Main: by-golly-itâs-ollie! Oliver they/them 25 Whore for Steve Rogers Bucky Barnes and Matt Murdock and will occasionally write Requests are open. BLANK BIOS GET BLOCKED/MINORS DNI
Okay so hi! Iâm finally up and going with this writing thing and Iâm loving it. So my requests ARE OPEN!
Before anybody requests PLEASE read these rules.
I do not write for fem!reader.
Every request given to me will automatically be a gn!reader unless specified.
Do not request anything that is extreme gore, violence, animal or child cruelty.
If I am uncomfortable with the request given to me I have the right to deny so, and will privately dm you as to why and we can rearrange what the request is so we are both happy.
You HAVE to be 18+ in order to interact with my blog
Blank bios, ageless bios, and minors WILL BE BLOCKED
I do not tolerate any transphobic, homophobic, racial, misogynistic, behavior nor any type of discrimination.
I am not political nor will I get political on this app.
I work two jobs, am studying for my LPN, and am chronically ill. I will get requests out when I can. I write for my enjoyment so please be patient.
I mainly write comfort fics for chronic illness so please donât hesitate to request for those but Iâm more than willing to write for everything else that follows through with my guidelines.
you slide your card toward the register like itâs nothing, like you didnât spend the last hour watching dick grayson smile at you across dinner and pretending your knees werenât weak.
he notices immediately. of course he does. this man has the reflexes of a cat and the dramatic instincts of a theatre kid raised by ninjas.
âheyâ hey, hey, hold on.â heâs already halfway out of his chair, eyes wide, voice half-laughing like he canât believe what heâs seeing. âwhat do you think youâre doing?â
you blink. â...paying?â
dick presses a hand to his chest like youâve wounded him. âpaying? you? for me?â he shakes his head slowly, lips twitching. âthatâs cute. wrong, but cute.â
you try not to smile, because heâs being ridiculous, standing there in his leather jacket, hair falling into his eyes like he was crafted to be your weakness. âi just thought I could take this one.â
âno, no, sweetheart.â he steps closer, resting his palms on the counter beside your hand. you can feel the warmth of him, the way he crowds in without being pushy. âthatâs my job.â
you raise a brow. âyour job?â
his grin softens just enough to make your heart stutter. âyeah. my job. i asked you out. i pay. thatâs the rule.â
âthatâs not a real rule.â you argue.
âit is in the dick grayson handbook,â he counters, tapping the imaginary badge on his chest. âchapter one: be a gentleman. chapter two: do unnecessary flips. chapter three: pay for dates.â
you snort. âi swear you make half of this up.â
he leans in, lowering his voice like itâs a secret just for you. âonly the parts meant to make you smile.â
your cheeks warm and he definitely catches it. His eyes flicker in that smug soft boy way, not arrogant, just unbearably fond.
dick nudges your card back toward you with two fingers, slow and deliberate. âlook⌠i know you can pay. youâre capable, youâre independent, you scare the hell out of me in the best way.â he pauses, blue eyes bright, honest. âbut let me treat you tonight. i want to.â
you swallow. âyou really donât like when i try to pay, huh?â
he huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. âi like that you try. i like that youâre thoughtful. but it also makes me wanna wrap you up in my arms and say ânope, not happeningâ every single time.â
âpossessive much?â you tease.
âonly when it comes to you,â he shoots back, grinning like itâs the most natural truth in the world.
he takes your card, sets it back in your bag, and presses the tiniest kiss to your forehead before you can argue. âlet me do this one. consider it⌠an investment in more nights like this.â
you look up at him, fighting a smile. âand what do i owe in return?â
dick shrugs lightly, looping his fingers with yours as he hands his card to the cashier. âjust keep showing up.â
and the way he says it. Soft, earnest, like youâre the best thing to happen to his week...yeah.
When you donât feel like youâre good enough, this is how theyâd react:
Jason would bring out a small box, this box contained all the attempted written letters he had tried to write to convey how he felt about you. Half of them were crumpled violently as though he wasnât happy with the lack of detail the note contained about your effect on him, the other half was either scribbled out or just really short notes as though Jason was giving himself a guideline as to how to properly convey his feelings into a couple of cohesive sentences. They were sweet and poetic in their own little ways even if half of the words were scribbled out, the sentiment was still there as you read each one, all of them were dated back to the very first day you met to current day and your smile couldnât be any bigger then Jasonâs ears were glowing red with flustering. He might be rubbish at his words, yet his written notes were nothing thing entirely, they were magic on paper even if Jason might not think the same, he written you like he was a worshiper, your devotee who prayed at your alter for another glimpse of you to complete his lifeâs one greatest wish.
Dick the carefree smile fades from his face as he was quick to realise how serious the situation was to you and would do his best to make you smile. Wether itâs making your favourite food in the morning or tying your shoes for you, making sure your drinking water and just pampering you by making you the most comfortable he can; all that before showering you in small gifts that reminded Dick of you in one way or another or grab things youâve bought from your shared living space and tell you the story behind them, telling you why they were placed where they were as he wanted to see them all the time, as well as the pictures on the walls and how he realised that you were a constant in his life that he never wants to be without. Ever. You could never not be enough for dick because you always were.
Bruce will immediately shut theses thoughts and feelings down while also validating while you feel that way, feelings and thoughts often collided and make one question their self worth and their purpose. He didnât want to wish that fate upon you and would do everything in his power to make sure you were given a reminder that you could never not be enough for him, he felt the same for a long while when you both started your little thing, not until you started showing him that he could never be a burden to you. Now he felt as though it was right to do so for him to do the same for you, caress your hands and arms while he tells you stories of how heâs catch himself looking at you without trying, almost as if he was made to look at you at every given opportunity possible as though heâd forget what you look like if he did.
Damian and Kyle Rayner are both artistic geniuses within their own right, both talented with whatever is in their hand whether itâd be a pen, pencil or a paintbrush or a stick of charcoal. So when you admit to not feeling like your good enough, Damian will raise his brow as though he doesnât believe this statement -he really doesnât- and will ask who planted such nonsense within your head, demanding to know whom to aim his anger and hatred towards while whispering sweet words into your ear about how your soul was impossible to draw for it was ever changing and ever evolving. A true treasure that he got lucky to call his own, his shimmering jewel and his beautiful beloved that he got to come back to mission after mission, to have and to hold for many future nights that youâll share together.
Where as Kyle will sit you down and show you all the artwork heâs done when you werenât looking at him, all of the sketches and water paintings heâs made of you in the past were beautiful and fully detailed, like he took extreme care in creating them to be utter perfection the only way he knew how. His art is his love language and you knew that he only drew what he loved in abundance and in a multitude of styles, and you were filled in his sketchbooks from top to bottom, whether you were sleeping or smiling to looking at birds as they took flight from the trees. You were always on his mind and him showing you oneâs he did a while back with red ruby hearts framing your face were more then enough to get through to you that Kyle was a devoted man to you and only you.
The first thing you notice when you wake is the quiet.
That soft, early kind of silence that only belongs to mornings, the kind where sunlight filters through curtains in golden slants and the world hasnât quite remembered to move yet.
You blink slowly, your eyes adjusting to the light leaking through the window, and it takes a moment before the night before catches up with you, the laughter, the way his hands fit around your waist, the warmth that lingered when he finally fell asleep beside you.
Dickâs sprawled across the bed, sheets tangled loosely around his waist, hair an absolute mess, black and soft, fanning across the pillow. The sight of him like this, peaceful, without the sharp focus that usually lives behind those blue eyes, pulls a quiet smile out of you before you even realize it.
You roll onto your side, your body turning toward him instinctively. Heâs breathing evenly, one hand resting against your pillow, the other curled under his chin. You canât resist it, you lean in and press a small, feather-light kiss to his forehead.
He stirs, but doesnât wake.
So you do it again, one to his temple, another to his cheekbone, slow, lazy kisses that trace the shape of his sleeping face. When your lips brush the edge of his hairline, he makes a faint sound, a half-asleep sigh that melts into a smile.
Then, without opening his eyes, he burrows deeper into the pillow where youâd been lying a moment ago, as if chasing the warmth you left behind. Itâs endearing in a way that makes your chest ache.
You linger there for a second longer, brushing a strand of hair from his face. Then you slip quietly out of bed, your bare feet touching the cool floorboards as you stretch, arms lifting above your head. The room smells faintly like his cologne, something clean, faintly smoky, and your blouse from last night feels far too tight and wrinkled to keep wearing.
So you pad softly toward his dresser, tugging open a drawer until you find one of his shirts. Gray, soft, a little oversized. You pull it over your head, it smells like him, of course, and it hangs loosely, slipping off one shoulder.
You glance back once, he hasnât moved, though heâs sprawled even more now, an arm reaching into the space youâd left, and you canât help the small smile that tugs at your lips before you head to the kitchen.
His apartment is quiet, still a little unfamiliar to you. You open a few cupboards before finding the coffee, another two before finding mugs. Itâs messy in a lived-in way, half a stack of case files on the counter, a grappling hook coiled neatly beside the sink (because of course it is). You shake your head, amused, as you start the coffee maker and pull out some eggs and bread.
You donât know exactly where he keeps everything, but you can handle this much.
You hum quietly as you move, a tune you donât really recognize, cracking eggs into a bowl, reaching for the carton of milk in the fridge. Itâs peaceful, simple, the kind of normalcy you didnât realize you missed.
The coffee begins to drip, filling the air with its rich, earthy smell. You pour a small dash of milk into the bowl, stirring with a fork, your mind drifting somewhere between last night and this morning.
You donât even hear him approach.
You only notice when a pair of warm hands slide under the hem of his shirt, under your shirt now, fingers splaying against your stomach. His palms are hot, his touch slow, familiar. Then come the kisses, soft, sleepy presses of lips to your bare shoulder, your neck, the line where your collarbone meets skin.
You freeze for half a second, startled, but not really, before you feel him smile against your skin.
âMmâ he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep, rough at the edges. âYouâre so sweetâŚâ
His words vibrate softly against your neck, his breath warm and ticklish. âMaking us breakfast and everything,â he continues, the teasing lilt creeping in. âYou must really like meâ
You canât help the little hum that slips out, something between a laugh and a sigh. You donât bother answering, just keep whisking the eggs as if his lips arenât currently mapping your shoulder.
He rests his chin against the top of your shoulder for a second, breathing you in. The silence stretches, comfortable, but charged, before he shifts again, lips finding the spot just below your ear.
And then you feel it.
The slow, deliberate drag of his tongue against the side of your neck.
âDickâ!â you squeal, laughter bursting out before you can stop it. You twist in his arms, smacking his shoulder with the back of your hand. âDonât lick me, ass!â
He laughs, a low, raspy sound that vibrates through his chest where itâs pressed against your back. âCouldnât help itâ he grins, utterly unrepentant. âYou smelled too good.â
You turn your head to glare at him, but itâs useless, he looks devastatingly happy for someone who just woke up. His hairâs a mess, his grin lazy, eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep. He looks like trouble.
âSay you like me,â he says, voice dropping to that half teasing, half serious tone he uses when he wants to get under your skin. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer again. âSay it and I wonât.â
âYouâreââ You start, but he gives you that look, the one thatâs all charm and boyish smugness, and you roll your eyes, sighing. âFine. Yes, I do like you. Now let me finish these eggs before they burn.â
He hums, clearly satisfied, lips brushing against your ear again. âYou like meâ he repeats softly, like heâs committing it to memory.
âDonât make me take it backâ you warn, though youâre smiling now.
He grins against your skin, pulling back just enough to grab the spatula from the counter. âOkay, okay. Iâll helpâ he says, though he clearly has no idea what heâs doing. âYou handle the eggs, Iâll handle the toast. Perfect team.â
âYouâll burn itâ
âIâll still eat itâ
You shake your head, laughing again, watching him fumble with the toaster as the coffee finishes brewing. The morning light catches his face, softer now, a little more real than the version of him you see out in the city at night.
And when he turns to look at you, shirt slipping off your shoulder, sunlight in your hair, standing barefoot in his kitchen, he swears under his breath like heâs seeing something too good to be true.
âYeah,â he says quietly, almost to himself, âI really like this.â
You meet his eyes, smile faint but honest. âMe too.â
The coffee steams between you. The eggs sizzle softly. Outside, the city wakes up.
But in that small apartment, with his hands brushing yours as he pretends to help, Dick Grayson looks at you like morning itself just decided to stay.
Pairing: Clark Kent x Female Nurse!Reader
Summary: The last thing you expect on your Friday night decompression drink is to see a too-drunk blonde being carried toward the door by two guysâone anxious redhead and one unfairly tall man in glasses and a sweater. Your nurse brain kicks in, and you do the only reasonable thing:
You try to fight him.
Tags: Meet-Fight?, Meet-Cute, Fluff, Alcohol consumption, Clark Kent is Soft and Huge, Protective Clark, Boyfriend Material Clark, Almost Fight Your Future Boyfriend. Protective Nurse!Reader, Exhausted Healthcare Worker Feels, Lois Lane: Menace and Wingwoman, Jimmy Olsen Is Stressed, Cat Grant is Very Drunk
wc 9.5k | Main masterlist
Dumb lil thing I wrote while I listened to that one Rihanna song - imma fight a man!!
You spotted her the way you spotted everythingâout of the corner of your eye, halfway through a sip of something too strong, too sweet, and not nearly enough to quiet the ER echo in your head.
A petite blonde, heels wobbling, head lolling, being half-carried between two men toward the door.
Your stomach went cold so fast it cut through the buzz.
One guy was wiry, average height, all elbows and effort, his face screwed up in concentration as he tried to keep her from sliding out of his grip. His face was screwed up in concentration as he tried to keep her from sliding out of his grip, jaw clenched, fingers digging into the crook of her knee. The otherâ Well.
The other was tall.
Ridiculously tall. You guessed, six-four at least, easy to pick out even in the dim light. Broad shoulders under a soft-looking sweater, sleeves pushed up just enough to show forearms that were definitely not skipping gym day. Dark curly hair, mused like heâd been running his hands through it. His glasses caught the neon like a flash of light every time he turned his head. He had the blonde tucked against his chest, one big arm banded around her back like she weighed nothing at all.
Maybe it was the way her arms hung limp, fingers loose. Maybe it was the unfocused angle of her chin, how her head tipped against his shoulder, mouth slack, eyes barely open and unfocused.
Or maybe it was the four-day blur of ER shifts still buzzing under your skin, every scenario your brain had catalogued over the week snapping open all at once.
Whatever it was, your body reacted before your brain caught up.
You set your drink down carefully, fingers catching on the condensation. You slid off the barstool, whipping your wet fingertips against your jeans, and started moving.
âHey!â the bartender called after you, confusion laced in his voice. You didnât look back.Â
The music thumped low and heavy in your chest. Colored lights strobed over a sea of faces turning everyone into moving shadows. The smell of spilled beer, fryer grease, and cheap perfume hit your nose. You dodged around a group of guys shouting about pool, ducked under someoneâs careless arm, and beelined for the door. Someone bumped your shoulder, but your eyes stayed locked on the trio heading for the exit.
The tall guy spotted you a second before you reached them.Â
His brows knit, confusion flickering behind his glasses as you planted yourself squarely in their path, feet shoulder-width apart.
âHey! Put her down!â you ordered. It came out sharper than you meant, clipped, the same tone you used barking orders in a trauma bay.Â
The tall guy blinked. The smaller guyâred hair, freckles, very nearly swallowed by an oversized jacketâfroze mid-step and did a weird half-pivot like heâd just realized he was in the wrong room.
âUh,â the small one tried, eyes going wide âWe were justââ
âJust what? Sheâs drunk!â you snapped, cutting him off, eyes focused on the blonde. You swept over her quicklyâskin pale and a little clammy, head bobbing, eyelids drooping. Her chest rose and fell, but slower than you liked. âSheâs not walking on her own, her headâs not staying upright, and she probably couldnât consent to a menu right now, let alone whatever youâre planning. Where are you taking her?â
Your nurse brain slotted everything into place with ruthless efficiency. The rest of you was riding a thin line between anger and sheer, exhausted panic.
The tall one adjusted his grip automatically, keeping her more secure against him so she didnât slide further. Up close, he looked even more annoyingly⌠wholesome. Soft mouth. Strong jaw. A faint line between his brows from worry than defensiveness. His eyes, now that you were close enough to see them, were a bright blue behind his lenses.
âWeâre taking her home,â he replied, calm but clearly thrown. âSheâs our friend. Sheâs had too muchââ
âEveryone says that,â you bit out with a pointed finger, stepping closer. You could smell him nowâdetergent and something warm and clean, cutting the faint smoke of the bar. "Then I see them in the ER the next morning with their blood alcohol through the roof and bruises they canât explain!â
Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. Underneath the bass line, you could almost hear monitors insteadâthe steady beeps, and then the stretch of tone when a heartbeat slowed. The way families looked at you like you were supposed to be God and fix every damn thing, like you werenât already stretched thin.
Four days of being called âsweetheartâ and ânurseâ and âhey youâ while residents ghosted your calls and families took their fear out on your faceâevery ounce of that frustration funneled into this moment.
The wiry guy lifted both hands in a full surrender pose, nearly losing his grip on the blondeâs legs. âWhoa, okay, hold on,â he blurted, voice a little too high. âWeâre notâthis isnâtâClark, help me out here, man, sheâs gonna murder us, and honestly I think she could.â
You ignored him and reached for the blondeâs wrist, fingers seeking a pulse.
Your hand brushed the tall guyâs forearm.
It was warm. His skin was firm under the thin fabric of his sweater, minimal give even when you pressed. There was a steadiness there that didnât match the situation at all.
He instinctively shifted back a step to keep from knocking you over and to keep the blonde from tipping, and your tipsy brain interpreted the motion as him pulling her away from you.
âDonât go anywhere,â you warned, snapping your gaze up. Your palm planted itself against his chest to keep him in place before you even thought about it.
His chest was just as solid as his arm. Not overinflated, mirror-flexing solidâjust dense, like someone had built a support beam and then stuck it inside a guy in a sweater. You felt the steady thrum of his heart under your hand, strong and unhurried and wanted to trust him. You couldnât.
âMiss,â he tried again, and his voice did that thingâsoft, a little deeper up close, careful. Why did it have to be soft? âI promise, weâre just trying to get her back safe. Weâreââ
âIf you say âweâre good guys,â Iâm calling 911,â you shot back automatically. âHer pupils are blown, and sheâs barely reacting. Iâm not letting you walk out of here with her just because youâre tall and polite and your friend looks like a sad red-headed retrieverâ
âH-hey!â the smaller guy choked. âSheâs not wrong about the tall and polite thing, butââ
He stopped when you snapped your glare to him too.Â
He swallowed. âOkay, lemme try again! Hi. Iâm Jimmy. Thatâs Cat. Sheâs our friend. She works with us. We go out every other Friday. She just pregamed too hard, and Clarkââ
âGood gosh, Jimmy, please stop talking,â the tall oneâClark, apparentlyâgroaned under his breath, like this was not the first time his friend had overshared in a crisis.
âClark,â you echoed, still glaring up at him. A name slotted him into place in your brain. A person, not just A Tall Guy. Somehow that made it worse. It made him real.
âLook,â you pushed on, hand still firm against his chest. âI donât care if youâre her brother, boyfriend, or the Tooth Fairy in glasses. Put her down.â
You moved, trying to maneuver the blonde out of his arms the way youâd shift a patient between gurney and bed. It went⌠poorly.
You tugged on her elbow, misjudging her weight with your tequila math. Clark tried not to jostle her, compensating in the opposite direction. Jimmy, panicking, adjusted his hold at the wrong time. The blondeâs weight dipped, her head lolling forward, hair swinging.
âCareful!â Clark said quickly, raising his voice for the first time. He immediately shifted, re-anchoring her against his chest, muscles tightening under your palm as he pulled her up. The motion dragged you closer with her. His hand shot out, closing around your forearm for a second, just to steady you both and keep you from slipping on the sticky floor.
Heat flashed up your skin where he touched you, like your nerves had just remembered what it was to feel something that wasnât stress.
âD-donât grab me, Clark!â you yanked your arm back like it burned, accidentally seething his name and making him even more real.Â
âIâm trying not to drop her!â he protested, exasperation finally edging into his tone, eyes wide and earnest behind his glasses as he stared down at you.
.
The three of you ended up in a ridiculous stalemate by the door.
You were braced in front of them, knees bent like you were about to take a hit in a scrimmage, one hand hovering near the blondeâs wrist ready to check her pulse again. Jimmy kept shifting his grip under her knees, adjusting a half inch this way, a half inch that way, panic written all over his face as he tried not to drop her. Clark stood caught in the middle, arms full of Cat, frozen in the worldâs most awkward tug-of-war, moving like the slightest wrong angle might shatter her.
To anyone watching, it probably looked like you were trying to repossess a very drunk woman from two guys whoâd attempted a kidnapping and were now failing spectacularly.
âHey, hey!â a voice cut through the tension, low and carrying. âWhat the hell is going on over here!?â
You didnât have to look to know who it was. That voice had called last round, last call, and last nerve on you for years.
You turned anyway.
The bar ownerâbroad shoulders, soft middle, hairline fighting a losing battleâstood with his brows raised. A dish towel hung over one shoulder like it had grown there. He glanced between you and the guys like he was trying to decide which one of you was more likely to start a brawl.
He greeted you, exasperated but fond.âYou starting fights in my doorway now?â
âUgh! Theyâre trying to drag her out of here,â you shot back, gesturing at the blonde. You heard your own voice wobble for the first time, the edges of your certainty fraying. âShe canât even keep her head up. She canât consent to anything. Why am I the problem here?!â
Your words hung between all of you, heavier than the bass.
The ownerâs gaze slid to Cat, took her in with one experienced sweepâthe slump of her shoulders, the loose jaw, the steady rise and fall of her chest. His eyes moved to Jimmy, who looked like he might hyperventilate, then to Clark, who was still holding Cat like a very fragile, very drunk baby deer.
He exhaled, long and put-upon.
âTheyâre regulars,â he sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. âGirlâs name is Cat. Comes in with them all the time. Iâve cut her off before. They always take her home. Never had a problem.â
Your righteous anger snagged like your shoe on a sticky patch of floor, and then faltered.
âO-oh,â you managed, your bravado collapsing in on itself rapidly you considered calling a code for yourself.
Heat crawled up your neck. The bar suddenly felt two sizes smaller, the air denser, like someone had cranked the thermostat up twenty degrees. You could feel the warmth of Clarkâs body under your palm, the faint tremor in your own fingers.
You looked back at Cat, at the soft way her hand had curled into Clarkâs sweater, as if sheâd done it a hundred times. Jimmyâs face was pinched and anxious, his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes flicking between you and the owner like he was waiting for a verdict.
âOh shit,â you repeated, quieter this time. âI justâI thoughtââ
âI know what you thought,â the owner cut in, his tone easing. He dragged his dish towel across his hands, then aimed a look at Clark and Jimmy that was not subtle at all. âAnd sheâs not wrong to think it.â
He tipped his chin toward them. âYou two make sure she drinks water and doesnât choke on her own vomit, yeah?â
âAlways, sir!â Jimmy blurted, nodding so hard his hair flopped. âAbsolutely, yes, one hundred percent, sir, hydrated and on her side and supervised, we know the drill, this is likeâlike Cat Protocolââ
âOkay, okay,â the owner interrupted, rubbing his forehead. âStop talking before I card you again.â
Jimmy clamped his mouth shut, cheeks going pink.
The owner clapped your shoulder, the weight of his hand familiar and steady. âYou did the right thing,â he reassured you. âJust⌠maybe donât tackle the six-four guy next time without warning, huh? I need my doorways intact.â
A weak laugh caught in your throat.
You realized belatedly that your hand was still more or less splayed across Clarkâs chest, fingers curled slightly in the knit of his sweater like you were hanging on.
You snatched it back like it bit you.
âSorry, sorry!â you blurted, mortification flooding your veins hot and fast. âIâmâIâm so sorry, guys! Occupational hazard. Iâm a nurse. I see this go badly a lot, and I didnât wantâ I couldnât just stand by and watchâ I didnât mean toââ
Words tripped over each other coming out of your mouth, panic tumbling into apology.
âHey, he, no,â Clark cut in quickly, shaking his head. âNo, you were just looking out for her. Thatâsâgood. Thatâs⌠really good! Iâm glad someone cares about people to do these things!â
His voice was earnest enough that it made you pause.
You met his eyes properly for the first time without adrenaline screaming in your ears.
They wereâof freaking courseâso stupidly kind.
Bright blue, as blue as a spring sky, soft at the edges, framed by lashes that were frankly unnecessary. Little lines creased at the corners from worry and from smiling, the kind of face that probably apologized when someone else bumped into him on the street.
He looked like the sort of person who would help old ladies with their groceries.
He also looked like the sort of person who could lift you with one arm without breaking a sweat, but that was a thought you absolutely did not need to be having while you were still technically accusing him of a felony.
âI, uh,â you stammered, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and how close youâd just been. It wasnât often your mouth didnât know how to talk. âItâs been a hell of a week. So sorry. Again.â
Jimmy shifted his grip on Catâs legs, trying to subtly shake feeling back into his hands. âRough shift?â he ventured, his tone cautious but sympathetic.
Rough week, you thought. Rough month. Rough⌠everything.
Then the bar tilted for a second under your feet when you turned just so, and your vision tightened at the edges for just a brief moment. Before you could stop it, your brain slid backwards.
.
Fluorescent lights humming overhead. The shrill, endless ding of call bells, each one a demand. The sharp chemical sting of antiseptic mixed with old coffee and too many bodies crammed into too small a space.
Four days. Four consecutive days of chaos.
Youâd had a manâs daughter crying in your arms at ten a.m., mascara streaking down her cheeks, because no one could yet tell her if his CT showed a bleed or just an old scar. Youâd had a son call you âheartlessâ at noon because you wouldnât let him into a sterile procedure room, his words spitting venom over the surgical mask you wore.
Youâd had a resident ignore three callsâthreeâuntil the attending rounded, glanced at the chart, and chewed you out for not having the orders already done.
âWHAT DO YOU PEOPLE EVEN DO BACK HERE?â
Heâd been red-faced and jabbing a finger in the air like you were a punching bag instead of the person whoâd taken his motherâs vitals four times in an hour, the person whoâd caught her oxygen dropping before anyone else did.
Youâd taken a breath, then another, and explained again about labs and imaging and wait times you didnât control. Youâd smiled when everything in you wanted to scream.
Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes circled in your mind like a life raft: break, lunch, sixty seconds to yourself to sit down and chew.
Youâd opened the fridge in the cramped little break room, already tasting the leftovers youâd packed last night.
Your labeled lunch containerâthe one with your name written on it twice in aggressive Sharpie, the one youâd carefully packed, your small act of kindness to your future selfâwas gone.
Vanished.
In its place: someoneâs sad, wilted salad and an unlabeled yogurt squished against the back wall.
Youâd stood there holding the fridge door, cold air spilling over your scrubs, looking at the empty shelf. For a second you just stared, the world narrowing to the stupid gap where your food should have been. The remaining light left your eyes.
Then youâd laughed, just three times, with a shake of your head. A hollow, broken little sound that felt alarmingly close to a sob and tasted like metal in the back of your throat.
That laugh still echoed now, underneath the barâs music and the murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses.
Your stomach rolled.
.
The room tilted again, but this time it wasnât a memory. The tequila, the adrenaline crash, the four days of running on fumes all decided to gang up at once.
âHey,â Clark prompted, his brows pinching as he watched your face. âYou okay?â
âY-yeah,â you lied automatically, because that was muscle memory too. Youâd said it to patients, to coworkers, to your own reflection in the hospital bathroom mirror on your worst days, which seemed to be every day. âIâmââ
Your stomach lurched in earnest.
âOh fuck,â you muttered, the words puffing out on a wavering breath as your hand flew to your mouth.
Clark moved faster than he had any right to for a guy that size.
âBathroom?â he asked, already shifting his weight. You barely managed a nod before he was carefully transferring Catâs weight into Jimmyâs arms.
âGot her, I got her!â Jimmy babbled, adjusting his stance as Cat sagged more heavily against him. âGo, go, please go, do not throw up on my shoes, those are new.â
Clark didnât laugh. His hand settled between your shoulder bladesâsteady, wide, warm through the fabric of your shirt, somehow not overwhelming despite how tall he was. He guided you through the crowd with practiced ease, the bar parting around the two of you as he murmured apologies.
âExcuse us,â he called over the music, steering you around a table. âSorry. Coming through. Sorry, sheâsâwatch your stepââ
It was weirdly reassuring, the way he cleared a path without ever pushing, just existing in peopleâs space until they moved.
The bathroom door swung inward, and the smell of industrial cleaner and too many Friday nights hit you full force.
You dropped to your knees on instinct.
It was not your finest moment.
You clung to the toilet like it was a life raft and surrendered to gravity, tequila, and the accumulated weight of the week. Your body folded up on itself, shoulders jerking with each heave. Your eyes watered; your throat burned.
If youâd had enough dignity left to care, you mightâve told him to leave. You mightâve locked the stall and insisted you could handle it, because handling it was what you did.
He didnât leave.
He crouched beside you in the narrow stall, one large palm gathering your hair and holding it back from your face without comment. His fingers were gentle, not tugging, just keeping it clear. His other hand hovered just above your shoulder, not touching unless you needed the support, there if you tipped too far forward.
âYouâre okay, youâre okay,â he murmured, voice pitched low and steady, like he was talking you through a procedure. âJust breathe. Youâre alright.â
You groaned between heaves, tears in your eyes slipping as you squeezed shut. âThis isâoh Godâthis is so embarrassing.â
âIâve seen worse,â he replied, and somehow managed to sound faintly amused without mocking you. It was a careful kind of humor, offering you a way to laugh at yourself if you wanted it.
You wouldnât have been surprised if that was a lie, but you appreciated it anyway.
âI promise youâre still in the top ten least-disastrous situations Iâve been in on a Friday,â he added.
âTop ten?â you rasped, sniffling between breaths. âSo thereâs⌠competition?â
âUnfortunately,â he confessed. âYouâre ranking pretty low on the catastrophe scale, I promise.â
Eventually, the worst of it passed. You spat, reached blindly for the sad metal sink beside you, and turned the tap with shaky fingers. You swished water around your mouth, spat again, then leaned your forehead against the cool metal divider for a second, letting the chill bleed some of the leftover heat from your cheeks.
âClark, I tried to fight you,â you muttered, eyes still closed. âThen I threw up. I donât even know your last name.â
âKent,â he told you instantly. âClark Kent.â
Of-freaking-course, he had the kind of name that sounded charming and adorable.
You shut your eyes tighter for a heartbeat, letting the dizziness ebb before you pushed yourself upright.
âHi, Clark Kent,â you managed weakly with a grimace. âIâm so sorry I accused you of being a kidnapper and then vomited in your general vicinity. You seem like a really nice man.â
âHonestly?â he replied with a chuckle. âIâve had much worse introductions.â
You huffed out a tired laugh, then reached for the paper towels. You splashed more water on your face, mascara and eyeliner definitely smeared without care, the icy tap stinging your skin awake, then patted yourself dry with the rough, too-thin brown squares.
When you finally stepped out into the hallway again, the barâs noise washed over you all at once.
Jimmy was waiting against the wall by the bathroom sign, jeans scuffed, jacket rumpled, Catâs arm slung over his shoulders as he half-supported, half-propped her up. She was now slumped in a corner booth a few feet away, head tilted back, mouth open, breathing even and loud enough you could hear a little snore over the music.
âEverything good?â Jimmy blurted as soon as he saw you, straightening like a kid caught doing something wrong.
âDefine good,â you muttered, moving toward Cat on autopilot. âAt looksâŚah, sheâll be fine.â
Your hands found their way to Cat like they had muscle memory of their own. You checked her pulse again, feeling along her jaw, count steady. You watched her chest rise and fall. You nudged her chin slightly so her airway stayed open.
âShe shouldnât be alone tonight,â you decided aloud. âSheâs fine, but if she pukes in her sleepâŚâ
âYeah,â Jimmy agreed immediately, rubbing the back of his neck. âHer place isnât far, but I donât love the idea of just dumping her on her couch and hoping for the best. Sheâll yell at me tomorrow if I do, but likeâalive yelling is better than the alternative.â
You hesitated.
Your apartment flashed in your mind. Tiny but cozy. The fifth-floor walk-up with the humming radiators and the crooked windows. Lois was probably still hunched over her laptop at the kitchen table, half a dozen sticky notes on the surface, coffee with a full bag of sugar gone cold at her elbow. The couch in your living room, old but comfortable, close enough to your room that youâd hear if someone needed help.
âMy place is actually closer,â you heard yourself say, the words landing before you could talk yourself out of them. âMy roommateâs sober. Cat can crash with us. Weâll keep an eye on her tonight, kick her out in the morning, hangover and all.â
Jimmyâs shoulders sagged in visible relief. âAre you sure?â he asked, hopeful and horrified in equal measure. âBecause that would be⌠thatâd be really, really nice. Like my future-therapy-bills nice.â
âYeah,â you replied, shrugging one shoulder. âIâd never leave someone that needs help like this.â
âI can help carry her,â Clark offered warmly, straightening a bit. âYou shouldnât have to haul her by yourself. Not after the week youâve had.â
You looked at him, then at Cat, then down at your own slightly unsteady feet.
Your pride tried to object. Your ankles, knees, and spine filed a collective complaint from your four-day limbo.
ââŚYeah,â you conceded. âThatâs probably smart. Thank you.â
Jimmy dug into his pocket for his keys, jangling them in his hand. âMy carâs a block over. We can load her into the backseat, should be fine.â
You, a drunk blonde who snored, a frantic redhead, and a six-four man in a sweater all filed out together like the weirdest little parade.
And despite everything youâve felt, the nausea, the embarrassment, the exhaustion, you could feel something inside you loosen just a bit.
Because the guy youâd just tried to fight? Tall guy? The alleged kidnapper? Clark Kent?
He was still walking at your side, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours when the sidewalk narrowed, quietly making room for you on the inside of the street like it was the most natural thing in the world.
.
The night air hit your face and sharpened everything.
Cold slipped under your collar, clearing out some of the bar haze. The sidewalk was slick in patches from an earlier drizzle, reflecting neon signs in smeared streaks of blue and red. Somewhere down the block, someone laughed too loud. A siren wailed faintly in the distance, threads of sound weaving through honking horns and the rumble of traffic.
Friday night in Metropolisâthe city humming like it didnât care how many hours youâd spent under fluorescent lights. The world buzzed while your muscles finally, finally stopped buzzing with ER adrenaline and started buzzing with something⌠else.
âBackseatâs probably best,â Jimmy muttered as he fumbled with his keys, breath puffing white in the cool air. âMore room. Less chance of her falling out the door and suing me in the morning.â
âCat would absolutely sue you,â Clark murmured, adjusting his grip as she sagged against him. âAnd then write a column about it.â
Between the two of them and your half-competent directions, you managed to maneuver Cat into the back of Jimmyâs car. Her body went boneless the second she flopped onto the seat, limbs everywhere like a discarded marionette.
Her head rolled toward you as you slid in after her.
âEasy, easy,â you coaxed, catching her before she smacked into the door. You guided her down carefully until her head settled in your lap. She made a vague noise that mightâve been your name or mightâve been a burp.
You braced her with one hand on her shoulder, the other hovering near her chin to keep her airway clear. Instinct. Habit. Training.
Clark slid in beside you a heartbeat later, ducking his head so he didnât crack it on the roof. The car suddenly felt two sizes too small.
His shoulder pressed along yours, solid and warm even through both your layers.
Jimmy climbed behind the wheel and shut his door with more force than necessary. The car shuddered.
âSeatbelts,â Jimmy called, a little frazzled. âPlease. I donât need Cat drunk and flying through the windshield.â
You reached for yours, the belt slicing diagonally across your chest with a familiar tug. You heard Clarkâs click beside you. Cat mumbled and drooled on your jeans.
The engine turned over with a reluctant groan, then caught. Jimmy pulled away from the curb like the entire city was a driving test.
Streetlights slid across Clarkâs profile as you rolled through the intersectionâstrong nose, defined jaw. The glow from the dashboard painted his skin in a soft green wash. He kept one hand braced on the back of Jimmyâs seat, the other resting near his knee, fingers long and relaxed.
You realized you were staring and snapped your gaze toward the window, watching buildings smear by instead.
âSo,â he ventured after a moment, his voice threading through the low hum of the engine and the faint thump of whatever song Jimmy had on the radio. âDo you take on every six-four guy in a sweater you meet at bars, or was tonight a special occasion?â
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, short and sharp.
âOnly the ones suspiciously attached to unconscious blondes,â you replied. âOtherwise I try to limit myself to yelling at residents and people who steal my lunch.â
âLunch thieves,â he repeated gravely. âThe real villains of the hospital.â
You huffed, the corner of your mouth twitching. âYou joke, but I nearly committed homicide over a missing Tupperware this week.â
âIâm on your side,â he assured you. âThey had it coming.â
You glanced down as Cat shifted, her mouth opening. You angled her head, thumb under her jaw, making sure her airway stayed clear. She snored once, then settled.
âIs it always like that?â Clark asked quietly. âYour job, I mean. People yelling. You having to be the bad guy?â
You let out a breath you didnât realize youâd been holding.
âNot always,â you admitted. âSometimes itâs good. Sometimes people say thank you. Sometimes you get to send someone home and know you made it suck less.â
You rubbed absent circles on Catâs shoulder, more for you than for her. âBut yeah. A lot of the time itâs⌠this.â You gestured vaguely with your free hand. âDragged-out, tired, being the only one in the room who canât lose it.â
He was quiet for a beat, absorbing that.
âIâm sorry,â he said finally, and it didnât sound like pity. It sounded like someone putting a hand on your shoulder.
âYouâre not the one who stole my lunch,â you muttered.
âI would never,â he replied, mock-offended. âMy Ma raised me to respect Sharpie labels.â
That dragged a real smile out of you.
Every bump in the road nudged you a little closer together, fabric whispering against fabric
A pothole in the road jolted the car, bouncing all of you a few inches off the seat. Your hand shot out to brace on the door; Clarkâs arm reacted at the same time, coming across instinctively like a seatbelt, his forearm solid across your midsection for a split second.
âSorry,â Jimmy yelped from the front. âSorry! That came out of nowhere, I swear I didnât see it, the city hates me, the roads hate me, god, let this night be overââ
âItâs okay, Jimmy,â Clark called, amused.
You were still very aware of the weight of his arm across you, the heat of it, the way his fingers curled like he was ready to catch you if gravity suddenly failed.
He realized it at the same time you did and pulled back, clearing his throat.
âSorry,â he echoed, this time to you. âThat was⌠reflex.â
âItâs fine,â you told him, trying to act like your pulse hadnât just jumped. âIâm used to it getting worse. At work the bed moves and itâs usually because someoneâs actively coding.â
His face sobered again. âThat sounds⌠terrifying.â
âSometimes,â you acknowledged. âSometimes itâs also kind of⌠I donât know. Worth it.â
The car fell into a quieter rhythm. Jimmy hummed tunelessly under his breath as he took a left. Outside, Metropolis rolled past in snapshots: late-night diners with fluorescent signs buzzing, people smoking outside doorways, a couple arguing on a corner, someone walking a dog that looked way too small for this hour.
Inside the car, it was just the engine, Catâs soft snoring, and the sound of your own breathing slowly evening out.
âSo,â Clark tried again, a smile tucked into the corner of his voice, âdo you always offer to take strangers home, or did we just luck out?â
You rolled your eyes, but the tension in your shoulders had eased a notch.
âYouâre not strangers,â you pointed out. âYouâre⌠semi-cleared by the bartender. That counts for something.â
âAh, right. Background check by towel guy,â he mused. âThatâs reassuring.â
âHey, I trust him more than half the doctors I work with,â you quipped.
âWhy does it feel like thatâs a low bar?â he murmured.
âBecause it is,â you confirmed.
He laughed quietly, the sound vibrating where your arms brushed.
âStill,â he added, more earnest now. âThank you. For offering. You really didnât have to.â
âYou didnât have to hold my hair while I made friends with the bar toilet,â you shot back. âSo I guess weâre both overachieving tonight.â
âIâm just trying to keep my âalleged kidnapperâ record clean,â he replied dryly.
You snorted. Cat stirred and mumbled something into your thigh; you automatically soothed her with your fingers through her hair, checking her breathing again without even looking.
âYouâre good at that,â Clark observed after a second. âThe⌠checking. Making sure.â
âOccupational hazard,â you replied. âAnd, you know. I like people not dying on my watch. Itâs a hobby.â
He made a thoughtful noise. âThatâs a good hobby.â
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.
âYou?â you asked. âHobbies besides rescuing drunk coworkers and attracting fights in doorways?â
A faint blush crept up the column of his throat, disappearing under his collar. âI, uh⌠read a lot,â he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. âWalk. Cook sometimes. Nothing very exciting.â
âReading and cooking are exciting,â you argued. âWalking is⌠mildly suspicious, but Iâll allow it.â
âWhat, I look like I donât walk?â he teased.
âYou look like you do something,â you countered, flicking your gaze pointedly to his forearms. âIâd just assumed it was, I donât know, flipping big tires in your spare time or something. Like what cross-fit people do.â
His eyes widened a little like he wasnât sure if you were joking.Then he laughed, head tipping back against the seat.
âI promise I do all my tire-lifting in designated zones,â he replied.
The banter eased something in your chest that the tequila and the cold air hadnât touched. Your shoulders dropped a fraction, the knot between them loosening.
âHonestly,â you muttered, thumb absently rubbing circles on Catâs shoulder, âthis is still better than what my night was supposed to be.â
âYeah?â he prompted, glancing over.
You huffed a small breath out your nose. âMy roommate was trying to set me up on a blind date tonight,â you admitted. âKept going on about some âperfect guy.â I turned it down. Iâm too tired to make small talk with a stranger over appetizers.â
His mouth curved. âYou picked âfight a stranger in a bar doorwayâ instead?â
âIâm versatile,â you said dryly. âBut yeah. After this week? I just wanted to sit alone with a drink and not be perceived.â
He nodded like he understood that a little too well. âFunny,â he said after a beat. âI was supposed to get shoved into a blind date too. Friend at workâs been trying to introduce me to âsomeone Iâd really like.ââ
You glanced at him, brows lifting. âAnd?â
He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, eyes back on the window. âFell through,â he replied. âTiming didnât work out, I guess
âTheir loss,â you heard yourself say before your brain could filter it.
His gaze flicked back to you, surprised and faintly pleased. âYours too,â he offered, a little shy, âif your roommateâs taste is anything like your judgment in doorways.â
You snorted, but the warmth that curled low in your chest wasnât from the tequila this time.
Jimmyâs car coasted to a stop at a light. The red glow washed over the interior, over Catâs smudged mascara, over your hands resting lightly on her shoulder and over Clarkâs thumb tapping absently against his knee.
You realized, somewhere between one street and the next, that you werenât on edge around him anymore. You were⌠aware, yes. Hyper-aware. Of his size, his presence, the way he angled himself so he didnât crowd you even though the backseat barely had room for the three of you.
But the alarm bell that had gone off the second you saw him carrying Cat had gone quiet.
Heâd held your hair. Heâd move when you moved, listened when you barked orders, let you poke at his friend without getting defensive. Heâd taken being accused of kidnapping and turned it into a running joke without once making you feel small and stupid for it.
The light turned green. Jimmy eased forward.
âOkay,â Jimmy announced a minute later, relief creeping into his tone as he recognized the block. âAlmost there. One more turn and then youâre free of my terrible driving. I swear Iâm better in the daylight.â
âI believe you,â you lied kindly.
He made an affronted noise. Clark bit back a smile.
They followed your directions through the quiet side street, tires crunching over a stray pile of leaves someone hadnât swept up yet.
Finally, Jimmy rolled to a stop in front of your buildingâa five-story brick walk-up with ivy crawling up the side and a streetlamp flickering nearby. The familiar sight tugged at something soft in your chest.
Home. Messy, noisy, shoe-strewn home.
âHere we are,â Jimmy exhaled, killing the engine. âNeed help with her?â
You looked down at Cat, then at your own still-wobbly legs.
âUnless you want to watch me faceplant on the stairs,â you muttered. âYeah. I might need backup.â
âOn it,â Clark replied immediately.
Between the three of you, you managed to maneuver Cat out of the car in stages. You slid out first, easing her head from your lap, then scooted aside as Clark leaned in, arms scooping under her knees and shoulders with an ease that made it look rehearsed.
She mumbled something incoherent into his chest and promptly faceplanted into his sweater again, fingers curling instinctively in the fabric.
âHi, Cat,â he murmured, shifting her weight. âYouâre gonna hate us in the morning.â
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, moved closer, and automatically took hold of her dangling hand so it didnât swing.
Clarkâs hands were there immediately, steadying both of you when you swayed a little on the curb.
âIâve got her,â he assured you, dipping his head so he could meet your eyes. âYou just lead the way.â
You were too tired to argue with that, andâannoyinglyâyou trusted him enough now that you didnât feel the need to.
Your buildingâs front entry smelled like someone had burned toast every single day. The paint on the banister chipped under your fingers as you grabbed it, dragging yourself and your little parade up the stairs.
âSorry, sorry,â you winced automatically as Catâs shoe scuffed the wall in narrow hallway, the rubber sole squeaking against the wood. âSorry. Almost there. Sorry, Mrs. Kowalski,â you added when a door cracked open on the second floor and an older woman peered out, frowning.
You pushed on, your thighs burning by the fourth floor, heart thudding in your ears again for a much more normal, exertion-related reason.
At least this time, when you reached for the railing and your step faltered, there was a big, warm hand hovering just behind your shoulder blade to steady you.
.
You dug your keys out of your bag and jabbed them at the lock, your fingers suddenly clumsy and not entirely obeying your brain. The metal scraped uselessly against the wood.
The door swung inward before you made contact.
âFinally,â Lois mumbled around a mouthful of something, leaning against the frame like sheâd been propping it open for hours. She wore an oversized Metropolis Meteors shirt and sleep shorts, hair yanked into a lopsided bun, pen tucked behind one ear. âYouâre back late, I was about toââ
She stopped dead.
Her gaze ran over the scene in the hallway like a scanner: you, sweaty and winded, one hand still latched around Catâs limp wrist; Jimmy hovering behind you, wide-eyed and breathing hard; Clark towering over all of you, arms full of Catâs weight like it was nothing, shoulders blocking half the hallway.
Loisâs jaw dropped so fast you almost heard it.
âJimmy?â she blurted, eyes ping-ponging. âCat? Clark?â
You stared at her, brain trying to catch three different trains of thought at once and failing all of them.
âYou⌠know them?â you managed, voice coming out a little higher than usual.
Lois dragged her gaze back to you. You could practically watch the emotions flicker across her faceâhorror, delight, confusion, oh, this is going in my mental notes, and the dawning realization that the universe had just handed her a front-page-worthy story.
âOh my God, what are you guys doing here?â she breathed.
Your stomach sank and flipped at the same time.
âWait, hold on,â you said slowly, as if the words might rearrange into something less insane if you gave them time. âThese are the coworkers you were talking about? From The Planet?â
Lois pointed straight at Clark like she was accusing him of murder.
âThatâs him,â she declared, shaking your arm. âThatâs the guy! Thatâs the blind date you turned down tonight.â
Silence dropped over the hallway like a weighted blanket.
You became acutely aware of every single life choice that had led you here: every âno thanksâ to Lois when she described her very polite, dorky, Mid-western with a Capital M, tall coworker, every tequila shot, every step across that bar, every time your hand had been on Clarkâs chestâor his armâor his anything, really.
âIââ you started, then stalled.
You glanced at Clark.
He looked vaguely like someone had just informed him gravity was optional. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, Catâs head still tucked against his shoulder like a very drunk, very inconvenient scarf.
âYouâre the⌠mysterious coworker?â you croaked.
He swallowed, Adamâs apple bobbing. âApparently?â he answered, sounding dazed.
Behind you, Jimmy made a strangled noise that might have been laughter escaping before his brain could tackle it.
Loisâs eyes narrowed. âWhat did I miss?â
âNothing,â you blurted. âI justâmisunderstood, and there was a little⌠situation at the barââ
âShe almost tackled him in the doorway,â Jimmy piped up, loyalty gone in an instant. âLike, full bouncer mode.â
Lois stared at you, then at Clark, then back again, connecting the dots so fast it almost hurt to watch.
âYou almost fought your blind date,â Lois groaned, pressing her fist against her mouth like she was physically holding in a scream. âOf course this is how you meet. Of course.â
You slapped your free hand over your face, heat slamming into your cheeks. âIâm going to jump out of the window,â you muttered into your palm.
âPlease donât,â Clark blurted, a little panicked. âI donât think I can carry Cat and catch you out there at the same time.â
That dragged a helpless little laugh out of you, embarrassingly bright considering you still smelled faintly like bar bathroom.
Lois stepped back, swinging the door open wider and shaking her head like sheâd just been bumped up from orchestra seats to front row. âOkay, bring her in,â she instructed, already shifting into crisis-manager mode. âWeâll put her on the couch. Then someoneâs explaining this to me in excruciating detail.â
You shuffled forward, guiding everyone inside.
Your apartment greeted you like it always didâsmall, a little cluttered, but warm. Earth-toned furniture that didnât match but somehow worked together. A soft, sagging couch. Bookcases lined with fantasy novels, dog-eared paperbacks, and thick nursing textbooks with fluorescent sticky notes peeking out. A balcony door cracked just enough for a thin line of cool air to sneak in. A string of fairy lights along the ceiling, one bulb always a little dimmer than the rest, casting everything in a soft, lived-in glow.
Cat ended up sprawled on the couch in under a minute.
âOkay, easyâone, two, three,â you coached, shifting to guide her down as Clark lowered her with more care than most people used on expensive glassware. Her head thunked against the pillow, but gently.
You and Lois moved in tandem without needing to talk, years of roommate triage kicking in. Lois grabbed pillows; you adjusted them under Catâs head and shoulders. Lois snagged a blanket off the back of the couch; you shook it out and tucked it around Catâs legs. You grabbed a glass from the coffee table, rinsed it quickly in the kitchen sink, and filled it with water. Lois dragged the trash bin closer and set it beside the couch like an ugly little guardian.
You watched Cat's ribcage rise and fall. You nudged her chin, making sure her head stayed angled right.
âFinally,â you exhaled some of the tension that had been living in your shoulders all week, especially tonight. âSheâll hate herself in the morning, but sheâs okay.â
Jimmy let out a long, shaky breath, scrubbing both hands over his face. âThank God,â he muttered. âThank you. Seriously. I owe you⌠I donât know, my life? Her life? A lifetime supply of lunches that are not stolen?â
Lois bumped his arm with her elbow. âYou owe her brunch and a two hour massage,â she corrected. âAt minimum.â
âDone, booked,â Jimmy agreed instantly, nodding. âIâll buy out the whole menu if I have to.â
You huffed a small laugh, the tension in your chest easing another notch. âIâm holding you to that, Jimmy,â you mumbled.
You straightened, rolling your neck, and turned.
Clark stood a little off to the side, as if he didnât quite trust himself not to knock something over. His hands had found their way into his pockets, shoulders hunched just enough to make himself smaller in your cramped space. His gaze moved over your apartment, absorbing detailsâplants on the windowsill, the throw blanket bunched in your usual spot, the stack of mail on the tableâlike he was trying to build a map.
The fairy lights reflected on the lenses of his glasses, turning them into soft gold squares. When he finally glanced at you, they caught you full on.
Something in your chest did a weird, weightless flip.
âOkay,â Lois announced suddenly, clapping her hands once like she was calling a meeting to order. âI have a deadline, a headache, and a burning desire to eavesdrop, but sadly, I must finish my article.â
She pointed between you and Clark in a dramatic little arc. âYou two. Talk.â
âLoisââ you started, already knowing it was useless.
She was already backing down the hallway toward her room, steps exaggeratedly light. âLater,â she called, grinning. âI want every detail. Especially the part where you tried to fight him. Goodnight Smallville!â
Her bedroom door shut with suspicious speed.
You were left standing in the soft lamplight with Clark, the low buzz of the fridge in the kitchen, the faint ticking of the cheap clock on the wall, and Catâs raspy little snore sawing through the quiet from the couch.
You cleared your throat, which did absolutely nothing to fix the sudden lump in it, and retreated to the kitchen mostly because it gave your hands an excuse to move.
You grabbed a glass from the rack, turned the tap on. Water rushed out. You immediately turned it off again. The faucet squeaked in protest.
Cool. Normal. Totally not flustered.
Clark drifted into the doorway and leaned against the opposite counter, like he was trying to respect the invisible boundary between âyour kitchenâ and âthe rest of your apartment.â
He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing more of his forearms.
His forearms wereâdamn. Defined without being showy, veins faint under his skin, sprinkled with dark hair. They belonged to someone who did actual things, not just typed all day.
âSo,â you managed finally, because someone had to break the weird, humming silence. âYouâre the mysterious coworker.â
He lifted one shoulder in a shy half-shrug, mouth tipping up like he wasnât sure if he was allowed to smile. âGuilty, sorry, I didn't think to clarify where I worked,â he admitted. âI⌠Lois has mentioned you. A lot.â
Your fingers curled tighter around the edge of the counter. âHopefully the good parts?â you hoped, biting your lip.
âAll good! Very good,â he assured quickly. âShe said youâre one of the best people she's ever met,â His lips quirked. âAnd that youâre stubborn.â
You winced. âI see she undersold that second part.â
He chuckled under his breath. âI donât know,â he countered. âI think she might have been right on the money.â
The quiet that followed wasnât awkward. Just⌠packed. Charged. Like the air right before a storm, but not in a bad way.
You glanced toward the living room.
Jimmy had slumped into the armchair, head tipped back, mouth slightly open, one hand still vaguely extended in Catâs direction as if he was standing guard even in sleep. Cat shifted, mumbling something about gossip and glitter, then settled again.
You dragged your gaze back to Clark.
âLook,â you began, words dragging a little. âAbout earlier. Iâm really sorry again. I came at you like that. Iâve just had a week, and when I saw her Iââ
He shook his head immediately, cutting you off with a quick, emphatic move. âPlease donât apologize,â he insisted. âYou were trying to keep her safe.â
He straightened slightly, searching your face. âYou were willing to risk looking ridiculous, or making people mad at you, to step in anyway. ThatâsâŚâ He paused, lips pressing together as he tried to land on the right word. Finally, he huffed a small laugh. âThatâs kind of incredible. I admire that.â
You blinked.
Your brain, which had been carefully preparing a self-deprecating speech, stalled out.
âYou were also very ready to throw hands with a stranger twice your size,â he added, eyes crinkling at the corners. âWhich was a little terrifying, in a⌠impressive way.â
âI wasnât going to throw hands,â you protested, heat climbing back into your face. âI was going to⌠strategically redirect the patient.â
He laughed, soft and warm.
âThatâs what you call it?â he teased.
âIn my head, yeah,â you muttered.
You exhaled slowly, feeling some of the residual adrenaline finally drain out of your shoulders. The tight band around your chest loosened another notch.
âWhat about you?â you asked, tilting your head. âRough week?â
He hesitated, jaw working like he was debating how much to say. Then he nodded once. âYeah,â he admitted. âDifferent kind of rough, but⌠yeah.â
He tipped his head back against the cabinet behind him, eyes drifting briefly to the ceiling as he searched for words.
âItâs hard sometimes,â he continued, gaze dropping back to you. âWriting about things that go wrong and not being able to fix them. Or having to walk away when a storyâs done even if people are stillâŚâ
He lifted one hand and made an aimless gesture in the air, fingers opening and closing like he was trying to catch the right word.
Bleeding. Grieving. Waiting.
You knew exactly what he meant.
âI get that,â you replied quietly. âI patch people up, and sometimes they walk out and I never see them again. Sometimes I do see them again, and itâs⌠not for a good reason.â You tapped your fingers lightly against the counter. âThe part where you canât control any of itââ
âIs the worst part,â he finished.
You nodded.
Silence again. But this time it felt like standing at the same side of a bed, not across from each other.
He shifted his weight, the floor creaking under his heel, suddenly looking almost⌠nervous. It was strange seeing someone that big fidget. He rubbed his palm against the side of his thigh once, as if steadying himself.
âFor what itâs worth,â he said, clearing his throat, âif⌠if youâre still not interested in the blind date Lois had planned, thatâs okay. This is probably not the meet-cute she envisioned.â
The corner of your mouth curved up. âOh, I donât know,â you countered. â âGirl tries to fight her future date in a bar, then vomits while he holds her hairâ has a certain charm.â
His laugh burst out in a surprised huff, shoulders shaking.
âI was going to say,â he went on, smile lingering, âif you are interested, Iâd be happy to pretend tonight wasn't our first meeting. Something lessâŚSVU adjacent. You know, if youâd rather have a version where you donât immediately accuse me of a felony.â
You thought about Lois at the kitchen table earlier, trying to sell you on some mystery guy while you yanked your hair into a clip and told yourself you were too tired to care.
You thought about her face at the door, caught between glee and horror.
You thought about this man, this Clark Kent, who had carried his unconscious friend across half the city without complaint, had held your hair while you emptied your stomach, had taken your anger without flinching, and then somehow still managed to make you feel like youâd done something brave instead of something stupid.
You thought about how your chest felt less like a clenched fist around your lungs and more like⌠space. Freedom.
âI donât want to pretend tonight didnât happen,â you said finally, honest in a way that startled you. âI kind of like that I tried to tackle you for honorable reasons. Itâd make a good story to tell at a wedding someday.â
His smile bloomed, slow and bright. âYeah?â
âYeah,â you murmured, suddenly very aware you might actually mean it.
You shoved your hand into your pocket before you could second-guess yourself, pulled out your phone, and held it out to him. Your fingers trembled just enough that you hoped he didnât notice. âHere. Put your number in. In case I need to send you a formal apology. Or, you know⌠schedule that date.â
Clarkâs fingers brushed yours as he took the phone. The touch was lightâalmost absurdly careful, like he handled everything as if it might break. His hands were big enough that your phone looked too small in them, and you almost laughed.
He typed for a second, thumbs moving quickly, then handed it back.
Your screen lit up with a new contact:
Clark Kent (Blind Date You Fought).
A cackle burst out of you, bright and immediate.
âYou named yourself that?â you demanded, incredulous.
He looked modestly pleased with himself. âI thought it would help you remember who I am,â he replied with a shrug.
âOh, trust me,â you told him, shaking your head. âIâm not gonna forget you, Clark.â
From down the hall, Loisâs voice rang out, muffled by the closed door but still weaponized. âSay yes to the date already, you coward!â
You almost dropped your phone, startled. âI hate her sometimes,â you coughed, entirely unconvincing.
âYou love me all the time!â Lois shot back.
Clark was laughing now, eyes amused and his shoulders visibly more relaxed. âSheâs very⌠subtle, isnât she?â he observed.
âYou get used to it,â you sighed. âOr you donât, and she steamrolls you anyway.â
âDonât I know it,â he glanced toward the front door, then back at you, something softer settling into his features. The humor didnât leave, but it made room for something else.
âI should get Jimmy home,â he eventually said, voice low. âHeâs going to wake up with a crick in his neck if he stays in that chair, and I'm not really in the mood to hear it.â
You glanced at the living room; Jimmy snored lightly, chin tucked to his chest.
âYeah, probably. You're a good friend,â bumped your shoulder to his.
Clark welcomed the touch, then took a step toward the living room, nudging Jimmy awake.Â
They both walked to the door, but Clark hesitated, looking back at you.
âHeyâŚâ he started, walked back to you and clearing his throat again. âCan I text you tomorrow? About maybe grabbing dinner sometime when youâre not on your fourth shift of the week and Iâm not babysitting a coworkerâs blood alcohol content?â
Your smile came easily this time.
âYeah,â you said. âText me tomorrow, Clark. Better yet, when you get home, okay?â
He nodded once, like he was locking that in.
At the door, he wrapped his hand around the knob, then glanced over his shoulder.
âGet some rest, Nurse Who Almost Took Me Down,â he remarked, eyes warm and amused.
âGet home safe, Blind Date I Accidentally Assaulted,â you shot back without missing a beat.
âGoodnight,â he said your name softly, grinning.
âGoodnight, Clark,â you replied, matching his smile. "A-and Jimmy. Good night Jimmy."
He stepped out into the hallway, Jimmy stumbling awake enough to follow him with a lazy wave. The door closed gently behind them with a soft click.
The apartment seemed to exhale.
The hum of the fridge suddenly felt louder. The clock on the wall ticked loud and steady. Somewhere, pipes clanged as a neighbor ran water. Cat snored on the couch.
You stood in the middle of your little kitchen, surrounded by the faint lingering smells of bar air, Loisâs reheated takeout, and your own coffee from that morning, and realized thatâfor the first time in daysâyour chest didnât feel like it was being squeezed by an invisible fist.
You were exhausted. Your feet throbbed in your shoes. Your lower back ached. Your head buzzed with leftover tequila and adrenaline and the distant, horrible awareness that you had a week of upcoming shifts, back to the fray.
But under all of that, threaded through like a thin, steady line of something bright, was something new:
Curiosity. Spark. The dizzy feeling of maybe.
You dragged yourself to your room, peeled off your jeans in slow, clumsy motions, and flopped face-first onto your bed. The mattress dipped around you, familiar. You didnât even bother with the blanket. Sleep grabbed you by the ankle and pulled you under fast.
Sometime in the fuzzy gray light of morning, your phone buzzed against your nightstand.
You cracked an eye open, groaned, blindly patted around until your fingers closed over it. You squinted at the screen.
A message blinked up at you from Clark Kent (Blind Date You Fought):
Made it home!
That was just a little after you fell asleep. A new message just under it:
Hope youâre feeling okay. And that youâre still willing to go out with the guy you tried to fight for honorable reasons. Dinner?
You stared at the text for a long second, vision a little blurred, brain still booting up.
Then you snorted into your pillow, a ridiculous grin spreading across your face until your cheeks hurt.
Your thumbs moved before your brain had the chance to spiral.
YOU: Only if you let me handle the CPR if you choke on your fries. Professional pride.
The little typing dots appeared almost immediately.
CLARK: Deal. I already trust you with my life.
You laughed out loud, alone in your cramped room, the sound bright and startled and so at odds with how youâd felt all week that it made your eyes prickle for a second.
Four days of hell. One very drunk blonde. One very tall, very kind Clark Kent.
You didnât know where any of it was going yet, but as your heartbeat steadied you knew one thing:
This was the start of something with your blind date that you fought.
Hi! How about batboys x collector reader? With a collection as big/being dedicated as much as those people who they show in TV (like the lady whose all belongings are green) or on Instagram (eg. dandelion Crayola girl or booster gold girl).
The Batboys x Collector! Reader
Thank you for the request, @vanllian! Enjoy!
DICK GRAYSON
Dick thinks your collection is adorable â no matter what it is. Heâs the type to listen intently as you explain the history or sentimental reason behind each piece, chin resting on his hand, a small smile tugging at his lips. Your enthusiasm is infectious; he swears the way your eyes light up could power Gotham for a week. He teases you sometimes â âYou sure you donât need a second apartment for all this?â â but heâs also the first to help you organize it. If you collect postcards, he starts sending you one from every city he visits. If itâs vintage trinkets or pressed flowers, heâll always bring you something âthat reminded me of your vibe.â He loves how your collection tells the story of who you are, one beautiful piece at a time.
JASON TODD
Jason pretends he doesnât get the appeal of collecting until heâs sitting on your couch, holding some random item from your shelf with quiet fascination. âYou really keep all this?â heâll ask, only to spend twenty minutes listening to your explanation like itâs gospel. He wonât admit it, but he loves that your collection means something â that itâs built from memory, care, and sentiment, not money. If you collect books, heâs constantly slipping rare editions your way; if itâs something weirder, like old keys or matchbooks, he starts finding ones for you too. Itâs his way of saying heâs thinking about you. And when you catch him rearranging your shelves just to stare at them a little longer, he just shrugs â âYours look better than trophies anyway.â
TIM DRAKE
Tim is fascinated by your collectorâs brain. He gets it â the thrill of finding something rare, the satisfaction of adding to a carefully curated set. Youâll find him asking deep questions about your system of organization or the origin of a specific piece, and half the time he ends up helping you catalog it. Heâs the one who builds you an app to track your collection because âyou deserve to show it off properly.â Heâs also the kind of partner who surprises you with obscure finds youâve mentioned once, even if it means scouring auctions or estate sales at 3 a.m. When you catch him staring at your display, he just murmurs, âItâs kind of poetic, how you collect stories the rest of us overlook.â
DAMIAN WAYNE
Damian acts unimpressed at first â âYou humans and your sentimental hoardingâ â but deep down, heâs charmed by your devotion to detail. Once he realizes thereâs meaning behind each piece, he starts to see the art in it. He asks precise questions about your oldest or rarest items, and before you know it, heâs offering to help clean or restore them. If your collection includes anything historical, heâll research it obsessively just so he can talk to you about it. One day, he quietly leaves a new item on your shelf â perfectly chosen, perfectly placed â and pretends it wasnât him. But you know. Heâll stand beside you later, arms crossed, murmuring, âIt deserved to be among your treasures.â
BRUCE WAYNE
Bruce understands collecting better than he lets on. His own manor is filled with heirlooms, artifacts, and memories he canât let go of â so when he sees your collection, he recognizes the same tenderness in you. He loves watching you handle each piece with care, telling its story like itâs alive. When you talk about your favorite find, he listens like itâs the most important thing in the world. Sometimes heâll donate display cases or lighting âfor preservation purposes,â but itâs really because he wants your treasures safe. Youâve caught him more than once standing in your collection room, hands in his pockets, quiet admiration in his eyes. âIt suits you,â heâll murmur â and somehow, you know he means more than just the collection.
you loved horror movies. whether it was some cheesy, campy slasher with poor acting, a giallo with bright red blood, a zombie flick or a psychological thriller that made you question your own sanity... you were never picky. you had piles and piles of horror movies on dvd that you'd gotten from the thrift store all around your apartment, along with movie posters hung up on your walls from some of your favorites.
what you didn't know, was that your boyfriend was terrified of anything scarier than coraline. still, no matter what, he listened with a wide smile on his face whenever you'd enthusiastically recount to him all about one of the movies you'd watched recently.
the two of you were lying on your couch, clark's hand stroking your hair, the man pressing a kiss at the side of your head, when you spoke up. "do you know what i just realized?" you let out a soft chuckle, making clark turn his head to you, brows raised expectantly, "we've never watched a horror movie together."
it was like one of those dramatic piano sound effects played inside clark's head at those words. he let out an uncomfortable laugh, "what? i'm sure we've watched some together. didn't we watch the one that's literally called scary movie?"
you rolled your eyes and laughed, "that doesn't count! those are horror parodies." you pursed your lips, "should we watch one now?" "you want to watch⌠a horror movie?"
"yeah." you shrugged, not even noticing the slight look of dread on clark's face, "orr... do you not want to? are you scared?" you teased. "no, no! it's not that." clark cleared his throat and forced a smile, adam's apple bobbing with the force of his dry swallow, "we⌠we should go ahead and watch one. i think horror movies are great."
"yay!" you squealed, clapping your hands together as you bounced off the couch, already beelining towards the piles of dvds, "what are we feeling?" you mumbled to yourself as you went through the stack of movies, "maybe psychological horror?" "mmhm." clark nodded his head with a tight-lipped smile, a feeling of dread in his chest as he watched you excitedly go through the dvds.
half an hour later, the two of you were settled down on the couch, your feet on clark's lap under a knitted blanket a bowl of popcorn in your arms, your eyes glued to the tv-screen, too engrossed in the movie to notice that clark's jaw was set in a clench, his hands squeezing your ankles. you leaned your head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly, as if you were watching some kind of relaxing, light-hearted romantic comedy.
throughout the entire movie, clark had to resist the urge to jump off the couch like a cartoon character each time the evil spirit snuck up on the protagonist, heart hammering against his chest. your boyfriend couldn't understand how you could sit there with a straight face, even as the main character was running for her life.
once the credits rolled and the popcorn bowl was sitting empty on your coffee table, you simply let out a sigh as you cuddled up to him, nuzzling your head into his neck and breathing in his scent, "that was a good movie." you mumbled in a tired voice, pressing a kiss to clark's jaw, "should we go to bed? clark?" you pulled back, your boyfriend giving you a tight-lipped smile, "yeah, let's go."
you were just about to fall asleep, when suddenly, your boyfriend spoke up, "sweetie?" he spoke softly, and you turned around to face him, clark lying on his back with his brows furrowed, "what's on your mind?" you asked with a chuckle, pushing a strand of hair away from clark's forehead, "why do you like horror movies?"
his question made you purse your lips in thought and you let out a small hum, "i don't know. i've always liked them. i guess it's a reminder that even though i might not be doing the best, things could be worse. i could be getting chased by a serial killer or in the middle of a zombie apocalypse." you let out a soft chuckle. "y'know, if the final girl can survive a bloodthirsty killer, i can survive my boss yelling at me for doing something wrong."
"huh." clark hummed, "makes sense. escapism." "exactly."
after a short silence, clark spoke up again, "...can i tell you something?" "go ahead." "i don't... like horror movies."
you laughed softly, pressing a warm kiss on clark's cheek, bringing your hand to his chin and turning his head so he was looking at you, "yeah, honey. i could tell." "you could?" "yes. you were holding onto my feet and squeezing them like they were stress balls. it's okay, though." you sighed contentedly, wrapping your arm around him and closing your eyes, "i can watch horror movies on my own. and we can watch cheesy romcoms together."
"they're notâ" "they're cheesy, clark. but don't worry. i love your cheesiness."
summary: you show clark slowness. and softness. and weird little trinkets. in the middle of it, he falls in love.
word count: 3.5k
author's note: this is just fluff with the shortest beat of angst. i hope you like it <3
It starts with a coffee. A hot one.
He runs for the elevatorâlate, as usualâand his foot catches on the threshold, sends him tumbling forward. The coffee in his hand gets forgotten as he throws his arms out, braces himself on the back wall of the elevator. Which is fineâtechnicallyâif you ignore the scalding coffee that now soaks the front of his shirt.
He sighs, mumbles under his breath, âReally?â
He steps out of the elevator, white shirt stained brown. Weaving his way through the already bustling bullpen, he finds his desk. He tosses his bag on it, throws his now useless coffee mug in the trash can, and makes his way to the break room.
Heâs wiping at his shirt with a paper towel when he hears your voice.
âRough morning?â
Clark looks up. Youâre standing by the counter, leaning one hip against it like youâve been there a while. Youâre holding a box of donuts, lid open, half a jelly one in your hand.
Thereâs no teasing in your voice. No laugh or sideways smirk. Just a simple question. And it catches him off guard more than the scalding coffee did.
He blinks. âYeah. Justâclumsy.â
You glance down at his shirt, then back at him. âLooks like you lost the fight.â
Clark huffs a soft laugh, rubbing at the stain a little harder.
You look at him for a moment, then hold the box out toward him. âYou want a donut, Kent?â
He hesitates. Thereâs something unexpectedly intimate about itâbeing offered a donut while feeling like a disaster. But you donât say anything more, donât try to explain it or soften it. You just keep holding the box.
He reaches in and takes one. âThanks.â
You nod like itâs nothing, but he watches as you tuck the lid back over the box and move past him, back into the bullpen.
x
Later, when he returns to his desk, thereâs a napkin sitting just beside his keyboard.
âNext time, wear a darker shirt.â
Written in Sharpie, slightly smudged. He stares at it for a long moment, then huffs out a quiet laugh.
He folds it once, carefully, and slides it into the back of his top drawer.
He doesnât really know what just happened.
But it feels like something.
x
A few days later, he stands in the lobby coffee shop staring at the menu like itâs written in Kryptonese.
He doesnât know what you usually drink. Heâs seen you hold a cup, sureâbut not the label. And it changes. Sometimes itâs iced. Sometimes it smells like vanilla. Once it had foam shaped like a cat.
He tries to guess.
Hazelnut latte. Almond milk. Light cinnamon. It sounds close enough.
When he sets it down on your desk, you blink at it like itâs an unexpected package.
âI thought you might need caffeine,â Clark says. âOr sugar. OrâŚboth?â
You raise your eyebrows, but accept it, lifting the lid to peek inside. You take a sip without comment. Then another. You smack your lips thoughtfully.
âBold move with the cinnamon.â
His heart stops.
âOhâdid I mess it up?â
You shake your head, smiling around the rim. âNo. Itâs terrible. But itâs endearing.â
He laughs, a little too loud. âEndearing. Terrible. Good to know.â
You tap the side of the cup with your fingernail. âDonât worry, Kent. Iâll return the favor.â
Later that afternoon, when he comes back from a meeting, thereâs a pencil topper perched on his keyboard. Itâs a neon green frog with googly eyes and bendy legs, clinging to a tiny sign that reads âStay Ribbiting.â
No note. Just the frog.
He glances over. Youâre at your desk, pretending to type.
He picks it up, holds it between two fingers. âThis for me?â
You donât look up. âFor good luck. Or frog luck, I guess.â
He bites back a grin and slides it onto the top of his pencil.
It stays there the rest of the day.
Then the rest of the week.
Eventually, it just becomes part of his deskâlike itâs always been there.
x
It starts with a duck.
Not metaphorically. A literal duck. Ceramic. Possibly cursed.
Heâs on the train home when his phone buzzes. Itâs a photo from youâblurry, taken from a distance, like you didnât want to get too close. The duck is tucked into a shop window display beside a mannequin foot and what looks like an old CPR dummy.
You:
You in pottery form.
He stares at the screen for a second. Then he snorts.
Clark:
Haunting. Accurate.
You donât reply right away. He thinks thatâs itâjust a one off jokeâbut the next day, you send him a photo of a novelty candle shaped like a screaming clown. The caption just reads:
You:
Your vibe after deadline.
He scrolls back to the duck, then the clown, and starts a new folder in his phone.
From there, it becomes a thing.
The ugliest salt shakers in the window of a bodega on 43rd. A sock monkey with one eye. A velvet painting of a cat playing poker. You send each other photos like breadcrumbsâtiny, ugly reminders that youâre thinking of each other when the city gets loud and messy and heavy.
And Clark? He kind of loves it.
Itâs the kind of joke you only make with someone who knows you. Or wants to.
One afternoon, walking past a souvenir kiosk in Midtown, he sees it: a keychain shaped like a corn cob, wearing sunglasses. Embossed on its rubber body:
NEBRASKA â A-MAIZE-ING.
Itâs horrible.
He buys it immediately.
He doesnât leave a noteâjust sets it on your desk when youâre in a meeting. When you return, he watches from across the bullpen as you pick it up, examine it, and slowly break into a grin.
You donât say anything.
But the keychain goes on your bag.
And thatâs more than enough.
x
Heâs been staring at the same paragraph for half an hour.
The words blur, swim, reform in different shapes. He doesnât even remember what the article is about anymoreâjust that itâs due, and heâs behind, and his head aches like he skipped breakfast.
Which he did.
And lunch.
Heâs about to force himself to power through when something slides into the corner of his vision.
Half a sandwich. Wrapped neatly in wax paper.
You sit on the edge of his desk like itâs nothing. Like you do this every day.
âYou eaten?â you ask.
He blinks. âUh. Not really.â
You nod like that tracks. âItâs turkey. Sorry, no mustard. I donât trust the office packets anymore.â
You donât wait for him to say thank you. Just hop down and walk back to your desk, already mid-conversation with someone else like handing him food wasnât the kindest thing anyoneâs done for him in weeks.
Clark unwraps the sandwich slowly. Itâs not the food.
Itâs the fact that you noticed.
Itâs the fact that you cared enough to share something small, without asking for anything back.
He chews quietly, watching you laugh at something across the bullpen. The ache in his head starts to fade.
A few days later, he leaves something folded on the corner of your desk.
Itâs a napkin from the break room. On it, a careful ballpoint pen drawing: your name, hidden inside a tiny, sketched city skyline. Fire escapes. Rooftops. A water tower. A coffee cup drawn on the roof of one building like a beacon.
You pick it up during a lull and glance across the room.
He looks up just in time to see your expression shiftâconfused, then fond.
You hold up the napkin with one brow raised.
He shrugs, sheepish. âI got bored.â
You roll your eyes. But you donât throw it away.
You tuck it into the notebook you always carry.
And Clark spends the rest of the day smiling, just a little.
x
It starts in the middle of a deadline week, when everythingâs buzzing and no oneâs getting enough sleep.
Youâre typing like your life depends on it, eyes narrowed, lip caught between your teeth. Clark glances over, barely even aware of the hum at firstâjust a low, rhythmic noise, almost under your breath.
It takes a second to register.
Dun dun.
Dun dun.
Dun dun dun dunâ
âAre you humming the Jaws theme?â he asks, incredulous.
You donât even look up. âHelps me focus.â
âThatâsâŚworrying.â
You grin without turning around. âDonât knock it. This articleâs not gonna bite itself.â
He laughsâfully, helplesslyâand you keep humming, just a little louder now. Like itâs a joke only the two of you are in on.
After that, it becomes a thing.
Any time youâre working intensely, the humming starts. Sometimes dramatically. Sometimes obnoxiously loud. Once, Clark walks by your desk and you snap at him: âYou distracted me, Kent! I was mid-attack!â
He brings you a granola bar in surrender.
A few days later, he finds a small plastic shark sitting on his desk.
Its mouth is open wide in a cartoonish grin. Itâs painted a bright, almost offensive blue. Clearly from a dollar store, possibly meant for a fish tank. The tag still dangles from its fin: âJawsome!â
No note. Just the shark. Proudly perched on top of his stapler like a tiny aquatic guardian.
Clark holds it up, smirking.
You glance over from your screen. âYouâve been officially marked.â
He places it right back on the stapler. No one is allowed to touch it after that. Not even Perry.
He never says it, but that dumb shark means something.
A shared joke. A private language. A piece of your brain carved out just for him.
Clark thinks, softly, barely there:
This is how it starts, isnât it?
x
He feels like he's made of concrete.
Every limb heavy. Every breath slow.
He doesnât remember sleeping. Not really. Just flashesâhis apartment ceiling, the blinking streetlight outside, the steady loop of everything he couldnât stop thinking about.
It shows on him. He knows that. He didnât even try to hide it this time.
His tieâs crooked. His eyes are dull. His shirt is wrinkled enough that Lois made a noise when she saw him, like she was personally offended by the fabric.
He trudges through the bullpen, keeps his head down. Reaches his desk.
And freezes.
Thereâs a cup waiting for him. A paper to-go one, the lid slightly askew. Still warm. He stares at it.
You look up from your computer without saying anything.
He lifts the lid and takes a sip.
Itâs cocoa.
Perfectly madeâjust enough sweetness, not too thick. A sprinkle of cinnamon. Exactly how he likes it. Exactly how he needs it when the weight gets too heavy.
âHow did youâŚ?â he asks, voice still rough.
You shrug. âYou always want it when youâve had a bad day.â
Clark doesnât have an answer for that.
Just stands there for a beat, cocoa in hand, wondering how someone could know him so quietly. So well.
Later that day, when youâre in the copy room, he leaves something on your desk.
Itâs tinyâbarely the size of your thumb. A small glass bottle, stoppered at the top and filled with fine silver glitter. Tied around its neck: a piece of folded paper.
When you open it, the message is simple, scrawled in his neat handwriting:
For emergencies.
You donât say anything when you return.
But when he looks up, youâre holding the bottle up to the light, watching the glitter swirl like a snow globe.
You smile.
And Clark feels something shift in his chestâgently, deeply.
Like maybe, just maybe, heâs allowed to be held, too.
x
The walk home becomes a ritual.
Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you just exist next to each other, sharing the quiet hum of the evening.
One night, you tell him about your weird high school poetry phaseâscribbled lines hidden in notebooks, awkward rhymes about stars and loneliness.
He tells you about Maâhow she believed in things bigger than just right and wrong, and how she taught him to find light even in dark places.
The city softens around you. Streetlamps flicker to life, casting pools of gold on cracked sidewalks.
At one point, you stoop down and pick up a rock, smooth and shaped vaguely like a heart.
You hand it to him with a grin. âThis is a metaphor. Donât drop it.â
He slips it into his coat pocket without a word but promises himself he never will.
Clark is in love. Probably.
He hasnât necessarily had that much experience with it, but the feeling seems right. The pull deep behind his ribs feels like love. It makes him want to write poems. Things like âOde to the Shape of Wet Footprints Outside the Showerâ or âSonnets in the Key of Enamoredâ.
Heâs not a writer, though. Not like that.
Still, he thinks he should tell you. Something. If not all of it, at least the way his heart stutters in his chest when you get him cocoa without asking. Like you know he wants itâneeds it sometimes.
And, besides, Ma always said secrets hurt you more than they ever hurt the other person. She was talking about rumors, but, still, Clark thinks the logic holds.
Maybe itâs time he stopped hiding.
x
You pitch it like a joke, like youâre half-serious, half-trying-not-to-care.
âWhat if we went on vacation here? Stayed in some little hotel? Went swimming and ate greasy takeout?â
He blinks, not expecting you to actually want to do it. But when you look at him, waiting for a âno,â and he doesnât say it, you smile.
So, he nods. âYeah. Yeah, letâs do that.â
It feels like the first time heâs agreed to something without overthinking it. No mission, no deadline, no hero stuff. Just you and him, being stupid and normal.
And somehow thatâs exactly what he needs.
x
The hotel isnât fancy. Just a room with a tiny pool, a bed too small for comfort, and enough quiet to feel miles away from everything.
You jump in the pool even though the waterâs freezing. You laugh like a kid while he tries to hold his breath underwater, failing miserably. You splash, make dumb faces, and forget the world for a little while.
Dinnerâs takeoutâmessy, greasy, and nothing like what you usually eat. You both sit on his bed, share fries like thieves, teasing each other over whoâs the better snack bandit. Itâs ridiculous. Itâs perfect.
It all seems to go sideways when you start to leave, go to your own room.
You linger in his doorway, lean against the doorframe like thereâs something you want to say.
Instead, you only lean forward, press a kiss to his lips.
And, it happens too fast for him to catch up, to kiss you back. Youâre gone before he can even realize he wants to.
âI'm sorry,â you mumble. âIâm sorry. That wasâŚâ You trail off, shake your head. âI shouldnât have done that.
âNo,â Clark starts, but youâre already turning, already running down the hall to your own room.
You leave him standing barefoot on the hotel carpet, feeling for all the world like a fool.
x
The room feels off.
Too still, like even the airâs holding its breath. The leftover takeout is cold now, fries gone limp in their box. Your laughter clings to the walls like chlorine from the pool to his skinâfading, but not gone. Not yet.
Clark sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. His hairâs still damp, and the pillow behind him is proof he didnât think to dry off before collapsing back here.
It all replays on a loop:
You, jumping into the pool without hesitating.
You, with fry tusks and that ridiculous grin.
You, standing in the doorway, looking at him like you meant it.
And thenâ
The kiss.
Soft. Quick.
Enough to undo him.
He hadnât expected it. Not really. Heâd hoped for itâsomewhere deep and unspokenâbut he didnât think youâd actually do it. And when you did, when your lips touched his, it felt like gravity flipped sideways.
He didnât kiss you back. Not because he didnât want toâhe just froze. His whole body went still except for his heart, which was suddenly trying to punch its way out of his chest.
Then you were apologizing. Backing away. Already gone.
He didnât chase you.
He shouldâve.
Now, all he has is silence, chlorine skin, and a pit in his stomach that wonât let him sleep.
x
He doesnât know what heâs doing.
Heâs standing in front of your door, hoodie sleeves pulled over his fists like armor. Itâs late. Or early. The hotel hallway hums with that weird, too clean quiet that only shows up at 3 AM.
He raises his hand to knock. Pauses. Drops it again.
Tries to find the version of himself that doesnât mess this up. Fails.
Then he knocksâsoft, but definite.
When you open the door, he forgets everything he practiced on the walk over.
Your eyes are tired. Or maybe just surprised. He canât tell which.
âHi,â he says, stupidly.
You donât say anything at first. Just wait.
He swallows. âI couldnât sleep.â
You nod once. Still nothing.
He shifts his weight, tries again. âAbout last nightâI didnât kiss you back. I know. I didnât move. And Iâm sorry if that made you think I didnât want to.â
He takes a breath, lets it out slow.
âI did. I do. I just panicked. It hit me out of nowhere and I froze. But it wasnât a no. It was never a no.â
You open the door a little wider, and Clarkâs heart stumbles. He doesnât take a step in. Not yet.
âIâm not really good at this,â he says. âFeelings. Or saying them. But Iâve been sitting in that room trying to figure out what to do, and I kept thinkingâwhat if I donât say anything and you think I didnât care?â
He looks down. Then back up.
âI care.â
Three small words. Heavy in his mouth.
He means them.
He stands there, waiting. Hoping. Braced for whatever comes next.
x
You donât say anything at first. Just look at him like youâre still trying to figure out what to do with the pieces of last night.
Clark holds your gaze. It takes everything in him not to look away. Not because heâs scared of youâheâs scared of hope. Of getting it wrong. Of wanting too much.
Then, slowly, you step closer. Close enough that he can see the tiny crease between your eyebrows ease up.
You reach outâfingers brushing his hoodie like youâre asking permission.
And he nods. Just barely. But itâs enough.
The kiss isnât dramatic. It doesnât need to be. Itâs not fireworks or movie scores or a grand sweeping anything.
Itâs quiet. Steady. The kind of kiss that feels like a beginning.
When you pull back, youâre both a little breathless. But more than thatâyouâre calm. Like the world has finally taken its foot off your chest.
Clark lets out a breath he didnât know heâd been holding. The nerves curled at the base of his spine uncoil.
You smile. Just a little.
He smiles back.
And thatâs it.
Two people standing in the middle of a hotel hallway, choosingâmaybe for the first timeâto stop running.
x
Itâs nothing special.
Just a Wednesday. A lunch break long enough to breathe, sitting on the concrete ledge outside the office, the two of you watching pigeons fight over half a bagel someone dropped.
Clark doesnât say much. He doesnât need to. The air between you is easy nowâcareful, still, but not tense. Like walking on soft earth. Like something just beginning to take root.
Youâre telling him a storyâsomething about a printer jam and someone trying to fix it with a spoonâand heâs nodding along, grinning at all the right parts, but mostly?
Heâs focused on whatâs in his pocket.
He pulls it out without ceremony.
A tiny plastic astronaut. The kind youâd find in a vending machine. One arm melted just slightly, like it got too close to a candle or someoneâs hair straightener. Its face is a shiny gold bubbleâno features. Just space.
He sets it beside your coffee cup.
âI saw it and thought of you,â he says, like itâs nothing.
You look at it. Then at him. âBecause Iâm brave and heroic?â
He shrugs. âBecause you launched me into emotional orbit and then abandoned me in deep space, obviously.â
You laughâthe kind of laugh that catches you off guard. That full-body kind.
And thenâwithout even glancing downâClark reaches for your hand.
And this time, he doesnât hesitate.
His fingers brush yours. You curl them back.
The astronaut sits between you like a witness. Slightly melted. Slightly ridiculous.
Exactly right.
Clark looks over at you. Youâre still smiling. Still here.
No fanfare. No grand declarations.
Just this:
A shared bench. A new trinket. Two people willing to try.
And for once, Clark doesnât wonder if heâs messing it up.
a little request please: friend vs boyfriend vs fiancĂŠ vs husband Bruce drabble/hcâs? like how he would be in each role & progress in a relationship- tysm!!!
Ëâ¡ ÍÍÍÍâłâĽâŕżTO LOVE SOMEBODY THE WAY I LOVE YOU (bruce wayne x reader) your love storyâĄ
thank you for your request lovebug! i got carried away lol. readerâs gender is not specified but it was written partially with a fem!reader in mind. i took some creative liberty and did my best to make a mix of hc and drabble, i hope itâs okay :)
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･ËBRUCE WAYNE was a man of pure mystery. an enigmatic combination of wealth, excellence, and eloquence personified. it came as a shock to everyone (including yourself) when you, the socialite known for being carefree and letting loose, found yourself in the frequently close company of bruce wayne.
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëthe way you guys met was something purely comical. it was in the midst of a social event you found yourself attending with a business partner of yours, a night full of networking and socializing that left you exhausted. you were reaching for your fourth champagne flute of the night when you bumped into a man whose chest felt as though it was seemingly made of bricks, sending the fizzy liquid all across the front of your dress. you two opened your mouths to apologize at the same time, talking over each other in a way that made you laugh wholeheartedly.
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëit was after that night that bruce learned your name and âmysteriouslyâ appeared at the management building of the company your father owned, inviting you to coffee with him during your lunch break.
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëyour friendship quickly blossomed from there. you two provided a safe and judgement free place for one another. bruce relished in the way you brought out a side of him that he felt he had to keep tucked away in order to pursue his double life; you accepted him for who he was and didnât hold him to any obscene expectation. he was just bruce. similarly, you appreciated the way bruce took you and your thoughts seriously. he was always willing to listen to you and give feedbackâno matter how silly the situation may be
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëyour mutualistic dynamic that relied primarily on you guysâ ability to listen to each other, met many late night conversations either at hole-in-the-wall restaurants where you wouldnât be spotted or through phone calls whenever bruce was free
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëas friends, bruce kept the bridge between you and his secret life far and strong. not because he didnât trust you or care about you, but because he wanted to keep both of you safe and he didnât want your perception of him to change
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëthis meant accepting that for large portions of the day you wouldnât hear from him and learning to not ask questions when he disappears for days at a time and tiredly responds with âjust a business tripâ when you ask where heâs been
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëbeing friends with him also means becoming acquainted with alfred. after your first few visits to the manor you quickly assume the role of being alfredâs taste tester for any desserts he makes. it isnât long before bruce begins bringing you a new tray of scones or brownies whenever he sees you, each container labeled with a sticky note from alfred (though heâd never admit it, bruce began asking alfred for the recipes of your favorites and learning to make them himself)
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëin all, bruce thoroughly enjoys having you around and although he tries his best to keep you at arms length, thereâs no avoiding how naturally you fit into his life
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëitâs shy of a year into your friendship that he decides thereâs no avoiding the fact that he has feelings for you. and he can tell that youâre realizing something similar
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëitâs in the way he catches himself staring at you in a new light as you ramble on about some gossip you heard from your secretary. all of a sudden heâs noticing the way your smile lines crinkle when you speak, the way you use your hands to emphasize your words when youâre passionate about something, the subtle redness the dresses your cheeks whenever he makes a teasing comment, or the way you smile with all of your teeth when he recalls something youâd mentioned days priorââheâs a goner!
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëthe back and forth with his emotions leaves him feeling like a lovesick teenager
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëit takes a month and a half before he finally confesses. it isnât in a ceremonial manner like he feels you deserved, but instead it happens organically
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëyouâre laying flush against him on the couch in front of his grand fireplace when he finds himself lost in the beauty of your face glowing in the partially lit room. the words fall out of his mouth instantlyâin a speech worded so beautifully that you donât even let him finish before you kiss to shut him up.
FALLING DEEPER; in love
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･ËBRUCE WAYNE is everything youâve ever dreamed of in a boyfriend
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëhe was attentive, caring and did his best to make time for you two despite his busy schedule
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ë100% the boyfriend who plans every date and insures you never have to worry about a single thing in preparation. he spares no expense in buying you an outfit for the occasion, picking you up in his nicest vehicle, and of course handling the hefty bill for whatever excursion you find yourself on
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëhe tries his best to keep your relationship out of the spotlight, but definitely doesnât attempt to hide you. however, it doesnât require a flashy introduction as a couple for it to become known. people talk and every member of your high society inner circle had been waiting for you two to finally figure out the obvious feelings you shared
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëheâs definitely the kind of boyfriend that sends you frequent texts asking âhave you ate today?â or âhave you drank water today? i told you living off of coffee and energy drinks isnât sustainable.â of course your response each time he asks is unsatisfactory so you become used to receiving deliveries of your favorite takeout to your office on busy days, a new stanley tumbler in your favorite color to encourage a higher water intake, and a fridge full of meal prep courtesy of alfred
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëi see bruce getting along perfectly in a yapper x listener bf dynamic. you love to fill him in on the whirlwind of drama that unfolds in your office and he loves nothing more than listening to your sweet voice while he works. you canât count the amount of times youâve been sat in his lap, going on and on about something your coworker told you, while bruce finished up paperwork at his desk. drumming his finger against your hip as he did so. youâd get bashful all of sudden, stopping to ask him if he was still listening (you never wanted to annoy him), to which heâd respond with a soft hum or âof course darlingâ
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëbeing bruceâs partner meant breaking down more of that tough exterior and seeing the side of him he felt was better kept hidden. you had already broken through as his close friend, but it becomes more apparent in your relationship. trust is something that bruce values highly in his romantic relationships. and with everything you do, even in the mundane things, bruce realizes that youâre beyond deserving of his trust and willing to be his confidant
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëbecause of this, itâs during this early chapter of your romance that bruce reveals his double life to you. much to his appreciation, you donât make a fuss about it and instead confess how much it means to you that he felt comfortable sharing something of that nature with him. this of course results in a long makeout session
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëon the topic of trust and kisses, i feel that you guys wouldnât have sex until youâre a few months into your relationship. bruce views sex with you as the ultimate display of intimacy and affection. he doesnât want to fuck you, he wants to make love to you. his touch isnât fast or rough, but rather slow and intentional. he wants his love for you to show through everything that he does.
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëbruce is also a protective boyfriend. not in a toxic or controlling way, but in a âi just want you to be safeâ way. you guys share locations, you never forget to update him whenever you go out alone or when you make it home on late nights, and he also is sure to set up your home with the best security system the city offers. he isnât smothering you, but he couldnât imagine you getting hurt in his absence. you donât mind it, you can tell itâs his way of showing how much he cares
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･ËIn all, bruce wayne is a beautiful boyfriend towards you thatâs wants nothing more than whatâs best for you!
A PROMISE OF FOREVER; an undeniable love
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･ËBRUCE WAYNE had never been more nervous in his life. and that wasnât an exaggeration or overstatement. in fact, it may very well be an understatement
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëthe usual calm and relaxed expression that graced his face whenever he was in your presence was gone. instead, it was replaced with furrowed brows and a nervous heat that rose up the back of his neck and dusted his face with a light blush. he swears he even felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëhe followed close behind you, his pinky finger interlinked with yours as though he was making a promise, as you led him across a beach in santorini. it was a sight to behold. your hair was blown about by the evening breeze, the hem of your dress dragging across the white sand, and your voice echoing slightly due to the emptiness of the beach (thanks to bruce pulling a few strings). you were blissfully unaware of what was about to unfold
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ësuddenly, bruce stopped in his tracks. you followed suit and turned to face him with a playfully quizzical look. âwhat are you up to, hun?â you asked. without a word, bruce dropped to his left knee and took your hand in his.
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë âď˝ĄË âFor the past few years, Iâve had the honor of experiencing something I never thought life had in store for me. Iâve learned what it feels like to be truly loved, cared for, and appreciatedâeven during the hardest moments, when I didnât feel worthy of it,â he pauses to take in your awestruck smile, âYouâve been my safe place, my rock, for as long as Iâve been blessed to know you. I honestly canât imagine a world where youâre not by my side, keeping me grounded, strong, and hopeful. I want to spend the rest of my life loving you, and being loved by you.â he finishes his speech with a hopeful laugh as he reaches into his pocket to pull out your ring. âso, will you marry me?â
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëyou shouted yes so loud that youâre sure the entire ocean could hear you.
IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH; forever in love
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･ËBRUCE WAYNE as your husband exceeds any and all expectations
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëshortly after your engagement you moved into his lavish manor and he wasted no time making it as welcoming as possible. ordering the skin care/hygiene items he knew you loved in bulk so that your shared bathroom was always stocked, giving you your own walk-in closet to accommodate your spending habits, and allowing you to decorate as you pleased
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëyou two fell into the domestic life fairly smoothly
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëit felt as though it was second nature for you two to have your lives so closely intertwined.
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëheâs definitely the type of husband that shows his loves through acts of service. you donât even have to say anything before you notice the once empty bottle of your favorite perfume is replaced, or when you realize that the bookshelf in your shared bedroom is suddenly filled with the rest of a series youâd been meaning to finish. you bring it up to him and heâll downplay it, shrugging and simply telling you that all that matters to him is that youâre happy.
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëit became routine for you to wake up to light kisses across your jawline before he left the warmth of your bed in the early hours of the morning, hug & kiss him goodbye before you leave to run errands around lunchtime, and share a late night dinner by candlelight when he was finally relieved from his duties
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëit may not be perfect for everyone, but it worked for you two and bruce loved how perfectly things flowed with you
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëi imagine bruce to be a D1 pillow talker, especially in you guysâ honeymoon stage
⥠ĚĚâ§Ë â･Ëheâs looking at you with the softest expression ever as he admires your features in the moonlight shifting through the windows. you reach your hand up to caress his cheek, rubbing your thumb back and forth against his stubble. he rests his hand on top of yours before whispering, âiâm so damn glad you spilled that drinkâ
It makes him more emotional than he was prepared for â when you told him about your chronic illness, as in you explained what it is and what happens, he was entirely ready to be there for you and support you through it all. But he wasn't prepared for the days when there isn't much he can do, in fact sometimes there's not much anyone can do. It's often a waiting game, a "this comes and goes," or a simple, "can you grab my medicine?" but that's about as helpful as he can be somedays. Bucky had to get used to seeing you in pain and that was something he didn't expect.
âł "I'm sorry I can't help more," and "you're sure there's nothing I can do?" are phrases you hear from him often. He feels ridiculous to be the one emotionally torn up, considering you're the one in pain, but it really hits him. "I thought I could be the strong one-" he explains, "but now I've realised something: with what you go through everyday, you're the strongest person I know."
Loves when you ask for him â even though you feel a bit annoying asking for this that and the other, Bucky loves to get things, do things, move things, do really anything for you when you ask. It doesn't matter the task. From asking him to bring your laptop to you, to asking him to just sit beside you and hold your hand as you try to manage the pain, he's there for you. One of his favourite things is being able to hold you. He feels like he's protecting you at least a little bit that way.
He's great with routine â since he's been in some kind of routine his entire life, he's great at getting used to yours! What medicine you take, when you take it (or when you should take it), what you can / cannot do, what flare up symptoms look like, what to do when a flare up happens, etc.
The best at reminding you how attractive you are, even when you don't feel it â post & pre- flare up / bad day, you do not feel in the slightest bit stunning, yet it's times like that when Bucky reminds you how incredible you are to him. He's not biased to your beauty only on "good days." // He finds you equally beautiful when you're on the couch surrounded by all the blankets in the house asking for a cup of soothing tea post flare, same as when you're sitting in the bath to calm the oncoming nerves of a flare you can feel building.
Confrontational â when doctors give you attitude or deny you visits, Bucky is like a guard dog let loose. He will pick up the phone and argue for hours on why you should be seen. . .with only occasional threats thrown in. Likewise, at hospitals he will go toe-to-toe with doctors who wave you off as a "lost cause" due to your chronic state. He's 100% going to be a witness for you when the doctors belittle your symptoms, starting with: "hi, I'm their significant other and I see how they live ever day so when they say that they're being very serious," etc.
âł since he's not as used to being on the receiving end of the situations, he often gets more upset about it than you do. Once home he can't stop thinking about the rudeness and disbelief of some people, "Honey, calm down," you say, but he shakes his head, "I'm just so tired of people telling you that you don't look sick, how would they know, who are they to say, if they could live one day in your shoes-" However, heâs familiar with pain, on a consistent basis, so heâs an incredible empathiser, even though heâs overcome his own.
He's always willing to carry you â when you're feeling more fatigue than usual, you'll often just tell him that you'll stay where you are for the day, bed, couch, etc. But with Bucky he's more than willing to patiently and comfortably pick you up and bring you where you actually want to be, like from the bedroom to the living room. It's easy-peasy for him and he has to admit: he loves being as useful as he can be. This can also include carrying you up stairs, or if you have a flare up in public, on a walk, at the park, in a store, he is unashamed to pick you up and support you.
Gives you your independence, but. . . â while he doesn't make you feel you're incapable of doing anything, he does get very attached to being by your side. So, when he comes home to find you've gone out, even to the grocery store, he gets a little worried that something could happen and what if no one helps. That's when you remind him, "you know I did manage life without you." He almost blushes, realising he was being a bit needy, "but I'm extremely glad you're in my life, and I'm more than lucky to have someone who cares so much," you kiss his cheek, "but I can go to the grocery store on my own, besides last time you forgot butter."
Your heart drops to your stomach as you watch the aerial footage of your boyfriend, Sam, going against President Ross in a red Hulk form. All of which occurred an hour prior and youâre just now finding out about it.
You gasp as you see Sam thrown back by Rossâ punch. You immediately grab your phone to call Sam when thereâs a knock at your door.
You get up and look into the peep hole. You immediately throw the door open when you see Sam on the other side.
Sam groans as soon as your arms wrap around him, âI saw the news!â You pull back to look at him and wince, âShit, baby, you look like youâve been through hell!â You carefully examine his beat up face.
The captain winces as he nods, âYeah, well, I feel like I went through hell.â He limps into your apartment and you shake your head.
âWhy arenât you at the hospital right now?â You look at him with a worried yet disapproving glare. Your hands go to your hips as you expect an answer from Sam.
He sighs, âJust wanted to see you and let you know I was okay.â
You drop your arms to your side, âWell thank you for coming by. Now letâs get you to hospital before you pass out on me.â
Summary: After yet another devastating medical appointment leaves you drained and spiraling, Bucky is there and shows you that you donât have to face this alone.
Word Count: 1.7k
Warnings: chronic illness themes; emotional distress; crying; medical gaslighting; ableism (via doctors); implications of long-term suffering and fatigue; comfort
Authorâs Note: This request is from a lovely anon!! I really hope this brings you some softness and healing, and that it feels like a hug on the days you need it most. I did mention chronic illness themes to make it more personal for you, but I do not wish to trigger you in any kind. Hope you'll enjoy âĄ
2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist
The hallway buzzes like a hive of fluorescent bees. White walls. White noise. White lies folded in lab coats.
Your limbs donât belong to you. Your feet are distant. You feel like youâre swimming through honey, like someone filled your bones with cement and told you to smile through it.
You can feel your soul fraying like the sleeves of your oldest shirt, the one you wore in High school when you thought maybe one day it would get better. Itâs not getting better.
The doctorâs voice still echoes in your head like a bullet ricocheting against bone.
âTry harder.â
Ten years. Then years and thatâs all she had to say. As if youâve been twiddling your thumbs. As if survival had been optional. As if your pain didnât cost you friendships, years, entire versions of yourself youâll never meet again.
You step out of the examination room with your fists clenched and your teeth grinding against the scream you wonât let out. Your body feels too loud. Your heart is a fault line. You want to disappear.
âHey.â
His voice is quiet. But it splits the storm inside you like light through a crack in the door.
You look up.
Bucky is on his feet already, as if heâs been counting down the seconds for you. As if he could feel you falling apart behind that door.
And when he sees your face - your red-rimmed eyes, the tremble in your jaw, the shattered dignity - you donât have to say anything. He knows.
You can see it in his eyes. Theyâre made of storm clouds too full for this world. Thereâs this kind of anger thatâs boiling and dangerous, the kind that burns slow and insistent, like molten steel behind ice.
He looks like he wants to wrap you in his arms right here, but you feel the tears in a perfect line across your waterline, each one holding hands, begging to let go. You press your fingers into your own palms as if pain might keep you grounded.
Bucky steps closer, doesnât touch you yet. He waits. Always waits for you to come to him.
But you donât. Not yet. Because you know you would crumble right here on the empty and cold floor.
So he says, âLetâs get out of here,â with a voice so soft, with a voice so understanding.
You donât say a word. You just walk.
And he follows.
You walk in silence through the parking lot.
The world is pressing in. The sun is too bright. The air is too sharp. You think you might shatter if someone looks at you wrong.
He opens the car door for you without a word.
You sit. You try to breathe. You stare at the dashboard, eyes unfocused.
Bucky slides in beside you, starts the engine, but doesnât drive.
You donât look at him. You look out the window and hate that your eyes sting.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper. You donât know why. Maybe because you feel pathetic. Maybe because you let someone break you again. Maybe because you dragged him into it.
Bucky turns the engine off.
âIâm not,â he says, almost lowly, but gentle. âAnd you shouldnât be either, sweetheart. Thereâs nothing to apologize for.â
You glance at him. Heâs staring at the steering wheel like itâs the doctorâs face. And he wasnât even there to hear what she said.
The car is too small for this moment. Your chest is too full of feelings you donât want to let out just yet. So you just reach for him, and he doesnât wait. He leans across the center console and pulls you into his arms. You melt into him as if you were meant to be there, as if heâs the cure to all the things the world canât fix.
âTake me home?â you ask, voice barely audible.
âYours or mine?â he murmurs into your hair.
âYours, please?â you breathe out. Because you only ever feel at home when surrounded by him.
He presses a kiss the the crown of your head and starts driving.
You donât remember much of the drive. All you remember is that Bucky took your hand in his and traced circles over your skin with his thumb.
You remember the way he walked you into his apartment as if you were glass and he was gravity.
Now youâre curled up on the couch, legs drawn in, a blanket over your shoulders. Bucky gently brings you a cup of tea, made exactly how you like it. He always remembers the smallest things.
He hasnât stopped watching you. Not in a creepy way. In a tethering way. As though he only has to take his eyes off you and youâll slip between the cracks in the floor.
âI- I thought this time might be different,â you say, voice shaky, voice weak. âI thought maybe - finally - we had something. An answer. A direction. And she didnât even listen. Didnât even check the labs or ask me any questions. She just looked at me like I was wasting her time. She told me to try harder. What the hell does that even mean, Bucky?â
There is silence. A rupture.
âShe said what?â
You flinch. Not at him. Not because of him. Because of the heat in his voice. The anger he tries to bite down for your sake. But his fists are clenched. His jaw is locked shut. You feel the way he wants to break something. Burn something. Destroy a world that keeps failing you.
You shake your head. âItâs the same story again. Every time. Every year. A new face. A new god playing doctor. And they all say the same thing. Like theyâve only read the same textbook written in 1985.â
You blink. The tears spill anyway. Hot.
And Bucky doesnât waste any time. He kneels in front of you. Not as if youâre broken. Not as if youâre a child. But as if trying to anchor you to earth.
âIâve been trying, Bucky,â you whisper wetly. âIâve been trying so hard for so long.â
Youâre crying now. Ugly, breathless crying. The kind that doesnât make a sound but leaves your whole body shaking.
He takes your hands and brings them to his chest, shifting closer and caging you in.
âI know,â he croaks, voice trembling, but heâs trying to be strong for you. âI know, doll. You donât have to prove anything to me. Youâve already been doing the impossible.â
You close your eyes and let the tears fall, let Buckyâs shirt catch them. He doesnât rush you. Doesnât try to fix it. He just holds onto you as if youâre sacred.
âIâm so tired,â you cry breathlessly into his chest.
He exhales as if heâs been holding that breath for hours. It comes as a shudder. âYou donât have to be strong with me, baby. I'm here for you, alright? Always here. Not gonna leave you. Not gonna let you go through this alone.â
You pull back slightly, just to meet his eyes.
And thereâs something there. Something thatâs been building quietly between you for months. A kind of love that doesnât need to be said out loud to be felt. A kind of love that exists in every small action - every drive, every cup of tea, every waiting room seat heâs ever taken beside you.
But this time he says it anyway.
âI love you.â
He says it while wiping your tears. He says it while brushing your hair back. He says it while kissing your forehead, your temples, your nose, your cheekbones, your chin.
His eyes are glossy, red just like yours and he is staring at you so intently, you stop breathing, stop thinking, stop moving.
âAnd I see you,â he continues, voice so quiet, but you feel the breath, the truth of every word brush your skin. âEvery win. Every loss. Every time you get out of bed when youâre not sure how. Every time when you keep breathing even when it hurts to exist. I see you. I love you.â His voice catches. Falters. Tumbles. But he fights to keep going. âI donât need a doctor to confirm that youâre fighting something real. Iâve been here. Iâve seen what this has taken from you. What itâs still taking. And I swear-â He looks at you, full and raw and wild. âI swear, Iâll never let them make you feel like this again.â
You forget how to breathe. Forget how to exist in a body thatâs suddenly too small for what he just gave you.
He kisses your forehead again, gradually, carefully, so slowly. âYou donât gotta say it back, sweetheart. You donât gotta say anything right now. Just feel me, yeah? Iâm right here.â
You think youâve been numb for years. You think this is what it feels like when love becomes shelter. When it becomes a soft place to land after a decade of falling.
You let your body sink into him, muscles finally remembering what it means to rest. Your hands fist his shirt. Your head presses against his chest and you can feel his heartbeat. Itâs always there.
Youâve been seen before. But never like this. Never with reverence. Never without conditions. Never by someone who watched the worst parts of you unfold and stayed. Held them. Named them beautiful just for surviving.
You want to say thank you. You want to say I love you back. You want to say a thousand things but none of them fit in your mouth. None of them could come close to what heâs done with just a few words and arms wide enough to carry all of you - even the shattered pieces.
So you hold him tighter. You press your face into his chest and you weep. For every year you spent trying. For every dismissal. For every night you wondered if you were imagining your pain, if maybe the world was right and you were just weak. Lazy. Failing.
