your chest flip entirely against your will. “Got us two Oreos,” he says, setting the cup holder between you, carefully balancing the blizzards against the gear shift before he locks the doors.

You remember your own words from earlier, muttering about Red Robin. 

“He looks like if an Oreo Blizzard was a person.”, you said.

Irony doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He hums as he adjusts the heater, flicking the vents toward you. “The cashier was just about to close up—we got really lucky, so—”

You shrug, eyes tracing over the familiar curve of his jaw and landing on the beauty mark you had drawn on Red Robin, the one just below his ear, just the right spot to catch a glimmer of light. “Probably because she thought you were cute,” you say casually, but your voice carries just enough weight to make him pause.

Tim freezes mid-zip, one hand suspended over his jacket like he’s been caught mid-breath. “Huh?”

“That’s why you were blushing, right?” You tilt your head, faintly amused, tracing the warmth spreading over his cheeks. “You’re still red. Come on, tell me—what pick-up line did she use on you, hmm?”

It’s a reflexive memory. The same teasing he used on you the first time you had dared talk openly about Lloyd in front of him, that sly tilt of his head, the curve of his mouth as he dug his nails into his palm, “What pick-up line did that Greek god use on you, hm?”

You watch him now, fingers tightening on his zipper, knuckles pale, jaw working as though he’s chewing over his words before they leave his lips. Tim’s never been good at casual lies. He’s too honest, too exact, too weighted by the things he feels.

“What—What are you talking about?” His voice comes out careful, slightly high, trying to steady, but it trembles anyway.

You blink, caught off guard by the genuine confusion in his expression. For a split second, the playful rhythm of your teasing falters. “It was a joke, Tim… relax.” You straighten in your seat, shoulders lifting, trying not to let the sting in your chest show. You lift a spoon of your blizzard to your lips, the cold a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him, and the way he’s frozen there makes your stomach twist in ways that Lloyd never could.

The city hums quietly outside, Gotham rain tapping against the roof, a soft percussion to the pulse between you. Tim’s eyes flicker to yours, a mixture of something like guilt, embarrassment, and that all-too-familiar longing you can read in him like Braille. He’s close, too close, and every small movement—the way his hand hovers near the cup holder, the slight lean of his shoulder toward yours—pulls at old threads in your chest, tangling with feelings you thought you’d put away neatly in labeled boxes.

“…She wasn’t flirting with me.”

Tim says it like he’s placing something fragile on the dashboard between you, careful, deliberate. The sentence sits there for a second, humming with the low noise of the car, the heater, the city outside that never quite shuts up.

“She was teasing me to her co‑worker,” he continued after a beat, eyes fixed straight ahead, unfocused, like he’s watching something far past the windshield. “About being ‘another slave in the rain for their master.’ Some other guy was here ten minutes earlier rushing for his girlfriend.”

You pause with the spoon still in your mouth. An oreo crumb dissolving slow and sweet against your tongue, cold blooming where you don’t want it. You don’t swallow right away.

“What I was… blushing about,” Tim adds, quieter now, voice thinning, “was that I realized I’m worse than an actual slave.”

The Dairy Queen lights flicker once, then go dark, leaving the interior of the car wrapped in soft amber and streetlight glow. Outside, two girls laugh as they lock up, their footsteps crunching faintly on wet pavement as they head for the same car, shoulders bumping, warmth shared without thinking.

“I’m choosing to be here,” Tim says, jaw tightening, “after being thrown out of the palace.” His fingers curl tighter when he moves his hands to rest against the steering wheel. “How pathetic is that?”

The word lands heavy, not dramatic—just tired. Worn smooth by repetition.

You don’t answer right away. You wait until the girls’ car pulls out of the lot, headlights sweeping once across the windshield before disappearing into Gotham’s throat. Until it’s just the two of you again, sealed inside this small, warm pocket of light and breath and old habits.

Only then do you turn.

Tim’s cheek is pressed into his forearms now, those braced against the steering wheel like he’s holding himself upright by force alone. His lashes cast shadows against pale skin. His shoulders are drawn in, posture small in a way he only ever allowed around you.

+4 points to Tim Drake.

“…I always liked you pathetic,” you murmur finally, voice low, casual, like it doesn’t cost you anything to say. You scoop another bite of ice cream, deliberately unhurried. “You know that.”

Tim huffs a laugh before he can stop himself, the sound sharp and breathless, and he drops his face fully into his arms like he’s hiding from the relief of it. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled, thinner, pitched exactly where he knows it will make you soften.

“I was too scared to ask you,” he admits. “When you said you didn’t think I was good for you… did you honestly think that sounded like a breakup?”

Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth.

“It wasn’t meant to be a breakup…exactly…I guess,” you say, quietly.

Tim scoffs, straightening just enough to rake a hand through his hair, frustration crackling under his skin like static. He shoves a too-large bite of ice cream into his mouth, jaw working like he’s punishing himself for it. “Yeah, you just went home and blocked me on Instagram.”

“Didn’t block your spam, though,” you shoot back automatically. You knew he'd just hack into your account if you did that.

He groans your name, long and exasperated, twisting in his seat until he’s facing you fully now. His knee bounces once before he stills it with his own hand. “What the hell did I do?” he asks, not accusing—just genuinely lost. “I—God, I know I fuck up more times than I’d like to admit, but we always talked through things. Always. I let it go because you seemed so sure it was what you wanted, but—”

He stops mid-sentence.

Because your hand moves.

Your fingers slide into his hair, cool and gentle, adjusting his damp bangs where they fall too low over his forehead. The contact is soft, familiar, devastating. Tim goes utterly still, breath hitching like you’ve pressed a switch inside him. His lashes flutter once, then lower, instincts winning out as he leans just slightly into your touch.

You feel the heat of him under your palm. Alive. Real.

“You always looked like Red Robin the most when your hair was like this,” you murmur, thumb brushing his temple. “I liked drawing you with wet hair. In suit or otherwise.”

Oh.

Fuck.

Tim’s eyes open slowly, tracking your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. He searches your expression, looking for a joke, a deflection, a safe place to land—and when he finds none, his gaze drifts anyway. Your nose. Your mouth. The familiar curve of your jaw. Your brows. Like this might be the last time he’s allowed to look this closely.

“…When did you find out?” he asks at last, voice barely there. “Is that why you broke up with me?”

The question isn’t sharp. It’s scared.

Were you afraid?

That someone would come for him?

For you?

Or that he didn’t trust you enough to tell you first?

“…Yeah.” The word is a whisper, a soft confession that hangs between you, stretching longer than it should. You let your hand shift from where it had rested in his hair, moving carefully to his cheek, tracing the line from jaw to temple with a gentle touch, almost reverent. 

It pains you to feel him flinch just slightly, a reflex, the tiniest hesitation to let you keep touching him, and it twists something raw in your chest.

“I… I was actually going to argue about you being late to our date,” you admit, voice shaking a little, caught between guilt and memory, “then I saw you with that bandage on your neck, after watching Red Robin get struck in the news. I’ve drawn you both before—no, I’ve drawn you a million times, with and without the mask but that… that was the first time I noticed the beauty mark was the same. Because you were hiding it, covering it with a bandage.”

Your thumb brushes over his skin again, the motion gentle, unconscious, like you’re trying to soothe the memory away, like the touch can erase the hours of fear and worry that was tucked into your chest. Tim flinches again, but this time doesn’t pull away; instead, his hand rises to press yours against his cheek, anchoring you there as though letting go would mean you leaving for good.

“Do you know… do you know how scared I was?” you whisper, voice tight, breath catching. “How horrible it felt, knowing I was making you run from one end of Gotham to the other, after getting struck by a sword… all for a stupid coffee date?”

The car is still except for the low hum of the heater and the rhythmic tick of rain against the windshield, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you. The city has receded, the distant rumble of traffic and sirens muted, as though Gotham itself is leaning away, giving you this small, private corner in the chaos. Tim presses his cheek more firmly into your hand, and you feel the subtle warmth of him there, the heat of his skin against yours, grounding you in the moment.

“You didn’t make me do anything, I—” His words falter, swallowed in the space between heartbeats.

“Tim,” you interrupt, firm, the edge of your voice tempered with care, “you were going to kill yourself doing that. Being Red Robin, working at Wayne Enterprises, keeping your grades decent enough for this semester—how could I ask for more than that?”

Your words float in the car like smoke, curling around both of you, and Tim’s shoulders slump slightly, tension leaking out as he exhales harshly through his nose.

“How dare you not?” he hisses, voice low and almost desperate, but the words tremble. “How could you make that choice for me?”

“I wasn’t making the choice for you,” you murmur, softening, pulling your hand slightly away—but not fully, keeping it hovering over his cheek, tethering him to you. “I was making the choice for me. I didn’t want to feel guilty for using your time. I was being selfish… I am selfish, and I—”

“You don’t have to feel guilty,” he whispers, cutting through the quiet like a knife, but the tremor in his voice betrays him.

“Well I did.” You let it slip past your lips, a quiet affirmation, almost too soft for the sound to travel over the heater hum and the patter of rain.

Tim bites the inside of his cheek, tilting his head just enough to avoid your gaze while trying to form a coherent thought, a shield against the storm of everything you’ve just said. His eyes, those blue storms, flicker briefly to yours before darting to the dash, the blurred neon outside reflecting like water on glass. Your chest tightens, because even in his attempt to hide it, you see him unravel, every careful layer of control peeling back with each blink.

“I couldn’t handle you,” you mumble, the words slipping out quieter than you mean them to, like they’re embarrassed to exist at all. You’ve never said it out loud before. Never shaped it into something real enough to hear yourself. “I couldn’t give you—”

“All I’m hearing,” Tim cuts in briskly, too fast, too sharp, “is that you loved me too much and your little head hurt at the thought of it.”

He rolls the window down, cold air rushing in, carrying the smell of rain and wet asphalt, and with a flick of his wrist he tosses his Blizzard toward the far trash can. It arcs clean and perfect through the air, lands dead center with a hollow plastic thunk.

A perfect trick shot.

Any other night, any other version of you, you would’ve rolled your eyes and muttered, show off, just to watch him preen about it later.

Tonight, your chest feels too tight for sarcasm.

“You’re hearing what you want to hear,” you say instead, flat, defensive, staring down at your melting ice cream like it might offer backup.

“You’re saying what I want to hear,” he replies, softer now, turning fully toward you. He shifts in his seat, shoulder angling perpendicular to the driver’s side, body open in a way that makes your stomach flip unpleasantly. His knee bumps the center console. He’s too close again. He’s always been too close.

You don’t respond. You just huff quietly and scoop up another bite of your Blizzard, chewing slower than necessary, dragging the moment out. It makes him smile—small, crooked, fond, like he’s catching a glimpse of something familiar and precious that he thought he’d lost.

“God,” Tim murmurs under his breath, not quite looking at you, not quite not. “How does he stand you being so in love with me?”

The words land heavy and wrong and accurate all at once.

Your entire body freezes.

It’s like being flash-frozen mid-thought, like your blood turns to slush in your veins, like you might shatter if you move too fast. Mr. Freeze would be proud. You feel brittle. Exposed. Seen in a way you’ve spent months pretending wasn’t possible.

“…He doesn’t,” you mumble finally, voice barely holding together. There’s no point lying. You know Tim—he’d peel it apart eventually. “He broke up with me.”

Tim blinks.

Then he straightens abruptly, posture snapping upright like you’ve yanked a wire inside him. His face scrunches with confusion, eyes scanning yours like he’s waiting for the punchline, the laugh track, the gotcha moment.

“Huh—wait, what?”

“Lloyd broke up with me,” you repeat, quieter. “In the parking lot.”

Tim actually gapes at you.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, like the words keep slipping past whatever part of him is supposed to process reality. Under different circumstances, you might’ve laughed. Might’ve cataloged it as another fond memory. Instead, your brain chants relentlessly:

Stay mad at him. Remember the guilt. Don’t forget why this hurts.

“He broke up with you?” Tim repeats, disbelief thick in his voice.

“Mhm.”

His hands lift helplessly, gesturing vaguely at you—your coat, your hair, your existence. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” you say too quickly, the lie sliding out smoother than the truth ever could. “Maybe the blow job I gave him in the parking lot was ass.”

Tim freezes.

Completely. Like the sentence unplugged him.

For half a second, you consider backtracking, rolling your eyes, adding it’s a joke, Tim, relax, but you don’t get the chance. He’s already lunging for the window controls, shoving the glass down with frantic urgency before leaning out and promptly throwing up into the rain.

The car fills with the sound of retching, the cold air rushing in, the absurdity of it all crashing over you in waves.

You stare ahead, spoon suspended halfway to your mouth, wondering distantly how the hell the universe keeps finding new, deeply stupid ways to prove what you already know.

That it has always been him.

And that loving him has never been simple, or clean, or survivable without a little collateral damage.

Once your brain finally catches up, you move instinctively, slamming the empty Blizzard cup back into the holder with a clatter that echoes in the quiet car. Your hands reach for him, hesitating only a second before gathering the wet, dark strands of hair away from his face, bunching them carefully in your fingers.

“TIM—Hey—” you whisper, voice tight, low, unsure.

He just retches harder. His body shudders violently, leaning against your hand, the heat of him radiating through the sleeves of your coat. The smell of rain-soaked hair and ice cream fills the small space, cloying and intimate, and for a moment you can’t breathe around it. Your hands stay there, cradling the damp strands, unsure if you’re holding him back or holding yourself together.

You rub his back in slow, tentative circles, trying to anchor him, trying to be the thing that doesn’t move when everything inside you feels like it’s breaking. His shoulders tremble, and the quiet rattling of his breath mixes with the sound of the heater and the faint hum of the idling engine. The world outside the car blurs into wet, dark shapes and flickering streetlights.

After what feels like a lifetime, he pauses, shivering and slumped over, and then leans forward against the steering wheel with a deep, ragged heave. You kneel slightly on the seat to press a hand to his shoulder, letting your thumb brush the tense muscles under his jacket, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his back.

“Hey,” you murmur again, softer this time, leaning your forehead briefly against his shoulder. You don’t know what else to say—there’s no script for this moment, no words that could make it less raw, less humiliating, less…human. All you can do is be present, your hands stubbornly refusing to leave him, letting the warmth of your body tether him just slightly to reality.

He heaves again, slower this time, chest shaking against the wheel, and finally slumps fully against it. His wet bangs stick to his forehead, and you brush them gently aside, letting your fingers linger there. The storm of the city presses against the windows, but inside the car, with the heater warming your legs and the smell of ice cream and rain, the world narrows to him—this broken, beautiful, utterly human version of Tim Drake—and the ache of wanting to fix him when there’s nothing to fix but his own exhaustion and embarrassment.

You whisper his name again, almost a prayer, almost a curse.

His head lifts from the steering wheel, dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyelashes wet and trembling, and for a moment his brain seems to catch up to the situation. “He breaks up with you after the blow job? What a fucking douchebag.”

Of course he’d always defend you, even if the rest of the world couldn’t be bothered. Even if he has no context. 

“He didn’t like it, I guess,” you mumble, heat crawling up your neck like slow flames, your ears burning in the dim orange glow of the Dairy Queen lights outside.

“Babe, don’t fucking play with me—your mouth is fucking—” Tim begins, voice low and strangled, before you cut him off by shoving a spoonful of Oreo Blizzard into his mouth.

“Does that get rid of the throw-up taste?” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut as if the act could erase the memory of his words entirely.

He chews and swallows, still pulling back from the spoon, face scrunching. “I’m going to fucking kill him. I swear on Batman’s life you hear me—I—”

“He didn’t like that I was… too into it,” you whisper, embarrassment curling in your chest like smoke. Even if no one else could hear, Tim could. Oh, Tim could.

“Okay—what?” he stammers, eyes widening in disbelief as a faint greenish flush creeps across his pale cheeks. A wave of nausea flickers across his expression, sharp and threatening, and your heart lurches. 

Gods, he’s going to throw up again.

“Wait! Wait!” you exclaim, hands flying up defensively, waving like flags, as your voice cracks from both embarrassment and fear, “I was pretending he was you—so it wasn’t that hard, Tim—”

“Our dicks are the same size?!” Tim yells, scandalized in a way that makes your stomach do somersaults, your cheeks warming hotter than the car seat heater under your thighs. “I’M NOT BIGGER?”

You blink at him, dumbstruck, voice caught somewhere between mortification and awe. “Uh… sorry?”

He groans into his hands, still slouched against the wheel, hair wet and clinging to his temples. “I owe Stephanie four hundred bucks,” he mutters, like that explains everything.

Then, delirious, still tasting the faint bite of ice cream and bile, he flicks a glance at you, eyes wide, incredulous. “Did you… look for a guy with the same… on purpose?”

You stare at him, tilting your head slightly in the low, warm light of the Dairy Queen, the heater humming between you like it’s holding the moment hostage. “I went for a tan man with blonde hair,” you murmur, voice low and sharp, like a whip against his disbelief. “I want you to use your fucking brain and re-think that question and if you think Im that shallow.”

Tim opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. The pale skin of his cheeks blooms pink, almost purple under the harsh fluorescent lights that slice through the car like guilty spotlights. You always had a way of making him look like a kid caught with his hand in a jar of Bat-snacks.

“Gods, you—” he starts, voice rising like a fragile dam on the verge of bursting, “you always pull shit like this to throw me off—so… what, you were okay with him since he had free time?”

You blink at him, unsure if you should laugh or huff, but then you murmur, “…Don’t word it like that.”

“I am!” he hisses, sharp and fragile all at once, his fingers twisting into his dark hair as if he can physically pull the frustration out. “God… was this not hard for you like it was for me? Being away from me? Do you know how much I missed you? I—” He pauses, jaw tightening, eyes flashing with something raw and desperate. “I sold out your fucking perfume, you know that? Bought forty bottles. I've gone through four in the past three weeks.”

You freeze, blink once, and feel your stomach twist with a strange, bittersweet mix of guilt and something almost like pride. Oh. That’s why your niche fragrance—the one you've had for years—was suddenly impossible to find, why you’d been clutching the last few sprays like they were oxygen. You’d thought it was coincidence, scarcity, Gotham nonsense. But no. He’d bought it all.

Your chest tightens. The heater hums low, the soft buzz filling the car like it’s conspiring to keep you trapped in this too-close, too-small world. Tim’s cologne fills your nerves as he shifts forward. You can smell him—aftershave faint under his natural scent, a mix of charcoal and night air, sweat from nerves and embarrassment.

Your hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to smooth the tension from his shoulder or his hair, to do something that doesn’t require words. But you stop, fingers frozen in midair, because every movement feels too loud in the shared quiet, too intimate.

Tim swallows, lips pressing into a thin line as his chest rises in a slow, uneven rhythm. “You… you really didn’t… think about me, did you?” he murmurs finally, not a question, more a plea. His voice is low, rough, weighted with longing and frustration and that thing he never lets anyone see—the part of him that’s still a kid in the backseat of life, afraid he’ll never measure up, afraid he’s too much or not enough.

“I thought of you too much,” you murmur, voice low, almost lost in the hum of the car heater and the faint pitter-patter of rain against the windshield. “That was the problem. That’s why I broke up with you. That’s why… you’re not good for me.”

Tim groans, face pressing into the steering wheel as if the leather can absorb all the chaos between you. “Hey, babe… I think you need to see a fucking therapist,” he mutters, voice muffled, defeated, but still sharp enough to make you blink.

“You first,” you hiss back, crossing your arms, heat creeping up your neck, heart hammering too fast.

Tim scoffs, finally lifting his head just enough to reveal his dark eyes, pale skin flushed pink from both embarrassment and the heater’s warmth. Then, almost casually, he reaches into the back seat, where a brown grocery bag rests behind the passenger seat, and pulls out a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush.

You blink at him, unsure if you’re seeing things. “That… that’s the brand I use,” you say slowly, voice cracking slightly between disbelief and awe.

“I know,” he says, voice quiet but firm, almost a whisper of obsession, a breath of intent you can feel pressing against your skin. “Bought your whole hygiene routine before I came to the library. It's coming in useful more quickly than I thought it would.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly open, unable to process the layers of thought, care, and absolute chaos wrapped up in his words. He pops open the toothbrush like it’s nothing, casual and deliberate, but your brain freezes on the fact that he—down to the exact shade of pastel pink on the bristles—bought the same one you use.

“Your… you’re actually crazy,” you whisper, awe and incredulity warring in your tone, your fingers brushing against your lips as if touching them would anchor you back to reality.

Tim twists in his seat just enough to lean toward the open window, toothbrush already in his mouth like this is the most normal thing in the world. The rain has slowed to a fine mist, the kind that hangs in the air instead of falling, and the parking lot is empty enough that Gotham feels briefly abandoned—like the city has stepped away to give you privacy it never usually allows.

You watch his jaw move as he brushes, quick and methodical, too hard the way he does everything when he’s trying not to think. His shoulders are tense, drawn up near his ears, black hair still damp and curling at the ends where your fingers were not that long ago. Pale knuckles grip the steering wheel when his free hand comes back to steady himself, and you can tell he’s grounding himself in motion because stopping would mean feeling.

It’s hard not to stare, even if he's doing something like brushing.

It’s harder not to ache.

Because the whole time he’s brushing his teeth out the driver’s side window of his car like some feral raccoon, all you can think about is how familiar this is—how many versions of this exact moment live in your head. Tim brushing his teeth at your sink at two in the morning. Tim rinsing his mouth and leaning over to steal a kiss that tastes like mint and coffee and him. Tim doing mundane things in your orbit like that’s where he’s always belonged.

You dig your nails lightly into your palm, trying to stay present, trying not to drown in the weight of what you lost and what you never really let yourself keep.

He spits out the window, sharp and practiced, then reaches for a water bottle from the cup holder, cracking the seal with his teeth. The sound is loud in the quiet car. He takes a mouthful, tips his head back, throat working as he gargles, eyes screwed shut like he’s holding something back that isn’t just nausea.

Your chest tightens.

Because this—this is the part you never knew how to explain to him. How loving Tim was never about grand gestures or dramatic heartbreak. It was this constant, low-level strain of being too aware of him. Of every breath he took, every sacrifice he made without complaint. Knowing that every small ask from you was another weight on an already overloaded system.

He spits again, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then closes the window, caps the bottle and exhales slowly, shoulders finally dropping an inch.

You realize you’ve been holding your breath.

It was hard the whole time, you think—not just now, not just after you found out. It was hard when he showed up tired but smiling. Hard when he apologized for things that weren’t his fault. Hard when he tried to be everything, all at once, and still looked at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

Loving Tim felt like standing too close to a live wire—warm, electric, intoxicating—and knowing that one wrong move could burn you both.

Tim leans back into his seat, blinking a few times, eyes glassy but focused now. He sets the toothbrush aside into the grocery bag, hands lingering there for a second longer than necessary, like he’s stalling.

You don’t say anything.

Because if you do, you might admit that even now—after watching  him spit toothpaste into the Gotham night, watching him exist inches from you—you still want to choose him.

And you’re terrified of what that says about you.

“…I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” Tim says quietly, the words slipping out like a confession he’s been holding between his teeth all night. His voice is rough around the edges now, scraped thin. “Gods—I just can’t do friends.”

The car feels smaller suddenly. Too warm. Too close. You look at him and it’s unbearable how much of him there is to look at—his eyes still glassy from nausea and something worse, his lips a little pinker than usual, lashes clumped just slightly from rain. All the familiar details stack up in your chest until it aches.

“You…” You swallow. “I can’t ask you to be what I want.” The truth presses at you from all sides, heavy and immovable. “I wanted you to be my… everything. You know how selfish that sounds? You can’t handle that.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Tim says immediately.

There it is. That stubborn, immovable core of him. The part that never learned how to back down when something mattered to him.

“I do,” you huff, a small, tired smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself, because he’s still the same—still arguing even while he’s trying to give you everything. “I want you by my side twenty-four seven. I want you to only think about me. I want you to not even look at anyone else.” You let out a breath that’s half laugh, half plea. “Don’t you hear how crazy I sound?”

Tim hears it. He hears all of it.

And instead of recoiling, a slow smile starts to bloom on his face, soft and reverent, like he’s just been handed something holy. He shifts fully toward you, body turning perpendicular in the driver’s seat, cheek pressing into the cushion as if he wants to stay right here forever. His eyes don’t leave your face.

“Gods, I love you,” he murmurs. “They sent you just for me, huh?”

“You’re insane,” you hiss, heat flooding you all at once, down your spine and into your fingertips, because it’s been so long since he’s said that word like it means salvation instead of danger.

“You’re perfect,” Tim says, voice dropping, gentler now. “You’re too in love with me to see how fucking crazy I am too. Wow—you’re perfect.”

Your breath catches. You look back at him and watch the way his pupils widen just a fraction, the way his gaze drags over you like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid he’ll lose again. When he speaks, it’s quieter than it’s been all night, stripped of humor, stripped of bravado.

“I know I’m not good for you,” he says. “I want you to choose me anyway.”

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

Opens again.

“I—I can’t,” you say, the words barely holding together. Saying them feels like pressing on a bruise you’ve been protecting for months.

“You have,” Tim answers, gently now. Not accusing. Just certain.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper.

“You have,” he repeats, softer still, like he’s not trying to convince you—like he’s just stating a fact you’ve both been circling all night.

The car hums around you, engine ticking as it cools, heater blowing steadily, Gotham quiet outside in a way it rarely is. Two people alone in a parked car, suspended in a moment that feels less like a choice and more like gravity.

And the worst part is—you don’t know when you started leaning toward him.

The space between you collapses quietly.

Not all at once—no rush, no collision—but the slow, inevitable pull of two people who have already crossed this line a hundred times in their heads. Tim leans in first, tentative in a way that feels almost reverent, like he’s afraid sudden movement might break the moment. His hand comes up, hovering near your jaw, hesitating there like he’s still giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

When his thumb finally brushes your cheek, it’s barely there, a test more than a touch. Warm. Steady. Real. The contact sends something sharp and familiar through your chest, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you tilt your head up just enough for him to close the last inch.

The press is soft at first. Careful. Like he’s relearning you.

Tim’s lips press to yours with a gentleness that hurts, the kind that carries memory with it—every late night, every almost, every time he wanted this and didn’t let himself reach for it.

You feel him exhale against you, shaky and quiet, like he’s been holding that breath for months.

He has.

Then you kiss him back.

And that’s all it takes.

The sound he makes is small and involuntary, a broken little breath that slips out as his hand cups your face properly now, thumb resting under your cheekbone like it belongs there. The kiss deepens, still unhurried but surer, his mouth moving against yours like he’s afraid to stop once he’s started.

Your fingers find his jacket without thinking, bunching the fabric at his chest. He leans into it immediately, body turning further toward you, shoulder pressing into the seat. The world outside the windows fades—the rain, the parking lot, Gotham holding its breath—until there’s only warmth and the quiet rhythm of two people breathing each other in.

Tim kisses you like he’s been missing you.

Like he never stopped.

When he finally pulls back, it’s just enough for his forehead to rest against yours, noses brushing, breaths mingling. His eyes stay closed for a second longer, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that this is happening.

It doesn’t stay gentle for long.

Something gives the moment you press back into him, and Tim reacts like he’s been waiting for permission. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers firm now, anchoring you there as his mouth finds yours again with more intent. The kiss deepens, unhurried but hungry, like he’s making up for every second he forced himself to keep his distance.

His lips move against yours with purpose this time—still careful, still restrained, but undeniably heated. You feel it in the way his grip tightens just slightly, thumb pressing into your pulse point as if to reassure himself that you’re still here, that you haven’t disappeared again.

You shift closer without realizing it, knees on the center console, moving as careful as you can be. Tim follows the movement instinctively, body leaning back further, shoulder braced against the seat as he leans back for you. The kiss grows warmer, breaths breaking between touches, foreheads brushing when you part for half a second before coming back together again.

Tim freezes for half a heartbeat when his arm hooks under your thighs and lifts you, like even that small escalation startles him. Then instinct takes over. He settles you onto his lap carefully, one hand steady at your hip, the other still at your neck, holding you like something precious he’s afraid to drop.

Your teeth catch his bottom lip—soft, tentative, almost reverent—and the sound he makes is wrecked. A low groan that vibrates into your mouth, more feeling than noise. It’s enough to make your pulse spike, enough to make your hands curl into his jacket like you need something solid to stay upright.

He responds without thinking, mouth tilting, pressure increasing just enough to mirror you. When his teeth catch your lip back, it’s not cruel—but it’s real. Sharp enough to make you gasp, sharp enough that there’s a brief, metallic tang between you. Copper and heat and something dangerously close to relief.

He pulls back immediately, forehead dropping to yours, breath uneven. One hand tightens at your waist, not to pull you closer, but to keep you there. To stop himself from doing more.

“Hey,” Tim murmurs, not a warning—more like a check-in, like he’s grounding both of you at once.

Your noses brush when you breathe. Your hands are still fisted in his jacket. His thumb traces a slow, soothing line along your side, undoing the bite even as his eyes stay locked on your mouth like it’s gravity itself.

The kiss that follows is slower, deeper, restrained by sheer force of will. All warmth and pressure and promise, none of it rushing anywhere. Your knees are tangled, hearts loud enough to drown out the city—both of you painfully aware that this could tip into something unstoppable if either of you lets go.

And neither of you does.

The realization makes his restraint crack—it doesn't shatter, but splinters.

Tim’s hand tightens at your waist, fingers digging in like he needs the pressure to stay present, to keep from tipping completely. The next kiss turns rougher in rhythm rather than content—more insistence, more heat. He kisses you like he’s been starving politely and just lost his manners. No finesse now, just want, mouth pressing harder, chasing yours when you try to pull back for air.

Your hands slide up into his hair, tugging without thinking, and the sound he makes is sharp—half breath, half warning. His grip shifts, one arm bracing you fully against him now, anchoring you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens even a little.

Tim kisses you again, deeper, teeth catching your lip—not enough to hurt this time, but enough to remind you he could. Enough to make your stomach flip and a whine leave your mouth. His breathing is uneven against you, chest rising fast beneath you, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape.

For a moment it’s messy—foreheads knocking, breaths stealing, the car creaking faintly as he adjusts the driver's seat. His thumb presses into your hip, grounding, claiming, stopping himself.

Then he breaks the kiss abruptly, breath ragged, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck,” he exhales, voice wrecked, like the word is torn out of him. His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he holds you tighter, hands moving to work the buttons of your coat open.

You can feel it in the way he’s shaking—not with fear. With effort.

The kind it takes to stop.

Tim’s breath keeps stuttering against your neck, the kind that can’t decide if it wants to steady or fall apart completely. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts, pressing you more securely against him, like gravity itself is insisting you stay right there. The car feels too small for the way everything in him is brimming over—fogged windows, the low hum of the engine still warm beneath you, the rain ticking faintly outside like it’s counting time neither of you are keeping.

Tim leans back in, slower this time but heavier, like the weight of it finally landed. His mouth finds your neck, not frantic now but insistent, deliberate. Every kiss feels like a choice he’s making again and again. His hands stay where they are—one firm at your waist, one steady at your hip—like he’s drawing hard lines around what he won’t cross, even as everything else tilts.

You feel the tension in him through every point of contact. The way his shoulders stay tight. The way Tim’s jaw clenches when you press closer on him. When your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, he lets out a sound that’s barely there, swallowed before it can become anything dangerous.

Tim breaks a kiss on your collarbone, moving to rest his forehead resting against yours now. His nose brushes your cheek when he exhales, warm and shaky. You can feel his pulse under your hands, fast and unguarded, like he forgot how to hide it with you.

For a second, neither of you moves.

It’s not restraint born of distance—it’s restraint born of knowing exactly how badly this could spiral if either of you gave an inch more. His thumb presses once at your side, grounding, almost apologetic.

Then he pulls you into one last kiss, slower, deeper, less rough but heavier in meaning—like punctuation instead of a sentence. When he finally lets you go, it’s only by a breath, hands still bracketing you, eyes dark and searching, like he’s memorizing the moment in case it’s taken from him again.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

The silence between you is loud with everything you both know now.

“Get in the back.” Tim mumbles, “Mm…gonna give you head.”

You chuckle at that, running a hand through his hair just to watch the way goosebumps form on his neck, feel the way his breath stutters against your lips, “Gonna give your girlfriend head?”

“Yeah.” Tim mumbles against your skin, “Mm…my girlfriend.”

For once in this past year–you're exactly where you want to be. And you don't think Tim’s ever going to let you leave again.

author is too tired to add the tag-list rn I'ma do it tmrw. tagging my fav Tim Drake stan tho: @moonologyy

[linnetsverynicecorner]

The Move, The Hall, The Burden, And You. (I)

Kara Zor El x F!reader

𝘼/𝙉: Just a little fic… uhm, my first one :D All judgement appreciated! I've been writing for a while so I hope this is satisfactory for my fellow Kara lovers! I cannot promise it will be extremely accurate as it is a liiiitle bit AU-ish. Also did not take this very seriously. Reader has exposition for her background but you can just scroll to the divider if you wanna skip it. Apologies again.

𝙬𝙘: 17.5k

𝙎𝙔𝙉𝙊𝙋𝙎𝙄𝙎: You're a small-town girl with a case of extreme ambition. You move to Metropolis in search of a better life, hoping to find people more like you and less like the old-fashioned ideas that festered in your hometown. Unfortunately for you, not less than a month in were you brutally attacked in your own apartment (building). Fortunately for you, your next-door neighbour just so happens to be the most alien, out-of-pocket, dog-obsessed, pie-stealing person... who also resembles your attacker far too well.

To retaliate, or not retaliate? That is the question. Find out next time when I learn how to write a synopsis(es).

(its a slow burn bro) (they dont kiss in this part) (they make skin contact though) (fluff) (trauma bonded) ya still reading? (delivery guy) (potstickers)

𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎: reader has hair, reader knows how to use chopsticks, reader has an ex, reader has rent to pay, kara has rent to pay, i also have rent to pay, building has poor maintenance, dogs.

𝙀𝙓𝙏𝙍𝘼: I based the Kara in this fic off a combination of Kara in the Supergirl (2026) film, the Woman of Tomorrow comics, and a bit from the Supergirl (2015) series. Do with that what you will as I remain unsure which version the Kara in this fic is the most alike to. THE CURSING BEING CENSORED IS A REFERENCE TO THE COMICS. But only Kara gets censored. No smut. Yet. Maybe. Have fun. Will write another part if u gaez like.

Growing up was an experience you had always considered a human condition. It could be unforgiving to many, freedom to others. You saw it as the latter. To you, it was liberation. Who in the world was stupid enough to want to be stuck under their parent's roof forever? Free housing? Warm meals on the table that you don't have to cook? Of course, not you.

You were fourteen when you made your first promise to the universe.

Hanging around your fair share of supposed delinquents, you picked up on their own urges to be free. But they weren't delinquents, not in your eyes. They gave your days life, serving as the quintessential flip side to the monotony of your home. Scuffing your knees in the dirt and hanging off trees was infinitely more fun than sweeping the floors for the hundredth time in the week. So you kept yourself around these friends. It killed two birds with one stone. You proved a point to your parents and you could have all the fun you liked in company.

Among them was Liv. The reason you two met were her habitual visits to the Counsellor's office. Not that you minded much. You met her on your way to deliver books to the office, a few old stacks your parents asked you to donate. The strain on your arms was beginning to become harder to tolerate. If that wasn't enough, your head was tipped back at an odd angle due to the eighth volume of some ancient collection deciding to take up the space of where your chin would have been.

That was another reason to rebel. You didn't want to be anything like your parents—not if it meant that! They were the kind of people kept in textbooks; kind, generous, and (almost excessively) contributing members of society. And you? You were their greatest gift to the world. It was only natural for you to make good use of your precious self and enjoy what life they gave you. That was your contribution.

You couldn't enjoy it very much when the books began to slip. With both hands occupied, you had to press yourself to the door of the office to press the side of your hand on the handle. Which… tipped the rest of the books.

"Oh, hell," you grumbled, pushing your head forward in a feeble attempt to control the books. The handle was more stubborn than you remembered that day. But you wouldn't give up. Giving up would be admitting defeat. Giving up would be a pathetic thing to do. Thus, you tried again, the cold metal mockingly stable beneath your shaking grip. Consequently, you worsened your leaning tower of novels. You did your best to direct them against the door, trusting yourself to catch them once it opened.

It was another second before your mounting frustrations reached their worst. First, you were certain the handle's engravings were etched into your hands. Second, you stacked the last book wrong. The paperback edge had been digging into your chin for about three excruciating minutes. Third and final, your dignity was on the line. A very thin line. How could a mere door handle beat you?

You sighed, your head falling back. At least it was good reprieve from the paper.

"Screw it."

Mustering all the strength you could, you jammed the side of your hand down on the handle. At last, you heard the click of the door as it swung open, the bell chiming in tune to your small victory. And there it was; the scent of old paper, dust, and the beaming floodlights welcoming you like Peter himself. You wanted to celebrate too. So yo—

THUD!

Ah.

Gone were the books, and gone were your efforts. Your smile faded as quick as it came. It was almost instinct, the way your triumphant soul fled your body as the hollow shell left dwindled and sunk against the wall. Head hung low, your eyes scanned over the delicate novels your parents tasked you to deliver. The Collector's Editions, specifically, made their unfortunate landings on folded pages known.

You squeezed your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath as you willed yourself to just clean the mess and make up a lie later. You already had about three books stacked beside the fallen pile when a voice rang out. More accurately, the awkward and forced clearing of someone's throat. Your head shot up to a girl sat on the farthest seat, shoulder against the wall. Her dark eyes were steady on you. A little too steady.

"Need help?"

It felt like your usual embarrassment. Only your cheeks flushed, and this odd jittery thing was shooting through your joints. You couldn't pick up a book without fumbling with its edges.

"Uh," you choked out, "Yeah."

No. It wasn't her problem, was it? You quickly shook your head and took it back.

"No."

You were being considerate. Sounded familiar. Without warning, you heard an unwelcome voice too close to your mother's starting to echo behind you. You shook your head again and slapped your hand down on the tile.

"Yes. Absolutely. Help me, right now."

It might have been too strong, but the girl seemed unbothered by it. She sat up straight, patting her hands off on her skirt—frayed edges and washed out colours—before she begrudgingly stood to come to your rescue. Having a second set of hands never bothered you before. This moment in particular, however, pulled too many anomalistic things from you. You stared too long at the red swelling on her knuckles, the scrapes and scars over her copper skin. You felt callouses on the pads of her fingers when they brushed over yours. Still, it wasn't sufficient. You just couldn't help looking up.

Her hair was unkempt. Unbrushed. Her lip was busted. Her necktie was tugged from the fold of her collar and even if it had been done with intention, you were sure she wouldn't have managed tying it right at all. Her blouse wasn't ironed. The crinkles and creases couldn't have been caused by a fight—unless she decided to tousle with a badger, but there weren't enough cuts for that. She was the perfect visual for someone in complete disarray. You didn't mind.

"You asked me to help you," she quipped, a soft chuckle slipping right after. That was the first time you felt like memorizing laughter.

"Yeah," You mused. Momentarily, you cast your gaze elsewhere. Your hand absentmindedly waved over empty space, hoping to catch another book. Your mind lingered on that chuckle. On the scraped knuckles. On her lips, blood and all. You didn't even notice that she paused her aid to look at you.

"It's just that I'm—though you can probably tell—doing all the work."

Your attention breaks in time to turn to her, those abstruse dark eyes gazing dead into yours. It was delicate, the way her hand had gone from hovering inches from yours to resting flat on your fingers. You were pinned beneath her fixation. And beyond that, feeling the warmth blooming from where she held that small piece of you—you were pinned beneath the revelation that she had a fixation mirroring your own. Adventure was something you craved. Something you found symbiotic to the freedom you saw in your future.

You didn't dare shy away then. Taking your chances, you feigned indifference and shrugged. The last book on the floor was the smallest of the bunch. It was hard to miss.

With two fingers, you flicked the book over to her.

"I do know," you conceded, watching as she gawked down at the book, her brow twitching. An awfully childish part of you wanted to laugh. Shuffling away, you continued in safe distance, "I also know you… forgot the last one."

Slowly, you saw her head tilt in confusion. You thought she would take back her volunteered help. You also considered that she might have been thinking of giving you a demonstration as for why she looked the way she did.

Instead, she picked up the last book. And all the others. She delivered them to the Counsellor herself and left before you could process the interaction.

Liv followed you around after the incident at the office. One split-second moment of cockiness drew her in, and you didn't have the decency to push her away. In fact, you wanted more. She was a world of possibilities. You needed to test every single one she could give.

Thus, she became the main inspiration behind your experiments. Needed to skip school? She'd jump the fence with you. Wanted to escape your chores? She'd fabricate a whole project to swipe you from your home.

It was a small risk to test an evidently violent stranger's patience. It was greater to place your first kiss in the hands of that very same stranger.

Two weeks before your fifteenth birthday, Liv invited you to a safe, totally unsuspicious picnic in the town's woods. There's the other reason you wanted to leave. That small town of your childhood was filled with oddities in every sense. It was within those old, dense trees that the old wives' tales and folklore were made. It was because of them that they lived. You used to think that as long as those trees stood, the people in that town would never change. They didn't have the ambition you carried. They'd hear of a new innovation and click their tongues, claiming it was all a senseless hoax or another thing to ruin the "superiority" of a simple life.

You were always an idea short of following the grain.

Somehow, you didn't refuse. Maybe you wanted to prove that those beliefs were wrong. That you wouldn't be swallowed by some overgrown rat just because you ventured too far past sunset. The new flashlights were actually a useful invention. But Liv learned you within a handful of months. And, even in your present mind, you know Liv wrote the reason why best.

"I know you hate this place. I mean the whole freaking town in general. I think it'll be good for us. We can have something for ourselves. We'll put our own twist to it. Like our own magic, I guess? It'll be our place. Promise."

You loved your parents. Through all their quirks and faults, you did. It's just—sometimes, the love given by the people around you can't equate to the kind of love you seek. Fortunately, the love you sought was the one you knew Liv could give.

The clock read 15:28 when you waved goodbye at the front door, promising your mother you'd be at your cousin's until the evening. It wasn't a complete lie. You did have a tutoring session at Michael's. Which, if you just extended their plot of land by a few centimetres on a map, almost included the area Liv picked in the letter. It was literally a spot marked with an obnoxious red 'X'. It felt childish. You weren't sure where Liv got all the landmarks on the stupid map she drew. There was a bridge you'd never heard of, a fairy fort where you two were VIP members—all sorts of ridiculous things.

Sure, the bad influences in your lives rubbed off on you. But you rubbed off on them too. It might have been something more morbid than a fairy fort had Liv never met you.

You carefully set your prepared snacks in the basket of your bicycle, adjusting the edges of the handkerchief to cover the cookies. Without any siblings, you didn't exactly have experience with picnics. Three was a crowd too small for your mother to put in the effort, so you were left to the books your parents relied on so often. Any sweet would do, right? Families in picnics always carried pastries and baked goods. You were certain your cousin wouldn't mind missing out on them anyway.

The golden hour that day was a particularly memorable one. Not all sunsets had your heart palpitating wildly in your chest. Or your grip faltering on the bars. Most of all, not all sunsets were spent with her.

You parked your bike next to Liv's, the handlebars of her own tattered and worn in comparison to yours. It had been there a while, you could tell. There was already a pile of pale red leaves on the seat. There might have been more in the basket if she had one. Liv wasn't the kind to buy replacements until the original thing was rendered completely obsolete. It used to make you cringe. But seeing the pieces of her drawn into the seat and the steel, the stickers collected from your adventures around town, you found yourself wishing you held onto things longer too.

Your fingers ghosted over the torn leather of bars. It was old and broken down, but it was proof of Liv's frequent use. Of its importance in her life. The seat would have had torn leather too. Except, as your fingers skimmed down, you felt cotton in place of her messy stitches. And with the softness between your hand, you felt the strange chill of autumn dissipate. Was it always so warm in October?

Looking closer, you recognized the patch of fabric from the few yards you left at her place after a project. The two of you fished it out of your parents' shed. You didn't care at all for it. But she did. Enough to put it on her handy bike.

You were made more resolute at the sight of it.

When you finished trudging through the damp clover grass, you found Liv sitting cross-legged on a plaid blanket. She had her brother's guitar on her thigh and what your mother would call a posy of flowers. Wildflowers. The thorns gave it away. As well as the poorly applied bandaids over her fingers from (likely) ripping them out of the dirt.

It was inept and far from perfect. The blanket barely fought the dampness of the ground and the cookies had regretfully tasted like seven bags of sugar were baked into them. But you liked things that way. You liked it when she sent the guitar flying in her excitement to see you. You liked it when she lent you her jacket to keep you from the dew seeping in beneath you. You liked it when she let you lay in her lap to watch the gold ebb into red.

And you loved it when she leaned down, cradling your cheek, to steal your first kiss.

You made your first big promise in those kisses. You swore you would never shy away from a challenge. You promised yourself that the moment something you craved appeared in your head, you owed yourself the effort to pursue it.

Your fascination with growing older didn't fade even as it began to happen to you. You grew out of your friends. You grew out of flunking classes. And you grew out of Liv. It's hard to pinpoint when it began, but… you suddenly felt too big for home. Perhaps the fault was rooted in you. Your ambitions doubled in each centimetre added to your height. And Liv, her imagination only spanned the acres within the boundaries of the town.

Your last argument happened the day after you two graduated. You grew further apart as the years passed, when your focus shifted towards accolades in place of romance. You heard great things about the cities sprouting beyond your town. You could be an artist. An entrepreneur. You could be someone that mattered. Those rumours inflated that pit within you that craved and hungered to be known. Sometimes, you wondered if it was a separate and sentient entity itself. A selfish thing that led you by the neck.

And it must have been. Between Liv, the stability of home and the unknown, you chose the vastness of the uncharted world out there. You believed that the love you needed was evolving; no different to you. You outgrew that part of you. So your next thought was to leave.

You couldn't break your promise.

It wasn't easy. The first day you spent in Metropolis wasn't alien or desolate. It was stacks of boxes around you in an empty, unassuming flat. It was the scent of carton and the sticky adhesive under your nails as you tore at red tape—of course, you'd forgotten to bring scissors. Just like you forgot the mug beside your mother's, the warm lamplight in the evening as your father read, and the old wind chimes on the porch. You knew nothing of the city. You knew no one in the city. Solitude had never felt a stronger thing than it did in the moment you noticed it; you, in your ambitions, had forgotten to pack everything that made a house a home.

You'd never assumed it would be easy to begin a new life on your own. So it was no surprise that your first day didn't feel like the end of the world. It was the realization that it didn't feel like the beginning of one either that made all your plans seem futile.

You'd slept on the floor that night. You didn't have enough time in the day to set up more than the essentials in the kitchen. It felt dull. You traded that foreign town for a stranger city you couldn't fit in either. The walls were so white. The ceilings were so tall. And you swore you could feel the cold tile through your mattress. A part of you—the one you shunned—must have felt victorious. Curled into yourself, you'd missed the sound of music in the living room. When your parents would stay up for a nightcap, so lost in their joy that it slipped from their mind to turn down the noise. All you could hear now was the city.

It was louder in Metropolis. The cars drove until dawn. You heard the engines and the honks through the night when all you wanted to hear was the crickets outside your window. They always found a way in, regardless of whether you locked the latch or glued the window shut.

It took two weeks before you got a full night's sleep at all.

You'd gone out a total of five times within those two weeks. Grocery runs, buying appliances, searching for openings. You didn't expect to land a job the second you moved. Your savings would still make for a handful of comfortable months. Liv had hated it. You'd started growing older and you realised not everything would be handed to you anymore. Some things, you had to ensure for yourself. She said you were becoming too crude, too conscious. But you knew you needed it. If you would take what you wanted, you needed to do it. It had already cost you too much to leave.

Metropolis was different. You'd spent most of your outings on strict errands. You stuck to a path, to a destination, and never wandered off beyond where you had to be. That was, excluding the time a building's sign nearly toppled onto you and some guy flying around in a cape carried it off. You almost felt silly. One look at the towering skyscrapers and your ambitions took a backseat in your head. It was easier to dream of things when you didn't have them in front of you. Left, right, and centre—all you saw were obstacles. Metropolitans were hard to talk to. The streets were always full. Some people preferred to dig their faces into their screens over a conversation.

You'd never felt so small.

It was the end of another bland grocery run when you ran into your first neighbour. A brown paper bag was snug in the crook of your arm, a few stalks of celery occupying too much of your sight and the scent of parsley occupying too much of your olfactory senses. You passed about four floors before reaching yours. Much to your dismay, the elevator music faintly broke through the barrier of your headphones. You turned up the volume.

You pushed past the door of the floor's lobby, trying to ignore the sorry scene of the hall. It had been dimly lit since you moved in. One flickering, fluorescent light emanated from a bulb you were sure had exploded. The other bulb was either extremely low quality or altogether inoperable. At least the floor was clean. And for the most part, your new neighbours weren't a headache.

Though, admittedly, they were miles away from the ones back home. You knew your neighbours in town. Mrs. Carter was appointed your godmother despite the lack of any family relation whatsoever. Your mother liked her and the woman brought homemade pies on all the birthdays you had. Uncle Spencer was the old man across your house. He mowed his lawn at the crack of dawn every day. Whenever he came for chess with your father, he made a point to invite you. Spencer was, unsurprisingly, unrelated to you too.

That said, your new neighbours were an enigma. You could hear them. Sense them. As you walked through the hall, you could also catch the scent of the lunch they were cooking. The aroma smelled strongly of mushrooms and there were definite hints of a slow roast. Room 514, the smoke wafting through the peephole and into your path—err, where the peephole would have been. Clearly, your neighbours were alive and passably functioning Metropolitan beings. But you never saw them. Two weeks, and you couldn't catch a single glimpse through your front door. Not even when you timed it after the sound of their door unlocking.

You would have honestly believed they were ghosts with heavy spirit shoes.

But ghosts didn't leave their dogs at your front door.

You had finally exited the food zone when you reached your flat. It was at the end of the hall. Quieter, lonelier. The people living closest to you were either the most bothersome or silent to the point of suspicion. Or they were barely home. The one across you was especially capricious. You'd hear a thump or a crash three times a week. Then muffled barking, maybe some scolding. Whoever lived there didn't bother for a doormat or a welcome sign at all.

Slipping your headphones off, you prepared to fish your keys out of your pocket. You could see your shoddy door, the "DANGER! CHEMICAL STORAGE AREA" sign, and you would have seen your doormat. Except your doormat had grown fur. White fur. And excessive amounts of saliva.

The sleep deprivation had gone to your head already.

Rubbing your eyes, you looked again at your doormat—correction, someone's dog.

"Oh. Hey, buddy." You forced a smile as you crouched down, hesitantly extending a hand to the dog. The… He... She? It? The visitor? Your potential neighbour? Your brows crinkled in confusion before you sighed, settling instead on the easiest pronoun. It was panting, looking up at you with its big eyes. Eyes that you followed as it tracked your approaching hand and your morphing expressions. You were about an inch away from its nose before it barked, its head charging forward to lick your hand.

What if the thing was rabid? Or an actual ghost? No way a dog could be that pristine. You looked beside you to your neighbour's door. The one with the muffled barking and the scolding. The dog could have been theirs. Yet when you felt and registered the saliva coating your skin, you couldn't bring yourself to push such a negative assumption on the dog. How could one so clean and friendly be that neighbour's dog?

"Ahaha…" Your nervous chuckle trailed off with your hand, slowly retreating back into your own body as you gulped. At that point, you had started a staring contest with a dog. Your uncertain gawking returned with its eager regard boring into you.

In those moments, you couldn't help but think. How had your life led to that? To staring at a stranger? A dog-stranger? Were you hallucinating? Had you never left town?

You felt a migraine about to come on, a familiar pain already sweltering in your head before you decided to cut your losses and choose morality on a better day instead. There were cameras in the hall. You weren't sure if they worked but they were there. That meant you could just go home, lock your door and watch through the peephole until the owner collected their pet.

You looked down at your hand. It was covered in slobber. Something kinder must have taken charge in you. Rather than the scowl you should have worn, you smiled, and gave the dog a parting pat on the head.

"Be good, buddy."

Before you could even stand, a cold gust of wind with the force of a truck collided into your back. It sent you crashing forward. Those few seconds where your dignity, your pride that you guarded your whole life began to slip seemed an eternity. You saw the dog's open mouth. You saw the rapid wag of its tail. It was illogically fast, so much so that it outpaced your memory of the moment. You felt the groceries slipping from your arm. Unlike the books, you didn't feel the need to try in any way anymore. You welcomed the light at the window and with a deep, gratifying sigh, closed your eyes shut to bid the last of your motivation goodbye.

The laws of physics must have taken a huge vacation that day. Rather than smashing your face into the cold floor, you suddenly felt the choking sensation of your collar pulled tight against your neck.

"Aæugh!—" You coughed loudly, surrendering your grocery bag to claw at your collar. "Cah—Fu—"

Your mysterious assailant released you in time to launch you to the floor. Your palms landed flat on the ground as you heaved for oxygen. That was one thing off of your bucket list. It wasn't the ideal way, but it was a way.

"%@&*, I'm so sorry. That was—%$#&. I didn't mean to do that. Are you okay?"

You didn't expect it to be a woman. That was another thing off of your bucket list.

"'S fine, mm.. fine," You slurred, tugging incessantly at your collar to try and loosen the fabric while you cleared your throat. You couldn't help but cringe at the hoarseness in your voice. You angled your head closer to the ground to try and gag the croak away. "Need a nap."

The attempt was unsuccessful. Then again, ever since moving to Metropolis, had anything gone successfully for you?

On one side, you felt the woman coming closer, and on the other, you felt a snout nudging at your arm. Your sleeve was cold and wet. Getting more wet. You grumbled in response to both.

"Krypto, buddy, I need space here."

You heard the dog bark directly into your ear and you flinched from the noise, lamely careening into the woman. Two steady hands went to hold you by the shoulders to try and set you right. You had to fight to stop your head from lolling around. You reined in the last of your mental willpower to blink up at her.

"Hey," she mumbled. In your blurry view, all you could see was a haze of blonde waves and the concern radiating off of her. She reached up to gently pat at your cheek. She was warm. So warm. And there was nothing but the unbearable cold waiting for you in your flat.

"Hi," you replied. You hadn't had human contact in so long. You hadn't been held, or kissed, or hugged. Your parents didn't even say goodbye when you got in the cab. You left Liv half a year before you ditched town.

In spite of the way you met her, you felt something… known. There it was, blooming within you. You allowed the rest of your body to go limp. You couldn't explain how she held you up with one hand on your cheek and the other on your shoulder. But you didn't mind.

"Stay awake, okay?" With one hand, or maybe three, you let the woman pull you up to your feet. The room was spinning and your heart rate had accelerated to an unhealthy speed.

Through a growing, somewhat pained grin, you nodded, "Whatever you say, stranger…"

Then her voice was drifting. She was speaking louder with greater urgency, but you just kept wandering off. Away from the sunlight at the end of the hall and further into the darkness of sleep.

"Hey—hey! Oh, &$$#, her pulse is crazy. Krypto, I need some help here!"

You managed one nod before your head fell forward onto her shoulder. Two weeks of exhaustion had finally caught up to you. Maybe the omen was the dog. Maybe it was your neighbour's lunch. All you knew was that it was possibly the best sleep you had got in years. The questions regarding how you got into your house or whose that dog was or where the mystery woman came from was no longer an issue of interest. Not by the time you woke up.

The clock read 10:22. You hadn't overslept at all in the weeks prior. You could have, if you had even managed to sleep through the night. Funnily enough, you were sleeping in your bed. The heavy weight of your blanket was draped over your legs, your feet sticking out at the end of the mattress. Your hands had been sprawled across the pillows far enough for you to feel the wood of the headboard. And unlike the cosy situation of your lower body, everything else was exposed to the intolerable morning chill. No thanks to the sun rays taunting you through the windows.

You didn't have a habit of pulling the drapes. Nonetheless, if your fogged self had done it, you needed it.

You wallowed in your bed for another ten minutes. Your body demanded it. Your mind, beaten and shamed, needed the space to wonder if you should have just given up then and there. A large part of you would have been willing to admit forfeit. A smaller part had questioned if the incident—or the dream? It questioned if it was a wake up call.

Your jaw tightened at the thought. That side of you, reeling in ambition, leaping at the idea of it—had abandoned you. For two weeks! And now it thought it had the right to tell you what to do? What to think?

It was absolutely right and you ultimately chose to listen to it anyway.

Grunting, you kicked the sheets up and off of you. It took a few good kicks since you invested in a weighted blanket. Either way, you sat up in a burst of energy. Your hair was a tousled, uncombed mess, you could feel that you hadn't washed your face the night before, but you could also feel your anticipation to finally face the world again.

The shower felt refreshing then. You were alive. Teeming with vigour. Humming to yourself, using the shampoo bottle as a mic, you spent an hour under the water. Thanked the industry for rain showers too. Not that you had one, but it would have been nice.

When you stepped out, you swore the woman in the mirror was the same one you were when you left town. There was that look in your eyes. Bloodshot, eye bags, a bit of your frame of mind showing and an irrefutable tenacity you knew would give you the strength to make Metropolis your new home.

You grinned to yourself and blew a kiss to the mirror. You gave the universe another promise to turn things around.

You were enthusiastic about brunch that afternoon. Your kitchen was one of the most furnished parts of your house, after all. Your living room had a couch and a table and a bookshelf and your bedroom had all the necessary furnishing to make it a bedroom; a bed. But your kitchen? That had become your new pride and joy. You stuck your family pictures and polaroids there instead, a temporary place for them until you could decorate the rest of the flat.

Lunch went by as it usually did. Pan on the stove, you sifted through the things in the fridge… While you were at it, you figured you could make use of the food you bought and likely forgot about in the weeks prior. There were without doubt a few cans in the cupboards that would go bad due to your oversight.

Tomato, mushrooms, and a box of pasta in hand, you proceeded to sort your ingredients on the counter. It was such a pleasant day. Obviously, you needed to set out bowls for every spice. Plates for every step. You just had one chore left and that was clearing the counter.

And then you saw it.

Brown paper bag. Celery stalks. The pungent scent of parsley.

You jerked away from the counter, the tomato falling from your hand. It landed with a muffled thump. Then it rolled away.

"Oh, god."

You remembered it. The bag crinkling in your ears, the force that had you lurching forward, the strain around your neck—was there a criminal in your building? Hell, was it one of your neighbours?

The dog was fucking bait. It must have been. If you could have just remembered its name, maybe things would have gone by smoother.

But… it felt like an accident. What kind of freak would choke someone and then hold them? Was she a maintenance guy? Girl? Maybe she had an AC unit that she forgot to unplug which would, although extremely absurd, explain the gust of wind!

The motivation drained from your body. It was probably crawling away next to the tomato on the floor; a wise thing to do. You wanted to sink into the ground. Reconnect with the world for a bit.

With quaking hands, you set the pasta and the mushrooms on the counter. You wrapped your arms around yourself as you slowly collapsed to the cool tile. Whatever kind of delusion you were absorbed in earlier dissolved and took your happiness with it.

No. Metropolis was not home. Metropolis was weird as hell. That wasn't even counting in the flying cousins everyone raved on and on about in the city. Or the unexplainable shit you saw outside your windows on random Tuesdays.

You might have agreed to starve and die in that very spot if you hadn't heard it.

The loud clicks in the hall. A squeaky handle turning. Footsteps.

You sprang up on your feet and ran to the door. Peephole who? Peephole why? You didn't need it. If that was your mystery assailant, you were catching her pronto.

Forcing your door open, you peeked out into the hall. You saw blonde hair. You could hear the conversation echoing in your head, see the blurry makings of her face. You wanted justice. Your promise was hanging over your head. Taking a deep breath, you stamped over to the receding figure.

"Hey!" Your heart was racing and you were on a high. Another high. Your arm was already outstretched and ready to yank at her trench coat.

She whirled around in time for your hand to freeze in front of her face.

"Yeah?"

You watched as she pulled down her headphones, baby blue eyes peering into yours. You gulped. Regretting your entire life, you jerkily clenched your hand into a fist and awkwardly let it fall to your side.

"You, uh…" You trailed off, your nails digging marks into your palm as you struggled to make up a response.

You look like someone who probably tried to kill me? You look like someone who cradled me? You look like a dog-owner? I stopped you because I also think you're pretty?

"Do you want lunch?"

You didn't say anything throughout the walk. You kept your hands tucked in your pockets, afraid you might throttle her and then yourself. You did steal a few glances. She didn't talk much. If she wanted to, you looked away every time she looked at you. You couldn't understand why she was in a trench coat in the peak of summer. Or why she had didn't put her headphones back on. You wished she did. And you wished you never invited her out for lunch.

Did you even know where you were going?

You didn't. You were clueless. You didn't go to any restaurants at all in the last two weeks and you weren't the type to read reviews for fun. As a last-ditch attempt, you sought help in your surroundings;

"… Eugh, I can't believe Stacy kissed Gemma. I wanted that!"

"—BRO! Those fucking girls sucked, man. Who even plays Tekken like that…"

Gulp.

It was a failed endeavour. You felt more lost. You could hear the chatter of people around you and a small part of you had foolishly hoped they might mention a place in passing. Unfortunately, you dug yourself into that hole. You had to find your own way out.

The sweat was building in your palms.

Maybe naming a random restaurant would work. Looking straight ahead, you squinted and scanned the options. Burgers, pizza, a café—No, a café wouldn't work. You needed to feed the woman if you wanted to extract information. You thought again of all the mystery novels in your parents' study. A bar would be perfect, if only the occasion wasn't lunch. And what kind of person would you look like if you did that?

Burgers would have to do.

Clearing your throat, you turned to her.

"It's over there. Burger Me Buns," you said, suppressing the grimace that you were sure was a second away from showing on your face.

She rubbed her shoulder, shrugging, "I thought you didn't know where to go."

You let out a high and rather obnoxious laugh, "What? No! I was just… mapping… the floor. Cement."

You reverted back to silence after that. And you kept steadfast to avoiding her glances at you. You let her choose the seat at the restaurant, no complaints, and tried to be as accommodating as you could.

Half an hour in and you were popping a fry into your mouth, watching as she sipped at a glass of Cola.

"So, how long have you lived there?"

"A while."

Not very descriptive. You smiled through gritted teeth, tearing out a chunk of your burger.

"I'm new there, actually. I just moved in two weeks ago."

"I know. I could hear you," she stated, dipping her fry into the ketchup packet you opened. Your packet. You couldn't be upset, though. This was a stranger that didn't know you. This was also a stranger that might have known you in a different sense. You wondered if that relaxed, small upward quirk of her lips ever got off her face. Or if she even knew it was there. It was the kind people wore when they were amused—and you were likely the butt of the joke.

"It's nice. There. In the complex," You added, "I've had a lot of interesting experiences."

"In two weeks? Must have been eventful," she remarked.

Indeed, it had been.

You pensively swirled your straw in your drink, carefully observing her reactions, "I actually had a weird one yesterday."

"And you're gonna tell me about it?" She set aside her drink, her gaze paralleled with yours now.

You leaned back with a frown. Were you talking too much?

"Yeah. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," she assured, "I want to know."

She was strangely obliging. You pursed your lips.

"Fine, then. I'll confide in you," you seethed. She could have been acting. You wouldn't give up.

"I was on my way home yesterday after getting groceries, okay. I passed the buzzing light in the lobby, I could smell the neighbour's lunch—typical Thursday occasions. I was honestly just minding my business. And then I saw this dog. At my door. And I remember thinking, 'Hey, I don't have a dog'," you giggled, your eye twitching all the while, "So whose was it? I had no idea. I was so lost!"

She was a good listener. She laughed when you did, smiled when you did, and didn't touch her food at all when you were speaking.

She was totally waiting for you to talk yourself into forgetting the whole incident.

"And then what?"

"And then, while I was distracted by the dog, some sort of spectre just came. Dude, I got hit with so much force, I thought I was gonna fly out the window! It wasn't human."

"Did you?"

You stiffened.

You had to pause at that question. At all her questions. If she was the one at fault, would she be so clueless? So respectful and attentive? So calm? On the other hand, being calm was a major red flag! Someone innocent would be shocked. Mortified, even. Your old friends would have already dropped three lawsuit threats.

Your faux excitement was squandered in the conflict. To accuse, or not to accuse? To suspect or not to suspect? Shoulders dropping, you exhaled a slow, drawn-out sigh.

"No. I guess whoever it was changed tactics and pulled my collar. I've actually never been choked before, so it was kind of nice? But a warning would have been better. Or a conversation before doing it."

Averting her eyes, she hummed in thought, "What if it was an accident? Your collar might have been the closest thing. She might have tried to save you."

Your head tilted in confusion. Gone were her short responses. Why did she choose to defend that stranger instead of siding with you? Of course, only the culprit would do that.

Alternatively, however, you saw sense in what she said. What if it was an accident? Maybe the woman did own the dog. Maybe she suspected that you weren't a safe person to be around her dog. And upon realizing you weren't a danger, she had tried to stop you from plummeting into the tile?

You shoved your plate to the side with your arm, occupying your side of the table with an all-too-ardent lean towards her, "You're justifying her?"

She didn't pull away. Her fingers drummed idly on the table, an awkward quiet settling. Your mind raced faster in that gap. You monitored every change in her expression. The way she chewed her cheek, frowned, then shook her head to herself. She circled the cycle three times.

And then she let out a gentle, weary exhale.

"I'm giving you a different view," she said, softly. "If she had good intentions—not discounting the likelihood that she didn't—I don't think she wants you to think badly of her."

Yeah. Maybe losing sleep made you a paranoid freak. You felt your jaw relax, left too aware of how much personal space you were violating. You quickly returned to your seat like a civilised person.

"Right."

She affirmed, "Right."

The agreement wasn't mocking or righteous. You could hear it. The culprit wouldn't be so kind to you. They'd definitely try and cover their ass, but they wouldn't be this willing towards rationality.

Swallowing as much of your anger as you could, you reached for your burger and took a big bite, mumbling shamefully through your laboured chewing.

"Sorry. I'm a mess. I'm probably just paranoid."

She drew back from the table to recline in her seat, taking her drink for a small sip. "It's a normal reaction."

Short responses again. Maybe that was just how this stranger was. This… neighbour. A very nice and very pretty neighbour.

"I could have lied to you about all of this. But you're listening to me go on and on about this. And you're being nice about it," you went on, offering a real smile, "You're a good person."

'Not my culprit', you thought.

You caught a sudden stiffness in her posture, a tinge of something else—something despondent—washing over her face.

"I try."

You were about to respond, and you still wonder now what would have happened if you could have. But her phone buzzed and the ringtone that followed made that fleeting display disappear as soon as it came. Her eyes lingered a little longer on you. It was an uncertain glance. Slightly narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line as if in thought. Whether it was committing you to memory or trying to gauge what she wanted from you or found in you, you let her. You didn't mind.

Still, the call rang louder. You saw her fist clench on the table before she took in a deep inhale, running an agitated, erratic hand through her hair before she snatched the phone.

"##%@. I'm sorry. It's an emergency," she muttered.

"It's okay," you consoled, gently nudging her wallet away as soon as she slid it to the table. "I've got it. Go."

If you hadn't known better, you would have assumed she tried to prolong the moment too. Holding on to the wallet on her side, neither taking nor urging, her expression troubled. But you had grown up and were still growing. These sorts of things happened.

In the end, she gave in, regretfully tucking it back in her pocket.

"I'll pay you back."

"Don't," you insisted.

She didn't give you another response, only an apologetic mumble goodbye. She was already out the door when you called for the bill.

"Cash or card, ma'am?"

"Cash will d—"

BAM!

The door swung open, the woman's hair disheveled and lopped over her face, sputtering words at you amidst shallow gasps.

"Do you like dogs?"

You shared a confused look with the waiter, "I'm sorry, what."

"You don't hate dogs?"

"No?"

"Okay. Thanks!"

Then she was gone. She left the door wide open—slammed past the hinge—and the metal bar dented, the shape of her hand moulded in.

You were right. It was, in fact, a wake up call. Meeting your neighbour made life seem less solitary. Like a wise saying always said, "no man is an island". Your awful stagnation was the result of loneliness. And your neighbour? She was your first friend. Your solution. At last, you could make use of Uncle Spencer's idioms.

You couldn't regret it more when you realised you never got her name.

You spent the next week fixing your life. It wasn't in shambles and neither were you shambolic, but you wanted your life to be something you could be proud of. The root of it all would always be your home. So you got to work. You lost a few thousands to flip your flat into a space more attuned to you. You finally had a couch and at least one rug. And you finally had frames to keep your parents on the wall.

A frame for you, Liv, and the others too. You kept that one tucked in your bedside drawer.

The last sat empty on your kitchen counter. Just for the possibility that your first new friend would be interested, you planned to keep it reserved.

You were waiting for the delivery of your cabinet set when you heard the click across the hall again. Newspaper on your lap, mug steaming on the table. Though the vacancies and offers were infinitely more important… you had a feeling it was her.

And like a sprout to the sun, you couldn't fight gravitating to her.

You darted from the couch and to the door, your shin colliding into the coffee table's leg along the way. The pain shot through you. But you didn't mind. As stupid as it might have been, you kept your door unlocked in the afternoon for the off-chance that you could run into her.

It saved you enough seconds. You pulled the door open just as she finished locking hers, beaming at her with a grin.

"Hi again," you chirped, giving her a brisk wave. "Going somewhere?"

She peered at you from over her shoulder, brows raised. A second passed as she took you in. Your excitement was showing, a red mark left on your leg from the impact. She let out a sharp chuff.

"A walk," she replied, pulling her headphones down, "You interested?"

Your grin faltered and so did your hand, dropping pathetically from its prior place. You didn't think this far. You would have liked to join her. Perhaps another lunch could be had—one that you could finish this time. But you had the delivery on the way. And, quite frankly, something about your neighbour made you jittery.

You allowed yourself to believe it was the thrill in having company. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Not… no, sorry. I'm waiting for furniture." You kept your hold on the door, inattentively pushing the handle up and down to try and get a grasp on your thoughts by fidgeting. You had to shuffle back a few steps the moment she came closer. She freed her hands for you. Shoved her phone into her jacket, her plastic water bottle into her bag.

"It's cool. You've had a lot coming lately," she noted, nodding towards the folded cardboard boxes in your hallway. The cardboard, the wadded tape—all at once, you felt a strange sense of self-consciousness and shame growing in your head. You didn't want to recall what else was visible.

Yes, you had begun decorating. Yes, you wanted a home to be proud of. The hurdle was that you were still in phase 2 of ordering and constructing. Phase 3 was where the cleaning began. Bob the Builder today, Mr. Clean tomorrow.

You pulled the door closer to your back, inching towards the gap in your doorway to try and shield the sight with your body.

"It's about time I started filling the space. I was just struggling with the move. Missing home, and stuff."

"You're alone?"

You didn't even notice the anxious stretch of your hand. Resting at your nape, easing a tension you chose to omit.

"As alone as someone could be," you reckoned, "I'm a world away from home."

As subtle as it was, you caught the way she tensed, breath hitching before her hand raptly rose, resting and soothing at her wrist. It might have been presumptuous—No, it was presumptuous. It was in your nature. You wondered if she missed home too. It wasn't the first time you'd seen her freeze. Her mind had a habit of roving off, dimming her countenance in a matter of seconds.

"Must be rough," she concurred, offering you a lacklustre smile.

Something in the air gave you the impression that you were right on the mark. She did miss home. Wherever and whatever it was, it must have been worse for her. You took a deep breath, rolling your shoulders to try and urge away your sudden bout of pity. Pity for her, pity for yourself, and the situations you'd both found yourselves in. With how often that sorrow beneath the surface led her away, you didn't dare to imagine what sort of longing she had.

It remained nonetheless for both of you.

"It could be worse," you admitted, gesturing towards her. "I have a friend now. A burden shared is a burden halved."

Her forehead creased. You never felt more like a confusing specimen in your life, not until you found yourself beneath her scrutiny.

"You really have… a way of seeing things."

"Sounds an awful lot like an insult," you joked, unable to stop the stifled chuckle that escaped you. She had a way of speaking and acting. You observed that much in your two interactions. Pot calling the kettle black?

She inclined her head, scrutiny gone in an instant as her eyes gleamed at your remark, "No. I think I like your way."

"Then you'd be the first."

The repetitive, barrelling sound of wheels and a metal cart began to boom louder and nearer to the two of you before you could catch her grin. It was barely there, blurred in your peripheral while you moved to seek the sound. You saw the delivery man approaching, head darting between you two.

"Which one of you lives in 304?"

You raised your hand, "This one. Those are the cabinets?"

"Ma'am, I'd answer, but I don't know what's in here."

Oh.

Pursing your lips, you awkwardly reached for his clipboard, "Sorry. I'll just sign this, then."

For some reason, he kept clearing his throat and shuffling his feet while you tried to get a steady grip on the pen. You scrunched your face. He looked behind at the lobby door. You scoffed and nearly thwacked his wrist. The man couldn't hold still. You had already crossed out your signature twice.

"Dude. I can't sign."

He decided your third try was your final, taking one glance before thrusting a thumbs-up in your face. Then he snatched the clipboard, shoved your box onto the floor, and did a 180 with the cart.

"The hell is he running from," you muttered, glaring at his shrinking form. A cruel part of you waited to hear him crash into the wall. Unfortunately, he did not. Perhaps, you thought, the delivery people in Metropolis had too many orders. A shortage of staff? Everyone in town was easy-going. Everyone in the city, however, lived in a rush.

Rubbing your temples, you blew out your cheeks. Your frustration could and would be saved for a proper visit to a therapist. And you did have a conversation you were still eager to see to the end.

"So, about—"

You froze three steps from her.

Apparently, you weren't alone in watching him. The woman was watching him too. Only, it looked too much like she was sizing him up. You swore there was a hint of malevolence there.

"Hello? Earth to you?"

You made a small clap, catching her attention. You still didn't get her name. She pressed her lips together, fixated on the hall even then, before she returned to you.

"Kara," she said bluntly.

You briefly crinkled your nose in confusion, "Huh?"

"It's Kara. My name."

You blinked blankly at her before slowly nodding, "That's a nice name."

Her shoulders slumped slightly. Looking back on it, you might have been too dazed to give her an enthusiastic response.

"Kara," you mumbled, more to yourself than her. It felt nice. It rolled off the tongue. Yours, specifically. You made a mental log then that you wouldn't have minded saying it for the rest of your life. The corners of your mouth quirked up and you glanced up to see her face mirroring your own.

Pupils so dilated you could hardly see the blue. If you weren't so distracted, you might have felt the crimson creeping up your cheeks too.

"I could help you with that," she offered, gesturing to the box at your feet.

That gave you a reminder you didn't want yet. Those four cardboard walls caged hours of strenuous labour, more hours crying over instruction manuals, and almost certainly your losing half the screws in the package. You backed away from the box.

"No, thanks. Maybe next time?"

Correction; never. The you that manifested when you put things together was not a you that you were prepared to display in front of a stranger. No less, a stranger that was her. Kara. You liked her more now that you had her name.

"Oh," she swallowed hard. "That's fine. Just—just give me a knock when you need it. You know where to find me."

"I will," you promised. You didn't want to keep her any longer. You withdrew, motioning to the hall, "Have fun on your walk?"

"… I will."

She lingered again that time, her fists clenching then relaxing, before clicked her tongue and made her way to leave. It was a strange behaviour to have. But it was one you were welcome to accepting. It also happened to be one you interpreted in a different sense.

"And, Kara?" You called out, hand suspended, hovering after her. She whirled around all too soon, again.

"Yes?"

"Let's have a proper lunch one of these days. Then, if you're free, you can help with the furniture problem again. I suck at it. Like, seriously," you rambled, "I think I've acquired at least four injuries from every piec—"

Inexplicably, in some strange, unfathomable way, you found yourself immobilised by the sound of her laughter. The echo of it in the corridor.

"Sure. I'd really like that."

Even after she reached the end of the hall, she didn't put her headphones back on.

Kara was the one who sought you out the next time you two (properly) spoke. A handful of weeks had passed since your conversation in the hall and your offer for lunch. Maybe you should have computed then that she was the neighbour across you. The loud crashes, the banging, the scolding. And the barking. But your conversation left you cheery.

Kara wasn't your culprit. You liked her too much to disgrace her with the accusation. So you just chalked up her having blonde hair and a white dog as a strange coincidence and called it a day.

The two of you had fleeting encounters within those weeks. You'd hear her leave for what you assumed to be work or her dog barking when they went out for walks. Sometimes, she'd disappear for several days straight. You'd know when she was back by the putrid smell of alcohol and whatever other substances were stained into her clothes. It reeked so strongly that it would often seep into your own home. She invited you once, drunk, for another drink at a "red sun". You politely refused and shut your door in her face.

And when you had shared decent, flitting exchanges in the hall, they never lasted more than ten minutes. She'd be busy, you'd shrug and say "m'kay", she'd have an emergency, you'd nod and bid her farewell, she'd have work—

You were jobless.

The clock read 11:43. The TV had been playing since the previous night. Not that it mattered. You'd already become accustomed to tuning it out. You had heard at least two sonic booms since breakfast and you weren't thrilled at the idea of seeing the Supers on the news for the umpteenth time. You could just look outside your window for that.

You intended to spend your day wasting away on your couch. Staring dead into the blank white ceiling, questioning when in the world you'd get a response to the job applications you sent. You expected too much, moving to Metropolis.

But that was a truth in growing older, wasn't it? Reality oftentimes found a way to realize your wishes—only, it returned twisted versions of them instead. You had left your old life in search of some 'new love'. Freedom. Turns out, your metamorphosis had scarcely reached the end.

That was, if it had started at all.

You still felt fourteen some days. You still looked at the phone and wondered if Liv would pick up. If your old friends would. If your mother and father would. It was the sentimental feeling of missing them despite knowing full well their presence would simply make you worse.

Some days, you were lucky enough to be the one pursued.

Rather than the click in the hall, you heard three knocks on your door. You accepted that it was another delivery. It was one of your few human interactions, seeing as you'd turned your flat into a cocoon. And you refused to leave your place of rest for it.

Your living room had transformed into the ugliest form of itself. The floor was covered in boxes and the scraps of what used to be boxes, crumpled pieces of tape, and the few hazardous scissors scattered around. The biggest eyesore there were the large planks of wood you'd abandoned after spending three days on the last bookshelf. It was intricate, whimsical, and you had also bought it off of Joeslist for a suspicious price. No matter how hard you tried, the hand-drawn manual beat your fortitude to a pulp.

The root of it all would always be home.

Like the space surrounding you, you'd given up. It went against the beliefs you'd kept closest to you your entire life. Feeling pathetic had morphed into feeling like the interloper across the transversal. The world would move, the lives of everyone else would subsist, crossing paths and forging connections—and you would sit in the same place. Static in inertia. Forever the outlier.

So you waited. Maybe the delivery man, or woman, would get the hint and leave it at the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

You squeezed your eyes shut. The delivery man—or woman—was dim as fuck.

You turned over onto your stomach, shimmying your lower body to the floor first as you resolved to just crawl to the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Hell, how impatient was this person?

"Dude, leave it at the door!"

The next three knocks were booming. You flinched at every single one.

Knock.

Knock.

KNOCK!

Was a beaver at your house!? Even then, the wood was old and decrepit. It was a poor choice for dams. And no one knew about the wood inside your flat!

Worse still was the ominous idea that it might have been the woman. Your mystery assailant. What if she'd returned for her dog? You should have listened to the news, you thought. A sharp tartness needled at your tongue at the thought of making the next headline.

Whoever it was, the strength of those knocks had your door trembling through each blow. A strength that planted enough fear within you to spurn you forward. You didn't wanna die that badly.

"Fine! Fine, I'm coming," you grumbled.

You were thankful whoever stood at the other side didn't just open the door. It was unlocked. You were certain you would begin locking it again, regardless of Kara and regardless of your wishful dreams.

It was funny how much harder it was to hold onto joy in the face of adulthood.

As you had many times before, you wrapped your fingers around the cold handle and warily pulled the door open.

You didn't know what you envisioned to see. But it wasn't her. You would have never associated those soft blonde waves and tender blue eyes with the intimidating pounding you had just heard. No, it was too far of a connection. Kara gave you advice. Kara listened with intent. Kara had a past that you were 99.9% sure paralleled a Shakespearean tragedy.

You weren't prepared for her disgruntled expression either. You hadn't taken her as the type to be patient and neither had you taken her as the type to be so easily upset. Leaning bored—her head drooping and her eyes half-lidded—against your doorway. There was a noticeable amount of white hairs littered on her shirt.

She had her fist raised to knock again, eyes lost in the wooden door frame and her jaw clenched taut.

You ducked before she could knock on your head instead. Consequently, your poor sense of direction resulted in you headbutting the frame.

"Shit, man," you winced, crouching below her arm. "Kara?"

Her eyes darted to you the moment you called her name.

"#$%%!—" She pulled herself together in an instant, withdrawing her hand from above you. She was stiff and rigid. Shoulders squared. With a low, awkward cough, those familiar blues found yours. "Did I hit you?"

"Nope. It wouldn't have been an issue anyway."

She snorted. You watched her scratch her head, looking somewhere off to the side before she muttered a low, "She has no idea."

Your eyes narrowed, "You could just say it to my face. You didn't even say it quiet enough…"

"You do realize you don't have to know everything, right?"

"When have I ever done anything to make you think that?"

Your expression must have gone sourer as you saw the corner of her mouth quirk up into the faintest smile. You recalled your meeting in Burger me Buns. The amusement on her face. Only a few weeks had passed since then. Now she was knocking at your door. Would have done it on your head.

You imagined again. That maybe it was you, the leisure you took in answering the door, that caused her bleak appearance. You hated how often you assumed things. You found comfort in the possibility that you had contributed to her crabbed mood. That by taking your time, you answered the door too late, thereby testing her patience. Thereby mattering to her.

It'd been a while since you felt like someone cared. It relieved you to know she did.

You were void of the neurons required to respond when you felt her fingers nudge under your chin, tilting your head as she pleased. Then you felt the creeping of her warm hand, brushing past your cheek to cradle the side of your head.

A strange heat rose within you. You were flustered. You could feel the flush in your cheeks, in your neck. As well as the irrational anger accompanying your new hyper-awareness.

You chose the anger. You chose to evade all the advances—accidental and purposive—that Kara sent your way.

"I feel threatened," you mumbled, jerking your head from her hand. How the hell was her grip so strong? You glowered and flicked at her wrist. She didn't budge.

Discontented, you tried again, "Do your fingers lift? You're abnormally strong."

Kara took a brief pause to cock a brow at you, smile slowly fading into a sneer, before she returned to treating your head like a globe.

"Weird $@$%#&% question," she whispered, zoning in further on your hair. "I'm checking your head. Stay still."

She prodded once, twice around the areas, feeling for a bruise. Did she work in the medical industry? That might have explained the outlandish schedule she lived by.

"You're nosy," she began, closing the distance between you two, "You check your peephole religiously. You always turn down your music when you hear the neighbours. You still won't stop talking about your mystery woman—which, by the way, I think she would have done something by now if she really wanted to."

You rolled your eyes, huffing softly. She had a point. You used to wonder if she had super-senses. Like when you chased her down and she turned before you could do something reckless. Or when she turned before you even called her name. It felt like she was always a step ahead of you. Like she was some clairvoyant trained to your quirks and sent a little too personally by the universe to you.

You felt a lapse in her hand, in her breathing. Your offence dimmed.

"You done, dude?"

Kara lowered her head to get a better look at you. You gawked back. There you were, stuck fast beneath her scrutiny in the same predicament you had weeks ago. She had a penchant for staring. She did it at the diner, in the hall, and when she showed up far from sober in the middle of the night and you'd rebuffed her invitation. Whenever she stared, it seemed she was veering off elsewhere.

You could have searched her eyes and still found a thousand lifetimes lost within them. Maybe they would be true. Kara carried an unnameable burden beside her. You saw it at the diner. You saw it when she was plastered. And you saw it now, in both her contemplation and her silence.

"You ask about Krypto," she finally continued, giving another prod, harsher and firmer on your head.

"Is Krypto okay? I can see his fur all over you."

Another beat passed before she jerked her face away, sighing.

"He's…. He's fine. He's getting babysat. And you've literally memorized the sound of me leaving, dude."

"Okay, stalker much," you retorted, reaching up to fix your hair. You cringed at the obvious frizz she left, "What are you even here for?"

Clearing her throat, she smoothed out the collar of her leather jacket. It was then that you noticed one of her arms had been absent so far in the conversation. It was tucked behind her. She was absolutely right, you'd grasped. You were incredibly nosy.

"Lunch," she answered simply.

"And what do you have?" You strode forward, shamelessly snooping around to catch a glimpse of what she was hiding. She stretched her free hand in front of you. Inconceivable as it was, it was adequate in holding you back.

"Are you free for lunch?"

"Dude. I asked first."

"Kara," she corrected, "Are you coming or not?"

You ground your jaw, contemplating the worth of your compliance. You could have agreed and made things easy for her—and you. You needed the company. It was better than rotting on your couch for a whole week.

On the other hand… there wasn't much of a counterargument. You were just a little shit.

And your body knew that. Your stomach grumbled before you could protest. Kara took it as a sign to shove a fistful of flowers in your face.

"Pft—Pthew—" You coughed and waved at the bunch, eventually erupting into a fit of consecutive sneezes. "Decorum, Kara? You don't just—Achoo!"

"Oops," she snickered, pulling it back a fraction to let you breathe, "Thought you wanted to know?"

You ambled away, rendered unable by the constant sneezing and the sharp pain throbbing in your chest at each release.

"Not that way!"

"Then maybe you should, I don't know," she drawled, the echo of her footsteps ringing closer in your ears before you felt her near you. One glance up and you saw her against the wall. You thought the cracked paint was shit when you first moved in. Now there was an odd harmony going on, and it made your head spin. Motley wildflowers in hand. Hair caught in the light of the midday sun. Her blonde waves shone like gold.

Kara always did seem her brightest in the day. You were transfixed.

"… should?"

Kara hummed, extending her hand to pluck a fallen petal off your collar.

"Get fixed up and get dressed. I'll wait."

You must have gone crazy to have actually enjoyed her musing smile in that moment.

Contrary to your first walk together, you didn't have to worry about where to eat this time. Kara had a place in mind. She'd confidently assured you with a grin and a pat on the back that she had everything covered. She offered to pay too, just to make up for the way your last impromptu lunch was cut short.

You stared at the mirror in the elevator, your eyes flitting between yourself and her and the thornless flowers in your hand. Naturally, her back was turned to the mirror. This was a conversation for two. And by two, that meant you and you. You flashed confused glances back and forth, mouthing 'this is stupid' before sending well-deserved glares at her and her jacket.

How many cool jackets did she even have?

You were in the middle of preparing to rip your hair out when she spoke up.

"How does Asian sound? I went to this place with my cousin before. Long %!$ name," she chuckled, "I think the best part was the free drinks, but I can't really get buzzed here…"

Your arms fell limp to your sides. Kara had a habit of staring, lingering, and saying peculiar things. First, she went on about a "red sun". Now, it was the inability to break sobriety. You didn't believe her for any of them. After all the times she'd shown up drunk at your door, you'd already accepted that Kara couldn't stay sober long. And sure, one day you would indulge her and join her for a drink. That day just didn't happen to be scheduled any time soon.

You inched closer, stationing yourself behind her to look into her phone. You had hoped to see a GPS or a list of restaurants nearby—but all you saw was a document in her Notes app. Three names listed without bullet points or dashes.

Potstickers.

Pizza.

France.

Your mother was right. Three was a crowd too small.

"Kara," you deadpanned, "Asian sounds great. Because I honestly don't think you prepared any other options."

Her rambling swiftly ended as she turned to you, head tilted with an unimpressed scoff, "You can be very blunt. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"You're blunt too," you quipped back, whipping out your own phone to seek aid from Bugle Search.

At your big age, you thought you were already past getting your gadgets confiscated. And at your big age, you had forgotten one thing; life was a classroom. One simply never stopped learning.

You learned that again the second Kara snatched your phone and pocketed it.

"Kara—"

"It's you and me today. No screens," she interjected. You saw the tremble in her back. You saw her shoulders quiver. Slowly roving your gaze to her, you squinted and concentrated hard on her face. It was faint. The smug, poorly disguised makings of the shit-eating grin about to break on her face.

You would have reprimanded her, demanded it back, maybe caused a fuss over it. However, you had a boundary drawn in order to avoid letting too much of your dignity to be lost to Metropolis. And who were you to deny company for a screen?

You were a different person here. A different person with her. You didn't wanna be the side of you that rotted on your couch.

Playing it cool, you puffed out your chest and held your head high.

"You know what? Keep it," you shrugged, choosing to occupy both of your hands with the wildflowers instead.

"No way," she muttered, scratching her head, "That was too easy."

Kara's gaze fell into a pattern of jumping from your resolute face, the flowers, how close you held it to yourself—and back from the beginning. Funny. You had kept the sight of her much closer to your heart than you did the flowers. Hunched with poor posture, lost for words, her brows knitted tight, jaw slack and mouth hanging open.

You had heard her murmuring about your "brain fog", your "paranoia", and that you'd definitely been "possessed". For the severe lack of broad interactions between you two, Kara knew more than you gave. You were starting to believe your clairvoyant theory more.

The elevator chimed as you both reached the ground floor. It still gave no aid to pulling her out of her daze. You had to call her name to ensure she followed you out of the lift.

"Kara?"

"Yep, yep, I'm coming."

"… m'kay."

You wished you'd brought an umbrella. The two of you had wandered the streets longer than you did the first time. The more prolonged the walk got, the more the heat beat down on you two. You were torn between blaming dehydration or blaming the sun. But you did what you could to stall your suffering. You urged Kara to use a GPS. You pleaded for her to not rely on her Notes app and the measly total of five words listed. The unsurprising issue was that your neighbour had no data. And she'd attempted to open your phone for you to "save you the hassle" too many times, resulting in a half-hour lockout.

You thanked the gods when the two of you just so happened to stumble upon an actual, physical map. It was encased in glass, standing in all its tangible glory before the entrance to the train station.

In the midst of her head's constant swivels left and right, surveying the road signs, Kara timidly started another conversation. You ended the last one twenty minutes earlier in hopes of improving your situation sooner. But you could feel her behind you, reading your expression while you read the map, her voice soft and low. It was considerate of her, you thought. She might have done it to avoid ruining your focus.

Yet the thought of that care only served to worsen it.

"You never came to find me," she began once more, busying herself by picking at the flowers you returned to her. Not permanently, no. They made the heat feel worse somehow. Your heart demanded a break.

"Uh huh," you responded distantly, your finger tracing the route on the board. A good chunk of your brainpower was directed to the symbols, the street names, the worry of distance. If you allowed any thoughts to drift to Kara, you weren't sure how your body would react. Maybe you would overheat and proceed to combust on spot. Or you would melt into the floor.

You were just so elated to finally have a friend.

Kara waited a beat before she continued. You could feel the intensity of her gaze in that window of time.

"You're following the wrong line," she pointed out, shifting forward the instant you sighed.

"Shit. Sorry," you sputtered, "I think the heat drained me."

It was a partial truth. You couldn't admit that. Where it was coming from, you couldn't even pinpoint. You met her. You liked her. You decided she was a friend. How on earth did she test your composure so often?

"Let me help."

"No, I've got it," you countered, squeezing your eyes shut before forcing them wide, hoping the issue lied within your cornea and not… whatever was going on with you.

You continued to rub at your eyes, blinking and unblinking at the glass. Deep breath in, deep breath out—all until the only thing you could manage was shallow and quick breaths. It was hot. Sweltering in your clothes. You pulled at your collar to ease the heat. Cleared your throat to fight the dryness persisting within.

You stared helplessly at the vivid lines. You'd follow the green from the street you stood in just to lose your flow in the red. You looked at the lines and thought of the wildflowers Kara brought you. The wildflowers that Liv had gifted, that sprouted in the neglected corners of your hometown, that your mother picked from the garden. You recalled a selfsame replica sitting at the dining table. On the tables at your homecoming party. You remembered them—and in them, the community you once had.

Above all, you saw yourself in them. They budded and blossomed in cracks of cement. They stood out like a nuisance to the world. Like you, they were too alien and disorderly for the perfection of Metropolis. You couldn't handle Kara's gesture in bringing them to you.

In bringing home to you.

With a shuddering breath, you tore your gaze away from the map.

"I—I need a second, Kara."

You waited to hear her get upset. You wouldn't have blamed her anyway. Liv had taught you the importance of finding solutions before falling into your outbursts.

But Kara had capably read you.

"Sweetheart, we've all had our days. Let me handle it."

You felt her hand rest firmly on your shoulder, her chest pressed to your back. You would have exploded. Could have combusted.

Instead of dying, you let out a shaky laugh and another apology. You'd already prepared yourself to squander some of your savings for a data package on her phone. In all honesty, you would have done it without complaint. Liv wasn't always patient and you'd taken to believing other people would be the same.

Kara gently squeezed your shoulder in response, her form feather-light against your body. Her thumb tracing circles over the fabric of your sleeve. Her quiet breath in your ear. It was grounding. Sure, she occasionally sent you yielding into a heap of nerves and anxiety. With how often she did, you had a hunch that she knew it. Maybe she did have super senses. She'd start the issue then coax it from your system.

Though, you liked it better to think she had a sixth sense, one named and modelled after you.

"If we're here," she murmured, one hand tracing the line. Her index finger was held straight. The rest were closed tight around the flowers. "Then we're about… two stations away. Wow. I can't believe I thought we could walk there."

Kara turned back to you, too close for comfort with that soft, knowing smile she wore in the diner and in the hall. The one she wore with you.

"What's with the look? You've still got it in you," she ribbed. You felt her finger poke your cheek.

"C'mon. I promised I'd feed you."

She dragged you off again after that. But she kept a closer watch on you, a steadier hold on you. You didn't need to complain about the heat. Even as you shed the layers on your body off to the barest you could manage, trying to dim the migraine in your head, Kara had accommodated you. You entrusted three of your clothes to her arm. The small price of the bargain was her hand, resting somewhere on your person throughout the whole travel.

You didn't mind.

You'd be lying if you said the paranoid freak in you didn't replay the dented metal bar at the diner each time Kara offered you a comforting squeeze. By the time you arrived at Crouching Kikiam, Hidden Dumpling, you had already come to terms with having the shape of her hand indented in your shoulder.

However, Kara didn't leave a mark. If anything, that whole outing was what left a mark on you. And rather than a scar on your skin, you were certain Kara had begun to carve a place for herself within you.

"&%##," she groaned, her head hitting the quilted leather of her seat, "That &&%!'s good…"

You bit back your laugh at the sight of her eyes crinkling, sealed shut in pure satisfaction. That was the happiest you'd seen her since you met. You undoubtedly liked it more than her intense staring. It was the seventh time she'd pulled that reaction on you. Bite, chew, moan, repeat.

Looking down, you realized it was also the fifth plate of potstickers that she'd ordered. She had them licked clean and piled on her half of the table. Yours was remarkably lacking with half the number. At least on your side, you could still see and appreciate the polished surface beneath.

You were appalled when she finished the first plate. It had only been four minutes since it was served before she inhaled all the dumplings. Not like much of your surprise had died down, but you were adjusting quicker.

"Do you usually eat this much?" You picked at the food off your own plate, taking a bite out of a steamed bun. You couldn't deny that Kara had good taste. And it wasn't solely because of the food, no. It was the place.

She'd taken you somewhere tranquil. Again, and again, Kara managed to whisk you off to places that felt like home. Acoustic music hummed in the background, the ambience of the indoor fountain joining the white noise. You'd never mentioned your preference for sitting in booths. You'd never mentioned preferring placid spaces either. You hadn't known at all how much you needed it until you'd sunk into your seat.

You couldn't trace how or what exactly had enthralled you so much. The rosewood panelling of the wall, the arched frame of the booth. The warm pendant light above and between you two. You'd seen her gilded in light once too often that day. Somehow, you still weren't tired of it. It was like she stole a piece of the sun. Maybe she ate that too.

Best part was that she got you the seat next to the koi pond.

She swallowed down another bite, straightening up to survey the rest of the food left.

"Hm. Yeah. I usually eat more," she said, her voice muffled under her hand. "You mind?"

"Nope," you shook your head, deciding to just offer your plate of potstickers to her. After seeing her appetite, a large part of you didn't doubt that she had the capacity to consume more than what she ordered. Oh, universe, what if she tried to eat you?

Well… in the non-cannibalistic sense, maybe you wouldn't have minded. And, no, it wasn't in the romantic sense. You just thought you'd let her if she ever pitched it up.

"No, no, none of that," Kara huffed, surprisingly pushing the plate back to you.

A muscle in your jaw twitched and you pushed it right back. She had done so much for you in the last few hours. You thought it was only fair that you let her have all of the food she wanted to devour and then some.

"Yes, yes, all of that," you countered, meeting her gape with twofold the resolve. You held the plate there for another second just to drive the point home before you cleared your throat and withdrew.

You nabbed the menu from where it sat neglected at the end of the table, unfolding it and hoisting it high to block your view. Obviously, you wouldn't have handed her your plate for nothing. Watching her eat so many potstickers made you crave anything but. You just wanted to order something different.

But you could feel her watching. You waited to hear her go for seconds (twelfths), or hiss out another curse in her usual crassness. She didn't.

"Hey," she called.

"Hi," you murmured back. You felt a sense of déjà vu rush over you. Drawing the menu inwards to yourself, you wiggled your way further to the cushioned wall. Further from her.

"You could put the menu down and give me the courtesy of listening," she griped, and you felt a sharp jab at the back of the card. Your eyes narrowed. Knowing what little you knew of Kara, you chose to mitigate the situation before your back-and-forth grew.

Sighing, you relented and pulled it down an inch.

"What?"

Kara had one chopstick conceded to her plate, its partner pointed at the menu, now resting her head in the palm of her propped up hand. You skimmed over her expression, trying to read her as well as she miraculously always read you. From the imperceptible crease in her forehead, the downturn of her lips, to the piercing regard she…

A heavy weight seemed to settle between you two once you reached her eyes. Staring, again. Was it disappointment? Sadness? Was she angry?

"Listen, I've had a morning," she started. "It was a really %$&#$# morning. But I'd been planning to go through on our lunch date so I could give my nice neighbour something better to do than, y'know, playing sad music and cooking the same pasta four days in a row."

How did she even know that?

Kara continued, using the chopstick to emphasize her words, "No offence, sweetie. But I would really appreciate if you could be more cooperative with me about this lunch that you invited me t—"

You pulled the menu back up. She scoffed.

The next thing you saw was the circular face of the tip of the chopstick peeping from under the menu.

THWACK!

One tap and she'd effectively sent it flying back to the side of the table. With a singular chopstick. You felt the rush of cold wind. Could smell the menu as it levitated—the scent of fried food that must have taken months to build on the cardstock. And then you heard it flop on the polished wood.

You had to blink multiple times to ensure you hadn't gone insane. Your hands still hovered where they last held the menu. You slowly scanned the empty seats outside your booth, hoping to see a fan set on a level too high, or to see a gust of wind sending things into disarray. You saw nothing. You glanced back at the menu. One page was insipid on the table and the other was hanging flaccid off the edge. The air was unmoving. Not even a flutter could be seen.

Finally, as your hands descended to your lap, you reluctantly turned to Kara.

You really, really, really needed her to drop her routine.

She was completely still. There was a diffident force akin to shame, to remorse in the shaky gander she took at you. Her arm had fallen, palm flush to the table. And the chopstick… the end was held between her thumb and index finger. You watched the rest of it droop southward, its weight progressively bearing down the whole of it. Her fingers twitched.

clack.

The both of you, you were sure, were painfully aware of how it dismally fell. It turned over, and over, and over, closer and closer to you, before halting to a stop against your glass.

For a minute, the only sound between you two were your breaths, shallow and slow.

Then you saw Kara tip her head back, inhaling all the fucking air in the booth, before darting back down to look you straight in the eye.

"I…"

You waited.

"I am s…"

Suppressing murderous tendencies? A possible superhuman? A lab experiment?! You felt a vein about to pop.

"…so sorry. $#%%. I am so $%##!@& sorry. Oh, $$#&. ##$%—"

You tried to gesture that it was fine, your hand flailing levels up and down in the air.

"Uh—It's fine! I swear, it's totally fine. No one got hurt, right? Kara? Are you listening?"

Your placating gestures failed.

Kara continued to prattle on.

"&%%$##@, I can't believe… &%%$, *&^$—"

Crass, apologetic, stumbling.

Even so, you felt something you hadn't in a long time. It stunned you how well Kara managed to do that. How often she managed to send you down memory lane. How often she managed to give you a new first to care about. It was the first time you'd seen someone launch a menu, of all things. The first time you'd seen someone shunt from grousing to grovelling.

You were a different person around Kara. That wasn't so bad. If you laughed, then you could bury another fragment that knew Liv. A fragment that knew mom and dad. You could polish a new shard and stick it on.

Kara wouldn't mind if you borrowed a pinch of that light in her. Kintsugi, right?

You felt your shoulders shake as you let the laugh slip. She froze. And you… you decided to end the ridiculous issue altogether, starting with your hand moving to rest over hers.

"Dude, calm down. Let's just agree on a second course, 'kay?"

The receipt had added up to a horrifying three-digit total. You appreciated being able to shed the financial strain this time. You didn't have a job, your savings would only cover another month's expenses, and living in and of itself was both a cost and a chore. You would have continued appreciating it. Maybe you would have invited Kara to invite you on another lunch just so you could freeload.

But… that wasn't nice. Kara had been good to you. The least you could do was offer dessert.

"So, what do you think of the place? Clark actually took me there when I first moved here from Ar—Err, when I moved here. It made getting used to Metropolis easier for me. And, knowing how it is… I figured that if I took you there, things could be a little easier for you too."

Kara talked a lot.

You nodded absentmindedly, scanning the possible places you could treat her to. The walk from the station had been a block and a half. You'd seen nothing but retailers and department stores lining the busy street. You didn't try eavesdropping again, so you hardly had any (unnecessary) information to go off of. How rare were ice cream stores in Metropolis? Or bakeries?

"… again, I'm really sorry about the whole %$#&-#& on the menu. Can't help it sometimes."

Your eyebrows furrowed, focused less on Kara and more on yourself. Metropolis was impossible to understand. Their people were strange and they clearly didn't have enough patisseries. You stared down into the pavement, watching as the different stains and cracks passed beneath your feet.

Back home, the infrastructure wasn't so advanced. The concrete was cracked, regardless of whether it was the sidewalk or the road. There were potholes every five or six metres. Uneven lines and bumps in the asphalt. You wouldn't have needed to ride the train for a much-needed slice of pie. The bakery was a walk away from home.

And home was four thousand miles from you.

The mental image of the pie was enough to summon an unbidden sting in your eyes. It prickled as your vision blurred. Then the sting grew into a burning sensation that threatened to spill over.

It got worse when you felt the uncontrollable quiver of your lip, your breath hitching in your chest.

"Ew," you muttered, sniffling as you shielded your face from her. "Shit, man, do you have a tissue?"

You grimaced when the first tears began to fall. You felt them streaking down your cheeks, landing and leaving wet spots in your shirt. You shuddered in shame.

"Like—now, dude. I'm in a situation," you stressed. You pressed your hand over your throat. Dug your fingertips into your skin to force down the rising bile. The bitter taste crept into your mouth nonetheless. It tasted less like nostalgia and more like embarrassment.

"Oh, #!@%."

You couldn't believe it. Doing this in front of your one friend, right when you'd just started to know each other?

You wished you never asked. The question only made the onslaught harder to resist.

You almost missed the way her shoulders slumped when she looked at you. The way her expression softened. For a moment, she slipped her hand from her pocket. Her fingers stretched outward, a strain underlying in her actions. It hovered closer to you. You expected to feel her warmth again. Firm and grounding on your shoulder.

You stilled to let it happen.

"… I don't," she said instead. Her hand slipped back into her pocket.

Any sort of sorrow or homesickness seemed to remind Kara of that burden she carried. You knew it made her pull away. It hauled her into the recesses of a grief you wouldn't ask her to explain. You saw the great rift between the chaos she'd displayed before and the aloof hesitance she recoiled to now. It might have been what made you decide you two weren't so different.

You sucked in a breath and sniffled away as much snot as you could, beating a fisted hand to your chest.

"It's fine," you relented. "Let's just go home."

The people on the street continued to pass you by. The buzz of their voices overtook the sirens in the road. Their conversations and calls overlapped around you. You had to continue moving too. You swiped at your face as you did, your cheeks stinging from the friction of your hand.

You could sense her following closely behind you.

You still wanted the pie. You still wanted to hold your day with her from ending. You still wanted to repay her. And after you'd burst into tears, you believed the debt had doubled in size.

Neither of you had said a word in the train. On top of your humiliation, no one else seemed to be riding the train that hour. It was you, her, a squalling baby and his exhausted father, someone who definitely sold crack, and a man that'd been sleeping like the dead since you'd got on the train. He might have been there for hours. Or multiple days.

You'd kept your eyes trained to the window, uncomfortably conscious of her close proximity beside you.

The fucked up thing was, you'd descried the buildings so intently for the sake of avoiding conversation. You could feel your under-eyes had puffed up. There was a pathetic likelihood your skin was raw and red. You couldn't even breathe right through the congestion in your sinuses. And still, not a single patisserie or bakery or ice cream shop was passed.

You'd taken a snug seat in the back of your mind once you both left the station. You left a vacant shell of you beside her. You couldn't trust yourself to not crumble into your own sentiments again. So, like everything else, you left it to the universe. It was big enough to handle it. You were too small.

Whether it was an agent of God or a nano-particle of your soul, something or the other had done the job of moving your feet for you.

The clock in your complex's lobby had read 15:04 when you reached home. Kara held the door for you. You choked out your thanks. Kara pressed the button to your floor. You glared at yourself in the mirror, the muscles in your face twitching. There was a tingle in your chest. It ebbed and flowed in waves and returned stronger with a sense of dread that you couldn't comprehend.

Treading through the hall, the thought of this being your last interaction persisted in your head. It was highly conceivable that it would be. That you both had successfully freaked each other the hell out beyond the point of recompense.

It was a wicked and revolting thought and you never wanted to think it again.

Your flat waited at the end of the corridor. It was cold. It was a mess. You weren't ready to go home to the scattered shit on the tiles or the biting chill in your bed. And with the way things were going, you knew it wouldn't be improving any time soon. The last thing you needed was a second season of solitude.

The sound of your shared steps echoed in your ears. The sporadic breaks in her breathing did too. As soon as her patterns verged on matching yours, you'd catch the hitch. You heard them clearer as you drew nearer to the door. Three paces short and it was all there was oscillating your head. Step, breath, hitch.

For once, you weren't solaced by the sight of your doormat. Neither could you find much humour in the warning sign. It was odd, the heavy mass you felt settling within you. The lethargy that stemmed soon after. Weighed down and laden, you didn't even have the energy to fish out your keys.

So what if home wasn't what you wanted? Maybe—maybe you wanted something else more. Maybe these sensations were just your promise taking effect.

You did owe it to yourself, didn't you? To pursue with the entirety of your being.

You stopped in front of your door. And, to your left, you saw the reflection of you both in the window. Kara's head had drooped low. She was caved-in and hunched over her keys. Her straw blonde hair cascaded over her face, veiling it from you. Stuck still. Neither of you had moved to open either door. You didn't have to see it to know she was watching through the window too.

Kara broke the silence for you.

"Are you—"

She paused. You heard her shoe tapping against the tile, the creaking of her leather jacket as she turned away. Like she could feel you watching. She exhaled sharply in frustration.

"Was it the whole… you know—"

You hesitantly plodded a half circle turn to face her. You heeded her anxious tapping, the rhythm off-beat and staggered. Your eyes darted to her hand. She was doing it again. Reach, strain, release. You'd never seen someone in greater need of a stress ball.

"No, I don't know," you responded, your voice low.

Her quiet mumbling resounded in the space. Her keys audibly jingled as she ran her fingers through her hair, the keyring slotted on her thumb. You watched them strain at the crown of her head, nails pressing in, before she groaned.

Pursing your lips, you inched closer, "If it helps, I think it isn't? Isn't whatever you think it is, I mean."

She swivelled around in a start.

"It's not the strength issue?"

Okay, you definitely didn't see her looking so haggard before.

"You're looking at me like it's a strength issue. #$!&, I knew it, I…"

A bitter, cynical scoff escaped her throat. The mass weighing on you dissolved in the sound. Well, shit. She didn't think you were too weird. Neither of you had out-freaked the other. And evidently, you were both way in over your heads.

"What the?—No! Dude, dude, you've got it all wrong, and I think I've got it all wrong."

Kara hummed a dismissive "uh huh" at you, meeting your gawking look with a deadpan expression.

"So you're not freaked out?" She arched a brow at you, planting a hand on her hip. The erratic tapping of her foot resumed. Kara had a way of making all her impatience known.

Frowning, you jerked your head sharply. "No, I was upset because of something else. What's up with you? I thought I was the one crying, geez…"

She pinched the bridge of her nose, her demeanour gradually easing with a sigh.

"That's #$%%!&% funny. I thought I scared you off."

"Nope."

Ignoring your monotone response, she continued.

"I'm not very good with this," she groused, waving her hands in the air. She drew a square—or a circle? A triangle?

You found your eyes flitting back and forth between her flapping arms and her, your frown steadily contorting into a look of disgust. Your nose wrinkled. Your brows bumped together in a scowl.

"Okay, what is that? Are we in pre-school? What's with the shape business?"

Kara puffed out a breath, staring at you with wide eyes. Her arms plunged down.

"Friends! Friend business, you get me? This thing we're doing?

"Ohhhh…"

Realization dawned on you. On your face too, you guessed. Kara looked deeply offended at your response. Slack-jawed, perchance tweaking out, and her motions increasingly more spasmodic.

You tugged at your collar, too conscious of her gape. An awkward and jumpy laugh slipped from your lips. Reluctantly, you reached out to give her three pats on the shoulder.

"I was crying over pie. From home. I just missed it."

"Pie."

Your head bobbed in a series of nods, continuing to pat her all the while. Somehow, you felt like you were trying to pat away the violence in an irritated pomeranian.

"Yup!"

"…#%*&#."

A delivery waited at your door that evening. You hadn't ordered anything online in a few weeks. In spite of its wishful nature, you initially imagined the Babazon gods saw the withdrawals you were beginning to suffer from in your efforts to reform. Thus, they'd decided to gift you a blessed (free) parcel.

Upon opening your door, you'd come to the dull realization that it was not a gift from any e-commerce platform.

You looked down at the container. Through the plastic window of the box, you saw six slices of pie. Different colours spilled out of their sides. Each cut featured a different variation of lattice crust, the sizes discrepant. A folded paper was left beneath it. You could recognize it. It was torn from a notebook, the white covered in blue and red lines. The same notebooks they supplied in schools. You saw the scrawled words through its translucence.

You crouched down to unfold it.

The Babazon gods hadn't blessed you. No, the universe had given you something greater.

dont know what flavor u want

these r kinda worth crying over

will be gone a few days so eat alone & eat well

PS: i know u didnt finish that shelf. find me when im back

- K

For a moment, you were lost for words. Growing up really did come with its perks. You got to stumble into a flat as lucky as yours. A shaky laugh escaped you. How fortunate, you thought, that the hall brought you two together that day. You covered your mouth and still failed to stop it. What if she heard you? The flutter in your chest?

You tucked the paper close to you, your hand fisted over your heart. You nabbed the box. And before you locked your door for the evening, you made sure to bid goodnight to her as well. The neighbours could deal with you being loud. Not like you did it often anyway.

Clearing your throat, you shouted loudly at her door.

"THANK YOU!"

That was the last the hall heard for the evening. You'd pushed the handle and turned your key, going off to resume your dinner. Your dessert. You pumped up the TV volume, snuggling into your couch with the pies in your lap.

The hall was silent.

Very, very silent.

CRASH!

so i hope that was good. if u want part 2 u should manifest it. joking joking just interact. thank u. i tried to edit and proofread it to the best of my ability. pls tell me if i missed anything or if there's anything i can improve on. if u dont tell me, know that i will find you. love u

[spideyysenses]

IF I COULD BE SWEET

kara zor-el x high maintenance actor!reader

𑄹 about: normally you do a really good job of ignoring social media, but when a perfect storm of stress, brattiness, and horrible online comments strikes you end up getting too far in your own head, and Kara can't seem to help.

𑄹 wc: 4k

𑄹 warnings: brat!reader, dom!kara, sub!reader, fem!reader, soft dom!kara this time, insecurities, angst, arguing but not really that much, overstimulation, use of pet names.

𑄹 an: don't know how i feel about this one, but i hope you all enjoy! as always slightly proofread and may be ooc. other parts can be found here.

To anyone who’s worked with you, or anyone in the industry who has been told about working with you, you’re the spitting imagine of professionalism.

You’re hardworking, determined, and driven by a need to always improve as an actor. You show up to set overly prepared nine times out of ten, and you believe full heartedly in almost every film you take. You have a grounding presence on set, helped out by the fact that you’re also extremely kind.

You’re humble, always the first to help where you can, and you make it a point to know each crew member by name. Sure, you have your days, work like this is stressful, but you work to make them few and far between.

The only people to see you less than perfect are your small team of four—Becca (your social media manager), Chelsea (your stylist), Lawerence (your agent), and finally Sophia (your manager all around).

Out of those four only Sophia sees you truly vulnerable. Your best friend since you were ten she knows you best. But even Sophia knows that sometimes the only person who can handle you is Kara. And she’s grateful really for the second pair of hands Kara offers. 

She can tell there’s been a storm brewing in your mind for days now. Your schedule arguably the most booked it’s ever been as you’re torn before four different movies. The staggering of the film’s releases makes it technically possible, but toggling between press runs and filming is wearing you down.

Your moodiness comes sooner than she expects, and she has a feeling it’s because of Kara’s recent absence. You’re leaning back in your makeup chair on set, pouty as she lists off your to-do list today, and it makes her want to chuckle.

“Then you have that photoshoot, and then a press video with Evans. Hot Ones I think.” She finishes.

You roll your eyes. “Can’t we just… postpone it?” You mutter. Sophia flinches at the thought of trying to do damage control for that, and you see it and groan. 

“The studio feels it’s important it’s done now. There’s something else I can push coming up.” She offers. “That brand deal thing can wait.” You hum in thanks at the news. “And finally here’s the article from Vanity Fair.”

She passes you back your phone with the article loaded. You know Sophia approved the thing before it went to print, but you’ve been so busy you haven’t looked at it. You skim it, humming in appreciation when they hit all the points you wanted them too, and roll your eyes when they mention Kara. A side effect of keeping your relationship more private is that everyone wants more details on your ‘mysterious’ girlfriend.

Your eyes finish reading. “Did they post it on social media?” You follow up. She hums, and motions to your phone. You swap over to the feeds in question.

They chose the best photos, and there seems to be a lot of the familiar buzz. Comments about how good you look, or how they can’t wait to see the movie. Usually Becca takes care of this side of things. After all you and Sophia both agreed early on when you started to get big that it be best for you to have limited social media time. Your eyes skim until something catches your eye.

Fake as hell. Heard she’s impossible to deal with.

It stings more than it should. Usually you could care less about what random people say. Your eyes stayed glued to it for a moment, wide with not shock but rather uncertainty. The comment doesn’t roll off you in the way it usually would. Perhaps because you’re overworked and tired.

“Phone.” Sophia says bluntly and you feel your throat bob. “I don’t need you getting distracted.” You let out a tiny huff but give it over to her.

You try to let that be the end of it. To slip into your work as you usually do, but really things start going downhill from there. Your mind feels agitated and stretched thin. Every small thing becomes a small fight, and your team steadily looks to Sophia with pleading eyes as the day goes on.

It’s clear who will soften your thorny state.

You hear Kara’s boots before you see her, tossing your friend an annoyed look which she returns instantly. “She’s the only one who can manage you when you’re like this.” She says as she grabs her things.

Kara stops in front of you, leaning down and placing one hand on either arm of your chair, and you can tell by the glint in her blue eyes that she’s serious. It makes you straighten up in your chair a little. “Hey,” you murmur softly, hoping it’ll make her take pity, but it doesn’t.

“I do remember telling you to behave.” She says lowly. Your cheeks flushing painfully red as you hear your team chuckle at her words. You go to turn around so you can beg them to leave the room, but Kara grabs your chin. “Give us a moment.” She says, and they shuffle out with triumphant grins.

“They shouldn’t have called you.” You say as your arms fold across your chest. “It’s nothing.” She can tell it’s not, and that it’s not even your normal moodiness, and it makes her frown for a moment. Sure a few days without her makes you a little cranky, but never this much.

“They call me when you’re terrorizing them.” She replies with a small lift of her lips. 

You roll your eyes, and you realize your mistake, because her eyes narrow as her fingers squeeze your cheeks. “Careful princess. What did I say?”

“You told me not to give them a hard time while you were gone, and that if I didn’t you’d make being away up to me.” You recite easily as your eyes cast away from the intensity of her stare. Your head tilts back up as you begin to complain to her. “I have all this shit I have to do. Half of it pointless! I don’t need more PR with Evan! The tickets have sold.”

“Sophia says the studio—”

“—the studio.” You grumble. “Like the studio isn’t going to make millions because they plastered my face all over everything.”

Kara wants to laugh, because she could care less about appeasing the publicity teams at the studio you work for, but telling by Sophia’s stress she can tell it’s important so she refrains. You’re not usually like this, if anything you’re usually a little strict about your job. 

You kick at the ground a little to make the chair swivel, something Kara knows you do when you’re anxious and stressed, but her grip on it stops it. She can see that this only makes you more miserable. 

“It’ll be over soon enough.” She assures, lips meeting yours, and your hands wrap around the fabric of her shirt. 

“Or, I could just cancel all this bullshit and go home with you.” You plea. It’s not like you couldn’t. People would easily work around you if you demanded it, but you don’t prefer to be that way usually. Today feels different.

“You know that won’t help any,” she says softly, “I know it’s annoying but after you’re done I’ll make you feel better.” 

She’s trying to be gentle with you, because she can tell there’s something more to this than you’re letting on, but she also can feel herself growing tried and frustrated. The past few days wearing on her just as much.

“I don’t want to.” You say.

“And I didn’t want to deal with Clark these last few days.” She retorts. “You can’t just ditch this stuff, and you know it.”

You open your mouth, but she stops you by giving you a look. “So stop being a handful.” She says bluntly. 

Your eyes widen just a little. You know she means it playfully and normally Kara’s mean way of being feels… oddly nice. You like when she’s stern with you. But today…

“Sorry Kara.” You whisper letting go of her shirt. You can tell she’s visibly surprised by your switch up.

“Thank you.” She murmurs and kisses you not once but twice. “I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done. Only a few more hours.” She kisses you again and again. “Behave.” She repeats as Sophia opens the door.

You do, and when you get home Kara is true to her word. She easily takes control from you in the way you want her to, and you pray that it’ll be enough to clear whatever fog fills your mind.

It doesn’t. Too much to deal with. Handful. They keep returning to your thoughts no matter what you do. Is that how other people see you? 

Is that how Kara sees you?

You replay every moment with her over and over again. Suddenly every action, every thing you’ve said, viewed through that lens.

Too much. A handful. 

From that point on you check your social media like an itch you can’t help but scratch. It’s obsessive, the way you find your eyes bypassing comments of praise and adoration for the critical ones.

Bet it’s all just an act. Famous people are always assholes.

No wonder her ‘girlfriend’ doesn’t want to be seen with her, I’d hate being with someone so famous.

I heard she’s secretly a bitch. Like really rude.

I remember that one time her girlfriend had to drag her out of a bar. Like? Instant ick.

You can’t stop though, no matter how much they hurt, like a train wreck you can’t tear your eyes away from. It doesn’t help anything, if anything it thrusts you deeper into your own mind with each new comment, but you feel your fingers gravitate there anyways.

Kara catches you the second night, it’s 3am, and she stirs uncharacteristically from her sleep. She blinks in utter confusion at the irritating blue light that fills your bedroom. Your free hand pets Krypto aimlessly as he lays with his head on your stomach.

“Honey?” Kara slurs, voice thick with sleep, and she can feel your heart rate increase like she’s caught you doing something wrong. Her eyes cast over to the clock and she feels her frown deepen as she pushes through her grogginess. “What’re you doing up?”

“Can’t sleep. Sorry.” You dismiss, fingers tightening into white fur. You don’t put your phone down however, although you do her the curtesy of lowering your brightness even more.

Kara shifts so she’s facing you more fully, and her arm moves around your waist. For a moment you tense, but admittedly Kara’s too sleepy to really notice it in the same way she usually would.

“Come on.” She murmurs and kisses the closest part of you she can. “Come here.” She tugs you closer but you squirm away. Kara’s more alert now. Her usual caution tossed out the window due to a lack of sleep. She grunts and tugs you forcefully into her.

“Kara!” You complain. 

Her other hand really reaches for your phone and you try to hold it away from her. She curses under her breath, but manages to grab it, only for you to refuse to give it up. You let out an annoyed whine, and she sets her jaw. 

“Let go.” She says lowly. You don’t.

“I can’t sleep Kara! Just go back to bed—”

“Let go.” She repeats more forcefully. You don’t. Even in the darkness of your room you can see her eyes, much more awake now, are staring at you with a challenge. “Princess, let go.”

You do, knowing you don’t want to fully wake her up. She sighs and eyes you. Shifting, while keeping one hand wrapped around you, Kara puts your phone on her side of the bed. It makes you huff in frustration, knowing full well you aren’t getting by her now.

She then wraps her arms around you fully, bringing your back against her front, and kisses the back of your shoulder. “Just focus on my breathing, and go to bed.” Her voice is firm, and eventually even you cave and fall asleep.

Kara writes that off as a one time thing. You’re not impervious to a sleepless night. When she wakes up she calls Sophia to ensure you can sleep in a bit, and stays in bed with you all morning, only to later wake you up with breakfast in bed.

But after a couple of days she notices the way you gravitate back towards your phone. You’re sitting on your couch watching a movie, a favourite past time of yours, and you’re scrolling. Eyes never even leaving it’s screen. It’s beginning to concern her.

“Hey,” she says, “can’t you put that thing away for a little bit?” She notes that you actually seem to tense at her comment, and she waits for you to pout at her, but you let it fall in your lap.

“Sorry.” You whisper, and shift in your spot. When Kara reaches out to pull you into her lap, you merely shy away. “I’m okay.”

And that’s when Kara knows there’s a far bigger issue than just a few stressful days, because in all the time you’ve been together you’ve never denied her affection. You live for it.

That’s not the only thing she notices either. She starts to see all the small ways in which you’re retreating into yourself.

When she offers to get Jim to pick up your favourite food from your favourite restaurant you decline softly. When she tells you she may be running a little late to get you from work you don’t pout at her. More and more often are you attempting to shake her hands off of you. 

One night she comes home and you’re making dinner, which it’s not like you never do, but often you’re far too exhausted after a day at work. Before you met her you lived off of takeout, so much so that Kara had to laugh when people suggested you were some health minded superstar, but here you are attempting to cook.

She sneaks up behind you and snakes her arms around your waist. “Let me take over.” She murmurs when she sees what your making is basic. “You can go relax.”

“I’m fine.” You say as you stir. “You always cook.” You add. “I’ve got this.” She’s quiet for a long moment.

“I know you do, but you don’t need to do this. Seriously I’ve got it.” She pushes, because she’s started to feel frustrated at the way your closing yourself off from her. The way you’re rejecting her help.

You go to shake her hands off your waist but she doesn’t let you. “Don’t.” Her fingers giving you a  clear warning as they press against your hips. 

“Kara just leave it!” You snap.

She wants to double down, wants to treat you with the firm hands she has a feeling you so desperately crave, but she doesn’t. Instead over the next two days Kara tries to be even more soft and gentle, peppering you with kisses and praise every moment she can as if it will melt away your stress, and when this doesn’t work she tries taking control. Firm hands and red imprints when you refuse her.

Nothing works and it makes her stomach twist, because actions aren’t getting through, and doing is what Kara’s good at. Words? Not so much. She doesn’t know what will quiet the storm obvious in your mind and it makes her feel helpless. It makes her feel useless. It feels like you’ve yanked her sense of routine out from underneath her in the process. She misses taking care of you. 

Five days in and Kara feels at a complete and utter loss so she merely tugs you into her lap. As she expects you try to squirm out of it, and it makes her want to cry.  “Did I do something?” She asks so softly you almost don’t hear it. 

It makes you freeze in surprise, because how could she even think that? You’re the one who’s not doing enough for her. “Of course not.” You say, finding a bit of the confidence Kara misses from your voice. Your throat constricts at the thought.

“Feels like it.” She tells you. “You’re avoiding me like the plague, and I don’t know why.” 

You try to resist the upset bubbling in your stomach as you fight off tears. “I’m sorry—” You begin and Kara lets out a soft groan.

“Stop saying that.” She says, voice a little sharper than she means it. “You’re always apologizing now when you don’t need to. I don’t get it.”

You can hear the frustration in her voice, but also the sadness. Finally she kisses your shoulder, squeezing your stomach as she does. “Tell me what’s wrong.” She pleads. “Tell me so I can fix it honey.” 

You feel the tears. “It’s stupid Kara.” You whisper. “It’s so stupid. I’m fine. I’ll do better…” 

“It’s not stupid if it’s making you this upset. What do I need to do—”

“That’s the problem! You always do! And I-I don’t!” You voice breaks. It makes her stop. You’re pushing against her arms now, eager to get out of her hold, because you don’t want to cry and you know that you will.

You think she may let up, but she merely twists you in her grip so you have to look at her, strong arms keeping you where she wants you. That makes it even worse.

“You do a lot of stuff.” She says, confusion clear on her face. “I mean you provide for us through your job, and I wouldn’t even know what Google Calendars was if not for you, you make sure Krypto is okay, and you come home to me.” She begins to list off.

You scoff. “See!” You exclaim. 

“Well what else do you really need to do?” She pushes, eyebrows knitting together. She instantly gathers this was the wrong thing to say because your eyes well with tears. 

“Anything! Because you do all of it! You cook and you go off and save people and the world and then you have to come here and you handle me! You’re on standby in case I have a bad day and you constantly have to manage me—”

Kara laughs and it makes you stop. “I don’t understand. Of course I do.  Baby I mean that’s a part of dating you.” She goes to give you a kiss but stops when you shove your face into her shoulder and cry. 

Kara freezes because she’s not used to this. To you wailing, whole body shaking with violent cries.

“I’m too much!” You sob. 

“Too much?” She echoes and you sniffle violently. She can feel the tears soaking her shirt. She tries to make you back up, but you won’t. 

“Yes I'm too much! Y-you’re going to get sick of me! I mean you said it yourself you handle me! No one wants someone they have to handle! And y-you’re going to meet some hot s-superhero chick or-or some hot woman you save and they’re going to be easier! And you’ll leave me!”

Kara’s trying to process all that you’re saying, but your voice is slurred and messy from your tears. Her hands grow tighter around you and for once you don’t shake her off. “Love—” 

“I’m too much Kara! I always need something! I shouldn’t—”

She cuts you off by forcing your head back so you have to look at her. She can tell you hate it, but she lets her hand rest softly around your neck. You sniffle miserably.

“Where is this coming from?” She asks firmly. 

“There’s just-people say that they wouldn’t want to handle me! And they’re right it’s… I shouldn’t be like this!” 

Kara’s heart is thudding against her ribs now, and she doesn’t let you go. Shouldn’t be like this? She’s not good at this, finding the words and comforting like this, but she knows she needs to if she wants you to calm down.

She takes a deep breath. “Princess,” she says, “I like that you’re needy.” You stop, and she gives you a gentle smile. “I like that you don’t act like this for anyone but me.”

She reaches forward and kisses your forehead.

“But what if you get sick of me?” You continue.

“We’ve been together for over a year. Not going to happen.” You give her a disbelieving look as her free hand comes up to wipe away your tears. “You're my home.” She says softly. “Is this why you’ve been so distant?”

“I thought if I was less needy that you’d… that it’d make it better.” You admit.

Kara sighs. “But it didn’t did it?” She chides softly. “Because I like when you need me.” She kisses you against your lips. “I like when you’re bratty, and you’re moody, and you’re demanding.” You scoff. “Yes.” She pushes and kisses you again, hands coming to rest underneath your ass. “Because then I get to be the one make you come undone. I have a lot of superpowers but that’s… my favourite.”

You gulp. “But Kara…” You say softly. “I don’t wanna’ lose you.” 

She grins. “You’re not.” And then she’s kissing your cheeks over and over again and you’re giggling before you can help it. She lifts you gently, keeping your legs wrapped around her, and carries you to the bedroom.

“But I think I need to show you. Or else you won’t believe me.” She muses. Setting you down on the bed she pulls off your pants, and then your underwear, and moves so she’s between your thighs.

“Kara—” You say, thighs attempting to close. You still feel so self aware.

“—no you don’t.” She rasps and pushes your thighs open. “You’ve been refusing my affection for days.” She lets her pout be known. “And that’s just mean. So, I think I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”

And that’s how you find yourself shedding new tears as two hours later Kara hasn’t let up. She’ll deny you and then reward you and then deny you twice only to make you come three times in a row. Your body feels spent and you mind so fuzzy you can’t even think right. 

“Kara…” you whine.

She only hums as she watches her fingers disappear into you up to her knuckles. She watches the fall and rise of your stomach, as squirm against her hand. 

“Yes princess?” She teases. You look up at her frustrated. “What do you want? Tell me.” When you go to open your mouth she crooks her fingers in a way that makes you moan. 

“Please Kara. I can’t handle anymore.” You beg. Her fingers leave you with a squelch that makes you try to hide your face in embarrassment. 

“Oh that’s too bad honey.” She says, voice sugary sweet as she lowers herself back down. “Because I’m not done with you yet. Not until you learn that I know what you need.”

You whimper into your pillow. Hands trying to wrap in her hair to stop her, but your grip isn’t strong enough to deter her. In retaliation Kara doesn’t give you a moment to catch up. 

She forces your legs wider as she curls her tongue deep inside you. She can feel your still struggling to let go by the way your hips try to wiggle in her grasp.

“Kara please.”

She breaks away and you sob as you feel your pleasure fading. Caught between wanting Kara to stop completely and wanting to cum again. Your chest is heaving.

She’s rubbing circles against your thighs. “You’re going to give me one more.” You begin to shake your head. “Okay pretty girl? Just one more and then we’re done.”

You nod limply, eyes fluttering shut as she kisses your thighs. Your hands run through her hair, no longer tugging. Her tongue is gentle now as she works you to one more orgasm. You cum, tightening your legs around her head as you do.

She sits up, her own chest heaving, and grins. “Who takes care of you?” She asks.

“You baby.” You whisper, voice so soft she melts. 

“That’s right. And what are you going to let me do from now on?”

“Let you take care of me.” You whisper. She kisses up your body slowly until she lands on your lips.

“That’s my girl.” She praises. “I love you.” She murmurs. “And I wouldn’t trade you for anything.” 

[glimmerfics]

You and Kara are spacebound for your birthday -- what happens when you end up in a forest with a couple of drinks in this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure?

🔗READ/PLAY HERE to make your own choices! [Playthrough by Anonymous]

You curl up against Kara, your head finding its home in the crook of her shoulder, your body fitting against hers like you were made to. Her arm wraps around you, hand settling on your waist, and she presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"Night, birthday girl," she says against your hair.

The ship hums its quiet lullaby. Through the viewport, the green moon drifts past, then the purple one, painting shifting shadows across the ceiling. Kara's breathing slows beneath you, her heartbeat steady against your cheek.

You feel her fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm as sleep starts to pull at you. Soft. Safe. Perfect.

"Love you," she whispers, barely audible, already half-asleep.

Your hand finds hers in the dark, holding on as the three moons continue their eternal climb.

You wake to the warm press of Kara's arm around you, the three moons long gone from the viewport, replaced by a pale golden sky. The day passes in a blur of lazy exploration—Kara showing you crystal caves and fields of bioluminescent flowers, your hand never far from hers.

Evening comes quiet and warm. Krypto chases his tail near the treeline as Kara rummages through the ship. When she returns, she's holding a bottle you recognize—a strange pink liquid you bought together on a distant market, months ago.

She sits beside you, uncorks it, pours two glasses.

"Wanna try?" Her smirk is pure mischief as she downs her own in one go.

You match her energy and knock it back in one go.

The liquid is surprisingly smooth—sweet at first, then sharp, with a warmth that spreads through your chest like sunlight. It doesn't burn, exactly, but it settles deep, curling through your limbs in a way that makes your fingers tingle.

Kara watches you, eyes bright, her empty glass dangling between her fingers. "Well?"

You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch in your throat. The world tilts, just slightly. Not dizzy—more like the edges of everything have gone soft, blurred in a way that feels almost pleasant. The colors around you seem deeper, the sounds clearer.

Kara's grin widens.

"Pretty good, right?" She sets her glass down. "Told you we should've opened it sooner."

You blink. Her voice sounds like it's coming from everywhere at once, wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Your pulse hums in your ears, steady and slow.

"Kara..." Your own voice sounds distant, dreamy. "What was in that?"

Kara's laugh comes out breathy, her eyes half-lidded. "Alien moonshine. Some market vendor said it's... special."

You sway toward her, your hand finding her arm. Your skin tingles where you touch her. The feeling is mutual—she leans into you, her fingers grazing your cheek, lingering.

"The bottle..." You manage, your thoughts syrupy. "Let me see."

She hands it over, still touching you with her other hand. You squint at the tiny print beneath the alien symbols, your brain slow to translate.

Draught of Desire. Warning: amorous effects.

A laugh bubbles out of you. "Kara. It's a love potion."

You laugh—a real, full laugh that bubbles up from somewhere loose and warm inside you. The absurdity of it, the perfect ridiculousness of this entire trip, of Kara planning everything down to the last detail, of course she'd accidentally pick up a love potion from some alien market.

"A love potion," you repeat, still chuckling, and then you're kissing her.

She meets you halfway, her lips soft and smiling against yours. The sweetness of the drink still lingers on her mouth, mixing with the warmth spreading through your veins. Her hand finds your jaw, tilting you closer, and the kiss deepens naturally—not frantic, just hungry in a quiet, knowing way.

When you break apart, Kara's eyes are hazy, her grin lazy. "Well," she says, voice low and rough. "At least we know it works."

Her thumb traces your lower lip, and she watches the motion like she's mesmerized by it.

"Y'know..." She leans in, lips brushing your ear. "We should probably make sure it's not a dud. Test it out. Thoroughly."

"I like the way you think," you say, your voice dropping low.

Kara's grin turns almost smug. The potion hums warm through your veins now, settling into a pleasant, buzzing heat that pools low in your belly. She's close—close enough that you can feel her breath on your lips, see the way her pupils have widened, dark and wanting.

"You have no idea," she breathes, and then she's kissing you again.

This one's different. Slower. Deliberate. Her fingers find the hem of your shirt, teasing the skin beneath, featherlight touches that send shivers racing up your spine. The warmth of the potion pulses between you, mingling with the heat of her body pressed against yours.

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, her voice husky.

"Bed?"

The word hangs in the air between you, charged and inevitable. Her hand drifts down—trailing your collar, your shoulder, your arm—before she takes your hand and stands, tugging you gently to your feet.

You follow, limbs loose and eager, as she leads you through the ship toward the sleeping quarters. Each step feels weighted, the air thick with anticipation. She glances back at you once, a crooked smile on her lips, eyes gleaming with love and desire.

Instead of answering, you slide your arms under her—one around her waist, the other beneath her thighs—and lift. She lets out a surprised laugh, her arms looping around your neck as you stand, cradling her against your chest.

"Showing off?" she asks, but her voice is warm, amused, her eyes soft.

"Maybe."

You carry her the few steps to the bed and lower her down onto it, following her descent, your weight settling over her as the mattress dips. Her hair fans out against the pillow, and she looks up at you like you're the only thing in the universe worth seeing.

Her hands slide up your arms, over your shoulders, fingers tangling in the collar of your shirt. "You know," she says, voice low, "I was gonna carry you. Had a whole plan."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." She tugs you down, lips brushing yours. "But this works too."

You don't answer with words.

Instead, you lean in and catch her lips with yours—slow, like you have all the time in the universe. Your hands find her hips, thumbs pressing gently through the fabric of her shirt, steadying her as she settles deeper into your lap.

Kara hums against your mouth, a soft, satisfied sound that buzzes through you. Her fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like she's afraid you might slip away. But you're not going anywhere.

The kiss unfolds at its own pace—languid, unhurried, tasting of sweetness and warmth and the faintest hint of that drink still lingering on both your tongues. Her breath hitches when you tilt your head, changing the angle, and she follows without hesitation, her body molding closer against yours.

When you finally break apart, it's only by a centimeter. Her eyes flutter open, dark and dazed, lips slightly swollen.

"Hi," she whispers, breathless.

You brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

"Hi."

Your hands find her hips, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt as you pull her flush against you. The movement is gentle but deliberate, drawing her closer until there's no space left between your bodies.

Kara lets out a soft sound—half gasp, half laugh—and the warmth of it ghosts across your lips. She shifts, adjusting her weight, settling into your lap like she belongs there. Her thighs press against yours, and she wraps her arms around your neck, fingers playing with the short hairs at your nape.

"You're good at that," she says, a lazy smile tugging at her lips.

"At what?"

"This." She rocks her hips forward, just a fraction, just enough to make your breath catch. "Making me forget my own name."

Your grip on her hips tightens reflexively, and she laughs again, low and pleased.

Her mouth finds your jaw, then your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. Your head tips back, a quiet sigh escaping you as her lips work a path down to your collarbone.

Outside, the first of the moons begins to rise, casting its pale pink glow through the viewport.

Your hands find the hem of her shirt and slide beneath it, palms pressing flat against the warm skin of her waist. She shivers at the contact, a soft hum escaping her throat as your fingers spread, tracing the curve of her ribs.

"Y/N," she breathes against your neck, the sound of your name low and honeyed.

You let your hands wander—slow, deliberate—mapping the dip of her spine, the soft skin of her lower back. She arches into your touch, her fingers tightening in your hair as she shifts on your lap.

When her lips find yours again, there's less restraint in it. Hungrier. Her tongue brushes your lower lip, and you let her in, deepening the kiss as your hands roam higher, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts.

She breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours, her breath uneven.

"Three months of planning," she says, a shaky laugh escaping her. "And I still didn't think this part through."

Her hips roll against yours, slow and teasing, as her hands find the buttons of your shirt.

Your fingers find the buttons of her shirt, working them open one by one. Kara watches you through half-lidded eyes, her breath warm against your lips as the fabric parts, revealing the curve of her breasts, the soft skin of her stomach.

She shrugs out of the shirt, letting it fall somewhere behind her, and the pink moonlight catches her skin, painting her in soft rose. She's beautiful—impossibly so—her hair slightly mussed, her lips swollen from your kisses.

"Your turn," she says, voice low, and her hands find the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward.

You lift your arms, letting her pull it over your head and toss it aside. Her gaze travels down your body, slow and appreciative, and when her eyes meet yours again, there's something tender beneath the hunger.

Her hands settle on your waist, thumbs tracing circles against your skin.

"Come here," she whispers, pulling you down onto the bed with her.

You let her take your hand.

Her fingers lace through yours, guiding your palm down the plane of her stomach, past her navel, until she presses it flat against her heart. You feel it hammering beneath your touch—fast, wild, alive.

"Feel that?" she whispers, her voice barely audible over the hum of the ship. "That's what you do to me."

She holds your hand there for a moment longer, her eyes locked on yours, before she shifts your touch lower, guiding your fingers along the waistband of her pants. Her breath catches when you hook your thumb beneath the fabric.

"Kara..." you start, but the word dissolves into a quiet sigh as she rolls her hips up, pressing into your hand.

She's warm beneath your touch, her skin slick with want, and she parts her lips on a shaky exhale. Her hand leaves yours, letting you explore on your own now, trailing up her sides, her ribs, cupping her breast as she arches into your palm.

Her head falls back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut.

"Don't stop," she breathes.

You lean in close, your lips brushing the shell of her ear, your breath warm against her skin.

"I'm gonna take my time with you tonight," you say, your voice low. "I'm gonna kiss every inch of you until you forget about the potion, until the only thing making you feel this good is me."

A shiver runs through her, visible, tangible. Her fingers dig into your shoulders, nails grazing skin as she lets out a breathy sound that's half laugh, half moan.

"Fuck," she breathes, turning her head to capture your mouth with hers.

The kiss is feverish now, all tongue and teeth and desperate want. Her legs wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as she arches against you. The heat between you builds, thick and electric, the potion humming beneath your skin in tandem with your racing pulses.

When she breaks the kiss, her chest heaving, she looks up at you with hazy, love-drunk eyes.

"You better make good on that promise."

Your hands find her hips again, grip firm, and you pull her flush against you—no space, no air, just heat and skin and the quiet gasp she lets out against your mouth.

"Promise made," you say against her lips. "Promise kept."

You roll your hips into hers, slow and deliberate, and her head falls back, a low moan escaping her throat. The sound sends a jolt through you, pooling heat low in your belly as you trail kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat.

Her nails rake gently down your back, leaving tingling trails in their wake. "Y/N," she breathes, and your name sounds like a prayer on her lips.

You shift, pressing her deeper into the mattress as your mouth finds her collarbone, her sternum, the soft swell of her breast. She arches into you, fingers threading through your hair, holding you close as you worship her skin with slow kisses.

The pink moonlight spills across her, painting her in shades of rose and shadow. She's trembling beneath you, breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Kara," you say against her skin, your voice low and rough. "I'm gonna make you forget your own name."

A breathy laugh escapes her, but it cuts off sharply as your mouth finds her breast, tongue circling her nipple before drawing it between your lips. Her back arches, a choked moan spilling from her throat as her fingers twist in your hair.

"My name," she gasps. "What was it again?"

You smile against her skin, your hand trailing down her stomach, fingers dipping past her navel. She bucks into your touch, trembling.

Your mouth works its way down her body—soft kisses along her ribs, the dip of her waist, the jut of her hip. She's writhing beneath you now, breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

"Y/N," she whines, and the sound is wrecked.

You look up at her through your lashes, your fingers curling around her waistband.

"Say it again."

Her chest heaves, lips parted, eyes dark and hazy. "Y/N..."

You tug her pants down slowly, kissing the newly exposed skin as you go.

You pause, lifting your gaze to meet hers through your lashes.

Her eyes are dark, hazy, her lips parted as she watches you. The sight of her stretched out beneath the pink moonlight, hair splayed across the pillow, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths—it steals your own.

You hold her gaze as you press a kiss to the jut of her hipbone. Slow. Deliberate.

A shudder runs through her. "Fuck, Y/N."

You trail your mouth lower, still holding her eyes, kissing the inside of her thigh. Her fingers grip the sheets, knuckles white, a sound caught in her throat.

She's trembling when you finally glance away, your lips grazing the sensitive skin behind her knee. The ship hums around you both, pink light pooling across her skin, and the only thing that matters is the sounds she makes—the soft, broken gasps that fill the quiet space between you.

Your mouth finds the inside of her thigh, and you feel her jump beneath your lips. You press a kiss there, then another, working your way up slowly, deliberately, savoring the way her breath hitches with each touch.

When you reach her center, you look up one last time—meeting her eyes, dark and desperate, before you lower your head.

The sound she makes is raw, broken, her hips bucking as your tongue finds her. She's already slick, already trembling, and you take your time, learning the rhythm of her gasps, the way her fingers twist in the sheets when you find the right spot.

"Y/N," she chokes out, her voice strained. "Please—"

You hum against her, and her thighs tighten around your head, a desperate moan spilling from her lips. Her hand finds your hair, gripping but not pulling, holding you there as you work her closer to the edge.

Her breathing turns ragged, her hips moving against your mouth in a rhythm that grows more urgent, more frantic. Her moans fill the small cabin, mingling with the hum of the ship and the soft pink glow of the moonlight filtering through the viewport.

"That's it," you say against her, your voice low and coaxing. "Let go for me."

Her hips stutter, her breath catching in a sharp, broken cry as she tips over the edge. Her thighs clamp around your head, her body arching off the bed as a long, shuddering moan spills from her lips. You don't stop, guiding her through it, working her gently until she's trembling, oversensitive, gasping for air.

She collapses against the mattress, chest heaving, her hand still tangled in your hair. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, her lips parted as she stares up at the ceiling.

"That was..." she starts, then laughs—breathless, wrecked. "I forgot my name. I actually forgot my name."

You crawl up beside her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, her collarbone, the corner of her jaw. She turns her head, catching your lips in a soft, lazy kiss.

"I love you," she whispers against your mouth, the words spilling out like they're the only thing that makes sense.

The pink moonlight pools across her skin, her eyes hazy and full of warmth as she looks at you.

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Wanna try ?" by Varang

[gonzo-rella]

If you feel lonely, I could be lonely with you | Kara Zor-El

MASTERLIST | AO3

Relationship(s): Kara Zor-El x gn!reader (platonic or romantic)

Summary: Just one look.

Warnings: Allusion to Kara's drinking problem. (Let me know if I need to add any)

Word count: 0.6k

(A/N: Just a quick thing I wrote today! This is based on my many peaceful, slightly lonely mornings at a coffee shop before I go to work. Forgive the self-indulgence! As always, requests are open!)

Clark’s been worried about Kara. Earth is supposed to be her home but she leaves any chance she gets. Now that she speaks English and is familiar enough with Metropolis, she should be able to go out and slowly but surely build a life for herself as best she can. But, she hasn’t. Not yet. She sees how much it pains him. It’s almost as much as it pains her.

She figures it’s worth placating him this once, so she decides to go to a coffee shop he recommended. This is her way of making an effort, not just for him but for herself. She doesn’t share Clark’s enthusiasm for this planet, but it’s as good a place as any to call home, if only she spent enough time there.

It’s a block away from The Daily Planet. It’s where Clark and his coworkers go sometimes. The breakroom has a perfectly functional coffee machine, sure, but it’s nice to get out of the office every now and then, he tells her.

As she steps inside, she recognises that it’s exactly the kind of place Clark would love, probably. She still doesn’t know him all that well. Either way, with the wooden floors, the brick walls and the mismatched, worn-out chairs that somehow seem cohesive, there’s a humble warmth to it that reminds her of him.

Looking up at the menu on the wall behind the counter, she has no idea what to order. As far as coffee goes, she’s tried black coffee with an ungodly serving of sugar — the Lois special. In the spirit of getting out there and trying new things, she picks a drink from the board at random. A ‘mocha’, which she mispronounces, but the barista isn’t unkind about it. They smile at her as they hand her the steaming cup.

Kara takes a seat at an empty table. She glances around. It’s a weekday, late in the morning. It’s busy, but quiet, too. Everyone’s typing away on a laptop or thumbing through a book. Some people chat. But, each table is like its own solitary pocket of existence. No one but her looks away from what they’re doing. She may as well not be there. It’s peaceful yet lonely to go undetected like this. It might be handy were she laying low at a shady dive bar. If only she were out-of-her-mind wasted, Kara thinks, she wouldn’t be aware of the fact that she’s completely on her own in this place. She hasn’t brought anything with her, so all she can do is sit and sip her drink.

At first, you blend in with everyone else. You sit alone in the corner. Your attention is fixed on the book in your hands, until it’s not. You pause, shift in your seat and raise your cup to your lips. As you glance around the room, as though you’re searching for no one in particular, your eyes land on Kara.

Before you get a chance to look away, she meets your gaze. It should be weird and awkward. That’s what you both anticipate in the first split second — that it will be little more than an unfortunate, short exchange. But, the longer the eye contact lingers, the more comfortable it becomes. You’ve never met, yet there’s something familiar about you. Perhaps it’s that you’re united in being alone. She doesn’t quite understand it but she feels that she understands you from just watching you from afar.

She offers you a small smile. You smile back.

You’ve not spoken a word to her, and yet it’s the most connected to anyone she’s felt in a long time.

[spideyysenses]

just a lil’ bit jealous

Summary: 3 times Kara gets a bit jealous + the 1 time you do. with wayne!reader

WC: 3k

Warnings: mentions of being tipsy, a little bit of groping, but mainly just fluffy. only slightly proofread.

1

When you made things official official Kara had been warned that you had a way of drawing people into your orbit. Your smile, the way you spoke, the grace you carried yourself with—it made you charming. Charming as an heiress, as a Wayne, should be. Most days it doesn’t bother Kara.

Today it does. You said you needed to go Christmas shopping for not only your family, but for a few new holiday outfits for events, and Kara despite not being that into shopping agreed to tag along. Mainly, because watching you shop always means getting to watch you try things on, and that Kara never gets sick of.

And it started out fine, you had found a pile of possible outfits and were about to tug her into the private fitting room when someone from your classes saw you. Now you’re standing there talking to her, and Kara stands restless.

Made worse by the fact that the woman in question is looking at you like you’re as bright as the sun.

Which, to Kara, you are. But only she gets to think that.

Unable to do much else she finally takes the chance to actually look around the shop. She knows you have a thing for picking out clothes for her, ever since you picked out her suit for the gala, she can tell you practically itch to do it again.

She had tucked it away in her back pocket for the inevitable moment she’d need to grovel again, but now… now this could work to her advantage. She spots a leather jacket, certainly one that goes for the oversized effect, and grins. Not horrible, she thinks, she would wear that.

So she makes her way over to it, pretending to examine it, and after a moment she feels your eyes on her back, can hear the way your heart beat picks up a little, and smirks as you kindly excuse yourself from the conversation.

Your arms wrap around her waist a moment later. “Do you actually like it or did you just want me to stop talking to her?” You tease.

“A bit of both.” She replies jokingly. You roll your eyes, but she know she’s won when you pull her into the changing room at last along with said jacket.

What she doesn’t expect is when Christmas does roll around, that said leather jacket waits under the tree for her, but with her initials embroidered on the sleeve, and a very small version of her family crest on the inside pocket.

2

Kara has learned to love your family, despite how blunt and protective they can come across, and she’s won most of them over. Managing to secure her own group chat with Stephanie and Tim, and even thawing Jason’s frosty mood. The one sibling she hasn’t made any progress on winning over is Damian.

You warned her of such, with a smile on your face sure, as if you got some pleasure out of the torment he’d cause. She tries with him anyways, because she sees the way you look at your brother like he’s the most precious thing to you.

She’s been sure on occasion he uses that to his advantage, always trying to one up her when it comes to winning your praises, but tonight he doesn’t even try to hide it. Your family is at a fun fair of all places, an event to raise money, and he seems to be one step ahead of her no matter what she does.

It started with the rides, Damian pulling you towards the bumper cars before Kara could even open her mouth to ask what you wanted to do first. Then when you had gotten off, and greeted her with a wide smile, he had snuck off only to come back with pink cotton candy.

Your favourite.

But her final straw is when she spots some ridiculously oversized plush rabbit, and makes up her mind that no matter how much she has to pay she’s going to win it for you, only to see your brother come to the same conclusion. So they meet at the cheap vendor, both grabbing the pile of darts.

“Tiny Wayne.” She says dryly.

“Zor-El.” He responds evenly.

“Seriously dude?” She says. “Can’t you let me have this one?”

“My sister deserves the best.” He says. “And you may have her wrapped around your finger, but that doesn’t mean I approve.”

She throws a dart, a little too hard, and manages to hit two balloons at once. “I’m trying to show you I’m worthy of her.” She says, as he keeps pace with her easily.

“Not successfully.” He replies.

His ability to keep up is beginning to grate on her a little, because why do you have to have a little sibling whose arguably better trained with projectile weapons than she is. And so she ends up going back and forth, dart for dart, with a preteen just to make a point. The plush arguably long forgotten. Until they’re both standing there with clenched jaws.

“There you two are!” You say, and as if on cue she messes up her toss. Damian does not, and with a groan Kara turns to you as the vendor brings down the oversized stuffed animal.

Your brother holds it out to you with a sly look, and your face breaks out in a contagious grin that almost makes loosing somehow worth it. Until you’re examining it and he tosses her a very smug grin.

“I have the sweetest little brother I swear.” You tease him, fixing his hair as you do.

And Kara brightens when she sees just how red he turns. She’s about to concede she’s lost this round with your brother until she notices you shiver, so faintly she almost doesn’t, and she’s shedding off her leather coat before you can even ask.

“My hero.” You say, reaching up to kiss her cheek, before Cass and Stephanie are pulling you away again.

She tosses him an equally as smug grin, and your little brother only folds his arms across his chest.

“It’s a draw. For now.”

3

Being your girlfriend in a public way is an adjustment sure, but one that Kara tackles with her usual unwavering sense of confidence. She’s adjusted to the way that your name makes you seen even if sometimes you both murmur about the ways you’d love to run from it.

It’s made easier by the way she gets to come home to you. By the way she sees you in a way they don’t get to. Undone, imperfect, messy, intimate. She loves it.

She sits in the booth at some upscale lounge, watching as you dance with your friends, nursing a drink that does nothing to her. She had been dancing with you.

Until she started feeling a tad out of place with all the fancy jewelry and watches that glittered about under the lights. Your friends would laugh about things that made her head a little dizzy, names of clubs and stores she had never heard of before.

Her eyes momentarily move around the room, trying to adjust to that feeling of being out of place, before landing back on you. Now, now there’s some guy talking in your ear. She knows you’re hardly paying attention to him by the way you move, but he’s persistent.

All rich polo shirt and Rolex, and her grip tightens around her glass. She does her best to let you handle it, but the gnawing displeasure grows. Until she’s on her feet and weaving through the crowd towards you.

She goes to touch your waist, your eyes firmly on your friends in front of you, who are even drunker than you are, but he has the audacity to try to stop her.

“Hey we’re in the middle of something.” He says, voice slurred, and she raises an eyebrow at him. “Who let you in here anyway? This is a private lounge.”

Her jaw clenches. “Move.” She says forcefully.

You instantly turn, her voice always cutting through whatever noise is around you, and smile at the addition of your girlfriend. You’re buzzy, and all you want is her.

But you frown when you note her stiffness.

“Hey I saw her first.” He pushes. “And I can show her a better time than—”

You see her hand flex, raising as if she’s about to punch him, and you grab her arm before she can. You hate the tension in her jaw, and so your hand reaches to cup it.

“Baby,” you say, “what’s the matter?”

But Kara’s too busy noticing the way his eyes linger on your legs, and she shifts. “Back off.” She warns lowly, eyes warming just a little, and he opens his mouth. “Before I hit you.”

He grumbles something, but seeing that you’re not even paying attention to him he scoffs. “Fine whatever it’s not like she’s worth it—”

That’s her last straw. She doesn’t punch him, she knows that will make too much of a scene, but she does stick out her foot so he goes stumbling into the crowd as he walks away.

Your giggle relaxes her. “Come on.” She pleas, and you let her drag you back to the booth. Although you let out a squeak when Kara pulls you down onto her lap instead, arms wrapping tightly around your waist.

The coolness of the leather sleeves makes you shiver against her as she kisses your shoulder. Her hands slowly move to your bare thighs as she grips and squeezes. She can hear your heart beat increase and it makes her relax.

“Show you a good time. Yeah right.” She mumbles against your neck with a huff. “I’m the only one who knows how to do that.” Her fingers shift dangerously close to the inside of your thighs now.

“Kara—”

Your voice is breathy, and it emboldens her when you try to shift her hands and fail. You’re thankful at least that the booth you got is rounded, and offers some privacy.

She merely hums against you. “Yeah babe?” But her hands are roaming now, teasing, and you’re too buzzy to care. “Just gotta make sure these rich boys know you’re spoken for.”

You laugh as you lean back into her, twisting in her grip to plant sloppy kisses along her jaw. “Don’t worry.” You whisper near her ear. “These rich boys don’t know how to handle me. Only you do.”

+ 1

You’ve long gotten used to how the media interacts with you. How being the daughter of Bruce Wayne means everyone looks at you, takes photos of you, talks about you. It no longer phases you like it used to, even if at one point it made you restless. That is until you started dating Kara.

You knew all the famous gossip rags would get ahold of your relationship the minute you took her to a Gala, you had talked to her about it and warned her about it extensively. And you liked it, not having to hide Kara, or your happiness.

But you still haven’t gotten used to how her proximity to you has made Kara more recognizable in her own right. How different Gotham and Metropolis blogs now follow her around even when you’re not necessarily there.

And you, foolishly, assured her that their fascination with you both would cool down after a while, but that doesn’t seem to be happening. Instead their interest in the cool bravo you know your girlfriend can give off has become somewhat of a focal point. Accented by, of course, that damn leather jacket.

You’re happy really that she loves it enough to wear it around all the time, but it’s become almost as recognizable as she has. Not that you can blame anyone, because she looks so damn good in it, but still you bought it for her.

You’re sinking into your couch, wearing said jacket, waiting for her to come home. Your phone buzzing with texts from your siblings.

Stephie B: You see this? [photo]

Tiny Tim: Didn’t we ban Gotham Pop from this group chat? 😪😪

Little Man: Yes we did.

Jace: ❌❌

Stephie B: Hey! The first time wasn’t my fault! 🤧 (y/n) put me up to it.

Cass 🖤: yeah, but (y/n) doesn’t text when you put your phone on do not disturb…

Jace: 😂😂😂

Stephie B: no love in this chat 😔😔

You: I did see it 🫠 thanks for the reminder!

Dickie: … I mean you did get her that jacket.

Little Man: and brought her to the gala.

Cass 🖤: plus your face goes all hot when she wears it.

Tiny Tim: Plus isn’t having a hot girlfriend a bonus? 😏

You: we can stop now

Stephie B: because it’s making you jealous? [photo]

You don’t respond right away.

Little Man: the silence speaks volumes sister

Jace: 😂😂😂

You: I hate you all 😒😒😒

You sink lower in the cushions as you hear your door open. The heels and the smell of your favourite take out alert you to who it is, but you stare at the social media post in question.

“Kitten?” As you turn to face your mother you see she’s looking down at you with a raised eyebrow, and you feel your face flush a little under her scrutiny.

“Yeah ma’ma?” You ask, fingers gripping around your phone just a little tighter as you do.

“I brought you your favourite dinner, usually you pounce on it? But you haven’t moved.”

You sigh and toss your phone across the couch. “Nothing ma’ma. Sorry.”

She rolls her eyes and sits beside you on the couch. You brace yourself. Your mother can be stern and protective but rarely does she chide you about things. “She’s off planet saving people you hardly need to worry.” She notes.

And when you realize what she means you sink lower into the couch as your face grows even hotter under her gaze. You see that it causes her to lift her lips in a half smile.

“I wasn’t—”

“—you’re sulking.” She cuts you off. “Really darling jealousy is beneath you. Especially over something so frivolous as Pop Gotham.”

You groan and hide your face.

“She’s head over heels for you. It’s just talk.” She finishes, hand coming to fix your hair.

“As if you’ve never gotten possessive over dad.” You retort, and it makes her laugh even more.

“Fair. Come eat and tell your mother about school.”

You try to let Selina comfort you, but you still feel upset even after she goes. After all you know it’s childish to be moody about it, especially when Kara gets home, but you are.

“Hey,” she murmurs as she comes through the bedroom door.

Although she stops when she sees you in her jacket. You never wear her jacket. Even though she’s offered countless times. Not that you don’t look incredibly hot in it.

She stoops down to kiss you, and you give her a halfhearted one in return. “Hey.” You reply, eyes never leaving the TV, and it makes her frown.

“I’m going to shower real quick and then dinner?” She pushes opting to ignore the jacket wearing and ignoring her eyes for now.

“Already ate. There’s some in the fridge for you.” Now Kara’s really confused by your mood but decides to let you be while she cleans off.

She tries to wrack her mind for why you’re upset with her. She told you about the trip. She didn’t forget any important dates. When she hops out she opens her phone to text the group chat with Tim and Stephanie.

Kara: why is my girlfriend upset with me? Did something happen?

Stephanie: We may have mentioned your recent appearance on Pop Gotham 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

Tim: [photo]

Kara rolls her eyes at your sibling’s antics.

Kara: Thanks for that you two. 😣😒

When she exits she watches you, and the way you curl into her jacket. “What?” You say.

She watches as your fingers trail softly over the embroidered initials on the sleeve. Her initials. And she allows herself to slowly sink onto the bed, and make her way up to you. Until her knee is softly between your legs.

Your eyes still can’t meet hers, and her hand pushes apart the jacket, and pushes up and under the shirt you’re wearing underneath. You shiver, your back arching up into her, and she grins.

“You don’t usually like wearing my jacket.” She finally broaches, and for a second she notes your eyes grow a little wide.

“Felt like it.” You dismiss.

She sighs, and lets her hand roam higher. “Fine, why is my pretty girl pouting?” She teases and loves how instantly your face warms at her words.

“Not pouting.” You object.

“Mhm, definitely pouting.” She pushes as she lets her fingers trace soothing patterns against your skin.

Kara has an idea why of course, but she still wants to hear you say it. Not only for confirmation, but because it makes her feel some type of way to see you a little possessive. Unlike her you’re not as easily provoked.

“I don’t pout. I’m just… annoyed.” You justify, but she notices now how your hands reach for her.

She kisses your chin, and your jaw, and you let out that little whine she loves to hear.

“Annoyed at who princess?” She whispers. It’s a pet-name she doesn’t use frequently, but she knows what it does to you.

“It’s just you’re mine.” You finally admit. “And I don’t want people to think otherwise.”

She’s grinning now, and softly cups your jaw so you have to twist to look at her. “I’m all yours.” She promises with a kiss to your nose. “And trust me, I’d never let anyone forget it.”

“Sorry I was moody.” You mumble into her neck, and it makes her laugh.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.” She teases and you groan. “Plus you wear my jacket better than I do.”

[bluercherry]

'Green Sun Problems'

Kara Zor-el x green lantern!reader

While helping Kara in her mission to find Krypto's antidote, you both stumble upon a green sun, fatal for kryptonians // hurt/comfort // angst-ish with happy ending // settled in supergirl 2026 but doesn't really spoil anything // wlw

a/n: this was for a request (my first request ever yayyyy) thanks @supergirlswife for sending the request <33

The moment you saw the yellow bright sun hide behind the mountains your tired eyes just accustomed to the lack of light.

Running on the rough sand of the planet, you searched for the Brigand's ship, where you and Kara had gone to get the antidote for Krypto.

You sensed something weird, and slowly, the surface of the planet was tainted with a shade of icy green that froze you in place as you realised what it meant.

"Shit- Kara!"

You took off flying, searching for her in every corner of the planet, even passing by the Brigand's ship. But right now you didn't care. You had to find Kara.

When you found her, she was laying on the sand. Heavy, ragged breaths shook her form. You heart raced with anxiety and unadulterated fear.

You quickly stepped down to meet her eyes. They were glassy, unfocused, and starting to close.

"It's okay, it's all right, Kara. You're safe. I won't let anything happen to you" you grabbed her limp form in your arms, and flew to a nearby cave.

Maybe if she was inside it wouldn't affect her that much, right? You really had no choice, anyways.

You layed her down in a corner, and pushed a strand of her blonde hair out of her face. Her face was sticky with sweat, and she was ungodly pale. You let a shaky breath out.

Your ring starts beaming with light, almost impossible to notice in the already green light of the sun covering everything. You look down at it, and start forming a construct covering around you and Kara.

You settle yourself between her and the entrance of the cave, blocking the direct sunlight in hopes of helping. You knew either way that kryptonians have weakness because of the radiation more than anything. You caressed Kara's cheek softly for a while, your own breathing never evening out completely. You constantly checked her breathing worriedly.

You felt a movement before you saw it. Her lashes softly brushed your hand as she slowly opened her eyes.

"Where-" she tried sitting up, but her head seemed heavy, and everything was dizzy "where are we?" she managed to whisper.

"I tought maybe the radiation would affect you a bit less here" you admitted.

Kara looked at you with those blue eyes. Eyes that pierce you trough and trough every single time. And she looked at you as if you were the only thing left standing in the world. Like you were the one who hung up the stars for her. And you felt horrible each time, because you weren't sure if you were all that. Who you were in her eyes.

"I'm sorry I dragged you here" she confessed.

You caressed her cheek again, and she unconsciously leaned into the touch. "You didn't drag me anywhere, Kara. I go where you go" she nodded, almost imperceptible, "And we're gonna get out of here, get Ruthye, and save Krypto" you assured.

"What if I can't make it?" she whispered, a stray tear travelling down her face to where your hand was resting on her cheek.

"Kara, don't-"

"Be realistic" she took a shaky breath in, "because it could happen" her voice was a broken whisper, almost not there.

"And just in case... I- I wanted to ask you something"

"What is it?" you whispered too, in response.

"I want to kiss you. I refuse to die without having kissed you"

Your heart stopped, but at the same time it started beating faster. Without thinking it further, you slowly leaned down and hovered with your lips above hers. She reached out to grab your face, and closed the distance between you.

The kiss was soft. Tender. A lot of unspoken things on it.

Your lips danced together, and for a moment you forgot your current situation. The whole world faded, and all that was to it now, were Kara's lips against yours. She caressed your arm softly, and bit your lower lip teasingly.

You parted the kiss, breathless, and rested your foreheads together.

You felt the air warm up a bit, and looked out of the cave.

"Look" you said "you're not gonna die" she looked outside too. Her face immediately relaxed at seeing the yellow sun rising again. She sighed in relief as she felt the green radiation leave her body, and quickly stole another kiss from you before you engulfed her into a hug.

"Let's save those girls"

"And Krypto"

a/n2: I hope this is what you were looking for. first time writing for a woman and it's kind of a big deal for me! happy late pride month to evryone out there. you are not alone.

©bluercherry

[wrenwritesanything219]

Just you carefully reminding Kara that you love her and only her no matter the timeline...

"This is gonna hurt," You tell her.

Kara nods, "I'll be fine baby."

...she got hit with kryptonite from luthor.

Clark gave as many details as he could.

"Okay," You mutter to mainly yourself.

You carefully began to clean the wound on her abdomen.

Kara immediately hisses in pain, even Krypto senses it.

The poor dog is too weak to sooth her nerves though.

"Almost done, gotta stay still for me." You mumble.

Kara nods and still mumbles curses under her breath.

After patching up, you bandaged her mid-section.

You took a second to admire your work.

Kara looks up at you.

A sense of uncertainty in her eyes as she reaches for you.

"I love you," You pecked her cheek. "My strong girl."

You wrapped your arms carefully around her, Kara clings onto you tighter.

You thought nothing of it till you felt a patch of wetness hitting your shirt.

"Kara, what's wrong?" You gently pulled yourself out of her embrace.

"You love me?" Her voice cracks in a soft whisper.

You caresses her cheek. "Of course I do."

"Why?" Kara asks.

"The fact you even question it makes me disappointed," You cup her face fully now. "Kara, honey, you are the light of my life. No pun intended."

That got a shy and small smile on her face, you took it as a sign to keep going.

"I love you because you bring joy, you make me happy, you make me feel loved on days I don't feel like I deserve even an ounce of it. When there are times you're confused on where you stand. I want to be the one that guides you home. I'll always love you, Kara, no matter the version."

The look of realization made its way on Kara's face. The tears welled up in her eyes again, but for good reason.

Your declaration meant a lot to her, you were steady or keeping her steady.

A stability that she's needed for so long.

"Hey, don't cry," You kissed her head, "Let's go and cuddle, you too Krypto cmon boy."

[mevlliflous]

add on to your kara and braid headcanon: krypto also demands a few tiny braids on him when he’s about to leave to either protect the galaxy or annoy clarkskfkked, him and kara sometimes tackle it out on who goes first

okay i love this one!

neither you or kara at first got what krypto is about. he would stare and sit still infront of you, whenever kara was lying between your legs so you could braid her hair. he wasn't barking or jumping to join you guys (which was werid), just starring in a really judgmental? way. and krypto was very good at having eyes.

one time randomly, you asked out loud if krypto wants braids too and he immediately whined from his spot but still didn't interrupt your work. what a respectful puppy. so, after you were finished with kara, you went to krypto to see if it's even possible to braid his short white furr.

it was a challenge for sure, especially that krypto got so excited about his first little braid that he went to fly in the air of your apartment. kara had to try and explain to him that you can't do it when he is levitating over your head. but anyway, both of you somehow managed to get him braided for whatever space task kara had to get done.

it would've ended like a very cute story right here, if it wasn't for one particular evening at clark's. you and kara were sharing a smoke outside on the balcony, when you heard clark start to laugh or more laugh through tears inside. going to see what's going on as his tries with krypto where always hilarious, you didn't expect to see that. krypto was standing on two paws, besides clark and eating his hair. kara immediately got the memo that the puppy is trying to braid clark's hair.

needless to say clark had to wash his head. and krypto won't become a hairdresser, definitely.

[simple-dorito]

heyyyy, could i request some fluff headcanons for supergirl? if it’s possible also with a fem!reader? i just watched the movie and i loved it so much!!! thank you sm 🙏🏻

If Krypto doesn’t trust you, Kara doesn’t trust you. After all dogs are good sense of people.

So when Krypto flew away from Kara and slammed into you, happy as could be, tugging you this way and that with your clothes clamped tightly within his jaws in excited greeting.

‘Hello Krypto!’ You giggle at the mischievous dog, making sure he wasn’t thinking of taking your green lantern signet off and swallowing it accidentally. You had to leave Kara and Krypto for a good couple of weeks to deal with an off realm threat per the insistence of a fellow green lantern called Krelio, apparently some Sinestro corps members were causing a lot of problems within a nearby system and he needed backup.

Obviously you asked if Hal, John, Jessica or Kyle were available, only to find out that they were dealing with their own missions, which caused you to groan as you were good friends with the likes of John Stewart, Jessica Cruz and Kyle rayner, whereas Hal was that annoying older brother/ mentor type figure in your life, but you sucked it up and did your due diligence as a lantern but not without kissing Kara goodbye and giving Krypto one last scratch under the chin.

You hated leaving your two favourites for a long period of time, Kara and Krypto had become a massive part of your life in such a short amount of time. All you wanted to do since meeting Kara was lounge in bed and watch old black and white films all the while scrunching up your nose as the blonde woman, who would usually tuck you against her side during these softer moments so you didn’t see her smile and smitten eyes, feed Krypto her food with the same spoon that had been in her mouth a minute ago.

‘Don’t do anything stupid that forces me to chase you half way across the universe.’ She had told you when you first told her, her back facing you as she makes you both your morning drinks as you tugged on her tan trench coat over your stark lantern uniform after pulling it out of Krypto’s maw. You smiled and walked behind her and placed your head on her shoulder, arms at your sides as you know that Kara isn’t the most affectionate when you tell her you have to leave for lantern duties when you both agreed to have a lazy day.

‘If I do you can take it up with Hal, he’s the one who trained me after all.’ You attempted a joke. Kara rose a brow at you as she looked at you for a good minute before kissing your keep and pushing the cup of coffee into your chest.

‘Just come home before I sick Krypto on you.’ And just as she said this the white dog let out a loud bark that almost shattered your eardrum. You let out a little laugh and kiss her nose, watching her lips twitch a little as she tries to keep composure. ‘Don’t threaten me with a cute dog to drag my ass home.’ Kara scoffed as she playfully shoved you away from her, almost spilling your coffee as you necked it in one go after seeing it had gone lukewarm, petted Krypto once more and kissing Kara on her forehead, but before you could officially leave the ship, Kara grabbed you by the lapels of the jacket you stole from her and pulsed you in for a kiss.

‘You almost forgot.’ Was all she said before letting you go and sitting on her bed where Krypto was now laying on your side of, her eyes never leaving you. ‘And go kick some ass for me.’

You bowed dramatically and said. ‘As you wish.’ Before leaving to join up with Krelio, Mir and Reiner.

You were pulled back to the present when a shadow casted over you and kyrpto stopped tugging at you as you both looked up to see Kara looming over you both, brow raised and a smug little smile gracing her lips. ‘Hey.’ You said as you pushed yourself up from the ground, dusting yourself off, smiling back at her.

‘You’re late. I was just about to send Krypto to look for you.’ Kara said bemused.

‘Things got a little tricky-‘ you were cut off by the woman in front of you pulling you close to her by the lapels of her stolen coat, blue eyes scanning your face as you watched her silently fret over you. You knew Kara would never tell you of her concerns and worries but her actions often told you more then she would allow, you knew that she trusted you to take care of yourself and not get too badly hurt, but that never stooped her from looking you over internally and externally to reassure herself that you were okay and not lying to her.

Not that you could because she would know by the pacing of your heartbeat.

‘You’re hurt.’ She says as her eyes narrowed in on a small cut just under your eye. You couldn’t help but laugh at her pout. ‘Didn’t take you to be the type to worry over a small insignias cut.’ ‘Insignificant until it gets infected.’ Kara huffs as she legs go of your lapels and walks towards the ship, you and Krypto following afterwards, pulled out a first aid kit that you had brought some time ago after being appalled when you asked Kara where she kept one and for her to respond.

‘Don’t have one.’

‘Sit.’ Kara points to the bed.

‘Love I’m sweaty and I don’t think-‘ she glares at you and immediately you were sat down on the edge of the bed as Kara pulled out a small bandaid and an antiseptic wipe before unapologetically sitting on your lap. Your breath hitched in your throat at her unpredictability but your hands readily reach to steady her by the waist, tracing shapes there with your thumbs subconsciously, taking her in like you always did like she was the only thing that mattered to you. Your North Star that you’d follow without question.

‘You said you’d be careful.’ She said as she wiped at the cut with the antiseptic wipe, you barely flinch because it was a small shallow cut, and leaning into her hand that was holding your cheek as she placed the bandaid over the cut protectively. ‘I was! Until I got a little reckless because Kelio was over his head in the final moments of the fight.’ Kara scoffed but didn’t remove herself from your lap, instead she leaned further into you until she was practically curled up against you, holding your hand to her chest as Krypto nestled himself to the otherwise of you; head in your lap.

‘Stop risking your well being for stupid adrenaline junkies.’ She said.

You smiled as you kissed the top of her head as you allowed yourself to fall backwards onto the bed, taking Kara with you, uncaring that you were still very much in your lantern uniform, you just wanted to hold Kara a little while longer before this was the only chaotic peace that you ever want to know for the rest of your life. ‘Not if this is how you’re going to fret over me.’ You replied, tightening your hold on her before adding, ‘but you know I’d never leave you right. Don’t think I can at this point, you’d hunt me down if I leave and drag my ssd back here and leave Krypto to watch me.’

Kara laughed and looked at you, then at Krypto, then back to you again as she settled against your chest, clutching onto you uncharacteristically tight, like she was contemplating the idea of a tomorrow with you. ‘Please don’t.’ You frowned as you moved a hand from hers to tilt her chin up to look at you again as you leaned in to kiss her lips, though not before whispering. ‘Never.’

[toournextadventure]

a reason to feel

Summary: Kara isn't used to all the physical affection. Word Count: 2.6k Warnings: Swearing Pairing: Kara Zor-El x Fem!Reader part 1

Bruce Wayne knew of you before you moved back to Gotham. Clark had given him the heads up and asked him to keep an eye on you. Just make sure she doesn’t get into trouble, he had asked. A simple task, or so Bruce thought. Little did he know you were on a warpath that not even he could afford to bribe you out of.

You stood in the back alley of the courthouse, cigarette hanging loosely between your lips as you dug around in your pocket. Bruce watched you pull your phone out, shake your head, and slide it back into your jacket pocket, a disappointed look resting on your face. Smoke fell from your lips while he stepped closer.

“Another win, counselor?” He asked.

Your face twitched before you looked sideways at him. “I didn’t think you frequented back alleys, Mr. Wayne.” Thick smoke exhaled through your nose. “Didn’t seem your style.”

“I like to keep people on their toes,” he said with a polite smile. “Celebratory smoke?”

“I put a man on death row,” you huffed. “Not much to celebrate.”

Bruce could agree with that. You were becoming notorious among the criminals of Gotham for putting anyone and everyone on death row. It had started with a low-profile killer that had escaped Arkham and had committed again. If you were to ask any criminal their thoughts, they would say you were dangerous. A threat. And no one tolerated a threat.

Yet the average person seemed to approve, if not outright worship you. As far as they were concerned, you were keeping violent criminals off their streets. Things none of the corrupt cops or vigilantes could consistently manage. Each win in the courthouse gained you further notoriety and adoration amongst the crowds.

Bruce didn’t like you. He respected you, but he didn’t like you.

”I think there’s a burgaler on trial next week,” Bruce said slowly. “Is he next on your list?”

You scoffed. “He’s a petty thief.”

”Doesn’t seem to stop you.”

”If you believe that then you don’t understand.”

”Explain it then,” he countered. You looked at him with an unimpressed raise of your brows. “Like I’m a child.”

You turned until your body faced him. He wouldn’t lie; it was intimidating.

”I’ll explain it to you like the intelligent adult you are,” you said. Slender fingers gripped the forgotten cigarette from your mouth and dropped it into the empty, rusted dumpster to your side. “I find no pleasure in sending people to their deaths, but I will not allow them to terrorize my city.”

”I was under the impression you came from Metropolis?” He asked.

”But born and raised in Gotham.” You gestured your head to the side. “Down by the docks.”

Bruce’s mouth opened instantly to refute your claim. There were no housing projects near the docks. Slowly, his mouth closed as you maintained steady eye contact. There were no housing projects near the docks. A local dock rat. Few of you made it to adulthood. Even fewer still made it out of the city and made something of yourselves.

Perhaps he had underestimated you.

”I’ve seen too many people murdered by those who escaped Arkham. Those who were given a second chance and blew it for a bit of instant gratification.”

”Everyone deserves a second chance,” Bruce argued.

“But not a third.”

You refused to break eye contact. Something he could respect. But you were wrong.

”People can change,” he continued.

”You must be more simple-minded than I thought,” you huffed. “Not everyone gets better. Not everyone can be rehabilitated and put back out into society like nothing ever happened.”

”You feel strongly about this.”

”You don’t?” You asked. “Joseph Chilton shot your parents in front of you. You think he could change?” A pause. “Was he finally rehabilitated in the end?”

Bruce fought the shiver going down his neck.

”Or was he just another thug looking for an easy out?”

He was understanding why Clark was so concerned for your safety.

Bruce lazily gestured to you with an open palm. “And you think you can do something about it?”

”Someone has to,” you said with arms out. “Our “heroes” let them go too easily and give them chance after chance. Look where that gets us.”

Frustration welled within Bruce’s chest. He would never consider himself a hero, but Batman was a symbol of Gotham. A symbol that there was always someone out there willing to fight the hard fight and get justice for his people.

“Yet, you’re just a counselor,” he said with a shrug.

“And I keep going,” you said quickly. “They keep escaping and killing whether I’m a hero or a nobody.” Your finger jabbed him gently in the chest. “Whether I’m tired, or hopeless, or afraid.” A tired sigh. “The world keeps going, Mr. Wayne. And so do I.”

You placed another cigarette between your lips and flicked your lighter open, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.

Clark’s request echoed in Bruce’s head. “You’re going to become a target.”

Your head turned, and Bruce finally noticed the exhaustion dragging your shoulders down. Dark bags hung under your eyes. The skin on the corner of your mouth was red and agitated underneath the loose cigarette that burned closer and closer to your face. Dry, shaking fingers repositioned your smoke.

Clark’s concern was more than justified.

“Then I’ll be a target,” you said with a shrug, “and they’ll go to death row like everyone else.”

Acceptance sparkled in your eyes as you turned and walked off down the back alley. Bruce noted you walked with a confidence that contradicted your casual demeanor. He waited until you were out of sight before pulling his phone out and making a call.

You were going to keep him busy.

———

Kara was tired.

Being back under a yellow sun was rejuvenating, but it did nothing to help her exhausted mind. She wanted to walk through the door to her apartment and flop onto the bed. If she could sleep for the next three days then maybe she would feel better.

Hopefully Krypto would let her.

The floor creaked underneath her feet as she approached her apartment. It was a comforting sound, something reliable that signified she was home. Her chest warmed at the thought; almost home to her dog. Her Krypto. One of the few things in the universe that could bring her true peace.

Her boots stopped right outside her door. It was open. Inside was deathly silent. Kara’s eyes rapidly looked left and right as she cautiously stepped through the doorway. Who had entered? She couldn’t hear Krypto’s usual barking and chaos when she approached. Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked around the corner to the living room…

Feathers lay scattered around the room, leaving a fluffy white coating over every surface. On the floor was a pile of pillows - some miraculously still intact - encircling two peacefully sleeping bodies. One was the perpetrator of the crime, with feathers stuck to his beard and mouth.

The other was you.

She couldn’t tear her eyes from your body. Your arm rested over Krypto’s side, his back pressed tight against your front. Feathers stuck out of your hair, easily making you look more ridiculous than anything Kara had ever seen. Only one shoe remained on your feet, the other somewhere across the room.

When had you come by? Kara’s sense of time was hazy at best, but she knew she had been gone at least a few nights. The door had been opened, surely you hadn’t been there for long. You weren’t stupid enough to leave a front door open; not when Gotham should have quickly taught you otherwise.

A whispered groan came from somewhere in your vicinity. Slowly, your body shifted, unconsciously pulling Krypto closer. He allowed it. Kara fully believed she could have stood there watching you for the rest of eternity. Serenity was all she had ever wanted, and she could see it in you. It made the apartment feel more like a home.

Her brain felt like it would explode.

Kara stalked her way over to where you were laying and watched your face for a moment before nudging you with her boot. You groaned again, so she nudged you again, harder that time. Krypto stirred in your arms, and Kara took the opportunity to lean down and roll you over.

”Fuck off,” you complained, sleepy eyes prying themselves open just enough to see who had disturbed your deep slumber. “Kara?”

”Stay in Gotham too long?” She asked as Krypto wriggled out of your arms. “Trying to get me robbed?”

”People don’t get robbed in Metropolis,” you argued without pause. “What do you mean?”

”You left my door open, dumbass.”

”Teach your dog to close it since he’s the one dragging people in.”

Krypto barked, finally awake enough to notice she was home. His claws scratched new lines in the hardwood floor. Another repair job. Maybe she could convince Pa Kent to help again; he seemed to like her well enough.

”How was your trip?” You asked, pushing yourself up to a sitting position and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

”It was fine,” Kara lied effortlessly. Not guiltlessly. “When did you get here?”

”This morning,” you said. Your hand reached out and Kara effortlessly pulled you to your feet. She hoped you didn’t notice.

“How did you get in?”

“Clark made me a spare,” you shrugged.

Of course he did, that bitch.

“Had to check on you since you stood me up.”

Kara froze until Krypto grabbed her pants and pulled her feet from underneath her, sending her crashing to the ground.

“I didn’t stand you up,” she defended as she did her best to push Krypto away.

“Our date was supposed to be three nights ago, Kara.”

Oh. Oh shit. No, it couldn’t have been three nights ago, it was only Saturday, that was why she had come back in the first place. She left… Wednesday? Yeah, that sounded right, and she was only gone for a few days. You were wrong; that was the only explanation.

“No it wasn’t,” Kara defended, “it’s tonight.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

Krypto barked.

Fuck.

You should have been mad. Furious even. If you walked out and never talked to her again, she would understand. Hell, she would have walked out on you if you had done the same. Kara didn’t put up with that bullshit. You shouldn’t either.

“I took a few days off work,” you said with a small smile. “If you wanted to make it up to me.”

Fuck you. Fuck you and your understanding nature, it was offputting and Kara didn’t know how to react to it. Yelling, screaming, throwing hands, maybe even a weapon or two if you were feeling spicy; that was all something she knew how to handle. Not this… bullshit.

“What did you have in mind?” Kara asked against the pounding in her chest.

You swayed gracefully from foot to foot. ”Order in and watch a movie?” Your hand dug mindlessly in your pocket before you pulled out what looked like a USB. “I’ve got the library.”

Right. Kara usually tried to forget you had any real association with Gotham. It eased the pain behind her eyes to believe you were from somewhere safe, like Metropolis. Until you forced her to face the facts; you may be a lawyer, but you were loose with the law.

”I get to pick the movie.”

”Then I get to pick the food,” you countered.

A tough decision. Kara didn’t trust your taste in movies or food. Your food choices were questionable at best, usually from the sketchiest parts of town. She actively remembered twice that you had gotten food poisoning from the gas station sushi you had picked up on the way back to Metropolis. And your movie choices? Trash movies at best, you seemed to favour “undiscovered talent” that was really just shitty acting.

But the look on your face was rather convincing.

“You pick the movie,” she caved.

You bounced up and down and clapped your hands too quickly. It wasn’t that exciting. The energy in the room got to Krypto, who started spinning in circles and barking at everything he could find. God, he was a bad dog. Kara would lay down her life for him.

A few hours later, Kara found herself sitting on the couch with your head in her lap and Krypto curled by your feet. She couldn’t even watch the movie you had taken half an hour to pick. Something “action packed,” in your words, but it was almost as boring as Clark. It didn’t matter, her eyes never left the serene look on your face. The weight on her lap was comfortable, grounding.

Moments like this reminded Kara of the good parts of staying on-world. Off-world led to more adventures and lots of alcohol, which she did thoroughly enjoy. It was a place to let off some anger without risk. She could get drunk and only have to worry about if she made it back to her ship or not. Those were all acceptable things to happen off-world, and she was under no obligation or desire to give it up.

But she enjoyed having you close. Feeling your warmth, your breath on her skin, your fingers drawing patterns on her knee. It was an annoying sensation and incredibly overstimulating, but there was something about the repetitive patterns that calmed her down. Your very presence left her fingers tingling and her chest full.

”I‘m not contagious,” you mumbled. Kara looked down at you even though you never took your eyes away from the TV. “You can touch.”

Oh. Kara’s face flushed and she was grateful for the darkened room. She supposed you had a point. Her arms were spread out on either side of the back of the sofa, as far away from your body as she could possibly get. Her stomach dropped.

So gently it was almost painful, Kara let her arm rest on your waist. She knew her strength; knew how to keep herself in check back on Earth. Sometimes she needed to focus harder than others, but she wasn’t an idiot. Until it came to you, and she wouldn’t deny she was… hesitant to initiate touch.

“You’re like a space heater,” you chuckled. “And I’m not made of glass.”

You shifted until you were laying on your back and looking straight up at her. God, your eyes could bore a hole into her soul. No wonder you had such a high win percentage at work, that stare was enough to make anyone cave. She squirmed underneath you.

”If you’re not a touchy person, just tell me,” you said softly. The movie played in the background. “I know I’m a bit pushy.”

A correct statement, just change the “bit” to “very.” All you did was push; grabbing her hands whenever you wanted, pulling her close if she was “too far away,” keeping your shoulder pressed against hers every time you walked together. You pushed and pushed and Kara wasn’t used to all the physical attention.

”I don’t mind,” she said against her racing thoughts. “Just not used to it.”

You grabbed the hand that was now resting on your stomach and linked your fingers through hers.

Pushy bitch.

”You’re gonna regret saying that,” you teased.

[rey-lupin]

Kara x normal civilian reader

a/n: reader is assumed to be in last year of college, woman in STEM! Regular girl who ended up in cahoots with supergirl. Also not proofread punctuation is questionable

synopsis: your girlfriend is bloody awesome, on top of kind and charming and sexy, she also has superpowers? But you can’t help this unsettling feeling in your stomach, especially when she goes off planet. It’s almost like… envy. How lucky is she to see things you only ever read in your college text books?

w.c: 872

extra: might be a tiiiiiiny bit ooc, ‘angel’ used as a pet name

Kara’s absolutely winded, having hopped three planets and back in less than two days. For what? You’d probably never know, superhuman business you guessed.

Either way, her first stop back was your single bedroom apartment in the heart of metropolis, one you were scarcely affording amidst college tuition. Even Krypto knew better than to rip the pretty throw pillows on the sofa

“Hey baby” you say, emerging from your room at the noise, fondness tugging your lips upwards at the sight of her.

Kara’s flopped onto the couch, making grabby hands at you.

“C’mere pretty I missed you” she pouts and you can’t help but comply, letting Kara tug you onto her lap.

Krypto barks in what seemed like greeting, eliciting a light chuckle from you

“Yes it’s nice to see you too” you coo in the kind of baby voice that only a dog as adorable and scruffy as krypto can garner.

Your attention turns back to your girlfriend, eyes meeting as you take in her disheveled state, believe it or not Kara always looked like she kind of just woke up, hair a little ruffled in the best way, easy smile tugging at her lips when she looks up at you.

“Mm what?” She teases

“Nothing” you respond “can’t I admire my girl?” You muse, leaning in, lips brushing hers. Kara’s not known for her self restraint, she leans in the rest of the way, lips meeting with a soft sigh.

Her hand wanders to cup the side of your face, the other resting on your waist. You begin to wonder, how, the very hands that are touching you, the very girl whose lap you’re in, had just been in space.

In outer goddamn space.

And so easily at that, it’s a thing that crossed your mind often when Kara and you first got together, how the one thing that fascinated you your whole life; she got to have so easily. The one thing you slaved away to learn in college, she had on the tips of her fingers, the liberty to see it all.

Kara pulls back, slight furrow blooming between her brows at your distracted nature. She could tell immediately that you weren’t kissing her with your usual attentive nature, she didn’t have to be a superhuman to know that.

“What is it?” She murmurs, voice low and honeyed with the edge of worry

“What?” You mumble, pulled out of your daze, back into her orbit

She tilts her head slightly, as if trying to see through you with that x ray vision of hers.

“Come on angel, talk to me”

She all but pleads, Kara had never been too good at feelings, but for her girl? She’d fly to the remains of krypton and back.

“It’s stupid really” you mumbled, a flush climbing up your neck at how childish the problem felt. How could you tell your superhero alien girlfriend that you were just jealous of her grand space adventures? That sometimes you imagined the two of you in space together? Whizzing around different planets and stars, with Kara animatedly chattering about each to ease your curiosity.

Your eyes meet hers again, and she’s looking up at you patiently with those blue blue eyes of hers.

With a sigh you begin “what’s it like?”

Kara’s gaze searches yours for a moment

“When you’re off planet” you continued slowly

A beat passes and Kara’s eyes flicker with understanding, if anything the corners of her lips tip down with realization.

“Oh” she breathes, hands coming up to run comfortingly over your shoulders

“Well you’re not missing out on much it’s like a total mess out there-“ she huffs trying to make light of it, but her almost smile falters at the saddened look on your face

“I wish I could come with you” you finally say “I wish I could see it all” and there’s more than a tinge of longing in your voice that makes Kara’s chest tighten.

For Kara it was her lifestyle, seeing the universe, it had always been her life. She hadn’t realised what it would be like to not have that choice at all.

“In that case..” she starts, slowly, like she’d sit here and talk until the earth stopped spinning if it meant it would make you feel better.

She started on space busses and planets with two suns and squid like tentacled creatures who might kidnap you for a trafficking ring. She answered your questions enthusiastically, trying to bring up details in the most vivid ways possible, how some planets were barren, how most were metropolitan in their own ways.

In the end it left you with soft smiles gracing your lips and nothing but love in your eyes for your kara.

“That’s what it’s like” Kara finishes softly, hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair away from your face, hand lingering there to cup the side of your cheek.

You lean into the touch, eyes closing for a moment.

“I love you” you murmur, and Kara’s eyes all but sparkle in the low evening light.

“I love you more” she returns “one day” she says, hope and excitement and longing written across her face

“One day I’ll take you with me”

a/n: my first actual fic! I hope you like it, likes reblogs and comments appreciated loads!! pls lmk if we want more kara.

[spideyysenses]

She’s In Your Veins — I’ll Never Get Enough

Summary: As the second youngest child to Bruce Wayne, and adopted daughter of Selina Kyle you have all the luxury you could want. The only rule? You don’t put yourself at risk. And when you do your parents are quick to shut it down, but it’s too late to go back now, because Kara is all your find yourself thinking about.

WC: 4.8k

Authors Note: Thanks for all the likes and especially the comments. This is really my first x reader type fanfic so it means a ton! As always you may find this a little ooc for some characters but I tried to keep them as close as possible. Only slightly proofread!

Warnings: arguing, slightly overprotective parents, smut at the end, fingering, oral. I think that’s it!

series masterlist • previous part • next part

The first time you stir it’s to the sensation of being carried. “Krypto I’m moving as fast as I can.” Kara snaps at the dog, although her voice is hushed, “she’s fine buddy.”

Your head would argue otherwise. Did you really just pass out? Could a handful of shots of whatever really do that to you? “Define fine.” You rebuke as you move.

You feel both of you sway a little as your weight shifts, but Kara’s grip tightens around you. She’s carrying you bridal style to the ship, and you can smell the alcohol on her breath as the sounds of the bar fade behind you.

“You’ll live.” She says, but her voice isn’t as blunt as the first time you really spoke. It’s almost joking.

You remember that you basically went dark on your family and inhale sharply as you envision what will befall you tomorrow. Somehow despite the lingering dread you don’t regret coming with her. “Yeah no I won’t. Not when…” You don’t finish your thought.

She doesn’t push, and you feel your head spin as you work to keep it upright. “Sorry.” She says, and when you peer up you notice that she seemingly refuses to look down at you. “Forgot that the liquor out here is stronger than on earth. Probably should have gotten you to slow down.”

You shrug one shoulder and stare up at the sky. “I can walk.” You say suddenly, aware that she’s still carrying you despite your new found consciousness.

She stops, and you can almost see the doubt in her gaze. But you hate being told you can’t do something, you get it from both of your parents, and so with a small glare from you she begins to let you down. When your feet touch grass and go to move a step your world tilts again causing you to groan out in misery. You hear her laugh beside you and let your eyes narrow in mock anger at her.

She’s gently sweeping you up again. “I’m strong remember?” She says.

“Mhm bet you tell all the girls that.” You see her lips turn down. “Or guys.” You amend. Her nose scrunches up.

“No, girls.” She replies. “Although I really don’t—it’s been a while since...” She doesn’t finish, but she sets her jaw in a way that tells you that’s more from not wanting to continue than not knowing how to.

“I’m so embarrassed.” You say. “I didn’t even last that long.” She laughs again.

It’s more laughter than you thought you’d evoke from her, but it easily becomes a favourite sound of yours. She appears younger, lighter, when she does.

“An excuse to do this again.” You still in her grip as you see the ship come into view. Krypto barks and goes ahead of the both of you, but the antics of the dog don’t even phase you because you’re so focused on what she just said.

Did you hear that right?

“Again? Thought this was a one time deal?” You ask, and you can’t even pretend to be nonchalant about it. It makes you almost giddy to have her say it. Even though she won’t look at you while she does.

“Clark says I need friends on earth.” She shrugs and you feel your body grimace at the word. Friend. You’d take it, if means seeing her and getting away from your life once in a while, but it still stings just a tad.

When you’re in the ship she places you on the bed, Krypto hopping up after you and settling down onto your lap.

“I’ll get you back as quick as possible.” She says as she drops off a glass of water.

The second time you stir it’s to the sound of Kara lecturing her dog again. You’re beginning to gather this is a multiple times a day type of occurrence between the two of them.

“Krypto enough! Don’t go out there! I don’t have money for her fancy pillows if you ruin them.”

You can feel your lips lift despite your woozy state, but you’re not really coherent enough to be alert, or in full control of your body movements.

Instead you feel yourself being set softly onto a bed while your phone and other things are set beside you on the nightstand. You infer Kara merely used your key fob to get into your penthouse.

You expect her footfalls to retreat, but instead you just feel something plop onto your legs and settle. “What are you doing now?” You hear a huff and you know it’s Krypto. There’s a very long pause as if the two silently communicate.

“I can’t stay and neither can you buddy. I’m not getting caught by Bruce Wayne.” She whispers. Then she shifts you, takes off your shoes, and makes sure you’re on your side. “Don’t look at me like that.” She mutters.

When she’s done you can hear her footfalls towards the direction of your window, but Krypto doesn’t leave your side at all, and you hear a soft groan.

“Come on.” Kara urges quietly, and your mind swims towards sleep again. You want to push it off, to talk to her, but no words find their way. “Krypto I can’t okay?”

There comes a little whine but the dog jumps off from your bed leaving you to hold out just long enough to hear your window shut behind her.

When you stir for the third and final time the first thing you register is the pounding in your head, and you can’t help but wonder what the hell Kara gave you to drink, champagne never hurts this much. The second thing you register is that you’re home, with your window open to let in some fresh air, and you work to remember last night.

The third and final thing you register is the smell of food, and for a fleeting moment you wonder if Kara came back even though it’s irrational to think she would.

The smell makes your stomach churn miserably, and you’re up and stumbling for the bathroom before you can even think about it, stomach lurching into your open toilet. A pathetic sound escapes you as you try to calm your uneasy stomach.

“Fuck.” You whine as you feel about to heave again.

“That’s what will happen when you drink too much.” Your heart sinks a tad when your mother’s voice rings out in your on-suite. “Shower please and we’ll talk after.”

You wince. “Ma’ma I—”

“After.” She says firmly, and goes. You hear the clatter of plates a moment later. The shower does help you feel at least not so hungover, and you have to admit it feels nice to feel clean again, but it does little to soothe your screaming nerves.

When you leave your room, dressed and somewhat presentable, you whiten as you see that Bruce is in your kitchen too. In fact he’s the one that’s cooking, although it’s merely a bagel and some scrambled eggs. You don’t think you can stomach either at the moment.

Both your parents seem deep in conversation, but like the bat and cat they are, your slightest footstep alerts them to your presence. Both look up from what they’re doing, and meet your gaze, unable to hold their eyes you look away.

“Morning.” You say.

“Try afternoon.” Bruce corrects and you grimace as your eyes cast to the clock above your stove. Three in the afternoon to be exact. This only makes your stomach drop even more as you realize you missed classes, and your volunteer efforts.

“Shit.” You curse.

“Yes, well, darling what did you expect would happen when you went out and drank yourself drunk?” Selina says.

“I didn’t mean—” You begin.

“First of all, lets establish what exactly you didn’t mean to do, because we’re still unclear where you were.” Bruce says evenly. “All trace of you just gone! Barbara went into a panic.”

You flinch at that thought. You know how protective she is, and how fast she can make things happen. “I’ll apologize to her. I didn’t mean to make her worry. Or you two.”

You try not to focus on your own frustration right now, after all it’s not like you don’t know Barbara keeps track of you, she keeps track of everyone, but it grates on you more than normal right now.

“Still didn’t answer us.” Selina says and you twist to look at her before exhaling.

“I went out on a spur of the moment type thing and left my watch here by accident and then my phone died and—”

Both your parents tense and that’s when you know your lie didn’t work. “Try that again.” Bruce warns you, but you’re too focused on the pounding in your head.

Your mother seems to see this, and pushes forward water and pain meds. “Thanks ma’ma.” You say.

“Now answer our question.” She says.

You take a sharp inhale knowing it’s no use lying anymore. It’s quite clear they went the distance and got Barry to look for you.

“I went off world.” You whisper staring down at your hands.

The cooking pan clatters on your counter and you cringe.

“You what?” Bruce bellows and you shrink. You expect your mother to cut in, because she always does when your father gets like this, but when you peak at you see a cascade of emotions on her face.

“I-I went with a friend to a nearby planet and had a little bit of fun.” You repeat, but your voice is even smaller now.

“I can’t believe you!” Bruce snaps. “Off world?” He repeats. “What the hell were you thinking you can’t just go off this planet without telling me! Hell you can’t leave this planet at all!”

You feel agitation. “You have.” You quip but you know it’s a childish futile gesture born from not having any other come back.

“Oh you mean the times of crisis when I’ve had zero choice in the matter!” He snaps back at you. You know you should relent. It’s not in your nature to really, but you and Bruce are both stubborn and you know it’d be better to let him have this one.

“I’m an adult I don’t need your permission!” You challenge. Again, a failing argument, and one that makes your mother tense. Her fingers growing tight around her mug.

“I’m all for giving you your space, but B is right in this case, you don’t leave this planet unless you have our okay. Given the risk involved in it.” Selina defends, and this makes you roll back your shoulders.

“You’d never give your okay—”

“Yes, because you have no reason to go! Your life is here! Your job, your responsibility, is school and this family! It’s not taking a trip to space!” Bruce’s temper is rising and you begin to feel exhausted.

“I’m sorry okay! I’m sorry I went off world without telling you, I’m sorry I worried you, and I’m sorry that for once I wasn’t perfect!”

They both let out a groan at this, and Bruce seems about to snap back at you but your mother slips her hand over his.

“Give us a moment B?” She asks. “You need to cool down.”

He looks between you and her and exhales sharply. “Fine.” He says briskly, and leaves.

You jump at the slight slam to your door. You and Selina stay there in silence for a long time until she finally rubs her temples in clear frustration.

“Well are you happy?” She asks. “Did you get your bit of rebellion in?” You hate the almost condescending choice of words.

“I didn’t rebel I merely lived my life.” You defend. “I’m fine you and dad are just blowing this out of proportion!”

Wrong thing to say because she’s up from her seat and she has your chin, not harshly enough that it hurts, but enough that it doesn’t feel merely as gentle or fretting as it usually does—and you know that you’ve messed up.

It usually takes a lot for you to push your mother to the point where she gets truly upset with you. She told you once after an argument that she tries to save her frustrations for the scum bags of Gotham instead.

“Want to try talking to me like an adult kitten?” She says lowly. “Because unlike your father I’m trying very hard not to do the whole overbearing parent routine with you, but I can.”

You stare at her and squirm a little, but she doesn’t let you go, your silent plea for her to let up dismissed. In fact she only squeezes just enough to make her point.

“I just wanted to let go and you know what I did! I went out and I got drunk until I couldn’t walk,” her eyes narrow, “and I danced! And nobody knew me! I didn’t have cameras on me! I didn’t…”

With a tsk she lets your chin go.

“So the plan is to start to make deliberate mistakes to what?” You let your gaze move to the wall beyond her, that feels easier than her eyes, and she sighs when you don’t respond. “You can forget it. Your dad and I have worked too hard to see you derail yourself because you’ve suddenly decided you don’t want to communicate properly.”

“Like anyone in this family does.” You gripe. You both know you’ve got her there, none of you really do, but it doesn’t seem to deter her.

“I don’t know who took you off world, but I do know you’re not doing it again.” You feel your heart thud. You knew this would be the outcome, but the idea of never going out there with Kara when you just got her to offer feels cruel.

“Ma’ma—”

“It’s not a negation darling!” She snaps finally. “Card and keys.” Your eyes widen. “You’ll have a driver again—”

You tilt your head back and groan at her. “It’s not like you’re not both tracking me through that cave anyways!” You snap.

“Finish your semester without pulling another…” she waves her hand, “and then we’ll speak.”

You don’t reply, and she begins to head for the door. “Oh and you will be at family dinner tonight!” She calls back as your door slams.

“Fuck.” You mutter.

One month passes and you really do try to finish the semester normally, to fall back into your old routine with practiced ease, but the only thing that seems to linger in your mind is Kara.

It’s no longer the idea of her that does, or how attractive you find her, but really her. Her grin, her hands on you, the way she let go when dancing with you. You want more of her.

So much so that you wait. You wait in a way that you haven’t waited for something since you were about seven. The waiting comes with the bonus that your parent cool off, Bruce now referring to your trip as ‘the incident’ and firmly believing it won’t happen again. Your life has practically returned to the same as before, and you try to lie to yourself and say it’s fine, but it’s not.

When a month and a half passes without so much as a follow up you want to whack yourself. Of course she didn’t actually mean it. She was drunk. You were drunk. There’s no reason for Kara to want to be around you. She’s Supergirl for heaven’s sake. You may be a Wayne but you doubt that matters to her.

When two months roll around you’ve given up, but you wonder if Kara has some lingering way of knowing that, because she stands waiting at the bottom of your building with a single flower in hand as you return from volunteering.

It’s wilted a tad, and actually kind of pathetic, and it should embarrass you the way your heart still flutters are the sight.

She doesn’t make a grand show, doesn’t even speak as you near, but Krypto does. When he spots you he closes the distance easily, leaping up and practically tackling you. You thank god you decided to wear sneakers today.

She tugs the dog back off of you, but you’re laughing now as he gets in a final rather gross kiss. “Missed you too Krypto.” You say, hand reaching out for him.

“And me?” Kara asks.

You jerk your head up to look at her. She’s not looking at you, but the flower is outstretched slightly as if it’s a peace offering.

“I could ask you that. It’s been a while.” You see her wince at the accusation in your tone.

“Space.” She tries to cover.

“Space.” You echo, not convinced that’s a fraction of the reason.

The first two times you actually spoke Kara was gruff and rough around the edges, hard to read, and one step removed. Now she seems anxious in a way she tries not to let show, and it makes you take the flower despite the little bit of hurt you feel. She seems to deflate in relief when you do.

“Got a little smushed.” She’s rubbing the back of her neck. “So, I heard about the no off world sentence.” You scrunch up your face and let out a huff.

“Fantastic. Did you get in trouble?”

“No.” She says. “More like it was work talk from Clark, a passing comment don’t worry, they don’t know it was me.” You’re surprised almost at the lack of relief in her voice.

“My dad as expected went ballistic, and surprisingly so did my mother.” You say. You shift on your feet and watch her.

“Do you like old movies?” She asks suddenly. “Because there’s one playing and I’d like to go.” Your eyes widen. “With you.”

“You would?” You ask. Now she looks at you, still somewhat guarded, but more open than you’ve seen her before.

“Yeah.” She says. “I would.”

“Let me go change.” You say and go to move, but she takes your arm gently, sending those sparks through you.

“You look nice.” She says sheepishly. “You don’t need to.” You feel your palms grow a little sweaty.

“Okay.” You reply as you gesture to your waiting car.

You thought you knew all of Gotham, but Kara leads you to an old movie theatre. It hasn’t got any new movies, just older ones like she said, and you recognize a lot of films your mom used to like.

It brings a small smile to your face, which Kara catches, and you feel the nerves in you settle as she orders the tickets and the food. Which is a lot more but you don’t comment. When you offer to pay she merely waves your card away.

“It’s an apology.” She says simply. “Wouldn’t be one if I make you pay.”

You’re not used to that of course. Most people, even your friends, enjoy your father’s limitless funds. You don’t mind or course, with them, but this makes you feel… different.

Again. You hate how Kara makes you feel different in a way you can’t explain.

When you settle down for the movie it takes a minute, but Kara spreads out and in the process slings her arm around the back of your chair. She doesn’t come close to actually touching you, and neither of you comment on it, but you’re happy for the darkness of the theatre as it hides your blush.

Hours later when you and Kara step out into the cool night instantly her eyes ghost upwards to the sky. “Comforting?” You ask out of the blue.

She stops as if you’ve caught her in the act of something. “Less overwhelming.” She admits. “Earth is a lot.”

You see her eyes move around the city, and you take a moment. Up close you can’t help the way your eyes take in the gentle slope of her nose, or the set of her jaw, or the way those green eyes… god her eyes.

“Thank you.” You say. “For tonight. For a bit of… normal.” She’s grinning now, however slight, and you return it.

“Thank you for bribing them to let Krypto in. I was sure he’d cause mayhem but with you he’s oddly… calm.” You notice the way her throat bobs when she admits it to you, and you step closer to her. “And thank you… for saying yes.”

And there it is again, the thing she can’t seem to say, and however much you wish to know you don’t push. Just slowly take her hand.

“I’m glad you came back. I hoped you would.” You note that her cheeks flush at your admission and it makes your grin grow. Finally you feel like the nerves she makes you feel are mutual and that knowledge makes you bold. “Will Krypto listen if you ask him to go to Clark for a bit?” You’ve closed the gap even more now.

“Probably not.” She says. “They don’t really—oh.” She stops when you raise an eyebrow at her, and suddenly she’s leaning down in front of the dog.

She speaks in that language you’re not familiar with, but you can tell by the stubborn look the dog gets that she’s trying to get him to listen.

Finally she sighs. “Krypto buddy come on.” She hisses under her breath, and you have to stifle your laughter into the back of your hand.

Finally the dog looks back at you, and you give him a pleading look. With a huff the dog raises into the air and goes jetting off. Kara exhales in relief before she gets the door to your car.

You slide into the backseat and she follows in a fluid motion. The whole way back to your penthouse you refrain from tapping your foot impatiently. You may have lost your ability to play it cool with Kara after the first time you met her, but you still have some dignity.

You think when you finally shut the door behind you that you’ll be the first to kiss her, but she surprises you as she pushes you up against the back of your door. Her leg slotting between your own causing you to let out a tiny breath of surprise.

“Kara—”

“—you sure?” She breathes as if winded, even though you know it isn’t possible here, and you break away from her for a second.

“I’m sure.” You affirm, and her lips are back on yours before the final syllable even leaves you. As she deepens the kiss you can only loop your arms around her neck in an attempt to balance yourself.

You can feel her strength even in her kiss, although you can also tell she’s trying desperately to hold back. “Can’t get you off my mind.” She mumbles into your neck. “No matter how hard I try. Hate it.”

You want to retort something back, but as her kisses become bruising as her thigh pushes up and adds pressure to where you want it most.

“Bed.” You demand.

She’s lifting you in one swift movement so your legs are forced to wrap around her as she carries you from the doorway to your room, dropping you onto the bed and removing your heels. Normally you look forward to that feeling, but Kara’s touch is the only thing you want right now.

She stares down at you. “Beautiful.” She whispers as if she hates to admit it and you smile back up at her.

“All yours if you want me.” You tease, and you don’t anticipate the dark look that comes over her for a moment when you do. Then she’s stripping off her clothing until all that’s left is her underwear.

Your eyes widen at her muscles, subtle when underneath clothing, but defined when you see them up close. Her biceps now those… You take them in your hands and squeeze as she comes to loom over you and it makes her eyes flutter shut.

You can tell she likes the feeling because when she brings her knee between your legs again, this time with a soft roll, you grip tighter and it causes her to let out a tiny groan.

Your whole body is on fire and once again you debate begging. How is it that one woman can make you want to beg so much when you’ve never wanted to before.

“Kara please.” You say as her lips find yours.

“Such a rush.” She grumbles. “Can’t I take my time?” Your hands merely come to tangle through her blonde curls as her lips find your neck again.

“I’ve been waiting months.” You remind, and you know you’ve won for now because you feel a soft huff as her lips travel even further down to your collarbone. The only thing that stops her from going right to your chest is that you’re still in your blouse.

“Gonna rip it—”

“—wait—”

Too late. Kara’s certainly too impatient to deal with the buttons and even if she wasn’t she’d likely break them anyway.

“I liked that shirt.” You complain.

“—sorry.” She says as she undoes your bra and you thank the stars it’s saved by having a front clasp. “Make it up to you. Promise.”

The minute her lips wrap around your sensitive nipples you can’t help it anymore. Your back arches into her, and you can tell it spurs her on. “God.” You curse.

“Only God-like.” She corrects and you groan at her poor joke.

“Unbelievable.” You complain but the smile is on your features anyways. She rewards you with finally pushing your skirt up.

“So wet.” She notes and your whole face feels on fire at her tone. “All for me?”

“Don’t get an ego about it.” You retort, but you don’t help make your point with the low moan you let out as her finger pushes into you.

She’s careful at first, slow, pumping in and out at a pace that you can only describe as torturous—but you don’t complain. You understand she’s finding a groove with how strong she is.

Finally though she begins to speed up, and embarrassingly your thighs are already beginning to tremble a little as the rhythm she sets causes delicious pleasure.

You squirm under her as one turns to two then to three. For a woman that says she hasn’t really had a lot of relationships the way she moves her fingers is just shy of skilled as she alternates between hooking them deeper into you just right, and allowing for more pressure to your clit.

“God please Kara!” You say as your legs shake around her. Your eyes have been more or less screwed shut as she works you up. The burning feeling in your stomach becoming unbearable as she does.

“So pretty.” She whispers and your eyes open just long enough to see that she’s watching you with a look of… wonder?

It makes you feel hot under her gaze. “I’m close.” You breathe. She doesn’t even meet your gaze, just shifts down the bed.

“I want to taste you.” She says, but she phrases it like she’s asking you. The small whine that leaves you is mortifying but it seems to spur her on because her fingers leave you other than to play with your clit, and her tongue replaces them.

She hums in delight when she has to physically hold your hips down as they raise to meet her mouth. You try to remind yourself to remember that fact if you ever get a second chance at this.

You could swear despite eating a lot at the movies that she acts like she’s starving, and you can feel her groan when she lets her tongue suck in a way you swear no other person you’ve been with has managed to achieve.

“I’m so close.” You beg her. “Please Kara I need…”

She doesn’t respond verbally, but she curls her tongue at the same time she applies just enough pressure to your clit that it doesn’t matter. You ride out the fading pleasure against her lips, and when you’re done your chest is heaving.

She settles back onto her heels as she watches you. “Give me a second and then I can—” You begin, moving to touch her.

“No.” Her voice sounds a little rough. “Just wanna focus on you for now.” She notes. You frown at her as she gets off your bed.

“Kara?” Your voice feels small now as the thought of her leaving comes to mind.

She turns back to look at you with a frown.“Just getting water.” She says. You feel yourself relax.

“So you’re staying?” You ask, scared of her answer.

“I want to… if you want me to.” She admits gingerly.

“I do.” You say with a small smile. “You and Krypto.” You add.

Her grin grows. “Let’s have a couple more moments of peace first.”

[inmoonsblood]

Could you do a kara x f!reader based on Drop Dead or Stupid Song by olivia rodrigo?

drop dead ; kara zor el

1.7k words , kara zor-el x fem!reader , making out , vigilante!reader (i wrote it with bat!reader in mind but nothing's mentioned), first kiss , drunk kissing , reader has a crush on kara , reader is a HUGE nerd

synopsis : you've had a crush on kara zor-el for a few months, and you fully believe nothing will come out of it, until it's after the first mission the both of you have together and kara invites you for a drink on a red sun planet.

notes : drunk people . kissing !! i actually am very fond of this one, tysm anon for the req and i hope i did it justice <3 i would actually love to write for stupid song too, but no promises. anyways, same rules as always, i hope you enjoyed this <3

The bar closes at two in the morning.

A fact that you’re well aware of, if only because of the patrons warning you and a very drunk Kara about this an hour in advance. Sadly, time starts to slip away from the grasp of consciousness as the space whiskey finally sets in, deep into your bones and you’re laughing alongside the Supergirl that got you here in the first place.

On a red sun planet. Far away from your home. 

It doesn’t matter, though, because Kara’s shooting down another drink and somehow you’ve landed up with your legs on her lap, sitting too close. You don’t want to move—even though you probably should because this is your first time fighting alongside her and it feels like a bad impression waiting to stick on your bones, but Kara doesn’t seem to want you to move either with the way she’s gripping onto your calves. As you shoot down another drink, Kara’s hands start to trail up and up, near your thighs, not sexual, just massaging them. 

You would be lying if you said you weren’t a little starstruck with Superman’s cousin, especially after everything you’ve read up on her in her file—yes she has her own file that documents her known adventures. It’s a little cool. Cool enough that the quiet admiration turned into a tiny crush that resulted in you collecting newspaper clippings about Supergirl’s recent adventures on Earth, that your siblings would always tease you about until you learned to hide them: just in case they ended up meeting her too, just in case you two were paired up for a mission and she walked you home at the dead of night. 

Yet, when you actually meet Kara, she’s everything you imagined and so much better (more too, but that was expected; people are always more than what you expect). You would also be lying if you said that you weren’t nervous about going on a mission with your literal crush, but surprisingly it goes well. Extremely well. Well enough that she offers to buy you drinks on a red sun planet where she can also get drunk. 

All the nervous energy has disappeared by the third shot that burns your throat, replaced by dropping subtle hints that you’re into Kara (that include staring at her lips, moving closer to her, propping your legs on her lap, and so many more things you’ve done but can’t remember).

By your sixth shot, Kara realises that the bar is about to close and she nudges your thigh as you make a face at her. Because this feels so good, you two are laughing and talking about growing up and living up to family expectations and what it means to the both of you—but simultaneously discussing how the colour Orange is stupid and the fruit should be named something else and tangerines shouldn’t exist or while the number Eight might be a bisexual woman, the number Seven is a straight man. 

You don’t want to leave. Kara has created this bubble around the two of you, and you’ve never felt this warm in such a long time. 

“Come on, pretty,” Kara says with an airy laugh, words slurred slightly—still, definitely holding up better than you—”I wanna go pee, come with me.” She too, it seems, doesn’t want to leave your side.

Girl code, it seems, is universal, because you’re not letting her go to the bathroom alone when you’re both drunk. It’s less that you’re worried something’s going to happen and more of just a social instinct (and you kinda want to discuss that with her too, because what does Kara think about the way you two are socialised? Oh my god, you have so much that you want to know about her—away from Supergirl. Away from being a certain archetype. Just Kara). 

You stumble slightly once you reach the bathroom, leaning against the wall as Kara goes to take a piss. Your eyes are closed—and you cannot open them—until you hear the flush of a stall behind you and the tap being turned on. You open your eyes to Kara washing her hands. She immediately smiles when her eyes meet your half lidded ones and her grin makes you grin too, wide and uncaring. 

You reach out to her, and Kara takes your hand after she wipes it on her pants. The song from the bar—now a slow one to encourage people to leave—is bleeding through the walls of the club and for some reason it feels weirdly magical and romantic, like this is a dream that you’ve imagined. 

Kara walks closer to you, her hands trailing to your waist when you sway and that makes you laugh out loud, head clunking against the wall with a dull thud! that makes Kara look at you in concern and pull you away from the wall. This makes you stumble into her, leading to your hands resting on her shoulders, and close. So close.

You’re laughing again, this time, a finger slowly tracing the lines of her face right now, like you can memorise the amusement in her eyes to recreate in your dreams.  “Are you a dream right now?” You say with a giggle as your other arm hangs off her shoulder now. “Because,” your words are so slurred oh my god, “you definitely feel like one?”

“Wanna put money on it?” Kara asks, all charming and glamorous (wow is this what having a crush does to you?) despite her slurred words, as she pulls you closer now, both of you almost pressed up against each other.

“No, I’ve spent too much of yours tonight. You’re not earning it back from me.”

At your words, Kara snorts. “Well, by that logic you know I'm not a dream.”

You kind of want to argue because that makes no sense, but the slow song playing in the background makes any arguments die down in your throat and you suddenly sway the both of you on purpose—the super strong Supergirl is just human underneath the red sun, after all, might as well take advantage of it. Besides, it makes Kara laugh.

One particularly harsh swing catches her off guard as she tries to match your momentum, causing the both of you to stumble, and as she tries to make sure the both of you don’t faceplant on the floor—and not because she doesn’t want to be laying down with you, but because the floor is kinda disgusting—somehow, you end up pressed up against the bathroom wall, with Kara almost caging you in. 

What in the fucking Hallmark movie? 

Kara doesn’t seem to care—or mind your flustered expression—she just has her hands return to your waist, with her actually pressing you up to the wall this time. Her drunken smile is gone, and she’s staring at you with a weird concentration in her eyes like this is her trying to memorise you. Like you’re not the only one with a weird infatuation that has reached a boiling point. 

You really can’t think, though, because she looks so gorgeous like this. Her blue eyes are trying to capture every inch of your face as though she’s never going to be this up close with you again—which is ridiculous, if it was up to your drunken self you two would always be this close—and her thumb is brushing against your waist. You could just look back into her eyes and grin, play it off cool, totally try to stick to the platonic and safe side of this woman you’ve met literally once before in your life but it’s something about her that makes you drop another—and final—hint. 

You look at her lips, where she can clearly see it. Where she can’t hide behind the excuse of ‘she didn’t know’ if this were to ever come up in the future. It’s a final play, a silent way of asking Kara to make the move because you’ve put all your cards on the table.  

You’re both drunk. You both met on a mission earlier. You both spent the last four hours talking about everything and nothing at the same time. You really want Kara Zor-El, Supergirl, to kiss you right now. 

And the second your eyes flicker back to hers, she closes the gap. 

A few months ago, when you first started looking into Supergirl, you had a dream of Kara kissing you. Of her sliding a hand into your hair and tugging your head to deepen it, of her other hand pressing you against a wall as you two makeout. The dream kiss was so good that it woke you up feeling empty in a way you had never before, but right now?

The real kiss is so much better. 

Kara doesn’t immediately lick into your mouth—no, she takes her time like she wants to drag everything out, like she’s trying to retain this memory by focusing on the extremely small details. But when it happens, when her tongue finally meets your lips, with Kara pulling away slightly so she can lick them properly? Your brain short circuits, because you want more. More of her, as much as she will give you, as long as this magic lasts but she doesn’t fucking let you and it is annoying until her hand cups your jaw and her tongue finally meets yours. 

The hand on your jaw traces alongside it, reaching up to your chin as Kara doesn’t let you break the kiss. Her other hand roams your waist, pressing you further into her like she never wants you to leave. You pull away to breathe for a second but Kara doesn’t let you fully have your second of oxygen, instead she chases your lips, this time actually pressing you up to the wall. 

Finally, the barkeep bangs on the washroom. “Closing for the night,” she yells, “if you’re left here you’re locked up!”

Kara pulls away, resting her forehead against yours as the both of you breathe heavily, still grabbing onto each other, still unwilling to let go. 

“Stay the night?” she asks you, voice hoarse from the drinks. “Don’t go back to Earth. Stay with me.”

Well, what else can you do but nod?

[javisjeanjacket]

Complete Bitch - (kara zor el x reader)

A/N: the discourse about Supergirl is so fucking stupid lol (yes it has it's flaws but the men who are upset that she wore shorts under her skirt are the problem, not the movie) so I was thinking about how Kara would feel about all of that, and here we are!

Warnings: Kara is sad, dumb newscasters, emotional hurt/comfort

Kara had climbed in through your window yesterday afternoon.

Her hair was matted, her suit dirty.

You jumped, pulling your headphones off of your ears and moving out of the kitchen to see her arrive. "Kara?!"

"Hey..." She stumbled towards your couch.

"You okay?" You rushed over, catching her before she slumped to her knees.

She closed her eyes and let out a pained sigh as you moved her to collapse onto the cushions. "Remains to be seen... are you and Krypto are okay?"

You nodded, smiling softly. "We're good, babe." You brushed her hair from her face.

"Mmm..."

After hearing that you and her dog were okay, she surrendered to sleep, clutching your blanket and melting into the deep green shade of the couch.

The news caster's face filled the TV screen and his whiny voice resounded, "Supergirl spotted yesterday alongside her woke brother-"

A blonde newscaster with a helmet of hair interrupted, "Are they siblings? I thought they were cousins."

The man's heavily powdered face scrunched into a frown. "If they are cousins, I bet they're kissing cousins!" He let out a forced guffaw.

You scowled at the TV and shook your head. "He's wearing more makeup than she is."

Kara stood behind you, brushing her teeth. She said nothing but you could tell from the tightness in her jaw that their words were getting under her skin.

You grabbed the remote to turn the TV off and Kara held up her hand to stop you. "I wanna see what they say."

"They're idiots, babe. Cowards and idiots."

Your girlfriend continued to watch as a dribble of toothpaste fell to her chin.

With a smirk, you squeezed her hand before going over to Krypto's food bowl and pouring him his breakfast.

You and Kara went for a walk in Metropolis with Krypto that afternoon. Sun beamed down on both of your shoulders and her hand felt soft and so right in yours as you walked through the park. Kara attempted to keep Krypto on a leash but the superpowered dog kept trying to fly after every pigeon he saw.

"You're quiet." You said softly, trying to meet her eyes with yours.

She refused to let you, hiding behind her sunglasses. "I am not."

You chortled. "Talk to me about what happened yesterday. About why you came into my apartment and immediately passed out."

Kara sighed heavily. "I really don't want to."

When you walked past Winnie's Bakery, Krypto barked and pulled at his leash, recognizing the bakery as somewhere he could get a pup cup.

"Let's go in, the sun is too bright." Kara huffed.

You followed her, your eyes watching her move as Krypto pulled at the leash with a playful growl.

"I thought you liked the sun here..." You chuckled.

That night, laying in bed together, you could feel Kara tossing and turning. Krypto growled softly at the foot of the bed as she moved back and forth and back and forth. Your warm orange comforter flailed as she moved around in your bed.

You sighed from where you were laying with your back facing her. "Kar..."

"What?" Her voice was dull, exhausted.

"Go to sleep."

"Your fucking bed is so uncomfortable."

You sat up and turned over, scowling. "What is wrong?! You have been weird all day."

"I haven't been weird."

You raised an eyebrow at her.

She sighed and then sat up to face you. Her head fell back to sigh and stare up at the ceiling. "I just...it doesn't matter."

"Kara...it matters to me, you know that."

She huffed and rubbed her eyes. "They don't....they don't understand."

"Who?"

"People, everyone-" Her voice caught and you could see her eyes water. "I saved people! I broke up a trafficking ring! All they care about is if Clark and I are dating and that I have on shorts under my skirt!" She let out a raw exclamation of passion.

You nodded and sighed, looking down at the blankets. "Those girls understand, Kar. They owe you their lives-"

"No one else cares!" She exclaimed, tears falling down her face. "They, they-" She began to devolve into sobs.

You wrapped her shaking form up in your arms and rubbed her back.

"They diminish me no matter what I do." She whimpered.

"I know...It's not fair."

Kara clutched at your back and you gently tried to soothe her.

"Come on..."

Taking her hand, you led her to the bathroom where you ran a bath. As she sobbed, you tenderly took her Blondie shirt off of her and shimmied her panties down her legs.

You grabbed a few candles and set them up around the bathroom, then turned off the lights. You added bath salts to the hot water filling up the tub and then undressed yourself.

Turning back to your upset girlfriend, you took her hand and led her to the now warm and full bathtub.

You sank down into the water and let out a soft sigh of contentment. Kara climbed in after you and you brought your girlfriend back against your chest by wrapping your arms around her middle.

Kara's bottom lip wobbled with emotion and you pressed soft, loving kisses to her temple. "It's okay, it's okay."

She seemed to melt into the water as your hand drug lovingly over her side and through her hair.

"When you were saving those girls, did you do it for those stupid newscasters to like you?" You whispered.

"No, of course not-"

"So then fuck them. You don't have to be nice to everyone to be good, Kar."

Kara turned and looked up into your eyes, her own glistening with tears and a shimmer of hope. "You don't have to be nice to be good..."

You brushed a hand over her cheek and swiped a few tears away. "You can be a complete bitch and still be good and still help people."

Kara cackled and hugged you tighter, tucking her face into your neck. "Your complete bitch."

You smiled and rested your cheek against her forehead. "My complete bitch."

© javisjeanjacket , you do not have permission to steal, repost, or feed my work to ai.

If you want to be added to my Taglist for Supergirl please let me know! I had a list a long time ago, but I'm rebuilding it now! Thanks for reading!

[lesbdogs]

butch gf!kara headcanons pt.2

!!!!: gn!reader, kara has survivor guilt, fluff + nsfw (there's barely any smut), kara is a litle bit of a desperate loser, not proofread

when you're being all sad and quiet with her, or if you're getting mad at her, she'll grab your face in her hand like this and force you to behave or to look at her. she's not mean or brute when she does it— it's a casual act of dominance that will get you to get quiet real quick. “you know i hate when you do that.” she mumbles, placing a sweet peck on your lips. “talk to me lovebug. what's going on inside that head?”

jealous kara 👀👀 you were at a bar, and kara really needed to go to the bathroom, so it shouldn't be a problem if she left you sitting alone for less than five minutes… but she was wrong.

the first thing she saw when she left the bathroom was a guy going all over you, insisting on keeping a conversation that you were desperately trying to end. before he could lean any closer to you, you feel the chair you were sitting on being pulled by someone. “hey baby, who's that guy?” relief fills your chest when you hear kara's voice and feel her arm wrapping around your shoulder. “sorry buddy, we're a little busy right now.” she says before leaning over you and kissing your whole face, making an very annoyed man leave the bar. “next time you're coming with me.”

she's always wearing your clothes. sometimes you start to wonder if she actually has any clothes to wear (she has, she just likes wearing things that smell like you.)

lovesss to bite you!! everytime she's laying down with you, she'll find the opportunity to bite your cheek or shoulder. when she's laying her head on your belly she's always biting your soft skin too.

she takes care of you when you're drunk, coming home late at night after going out with your friends ♡ she holds your hair when you're throwing up, she keeps you close and kisses your forehead if you're the type of person that gets emotional, she gives you a bath and changes your clothes and lays down on the bed with you, cuddling you and burying her face on the top of your head.

kara with a nerdy partner and tries to keep up with your interests!! “what's the name of that thing again?? the orange dragon.” she asked, leaning her head on your shoulder as you show her your newest card. “… charizard.” “wasn't it charmander??” “no baby. charmander is like his baby version.” “oh.”

she loves laying down on your thighs or belly. she claims that “the skin is more soft” there. she makes fun of the noises your belly makes but she stills falls asleep listening to it. she treats your thighs like one of those long pillows you can hug, cuddling with your legs after a rough day.

she's the most vulnerable when you're simply being sweet to her. when she sobbed in your arms for the first time, missing her mom and dad and everything she once knew, you made her a nice and warm meal, putting the plate in front of her. she looks at it for a few seconds before looking up at you.

“you're too nice to me.” she mumbles. “i don't think i deserve it.” you move your hand to rest on her head, playing with her hair. “you do, though.” she leans her head on your body, closing her eyes with a small smile. “being too nice again.” you let out a sad sigh, holding her chin and making her look up at you again. “i love you kara.” her light eyes still looked so sad, but your words managed to bring some light in them. she holds your hand and gives it a kiss. “never leave me. please?”

she can't handle not having sex for too long— and if you ever deny her attempts for longer than two weeks because you're mad at her, she'll start to get desperate.

she came out of the bedroom with an upset look, like a sad dog in the rain. “do i really have to do this?” you look up from the kitchen counter, giving her an annoyed look. “do what?” you watch her walk, getting closer to you, and before you could notice, she's on her knees in front of you, her hands resting on her lap because she knows you'd hate her for touching you without permission right now. “forgive me please, please baby, i swear i'll be good from now on. just need 15 minutes, please let me make you feel good for 15 minutes. i'll do whatever you want if you let me touch you.” her eyes looked so big and miserable— how could you ever say no to her?

[snailandbee]

Lost boys never grow up, never go home

Kara Zor-el x Fem! Reader headcanons

Heh trust me…I know mommy…

Fluffy, angsty, smutty, mature

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ Kara’s nicknames for you are things like sweet thing, girly, etc. Yours for are Stargirl, lover girl, etc.

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ She sleeps hugging onto you for dear life because she feels scared you might die or leave her like krypton did.

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ Clark is very happy Kara found someone. He told you she’s become less angry and dismissive after you two got together.

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ She freaky as hell she likes to dominate you. She prolly buys you supergirl themed underwear and bras.

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ Krypto likes to hog you and she gets so jealous. It got to the point where one time she dropped him off at Clarks so she could have alone time with you without Krypto interrupting. He barked at her the whole way to Clarks

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ Took you flying once and you tweaked out and she didn’t admit it but she felt so bad😭. You got used to her flying you around eventually. She said you had to fly with her just in case of emergencies but you’re 90% sure she just likes you holding onto her.

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ She likes you to be loud in the bed room like real loud.

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ If you were on the mission with her and Ruthye I think it would be a really funny dynamic between you three. Especially if you have powers or something. Maybe in the future I’ll explore that more.

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ She fucks heavily with Olivia Rodrigo and Phoebe Bridgers after you introduce them to her. The iPod Clark gave her just had some straight bullshit on it and she thought the songs on there were the only ones that existed. The song Lost Boys changed her life.

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ You taught her slang and she said the song was meaf. She uses slang on Clark all the time and he has to ask Jimmy what it means. Jimmy laughed in his face.

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🗯✮₊˚⊹ If she’s on a mission she texts you asking you to touch yourself because she likes to use her super hearing to listen to you masturbate.