The battlefield is far from an ideal place to be violently kissing your vice-captain.
Lohen x Male Captain Reader.
x I'm honestly not sure how the hierarchy in the knights works, but it doesn't matter; you shouldn't be kissing your employee/boss anyway. Please come home Lohen.
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You're not sure who moved first, but it honestly doesn't matter. You both leaned in to meet the other halfway. The salty tang of blood coats your tongue, mixing with spit as you suck on Lohen's tongue, your hands gripping his waist to keep him in place. He has a habit of never sitting still, always trying to sweep your legs out from under you so he can pin you down and bite holes into your skin.
The battlefield is far from the ideal place to be violently kissing your vice-captain. Then again, neither of you has ever been particularly good at decorum. You blame the years spent fighting beside him, watching Lohen throw himself headfirst into impossible situations with a grin split across his face. Dusk once crested over the hands of the statue of the Anemo Archon as you beat him into the dirt over and over again, learning how his body moved, how his shoulders shifted when he feinted. Somewhere between sparring sessions, patrol routes, and campaigns that should have killed you both, your brain had apparently decided that this battle-hungry pup was something worth looking at.
An unfortunate development, really.
Still, there's something about the sheer elation on Lohen's face as he slaughters a path through the enemy so your company can rain hellfire upon the Wild Hunt that leaves you hot and bothered. Most people would probably be disturbed by the sight. You, meanwhile, are trying very hard not to drag him behind the nearest ruined wall. You're pretty sure he knows. He has to. Lohen is many things, but subtle isn't one of them. You know exactly how capable he is. You've read the reports from his solo missions, how he walked away looking pristine while everyone else was covered in blood and bruises.
Yet here he is, blood streaked across his cheek as he sits atop the withering corpse of a Wilderness Hunter. The bastard has spent the better part of the last hour carving through enemies directly within your line of sight, glancing over his shoulder after particularly impressive kills just to see if you're watching. The first few times, you'd assumed it was a coincidence. By now, you're fairly certain he's showing off, and if there weren't other people around, not to mention an active enemy bearing down on you both, you would have thrown him into the dirt for it. You remember how shy he was when you first met in that quiet alleyway. Now look at the monster you've fed.
Absolutely shameless.
Lohen wipes blood from his cheek, his eyes almost glowing as he turns to you, asking, "Where to next, Captain?"
And well, you might be a strong Captain, but you're a weak man. You had soldiered your weapon back onto your shoulder, stalking over to the little freak, anger simmering in your blood and finding the perfect candiacte to work it out.
"Captain..." Lohen twists his fingers into your hair and yanks you back. A strand of spit stretches between your lips before he leans in to lick it away, his gaze fixed on something over your shoulder. "We're not done yet."
Right. That annoying little curse on the Wild Hunt. You hear the wet squelch of corrupted flesh knitting itself back together and the clink of armor as the enemies you'd driven your fist through reassemble themselves and rise once more, earning a suppressed groan from you and an unmistakably pleased look from Lohen. Most knights hated prolonged engagements. The longer a battle dragged on, the greater the chance someone under your command ended up dead. Lohen, however, had always treated combat like a starving man stumbling upon a feast, every enemy that got back up another excuse to keep moving, keep fighting, and keep chasing the rush that set his eyes alight. One hand still rests on his waist as you slide the other beneath his chin, tilting his head up to steal one last kiss. This one is sweet, soft, and frustratingly brief.
"We'll continue this later. On my command, Lohen," Your voice dips stricter as you step away, raising your weapon and taking aim at the core of the nearest Wilderness Exile. The chill of Cryo creeps across your fingers as he presses his back against yours, the leather of his gloves creaking from how tightly he's gripping his knife. You can practically feel the restless energy vibrating through him.
"Ready whenever you are, Captain," His voice shakes with adrenaline, climbing higher and higher, like a hunting dog straining at the leash and waiting to be unleashed. If you gave the order to charge headfirst into a dragon's mouth, he'd probably thank you for the opportunity. You let your arrow fly, striking the enemy's core. Barely a second later, you duck as Lohen's knife sails over your head to bury itself in the skull of the enemy behind your target.
You think that regardless of which universe you're in, he'll always be standing there at the end, waiting for you, as if this was always the way it was supposed to be.
Superboy Prime x Male Reader.
Contains: Power imbalance, slight kidnapping + unhealthy relationships
x Another short one. Trust me when I say that I'll expand on these blurbs; I just need to get them all out first. C.K. is a bit of a loser-creep in this.
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Banner: Superman (2023) Issue: 36
The infinite universe theory suggests that there are an infinite number of universes, each with its own endless timelines, where every possible decision you could ever make, no matter how small or significant, creates an entirely different reality. In one universe, you took that extra five minutes of sleep, blissfully unaware that it would lead you to miss your alarm and rush through the morning, making you late for school. Maybe you even forgot something important in your mad scramble. In another universe, you fought the urge to sleep in but ended up tripping over your blanket in your groggy haze, bruising your knee, and swearing under your breath as you tried to steady yourself.
"I really, really missed you," C.K- no, Superman. Superman whispers, his eyes lighting up as if the ladder to heaven has been lowered into his grasp once again as he cups your hands against his cheeks, turning his face to press a kiss to your palm. No matter how much you try to pull away, your hands don't budge under the weight of his. "I wanted to find you as soon as I could, but Lois said it'd be a bad idea. I should, I don't know, get a job and learn to be a normal person first, or something like that. But- aha- it doesn't even matter because you ended up showing up anyway!"
But then, there are the bigger decisions. The ones that shape your entire life. Which university to attend, which career path to follow, whether you should have stayed with that toxic ex, trying to fix something that was probably never meant to be. In one universe, maybe you worked through the rough patches and things actually turned out okay. In another, maybe you let them go, finding a healthier, more fulfilling relationship. But are those other versions of you truly better off than the one you’re living in now? You wonder if those alternate selves are finding success, happiness, and fulfillment, or if they’re living in some version of the life you always dreamed of, where you took a different path and everything just... worked.
"I know you, this you, doesn't know me very well- but that's okay! I mean, I'm just some guy you saw at the comic book store once," he shakes his head side to side as he rambles and laughs in between words, like this is fucking funny. As if he didn't suddenly show up in your apartment in full Superman gear and proceed to profess his undying love and how he "brought you back from the dead". Last time you checked, you were breathing just fine before he showed up. "But I seriously couldn't wait, I was dying, and I died before, so trust me when I say that I was dying when you left the store without even saying hi! Super rude by the way, but that's not your fault. You didn't know! That's why I don't want to waste a second longer."
And then, there's the darker thought: are the other yous suffering in ways you can’t even imagine? Are they facing worse versions of their lives, versions where they didn't make the choices you made, where things fell apart beyond repair? Maybe one of them is currently dying in some dirty alley, their body bleeding out, a consequence of a reckless decision or a wrong turn in life. Or maybe they're fighting for survival in a world where everything went apocalyptic, and they never found their way back to safety.
"You'll see. I know you're probably confused right now, but believe me when I say that we're totally destined to be together. The MJ to Spiderman, unless the writers want to be funny and go off-script, which always sucks," his carefree tone doesn't lose pace as he stares at you with stars in his eyes as you start to cry. Throughout his entire insane rant, he's been steadily pulling you higher and higher into the sky until your apartment is just a speck underneath the clouds. The swoop in your stomach and the high altitude do nothing to keep you from panicking. He momentarily releases your hands, accidentally dropping you and sending you plummeting as gravity takes hold, as you scream with your heart in your throat.
In the end, you can't help but wonder: how many "you's" are out there, living lives you’ll never experience, facing outcomes you might never understand, while you’re here, stuck with the one version of you who had to make it through today?
"Gotcha! Shit- sorry. I didn't mean to drop you! I swear! I just wanted to- fuck, I'm messing this all up already," he groans, one hand coming up to cover his eyes and push his hair back. His other hand was painfully wrapped tightly around your waist, so much that you felt like your ribs were breaking. It's unfair. It's so unfair. You're kicking, rearing your arm back, and hitting whatever meets your fist first, even resorting to digging your nails into him, but no matter what you do, he doesn't even blink.
He catches your next swing, "Hey, don't do that. You're gonna hurt yourself. What's got you so worked up? You weren't like this before. I went to a lot of effort to bring you back, you know...you could be a little more grateful."
You think that regardless of which universe you're in, which timeline you jumped into, and no matter whether or not you flipped a coin for each decision you've ever made, all your timelines will eventually be forcefully converged into a single line. Your infinite maze of choices and paths, herded into one inevitable exit. You think he'd be standing there at the end, waiting for you, as if this was always the way it was supposed to be.
"It's okay. I forgive you. I know it's hard and you're confused, but we can work through it together. We're basically speed running pros- well, I am at least. You should have seen the first time, I was such a loser back then," he sighs, wrapping his arms and pulling you until you're both chest to chest as he swings you like a doll in the air. Perhaps it's the rose-tinted glasses he has permanently on that make him ignore how utterly terrified you are at this stranger. How you try and twist away, rearing your head back when he attempts to bury his face into your hair. There's only so far your neck can stretch until your joints pop, but right now's a good time to find out. You can feel his chest expand and hold before he releases, and his breath tickles against the small hairs at the base of your forehead.
"Man, you even smell the same. I tried to find products that could match, but it was never good enough. Such a waste of money," he mumbles into the collar of your neck, pressing his ear to feel the vibrations of your throat as you curse and cuss at him for what a creep he is for somehow knowing that information. He doesn't think it's that bad; it's not like he was spying on you with X-ray vision like some Superman comics decided to write in. He's a good Superman; he wouldn't do that.
pls make more prime superboy x m!reader lowkirknuinely 🥹🥹🥹
While I'm pleasantly surprised and fully on board with the recent primehood craze, it shocks and astounds me that there are so few Superboy Prime x reader fics. The lands are barren, the crops haven't been planted, and the people are hungry. I am people. I'm about to become the next Jesus Christ with the way I'm going to feed the tag.
But on a serious note, thank you for the encouragement! I kind of threw that fic into the wild to gauge whether there was a prime audience to write for, so I'm glad there is one 🙂↕️
For as dorky as C.K is underneath all that muscle, you’re starting to think he’s not joking when he offers to kill someone for you, though you can’t remember when it stopped being a joke.
Superboy Prime x Civilian Male Reader.
Contains: Toxic co-dependency, power imbalance + unhealthy relationships
x It's really not as bad as it sounds; it's in the comic, just dialed up to 11. This was going to be longer, but I got tired, sorry.
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Banner: Superman (2023) Issue: 36
You don’t remember unlocking the door.
You do remember your hands shaking, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, checking over your shoulder two, three times. Essentially spinning in circles as if it would make a difference if anything really was following you. You remember realizing that things were suddenly making a lot more sense, and that you had been a stupid idiot for not picking up on it sooner.
The apartment feels smaller than usual when you step inside. Your keys hit the counter a little too hard, landing with a loud clang. You are too deep in your head to remember to take off your outdoor shoes, tracking dirt into your home as you pace across the room and back again, brown shoe prints staining the floor.
"Okay," you mutter, scrubbing a hand over your face, "Okay. Think."
When did it all start? Was it when that rude customer yelled at you in front of everyone? When you complained that you would kill your manager for scheduling you a double shift without asking first? Or that night out, when some random drunk grabbed your shoulder?
When did C.K. stop joking when he said he would kill someone for you?
There’s a soft sound behind you, a rustle of fabric, to be precise. There’s no window opening, no knock at the door, not even footsteps. You go still, half a step into your next pacing loop, and swallow your heart back down your throat.
He’s already inside. You turn around slowly.
It’s not C.K. Not really, at least. The suit makes that obvious, with its bright, vibrant colors and the iconic giant “S” across the chest. He looks the same, yet completely different.
“Hey,” he says, like a fucking moron, even giving you an awkward half wave.
You just stare at him. You can’t quite tell what your expression is, but from the way he keeps glancing between you and the floor, you’re sure it’s a mix of shock and disgust. There are so many things you could say, both to Superman and to the person you thought was your friend. Some of them are obvious. You would never have believed him if he had outright said he was Superman, and you might have preferred to stay ignorant anyway. Still, the glaring question of how he ended up in that position is something you would have liked answered.
“You broke in,” you say instead. It comes out flatter and calmer than you expected.
“I didn’t break anything,” he replies quickly. “The lock’s fine.”
A hysterical laugh punches its way up from your chest and out of your mouth. Your eyes twitch because, despite everything, you have always found C.K.’s blunt attitude kind of funny. Back when things were normal, you once asked if you could get fired for murdering that rude customer if it happened during off-hours. He had said that, aside from the legal aspect, it depended on how important that character was. Frankly, that customer radiated NPC energy; he probably didn't even get a full name. You thought it was a bit at first, some kind of nerdy lingo slipping into his everyday speech, but it was funny.
The memory is tarnished by the fact that C.K. offered to kill that customer for you, and you're still not sure if that offer was genuine.
He takes a small step toward you, like he is trying not to spook an animal, “I know you found out.”
Of course he knows. Superman has super hearing. Another thing you would have liked to know sooner.
“Yeah,” you say, “Yeah, I did.”
Your eyes drag over him again. The suit, the symbol, his face without those glasses. You saw him almost every day. How did you not see it?
“I was going to tell you,” he says, a little too fast, his hands raised in surrender, “I just…there wasn’t a good time.”
You laugh again, so sharply it makes your chest hurt, “What? The whole Superman side business? I don’t care about that. Congrats, you're Superman. Fantastic. You know what isn’t fantastic? Finding out my friend, the Superman, killed people. Innocent and good people. I’m sure there wasn’t a good time to mention that? Destroying planets? Killing other heroes? There wasn’t a good time for any of that?”
You can feel your mind clouding in anger, thoughts slipping, fraying at the edges. You almost want to squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself awake, like you could kick your brain into waking up from this. Because this cannot be happening. Not right now. Superman, C.K., your friend, whatever he is, is not standing in your apartment trying to talk you down from his murder spree. Right?
“That was before.”
C.K. is suddenly across the room, a hair’s breadth away. His hands land on your shoulders, steadying you before you can even think to pull away.
“That was before,” he repeats, squeezing his hands slightly, “That was two reboots ago. Everyone’s alive. They’re all fine. Nothing that happened before stuck, so it’s not actually real.”
You just stare at him, your body going slack at his audacity, your hands still trembling no matter how hard you tell them to stop. C.K.’s hands are always warm. That makes a lot more sense now. You used to like them, watching like some creep while he flipped through comics instead of actually doing his job. You never said anything, because minimum wage workers had to stick together, but also because you thought it was kind of cute how passionate he was about comics. You were never that into them, but you loved listening to him ramble about his favorite characters, who should have ended up together, and his own takes on heroes. You even borrowed a move from one of your flirtier customers, inviting him over just so he could mansplain whether a hero’s family should have stayed alive or not.
Those rose-tinted memories feel very far away now. All you want to do is scream for the real Superman to save you.
“…That’s your defense?” you ask quietly.
“It’s the truth,” he insists. “I was in a- I was in a really, really dark place. Full-on supervillain origin story, you know? You’ve sympathized with villains before. It’s basically the same thing. Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore. You didn’t even know those guys.”
His grip is starting to border on painful, fingers pressing your bones into your ribs. That perfectly windswept hair has fallen loose over his eyes, and his grin is tighter now, more forced. This has only happened once before. That late night out with that drunk guy. He had stumbled into you and, despite your apology, grabbed your shoulder. It never ended up going anywhere. C.K. had appeared at your side and thrown the guy against a wall. At first, it made your heart flutter, that feeling of being protected. Warm, almost unreal, that was something that only ever happened to girls on TV. It felt like a fantasy where, instead of rushing in to save someone else, you got to hide behind a person who made you feel safe, even if that protection was a little too much.
“But I know you,” you continue, “Or I thought I did.”
He shakes his head immediately, “You do. You do know me. The guy from before isn’t who I am now. I’m still C.K.”
“Are you? Is C.K. even your real name, or just another lie?” you shoot back, “Because from where I’m standing, it kind of feels like I was hanging out with someone who thinks killing people is fine because it ‘technically didn’t count.’ What about the next time, huh? Are you just going to go off the rails at the first mild inconvenience? What about that drunk guy? You want to go back and break his leg because grabbing my shoulder wasn’t enough?”
Part of you thinks you always knew, or that you caught on much earlier than you let yourself admit. That there was always something off about C.K., even from the beginning. He was too fast at restocking shelves, always late with shifting excuses despite how much he clearly loved comics, and always dropping those out-of-pocket, meta lines. Then it became other things. The way he seemed to know what you said, even when he was not around to hear it. How he always showed up whenever you needed help. He was always there somehow, even when you knew you were alone in your apartment.
That night, when you had to wrestle with all your might to drag C.K back to say that you were fine, nothing bad happened, please- let's just go. Your last glance over your shoulder, the drunk guy clutching his hand to his chest, fingers bent out of shape.
“That wasn’t the same; he was bothering you,” he says, cutting through your spiral.
“That doesn’t mean he deserved-” You stop yourself, exhaling hard, “Do you hear yourself?”
“I stopped,” he says after a second, “You asked me to stop, and I did.”
You swallow. That’s true, and that’s what makes it worse. Because he did. He listened to you. It’s the whole reason you ended up in this mess. C.K., Superman, listens to you. He listens to your heartbeat, listens when you say his name, and he listens when you tell him to stop. At least, that’s what every other hero seems to think, handing you a leash with faux encouragement, like you’re doing the right thing by keeping this loose cannon in check.
“I’m just-” you start, then shake your head, trying to push against his chest so he will let go. He doesn’t budge an inch. Of course he doesn’t. What strength do you have against a god?
You try again anyway, “I’m just a normal person, okay? I don’t have powers or-fuck-I don’t even know how to throw a punch properly.”
You gesture at him, the suit, all of it, “I don’t want this. I just want a normal life, man. Not… not all of this.”
Neither of you speaks after that. You just stand there in your apartment, C.K., staring holes into you. Hah. Holes. You have to clarify that in your own head now, because Superman can actually do that. Heat vision, straight through your skull. He could do it right now, two smoking holes out the other end, and he would be gone before your body even hit the floor.
C.K.’s eyebrows lift almost to his hairline, his expression faltering as he blinks rapidly.
“…You think I’d hurt you,” he whispers, like he hopes no one else can hear it. It's not a question, so you don’t answer, which is answer enough. He frowns, shaking his head. Somehow, this is the thing that actually hurts him. He takes half a step closer, and you jerk back without meaning to.
“No. No, that’s not-no,” he insists, stronger and faster this time, “I wouldn’t hurt you. I wouldn’t. You’re… you’re my friend.”
You don’t think he realizes that he is hurting you right now. His grip, already bordering on painful, tightens further as he tries to convince himself more than you. You can almost hear your bones creak, feeling them grind against each other.
“C.K.-dude-stop! Y-you’re-” you gasp, shaking, trying to pull free, but it only makes him drag you closer. His chest presses against yours, his face so close you can feel his breath as he rambles. Heat seeps through your clothes, suffocating, caging you in on all sides.
“You’re not listening. This is all-this isn’t right,” his voice cracks as he shakes his head, his curly hair brushing against your nose. The words spill out too fast, tripping over each other, like he has to keep talking or something worse will take their place, “I did everything right. I didn’t-I didn’t mess it up.”
Your vision prickles at the edges, little bursts of white creeping in and out like static. Panic starts to climb, a faint buzz in your brain screaming at you to leave. Run. Just get out.
Sometimes, when the shop is busy, you imagine yourself in a comic. If you tried hard enough, if you fought dirty, did everything you could, you would make it out on top, right? You could kick as hard as you could, bite wherever you reached, and dig your nails into anything. Anything, and you’d still win. Your hands push against him again, but he doesn’t move.
“C.K!” Your voice comes out thin and strained. You try again, forcing air into your lungs that doesn’t want to stay. “You’re doing it right now-”
“I can be good,” he says, no longer really listening, too wrapped up in his own voice, trying to convince himself, “I’ve been doing it. I did everything right. I got a job. I have an apartment. I saved lives and did good things. I’m a good guy now. I have a friend now.”
“You’re not like them. You didn’t know. You didn’t judge me. You chose to be around me. You’re not supposed to be scared of me. I’m not supposed to be this to you. You liked me. You still like me. You’re supposed to like me,” his voice wavers at first, then steadies as he continues. His eyes stay locked on yours, searching for agreement, for recognition, for anything that suggests you are still on his side.
His jaw tightens, “You can’t just decide I’m... you don’t get to decide I’m irredeemable. Not after this.”
“That’s not normal,” you manage, a half-laugh, half-wheeze escaping you.
“I don’t have to be normal,” he replies, “I just have to be good.”
A small, very small, and human part of you pities those words. This is obviously a mental breakdown C.K is about to have, which is slowly killing you because he needs to be told that he's a good person. He is balancing on something fragile, something that could tip either way, and the worst part is, you are not sure which direction he will fall. Either way, he is taking you with him.
"Okay," you force yourself to breathe despite the limited room. These words must be said as firmly as possible: "Okay, C.K., I believe you."
You see it happen in real time, like a switch being flipped behind his eyes. The tension in his shoulders eases, his posture loosens a fraction, and he gazes at you as if you’ve suddenly descended from the heavens to absolve him of all his sins and wash away the blood on his hands.
“Really?” he whispers, and it makes your heart clench because you hate this. You hate this. You’re just an ordinary human being who lives a very ordinary life. Why did this have to happen to you? Why are you this god’s emotional support puppy? Why did you decide to make friends with the nerdy new hire?
“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry, you’re right. We’re… friends. We’re friends. Friends trust each other, right? I trust you,” you even put on your best customer-service smile as you say the words carefully.
“You don’t think I’m a bad person?” His voice drops a little here; the question is more important than anything to him right now, and it shows in the way he holds still while he waits for an answer.
“Why would I be friends with a bad person?”
Something in him sparks to life at that. He nods once, small, then nods again, certain, “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. You wouldn’t be.”
His hands finally lift from your shoulders, but you’re positive there are finger-shaped bruises that won’t go away for the next week. Deep purple and blue that sting and ache whenever you move your arms. He gingerly pulls you into a hug, forcing your feet into the air as he carries your weight, just so he can put his ear next to your heart.
“I’m really happy we’re friends,” he sighs into your body. You stare up at the ceiling, cursing whatever entity above decided to give you this fate. When you die, they’ll have to beg for your forgiveness.
Tim thinks you're giving him too much power by unwaveringly accepting everything he says. If he ever asked you to help him bury a body, he's fairly certain you would not hesitate or ask why, just check your trunk to confirm there are shovels in the car.
Tim Drake x Male Reader.
Tim and reader are somewhat sane in this. That will change. I originally wrote this with a building on fire, I'm not letting that word count go to waste.
Part 1: Here | Part 3: TBA
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While Gotham’s nights are never quiet, even when they seem that way, that doesn’t mean the daytime is any less loud. In fact, there’s been a growing number of crimes committed under the sun; people are starting to realize the night offers less cover than it used to. Tim knows that better than anyone. There is always something happening if you know what to listen for: raised voices a block over, a car idling too long, footsteps that don’t match the rhythm of the street. Except he’s not in uniform this time. This is Tim Drake’s shift, so there’s no cape and no mask. Just civilian clothes with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as he cuts down a side street.
It’s a shortcut. He’s taken it before. Narrow and poorly lit, it’s boxed in by the backs of older buildings and a line of overflowing dumpsters that should have been cleared days ago. It looks dangerous, so people tend to avoid it, thus somehow making it one of the safer alleys, funnily enough. It’s a spot he used to pass through when he was younger, his tiny hands wrapped around a camera too big for him.
It should have been quiet today too.
There's a muffled sound. Shoes scraping against pavement, fabric pulling, and desperate pleas. It's in-between a full fight and a scuffle, yet it's too quick and too rough to be nothing. Someone is trying to get away and failing. Tim’s head snaps toward it instantly, posture shifting automatically before he even thinks. He’s already planning backups by the time he turns the corner, calculating distance, angles, and how many people might be involved.
Two.
One standing. One-
Time stutters for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to register everything at once. The angle of the masked attacker’s stance. The way the victim is clutching their side. The knife flashes in the dim light, catching just enough from the sun's rays reflecting off an overhead fixture to make it obvious what it is. A wet, awful sound follows, close and unmistakable. The victim gasps, more air than voice, body folding in on itself before crumpling to the ground. The amount of blood is already visible even in low light. Too much.
Then everything snaps back into motion.
“Hey!” Tim shouts, already halfway across the alley. The attacker startles, jerking back hard enough to nearly lose their footing. Their grip tightens on the knife for a second, eyes wide as they finally register that they’re not alone. They look at Tim, then at the man on the ground, then back again, like they’re trying to decide what matters more. Then they make the choice and bolt, turning sharply and sprinting down the alley, shoes slamming against the pavement as they disappear around a graffiti-stained wall. Tim takes one step after them to give chase on instinct, but a broken, choked noise wheezes behind him.
He stops immediately and turns back. Priority. Always.
The man on the ground struggles to pull in a breath that doesn’t quite come, one hand weakly clutching at his side. The movement is uncoordinated, panicked, and already losing strength. Tim swears under his breath and drops to his knees beside him, panic crushed under Batman's voice of procedures. Keep calm, take a breath, and don't let them see you're scared.
“Hey, hey- stay with me,” Tim says quickly, voice steady as his hands press down over the wound, applying firm pressure the way he’s been trained to. Blood seeps through the man’s shirt almost immediately, dark and spreading, soaking the fabric faster than Tim likes. It’s warm against his hands and slick enough that he has to adjust his grip. The man flinches under the contact, another weak, uneven breath catching in his throat. Tim leans closer, focused entirely on keeping him conscious and slowing the bleeding, blocking out everything else as he works. The man's hands scrabble weakly against Tim’s wrist, trying to hold on to something solid.
“Don’t-” he tries, voice breaking in pain, the rest of the word dissolving into a sharp inhale that turns into a cough.
“You’re okay,” Tim says immediately, “You’re going to be okay. Just stay with me.”
He knows it hurts; no amount of pain tolerance is going to make getting stabbed not hurt a little bit. Still, he presses harder with his left even when the man's nails dig deep into his skin to draw blood. He should be calling an ambulance, and he was going to do that with his right, but...
He glances up and curses again under his breath.
The street ahead is blocked. Construction barriers, metal fencing, and rerouted traffic signs. Even emergency access would be slowed here, forced to detour around several blocks before reaching them. Even if paramedics are on the way, it's not fast enough. Tim’s jaw tightens as he looks back down. He doesn’t have his gear. No med kit, no trauma supplies, nothing he would normally rely on in a situation like this. Just his hands, the clothes on his back, and not enough time. The man’s breathing stutters again, weaker now, less consistent, his body starting to struggle with every inhale.
"Please...I don't..I don't want..to die," the man sobs in agony as he slumps further against the wall. His grip on Tim's wrist is loosening as his life slips from him.
"You're not-Hey. Look at me. You're not, okay? Just-" Tim's mind races through all the options. Ambulance arrival time with the road conditions is too slow. The nearest hospital is too far for Tim to haul the man to. The alley is too dirty to look around and improvise without clean supplies. Nothing comes up fast enough to actually help.
Then his thoughts land on you.
You're close. Close enough that distance stops being theoretical and turns into something solvable. Plus, you own a bike that could pass the blocked roads, traffic control, and if worst comes to worst, down the alley as well if you ignore driving safety laws. You'd do it, Tim knows you would. He shifts his weight carefully, keeping constant pressure on the wound as he frees one hand just enough to reach into his pocket. His fingers are slippery with it being caked in blood, but he's able to wrestle it out without disrupting what he's already doing.
Once it’s in his hand, he calls you. It rings once before you pick up.
“Hey-”
“I need you.”
The words come out harsher than Tim intends, with no preamble or explanation. There is no room for anything else in Tim’s voice right now, only urgency.
“You have me,” you say without pause, voice so steady that it slightly relieves the noise in his head, “What do you need me to do?”
Tim exhales through his nose, something in his chest tightening and then locking into place, like his body finally accepts that he is not doing this alone.
“Are you home?” he asks quickly, shifting his knees again to maintain pressure on the wound while the man beneath him gives another weak movement.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Tim breathes out, swallowing once as he already starts mapping distance, timing, and what he needs in his head, “I need you to grab the med kit.”
He can hear you shuffling in the background, the creak of your chair as you get up, and the whine of a door. You keep saying you'll fix that broken hinge, but you still haven't started.
“The big one,” he adds quickly, although he's fairly certain you knew which one he was talking about, but details matter, “The one I gave you. Under your sink on the left. I need gauze, pressure bandages- there should be a hemostatic kit in there. Probably the trauma shears- Bring all of it."
You don’t interrupt him as he lists everything off. You don’t stop to ask why he suddenly needs all these supplies, how bad the situation must be to require them, or what even happened. It’s something he’ll look back on months from now, while watching some random TV show, and feel irritated when the characters panic, thinking, 'You didn’t do that. You’re so much better. That would’ve made me so pissed off.'. You just move and follow his instructions.
“Okay.”
“I’m two blocks from you, alley off-” he looks up, catching the nearest street sign under flickering light “-off Burnley and 3rd. Come to me.”
“On my way.”
Tim lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding, shoulders loosening just a fraction. The sound of the man’s breathing is still wrong, still too shallow, but now there’s action. A timeline. Something he can work with.
“Be careful, the guy that did this is still out there,” he adds quietly, lowering his voice just in case the attacker is still nearby and eavesdropping. A sinking pit in his stomach rears its head at the thought of if you got hurt rushing to help him, but he quickly shakes the thought off. Tim would have definitely been snuck upon if that were the case.
“Always,” you let out a huff, voice catching on the end as you rush out the door, keys still jingling in the background. The line stays open just long enough for him to hear you start up your bike, the screech of tires, and the loud roar of an engine.
Then your voice comes back through, slightly closer now, firmer this time despite how the earlier conversation went, “Tim?”
“…Yeah?” There’s going to be a horrible crick in his neck as he pins his phone between his ear and shoulder. The stickiness of blood against his face is uncomfortable, already cooling where it’s exposed to the air, but now he can focus fully, both hands free. They’re already starting to ache, a dull, creeping burn setting into his muscles, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t dare shift even an inch.
“I’ve got you.”
The words land cleanly, and for a moment, Tim just holds still with them. He closes his eyes for half a second, not because he doubts what you said, but because he doesn’t. That’s the problem. That’s what makes it hit harder than it should.
“…I know,” he says quietly, the words rougher than he means. The call ends, and he lets his phone drop to the floor. It hits with a dull, careless sound that feels distant compared to everything else. If the screen cracks, then it cracks. It doesn’t matter.
“Stay with me,” he tells the man again, his voice firm and anchoring, “Help’s coming.”
Public hospitals are not Tim’s favorite place, which is saying something considering how long his list of disliked places already is. Some of which are actually trying to kill people rather than save them. Everything here feels artificial in a way he doesn't trust: the fluorescent lighting that's way too bright, the smell of disinfectant that makes his senses twist, and the constant cycle of footsteps, monitors, and noise that press against his skull.
Also, his leg is broken, which he is very much not thrilled about.
Tim shifts slightly in the hospital bed before immediately stopping when pain shoots up through his leg, bad enough that it makes his breath catch for a second. He exhales slowly through his nose and forces himself to stay still, staring up at the ceiling tiles and counting down from ten.
“…Right,” he mutters more to himself than anything else, when he hits zero.
Lesson learned: don’t move idiot.
There's a courtesy knock on the entrance to his room's door before it opens without him saying anything. He doesn't even need to look up to know it's you; he can physically feel the air shift around your snark.
"You look terrible," you say, proving his point.
“Good to see you too," Tim exhales, a faint, tired laugh slipping out before he can stop it. It's more of a reflex, but it's better than the automated thank yous he's been giving the nurses.
“What happened?” you ask, whatever small trace of humour you came in with fades as you look at him properly. You take in the cast around his leg first, then the bruising around his arms, then the general state of him as he lies there still.
"Broken leg," is all Tim supplies as an answer, which doesn't answer anything because you can clearly tell just from looking at him. Truthfully, it was because he was out last night fighting Killer Croc. The combination of having what was essentially a reptile bulldozer's weight landing on his brittle bird bones was too much, and that's how he ended up here. But of course, he can't exactly tell you that.
It doesn't matter in the end; you nod once, accepting that as an explanation for what it is. It's nice that you don't push him for answers when you know he can. That you respect the fact the doesn't want to talk about it and leave it at that. So it makes your next words hit him harder in the chest than having his bones snapped in half.
“Was it Bruce?”
Tim blinks at you, caught off guard. His head jerks to the side to look at you, bewildered because what? Where did that come from? What does Bruce have to do with anything? You've taken a seat at some point beside his bedside, legs spread apart with your elbows on your knees, your chin held up by one hand, the other ideally tracing shapes into the bedding.
“If he’s hurting you,” you continue, voice carrying that same neutral tone you always do, “I’ll kill him.”
Tim has heard many variations of that phrase. I'll kill him. He's heard it in cartoons of evil scientists fighting against a platypus. He's heard it from low-level thugs whinging and squirming as he ties them up in the air from a streetlight. He's heard it from dangerous individuals and psychotic killers. He knows when someone truly means it and will find a way to make it happen.
“…No,” Tim says quickly, grabbing onto the first thing he can, which happens to be your hand settled on the blanket, as the accusation lands too close to something that could spiral, “No, that’s not-no.”
You do not look happy, and that only makes Tim talk faster. He shifts slightly in the bed before immediately regretting it when pain shoots through his leg, his expression twisting for a second as he forces himself to relax anyway. It does not stop him from continuing, though, because stopping feels like giving the thought too much space to grow. While he's slightly flattered in some small sick part of him that you would attempt to kill Batman, despite you not knowing that Bruce is Batman, he does not want to end up fighting you on the wrong side of justice. Even if it's for him.
“He’s not-Bruce is not-he’s not doing anything,” Tim insists, the words coming out tangled and rushed as he tries to make them land clearly, “I’m fine. I swear. This was a skateboarding accident. I didn't want you to make fun of me. Bruce isn't hurting me.”
For a moment, you stay exactly where you are, just watching his expression that would feel invasive if it were anyone else. The silence between you is not uncomfortable, but it is full enough that Tim finds himself bracing for what usually comes next in conversations like this. More questions. More doubt. More insistence on digging until something breaks open.
Then you exhale.
The change is immediate. The tension in your expression eases as if it had never fully settled in the first place, your shoulders dropping slightly as the very-potential-murder fades from your gaze. It is not that you stop caring, but that you accept what he has said without trying to push past it.
“Oh. Huh. Okay,” you say simply. Tim blinks at you, the momentum he had built for defending himself abruptly running out of direction. There is no follow-up, no continued probing, no lingering suspicion hanging in the air. Just acceptance, given cleanly and without complication. You believe him. Again.
“Get better then,” you add, your tone shifting back into something normal. It is the same calm, matter-of-fact voice you used for everything. You squeeze his hand tightly, your thumb brushing against his knuckles, “And please stop skateboarding.”
You glance down at his leg briefly, to underline the point, then back up at him.
“You suck at it.”
Tim stares at you for a moment longer than he means to, not because he is trying to find a response, but because his body is catching up to the fact that the coil he was holding is no longer needed. His shoulders drop a fraction without him really noticing, followed by a slower release in his chest that feels less like relief arriving all at once and more like it finally being allowed to settle.
“…Yeah,” he mutters after a beat. He lets his head sink back against the pillows, the rest of the room feeling less heavy than it did before, like everything has softened at the edges now that the moment has passed.
The door opens again before Tim can get his wits about him. Just like last time, he already knows how it is before he looks up. He's fairly certain this one was eavesdropping the entire time to find the respectful moment to come in and ruin it. The first thing that appears is a bouquet of flowers, followed by Bruce's straight posture and scruffy face. If you weren't here, Tim would have scoffed because who is Bruce dressing up for? Or dressing down technically.
“Tim,” Bruce says as he crosses the room, his attention focused on him for now, “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” Tim answers automatically, because it is the simplest option. He knows Bruce heard your threat, and he doesn't want to accidentally add more fuel to this smoking fire. He trusts that you do actually believe him that Bruce is not the source of his broken leg, but that doesn't mean you like Bruce any more. Bruce studies him for a moment longer, then shifts his attention briefly toward you. The look is polite but measured. His eyes squint a bit into that infamous Bat Glare as he gathers information without making it obvious that it's happening. He does stare pointedly at your interlocked hands with Tim.
“And you are—”
"A friend,” you say before Tim can intervene, cutting in smoothly with a small smile. Your hand smoothly slips away from Tim's as you stand to greet Bruce properly. You hold your hand out, the one that wasn't holding Tim's, and give a firm handshake to one of the most influential people in Gotham, “It was a skateboarding accident, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce doesn't show an immediate reaction outwardly, but Tim sees Bruce recalibrate after hearing something he didn't anticipate. Tim closes his eyes for half a second and mentally screams. He already knows how thin the explanation sounds, and he's sure that as soon as you leave, Bruce is going to raise a brow and make fun of him. Even more so, that you're a "friend," but Tim is shoving that into the deepest corner of his mind and burying it six feet deep.
“I see,” Bruce says evenly, letting your hand go slowly. As soon as you're free, you step closer to Tim, and the hand you were using to hold his comes down to briefly pat his shoulder. A quick squeeze that is seriously not helping his case before you turn towards the door to give them their privacy. Before you leave, you glance back once, tone lighter but still carrying intent.
“Seriously, though,” you add, “you should keep an eye on him.”
You don't wait for either of them to say anything before you step out, and the door closes behind you with a quiet click.
Tim knows exactly when he’s about to say something he shouldn’t. It’s not always obvious at first, but there’s a very specific build-up he’s learned to recognize over time, like pressure accumulating in a sealed space that hasn’t been opened in too long. It starts with a burn in his chest that he can ignore if he's focused enough. Then it moves up his sternum and into his teeth, nipping and biting for the smallest excuse to come out at once. He's not angry exactly, not yet, but it's close enough that he's aware of the risk.
Right now, that feeling is loud.
Tim exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair as he tries to force his thoughts into something more controlled. He can feel the edge of his patience thinning in real time, not because Damian is wrong about everything, but because this conversation is circling the same point without actually resolving anything. Damian is a kid. A dangerous one, trained to be lethal, stubborn enough to argue anything to the ground, but still a kid at the end of it. And Tim is suddenly very aware that there is a line here he cannot afford to cross, no matter how easy it would be in the moment.
And Tim, standing in front of him, knows he is not about to be the one who snaps first.
“…I’m done,” Tim mutters, already stepping back as the pressure in his chest starts to tip from frustration into something more. He doesn't let himself hear the rest of it, just turns and walks away mid-sentence, the sound of Damian's voice dropping behind him as distance takes over. There's a familiar awareness sitting at the back of his mind that he needs to get out and do something before his thoughts come back to this argument and he works himself up again.
He doesn’t tell anyone he’s leaving. He grabs his keys, not even fully thinking about it, and heads straight for the door.
And then he’s gone.
The drive is a blur of streetlights and too many thoughts he does not want to deal with yet. They come in fragments instead of anything coherent, slipping in and out of focus as the city passes by outside the window. Damian’s voice still sits somewhere in the back of his mind, tangled with the rest of the argument, repeating itself over and over. He does not try to untangle it. That feels like something he would only make worse right now, so he lets the motion of driving carry him forward without thinking too hard about where it is going.
Eventually, without a clear moment of decision he can point to, he ends up somewhere familiar. Your building is just there in front of him, like it has been waiting for him to arrive, and the realization of where he is comes a second too late. Tim does not remember deciding to come here. But the car is parked anyway, the engine is off, and he is already standing outside your door. He lifts his hand to knock and hesitates, letting it hover there instead. The sound from inside reaches him clearly, even through the door, music playing too loud to be background noise, voices layered over one another in conversation, and laughter rising and falling that does not include him.
Tim stills. Right. Of course.
You have a life here. A normal one that does not revolve around emergencies, stopping villains, or the constant low-level tension of Gotham. There are people inside who are part of that life, people who are not going to stop everything just because he's standing outside your door trying to figure out what to say.
He exhales quietly and lowers his hand again.
This was a bad idea. It is worse than that, really, because it is not just bad timing but also bad judgment. He should not have just shown up without thinking it through, especially not when he can't even explain why he's here in a way that makes sense or doesn't sound pathetic.
The door opens before Tim fully commits to leaving.
He freezes immediately, caught mid-turn. You're standing there in the doorway, framed by the apartment light behind you, and the sound of everything inside spills out into the hallway all at once. Music comes through louder now that the door is open, layered over overlapping conversations and someone laughing a little too hard in the background.
“Party’s over,” you say over your shoulder without taking your eyes off him for long, already turning back into the apartment. There is a beat of confusion from inside before it turns into protest.
“What, come on—”
“It just started!”
A few more voices overlap, disappointed and questioning, but you cut through all of it without raising your volume much.
“No,” you say, harsher now, “Seriously. Get out. Now.”
Tim blinks, still standing in the doorway, trying to process how quickly the entire atmosphere has shifted.
“You don’t have to—” he starts, unsure if he is even meant to be part of this decision. You ignore him completely and keep moving, already directing people toward the door.
“Out,” you repeat, tone flat with finality, “Take your drinks, take your shoes, take whatever you have left. Just go. Yes, I am serious. Goodbye.”
There is more whining from inside, more resistance at first, but it does not hold for long under how firm you are being about it. The energy in the room breaks apart quickly, conversation dissolving into movement as people start collecting their things and heading toward the exit. Tim barely has time to process what’s happening before you grab his sleeve.
“Come here,” you whisper under your breath, nicer and sweeter than to your party guests, herding him down the hallway just enough to keep him out of sight. He stumbles a step, more surprised than anything, his shoulder brushing the wall as the noise from the apartment spills after you. Music turning off, awkward laughter, and someone loudly protesting their sudden eviction all bleed together behind him in a messy rush of sound. He lowers his voice without thinking, already defaulting into the habit of not being overheard.
“…You really don’t have to kick everyone out,” he says quietly. You do not answer him with words. Instead, you shift your body to block him from view completely and catch the front of his jacket with one hand. You don't even blink when you pull him closer and press his head into your chest. Your sweater moves with the motion, wrapping around him and covering him from view so that anyone passing would only see you standing there, not him folded into the space beside you. Tim goes still for a second, his mind buffering mid-thought before a mixture of guilt, confusion, and sadness slam into him. Realistically, he subconsciously knew this would happen; that's why he drove here rather than any other place. Sure, he may not have knocked or asked you to do any of this, but did he linger at your doorstep more than he should have on the off-chance you'd somehow know he was there?
“Shh, you're thinking too loud,” you say softly, your voice tickling against his forehead. Your hand settles at the base of his neck without much thought, fingers finding the knots there immediately. You start working it out with slow, steady pressure, like you always do. Your other hand still holds the edge of your sweater to keep him sheltered as you rub his back up and down. Tim exhales before he can stop himself. The tightness in his shoulders starts to ease in increments, his posture shifting as the tension he has been carrying all day finally begins to give way under your hand. The noise from the apartment fades into something distant and unimportant, muffled by fabric and warmth and the steady rhythm of you right there in front of him.
It is warm. You are warm. And close. It makes everything else get pushed a few steps back. His head rises and falls with each breath you take, your heartbeat is steady against his ear, and even with the mixture of different perfumes surrounding your neck, it's not enough to cover up your natural scent. His eyes slip shut for a second before he catches himself. He should pull away; he's aware of that fact, but his shoes stay planted to the ground.
“…You’re going to spoil me,” he murmurs, his voice quieter than he intended and a little rough around the edges. You chuckle, giving him one last firm squeeze as you pull him back into your apartment. The silence is thick and noticeable that makes Tim realize just how much noice had been filling the partment only moments ago. Without it, everything feels larger and smaller at the same time.
You let Tim go. The door shuts. It locks. You turn back to him right away.
“Hold still,” you say, stepping closer again, hands already moving over his shoulders, then down his arms, then along his sides in careful touches. Your gaze drilling into him for any changes or hitched breaths. Oh. You're looking for injuries.
"I'm fine," he lets out a weak breath as you work, his own hands coming up to settle on your forearm trying to downplay the whole situation even though you don't stop right away. You continue to check for a few more seconds, pressing into his skin at certain spots that only tickle. Only after you're satisfied do you step back, your hands dropping to your side.
“Okay,” you say simply. “If you say so.”
You accept it the same way you accepted everything else, like his word is enough on its own. Tim opens his mouth, something already forming that he is not entirely sure how to finish. He hesitates, then closes it again, then tries once more as if the thought might organize itself mid-sentence.
“I just—”
Your phone rings before he can get any further. Both of you glance toward it at the same time.
It rings once. Then again. Then a third time. Tim notices something small but immediate, the way you do not reach for it right away. You let it continue ringing.
Huh. You never do that with him. You always answer immediately, on the first ring. It is so consistent that Tim has stopped even noticing it most of the time, because it has become part of how you operate. If he calls, you pick up. So when your phone starts ringing this time, and you do not answer right away, it makes something bubble up. It rings once, then twice, then a third time before you finally pick it up on the fourth.
“Hey,” you say. There is a pause on the other end that Tim does not need to hear to recognize. He already knows who it is. The timing, the way your attitude shifts, it tells him everything he needs to know. You glance at him while you listen, a small jerk of your head towards your phone.
'What do you want me to say?'
Tim catches it immediately. He shakes his head quickly, small and firm, making it clear he does not want to be involved in this part of the conversation at all.
'No.'
“Uh- nope,” you say into the phone, voice easy and natural, “Sorry, no idea...Yeah...If I see him, I'll let you know.”
There is a short pause as you listen to whatever response comes through. Then you answer again, just as evenly.
“Uh-huh. Bye." You end the call and toss your phone back onto the counter carelessly. Tim exhales, that pit of something in his stomach loosening until it eventually settles, not gone entirely, but no longer pressing against his ribs and infecting his thoughts.
“…Thanks,” he mutters, the word coming out quieter. He still feels guilty for being the reason you had to cut your night short and for making you look bad in front of your friends. You tilt your head at him again, before a small chuckle escapes you, and you reach over to take his hand and lead him into your living room, kicking aside empty cans out of the way and someone's forgotten jacket off your couch. You pat the spot next to you as you both collapse beside each other. Tim leans his head against your shoulder as you both settle into a comfortable quiet. It's all the energy he has right now.
“I just… needed to get away,” he admits after a few minutes pass, less defensive and more honest than he usually allows himself to be, “From the manor. From everyone.”
You only let out a hum to prove that you're listening. Tim refuses to look up to see your face, instead burying his face into the curve of your neck. He knows you care about him, you're his friend, even if that label is way too tame for what you've done for him, but Tim fears that one day you're going to wake up and realize that he's just not worth it. That if he looks up, instead of that easy smile, you'll look at him irritated or god-forbid, with nothing.
“Okay,” you say. Your hand resting on the lip of the couch behind him, your hand curling to ruffle his hair.
Then you get up and leave.
Tim's head slumps without its support, caught off guard by how quickly it happens. You're already gone down the hallway before he fully processes what happened, and that sinking feeling that just settled is now roaring back tenfold. The apartment is even more different without you in it, and he doesn't know what to do with himself now that you're gone. He's jinxed himself; he shouldn't have thought about anything, just been grateful that you were there. You've woken up, you're done with him, this is it. He should leave. This is your last act of kindness that he can save his dignity and make his escape.
Then you come back. You simply reappear in front of him, as if you could hear him spiral halfway down the hallway and decided that was reason enough to return. Tim barely has time to register it before you're taking his hand and pressing something cold and metallic into it.
It takes him a moment to realize what it is. The weight is small, simple, but familiar enough in shape that his brain recognizes it before he consciously does. A key. Spare. Not his, but now in his hand anyway.
A key to your place.
Tim looks down at it for longer than he probably needs to, turning it slightly between his fingers as if the angle might change what it means. Then he looks back up at you, still trying to process whether he misunderstood something in the last few seconds.
“Stay,” you say, tone steady and matter-of-fact, “For as long as you need.”
There is nothing added to it. No clarification, no conditions, no expectation needed to justify why he would need it. It's not even framed as a favour that requires repayment, not that Tim won't find every way to force it into your bank account anyway. But that's for future Tim to stress over because right now he seriously thinks he might cry. He's not going to, not in front of you, but he does close his hand around the key harder than he should.
“…You’re not even going to ask?” Tim says quietly, still squeezing the key into different imprints on his skin. He is watching it more than he is looking at you at this point, like the movement gives him something to focus on while his thoughts try to catch up to what just happened.
“You said you needed to get away.”
“Yeah, but—” Tim starts, then trails off as soon as he hears himself. The objection is there out of habit more than conviction; there should be more steps involved than this.
“So get away,” you say with a small shrug, like that resolves the entire issue. Tim looks down at the key again, rotating it slightly between his thumb and forefinger. The weight of it feels more significant now, not because it has changed, but because he has had enough time to think about what it represents without interruption. That sinking weight that's stabbing his heart is still there, he's used to being independent or being the one relied upon, so everything about this feels wrong.
“It’ll be fine,” you add after a moment, your voice softening just slightly. Your hands come up to cup his face, your thumb moving and down across his cheek. One moves up to brush his hair away from his forehead so you can bend over and press a warm kiss to it. There's nothing inherently romantic about it, but Tim can feel his heart skip a beat.
“I promised, didn’t I? I got you,” you continue, “Don’t you believe me?”
He wants to. He wants to so badly. You've done nothing to prove otherwise, and that terrifies him with his deep-seated abandonment issues. What if he starts self-sabotaging again? What if all of this is him unconsciously testing you to see if you show up?
But you have, haven't you? Time and time again.
“…Yeah,” he says, voice quieter than before, more certain. His hand squeezes around the key again, resting in his palm, accepted. His other hand comes up to twist into the fabric of your shirt to keep you pinned and close.
“Yeah, I do.”
Tag List: @samardhwrites @alexabowwow21 @promotesilverminer
A ruined op means rain, a bridge, and Red Hood pressing his shoulder against yours. You should really applaud how far you've both come.
Jason Todd x Male Reader.
masterlist
Don't be fooled, I'm incapable of writing a decent loving relationship
Banner: Red Hood: Outlaw #36: Closing Time
"Well, this op was a bust, huh?"
Red Hood doesn’t reply. The heavy raindrops splattering against the concrete pavement fill the silence for him. You’re both taking shelter under a bridge to avoid the worst of the storm, but with the way Gotham’s crying, you’ll either have to camp out or trudge home soaking wet. Personally, you have no intention of walking around in wet socks, so you settle onto an oh-so-convenient metal bench. Stretching your arms wide across the top, you lean back, close your eyes, and prepare for the long wait.
You half-expect Red Hood to be gone by the time you open your eyes. For a man so big, he’s surprisingly silent on his feet. That thought proves true. With the rain pounding all around you, you don’t hear him approach or drop down beside you. The only reason you notice is the solid nudge of his shoulder knocking your arm off the bench.
Rude.
“What?” he says, arms folded and looking straight ahead. Even with the helmet masking his voice, the flatness in his tone comes through. You huff, letting your arm fall as you twist to face him. Though your gaze drifts past him, settling on the dark water below, nearly black in the dim light. Although this entire night has been a waste of time, it feels nice having him here with you rather than being alone.
You think back on how far you’ve come with Jason. It wasn’t sunshine and rainbows, of course not, but considering your first meeting had him trying to turn you into a human pincushion, it’s progressing surprisingly well. First, starting as happenstance acquaintances, keeping things professional and distant. A little tip here, a little backup there. Screaming across rooftops about fucking each other’s mothers when you’re both pretty sure neither of you had parents still alive. Jason really hated that one.
Then came friends, leaning on each other in the chaos of Gotham’s nights. Turns out Jason really hates it when someone else is shooting bullets into your soft tissue. The delirium of blood loss and the thought of imminent death probably made you say some really stupid things, like asking if he could stay with you because you didn’t want to die alone. If you dig deep into the folds of your brain, you can just make out the muffled clang of Jason tearing that stupid helmet of his off for the first time. The feeling of hands breaking through bones with each chest compression. Cold lips forcing life into yours, and Jason saying something too quiet for you to hear properly.
Then into… whatever this is. Maybe-dating? Though honestly, it’s mostly fucking. Messy, heated, reckless, a way to feel close without admitting anything real. Going to bed together only to wake up alone is a bitter taste first thing in the morning.
But now? Now he’s here. Sitting with you in the rain instead of running off, letting the storm and the silence wrap around the two of you. It doesn't escape you how he's chosen to stay this time without needing your hands down his pants or his hands pulling your hair like he hates you. For the first time, it feels like maybe this, you and him, this tether could be something good.
“Nothing. Just thankful it’s a metal bench, so your fat ass didn’t break it,” You laugh at your own joke and spinelessness, much to your companion’s complete lack of amusement. He’s probably just irritated that his plans fell through because of a little unexpected rain. Still, if he wanted to brood, he could’ve gone home or found a skyscraper to glower from.
You bite the inside of your cheek, flexing your fingers to keep them from going numb, and drag your gaze back up to that red helmet.
“A little water isn’t going to derail anything. We’ll come back tomorrow, go in guns blazing, and still make it back to base before your curfew,” You can’t help but tack on the tease at the end again, trying to ease the tension hanging in the air. It clearly doesn’t work. You can practically see the wire twisting tighter and tighter as his shoulders creep up toward his ears. You’ve always found it strange, the way Jason curls in on himself when he’s angry, like he’s trying to protect himself.
“Oh yeah? And how do you know they’ll be here tomorrow? What if they changed their supply routes? Sped up production, and those drugs are already making their way into kids’ hands?” he snaps, lifting a hand, only to stop short when he realizes he can’t run it through his hair with the helmet on.
He’s not yelling yet, but he’s getting there. He winds himself up, baiting you and looking for a reason to let the anger loose.
Fucking asshole. You’re not going soft on him ever again.
“Don’t get fucking angry at me, I don’t control the weather. If you haven’t noticed, I’m freezing out here to help you, not deal with your bullshit!” you hiss back equally wounded and cornered.
He doesn’t say anything. Not a word. You’re not sure whether that’s a good thing or not, or even if you want him to say anything. In the back of your mind, your rational side is banging against the bars of its enclosure, the one your anger has trapped it in, trying to reason with you that Jason isn’t mad at you specifically. Red Hood isn’t either. He’s just mad at the situation, and you haven’t done anything wrong. He doesn’t hate you anymore.
You shift slightly, careful not to make sudden movements, and just let him have this. To wait. To let the anger burn itself out without you fueling it just to feel like you were right. Each millisecond marked by a raindrop, and you notice the signs of Jason loosening. Shoulders starting to slump, head dipping ever so slightly, a tiny exhale of static escaping him as he physically blows some of the weight away.
Finally, his voice breaks through, low and almost hesitant, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get mad at you. You don’t deserve that.”
“Really wish I could hear those words on the regular, and not just when we fight,” you huff. Still, you scoot closer until your thighs brush, reaching over to grab the lapels of his jacket, and tugging him to face you. It’s annoying that you can’t see his face when he can read every expression on yours, but you’ve learned to put on your big boy pants and deal with it. “Nothing bad is going to happen tonight, got it? You stalked those bastards, didn’t ya? You know they aren’t coming into Gotham. They only had enough money for the boats, so no kid is touching anything worse than sugar past their bedtime.”
You hold his gaze as best you can through the white visor, coaxing him to trust you. His stance is still rigid, shoulders set, every inch of him coiled like a spring ready to snap. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, the small tremor in his hands, the way his chest rises and falls unevenly, the shallow exhale he doesn’t realize he’s holding back. The rain drums around you, holding the moment together.
“Do you really think they won’t come back later?” His voice is low but hard; it's a good contrast as he raises a hand to grip the forearm fisting his jacket.
“Yes,” you say firmly, “You’ve done your part. I’ve done mine. Gotham’s going to survive this night because of us.”
In the future, tomorrow and the days after, you’ll look back on this night and wonder just how good a liar you were to your past self. You used to never care about Gotham or her people, whether the kids running through alleyways were carrying the right kind of powder. Your phone still never stays on silent, but back then, you didn’t get calls in the middle of the night because no one would have called in the first place. Now you’re out in the cold, in the middle of the night, playing hero with someone you say you don’t love.
“Yeah… yeah. You’re right," Jason finally breathes properly for the first time since this op started. His grip on your arm loosens, and his arm falls uselessly back into his lap, but he doesn't pull away from yours.
It’s nice. Nice that Jason is comfortable enough to let you touch him, even knowing what lies beneath. Even when your hands slide past his jacket and hover over his chest, he still waits patiently. Even so, you press each fingertip against him, one by one. They drift upward, palms kneading into his shoulders, fingers spreading just enough to rest along his throat. Not too close. Nothing his mind could mistake for a choke.
One inhale. Two. Three. Then exhale back down again.
“Nervous, Red?” you whisper, dimly aware that the rain has softened into a gentle patter. You trace the seam of the helmet, the cold metal and hard edges marking your skin in faint red lines. For a moment, it almost feels easy.
“Why would I be? You’ve already seen my face before,” he lets out a whisper of a laugh. His hands come up to cover yours as he works at disarming the bomb strapped to his face. The hiss and whirl of moving parts as it unlatches and opens.
Seriously. What a suicidal freak. You’re going to be good to him. So good for him. He’ll finally have a reason to live beyond the mask.
“And it’s a real pretty face," Your hand slides up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw. He leans into the touch without hesitation, like it’s something he’s been missing. Then he turns his head just enough to press a quiet kiss into your palm.
It should feel sweeter than it does.
But there’s no smile, no warmth behind it. He still doesn't believe you when you say you find him handsome, but that's okay. You don't need to win this fight.
Tim thinks you’re giving him too much power by unwaveringly agreeing with everything he says. You cut people off, skip dates, all just because he says he doesn’t like them.
Tim Drake x Male Reader.
Tim is a creep, but reader is even worse.
Part 2: Here | Part 3: TBA
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“They were nice.”
“They were rude.”
You and Tim blink at each other, startled by how different your impressions are. You had been invited to a very belated high school reunion by a few of your old classmates. At first, it sounded exciting. You hadn’t kept in touch with any of them, practically disappearing off the face of the planet when you left for university, so it was surprising they had even remembered you. They had also been kind enough to let you bring a plus-one.
You thought they had been nice. They made an effort to include him, even though he was not technically part of the reunion.
Apparently, Tim disagreed.
“You think so?” you ask, sliding your hands into your coat pockets. It is still early fall in Gotham, but the chill is enough to make you consider gloves. A folded piece of paper, another date and time for a future get-together, brushes against your fingers.
A complicated expression crosses Tim’s face as he bites the inside of his cheek. He folds his arms, glances at the ground, then back at you, then away again.
“I mean… I’m sure they’re nice people. I don’t technically know them, but…” He gestures vaguely, searching for the right words. He doesn’t want to come out swinging just because he's the one with paranoid tendencies, or all the two-faced people he deals with at WE, bleed into this. Sure, some of the things your classmates claimed were flat-out lies, but he can’t tell you that without you frowning at him for playing detective again. Still, it’s very telling that you were allowed to invite him as soon as you name-dropped that you were bringing Tim Drake.
“Then we won’t go again.”
Tim sputters, cut off mid-thought, as you tear up the slip of paper one of the girls had given you and toss it into a nearby trash can. His hand reflexively reaches for one of the drifting pieces before he catches himself. There’s no way he’s sticking his hand in Gotham’s trash.
“But… uh… what?” he says, completely thrown. What do you mean we won’t go again? He is just your plus-one. It is not even his reunion, and he hasn't even finished high school yet.
“I thought they were a little too into chemical and bio research,” you say with a laugh, bumping your shoulder lightly against his, “The tech stuff I get, but I do not know anyone who gets that excited about the periodic table.”
You lean in, the warmth of your side pressing against him, your voice dropping as you add, “Thanks for coming. And for putting up with all that.”
The words Tim wants to say sit right on the tip of his tongue.
'You do not need to thank me. Of course I would come if you asked.'
But he does not say any of them.
Okay. The high school reunion thing? That was Tim being honest. He really did think your classmates were rude. They barely tried to hide the way they were brushing you off just to cozy up to him instead. It was obvious and obnoxious, and he is glad you trust his opinion enough to cut yourself off from them so quickly.
This, though? This is Tim being a petty bitch.
“I wouldn’t go if I were you. She seems shady,” Tim says flatly, refusing to look up from his phone to see your reaction. Still, he hears the pause in your shuffling, the weight of your eyes on him. You’re in the middle of changing for a date with a fellow intern. Apparently, she peer-reviewed your cover letter, though Tim is convinced you would have gotten in without her help. She also takes midnight trips to the lab and keeps a paper schedule of the security guard’s rotations tucked inside her phone case.
“Tim, you don’t even know what she looks like,” you say with a chuckle as you slip on your button-up shirt.
Tim glances up.
Fuck.
He knows he has the world’s biggest sleeper build, but there's something about you standing half-naked so casually in front of him that has his brain short-circuiting.
“Actually… do you?”
“Huh?” he says like an idiot.
You let out a fond sigh and rub the back of your neck. You pause halfway through buttoning your shirt and walk over, poking him between the eyes until he goes cross-eyed.
“I’m asking if you’ve already started looking into her, Pro Stalker 3. Keep up,” you laugh louder when Tim makes an offended face and bats your hand away like a cat. Part of him wants to argue and insist that no, he did not do that, and he is not the creep everyone makes him out to be. It is called security. It is called being careful. This is Gotham, and most of its villains either have a PhD or were made in a lab.
Also, he absolutely does not think it is both hot and wildly inappropriate that your idea of self-preservation includes being completely fine with his lack of boundaries.
Of course, he says none of this. He is too busy staring at your bare chest and losing any chance of looking normal in your eyes.
Your phone buzzes somewhere behind him, lighting up the edge of the desk. You glance at it, then flip it over without checking.
“Weren’t you supposed to go?”
“Mm. I was.”
You make no move to leave.
Tim does not ask again.
It works out for him in the end.
Later, he reaps the benefits of that poor intern, whatever her name was, his hands tracing slow, deliberate lines down your chest while unanswered messages pile up out of sight.
In the time between then and now, Tim has had his hands full with Titan’s world-ending disasters, so he hasn’t exactly been keeping up with you as much as he wanted. But it hasn’t been that long since he was running around on the other side of the globe, and yet you had to go and ruin everything.
Because how dare you, right? You finally let Tim into your bed, rocked his world, and then, as soon as he gets back from saving the world, you’re introducing him to your new girlfriend.
What’s worse is that she’s genuinely a good person. No criminal record, no estranged family drama, no shady underground business- she doesn’t even drink! She had heard his full legal name and didn’t even blink. There’s nothing Tim can point to as a reason you should break up with her. Where did you even find this girl? Did you make her? You’re not off the “one mild inconvenience, and I blow up Gotham” list, but Tim thinks you’re weird enough to do it for shits and giggles.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t miss me too much,” she laughs, patting your shoulder. She’s considerate and doesn’t want to make Tim uncomfortable with PDA before heading to the restroom.
It’s quiet after she leaves. You chew on your food while Tim pushes his around the plate, like he’s trying to burn a hole through the ceramic, the wooden table, and straight into the concrete beneath.
“I don’t like her.”
That’s all he can manage, his voice tight and clipped, as he crushes a baby tomato with his fork. The squish is almost satisfying in a small, ridiculous way, yellow seeds spilling across the plate like tiny, pathetic casualties of his mood. He stabs at another bite, then pushes it away. His fork spins uselessly, skimming the edge of the plate as if it could dig through more than just food.
In his flustered state, he had pointed at something on the menu without looking, accidentally ordering something he didn’t even like. His stomach twists with irritation. Not at the food exactly, but at you, at the unfairness of it all, at how calm you look across the table while his brain is imploding.
“Okay. I’ll break up with her.”
Tim shouldn’t be surprised, yet it hits him like a gut punch. He knew this might happen, even half-expected it, and still… boom. Right to the stomach. His mind spins. Frenzied, panicked, suspicious, and somehow… a little smug.
His plate of crushed tomato and the rest of the food slides away. Swapping it with yours, even though you're left with a massacre. Your plate is exactly what he would have ordered if he’d been paying attention.
In the novel, Cale and his fiancé only share a professional relationship. But with Kim Rok Soo transmigrated into his body, he questions how that even happened. Aren't you a bit too handsome to be treated as a co-worker?
Cale Henituse/Kim Rok Soo x Fiancé Male Reader.
Takes place in the beginning because I haven't read that far.
masterlist
"It's been a while since you've seen your fiancé. I know you both don't like each other, but you should meet at least once a year."
His father’s words still ring in Kim Rok Soo’s mind as he watches the carved stone scenery give way to forest trees, the carriage rumbling across a high stone bridge. The sound of the river below blends with the rustle of weeds and the splash of fish pushing through the current. Elbow resting on the window frame, chin propped in hand, his other hand idly strokes Hong and On’s fur. He’s a bit worried. Since Cale was only a minor antagonist in the beginning, there hadn’t been much written about his personal relationships, especially not this one. Only one throwaway line existed for him to go on.
"Cale Henituse and his fiancé only shared a professional relationship."
He suspects that Cale’s, now his, fiancé knew about his trashy behaviour and drinking problem, and kept their distance to preserve their reputation. If not for the Henituse family’s wealth, the engagement probably wouldn’t even exist. Still, it complicates things for Kim Rok Soo’s goal of living a lazy and mediocre life. He doesn’t know what kind of person you are, whether you resent being engaged to a lout, or if you’ll have any significance later. He doesn’t even know what you look like.
“Why do you look so nervous? Are we meeting someone scary?” Hong asks, batting a paw against Cale’s stomach to get his attention. On looks up silently, her curious eyes mirroring her brother’s. He doesn't blame the two siblings for their concern; this will be the first time he meets someone he has no plan for.
"Perhaps, although they can't afford to hurt us," Cale huffs, quietly amused at his own pun, though the notch in his brow doesn’t fade. He scratches under Hong’s chin, pleased by the happy purrs that fill the carriage. His other hand moves to On, brushing between her soft ears. “That’s why I’m expecting you both to dial up your charms and get to work.”
“Yes, sir!” they chirp in unison, tails swishing as they nudge his hand for more pets. A small smile tugs at Cale’s lips as he indulges them. He hadn’t been fond of cats in his previous life, but these two have managed to creep into his heart. He’s confident they’ll succeed, if the extravagant seat Hans had set up for them is anything to go by. If his fiancé can’t treat animals well, it’ll be easier to have a valid reason and keep a safe distance.
He’ll just have to do what he does best: play it by ear and ask for a drink.
---
“I didn’t know you were fond of pets, or that your father allowed them in the estate.”
“I suppose they got lucky…” Cale can feel wrinkles forming from how often he’s furrowed his brows. His poor, good-looking face will end up ruined at this rate. Meanwhile, Hong and On are in heaven, snuggling at your legs. He’d told them to act cute, but judging by their enthusiasm, they’re not pretending anymore. The treats and affection you’ve given them have completely bought their loyalty.
“Hmm. If you say so. They are quite cute," your quiet laugh brushes against his eardrums, and Cale really needs that drink. He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing his eyelids until colour bursts behind them. He’s misread this situation completely, and to be fair, he doubts anyone could’ve prepared for this.
You’re a man. Not the woman he assumed you were. That one’s on him, really. When reading the novel, he’d thought the author had simply mistyped and used the wrong character. It was a single sentence about a forgotten character, so he had brushed it off.
Regardless, whether you were meant to be male or female doesn’t matter, because-
You’re far too handsome.
When Kim Rok Soo first woke up in this world, he thought he’d lucked out. Cale was rich, attractive, and elegant enough to wear anything, and everyone around him seemed to have been sculpted by the same unfairly generous author: Choi Han with his sharp angles and heart of gold, Rosalyn with her vibrant hair and ambitious eyes, even the servants looked like they belonged in portraits. But when his carriage rolled to a stop before your estate and you opened the door yourself, sunlight catching on the stray strands of hair that had escaped their tie, he realized instantly that you were on an entirely different level. The faint scent of cedar and ink lingered in the air as your hand met his, steady and warm, and for a beat, Kim Rok Soo forgot to breathe. Even Hong and On had to nudge his leg to stop him from gawking. He coughed into his hand, masking his lapse with Cale’s usual nonchalance, but the thought still hit him with an almost comedic clarity: How had someone with that face ended up treated like a background character? How had you and Cale only shared a professional relationship?
“I need a drink…” he mutters, too low to be polite but loud enough for you to hear. Ah. That answers one question already, your fiancé’s drinking habit must’ve been rough for you.
“My apologies. I got carried away," the soft smile you’d worn fades into a firmer line as you give Hong and On one last affectionate scratch. Their whines follow you as you say, “I’ll fetch something from our cellar.”
Two things stand out to Cale immediately.
One: you’d called Count Deruth his father, not your father-in-law, despite your engagement being publicly acknowledged. That single phrasing already told him more about your situation than a dozen letters could have. It meant you were being careful, maybe even trying to keep the Henituse name separate from your own, to preserve some independence or dignity. That alone set you apart from everyone else he’d encountered—people who fell in line or played their roles without a thought.
Two: despite your status, you were the one who’d opened his carriage door and helped him down, hand steady and polite, the faintest trace of callouses brushing against his palm. Now, you’re the one offering to fetch his drink, a task he’d normally assign to Ron or Hans.
The picture is painfully clear. You’re well-mannered, intelligent, probably too kind for your own good, and, unfortunately, broke.
He leans back against the chair, crossing one leg over the other. The cushion dips under his weight, a faint creak of the frame cutting through the quiet room. The house isn’t neglected, but it feels tired. The polished floorboards have dulled in certain patches; the curtains look older than they should.
It fits the narrative.
Cale drums his fingers against the armrest, eyes half-lidded. In a world with dragons and ancient relics, being short on funds must be worse than being cursed. He can almost hear Ron’s dry chuckle or Choi Han’s gentle disapproval in his mind. But Cale doesn’t pity you. He just finds it… interesting. The way you carry yourself, all poise and composure, as if you haven’t noticed the cracks showing. You play the part of a noble well.
“Cale Henituse and his fiancé only shared a professional relationship.”
He can see why now. There’s nothing to gain from sentimentality when survival depends on pretending not to sink.
“You’re running out of funds, aren’t you?” Cale says suddenly. Your steps halt at the doorway. There’s a pause, a single sharp intake of breath, before the hinges groan and the door eases shut. The faintest shift of your weight, the soft click of your boots against the floor.
“Yes,” you say quietly. “You are correct. Will that be a problem for you, regarding our engagement?”
The honesty is disarming. No hesitation, no excuses, no attempt to hide it behind pride. Just a simple agreement. Cale exhales slowly, thoughtfully, and lets his gaze drift just slightly downward, trying to disguise the curiosity sparking behind his usual calm demeanor. Honest, agreeable, and, frustratingly, too handsome for your own good. You would have been the fan-favorite side character who dies halfway through to give the protagonist emotional depth.
He sits up a little straighter. The leather glove around his hand creaks as he folds his fingers together.
“Of course not,” he replies without missing a beat, “I’m loaded. I don’t need your money.”
That earns the faintest twitch of your lips. Not quite a smile or pity, but it's charming all the same. Cale shifts slightly in his seat, willing down the heat travelling up his pale neck to his cheeks. He's tempted to fake another cough, but he's already done that before. He knows you were nice enough to not point it out. You've been watching him as carefully as he has you.
He gestures toward the seat across from him, “Sit. I want to learn more about my fiancé.”
You move without hesitation, crossing the space deliberately, and settle into the chair opposite him. You adjust slightly once, ensuring your posture is straight but comfortable. Cale notes the subtle movements, the small indications of confidence in the way you arrange yourself. He shifts his weight again, resting his elbows lightly on the armrests, and studies you more closely. The distance between you is polite, exactly the kind that would suit a “professional relationship.”. He wonders, briefly, if that’s why Cale Henituse, the original one, never bothered to get closer. Maybe he’d thought you were too unremarkable, too ordinary in a story filled with heroes and villains. Or maybe he just never looked close enough.
Kim Rok Soo, however, has always been the kind to notice the background details. The light catches along your hollow cheekbones, outlining the slope of your bony jaw, the faint shadow of fatigue beneath your eyes. You look like someone who’s been holding a crumbling house together with spit and blood.
“You don’t need to act so formal,” he says after a moment, “It’s exhausting to watch.”
Your brows rise slightly, “Then how would you prefer I act, Lord Cale?”
“Like someone who doesn’t care whether I approve of them or not.”
A pause. Then, to his mild surprise, you actually relax a little, leaning back in your chair. There’s something almost amused in your eyes now.
“As you wish,” you murmur.
The silence that follows is oddly comfortable. Hong’s purr rumbles softly in the background, and On yawns, curling into a ball near the chair legs. Cale’s gaze drifts to the faint gold ring on his own hand, a symbol of an engagement that had never meant anything. Until now, perhaps.
“We’ll get along fine,” he says at last, mostly to himself. “Just don’t cause me any trouble.”
You hum in acknowledgment, “I’ll do my best, Lord Cale.”
He watches the slight tilt of your head as you speak, the even cadence of your words, the calm certainty behind them. There’s no hidden agenda, no attempt to manipulate, no sign that you intend to interfere with his plans. You are competent, careful, and measured. He realizes that because you’ve been able to remain unnoticed until now, despite your capabilities and presence, you likely won’t bring trouble to him. You understand boundaries and have learned to navigate situations without attracting conflict. That in itself is a relief, and a rare one at that.
He hums back, low and unimpressed, but the faintest smirk tugs at his mouth as he leans back in his seat.
Professional relationship, he thinks. Yeah, right.
While learning the ways of the graveyard, Flins finds himself on the receiving end of mischievous pranks.
Flins x Ghost Male Reader.
Spoilers for the "To The Light House" world quest.
masterlist
The Final Night Cemetery feels different tonight. The mist is thicker than usual, born from days of warm seas wrapping around the island until the full moon slips free of the clouds. The vapor gathers into droplets that bead along the grass and curl around the gravestones. Flins is still new to his duties as a Lightkeeper and guardian of the graveyard, so he isn’t sure if this is normal or a sign of danger waiting on the horizon. He remembers humans naming such omens as the "calm before the storm". He doubts it. Storms have never bothered him; he's always liked the sound of the thunder and rain.
Still, it’s nights like this, quiet and tranquil, that leave too much room for his thoughts.
Luckily, the quiet doesn’t last. The cemetery rarely is, despite what the location may imply, and tonight the laughter of phantom children drifts through the fog. They circle him, translucent forms slipping between headstones and crumbled rock. They can’t touch him or his tools, but they shriek and yell, dart across his path, and cackle when he raises his lantern. Flins only shakes his head and carries on. Their antics interrupt his work, but he has long since grown used to their presence.
Lately, though, there seems to be another presence taking an interest in him. The ghosts never step indoors, yet the air inside often feels colder than it should. Whispers curl through the hills at odd hours, too faint to catch, followed by muffled chuckles that fade when he turns his head. Just last night, something had leaned close enough to scream in his ear, only to scatter before catching his expression: nothing more than a tired blink.
"Here! This way! This way!" one of the little spirits calls, sweeping past him as two more follow close behind. Perhaps they are siblings; their voices sound bright and playful as they circle one another. He can’t help but wonder if they even notice him. Or if he’s just another passing shadow to them, a stranger caught in their endless game.
Suddenly, the children freeze. Their little faces turn toward something behind him. Then, in a flurry of pale light and shrill laughter, they scatter as if something is chasing them.
A sudden, cold rush of air brushes against his ear.
“Boo.”
Flins only turns his head, unfazed, his lantern still burning blue. Half of his face disappears into wispy white, passing through what should be solid flesh and warm blood. A young man hovers at his shoulder, wearing a wry smile with his hands cupped around his mouth beside Flins’s ear.
“Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you wouldn’t flinch at such a silly prank. Especially since you’re still here on this island,” you laugh, and this time Flins reacts. He glances around, assuming you must be speaking to the children who had just run off. Perhaps you are their reluctant older brother, stepping in to shoo them away? Did you mistake Flins as the fourth sibling? This must be a rather large family.
"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?" you ask, spinning on your heel and coming to stand directly in front of Flins. You lean over slightly, stick out your tongue, and point to it with exaggerated flair. Flins frowns, scanning the area again. He hasn’t seen any animals on this island, let alone a cat, and he doesn't recall a family pet being buried here either.
"How would a cat catch my tongue? That sounds rather painful," Flins says more to himself, lifting a hand to his chin and assuming that “thinking” pose he’s seen others make when confused. His lantern casts a steady glow, illuminating the faint haze around them, and he notices the way you tilt your head, eyebrows raised, clearly amused yet confused.
"Not an- I mean- What? No, it’s just an expression. You know, like, don’t put all your eggs in one basket?" you say, waving a hand up and down awkwardly, trying to explain yourself. You glance sideways at Flins, hoping for some sign of understanding, but the silence stretches on. Behind them, muffled giggles drift through the mist. Your shoulders slump, and your hand falls to your side in defeat.
"You know what, forget I said anything," you mutter, voice tinged with exasperation. The white spirits of the children float back into view, bobbing gently as they laugh, their glowing centers pulsing softly. The light flickers with each movement, as if keeping time with their invisible heartbeats. They seem delighted by the exchange, circling playfully around each other. You shake your head, giving them an exaggerated frown and poking the one who had shouted first. The child-spirits squeal before darting out of reach again, leaving behind a trail of faintly glowing mist.
"What did I tell you brats about running? You're going to trip and fall, and somehow I’ll be blamed for it," you scold, wagging a finger at the little spirits, "Come on now, apologize to the Lightkeeper, or I’ll tell on you."
The children freeze mid-hover, their small forms wobbling as they exchange nervous glances. They bow their heads quickly, little glowing pulses flickering faster with each second of that stern gaze.
"We’re sorry, Mister. We won’t do it again," they chorus, voices tiny and contrite. You crouch slightly to lower yourself to their level, shooing them off.
"Run along home now," you add, sweeping a ghostly arm in a playful but commanding gesture. The children giggle softly, hovering in place for a moment longer before scattering into the mist, their glowing forms bobbing like drifting lanterns as they disappear from view.
Flins watches the scene. This ghost seems young, yet somehow you command these spirits with ease, keeping the cemetery calmer than Flins ever could on his own. There’s a lightness in the way you move, a natural authority that even the mischievous children respect. Flins quietly wonders how long you've been here before the Lightkeeper's arrival.
"You are different from the other phantoms," Flins says, his voice calm but curious, eyes narrowing slightly as he studies you.
"Whatever could you mean?" you reply, you smile faintly, the expression flickering like light through smoke. Flins doesn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze sweeps over you, tracing the edges of those wispy edges and the faint shimmer where you form fades in and out, the dim light that pulses faintly beneath your skin.
"So far, all the ghosts I’ve encountered only repeat words or actions from their memories. They cannot-" he pauses, searching for the right phrasing, his brow furrowing ever so slightly, "-interact meaningfully. But you… You respond to me, even though I am certain we’ve never met before."
His voice echoes faintly in the hollow air, the sound seeming to stretch and curl before fading away. You notice the way his hand tightens around the lantern handle, how the soft glow flickers in rhythm with his pulse. A subtle tremor of unease. He’s cautious, not frightened, but wary in the way of someone who’s seen too much already.
"That’s true," you admit, leaning closer just enough for the light to catch the faint outline of your face, giving a playful wink that doesn’t even register on him. "I think I’d remember a face like yours."
He frowns, confused, and instinctively presses a hand against his cheek. Is there something wrong with his face? Or perhaps he’s trying to read the meaning behind your words. The lantern’s blue glow flickers across his features, highlighting the faint shadows under his eyes.
"You can speak to them?" Flins asks instead, his expression sobering. He exhales quietly, almost imperceptibly, but you catch the way his shoulders drop a fraction, the faintest hint of tension easing. Perhaps curiosity, for him, is stronger than fear.
"If I could, then I wouldn’t be talking to you, right?" you reply, your voice carrying a faint lilt of amusement. Your form flickers faintly with the mist as you gesture lazily toward the children’s retreating shapes, "I can just give more… suggestions, I suppose. Although conversation starters are hard. Plus, they’re a bit more willing to hear me out than someone like you."
Flins shifts his stance, boots sinking slightly into the damp grass. You can hear the soft hiss of his lantern’s flame, the low, steady breathing of the sea, and somewhere in the dark, the slow drip of water echoing against stone.
"They’re just children having some fun," you murmur, your voice carrying more softly now, almost in rhythm with the tide, "We don’t often get permanent living residents; they must have been lonely."
Your smile holds, though the curve of it falters at the edges. The glow that outlines your shape dims just slightly, shadows settling along your face where light once lingered. You glance past him toward the horizon, where the fog folds into the moonlit waves. The mist dances faintly over the water, curling like hands reaching for something they can’t quite grasp. A breeze drifts inland, brushing against you, stirring the loose strands of your hair. It carries with it the brine of the ocean and the whisper of a world that still moves without you. For a moment, your expression slips, your smile still there, but hollowed out by something quieter, older. The teasing warmth from before fades, replaced by an echo of memory you can’t entirely touch, only feel at the edges.
“Lonely, hm,” you repeat under your breath, as if testing how the word feels after all this time. It comes out small. Barely a whisper.
Flins watches you closely. He doesn’t move, but the lowering of his lantern acts as a silent acknowledgement, or perhaps pity. The blue light catches in his eyes, twin reflections of moon and sea, and for the briefest second, it almost feels like he can see through you. You turn back toward him with a faint, practiced grin, the dim light flickering once more to life.
“Anyway,” you say, tone lilting back toward casual, “they’ll tire themselves out soon enough. Ghosts have a terrible sense of bedtime.”
But even as you joke, the mist seems to settle heavily around you both, thickening until it softens the edges of the world. The light from Flins’s lantern struggles against it, the blue glow flickering faintly, painting the air in ghostly hues. The laughter of the distant spirits has long since faded, leaving only the faint rhythm of the sea and the whisper of wind through unseen reeds.
"Are you one of these children?" Flins asks quietly. His brow creases, unsure if his question is foolish, but something in your demeanor has shifted, and he can’t help but ask.
You blink and then laugh, the sound soft but with an odd undercurrent that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, "Oh? So you do have some humor in you. I’m just… making sure you’re prepared."
You tilt your head with a mischievous glint in your eyes, but it fades as your outline starts to blur with the mist. The fog gathers thick around you, swallowing shape and color until even the glow that clung to you becomes part of the haze. The blue light of the lantern flickers once more as Flins straightens, staring into the fog long after your shape has disappeared, unsure whether to feel unsettled or… strangely reassured. He draws a slow breath, the scent of salt and damp earth heavy in his lungs.
The last thing Flins feels is a cool brush against his ear as your voice lingers, faint but clear:
"When it gets lonely, let’s keep each other company, little Lightkeeper."
For some reason, it had never fully registered in your brain that Sae styles his bangs up and away from his forehead. Sure, logically, you know his hair doesn’t just defy gravity on its own. You’ve helped him pack his bag for overseas matches, seen the childhood photos, and even stayed the night to know about that little pot of gel he keeps on the bathroom counter. Yet somehow, your brain had filed that fact away, never really considering what he might look like without it.
That is, until tonight.
He steps out of the bathroom, freshly showered, steam still clinging to his skin and curling in the air around him. The collar of his T-shirt is slightly damp where his wet hair rests, a faint shimmer of moisture catching the light. Your mouth is just about to nag him, something about sleeping with wet hair, but it falters as your eyes land on him. His bangs, unstyled and soft, fall in loose strands in a straight line across his forehead, sticking slightly together in patches. He looks almost innocent; the sharp angles of his face soften into something almost pretty and feminine.
What the fuck. How does someone go from hot to cute just based on which way their hair falls? Is it his face? Definitely his face. Mother and Father Itoshi, please allow me to extend my gratitude for having your son tolerate me. That will not last long.
"You’re staring,” Sae says flatly, raising an eyebrow at you. He looks less than impressed at your gawking, though the hostility drops about twenty points thanks to his bangs. It’s one of those classic bowl haircuts parents make their children get before they figure out their own style and inevitably ruin it. You remember that phase of your life, when you were ripping holes in everything, adding too many blacks and chains to your wardrobe, trying to look more mysterious than you actually were.
“Why don’t you wear your hair down more often?” you finally manage to say, sounding both dazed and oddly betrayed.
He shrugs, passing by as if this isn’t a pivotal moment in your romantic history, “It gets in my eyes.”
“What a shame,” you sigh, but from the way Sae’s eyes narrow even further, it’s clear your goofy grin isn’t selling it, “You look cuter.”
It’s truly a testament to how much you’ve tricked Sae into thinking he likes you more than he actually does. Otherwise, you’d be shot dead on the spot for that comment. Instead, all you get is a huff of exasperated resignation, like he’s stuck dealing with an absolute idiot. How unfortunate for him that he actually likes this one.
“Did you hit your head? You’re acting more annoying than usual,” Sae mutters, brushing you off. You only bark out a laugh, stretching your hands toward him with grabby little motions, patting your thigh like you’re calling over a stray cat. He tilts his head, deciding whether it’s worth the effort, but you don't let up as you wave, plead, and slowly wear him down with sheer persistence. Eventually, he gives in with a soft sigh, arms folded as he steps closer and plants himself between your legs. You grin, taking your time to look him over, gaze inevitably snagging on the fringe of hair falling across his forehead.
“I’m just admiring my boyfriend and the cute bangs he never lets me see,” you murmur, voice low and teasing. Your hand finds his waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to steal the warmth of his skin. The other hand drifts lower, sliding beneath his knee to coax him onto your lap. To your surprise, he goes easily, settling without a hint of resistance, and the simple weight of him makes your chest tighten. You hold your breath, afraid that if you let too much slip, the black cat in your arms might sense it and vanish the moment your feelings show too clearly.
“What about you?” he asks softly, his voice bending toward teasing. Sae leans forward, hands resting lightly on your shoulders as he shifts his weight onto his knees. His fingers brush strands of hair from your face, and the closeness sends a flutter through your stomach, “Do you leave your hair messy to hide how far back your hairline is?”
A soft laugh slips from your throat, warmth blooming in the small space between you. His eyes flicker down to your lips before finding your gaze again, and the little up-turn quirk in his lips makes you hot as he leans a little closer. You tilt your head, meeting him halfway, a small smile tugging at your mouth. Your hand trails up his side, fingers tracing the curve of his ribs, while your other hand curls lightly into the fabric at the back of his shirt. For just a moment, his hands press a little more firmly against your shoulders, steadying you both in the closeness you’ve fallen into. Then he closes the space between you, his lips meeting yours in a slow, careful kiss.
It's nice, kissing Sae Itoshi. The thought that you're the only one to do so makes a possessive little spark in you burn, so much that you want to grin and fist pump the air. His lips are far softer than expected, warm and slow against yours. Plus, with his bangs hanging low, every time he leans in or tilts his face to deepen the kiss, they sweep lightly against your skin. Feather-soft and ticklish. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him smiling into the kiss. It's just a little, but it makes your heart squeeze, because Sae doesn't smile easily. Not for the cameras, not for strangers. But maybe for you. You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, still chasing the moment.
“You cut me deep, love. I’ll never recover from that,” you snicker, bumping your forehead lightly against his chest. Despite the words, a contented hum slips out as Sae threads his fingers through your hair, brushing it back gently. “If you keep doing that, I really will lose hair before I hit my midlife crisis."
Sae says nothing in response, likely having hit his limit in entertaining your quips. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him, what with soccer season and his brutal training regimen. It’s nice to have Itoshi Sae here, your boyfriend, simply in your arms, being a bit of a dick while you hold him tenderly.
“I missed you,” you whisper into his chest. There’s no sadness in your voice; Sae was upfront from the start that his soccer career came first, and he couldn’t make sacrifices for you over it. Still, the words are filled with longing, “Hurry up and win the World Cup already before I go bald.”
A warm breath escapes him, almost a laugh, before the gentle press of his lips lands on your forehead. His fingers cup your cheeks, cold but grounding, and the small intimacy wraps around you like a quiet reassurance.
“Soon,” he murmurs, and you linger together, just like this.
Rin x Male reader (since Blue Lock doesn't have female players, but no pronouns are used.)
“Shidou!”
Rin’s eyes snap to you, livid, because what the fuck do you think you’re doing? How dare you even consider passing the ball to someone who isn’t him? Surely you don’t actually believe Shidou can score when Rin is right there. The thought alone makes his stomach twist with rage. Another thick strand of drool slips past his lips, hanging obscenely before breaking and splattering onto the fake grass. Rin can’t tear his eyes away from the spot where it lands, right between his cleats. That’s where the ball- no, his ball, at his feet- should be if you would just come to your senses and give him what’s rightfully his.
But your eyes are on him, even as your mouth shapes another’s name. The sound of it grates against his skull, but your gaze is what burns. Even when your leg swings back to kick, you’re not looking toward that demon; you’re looking at him. That fleeting moment of contact slices through the haze clouding Rin’s thoughts, sparking something wild and furious in his chest. He surges forward, faster than before, towards the goal. From the corner of his eye, he catches Isagi tearing across the field, desperation in every stride as he angles to intercept. Beyond him, Shidou is already mid-air, his body twisted, teeth bared as though he’s about to bite the ball out of the sky.
Lukewarms.
It’s the closest thing to euphoria. The ball arcs high into the air, sailing just out of reach of Bastard München’s players. Isagi’s face twists in delayed realization, the snap of his expression betraying that he has been deceived. The ball drops in the perfect spot, and he hurls every cell in his body into the strike that drives it clean into the net.
The world erupts, but all Rin feels is the ringing in his ears, a sharp vibration that drowns out the announcer’s call of his name. His lungs burn, his legs tremble, but he only has a few precious seconds to recuperate before he slips under, and the game resumes.
Through the noise and the haze, he hears it. The soft, uneven crunch of grass beneath deliberate steps, breaths pulled ragged and hard. Your shoes appear in his blurred vision, close enough for him to see the smudges of scuff clinging to them. Forcing his heavy eyes upward, he finds you. Sweat clings to your brow, trickling down as you wipe at your forehead, your chest heaving with the same exhaustion that wracks him. Yet even in your fatigue, your gaze burns with the same greedy hunger that lives in his own eyes. The both of you are starving for the game, for victory, and in this fleeting pause, Rin feels it sink in like a punch to the gut.
“You’re gross,” you huff, and Rin isn’t sure what exactly you mean. Is it the drool still clinging to the corner of his mouth, the obsessive void of his ego, or the way the two of you had reacted and moved in perfect sync just moments ago? That split-second of instinctual trust; your blind pass, his certainty you’d deliver, it was enough to slice through the defense and score. Whether you mean one of those things or all of them, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the sour look you shoot him as you extend your hand, as if daring him to show even a shred of gratitude.
"Look whose talking," Rin scoffs, his voice wet and dry at the same time. He straightens up and slaps your palm in a high five that stings the skin raw.
And yet, in the aftermath of that sting, something unexpected happens. His fingers don’t pull away; instead, they curl firmly around yours. You step closer without realizing, a single suspended breath with the only sound registering being the harsh pounding of his pulse.
Then it happens. Chapped lips brush against spit-slicked ones. It’s clumsy, fleeting, a mistake you’ll both pretend never happened once the whistle blows and the game pulls you back in. But for that moment, Rin doesn’t care if it’s disgusting.
---
“So… what was that?” Shidou is the first to poke at the subject, looping an arm lazily around your shoulders so you can’t slip away from the problem. His grin is borderline feral, and you can feel the weight of his amusement pressing down on you. It’s probably payback for not passing to him and making him look like an idiot on the field.
“Mass hallucination. You were dreaming. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you snap back, shoving his arm off with more force than necessary and turning your head sharply away from that leering pink gaze drilling into you.
Your stomach twists. It’s humiliating, something you already know is going to play on repeat in your mind when you’re lying awake at night, staring blankly at the ceiling. A heat-of-the-moment mistake that short-circuited your brain, and you hadn’t even realized what was happening until it was too late. You and Rin had actually kissed. On national television. Not just in front of your teammates, but in front of Bastard München, in front of Isagi. Germany must think you’re freaks now.
"Wow, I've never known you could make such a shy expression. Was that your first kiss?" Karasu takes the rear, keeping you trapped between the two worst guys on the PXG Team.
You and Rin had both acted as if nothing had happened, shrugging it off as the match resumed, and everyone pretending the incident never occurred. But the second the game ends, a wave of post-match clarity hits you, what Shidou calls the "post-nut" moment. You nearly double over, face-planting into the ground, and your eyes dart between Rin and the rest of your teammates. Your hand brushes over your mouth in utter confusion. There’s no way Rin was okay with that, right?
"I don’t know, do you want your soccer career to end right now?" you snap, stomping down onto Karasu's shoe, but he slides away just in time, smirking. The scuffle escalates, and, unsurprisingly, Shidou jumps in; he can never be left unattended. Before you know it, a hand snags the back of your jersey, tugging you off balance as you’re hauled away.
"Come with me," Rin orders, his voice firm but calm. You bounce on your heels to keep from falling, glaring back at Shidou and Karasu. You’ve hit your daily embarrassment quota, so you stay quiet, still giving them both a sharp finger as a silent farewell. Rin keeps his grip steady, guiding you to somewhere private
+++
Unlike earlier, there’s nothing left to excuse your actions. The game is over, your head isn’t clouded with adrenaline, and yet you keep coming back for more. But Rin isn’t making it any easier. His nails dig into the back of your head, his teeth clamp harshly at your lips, and there’s way too much drool coating your chin. It’s, without a doubt, the worst kiss you’ve ever had.
“They’re going to make fun of us, you know,” you manage to gasp between Rin’s enthusiastic assault on your face. And seriously, is this his first kiss? He sucks so much it isn't even pitiful.
“Who cares if they do?” Rin mutters, but the brief flicker of self-consciousness in your eyes makes him pause. His grip on your chin tightens for a moment, forcing your gaze to meet his, “Stop thinking about other people.”
That gets an ugly bark of laughter from you before you decide to throw caution to the wind. Your hands, which had been pressing passively against his back, lunge forward, gripping his collar. You pull him close, daring, reckless, teeth bared as you sink into the corner of his lip. Tiny drops of blood stain both your lips, metallic and oddly thrilling. Perhaps you have been around Shidou too much.
"How's it taste?" you snicker, letting your tongue flick out briefly, tinged red.
"Like shit." he mutters, wiping at the blood with the pad of his thumb.
